#I WANT MICHAEL TO HAVE A SLIVER OF A GOOD LIFE OKAY?!?!?! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cdroloisms · 3 years

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take a shot - dsmp!mcc fic

MCC FIC! MCC FIC! MCC FIC! To be clear, I outlined this weeks back, when teams were first announced, and I took very very little from the actual MCC itself when it came to actually writing this - all I have are the same teams, but it really exists in its own continuity outside of Real Life MCC (obviously, as it’s using the dsmp characters) and everything like that as a whole! Just to be clear :D)

The worldbuilding is also Absolutely Bullshitted start to finish, as well as any and all medical information. Rip. We’re here for a good time, not for a long or particularly accurate one - hope you guys enjoy regardless!! I had a LOT of fun writing this fic, dsmp!mcc aus my BELOVED

title obviously from win it all by derivakat

---

Michael loves MCC.

But it’s one thing to love the normal Championships and quite another when his team looks like it’s falling apart from the inside out - and as the games progress, it becomes more and more obvious that losing, this time, might not be an option.

tws: C!QUACKITY CRITICAL (sorry i promise i love him but he is NOT portrayed very nicely here, very dark portrayal of him), implied trauma, abuse, torture, panic attacks, manipulation, gaslighting, needles, hospitals, MCC-typical violence, emotional distress, prison arc, pandora’s vault themes

(16k words !! :D long boi)

Michael loves MCC.

Of course he does! It’s fucking MCC - like, who wouldn’t love it? MCC is how he met so many people, how he met Dream, that one time, the two of them teamed with Techno and Burren and winning it all - MCC is a goddamn blast and he’s thankful every time he gets the invite that he’s able to compete.

Still- it’s hard not to be a little more nervous, now.

Dream gave him an invite to his SMP right after they teamed, but it wasn’t until months later that Michael actually cashed it in. Entering the server, it became very obvious very quickly that the DreamSMP, as it’s known, isn’t quite the same as its shiny media appearance. The spawn was covered in blocks, creeper holes littering the ground. The people he passed were grey-faced, too stoic to be the same, smiling faces he remembers from only less than a year ago. The air stings of gunpowder and iron. Worst of all are The Crater, shoddily covered in glass that does nothing to hide the damage done, rending the server in two straight down to bedrock, and the Prison, looming on the horizon. Absent-mindedly, Michael rubs at his left shoulder, remembering the Warden setting the prongs of his trident against the skin in warning, just hard enough to barely draw blood. Yeah, that place is bad news.

The fact of the matter is the server is a mess. And like, okay, whatever, Michael gets it. Everyone has their issues - it’s just the DreamSMP seems to have more than most. Despite his original worries, it’s honestly not been as bad as he originally feared upon logging in; yeah, Bad and Puffy and Foolish and the rest of them are a little more trigger-happy than he might’ve expected (and he’s not going to say that Bad crying over turtles wasn’t a little startling when he first joined, but honestly he thinks Bad is just Like That.) There’s way more death than he’s really comfortable with, and Puffy keeps mentioning Bad murdering her son (Foolish? He thinks? The guy is also a literal God but like, families are weird, who’s he to judge) in a way that’s way too casual to come from anyone entirely well-adjusted, but overall his experience has been alright.

Still, he gets the feeling that nobody exactly wants the outside world to know about the issues with the place. It’s not an issue for him usually, not when his sleeping schedule is the exact opposite of most of the people he knows and he spends most of his time screwing around on the server, anyway (usually harassing the Warden until the asscrack of dawn if he’s being honest) but with MCC, with everyone watching - he’s starting to get why everyone from the SMP was so damn tense all the time, now.

Anyway- he loves MCC, he really does. But even that doesn’t stop him from wincing when he sees his team card, the names Dream and Quackity and Sapnap written in Scott’s looping handwriting. He’s not seen Sapnap at all since joining the server, has only heard a little about his place (something Kingdom, not that he was paying attention) from Foolish, and has no idea what the man has been up to. Quackity is his own unique can of worms; Michael doesn’t know exactly what’s up with him and his country, but everything he’s heard so far has sounded like nothing but bad news, casinos and schemes and a trail of wreckage following wherever he goes. And Dream-

Michael looks out his window, chewing on his lip, looking directly in the direction where he knows the prison stands, impenetrable, intimidating. Where Dream’s cell is, in line with his house, where he’s been hidden for months without a trace. Where the Warden had confronted him that one night, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, blood splattered on his boots.

There’s no real ignoring an MCC invite - not without good reason, not without the admins picking up on something being up. There’s not really a choice, here, but for Michael to duck his head down and pretend everything’s fine just like everyone else from the SMP. He directs one last glance at the prison before walking away, setting the invite on his counter. If he’s lucky, everything will turn out fine.

(He ignores the part of him that asks what’s going to happen if they’re not. No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet - right?)

---

Weeks pass, the tournament creeping closer, and Michael gets no alerts from his teammates on his comm. No one comes to his house to check in, say hi, not even a ‘hey, we’re kinda competing in a massive tournament in like, seven days, you ready?’ Hell, he even starts checking his goddamn mailbox for a letter or something only to come up empty-handed every time. Never mind performing well - it’ll be a miracle if their team manages to arrive at the tournament at all.

It isn’t until the day before MCC, the sun high in the sky at what must be near noon, when he finally gets a message on his comm. Michael fishes it out with a frustrated huff, seeing Quackity’s name pop up first when he manages to turn on the screen.

Quackity whispers to you: you down for some practice?

It takes a couple seconds for him to blink away his shock - out of everyone he expected to arrange practice for their team, Quackity was definitely not at the top of the list. He half-thought they would have to drag him to the tournament kicking and screaming; from what he’s heard, he’s been nothing if not devoted to his country. Shaking his head, he goes to reply; practice is practice, and their team really needs it.

You whisper to Quackity: sure. practice server?

Quackity whispers to you: yes

Pulling up his server list, Michael scrolls for the practice server, finding it and then letting the server transfer do the rest. A few nausea-inducing seconds later, he’s at the practice server spawn, standing in the middle of a neatly paved road surrounded by colorful arenas and signs.

“Michael!”

He turns; there, by the Battle Box arenas, Quackity is waving at him, already dressed in a red varsity jacket and a pair of shorts, the jacket bearing a front pocket embroidered with a rabbit and a large R stitched onto the back. He reaches behind him for a red bag, throws it his way for Michael to catch mid-air.

“Got these outfits for us last minute - hope it’s alright with you,” Quackity smiles, and Michael tries to prevent his eyes from clinging to the scar spanning the entire left side of his face. “Anyway- how are you, man? I feel like we haven’t seen each other at all on the server. How’s it been?”

“I’m good- it’s been good.” Michael opens the drawstring bag, cataloguing the contents - there’s a jacket, just like Quackity’s, a pair of shorts and sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a headband, all in varying shades of red and white. “Nice outfit- thank you. Is anyone else around?”

Quackity waves a hand behind him. “Yeah- Dream’s here. Should be coming out of the arena soon, actually.” Michael looks over behind his shoulder to where he’s pointing - there, walking down the stairs, is another figure wearing all red that must be Dream. “There he is- hey Dream! Michael’s here!”

Dream hurries down the stairs; unlike Quackity, he is wearing the sweatpants along with the same jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is a lot longer than Michael remembers, pulled back behind his head in a ponytail, mask, as usual, fastened over his face. He settles behind Quackity, giving Michael a small wave; his hands are covered by a pair of fingerless gloves.

“Hey, Dream!” Michael grins; it’s been such a long time since he’s seen his old teammate, and despite the circumstances and everything that’s apparently happened since then, it’s still pretty damn nice to see him. “How’ve you been?”

Dream seems to freeze for a moment, before shaking his head. “Good,” he says, quiet, sounding almost breathless. Michael’s eyes go to the slivers of skin that show on either side of his face, to the slight shake to his hands.

“You alright? You look a little pale,” Michael asks, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Dream stills at the words, muscles tensing, gaze averting to the side even with the mask - doesn’t miss how Quackity steps forward, looking Michael in the eye as he tosses a casual arm around Dream’s shoulder, smiling brightly.

“Don’t worry. This idiot has just been practicing a bit too much before you got here,” Quackity gestures with a flippant twist of his wrist, “You know how he gets. Right, Dream?”

“Um- yeah. Ha,” Dream responds just a little too late to be strictly normal, shoulders tight and nearly pulled to his ears under Quackity’s arm. “Practice- I’m a little out of shape.”

“You sure?” Dream’s breathing hitches and Quackity steps forward, just a little bit, eyes still fixed firmly on Michael’s own even as he shifts his gaze to try and look at Dream. “We can take a break if you need, Dream-”

“I’m fine!” Dream smiles with a little stuttered breath that turns into a small laugh, “It’s- uh. It’s fine. Thanks Michael, but we can practice. Not much time left to waste, you know?”

“You sure, Dream?” Quackity says, suddenly, voice soft and sincere. “I guess it has been a while since you’ve been able to practice- you sure you don’t need a break?”

Dream shakes his head firmly. “No- it’s fine. Really- where’s Sapnap? He should be coming soon, right?”

“If you say so, pal,” Quackity replies, doubt coloring his tone as he pulls out his communicator. “I told Sapnap to come, he replied a couple minutes back; he should be here soon, I think. You want to go meet him at spawn?”

Dream nods, and they begin to set out towards the center of the server, Quackity and Dream quickly taking the lead as Michael falls back. After a minute, Quackity falls into casual conversation, rambling about something as Dream nods, Michael trailing behind the two of them and adding his own input as he sees fit. Sapnap arrives soon after, and the noise level picks up even more after that, Sapnap and Quackity falling into an easy rhythm of banter and quips as they set out to practice Battle Box and Parkour Tag, carefully working their way through the different games under Dream’s tutelage and advice.

And here’s the thing- Michael isn’t stupid. Yeah, he’d hardly consider himself a top tier MCC player, and he’ll be the first to say that he’s nowhere near qualified to deal with the literal laundry list of issues that affect every member of the SMP, but even so, he’s not clueless. He’s good at looking at multiple sides of a situation, doesn’t easily give into intimidation or manipulation, and he’s observant as all hell. So when Quackity wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist, fingers wrapping all the way around until his knuckles pale, when Dream winces, muscles in his arm locking before letting it go limp, not protesting when Quackity drags him forward except in the tiny, tight expressions that flit across his face every few moments, tight and gasping and shaky at the corners - Michael notices.

“See you at the tourney, yeah?” Quackity calls to him after practice with a wink before clapping Dream on the back, Michael watching silently as the muscles of Dream’s neck pull tight, head ducking to his chest. “Good job, big guy,” he says, laughing. “Keep this up for tomorrow and we’ll be good.”

“Mmhm,” Dream mutters after a brief second, “We’re- we’re gonna win.”

“Betting on it, pal,” Quackity replies, voice light in a way that completely fails to explain Dream’s full-body flinch. “MCC, huh? Can’t fucking wait.”

“See you tomorrow, Quackity,” Michael says as he presses DreamSMP on his server list, pretending that a chill doesn’t crawl down his spine at the smile that the other man throws his way in return.

---

There’s no real easy answer.

Michael comes to that conclusion at some point in the middle of the night, restless and pumped on way too much adrenaline to go to sleep. He can’t outright antagonize Quackity, can’t let him know he knows something’s up - not when Quackity had already spent the majority of practice keeping one dark, narrowed eye on him at all times, lips pursed in a slight frown whenever he thought Michael wasn’t looking. He’s not stupid; whatever’s happening between Dream and Quackity is secret, and kept that way for a reason. His mind goes back to the brief flashes of anxiety that had moved over Dream’s face before he could react fast enough to school them back into a carefully neutral position; whatever it is, he doubts it bodes well for Dream in the slightest.

Unfortunately, his hands are pretty damn tied. He knows public opinion on the masked man in the server is overwhelmingly negative, but has no damn idea how far it extends. How many people are in on whatever’s happening in that damn prison? How many people know what would make Dream, bold and bright and recklessly confident in all of Michael’s (rather limited) memories, into someone so quiet, unimposing, nervous? His head spins with the possibilities, with the ever-present reminder to not make a fuss, let the tournament pass on, to never, ever let anyone find out what’s going on within the SMP. Should he do anything at all?

Too soon, it’s morning, and he drags himself out of bed with a groan to glare at the sun streaming through his window. Somewhere, Quackity and Dream and Sapnap are also waking up, are preparing to compete in one of the biggest damn tournaments to exist. Michael sighs, glancing over to where he’s set out his outfit, freshly pressed and waiting. Any other day, and he’d probably be fucking ecstatic. Here, he buries his head in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan against the palm of his hands.

He loves MCC, but he sure as hell doesn’t like whatever the hell is going on with the rest of his team.

Getting into the server goes smoothly enough. The outfit is comfortable and looks damn good, props to whoever made the thing, and the sight of the multicolored crowd successfully manages to tamp down some of his nerves. He busies himself with saying hi to all of the members waiting in the lobby, happy for the chance to talk to some people he hasn’t seen in ages, feels the night of anxieties wash away with every stupid joke told and burst of laughter drawn from his lungs.

They come back the moment Scott steps up in front of the lobby. “Teams, it’s time to head to your team rooms! The tournament will begin in fifteen minutes,” Scott says, expression sunny and bright, “we’re wishing you all luck for a great performance today! May the best team win!”

In a flurry of movement, they’re all whisked to their rooms for a final few minutes of preparation and morale-boosting, and Michael enters the glorified dressing room to Quackity, Dream, and Sapnap already standing there, seemingly in the middle of conversation.

“You ready to win?” Sapnap yells, and Quackity whoops, and Michael manages a small cheer of his own. They’re all visibly nervous; Quackity has scarcely stopped moving, pacing from one side of the room to the next; Sapnap is basically jumping in place where he stands. Dream stands at the very back of the room, looking tense; Michael directs a wave his way and gets a small one in return.

“Game plan, game plan,” Quackity mutters, “do we know what games we’re playing first? Dream?”

He nods at Dream, and Dream stands up straighter, mouth falling open.

“Oh- um,” he hesitates, a strand of hair flopping forwards as he tilts his head in thought. “We’ll want to save Parkour Tag and Battle Box towards the end- maybe something more high-risk at the beginning, but not first, just to boost morale,” his teeth catch on his bottom lip, “Maybe something like To Get To The Other Side? If they have that- or Build Mart, if we can get it out of the way.” He shakes his head. “If that’s alright- I mean-”

“Great,” Quackity cuts in smoothly. “Sapnap? Michael? Does that sound good to you?”

Sapnap flashes a thumbs up, and Michael nods. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream’s head snaps towards him, mouth slightly open in shock. The sight of it makes Michael’s gut twist uncomfortably; there’s something about how surprised he is, at the nervous hesitancy with which he spoke that was nothing like what Michael remembers of his easy leadership in that MCC with Techno, that doesn’t sit right at all in his stomach. Even with his expression largely hidden, there’s no mistaking the clear, genuine surprise on his face at the idea of someone thanking him - Michael tries to tell himself that he’s reading too much into it as Quackity continues to speak.

“We’re going to win,” he grins, just a little too sharp at the edges, “so get out there and play like your lives depend on it, yeah?”

Sapnap cheers, and again, Michael and Dream follow. It’s not until he’s outside the door, within the clamor of screaming teams and people counting down with the timer that Michael realizes that Quackity was staring at Dream the entire time.

---

Michael curses, frustrated, when he’s knocked off a platform again, making sure to flip Krinios the bird before he falls into the Void entirely. When he makes it to the other side, Quackity and Dream are already deep in conversation - if you can call it that. Even from here, it looks worryingly one-sided.

“-were you thinking, falling off there-” Quackity’s hand is on Dream’s shoulder, Dream standing stock-still in front of him, “you better be taking this seriously, Dream.”

“Hey- sorry about that,” Michael calls with a wave, “I swear Krinios had it out for me. At least I made it across, right?”

Quackity turns, startled, and in the split-second that it takes for him to register Michael’s appearance, his expression smooths over into something friendlier, more inviting. “Michael!” He says, enthusiastic, and it’s like the anger that had filled his words just seconds before was never there at all. “Don’t- don’t worry about it, man. We all kinda dropped the ball on that one, right Dream?”

The words should be encouraging, just simple ribbing between teammates. Dream’s mask is still ducked down, facing the floor, shoulders slightly hunched in.

“Um- Sapnap did pretty good,” Dream says, quiet, “he got top ten, right?”

Michael looks over to where Sapnap is standing a little ways away, seemingly busy typing on his communicator. Quackity laughs, sharp and loud.

“True,” he punches Dream lightly on the upper arm, and Michael watches the way he freezes the second the fist makes contact with his jacket, “come on, man, you’re losing your touch. You really gonna let yourself get beat by Sapnap?” he shakes his head, still laughing as he pulls open his communicator. “Jesus- even I beat you in that last round. Watch your spot, Dream, I’m coming for you.”

“I mean,” Michael says when a second passes and it becomes clear Dream isn’t going to respond, “Dream was doing pretty well with the last two rounds, right? I thought I saw his name pretty far up there.”

Quackity takes a second before responding, again, staring at Michael oddly as he does. “That’s true,” he concedes, “hey- I was just making a joke, don’t worry. It’s all for fun, right Dream?”

His gaze goes to Dream, and automatically, Michael follows. Dream seems to startle under the attention, twitching Quackity’s direction in the awkward silence that results. Michael watches as the mask slants slightly to face Quackity, as Quackity looks back at him with an intense, unreadable expression, shoulders strangely tense. Whatever unsaid conversation that seems to pass between them is entirely lost on Michael as Dream finally responds with a sudden, almost strangled bark of laughter.

“Yeah- just jokes,” his fingers twist over one another, hands held close together in front of his body, “Though Qu- Q’s right, I- I should probably pick it up. We’re playing to win.”

A ding alerts them to the end of the round, and Michael steadies himself in preparation for the teleport to the next map. As he turns, he catches Quackity’s expression, once again, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he continues to look at Dream.

“Good luck,” he calls just before they enter the next round, and tries not to think too much about what he’s saying it for.

---

They manage pretty well for the rest of To Get To The Other Side, finishing with a second place overall that got cheers from Sapnap and even a slight smile from Dream. Hole in the Wall, on the other hand, has been a lot less successful - though Michael will be the first to say that it’s his fault. His practice in the last few months has been lackluster (at best) and it definitely showed in the arena.

He leans over the railing, watching Dream and Sapnap through the crowd of participants left that have yet to be knocked out by the giant walls of slime. Quackity’s standing next to him, having been similarly thrown off the platform early in the round, expression tight and lips set in a small frown, and looking at him for too long makes Michael uneasy so he looks down at the arena again. They’re in the last round, and they’re supposed to be making callouts anyway for their teammates still participating below.

Without thinking, once again, Michael looks over at Dream. Sue him, he knows the guy best and Dream has been acting odd all day, to put it lightly. Even ignoring the part of him that’s screaming that something’s wrong, that there’s something up that has everything to do with the beanie-wearing man standing besides him, it only takes a few minutes of observation to see that Dream is - for the lack of a better word - off. Michael watches as he vaults over another wall, only barely managing to bring himself to his feet in time on the other side. Dream’s movements - even to his untrained eye - have always been fluid, effortless. He jumped and vaulted and ran like gravity didn’t exist, like every physics-bending maneuver he made was as easy as breathing. Michael remembers watching him sprint over the parkour course before, time completely unmatched as he appraised each obstacle and basically flew his way through, sounding hardly even winded when he whooped loudly in victory from the top of the salmon ladder. In total contrast, Dream jerks away from the coming wall again, movements sloppy and harsh as he scrambles to the other side of the disc-shaped arena. He’s still fast, and still making jumps, but everything is strangely angled where it had once been fluid, stopping and starting suddenly, moving in bursts of speed and then skidding to sudden stops.

“WEST!” Quackity shouts, and Michael watches as Dream’s head turns jerkily at the noise before he dives out of the way of the incoming wall and manages, barely, to twist around the side. Michael winces at the tumble he takes on the opposite side, clutching his chest slightly as he stands back up again.

“North!” Michael calls, because he should probably actually help his teammates, huh, and Dream manages to move around this one better, jumping through a hole in the wall and tucking and rolling as he lands. “Nice jump- East!”

It’s an easy wall, thankfully, and both Sapnap and Dream visibly take a breath as they stand in place for the wall to pass over them. As it passes, a droning buzz comes from the speakers, and the walls below them speed up.

“South-to your right!” Michael shouts as they turn, eyes turning between all of the false walls before finally focusing on the right one, his shout echoed by a similar one from Quackity. At each one of the calls from the man besides him, Dream seems to tighten further, movements increasingly erratic as he dodges and weaves around the walls. There’s still a lot of people left - Michael follows Dream through the crowd with a frown, watching as he and Sapnap jump the next wall, Dream’s foot nearly catching on the top edge.

“West-” Dream flinches, jumping over the two-high wall at the last possible second, landing completely off-balance on the other side and falling to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, but there’s already a wall at the west edge of the platform - his head turns, still searching for the wall - Quackity yells.

“LEFT!”

Something in Dream’s movements seem to shift, even in the distance - Michael watches as he immediately, almost robotically, steps to the left at Quackity’s voice, not even jumping, not turning his head to take in his surroundings, just moving instinctually at the words, and slams into the coming wall hard enough to get flung into the middle hole in the platform. Quackity curses, fist crashing into the railing as Dream falls and the chat message shows on their communicators, and a second later he’s materialized beside them, face oddly slack and mask focused somewhere faraway.

“Shit,” Dream mutters when he seems to come back into himself, shaking his head and then turning to the two of them, still by the railing, “Dammit. Sorry, I-“

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael cuts in before Quackity can speak. “You did good.”

“I-” Dream catches Quackity’s gaze, then pushes his head away, mask facing the ground. Something about it and his raised shoulders and the dark, angry glare that Quackity directs over the railing when Michael looks back makes him shift in place, uneasy. “Could’ve done better, ha. Sorry.”

The three of them watch, silent, as Sapnap continues to compete. He manages to get pretty damn far, making it to the top three, but getting knocked off-balance by a wall and off the platform just before the timer sounds. Michael cringes back at the sound of it over the speakers, watches the other contestants settle into place, panting, in victory.

“Great job, Sapnap,” Michael shouts when he materializes in front of them, and the other two are quick to echo his sentiments. If they sound a little duller than they should be, if Quackity’s jaw seems clenched and Dream’s all coiled up like a spring, far too tense, it’s from placing lower than they wanted and slipping in the rankings, not anything else.

Keep your head down, Michael reminds himself, and everything’s gonna be fine. And if the words ring more and more hollow with every repetition, well, that’s for him to ignore and for everyone else to never, ever find out.

---

Buildmart is chosen next, which they all groan at, but at least it’s going to be out early and not left to ruin all of their scores later. Michael takes his place at his build, one third from the left side - it’s some abomination of colored glass and white concrete meant, if he is to guess, to emulate a stained glass window. He’s between Dream and Sapnap, the former positioned in front of a flower-dotted grass field with a picnic table, the latter staring down a miniature car with black concrete for tires and stone buttons for detailing. He breathes a steady breath as they await the countdown, already planning for his trip to the Colors section to grab materials for his build and the others’- Buildmart isn’t his strongest game, but it’s not his worst either, and he’s damn well going to try his best.

He skids into the portal with an armful of colored concrete and glass, spilling half of its contents inside a chest before running to his build. He pulls himself to the crafting bench to craft - he squints at his build - he needs four red glass panes and 3 yellow, right. As he brings the panes to his inventory and begins laying out the frame of the build in concrete, he looks over to Dream, who is noticeably struggling with placing the flowers in his build and getting the placements to match that of the original. He knocks away a white tulip with a muffled curse, sounding frantic as he looks back to the original, and places it again to no avail.

It seems that his struggle hasn’t only caught Michael’s attention, as the statue to the leftmost side of the room explodes in gold coins and confetti - Quackity has finished his build and is now looking at Dream with narrowed eyes. Dream places the flower again, and the build refuses to respond. Quackity’s gaze narrows further, and he opens his mouth-

“Hey Quackity!” Michael starts speaking before he’s even noticed that he’s opened his mouth, fumbling as he regains awareness of what he’s doing and tries to find a direction for his sentence to go, “do you have any concrete?”

Quackity looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair, considering there’s a block of white concrete pretty obviously visible in his hand. “Um- no? Weren’t you supposed to go to Colors?”

Dream finally manages to place the tulip where it belongs, and the build between them disappears in another explosion of gold glitter. Michael laughs awkwardly.

“Sorry- haha. I got a little mixed up.” He places the last piece of white concrete, watching as his own build disappears. A little wooden cottage takes its place, made of what appears to be just oak wood and cobblestone. “Are you going to get wood? Or should I?”

“I- You get wood,” Quackity shakes his head, visibly frustrated, “And I’ll get stone. We have to hurry, we’re falling behind.”

After that, Michael finds it a little too easy - or maybe not easy, but at least tolerable, to interrupt when Quackity looks a little like he’s about to fall on the side of being angry versus just annoyed, stepping between his angry glares at Dream with a forced smile and an incessant string of annoying questions-

“Hey Quackity, do you have any spare iron?”

“Hey Quackity, I think you placed that a little too far back.”

“Hey Quackity, can you take a look to see what I placed wrong?”

