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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 months ago

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Too Close for Comfort 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, a grumpy man, age gap, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You find a place to stay for the semester but your landlord is less than hospitable.

Characters: Joel Miller

Note: I said I'd get to Joel and I'm sorry to neglect everyone else lol.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

The suburban sprawl awes you as you steer down the gentle curving avenues, taking in the trimmed hedges and the short picket fences. The neighbourhood is a stark contrast to the grim backstreets where you grew up. As you turn into the bright cul de sac, you can't help but wonder if you put the wrong address into the app.

The automated voice declares you've reached your destination just as you drive past the house from the posting. You hiss as you confirm the metal numbers mounted on the brick are the very same. You swerve into the nearest lot and reverse, forgetting to look as you do.

A loud honk has you slamming on the brakes as a large truck flashes its lights in your rearview. You give a sheepish wave and cringe, waiting for them to pull in. You sink down as you notice the bulky Chevy roll expertly into the lot in front of the very house that distracted you.

You hold in a groan and back up, straightening the wheel and parking along the curb. A man drops heavily to his feet from the pick-up, slamming the door behind him. You wince and grip the steering wheel nervously. That must be the man you emailed.

Great first impression...

You open your car door to get out only to be trapped by your seat belt. You quickly click the button to release yourself and climb out of the car. You step up on the curb as the man scowls towards his front door, tramping up the cement walk between neatly groomed grass.

"Um, excuse me, Joel?" You call after him, "are you Joel Miller?"

He stops before the bottom step of the porch and pushes his head back with a growl. He turns to face you, agitation creased above his brows. You try to smile but your lips only tremble.

"Um, sorry to bother, I'm the one who messaged you. Er, about the room. You know, uh, online?" You wave your phone at him and his eyes dully focus on the gesture.

He crosses his arms. You shift your weight on your feet, not daring to break the threshold of his lawn. Right, you don't think this is going to work out. You should've known it was too good to be true.

"I'm sorry--"

"I'm Joel," he interrupts, "you're my one o'clock," he checks his watch, a brown leather band strapped around his thick tanned wrist, "you're early."

"I... yes, I am. I hate being late--"

"Doesn't matter," he dismisses tersely and twists on his heel.

He climbs the front steps of the two-storey house as you watch helplessly. His broad shoulders stretch the thin cotton of his tee shirt as he rolls his shoulders and keys in the code to the front door. You slump your shoulders, hooking your fingers in your pockets as you make to turn back.

"You wanna see the room?" He calls to you before you can retreat.

"Oh, uh, sure," you hop in place and quickly scurry up the wall, "er, that would be great."

You clatter up the steps, tripping over the last one. He stands by the door, staring at you dully as he holds it open for you. You show your teeth appeasingly as you approach.

"Take your shoes off," he points you inside.

You step onto the mat and bend to untie your sneakers. He enters after you with a sigh. You quickly sidle out of his way as he nearly bumps into you. You slide your shoes aside and stand as he thumbs off his boots.

"It's above the garage," he points to the east wall. That is east, right?

"Sure, uh, cool," you follow him past the staircase.

He leads you to a door just before the kitchen and opens it again. It occurs to you then, maybe too late, that he's a complete stranger and you've walked carelessly into his house. You look at him, trying to hide the flicker of doubt. It doesn't help that he doesn't smile. Actually, you're not sure if that would be any better.

You go ahead of him and climb the stairs behind the door. You enter the room, fully furnished and relatively cozy. You're impressed. It's not much but enough to make do.

“Built in the bathroom,” he explains as he does to another doorway, “only half bath, you'll have to use downstairs for a shower. Kitchenette,” he goes to the counter mounted into the wall, “microwave, hot plate sink, guess you could get an electric kettle.”

You nod as you look around. It's not bad; a bed, a chair and footstool, a table against the wall with two wooden stools. Of all the places you've viewed, it's decent and it's close enough to school

“I could… is that an offer?” You prompt.

“You got a job?” He asks.

“Sure, I work on campus between classes, and I have a grant,” you explain, “probably won't be here too much, just need somewhere to sleep.”

“Mm,” he rubs his chin, a hoarse bristle of brown and gray along his jaw. “Deposit?”

“Right, um, yeah, I got it. I could Venmo? Or paypal?”

“Cash,” he insists.

“Oh, uh, I don't have it on me,” you fumble with your phone, “but I can show you my balance.”

“Bring it tomorrow and the room is yours.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Get the money in my hand and it's a deal,” he offers his hand, “you seem clean. You're a student. Better than the guy who tried to steal my silverware.”

“Uh, I won't do that,” you shake his hand and chuckle nervously.

“Mmm,” he growls and lets you go. “As long as you're quiet, I don't care what you do.”

“Oh, yeah,” you cover your mouth and lower your voice, “I'll do my best.”

He is unshakable. You're not the most charming character but you're harmless, most people realise that pretty quickly. You turn and continue to look around.

You go to the window and pull the cord of the blinds. Only one side raises and you yank it again. You give an oop as you angle it and try to let it down. It's only making it worse.

He huffs and crosses the room. You back up and he snatches the cord, rolling it up easily. You mumble an apology and look out, peering down at the driveway.

“It's really nice,” you say, “you said you put it the bathroom yourself?”

“Built the whole room,” he grumbles as he backs up, scratching the back of his, “something to do…”

“Right,” you smile, impressed by his handiwork. “Well, I can get the money. When should I come back?”

“Ten,” he says, “and don't be early. Don't need you interrupting my coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” you confirm, “ten…” you set an alarm on your phone and add it to your calendar, “I'll be here.”

You peek up at him as he watches you with narrowed eyes. His expression is enough to see you off. You're going to scram before he rescinds his offer.

🏘️

The next day, you head out to deliver the deposit. You take a little longer than you expected at the bank. You didn't consider that taking out a large amount would raise alarm bells.

With that sorted, you set off for your new home. This time, you park without issue, the Chevy truck unmoving in the driveway. You skip up the walk and take the steps two at a time. Your toe hits the top stair and you fly forward, colliding with the door.

You stand straight and laugh at yourself, reaching to knock on the door.

“Don't,” a disembodied voice warns.

You frown and look around. Your eyes catch the almost indiscernible lens above the doorbell. Oh, fancy.

