#I have to live every day knowing that some random people stopped my death because by chance they were taking their dog to get groomed

[it-is-i-zim]

Are you ok?

No. No I'm not.

Hope this helps<3

[yokelfelonking]

Post 9/11 Trivia

Most folks on this site were either children on September 11, 2001, or weren’t even born yet.  But America went crazy for about a year afterwards.  Here’s some highlights that I remember that might not be in your history books:

There was national discussion on whether or not Halloween should be canceled because…fuck if I know why.  After planes crashed into buildings in NYC it follows that 6-year-olds in Iowa shouldn’t be allowed to dress up like Batman and ask their neighbors for candy, I guess.  (Halloween wasn’t canceled, by the way.)

On a similar note, people asked if comedy - any sort of comedy - was appropriate anymore, ever.

People sold shitty parachutes to suckers “in case your building gets attacked and you have to jump out the window.” There were honest-to-God news reports warning people not to jump out of the window with shitty mail-order parachutes because they wouldn't work.

As a follow-up to the attacks, someone mailed anthrax to some prominent politicians and news anchors - you know, famous people - along with some badly-written notes about “you cannot stop us, death to America, Allah is good” and after that every time some random dumbass found a package in the mail they didn’t recognize they thought that the terrorists were targeting them, too.

Everyone was similarly convinced that their town was going to be the next target, even if they were a little town in the middle of nowhere. "Our town of Bumblefuck, South Dakota (population 690) has the largest styrofoam pig statue west of the Mississippi! Terrorists might fly planes into that too! It's a prime target!"

People started taping up their windows and trying to make their houses or apartments airtight out of fear of chemical and biological attacks. There were news reports warning people that turning your house into an airtight box was a bad idea because, y'know, you need air to breathe.

"[X] supports terrorism!" and “if we do [X], the terrorists win!” were used as arguments for everything.  "Some rich Arab you never heard of donated to his organization that backs Hamas which backs al-Queda, and also owns stock in a holding company that has partial ownership of the Pringles company, so if you eat Pringles you're supporting terrorism!" "The terrorists want to tear down our freedoms and our way of life and rule us through fear! Eating what you want is one of our freedoms as Americans! If you're afraid to eat Pringles, the terrorists win!" (I promise you that this sort of argument is in no way hyperbole.) (This argument is how Halloween was saved, by the way.  “If we cancel Halloween, the terrorists win!”)

People worked 9/11 into everything, and I mean everything, whether it was appropriate or not.  If you went to the grocery store the tortilla chips would remind you to support the troops on the packaging. Used car sales would be dedicated to our brave first responders. You couldn't wipe your ass without the toilet paper rolls reminding you to never forget the fallen of 9/11, and again, this is not hyperbole. My uncle, who lived in Ohio and had never been to New York except to visit once in the 70′s, died of a stroke about 8 months after 9/11, and the priest brought up the attacks at the eulogy.

On a similar local note, on the day of 9/11, after the towers went down, gas stations in my home town immediately jacked up gas prices.  The mayor had the cops go around and force them to take them back down.  I doubt any of that was legal.

Before 9/11, Christianity in America - and religion in general - was on a downward swing, with reddit-tier atheism on the upswing. Religion was outdated superstition from a bygone age. The day after 9/11? Every single church was PACKED. (This wasn't a bad thing, but the power-hungry on the Evangelical Right saw this as a golden opportunity to grab power and influence.)

EDIT: By Popular Demand - Freedom Fries. I initially left these off because they came a couple years after the initial panic and most people thought they were kind of absurd (and I don't recall anyone really going along with it other than maybe some local diners here and there). France didn't want to get involved in our world policing so some folks were like "TRAITORS!" and wanted to call french fries "Freedom Fries" instead, so as to stick it to the French.

Besides dumb shit like that…it’s really hard to overstate how completely the national mood and character changed in the span of a day, or how much of the current culture war is a result of the aftermath. (9/11 was the impetus for the sharp rise in power of the Evangelical Right, who made themselves utterly odious and the following backlash helped the rise of the current Progressive Left, for instance.)

And if all of this seems batshit...well, it was. But I want you to think for a moment how people react today over even trivial shit. People send death threats over children's cartoons. They call for blood if the maker of a video game had an opinion they don't like. If someone made a racist joke a decade ago when they were a teenage edgelord, folks will go after people who even associate with them. "DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND ALL THE HARM THEY'RE DOING!?"

Now take that same level of over-the-top histrionics and apply it to the unprecedented event of passenger planes crashing into crowded buildings in America's most populous city and killing thousands of people all at once. "DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT WE WERE ATTACKED!?"

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

There are really people out there who have never been around some asshole straight guy who talked about killing cats that weren’t yours or threatened to kill your own. Like, seriously? You’ve never had to fight to keep your ass from trying to fight a guy over that, IN PERSON?!

[appleblueberry-pie]

Hi blueberry!! Since I'm hyperfixated on yandere e42!miles (again) here's a couple of scenarios I thought of! (I'm still getting used to giving ideas/ asks 😭 )

Him finding out / overhearing someone picking on reader

Finding out where reader lives

Seeing reader in public/ having a interaction in public

How Miles would act on readers birthday

Partners with miles

Class secret Santa with miles

It can be during the relationship with miles or pre relationship (I like pre relationship tho)

Can be drabbles or hcs!!

(I'm gonna be so embarrassed if you don't see this )

i saw. it's my fault that i'm taking forever.

You hated how close he was. No matter how many steps you made to create distance to get away from him, he'd cover it. You couldn't ignore him because he'd just keep talking, and even if you tried to press him to the point of making him leave, he'd flip the script on you and wouldn't take you seriously at all. You couldn't physically beat him in a fight if you wanted to, either. You just felt so powerless.

You clench your jaw and keep your eyes on the front doors leading to the outer campus of the school. But even if it was close enough to see, it was still far enough for your bully to get his piece in.

"Let me walk you home, ma."

"I said no."

"You need to stop with that distancing shit. We've known each other too long for you to be all cold with me, you feel?"

"No, I don't fucking feel, nigga. Leave me alone."

"Shit, okay."

Yet, here he was, close enough to continue whispering into your ear. You fucking hated his stupid smirk on his face, that dumbass cologne he wears that gives you a headache, and his mouth. He can just never ever shut up. He always wants to push you on the edge.

And sadly, you were at that edge. Your stomach hurt from eating some weird shit earlier, your period wasn't helping with that, you didn't get sleep last night and you just wanted to go home and have some personal space for once.

His hand goes to grab your tense arm and once you feel him breaching past your comfort zone and breaking your limits simultaneously, you would've shoved him off of you if it wasn't for someone yanking him a good 5 feet away from you.

Both of your heads turn to the person that put themselves in your shitty situation and see Miles, fuming, holding your bully by his collar. You were taken aback by his random entrance, and was especially left with your mouth agape at the way he was confronting your bully.

You've heart multiple stories from kids all around your school about how Miles was. How he gets into crazy ass fights every single day for possibly no fucking reason. About how he gives everyone the cold shoulder, has a crazy mouth and gives no one mercy. How he has no friends, scares everyone away and gives everyone shit. You didn't believe anything because he was so nice to you. Always chill and looking out for you. But you didn't miss the looks people gave you, ones of disbelief when they'd see him open up to you like they were seeing an entire other side of him.

Maybe you were the blind one.

"Watch where the fuck you putting yo hands, nigga." He was spitting them words in that boy face like no one was watching. People began coming around corners, popping up out of nowhere to see who was shouting. Your bully made a full 180, raising his hands, telling Miles he didn't want any trouble and was just poking fun at you. Miles was having none of it.

Miles shoved him into the closest locker as if he was a stuffed animal, the sound of the harsh collision booming echoing in the hallways. Even when you went to grab Miles, he never loosened his death grip on the poor guy, simply brushing you off.

"Miles. Miles just let him go."

"Nah, give me a second, babe."

Give it another second, and the boy is on the ground, continuous iron hits ruining his face. Every time Miles' knuckle makes contact with their face, you cringe in disgust and everyone just moves on with their day, knowing they'd be next if they interfered.

He just seemed to punch harder the more you attempted to pull him off of the boy and once you jerked him hard enough by the arm, you got him to stumble off from being on top of him and you tried to ignore the blood dripping from his hands.

"Lets go."

Everyone stared as you basically dragged him towards the entrance of the school. Miles kept his eyes on your bully like he wouldn't forget his face until he was dead. It terrified you. Everything was rubbing you the wrong way.

When the cold outside breeze hit your face, you didn't stop walking until you turned the corner away from watching eyes and gave Miles a look.

Why

He gave you one back that didn't comfort you.

I had to. Please understand

You fear this was going to turn into a never-ending loop with him.

[sirenium]

Warning: some parts of this may come off as insensitive, dark, and/or concerning on my end. I do not give a fuck about that; I've read through this multiple times, made sure to tweak things, but I'm not going to walk on eggshells anymore for the comfort of someone else right now I am so fucking tired. So if you're offended by something cold or brass that I said, leave me alone about it. Go do your self care routine and take care of yourself, but don't make it my problem. I'm autistic. I likely have ASPD and almost certainly NPD. I am going to say things sometimes that are way more mask off than what you'd expect, because neurotypicals love playing games and hiding what they fucking mean or are too scared to say what they mean in fear of harming someone's feelings. I've developed this, to an extent, because it is necessary to survive. But no, this is my blog, my feelings and thoughts, and I deserve a space to be honest for fuck's sake! Don't like that I'm not playing games? I'd suggest clicking off or scrolling by now. That said:

neurotypicals are so annoying about empathy and compassion. No Sarah, my ability to not be scarred and shaking from a gore video or a distressing audio does not make me an edgelord or a sociopath. I think it's dramatic and theatrical to put so much effort into caring about strangers, it's a weakness. But you know what I don't do? I don't go 'lol you're just soft haha' to their faces (which I've seen other people do) because that's fucking cringe. I know people react to certain things differently even if it seems fake and overemotional to me. But these people go out of their way to whine about an insensitive joke on the INTERNET or someone not being phased by something. Also, you don't know if the people making jokes are really unphased or just coping with humor, you can't just fucking psychoanalyze and armchair diagnose a random person on the internet!

(school shooting, human and animal death mention under the cut):

You don't need to piss your pants every time someone dies in order to register that the death shouldn't have happened. It's like with the latest school shooting, I don't react all that much to school shootings because wow, another one? how many useless deaths happened this time (note: useless as in it could have been easily prevented)? You know how I feel about lack of gun control? I think it's dumb! I think children shouldn't have to go to school with the fear of not coming home due to some fucker with a gun! If that makes me a sociopath to *checks notes* react logically and not emotionally to tragedies, then so be it.

The truth is that I'm just autistic. It's true that I have antisocial traits, but I'm not a 'sociopath' in the sense that people mean it. People think I'm manipulating them when it couldn't be farther from the fuckin truth, and I grew out of hurting living things so I'm not going to kick your dog to death or dismember someone's grandma. By the way, can we stop equating that word with cold blooded killer? I've been told I behave like a serial killer by a counselor for things such as separation anxiety, even compared to JEFFREY DAHMER as a teenager by a stranger online for viewing gore as a beautiful thing (I'm now painfully aware how bizarre that view is to 'normal' people, but it doesn't make me a serial killer to be fascinated by gore in such a way). Joke's on both of those people, I haven't killed anyone yet like they clearly thought I would.

I'm used to 'sociopath' being used as a word to dehumanize and demonize me and people like me. But hell is it annoying for pop psychology girlies to think everyone is sociopathic for not extending their emotions to yet another death. Death happens every day, how are you not used to it? You'd think everyone would be used to it by now, and this does not mean to lack the drive to want to change the world. But of course, the 'empath' phenomenon has done massive damage to the collective human psyche. You know the type of person I'm talking about: the 'narc/antisocial/borderline/histrionic abuse' pedaling, 'hyper empathetic' girlie who makes it their whole personality to be so kind! So caring! So empathetic and compassionate!

I hate these people. They're so all of the above until someone has a cluster B disorder or general lack of empathy. Then suddenly they aren't very caring and kind, nor compassionate with an abundance of empathy! But yes, the autist who doesn't distinguish between a human being and a Gmod NPC unless given reason is the problem, not somebody shitting on an entire group of people with personality disorders (sarcasm).

It's just irritating, and I felt like talking about it.

[it-was-too-cold-always]

We're Not in CW Anymore - 2

Chapter 1

The reader gets blasted into another universe - one where Sam and Dean Winchester are real people, real hunters, and really fucked up. To her surprise (or horror), Dean has been getting glimpses of her life in his dreams and is completely enamored with her. It's nothing like the cable-friendly CW show that she knows and loves.

Reader x Dean Winchester

Warnings: language, violence

Chapter 2: Family Remains is a Damn Good Episode

Dean would not stop staring. It was becoming increasingly unsettling. "Dude," Sam nudged him, sensing your discomfort. Dean snapped out of it, glancing around and composing himself. Sam debated which topic he wanted to bring up first - the fact that you've watched their lives in a TV show, or the comment Gabriel made about Dean being "quite familiar" with you. He decided on the latter.

"Dean, you want to tell me why Gabriel said you'd be familiar with her?" Sam looked over at his brother with a slightly pissed off glare. Dean’s face immediately turned bright red, fidgeting in his seat. He stared at the booth table and stammered. Finally, he blurted, "I've been watching her for the past couple months." You stared at him, mouth open, in complete shock. "Listen, it's not as creepy as it sounds. It's in my dreams. It's like I'm a ghost, I can see you but you can't see me. I've been with you at work, around the house, at the gym...sleeping..." he continued, "but again! I'm not a fucking creep! Whenever I sleep, I just show up at a random time in your day."

You were mortified. What exactly has he seen? The thought of someone watching you around the house made your skin crawl. And sleeping?! Your mind ran through every potentially embarrassing moment of the past months he could've witnessed. Your sleep shirts and smutty romance books were embarrassing enough. Has he seen you masterbate? You wanted to crawl under a rock.

"Why the fuck didn't you say anything to me about this? Didn't you think it was a little important that you've been connected to this girl somehow?" Sam was clearly frustrated with Dean. You didn't want to get in the middle of it, so you stayed silent, processing everything that was happening. Before Dean could respond, the waitress came back to take the boys' order. A salad and burger, what a surprise. Dean's gaze returned to you, making eye contact as you sipped your coffee.

"Dude, you're doing it again," Sam chastised Dean. It was a little creepy, despite his claims that he wasn't. "Listen, I say we get back to the bunker and look more into this. Surely there's something we can find about soulmates from alternate dimensions. The Men of Letters have so many resources, I'm sure we'll find a lead of some kind," Sam said. You nodded in agreement. You weren't sure what to besides follow them back to the bunker. “Agreed. But first, food,” Dean responded. Pretty on brand of him.

The boys ate while you nursed your coffee. You were busy contemplating all the different questions you wanted to ask. Was Bobby still alive? Did their mom come back from the dead? Did Castiel become cool or was he still an emotionless angel dickhead? You had so much you wanted to ask. You decided to start with the Bobby question. Looking up, you met eyes with Dean. Staring again. You decided to return the favor and stared back. You lost rather quickly – his gaze was very intimidating, even though his look was more of wonder than malice. You looked towards Sam and blurted your question. “Is Bobby alive?”

“Um, yeah…does he die in your universe?” Sam asked. You explained his death, rambling that it was one of your favorite episodes, but you always skipped the ending because he gets fatally wounded and it makes you sad to watch. Sam looks a little disturbed, you’re sure it’s because you just admitted that your favorite episode is the one where Bobby dies. You try to recover that blunder. “I mean that’s not my favorite episode. I really love season 4, ‘Family Remains.’ Where you thought it was a ghost but then it was human kids living in the walls. That one gives me the heeby jeebs. OR the Ghostfacers episodes, those are too fucking funny.” Shut. UP. You were kicking yourself for rambling. Dean rolls his eyes at the mention of the Ghostfacers. Sam clenches his jaw. Totally going to stop talking now.

