#(important to note that's said in the same tone as 'what the dog doin')

[stealingpotatoes]

Spork Leia's adventures so how badly hurt was the chancellor and how suspicious is the Jedi high council of the chancellor after a 12-year-old that shouldn't exist attacked him.

palps is fully just dead. leia's an absolute menace with a spork

the council are very suspicious bc when they were inspecting the crime scene they found a file called "my_evil_plan.pdf" and there was a very significant proportion of it dedicated to eviling the clones and turning the jedi into target practice for said clones. which most ppl would consider a tad sus

[dwaynepride]

Today Or Yesterday

CHAPTER 5

Summary: Tensions between reader and Gibbs finally erupt, and reader confesses something big to Dwayne.

Words: 4,502

Warnings: None

Notes: AND THATS THE END! uwuwu tell me what yall think

Part 4

The most difficult part, by far, of being trapped in Jethro’s house was going back and forth from the kitchen to the living room with coffee. It was a slow, arduous process of limping, wincing at the pain, and trying not to spill the coffee too much.

Though, in hindsight, you’re not even sure why you’re making as much coffee as you are. It’s not like you have a lot of work to keep you busy. Gibbs brought home some files of the case for you to look over and help out; their guy lawyered up as soon as Dwayne and Jethro started getting too close. He left, leaving the team to scramble and find something absolutely damning to hit him with.

But the files are next to useless. They’re nothing compared to all the resources at NCIS, and being unable to access it only leaves you alone with your thoughts in a big, empty house.

It wouldn’t even be so bad if Dwayne were able to come by more often. More than just dropping off lunch and a quick kiss before he was off again to continue the search. He might as well be back in New Orleans with how much you were seeing him.

The only inkling of a bright side you can see in all this is that Gibbs is every bit as busy and vacant as Dwayne. Maybe even more so, because he doesn’t come home until long after you’re asleep, and leaves before you ever wake up and limp back downstairs. And you know him well enough to know he’s doing everything possible to avoid you. To see you a little as possible until the case is over and he’ll finally be rid of you again.

Everything is so tense and awkward, and you just want to get back home with Dwayne and resume the blissful happiness you were forced to walk away from.

And sitting on this dumpy old couch with a cup of coffee that’s long gone cold wasn’t going to do a damn thing to achieve that goal. So, just as quick as your leg would allow, you got dressed and got a cab all the way to the Naval Yard.

You tried your hardest not to limp too much while padding through the building to the elevator. The wound was definitely getting better, and didn’t hurt as much as it did. It was far from completely healed up, but easy to ignore. Besides, with all the work to be done, you’ll barely even notice it.

The doors slide open and you walk through. Despite the same old sight of orange walls, there’s a small thrill of joy at being back in the squadroom. A much better setting than Jethro’s home. You’d take the bustle of working agents over dead silence and cowboy movies any day.

You’re not even halfway to the bullpen before you spot Dwayne straightening up over McGee’s desk. His face is hard, eyebrows drawn low in concentration. The same look he gets when things aren’t going so good on a case. Dwayne raises a hand to run over his face before letting his eyes rise from McGee’s computer monitor. They roam around before landing on you, and then they widen with surprise.

You stop in your tracks when he excuses himself from McGee and makes his way over, face taut with confusion. You knew after leaving that he probably wouldn’t be too happy to see you, or welcome you back to the office. And the prediction rang true when he stopped, eyes lowered to analyze your leg before looking back up. “What’re you doin’ here? You should be restin’ that leg,” Dwayne says, and you can hear the concern in his voice. “You’re gonna pop your stitches.”

“Dwayne, I’m fine. Really.” That was mostly the truth. It ached to be standing for so long, but you pushed aside the discomfort. If Dwayne saw that you were hurting, even a little, he’d send you back to Jethro’s with an escort. “I was just feeling so useless. I want to help; that’s why I’m here.”

He wasn’t buying your answer. His brow was still taut, a small frown marring those adorable laugh lines he gets when he’s happy. So you give a small shrug, putting on your best pair of puppy dog eyes. “And I really missed you,” you tack on at the end.

That softens him up. Tension leaves his shoulders as Dwayne sighs a little. The frown lightens, and he gets another good look at you and your leg, as if checking to make sure you’re really alright.

And then he gives a single curt nod. “Fine, you can stay. But you gotta promise you’ll stay on paperwork and desk duty.”

“I promise.”

“And if you start hurtin’ at all, even a little bit, you tell me. And I’ll drive you back to Jethro’s.”

“I will.”

He can sense your growing excitement, and Dwayne smirks despite himself. So he motions with his head and you follow him back to the bullpen. Bishop is gonna be gone most of the day, so Dwayne sits you down in her desk. You have to physically push him away back to McGee because he was getting too caught up in making sure your leg was in a comfortable position.

It felt good, being back in a desk and doing work that actually mattered. If you had to stare at another inch of Jethro’s walls, you would’ve started screaming. Usually, desk work wasn’t all that exciting; making phone calls or searching up old files. But after days of isolation, it was just about the most exciting work ever.

Especially with Dwayne working just feet away. He’s back leaning over McGee’s shoulder, and the two are talking in low voices. You can’t make out what they’re saying, but it must be something important. His face is getting hard again.

Until Dwayne feels your eyes on him, and he glances up. The surprise eye contact makes you smile, and that familiar rush of butterflies in your belly has a bit of heat rushing up into your cheeks. The way Dwayne’s eyes go soft and he smiles back doesn’t help things. This was the same problem you faced in New Orleans; you two would be in the thick of working. Completely focused on the job. But then you look at each other - make eye contact - and that focus turns into shy smiles and butterflies.

Not that you were complaining. It’s good to know some things don’t change.

He’s the first to look away, and you reluctantly get back into the swing of working.

Some time passes before you feel the urge to recline back in the chair and stretch. Every once in a while, it feels good to straighten out your leg. Being tucked up in a desk isn’t helping; not that you’d tell Dwayne that.

Figures it would be during your little stretching break that you’d look up and see Gibbs coming from the back elevator. At first, he doesn’t notice that a different agent has taken Bishop’s desk. But then his eyes finally fall on yours, and even from across the room, you see his face harden and his pace quicken.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He’s not yelling, at least. But there’s still a level of anger in his taut voice that makes you feel like a fresh probie. Maybe because he just said more in that one sentence than he has in days. “Working,” you answer plainly. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Your tone isn’t as tight or angry as Jethro’s, but it’s still hard. Was he really going to make a big deal of you helping out?

Dwayne’s head comes up, watching as Gibbs pads into the bullpen and sets his coffee cup on his desk. You didn’t need to know the Marine long to know he wasn’t at all happy you were here. “You’re hurt. You almost died. It’s stupid to run around as if you’re okay.”

Stupid?

Instantly, you pull yourself to stand up. Albeit, it’s slow and the effort pulls a grunt out, but you’re standing on your own feet to face Gibbs and his bad attitude. Dwayne is also standing, coming out from behind McGee’s desk. But right now, you don’t care about the concern written on his face. Jethro’s little comment sapped all the enjoyment the desk work has brought you. “Don’t call me stupid!” You bark out, limping from behind Bishop’s desk to face him more.

“Alright, you two, let’s just settle down-”

Neither of you listen to Dwayne’s attempts at peace. Gibbs is glaring hard, and it’s hard to remember a time when he looked so angry. “You’re acting stupid by pretending you’re fit for duty. You should be resting, not running around, trying to reopen your wound.”

“Why don’t you care more about the case and less about me,” you challenge him. Words were coming out before you could stop them; had it not been for your leg, you’d probably be getting in his face right now. Maybe it’s a good thing you were hurt. “It’s never stopped you before.”

Gibbs takes a step forward at that last jab, and that’s when Dwayne comes out, standing between you and his old friend. “Jethro, let’s just calm down,” he says evenly.