The door swings open and Joel greets you over a gray blue mug. You stare at him awkwardly and teeter on your feet. Oh, yeah. You are here for a reason.

“Got it all here,” you proclaim as you loosen the drawstring on your purse, “counted it twice.”

He accepts it as he drinks from his mug, slurping down the last of the dregs. He clears his throat as he lowers the cup, “mm, great.”

“So, uh, not to be pushy,” you let your bag hang from your elbow, “when would I be able to… move in?”

His brown eyes bore into your very soul, “well… I guess whenever you need…”

“Great, because um, to be honest, it's really expensive to live on campus and my roommates are… messy,” you hesitate as you realise you're rambling, “not that that matters to you.”

“Just think of me like your landlord,” he grits, “don't bother me unless it's an emergency.”

“Got it,” you nod, “sorry, I'm excited. Oh, and I was wondering, am I allowed outside? Well, I don't mean, like, okay, is there a backyard?”

He nods stiffly.

“Am I… can I uh, use it?”

He stares then shrugs, “I guess. Two rules, stay out of my room and stay out of the garage. You got your room, you'll have access to the common space within limits.”

“Uh huh, makes sense,” you hold out the envelope and he takes it. “Well, thanks, I really appreciate it. You know, it must be a good investment, a little apartment…” you clamp your lips and cringe, “okay, sorry, I'm going.”

He doesn't respond. As you turn, the door snaps shut and you nearly trip again. It'll be a bit tense but it's better than scraping the bottom of the barrel to pay rent and dealing with Kaya's late night antics.

🏘️

You email Joel shortly after your last encounter. Restless, you're eager to be out of your overpriced and overcrowded dorm. You have most of your things ready to go. A single knapsack and a long duffle.

He agrees to the day before the first. You're not the sort to complain. It's better than the alternative. Short of the grumpy overseer, you really found the perfect place.

When you arrive, Joel's truck isn't there. You try ringing the bell but don't get an answer. You didn't expect any different. You sit on the top step and wait, admiring the facade of the neighbouring houses and the autumnal russets littered across their yards.

You’re not early. Not that early. You thought he’d be around or maybe give you some direction on how to get inside. Technically, this is your home too now. You signed the electronic lease.

When he drives up, you stand, swaying as you try not to seem too jumpy. He sits in his truck, taking his time as he lingers inside. When he gets out, he is in no hurry. You smile as he approaches and chew your lower lip.

His graying hair looks fluffy and soft despite his demeanour. He wears a tee shirt under a canvas shirt.

“Hi, er, Joel, sir,” you greet, “I… think I got the right day.”

“Was getting a key cut,” he slips his hand into his back pocket, “the keypad can be finicky. This one’s for the back. Just in case.”

“Thanks,” you chirp as you accept the key, “that’s awesome.”

His dark eyes challenge your enthusiasm as they flick up.

“Sure,” he agrees flatly.

“I’ll get my bags,” you announce as you back up, giving him room to step past you.

He rumbles but doesn’t give a real response. You hop off the step, landing clumsily, and follow the path down to the sidewalk. You pop your trunk and pull out your duffle and knapsack. As you go to shut the trunk, you feel a tug on the handle of the duffle bag and you hold back a yipe as a rough hand brushes the side of yours.

Joel doesn’t say a word as you let him take the bag. He turns and stalks back up the lawn. You can’t tell if he’s being helpful or he just wants to lock you away so you're out of his way. You hurry after him, keys jingling loudly.

Your foot hits the step and you nearly stumble again. You catch yourself with a stomp on the next step and he pauses at the front door to glance back at you. You offer another meek smile. He opens the door, waiting on you as you steady yourself.

“Sorry.”

“Slow down, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You give a nervous chuckle. He’s not laughing. You gulp and hook your knapsack on your shoulder before you continue inside. He might not be the nicest but at least you can be assured he can fix anything you break. Not that you’re intending on that… hopefully.

#joel miller #dark joel miller #dark!joel miller #joel miller x reader #too close for comfort #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #the last of us #au #series

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carstereotampa-blog · 6 years ago

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Single cab F-250 dully stopped by for #lumar #windowtint treatment. .#diesel #ford #ranger #secondgen #truck #chevyblazer #squarebody #f250 #fordranger #truckproject #fordbronco #firstgen #f350 #f150 #dully #cummins #c10 #chevy #silverado #oldtrucks #obs #offroad #trucks #4x4 #nicetrucks

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impala-dreamer · 5 years ago

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Happy Saturday! 🎉 What about a drabble where the reader is the one Dean goes to after Sam gets pulled into Hell?

Lost On Page 47

Season 5

Dean x Reader

751 Words

Warnings: Angst, Some Kissing, Future Smut

Saturday Drabbles Masterlist ~ My Masterlist ~ Become A Patreon ~ Find My Original Works on Amazon

She heard the car before it registered in her mind what it was. The quiet street came alive with it, that low rumble, the monstrous engine shaking the earth as it flew down the road.

Y/N sat in her favorite spot, the corner of the sofa right beneath the lamp, with a book in her lap. It was some old paperback she’d read a thousand times and always turned to when she couldn’t sleep. Sleep had been hard to find since she’d gotten that call from him; his voice had been weak and sad, something was very wrong.

She was lost on page forty-seven when the headlights flashed through her dark living room, startling her out of her thoughts.

“Dean.”

The engine stopped as the book dropped to the floor.

They took the steps together without realizing it- she towards the front door, slippered feet sliding on hardwood, him through the rain slicked grass, boots crushing the world beneath.

Their hands found the doorknob at the same time.

Their eyes found very different things.

Y/N smiled, eyes wide and happy although worry lurked behind them. She was just happy to see him again, happy to know he was alive and well.

Dean’s voice cracked around her name, his eyes wet and red; face drawn and hopeless. “Y/N.”

He all but fell into her arms, body giving out as he stepped through the door. She caught him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and guiding his face to hide in the crook of her neck. He was frozen, skin cold to the touch, his breath a stark contrast as it pushed out in heavy gasps against her throat.

“Dean, what happened?” She pet the back of his head, holding him tight as they stood in the doorway; the world outside still turning even as theirs had stopped.

His hands found each other around her back, tightening around her as his tears ran fresh, soaking into her shirt. “Sam. He’s gone.”