The food arrives just in time to save you from further embarrassment. Dean immediately digs in, taking a massive bite out of the burger. You stare in disbelief – you can’t believe this is happening. The boys eat quickly enough. You drank WAY too much coffee and your hands were shaking. Both from the situation and the caffeine. Finally, it’s time to pile into the Impala and go to the bunker. The engine turns over and music starts playing. You recognize the song immediately, it’s straight from one of your playlists. Dean quickly moves to turn the song off, clearly embarrassed. You make eye contact in the rearview mirror. “What? You have good taste in music,” he defends himself.

As you drive in the now silent car, you think about what the next steps might look like. Sam wants to look for lore on soulmates from different universes, but what good would that do? It doesn’t change the situation. You’re stuck in a different world with people you barely know. Sure, you’d trust Dean Winchester with your life. But that’s the TV version of him. You don’t know anything about this guy. You thought you read once that Kripke wanted Dean to be tatted up, but they didn’t have the budget for it. I guess when it’s real life, you don’t have to worry about a budget. You mulled over what Gabriel had said about this being the nitty-gritty, real-life version of the show. That means a shit ton of killing and violence. Lots of disposing bodies. You were torn between being terrified for your safety and feeling sad for all the crap they’ve had to deal with. Sure, this Dean had tattoos and nasty scars and watched you sleep at night, but maybe he’s still the burger-loving, dorky man you fell in love with on the show. He might kill you, but you decided you didn’t really have a choice – you either went with these men you kinda knew, or you went out on your own in a different universe with no connections or money. You were willing to gamble on the chance that they’re not deranged killers.

Chapter 3

[choicesficwriterscreations]

December MC of the Month: Luca O'Rinn

Please welcome December 2023's MC of the month! Each month, we will highlight one MC or OC that is currently on our Meet My MC / OC List. The MC / OC is selected randomly on the Wheel of Names, and eligibility requirements can be found here. We accept MC / OC profiles on an ongoing basis. Please feel free to send yours in!

This month’s MC of the month is…

@aria-ashryver 's Luca O'Rinn

More below...

In your own words, tell us what you like most about your MC / OC.

This little idiot just doesn’t stop. They are so damn resilient! I love their bravery, compassion and that Luca takes the time to make sure the people around him feel seen, heard and understood. Communication is important to him — he’s a little tactless or graceless with it sometimes, but he tries so hard to make sure the people he loves know it. I love how talented and inquisitive he is, and that he has such a strong sense of self — Luca just feels so bright to me, so vibrant and joyous. “Lightbringer” was an accidental name meaning, I just picked “Luca” at random when creating my MC because it felt right, but it really was the perfect choice for them!

2. Do you feel your MC / OC is like you at all? How are you alike or different?

Luca is much more impulsive than I am, and has a bigger social battery, but I think we are both the kind of people friends come to for advice and comfort. We are both musically inclined, both love hugs (probably more in my case), animals, and the beauty and magic of the natural world. I’m 6ft tall, Luca is tiny. Luca’s heritage is a nod to my own Scottish roots — my grandparents / great-grandparents emigrated from Scotland, and I’m lamenting the slow death of any Scottish cultural influence in my family’s day-to-day life as the generations pass. There are parts of me in Luca, sure, but ultimately they are very much their own person.

3. What is most important to your MC / OC? What is their motivation in life?

Authenticity, truth, and (this one might sound weird, but) movement. Luca will never be someone he’s not. For him, to live is to grow, to always seek out opportunities to find out more about himself and the world he lives in. 

They can’t stand being stagnant and idle, both mentally and physically; Luca is a dancer with a truly avid curiosity, so they just need to keep moving, no matter what they are doing. Right now for Luca, that means having intense, emotional conversations; breathing love into the world;  learning new skills; knuckling down on language studies; uncovering vampire lore; fighting to protect the ones he loves; doing a lot of introspective thought and trying to be a better version of himself with every day that passes.

4. What are their biggest pet peeves/dislikes?

Luca has a strong sense of social justice, so there are plenty of things that annoy them —particularly in regard to the treatment of other people; they’ll be the first to jump to someone’s defense— but in terms of more minor pet peeves, pertaining to him personally? Being called “bro” / “man” / “dude” by someone who obviously means it in a cisheteronormative way (and people who blatantly ignore the “they” aspect of their pronouns). Luca definitely picks their battles, and they are totally fine with being called any of those names by friends and family, but it often elicits an eyeroll coming from closed-minded and/or queerphobic people.

Also, early mornings. Luca is firmly of the opinion that mornings should be banned. No more mornings. The day doesn’t exist before 10am. He will never understand how Gabriel keeps getting up at dawn to go for a run. On purpose. That’s just wild.

5. If your MC / OC could change one thing - anything - what would it be?

Luca hasn’t had the easiest life, but it was one that led them to find Cas and Gabe. They would go through it all again and then some if it meant a life of loving those two and being loved by them in turn… but Luca sees how much Cas and Gabriel are hurting, too. How much they ache for a place of belonging. How deeply lonely they have been.

If Luca could change one thing, it would be for them, not himself. He’d bring back their parents. Choi Harin. Sofia Adalhard. Remiel Adalhard. He’d bring back Gabriel’s sisters, Raquel and Michaela. His grandmother, Sarah. His cousin, Joaquin. Cas’s halmeoni, Choi Miyoung. His harabeoji, Choi Yongho. Cas’s best friend, Ricky Harlow.

If Luca could steal them even a moment with the people they have lost, then he’d do it in a heartbeat. He knows it's an impossible dream, but that won’t stop him from making sure that, at the very least, Cas and Gabriel know they will always, always be a part of his family. That the O’Rinns will always be there to welcome them with open arms.

6. What is your MC / OC’s favorite quote or song?

Luca’s favourite song changes with the wind, but at the moment they are making good use of Hozier’s “De Selby (Pt1)” to practice their (rusty) skills on acoustic guitar, as well as their pronunciation of Irish Gaelic (which they’d like to be fluent in — Scottish Gaelic and Irish Gaelic share a root language, so they are very similar in many ways. Think Spanish to Portuguese!) Luca has a firm grasp of Gàidhlig, but the only fluent Irish-speaker in the family is their great aunt Morag. Given the O’Rinn’s ancestral ties to Ireland, Luca aims to fix that!

He’s also currently messing around with some original contemporary choreo to Lee Taemin’s “Just Me and You” and “Guilty”.

7. Is there anything else you’d like to share about your MC / OC? 

Luca has come to mean so much to me. I never intended to write about them when I first started reading ID —I had never written fanfic at all!— but the more I learned about them and fleshed out their backstory, the more I knew I had a story to tell. Rather than write a simple, short piece, fool that I am, I decided to dive right into a (currently) 250K+ word longfic centring on not one, but four romantic relationships (Luca x Cas; Luca x Gabriel; Cas x Gabriel; and the dynamic of the poly ship between all three of them). 

Despite being a retelling, I think “Starlight” gets a lot thematically heavier than Immortal Desires ever did, with a broader focus on worldbuilding and characterisation, and the experience of writing it has been so rewarding — I think in large part because of Luca.

I just adore them. So much. And I’m grateful to have them along for the ride while we find our way through this story together. There is no one else I’d rather have along for the ride. (Also, I’m sorry I make you suffer so much, sweet Luca. I promise your happily ever after will be worth every hardship 💖)

Thank you so so so much to CFWC for letting me gush about Luca!! If you would like to know more about them, you can read about them in my longfic, “Snow In Crimson, Starlight in Gold” on AO3, or find more on my masterlist.

[uncloseted]

I'm scared to ask you this because I know you'll probably agree with her but what do you think about what Chappell Roan said? I do agree with what she said about actual stalking and harassment obviously and I don't know what it's like to be famous, but now I just get the vibe that she's ungrateful and rude to strangers and I don't like that kind of people. And I'm very critical of male celebrities too, although I guess I don't pay as much attention to them

You got me! I do think she’s right. As someone who’s lived in LA for a long time now, I think the average person underestimates how difficult it is to live with her level of fame. People don’t just stalk and harass her, they stalk and harass her family, her friends, and anyone they think she’s ever dated. She probably gets death threats on a daily basis, and her friends and family probably do as well. Every time she leaves her house, she knows she’s going to be stoped by multiple people who all are going to demand things of her, even if she’s not in her “Chappell Roan” character. Even when she’s dressed down, just being Kayleigh, trying to just grab groceries or spend time with her parents or go on a first date, people will demand things of her. Even when she’s having the worst day of her life- if her pet has just died or she’s just been dumped or someone she loves is in the hospital - she won’t be able to leave her house without fans demanding things of her. If you were in a situation where five people had already stopped to demand photos from you on the way to the grocery store or where someone stopped to demand a photo while you were on the way to visit someone in the hospital, you would be rude too, you know? That’s really hard to deal with all day every day, and I would imagine it’s even harder when you’re one of the only visible queer women in pop music right now.

Celebrities aren’t robots who are programmed to interact with fans. A lot of the time, they don’t even want to be famous. They just want to make art that they can share with the world. And so I think the public’s feelings of entitlement towards celebrities is really weird and uncomfortable. Chappell is right- she is just some random girl, even if you like her art, and fans should treat her the way they would treat a random person because they don’t know her.

I also don’t think she’s saying that fans should never approach her in public. I think she’s saying that you should approach her the way that you would anyone else. There’s a big difference between, “hi, my name is [x], are you Chappell Roan? I really love your music, it means a lot to me” and “you’re that one girl from that song! Be in this picture with me!…you’re such a bitch for saying no.” One is objectifying and demanding, while the other is polite and aware of boundaries.

Was there maybe a more media-trained way to say what she wanted to say? Sure. The videos she posted were really raw, and I’m sure that rubbed some people the wrong way. But she’s not wrong. Chappell is a character that she plays, and just because people like that character doesn’t mean that they’re entitled to her performing that character all day every day for the rest of her life. Imagine what it would be like if you could never clock out of work - you’re just always on the job, having to do your customer service voice, knowing that if you mess up, you’ll get yelled at. Wouldn’t that be exhausting? Wouldn’t you want some time to just exist? That’s what it’s like to be even a little bit famous. I just don’t think it’s healthy for anyone involved. Celebrities are just people, and they should be allowed to just be people who can do normal people things.

[dazaiandhislovelybandages]

𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓃𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒 {𝒟𝒶𝓏𝒶𝒾 𝒪𝓈𝒶𝓂𝓊}

Summary: Life and death will always lead you into love and regret

Pairings: Dazai x reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, mentions of suicide attempts, mentions of clowns

Theoretically there was no other ability more powerful than Dazai's No Longer Human. An ability that allows him to nullify every other ability, who could top that?

For the sake of himself and of the Agency Dazai hoped that no one could top his ability. But on days when the alcohol had a stronger grip on him than usual and the absence of the only person that had considered his friend was even more evident, Dazai couldn't help but wonder if there was someone with a stronger ability than his.

After many months of debate, one random Tuesday he received the answer he was looking for. Yes, there was indeed such a person. It came to no surprise when he learnt that you were already working for the Port Mafia. Of course Mori would want to have someone with the ability to use others' abilities under his command.

While the meeting had only been held by Fukuzawa in order to inform the members of the Detective Agency about Port Mafia's newest 'employee', Dazai's mind was elsewhere. Needless to say he was already trying to make up a plan to meet you. And his need to see you only grew stronger the moment Fukuzawa underlined you being extremely dangerous.

The rest of the week passed by quietly; no odd jobs, no odd requests. Everything was calm. And because he had lived yet another day, Dazai decided it was time for his reward.

That same Sunday night, he managed to get out of his bed and wear his beige coat he had thrown on the floor the past Friday upon returning from work.

Setting his logic aside, he let his instincts guide him. He walked down the busy streets of Yokohama without paying attention to his surroundings.

He couldn't feel much. In fact, he couldn't feel anything which was always the occasion. Yet the stinging pain in his chest was similar to the pain he would get everytime he attempted to end his suffering. On one hand, it was weird because the moment he raised his head the only thing he saw was the huge ferris wheel. A small event for young children to have fun had been built near the establishment; slides, an arcade, stalls selling cotton candy and a playhouse. On the other hand, he felt at ease when looking at the entire event and that scared him a little.

He let the stinging pain in his chest lead him through the crowd, hoping it would stop hurting. But the pain only grew stonger and that was when Dazai was forced to stop; in front of the playhouse.

No kids were playing there which was odd considering it was near the ferris wheel. Surely they had seen it. Soon he understood why no one wanted to even go near it. Creepy circus music could be clearly heard from the inside of the small house, like the ones people often associate with clowns.

"You've been staring at it for quite some time."

A smirk found its place on his face and Dazai sighed before turning his head a little to the left. The picture Fukuzawa had showed them of you, hadn't done you justice, you were far more beautful in person.

"You have been standing here longer than I have, darling."

"Fair enough."

He can't remember what happened after. His memory is still quite foggy but he is sure of one thing.

"You want me to nullify your ability?" You chuckled, an eyebrow raised in question. "Why?"

"Because perhaps you may have answers to some of my questions."

"Very well."

Oh he still can remember how easily you agreed. You didn't even ask him further questions. He just reached out his hand and you activated your ability and used his ability.

Oh how much joy does that memory bring him! He feels in peace. He will never forget it; you are his liberty. For those mere seconds of you using your ability he felt human. Maybe for the first time in his life, he doesn't know.

He is sure that he will celebrate the day you changed his history of life and death. But he knows life and death always lead into love and regret. That's what you also told him.

Did you?

He can't remember much of that day. In fact he can't remember anything. Maybe because the effect the alcohol had on him finally began to wear off, maybe because that meeting between him and you never actually happened.

Or maybe because you only existed in his imagination.

[spiders-rob]

Personally my headcanon for the brides in the Universal uh, universe, is that they just straight up mostly don't really care much about Dracula anymore. In vampire terms basically he left them for his secretary and, at varying speeds they all came to terms with this and more or less moved on with their lives. One was relieved. One was stoic but secretly very, very sad and will never fully stop grieving because she refuses to process any emotions ever. One grieved and raged wildly and went on a rampage about it but worked through it quickly. They are all together now as each other's wives.

Relieved one doesn't really care where her food comes from and can easily be persuaded to let victims live/feed from willing people but just as easily can be convinced to kill randoms. She's kinda ambivalent. Food is food, y'know? Who cares?

The one who went on a rampage TRIES to stick to nonlethal consensual feeding but loses control/has cheat days every few months at best. She's very tortured and emo about it afterwards.

The one who is still in mourning has 0 remorse and would never stop killing. They're vampires. Why wouldn't they kill? That's pussy shit. Except she would never curse so she wouldn't phrase it that way. She'll brutally murder hundreds of people but she would never say a bad word. (Bad words are for poor people, drinks, and drunks)

All that said, Relieved would probably congratulate Renfield on the killing. And even Rampage would be supportive, having come to terms with how Dracula was pretty awful to all of them. But Stoic? Stoic would fight him to the death while the other two tried to pull her away and talk things out. Hell, even if she didn't know about the killing Dracula thing she'd get mad at him for "stealing" her husband and probably call him a slut or even get worked up and say a homophobic slur. Despite herself having not one but two wives.

I may in fact write this at some point but frankly I don't even know how/if they would ever find out Dracula was killed or "killed" given how thoroughly not a part of their lives (unlives?) he was at that point.