“Did you let them work?” Gibbs instantly turns his anger towards Dwayne, and even he’s taken aback by the sudden heat of the Marine’s glare.

But he quickly hides the shock to nod. “Yeah, I did. They promised to stay on desk duty, and to tell me if their leg started hurtin’.”

“Well, why the hell did you do that? They’re better off at home.”

That’s when you cut in, taking a half-step towards Gibbs and ignoring Dwayne’s look when he whirls around to look at you. “You’re right, I am! I can’t wait to go back to New Orleans and away from you!”

Dwayne finally turns his body around, his arms coming up to your shoulders and carefully turning you to start walking out of the bullpen. He mutters out ‘c’mon, honey, it’s not worth a fight, let’s go cool off.’ It never did take much for Dwayne to soothe your temper, even if Gibbs and his attitude stokes it high. You let him lead you away from the fight.

But Gibbs isn’t done. “Yeah, and I can’t wait for you to leave, either! The only thing you’ve done since getting here is get in my way!”

Dwayne stops in his tracks, spine straightening up as he whirls to look at his old friend. Your head cranes to look up at your boyfriend, and it’s a little shocking to see how quickly his expression shifts from concerned and calming to hard and guarded. And to Gibbs, no less. You know how close they are; how far they go back. And it’s your fault he’s looking at Jethro, like that.

His fingers grip your shoulders a bit tighter. “Watch what you’re sayin’, Gibbs,” Dwayne says, his voice hard and so close to sounding like a warning. Not quite there; he wouldn’t sport that kind of voice with his friends. Then again, Dwayne’s always been protective, and Gibbs did just insult you.

A few heartbeats of silence go by, and you keep your head down, not finding the courage to look back to study Jethro’s face. But you could cut the air with a knife with how thick it is, and you’re relieved when Dwayne finally turns back and keeps leading you away from the bullpen.

The pace is slow, but he doesn’t stop or lighten up until he gets you into a quiet corner down the hall. He turns you to face him, but your eyes instantly drop to the floor. “Alright, what the hell was all that about? And don’t you say it’s nothin’,” Dwayne says lowly, and his voice is deadly serious.

A heavy sigh follows his question, and when a few seconds go by without you saying anything, Dwayne bends his knees to search for your eyes. His emotions are as tangible as ever; the anger webbed away, and it’s replaced with worry.

You need to tell him the truth, finally. This was all your fault, in the first place - you should have told him long before this case. Long before things got so bad.

“A long time ago, before I ever joined your team, I worked with Gibbs. You know this...” you trail off while Dwayne nods his head, keeping silent so you can talk. It was hard to force the words out, though. You owed it to him to try. “Well, during that time, Jethro and I- we were together. For a while. And things were going really good.”

You stop, head still bowed to spare yourself from whatever expression Dwayne has on his face. You don’t have the courage to see it, just yet. It’s hard enough to speak with a lump forming in your throat. “At least until he broke things off between us. No real explanation. No reason why,” you continue, voice trailing off at the end.

Keep going. Keep talking. “I switched offices shortly after. All down the East Coast until I eventually got to New Orleans. Being around him after that...it was too hard.”

It’s over. It’s out now.

And Dwayne is still silent. You don’t even hear him breathe. His lack of a response is what finally prompts your eyes to rise up and meet his gaze. The rage and the hurt and the betrayal that you expect to find in those warm green eyes you fell in love with...it wasn’t there. He just looks confused, his brows knitted together while blinking, and finally letting out an audible sigh. “You never told me. Even after you found out we were good friends.”

Your attempt at swallowing is negated by the big lump in your throat. And you know tears are next to appear; you really don’t want to start crying in the middle of the NCIS building. “I guess I just never found a way to tell you. I didn’t want to make things awkward; knowing you hired your friend’s ex and all.”

What a stupid excuse. There’s no reason why you couldn’t have told him this before coming to DC. Maybe you were just afraid of messing up another good relationship.

Or maybe you already did. It scares you, thinking that Dwayne would be so hurt and angry, he’d never forgive you. Maybe there’s an NCIS office in the Great Lakes region who’ll take you...

And then his hand reaches out, taking yours and squeezing it tight. Shock has you glancing down to them before returning your eyes to Dwayne. “I wish you told me this sooner,” he says lightly. The way the corner of his mouth quirks up slightly - the small beginnings of a smile - help start to soothe away your fear. “I would’ve asked Director Vance to send me, instead.”

A small huff comes up at his offer. It’s just like Dwayne to put himself on the line to keep you from being sad. “It’s nothing I can‘t handle. Yeah, things are tense, but we have a case to finish. And I intend to see it through, even if Gibbs wants to start some more fights.” That last part was more or less a joke. Something to help lighten the air between you two.

It does prompt Dwayne to fully smile, and the way his eyes soften to the familiar look means more than you can process, at the moment. With everything as chaotic as it is, at least Dwayne is something to latch onto.

So when he straightens up and starts swiveling his head around, looking up and down the hallway, it makes you frown in confusion. “What?” You ask him, unable to stifle a smirk when he turns back with a gleam in his eye.

Dwayne says nothing, and you don’t expect him to lean in closer until he’s pressing his lips to yours. It’s a sweet, chaste kiss that takes you by surprise, but after everything, it’s exactly what you need. And you want, more than anything, to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. Kiss him like you really want to, but can’t in the hallway of a federal building.

He backs away after a few moments, breathing against your lips and grinning. “I love you,” he says, voice soft and low enough so only your ears can hear.

Those words nearly make your heart stop. The shock is visible on your face; as soon as your eyes go wide, Dwayne lets out a small chuckle as his hand releases yours to curve up your arm.

He never planned to just drop that bomb on you, like this. The first time Dwayne wanted to say those three words would be after a romantic dinner. Or maybe late at night when you’re curled up in bed, nothing to do but enjoy each other’s company. But Dwayne is guided by his feelings, and this felt like the perfect moment.

Once the shock ebbs away, you’re mirroring his dopey little grin. Tilting your head up to press another small kiss to his lips before nuzzling your nose against his.

“I love you, too.”

--

"I want to thank you both for your assistance in this case. Even when things got a little rough.”

Vance glanced to you when he said that. For a scary moment, you figure he was referring to the friction between you and Gibbs. Maybe he got wind of the fight in the squadroom. But then his eyes dropped down to your leg; of course he meant the gunshot. He made sure you even had a place to sit when you and Dwayne entered his office.

“It’s not a problem,” Dwayne replies, his hand resting on your shoulder to show you agreed - he knows you really don’t, but you nod anyway.

Vance dips his head once as he sits down in his chair, fingers linking together on his desk. “We can take care of all the logistical stuff. Tomorrow, just make sure our guy is handed over to the Louisiana authorities for trial,” the Director continues.

“Yes, sir,” the two of you say at once.

As Dwayne holds out a hand, helping you stand in case your leg gives out, it feels almost weird to finally be sent home. As soon as you touched ground in DC, you were waiting for this moment. Hoping it’ll come quickly so you can spend as little time around Jethro Gibbs as possible. And in a way, you still felt that pull to leave. But now that it was actually happening, it just felt like you still had unfinished business that has nothing to do with the case.

Just as Dwayne reaches for the door to pull it open, Vance speaks up. “And one more thing,” he says. His words prompt you both look back to him, expecting the Director to say more about the case. But it’s surprises you to find the corner of his lips turn up, just hinting at a smile. “Maybe you two should take some time off together when you’re back in New Orleans. You more than deserve it.”

That had been hours ago. The sun was setting then, and now it was dark. There was a certain nostalgic feeling in the squadroom after wrapping up a big case. Not so different than how it is at home, and it also reminded you of better times.