They sat alone on the sofa, light from the lamp adding a dull yellow hue to their faces. He’d drunk half a bottle of Absolute, the only thing she had on hand. It hung loosely between his fingers, barely balanced on the empty cushion that lay between them.

“Sorry I’m out of whiskey,” she said, trying to break the mood and get him talking.

He barely moved other than to lift the bottle to his lips, taking a deep swig. “This is fine.”

Y/N shifted in her seat, uncomfortable, worried. “I can run out and pick something up if you want…” She moved to stand, but Dean’s hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her close.

“Stay,” he said dully, finally turning his eyes to her. “Please.”

She nodded silently and repositioned, sitting next to him, their knees and hips touching, their hands folded on his lap. “Of course, Dean.”

Dean took another drink and then handed her the bottle. The vodka was still cold from the freezer and it numbed her mouth as she took a sip.

“I’m so sorry about Sam,” she said, letting the bottle settle between her knees. “He was a great guy.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

His words hung heavy in the air and Y/N sighed, biting her lip to keep in anything further. She was just happy he was there, safe for a moment. She took a long drink and leaned forward, placing the bottle on the little coffee table in front of the sofa. The glass clinked dully against the polished top, and as she sat back, Y/N gasped, feeling Dean’s hands sliding around her.

He turned toward her, hand reaching for her cheek, eyes closing as his lips puckered. Y/N held her breath as his kiss landed. He was warmer now but still shaking, his hands grabbing at her, unsure of what they wanted.

“Dean, let’s-”

He cut her off with a deep kiss, shoving his tongue between her lips as he pushed her down, climbing over her, caging her on the couch.

A tear fell from his cheek to hers, splashing into nothingness. He looked down in desperation, lips trembling and wet, body hard against her. “Please. I just- I need-”

Y/N pushed up and kissed him hard, dropping a hand between them to tug at his belt. “I know what you need,” she whispered, spreading her legs around him. “Take it.”

The paperback lay open on the floor, stuck on page forty-seven.

2020 Forever Tags:

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#spn fanfic #dean x reader #smangst #ssd #emoryhemsworth #Beka Talks

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lazywriter7 · 6 years ago

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Starkquill Rave - Fic time!

Awhile ago, I’d offered to write one from three Starkquill prompts as a thank you to all the people who’d offered such amazing support to my writing - see post here .

The people have spoken and the results are in: with no trouble whatsoever, the musical soulmates AU has emerged victorious! A giant Thank You to all the people who voted and reblogged, I love you and I hope you get what you came for ;) The plot ballooned up, hence the lateness - but here’s part one: Prompt: “soulmate au where no one hears music until they fall in love” HIT READ MORE

1986

The Chevy’s wheels sizzle on the asphalt, gravel flying off the highway to clatter on its undersides. The windshield is hazy under the glare of the high noon sun. The window panes are half rolled-down, heat streaming into the car under the guise of wind. Poles and railings and the odd warehouse – all flit by in an unending blur, melding into the landscape of the Great American Countryside stretching about him.

Sweat is beginning to collect under his fingertips; he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. It leads to his back losing contact with the sticky leather of the seat, t-shirt parting with his skin to let through a small draught of coolness. The Chevy Camaro IROC-Z probably wasn’t built for a sixteen-year-old driver, though he doubts he’s ever going to grow taller. His legs are over-extended as is, feet half-skimming the gas and brake pedals. He should’ve pulled over and moved the seat up a long time ago, but he hasn’t been able to make himself slow down. The road feels distant, at this speed. Like he’s barely touching the ground, like these straight grey lines are mere guidelines rather than boundaries he can’t cross over.

Something vibrates on the dash – he looks over, sees a flashing screen. In a move that barely registers in his head as careless, he reaches over till his belly skims the bottom of the steering wheel, fingers extending for the scorching chrome-and-plastic of his phone. He hits receive and speaker in quick succession, settles back into the damp groove his weight has created in the seat.

“Tony.”

The word is almost lost as the Chevy speeds under and past a flyover – Tony’s breath leaves his chest slowly. “Hey pumpkin.”

Rhodey’s tone is even, well-controlled. “Where are you? The campus police have been looking for hours–”

“Not on campus.” Tony speaks lightly. The wind is rippling past the hairs on the back of his neck, the ones on his sweat-sodden, taut arms. It’s been two years since they grew in, and they still feel vaguely foreign on his skin.

“…how far?”

“Exact coordinates are a bit of a bust.” He knuckles at the sweat collecting over his upper lip – it’s still faintly tender from the shave earlier this morning. “I’m guessing somewhere in the middle of Bumfuck, Missouri.”

“Missou–” The composure drains out of Rhodey’s voice in a hot second – word sawed off at the end in an effort to bank the panic. “How did you… how?”

“You know, the usual. Bought a plane ticket. And a car.” Tony keeps a hand on the wheel, stretches the other one out the window to be buffeted by the wind. Trails a fingertip ever-so-lightly over the window frame, smoothing over the vermilion-red finish. “The transmission is gorgeous, Rhodes. She handles like a dream.”

The frustration comes through easily over the silence on the line, Rhodey picking and discarding words and trying not too breathe too heavily. Tony waits him out, and sure enough, “You don’t have a license.”

“The showroom owners didn’t seem to mind.” The sky stripping over his head is heat-pale, blue fading away under the encroaching brightness of the sun. “Then again, I left my credit card with them so they probably wouldn’t have minded if I burned the place down.”

Nothing but the white noise of the highway. Tony half-thinks the line has gone dead, the click of the call ending lost somewhere between exits 43 and 44 – it doesn’t even sting that much. His heart kicks up a notch when words come through again, concern softening the syllables. “Media’s flocking the campus. Everyone wants to talk to the youngest ever winner of the 2.007 MIT Robot Design award.”

“How exciting for them.” He doesn’t mean to glance to the left, but the trophy still glints at the corner of his vision – knocked over on its side, cradled in the crease of the front seat. The burnished plaque at the bottom gleams dully: mens et manus. Mind and hand. There’s a name below the inscribed motto, three words long, that’s mostly been scratched out.

Tony looks straight ahead and drives.

“Your.” He doesn’t have to wonder too long to know what’s at the end of that uncharacteristic stutter. “Your dad gave an interview.”

“That’s good, I’m sure he needs the exposure.” The wheel creaks under his grip; Tony loosens it inch by inch, every motion tight and deliberate. “Next time, I’ll make sure to get a journalist pass before expecting him to come see me.”