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Wash. RINSE. Repeat. - Dean x Reader/OFC

"Rinse" is Part 3 of the Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Series

Rating Mature

Dean x Reader/OFC

Tags: Canon-compliant (or trying to be), Season 3, Lots of Angst, Demon Assault/Attempted Sexual Assault (trigger), Show Level Gore/Violence, Language, Pining, Dean is infuriating at times, Sam is the sweetest, Main character death (offscreen; but, it's Supernatural, so you know, it's probably not sticking)

Word Count: 15,000

Summary: The boys stink. Something needs to be done about it.

The above summary was something I came up with when I thought this was going to be a fun little one shot. (hah! stupid writer and her stupid assumptions. how dare she think she can make plans and have Sam and Dean adhere to them.) It still applies to the beginning (and this sniff, sniff theme may come up again) but I'm going to add that this story is a first person reader insert that weaves in and out of show canon.

"Rinse" won't make a lick of sense if you haven't read the other parts. If you want to read the previous installments, you can find them on AO3 -- WASH -- PRE-RINSE

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Friends Becoming Strangers" square.

A huge thanks to @jacklesversebingo for allowing me to use one of my bingo squares in a part of a story I was currently working on. These bingo prompts have genuinely tested my creativity and provided some meaty plot twists. Thank you, thank you!

Rinse

~ Six Months Later ~

I bolt upright in bed, mid-gasp.

My heart pounds. Flashes of what caused my pulse to race appear in the curtain call of each blink.

Bobby. In the dark with a flashlight. In his house? Sneaking around, like he’s investigating an unfamiliar place. Then, he was attacked by something. Thrown to the floor in his kitchen. A blur of arms clawing. A screeching sound that wasn’t human.

What the hell? I shake the shiver out of my spine and glance over at the alarm clock. Fifteen minutes before it goes off. There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep. I resign myself to get out of bed and start the day.

It’s gonna be a busy one at Hoyt and Hagan. There are two client appointments on the calendar. I’ve got some note taking during and transcribing to do after each of them.

I debate with myself in the shower as to when I should check on Bobby. It’s still too early and he’ll only scoff in my ear at the unnecessary concern.

I decide I’ll call him during my lunch break, all nonchalant like. Hey Bobby, it’s your favorite psychic nut job, poking out of hunter hibernation for some updates.

Just to be sure he’s okay.

I grab a slice and a soda at Tony’s Pizza Parlor for lunch. The four block walk gives me a chance to stretch my legs and see if they’ll be short staffed over the next week. I need to bulk up my car maintenance fund. According to Nate at Carl’s Auto Shop, I will probably need to replace the brake pads in a few months. Before the squeaks turn into screeches at every stop.

Gary’s working the counter. I try not to fuss with my hair too much in his presence. His dimples drill into his cheeks with a bright smile. My stomach spins like it’s in a washing machine. I ask him how his Aunt Cheryl is doing. The swoony, sensitive six footer moved back to Matamoras when his only living relative, Cheryl Somers, fell ill and couldn’t take care of herself anymore.

It’s been five months since Gary arrived and became ubiquitous around this tiny town where you only have to breathe heavily to become the subject of juicy gossip. He works a variety of service jobs. I’m blessed that one of them is at Tony’s. My random shifts have intersected with his on occasion. I am also cursed because I still haven’t gotten the nerve to get past simple pleasantries. Mainly I worry I’ll slip about my personal details or he’ll ask me a question about my family. And, I’ll have to lie. Because he’d never believe the truth. The people that would understand are just as damaged as I am.

Playing at normal is tough.

I scoot into a booth that has a nice vantage of the counter so I can spy on Gary. I pry the greasy pepperoni one by one from the stringy mozzarella. The deconstruction exercise prolongs my excuse to hang around with my solitary slice. I mindfully chew. Taste buds light up with oregano, tomato sauce, processed toppings, and velvety cheese.

The one brain cell not focused on Gary reminds me about Bobby. I dab at my face with a one-ply scratchy napkin, then tap in the start of a phone number I know by heart on my cell. Bobby’s name appears from my contacts after the fifth digit.

I’m still miffed about Garth accidently dropping my old phone in the depths of the Delaware when he visited six months back. He felt so bad he drove me to the nearest cell phone store and bought me a new one right on the spot. He got me a newer and nicer model. It didn’t make up for all the contacts and messages I lost, though. It took me weeks to connect with almost everyone I could remember.

I wait for Bobby to pick up. It rings. And rings. And rings. The voicemail answers. “You’ve reached Bobby. You know what to do.”

I know what to do, but I hang up instead. I’m that person that hits redial and gives it another try. Bobby is prone to leaving his cell phone atop a stack of books or on the kitchen counter as he hops from room to room. So, there’s a chance he might…

“You’ve reached Bobby. You know what to do.”

I sigh and collect my words. “Hey, Bobby. It’s been a bit. Wanted to see how you’re doing. Nothing much new on this end. Give me a call, though, soon. Yeah? Been told my car’s gonna need new brake pads. Wanna make sure I’m not getting hosed on the cost to replace them. Okay? Thanks. Bye.”

“Who’s Bobby?” The voice drifts over my shoulder from behind me.

Oh God. Gary’s asking that question. I’m gonna have to turn and actually make eye contact and answer. I swallow and rotate in the booth a bit. He’s wiping down the table, tray filled with trash in his grasp. Wavy jet black bangs obscure his eyes for a brief second. It’s not enough time before his onyx irises gaze with interest in my direction.

“Huh?” I pretend I didn’t hear him.

“Who’s Bobby? He’s not the only guy that knows a thing or two about cars.” His smile is bright. “I could probably help you out. Take a look.”

“Oh.” I want to bang my head into the table to shake out any words that are longer than one syllable. “That’s… that’s…”

“He family? Bobby?” Gary stands beside my booth now.

“Yeah.”

Gary nods. “Well, offer’s available if you need it.” Someone, maybe Maribel, shouts his name across the restaurant. “Good luck.” He darts away.

“Thanks.” I groan at my suave communication skills.

~~~~

(Italicized Dialogue from S3, Episode 10, “Dream a Little Dream of Me” - Teleplay by Cathryn Humphris; Story by Sera Gamble & Cathryn Humphris)

Dean sat at Bobby’s hospital bedside. 

It’d only been a couple days since he got the call. A doctor had been looking for a Mr. Snyderson.

Bobby enjoyed informing Dean years ago of the name he would have to answer to if he received a call from someone in search of Bobby Singer’s emergency contact. 

“How the hell’d you get yourself into this mess, Bobby?” he asked aloud.

Dean wondered if Bobby had picked the name Edgar Snyderson so that would be all John’s eldest son would focus on. Not the fact that if he ever heard it uttered by anyone else, it would be because Bobby wouldn’t be able to call him a numbnut or an idjit.

Sam was due back any minute. Dean’d tasked Sam with the research part of this mystery, which included combing through the collage of pictures and news clippings hidden on the back closet wall in Bobby’s hotel room.

The room where his comatose body had been found.

Dean had gone to the university to dig up any information on a Dr. Walter Gregg, whose obit had graced Bobby’s case board. Finding out about unapproved dream studies led to the name of a test subject, Jeremy Frost. The college kid made it clear the doctor had been playing fast and loose with his research and the people involved. That equalled a whole lot of potential enemies and nefarious insinuators. Bobby was probably close to figuring out who the murderer was.

The machines whirred and beeped around the man he’d bet his life on, if he had much left of it to wager. 

Dean was shy of six months before his demon bill came due.

“I don’t need you rolling out the red carpet for me in the hereafter. Pretty sure you ain’t gonna be taking a sauna or walking over raked coals. But we don’t need you practicing your harp skills anytime soon, either.” He bit his tongue at the name that almost slipped out. He tried not to mention her if he could help it. The more time went on, the more he hoped it would stick; his nonexistence for her. “It’d kill her if something happened to you.” He nodded to no one. “We’ll figure this out.”  

As if on cue, his studious brother entered the room. “How is he?”

“No change.” Dean wiped a hand over his face and stood to meet Sam by the tray table at the edge of the bed. “What you got?”

“Well, considering what you told me about the Doc’s experiments, Bobby’s wall is starting to make a hell of a lot more sense.”

“How so?”

“This plant, Silene Capensis, also known as African Dream Root, it’s been used by shamans and medicine men for centuries.”

“Let me guess – they dose up, bust out the didgeridoos, and start kicking around the hacky.”

Sam scoffed. “Not quite. If you believe the legends, it’s used for dream walking. I mean entering another person’s dreams, poking around in their heads.”

“I take it we believe the legends.”

“When don’t we? But dream-walking is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this dream root is some serious mojo. You take enough of it, with enough practice, you can become a regular Freddy Krueger. You can control anything. You could turn bad dreams good. You could turn good dreams bad.”

“And killing people in their sleep.” Dean added the obvious.

“For example. So, let’s say this doc was testing the stuff on his patients Tim Leary-Style.”

“Somebody gets pissed at him, decides to give him a little dream visit, he goes nighty-night.”

“But what about Bobby? I mean if the killer came after him, how come he’s still alive?”

They both stared at Bobby.

“I don’t know.” Dean tapped Sam in the middle of his chest. “Come on. Man needs as much beauty rest as he can get before we wake him. And a kiss on the lips better not end up being the cure.” He strolled to the doorway and turned back in time to see Sam making his way to Bobby’s side.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing we’ve ever had to do to save someone.” Sam chided in a soft whisper over his shoulder towards Dean. “Stay strong until we can figure this out, Bobby.” His gigantor hand gripped Bobby’s pale one.

Dean marched out into the hallway in wait. Something heavy lodged in the base of Dean’s throat. He swallowed but the fear wouldn’t loosen. The possibility of losing Bobby. The memories of his father in the hospital right before he died kept rising to the surface. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Sam finally joined him. They walked down the hall towards the nurse’s station and the elevators. Their steps got into that synced soldier rhythm they easily fell into often. Dean wished it would continue in silence. But out of the corner of his eye he spotted Sam’s mouth open and close. Trying out the lines in his head before he’d have to share what he was thinking.

With that much thought, Dean knew it wasn’t going to be anything good.

When it was only the two of them in the elevator going down, Sam spoke. “Am I gonna have to be the one that mentions the elephant in the room?”

Dean’s gaze lifted to the ceiling. He sighed.

“We gotta call her, Dean.”

“No. We don’t. We’re gonna handle it so she doesn’t have to ever know what kind of danger Bobby was in.”

“She deserves to know,” Sam mumbled. “Bobby’s important to her. Plus, all of this dream stuff…”

“Sam,” Dean started.

Sam got his hands and arms in the conversation now, waving them about. “She should be here!”

“No!” Dean huffed, raising his voice back at Sam. He glanced at the number display. “I still need to work this case with you. I shouldn’t even be in the same state as her, let alone the same room. We can’t risk that, Sam. Not again.”

“You of all people know what she’s capable of. She could get into Bobby’s head.”

“Yeah. You know it. I know it. Bobby knows it. But, as far as we know, Elena doesn’t. As long as she doesn’t remember me, she won’t be doing any ‘Wonder Twins, Activate’ shit. And we’re gonna keep it that way.”

“Dean!”

“No. Bobby’s been onboard with the plan, all of it, for the past six months. Last I checked, you were, too.”

“Not like you gave any of us a choice.” Sam snarked. 

Dean ignored the jab. “Bobby’d want us to exhaust every other option before we pull her into something like this. Again.” He pointed at the floor as the door’s slid open. “We find another way.” He waved a hand for Sam to exit first. “Let’s go, Sherlock.” They covered the distance quickly to another set of double doors. “So, how do we find our homicidal little sandman?”

“It could be anyone.” Sam stated, looking thoroughly exasperated.

“Yeah?”

Yeah.

Dean rattled off possible suspects. “Anyone who knew the doctor, had access to his dream shrooms.”

“Maybe one of his test subjects or something?”

“Possible, but his research is pretty sketchy. I mean, we don’t know how many subjects he had or who all of them were.”

Sam scoffed.

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam sighed, long and deep. “In any other case, we’d be calling Bobby and asking him for help right now.”

Dean halted, pulled at Sam’s forearm to stop his brother’s stride. “Know what? You’re right.”

“What?”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

“Sure. I think we might find the conversation a bit one-sided.”

“Not if we’re tripping on some Dream Root.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

~~~~

There’s been no response from Bobby by the end of my work day.

Something was up. A car question always ensured Bobby would return a call within hours.

I call the other hunter who knows almost everyone’s business as much as Bobby does.

“Elle Woods.” Garth coos his nickname for me. I still don’t get how he made the connection between me and the fictional main character in Legally Blonde. “How’re you doin? To what do I owe this honor?”

“Hey, Garth. I’m trying to get a hold of Bobby. He’s not answering my calls.”

“Oh?” The one syllable expresses confusion.

“Yeah.”

“When’d you last talk to him?”

“It’s been about a month.” My face warms at the confession.

“Oh.” The one syllable is laced with judgment.

I let the guilt was over me as I wait.

“Hm. Well, I had to call him about a case I worked in Baton Rouge, Louisiana last week. There was this circus in town and a murder pinned on one of the performers. Killer clowns couldn’t turn their victims into a pile of green goo last I checked.” Garth chuckles.

I veer the conversation back. “Was he okay? Everything good at the salvage yard?”

“Oh, well, he wasn’t home. Was working his own case.”

My skin tingles at the news. It’s not surprising to hear. Bobby hunts on occasion. It’s more the reminder of the dream I had of him that morning that puts me on edge. “Where was he?”

Garth sighs. “If memory serves right, he was investigating something that happened at a university in, I think, Pittsburgh.”

“Okay, thanks Garth.”

“Sure thing, sweets. Want me to try and check in on him, too?”

I smile. “Appreciate it.”

“I’ll tell him to call you ASAP if I make contact.”

“Thanks.”

“No problemo.”

“Talk soon.”

I hang up. Pittsburgh. It’s clear across in western Pennsylvania. A good six-hour drive from me. Couldn’t be any farther from Matamoras and in the same state. It makes sense he wouldn’t bother to call me. Not like he could do a quick pop in.

Still.

I click my teeth. Moments later, I’m clicking away at the keyboard, searching anything weird over the wire that matches what Garth told me. Only one news headline has me screaming Yahtzee in my head. There’s mention of a university neurologist dying in his sleep. Cause: Unknown.

It’s not much. But, it would catch Bobby’s eye. And he’d do some digging. So, I do the same. The neurologist was the research head of a large, ongoing sleep study. And, another article hints that his death may have been the result of foul play.

I then do what Bobby always suggests I do when I can’t get a hold of him and he’s off on a case somewhere. I contact hospitals in the area.

By the third phone call, I’ve found him. All I can get out of the medical staff is that he’s unresponsive and been in their care for a few days.

An hour later, I’m on I-80, headed to Pittsburgh.

