#I just needed to do a little refresher before I go and finish a destiel commission and the rest of destiel pride!

[wigglebox]

Emerald 💚

[dreamofbecoming]

Get To Know Me

tagged by @theamazingrin, thank you my dear

3 ships: currently, geraskier (obviously), dreamling, and yenskier/geraskefer. destiel and stucky are simmering on the back burner for now

First ever ship: oof, probably sam/jack or daniel/vala from stargate, before my dumb little gay heart realized i didn’t have to confine myself to canon. willow/tara was a big one for me. also i read a lot of drarry in middle school, lol

Last song: wild blue yonder<3

Last movie: pinocchio was honestly a delight!

Currently reading: not actually anything right now, if you don’t count fic (which i definitely do- it’s mostly dreamling rn but also @wren-of-the-woods‘s latest ongoing work and a couple of recently updated subscriptions i need to start from the beginning to refresh my memory), probably back to my discworld readthrough soon

Currently watching: just finished sandman, working on gbbo, possibly rewatching blood origin with my mom soon if she’s up for it

Currently consuming: rainbow bagel with zataar cream cheese (it’s not a proper bagel, but i’m also in seattle so i’m trying to stuff down my snobbish nyc instincts and be charitable lol)

Currently craving: a hysterectomy. most recently though was a rice and bean bowl from my favorite place to go when i’m home

goodness i’ve tagged a few of you in like 6 of these in a row, lets see if we can get some new names in here @bekacooperetal @toss-a-coin-to-your-bard @soundsfaebutokay @samukai @a-broken-but-valuable-human @and-the-cornflowers-sang  @satans-undies @astaticworld

[writethelifeyouwant]

Lost

Summary: When Dean finally finds Castiel in Purgatory, their reunion is all consuming.

Pairing: Dean x Castiel Rating: 18+ Warnings: Non Con/Withdrawn Consent, Major Character Death Tags: Destiel, hint of Denny, Lovers to Enemies, Erotic Cannibalism kinda… IDEK ok Word Count: 1,102 Created for: @spnkinkbingo - Leviathan!Cas | @anyfandomgoesbingo - Lovers to Enemies Fic | @spndeanbingo - Rough Sex

The sight of the angel by the stream is euphoric. Thrilling, incandescent. Dean doesn’t know when he turned into such a fucking pussy but seeing Castiel again feels like being whole. Cas has been an extension of him since he put that goddamn brand on his shoulder four years ago. And even though the scar isn’t there any longer, Cas had marked Dean in other ways. Deep, invisible ways Dean never intended to admit to, but recognises in himself now, with Cas standing stoically and bedraggled by the water’s edge.

“Cas!” Dean laughs as he pulls him into a hug, one the angel doesn’t return. “Damn, it’s good to see you.” He makes himself let go and pulls back to look at Cas more closely. “Nice peach fuzz,” he pokes at Cas’s unkempt beard, raising his hand as if to run his fingers across it, but then remembers Benny and lets his hand drop. There was a lot that had gotten complicated since they’d been separated in this hellhole.

“Thank you,” Cas responds in his grumbly timbre, and Dean can’t help the smile that comes to his face at finally hearing his voice again after so long. And to hear him speaking sanely again, back to his old grumpy, wooden self. Dean’s missed this Cas. Now they can finally get out of this god forsaken cesspit of crazy and creepy.

Except Cas doesn’t want to go.

“Cas, buddy, I need you,” Dean admits with a breathless laugh, the closest he’s ever come to saying what he really wants to say. Cas’s expression drops, forlorn in his convictions.

“Dean,” Cas shakes his head, but Dean doesn’t let him finish.

“And if Leviathan wanna take a shot at our ass, let ‘em. We ganked those bitches once before, we can do it again.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Cas protests.

“Let me bottom line it for ya. I’m not leaving here without you, understand?” Dean isn’t taking no for an answer goddammit, not after how long it took to find him, not after everything else. Cas pauses, takes a deep breath, considering.

“I understand,” he nods gravely, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief, pulling him in for another hug. He hears Benny scoff behind them but decides he doesn’t care enough to break away. Cas tucks his head against Dean’s shoulder, his new beard scraping roughly against his neck. Dean shivers in his grip, but reprimands himself. Now isn’t the time.