It’s not perfect. It’s hardly even functional; Michael knows that Quackity has begun with the habit of directing death glares at his back whenever he thinks he’s not looking, his responses to Michael’s questions becoming more and more clipped, often paired with irritated grumbles and sighs. Sapnap, when Michael looks at him, seems largely engrossed with his own builds, but he’s also begun looking over at the two of them with a vaguely dissatisfied expression, and Dream only seems to be getting more jumpy with every frustrated growl out of Quackity’s mouth. Even Michael’s forced levity and falsely ignorant questions can’t do much against Quackity’s anger when they walk out of Buildmart dead last for the minigame, dropping their team all the way down to seventh in the overall rankings, and the tension within the team as they walk out - Quackity nearly stomping, Dream following with his hands wringing around each other and head ducked fearfully - is almost enough to make Michael scream. He looks at the scoreboard with a worried expression as he enters the Decision Dome, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his gut.

There’s still five more games to go, and he’s not sure how long they can last before something snaps.

---

Battle Box is chosen next, and they react to the game with quiet cheers and slightly grim faces. Michael’s been in enough MCCs to know that this game, of any, is crucial - after their lacking performances in the last two games, a good showing at Battle Box will be crucial to pull them back into the competition and raise morale. With Sapnap and Dream, if this were any normal game, they should be able to sweep through a good amount of the competition without much effort. As it is, though, Michael looks at the two more combat-oriented members of his team with a worried expression, the two barely even able to meet each other’s eyes. Their interactions so far have been less than promising- if they can’t hold it together for this round, well.

Michael shakes his head. They’ll do fine. They have to.

Even so, the first round only seems to confirm his concerns - they get woolrushed almost immediately, and in Dream and Sapnap’s stumbling to get to mid, nearly crashing into each other and focusing their efforts on the same player by accident, the other team manages to fill out the wool, sending them back to the spawn box even more frustrated than before.

“Amazing teamwork, guys,” Quackity snarks immediately, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“Like you did that much.”

Sapnap is still staring at Dream oddly, Dream turning his head to avoid his gaze. The two of them look largely oblivious to Quackity and his whole deal, even as Quackity whirls around to give him the stink eye.

“You didn’t do anything either, if I remember correctly,” Quackity mutters, and Michael shrugs.

“Fair.”

A ding alerts them to the round’s end, and they resign themselves to preparing for the next round. Michael picks the extra arrows from the wall, knowing that no one else will want the kit, and watches as Dream anxiously runs his hands over the crossbow.

The next round goes better, barely; Michael and Quackity end up knocked out pretty early, but Dream and Sapnap manage to kill the rest of the team soon after. He watches from the box as they fill in the wool, Dream looking awfully tense as he shears away the white wool for Sapnap to fill it with red. Quackity watches them both with a tight expression, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Michael turns away, ignoring him, going back to watching Dream and Sapnap still standing within the arena. Both of them look awkward, oddly out of step with each other - Michael’s not watched them fight much, but he knows that they have a reputation as a pair, was there for the Sky Battle round where they completely wiped through the competition. Even here, Sapnap moves forward and Dream flinches back - there’s something heavy and tense between them, lingering in the few words they’ve spoken to each other, if they’ve even spoken to each other at all, one always rushing forward too fast or following just a little too slow. They’re still brilliant fighters, almost unrivaled in hand-to-hand combat and with swords, but the faltering communication is sure to hurt them more in the future.

His worries come true just three rounds later, the two in between being narrow wins for their team, each a little more shaky than would be comfortable. Michael has found himself easing off the worst of his anxiety in verbally sparring with Quackity, jabbing at the other with offhand remarks and little needling jokes to keep his attention off the other two, especially as his glare has become more pronounced and his words more angry. Even so, nothing he does or can do will fix the odd tension between Dream and Sapnap, whose communication remains as stilted and awkward as ever.

They’re facing a stronger team, PVP wise, with Punz and Seapeekay, and Michael ends up falling in a bow duel against Jack. He watches as the Captain falls to a potion by Sapnap, then as Jack is taken out by a crossbow bolt courtesy of Dream, just before Quackity falls to a well-timed bow shot from the opposing team.

That leaves the strongest PVPers to battle it out, and Dream and Sapnap manage to team up and kill CPK - but not without taking a nasty damage potion to the face that must leave the two of them low. Michael watches Punz, booking it to mid with a crossbow, anxiously - both of them would be a oneshot with the thing, and on the condition that he takes no damage before fighting with either of them outright, he’s probably got enough health to hold out a few hits.

Sapnap pulls out a health potion, and Michael grins - that’ll be good for the two of them, and should secure them the win - only for him to gesture roughly with his sword and for Dream to stagger backwards, panic flashing over his face. He only seems to grow more fearful at the sound of glass shattering on the ground, falling backwards further - far enough to be largely out of range of health pot - and in their shock, Punz manages to catch both of them off guard and nail Sapnap with a crossbow bolt that downs him for the round before similarly dispatching Dream in two hits of his sword.

Sapnap explodes upon respawn in the box - “What was that? I had a health pot!”

“I-” Dream fumbles, face still oddly pale, “Sorry I didn’t- I- I-”

“We had that round!” Sapnap’s arms flail forward as he gestures angrily, Dream freezing further as one hand skims past his shoulder. “I can’t believe- I had a health pot! Punz was on, like, half! We could’ve killed him!”

“Easy, easy,” Quackity moves forward, putting a hand on both of their shoulders - Sapnap seems to relax immediately, while Dream, if anything, only looks more tense. “It’s time for the next round - we’ll talk about this later, alright?”

Dream nods, movements overly tense, and Quackity flashes a toothy smile his way as Sapnap moves back, still mumbling to himself. He and Quackity move to talk in the back corner, words quiet enough that Michael cannot make them out, and something sick and cold slithers over his spine. Sapnap and Quackity are fiancés, aren’t they?

Michael looks over at Dream, mask still covering his face as he looks away through the glass to the arena, shoulders still tight as Michael’s pretty sure they’ve been for as long as he’s seen him since he came onto the server. He remembers the panic that make itself obvious on his face every time Quackity came up to him, even as covered as it is, the similar- if not the same- fear that had painted his face when he respawned fresh off of the Battle Box round after Sapnap’s sword had passed a little too close to his body.

Quackity and Dream- he’s sure, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s something going on there, dark and dreadful and poisonous. Who’s to say that Sapnap isn’t involved, as well?

---

They finish Battle Box decently well, but not as well as they’d hoped, pulling them up to fifth place with a decently large gap between them and fourth. Quackity and Dream disappear immediately as the Audience Votes begin coming in, leaving Sapnap and Michael to stand awkwardly in the lobby to wait for the rest of their team to come back. Michael watches the crowd for a glimpse of Quackity and Dream, comes up empty. A sigh fizzles through his teeth as he looks up into the sky, the endless blue doing little to ease his nerves - he’s worried, even if he doesn’t want to think about it, for his teammates. For Dream.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man is scared of Quackity, that there’s an odd sort of history there that Michael conveniently has no information about. Whatever it is, it’s left Dream unsure and uncharacteristically nervous, left the entire team floundering without proper leadership to tie them all together. Really, a part of him knows that the Championships should be the least of his concerns - if he were braver, or a little better at combat, or a little less inclined to just let things pass as they always have, then he’d be raising a fuss. Getting in the way, talking to Dream, doing something other than making backhanded compliments to Quackity that he’s sure have been doing little more than annoy the man further.

“Michael?” Sapnap comes within his line of sight, lips pressed together in a carefully put-together expression that Michael is sure will collapse the moment they’re away from others’ prying eyes, “Can we speak for a moment?”

Michael forces another easy smile to his face as he turns towards his teammate, feels a little disgusted at the amount of them he’s had to use to simply function with the rest of his team. “Sure! Where to?”

They walk at a brisk pace to the team room, Sapnap’s eyes focused forwards the entire time, not speaking. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward, but the lighthearted comment on his tongue to break the silence dies out the minute Sapnap closes the door and looks back at him with fierce, focused eyes boring into him.

“What’s your deal?” He hisses immediately, words pitched low even though he doesn’t really have to - there’s no one nearby, and the team rooms are decently soundproofed. Michael feels his hackles rising as Sapnap’s arms cross in front of him, eyes still focused on his own as he talks. “I’m not going to lie- I don’t know you that well, even though you’re on the SMP now, but can you quit it with Quackity already?”

“Quit what?” Michael snarks - sue him - matching Sapnap’s tone with irritation of his own.

“Don’t- you’ve been antagonizing Quackity all day,” Sapnap’s hand runs through his hair, messing up his hair and tangling it into knots, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of in the middle of a competition here? So it’d be really nice if you could save the fighting for until after we’re done?”

“Says you?” Michael can’t help the retort this time, huffing irately at the offended expression that flashes over the other’s face, “I don’t really know if you’ve noticed, but your teamwork has been a little less than stellar, today. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

“What-” Sapnap looks confused, even through his anger, gesturing more and more wildly. “What do you even mean?”

“Oh, so are we just ignoring what just happened in Battle Box then?”

Sapnap’s eyes flash as he closes into himself again, hands gripping at his upper arms as he crosses his arms in front of his chest once again. “That- that’s different. That’s because of Dream.”

“Oh, just keep blaming it on the other guy, why don’t you?”

“No-” Sapnap shakes his head furiously. “You haven’t been on here for nearly as long, you don’t get it, Michael. Dream- he’s-,” Sapnap flails, and Michael groans at the familiar words.

“Dream’s what? I was on the team with the guy before, you know. It’s kind of the reason why he invited me in the first place?” He raises an eyebrow. “We worked together perfectly well then - am I supposed to believe that his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ can’t do the same?”

“You don’t understand,” Sapnap repeats, expression hard and oddly far away, “Dream- he’s changed- he’s done so many terrible things. I don’t know what he’s said to convince you, but he’s bad news, man. He’s hurt- so many people.”

“Oh- you want to talk about hurting people?”

Michael isn’t quite sure what comes over him - only really realizes a white-hot flash of rage lancing through his chest, a sleepless night and half a competition’s worth of anxiety and frustration and build up combining into a sizzling spike of fury that briefly tinges his vision red.

“How about the way Dream looks like he’s about to keel over whenever anyone gets close to him? How about how he flinches back at literally every loud noise and fast movement? How about how Quackity’s been making these stupid, angry comments at him for the entire competition that make him freeze for a minute each time? Or how about when you were in Battle Box and Dream backed away from your sword like he thought you were gonna drive it through his chest?” Michael barely feels himself stepping forward with each word, jabbing his index finger into the other’s chest. “You want to talk about hurting people? How about you go talk to that fiancé of yours and then come back to talk?”

A loud, droning buzz comes over the speakers, alerting them of the end of the break. Michael steps back, face flushed in embarrassment, before the world whirls away and they’re teleported back into the Decision Dome.

He adamantly refuses to meet Sapnap’s eyes as Quackity and Dream materialize in the sector with them, Quackity’s hand clamped around Dream’s upper arm as the other man keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, looking even more panicked and frozen than before the break.

“You ready to win?” Quackity laughs, and Michael watches as his hand tightens around the sleeve of Dream’s jacket, knuckles paling from the strain.

“Yeah,” Michael tries to cheer, and it feels like ash on his tongue. “Let’s do this.”

---

Survival Games ends up being picked next - Quackity and Sapnap quickly pull up to the front of the group, close enough to be within eyesight but too far to really pick up their conversation. Michael keeps an eye out for the reddish glow of their bodies as they scout the surrounding areas for chest, staying back with Dream as they look at the other side of the road. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a smug sort of satisfaction of Sapnap seemingly confronting Quackity about whatever the hell has been going on, as awkward as his whole outburst had been. As it is, some time with Dream is nice without Quackity watching over his shoulder like a hawk - he directs a small, genuine smile at the man by his side that Dream seems to do a double take at before shyly returning it with one of his own.

“There- I think I see a chest,” Michael points under a lamppost, running to the wooden box and flicking the lid upwards. He pulls out a chain chestplate that he promptly puts on himself, then throws over the iron boots to his teammate as well as a small stone axe that he’s sure Dream will make better use of. “We should probably catch up to the others - don’t want to be caught off guard while separated.”

Dream nods, and the two of them pick up the pace before finding another chest that Dream rummages through, this time, finding an iron sword that Michael takes for himself and a cake.

“You’ve been doing really well so far,” Michael says after a few minutes of quiet, words becoming more firm when Dream looks up at him with a surprised expression. “Seriously- you’ve been doing great, man.”

“Thanks,” Dream smiles, words quiet and terribly sincere, and the sinking pit in Michael’s gut returns at the tone. “Not as good as I should, though. I’ve been underperforming a lot,” he laughs a little at the words, but even to Michael’s ears it rings hollow. “It’s not over yet, though.”

“No it’s not,” Michael concedes, rearranging his inventory as they run. “But it’s good enough, man, really - just look at my rankings.”

Dream huffs. “You’ve been doing good, Michael.”

“And you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than me,” Michael tips his head in his direction. “Give yourself some more credit, man. You’ve been playing well.”

Dream smiles again, but even now the corners of his mouth seem tight, tense. “I need to play better, though, if we want to win,” he says, matter-of-fact, analytical to a damn fault. Michael rolls his eyes, but nods to concede the point.

“Sure, but that goes for all of us, Dream,” he shakes his head. “And it’s okay if we don’t win, you know?”

“No.”

Michael turns, frowning. Dream’s tone has become oddly flat, eyes dead as he continues to stare at the pavement under their feet. He seems to be chewing on his lip anxiously, startled out of his own thoughts when he looks up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I mean- I don’t know. I really have- want to win.”

There’s something so carefully worded about the admission, quiet and scraped open and raw in the slow sincerity of the words. Michael wants to poke at it, wants to understand what’s left him so unsure of every step, what determination lies behind the words that has left desperation clinging to every shallow breath he draws. A crack of thunder on the horizon, heralding a player’s death, reminds him that now is not the time.

Keep your head down.

“Alright,” he smiles thinly, hoping that the fracturing, yawning pit of emptiness in his chest isn’t obvious in the words. “Then we’re going to win.”

---

Michael skids to a stop at the finish line, feeling the elytra deequip as he’s thrown into spectator mode. He runs his hands through his wind-tousled hair, feeling it strain against his fingers as he roughly finger-combs it back into place. Dream and Sapnap are off to the side, standing next to each other but seemingly not speaking - Michael smiles as he floats over, still shaking the adrenaline off from the race.

“Hey,” the two look up, smile in recognition, and Dream waves; there’s a small smile on his face, strained but present. “You both did really good!”

“Thanks, Michael,” Dream laughs, earnest, “I did decent, I guess- haha. Top ten at least.”

Sapnap whoops. “We’re popping off!” Michael cheers in agreement, and their efforts manage to pull Dream’s smile a little wider as he ducks his head to look away again.

“Thanks, guys.”

They watch as Quackity flies through the finish line, appearing in front of them and shaking his arms out as he gets his bearings.

“Geez- that trident,” he shakes his head, looks up. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d we do?”

“Dream got seventh,” Sapnap scrolls through his comm, looking through the rows of contestants and their times as they come in, interspersed by the occasional chat message, “And I got 10th. Michael got- 28th, I think? And you got 32nd.”

“Hmm,” Quackity hums, “What do you think, Dream? Is that good enough to pull us to Dodgebolt?”

Once again, Michael watches as Dream stiffens under the scrutiny, head ducking down and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Um- I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, “I messed up a trident- fell into the void once, probably could’ve done better otherwise-” his voice trails off, tensing further as Quackity takes his usual spot by his side, jabbing an elbow none-too-lightly into his ribs.

“But you didn’t, though,” Quackity says, tone flippant, “so what do you think? With those placements- is it going to be enough?”

“Hey, we did great, man,” Michael glares at him, more forward than he’d usually be - but all he can see is the shoulder that he has pressed against Dream’s arm, the way Dream’s stood stock still since the moment he made contact, “Lay off of Dream, would you? He did great.”

“Yeah, Q,” Michael’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Sapnap chimes in from the side, rising further when Sapnap moves forward to link his arm with Quackity’s own and half-drag him away from Dream. “Chill out, man, we popped off. We’re gonna fucking win this, ok?”

Quackity’s lips press together; he’s still smiling, but there’s no mistaking the seething darkness that lingers in his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, gaze still trained on the pale off-white disk of Dream’s mask. Still, with the rest of the team against him, he’s in a losing fight and he knows it; Michael watches as he visibly backs down, rolling his shoulders back as he lets Sapnap pull him further back.

“We’re going to fucking win this,” he repeats, and Michael wonders how he manages to make the words sound so much like a threat.

---

“Sky battle,” Sapnap calls as the decision dome below them lights up in confirmation of the penultimate game, expression immediately becoming more focused as he turns back to the rest of the team. “Alright- strats, what are we thinking?”

“There’s the iron at spawn,” Dream starts, interrupted by the teleport to the Sky Battle arena, making him cut himself off comically and take a second to shake off the resulting disorientation, “And then there’s the iron in the nearby island. We gotta pick one, tower as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Sapnap looks down, seemingly calculating, before looking up again - Michael has heard him compared to fire before, but he thinks this is the first time he’s really seen it; there’s a veritable blaze burning in his eyes as he looks at each member of the team, easily taking charge as they prepare for the first round. “Same buddy system as Survival Games - Q, stick with me, Michael, stick with Dream. I’ll tower to the next island- Dream, you good with getting the iron at spawn and crafting armor for us?”

Dream startles, before flashing a small thumbs up at the other - Sapnap smiles wider, teeth bared dangerously.

“This is our game,” he cheers, and Michael enthusiastically whoops in reply, “we’re winning this, you got that team? Let’s go!”

This, Michael thinks, is the way the games should’ve gone - they jump into action upon the start of the game, Michael watching as Dream races through both chests on the spawn island, getting the iron and jumping down cleanly with a water bucket before following Sapnap’s bridge to the other island. He tosses over a pair of leggings and boots as he lands, then takes Sapnap’s excess iron to craft the other pieces of iron for himself and Sapnap as the other man begins shooting at opposing teams. Their communication is near wordless, simple one- or two-word requests communicating all they need as they follow each other seamlessly into the main arena area, sealing off their entrance as they search the ring for other teams.

Sapnap, especially, seems to have shifted - instead of waiting for Dream to take the lead, he seems comfortable barrelling on forward on his own, trusting for Dream to follow his steps. Michael watches as the two of them easily work through the two lagging members of Orange, shooting through a gap in the wall to catch an unsuspecting Yellow player chased by the border. Michael ends up dying to an unlucky block of TNT placed on his head - curses out what appears to be Quig, bounding over to the other side of the arena, and follows Dream and Sapnap as they continue to fight their way through the competition.

It’s not perfect, for sure - Dream hesitates at a bad place a minute later, ending with Sapnap getting 2v1ed and exploding in a flash of red sparkles. Dream is similarly dispatched a few seconds after, and the three of them watch Quackity, caught in the crossfire of two other teams, before he also goes down.

“Good work, team,” Sapnap says as he appears, disoriented, in spectator mode, and they watch the remaining two teams battling in a rapidly shrinking border before Fruit falls as well, leaving Pink as the winners. “That was close- we’ve got this.” The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument, and Michael, briefly, feels bad for anyone that stands in the way of it.

With the second round, they once again fall into rhythm without any major hiccups - someone tries to cut them off before entering the main arena, but are made quick work of by Sapnap’s relentless onslaught. As Michael watches, Dream seems to regain confidence as well, moving more to fight with Sapnap side by side instead of just playing support, tugging him back from a risky play and catching Punz in a nasty combo that does him in when he manages to slip past Sapnap.

The four of them end up in the final stand off in the middle, but end up getting caught too high up and killed by the border before they can jump down. Sapnap hisses at the narrow defeat, but the disappointment has hardly seemed to dim his determination - if anything, it seems to burn brighter.

“Last round,” he mutters, and Michael watches as Dream walks up to him, bumping him lightly with his shoulder.

“This is our game,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face, and Sapnap returns it with a fiery, blinding one of his own.

“Ours,” he says, and even just standing on the side, watching - Michael believes it.

Still, his concerns have yet to disappear - they linger in his mind as they jump into an adrenaline-filled last round, jumpy from excitement and victory just within their grasps. Dream is still more jittery than he should be, taking a second more than usual to react to fights, and his teamwork with Sapnap - while good - is still noticeably rusty. Michael’s lips thin at the memory of Dream backing away from Sapnap’s sword in Battle Box, hunched into himself, almost on the floor, with a clearly desperate edge to his expression - and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite manage to shake it off.

Unfortunately enough, the third round doesn’t bode well for them from the start - Quackity gets bowed off while bridging to the main arena, and upon entrance there they end up flanked, hard, by another team in a conflict that gets Michael killed within seconds. Sapnap and Dream book it to the other side of the arena, where they manage to work through a full team without too much trouble - but the next minute brings another half-team flying at them from the back, catching them in the middle of trying to recuperate. The two focus Dream in the middle of eating a steak, and Michael watches as Dream steps back instead of moving forward to fight, that same shade of fear making his muscles seize as he stands, stock still, watching helplessly as swords fly his way- Michael cries out, but there’s nothing he can do-

Between one blink and the next, Sapnap is standing in front of Dream, a snarl painting his features as he whirls through both players in a fury. Michael watches, awed, as his sword weaves and dances between the two attacking Dream, making quick work of them both until they’re no more than items scattered over the ground, then grabs Dream by the wrist and drags him up a nearby ladder onto the upper floor, plopping him by the wall and then backing off.

Sapnap stands back as Dream sits against the wall, breathing fast and labored, dropping to his knees with his hands in front of him, palms up, no weapons in hand. Michael watches, frantic, for the signs of any teams nearby - with Dream panicking and Sapnap’s back to the rest of the arena, they’d be easy pickings - but for once, luck seems to be on their side, because no one comes. Dream heaves a breath through his lungs, deep and shuddery - Sapnap watches, lips flat from concern, but doesn’t speak.

“You good to continue?” he asks, when Dream seems calm enough to recognize his surroundings, and Dream looks up at the words, jaw slack from shock and disorientation, before his head dips in a firm nod.

“Good,” Sapnap smiles, tight-lipped and fiercely determined, fiercely loyal, as he reaches out a hand that Dream moves to take. “Let’s go fuck them up, yeah? You and me, just like we used to.”

Michael watches, heart in his chest, as they stand together to face the rest of the competition, towering towards the middle and facing off with the remaining teams, watches as they move forwards through explosions and buckets of lava, coalescing onto the middle island, as they battle through the remaining opponents as one in a clean spiral of clashing blades and flying arrows, fighting with their backs to each other in the center of the arena. He watches as a well-placed fishing rod by Dream knocks their final opponent off the platform, leaving them in the middle, triumphant, as the only remaining team -

Watches, a brilliant, bubbling laugh in his chest as Dream and Sapnap take their spots in the middle of the arena, standing side by side as Sapnap raises Dream’s hand in victory, both laughing and cheering into the sky.

---

Their performance in Sky Battle manages to pull them to third - but second place still stands a few hundred coins away, and they watch anxiously as Parkour Tag is chosen as the last game and they are transported over the arena.

“Last game,” Sapnap calls, “We’ve got this, alright?”

He gets terse, short nods in return - it’ll be a close game, and even Michael is feeling the pressure. He breathes a soft, quiet breath through his teeth as they prepare, looking over to the opposite team as they choose their hunters and runners.

“Dream, you up to hunting first four?” Sapnap seems to be watching the effects of his words more, waiting for Dream’s agreement before moving forward, sliding into the position of leader easily when Dream seems to struggle. Dream nods and steps into the hunter’s box, lips pressed together, flat and focused, and Michael turns back to the arena to plan out his route.

Parkour, by far, is not his strong suit. It hadn’t been his strong suit during Parkour Warrior and sure as hell isn’t it now - he enjoys it well enough, but with the pressure of a hunter on him or the time creeping past and the competition standings hanging over his head like a guillotine, he’s prone to slipping up and he knows it. The map is full of dizzying, multi-colored structures and difficult jumps, the twists and turns of the arena making his head spin. Being good at parkour is more than being good at movement - it involves being able to make split-second decisions and execute them with no time to hesitate. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t particularly good at any of that, so Parkour Tag mostly just stresses him the hell out.

He sets out to the arena, listening for callouts over comms as he fumbles over the buildings. Halfway through the game, Dream’s voice comes through comms, quiet, focused.

“Gottem.”

“Nice, Dream,” Michael smiles, trying not to trip over a particularly hard jump, only to fall to being tagged in the back by the opposing team’s hunter - Ant, if he remembers right. “Sapnap and Q are still in- we’ve got this.”

Once again, each time, Dream races through the opposing team in seconds, seemingly going faster with each round. Michael has heard his reputation as a hunter before, but only now is he really appreciating the extent - the speed at which he manages to dispatch all three opponents is downright terrifying. They manage to win all four rounds, lingering around second place overall on the leaderboards, before Sapnap and Dream switch off for hunting.

With each round, Michael watches Dream in the lobby, watching as he tenses further in focus and determination and no small degree of fear, but it hadn’t been nearly as obvious in between rounds. Now, with him in the arena with Quackity and himself, Dream’s jumpiness is all that more palpable, adrenaline making him pace and jump in place from where he stands at the edge of the place. The glass lowers, and he explodes into motion, bounding on top of the nearest tower to wait for the hunter to come towards them.