My brakes are squeaking big time.

~~~~ 

(Italicized Dialogue from S3, Episode 10, “Dream a Little Dream of Me” - Teleplay by Cathryn Humphris; Story by Sera Gamble & Cathryn Humphris)

My driver’s license (fake) gets me the information I need at the hospital. Next of kin and all that. A doctor runs through the updates on Bobby’s current medical state while we stand at the nurse’s station. It's good news. Bobby woke up a few hours ago.

The doc questions why I wasn’t listed as an emergency contact. He mentions that they had to call a Mr. Snyderson instead. I shrug, rattling off that my Dad probably doesn’t think I know how to manage an emergency.

I wonder who the hell Mr. Snyderson is as I get Bobby’s room number and am pointed in the direction to find it. Mainly I’m relieved that the closest thing I have to family - that hasn’t disowned me - is conscious and doing fine by all accounts.

I don’t even need to check the number, hearing Bobby’s voice drift out into the hall from a room just up ahead on the right. “We better work fast… and coffee up. ‘Cause the one thing we cannot do is fall asleep.”

I take a cautious step in and prepare to meet “Mr. Snyderson.” A very tall figure with expansive shoulders stands at the side of Bobby’s bed. His broad back is to the doorway. It’s the moppy head of hair that I recognize first. My brain swims with sudden knowledge and memory. I feel overwhelmed and a bit lightheaded.

Sam. Sam Winchester. A hunt. We worked a hunt together a couple years ago. Road tripped from Maine to California. I even remember spending some time with him at Bobby’s after a car accident he’d been in with his dad. I’m also struck with the fact that he lost his dad. The scattered moments don’t have any connective tissue that I can discern. They catch my attention like twinkling ornaments atop a Christmas tree. Each represents some commemorative event I need to be reminded of.

Bobby sees me in the doorway. His face runs a litany of emotions. Serious to surprised. Welcoming to worried. “L.” He whispers.

I smile. Sam spins. His rotation hints at the shape of someone sitting on the other side of Bobby’s bed. Sam settles with a stare at me and walls off the stranger for the time being.

Sam’s as cute as I remember. There’s a bit more mass to him. And then, I remember us bonding over his psychic abilities. It’s disorienting, the flashes and pops of life bursting out of hibernation.

“L?” Bobby asks. “You doin’ alright there, kid?”

I shake my head and manage a smile again. “Considering I’m visiting you in the hospital, don’t you think I should be the one asking that question?” I hesitate at the awkward glances Sam and Bobby shoot each other. I flap my hands at my sides. “Hey, Sam. How are you doing? Been a while.”

His eyes bug. “H-Hey Elina. Yeah. I’m, I’m doin’ pretty well.” A hand scratches the side of his neck. “How’s things in Matamoras?”

“Good. Doing my best to stay out of trouble.” I point a finger at him. “Are you Mr. Snyderson, who got the call about Bobby instead of me?”

“That’d be me.” There’s a terse answer from the other side of the room. The figure is still hidden by Sam. A scrape of chair legs follows.

Sam swallows. Hard. He steps to the side.

My gaze lands on a pair of bright green eyes staring back. The guy is male model attractive. My skin warms up in a reflexive response to all that pretty. “You can call me Dean, though.” He smirks.

“Dean?” The name registers instantly. “Sam’s brother?”

He nods and puffs his chest out. I can’t quite tell if it’s a smug posture or if he’s donning some invisible protective armor.

“He-” I start to fill the gaps in my mind as my mouth reveals the facts. “Sam’s mentioned you.” Older brother. Cocky. Pain in the ass. Overbearing.

I don’t get a response in return. Instead, Dean turns to Bobby. “We’ll touch base if we hear anything else.” He rounds the edge of the hospital bed and taps Sam on the arm. All I get is a quick nod from Dean before he disappears.

“See ya.” Sam smiles, lips scrunched tight. He stumbles past me out of the room, following his older, shorter brother.

Yeah, I’ve met my share of guys like that before. Bad boys have never done me any favors. Way more trouble than they’re worth. I keep reminding myself of that as I catch one last glimpse of Dean Winchester in the hallway before Sam shuts the door behind him.

When it’s only the two of us, I hurry over and give the old man a careful embrace. He taps my back in assurance. “I’m fine.”

I peel away and stand to squint at him. “Let me guess? Fine enough to hop back into solving whatever caused this.” I plant my hands on my hips. “Why can’t you fall back asleep? And why does that Dean dude rank as your emergency contact?”

He squints back at me. “The Winchester boys are family, too, L.”

“Sam’s what you’d call an absolute peach, Bobby, I’ll give you that. But, I don’t have any firsthand experience with Dean to make a judgment call.”

“Hm.” Bobby nods slowly. “Could’ve sworn you’ve met both of them.”

“Nope.” I definitely would have remembered Dean Winchester.

~~~~

I knock on the door to Bobby’s room at The Aviary Hotel.

There’s a delay. I can hear some cursing and arguing as I wait. The taller squatter opens the door part way in greeting. “El.” Sam smiles.

“Hi.”

“Everything alright?” A hand stuffs into a pocket and he leans against the door, filling up the space.

“Bobby’s probably getting released tomorrow morning.”

“That’s great news.”

“It is. I figured I’d grab him some clean clothes for his discharge.” I sweep a hand towards him. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, uh…” Sam stammers.

“For chrissakes.” Dean’s voice interrupts. An arm pushes Sam back into the room and out of the way. Dean grimaces at Sam before giving me a dose of all that attitude. “Listen, Elena, it’s great that you’ve decided to come all this way and play nursemaid. But, we’ve got actual case work to do. So, would you make it quick?”

I blink at the condescending tone. Bobby filled me in on the details back at the hospital. I had felt a little sympathy at the predicament Dean has found himself in. HAD. “Oh, of course. Certainly don’t want to interfere with all your great case work. Is there another suspect you need to give a DNA sample to?”

Dean’s irritation crumbles. He looks like a shamed puppy that’s peed on the carpet.

“Don’t mind him, El.” Sam pulls the door all the way open. “We’re all a little high strung at the moment.”

I scoot in between the brothers. The room’s wallpaper is a feathery explosion in blues, greens and yellows. “Well, the decor isn’t going to help calm anyone down,” I critique.

Dean flops in a sad looking armchair and grabs sheets of paper on a nearby side table to study with intense interest.

Hospitality must be Dean Winchester’s middle name.     

“Get you something to drink?” Sam strolls by Dean, backhanding Dean’s bicep along the way. Dean pays him no mind.

I wave a hand. “Nope. Just point me in the direction of Bobby’s stuff and I’ll be out of here.”

Sam offers a soft smile in apology and gestures to a set of louvered bifold doors. The room is crazy huge. A full kitchen and another door that must lead to the bathroom make up the other half. There’s a desk on this side of the living area. More papers litter its surface, along with a laptop that I recognize as Sam’s (various stickers are slapped on top).

Yep, the brothers have made themselves at home. The double beds have been slept in by the state of the sheets. I smell greasy fast food.

When I open the closet, Bobby’s entire wardrobe is hung up. I grab the empty duffle from the closet floor. “Was he planning on moving here?” I frown to myself. When I remove the first plaid ensemble from a hanger I spot the case board on the back closet wall. “Ah, of course.” I take my time and fold one shirt with care before packing it. Then another. Taking my sweet time as I take in all the information.

I decide to inquire with the friendlier Winchester. “So, Sam. Bobby told me what happened to him.” I turn to see him sitting at the desk. Dean’s in my field of view in the background as well, still reading. I attempt a poke. “That he was stupid enough to make himself a prime lullaby target of this Frost kid.” Dean’s mouth purses but he doesn’t look over. “Got any ideas yet on how he gets some shut eye without being murdered?”

Sam sighs. “No.”

I want to ask if he’s thought about using his powers while he’s asleep and under the influence of the African Dream Root again. But I don’t know how Dean feels about his brother’s powers. Or, if he even knows for certain. My memory is still hazy and I don’t want to risk outing him or stirring up a touchy subject. Something tells me Dean wouldn’t handle Sam’s powers well if he did know.

“Well, if you need me to try and make contact with someone on the other side, let me know. I mean I haven’t done it in a while, but I can always give Bobby’s friend Pam a call if I need some guid-”

Dean bolts out of his chair. Papers crumple in his tight fist. “We don’t need you to do anything.” The dismissive tone matches the inconsequential way he stares at me. “We don’t need anyone else fucking things up.”

Sam rotates in the seat, arm resting along the chair back. His bewildered and angry expression towards Dean is all I focus on. My cheeks warm at the berating from this stranger with a chip on his shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon. 

“From what I hear,” Dean continues, “you are giving the normal life the good ole college try back in Montezuma. I suggest you keep it that way. And get as far away from all this as you can.” His voice cracks at the end. That sound makes me dare to lift my gaze back to him.

He’s trying his best to be an all-knowing asshole. But something’s cracking the veneer. I don’t think he’ll be able to keep it up for much longer. For a moment, I want to march right into this guy’s personal space and slap him. Right before I hug him. But it’s a fleeting inkling. I nod at him. “I’ll get this stuff to Bobby. Sounds like the both of you can handle picking him up at the hospital in the morning.” I inhale and prop up a smile as I turn to Sam. It’s the only way I’ll keep my lips from quivering.

Sam’s brows angle down. “I’m sorry, El.” He whispers.

I shake my head. I can’t speak. If I do, I’ll cry. And I don’t fucking know why my body is reacting like this to the things Dean Winchester said to me. 

My heart is racing. I walk with lightning speed to the door.

My brakes are squeaking big time back to Matamoras. 

~~~~

Sam’s tired. He should be the one sleeping in the back seat.

He’s the one that’s lived through and remembered hundreds of Tuesdays where Dean died. He didn’t have the blessing(?) of a memory wipe with every morning reset. Now, he panics when he stumbles upon a radio station playing the chorus of Asia’s most well known song. He woke up on so many Tuesdays to “the heat of the moment.” Those words grate like fingernails across a chalkboard every time he hears it. Hearing that music always makes him question for a couple seconds if he’s been dropped back into Groundhog Day Hell.

One Tuesday did have a Wednesday after it. Without Dean. 

Sam’s lived six months without Dean already. The Trickster showed him what life would be like without his brother. Sam spent those six months obsessed, determined to find a way to bring Dean back from the dead. He’d convinced the Trickster to snap his fingers and take him back to a Wednesday where Dean lived. Honestly, the Trickster probably got bored of Sam’s sulking and found another puppet’s strings to pull. But, regardless, Sam got his brother back.

He hasn’t bothered to share any of what happened during those six months with Dean (or that one of his deaths actually stuck). Not when they’re trying to prevent Dean from going to hell.

Sam’s need to fix messes could be considered heroic –maybe even to him– if he wasn’t the reason the messes were created.

Sam’s not sure how much one person is expected to withstand. If he and Dean are in some kind of tragedy endurance contest, he’d like to tap out, please, and wave the white flag in surrender. But, then, he thinks about Dean going it alone. When he decides that’s not an option, he straightens up, plants his feet, and braces for the next wave of sorrow to pummel him.

So, yeah, Sam’s tired. But still determined that his brother’s not gonna die. Not anytime soon. Not if he has a say in the matter. Especially when Dean’s no longer resigned to the inevitable of his demon deal coming to fruition.

Sam can push through the exhaustion and fight for Dean’s future because even Dean wants a chance at what’s possible for himself.

Sam saw it with his very own eyes in Dean’s dream. Not the dream Dean’s currently having in the backseat. In between snuffles and snores he’s mumbling nonsense (something about wrenches and spanners). No, what Sam witnessed in Dean’s dream months back proved Dean thinks about a future of what ifs.

The dream had occurred days after he and Dean had managed to wake Bobby from the nightmare coma courtesy of Jeremy Frost. Days after Dean found himself in grave danger of becoming Jeremy’s next victim.

Dean hadn’t slept for days. The threat of never waking up again meant classic rock on full blast in Baby. Gallons of coffee. A concerning amount of No-Doze pills that Dean most definitely wasn’t taking to cram for a college exam.

Bobby had kept himself awake researching with Bela. In between, he spent a lot of time fuming at Dean for the way he’d sent Elina packing. Dean brushed off Bobby's grumpy attitude and reminded him it was best for Elina.

Dean had eventually reached a breaking point, gave his safety a big ole’ “fuck you,” and decided sleep was worth the risk. He’d driven Baby to a clearing off the road, parked her, and leaned back to close his eyes.

Sam harvested some of Dean’s hair right off the scalp, insisting that if Dean was going under he’d need someone to watch his back in the dreamworld.

When they’d both roused from sleep in the Impala nothing had seemed off.

Until Elina popped up in the backseat.

“Finally!” Elina exclaimed.

Sam almost pogoed off the bench at the sound made by a person that most definitely could not be there.

She bopped first Dean’s, then Sam’s, shoulder with a folded up newspaper. “Geez, you two were really knocked out.” Her elbows and arms draped atop the front bench’s backrest. “I was gonna give you five more minutes of beauty sleep. I know you both need it.” 

Dean’s eyes widened, staring at her. His lips parted.

Sam dared to interact with the apparition. “El, what are you doing here?”

Her brows furrowed. She nodded in pensive thought. “I ask myself that question every day, Sam. What the hell am I doing with my life, hunting with the likes of you two?” She nudged Dean’s shoulder with an elbow and grinned at him. “Saving people: an absolutely non-existent way to earn a living, am I right?”

Dean nodded back and offered a confused smile. “R-right.”

Elina looked from Dean to Sam then back to Dean. “You okay?”

Dean nodded with increased fervor and turned in his seat to give her his full attention. “Yeah.”

“Better be. I think I found us a case.” She presented the paper to Sam. “Take a look.”

Sam took the offering and gazed at the front page. A jumble of letters littered the paper like a word search puzzle. “What are we looking at?” Sam bluffed.

“A man was found dead in the famous confectionery amusement park in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Police hadn’t released details of the death to the public.” She tapped the spot that appeared to be a headline. “An anonymous source talked to this reporter and said the guy that died had been literally encased in a chocolate mold. You know, like those chocolate bunnies? Only this was a gigantic chocolate dude. Impossible to create anything like that in the on-site factory.”

“Solid Milk Murder,” Dean mumbled. Sam watched his older brother fixate his gaze away on Elina’s face.

“Get this,” Elina continued. “This reporter did more digging into the victim’s life. Six months prior his father had died. Dad had been a supervisor at a candy factory in a Delaware beach town. He’d been pulled to pieces in a taffy stretching machine.” She scooted behind Dean and wrapped her arms around him. Dean stiffened in shock. “Sticky situation,” she mumbled into Dean’s ear and then pecked him on the cheek. Dean closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A small smile lined his lips. When his eyes blinked open and Adam's apple twitched with a swallow, he appeared to relax into the embrace. “I say the Three Amigos see if this is our kind of thing.”  

Before Sam or Dean could respond a noise rattled outside of the car. Elina flickered out, gone in an instant. There’d been no time for either of them to discuss what had happened. They quickly exited the car to investigate.

Dean manifested Lisa next. The scene was the perfect slice of Apple Pie Life. A picnic in the park. Lisa had even told Dean she loved him before disappearing.

Things went downhill from there. But, they’d made it out of the dream alive. Jeremy hadn’t, thanks to Sam turning the tables.

Unfortunately, Bela had broken into the safe in the hotel room and stolen the Colt. Bobby left them with a promise to be in touch if he got a lead on her or the gun’s whereabouts. That was the only thing they thought could kill Lilith.

Sam finished packing back at the hotel. A heavy mix of anger and defeat hung in the air. Quietly writing, Dean hunched over the desk in an attempt at privacy while Sam bounced around the room grabbing all their items. Sam spotted names on the envelopes Dean stuffed into his bag when he was done. One read Lisa. The other, Elina. 

It wasn’t until they headed out to the car and tossed the bags in the trunk that Dean spoke.

“Hey Sam, I was wondering, when you were in my head what did you see?”

“Uh, just Jeremy, he kept me separated from you. Easier to beat my brains out I guess. What about you? You never said.”

“Nothing. I was looking for you the whole time.”

As easy as it was for Sam to withhold all the dream details, he was pretty certain Dean was doing the same. 

The car doors creaked and squeaked. When they settled in the driver and passenger seat, Dean said, “Sam…”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been doing some thinking. And… well, the thing is… I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go to hell.”

“All right, yeah. We’ll find a way to save you.”

“Okay, good.”

Sam’s lived through his own hell since Dean confessed wanting salvation from an eternity of torture. With everything they have been through, they’ve got nothing to show for it. They still aren’t any closer to finding Bela and the Colt and the magic bullet that will put an end to Dean’s demon deal.

The last case in Milan, Ohio and the monster they encountered fed off Dean’s fear of dying. The crocotta had used its powers to mimic their dad’s voice and contact Dean through the phone. The monster, claiming to be John, told Dean he could help him locate the demon that held his contract.

Dean had opened up to Sam after they’d defeated the crocotta back at the motel room.

(Dialogue - in italics - from Ep. Long Distance Call; written by Jeremy Carver)

“I wanted to believe so badly there was a way out of this. I mean, I’m staring down the barrel at this thing. You know, Hell… for real, forever, and I’m just…”

“Yeah.”

“I’m scared, Sam. I’m really scared.”

“I know.”

“I guess I was willing to believe anything – you know, last act of a desperate man.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having hope, you know.”

“Hope doesn’t get you Jack Squat. I can’t expect Dad to show up with some miracle at the last minute. I can’t expect anybody to, you know? And the only person that can get me out of this thing is me.”

“And me.”

“‘And me’?”

“What?”

“Deep revelation, having a real moment here, that’s what you come back with – ‘And me’?”

“Do you want a poem?”

“Moments gone.” Dean turned on the television. “Unbelievable.” He passed Sam a beer and they drank in silence.

They’ve shaked and baked their way through a handful of demons since that case; trying to get any information on the real demon that holds Dean’s contract. But they keep hitting a brick wall. Whatever owns the agreement to Dean’s demise scares the holy hell out of every demon they’ve encountered.

Sam might have a lead on a novel way out of Dean’s contract. It doesn’t involve facing off with the Demon that makes every underling willingly choose an exorcism over betrayal. The solution may be wrapped up in the potential case they’re heading to in Erie, Pennsylvania. Sam knows it will be a hard sell if his hunch is right. But he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

For now, anyway, Sam’s got another trick up his sleeve. He offered to drive from Ohio into Pennsylvania so Dean could get some shut eye. The trek had taken longer because he passed right on by Erie. On purpose.

Sam’s luck ran out about an hour from the destination when Dean stretched and sat up in the backseat.

Sam clocked Dean in the rearview mirror. He checked his watch. Eyes widened. “What the hell? Did you drug me? I’ve been out for like seven hours.”

Sam had thought about knocking his brother out. Thankfully, he didn’t need to resort to that. Yet. 

Sam shrugged. “My smooth driving lulled you to sleep.”

“Yeah, right.” Dean chuckled.

Sam’s jaw clenched as he passed a highway distance sign that displayed the city where they were headed.

“Sam.” The mirth in Dean’s voice disappeared. “Sam,” he repeated. “Are you lost? You better be lost.”

Dean has always looked out for Sam. Sam knows, deep down, Dean’s always wanted happiness for him. Sam wants that for Dean, too. If Sam can unload Dean off to someone that might be able to help him get happiness in whatever form - whether it’s the hunting life with Elina or the suburban life with Lisa - why shouldn’t Dean get the chance to try? 

“Pull over,” Dean ordered.

Sam shook his head. “Nope.”

“Bitch, what the fuck?”

“Consider this a proactive discussion prior to the demon deal dissolution.”

Dean groaned. His head flopped onto the backrest. “I’m so kicking your ass when you stop this car. And, you’ve gotta stop eventually.”

“It’ll be worth it.” The hesitance in Sam’s voice contradicted the certainty of his words.

Dean was directly behind him now. Sam could feel Dean’s warm breath on the back of his neck as he huffed, “Really?”

Sam swallowed hard. “Yep. We’re gonna find a way to save you, Dean. And, when we do, Elena’s gonna remember all of it.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean murmured.

“Well, if she doesn’t, then Bobby and I will tell her everything that happened.” 

Dean slapped him upside the head.

“Jerk! I’m driving!” Sam exclaimed.

“It won’t change anything.” Dean slid to the middle of the back seat. “It won’t change how I feel. She’s better off without me, Sam, and you know it.”

“No, I don’t. And how would she know it when she doesn’t even remember you? You got a shit deal and Elena got dragged in as a free gift with your order.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I know you didn’t. But, Dean,” –Sam glanced at his brother– “Elena didn’t ask for it either.”

“She’s trying the normal life thing. That’s good. I’d just complicate it all again.”

“You could give the normal life thing a try, too, you know.”

“You aren’t gonna shut up about this are ya?”

“Nope. Come on, no time like the present.” Because there’s literally no time, Sam thought.