Waiting for Dwayne to come back from saying goodbye to Abby, you were left standing (leaning) against the wall by the windows overlooking the Naval Yard. And you weren’t too proud to admit that a part of you missed the sight. Some things changed about it, but not a lot. Even from so far away, you can spot the old bench that you and Jethro frequented to get away from prying eyes for a while. Just to drink coffee and talk and laugh.

Still, you prefer the sights of Jackson Square and the Mississippi River more. DC had it quirks, but New Orleans was home now.

You were so caught up in old memories, you didn’t notice Dwayne walking up until he says your name softly. Turning your head, you reflect his light smile. “How’d Abby take it?” You ask him.

“Made me promise to call more often. And then threatened to fly back home if I didn’t,” he replies. The two of you share some laughter, but Dwayne notices how your eyes keep flickering back toward the bullpen. Toward the lone desk with a light still on. He steps a little closer. “My room is just a single bed, but I’m sure we can make it work with your leg. I’ll sleep on the floor or somethin’.”

When you look at him with a confused quirk of your brow, Dwayne motions his head to Jethro’s desk.

And you’re surprised at how quickly you shake your head at his offer. “No, I can handle one more night at Jethro’s. Besides, I don’t know the next time I’ll see him again. I kinda don’t want to leave things as they are.”

Dwayne doesn’t look all too convinced. “Are you sure, honey? Do ya want me to stay, or...?”

“I’ll be fine. Go and get some sleep. We have a long fly home tomorrow.”

He hesitates before eventually curling his lips into a slight smile. Nods his head and leans in close to press a kiss to your cheek. “Good luck,” Dwayne murmurs out. And his hand quickly squeezes yours before he pads off to the elevator.

You already miss his calming presence in the wake of the coming conversation.

Eventually, your eyes rise up across the bullpen towards Gibbs. He’s still filling out paperwork, probably planning to stay here for several more hours while you go back to his home and settle in for the night. Following the same routine without fail because it worked and it was safe for him and allowed as little interaction as possible.

Pushing off the wall, you make way to his desk. Routine be damned; you both had to talk this through and make it right. You have too much history to just ignore each other until you finally leave state and pretend the other person doesn’t exist. And despite everything - despite the fights and arguments and insults and cold shoulders - you still care about him. You know he feels the same, that was obvious.

You near his desk and he’s already shifting in his chair. Exhaling hard through his nose. He always did have this uncanny ability to sense your presence. And you’re about to speak up, to start this long apology, but Gibbs is the first to say something. “How’s the leg?” He asks.

The question gives you pause, but you push away the surprise. At least he was speaking to you. “Sore. A little stiff. Hurts like hell if I move it the wrong way.”

His head nods. “Make sure to get an aisle seat on the plane. Keep it extended so it doesn’t get too stiff,” he says. When you don’t reply, Gibbs finally glances up. Makes eye contact for a moment before he gives a shrug. “Gotta lot of experience with getting shot,” he adds on.

“Yeah, I know,” you reply, voice suddenly a lot softer than it was. “I remember having the same argument with you like the one we had earlier.”

His eyes fall away at the memory. And you knew Jethro well enough to recognize the guilt he’s carrying; he regrets the things he said. Regrets throwing out anything he knew that would hurt you, and you regret it, too. The fight wasn’t even really about you working with a busted leg.

It was a culmination of years of hurt and confusion coming out at the smallest little argument. For a pair of cops, it really says something that neither of you recognized that, until now.

You lean against his desk, head tilting to meet his eyes again. “Listen, Jethro, I-”

“Don’t.”

Instantly, your face contorts into a confused frown, watching Gibbs as he stands from his desk with a heavy exhale. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll even accept an apology because he’s still hurt. Or even angry at what you said to him. But he only utters two little words: “Rule 6.”

Oh.

You snort at the rule, smiling and shaking your head when it’s Jethro’s turn to look confused. “That was never my favourite rule,” you tell him cheekily. Figures he’d bust one out in a time like this.

“Why not?” He asks, sounding almost defensive.

“Because I really am sorry,” you answer sternly. “Sorry for what I said. Sorry for getting in the way...”

“No,” Gibbs interrupts, and he’s shaking his head in disagreement. “No, you were never in the way. That was just something I said. Something I didn’t mean.”

That’s probably as close to an apology as you’ll get from him. And it was a very good step in the right direction. Even then, you can’t help feeling just a little disappointed. And for what, you weren’t even sure. Not apologizing was a rule of his.

A few seconds of silence go by before Jethro lets out a small sigh. “And I’m sorry.”

And in an instant, a heartbeat, the hollowness of disappointment is gone. You’re smiling genuinely at Gibbs for the first time in a very long time. He’s smiling, too. Just a little, but it’s still such a good sight to see.

“You ready to go?” He asks, and you nod fervently. After he grabs his coat and turns his light off, Jethro walks around his desk and falls into step with you toward the elevator. And it’s almost like old times - except you’re still limping pretty heavily.

Jethro notices and offers his arm, just like at the hospital. You take it and lean against him to take weight off your leg.

It instantly feels better, but you’re not too focused on that. His heat, his body pressed against yours, is so familiar. Almost achingly so. Suddenly, you’re thrown back in time to the first “date” the two of you had. And it wasn’t even that much of a date; just sitting on your couch with some popcorn and beers. But you were sitting so close together, it was unclear where you ended and he began. And you were laughing, a lot. That was one of the more pleasant memories of Gibbs.

But glancing up to him, and seeing those familiar blue eyes looking back, it’s clear that time of your lives was over. And you’re surprisingly okay with that.

Because that warmth in your chest? The force that keeps a giant grin on your face?

That must be what closure feels that.

[theskyeandsea]

To Make a Home || Nicodemus & Skylar

Tagging: @bountybossier​

Location: Outside of Coffee Plus

Notes: Just two prospective roommates having a nice and happy chat.

“Thanks, have a good one.” Skylar said with a bright smile to the barista, taking the two coffee cups from the countertop and walked out to one of the tables outside. She wasn’t really sure what Coffee Plus’ policy on animals indoors was, but she didn’t want to push it, just in case. Plus… if she needed to make a quick break for it, being outside would probably be for the best. Not that she would have much of a chance of outrunning Nic, but at least she could try. Taking a sip from her cup, she took a deep breath. It was going to be okay. Nic was a Hunter, but he wasn’t a bad one. He hadn’t tried to hurt her. He’d been nothing but nice to her. So, why was she so nervous? Skylar tapped her fingers against her thigh and glanced up the street before spotting Nic making his way through downtown. Smiling, she gestured to the cup of coffee she’d bought for him. “Hey! I wasn’t sure what kind of coffee you liked, so I figured black would be safest. Thanks for coming.” She said with a nod, though her eyes were trained on the little dog that had accompanied him. Even though it was small, she still wasn’t sure how this meeting would go.

Damn that tiny dog and its small fucking legs. Nicodemus didn’t know when it had slipped out and followed him. But he couldn’t avoid the tippy-tapping of tiny dog feet behind him or the slight huffing for long. He would step, it would tap. He would stop, it would stop. It continued like that for a handful of streets until he finally stopped fully. The hunter glanced back at the dog. The dog looked up at him with its large, bulging eyes. Nicodemus grimaced and with a long string of colorful French swears, picked the dog up like the nothing it weighed and held it under his arm like a tucked in football. “You’re the fuckin’ worst.” He grumbled to himself as he walked toward Coffee Plus. The dog huffed and just looked at him, tongue out and ears perked. He didn’t make eye contact as he finally rounded the corner that Coffee Plus made home. The sight of Skylar made him breathe a little easier and he offered a weak wave with the hand not currently occupied by a dog. The sound of Skylar’s voice had the dog looking forward and giving a small yap. He supposed it was a greeting. “Black works just fine,” he said a little stiffly as he sat down at the open chair. Unsure of what to do with the dog, he set it on the ground. Only for it to start pawing at his jeans. “Told you I would, Skylar. Meant it.” He looked down at the dog. “So. This...is the, uh, dog. Anyhow, you doin’ alright?”