Michael ends up caught first, early in the round, once again, and resolves to following Dream over the glass to watch his movements and make callouts for the hunter chasing behind him. Watching Dream move through the arena, dodging below fixtures and through tunnels and jumping from tower to tower with seemingly no regard for gravity pulling him down, it’s become all the more obvious that this is his element. He makes another hairpin turn around a pole, kicking himself up over a tower and then diving from it to a nearby building, landing on a ledge inside it, hands clutching the wall - Michael watches, quietly awed, as he outlasts the hunter, landing in small, panting breaths in the lobby.

“Great work,” he cheers, quiet, as Dream shakes off the last dregs of the adrenaline, all of them watching the leaderboard anxiously, “Just three more rounds, alright?”

The rounds that follow continue in much of the same vein - Dream, once he’s gotten started, seems near-impossible to chase down; Michael and Quackity provide support, distracting the hunter for as long as they can until they get tagged, but part of him wonders if it’s all even necessary. Dream flies from structure to structure seemingly unhindered by The Laws That Be, expression firm, if a little frantic, as he parkours his way through the arena. To their credit, the hunters chase, and several come pretty close - but Dream, worked up on adrenaline or anxiety or some twisted mix of the two, races over and around the buildings within the arena like his life depends on it.

It’s a surprisingly (if sickeningly) apt description - the skill in parkour is far from unacknowledged on Dream’s record; they all know his reputation with Parkour Warrior, all know that there are little that can match his skill as a traucer - but there’s something newly desperate in the way he runs, the muscles of his body tight and taut even in between rounds, expression permanently tight at the corners from fear. His movements, lacking in their usual fluidity, are made up with sheer speed and mad scrambles up walls that no one else seems to dare replicate. It’s concerning, even to Michael’s untrained eye, how frantic he seems the entire time, the flashes of expressions that he’ll direct towards the hunter like being caught by them will be his end, but- if anything, at least it’s effective.

Between his parkour and Sapnap’s own skill, they manage to dominate the other teams without much issue, and the bonuses from eliminating the other team first combined with Dream’s survival points each round land them a first place for the game by just a few hundred coins. The four of them watch with bated breaths for the event standings, whooping and cheering together when it shows the red rabbits in second -

“DODGEBOLT, BABY!” Quackity cheers, loudly, and the rest of them join him, laughing and screaming incoherently, “LET’S FUCKING GO!”

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Sapnap punches the air with a loud, resolute whoop of joy, and Dream - still shaking off the jitters of his last round in Parkour Tag - soon joins in with a few cheers of his own.

Michael watches them all with a smile on his face as they cheer in victory - Dodgebolt has them against the Yellow Yaks, which will be a hard match up, but between Dream and Sapnap’s skill, if they all stay focused, they shouldn’t have any issue.

They’ve done it. They’ve made it to Dodgebolt - if they keep their heads in the game, then they should win. All he has to do is keep his head down a little longer, long enough to win them the game, long enough for them to go home with new crowns and new coins, long enough for him to go back to living his quaint little life in his quaint little house - going back to heckling the Warden at night and hanging with Bad and Puffy, working on builds and living life away from the rest and pretending that nothing is wrong. The server will go back to normal come tomorrow, and it will all be okay.

The smile slips off his face.

They’ve done it. And then they’ll go back to the SMP, and Dream might evade whatever immediate consequences come with losing, but there’s no evidence that whatever’s caused that heartstopping, devastating fear that has characterized his every move is going to stop. They’ll win, and they’ll go back to the SMP, and they’ll keep dying and fighting wars and keep pretending that the world they live in is normal; they’ll go back to the server, and Michael will go back in his house while Dream goes back into his cell directly across from it, still locked in a black box with no way in or out, no means of communication with anyone outside, locked away with the key thrown away for anything to happen with no one to know-

Michael glances over to Dream, to the tense edge of his shoulders that has never left for as long as the tournament has continued and long before. To the grey-faced, grey-eyed inhabitants of the SMP, coming to the Championships with sealed lips and a shared determination to never reveal that anything is wrong, to pretend that things are normal and move on.

Michael’s hands clench into fists at his side, then unclench, the helplessness cutting through his excitement like a splash of cold water straight through his chest. They’ll win the Championship, and then what? They’ll go back to the server, and then what?

He looks up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of the rest of his team as they are teleported to the arena. Around him, nothing comes in reply.

---

“Shit-”

Sapnap disappears in a flourish of red particles, and Michael winces as Dream picks up the arrow he left behind, biting his lip as he watches the opposite side maneuver on the ice.

Both of Dream’s shots hit true, and Michael switches to dodging over the ice as the opposing team begins to shoot. His mind is still buzzing with uncertainty, questions whirling around his skull and making his head spin, the reminder to just let things be raging against the anxiety that has wormed its way deep into his bones for the better part of the day. His performance has fallen a bit as a result, and they’re tied, 2-2, for the last round of Dodgebolt against Yellow - winner takes all.

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to tell, but he wants to fall back into the background. He wants to make a difference, but also wants nothing more than to go on pretending that everything is fine. It would be so, so easy to move on and wash his hands of the whole affair - it’s not like anyone else will know, only himself and the guilt that he’s sure will haunt him to remind him of his failures. Is there even anything he can do? He’s no genius at combat, or parkour, or strategy- all he has are his eyes, his ability to see what the hell is happening with no means to change any of it.

An arrow whizzes towards him, too low to hit, and falls to the ice by his feet. Michael feels it plop into his inventory as he runs past it, shivering slightly from the cold or adrenaline or some mix of the two - not that he can really tell. The other team still has an arrow, the gleaming arrowhead catching the light as the person shooting - Jack, it looks like - moves it from one side to the other, looking for someone to aim. Michael lets the arrow into his hand, feeling its weight.

A sudden shock of clarity.

He staggers back and nearly trips over his own feet, feeling relief rock his body when he manages to catch his balance - his eyes rake over the rest of his team, still dodging over the ice, completely focused on the opposing side. He worries his lip between his teeth - it’s a risk. It’s a hell of a risk, and if he messes up - they’re fucked. They’re more than fucked. There’s a good chance that this does more harm than good, a good chance that it won’t do anything at all.

Michael takes a deep breath, and nocks his arrow.

With his bow pointed to the floor, he doesn’t think anyone’s noticed yet - especially the rest of his team, gazes still trained over the centerline to the other side of the arena. Michael plants his feet, raises his bow, aims - he’s standing still, too still, and he can already see Jack swinging the bow towards him from the corner of his eye, preparing to let the arrow fly directly at him. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Keep your head down.

Michael lets go, and Quackity manages to turn just in time to see the arrow hit him between his eyes.

Not this time.

Michael just manages a wicked, satisfied smirk before the world disappears in a flash of red.

---

“What the hell was that?”

Michael teleports into the middle of the MCC main lobby, finding Quackity already mid-yell in front of the podium, where the Yellow Yaks have taken their places as the winners of the Championships, new, shining crowns on their heads as they greet the crowd with smiles and cheers. Michael turns to where the rest of the team has gathered in the corner, Quackity hissing angrily at Dream, curled into himself against the fence.

“I- I-”

“You lost us the fucking game, that’s what you did,” Quackity grabs him by the arm, rage painting his features as he yanks Dream closer to him, ignoring the other’s panicked yell at the proximity and flailing to get away. “What the fuck- you had both the arrows. How the fuck did you miss that?”

“Back the hell off, Quackity.”

Michael steps forward, bodily shoving Quackity out of the way - Dream’s head rises just enough for the two eyes painted on his mask to look above where they’d been hidden behind his arms, though Michael’s far too lost in his own anger to pay any mind to him at the moment. Quackity turns his furious direction towards Michael, only seeming to get angrier as he meets his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off, Michael- you-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “You fucking- we fucking lost because of you, you know that? We had that! We were going to win that, you fucker-”

“And then what, Quackity?” The words Michael had been pushing back the entire day come forth, mixed with his simmering anxiety and muffled anger that he’d been forced to push down, game after game after game, one bubbling mess of emotion underscoring his tone and making Quackity rear back, “Then you’ll go back the SMP and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy? Go back to your shiny little country with a shiny new coin, beat up Dream a few times to work off the adrenaline because, hey, it’s not like anyone else is gonna know if he’s black and blue inside of that shitstain of a prison, is that right?”

The flash of panic that makes its way over Quackity’s face is more than enough to confirm the worst of Michael’s assumptions, and the rage that has made a home in his chest only burns hotter.

“What- what the fuck did he say?” Quackity barely manages to catch onto his tone, pressing harder with narrowed eyes and a snarl, “He’s lying, you fucking idiot, that’s all he ever fucking does-”

“He’s not told me shit,” Michael presses forward, forcefully pushing Quackity away from Dream, who is cowering from both of them behind him, “But you would know a hell of a lot about that, wouldn’t you Quackity?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re on about, pal,” Quackity shakes his head, hair whipping past his eyes, “And I’d recommend you shut your fucking mouth before you go around hurling baseless accusations- I could have you sued for defamation, you know-”

“Oh, we’re talking law, now? Fine! We’ll talk legalities- how about we start with that casino of yours and work from there?”

Sapnap moves over, quiet thus far as he watched from the sidelines, and Michael watches as Quackity relaxes, minisculely, at his approach - only to tense further when Sapnap presses a hand to his shoulder, meeting his eyes with blazing eyes staring right at his.

“Q,” Sapnap says, voice uncharacteristically serious, “tell the truth, now- what did you do?”

Quackity laughs - it sounds unsure, even in Michael’s ears, “Sapnap? You can’t tell me you believe-” he waves his hands frantically, “this- this fucking asshole, now, do you hear him? He sounds- he’s literally out of his fucking mind-”

Sapnap shakes his head, firm. “Quackity, I’ll need you to cut the bullshit. What did you do?”

“He’s backing up Dream, Sapnap,” Quackity focuses his gaze on Sapnap, something creeping up in his tone, sweet and cloying despite the bitter tone, that Michael can’t quite recognize, “You know what Dream is like- he pulled the same shit with you, remember? You and George? Tommy?” He waves a hand at Dream, who ducks down further at the attention, “He hasn’t changed, man! He’s still pulling the same bullshit, still manipulating people for the hell of it- you know, the exact same thing he did to you? Don’t fall for that again, man.”

“I-” Sapnap seems to hesitate, conflict warring over his features.

“Look at me, Sap - you know what Dream’s like. He pretends to be your friend, makes up some stupid bullshit to justify his shit - Michael hasn’t been around for as long, not like the two of us, remember? He doesn’t know.” Quackity brings his hand to Sapnap’s own, ignoring Michael’s protests as he laces their fingers together, “I care about you, Sap. All of this- I’m just worried that he’ll end up manipulating you again. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“...liar.”

“What?”

Sapnap steps back, wrenching his hand out of Quackity’s own. His expression, out of what Michael can see from the sliver of his face that is facing him, is stormy with fury and no small amount of regret - Quackity steps back, unease finally beginning to flicker in the corners of his self-satisfied expression as Sapnap stares him down.

“You’re a liar, Quackity.” Sapnap draws himself up. “Now, I’m asking this for the last time- what did you do?”

Quackity’s expression stutters, falls, as Sapnap stands back next to Michael, the two of them between him and Dream. His eyes flick between their faces, then to Dream, then back again, frown deepening with every pass he makes between the three of them. Michael keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with every second of silence that ticks by, Quackity seeming to grow more and more angry and tense under their scrutiny and unforgiving stances-

-a second passes, and he throws himself forward.

“Quackity!”

Michael only manages to throw himself out of the way of the man barrelling towards him just in time - too late, he realizes that he wasn’t Quackity’s intended target. He tackles Dream to the ground, pinning the taller man underneath himself onto the ground in a rough thump that seems to knock all the air out of him. Dream immediately begins to thrash aimlessly, jaw going slack in panic as Quackity levels his arm against his neck, going still as Quackity presses harder against his windpipe. Michael is only barely close enough to pick up what he says over the sound of the surrounding screaming, Sapnap rushing forward to pull Quackity off to no avail-

“-make what I did two weeks ago look like a fucking joke when we get back, going to make you wish you fucking died-”

The world explodes into white.

When Michael’s vision clears, he’s face to face to the stony face of one of the MCC admins, their status displayed by the proud red [Admin] by their nametags and the fact that they’re floating several inches off the fucking floor. He backs away, strangely winded - probably from the panic or adrenaline or yelling or, more accurately, all three, as Quackity is pulled back effortlessly by an admin, easily caging his flailing limbs with a snap of code as he is frozen into place - and Michael whoops.

“LET’S GO!”

(The arrow hits Michael in the shoulder, and he disappears in a flash of red - only instead of going to his usual place above the Dodgebolt arena, standing with the other competitors, he finds himself teleported in front of a dizzying array of screens and buttons, too many to have any idea where they connect and how they work. Michael turns to meet the faces of the MCC Admins, each one looking at him with odd, concerned expressions and furrowed brows.

“You shot your teammate,” one says - Noxite - and Michael nods to concede the point, not quite finding the words to speak. “Why?”

“If you had such a big issue with the teams, you could’ve just talked to Scott,” another one pipes up from the back, “I’m sure we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know, I know,” Michael runs his hand through his hair, both relieved at the plan working better than he could’ve ever fucking imagined and suddenly lost for words in front of the admins, each one looking at him with their full attention. Every nerve in his body rails against the scrutiny, reminds him to pretend that nothing is wrong - but it’s too late to pretend, now. It’s been too late for a long, long time.

He remembers Dream, looking away all competition, voice dead and lacking all of its former vitality - remembers Puffy, hair a little greyer from stress, grief painting her face whenever she thought anyone wasn’t looking - remembers Bad, hands still shaking despite his attempts to hide it - the prison, looming on the horizon, unbeatable, impenetrable - himself, helpless, for all this time, to do anything but watch and wait. Until now. He takes a deep breath, steels himself-

“Something’s wrong with Dream.”)

“Thank you for your information, Michael,” Noxite smiles at him, and relief throws itself through his system so fast that it makes him dizzy- “We’ll handle this from here. Good job.”

“Holy shit- when did you get time to contact the fucking admins, Michael?”

Michael ignores the clamor around him as the lobby bursts into activity and people talking over each other, each one probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, ignores Sapnap muttering, awed, from beside him, to move towards Dream, still sprawled out over the floor. There’s an admin by him, standing by to seemingly keep the crowd away but not engaging with Dream directly, and Michael ducks by them to kneel down by Dream and meet his gaze.

“Hey,” Michael smiles, still shaking from the leftover adrenaline as he presses his hands to the ground to try and hide it, “We’ve got you. It’s over- Quackity’s gone. You’re safe now.”

“Michael?” Dream’s voice is so damn small when his head twists to look over, hair having fallen largely fallen out of his ponytail to land in wisps all around his face. “You- how-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael shushes him, chest twisting painfully. “It’s alright.”

“...I don’t feel so good.”

Dream coughs harshly, and Michael quickly maneuvers him to a sitting position as his shoulders shake with another one, hand flying to his mouth as he is wracked with loud, wet-sounding coughs. Concern wells up in his throat, watching as Dream shakes with more coughing, nearly choking as he curls into himself, muscles tense. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand back, and Michael gasps at the sight.

“Dream-”

There’s blood, and a lot of it - mixed with the saliva in his palm, shiny and stringy over the planes of his hand, dribbling past his lips and down his chin. His teeth are similarly stained red when his mouth opens slightly, stance wobbling before he collapses altogether against Michael’s body - Michael can barely hear himself shouting for a medic as Dream heaves a rattling, wet sounding breath into his shoulder.

“Th’ts not g’d,” he mumbles, quiet, before going completely limp.

---

When you first get strong enough to go to the Nether and collect blaze rods and brew potions for the first time, the first thing that gets beaten into your head forwards, backwards, left, right, and every way in between is that health and regen aren’t a replacement for actual recovery. Instant health pots are famous for their tendency to heal everything affected to the same degree - which is bad when you have a particularly deep injury, as it’ll often finish healing it near the surface while the injury persists underneath. Regen pots tend to be better at that front, but even they cannot completely fix a serious injury - the two can only act as a temporary, emergency fix for severe wounds, often being an invaluable resource to stop the worst of the bleeding and hold everything together for long enough to bring someone to proper medical attention.

Unfortunately, when someone tries to use health pots and regens to completely bypass the time and rest needed for the body to properly heal itself and recover, what usually ends up happening is internal injuries - not completely healed by the potions alone - continue to be jostled and irritated, which can lead to further, worse, problems with internal bleeding and bones shifting out of place if they’ve been broken, which can then pierce through muscle and organ tissue - to be honest, Michael was never the best with all the medical stuff, and he’s half-sure that the horror stories he’s heard were exaggerated to beat it into his head never to be an idiot that thinks that potions can solve everything, but either way, he’s never tested his luck with the things.

Unfortunately, Dream doesn’t seem to have done the same, as the entire day’s worth of intense activity, between practices and MCC itself, were more than enough to fuck over the healing effects of whatever health potions he apparently downed before coming to the Championships. From what Michael has heard, it got a little harried after he was first brought into the hospital, but he’s apparently stabilized since - recovery will be slow, both physically and mentally, but at least he’s out of that damn prison to actually start on that path.

“Simply put, your teammate is a bit of an idiot,” Scott tells him when he finally catches him in the waiting room, hair fluffed up at the sides from where he’s evidently messed it up in Admin-related stress. “But he should be alright now, with proper medical attention and lots of rest - make sure to tell him to actually rest, will ya? No more parkouring for him - he can wait until after he’s out of the hospital to show us all how it’s done.”

Michael laughs, relief settling into his chest, “Thanks, Scott.” He directs a playfully accusing look towards the other, a grin tugging at his lips, “but you know, he’s only my teammate because you made it that way. Kinda sounds like your own fault there..”

“Oh, quiet, you.” Scott laughs- he looks stressed, and Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. The administrative side of things after his whole stunt at Dodgebolt, and then especially with what happened in the main lobby, must be an absolute nightmare. “Anyway, I need to go back - Admin meeting,” he shakes his head, already looking at his comm. “You should go see Dream, by the way. I think he’s awake.”

“Thanks for everything, Scott.”

Scott smiles at him, soft, sincere. “Go see your friend.”

He disappears in a flash of white light, teleporting away, and Michael looks at the empty space where he stood for a few seconds before standing up out of his chair to move towards the door. He hesitates at it for a second, hand on the doorknob but not yet turning it to the side - it’s suddenly awkward, without the pressure of the competition at his back and the relentless questions of what he should do. He doesn’t even know if Dream knows what happened, or if he’ll be happy with him - for all he knows, Dream was the one who started the whole ‘don’t tell the Championships what happens in the server’ deal. His teeth catch on his lip as he stands, lost in thought, at the door.

Well. Here goes nothing.

He eases the door open, getting a glimpse inside the room - it’s white, clean-looking, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a chair on the side with his Championships clothing and what appears to be some sort of padded body armor laid over the cushions. Dream, as expected, is lying down in the bed, unmoving; for a second, Michael thinks he’s sleeping, before he suddenly twists his head over to look at him.

“Michael?”

“Hey,” Michael smiles, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. For the first time today, Dream’s face isn’t masked, a glimpse of it visible behind him on the dresser by the bed. He blinks up at him owlishly, eyes wide and green, looking even bigger combined with the hollow planes of his cheeks, overlaid by pale, slightly raised scars. “How are you feeling, man?”

“Um-” Dream tries to pull himself up, visibly struggling, and Michael rolls his eyes as he hurries over to help raise the back of the cot because you’re supposed to be resting, Dream, just let the fancy bed do its job, and settles back with an odd look on his face as Michael pulls over a chair. “Good? I think? I mean-” he flails his hands a bit, “this is weird. And I kind of hate this gown- but um. Yeah.”

“That’s fair,” Michael laughs, and Dream huffs a small laugh out of his own, settling back into his pillow. He looks strangely small, with all the layers stripped away, frail and skinny against the sheets. His skin isn’t that same paper-white shade it had been when he collapsed in the middle of the fucking lobby, but it’s still pale enough to be vaguely worrying, especially combined with the IV and other wires hooked up to him.

“Apparently, I’m dehydrated,” Dream drawls when he catches Michael staring at the IV, making a small, frustrated sound through his teeth as Michael turns to look at him, “figures, I guess, but still sucks. I hate needles.”

“Ouch,” Michael winces in sympathy, “yeah, those don’t look that fun.” Dream smiles up at him, before his expression shutters, dulls, and he looks away, not meeting his eyes. The sight of it makes Michael frown, quiet, remembering the way he’d drawn back from them all over and over again throughout the day - that fear and trauma won’t go away in a day, but it hurts all that much more to see his face as panic flashes across it and he pulls back, gaze carefully detached.

“Dream?” Michael moves closer, but is careful not to make contact, “you alright?”

“Hmm?” Dream directs another small, tight smile his way, strained at the corners as his eyes flick away to the floor once again, “yeah- I’m- I’m fine.”

Michael sighs, but decides not to push it. “Have you done anything else here, yet?”

Dream shakes his head. “No- I think that someone’s going to bring food over soon, I’m not sure. Not really hungry,” he mutters, half to himself, and Michael tamps down the concern that wells up in protest, “But we’ll see, I guess.”

“That’s good,” Michael nods, and Dream looks up at him, expression startlingly unsure.

“Um- do you know?” He wrings his hands together, eyes darting across the room nervously before flicking over Michaels’ face, and Michael tries to make himself look as calm and comfortable as possible, “I mean- do you know what’s going on with- everyone?”

Ah. Michael winces internally- he probably should’ve expected this question, but in the fallout of what happened in the lobby and Dream, you know, passing out in his arms, he ended up brushing off or ignoring a lot of the chaos that resulted. He wracks his head for snippets of information that he’d seen in his communicator and from visitors to the waiting room, including people that had been there with him that had been pulled for questioning and meetings, Tommy’s expletive-filled yelling from the lobby still ringing in his head.

“Um- I think that they’ve got a team of moderators pulled up to investigate the server, figure out what’s been going on,” Michael ticks names off on his hands, mentally going through the list of people that he’s been given information on, “They have Quackity in custody, I think, for the moment- they’re still waiting for more information on what to do with him, but they’ve got a whole MCC lobby’s worth of witnesses that saw him assault you so far, if you plan on pressing charges and stuff- um- Sapnap got pulled for questioning, nothing too major right now, I think that they’re going through the other server members that were attending the Championships for the moment.”

“Are they- putting them in jail?” Dream’s voice sounds slightly tinny despite his forced calm, arms crossed in front of him, and Michael shakes his head firmly.

“No- legal stuff between servers is weird, and I think they’re holding off on anything like that for now. Quackity’s just there at the moment because of assault charges on the MCC server - stuff in the SMP is still technically outside of their jurisdiction.” Dream visibly relaxes, and Michael smiles thinly, “It’ll be rough for a few weeks as they collect evidence and figure out what to do, but for now, they’re just focusing on recovery - giving people medical attention if they need it, lining up therapists,” he laughs, quietly, “lots of therapists.”

Dream hums, looking away. The corners of his mouth fall, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shuddery sigh through his lips.

“I- never wanted it to get this bad,” he opens his eyes, looking down at his hands, lip slightly trembling, “I don’t- I don’t know where it all went wrong.”

“Hey,” Michael slides closer, ducking to meet Dream’s eyes with a soft smile. “You’re not alone anymore, alright? You don’t have to fix it all by yourself. Focus on yourself, on recovering.”

Dream hesitates, breath seeming caught in his throat, wide green eyes staring into Michael’s own, before ducking his head to look away with a slight nod. Michael leans back in his chair, watching as Dream turns to the side, curling in on himself slightly with a small wince, eyes fixed on the window.

“Didn’t think I was going to see the sun again,” Dream says after a while, gaze still trained behind the glass to where the sun is slowly setting, rays of sunlight streaming past the slits in the blinds and casting glowing stripes of honey-gold throughout the room and over Dream’s face. Michael feels something cold press against the back of his throat, the quiet admission making air stutter in his lungs at the image of Dream, alone, huddled in the middle of an obsidian box for months and months and months, never knowing if he’d see anything other than the same black walls for the rest of his life.

“You’re not there, anymore. You’re safe now.”

Dream doesn’t reply, continuing to look out the window silently, breathing slowly as he moves his hand through a sunbeam, watching the way it streams between his fingers and warms his skin, seeming mesmerized by its soft glow.

“Michael?” Dream looks over, and Michael feels the air punched out of his lungs at the soft, disbelieving sincerity held within his expression, the fearful edges for once pulled back far enough for the light to catch the quiet, heartfelt appreciation gathered in the slight quirk of his lips and downward slope of his eyes. He looks away a second after, a band of light cutting across his face and landing over the bridge of his nose, smile still on his face, voice almost too quiet to make out. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Michael feels his own smile widen, looking out the window himself- it really is a beautiful sunset. “What are friends for?”

#-> my writing #my writing :D #c!Quackity critical #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw torture #tw panic attack #tw manipulation #tw gaslighting #tw needles #tw hospitals #tw emotional distress #pandora's vault #prison arc #god this was so fun #hope you all enjoy !!#long post

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gandrewheadcannons · 3 years

Text

I wanted to share some writing I had done earlier this summer with you all! If you like it let me know if I should continue? It’s meant to be a story focusing around the beginning of their time in Washington and into the podcast. I’ve left it at a really weird stop but that’s all I had so far.