~~~~

Ugh. No time!

I rummage through the jewelry box. Again. My gaze darts to the alarm clock on the nightstand. I should have left the apartment five minutes ago if I wanted to appear fashionably late. 

The attempt at nonchalance is no longer an option. I will now have to text Gary. 

Running later than expected. Wait for me?

Thoughts claw their way up the curtains in my head when I rush like this. I can’t find my grandmother’s rose gold necklace. I know I didn’t lose it. At least I hope not.

Are the blouse and skirt not dressy enough for Bella Notte? I forgot to ask Gary if it’s a formal restaurant. If I send another text it will be obvious I’m obsessing way more than I should. Maybe the outfit is too much? If it is, I probably don’t need the necklace, too. But now that I went searching for it and it’s not where I expected it to be, I have to find it.

My fingers thread through my hair and grip my skull. I’ve gotta calm my ass down. 

The phone chirps with news of a Gary response.

Nowhere I gotta be but waiting for a beautiful woman. Just don’t stand me up, alright? 

Gary’s flirting. And even through the technical distance of texting this attention increases the beating of my racing heart. I steady my fingers to type.

Of course not.

Screw it. It’s taken almost a year for this first date to happen. I can tear the apartment upside down for the necklace I was going to wear when I return. 

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the jewelry box mirror. I touch the soft leather cord around my neck. It doesn’t go with the blouse. But I promised Bobby I wouldn’t take the thing off when he gave it to me months ago. 

I sigh, thinking about the grouch in the hospital bed. Back then, he asked where the fire was that I needed to get to in such a goddamn hurry. I wasn’t about to tell him I was running away from an avalanche of attitude by the name of Dean Winchester. The passing thought of that guy still bristles my fur. What the hell was his problem?

Bobby ordered me to hand over his duffle I’d brought from the hotel room. It took him a couple minutes to sift through it as he grumbled about my packing job. Eventually, he pulled out a cord with a charm.

“Should have given you one of these years ago, L. They only gotta find a chink in your armor when you’re the most vulnerable. Lost. Without hope.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Demons, knucklehead.” He rubbed the scrap of hair atop his balding skull.

I frowned. “My place is warded to ‘Singer Specifications.’” I air-quoted. “Salt lines get redone on the windows and doors weekly with double-sided tape. I’ve got a spray bottle of holy water on the kitchen counter. You even told me you peeled the upholstery off the roof of my car to paint a Devil’s Trap under it.”

He cleared his throat. “Right, I forgot I did that.” He waves the cord at me. “Overkill? Maybe? But a lot of shit’s been stirred up lately. And there’s an increase in demon activity because of it. Humor an old man. Put it on and promise me you won’t take it off. Ever.”

“Ever?”

He nodded. “Shower with it. Sleep with it. The whole nine yards.” 

I’d kept my promise. 

But, tonight. Well, tonight, fashion sense beats common as I pull the cord over my head. Before I can drop it into my jewelry box, there’s a knock at my door.

I frown, stuff the cord and charm in my grip, and wonder who’s paying me a visit and how fast I can get rid of them. “Who is it?” I call out.

“Uh, it’s Dean Winchester.” The voice rumbles. “You probably don’t remember me.”

“Oh no,” I mumble and rush to the door. I’m face to face with him after a quick unlock and pull. “What happened?” The question spews out. I hear how frantic I sound.

His eyes widen and punctuate his already shocked expression. “What?”

“Bobby! What happened?”

“Nothing. Bobby’s fine. Back in Sioux Falls, far as I know. Talked to him just yesterday.” He raises a hand to apparently calm me.

The gesture has the opposite effect. From my limited encounters, any reaction from this man reeks of condescension. I lash out with what I think is biting sarcasm. “Good. Hopefully Bobby put me down as his emergency contact like I asked, Mr. Snyderson.”

He confuses me further with a smile.

I shake my head and try not to focus on how cute his smile is. Or how long his lashes are and how that only adds to the flirtatious vibes when his lids flutter over those green eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Sam and I were in the area. On the way to a case.” He rocks back and forth from heel to sole.

I peek past him to the staircase landing. No Sam.

“He’s waiting in the car, outside.” Dean clears his throat. “He figured it was better I do this alone.”

My hand lands on my hip as I try my best cool-and-could-care-less stance. “Do what?”

He sighs. “Apologize.”

I’m staring up at this guy. Not as tall and eclipsing as his brother, but still much taller than me. He’s wearing a leather jacket that’s a little too big for his frame. A fleeting thought has me wondering if it’s Sam’s. But that can’t be right. An older brother doesn’t get his younger brother’s hand-me-downs. There’s hesitation and uncertainty in his eyes. Their gaze flits from side to side. For a moment, he seems smaller.

And sincere.

“I’m on my way out,” I state. Then add, “but you can come in for a minute.” 

He tugs a smile up the corner of his mouth and hurries inside. My nose twitches at the odor of stale sweat and something metallic.

“This is a nice little place you got here. Just like I imagined it would be.”

Why the hell had he been imagining what my place looks like?

His hands disappear into his jacket pockets. He strolls into the middle of my apartment.

I close the door. “You mentioned apologizing.” I’ve got places to be, buddy.

Dean turns to stare back at me. He lifts a brow, then steels his jaw. “Yeah.” He rotates on his heels to face me full on. “I was a dick and you didn’t deserve any of my bullshit. I’ve been going through some shit for about a year… not an excuse, I know that. But, I figured an explanation to go along with the apology was in order. Trying to make amends to the people I wronged before I hang up my hunting license.”

“You’re quitting?” For some reason, the confession utterly surprises me. I know nothing about this guy. But, none of that lines up in my brain about him. “Getting out of the life?”

“Something like that, yeah.” He smiles. It’s forced and pinned high on his cheeks. “Got any tips?”

“Tips?”

“Yeah, how’d you do it?”

I shake my head. “Tips should come from someone who’s done it successfully. I can’t say I’ll never get wrapped up in a case again. It’s a work in progress.”

He shrugs. The long jacket sleeve almost swallows his clenched fist at the action. “I don’t know. You’ve got a job. Your own place. Sounds pretty successful to me.” He spins, slow and deliberate, taking in the details of my apartment.

It should feel intrusive. Privacy invading. But, I find myself taking advantage of the opportunity to study his mannerisms. His lids squint, then relax. He licks his top lip. There’s a slight nod to some steady bopping tune that might be playing in his head.

Dean halts and stares at something. He bends over and leans to the side. On his way to the dresser, he crouches with creeping steps. Investigation mode appears to be activated with a graceful squat. A hand sweeps along the wood floor out of my view. He hops up to standing. Something shiny dangles between his fingers.

I float over in adulation at the sight. “Oh wow, you found it!”

He grins and drops it into my open, waiting palm. “Pretty important?”

“A gift from my grandmother.” My gaze darts to the corner behind the dresser where it had been hiding. I connect the dots. “It must have slipped over the side.” I inhale and beam at Dean. “Thank you.”

“Glad I could help.”

I drop the anti-possession charm on the dresser and use both hands to put on Grandma’s rose gold necklace.

Dean points to the leather cord. “Don’t forget that.”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t go.”

The judgment in his eyes wipes away any mirth on his face. “Bobby gave you that, didn’t he? He’d be awfully disappointed to know you weren’t taking precautions. ‘Out of the life’ doesn’t mean you slack off on being careful.” He scoops up the cord and unties the knot. A nod precedes his order. “Hold your arm out.”

I’ve obeyed before I realize it. He wraps the cord around my wrist a few times, turning it into a bracelet. Warm fingers fumble against my skin to fasten the leather. They slide up my forearm just enough to tuck the charm under my cuffed sleeve. “There,” he states. “Don’t have to worry about clashing or demons tonight.”

I’m about to thank him again when his eyes do a double-take in the direction of my dresser. He stares in surprise. “You-uh-you collect a lot of cat figurines, huh?”

I huff out a laugh and joke, “Yeah, I’m easing into the crazy cat lady role.”

He picks one up from the dozen miniature cats without asking.

I smile at the little angel in his hand. “That’s my favorite one.”

Dean raises a brow. “Another gift?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Best guess is the people that rented the apartment before me forgot it in the dresser they left behind. I found it in the bottom of a drawer under my clothes one day.”

“Oh.” He nods. “Why’s it your favorite?”

“I don’t know. Just makes me smile.”

“Hmm.” There’s a far away expression on his face.

I suddenly remember I am now very, very late for a date. “Well, Dean, I appreciate you coming by to apologize. No hard feelings. I hope things work out for you. Really.”

Dean relocates the angel with care. He straightens and gains a couple of inches. “I can use all the hope I can get.”

I nod along with him for what seems like forever.

“Riiight.” He stretches the word. “Have a nice night.”

I trail him to the door. “Tell Sam I said hi?”

He turns and looks at me. “Will do.” A hitch of breath follows. I wait for him to say whatever it is he seems to be mulling over. He offers me a soft smile. “Goodbye, Elina.”

The door opens and closes in a second and he’s gone. I’ve been surprisingly affected again by one Dean Winchester. And even though the apology should make me feel better, I somehow find myself worrying about the mysterious and aloof hunter.

I sigh and choose not to dwell on it if I can help it. After all, I’ve got a date! 