Flinching a little bit when the dog yapped at her, Skylar shrank back in her chair for a moment. But… it didn’t seem like the dog was going to do anything more than that as it settled around at Nic’s feet. When he sat down, she watched as the dog pawed at his pant leg. It almost didn’t seem like a dog, just from how small it was. A bit fascinated, she looked as it kind of shivered, pacing in once spot for a second before pawing at Nic again. Focusing her attention back at Nic, she nodded, though she kept the little dog in her peripheral sight all the same. It didn’t seem as scary as Alain’s dogs but it also wasn’t as calm looking as Moose. But, it looked okay? “Thank you.” She said appreciatively. Taking a calming breath, Skylar nodded. “I’m doing pretty good.” As she spoke, she could feel the slime building up on the palms of her hands. Swallowing, she rubbed them against her jeans. “How, um, how are you?” She asked, hoping that the question would ease some of her nervous energy.

“Ease up there, huh?” Nicodemus said, voice directed at the dog. The hunter took a long sip of hit bitter black coffee. Willfully tried to ignore the press of the dog’s paws against him as he leaned back. “It’s more like a rat than a dog, right? Ain’t just me?” Only recently was he made aware that it was a chihuahua with a long coat, one that he hadn’t initially seen under the fucking outfit it had been stuffed into. His nerves reached a limit. The chair scraped the concrete as he scooted back slightly to make room. The dog seemed to settle, if only by a hair. He frowned. Of all the fucking animals he would be stuck with, why wouldn’t it be the smallest dog in the world. He missed Bit each passing day. But the dog wasn’t the main point of the day. It was what Skylar had to say and he was keen on listening. Whatever it was was more important than the shit he would have to deal with sooner rather than later. “That’s good. Glad all the night shit didn’t bother you too much,” he said plainly as he rotated the coffee cup on the table. Glad someone managed to not get their lives entirely upended by it, he thought grimly. His movements stilled some at her question, his gaze slightly shifting over to the hand he had been keeping wrapped since that night. “I’m, uh, tired. Real goddamn tired.” Tired barely skimmed the surface of what he felt but it wrapped it all up neatly enough. “Just been a few...tryin’ weeks, I wanna say. Tryin’ to keep on an’ all. Much as someone can in this fuckin’ town, you, uh, you know?”

Skylar couldn’t help but stare at the dog as it kept whining and pawing at him, until the large man relented and the dog seemed to relax a bit. In a strange way… it was cute. “I don’t know about rat. Maybe like… a rabbit or something small and nervous?” Seeing the way the little dog was interacting with him, it reassured her that maybe this dog would be okay. It wouldn’t bark in a deep baritone that would startle her, or lunge at her face. For one thing… it would have a hard time getting to her face at all. For another, it seemed like it couldn’t hurt a fly. 

Listening as the man talked about his experiences, Skylar slowly became aware of the weary slump in his shoulders, the tension coiled in his neck, the dark bags under his eyes. She’d seen Nic that night when he’d saved her from the vampire and he looked like a different man now. A bit more downtrodden, more beaten down. What had he been through? Lifiting her coffee mug to her lips, she took a sip from her cup, trying to figure out how she could broach the subject of herself, while also wondering: was Nic okay? “I’m sorry that it’s been such a rough time. I, erm, I know that I had asked if we could meet up so I could talk to you about some… personal stuff. But, are you okay? Besides, just being tired..?” She asked cautiously. “You don’t need to answer that, though. Sorry. That’s probably invasive.” Skylar backtracked.

It was hard to ignore Skylar’s clear discomfort toward the dog. Not that Nicodemus would even consider the idea of doing just that. It would take a hot minute for him to refer to the dog as anything other than creature. He would not say that he was warming up to the dog. Right then was not the time to go on and get attached to anything, or anyone, else. At the word rabbit, he blanched. “Rats make better animals than rabbits,” he said, tone rock solid and heavy. “Mouse could work. Ain’t big on rabbits so you might be shit out of luck if you wanted to go about gettin’ one.” Placing the memory of where his dislike of rabbits started was looking for a needle in a haystack, but it was very real and very alive. He felt her eyes on him and occupied himself by looking into the black hole that was his coffee. It wasn’t hard to sense worry or concern in other people. Especially those with better hearts than his own and Skylar was a prime example. Probably the best one when he really got down to thinking about it. Real fucking strange how that worked itself out. Her good heart, his bad one. Sharing a fucking living space at that. He shook his head. “Ain’t your fault. Shit just happens and you gotta bear its weight.” He said, brow slightly furrowed as he glanced at her before he quickly returned to the coffee. Could stare down the barrel of a gun but was having a hell of a time looking her in the eye when it came to her questions. His jaw worked. Weeks ago, it would have been easy to say he was and move on. It was just like he told Kaden. Roots. A bitter but malice-free laugh came out of him. Bless Skylar. Her question wasn’t the most invasive thing that had happened to him in the last week or so. “Nah, but I’m dealin’ with it and I’ll figure it out. Just have to piece it out an’ all.” Minding the dog, he sat slightly forward and idly patted at its back. Ignored the comfort that brought him. “I’m ready to talk about it whenever you want, Skylar. The personal stuff. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Startled by Nic’s sudden shift in tone at the mention of rabbits, Skylar shrunk in on herself. Crap. She’d messed up. She wasn’t really sure why rabbits were what causes that reaction, but she made a mental note to avoid that. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t really like rabbits, not any more than I like any kind of pet. I never grew up with them. Pets, I mean.” She rambled, hoping to explain that the example had just been a random pick out of nowhere. But, when he reassured her that it wasn’t her fault, she relaxed a little bit.

“Mmmmm, okay.” She hummed, taking in his words. She trusted him to know his limits and, if he said he would figure it out, then that was that. Nic just seemed like a guy who knew himself well. She wished she could say the same about herself. Watching as he patted the dog, a small smile flitted at the corner of her lips. Maybe he liked the dog more than he let on. But, when he mentioned the personal stuff, the smile faded. Staring at the dark liquid in her cup for a moment, Skylar did her best to steel her nerve, to strengthen her resolve. “Mhm. Personal stuff. Okay.” She said, supplying filler words to help her stubborn mouth say what needed to be put out there. “So… you’re a Hunter, right? Like… big H hunter. And… if I’m going to live with you, I need to know that I’ll be safe. Not, not just from the vampires and the werewolves and the things that run around the woods of White Crest. But, that you-- that you won’t try to hurt me.” She took a deep breath, hands curling tightly into balled fists in her lap. “Because I’m not human? I’m a selkie.” Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest as she chanced a look at Nic, preparing for the worst.

Nicodemus began to tap his heel quietly. A nervous tic. Another effort to keep himself because somewhere in his bones, he was afraid of what happened if he settled. He shook his head, expression weary. “Ain’t exactly...known that I don’t like rabbits,” he said with an attempt at an encouraging nod. Or much else about him other than gators and cereal water, it seemed. Fine enough with him. “Bein’ the town gator guy will do that, I ‘spose.” As Skylar seemed ready to start talking, he tried to settle himself. Even the dog seemed to shake a little less as if it were waiting too. Maintaining eye contact was hard for him. Meeting someone’s eyes was opening a door he didn’t always like to open. Preferred to keep it barred and shut. But watching Skylar, the way she seemingly both tried to arm and make herself vulnerable with whatever it was she was about to say, it wouldn’t do to keep it closed. Even he could understand that. 