Title: Undetermined

Pairing: Garrett Watts/Andrew Siwicki

Tags: Mention of prescription medicine, mention of Jeffree/Shane/Ryland, unfinished

Evening is dimly creeping through the half-opened windowpane casting a glow across the built-in table connected to the cramped inner wall of Andrew's microscopic kitchenette. His studio apartment in LA sat cramped in-between Hollywood and Calabasas, a mediocre waypoint for his work for the last few years. He clicks the viewfinder and focuses on the bright oranges and yellows that dance teasingly across the glittering tabletop; catching flicks of sliver and reflecting them back to the lens. A mug of dark roast with just an edge of too much cream is left forgotten in the corner of the frame. It feels cinematic and lonely all at once. The cafe style booth he sits in causes his back to ache, the rest of the kitchen a sterile and unforgiving white, but he misses capturing the day to day beauty the world had to offer. He imagines the reel being played back with a layered sound of twinkling windchimes, quiet laughter and a piano reverb with cuts of the morning sunrise on a hike and steam off the top of a ceramic mug. A familiar face with flecks of blonde in the beard, strong jawed and a roguish smile weaving in and out of the frame, turning back to laugh at something the cameraman said.

“-with a mandate like this.” Garrett is brushing his teeth through Facetime. Andrew catches the corner of his bamboo toothbrush flashing in and out of the lens. He must have laid his Iphone flat on the countertop because when Andrew really looks he can see the bottom of the mirror and a bunch of bright light.

“I know. It sucks. Couldn’t get honey the other day, man. Fucking honey. It’s not like the bees are going anywhere.” He laughs but it doesn’t feel funny. The minimal supply he had was dwindling thin. He was beginning to ration his meals and he wasn’t sure how much toilet paper was left under the bathroom sink. It was all very apocalyptic without any of the zombies or scientists swooping in with immediate remedies.

“Ah dude.” Garrett spits and there’s a tapping sound like he’s hitting his toothbrush on the edge of the porcelain sink before he fully pops into frame. He looks relaxed, sandy hair flopped to one side and beard properly scruffy though they’d only been locked down about a week and a half now. “I know. I can’t handle it anymore. I miss people.” Andrew hums at that. He doesn’t really. He misses the occasional gathering, sure, but he hadn’t quite placed his anxiety surrounding the idea of seeing others since they’d released the Jeffree series. "What was it that bothered you most about taking part in this?" His therapist had asked him. "I missed the fun," he’d answered. "What was the fun?" She’d pressed deeper. "Garrett," Andrew had been quick to reply. "And like. Everyone else too." He'd added when she hadn't said anything. "I miss it not feeling work." She had let him talk about that instead.

"Some people." He tacks on to Garrett who hums easily. He doesn’t think he misses many of the people he’d spent most of 2019 with, his life a mixed cocktail of Ambien, Adderall and Lexapro without any feelings of relaxation manifesting. His psychiatrist had discouraged upping his doses anymore and by early January she began urging him to begin seeking new opportunities to “work on his environment”. He hadn’t quite figured out the avenue to take to do just that.

"Well, some people." Garrett agrees and he's already back out on his couch. "I don't know how many more times I can watch Winter Soldier before I freak out." Garrett sighs. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Same as you and every other person." He turns his camera off. He needs the break from the screen.

"I miss you." Garrett is easy like that. He isn't ashamed to tell people how he feels in every moment. It was something to be admired and yet Andrew just felt envy at it. When Garrett had begun to slip away from him, melting like honeydew sweet and sour into a depth of a place where Andrew couldn't quite find him, he'd only managed to grab him back out by Garrett's honesty. Doesn't know if they'd be having this conversation if Garrett hadn't used that honesty like an anchor and letting Andrew catch him last minute with it.

"I can come over." Andrew offers. He hates being confined in these walls anyways. It was hollow and dark. The email from Shane still sat open on his Mac across the room on his bed. Thinking of extending the break, can't really decide. Want to get quarantined together? I have a few video ideas we could maybe mess around with or just film some day to day footage until creativity strikes us it reads. His skin itches for the company but the image of their guest room makes him uneasy. Doesn't know if he could withstand being there with very little to fill his hands with, editing complete and no real ideas on the table for the time being.

"I can come to you." Garrett offers like he was inconveniencing Andrew who had offered anyways.

"If you touch your car right now I am going to freak out Garrett Watts." Andrew admonishes. "The second they open up the garages and mechanics again I'm making you take that thing there, burn it and we get a new one." He's opening a duffle now and throwing in his travel toiletries and a few pairs of underwear.

"Oh come on Andrew it's not so bad." Garrett laughs as if Andrew wasn't still reeling from the aftermath phone call of Garrett nearly wrecking on the 101 barreling top speeds until he reached a secluded patch of grass to slow his Pirus down onto. By the time Andrew heard the story Garrett was okay; Michael had gone to pick him up and Garrett was sending pictures of little Star Wars figurines that Michael kept mounted on his dashboard. His heart didn’t calm until he had managed to get his hands on Garrett in person though, sneaking out for an afternoon to grab some coffee with Garrett before heading back to Shane’s to finish editing. His shins still feel heavy with the weight of Garrett’s calf as he’d pressed their knees together until the table while they’d talked – the weight reminding him of how alive and okay Garrett really was.

"Oh yeah a car that dies out randomly is really great." Andrew throws in a box of protein bars and a Gatorade into his bag. He hesitates before grabbing a stitched bear made from gray yarn, green buttons for eyes luring him in. "I'll be over soon." He doesn't know how well the conversation will hold up over Facetime as he's moving.

"Okay cool Andrew." Garrett's eyes are soft. "See you soon. My dad is actually calling."

"Tell him I said hi. See you soon." He so easily could tack on endearment, babe at the tip of his tongue burning hot. Garrett's ending the call before Andrew even has the chance.

The half opened can of frosting is across from, the only lights on are the ones twinkling from some intricate set up Garrett had on a shelf. Garrett’s on the third loop of the home screen on Prime, humming thoughtfully whenever he pauses on a summary to read but then continuing to scroll before picking one. He’s slumped down low, long legs kicked out on the coffee table while Andrew is curled up in a ball against his side. Once, Caleb had pointed out that if people didn’t know them they’d get the impression that they were dating. Garrett and Andrew had awkwardly laughed at that comment, tinged with humiliation at how their relationship was being interpreted. They tried to be better then, not letting themselves fall so in sync when other people were around.

Andrew loved it like this though, when it was just him and Garrett, so he could press his cheek into Garrett’s bicep and not have to question why it felt so right. In his left hand his phone illuminated with another message from Shane. Opening it he read a message about how much they all missed him and wanted him there during this time. Apparently Ryland was looking for someone to help film a video he had planned. He quickly shut the screen off and pulled back from Garrett some, his stomach in a sudden tangle of knots.

“Good?” Garrett asked him looking down. His crew neck was for Spokane and looked a little like the Taco Bell logo from when they were younger. He’d paired it with a pair of sweat shorts for the night as they were both supposed to be going to bed soon. Andrew picked at his own Adidas track pants, imagining a loose thread to busy his hands.

“You ever just. Feel like you gotta get out?” He tilts his head to the side and watches Garrett pause what he’s doing with his Playstation controller and set it carefully on his coffee table.

“In what way?” He asks thoughtfully, turning so his chest was open to Andrew. Their knees bumped and Andrew felt like a little boy when he wished he could crawl and hide in the empty space of Garrett’s lap.

“Like okay. Say you just really loved what you used to do. You basically achieved your dream job. You have all these amazing people, you like your boss, things are going really great and you’re making a lot of money.”

“You buy yourself a really good vacuum.” Garrett plays along teasingly causing them both to laugh.

“You get yourself those stackable containers for your meal prepped lunches.” Andrew plays back. “But then…” He runs his tongue inside his teeth then outside methodically. He searches his brain to try to figure out what to say to Garrett to

“Then?” He drums his fingers on Andrew’s knees to get him back to the present.

#gandrew #gw #as #my writing

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solomonish · 3 years

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vibe with me vibe with me vibewithme. simeon/solomon SO good, you're SO right, related angstifluff inbound as i have been INSPIRED by your beeeautiful artistry once again. okay, SO. picture this— simeon's an angel, right? and he likes appearing normal and playing pretend with the others at RAD. he even likes pretending to be clueless sometimes, because it means the people he cares about will fuss over him. but he's very much Not clueless, and his prophetic eyes see things others can't. and simeon, sweet simeon, is actually so perceptive as a result that he turns around and ends up GENUINELY out of the loop sometimes, because he simply doesn't pick up on the little conflicts of those with a less-heightened perspective. so as time passes in purgatory hall, and he notices that solomon is slowly broadening the distance between them, simeon immediately assumes he's at fault. maybe he missed something and was rude accidentally. maybe he was careless, or gave off the wrong impression. hell, maybe his very status as an angel alone is just too much of a resemblance to michael for them to ultimately get along. he corners the wizard anyway, because he wants to make one last push for peace, and the two, ironically, end up squabbling instead. the argument gets more and more tense, with solomon dodging every olive branch offered and simeon stubbornly pushing for them to move back towards friendship, until solomon, sneering, spits back with a shocking amount of bitterness that someone as tainted as him would never have a chance with an angel anyway, so why does simeon even bother. simeon's brows furrow, his eyes softly aglow with Sight, and he pauses. then, just as carelessly as the sorcerer, he answers with "but Solomon... you're not stained at all. your soul's one of the brightest lights I've ever seen." CHAOS ENSUES.

NONNIE?!?!?! I AM VIBING WITH YOU RIGHT N O W

i do not know where to START with this.........I haven't really Thought Deeply And With Purpose about Simeon so first of all, LOVE the overview of him for me that was very kind and smart of you and hard agree, but also! I think it'd be cute if he's over here acting all clueless and Solomon (the person he WANTS to fuss over him) is just. Withdrawing. So he's a grumpy angel after that for a little bit lol

And when he approaches Solomon, Solomon is as good as dead. Not only does Simeon look devastatingly beautiful in his best diplomatic pose, trying to appeal to every favorite of Solomon's that he knows of, but he also looks devastatingly DEVASTATING and Solomon knows when he's backed up against the junction of the kitchen counters that he is NOT getting out of this unscathed and will probably be completely obliterated because Simeon is NOT one to mess around when he gets like this.

AND SOLOMON HAVING THE BRIGHTEST SOUL EVER.......THAT HITS!!!

I normally go for making him all broody and actually having a tainted soul (is it bc I like the idea of worldbuilding that demons actually take over a sliver of your soul in a pact? or i like him brooding? or i just have chronic 'i can save him' syndrome? i don't know) but GOD........Simeon doesn't say anything about it before because he just assumes he knows! He has Michael's ring for crying out loud and there hasn't been holy campaign to get it back! The soul isn't so fickle as to be defined by the company he's kept, it's connected to HIM and HE is good! HE takes care of his fellow humans even after they've left him behind! HE loves so deeply and honestly and hurts himself more to save those he loves! the ANGST! the FEELINGS!

whoever you are anon, we are on the same WAVELENGTH here! This is exactly the kind of thing I was thinking (the exact scenario? all yours of course and GENIUS to boot) so I think this means I owe you my life....? please claim your reward within the next 24 hours

#anon #asked and answered #AHHHHHH i still love this #i am THINKING #third eye OPENED #obey me #obey me simeon #obey me solomon #simeon x solomon #solomon x simeon #long post #fave

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slashedthroughtheheart · 3 years

Text

Ok so, this has been bugging me for a while

Now, I know a lot of the fandom sees Bubba and Thomas as big plus size guys. And don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being plus size. I myself have been plus size and fat since I was about 14.

However, a lot of people, the way they talk about these two makes them sound obese.

And that really... rubs me the wrong way?

I’ll put it under a read more since this is getting long.

So, lets look at it the way I see it. I look at Bubba both in movie and in DBD model, and I see an average body typed man. Maybe just a bit thicker around the middle than average but by no means Fat. He has some fat to him, most at his middle. But for the most part? Bubba is basically all meaty muscley heft. He’s thick like a strongman is thick. Which is why he is so strong. Why he can run with a chainsaw. Why he can haul people up onto his shoulders easily.

He’s not capital F fat. And the reason it upsets me to see him be called fat isn’t because being fat is bad(it’s not, fat is good for your body), it’s that he’s very obviously Not Fat in the way most people talk about him as. And I can’t help but think ‘So... that’s what you consider Fat? What am I then? Oh My God Obese?’ because if someone who has the shape and outline of Bubba being considered Chunky Fat, it’s... disheartening? Like, he’s not overweight by any means even?

Look, this is the original Leatherface. This is the original Bubba. He has a bit of a tummy, but I would not call him fat. As someone who is fat, I look at him and I see average male body.

This is Bubba in DBD and here, yes, he has a bit of fat right at the lower part of his abdomen, but he still isn’t fat. He has big beefy arms, wide shoulders, some hips, and that bit of tummy. But he just isn’t Fat. I’d venture that this version of Bubba is the chubbiest, but even then he isn’t particularly chubby. And he’s also pretty tall here. His weight is distributed rather evenly. He is proportionate.

And the same thing is done to Thomas who is even LESS fat than Bubba. He carries his ‘weight’ very well and it’s basically all muscle. The person who played Thomas was a wrestler, like? He was physically fit. He wasn’t chunky. He wasn’t fat.

And yet people talk about how Thomas would be insecure about his ‘pudge’ and the only thing I can think of is ‘what pudge?’

Thomas is Thicc but with muscle, not fat.

Look at him, that isn’t fat. He has a thick waist, which so many wrongly conflate with being fat. But no, he’s muscle. He’s strong. He isn’t fat. He’s got a barrel chest. He’s Big in a way that isn’t fat. He’s Big in a way that is spooky because it speaks strength, and we all know what he’s capable of.

And all of this just smacks of fatphobia. Because if someone like Thomas or Bubba is considered chunky fat, anyone who is Actually Fat is going to get alienated. Because the people who are doing this are doing it in an ‘uwu soft fat boi, protect him’ and like, if they were fat, that’s still gross?

Do not get me wrong, if you wanna headcanon them as being bigger, and you draw them bigger, that’s okay! But the stuff I’m talking about is these skinny people looking at someone who’s just physically bigger than them and just auto assuming that they’re fat just because they are physically bigger. And it’s gross. And damaging.

This has bugged me for so long, from the moment I stepped into this fandom.

It happens mid game too when I play Dead by Daylight and there’s a Bubba as the killer and people I either watch or am playing with will say ‘Oh, there’s the fat bastard’. Like, this is a problem. Bubba isn’t fat, none of the killers in DBD are fat. I’ve heard people call Trapper fat and he’s not? He’s built like a fucking tree. But it isn’t fat.

Just because a person physically takes up more space than you doesn’t make them fat.

Fat isn’t bad! I have a feeling a lot of this stems from people wanting to seem ~inclusive~ or woke or w/e, but they don’t actually want to respect fat people. They want to find the max size of a person they’re comfortable with existing and then label that fat, because to them, that is as fat as someone can be and still be tolerable.

I look at myself in the mirror and then look at how Bubba looks like even with all his clothes on, and I’m fatter. By a lot. I’m also afab so my fat sits differently, but still. I have a marked difference in body fat than Bubba. I’m Fat. And I can still lift people. I used to be a firefighter. I used to be captain of my volleyball team. I used to swim miles every day when I still lived close to the ocean. And even then, I was still fat.

I look at that, and think about those things, and I can only wonder and fear what the people who go ‘uwu soft chubby Bubba’ would say about me.

Words that have been thrown at me before come to mind, and I can only guess that they’d be similar.

It’s upsetting to think that people look at the actual model for Bubba in game and point and call him fat(derogatory). Because... he isn’t. And some of these people used to be my friends, until I just quietly shunted them from my life, because I don’t want that toxicity in my life. I don’t need them to find out I’m even bigger and turn around and call me the fat bastard.

I’ve had enough of that in my life already. I’ve been anywhere from just a little chubby to full on fat ever since I was a teen. I know how it feels to have your weight be the point of criticism/bullying/butt of jokes. It’s not good.

And all of this makes me really hesitant to even think about writing and posting stuff for Thomas and Bubba and really any of the other slashers who the fandom have deemed to be fat. Because I don’t see any of the slashers as fat in the slightest.

Because I won’t write them fat. I won’t write them having love handles to pinch like so many writers like to give Bubba. I won’t write them having a double chin. Because they don’t. And for me, the art I do, it’s all written. I can’t draw them, I can’t do them justice like that and be like ‘Here’s a comforting headcanon of them being actually chubby that makes me feel closer to them.’

I don’t trust the fandom to know I mean Actual Fat if I wrote those things. I don’t trust fandom to just read those things and think I believe Source Material is that.

And the whole thing that makes this worse? A lot of slashers were bullied when they were young, something a good majority of fat people understand and went through themselves. Something I went through. And I felt a kinship with slashers and fell in love with so many of them because I Get It. I have empathy for what they went through. While the things we faced weren’t the same, we still face ridicule for something we couldn’t change.

And before anyone goes and says ‘it’s not that deep’, I want everyone to think about why most people gravitate towards the slasher fandom. It’s usually out of that idea of ‘Society has cast you aside, it’s also cast me aside for whatever reason, so lets stick together’.

When you’re othered, you tend to lean more towards people that were othered as well.

When your own society has made you feel like you don’t belong, seeing someone else being cast out as well makes you more likely to bond to them. My very first slasher I fell for was Jason Voorhees. And it was real obvious why for me. I was a young little kid who had the nerdiest interests, and wore glasses, and was a bit chubby in the face even if I was thin everywhere else, and I was also the only not white kid in my area. And I had asthma? I was easy game. I got made fun of relentlessly, just like Jason did.

Kids physically hurt me as well. And when I first watched Friday the 13th, the connection I felt to him? That feeling? It was instant. I understood him, and my heart ached for him, because I KNOW how bad it hurts.

And I fell for Thomas, and Bubba, and Michael. And so many others. All because there was that connection. That moment of seeing just a sliver of my own pain in them.

And I’d venture a guess that that’s on par for why a lot of the people in the slasher fandom are even in the slasher fandom.

So why is there so much of this fatphobia? Why is there so many people who act like their original bodies are fat when they’re not? Why are we being othered in the one place we really shouldn’t be?

If you see this happening, say something. Point it out and say ‘that isn’t fat, why do you think that’s fat?’ This whole ‘body positivity’ movement is garbage and the roots of it are just so gross. ‘Don’t worry, you’re still sexy even if you’re fat’ like no. We don’t want body positivity, we want to stop being ridiculed for our bodies. It’s as simple as that. It’s literally just about wanting to be treated as humans with respect.

So please, be mindful of what you say. Hold yourself accountable for the impact you have with your words.

#Thomas Brown Hewitt #Bubba Sawyer #Leatherface #talking about fatphobia in the fandom #abuse tw #I'm just real tired of feeling like I wouldn't be accepted if people in the fandom saw me because of how they act about these two #It really is that deep #I can only imagine how other fat people in the fandom are feeling about this #And I know there are other fat people in the fandom because the amount of times I've seen requests about plus size readers #And my heart goes out to them because god I know how it feels to want to be accepted despite our weight #Maybe be accepted Because of our weight? That some slasher would Prefer us over our thin counterparts?#That would be nice and I know someday I will write something for it but with a slasher who can actually talk #Or maybe with Thomas but go with the headcanon that he has his lil notepad #I love that headcanon for him and I also feel like he'd probably prefer a thicker significant other #I want it to be 'I chose you because of how you treated me but you're also the most beautiful and attractive person I've ever seen'#I know this is a long post and a long rant even in the tags but god I'm tired of seeing it and I hate that I'm not comfy writing for them #I would venture that Thomas is my most loved slasher so me feeling uncomfy for writing for him makes me so sad #I'm tired and kind of angry and just so over this attitude everyone has #I face it enough in the real world please fuck off with that musty ass thought process in fandom

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supernaturallyobsessedchic · 3 years

Text

Emergency! Part 4

Part 4 – Treehouse

Summary: A boy with an inner ear condition can’t hear and is trapped in a treehouse. Cas has a fear of heights, thankfully someone knows sign language. Dean and the reader head out on their vacation, a camping trip. But their trip is cut short when a fire breaks out, they turn into victims really quick.

Warnings: Smut (p in v, unprotected (wrap it up boys), shower sex), language, suspense, scary situations, fluff.

Word Count: 3,776

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Mobile Masterlist

a/n: First time writing suspense, please let me know what you thought of this part. Feedback is much appreciated.

Dean was up before Y/N’s alarm gone off.

She always got up to her alarm despite being off work today.

Laying on his side, killing some time he played with her hair. His mind wondering.

Where would he be without her? Can he imagine his life with her?

He’d be lost without her; he can’t live a day of his life without her. Not since the day they met in the hospital.

She stirred awake.

“Morning handsome.” She says groggily as she tries to wake up.

“Morning beautiful.” He says with a soft smile on his face. His hand still playing with her hair.

He wishes he didn’t have to work; he wish he could just stay like this.

“What’s going on?” she asked when he stilled, his gaze absent as he stared off into space.

“Move in with me.”

“Okay.”

“Really?” he asks, shocked.

“Yeah, I was going to ask you at some point, but yes really. I want to live with you Dean.”

He smiles, leaning in to give her a loving kiss on her soft lips.

Their lips began to dance along with one another, slowly heating up.

“Dean, you got to get ready for work, I don’t want you late.”

“You’re right, why not come in with us? Wouldn’t hurt having a nurse with us on a call.”

“I don’t see why not. Gives me something to do today.” She says, getting up out of bed.

“Did you shower yet?” she asks.

“Nope, I got up early and just didn’t make it out of bed.”

“Let’s shower together, save water.”

“Or waste it.”

“Dean, I don’t think having sex in the shower would be safe.”

“You’d be safe with me.”

“Coming from someone who is in the hospital more than his own team.”

“Hey what can I say, I’m a hero.” He smirks.

“My hero.” She returns a smirk.

They head into the bathroom, undressing and stepping into the shower as the water warmed up. The cool water waking them up quickly.

Just as they finished washing their hair, Dean’s hands wondered her back as she stood in front of him beginning to wash her body.

Though the water was not too hot but hot enough, goosebumps formed on her shoulder and arms as his fingertips ghost across her back.

She turns to face him. Their lips meeting in a heated and needy kiss.

He lifts her up, she wraps her legs around his waist, feeling his growing hard cock between her folds.

“Better make it quick Dean, don’t want to be late.” She pants against his lips, pulling away slightly from their kiss.

“Quick is my middle name.” he says, adjusting her so he could use a free hand and guide his member through her wet folds.

His hips began a fast rhythm. Hitting all sorts of sweet spots within her.

Her head in the crook of his neck as a moan escaped her.

“Dean.” She whines.

“Almost baby, go for it.”

And a few more thrusts and her walls clamped down hard around him, throwing him through his high.

As his thrust began to slow to a stop, the water began to cool down, and they stared intently at each other.

“I love you baby girl.”

“I love you too baby.”

“Y/N, it’s good to see you, what brings you here to our lovely station 51?” John asked as Dean and Y/N walked in.

“A little separation anxiety.” She says in a joking tone. John chuckling rolling his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be surprised; Dean won’t shut up about you.” Gabe says with a coy smirk.

“Good, good to know I’ve made an impression him.” She says looking up at Dean with a smile.

Dean kissing her on the check. Gabe making a fake gagging noise.

“Need to get that image out of my head.” He jokes.

“You don’t want Aphrodite to find out about being a fuck buddy?” Dean asks with a dark smile.

“I’ll stop teasing you guys. I’ll tease Cas then.” Gab says walking toward the kitchen off next to the garage in another room.

“Thanks.” Cas says rolling his eyes.

“Just roll with it and he’ll get bored.” Dean suggests.

The alarm going off just as the sun breached the horizon.

“Squad 51 person trapped. 465 Courtly boulevard. Cross street Hartley Court.”

“Want to ride along?” Dean asks.

“If it’s alright with John.”

“It’s okay, you’re a nurse, could be of use to my boys on the call.”

“Then, I’m coming along.” She says with an excited smile.

“Then lets hit it babe.”

They arrived to the location, walking to the side door.

“Over here!” the lady waved out.

“You called?” Cas asked.

“I am, it’s my son Brad. He has a condition, Ménière's disease.”

“That’s a disease of the inner ear.” Y/N says.

“Yes, he ran away last night and heard him crying out.”

“Where is he?” Dean asked.

The mother looked up to the neighbors treehouse.

“Oh god.” The nurse gasped.

“He had to have had a drop attack, he’s has been quiet for some time now.”

“Dean, they also suffer from vertigo really bad and suffer hearing loss.” y/n warned.

“Oh, when Brad has a bad attack and can’t hear for some time, we’ve all learned sign language.” The mother pointed out.

“I know sign, Dean, I can go up with you to check on the boy.” Y/N says.

“Cas you want to go up with Y/N?” Dean asked.

“Um, no thanks man, you go ahead.”

“What, why?”

“Dude, I can’t do treehouses.”

“I’m not Michael, I’m not Gabe. No one is going to mess with you or hurt you.”

“Don’t care Dean, I just can’t bring myself to do that.”

“Dean, it’s okay. You and I can do it.”

“Alright, Cas, we’ll tell you his vitals, communicate it to Rampart okay.” Dean says.

“You got it.” Cas says, setting down the drug box.

“Dean we might need the station to get here with the stokes and some latter’s.”

“Call them for assistance.” Dean says.

Cas nods and gets on to the radio.

Y/N Grabbed a hanging rope to climb to a make-shift latter made on the tree leading up to the treehouse. Dean followed not far behind.

They emerged from the trap door entering the treehouse. She saw him laying on his stomach, knees curled into his chest.

He looked to be in his early teens.