As if Castiel had read his mind, and it isn’t the first time Dean’s wondered if Cas can do that, Cas pulls out of the hug and kisses him. He grunts in surprise against the angel’s lips, greeted with an onslaught of tongue and fervour reminiscent of what Dean could recall of Cas kissing Meg against the wall of that grimy warehouse. Dean remembers feeling incredibly conflicted about that, simultaneously jealous and turned on. Experiencing it put him on a whole new plane. For an angel who was still a fucking virgin so far as Dean was aware, the guy knew what he was doing in the tongue department. He could hear Benny trying to talk to them but his mind was far too distracted to discern any of the words.

Suddenly Cas pulls back and Dean is left staggering, staring blindly at the angel, who is panting hard and staring back at him.

“You two done yet?” Benny grunts, arms crossed over his chest, clearly unimpressed, and if Dean’s reading it right, just a touch jealous. He’s flattered, really, that he’s so desirable. Dean grins sheepishly at the vampire, with a shrug of his shoulders as if to say ‘well, can you blame us?’, and Benny rolls his eyes back.

“No,” Cas grunts, and both Dean and Benny turn to him. It takes Dean a moment to realise that Cas was answering Benny’s question. “No we’re not done yet.”

The breath is knocked clean out of him as Cas pulls Dean down to his knees and shoves him roughly back onto the bank of the stream, climbing over him and kissing him again, fierce as ever.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean hears Benny groan somewhere behind them. “Come find me when y’er done.”

Dean tries to grunt out an agreement but it turns into a moan as Cas’s fingers fumble down his chest and land on his jeans. Cas isn’t careful with the clothing, and Dean’s not inclined to care about that right now, though he may regret it later. He reaches down to get Cas stripped out of his garments too. The trench coat comes in handy as a blanket to lay down so he doesn’t get mud up his ass.

It’s rough; messy. Just like everything else in Purgatory. Dean is wide open, vulnerable as he’ll ever be, but even in a place like this, he still feels safe. This feels right.

The pain of Cas pushing in is dulled by the pleasure of the angel’s hand on his cock, pumping him roughly in his spit-soaked palm. Dean’s eyes squeeze shut against the onslaught of sensations, too overwhelming, and he lets himself go, losing himself to just another primal urge that seems to be all he can cling to in this place.

“Fuck, this was worth it,” Cas grunts above him, and Dean groans in agreement. This was absolutely worth the wait; Cas filling him up, finally being inside of him, not just near, not just touching, not just scarring, but actually inside. Part of him.

“God, Dean,” Cas groans, thrusting harder, hand dropping from Dean’s cock as he chases his own pleasure, arms dropping to either side of Dean’s head as he falls forward. He fucks into him without mercy, Dean’s hips banging into the ground with every push, and even though Cas isn’t jerking him off anymore, this new angle is getting something inside him that’s pushing him over the edge.

“Shit, Cas!” Dean moans, punching his hips back, trying to force the angel back inside him. “Fuck, gonna cum.”

“Almost,” Cas hisses through gritted teeth, breath hot and sharp against Dean’s ear. Then in a blinding rush of heat and pain, everything is over.

Cas straightens up, pulling out of Dean’s body with a relieved sigh. He cracks his neck, shrugging away the tension and ache in his muscles. He’ll be refreshed soon enough. Dropping the obsidian blade back to the ground he stretches his mouth wide and roars as his teeth sink into his prey, devouring from the head down.

Other Leviathan frowned on it, but he always thought it was more fun to play with your food first.

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[bijoharvelle]

doing these prompts! today is “bare feet” & it’s dedicated to @bend-me-shape-me because tumblr is stupid and made her unfollow me but she found her way back! read the whole series!

Part of Cas doesn’t really like to trim the roses because, even though he knows its better for them, something still clenches in his chest to clip away the leaves and flowerheads. That morning, Sam sent him some links about all the things you could do with the clipping so it wouldn’t go to waste and that had Cas feeling guilty about it all. After dinner, he heads out with his shears and Colt on his heels and guts up for the job.