An exhale. “Tony–”

“Sorry, gas station up ahead. Gotta fill up, talk to you later.”

The brake moves down sharply under his foot, tires squealing as he swerves violently to the right. He barely makes the turn, phone flying off the dashboard to clatter noisily to the floor.

The car lurches into the driveway, fender scraping past the pole of an unlit neon sign. It trundles through, passing under the broad shadow of the station’s concrete canopy. Rolling to a stop beside a self-serve console, Tony leaves the keys in the ignition and kicks the door open.

The gravel crackles under his soles. The air is hot and still. He flicks his eyes towards the fuel gauge – barely an inch below full.

The air whispers listlessly past his lips, skin dry and beginning to crack. His hands are still shaking.

For the lack of anything better to do, he flicks the radio on. Static, static, static… his fingers catch and turn the dial, degree by degree. And then–

–leave me be

Taking everything in my stride

Don't need reason, don't need rhyme

Ain't nothing I would rather do

Tony’s lips curve, quick and bittersweet. He pulls his legs back into the car, shifts back till the scalding leather of the headrest presses into his hair. Closes his eyes.

Going down, party time

My friends are gonna be there too

I'm on the highway to hell

Somewhere under the spectacular guitar riffs, he can hear another car pull into the station. The near-inaudible squeal of the engine coming to a stop, the click of a door swinging open. A few seconds, and then footsteps crunching over gravelly concrete, growing more and more distant.

Tony opens his eyes. Through the windshield, he can glimpse the back of a man (judging by the balding pate) in his sixties, disappearing through the glass doors of the attached convenience store. In idle curiosity, he glances over to the neighbouring console. Typical grey Ford Escort – 1981? 82? Whichever, it’s a boring car either way – bumpers turned dusty and brownish courtesy of the road. Both the front doors are thrown open, the driver’s seat desolate.

A flicker of movement – Tony’s eyes move towards the hood, where something…no wait, someone is blocking the view of the front tire.

Wow, that is one tiny human. Even from this distance, he can see the wide eyes, the slightly agape jaw. One tiny human staring at Tony’s car.

He’s clambering out of the Chevy Camaro before he’s fully aware, gangly limbs unfolding and his knees poking out through ripped denim. The boy – it seems like a boy, what with the crazy tufts of hair and general scruffiness – gazes at him for a while, before those eyes whip back to the car.

Hey Satan, paid my dues

Playing in a rocking band

Hey mama, look at me

I'm on my way to the promised land

“Bitchin’ ride, huh?” Tony reflects on the wisdom of using slang in front of an impressionable child, before kicking the thought to the back of his head. “You like it?”

The kid stays mute. Tony comes round the hood of the Chevy – the kid somehow looks even more rundown at this angle. Pale, drawn face, eyebags.

Tony reaches through the other window of his car, till his fingers wrap around the warmed metal of the trophy. Pulls it out and turns around to see the kid nervously gnawing at his lip, chin tilted high.

“I. I’m not supposed to be talking to strangers.” Nervous lip gnawing or not, the boy still meets Tony’s eyes, a pale and bloodshot gaze. His voice is slightly deeper than expected, somehow stripped of the traditional lilting tones of a child.

“I promise this isn’t made of candy.” Fingers uncurling, Tony lets the trophy roll slowly out of his hand – the boy’s eyes widen, before his hands dart to scoop it out of the air in an impressive show of reflexes.

Tony can feel his lips stretch out on either side of his cheeks – it doesn’t feel halfway fake. He pulls the Chevy’s door open on the passenger side, ducks in and shimmies over to the driver’s seat. Over his shoulder, he can still see the boy staring at his – dash? stereo? – pallid fingers loosely clasped around the base of the MIT prize.

Tony wraps steady fingers around the sweat-sticky wheel, chest rising and falling calmly. Starts up the engine, a smooth and pitch-perfect purr. Glances left for the last time, curl of the mouth punctuated by a wink. “Stay rad, kid.”

This time, he turns the Chevy with considerably more grace – wheels skimming on the concrete before dismounting onto highway asphalt. His seat is still too far back, but he doesn’t feel half as strenuously stretched out.

The sky sprawls on ahead. Tony hums.

And I'm going down

All the way

I'm on the highway to hell.

“I don’ get it.”

Peter can feel his nose scrunching, which he smoothens immediately.

Too late. “What don’t you get, bunny?”

He shudders. Yeah, not one of his favourite nicknames. “It doesn’ even – okay, listen, here it comes again–”

He-ell

(He-ell)

What’s the matter with your he-ad

“See?” Peter wants to shake the radio a little, but then it might fall off the sill again and Mom hadn’t liked that. “It doesn’ even rhyme.”

“It doesn’t have to rhyme, sweetie.” Mom plucks at the plastic tube going into her hand, almost like she’s strumming. “One of the gifts of modernism.”

“Whazzat?”

“No clue.” Mom smiles a little fuzzily, letting the tube jerk back into place. It looks almost invisible against her hand. “Your smarty-pants cousin used to say it.”

Peter wants to protest the smarty-pants status of Mara – she calls him a dum-dum, and he doesn’t think that’s a very smart insult at all – but then the chorus starts. It sounds, like all music does, like words awkwardly strung one after the other, missing something called the melody. And Mom says that’s the most important bit.

Come and get your love

Come and get your lo-ove

“But.” And Peter can feel his nostrils flaring up again, even though he’s trying really hard to understand, “Don’ you just…have love? Why’d you have to go get it? Did you leave it somewhere?”

Mom laughs – which Peter loves, even if it makes his chest puff out further in indignation. “You’ll understand when you hear it, honey.”

But I am hearing it. He’s hearing the guy say the words, even if they’re pitched weirdly. But Mom, and the world, says that he can’t Really hear music until he falls in love, and that won’t happen until a few more years ‘at least’.

The hospital bedsheet scrunches under Peter’s fingers, stiff and starchy. The nurses still haven’t opened up the windows, and the air smells dead.

He doesn’t want to wait a few more years. He needs to understand what’s making Mom smile now.

He wants to climb up on the bed, tuck his knees under her sides. But Mom doesn’t look up to it, so he just crosses his arms and tries to keep the whining to a minimum. “What if I don’t fall in love till I’m like… twenty.”