I rush to the bathroom one more time.

~~~~

Gary’s lips are insistent. Not super rough. His hands curl about my waist. The door handle by the passenger seat presses into my lower back.

The front seat of my VW bug isn’t very roomy. But, here we are, parked at the Staircase Rapids Canoe and Kayak Launch along the Delaware River. The deserted pull off and the moonlight dancing over the water make for a decent and impromptu makeout location.

Dinner was nice enough. I thought my Fettuccine Alfredo was a little runny. But I kept those thoughts to myself.

Gary was a nice enough dinner companion – from the crusty Italian bread with the dipping oil to the Tiramisu we shared. After months of building Gary up in my head, I thought I’d only find more of him to be starry eyed about. Once we could finally talk uninterrupted, the only new thing I’ve found out is he’s very good at deflecting. He offered up short and stubby answers to most of my questions. 

I assumed a cool disinterest had crept up in him by the end of the night. He didn’t ask anything very personal. There was nothing deep and probing. Well, except for his tongue currently in my mouth.

As I rate his kissing technique (there’s too much swirl and suction for my liking) I’m also wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Why am I not able to let go and enjoy the closeness and warmth of this other person? It’s been way too long since I’ve experienced this kind of touch. I don’t need to calculate how long. My inner scorekeeper quickly reminds me. It’s been almost two years since my one night stand in Wildwood, New Jersey. 

I’m swimming in a haze of too much wine mixed with indecisiveness. His fingers skirt under the hem of my blouse and test the waters. When do I tell him that’s enough? Do I let him cop a feel over my bra? Despite his insistence to pay for my dinner, I slipped my credit card to the waitress so we could split the cost. I didn’t want to owe him anything.

I’ve done more for less attention and regretted it later. I shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t beat myself up for craving touch and fulfilling a basic human need.

It would be easy if I didn’t want more. And I’m realizing with every slip and slurp of Gary’s mouth that there isn’t going to be anything more than this. Whatever happens.

He whispers in my ear that I look incredibly hot tonight. I should gasp a thank you or toss him a complementary compliment. Instead, I’m reminding myself how expendable and forgettable I am. I’m tallying up how many people I expected to stick around –who displayed a modicum of care and interest– actually did.

Gary has been, well, nice enough. I recall how he offered to look at my brakes months back. Fixed them for me at cost at the garage where he moonlights.

All the chance encounters with this man have been thrilling and invigorating. After tonight, they could be embarrassing and stomach upsetting.

Cause this doesn’t feel right.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I finally get what I think I want… and… it’s not.

“Whatsa matter, baby?” he mumbles the question into my mouth.

I snatch at the opportunity presented. My hand rests atop his chest to push him away. I am done inhaling the red wine and cocoa on his breath. “I-I think it’s getting late.” His offer to drive me home in my car, after I had too much wine, is now an obvious problem. I scramble to sound invested in his well being. “You don’t want to call Jason too late for that drive back to the restaurant to pick up your truck, do you?”

“Sweet of you to worry, but I’m a big boy.” He combs some of my hair behind my ear. “You aren’t having a good time?”

“No,” I hurry out my answer. Gary’s figure is awash in the ashy gray of evening. His face, half in pitch black shadow, gives me little to read. The whites of his eyes are the only thing I can make out well. He blinks in wait. I continue. “I had a great time. But, it’s getting late.”

“We could have an even better time if you’d relax.” His thin lips curl up high into a smirk. Hands overpower with ease and clamp over my wrists. A push and I’m smothered between his chest and the door. He grapples my arms tight against my sides. His mouth latches onto my neck. “Isn’t this what you’ve been wanting?” His question vibrates under my skin.

My heart beats for release. “Gary, please…”

“Hm, begging for it already.” He chuckles.

“No.” I squirm. I shake my head, lift my shoulder in vain to detach his lips from me. “Take me home, please.”

He groans out an exasperated sigh. His bangs sweep over my lips. “For fuck’s sake. We could’ve had a good time tonight, El.” His teeth click. He launches backward into the driver’s seat.

I sit up and wedge farther into the little corner between the door and the seat. Where the hell can I run where he won’t catch me right away? There isn’t anything for five miles in either direction on this stretch of road heading back to Matamoras from Pond Eddy. I massage the skin of one wrist. Maybe I can convince him to drive me home? Promise to continue the fun at my apartment? I could hop out of the car and run to the 24-hour Smoke Shop a block away. 

When I switch to the other wrist I notice something’s missing.

Gary starts the engine. The dashboard illuminates and winks to life. He taps on the overhead light. My leather cord dangles from the tips of his fingers. He eyes the charm swaying back and forth. His lips peel back and display pearly whites. “Fuckin’ piece of shit,” he hisses. Under the engine hum a whirr accompanies the opening of the driver’s side window. With a quick slingshot, my necklace disappears into the darkness outside.

“What the hell are you doing?” I’m surprised at my ability to sound angry.

“What did Dean have to say when he stopped by earlier?” Gary asks and turns to look at me. I can see every inch of his face now but he’s not any easier to read.

Oh. Shit.

I grab the door handle.

But I’m not faster than Gary.

He cups the back of my head and slams my forehead into the curved outcrop of the dash. A shock of whiplash shuffles the contents of my skull. It’s followed by a ringing in my ears. Fingers weave into my hair and tug me to sit upright, tipping my head back like a Pez dispenser. I scream at the corkscrew twisting of his hand. Hundreds of strands yank out of my scalp. 

“The Winchesters.” Gary is calm and stone faced. He’s in my personal space, staring down at me. “Where are they headed?”

“I-I don’t know.” Balance upended, I’m woozy and confused. “How-, why-”

“Those two are stupid enough to get themselves killed if they aren’t careful, El. Help ‘em out. Tell me where they are going.”

“I t-t-told you. I don’t kn-”

I hear a crack, then realize it was the side of my head getting slammed into the car window. A dull, heavy pulse bangs against the kettle drum that is my brain.

“We gotta do it the hard way, huh?”

I slump against the glass and close my eyes. The surface is cool, slippery. Despite the pain radiating throughout my body, I could fall asleep.

Gears shift. The car judders forward in that familiar way when I give it a little too much gas. Then, it slows to a crawl.

“We’ve got a pool going, seeing how boring as hell it’s been topside lately. Pun intended, by the way.” Gary hums a little to the pop tune blaring from the radio. “Who’s Dean gonna run to before his deal comes due?” He announces the question like a game show host. “I had my money on you. Always thought you had an advantage over Lisa. I mean, yeah, there’s Ben. That meat stick has a soft spot for kids. But, you, I mean come on, you were in the life. You know what it’s like. You get him. Well, when you remember him.” Gary snorts. “You saved him for fuck’s sake!”

I force my lids open. Something sticky’s blurring the vision of my right eye. The headlights are creeping over a dirt path. Gary taps the steering wheel to the song’s beat. 

“Wha- talkin’ ‘bout?” I murmur.  

“You pulled out in the lead at the last minute. Spray a little scrubbing bubbles in there” – he presses a finger to my temple – “and I’ll get what I need, get out of this ass backwards town and onto bigger and better things. A promotion from Lilith. Maybe visit New York City. Get up to some trouble.” Gary turns to grin at me. I’m seeing double, his figure swimming in and out of focus. 

His eyes turn totally black.

I shake my head. The pounding only increases.

A demon. There’s a fucking demon driving my car.

“Gotta say I’m a little disappointed.” Gary slams the brake pedal hard. My body flails back into the seat. I groan as Gary continues talking, shifting into park while the engine runs. “Thought we could have some real fun before getting down to the doldrums of business. This wasn’t the way Gary wanted to end up inside you, either.”

I gotta get out of here. I reach for one of the door handles but I only fist at air. Beyond the car hood, I can only make out a sliver of the dirt path awash in high beams. Ripples of water, the color of black volcanic glass, sway and meet the edge of the earth. 

Sudden and abrupt, Gary’s palms cradle my head. A kaleidoscope of black-eyed masks circle in my vision. “Open wide so I can have a peek, baby.” His jaw unhinges. Smoke expels from between his lips. Onyx clouds hang in the air. Terror bubbles up and a pitiful yelp leaves me. His gaping hole of a mouth turns up at the corners in a sinister cheshire cat grin. 

The smoke appears sentient, swirling its form into a thread with a needle-like point heading right toward my mouth. Then, I feel the invasion. The alien gas slides down my throat. It violates and expands throughout my lungs and inflates in dominance. It’s rough, uncaring, pawing under my skin for control. My vision is gone, a complete blackout. I can’t stop blinking in hopes I will see something, anything. I gasp somewhere, far away, for breath. 

“There we go, baby.” It’s my voice, but I’m not saying the words. I’ve been amputated from the body I’m stuck inside. The prisoner part of me rattles around in my brain, beating against my skull. “It’ll be better if you don’t fight.”

My sight returns but it’s distorted. I’m peeking through a fisheye lens. My hand adjusts the rear view mirror - without any directive that’s mine - so I can stare at my reflection. Half of my face is smeared in blood. My blood. My fingers push matted hair off my forehead and cheek. My eyes leer at my own visage, lascivious and coveting. My tongue peeks out to lick the blood dripping from my nose.

“Oh, we’re gonna be able to get so much more done with this body.” Incorporeal fingers flip through my memory. “Hm. You weren’t lying. You don’t know where they went.” 

“Elina?” A hoarse voice mumbles out of Gary’s body slumped in the driver’s seat.

“All those naughty thoughts.” My voice holds a condescending, judgy tone, as I stare at Gary. “Maybe if you’d paid more attention to taking care of that sickly aunt you wouldn’t be in this mess, Gar.” One of my hands feels its way up Gary’s shirt and under his suit jacket. It finds something cool and hard inside the breast pocket. My other hand unceremoniously pulls the clear bud vase from the mount it resides in near the steering wheel. “Lilith appreciates your service.”

Gary stares at the folded hunting knife in my hand. A firm wrist whip releases the blade from the confines. He scrambles to sit up in the seat. “What-what are you-”

Gary doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I’m screaming in the cage of my brain. My hand slashes at his throat, plunging deep into the flesh and meeting the resistance of bone. My wrist twists. My other hand places the bud vase near the gaping wound. Blood gurgles and spurts into the receptacle as Gary’s head flops to the side.

I can’t stop screaming. 

“Hopefully that’s enough.”

My voice quips out some lines of Latin as my eyes stare hard at the tiny vase.

“Fuck. Well, guess that killing two birds with one stone saying doesn’t apply here. Not enough juice.” My hand tosses the vase into the back of the car. “We’ll just give Sam a ring and find out where he and Dean are. Find another warm body to make another call. Then we’ll update Lilith on our progress.” I see my lips scrunch up in the mirror’s reflection. “Gary’s gonna have to go for a swim.” My body expels an exasperated sigh.

I can’t stop screaming.

“Shut the fuck up. Or when we track Dean and Sam down, I’ll cut their tongues out and feed them to you.”

I gasp, stunned and muted by the threat.

“That’s better. Now where’s that cell phone of yours.”

Dropping the knife, my hand searches the footwell by my heels. The demon will secure my purse in moments.

Dean’s face flashes in my memory. I can use all the hope I can get.

“You get him. Well, when you remember him. You saved him for fuck’s sake!” Gary’s voice - the demon’s words - replay in my head.

Demons lie. 

But I remember Sam. Sam doesn’t deserve whatever this demon has in store for him. And, deep down, I’m pretty sure Dean doesn’t deserve it either.

From the periphery of my sight, I see blood seeping out of Gary’s fatal wound. The wound my hands created.

Demons kill.

The demon won’t hesitate to do this again to someone else.

Unless I fight back.

“You can’t fight me.” My voice sing songs. “You don’t get out of this until I say.”

I remember Sam. Sam was able to do things he hadn’t thought possible when something was important enough to try and save.

“I told you to shut up.”

I realize how similar my voice sounds to my sister’s when she used to tease and scold me.

I hated that.

The engine idles, a background hum to all of the crazy.

My hand flips my phone open and begins to tap through my contacts.

I won’t be used to hurt another person. Anger boils and the body I’m in heats up around me. My thoughts zone in on how the gear shift would feel in my hand. How I’d press on the brake while I switch from Park to Drive.

The pedal bears down and the gear shift clicks to R, N, then D.

“What the–?”

I imagine my foot lifting off the brake and slamming the gas.

The car hiccups forward, almost rearing up on its wheels like a horse being whipped. It’s only a few seconds and then it’s bobbing as if it’s been fitted with hydraulics. Gary’s lifeless body bounces in the driver’s seat.

“You psycho bitch!” My voice screams. “Your funeral, not mine!” I feel my jaw open wide, stretching muscles and tendons to their limits.

The lights flicker out in the car. I focus on the sound of water lapping against the exterior. Whatever is going to happen next, I hope it’s quick.

“What the hell?!?” My voice roars in the dark. “What did you do?!? Why am I stuck?!?” My head whips side to side with a feral intensity.

I imagine chuckling like a victorious villain. The Devil’s Trap on the ceiling. Bobby came through for me. Again. Even as my body shivers at the cold water surrounding my feet, I know I can do one last thing to make the man proud. After all, I aced my Latin class in college.

I thread the words of the exorcism together, echoing in my brain.

“No! Stop!”

My body is betraying me again, either because of the demon or because I might be weakening its hold and control over my flesh. I’m fading. Lids too heavy to keep open. 

Glass breaks behind me and water rushes in. The ice cold shocks my heart. Hands wrap around my waist and tug. I’m pulled through the water. This must be what dying feels like.

I break through the water’s surface. “El!” A hand wraps around my waist. A body tangles around mine in the river and drags me somewhere. 

Pairs of hands hold me down on hard ground.

“Fuck! Sam!”

The Latin chant spills from a familiar voice, fast and furious.

Sam.

The force of water and smoke expelling from my throat jolts me awake. My eyes flicker open.

I see them.

Sam and Dean stare down at me. A heavy full moon hangs in the sky behind them.

“Hold on, El!”

Dean. 

I can’t, though.

~~~~

I wake up screaming.

Sam and Dean are gone.

No moon. No night.

I’m in a room. Yellow fluorescent light.

My heart races. Something beeps.

I stare at a drop ceiling.

“El!”

Pamela. Pamela’s here. I gasp for air.

“It’s alright, darlin’.” Her hand soothes a warm trail up and down my arm.

I slowly realize “here” is a hospital room. I am in a bed, sensors taped to skin and needles tapped into veins.

“Aw, sweetie. Everyone’s gonna be so happy to know you’re awake. Doctor’s gonna want to check you out and talk to you.” She sighs. “Unfortunately, so are the police.”

My mind swims with newfound knowledge. “Dean.” I croak out. “Where’s Dean?” I turn to see her watercolor blue eyes inspect me. The usual troublemaker grin is nowhere to be found.

She pats my hand. “Later, sweetie. Listen to me now.”

“Pamela…”

“Do you remember what happened to you? In the car?” She strokes the hair atop my head. “Do you remember what that thing did to you? Do you remember what it made you do to Gary?”

The knife in Gary’s throat. The blood. I nod. The tears flow.

Pamela nods back. “That’s what the police want to talk to you about,” she whispers. “But, if you claim it was self-defense-that he was gonna hurt you-trust me, it’ll be an easy sell. Those two lawyers you work for, Mitch and Ryan?” I nod as she continues. “They’ve been by to check on you and keep me informed of the investigation. Gary’s Aunt Cheryl’s been rotting away in the  basement of her house for months. Gary” –her voice even lower– “that thing joyriding him, it had you in its sights all that time, just waiting for the right moment, like a goddamn serial killer. Cops found photos of you all over the house and satanic” –she air quotes– “stuff in his room.”

My head spins. “Why? Why was it after Sam and Dean?”

A nurse pops in. Her face lights up. “Oh. How’s the patient?”

Pamela smiles and grips my wrist. “Sis just woke up.”

The nurse beelines to the side of my bed and checks the IV drip. Her gaze skirts over me and then at the monitor. “Dr. Wallace is making the rounds.” She clears her throat. “We’ve been given specific instructions to notify the police department as soon as…”

Pamela waves a hand, “Just do whatever you gotta do so we can get her out of here as soon as she’s able. Please.”

The nurse nods and zips out of the room.

“Sis?” I notice a dull throb from my forehead extends to the right side of my head. Oh, yeah, my skull met the dashboard and a window. The painkillers are obviously holding back a torrent of pain.

“Bobby needed one of your relatives to watch over you while he…” Pamela trails off.

“He’s with them, isn’t he? Sam and Dean?”

“What do you remember?”

It’s all a jumble. Memories and thoughts can’t reconcile themselves. “I remember knowing Dean, and then… not. And then, knowing him again.”

Her fingers rub circles atop my hand. “I don’t know all the details. Bobby’s a vault when he swears to secrecy. But, the long and short of it… this Dean Winchester made some kind of demon deal almost a year ago.”

I close my eyes. All I hear in my head is Dean.

I don’t like any of this, though, not one bit. I can’t keep literally dragging you into my shit.

Whatever this connection is, it’s obvious we don’t have any control over it. And that can go real bad, real quick.

You’re special. And I want you to stay that way.

“Oh, Dean,” I whisper. “What did you do?”