It’s a Monday evening, school still out, so there are a number of neighbors who pass by on family walks, heading for ice cream or to the library. Cas waves, says a hello to a few people he knows more than others. Colt gets some attention and belly-rubs as well.

He’s nearly finished when the garage opens and Dean paces out. He’s got a bucket in one hand and a pair of ratty sweatpants cut into shorts on. And nothing else. It’s still nice, after all the time they’ve been together, to just get to look at Dean. The broadness of his shoulders, the healthy slope of his stomach, the curve and arch of his legs. His hair and lighter and skin more freckled from all the time they’ve been spending in the sun.

“Washing Baby?” Cas asks, head still cocked in an outright stare.

Dean nods, catches him looking, and then smirks. “Have some decency, Cas, we’re in the front yard,” he teases.

“You could’ve put on more clothes.”

“Not my forte!” Dean replies with a laugh and then heads for the side of the house where the hose hooks up. Colt hears the water running and perks, goes to investigate.

It’s not long before Dean is humming and singing while he works and Cas is sitting on the porch steps, watching. Colt decided she isn’t a fan of the hose or its spray and has chosen to lay at Cas’s feet instead. He pets her absently and watches Dean’s bare feet move along the asphalt of the driveway. Watches him make puddles of lukewarm, sudsy water. Watches the care and devotion he holds in his hands as he tends to her details, the bumper, the rims, the handles.

He’s a little lost in the shape of Dean’s ass, the way the sweatpants, now damp, cling and rise with its curve, so he misses Colt’s whine of alarm. He has no warning to it, just a bolt of summer-warmed, soapy water hitting him in the chest. It splashes over his face, down his arms, mats his hair. It’s slick and a little too hot to be refreshing and when he blinks his eyes open, lashes dripping, Dean is bent over laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

“Dean,” Cas says, palming the wet fringe from his forehead.

“Yeah, Cas?”

But Dean hasn’t kept track of the hose as he’s gone and the last he tossed it down was in the grass just near Cas’s feet. So all Cas has to do is bend down, eyes locked evenly on Dean’s, aim the nozzle and squeeze.

They run and chase, laughing breathlessly as Cas wields the hose and Dean makes do with wet rags and sponges. Their shit-talking bounces off the houses around them and Colt joins in, leaping from one to the other, barking gleefully.

Soon enough Dean makes a play for the hose, tackling at Cas for it. But they’d been standing in a wet patch of grass so bare feet go skidding out from under them and they end up a wet, grassy, muddy, soapy heap of limbs. Dean is laughing so hard he’s stopped making sound and Cas pauses between breathes to look at Dean. There’s water dripping off his nose and chin and eyelashes and Cas is human but he can still remember Hell, can still remember pulling this man from the depths of the rack and piecing his brilliant soul back together.

“Okay, I’m calling a truce,” Dean pants out. He gets to his feet with a wince and holds a hand out for Cas.

“I believe we could both use a shower,” Cas says, gathering their mess and heading for the garage.

“Read my mind, Cas.”

tags under the cut, as always pls let me know if you wanna be removed or added!

@prayedtoyou • @folklorecastiel • @good-things-do-happen-dean • @cas-you-assbutt-dean-needs-you • @nesnej •  @bianca29753 • @spaceshipkat • @601218764 • @nickelkit • @dizzypinwheel • @epple-benene • @kayrosebee • @feraladoration • @queenvee08 • @destielangst • @destiel-is--real • @brazencas • @destielle • @flowersforcas  • @50shadesofsubtext • @multifandomagic • @fluffiestlou

[mercurialkitty]

Supernatural 600 Follower Challenge - Game Night

for @cajunquandary

Read on AO3 - MIND THE TAGS

Summary: Dean and Cas anticipate a fluffy morning in Heaven, preparing for a big Game Night with friends. Unfortunately, having a Game Night for friends in Heaven proves more disruptive than anticipated. Mary worries how her earthly death affected Dean and his relationship with Jack.

This version of Heaven is the opportunity to be with the people you love, and take eternity to make amends and heal relationships. Therefore there is some painful emotional growth along the way.