“Then you’ll be wiser than any teenager that ever lived.” Mom smirks like she made a really good joke. Peter resists the urge to sigh, Gramps-style.

“What if I can’t hear music even after I fall in love.”

“That means you’re waiting for your soulmate.” Mom’s teeth click together on the ‘t’, eyes creased like paper. “It’s the best reason of all.”

“Dierdre says,” He pronounces it like dray-dray, because no eight year old needed to have that complicated a name. “That soulmates are shi – stuff that’re made up for people who’re too selfish to love anyone.”

“I think it’s kinda romantic.” Mom says, still all wrinkly-eyed. “Your brain deciding to hold off one of the best experiences of life, just to share it with someone important.”

“What if,” And who cares if he’s mumbling a little, toes wriggling in his shoes, “they’ve already experienced it?”

“Then they’ll still value the moments they share with you, Pete.” Mom’s fingers dance across the bedspread, white on white, a delicate tap-tap. “There’s nothing in the world quite like having a tune in your ear. A chorus kicking into full swing. And looking around you, and realising that everyone around you is feeling the exact same thing.”

“You’ll remember the songs you listen to. The songs you sing.” And then, like magic, her spindle-like fingers find his – scrunched tight against the sheets. Coax them loose, encase them in her hand with a gentleness that comes so easy. “It doesn’t matter, if they’re the first ones or the last. What matters is that you remember, and hold them dear.”

The people or the songs, he wants to ask – but the answer’s there, in the shine of Mom’s eyes.

It doesn’t matter. When it’s the right person, the right song. The answer is one and the same.

2012

Peter’s borne several names through his lifetime.

Some he’s clung to with mulish bloody-mindedness – light of my life. My precious son. My little Starlord. Some he hears with such repetitive frequency that the effect’s gotten somewhat stale. Terran. Criminal. Dick.

And some that he would happily do with never having to hear ever again. Presenting to you: man who has lain with an A'askavariian.

Not that he resents being framed as the James Bond type. O-ho no, he is quite satisfied with tales of his exploits being spread throughout the galaxy. Except when they involve tentacles. And teeth.

Not that Rill isn’t an entirely delightful… entity. But they never anything-ed. At all. Remotely. Shy’la ‘caught’ them together, but he was only ever trying to get some info out of her on the Nova archives. Which is why he resents being summoned here by her in some Rigellian dive bar and have people eye him like… it’s goddamn middle school all over again, the time it’d got out that he pecked Molly Sheridan on the cheek. The same surveying with interest. That Shi’ar by the corner doesn’t even have limbs, for heaven’s sake.

“Pew-ter.”

Oh wonderful.

Peter plasters a smile on his face – more rictus-y than usual, but it’s not like these jackasses are gonna be able to tell – and turns around. There, under the Karona lights by the bar. Should’ve figured.

Rill is occupying three of the bar stools, mandibles long and dangling over her lower lip. Her neon-pink skin positively hurts to look at under the lighting. Her voice is garbled, but infinitely pleased. “Pew-ter.”

Peter manoeuvres between the tables till he’s reached the bar, turning in place to cock a hip against the counter. A pink tentacle goes slithering off the stool next to him, leaving behind a slime trail that smells faintly of lavender.

Rill smiles down at him benevolently – Peter keeps his own grin through a valiant struggle. “Standing is fine, thank you.”

It’s difficult to understand her response through all the chirruping; she either says so polite or hubba hubba. Peter tries not to dwell on it. “So you. Erm. Said you found something of potential interest to me?”

“So I did.” Rill strokes her own temple with a proboscis. “My feeder crafts came across–”

“Whoa, whoa. Shouldn’t we be talking about this in a,” He clears his throat significantly, “ore-may ivate-pray…ocation-lay?”

A'askavariians don’t have eyelids – otherwise he gets the impression there would be a lot of blank blinking going on right now.

“What?” Okay, he’s sounding a bit defensive, sue him if Toby McIntosh only explained the rules of pug latin to him once. “Did I not do it right?”

“I would be better able to inform you,” Rill informs him gravely, mandibles wobbling, “if I knew what you were trying to do.”

Maybe A'askavariians don’t have pugs either. Good for them, Peter doesn’t know why you’d want to talk to those wrinkly-looking bastards anyway.

“We are having a secret deal.” He’s doing the whisper-and-lean now, which is super obvious, but What Can You Do. “Shouldn’t we be doing this in a, yanno. Private location?” He’s feeling a little awkward about explaining ‘them rules’ to a mafia lord, but maybe the other mafia lords never told Rill about them. Sexist jerks.

“Oh no.” Rill chirps back cheerily. “Any spy in this bar would be confirmedly strong-bowelled.”

“Nice.” A pause. “What’s that?”

“We strangle them with our tentacles.” Rill demonstrates with a little wave-y motion. Peter waves back at the tentacle faintly. “And then disembowel them with our teeth.”

“Very nice.” Peter realises he’s been nodding for at least three seconds too long, before stilling his head with a jerk. “So, uh. Matter of interest?”

“As I was saying, my feeder crafts came across a decimated Chew-tari mothership–”

“Chitauri?” Peter usually doesn’t like giving away his cards that quickly, but holy shit. Fuck no. He straightens up immediately, ankle knocking into a barstool leg, “Man are you barking up the wrong tree, I want nothing to do with those lackeys or their boss–”

“–in addition to picking up some strange readings. Scans confirm recently lapsed warp-time behaviour, as well as particles from your corner of the universe.”

“Knowhere?” Peter scoffs quietly, but Rill’s beady eyes are twinkling under the lights and– “You mean Terra.”

Rill gathers her tentacles about herself, almost primly. “Have I got the right tree yet?”

Peter… doesn’t really have the brain space to deal with that question, to be honest. His mind is jittering back and forth in part-surprised, part-panicked strains, “Did they…was there… did they attack Terra?”

“I cannot confirm that.” There’s a part of his head still, that lives in a Joplin two-bedroom flat with a radio on the kitchen sill – a part that flinches at these words. “The ship was unsalvageable. We found only one lifesign for several systems, and it wasn’t Chew-tari.”