“Hey.” Pamela gives me a soft nudge. “This Dean sounds like a ton more trouble than he’s worth. You need to worry more about yourself right now, those police that are going to be by, and getting better. Bobby’s orders.”

~~~~ 

I was in the hospital for two more days under observation because of the head trauma I sustained. Once they ran me back and forth for numerous tests I finally got discharged with orders to rest.

I’ve been on lockdown for three weeks. I’ve also got security detail.

Not from the cops, mind you. I was convincing enough with my story. They bought that what I did to Gary was in self-defense. It wasn’t like I had to embellish much, just selectively omit some details. The demon had left a trail of crazy and murder that only supported my innocence.

No, I’m on lockdown with Pamela. And Garth, my security detail, has been ordered by Bobby to act as a sentinel outside my building. When he’s not in his car by the entrance during the day, he’s tucked into a sleeping bag by the threshold of my door at night. Pamela sleeps on the couch. I am within eyesight of either one of them in my twin bed. No one could ever claim this studio apartment is spacious.

It’s not so much about who might be coming after me, I suspect, as much as where I might run off to. Bobby called Pamela often. There’d been discussions, of which I’d not been allowed input, that maybe I should be moved. But the logistics and the where couldn’t be agreed. I couldn’t be taken to Sioux Falls. That meant Sam and Dean were there.

Garth had to get on the phone one night and offer, “Geez, Bobby. Law enforcement here is so on edge even the wind changing direction gets the third degree. No way anyone new or somethin’ out of the ordinary gets by them for quite a while. This is probably the safest place for El to be right now.”

That seemed to be good enough for Bobby, finally. Not for me. All I want are answers from Dean about why he thought wiping my memory of him was a great idea. More importantly, all I want to do is help him. Nothing involving a demon is good, I’m living proof. And anything involving a deal with a demon is a thousand times worse.

Pamela went out for food and supplies one morning while “cousin” Garth and I had a late Saturday breakfast. It was the first time we’d been by ourselves.

“You never met Sam and Dean Winchester?” I ask and slurp the sweet sugared milk from my cereal bowl.

“Nope.” Garth helps himself to another serving of the copycat Froot Loops.

I sit up and eye him as he digs in. “So, it was Bobby, then, that had you destroy my phone?”

He gasps, then coughs, mouth full of cereal. A little milk dribbles out of his nose. The features on his cue ball of a head scrunch in towards the center at his discomfort. “What?”

“Come on, Garth. Be honest with me.”

He wipes the mess off his face. “Alright, fine. Yes, Bobby had me do it.” He raises a hand. “And before you ask, I swear I don’t know why. He just told me you needed to be kept out of harm’s way and getting rid of your phone would help with that. So, I did.”

“I know why,” I mumble. “Erase any trace of Dean. It was probably Dean’s idea and Bobby just had you execute it.” I stand, itchy with irritation, and head over to the sink to deposit my cereal bowl. “Doesn’t it piss you off? The way Bobby doles out orders and we’re supposed to follow them without question?”

Garth blows his nose, I’m guessing to clear it of any residual milk. He flares his nostrils and does a little head shake. “Way I see it, Bobby’s survived this long on more than a little luck and a lot of praying. Like it or not, he’s usually right.” Garth looks up at me from his seat. His face wrinkles up into a thoughtful expression. “Bobby did tell me you got pretty close to those Winchesters. The Dean fella, in particular.”

I cross my arms, lean against the tiny bit of counter space that makes up my kitchenette. “I thought so.” I sweep my socked foot along the linoleum floor. My gaze lands on the cat figurine collection across the room on the dresser.

“Thought?”

I zone in on the cat angel. The one Dean got me. The one he picked up when he was here and trying to apologize when I didn’t remember everything. “Being close to someone means having faith in them. That’s how it goes for me anyway.”

“Faith is hard to come by for some people.” Garth shrugs. “You and I are close but it wasn’t always like that. I had to earn it. Look me in the eyes and say you have faith in everything I do with a straight face.” He raises his eyebrows.

I feel my mouth quirk up into a grin. “Fair enough,” I chuckle.

There’s a tell tale knock at the door. It’s the secret knock and I start for the door. But Garth raises a finger and sprints over before me.

Pamela breezes in with a couple bags. “Alright, I think I got everything on the list.” She drops them on the table and pulls out a newspaper for Garth.

“Thanks, Pammy. Gotta catch up on what Marmaduke’s up to.”

She smiles softly at him, then hands me a pile of envelopes. “Grabbed your mail.”

“Thanks, Pammy.” I parrot Garth.

I don’t get the same sweet smile at the use of the nickname. “I’m makin’ rice and beans tonight. Not up for discussion.”

“Hmmm.” Garth rubs his non-existent tummy and wades through the newspaper.

The two of them chatter. I walk to the couch and flop on it, flipping through the mail. Bill. Bill. Junk. But then there’s an envelope with my name and address handwritten on it. The print is haphazard and hurried. It’s postmarked from Sioux Falls from about a week ago. And in the top left corner are two letters.

D.W.

I purse my lips to hold in a gasp. Once I compose myself I announce, “Anyone gotta use the bathroom before I take a shower?”

“Nope,” Pamela states.

“I am A OK,” Garth replies. “Pammy, you like Garfield?”

I pull some clean clothes out of the dresser and dash into the bathroom while they discuss the merits of Odie.

It’s the only place I can get any privacy. I sit on the toilet, my change of clothes a heap in my lap, and Dean’s letter in my hands.

My entire body shivers. I inhale deep and slow to try and calm down, but it’s not helping. A finger inches under the flap and rips open the envelope. I unfold three pieces of paper that were inside. The first one is on stationery from The Aviary Hotel.There’s a crease etched in the middle, top to bottom, and a few left to right; it’s been folded into a smaller square at some point in the past.

The writing is tight and neat. Different from the one on the envelope.

I’m not gonna apologize for how I acted today, El.  What would be the point, anyway? You wouldn’t understand why I had to.  Take my advice and stay as far away from Sam and me as possible. –Dean

Short and not very sweet. But, I think back to the altercation I had with Dean in the hotel room with the loudest wallpaper I’d ever seen. It was when I didn’t remember, months back. Bobby had been in the hospital. I shake my head, even now, at how obnoxious Dean had been.

The fucker was doing everything in his power to make sure I wasn’t gonna give a shit about him. But why? Why the memory wipe? I tuck the page behind the others.

The next page is on very familiar stationery. I gave it to Bobby as a cheeky little gift one Christmas. He never uses it, but I know where he stashes it - in the right side drawer of the desk in his library.

Dean found that stationery and probably sat at that very desk to write what I’m now reading. The page has crinkles in it, like it was balled up and thrown out.

I let out a chuckle in nervous hiccups at Dean’s scribble right under the fancy font.

A bunch of BS from the desk of B.S. Ain’t that the truth!!! El, Bobby told me you remember everything. His friend Pamela told him that you’ve been asking about me. I don’t know why your memories came back. The deal’s not up yet. I’m glad you’re gonna get to go home soon. I’m so sorry you got caught in the middle of all of this ,. princess I always just wanted you safe. As much as I wish things could be different, nothing good comes from being around me. It kills me you had to find out the hard way with the demon riding that guy. All those times you saved me and didn’t give up on me, it kills me I’ll never be able to repay you proper. I’m glad you remember me now. Truth is, I didn’t think you ever would again.  It hurt to have to push you away all this time. To not reach out and tell you about the stupid thing I did when I was crazy in my head over losing Sam. He died, El. About a year ago.

I stop reading. Drop the papers in my lap. I recall the very healthy looking Sam I saw months back. And the one who helped rescue me only weeks ago.

I traded my soul to bring him back. But the crossroads demon only gave me a year before my bill came due. 

My heart beat increases, pounds in my head. Dean’s words trigger the pain from the assault, a deep ache in my bones. My skin prickles with anger. 

Sam died a year ago and Dean’s deal was for a year. 

No, Dean. No.

The bitch thought it’d be cute to wipe your memory of every little bit of me as part of the agreement. You gotta believe me, El, that’s not what I wanted. I may have thought it was better you’d never met me. But I never would have traded losing you for Sam. Me, that’s a no-brainer. 

I turn the page over and continue to read Dean’s words through my blurry vision. The other pages scatter onto the tile floor.

I want It just twisted the knife, having you look at me like I was a stranger. Having to tear into you hurt so fucking much. But it was all I could do to drive that urge to help out of you. You were a great hunting partner. One of the best. It’s selfish of me and dangerous for you, but I’ve thought about what it would be like having you hunt with Sam and me again. Like a team. And it feels right. I think that life, if the apple pie life was never in the cards for me, that would have been nice. 

But my time is almost up, so I’m gonna try to hold on to what might have been, wherever I’m going.  I just want to tell you that I love  need you to stay safe, alright. I need you to be okay when all this is over. And, I need you to be there for Sam. And maybe, maybe he can be there for you, when you want to remember me. Cause I’ll never forget you, Suds. -Dean  

Both hands cover my mouth. I stifle the sobs. It’s not helping and I’m only getting louder. Pamela or Garth will knock on the door soon. I lean to the left and twist the faucet knob. A spurt of water shoots out. A steady stream soon follows.

I wish he’d tried to tell me. That night when he was here. I would have thought he was crazy. But, still, I might have told him to have Sam come up and confirm. I might have called Bobby. I might never have gone to meet Gary.

I could have been with them all this time. Trying anything and everything to help. I grab the page again and look at that word he’s crossed out. Love. He could have written anything after that. He could have just wanted to remind me that he loves pie.

But somehow, I think not.

More tears come.

I flip the lever so water cascades out of the showerhead. I wipe my soggy eyes with the back of my hand and gather up the other dropped pages.

The last page wasn’t written by Dean. The print is large and loopy. Sam. 

Dean tossed both these letters out today. The first one he’d been carrying around in his bag for months in an envelope with your name on it. I saw him dump it in Bobby’s office along with the second note. I wanted to give you the chance to read them now, in case there’s time for you to reach out before we track down Lilith. Maybe give him a reason to keep fighting, El. Cause he’s tired of hearing me. He’s trying to hold on but the closer he gets to the clock running out… I can’t lose him, either. Sam.

I leave all the pages atop the sink. My gaze lingers on the phone number Sam wrote at the bottom of the note. It’s gotta be Dean’s. My brain and body go on autopilot. I cry as I shower, towel off, and then dress into my second set of pajamas for the day.

By the time I exit the bathroom, Garth is gone, and Pamela waits for me on the couch. She’s the best big sister I could ask for in that moment, opening her arms for me to collapse into and cry some more. She waits until I’m ready to tell her everything. When I’m done, she tucks my damp hair behind my ears and gives me a nod for courage.

“You do what you got to do, sweetie. I’ll be out in the hall. When you need me, that’s where I’ll be.”

I know he won’t pick up. And, I don’t know what I’m gonna leave on his voicemail. I stand up and walk over to the dresser. I place Sam’s note on top of it, by my cat figurine collection, and punch in the numbers. The ringing begins and I stare at the little cat angel, readying to say anything after Dean’s greeting.

“This is Dean’s other, other cell so you must know what to do.”

“Hi.” My voice eeks out, a whispery rasp. I clear my throat. “Dean. It’s me. El. I-I just wanted to tell you that I’m-I’m pissed. I’m pissed that you didn’t hang around at the hospital and wait for me to wake up. Cause, ah, I-I did think of a tip for you.” The lump in my throat makes my breath hitch. “Don’t quit the life. Not yet. And don’t wait so damn long to kiss me the next time you see me, Winchester. I’ll, I’ll be waiting.”

I circle my finger along the halo of the little kitty.

~~~~

I don’t sleep that night. I wait for his call. When my phone finally rings, it’s a little after two in the morning.

But the name on the screen is Bobby. He hasn’t called me direct since I’ve been out of the hospital.

I answer but don’t say anything. Just wait for the old man’s voice.

“I’m sorry, L. He’s-he’s gone.”

[s-d23]

How I fell in love

with The Walking Dead, Bethyl and Team Delusional. No one asked. Lol but I wanted to share! Back in 2014 I had heard of TWD but had never seen an episode, had no idea of the plot or who the characters were, all I assumed that it was a "scary" TV show and that was it. So in July I was flipping through the channels and ran across the dead, white and blue marathon. I was working but yea I could do my job and watch TV with no interruptions from my then 1 yo. The very first episode I laid my eyes on was Still. Can you believe that? The first random episode I found was my now favorite Still!! I had no idea of any background stories, I didn't even know their names at the time. All I seen was 2 young people running around an apocalypse with zombies who had major chemistry. It felt like a normal date night in the country. Finding an old abandoned house in the woods, drinking moonshine, someone getting too drunk and wanting to fight or argue, sitting on the porch and the crickets in the back ground. Sounds like a normal night in the south especially for a young couple. Hell, the first time my husband told me he loved me was when he was drunk on homemade moonshine and I live in NC but that's a different story. I kept watching these two characters and thinking they are going to at least make out! Really thinking they were going to go back into that cabin and (insert smut) however we all know they didn't. They did burn it down which again is a typical thing to do in the south burn something or have a big bon fire. I never once felt that there was some crazy age difference. I had no idea of their ages. After watching that episode I watched the next few and quickly realized that TWD was not all about scary zombies. I was in love and obsessed. I went and bought every season which was 4 at the time. By October I was completely caught up and so excited to find out what happened to beth and wanted the Bethyl reunion! I had not shipped a tv couple so hard since Spike and Buffy in high school!! Then Coda happened and I was so effected. I felt like I was actually mouring someone real not just a fictional character on a TV show. I cried myself to sleep. Now mind you at the time I was a 20 something year old women with a family and for days I was actually overcome with grief! Then it hit me. The whole thing did not feel right. The way she was shot and the angle of the gun. The way the music played at the end. I began to search on the internet because in my mind I really thought this has to be a fake out death and maybe someone else thought so or there was a spoiler of some sort to prove she was alive. That's when I found tumblr. I didn't know what that was before either. I found team delusional. Some of the people I followed are gone now but what everyone was saying and fact there were missing scenes that they filmed all made sense to me. I continued to watch the TWD until around season 7 or 8 then I lost interest. I never stopped following TD to see what they had to say, hoping eventually TWD would bring beth back. I never stopped reading all the bethyl ff. I did start back the main show to finish the last 2 seasons. Then of course the DD spin off. I notice the parallels on the DD show because the earlier seasons are my favorite and I have rewatched so many times. The parallels i see are of the end of season 4 and the beginning of season 5. All of the big beth episodes. I do believe that we are closer now than we have been to seeing her again! I think currently the writers want the GA to believe that Daryls happy ending will be with either Isabelle or Carol, however I think they are writing the story to seem like that, so it will be an even bigger surprise when Beth returns. ❤️

[hrodvitnon]

Alternative Mothra Characterization

Heya- so one of my favorite Kaiju to write in my own stuff is Mothra; however, my reasoning for why is the very unique way I choose to interpret and write her character (I’ve not seen anyone ever get close to this when writing her). It’s interesting for me, but simultaneously kinda dissonant when I see her characterized differently (To clarify: this is not a bad thing it is actually a very good thing due to both the intensity of my version and that fans having many different interpretations of characters only adds depth to fandom). Anywho- this version of the character goes very hard on the angst, and I figured it may be a cool thing to share because of Abraxas being- Abraxas. Consider this me sharing my method to hopefully inspire additional ideas involving her. 

At her very foundation, this Mothra is very similar to how Mothra is usually presented. Queen to Godzilla, his better half in many ways, infinitely caring for her friends and the planet, etc. However there are some major alterations to the mechanics of her Rebirth Cycle. Whenever she dies- she cannot die in the same way again (she ‘adapts’ to what killed her last and cannot be hurt by it again), each time she does die she loses a seemingly random part of her mind (memories, personality, sense of self, etc), and each time she does die- she becomes more in-tune with the planet and her life (can sense more, becomes more connected to each being, becomes more powerful).

I usually pick up the story in the modern day when she’s died possibly hundreds of times. The consequences of which are discussed below.

The adaptation clause (which I call 8-Fold Wings) adds a new dimension to combat, as her enemies need to figure out what she’s vulnerable to and what she’s already been killed by (fool me once, shame on you). Usually she can manage to beat them before they figure it out- but has to be much more careful when she encounters someone with a unique set of powers.