“Hey, son, I’m Y/N, I’m a nurse. Are you okay?” she asks.

He didn’t respond.

She went to face him; she shook his shoulder gently. He looked up at her, his eyes wondering in a manor as if he just got done spinning.

That’s vertigo for ya. She thought.

She signed, spelling out. “Are you okay?”

He began to sign back to her.

“I can’t hear, and the world is spinning.”

“It’s vertigo, it’ll pass eventually. But my paramedic friend here, and I, we’re here to help you.”

“Please.”

“Don’t worry honey, we will. Keep your eyes closed, and lay on your side. We’ll help.” She signed.

“Dean, lets get him on his side.”

“Alright.” Dean helps moving the boys legs to allow him to lay in a fettle position.

Y/N checked his pupils response. “Pupils react naturally to light.” She notes.

Dean began to work on getting his blood pressure.

“How’s his BP?”

“Normal, 117 over 75.”

“Cas!” Y/N shouts down. “You got Rampart on?”

“I do!”

“Pupils react normal, BP 117 over 75. Currently experiencing vertigo and can’t hear.”

Cas gave the thumbs up and began to relay it to Rampart Hospital.

“Wonder why Cas won’t come up here despite being high up in other places?” Dean wondered.

“It’s childhood trauma. If something happened in a treehouse that traumatized Cas, he’s going to stay away from treehouses at all cost.”

“I almost want to throttle Michael and Gabe for whatever they did to Cas that scared him this bad.”

“There may be no getting better, best case scenario, we get him in a treehouse, have nothing happen to him during his time in it. Warm him up to it. Worst case, he keeps staying away from treehouses all together, not wanting to get better.”

Dean nodded as he heard the sirens of engine 51 approach the house.

“Dean!” John shouted.

“Yes sir!”

“We’re getting the stokes up to you now, catch the rope okay.”

“Got it!”

The threw one end of the rope up, working on lifting the stokes, a basket they can use to lower the patient in safely.

Y/N helped get the boy into the stokes, strapping him in, and covering him with a yellow tarp blanket.

“Okay, keep your hands in here, and keep your eyes closed.” y/n signed.

“Okay.” The boy says with a nod.

They carefully lowered the boy down and another station with an ambulance responded onto the scene to transport the boy to the hospital.

“I’ll go down first sweetheart; in case anything were to happen.”

“Oh, you worry wort. Come on, lets go.” She says with a sweet smile. Dean returning it as he climbed down.

“Sweetheart be careful, this handle got knocked lose somehow.” Dean warned.

“Gotchya.” She says as she continued to climb down.

Dean jumped the remaining way down, feet landing with a soft thud.

Her foot felt the handle Dean warned wobble under her weight. She slowly lowered herself to the next handle when she heard it creak.

And before she knew it her foot fell with the broken handle. Her hand not letting go of the other handle.

“Ow, god dang that hurt.” She grunted as her weight was caught by her hands, catching her from falling.

She tried to get her footing on the tree, but her feet kept slipping.

“Babe, just let go, I’ll get you.” Dean shouted.

She saw Dean stand below her and she took the chance and let go.

Sure enough, she felt his hands catch her from losing her balance as she landed.

“You okay?”

“Hurt my hands a bit, but I’ll live.” She says showing him her hands.

“You got some splinters in there, lets head to the squad and I’ll patch you up really quick.” Dean says.

At the back of the squad truck Dean pulled up the drug box, grabbing the tweezers and working on getting the splinters of wood out of the skin of her hand.

“Wood must have been rotten.” She says as Dean pulled out a sliver of wood.

One after another.

“It felt like it. They must get that fixed before anyone else goes climbing in that tree again.” Dean says.

She couldn’t help but admire Dean as he worked on her. Her gaze stayed fixated on Dean.

“I feel you staring.” He says with a smile.

“Good, you know that I’m admiring you.” She says with a loving smile.

He looked up to meet her gaze, giving her a chaste yet loving kiss. And worked on bandaging her hands up.

“You scraped up your hands pretty good, better be safe.” He says.

“Now where would I be with you Dean?”

“Lost.” He answers with a sweet smile, kissing her cheek.

“Seems to me we both would be lost without each other.”

“Damn right baby.”

“Dean go home, your shift’s over.” John ordered.

“I better help Y/N pack.”

“When are you two gonna be up at the cabin?”

“Hopefully by tomorrow afternoon. Is it just the deck you want me to work on?”

“Yeah, the stairs and rails are bad. I just need you to replace them.”

“Will do dad.”

“Keep your girl from walking on the deck. I don’t want her getting hurt.”

“I’ll try dad. She’s pretty stubborn.”

“She’s just independent. That’s different. Drive safe you two and call me if you need anything.”

“Will do dad, see ya.”

Dean hurried to the Impala to hurry home to pack for he and Y/N’s first camping trip together.

Dean packed his duffle and supplies quickly before heading to Y/N’s apartment. Dean, letting himself in.

“Baby, you ready to go, we need to beat traffic.”

“Just about, I just want to make sure I have everything.”

“It’s almost that time of the month isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’m due in a few days and I don’t want it sneaking on me.” She says, coming out with her duffle and bag of toiletries.

“How is it camping if we’re gonna be staying at your dad’s cabin?”

“Oh, there’s old style camping and there’s Winchester Style camping.” He says with a smirk.

“Oh, and I take it this is the Winchester Style?”

“You know it. Now lets hit it if we want to get there before sundown.”

“Right, I know. I’m ready, let’s go.”

They had arrived sooner than anticipated, allowing Dean to start working on the deck early.

Y/N finding everything in the kitchen, getting the gas on to be able to cook lunch. Keeping all the drinks in the cooler while the fridge started cooling off.

Dean had managed to get plenty of gas for the generator so they could have the basic necessities.

Y/N keeping it simple with hot roast beef sandwich melts. Dean having already dismantled a good portion of the deck.

“Dean, want to take a break and rehydrate?”

“I spy good food.” He says from his latter by the deck’s ledge.

“And its getting cold, come on. Eat up and you can finish.” She says placing the plate on the table.

Dean coming around the house entering from the front door.

“Working hard?”

“Think I’ll be done with the rails by tonight hopefully. And I can start the stairs tomorrow. Then our fun can really start.” Dean says with a smirk.

“Oh, we’ll scare so many animals out of this forest.” She giggles.

“It’s a promise, I want to play and see if I can’t make you scream.” Dean growls in her ear, kissing at the base of her ear. Sending shivers down her spine.

“I’ll hold you to it.” she says. Kissing Dean on the lips as he pulled away from her neck.

“Dean!” y/n shouted.

Dean looked around, didn’t see her anywhere around him.

Until he looked behind him. He saw her standing by a clearing. They could see the mountains in the far distance, and the rolling hills in combination. Even the dark ribbon of road that wound its way around the hills and into the mountains of the park.

“What is it?” he asks. Walked to her side.

“Look.” She says.

Dean followed her gaze. They can see what looked like smoke coming behind a mountain.

“We don’t exactly have cell service out here sweetheart, and I didn’t bring my radio. I wouldn’t worry. No one has come out here to tell us of any wildfires in the area. We should be fine.”

“You sure.”

Dean looked back out to the smoke. The wind was still. Dean tried to guess if the fire was even under control or not.

“No, but worrying never helps. We’ll worry once we cross that bridge.”

They went to bed that night, sound asleep, when a gust of wind gently began to pick up.

“Dean!” y/n shouted.

Her screams were faint. Dean shot out of bed with a jolt.

“Y/N!” He shouted trying to find her.

She was no where in sight in the cabin.

He found her in the same place as yesterday, staring of in the now smoky distance.

He rushed outside to find flames closer than yesterday.

“We need to leave.” He says urgency in his eyes and tone.

“Dean, the fire is crossing where we have to get back into town.”

“There are other ways into LA, but we need to get out of the path. Like now.”

“It wasn’t this bad yesterday.”

“My guess is the wind picked up last night. And a spark carried on this far. Could be a separate fire, I mean we are in a drought.”

“California is always in a drought when aren’t we in one.”

Dean shrugs. Good point.

“Yeah, well these things happen fast when the wind isn’t on your side. Now, pack back up and we leave. Now.” Dean ordered.

They ran inside, hearing sirens as they entered.

“It’s a deputy, pack and I’ll talk to him.”

Y/N ran fast to their room they slept in, packing quickly making sure not to leave anything behind.

“I radioed station 51, they’ve responded to the fire.” Dean says behind her.

“You have an escape route in mind?”

“I do, I just hope it’s far enough away from the fire.”

They rushed their items to Y/N’s car, Dean’s 67 Impala unable to handle the rugged terrain.

Dean getting in the driver seat and driving quickly but safely out of the park.

“Dean, there are flames here too.”

“I see that y/n, just stay calm.”

“I’m trying, kind of hard when Hell just rose.”

“Joys of being a firefighter.”

Dean tried to weave his way around traffic who were also trying to leave.

Traffic coming to a standstill.

“The flames are getting closer.” Dean mumbles to himself.

“What do we do?”

“Wait here, I’m gonna see what’s going on.”

Dean puts the car in park, putting the hazard lights on. Getting out to scout ahead to see what was stopping traffic.

He saw a woman in distress and panic.

“Ma’am, I need you to stay calm, I’m a fireman and paramedic, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my daughter, she has asthma, and she’s having an asthma attack and we didn’t bring her inhaler. We forgot it in a panic.”

“It’s okay, my girlfriend is a nurse, everything’s gonna be okay.”

Dean hurries back to the car, getting to Y/N’s side.

“What is it?”

“A car stopped ahead, a mother just needing help. Her daughter has asthma, and is having an attack but no inhaler.”

Not saying anything she follows Dean to the distressed mother.

“We forgot her inhaler!” the mother cried as they approached.

“It’s okay,” Y/N assures.

She see’s the girl hunched, clutching her chest.

“’Kay, honey, I’m a nurse, I need you to sit up straight as straight as you possibly can.”

The girl tried her best.

“Take long deep breaths for me okay,”

The girl nods and tries her best attempt.

“Okay.” She tells the girl. Then turning to the mother.

“Dean, how much farther?”

“I need a radio to see where this fire ends.”

“I have a drone.” A teen boy, possibly early twenties.

“Get it out and fly it straight up give us a birds eye view.” Dean orders.

The drone being up in the air for a quick minute Dean could see this is going to be a never ending battle. They just need to get to the emergency vehicles.

“I can see where the fire trucks are. But its still a ways out. And with this wind the fire is going to be chasing us.” Dean says as the boy lowered his drone.

“Stay on this road, go straight. Don’t stop. We all need to get out of here.” Dean orders the woman.

The mother nodded, getting into their car and driving off.

“Dean, are we going to make it?”

“We need to hurry, then maybe we will.”

Everyone rushing to their cars, coughing at the increased smoke in the air as the fire neared them. Everyone speeding their way out of the flames as best as they could.

After a few miles around a bend.

“Dean!”

Dean slammed the breaks to a screeching halt.

“Rockslide.”

“Damn it,” Dean cursed. “Did you see any roads back there?”

“No, none.”

“Shit!” Dean cursed again, slamming a fist on the steering wheel.

“What if we go on foot? How far are we?”

“It’s not safe, all this smoke in the air. And the wind is not letting up.”

“Moving the rocks on our own?”

“Maybe the small ones, get it to a single lane.” Dean says, putting the car in park.

Y/N got out to help Dean move rocks off the side of the road, other drivers doing the same.

Everyone began to struggle with the smoke, even Y/N couldn’t stand up right with her coughing fits.

“Hang in there sweetheart, we almost got it clear.”

“I know,” she coughs.

Just as they saw the road open up from their hard work, the flames were a few feet away.

“Dean!”

“Get in the car! Drive don’t stop!”

“Hopefully there’s not another rockslide.” y/n mumbles, loud enough for Dean to hear.

Everyone hurries to their cars; Dean not even bother with a seatbelt he puts it in drive and presses hard on the accelerator. The tires screeching against the pavement. Y/N not paying any mind to it. Their lives were at stake.

“Cap, they’re saying that’s everyone.” Gabe says. After talking with the other stations and police deputies.

“No word from Dean? Or Y/N? They were up at cabin?”

“A deputy saw them leaving and that was an hour or so ago.”

Before he could worry more, he heard roaring car engines speeding past. One honking it’s horn.

John seeing his son and his girlfriend in the car. Coughing but alive.

“Dad!” Dean shouts getting out of the car, coughing.

“Dean, Y/N, you’re okay!” John says. “Get these two on oxygen now!” He ordered.

A paramedic from another station coming by with two tanks and masks. Giving them each one.

At the hospital, Dean and Y/N both having a room while under observation for slight smoke inhalation.

Y/N asleep at his side as they sat in Dean’s bed.

“Alright, you two are free to go.” Jack says coming in with their chart.

“Good, we’re exhausted.” Dean says. Y/N stirring awake.

“We good?” she asks with a yawn. Before letting out a cough.

“Yeah, you’re good. I think you can recover at home now. But if you don’t feel right, come back in.” Jack insisted.

“Will do, thanks Jack.” Dean says.

“Don’t scare us like that again Y/N, you’re one of my best RN’s, it’s be a catastrophe if we lost you.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen.” Dean says.

“I’m sure you won’t. But you’re one of 51’s finest. Just be safe next time okay.”

They smiled with a nod.

“Go on and get home, and get some rest.”

They got up gathering their things.

“When do you want to move in?”

“I thought I already did?”

“You’re apartment still has furniture in it silly. I meant—”

“I know, I was messing with you. ASAP, I want to start living with my man.”

“Then once we’re 100 percent, we’ll get right on it.” Dean says holding her close.

And then maybe, they could work on forever.

A/N: How was it? Let me know, feedback is much appreciated. :)

Dean Girls:

@pandazombie69, @luci-in-trenchcoats, @supernatural-jackles, @becs-bunker, @evansrogerskitten, @winchesters-favorite-girl, @mlovesstories, @jayankles, @jeaniespiehs20, @akshi8278, @flamencodiva, @anotherspnfanfic, @megzdoodle, @lyarr24

Copying and reposting someone else’s content is plagiarism and illegal. This work is property of supernaturallyobsessedchic. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. These works contain material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of these works may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. An electronic reference link to the original posted work may be provided for purposes of promotion or assistance of publication by the readers discretion, if proper credits are given to the author in the re-post. 3/24/2021

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pandoraborn · 3 years

Text

Cruelty of the Beast - Part 8

( previous. )

Characters: c!Dream, c!Tommy, c!Ranboo, c!Wilbur Word count: 2136 words Content: the end, seeing the dragon, discussion of good vs. evil, ranboo starts to remember a little more

-----------

The next several days blur together. Ranboo and Tommy aren’t able to find any time alone anymore, because their days from wake up are filled with mining for resources and farming even more. They also include trips to the nether multiple times a day. Each night the two teens can barely finish their dinners before collapsing into a sound sleep in their bunks.

The upside to this is that there’s no room to think much about their situation. Though, if Ranboo were to be honest, he’s starting to enjoy the routine. It’s nice, having something to do each day. He no longer has to question anything bad that might happen to him.

He does keep Tubbo and Michael in the back of his mind. He hopes they’re both okay, though he also hopes Tubbo isn’t sending out search party after search party. He hopes he can slip away soon to meet up back in Snowchester, but with the way this new life is going, that thought is unlikely.

He wakes slowly one morning. His back and muscles ache, and Ranboo wishes he had a way to alleviate the tension, but he’s not about to ask the others for help. He only trusts Tommy, he still doesn’t know how to feel about Dream and Wilbur.

When Ranboo finally sits up, he finds he’s the last one to rise. Tommy’s awake and cooking sausages, Dream is mixing apple juice, and Wilbur is handing Ranboo a plate of food.

“Good morning,” Wilbur says softly. “You don’t look so great.”

“We’ve been busy,” Ranboo mutters. He takes the food though, eating slowly. He decides if Tommy’s the one cooking, then it can’t be all that bad. “How long until we’re going mining again?”

“We’re not going today,” Wilbur says. He offers Ranboo one of his quiet smiles. This time, Ranboo finds a little bit of comfort in it. Mostly, he wants to believe they finally get a day to rest, which means tonight he can sneak-

“Do you want anything for the pain?” Wilbur continues. “You look sore.”

“I’m fine,” Ranboo mumbles. He shakes his head as further confirmation and resumes eating. “Thank you though.”

“If you’re sure.” Wilbur pats him on the shoulder before walking away to take over for Tommy. “Toms, go eat. We have plenty of food.”

“I’m starving,” Tommy complains. “Five sausages doesn’t feel like enough!”

Wilbur starts laughing. “You act like we’re starving you.”

“You are,” Tommy counters. “You’re only giving me five sausages.”

“Tommy, they’re huge. You barely even need three!” Wilbur laughs. “I haven’t eaten yet, I’m stealing your portion.”

“See what I mean?” Tommy stumbles toward Ranboo dramatically, collapsing on the floor by his feet. “Ranboo, when I perish, please call Dream a bitch for me. Honor my legacy.”

Ranboo looks up toward Dream, now curious to see how he’s going to handle this. He expects a snarky comment, but he’s surprised to hear Dream laughing.

Yeah, okay Tommy. I guess I just won’t share this freshly made apple juice with you. I”ll just share with with Ranboo and Wilbur instead. You can keep your water.”

Tommy’s up in a second. “Okay fine. You win, but only because I’m thirsty. Not because I actually want anything from you. You’re still a bitch and I hate you.”

“Tommy, come get your food,” Wilbur interrupts. “I’m giving you four.”

“And pancakes.”

“You have three.” Wilbur hands Tommy his breakfast too. “Sit by Ranboo and eat. We have a present for you two today.”

Ranboo pauses to look up again. Wilbur had said they weren’t working today, but he hadn’t gotten confirmation on why. “A present?” Ranboo asks.

“Yes,” Dream says. He holds up a pitcher. “Aside from the fresh food, we’re going to take you two on a field trip.”

“We’re going back to the SMP, I knew it!” Tommy pumps his fist before clutching at his plate. “Shit, my breakfast!”

“No, it’s not that easy.” The grin fades from Dream’s face. “Look, Wilbur and I did some talking over the past couple of days, and we both agreed we fucked up, so we’re going to include you both more in our plans. We want to gain your trust.”

“Dream, I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said I hated you,” Tommy says. His shoulders seem to deflate. “I would trust Bad over you, and Bad’s got that egg shit going on, and he’s already tried to kill me a few times.”

“I know.” Dream offers a smile that almost seems to mirror Wilbur’s, but it doesn’t quite make the mark. “Tommy, if Wilbur trusts me-”

“Wilbur trusting you has nothing to do with me,” Tommy cuts in curtly. Ranboo silently cheers him on. “It’s going to take a lot more than an ‘I’m sorry’ for me to even think about forgiving you. Everything else is most likely not going to happen.”

Dream throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I won’t push. But we do have a treat for you.”

“What’s the treat?” Ranboo asks. He’s ready for the awkwardness to die out. His curiosity is overwriting any other tension he might be feeling, and for once, he’s glad he’s curious. “What’s this field trip?”

“We’re going on a quick trip to the end,” Wilbur says. He plates his own food and sits down in the middle of the cabin. “Ranboo, I know Dream showed you the location, and I know you told Tommy, but we’re going to take a visit there today.”

Tommy swallows thickly. “Any particular reason why we need to see a dragon? What if it eats us?”

“It won’t. We’ve already taken precautions with ensuring our safety.” Wilbur nods toward Dream. “We’ll be perfectly safe when we see it. Now please, children, hurry and eat. You’ll love this, I swear to you.”

---

It takes no more than another hour for them to finish eating (and the apple juice is actually pretty pog, in Tommy’s words). When they clean up and dress for the day, Ranboo holds Tommy’s hand tightly as they make their way toward the campsite and end portal. He’s grateful that Tommy is squeezing just as tightly; glad that Tommy is finding comfort in him just as much as he finds comfort in Tommy. That’s the biggest silver lining in this situation, is they still have each other.

They peek into the hole again, and Ranboo’s stomach churns. He still doesn’t remember digging this, but he has another flash, Dream’s voice echoing in his head, whispered words of praise. The hallucination is gone as quickly as it came, but Ranboo feels a certain sort of peace settle over him.

There’s a ladder that leads down. He must’ve missed it last time he was here, but it’s there, and Dream’s already climbing down slowly, with Wilbur right behind him. Giving Tommy’s hand one last squeeze, Ranboo pulls his hand back and follows suit. He doesn’t want to go down, he doesn’t want to actually confront what he’s done, but Tommy is silently nudging him forward.

“It’s okay Ran, we’re in this together.” Tommy’s voice is a whisper that is almost too quiet to be heard. But the comfort is still there. Tommy’s reassuring him, Tommy’s forgiving him...

That means something.

With a nod, Ranboo climbs down the ladder slowly, keeping his gaze up to watch Tommy. It’s a long climb down, and the ladder is creaking under each step. It feels like any second the ladder can break and they’d all plummet, but a blink later and he’s at the bottom.

He looks back up, and the surface seems way too far above them. There’s only a tiny sliver of light, the rest is shrouded in darkness. Well, except for the portal room, which is well lit.

“Set your spawns,” Dream instructs. “We aren’t taking any chances.”

“I thought you said you took precautions,” Tommy accuses. “We should be safe.”

“We took precautions for the dragon, not the various endermen that live here,” Dream clarifies. “Also, when we dip through, please stay close to us.”

There’s a drawn out silence as the two teens lie in the nearby bed. Ranboo immediately latches onto Tommy again, aware of how sweaty Tommy’s hand is. He doesn’t mind though, because they’re now following the two adults through the portal. There’s no telling what they’ll find on the other side.

What Ranboo isn’t prepared for is how big the dragon is, or how beautiful the void is. It’s an endless...he would describe it as a night sky. His eyes widen as he stares in awe around the nearby area. There are so many endermen...

The end is nothing like what he’d imagined; he’d pictured something desolate and empty, but now that he’s here, amazement and wonderment replace any feelings of apprehension. Ranboo is staring up into the endless inky sky, jaw agape.

“...boo?” Tommy’s voice is distant, cutting into his trance. “Ranboo, you still with us?”

“Huh?” He tries to shake himself, but he’s staring up again, still too lost in a pleasurable daze to focus on Tommy.

“Ah, shit.” Dream’s voice cuts into his thoughts next. “I forgot about this. He’s half enderman, this is like, his homeland. Hey, Ranboo, come here.”

He feels an arm slide around his shoulders, pulling him flush against another body. Only now does Ranboo pull himself out of his trance to focus on Dream, who’s waving a hand in front of his face. He shakes his head a few times, letting reality sink in. Rather than feel embarrassed, he holds onto that peaceful feeling. Everything else that had been eating away in the back of his mind is all but forgotten about.

The group moves closer. Ranboo finds comfort in Dream’s closeness, and up ahead, he can see Tommy holding Wilbur’s hand. When they’re close enough to see the dragon, Ranboo’s eyes widen again.

Wilbur and Dream hadn’t been kidding when they said they’d already taken measures to protect themselves. They’d set up several beacons that seem to trap the dragon in a large circle, on one island. The group is just outside the circle, but they’re all staring up with the same expressions of awe on their faces. Ranboo looks over at Tommy, pulling away from Dream to move closer.

He takes Tommy’s hand again.

“Wow,” Tommy breathes. Ranboo watches him with a smile on his face. “Ranboo, I never thought I’d say this, but this is really fucking cool. Look at it!”

He does. There’s no denying now that this dragon would cause an apocalypse in their main world, but for some reason, while in this realm, he doesn’t feel any sort of worry. He really does feel like everything will be okay.

“Wilbur?” Tommy’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Yes child?”

“This is the coolest thing I’ve seen since you kidnapped us.” He moves closer to Ranboo, pressing a hand to his back. Ranboo sighs and leans against Tommy. “If Ranboo and I like it, does this make us the bad guys?”

“Silly Tommy.” Wilbur laughs and reaches over to ruffle Tommy’s hair. “You ask adorable questions.”

Another faint memory stirs deep within Ranboo. A faint memory of a conversation. Not with Dream, but with Wilbur. It comes on so strong that he almost blacks out.

He’s in Pogtopia, with the ghost of Wilbur before him. Wilbur had been brought back for a limited amount of time thanks to an ancient spell. He has questions he can’t go to Dream about.

“If I’m working with Dream and he’s hurting people, does that make me a villain?”

“That’s such an antiquated train of thought. No one is a villain, and no one is a hero. We all simply are. Everything serves its purpose and every end justifies the means.” Wilbur tilts his head to the side to smile at Ranboo. “I died for a cause, and it caused this massive avalanche of events. Would you fault me for all of it?”

“No. You did what you had to do, in the end.” Ranboo can feel his lips stretching out. “Just as Dream is doing what he has to do.”

“Then we’re not the villains in this tale, are we? We’re simply working toward a cause.” Wilbur puts his hand on Ranboo’s shoulder. “Don’t focus so much on good versus evil, because everything can be twisted to suit a different set of morals, even if you have the best of intentions.”

“You’re right.” Ranboo smiles at Wilbur. “I trust Dream.”

“Good lad. Keep trusting Dream, he’d never lead you astray.”

Ranboo comes back to reality. Only a couple of seconds had passed, but he feels like he’d been drowning in surfacing memories for hours. Wilbur is still playing with Tommy’s hair, and he’s still speaking.

“Of course we’re the villains,” Wilbur continues. “We always have been.”