Peter’s lips part to speak on reflex, before pressing shut – words stilling in their tracks. It’s an age-old instinct that’s served him well over the years, the little voice of self-preservation that’s saved his hide time and again. You sure that stripper is legit, Pete? That’s a whole lotta guns for a lap dance routine. Yeah, that’s your Uncle Bill, but he’s also a Ravager and looks genuinely disappointed every time Yondu postpones Eat-The-Terran day. That slime looks like bad news, do not lick it.

Then again, he didn’t become a magnificent outlaw by not doing anything risky and immensely stupid. This is just a business deal. And he’s managed to walk out every single time, with few scars and fewer blaster burns on his jacket. He can back out before getting in too deep.

(He has to. He’s ridiculously in debt to the seamstress guild on Xandar, and they’re notoriously vicious when it comes to collection. Needles-in-bits vicious.)

Rill ahems politely, mandibles quivering. Peter is reminded that he’s keeping a mafia lord waiting, soft spot for him or no.

Fuck it. He smiles, broad and assured. “I’m interested. Show me what you found.”

When Tony comes to, he hits his head on the inside of the helmet.

Clanggggg. His eyes only water slightly – this is far from the worst he’s ever had in the suit. He’s not plummeting to a fiery death, or freezing solid in the stratosphere, or even catapulting to crash against the workshop ceiling. This is good. This is manageable.

Sure, he can’t rub at the bump on his forehead because the suit is dead, but that’s cool. It is. They let him keep his suit in hell, which seems like a cheatcode if there ever is one.

“J? You there?” His lips barely move, but that shouldn’t be an impediment if JARVIS is still functional. The ensuing silence is answer enough.

This is fine. I’m fine. If the suit’s a cheatcode, then JARVIS would’ve been a goddamn walkthrough. If Dante is to be believed, then this level isn’t so easy to cross.

“Stark, you know that’s a one-way trip.”

Tony opens his eyes.

Hell has an… interesting aesthetic. There’s a lot more neon-coloured lighting than the average person would expect, though Tony’s always believed Vegas to be an approximation of the netherworld. It’s more cavern than room; curved walls and no furniture, just oddly-shaped blocks that wouldn’t be out of place in a modern art exhibit. He can’t see any doors either, though his peripheral vision is fuck-all at this point.

Still, he’s got just enough leeway to crane his chin downwards – which confirms what he was already suspecting. He’s suspended in mid-air, his boots at least six inches clear off the ground. It’s like he’s been pinned in place by some kind of maglev effect, but he can’t fathom any present tech that would have the strength to hol–

No. No. Not tech. His heartbeat is beginning to skitter in his chest, pulse rapidly at the base of his neck. He would rather be dead and at the mercy of crazy Hades voodoo than be… lost in some speck of the universe. He refuses.

In typical fashion, the universe chooses that moment to slide open a section of the wall. What proceeds to come in appears to be closer to tentacle-alien than Fury-from-hell, but Tony is prepared to grant some artistic liberties.

Of course, all that is blown out of water when a Han Solo type swaggers in just after.

Maybe I made it to heaven. He’s being over-generous, but there’s something to be said for the clear-eyed, glinting regard of the man who’s just walked in. There’s the getup, obviously – the jacket, the weapon holstered ever-so-carelessly on the hip, the fleet-fingered tap tap of his nails on his thigh suggesting anything but a lack of care. But what really sticks is the stare: hazel eyes, honest in their shade and undeniably mercenary in intention.

The fantasy comes to a screeching halt when the man actually opens his mouth. “I’d have to sell it off piece by piece, but I can get a good price.”

How dare.

Tony likes to think the suit comes alive through the power of his sheer indignation – but truth be told, he just kicked back his right heel and activated the emergency power supply. The repulsors whine to partial strength – he doesn’t do anything too fancy, just swivels his right gauntlet to point straight at his target.

And imparts devastating words that may or may not make it through his external speakers. “Sell this, you scummy Jawa.”

The repulsors fire, which is good. The man’s irises begin to glow, which is decidedly not.

The impact ripples out from the centre of collision like a shockwave – it catches Tony in the chest, wrenches him free of the maglev hold. It’s like being hooked and pulled backwards, very suddenly; the wall hits his back and he crumples, pain jangling in his senses like a livewire. His vision’s starting to go out.

Through it all, there’s space for one last, resentful thought.

Superpowers. Fuck me.