As soon as the word hunter slipped out, he went rigid. The sounds of the town ceased to exist around where they sat as he looked at her. “You think I might hurt you.” He repeated, low and quiet. She was scared of him. What he was. A mirror was being turned inside him and he was forced to look at it. He didn’t know what that meant right then. Didn’t know how to define that collapsing, concaving feeling that tested the integrity of his ribs. She was afraid of him. Afraid of the hunter. And she wasn’t human. His senses, busted as they were, flexed and pulsated around the space between skull and skin. He blinked. Breathed in. Breathed out. Looked at her. “You will. You, uh, you would,” he finally said, picking the words slowly and carefully out of the gravel in his throat. “I know what I am and what that means. Be a dumbass not to.” He tried to laugh but it came out like a puff of smoke. “I don’t...I don’t want you to be scared ‘round me, Skylar. But I get it. What you feel, that’s, uh--It makes sense is what I’m tryin’ to say. Ain’t gonna fault you for it.” He wasn’t a man that inspired comfort. He knew that. As he spoke, his thumb rubbed a slow circle into the dog’s chest. He glanced between his own coffee and Skylar. “I wouldn’t. Hurt you, I mean. That’s not--I’d like for you to feel safe. In whatever, uh, water you chose. I know it’s just words and words ain’t a whole lot but...You’d be safe. I want you to know that.”

Seeing the way he reacted to the conversation about rabbits, Skylar winced. She shouldn’t have pried. Nodding, she apologized, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” Mmm. The gator guy. But, just because he was one thing, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be other things. Which… The back of her neck burned red as she realized that there were more meanings to that than she’d initially intended. Just because he was a Hunter didn’t mean he wasn’t more than that. Just because he killed things, killed… creatures-- not people, she didn’t want to think about him killing people-- didn’t mean that was all he was. Looking down at the little dog that was settled next to him, the way it leaned into him for comfort, she smiled a little.

But, the small smile faded when she heard his tone, the pounding of her heart seeming to come to a halt as she waited for his response. Her breath caught in the back of her throat at the way he didn’t meet her gaze, until he realized exactly what she meant and stared up at her with tired eyes. Weary eyes. Eyes that had probably seen more than she could ever even imagine. Instantly, she felt a wash of guilt rush over her. She knew him, she knew him better than to think that he would hurt him. She’d let fear overwhelm her, fear egged on by people who didn’t know Nic, into thinking that he would do something to her. “No-- No, I’m sorry. I should-- I just…” She wrung her hands in her lap, wishing she could just sign, that she could just convey the thoughts in her head with her hands. But, he wouldn’t understand. “I didn’t think you would. I really didn’t. But, I know… I know people who warned me, to be careful around Hunters. Just in case. I’m sorry.” She said, shaking her head. She shouldn’t have asked. “I appreciate that a lot, Nic. Really. I just needed to know that… if anything ever happened, I’d be okay.”

“Skylar,” Nicodemus said, not as quiet as before. A little more assured, even in the way he raised his head and made eye contact. “There--There ain’t nothin’ to apologize for, alright? I mean it. You’re good.” He wasn’t good at this. At this opening of the self that led to conversations and confessions, to understanding and acceptance. A life without it, up until he crossed over the sign that said White Crest, had left him ill-prepared for such things. But he was in it, up to his neck, and there wasn’t going back. Only forward. 

“They weren’t wrong to warn you,” he muttered as he sat up straighter. She was struggling just as much as he was and a faded, worn out smile made an appearance. “Hunters got their jobs and they do it, y’know? Out of whatever principle or obligation they grew up with. They hurt because it’s what they do and sometimes what they got to.” He reminded himself that he was one of them, one of those that hurt. It was a part of him regardless of what he was. It was who he was. “I, uh, hurt. Like you saw before. But I--I choose, you know? What I do. I used to not.” His brow slightly furrowed, his entire being wound tight with a blunt tension as he chose to pry open those mausoleums of thoughts unshared. Thoughts that even he wasn’t privy too until he sat down and the crowbar wedged its way between the stone he had set. Skylar had helped him, even if that help felt a little like pain. Felt a little too raw but it was there and it was open, exposed to the sun and the sky. “I chose to make sure you were okay then and I want--” His voice trailed off to something quiet but not something cold. “You’d be okay. Is what I’m tryin’ to say.”

When he said her voice, Skylar lifted her gaze to meet his. And as he spoke those reassuring words, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. Just a little. Not enough for her to feel totally comfortable, not enough for her to be relaxed. But it was enough to know that she was okay for now.

As Nic spoke, about principles and obligations that had existed since they’d been born, she couldn’t help but think back to what Rio had said. About how his family were Hunters, how he was born that way hunter, but chose differently. How he wanted to protect and help people like her. Creatures like her. And Nic, for all his rough exterior and his gruff demeanor… He wasn’t all that different from Rio. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her at how she’d misjudged the two of them. “I don’t… I won’t say I understand, because I don’t totally understand how any of this works. But, I’m glad that you chose. That you don’t just,” She swallowed, fingers fidgetting, “Kill because someone’s different. I didn’t, I didn’t think you did. But I didn’t know. I don’t know how any of this works and I-- I’m sorry for doubting you.” Skylar said, nodding and hoping that her voice sounded more steady than it felt. “I know you did. And I’m really, really grateful for everything you’ve done for me.” She let out a slightly weak laugh, “If you don’t want me to move in after I’ve just… insulted you, I completely understand.”

At least she was looking at him. That had to be good, right? For all his deeply embedded hopelessness and shadowed view of the world, Nicodemus made another choice to find something good in that. Slim as it was. Seemed he was making plenty of those to last a lifetime, however short that was for him. He wouldn’t go and do something foolish like consider it might be long. “That’s okay,” he said with a slight nod. “Ain’t askin’ you too because that’s a whole fuckin’ can of bullshit but the--The you bein’ okay part is the one. The…” He trailed off and looked down at the dog that had started to lick at his fingers absently. How the creature had managed to stay still and quiet the entire time was beyond him. But it had, listening intently. The hunter snorted and shook his head. “The important one.” 

He quieted. She was sorry for doubting him. He had had people doubt him before. Doubt his potential to finish the job but never doubt his inability to start one. He had proved them wrong.  The comparison felt wholly wrong and immediately, guilt roiled the black coffee that sat in his empty stomach. This wasn’t a job that they were talking about. She wasn’t one either, he had never seen her as one, but in his malformed bit of heart tissue, it was the only comparison he knew to make. Confusion settled in after the guilt and made itself known in his face as he looked at Skylar. “No, it’s--” Words started to fail him, like they usually did, and he breathed in to try and kickstart them again. “I don’t--Shit. You didn’t…” He paused again and swore in French under his breath. “...I’d like it. If you did. If you still wanted to. But if you don’t trust me or are--” He didn’t say it but it cut against him with a name like insecurity. Was it fear? A nervous laugh like an engine that couldn’t quite start came out of him. “Christ alive. I ain’t gonna ask you to give me a chance but...” He shook his head and lowered his head. Maybe that’s exactly what he was doing. He shut his eyes for a brief moment. Cowardice was new but bravery seared it in two before it could keep him from talking. “Ain’t never had much of a...a home before but I can try to make it one, y’know? Somewhere safe.” For the both of them.

Skylar watched the way the little dog licked at his fingers, at the way Nic let him. It was gentle, a soft gesture that she wouldn’t have expected from a man who looked the way he did. But, she was quickly becoming aware that he was more than he appeared, he was more than his actions. His words meant something to her and she trusted him. She should have just trusted him from the start. Staring at the cup of coffee that sat in front of her, long untouched, her lips twitched into a slight smile. “Thank you. Thank you for that.” She nodded.