#dream smp #dream smp au #dream smp fanfic #cruelty of the beast #cruelty of the beast ch.8 #dark!fic #dark au #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #dreamwastaken #ranboo #the end dimension #whump #mild angst #talk of good vs evil #ranboo starts to remember #please ask for any additional tags #long post #miishae writes

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7-wonders · 4 years

Text

I Can Love You Like That

Summary: How do you tell someone you love them without looking like you’re a traumatized victim of a kidnapping (even if you are exactly that)?

Word Count: 3255

A/N: After the slowest of slow burns...well, I’ll just let you guys read and enjoy (or maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll hate it. Either way, you’ll have read it, so ha!).

But for real, let me know what you think? I put a lot of work into this chapter and I would hate for y’all to be unsatisfied or displeased.

(Adding in the list of previous Mad Love chapters bc I’m stupid and forgot to)

The first thing that you do when you finally make it home is surprising to Michael. He had expected you to fall into your bed and nap, or seek out your cat, or even go into the kitchen and start baking to distract yourself from the trauma you’ve endured. What he didn’t expect you to do was to lay on the grass outside and stare up at the clouds.

“Uh, (Y/N)? Are you okay?”

You nod, refusing to look away from the beautiful, endless sky. “Just...enjoying the sky.”

“Do you need anything?”

This time, you shake your head. Michael shifts back and forth awkwardly, unsure of what he should do. It’s not like you’re willing to tell him why you’ve decided to lay on the grass. He’d look at you with more pity than he already shows when he hears that you’re enjoying the feeling of the sun on your skin again after two weeks of thinking that you would never experience this again.

“Okay,” he says cautiously. “I’m going to go inside and make a couple of calls I’ve been ignoring, then.”

You wave a hand nonchalantly in his direction. “Go call off Seal Team 6, Langdon. I’ll still be here when you’re done.” The door closes behind him after a moment of silence, and you let out a content sigh at the warmth your body is soaking up as you spread your arms to your sides.

As promised, you’re still in the same position that Michael left you in when he comes outside after a half an hour. He resumes his nervous shifting, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his hesitance. While you can understand why he would be treating you with such fragility, it’s still annoying to be on the receiving end of this.

“You can lay down with me instead of standing up, if you want.”

Michael doesn’t say anything, but you smirk triumphantly when you glance him laying down out of your peripheral vision. You can tell he’s never done anything so whimsical and carefree as laying down on the grass and finding shapes in the clouds, the stiffness of his limbs enough of a giveaway. Cautiously, Michael lays his hand palm-up on the ground as an open invitation to you. Stubbornness and knowledge wage a battle within your mind; although you would like to refuse his hand, you and he both know that your relationship has forever changed. Interlocking your fingers with his, he squeezes your hand as if to reassure himself that you’re actually here.

“I don’t have to have magic powers to know that you have a lot of questions.”

Michael laughs softly beside you. “You would be correct. I just...don’t know what’s okay to ask, or what I want to say.”

“Ask, I guess. If I want to answer it, I will. If it’s something I’m uncomfortable with, I’ll let you know.”

“I’m so sorry. For everything.” You look over at Michael to find that he’s already staring back at you. “Going to my father and complaining to him about your free will, which I love about you. Keeping things from you after the first time that he tried to poison you. That stupid fight we had. Getting you caught up in this in the first place.”

“Me being involved with you was not your fault, okay? I know that, and I need to make sure that you do too. You did not handpick me, or something like that. Your stupid dad told you what was going to happen, and you followed him because that’s what you’ve done your entire life.” You squeeze his hand to get him to look at you, shame averting his eyes up. “Okay?”

He nods. “Okay.”

A smile plays on your lips as you stifle a laugh. “God, I wish you knew pop culture, this could have been a perfect moment.”

“Why?”

“Nothing in particular.” It would take too long to explain to him.

“Was Madison the only one that physically harmed you?”

“Yeah. You know, for this tiny little actress who constantly wears designer clothes, she can throw a mean punch.” Michael doesn’t appreciate your joke, which is understandable.

“You won’t be pleased, but her death was extra painful.”

“I don’t want to say she deserved it, but…” But what? Are you really now condoning the deaths who have wronged you simply because your Antichrist husband has the ability to kill them? Said Antichrist husband can tell that you’re having a minor internal crisis about your forgotten sentence, and clears his throat to bring your attention back to the present.

“It’s okay to be conflicted about your feelings. She did terrible things to you, they all did. You don’t have to be happy about her being dead, but you certainly have no reason to mourn.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one reassuring you.”

“I’m not the one who was kidnapped and beaten for two weeks,” he retorts. His eyes widen when he realizes what he’s said, but instead of getting angry, you giggle in amusement.

“Well alright then, is there anything else you want to ask me?”

“You’ve been through enough lately, you don’t need me pestering you with endless questions right now.”

If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re more than a little relieved. Fatigue has started to settle in your bones, and the thought of a hot shower to wash off all of the grime that a daily five minute shower under ice cold water can’t remove is extremely tempting. Whether you’re just that transparent or Michael’s tapping into his supernatural abilities, it’s obvious to him that you’ve just about reached your limit in this Q&A session.

“If you want, I can see if the kitchen staff will make your favorite food?” Michael asks helpfully.

“Honestly, I just kinda wanna go to bed early. I’ll eat something more substantial tomorrow, but I can survive on snacks tonight.”

“Whatever you want, (Y/N). You’ve been through enough lately, nobody’s going to force you to do something if you don’t want to do so.” Michael stands up, gently pulling you up with him.

“Thank you, Michael. For...being so kind and coming to rescue me when I was a damsel in distress.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “While I would do it a million times over, let’s hope that I don’t have to do that again.”

Once outside of your bedroom, Michael pauses before hugging you. “For somebody who never experienced hugs before meeting me, you’ve become very good at them.”

“Just...wanted to remind you that I love you.”

You want to say it back, but your throat tightens at the reminder of Madison’s words. “I know. Trust me, I do.”

With one last smile directed towards you, Michael lets go of your hand and watches you walk into your bedroom. Even after you’ve closed the door, he remains outside in the hall, waiting until the water starts running to reassure himself that you’re safe.

You’ve never experienced a more heavenly shower in your life. While you could have stayed under the warm flow of water for hours, the idea of coming out looking like a raisin is enough to convince you that 45 minutes is enough. As you lotion your skin and comb your hair, you take great care to study and feel each action. If there’s one good thing to come out of this experience, it’s that you’ll never take a convenience like brushing your teeth for granted ever again. Falling back onto your mattress, you revel in just how soft a bed can be. Before you can even think of getting something to eat, your eyes slip shut almost against your will.

It’s been maybe an hour since you’ve fallen asleep when you suddenly wake, hands clutching at your chest as your heart feels like it’s going to burst. While you had assured Michael numerous times that you were feeling fine about everything that had happened to you in the past two weeks, it seems as though you were attempting to convince yourself more than him. The nightmare that woke you, of Cordelia plunging a knife into Michael’s chest while the witches made you watch before turning on you, is burned into your eyes like you were looking straight at a projector. The more that you try to calm yourself down, the more that you get worked up. Gathering your blanket around your shoulders and picking the cat up from her position at the end of your bed, you shuffle out of your room and down the hall.

You hesitate outside of Michael’s door, not sure if you’re making the right decision. Regardless of your self-doubt, the sliver of light peeking from under the door is beckoning you in from a dark hallway where your nightmares lurk in just the other room. Quickly knocking on the door, you let yourself in when Michael says your name.

He looks utterly domestic, propped up in bed with his long hair spilling carelessly over his shoulders. Ignoring the fact that he’s shirtless (why does he have to show off his flawless physique while he’s sleeping?), you smile at the book in his hands.

“You’re finishing the Harry Potter series?”

Michael glances at the cover, as if unaware of what he was reading until just now. “I couldn’t just finish the sixth book and not finish the series. I’m far too invested for that.”

“You’ll have to let me know your thoughts once you finish.”

“I wasn’t aware that a book could surprise me, but Snape killing Dumbledore was something I had not anticipated.”

You laugh lightly in acknowledgement, but remain silent otherwise. Even though you’re Michael’s wife, you’re not sure of your place in his bedroom, which leaves you snuggling the cat as you wait for Michael to make the next move.

“Is there something wrong? I went to say goodnight to you about half an hour ago, but you were asleep.”

“I--do you think I could sleep in here tonight?” Michael does a terrible job at hiding his surprise, so you elaborate. “I had a nightmare, and I’d prefer to not be alone.”

“You know you don’t have to ask.”

Setting the book aside, Michael pulls back the covers and moves over to allow you an ample amount of space. The cat jumps out of your arms and settles at the end of the bed, happy to be with her favorite person...and you. Sliding in next to Michael, he allows you to determine just how close you want to be. You choose to lay right next to him, curling up with your head on his chest. Slowly, he wraps an arm around you, stroking his fingers through your hair when you don’t flinch away. While this is new territory for both of you, it’s comfortable.

“Do you want to talk about your nightmare?”

You shake your head. “It was nothing. Just…”

“Ah,” Michael says in understanding. “If it’s any consolation to your subconscious, I want you to know that I never stopped searching for you. It may have felt as though I had abandoned you, but I would never just leave you there.”

“I was worried,” you admit. “Especially after the way that our last conversation ended. There was so much left unsaid, and I thought I would never get to say anything to you again.”

“I worried too. I never got to tell you how sorry I was for my part in my father’s plan.”

“You already apologized this afternoon.”

“And I’ll continue to apologize for as long as I live.”

“I get it. I don’t want to say that you’re forgiven, because that was a really shitty thing to do.”

“Believe me, I know,” Michael laughs.

“But I understand just how powerful his influence is. Back when he pulled my subconscious into Hell, or the In-Between, or whatever you want to call it, I saw how persuasive he could be.” Michael knows that something more happened during that experience, something that you’re not telling him, but he lets it go for now.

“You don’t know how much this means to me, (Y/N).” He glances down at you, hesitant. “What...what did they do to you? During your captivity, I mean.”

“Besides Madison Montgomery using me as her personal punching bag? Not much in the way of torture. They made me brutally aware of the fact that I was bait so they could kill you and stop the world from ending. Kept me locked up in a windowless room for two weeks, forced me to listen to Myrtle droning on and on for hours on end.” Michael laughs at that, and you smile at the fact that your dumb joke is something that was able to take away from the sting of hearing you talk about your experience being kidnapped.

“I’m sorry about threatening Mallory.”

“She kind of deserved it.”

“Do you think you’ll ever talk to her again?”

“Wow, we’re really just knocking out all the tough questions tonight,” you sigh. “It’s only been a day since this happened, but I’ve thought about that numerous times. I used to think that, once someone betrayed your trust, they never got it back. However, in the course of our marriage, I’ve learned that there’s so many different factors that lead someone to make that decision, especially when it comes to the supernatural. If you would have asked me last year what I would do in this situation, I already know that I would have never talked to her again. I also would have thought I would never talk to you again, but I made up my mind as I was driving away that I was going to come back the next day.”

“While I’m not pleased that I messed up enough to be one of your examples, I am happy to know that you didn’t plan on leaving me for good.”

“I could never,” you say, “who else would I have to tease?”

Michael smirks. “You would have found somebody.”

“Nobody like you, though.” The way that your heart involuntarily flutters when Michael smiles at you, no matter how you try to convince yourself that you’ve developed a heart murmur, makes you think of your conversation with Madison. “You know, when Madison wasn’t physically assaulting me, we actually had a very interesting conversation.”

“You did?”

“She basically said that I’m stupid and naive, but she also had some very interesting points.”

“What were those?”

Your hands grow clammy at the thought of being mere seconds away from Michael knowing what had been said, anxiety trying to convince you that this is a conversation best saved for another time. “You know, I’m actually pretty tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Rolling onto your side and pulling the blankets up to your chin, you try to sell the act that you really are tired. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t buying. “(Y/N),” he says patiently, placing a hand on your shoulder and moving you to face him. “What did Madison say to you?”

“You’re gonna think I’m stupid and suffering from Stockholm Syndrome or something like that.”

“I would never think that you’re stupid!” Michael strokes your cheek, making you look up at him. “Please tell me. I can tell that this is weighing heavily on you, when that’s the last thing you need.”

“She…” you sigh in frustration and rub your hands over your face. “Basically, she told me that I’m in love with you but I’m too stupid to see it.”

“And?”

“And I think she might have been right,” you blurt out in a rush, averting your eyes to the ceiling so you don’t have to look at him.

Michael’s silent for a moment. “You...think she might have been right?”

You nod.

“Right in the fact that you’re in love with me but too stupid to see it?”

“I really hope you’re just quoting her words and not calling me stupid, but yes.”

“Oh.”

You sigh. “Yeah, that was about my reaction, too.”

“I still don’t think you’re stupid, but I do think you’re suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.”

“If I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, don’t you think I would have fallen in love with you a long time ago?” Michael nods in contemplation, acknowledging your point. “I’m tired, Michael.”

“Okay, we can talk about this in the morning.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Rubbing at your face, you look up at him. “I’m tired of playing this game, and being stubborn just for the sake of keeping up appearances. I feel like I’m keeping up this facade simply as a ‘fuck you’ to your dad. It was originally for you as well, but now...”

“Are you saying that you actually do love me?”

“I first realized that I might love you after Dinah Stevens reversed what Satan had done to me. You were just...so sweet and caring. You didn’t leave my side once during that time.”

“How do you know that? You were unconscious.”

“I could feel your hand holding mine the whole time. Your remorse towards what Satan had done to me and your determination to nurse me back to health...nobody else would have done that for me. Not only did you push aside your own feelings, which I’m sure were extremely conflicted, but you dropped everything for me. I’ve never had another person forgo all their other duties just so they could take care of me.”

“You love me,” Michael whispers in reverence, eyes shining in the dim light.

Madison Montgomery had told you that there wouldn’t be some “aha” moment when it came to knowing whether or not you were in love with a person. Laying in Michael’s arms, in the peacefulness of a shared bed, you realize that this is your “aha” moment. At least, it’s one of a few that you’ve had. Nevertheless, you know that this is a position you would happily stay in for the rest of your life. You’ve never felt this with a person before, and you doubt you’ll ever feel it with someone else again. In your heart, you know that Michael is it for you.

“Yeah, I love you,” you say just as quietly. “You’re the Augustus Waters to my Hazel Grace, only with no cancer.”

Michael laughs. “What does that even mean?”

“It relates back to the pop culture conversation we had earlier today, don’t worry about it.”

He shakes his head at your quirkiness, but grins at you anyways. “I love you. So much.”

“I love you,” you repeat. It’s a new phrase, at least in the way that you’re saying it to Michael. Although new, it feels natural and good.

“So what now? We’re already married.”

“I guess we’re just working backwards. Marriage, declarations of love, followed by dating? I would like to be courted by you.” You wink at Michael, a soft blush dusting his cheekbones.

“I suppose I could do that.”

“For now, though, I would be content with just falling asleep here, with you.”

He kisses the top of your head, making you smile. “I can do that, as well.”

Michael strokes your hair and cheeks, laying featherlight kisses on your skin until you fall asleep. And when you do finally sleep, there are no more nightmares. Your world, which has been shattered and hastily taped back together numerous times in the span of a few months, finally feels right once more.

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#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon fanfiction #american horror story #american horror story imagine #american horror story imagines #american horror story apocalypse #ahs #ahs imagine #ahs imagines #ahs fanfiction

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ingravinoveritas · 4 years

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I'm the twitter anon. You're absolutely right. I became a fan of Michael last year, during GO press. He was so happy and funny, especially around David and I totally fell in love with him and David. Now he makes me sad and I'm worried about him. As you said, he looks depressed and tired, his smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore. I don't know what's going on in his private life, but it must be something serious.

Hello Twitter Anon. I’m glad to hear from you again.

I have to tell you that I struggled with writing a response to your query from yesterday, wanting to provide a balanced perspective while trying to make sense of this entire situation (as I think many folks are). I do have some more thoughts that I’d like to offer about everything, but with the following clarification:

My intention with all of this is not, nor ever was, to bash Michael. I became a fan of his for the same reasons many of us did: His passion, his humor, his kindness, his dedication to playing Aziraphale and to supporting the fandom and especially fan works, and his commitment to countless social causes. I am still a fan of Michael’s, and I am not ashamed of being one. I believe he has a big heart and truly does care about people and has tried to make a difference in the lives of others in whatever way he can.

But I also believe that you can be a fan of someone and still criticize them.

Again, to clarify: There is very much a line between criticizing someone and attacking them, and I know there was a whole heck of a lot of the latter happening on Twitter. I think that what Michael reacted to was comments attacking him and his family--in particular his daughter Lily, as I did see one very disgusting specific comment about her on the petition post. I think that made him start swinging, and that he only read the first half of that BLM person’s tweet before hitting the block button. I think it really was an unfortunate misunderstanding that has been blown wildly out of proportion ever since.

I also think that canceling or blindly praising him is not the solution to this.

On the surface, it may seem like canceling and blindly praising someone are two completely different concepts, but there is one thing that they have in common: They both stop discussion from happening. When you say that someone is perfect and a “king” and can do nothing wrong, there’s no way to have a discussion. When you say someone is an asshole and horrible and bad, it also shuts down discussion, and makes people afraid to say what they feel.

What I said yesterday about nuance applies as much to the fans as it does to Michael. It means looking at him without rose-colored glasses on, acknowledging that he has done many wonderful things but also made some mistakes, and that all of the good he’s done doesn’t make him immune to the consequences of those mistakes. It means knowing that he is a human being who deserves grace, but without absolution.

To touch on the last sentence of your ask (”I don’t know what’s going on in his private life”), that is perhaps the most important thing to bear in mind: That none of us actually, truly know what Michael’s life is like. We only know the very small piece, the sliver he shares with us on Twitter. But I agree with you that it seems to be serious, because he is so sensitive and impulsive at the moment, and it is spilling over into Twitter and having serious consequences. I’ve seen people tweet that they want to joke with him but are afraid to do so, because of not knowing what will set Michael off. And no matter how you look at it, that is an unhealthy emotional dynamic to be part of--both for the fans, and for him.

Anyway, I’ve probably rambled on enough about all this, and my heart is still feeling a bit heavy with it, so I think I’ll try to just reblog some lovely gifs and clips from the GO press tour, to remember happier times. Thanks for writing in, Anon, and I hope you’re doing okay. x

#anonymous #reply post #michael sheen #welsh seduction machine #i am still a fan of Michael's and I still adore him #but recent events have been A Lot #trying to provide a balanced perspective #because going to extremes on either side is not the answer #the petition was one thing but yesterday was something else entirely #fandom woes #thoughts #discourse

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hypnoshatesme · 4 years

Text

On Names

“Gerry.”

It wasn’t even a memory, but more of a memory of a memory, one that had ceased to have a face a long time ago. It had taken a frustratingly short time for Gerry to forget how his father had looked, how exactly his voice had sounded. But he never forgot the tone of how he had said that name. Warm and caring, loving. He held on to it, clutched it as nightmares turned to reality under Mary’s lessons.

“Gerard!”

It was a stark contrast to what Gerry craved to hear, tried to remember as he pressed himself against the back of the closet, eyes screwed shut and hands clasped over his ears, rolled up uncomfortably. He was getting too big for hiding in the closet and Gerry dreaded the day he wouldn’t fit at all, because he couldn’t see any other place to feel safe in this house, even if it was only a poorly upheld illusion until Mary found him and pulled him out, bony hand grasping his arm painfully. But until then, Gerry made himself small, as small as he could, hoping, wishing he would disappear, merge with the closet-

“Gerard! I’m getting tired of this!”

He flinched and pressed his shaking hands harder against his ears, tried to go away, leave whatever Mary was planning to do with him this time here and go somewhere else. Gerry knew many places, but none without Mary, so he always failed. The only place she hadn’t managed to soil was that softly spoken ‘Gerry’, it didn’t sound right anymore, not really. Gerry had spend many nights trying to whisper it, to reproduce the tone so he wouldn’t forget, and now his memory partly sounded like himself and still he clung to it because it was the only comfort he knew when-

“Of course, here again. You really aren’t the brightest , Gerard.”

Mary’s voice always made him freeze with when she said his name, even when she wasn’t angry. She said it like she’d say the titles of books she found particularly useless, of a particularly stubborn bloodstain, the way she talked about the Institute, so much contempt it used to make tears well up in his eyes right away until he learned that crying only lead to punishment which lead to more crying and more punishment. Gerry hated how much power she had over him with that name. He didn’t fight her when she forcefully pulled him out of the closet anymore.

As he grew older and did her bidding with little resistance her tone mellowed, but Gerry still hated it. Still hated it because he wasn’t Gerard, not how she wanted him to be, and yet he craved nothing more than to hear her say that name with affection, to at least say the name she considered his with anything close to the love he could now barely recall hearing from his father.

A twisted sort of pride was the closest he ever got from Mary, and he clung to it, imagined she’d look at him the way she looked at the Leitners he brought home, the only instances Gerry ever saw her happy. Her ‘thank you, Gerard’s were an afterthought, but there was a sliver of satisfaction in her voice when she said it and Gerry wanted to hug her for it. He never did. He hated himself for wanting to.

‘Gerry’ was nothing by now, a memory hollowed out by holding it too tight, mumbling along to it too much, in tears, voice shaky and Gerry no longer really remembered it. He remembered that he used to remember it, however, and to that he still held on. Sometimes he wondered if he would stop coming back to Mary if he’d still have his father’s voice to carry him through the nights spent outside, trying to run away. Gerry would never know. He always found himself back at Mary’s.

“Gerard.”

It was all she ever said when he came back, a cruel, knowing smile on her lips and a taunt in her voice as he silently made his way to his room once again. He felt cold.

Gerry had started to introduce himself as Gerry a while ago, hoping that somebody, anybody, would say it the way he needed to hear it, would hold the name as dearly as he had all his life. It didn’t really work, but it was still nice to hear him being addressed as Gerry by strangers in a bar or another, friendly curiosity dropping into a husky murmur and later into wanton moaning - though by that stage, Gerry considered himself lucky if the name falling from those lips was his in any shape or form. He didn’t mind too much. Anything was better than Mary’s ‘Gerard’ and he took it all, eager to see if any of them gave him a semblance of security, of warmth. They didn’t. He never stopped trying.

“Oh, I-I’m terribly sorry, uh...oh- ah…” The blond - Michael, if Gerry recalled Gertrude’s introductions correctly - looked unreasonably distressed considering his files were the ones that were raining to the floor around them, not Gerry’s. His cheeks were red as he gave Gerry an apologetic, nervous smile, “I’m...I’m afraid I forgot your name already…”

Gerry bent down and started picking up the files from the floor. It hadn’t really been Michael’s fault. Gerry had been spacing out walking again. It still felt a unreal that Mary was gone for good. Sometimes Gerry got lost in that strange feeling.

“Gerry,” he mumbled as Michael bent down to help him gathering the files on the floor with a stuttered ‘thank you’ and another ‘sorry’.

He looked at Gerry’s face, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, cloudy grey eyes holding a curious glint. “Gerry?”

He said it carefully, syllables pronounced slowly, like he wanted to make sure he said it right. Gerry returned his curious glance equally at that, nodding slowly.

“Oh, I...I guess I just misheard Miss Robinson, sorry!” Michael shot up and Gerry gave him the rest of the files and Michael gave him a grateful smile, blush now encompassing most of his face as he said, “Thank you. And, uh...I’m sorry.”

Gerry was transfixed by the look of the freckles on his nose against the flushed skin. He felt his own face warm as it took him a bit too long to answer, “Don’t worry about it, uh...it...it was my fault, too.”

The silence was awkward and Michael was nervously playing with the edges of the paper in his arms. “Well, uh...it...it was nice to meet you properly.” Another smile, this time shy, “I’m Michael, by the way.”

Gerry couldn’t quite fight the grin tugging at his lips. “I know.”

“Oh! Of...of course, I didn’t mean to imply you- I mean-” Michael was managing to blush even more and Gerry felt equally fascinated as he felt sorry for making him so flustered. He smiled.

“It’s okay. Just a common name, so it stuck.” He ran his fingers through his hair. Why was he feeling nervous all of a sudden? “Uh, well….it was nice to meet you, too. I’ll...let you go back to work, then.”

Michael nodded. “Yes! Of course!” He took a step to walk around Gerry before he stopped, looking back at him. “Oh, if...if you need help? I know this place can feel like a maze so...feel free to ask me. I’m...I’m usually at my desk.” He pointed towards the open door he had been walking towards before crashing into Gerry. His tone was shy, but genuine and Gerry had to control his face to not let the wonder he felt at that slip into his expression.

“I...okay, thank you. Uhm...see you around.” He gave an awkward wave before walking away, unsure where he was even going.

The only thing he was sure about was that his heartbeat was doing some very strange things.

Time passed slowly and incredibly quickly at the same time as Gerry learned an impressive amount of new ways his name could be said. The conspiratory whisper when Michael wanted him to come closer so he could share some office gossip, the half-chuckle when Gerry made him laugh but he wanted to keep it down, and later, when he stopped keeping it down, the lilting laughter as he looked at Gerry with crinkling eyes before dissolving into another fit of giggles. Gerry loved exploring all of those tones and ways Michael would call him, the mock-exasperation when Gerry asked for more sugar in his tea, the shy teasing tone when Michael caught him eyeing the pastries he always brought to work since he had found out Gerry really liked them.