-to be continued

#fanfic #lazywriting #starkquill #musical soulmates au #tony stark #peter quill

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placestitta · 2 years ago

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Dave grohl bands tweet quiz

Dave Grohl could have joined Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Later in 2012 Warren, Ohio unveiled a pair of gigantic 902 lb. A roadway in downtown Warren named ‘David Grohl Alley’ was dedicated to him with murals by local artists. In August 2009, Grohl was given the key to the city of his hometown Warren, Ohio. He was fined $400 and had his Australian driving permit revoked for three months.ġ8. In 2000, while on tour with Foo Fighters in Australia, Grohl was arrested by Australian police while driving a scooter under the influence following a concert on the Gold Coast in Queensland. While the Foo Fighters were on break, Hawkins played in a three-piece cover band, Chevy Metal.ġ7. He later contributed drums to a cover of Neil Young’s I’ve Been Waiting For You on 2002’s Heathen.ġ6. Dave Grohl became friendly with the late David Bowie on the 1997 festival circuit and later played his 50th birthday party. Taylor Hawkins overdosed on heroin in 2001, which put him in a coma for two weeksġ5. Dave Grohl once made a cameo appearance with his wife Jennifer on The X-Files in a 1996 episode called Pusher.ġ4. He appeared in Morissette’s videos for ‘You Oughta Know’, ‘All I Really Want’ and ‘You Learn’.ġ3. Before joining the band, Taylor Hawkins was Alanis Morissette’s touring drummer. Stahl, who played with Grohl in Scream, flew from a tour he was performing in Japan after getting the invitation to join the band.ġ2. During the Septemconcert at Radio City Music Hall, right before that year’s 1997 MTV Video Music Awards, Smear announced his departure and gave his instrument for the new guitarist, Franz Stahl, to finish the set. He was joined by Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore, R.E.M.’s Mike Mills, Gumballs’ Don Fleming, The Afghan Whigs’ Greg Dulli and Soul Asylum’s Dave Pirner.ġ1. Dave Grohl played drums on the soundtrack for the 1994 Beatles film, Backbeat. The song’s music video won Best Short Form Video award at the 43rd Grammy Awards in 2000.ġ0. ‘Learn to Fly’ was the band’s first song to enter the Billboard Hot 100, as well as their second-highest charting song on the Hot 100, peaking at number 19. The first pressing of Foos’ 1999 album There Is Nothing Left To Lose came with a rub-on FF tattoo like the one on Dave’s neck.ĩ. Chart Attack voted Foos drummer Taylor Hawkins as the sexiest musician at the 2000 Summersault Festival. Guitarist Pat Smear was a founding member of punk band the Germs and the touring guitarist for Nirvana from 1993 to 1994.ħ. Foo Fighters made its live public debut on February 23, 1995, at the Jambalaya Club in Arcata, California.Ħ. When he was 13 years old Dave Grohl went to see American punk rock Naked Raygun at The Cubby Bear in Chicago – his first ever concert.ĥ. The group took its name from the UFOs and various aerial phenomena that were reported by Allied aircraft pilots in World War II, which were known collectively as foo fighters.Ĥ. While in high school, Grohl played in several local bands, including a stint as guitarist in Freak Baby and played drums in a group named Mission Impossible.ģ. The band was founded by Nirvana drummer Dave Grohl as a one-man project following the dissolution of Nirvana after the suicide of Kurt Cobain.Ģ. Here is what we know about the Foo Fighters frontman's relationship with A-list film and television star Jennifer Aniston.1. Whenever the two are spotted together, they seem to put out the vibe of two friends having a good time together. Although the two of them have never been romantically involved with each other (as far as we know), they have definitely been more than cordial with each other since their first meeting in 2003. Some people might not know this, but the band’s appearance on Aniston’s new show is not the first time she and the former Nirvana drummer have crossed paths with one another. Related: Did Jennifer Aniston Make More On The Morning Show Than On Friends? Type the words “Dave Grohl Jennifer Aniston” into the search engine and you will see nothing but pages upon pages about the band’s cameo and Aniston’s self-proclaimations of super fandom. Aniston was clearly ecstatic and her social media post bragging about the meeting is now all over Google. During a taping of The Morning Show, which Jennifer Aniston co-stars in with Reese Witherspoon, the lead singer and guitarist of the Foo Fighters made an appearance along with the rest of his band. Earlier this month, news about Dave Grohl’s surprise appearance on Jennifer Aniston’s Apple TV+ television show went viral thanks to an Instagram post by Aniston.

#Dave grohl bands tweet quiz

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malmuses · 7 years ago

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Without A Trace - Chapter 1

Authors Note:

Here I am, back again with the Destiel....sorry not sorry ;)

This is the beginning of a long form, slow burn fic which is very plot heavy. There will be angst. Fluff. Smut galore. Humor...and hopefully a satisfying ending. I have a couple Chapters done already that will go up in fairly quick succession, after while Chapters will go up every couple of days as I finish writing them. Anyway - I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know if you are liking where it’s going.

Warning: Please pay attention to the tags as you go through this fic. There may be some scenes you might wish to skip if you have certain triggers - I will always let you know in advance at the beginning of the chapter!

Summary:

When Sam disappears during a hunt gone horribly wrong, Dean and Cas find themselves alone, hunting for an enemy with no name. As a trail of clues leads them back through Sam’s past, Dean is forced to play with magics that are best left alone. Will Dean be able to save Sam from his history – and will Cas be able to save Dean from himself?

Without A Trace - Chapter 1

CW: Canon-typical violence

For someone who doesn’t run at all if he can help it, the older Winchester brother could definitely run fast. Sweat dripped into his green eyes as he sprinted along the country road, headed sharply left towards a particular field.

As Dean vaulted up over the fence, the edge of his shotgun knocked against the metal and he fumbled, dropping the weapon down into the grass below. Shitballs, he thought tiredly. I can come back for it. Just gotta reach Sammy.

Lungs on fire, he tore through a field of knee-high wheat, screaming his brother’s name as he headed towards their planned meeting point - an old-fashioned red barn that flanked the opposite side of the farmer’s territory.

“Any time now Sammy! Yesterday would be good!” He flew through the barn door, chest heaving as he worked to close it behind him, lowering a beam of wood into place to brace it.

“Sammy!” He turned, wheezing desperately, looking into dark corners with an increasingly frantic expression.

The gasoline had been spread about, he could smell it – so he knew his brother had been there. Dean’s job had been to lure the werewolves down into the barn away from the town. Sam was setting up the barn and should have been there ready to welcome Dean’s new friends with a big ring of fire and a spray of silver bullets.

A solid thud rattled through the barn as the first of Dean’s followers threw herself into the double doors, swiftly followed by three or four of her comrades. The entire building shook.

Backing into the middle of the floor, still yelling for his brother, Dean pulled out a small handgun from his waist and checked the magazine. Three silver bullets left. He’d seen at least nine werewolves run at him from the nearby town alleyway – not great odds.

Wishing he had his shotgun back, he set his feet and screamed one last time for Sam as the door started splintering.

Raising the gun and smoothly breathing out in preparation, Dean pushed down his panic as much as he could.

The first wolf shoved it’s ugly muzzle through the gap and Dean’s bullet caught it right between the eyes.

The second and third of the beasts pushed through immediately behind, and he wasn’t so lucky.

Pushed to his knees with foul breath bearing down on him, Dean closed his eyes.

Terrified, he began to pray.

******

A groan rose in Dean’s throat, but never quite made it to his lips. Vague flashes of sound and sight hit him – a deafening screeching and splintering of wood as a black, 1967 Chevy Impala took out the doors and slammed it’s breaks right in front of him. Shotgun shells blasting… his shotgun. A flapping trench coat and a furious expression. Blood covered hands, frantic but gentle, gathering up the torn wide remnants of Dean’s legs and chest, growling and yelling in a language that wasn’t Dean’s own. Damn angel was cussing me out in Enochian, he registered as he began to black out again.

******

The bumping of the wheels tearing through the wheat field brought Dean to consciousness.

A low moan fell from his mouth as his eyes struggled to open, falling on a strikingly handsome man with messy, dark hair and eyes like deep salt pools sat in the driver’s seat beside him.

“Cas,” Dean croaked out. “You came.”

“Of course.” The angel responded solemnly, his eyes remaining forward. Dean thought he could hear feral growling in the distance behind them.