As the man swore quietly to himself, some of them English, some in a quick soft language that she could only assume was French, Skylar felt as though her body was going to curl in on herself from the anxiety. If he didn’t want her to move in with her, she’d be back to square one. Back to worrying, endlessly worrying, and hoping she wouldn’t have to go back to crashing on the couches of people who barely knew her. But, when he spoke… the words startled her. Her eyes widened and she looked up at him, though his gaze was averted, eyes closed. A home? More than an apartment, more than a house, more than the family who had abandoned her, more than the family of friends she’d found since moving. A home? As she stared at him, Skylar felt tears start to well up in the corner of her eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was from relief, happiness, or sadness. The sadness of knowing that-- “I, um, I thought I had a home. Back in Seattle. That my family was my home. But it wasn’t and they… they weren’t. So,” She paused, voice soft and watery with barely restrained tears, “I’d like that. I’d really like the chance to have a place to call home.”

The hunter hummed low and nodded. A tiredness clouded over him, made his head and his heart feel heavy. Was it from talking so much or the act of flaying? It was a sickness, the way Nicodemus could liken things only to pain lately. Or he had always been that way. In a way, talking about what they were talking about, was a way of healing. Of doing away with old scar tissue. When that particular kind of bleeding started, it was an act of cleansing. When she smiled, he returned it. As much as he could.

What he had before couldn’t be called home. It was an empty, forgotten charade of one. A hollow place that tried to make itself into hallowed ground. It was mud and stone and rotted wood. A cemetery of misdeeds and ill thoughts amongst the weeping willows. Maybe a home or something like it could be a selkie, a hunter, a dog that inexplicably shook, and the walls around them. Even if they didn’t seem to quite fit right into the skins they were given. They might be able to fit somewhere else. The foreign hope in the thought pierced him. When her wide eyes looked at him, he tried to not flinch. Tried to hold onto that instinct of showing no weakness lest you be eaten alive. But it wavered the way her voice did and for a moment, he cast it aside. “Thought I did too,” he echoed solemnly, voice a cut above raw. He swallowed. Nodded again to right himself. “Yeah. I...We could both use it. That chance.”

[crashdevlin]

New Romantics-3: Blame and Blood

New Romantics Masterlist

Author’s Note: This is a multi-chapter sequel to Wildest Dreams

Summary: Dean told y/n that she’d pick up the machete and rock salt again, but he’s surprised to see her at Harvelle’s Roadhouse less than a year later. She’s nervous to tell him and Sam the catalyst for her to start hunting again.

Pairing(s): Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader x Dean (no wincest), surprise! x Reader (no actual smut here, just sexual aggressiveness)

Word Count: 4397

Story Warnings: Smut, 18+ HERE BE SEX, DO NOT READ IF YOU’RE A YOUNG’UN!!, anal sex, oral sex (fem and male receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, bloodplay, canon-appropriate character deaths, manipulation, BoyKing!Sam and Intended Queen!Reader!

Chapter Warnings: Alcohol as a crutch, depression, self-blame, Dean blaming reader for shit, BoyKing!Sam, manipulation, demon blood, being high on demon blood...

Bobby's been calling me for days, leaving voicemails about the end of the world, but I can't answer. I can't return the calls. I can't prepare for the end because I can't stop seeing Dean in my head sobbing over Sam's lifeless body. I can't stop hearing her-fault in my head. I've crawled into a bottle... and another... and another. I've been sprawled out on this motel bed for two days, a steadily growing pile of empties on the floor.

I'm blacked out when Bobby shows up, picks my lock and lets himself into my motel room. He picks me up and drops me in the bathtub, turns the shower on to spray cold water across me. I moan and try to escape the cold, but Bobby holds me down with a hand on my collar. "You need to sober up, girl. You missed some important shit while you were in the bottom of those bottles, ignorin' my calls."

"Bobby, no. Go 'way."

"I ain't here for your self-pitying bullshit, kid. Hundreds of demons escaped a hell's gate and you've been here-"

"I got Sam killed!" I exclaim, grabbing Bobby's hand and trying to pry his fingers off of my shirt.

"And Dean brought him back!"

My eyes widen at that, and I sit up. "He didn't do what John did. Tell me he didn't do what John did!" Bobby just looks away from me and I scramble to get out of the tub. The motion makes me nauseated, and I scrabble along the tile floor to eject whiskey into the toilet bowl. Bobby pulls my hair out of my face and rubs my back. "How long?" I groan, the sound bouncing off of the porcelain.

"A year. A year to get him out of it, girl. A year to fix the mess the yellow eyed demon made." Bobby stands and heads into the main room, tossing a towel and a new set of clothes from my duffel. "We need you, sweetheart. We need you sober and not drowning in guilt. It wasn't yer fault."

"Sam wouldn't've left. I tried to get him to... he wanted to save them, and they killed him an' I wasn' 'ere."

Bobby sighed, heavily, as I pulled myself up from the bathroom floor, pulling on the sink counter. "That ain't important. What's important is fighting the army the demon brought forth." I look up into the old man's tired eyes and take a deep breath. "Don't matter if you think they want you there, y/n. We need you there. Ash is gone. We need yer brains."

I nod. "Let me get a real shower. I'll be out in a few." He squeezes my shoulder and walks out of the bathroom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I drink a bit of the dog that bit me and I start combing through newspapers, looking for signs of the hundreds of demons Bobby says made it out through the hell's gate in Wyoming. "Sam an' Dean said you was... you were like Sam? That's why you were in Cold Oak?" Bobby asks, suddenly. I look down. "Why didn't you say somethin'?"

"Why didn't I tell a hunter that I could read minds and had been having visions of death and destruction and that I dropped my shotgun on a hunt and made it fly back to my hand with my mind? Is that a question you're actually asking me, Bobby?"

"I wasn't gonna hurt you, y/n! I've known you since you were knee-high."

"I know, but I didn't even tell my father when I started having visions, Bobby. I only told Sam because I... I had to." I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. It's gone. Since I've been sober... ish... Since I've been awake, I've noticed it's gone. I can't hear you. It's over."

"That's over, but the rest ain't." Bobby says, pulling his laptop up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We find a swarm of cicadas and some crop death in Lincoln, Nebraska and load up in his old Chevelle. Bobby calls Sam from the road, putting the phone on speaker so I can talk, too, even though he knows I won't. "Hey, Sam."

"Hey, Bobby." Sam responds.

"What'cha doin'?"

"Oh, same old, same old."

"You buried in that book again?" It's the same book Sam's apparently been looking at for a week. "Sam, you wanna break Dean free of that deal, you ain't gonna find the answer in no book."

"Then where, Bobby?"

"Kid, I wish I knew. So, where's your brother?"

"Polling the electorate." Sam answers.

"What?" Bobby doesn't get the Simpsons reference, but I do. Dean's fucking some skank in a dirty motel. A thrill of jealousy runs through me but I ignore it. I have no right.

"Never mind." Sam dismisses.

"Well, you boys better pack it up. I think we finally found something."

"We?" Sam asked.

I want to shake my head, leave it as long as possible before the Winchesters know I'm involved, but I bite my tongue and Bobby sighs. "Y/n. I found her."

"Is she okay?" Sam asks, a worried tone on his words. "Where did she go after Cold Oak?"

Bobby gives me a look that says 'I told you you were overreacting, girl' and clears his throat. "She thought she got you killed, so she tried to drown herself in bourbon."

"What? She didn't get me killed. Bobby, it wasn't her-"

"Yeah, now she's blamin' herself for Dean makin' that deal, too."

"None of this woulda happened if I'd just listened to her, Bobby. She tried to get me to leave the others to their own devices, she tried to warn me about Ava back before Lily even turned up dead. None of this is her fault."

"Dean thinks it is." I say, finally.

"Y/n! What-"

"Before I ran, when he was... when he was holding you, I could hear it, feel it... he blames me, Sam, and he's not wrong."

"Yes, he is. He's very wrong. It's not your fault, y/n." I bite my lip. "If Dean still thinks that, he's wrong. All you did was get out. That's it. Jake stabbed me, and he only had that opportunity because I didn't kill him when I had the chance. All of it... all of it was the demon's fault."