The surprised, stuttered question when Gerry took his hand for the first time. The nervous whisper when Michael worked up the courage to ask for a kiss and got as many as he wanted, leaving him breathless and giggling Gerry’s name in his lovely voice, warm and affectionate and Gerry had very nearly cried. His cheeks hurt from how wide he was smiling when Michael leaned in again for another kiss. Gerry felt full, filled to the brim at the sound of his name, at the kiss. With what he didn’t know, but when he whispered Michael’s name into the kiss it was heavy and light with all of it, loving and caring, and wonder at how he didn’t only got to hear his own name said like he had wanted to hear it for so long but at how he managed to make his voice sound like that, too, the same tone he had tried so hard to replicate all those years but had never managed to even come close to.

It was Gerry’s turn to chuckle and laugh as he pulled Michael closer and Michael pulled him closer and warmths soon turned to heat as fingers found skin and Michael gasped Gerry’s name, half a question for permission as his fingers danced on the hem of Gerry’s shirt, restless.

Gerry thought he knew how his name sounded gasped and whined and moaned, but he didn’t. Not the way Michael did it, laced with the same affection, like that was just the right way, the basis to how to say Gerry’s name, the want just another layer added to it. Gerry wanted to hear more.

“Gerry?” Michael slurred, barely awake. It sounded different than when he was struggling to say Gerry’s name while drunk, an undertone of contentment and a pleased hum accompanying the name now as his hands slid off Gerry’s body as Gerry sat up. “Where you going?”

There was a small, confused frown on his pretty face when Gerry looked down at him, concern in his hazy eyes slowly pushing the contentement away. Gerry wasn’t sure he understood the question.

“Home?” He tried carefully. It felt even more wrong to refer to his apartment as such since he had Michael. Home was lying in this bed, lips still pink and kiss-swollen, curls a halo around his beautiful face as he blinked sleepily up at Gerry, lashes throwing playful shadows along his cheeks. Gerry bit his lip. He didn’t want to go.

Michael’s cheeks flushed once again as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “Oh, I...I thought- don’t...don’t you want to...stay?”

“Stay?” Gerry looked at him sceptically, trying to determine whether Michael was closer to sleep than he previously thought. His eyes looked clearer now.

Michael ran a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face. He was biting his lip with that shy expression that had been a lot more common in the beginning of their acquaintanceship, but still made it onto his face fairly frequently. “I mean...only if you want?”

It was starting to dawn on Gerry that Michael meant it. He felt his cheeks grow warm as he stumbled over possible answers to this. All he ended up with was a weak “Oh.”

“You don’t have to! I...it’s just...late. And it’s a weekend anyways and- oh, do you...do you have to be somewhere tomorrow morning? I didn’t consider, I-”

Gerry shut him up with a kiss, trying to put the overwhelming warmth he was feeling into it, the surprise and the tears he refused to shed because he didn’t want to worry Michael. He wanted to thank him.

“I’m sorry, I...I’m just not used to...be asked to stay, I guess.” Gerry whispered as they had settled back under the covers and his head was leaning against Michael’s warm chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. It was such a beautiful sound and Gerry felt giddy at the prospect of listening to it all night. It made the memory of Mary never caring whether he ran away or not more bearable.

“Gerry…” It wasn’t exactly pity, but something like it as Michael pulled him closer, planted a kiss on the top of his head. “I always want you to stay.”

This time, Gerry couldn’t keep the tears from falling as the words settled, somewhere deep within him, and he clutched onto Michael as sobs started to well up, started to make him shake as he cried.

To his surprise, Michael didn’t panic. He held him tighter, cradled him and gently rubbed his back, ran fingers through mussed hair. It made Gerry cry harder and he hiccuped apologies between the sobs and tears, afraid Michael would let go of him, appalled by the mess Gerry was. Instead, Michael kissed his head, again and again, mumbling reassuring nothings into his hair, saying it was okay, that it would be okay, and Gerry let his voice lull him into calm, tried to focus on the steady heart against his ear rather than the one racing in his own ribcage.

“Thank you.” It was the heaviest ‘thank you’ Gerry ever spoke and yet it still felt insufficient for what he wanted Michael to know, to understand.

Michael shook his head gently, hand coming to rest against Gerry’s cheek and moving his head so Gerry was looking at him. He was met with a soft, maybe a little sad, smile and eyes shimmering with tears and so much warmth Gerry felt like he’d never seen a colour as warm as this particular shade of grey.

“I love you, Gerry.”

Gerry’s mouth fell open in schock, unable to process hearing those words in such a genuine tone, so much love and fondness and he felt like he might cry again. He didn’t.

Instead, he mumbled, “I’m a mess.”

“And I love you.” The smile on Michael’s lips looked nearly cheeky and Gerry was speechless and simply buried his head back in Michael’s chest, pressing him closer. Michael made a strange, somewhat strangled noise and Gerry quickly let go.

“I’m...I’m sorry was...was that too much?” His eyes were wide with worry as he searched Michael’s for any sign of pain. Michael chuckled, that beautiful, light noise that felt like soft, white clouds on a bright blue sky.

“Well, unless you were trying to rearrange my ribs, yes, that was just a little bit too much force.” His tone was back to teasing, a sliver of amusement joining the fond tone and warm eyes.

Gerry’s lips curled into a smile automatically, his somewhat hoarse voice still managing to match the teasing tone, “Maybe that’s a sign you should eat more.”

Now Michael laughed and so did Gerry and soon enough they were back in each other’s arms, laughter down to giggles as they exchanged some fleeting kisses before falling back into a sleepy silence, a calm that was utterly unfamiliar to Gerry.

“I love you, too, Michael,” he mumbled after a while, and the words felt strange on his tongue but also like the truest words he had ever spoken. Michael gave him a groggy hum as a response, burying his nose in Gerry’s hair.

Gerry learned more ways his name could be said in the weeks that followed - was it months? It wasn’t enough - every shade of sleepy, happy, blissful, even, but also upset when Gerry came back bruised and cut from one of his hunts, afraid when he called to tell Michael he wouldn’t be coming home for a while. Sad when Gerry couldn’t make it to their dates because he was stuck in the hospital, worried, angry, even, when Michael figured that out and came running with tears in his eyes, begging Gerry to tell him right away next time.

He never pleaded for him to stop. Michael knew Gerry’s job was important to him and that there was little chance in him stopping. Gerry was thankful he never tried talking him out of it. He felt guilty for the weary ‘Gerry’ Michael ended up sighing, finally sitting down on the hospital bed after he had exhausted himself pacing and telling Gerry, in a shaky voice, that he should be more careful, that he should tell Michael when he was in the hospital, that he should tell him if he could help in any way, if he needed anything.

Gerry took Michael’s hand, threading their fingers together, sighing at the familiarity of the feeling, Michael’s soft hand against his own. Gerry had what he needed. He told Michael so. And Michael shook his head, a mixture of despair and fondness playing on his features. But he did bend down and kiss Gerry and it felt like everything was as good as things would ever get for Gerry. He was happy.

Gerry did try to make up for all of those instances Michael’s voice had gone high with worry and panic at his sight - or the lack of it - and, overall, there was a lot more positive ‘Gerry’s uttered during their time together than negative ones, and Gerry found that miraculous.

Michael, when Gerry tried to explain it, found it rather cute, and he peppered Gerry’s face with kisses until Gerry was the one giggling, a bubbly sound he hadn’t known he possessed before Michael. A sound that always made Michael’s eyes light up, and Michael pulled him into his lap and kissed him more and eventually, the kisses lingered and Gerry found skin to kiss himself and his hands were making their way underneath Michael’s sweater and Michael mumbled Gerry’s name against his ear, a low question that drew a shiver from Gerry as Michael gently flicked his tongue over Gerry’s earlobe. Gerry nearly forgot to nod an answer.

Gerry knew the goodbye would be a final one and the worst part was that Michael didn’t. Gertrude had been clear about it - to Gerry, not to Michael - and Gerry had ignored the looming finality of their time together because he wanted to make the best of it. But now it had come. Gerry saw it in Gertrude’s gaze even before she had given him a warning look.

She didn't need to worry, Gerry wasn’t going to say anything. He was fairly sure that even if he tried, Michael would still go anyways. Michael was the kind of person that’d walk straight into death if somebody told him he could save a single person doing so. Warning him would only make this last night unbearable. And Gerry didn’t want that, couldn’t take that.

He wanted nothing more than to hold onto Michael, to drink him in and listen to every word and sigh and hum, to remember his features and his voice, to remember all the many, many ways Michael knew to say Gerry’s name, remember his fingers dancing on Gerry’s ribs and arms and the dull nails burying into his shoulders, his arms as Gerry took him apart, slowly, slower than usual and Michael was whining and pleading and Gerry wanted to cry because he knew he’d never hear this again. Instead, he relented, hoping to at least make Michael’s last night a pleasant one.

“So, you’ll keep an eye on my plants?” Michael mumbled later when Gerry’s back was flush against his chest and an air of calm had fallen over them. At least Gerry hoped he seemed calm. He was tired. It was late, he hadn’t slept much since Gertrude announced the Russia trip, so maybe that helped. He gave a weak nod that hopefully could be excused for sleepiness. He didn’t dare to speak.

Gerry shouldn’t have stayed the night, should have made up an excuse and went home to have the inevitable breakdown. But he just couldn't, had been unable to deny one last night of feeling Michael’s heartbeat, his skin, his warm breath against Gerry’s neck. It was all so much and Gerry wanted to freeze time, hold on to this moment for dear life, forever.

Time didn’t work that way.

He didn’t have to pretend sleepiness in the morning - it was still night, really - because Gerry hadn’t slept, had been unable afford to miss a single moment of Michael . Michael who was now all bundled up and checking his pockets for the hundredth time. Gerry rubbed his eyes, hoping the tears weren’t visible.

“Okay, I guess I have everything,” Michael mumbled and looked back at Gerry with a tired smile, eyes still a little hazy. He hadn’t quite managed to shake off sleep.

Gerry smiled, despite himself, at how utterly adorable Michael looked like this. Cozy and beautiful and like home and Gerry was about to say goodbye to him forever. His stomach was a tight knot and he nearly fell into Michael’s arms when latter leaned in for a hug, a kiss. Michael startled, not having expected something quite this enthusiastic from how tired Gerry had looked. He didn’t complain however, and Gerry hurt so bad, deep down, when Michael returned the too-tight hug and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll be back before you notice my absence, Gerry. It’s okay.”

This wasn’t the first time Michael would be off with Gertrude. It would be the last time, though, and Gerry’s heart cracked. His smile was watery when he looked up at Michael.

“I always miss you the moment you’re out of sight, Michael.”

Michael blushed beautifully - another important thing to remember, the shade, the freckles against red - a teasing grin playing on his lips.

“Oh, you’re being dramatic.”

“Am not.” Gerry mumbled, but he felt like he might lose the fight with the tears soon, so he closed the space between them for one last, tender kiss, trying to keep the bittersweet taste of it to himself when it hit him that this would be, truly, the final kiss. It was nearly too much to bear when Michael brought his fingers to Gerry’s cheek to deepen it.

Michael smiled when they pulled away. “Okay, I need to hurry now. Take care, yes? Text me if something happens.” He pressed his lips to Gerry’s forehead for a moment. “See you soon, Gerry,” he said with a wink before letting go and grabbing his luggage by the already open door and walking through it.

Gerry watched him and Michael turned back for a small wave that Gerry returned with a weak one of his own, trying hard to return Michael’s nearly-cheerful smile. Cheerful had always looked so good on him.

Gerry waited until Michael was out of sight before closing the door and leaning against the inside of it, breaking down into tears that had waited too long to be shed and violent sobs that made him hit the floor soon enough, legs too shaky to hold him up even with his back pressed into the wood of the door.

Gerry knew he couldn’t stay crying on the floor forever - not for a lack of trying - but he found himself there again as soon as Gertrude returned without Michael. He had known, of course, but the yawning emptiness that settled when he walked into the Institute that day was something new.

It wouldn’t stay new for very long. Empty was what Gerry would end up calling the years that followed. The Institute felt empty. Michael’s - no, Gerry’s - apartment felt empty. Gerry’s old apartment had felt incredibly empty when he had packed up his things to bring them to Michael’s place as he imagined how gleeful Michael might have looked if he were there to see, if they would have decided on the move together, a kind of next step in their relationship.

Gerry wondered a lot about what ifs and the floor was always there to catch him when he inevitably worked himself up into another breakdown. He assumed one day his tears would dry up as time passed and he kept crying, kept holding on to memories of blond hair and shy smiles and so many ‘Gerry’s spoken with so much fondness and love and Gerry felt like he might drown and he wished he did.

He didn’t. His tears also never dried up. Gerry pushed on. The most empty thing was himself.

He wasn’t surprised, not really, when death came. Gerry had felt something was wrong - more wrong - for a while but had lacked the motivation to do anything about it. What for? It might have kept him from work, which was the best distraction he had from the gaping hole Michael had left within him.

Gerry wished he was there, as he felt himself slipping, wished he were pacing and ranting about Gerry’s recklessness and then sit down by him and hold Gerry’s hand, and hold him and kiss him so Gerry could die with Michael’s warmth, could feel safe as life flowed out of him. All he had was memories. He knew they paled in comparison but Gerry was too weak to weep about that.

Gerry wasn’t prepared for the pain. Could have never been prepared for such pain, the kind he knew would have made him black out in life. But Gerry wasn’t alive anymore. He stayed conscious, every second of existence agony and had he not screamed himself hoarse in the first hours he’d still be screaming. He was crying instead. It felt wrong, everything did and Gerry rolled up in the darkness he had found himself in, and closed his eyes against it, desperately trying to remember warm grey eyes through the blinding pain.

“Gerard Keay.”

Gerry hadn’t caught her name, but the hunter said his with a mixture of fear and surprise. It would turn cold very soon, too similar to how Gertrude had said it in those last weeks when Gerry was starting to get slower and bitter with loss he blamed her for. But he never left. Like with Mary, he always came back to do her bidding.

He was tired of that now, however, furious about the fact that death had been denied to him, that he was supposed to be useful even now when all he knew was pain and faint memories of a loving voice that kept being swallowed by Gerry’s own screams, sometimes of pain, sometimes of frustration because the memories had grown so foggy by now and he craved their warmth, needed their warmth, needed to hear his name being said with kindness and fondness, wanted Michael’s arms around him, wanted to bury his face in those soft curls. He couldn’t remember how any of that had really felt anymore, could barely remember how it had felt to have a fucking body. Gerry wanted to be left alone, wanted to finally end .

It was the resigned despair that made him tell the archivist about everything, mostly. Gerry didn’t care anymore, not really. He had started answering the hunters, too. He had started to beg them to burn the page with no success. But he still helped them because Gerry was tired, so tired and he felt so very empty, Michael little more than a name he cradled close to his heart, a dying flame with the lack of memories to keep it warm. There was too much pain to remember anything that wasn’t pain in life, to remember how anything else had even felt.

And fuck, Gerry had tried. He wanted this to end. And he had the archivist’s promise, so he spilled everything he considered relevant. The new archivist seemed nice enough - compared to Gertrude most people did, though, and Gerry wasn’t sure he had much of a concept for ‘nice’ anymore - and Gerry felt strangely satisfied when he finished speaking. Maybe there was something akin to smile on Gerry’s face. It felt as wrong as everything else did nowadays.

“I think...I think I’m ready to go. I’m done.” He looked at Jon. “Hide my page, and when you’re out of here, burn it.” He didn’t know how imploring his gaze could really be now, but Gerry tried, “Please.”

Jon got up from his chair with a nod. “I will. Thank you, Gerard.”

“Gerry.” Just one last time, Gerry would like to hear his name, the name that he’d been guarding for himself all his life. His name, not Mary’s.

“What?” The confusion on Jon’s face looked nearly funny. Gerry managed another smile.

“Gerard was what my mum called me.” He chuckled, feeling a little embarrassed about this silly request. But it would be his last one. “I always wanted my friends to call me Gerry.”

Jon looked incredibly awkward for a moment, before catching himself again, “Thank you, Gerry. Uh...I dismiss you.”

Gerry barely heard the rest of the sentence. He smiled at his own name one last time, wondering if Michael had ever said it as clumsily as Jon just had, before he dissolved.

#gerrymichael #this is an angst sandwich with fluff in the middle #Mary's parenting is as always amazing (nothing graphic)#uhhh couple sidecharacters along the way

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clumsyclifford · 4 years

Note

Okay, here is the Cake prompt.“You are/he is the embodiment of actual sunshine.”. You can write angst, fluff, AU, canon. This Cake prompt is now yours to create something new out of. Thanks for always being up for a challenge. Hugs! - 🕷

spidey anon, i sincerely apologize for the delay. but i hope you will accept this (fluff!) as retribution, and i love you <3

Luke’s sold out Madison Square Garden and the O2 Arena, but he maintains there’s no better feeling than a lazy day with Calum.

The thing about massive shows is, they end. It’s an unbeatable high followed almost immediately by a crash, peaks and valleys swooping up and down, emotional turbulence that leaves Luke shaky, grasping for something to hold onto. It would be so easy to botch the landing one day. He’s always a little worried he’ll fall cartoonishly into a Luke-shaped hole in the ground and struggle to ever climb out of it.

But Calum, though. Luke always holds onto Calum. And in that way, Calum’s not any towering highs or crushing lows. Calum is the smooth, glittering surface of a lake on a breezy June day, not so much carrying Luke as giving Luke the tools to carry himself. There’s no way to crash from this feeling because it never takes Luke higher or lower than is safe. Calum’s just a constant, a fact of Luke’s life.

Him and his constant, factual love of How I Met Your Mother.

They’re somewhere around their tenth episode. Luke had given up leveling half-hearted complaints about halfway through episode two. In part because he’d gotten bored of getting no reaction, and also because they both know Luke only ever complains to be a little shit. He doesn’t mind How I Met Your Mother, really.

Mostly, though, Luke would watch anything as long as he gets to watch it like this. Legs stretched across the couch with his head in Calum’s lap, Calum’s left arm resting comfortably over Luke’s torso, right hand carding mindlessly through Luke’s hair. He couldn’t care less how Ted and Robin are doing; his eyes have been closed for at least half an hour, and either Calum hasn’t noticed or he doesn’t care.

Calum giggles at something on the show. The corners of Luke’s mouth tug upward without meaning to, an instinctive response to Calum’s laugh. There’s a clatter at the door, muffled chatter, and then hinges creaking as somebody enters.

“Hey,” Michael’s voice says, followed closely by Ashton saying, “What’re you watching?”

Luke could answer, but he’s trying to maintain his streak of silence, so he lets Calum take it.

“How I Met Your Mother,” comes Calum’s reply, clearly said through a poorly-concealed smile.

“Is he asleep?” Ashton asks in a hushed voice.

“Dunno,” Calum says, still around that smile in his voice. “I don’t think so. I don’t mind if he is.”

There’s a moment of silence. “God, look at you,” Michael says, in that tone of voice that means he’s being fond and hiding it behind sarcasm. “You are the embodiment of actual sunshine. Look at that smile, Ash.”

“That’s a happy Calum,” Ashton agrees.

“You’re not contributing to my enjoyment of the show,” Calum says dryly.

Michael’s voice is closer when he says, “And Sleeping Beauty here is?”

“I’m contributing,” Luke says. His voice is hoarse from lack of use. It feels nice. “I’m keeping Calum’s lap warm.”

“He speaks!” says Michael. “Come on, move your legs. I want to sit.”

“I don’t care what you want,” Luke mumbles, even as he tugs his legs towards himself. The sofa sinks under Michael’s weight. Michael taps Luke’s shin, and Luke obediently lowers his legs across Michael’s lap.

“You guys wanna stop interrupting the actual show that’s playing?” Calum says, slightly exasperated. His fingers scratch lightly against Luke’s scalp, and Luke hums contentedly. He feels the cushions shift again and knows that Ashton has sat himself down on Michael’s left. Luke waits for somebody to say something else, but nobody does. The only sound that carries on is the drone of the show on the TV.

Opening his eyes just a sliver, Luke sees Michael lace his fingers with Ashton and lean into him. His gaze skims upwards, where it meets Calum’s eyes. Predictably, Calum is smiling.

“Hi,” Calum says. Luke’s heart jumps, somehow, even though they’re already boyfriends and something like hi shouldn’t send Luke spiraling. It still does. Calum still does.

“Hi.”

“You can sleep if you want to,” Calum says quietly. “It’s still nice for me.”

“I know,” Luke says. “I’m half-sleeping. I’d never sleep through you playing with my hair. Far too nice to miss.”

Calum grins and Luke sees the crinkles by his eyes. “Fair enough.”

“Let me know if you need me to violently kick Mashton over there,” Luke adds, just loud enough that Michael whips his head around and glares at Luke.

“Fuck off,” he says.

“We were literally here first,” Luke points out.

“It’s band bonding,” Michael says.

“Where’s the love?” Ashton says. “I’m not feeling the love.”

Luke sighs. Calum taps the fingertips of his left hand against Luke’s ribcage, and Luke imagines it’s his heartbeat, pretends that Calum is the arbiter of that pounding in his chest that keeps him breathing.

“Don’t worry about it,” whispers Calum, and Luke opens his eyes properly to stare up at Calum.

“You look good like this,” he says, with a goofy grin.

“Really? From this angle?” Calum grins back. “That’s love.”

“Yep,” Luke says. “It is.”

“Well, you look good always.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Well, good thing I didn’t ask you.”

“Are you going to watch or not? Because we can put on Friends if you’re bored.”

“There are nicer things to look at,” Calum says. Luke rolls his eyes as if that’ll distract Calum from the way he’s blushing. No such luck. “Aww, you’re all pink.”

“Can you not?” Luke says. “I’m trying to be really manly here.”

Calum dips down and kisses Luke’s forehead. “Sorry. I’m done.”

“No, hey, I was joking,” Luke complains. “Kiss me for real.”

“In front of the kids?”

Luke glances over at Michael and Ashton, but they’re not even paying attention to Luke and Calum, fully absorbed in the plot of the episode. “Quick, while they’re distracted,” he says.

Calum chuckles and leans down, and Luke stretches upward and meets him in the middle, in the most bizarrely angled kiss Luke is pretty sure they’ve ever done. “Not satisfying,” Luke decides when they part, “but it’ll do.”

“You’re the problem here,” Calum says. “If you were just sitting up, we wouldn’t have to do, like, a sideways Spiderman kiss.”

“Not worth it,” Luke says, smiling sweetly. Calum shakes his head, fond, and restarts his process of gently detangling Luke’s hair, deftly separating strands from each other.

Calum really does look good, like this and also always, but when his gaze returns to the show on the TV, Luke closes his own eyes again. There’s something peaceful about this moment, and Luke wants to savor it; Calum’s fingers working delicately through Luke’s hair as How I Met Your Mother chatters away in the background, Michael tapping out a rhythm against Luke’s shins as he leans into Ashton. The still frame of this tableau could without question be found below the definition of bliss, and Luke makes himself right at home.

#calum hood #luke hemmings #cake #cake fic #5sos #5sos fic #fic #my fic #spidey anon #i live in perpetual fear that my roommate will find this blog and i will have to softblock her #anyway i looked up the word retribution to make sure i was using it correctly and it said punishment for a CRIMINAL ACT #KJSFKJHLKFSJ found that funny tbh like......the crime of bella not being timely with fic prompts #WELL! too bad! it's my inbox and i make the rules #god i wish i was listening to music right now #i am currently 'listening to' the history of drama lecture that i slept through this morning #i mean i didnt REALLY sleep through it but #its an asynchronous class and initially it was going to be scheduled #and i had it scheduled for 10am #so its on my calendar as a 10am class MWF #but i can watch it Not Then #i was just pretending that i could be responsible and keep myself on a schedule #but then my sleep schedule went DOWN THE DRAIN #so now i let myself sleep through it <3 #which is not great but. what can you do #anywayyyyyy i should maybe try and go fill some more prompts wish me luck byeeee #anonymous #ask #answered

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misha-moose-dean-burger-lover · 5 years

Note

hey if it's not too much difficulty you're the only person i trust with this so would you mind writing me a super angsty fic based on 15x09 Dean burying MOC!Cas in a Ma'lak box?

Of course I don’t mind. It came out angsty, alright. Tell me what you think, Dean. Here you go:

***

Dean remembers how it used to be.

He remembers the warmth enveloping all of him, and the room imploding with such power that glass shatters, and the wind roars. The sky gets dark, but the seraph brings forth his wings and lights up the world, for a second right there - like a star in its death; a star breathing its last.

Squinting, cowering and incredibly alive, Dean’s been a witness to the all-powerful grace of the angel of the lord, before.

All of those times, he’s been terrified - yes, but never afraid. When Castiel had declared he could throw Dean back to Hell, that night, Dean didn’t doubt it. Of course he could. But he wouldn’t. For some strange reason, still undeciphered, he’d never meant to hurt Dean.

There was something in the air, whenever they were together. Respect, and a sliver of misplaced faith. Reassurance. A tug at his chest which just screamed Safe. Strength, from Cas’s end - and love.

He remembers how Castiel used to make him feel.

“There’s no other way.” Sam lets out, head bowed, in a voice more miserable than his stare focused on the book suggests. The lights in the bunker are dim; it’s just a little past midnight, and Dean has his head in his hands.

“Sam, we can’t -”

“I know.” He sounds like he’s trying to scrape the bottom of his soul-shaped barrel for the courage to say it out loud - hoping that’ll make it easier. “But we have to do something, Dean.”

There’s silence.