“You’re angry.” Dean tried to move, but his lungs seemed barely capable of breath let alone torso movement.

“You should have waited for me, Dean.” Castiel’s rumble was furious, but also tinged with resignation. The situation wasn’t a new one. “You should have contacted me long before you did.”

“S-sorry…” Dean mumbled weakly. His left arm seemed to be the only appendage that would cooperate, getting as far as reaching to the Seraphim’s wrist as he held the wheel of the battered Impala.

Cas shifted, releasing the wheel and turning his wrist to grab Dean’s hand in his own as he steered the car onwards with his other hand. “Just stay with me, Dean.” He responded gently, though Dean noted that the angel’s eyes were dark and troubled. “I did what I could to stop you bleeding out but we need to get somewhere safe so I can help you further… just stay still.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed again and Cas pressed more firmly on the gas pedal, eating up the distance back to town at a thoroughly illegal pace.

“Keep talking to me Dean…. Dean?” Castiel’s concerned voice and his hand in his were all Dean was aware of, before the darkness took him back and the angel’s tone rose in panic.

“Dean!”

******

Healing a minor wound with an angel’s grace took a mere second, but knitting a shredded body back together took more work.

Dean could feel a tingling chill flowing through him as a dilapidated ceiling cleared into view. He breathed in a shuddering, painful breath, the feeling of grace pumping through his body both familiar and somehow comforting.

He lay on top of the same motel bed he had slept in the previous night, the faded green blanket pulled up to his hip bones. To his left, Cas sat on a hastily pulled up chair next to the bed, the angel’s hands spread out on Dean’s bare chest. His eyes were closed as he worked.

Dean turned his head slowly, watching Cas for a moment as he gathered his breath. “Thank you,” he murmured, hoping he was smiling at the angel but not quite sure if his facial muscles were cooperating.

“Welcome back,” Cas gave him a little smile as he withdrew his hands. Blue eyes opening to meet Dean’s, Cas reached for Dean’s hand, holding it as he indicated that Dean could lever himself up to sit back against the pillows. “How are you feeling?”

Grimacing, Dean rearranged himself as he responded. “Like I got shredded by a pack of werewolves and then stripped and roofied by an angel,” he gasped out weakly.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Almost accurate,” he responded. “Except the werewolves did practically all the stripping. You barely had any skin when I got there Dean, never mind clothing.”

The werewolves... the barn... Sammy.

“Sam…” Dead immediately began to struggle upwards as his memories raced back.

Cas held tighter onto Dean’s hand and used his other arm to firmly pin Dean to the bed.

“No. Dean, you have to rest. I couldn’t see Sam when I rescued you – but I couldn’t see a body either, so no need to assume the worst. I’ll head back out to look for him as soon as we have you on the mend-“

Dean began to interrupt, but Cas continued angrily.

“One Winchester at a time!…. You need to be sensible. You had organs on the outside instead of the inside Dean, by the time I got to you. You will not move.”

Defeated, Dean blanched a little. He hadn’t realized it was quite that bad.

“Alright Cas,” he murmured, squeezing the angel’s hand reassuringly. “Just… find my brother okay.”

“Of course, Dean.” Placing his other hand on the hunter’s forehead, Cas gathered his grace up and went back to work.

******

Stepping back into the empty barn in early morning light, Cas surveyed the scene before him. A thick pool of blood coated the hay-strewn floor where Dean had fallen. Shaking his head, Cas raised a hand to will it away, having no desire to remember the scene of his best friend seizing, flayed to the bone as he’d burst through the doors with the Impala. Dying. He’d been dying, Cas recalled dully. Even seconds later…

Stepping forward, Cas shook the thoughts away. He could yell at Dean later – now he needed to find the younger Winchester brother, and finish off any remaining Werewolves that hadn’t already fled.

Using his grace, he had got Dean well on the mend and then sent him into a deep sleep, knowing from experience that was the only way to stop him from worrying about his little brother. Though at well over six feet tall and with shoulders like a football pro, Sam was hardly the ‘little’ Winchester.

Now Cas had returned to the barn to see if he could pick up a trail. His grace somewhat depleted from Dean’s intensive healing, the angel was a little weary as he picked his way through the dilapidated structure, making note of several werewolf bodies he’d need to dispose of.

The building still smelled faintly of gasoline. Near a small side door, Cas found the red gas canister Sam had used to create the circle of flammable material that should have been waiting for Dean when he arrived. Cas kicked it curiously; it was empty. He stepped out of the side door, calling out.

“Sam? Sam can you hear me?”

There was nothing other than a small rustle in the patch of trees to Cas’s right, but that was just enough to tip him off to the leaping werewolf before he landed. Twisting to catch the beast mid-flight, Cas had him down on his back and one boot on his chest in a swift move.

Reaching forward, Cas shoved a little into the creature’s mind, forcing him to transform back to his calmer, more human visage.

Calmer, Cas thought grumpily, but definitely not cleaner. This dude stinks.

The angrily thrashing male beneath Cas’s foot looked to be mid-fifties, with lank, greying hair that hung past his shoulders and one slightly off-center eye. Leaning down onto his knee and applying pressure to the beast’s chest, Cas heard his ribs begin to crack before the wolf got the message and stopped fighting.

Must be purebloods, Cas considered calmly. Full moon is over.

“My friend was here last night.” he questioned flatly. “You won’t die as quickly as the rest of your pack unless you tell me where he is.”

The bad eye struggled to focus on the angel, hovering slightly to the left of looking him in the face, despite the werewolf’s best efforts. “Fuck you,” he spat out.

Cas sighed, snapping a few more ribs with his foot. “I’m tired, wolf. Don’t mess with me.”

A scream of pain erupted from the werewolf, and blood splattered out of his mouth. He must have pierced one of his lungs. “I can’t!” He gasped desperately. “She’ll kill me if I tell you!”

Cas’s smile was icy. “Well then you are in a tight spot, because I’m going to kill you if you don’t.”

The panic in the creature’s eyes was palpable. “No! No, no no…. She…..no!”

Before Cas knew what was happening, the werewolf reached up and wrenched his own neck to the side with a sickening crunch. His terrified mismatched eyes glassed over in an instant, dead.

I hope you enjoyed Chapter 1!

#destiel #deancas #dean cas #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural #spn #fanfic #fanfiction #fic #castiel #cas

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