I swallow and look down. "If I'd stayed, I could have helped."

"Or you could've got yourself killed, too. Look, we'll talk more when we get up together. What'd you find, and where?"

As Bobby runs down the information for Sam, I bite my thumbnail. I'm nervous about seeing them but happy that Sam at least doesn't blame me for his demise. We make it to the outskirts of Lincoln early the next morning and we quickly find the house which seems to be ground zero for the cicada plague. We don't go in, calling Sam to let him know where we are, and I hop up onto the back of the Chevelle to wait for the boys. "So, where's your daddy been, girl?" Bobby asks, trying to make small talk.

"He's been down in South America. There's some... Norte Chicoan artifact he's trying to track down. He didn't give me much in the way of details. He was trying to respect my... decision to stay out of the game."

Bobby looks down. "He know yer back in?"

I shake my head. "What would I say, Bobby? 'I started having visions and doing weird shit with my mind so I got back into hunting to prove to a demon that I wasn't gonna play his game?' No. No, I don't think that'd fly. Just keep... doing what I'm doing."

There's a moment of silence. "Ain't my business, but you might wanna call 'im. Since ya almost died in Cold Oak and yer back huntin' puttin' yer life in danger... might be a good thing fer a dad to know."

I sigh. Calling Dad is about as high on my list as an ice pick lobotomy. Fortunately, we don't have to keep talking, because the familiar roar of Dean Winchester's Impala engine pulls our attention to the end of the driveway. The Winchester boys get out of the car, Dean chewing on a burger. His eyes jump to mine, then pointedly look away. Sam wraps his arms around me and I melt, wrapping my arms around his chest. "Sam, I'm so sorry." I whisper, just loud enough for Sam to hear me.

"It's not your fault." He whispers.

I pull back and sigh, loudly, unable to stop it. "I wish I could still read your mind. I could use some of those complimentary thoughts."

Sam kisses my forehead. "I'll tell you all about what I'm thinking later, okay?" I nod. He turns to Bobby, hands going into his pockets. "So, Bobby, what do you think? We got a biblical plague here, or what?"

"Well, let's find out. Looks like the swarm's ground zero." Bobby says walking toward the front door of the farmhouse.

Dean pops a piece of gum into his mouth to deal with his early-morning burger breath and knocks on the door. "Candygram!" He shouts. No one answers, so Dean pulls out his lock pick equipment and the rest of us pull our guns. As soon as the door opens, we're hit with a wall of stench, the smell of decay causing us to flinch and cover our noses.

"That's awful." Sam says quietly.

"That so can't be a good sign."

I find the sitting room first, gagging as I look at the family of desiccated corpses watching 'Dallas', though the television probably wasn't on 'Dallas' when they died. Sam and Dean burst into the room and recoil at the smell. Bobby's next. No one knows what happened here. Dean tells us to check for sulfur, then stops us with a whistle to gesture at us, let us know he saw something outside. He walks out to the porch and Bobby and I follow around the other side of the house. We watch as Dean gets beat down with the butt of a shotgun by a semi-familiar face.

"Issac? Tamara?" Bobby says, rushing forward.

"Bobby! What the hell are you doing here?" Tamara's accent makes the connection in my head and I rush forward.

"I could ask the same." Bobby responds.

"Tamara!" I smile at her.

"Y/n! Look at you! You were just a wee thing last I saw you!"

"I was eighteen, that's not so wee." I say.

"Sixteen." Sam corrects, quietly, walking up behind me. Shit. Sometimes even I forget Dad and I added two years to my age.

"Heya, Bobby. Hey, y/n." Issac greets.

"Hello." Dean raises an arm and pitifully waves for attention. "Bleeding here." I reach out and grab his hand, pulling him up off the porch easily. He discretely rubs his hand against his jeans like he's trying to rid himself of my cooties. I sigh and retreat away from him before he sees the devastation in my eyes. I turn the corner of the house and Sam is almost instantly upon me.

"Hey. You okay?"

"I don't need to be a mind reader to know what he's thinking. He still blames me."

"He's wrong." Sam insists.

"Yeah. So you keep saying." I take a deep breath. "It's fine. More important things. I'm gonna go find a pay phone and... call in the bodies." I smile tightly and rush away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've kinda dissociated since we've been at Tamara and Issac's place. I feel like I'm being watched. I feel like I need to kill something. I feel like I need a drink. I come back to myself as Dean walks into the room with his phone up to his ear. "Well, Jenny, if you look as pretty as you sound, I'd love to have an... appletini. Yeah. Call you." He hangs up and looks around the room. "That was the coroner's tech."

"And?" Sam asks.

"Get this. That whole family, cause of death? Dehydration and starvation. There's no signs of restraint, no violence, no struggle. They just sat down and never got up."

"But there was a fully stocked kitchen just yards away." Bobby says.

"Right. What is this, a demon attack?" Sam asks.

"If it is, it's not like anything I ever saw, and I've seen plenty." Bobby says.

"Well, what now?" Dean looks around the room. "What should we do?"

"Uh, we're not gonna do anything." Issac says.

"What do you mean?" Sam asks.

"You guys seem nice enough, but this ain't Scooby Doo and we don't play well with others." Issac answers.

"I think we'd cover a lot more ground if we all worked together." Sam says.

"No offense, but we're not teaming with the damn fools who let the Devil's Gate get open in the first place."

"No offense?" Dean says, his eyebrows scrunched together.

Heat fills my chest. "Were you there? They didn't let shit-"

"Y/n, don't." Sam says.

"No! This ain't on you. Jake opened that door! Jake killed you and opened that door and Bobby fuckin' closed it."

"They shoulda stopped Jake before it got open." Issac growls at me.

"Issac." Tamara admonishes. "Like you've never made a mistake."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Locked my keys in the car, turned my laundry pink. Never brought on the end of the world, though."

Dean chuckles, but he feels like he's about to throw a punch. I feel the same. "All right. That's enough."

"Guys, this isn't helping. Dean-"

"Look, there are a couple hundred more demons out there now. We don't know where they are, when they'll strike. There ain't enough hunters in the world to handle something like this. You brought war down on us. On all of us." Issac says. Tamara grabs his arm and pulls him away.

"Okay, that's enough testosterone for now." She says, leaving the room.

I shake my head and stomp out of the house. I bite my lip and start walking. I don't know where I'm walking, but I'm completely certain I'm not going back to Tamara and Issac's place. I make it to the mains of Lincoln before I decide to hit a bar. I drop onto a stool and order a bourbon. The bartender gives me a look that says he knows I'm in a bad place, but he doesn't ask. I down it quickly and hold up my hand for another. "You'll never be able to stop this alone, you know."

"I'm not alone." I turn to the owner of the accented voice. "And stop what?" I gawk a little at the attractive older man. He looks to be about forty-five, maybe fifty, with striking hazel-gold eyes. He's wearing a designer suit, Armani or something. He obviously catches my stare because his lips twist into a smug smirk.

"Well, you look alone, darling." He leans closer to me and I get a whiff of a musky cologne, strong scotch whiskey and just a hint of rotten eggs. "Sitting here drinking while your boyfriends try to figure out what happened in that farmhouse."

"I don't have boyfriends." I smirk and lean away from him. "And I bet you could tell me what happened in that farmhouse, couldn't you?"

"I could. Do you want that?"

"And why would you do that? Why would you give me information, when I know what you are?"

"You don't know the half of what I am, pet." He smirks. "But the most important thing that I am is someone who was just fine with the old status quo. I'm someone who doesn't need or want a bunch of bloody ancients muckin' about in my territory, and I'm someone who can help you win the bloody war Azazel brought on."

"Listen to you sayin' 'someone' like you're a people. It's adorable." I take a drink of bourbon and lick it from my lips. I study its face, looking for... something. "How could you possibly help me win the war?"