She’s usually so interconnected to all life that she can sense basically anything, and often takes it upon herself to try and help anyone she senses is in pain for some reason (So I basically do what DA:I did with Cole). I’m sure you can see the sorts of interactions this can often prompt when she launches into an unprovoked therapy session whenever she deems it appropriate. 

Now- onto the heavy stuff. At the point in which the audience meets her, she’s died so much that she’s mentally caught between the afterlife and mortal realm; and can barely remember anything from her past lives properly and often gets things wrong that others will correct her on. 

Speaking of others: it’s usually a very mentally taxing thing for people who know her to be around her (Godzilla, Rodan, Anguirus); as they remember who she used to be- and seeing her now, although she’s got this whimsical air, altruism, and degree of innocence, they can’t help but remember. 

Especially Godzilla. She’s died so many times in sacrifice to him, usually to power him up enough to kill some great threat, or to save his or someone else’s life, that she sometimes even forgets his name. He’s tried to get her to stop- begged her even, but it almost became an addiction to her. She grew so much stronger every time, gained so much knowledge; and each time she dies she does it to help, to save. Despite how much it hurts those around her, she can’t help but keep doing it because she could never bear to see any of them suffer the same fate. Death is a burden she believes only she can bear. She even believes that one day- she will become immortal- after dying in every way possible. Now I personally don’t write them being romantically involved for my own reasons (mostly because mothzilla’s kinda not my thing… Heresy, I know), but you easily could and it would probably be more tragic… Goji forced to watch his wife die countless times and slowly losing herself to the point where she needs to be reminded of who he is. This would tear him apart over the centuries- forcing him to either stay in a tragic relationship with her, unable to let go despite her condition, or him eventually gaining the strength to break it off and pursue something with someone else. You could even a heart-shattering moment when she returns after a death, Godzilla over the moon to see her again until she just tilts her head and him and goes, “Hello! I’m Mothra, don’t believe we’ve met before!”. 

So yeah, my own version of the Monster Queen. Could be another Abraxas timeline where the Rebirth works like this. Hope you got something outta this, whether it be ideas or just a fix of angst. 

(also sorry about doubling up on long submission posts lol. got that gxk on my mind.)

—

I really dig the idea that Mothra can’t die/be killed by the same means twice (perhaps there’s a life she’s lived where she died of old age and is now functionally immortal but can still die in other ways? Another kind of tragic element). I don’t gatekeep shipping tendencies around here, it’s cool. It’s like, I enjoy mint chocolate ice cream but someone else doesn’t, no problem, I’ll have more of the ice cream I like and they’ll have more of the ice cream they like! Win-win!

Oh, and… wow, yeah, the heavy stuff is fascinating and rife with potential angst and dramatic goodness especially where Godzilla is involved, but (and this is a good but), I found my mental playlist of earworms alternating between Die Toteninsel (Emptiness) and Schubert’s Ständchen (or Serenade) the more I read of that last bullet; specifically Schubert because I once watched a video where an opera singer analyzes video game music and intuited that the particular use of Ständchen isn’t really a happy love song but feels more about unrequited love, it feels frustrated, it feels like loss. And since this take on Mothra can tell when someone’s in pain, she goes from happy to introduce herself to who she sees is a complete stranger to all but slapped with a sensation of emotional agony. Oof.

[fireheartedpup]

I think my birthday has become a trigger for me. There's no one to invite. It's nice that my parents still want to go all out, but I don't know what to tell mom because I don't want to do anything.

No one here cares about the pandemic and I'm not even sure how much to care anymore because they stopped caring when it was still in full swing. I haven't gotten covid even though I haven't avoided my family, who stopped taking precautions a few months in and think masking is stupid, so what have I even been doing? Has it done anything at all?

I'm still happy that I haven't gotten sick other the built in body issues in... how long has it been? Five fucking years? But I miss feeling normal.

I don't want to live here and I don't want to do this and I don't know what to do even when I know what to do. The only thing that really motivates me is being angry. I hate being angry.

I don't want to live in this reality and I don't have enough money to move and whenever anyone tries to change things here, they're met with a bunch of people saying you can't change things here because we haven't changed things here so you can't change things here.

I think my dog deserves better and I don't have enough money to pay off my debt, much less a specialist. She's not neglected or anything I just have higher standards now. I'm probably still alive because of her. If I die, no one will know for days. Maybe a week or more. No one's coming to check on me.

Mom might come eventually but mom comes sporadically because she tries to give me space. I flip between wanting to cut my parents out entirely and just wanting to see them. They're still conservative and I can never trust them the same way again, but they've supported me the entire time.

I did beg for some of it. But they have supported me.

Dad's cranky because prices are going up and he didn't plan on supporting me this long and he's in the same position I am. I inherited the no friends disease. I'm fucking pedigreed in mental illness. He likes drinking wine even though eating makes him throw up now. He doesn't want to see a normal doctor.

His mom has had many cancerous growths removed. I should probably get ready to deal with his stuff.

Mom clearly wants to leave and doesn't feel she can. It's tough when being with someone makes your life harder, but you can see them actively getting better. I think it's one reason she wants to keep her flight attendant job even though she's becoming less and less physically able. She can just pick up and leave whenever she wants.

I feel stupid and useless for not earning enough by now. I know that's not entirely realistic because I read it takes two years to get over an abusive environment and it's only been one. My parents love me, but living in that house put me in fight or flight mode every time I went to the kitchen.

I feel paralyzed and when I try to look up jobs I want to break down entirely. I've made half-hearted attempts to build my own thing but it feels like I'm never able to pick the right thing, that I'll always burn out, that I can never tell what's going to work, that every thing I'm actually excited about is doomed to fail.

Sometimes I don't even want to support people because it feels like my support is the death knell for their cause.

I'm trying to restructure my thinking. I spend almost all of my time doing that. It's difficult to escape the social media whirlpool when social media is so attached to so many different forms of monetary income these days.

I thought I could get free therapy with my insurance so I could bounce this off of a therapist instead of tumblr or a random person but I'm not sure anymore so I gave up.

I feel like I'm overwhelmingly tired and negative and hurt and angry and that no one should have to deal with that.

I'm trying to make friends with my neighbors, but either I don't text back in enough time or they just don't respond. I don't know why or where or when it goes wrong. I start avoiding everyone because I'm waiting for it to go wrong.

I want to get on medication but I just saw that thing about the autistic licenses in MY state. The government doesn't want me. They don't even want me to exist. I don't want to give them the option of using it against me in any way.

It's very hard to get myself out of a spiral. I should probably look into ocd help a bit more. I don't know if that's me or if this is an offshoot of something else, but either way it's connected.

The recent blog thing has just reinforced me feeling stupid and isolated. I'm very grateful for the people who've been here for me. I don't want anyone to ever feel obligated to support me. But I'm having a really hard time.

And it feels stupid to be having a hard time. I have more than most.

I want to live in a different reality.

[eccentric-nucleus]

the game-thing i'm working on is getting to the point where i'm thinking about writing dialog & i am once again thinking about how difficult good game writing is to do. games sometimes have enormous amounts of text but a lot of it is just like, 'seven paragraphs of lore-appropriate justifications for fetching me 10 rat asses' or whatever. this is not text that is really doing anything from a thematic standpoint.

(okay lots of people seem to like the ffxiv writing so maybe i should take a look at that. but i don't know anything about that)

'visions of mana' came out recently & that got me thinking about 'legend of mana', which was for a very long time my favorite game of all time, and now might only not be in top place because it's been like 20 years since i played it and i'm a very different person from who i was then. but legend of mana's writing was like, deeply formative for me? it's just such a weird game. the main character is utterly uninvolved in all of the main quests. there are three separate main quests that are completely unrelated to each other, and you only need to complete one to trigger the end of the game. there are all these sidequests about the interiority of random villagers. more than any other game i've played, legend of mana reminds me of a fairy tale? some of the quests are just weird. there's a multi-part quest about a depressed kid who kills himself and is taken away to the underworld! there's a short, simple quest where a crazed mage is trying to get a world-destroying power that will make the stars fall, and when he gets it it's a fireworks display, and he's like "...oh", and then this never comes up again when you talk to him afterwards. he's a teacher at the magician's academy. there's such a broad spread of what a quest might be like that it's kind of impossible to tell where any one might go.

so, the mana series as a whole kind of has a recurring theme: mana power supports life. every time mana power resurges, in the form of the mana tree growing again, there are huge wars over who gets to control the flow of mana power. horrible death weapons get created to fight in those wars. civilizations are destroyed and the fighting only really stops when the mana tree is inevitably burned down. 'mana power' is kind of a representation of... the totality of existence. everything good and bad that people could possibly want. the final dungeon of legend of mana is the mana tree itself, verdant outside and consumed by luminous rot inside. the final boss is the mana goddess herself.

anyway visions of mana starts with the premise that there are all these little bucolic towns peaceably living together, and every so often they pick a random person in the town to go on a quest that ends with them being sacrificed at the mana tree, which consumes their soul. a little low-stakes compared to the mana tree's usual civilization-destroying power-struggle antics, but sure okay. the mana tree can absolutely be an evil soul-sucking thing. but it's so clearly poised for some mid-game reveal about something, & i'm concerned it's gonna go in a "actually we don't need to do all the sacrifice stuff" direction, & that would be kinda disappointing. "is a peaceful idylic existence worth the sacrifice of an innocent person", etc. something something those who walk away from omelas something something cursed child etc. it's a big swing to take! and i really do not have faith in a videogame to pull off something actually philosophical these days.

all that is to say i was thinking of replaying legend of mana for writing ideas but tbh i have no clue if it'll hold up.

[drivebyshootin]

the day he realised.

summary: have you ever experienced the true friendship? i guess, takatora samura has.

pairing: niragi // last boss (platonic soulmates only)

warning: my broken ability to write in english.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ beach. the utopia built on charisma is dead. it shone with the flame of a sacred fire, taking memories with it and erasing people who had stopped fighting from the face of the earth. people who lost to this bitch called fate which discouraged them with a sudden test not for life, but for death. 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ along with the hatter's utopia, those, who were once cherished, also disappeared. all in all, it's not possible that a person is forever alone, right? every human being is just a miserable half, imperfect, sometimes vile, but in need of someone special to complete the puzzle. because this is the meaning of life. 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ takatora had never believed in this bullshit. he didn't believe in the possibility of finding a person for whom he would replace the world. or at least become a true friend. he was always on his own. a lone samurai wandering gloomily through the back streets and frightening people by his appearance: his pale, bony legs, limping, moved very slowly, his posture had been spoiled by the hobby of its owner and his lips, nervously twitching by themselves, rarely broke into a disgusting smile. can anyone even love this? 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ so was niragi. vile, wild, terrifying and fearful on the beach residents. no one wanted to be his enemy, neither to be his friend. there is only one difference — somewhere deep in his heart he still cherished the thought that, sooner or later, his lost part of the soul would find him, they would reunite in a dance of joy and wouldn't let each other go till the end. 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ one of them is already gone. lungs, filled with the smell of burning, eyes watering from caustic smoke, fire covering the whole body in parts, tearing the skin — last boss felt and remembered everything until the last minute of his life. but he didn't cry out in pain because nothing could compare with what he had preached, living in the ‹‹real life››.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ the fire finally died down after a couple of days, and after a week this strong smoke disappeared, leaving behind only an unpleasant aftertaste and ashes everywhere. niragi has been wandering the beach all alone for several days now. there was no one left here — an ideal place for suguru who has hated all humanity in one night. he didn't want to see or hear anyone, didn't want to interact with human beings, didn't want to show himself being weak again. it takes some more time for him to put his thoughts in order and get back in the game. 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ niragi didn't know what he wanted to find in the ruins of beach, didn't know why he went around the same places every day in the hope of finding something new in this cemetery, once being full of life. he didn't know why he hadn't died yet, and why fate had once again treated him like shit. rooms, halls, swimming pool, offices, kitchen... he was wandering wherever his eyes looked, and didn't let thoughts visit his mind. but these miserable, miserable thoughts, desire, anxiety... they didn't leave him just like that. they continued to annoy, imposed themselves and didn't let him run away.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ — fuck this! — the first phrase came from niragi's mouth for his whole week of living on the beach. a piece of concrete that had fallen away from the wall hit him under the foot, and he, full of sudden aggression, kicked the pebble far away.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ casually following the trajectory of the random traveller flight, suguru wanted to go further but suddenly he saw a rotten, half-burnt body. all the corpses that accidentally had fallen into the sacred fire had burned down to the bones, so it was surprising to see a half like a living body with the same burns as his own in front of him. succumbing to the curiosity and coming closer, the former militant began to examine the mysterious body in an attempt to detect the owner. the face was disfigured, pieces of skin peeled off and lustful flies sat on them. niragi couldn't feel the terrible stench since his receptors had stopped working after the roof accident, so this awful smell didn't bother him at all. a familiar tattoo could be seen on the hand, not yet completely peeled off, and beside the body devoted steel lay. katana.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ — last boss?

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ niragi's voice seemed to tremble. he never gave the slack, never let himself to make friends or become attached to anyone, but in spite of everything, there was always some kind of warmth to the samura deep in his soul. cold, cruel, taciturn and, most importantly, loyal militant was probably in the second place in his amorphous list of "the best people on the beach" (in the first place, of course, was himself). 

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ squatting next to his once good friend, suguru decided to look into his face, to find some familiar features but it didn't make sense. there was nothing left of the former last boss’ terrible attractiveness. one arm was completely burned, leaving only the outer bone, while the other somehow survived like the entire left side of the body. didn't the fire manage? or was it the fate?

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ — life fucked you, buddy.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ niragi's caustic remark was reflected by a sly grin. looking around the whole body of a friend for the last time, suguru was about to get up but he noticed that the survived hand was clenched into a strong fist. who was he not to succumb to his curiosity once again and not to test his intuition for the umpteenth time? what would he lose if he broke the fingers of an already doomed man?

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ the scars from the burns he had received still throbbed unpleasantly, it was impossible to touch anything. but, overcoming the pain, niragi was impatient to find out if there was something in the clenched fist. finger after finger moved away from the palm and a small piece of paper folded five times fell out of the hand.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ «oh, you're motherfucker!» — thought suguru, unfolding the note along the way. he knew that anything could be expected from this hopeless poet. he knew but his heart was still clenching and unclenching from something, itching and hurting uncomfortably, as if he was afraid to read what was written there. but niragi isn't afraid of anything, right? a small piece of paper, folded five times, was torn in half. what did this freak tear off and where is the rest of it?

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ «... in this country i learned what friendship is for the first time, experienced true human feelings. only here i feel freedom and saw no condemnation. i am a freak. but here i am strong. no one called me a weirdo, no one spat in my face and tried to humiliate me. they were afraid of me. and i loved it. but mostly i liked the realization of my importance. niragi, that damn bastard, always needed me. i was his second right hand...»

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ — what a jerk... — niragi was interrupted for a couple of minutes and hastily wiped away a tear with his little finger. he hated this damn feeling of pity, hated not only to show his weakness to someone, but basically to see and feel himself in such a position.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ «... but he was never my boss. he was my friend. i couldn't have dreamed of such a friendship in that life. if this letter falls into the right hands, tell everyone that this country is how the world should be. i am grateful to it. now I'm freer than ever.»

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ he was my friend. these words were imprinted in the niragi's consciousness, hit him with a katana in the heart and then left another thousand knives in the solar plexus area, fiercely cracking down on the remnants of cruelty, the mask of which suguru put on himself. tears already wanted to mercilessly roll down his cheeks, but during the months spent in the borderland, he had forgotten how to cry. all he had to do was wipe his watery eyes with a piece of cloth that was wrapped around his head and whisper into nowhere:

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ — we’ll meet again on the other side, asshole, and i’ll kick your ass for dying before me.