“I don’t care.” Dean mutters, but everything except his words claims that he does.

Sam knows he does.

“Nobody else’s around.” He says, instead. “No God, or hell, gods. No angel or reaper will help us with this.” He breathes in shakily. “They’re all afraid of him.”

He’s a Seraph of Heaven carrying the Mark of Cain. An Angel of the Lord, now claimed by Hell. Of course, everybody’s terrified, and rightly so.

There’s probably no one in their world right now, who’s stronger.

“But the Ma'lak box?” Dean cries out, lifting his head. Sam meets his eyes, looking pained. “Locked away in a living grave, for eternity?” Neither of them blink. “It’s Cas, Sammy! We can’t just -” His voice breaks mid-sentence, lips pursed and twisted to a side, eyes screwed shut. He takes in a breath, with some effort.

Sam waits. His brother clearly isn’t done yet.

Finally, Dean exhales - with a shudder. “Why does it have to be me?”

Sam’s face contorts in sympathy, and anguish. In a hoarse, earnest whisper, he answers Dean’s question as truthfully as he could ever.

“Because it’s him.”

Dean remembers the first time he saw Castiel, after he ran away from home.

They hadn’t needed a tip, so much as a peek at the internet to come to know of a pissed-off-looking middle-aged man was singlehandedly finishing off the members of a now-uncovered human-sacrificial cult.

And he wore a trenchcoat.

Sam and he were on the road, in minutes. All through the drive, his heart thudded in his chest - hoping, begging, praying that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

It had turned out worse.

When Sam set off for the police station, hurrying into a disguise, Dean started scoping out churches and barns. And sure enough, he found Castiel - and the twelve dead men, with their eyes scorched out of gaping, black sockets.

The air was still seething with remnants of a smiting - but the heat wasn’t the kind which used to gloved him whole, and render awestruck. Instead, it wanted to melt the skin off of his bones, and make him want to tear out his insides.

“Hello Dean.” Castiel slowly turned towards him. The wind howled, and the barn was slowly falling to pieces. Dean’s world, and his heart with it, was falling apart. This wasn’t the Cas he knew - not with the empty blue eyes, and a blank thin-lipped smile.

When Castiel’s eyes met his - it was nothing like before. Fear thrummed in his veins - and his neck felt constricted. Dean wondered if that had something to do with Cas, as he involuntarily backed a step.

Every fibre of his being had begged him to run.

“What if the box can’t contain him?”

Dean drags himself to Sam, doubt weighing on his shoulders, and lands in the kitchen chair opposite his brother’s.

“I did think about that.” Sam confesses, frowning. “But do you really think he’ll try to get out?”

Dean stops.

Cas might not try to get out.

Maybe he won’t fight it. Maybe he won’t even try to get back to Dean -

He scrubs his face with a hand. After all the hours Dean’s spent, beating himself up over it, there’s a real chance that Cas wouldn’t be against the idea of being locked away by eternity as much as he’s being.

It’s a sadder thought than many.

“Dean?” Sam calls, uncertainly.

“Y-yeah.” Dean gathers himself in his head, returning to the present. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I was saying,” Sam restarts, eyebrows furrowed, and eyes concerned. Dean hates that look on his brother’s face. “That’s half of the reason that the plan’s to drop the box in the Pacific.” Sam rambles on, not realizing the change of colors on Dean’s face. “I mean, Cas is an angel too; we know for sure he won’t drown, but I’m guessing it’ll hold his powers back -”

“The box isn’t going anywhere.” Dean declares, cutting him off. The glare in his eyes is definite. “No oceans, no nothing.”

“You want it to stay here?” Sam straightens, clearly taken aback.

Dean has no idea why. “I want him to stay here.” Sam opens his mouth in protest, albeit it’s a decidedly weak attempt, but Dean interrupts again. “This isn’t open for debate, Sammy.”

Sam shifts in his seat, not resigned to the idea of arguing, but trying to convince himself. “I suppose we could construct a permanent ring of holy oil in the dungeon, or -”

“Okay.” Dean lets out a breath he doesn’t know when he started to hold. “Yeah, good. See? We’ll figure something out. We’ll do that.”

An uncomfortable silence ensues, which irritates him because Sam still seems to be deep in thought. He doesn’t blame him - the underwater-forever idea had been his own, but that was Michael - and Dean. This is Cas.

He tries to speed up Sam’s processing of the new plan. “I’ll put up containment sigils. I’ll even read the containment-sigil book, Sam, I -”

“Dean.” Sam blinks at him. “Aside from that, how can we be sure that we won’t go get him out if he calls? Will you be able to ignore it if he cries out for help, since he’s right here?”

Dean knows Sam’s trying to go for a general ‘you’, but that feels extremely pointed at him.

If he calls out for help - if he as much as says my name, I’ll go to him.

Sam’s patient, as a rule, when it comes to Dean these days - but even his cool is running thin. His point makes more and more sense, as seconds pass, and before it can get too final, Dean knows he has to interject.

“If that happens?” Dean clenches his jaw, stubbornly. “Then so be it.”

Sam leans back in his chair, rolling his eyes. But under his breath, just barely loud enough, he says, “Fine. So be it.”

Dean remembers the last time he saw Castiel’s wings.

They were looking for him, and it wasn’t hard. When the aliases couldn’t help any further, the atrocious skies led the way to him.

Dean had guessed that the Mark would have been replenishing his grace, but bringing back his wings? He’d had no idea - right up until he and Sam stumbled onto a scene of impending crime and witnessed it themselves - for the grand display always preceded the blast of grace; Castiel’s apparent go-to move.

“Down!” Sam yelled, pushing Dean down with a hand on his back, as he too fell to the ground. “Close your eyes!”

Dean did - but before that, he looked.

They were huge, no longer sparse - and nothing less than magnificent. When Castiel glowered at the evildoers, the shadowed feathers flexed, and threatened as well. When he pulled himself to his full height, they arched, glorious and full of life - creating a perfect sight. Castiel was the embodiment of powerful, and his black wings, overpowering devices of conquer. In that moment, it felt ridiculous to ever have doubted Castiel could fly - his wings mighty, boundless and free.

And Dean Winchester was set out to convince him, to trap himself in a box.

Dean doesn’t know where he finds the courage to step ahead - but he associates it mostly with Sam moving forwards, because he’s immediately pushing him back and walking himself.

Castiel looks at him, just fucking looks at him. “Dean.”

“Hey Cas,” Dean clears his throat, and keeps on walking until his feet carry him - ending up inches away from the angel. “Uh -”

He hesitates.

“The last time,” Castiel fills the silence, speaking in a disappointed tone. “You left, Dean. I wondered for ages why you didn’t talk to me.”

“Well, we need to talk, alright.” Dean swallows, trying to avoid Castiel’s eyes. “Cas, uh. Can we talk?”

“Of course.”

That’s all the warning he gets, before he feels his eyes close like he’s feeling himself blink and when he opens his eyes, they’re no longer in the abandoned shack with his brother on the sidelines, or the bodies.

The first thought that comes to Dean’s head isn’t fear, since now he’s just by himself - and he’s grateful for that. But it is concern for his own stomach, though he thinks he feel alright despite the being zapped.

Castiel is sitting, with his arms folded on the table, on a red seat. In front of him is an unimportant Biggerson’s menu. Dean’s still standing in the same stance as before.

“Sit down.” Castiel suggests, and he does.

“Cas.” Dean lets out, putting his own elbows on the table as well. “I need to -” He stops, and exhales frustratedly.

He’s planned this out. He knows what he’s going to say; he’s practised this in front of the mirror - Hell, he’s practised this with Sam. He should at least be saying words that aren’t Cas.

“What is it?” The angel frowns - and he still doesn’t feel like himself to Dean, but at least now he looks like it. The squint, the pursed lips, the jutted out chin.

He looks so much like Cas, that it hurts even as Dean forces the words - any words he finds in himself, to come out.

“There’s no other way,” Dean blurts, in his brother’s words, and as the words sink in, Castiel’s brow clears. As Dean’s head hurts - Castiel smiles smally at him.

“I was wondering when you’d ask.” The smile spreads on the angel’s face, divine.

“You what?”

“I knew this would happen, Dean. You have something that’ll rid the World of me - it was only a matter of time before you gave in to the fact that there’s nothing else you can do, but use it.” Castiel answers, and there’s a tinge of sadness in his voice Dean hates. But his tone is detached.

Dean clears his throat again. “There isn’t.”

Tell me you want us to keep looking.

“Tell me.” As Dean’s tongue battles to get the truth out with his mind, Castiel takes off on a tangent. “How many have I killed?”

“Low hundreds.”

“And that’s just the people.” Castiel shakes his head sadly, looking so dejected that Dean wishes he can put an arm around him. Of course, he’s too far away, and probably doesn’t want that.

“Cas -” Dean tries, but Castiel cuts him off.

“Does it help that they’d all done very wrong things?” Castiel asks, a little hope in his eyes.

Dean hates himself. “It always starts off like that, buddy. I wasn’t killing innocent people either, but -”

“I know.”

There’s a pause - a heavy one, and at least the words were in his mouth before. Now they don’t make it out of his heart. And Castiel’s painfully quiet - looking thoughtful.

“I’m sorry I let you take the Mark.” Dean crumbles, finally, putting his hand on Castiel’s - because it’s right there, just right there.

“There wasn’t a choice.” Castiel sighs, and looks down at their hands. Dean wonders if he wants him to undo that reckless, impatient move - he’s already regretting it. Castiel’s hand is warm under his, and only serves to remind him of his wrath from before, and the searing heat.

This looks like Cas and sounds like Cas, but he’s not completely Cas.

Or even if he were now - sated, after the killings, as Dean remembers being - he isn’t always going to remain like his pensive, understanding friend. Dean knows he should make use of this window, but he just can’t do it.

So Castiel, like all the other times, sprinkled across their life together, helps. “And just so, there isn’t a choice now.”

Dean stares at him.

“So, alright.” Castiel declares, steady of manner. “You win. I’ll go into the Ma'lak box, Dean.”

Dean’s never lost more.

Fight this, Cas! We won’t push you if you resist this - we’d never force you in the box, so tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you wouldn’t leave me.

Tell me to go away - fuck off and leave you alone.

“Take me with you.” Cas stands up, blankly, and decides to proclaim. And all of Dean’s most obscure hopes drift away, as he struggles to even plaster the false grin on his face.

“After you, feathers.”

Dean remembers the day Castiel got into the goddamn box.

Nothing mattered, as he stared at a wooden-faced Castiel hug Sam, except for the fact that he was next, and this was it. This was the last time he’d get to be this close to Castiel - ever.

When he pulled away from Sam, Dean noticed he sported a twitchy, nervous smile. Kid was trying not to break down - and that was brave, because Dean had given up.

“I - fuck, Cas. I’m sorry.” Tears pricked his eyes, as Castiel draped himself over him, arms crossed around Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s hands lay still on his back - holding him there. “Sorry.” He choked, closing his eyes and holding on.

Castiel clung on too, though not uttering a word. For him, this was the last touch he’d get - from Dean, from anyone, until the end of time. The thought seemed to strike him hard, and he held on tighter.

Dean, in return, pulled him closer.

He could feel Castiel’s heart beat - and he could feel his grace right there. He couldn’t feel a trace of the darkness of the Mark, and for the millionth time, he argued in his head that they were making a mistake.

“It’s risky keeping me out.” Cas muttered, pulling away, somehow knowing exactly what Dean needed to hear. He always did.

“You’re going in willingly, for the good of the world. For it’s safety or whatever.” Dean threw back. “The Mark’s clearly not gotten to you that bad. Maybe it never -”

“No, Dean.” Castiel shook his head, and a tear fell from his left eye. Dean’s brain stuttered into the realization that Cas, in spite of all his pretense, wasn’t doing this willingly. And then he made it even clearer.

He stared into Dean’s eyes - and for the last time, Dean fixed his own stare on those unbelievably blue eyes, blinking through the tears. And then, not looking away for a single moment, Cas confessed.

“I’m doing this for you.”

Don’t.

Please.

Dean’s mouth fell open, but he had no words.

Castiel didn’t wait for any, either. He stepped back from Dean, for good - for he’d never be in Dean’s personal space like that, crowding up against him like he always did - and glanced at Sam. And then again at Dean.

“It’s been a privilege to be family, Winchesters.” He utters, slowly, grandly - and Sam lets out an injured sound. Tears are streaming down Dean’s face now.

And with that, he turned to his eternal prison. Sam shuffled forward to give him a hand - now crying silent tears as well - and Castiel lay down inside.

Dean scrambled ahead, gripping the edges of the box. There was so much left to say. There was so much left to clear, and clarify, and reason through and object to - but Castiel would not return.

Cas would never return.

“Goodbye Sam. Goodbye, Dean.”

The lid fell.

The first few days were the hardest. Dean would wander around the bunker, feeling nothing but loss, grieving into expensive bottles of Men-Of-Letters whiskey and cheap glasses of rundown beer.

Then, one evening, there’s a knock on his door. Dean alerts immediately - eyes darting around, before he realizes where the sound came from. Instantly, his heart sings in a harsh, disdainful key of hope, and he pays attention.

“Dean?”

It’s Sam.

“Uh-huh?” He grunts back, failing to keep the unjustified disappointment out of his voice.

“I’m coming in.” Sam declares, and he does. He finds his brother buried on the right side of the bed, bottle in hand, and more of them around. Sam scrunches his nose in disapproval. “Dude.” He starts, only a hint of humor in his tone. “Your room stinks.”

“Your face stinks.” Dean returns, eloquently, and Sam lets out a breath shortly.

“No, I meant it like - your room smells.”

“Your face -”

“Shut up, jerk.” Sam chastises, cutting him off. “I, uh.” The impatience fades to worry, within moments. “I’ve been thinking, Dean.”

Dean keeps quiet, though he could easily have pointed out that his face has been thinking.

“We should start hunting again.” Sam finishes, sounding like he’s run these words over in his head a lot.

“What?” Dean sits up.

“You know, like we always did. Salt and burns at the start, maybe. We work our way to full-fledged hubs or nests again.” Sam explains, earnestly. “We’re hunters, Dean. And it’ll only do us good.”

Dean wonders how long he can hold in the prize question, but then gives up. “And you just want to leave Cas here?”

“Hey, it was your idea to keep him in the bunker.” Sam defends. “And I’m all for it now, but did you assume we’d never go out again?”

“Hunting’s different, Sammy.” Dean sighs, because of course Sam doesn’t get it. “What if - I mean, what if we don’t make it? Who tells Cas?”

Sam nets his eyebrows together in a frown. “Worst case scenario, he understands when we stop showing up.” He suggests, looking a little unconvinced himself, but Dean swears out loud, startling him mid-sentence.

“What the fuck does that mean?” He glares, standing up - or trying to. He feels a rush of dizziness hit him, and falls back to sitting position.

“So,” Sam frowns. “You haven’t been talking to him?” He looks genuinely confused, and Dean doesn’t know if he wants to clock him one, or hug him.

“I -” Dean’s positively aghast, and completely speechless.

Sam waits for his senses to return, arms folded across his chest.

“No!”

Dean remembers the day he moved a kitchen chair to the dungeon.

Longer talks, he reasoned.

It had been hard for him to listen to Cas’s replies from outside the ring of oil, so now he sits right next to him. Every night, he drags the chair past the ring, and settles next to where Cas’s head must be.

And every morning, he returns it to where it was.

They talk about useless things, in the beginning. It’s easier. Dean describes dinner once, and proceeds to thoughtlessly tell Cas that he’d be proud of Dean if he just tasted the burger. There’s a pause, and then Castiel answers that he’s sure he would, he doesn’t even need to taste it - and everything returns to normal.

Then, unspeakably, they move towards heavier topics. Dean tells Cas about hunts. In a reassuring way, it feels like the past. Cas asks questions and manages to make him feel heard, even through a wooden box with a breathe-hole in it - but Dean tries not to think about that bit.

There’s always a lot to think about, when Cas is involved, so it works out.

One time, after a particularly long hunt, Dean returns home to Cas. Even though he calls for him, loud, Cas doesn’t respond. With each passing moment, Dean worries more.

Finally, in a whim of panic, he raps his knuckles on the lid.

“Dean?” Cas’s voice rumbles through then, deep as always, but roughened with what Dean’s first guess is, sleep. “Sam?”

“You got it right in one.” Dean relaxes a little, but remains mostly tensed because Cas isn’t even supposed to sleep. “What have you been doing, Cas?”

“I’ve been asleep.” His voice sounds heavy. “I’m tired, Dean.”

“Tired?” Dean repeats, surprised.

“I can’t come up with more words for this feeling, so yeah. I’m tired.” Cas lets out, breathy and broken - and Dean wants to unlatch the box and wrap his arms around Cas and tell him it’s okay.

But he can’t, so instead he listens to Cas telling him about his life - all of those billions of years he’s lived, and never gotten to talk about.

Cas talks about his garrison, and their battles, and his brothers and sisters. He talks about archangels and demons and Hell and the Cage and Lucifer and God.

When he talks about the Mark, there’s a shiver down Dean’s spine. He talks about the exhausting thirst for violence, and unsuppressible hunger for killing - and he talks like he’s scared of it, and Dean hangs onto every word.

“Sometimes it gets so overpowering,” Castiel admits, quietly. “And this box so ridiculously limiting, that I must claw at my own hands so my fingertips at least touch blood.”

“Cas!” Dean cries out, shocked. Cas hurts himself in there? The thought’s so disturbing, Dean’s head reels. “You can’t -”

“It’s the only way I can keep myself under control.” Cas states, complacently. And his detached tone just further provokes the bile rising in Dean’s gut - at the idea of Castiel making himself bleed so he doesn’t try to break out of the box. “Don’t forget, I can heal myself too.”

Dean puts his hand on the box, still shivering.

“Since I’ll never have any use for it again,” Cas adds, dryly. “I might as well use up my grace doing this.”

He puts his forehead on it too.

“Maybe then I could die.”

He knows Cas can hear him breathe like this - which is the only way he can tell that Dean’s there, because he doesn’t have anything else in himself that night. He feels empty and awful and guilty.

When he sleeps, he sees Castiel inside the Ma'lak Box, burying his fingernails in his sides and tearing himself apart, to quench the horrific bloodlust the Mark causes.

He wakes up to Castiel snoring softly, and almost loses it all over again.

To be fair, things are better than what he’d imagined, because he gets to actually speak with Cas. Be it about Jack, from before, or Claire - Cas thinks about the kids a lot these days - or about millenia-old battles he lead, or week-old skirmishes Dean was involved in, at least they’re talking.

But ironically, it’s still too good to be true.

As the nights pass by, Cas gets more withdrawn. It’s not just the sleep in his voice - it’s the way he speaks. Like it hurts him to. Like everything hurts, and Dean knows how that feels, because he’s been there; he knows how it feels when the Mark takes over, slow but unpreventable, despite your better judgement - which dulls too, by the day.

Dean can feel Cas go through it all - try to suppress the constant anger, the need for action, and urges to harm. He wants to believe that his being there helps, his checking-in matters, but he knows he had had people who’d have listened to him too.

Because he hadn’t been in a goddamn box, in the first place.

One night, Dean tells Sam to get his overworked ass to bed because it’s been a long fucking hunt, and trudges along to the dungeon.

There’s an eerie kind of quiet, but Dean forgets his worries when he’s coming to Cas. He just carries them on his back when he’s going back.

At the scrape of the legs of Dean’s chair against the floor, Cas breaks down.

“I’m lonely.”

It’s a couple of fairly simple, untwisted words - but Cas sounds so pathetic and frightened and devastated, that Dean’s stomach falls to the ground.

“I’m so lonely, Dean.” Cas repeats, and he sounds like he’s crying silently.

Dean’s heart breaks in a million pieces and he hopes they seep in through the horrible fucking lid of his own creation, this Ma'lak box, so that Cas knows.

In a wrecked voice, he pushes out. “Cas, I’m right here.”

There’s a sound - a thud of something falling inside the box, and it feels like Castiel’s hand. Which means he’d been trying to push the lid before, and Dean has no idea what that means.

Get me out.

“You won’t always be,” Cas cries out.

They’ve talked about this before.

“I know you think that cause I’m a hunter - and cause I’ve always been, I’m going to keep running after these monsters forever. But I’m not.” Dean forces out, closing his eyes because this is hard enough without him having to address the angel’s grave. “I swear, I’m going to take this up with Sammy soon - it’s just been a lot of hunts lately. I just want to be done, for fuck’s sake. I want it all to stop. Cas, I want to be here.”

Cas doesn’t say a thing.

Dean braves on, his voice shaking shamefully with promises. “And after I’ve quit, trust me, I’ll be around so much more - don’t you dare tell me to get a life after, because -”

You’re it.

You’re my life.

“I wasn’t talking about that.” Cas says, painfully, and Dean freezes. “I’m immortal - every day should be a blink of an eye for me, though it isn’t because I’m weak and too attached.” Dean wants to protest, but Cas doesn’t give him a chance. “But you’re human, Dean. You won’t live, with me or without, forever.”

Time stops.

And it’s a goddamn good thing it does, because Cas just reminded him he’s dying, and it feels like it’s happening already.

It’s happening right here.

“Cas, I -”

There’s a thudding sound again, accompanied by a breathless sob from within which pierces through Dean, impaling him with guilt. His own tears start to fall.

“No, Dean. What will I do?” Cas keeps going. “What about me after you’re gone?”

Dean wakes up, sweating.

It’s three am.

He grunts, getting out of bed, and travels to the door on socked feet. The cold seems to completely disregard the woollen socks, and shoots straight to his head - weirder still, because he basically sweated himself awake, a minute ago.

Dean slowly moves to the kitchen, and pulls a beer from the fridge. His mind lands inevitably on Castiel.

He’d started visiting less after that night - for it’d more or less been an instruction for him, to stop. Didn’t Cas call it getting attached? And it makes sense too. If he spends the next - what, twenty years or so, next to Cas, he’d just be getting him up before the fall.

Because of course he’d be gone, and of course Cas would not, and of course it made perfect sense to visit Cas less until it started feeling off and they didn’t have things to talk about and then he visited even less, and now of course it’s been weeks that he’s not been there, with him, at the one place it all felt okay, and of course -

Dean’s crying into a bottle, at three in the night.

Everything hurts - every angle of this mishappening, but what’s overpowering most of the time is how much he misses his best friend, and his angel, and the love of his life, and Cas. All of him.

There’s too many tears clouding his vision, so he closes his eyes.

He’s lost Cas before - but it’s never been like this. He’s never felt so directly causatory, and fuck that feeling which shatters him inside - he’s the reason Cas took on the Mark, and he’s the reason Cas got in the box.

He’s the entire fucking reason Cas suffers, every time, and he’s the reason Cas was crying that day.

And yet - Dean can’t hold back the loud gasp, as he inhales forcefully - yet, more than guilty, as be should, he feels lost.

Because he’s not just lost somebody. He’s lost something he believes in, and the destination of all his prayers.

He’s lost his faith.

And for the first time in a very long time, Dean feels utterly, terrifyingly alone.

Sam’s woken by the sounds in the kitchen, and a foreboding of something awful tugging at his soul - and he dashes out of bed to see what’s wrong.

Immediately, when he sees Dean on the floor, shivering and breathing erratically through uncontrollable sobs, he wraps his his shirt around him and pulls him up on the first stool he finds.

“He’s not okay, Sammy!” Dean whimpers, clutching onto the shirt. Sam’s trying not to freak out himself, because it’s been a while since Dean’s had such a bad panic attack. “I can feel it - Cas is hurting -”

“Dean,” Sam pleads. “Stop thinking about him for a moment. Stop thinking about -”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Dean lets out, anguished. “When I had the Mark, Cas promised that after all that I’d do, after everyone that I’d kill, he’d still be there. He swore he’d always be there - but I cannot even say the same, and -”

“Calm down, Dean!” Sam repeats, anxiously. His brother doesn’t seem to be doing any better. “Just, please, don’t think -”

“You know I can’t stop thinking about him!” Dean throws back, frustratedly. “I need to - fuck, I need him, and I -”

Sam takes Dean’s hand in his, to stop Dean from rambling, and stares him straight in his eyes. “Do you want me to remind you that he can probably hear you right now?”

Dean shortcircuits for a second time.

Of course, Cas was an angel. Was Dean thinking about this, and thinking out loud, all going to make Cas hurt more? Was Dean adding to his pain and suffering again by -

“No.” Sam interjects, sounding sure. He’s always somehow been able to know exactly where Dean’s head’s at, in situations like this. “But I guarantee, he wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself like this.”

“Sam, I -”

“It’s okay.” Sam cuts him off, and helps hoist Dean up to his feet. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. You’re putting the beer away right now, and going back to sleep.”

Once he’s steadier, Dean immediately pulls his brother in for a hug, grabbing the back of his neck. There’s no words for how grateful he is for him. But even more so, he needs to confess something - for both their sakes.

“I want to start hunting again, Sammy.”

Because if he’s not ending up next to Cas, if he isn’t getting his happy ending or peace, why would he hang the gloves up? Screw tired - he’s going to hunt to his last breath.

Fuck quitting.

And Sam smiles back - knowing it’s probably going to take more convincing in the morning, but Dean’s in again. Like Sam, he’ll keep on hunting until he can’t - take down every monster before it, even though God’s gone and it keeps feeling like they can’t win.

They have to keep trying - because now there’s nothing for either of them to come back to.

“Well, so be it.”

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