"I can give you your powers back, teach you control. You can use your little gifts to save people, put things back the right way. The End of the World isn't very good for sales, I'm sure you understand."

I nod. "So, you're a crossroads demon."

"Crowley. King of the crossroads demons." His eyes fill in with red as he extends his hand. I take it, my eyes not leaving his... its eyes. Not a man. It's an 'it'.

"How can you give them back? The Yellow-Eyed Demon is dead." I won't admit to this creature that I miss the powers, that I miss knowing what people are thinking. That I was getting used to it, that I was hoping to get stronger.

"He's obviously not the only demon who knows how to tap into what you've got inside you, darling. Now, do you know how he turned you and all his special children into special children?"

I lick my lips and drop its hand. Bobby filled me in on this. "Demon blood. I was force-fed it as a baby."

"Right." It nods, its eyes regain the green-gold quality of its vessel. "Every bit of what made you extraordinary imparted in a few drops of blood."

"You obviously don't know what makes me extraordinary, then." I respond.

He smiles. It's not a smirk. It's a real, honest smile. "You're wrong about that. I know exactly what makes you extraordinary. And how sexy you can make a word like 'daddy' is only a small part." I look away from him. I don't know how he knows about that, but I'm not going to comment. "Your dedication to the job is paramount. You want to help people. I can help you help people."

"And what, you just need my soul?" I roll my eyes.

"No. Not your soul. I just need you to have a drink." He produces a glass vial with a dark red liquid in it.

"Is that-"

"Yes. It's mine, if that helps."

"Not much." I swallow and reach out to grab the vial. "I don't... What am I supposed to do with this?"

"You're not stupid, y/n." His fingertips release the glass and slide across my wrist. "A few drops gave you your gifts, what do you think a few more would do for you?"

I look down at his hand on me and shake my head. "You'll do well to keep your hands to yourself, Crowley, King of the Crossroads. Because I'm not stupid and I'm not going to be seduced by a demon."

He smirks and pulls his hand away, conjuring a burn phone and setting it on the top of the bar. "My number's the only one in there. Call when you decide to drink that. I'll work you through it."

I tuck the vial in my pocket and swivel on the bar stool until I'm looking straight at him. "And the family in the farmhouse?"

"Ah, yes. Check Binsfeld's Classification of Demons. Under 'S'." The demon says before disappearing. I immediately pull out a pen and write down 'Binsfeld's Demons- S' on a cocktail napkin. The vial feels heavy in my pocket as I throw down money on the counter and leave the bar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I get a motel room and pour salt lines along the door and windows. I pull out the laptop I swiped from the room next door with the passed out businessman on the bed and find a digitized copy of Binsfeld's Classification of Demons after hacking a student sign-in for Harvard. I scroll to the S section and just past the demon Samhain, which just gives me more reason to hate Halloween, I see it. The Seven Sins. Not just sins, but actual demons which specialize in inspiring their specific sin. The farmers, they were just too lazy to get up and feed themselves, get water. Sloth's touch.

I read the entire entry three times before I sigh and shut the laptop. I flop face-down onto the bed and groan as the vial in my pocket digs into my leg. I pull it out of my pocket and slam it down on the side table, trying to ignore it and fall asleep, but my eyes keep opening and focusing on the bottle. I close them, tell myself it's stupid to even entertain the idea of drinking blood, especially demon blood, but after about twenty minutes I sit up and swipe the vial off of the table. I twist it, twirling it between my fingers, watching the dark red liquid move in the bottle, like a wave of dark syrup.

I know I shouldn't do it. I'm not stupid. Even the demon said I'm not stupid. But sometimes I make really stupid decisions.

As I twist open the top of the bottle, I tell myself that it's just scientific curiosity. That the demon put forth a hypothesis of what drinking his blood would do for me and I'm just testing to see if he was right. It's a lie. I know it's a lie. The blood is calling to me. I don't know if it's that I know it can give me back my gifts or the blood I've had in me my whole life yearning to be joined with the blood in the vial, but I know I need to taste it. Just a taste.

I dab a drop of blood onto my left index finger and stare at it. It's lighter in color outside of the bottle. I lick my lips and bring my hand up to sniff at the blood drop. It smells like iron and sulfur, which is exactly what I was expecting. "This is stupid." I go to wipe the blood off on my jeans, but I stop myself. "Fuck." I detour the finger up to my mouth and lick the blood off. It takes a few minutes to kick in, but when it does, I go into shivers. My body is suddenly burning hot and the motel room feels freezing cold. On the back of the sudden fever and my heart pounding in my ears, I notice that I can feel everything. Things I never noticed before, like the scratchy blanket I was lying under that I can feel every fiber of the fabric, the vibrations from the light in the lamp on the bedside table, the weight of the denim of my jeans. "Oh, my god." I whine.

The phone in my pocket goes off and I flip it open. "You were supposed to call me, Baby Girl." The demon's voice sends a shiver through my entire body and it's not because of the fever. My body reacts to the nickname conjuring up images of John in my head and I whimper. "I'm right outside your motel, sweetheart. Open the door."

"There's salt." I mutter.

"Then, move it. Don't you want me to help you, Baby Girl?"

I whine. "Don't call me that."

"You like it. Come on, pet, I can't help you through the phone."

"I don't even wanna move." I admit, sitting up.

"How much did you have, y/n?"

I take a deep breath and shuffle across the carpet to open the door. I run my boot across the salt line. "I had one... just a... just one drop." I move out of the way and he steps inside. It. It steps inside. Fuck, why did I just let it in?

"One drop, just to see what it does?" He places his hands on my hips and walks me backwards to the bed. I look into his vessel's eyes, breathing heavily. His fingertips feel warm, his body comfortable against mine. "Yore incredibly sensitive, aren't you? Thought a girl who's been drinking hard liquor since she was fifteen would have a bit more resistance."

"Liquor's not the same." I breathe out.

"Not at all." He smiles and pushes me to the bed. "Now, darling... tell me what I'm thinking."

I shake my head. "I don't know."

"Come on. It's only been a few days, Baby Girl. Yore not that rusty. What am I thinking?" I close my eyes as he climbs onto the bed with me, heavy hand running up under my shirt and rubbing his thumb in sweeping motions across my abs. An image forms in my mind. It's cloudy, grey around the edges, but it makes me moan when it comes into focus. Crowley with his face between my thighs, my wrists tied to the headboard above my head, me writhing under him. "That's a good girl. You know exactly what I'm thinkin', don't you?"

"No." I'm not denying that I know what he's thinking. I'm denying him. I grab his wrist and stop his hand in its upward movement. "You're... you're a demon."

"And you're high on my blood. Do you know how good it'd feel for you?" He leans down over me, brushes his lips over mine. "I can make you feel amazing."

"You're supposed to be helping me, not trying to fuck me." I whisper, closing my eyes as more images pour into my brain, each more raunchy that the last.

"I can do both." He growls against my mouth, pressing his lips harshly into mine. It feels good. I whine into him. He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it off. I shiver in the cold of the room, but he immediately covers me with his warm body. He pushes my legs apart and settles between them, runs his tongue along my neck. "I'll fuck you until you come down from the blood and then we'll work on your powers." My phone goes off and it jolts me enough to bring me back to the real world, back to who I really am. I push the demon off of me and reach out my hand, smiling softly as my shirt flies into my hand.

"You're a demon." I slide the shirt over my head and pull my phone out. "I'm not fucking you." I check my text and smile. It's Sam. He's worried about me. I text to let him know I'm fine, that I got a motel and I'll track him down tomorrow. Then I turn to Crowley. "Start teaching, or I get the salt."

"More resistance than I thought you had." He grumbles, rolling off the bed. "Come on. Stand up. We've got a lot to do."

Supernatural Tags- @mrswhozeewhatsis, @letsby, @adoptdontshoppets