In other words, this is something of a finale fix-it (maybe post-finale is a better term) but there is angst dealing with the emotional consequences of episode 14.17 Game Night.

Tags and Warnings: destiel, Dean and Cas married in heaven, John Winchester’s A+ parenting, It’s all Chuck’s fault, Fluff and Angst (emotional baggage), the F-bomb, If you hate a finale fix-it that leaves the characters in heaven, this is not for you. If you hate a finale fix-it that leaves Cas an angel, this is not for you. 

Game Night

They don’t exactly sleep in heaven. It’s more like closing your eyes, letting it be dark, and feeling time swirl around you. Not sleep exactly, but refreshing to the soul, and a good excuse for stretching in bed and enjoying the sensation of a new day. Dean rolls over and feels Cas’ wings blanket him a little tighter.

“Your wings are nice, Cas.”

“You say that almost every morning.”

“When don’t I say it?”

Cas gives him a smile and raises an eyebrow. “When you do something other than talk first.”

Dean smiles back and is about to pull Cas in for a kiss when Miracle starts barking. They both sit up. Then there’s a knock at the door.

“That’s unusual,” says Cas and he stands and does the thing where he’s automatically dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with his wings unseen.

Dean groans, “That has to be Sammy. No one else would cock block me in heaven.”

Cas goes to get the door. Dean grabs clothes, but doesn’t rush to throw them on. He figures that whoever is out there can wait. It’s heaven dammit. He hears Cas say, “Hello Mary,” and pauses. No other hello is forthcoming from Cas, so he finishes getting ready.

When he joins them, he sees Mary on the couch with Miracle in her lap and Cas in the kitchen getting a pot of coffee going. He goes to sit next to her and give Miracle a pat. “Hey mom. I know we’re all still getting used to time in Heaven, but aren’t you here a bit early for our Game Night?”

Mary smiles, “I thought we might need to talk before.”

Dean gets a strange feeling of dread that he didn’t think would happen in heaven. “Sounds like we’ll need breakfast then.”

Mary relocates to the bar stools, with Miracle getting underfoot in the kitchen while Cas grates cheese and potatoes, and Dean gets the griddle ready. Zeppelin plays softly, and Mary pours out coffee. Once Dean has the hash browns about to come off, and the eggs on, he asks, “So how’s Dad?”Cas tenses slightly, but doesn’t say anything.

Mary stirs her coffee a little longer than necessary and answers. “John’s with Bobby, Rufus, and Bill Harvelle on a fishing trip.”

“Sounds fun,” says Dean mildly.

Mary shrugs indicting that it might not be all that fun. “It’s good to see him work on relationships. It’s been a very long time. He’s got a lot of people to try to make up with.”

Dean nods. Since he’s had time and freedom from Chuck’s influence to think over the past, he’s not open to any visits from Dad. Cas asks about Ellen and Jo. Mary goes along with the conversation change, so that means John was not intended to be the main topic. Dean finishes up the eggs and plates the food, a little less on edge, but still wary.

They all shift to the kitchen table. During breakfast they chit chat over what gets called Heaven Gossip, but is really just gossip. Dean smiles over what Cas omits as much as what he shares. It takes away a bit more of his uneasiness. Cas and Mary can really go to town on gossip, and it’s hilarious.

The funniest bits are usually people running into doppelgänger’s.  Jimmy has taken to wearing a NOT CAS t-shirt when he runs in shared heavenly spaces. Huntercorp Dean is making his safe, sane, and consensual way through heaven’s non-soulmated population. The Bobbies aren’t close, but the Charlies consider themselves siblings, and both are coming tonight.

Cas is most knowledgeable on angel gossip. Given the civil wars and multiple factions, only a dozen or so of the angels back from The Empty are restored to full powers and freedom in Heaven. All angels have their wings back, but most are limited to shared areas of heaven and the throne room during their Growing Period, as Jack calls it. Humans have plenty of other names for it, including: Being Grounded, Clipped Wings, Angel Probation, and Angel Quarantine. Most of the restored angels make regular but brief visits to their house to see Cas. Samandriel is one of Dean’s favorites; although, he’ll never admit it and refuses to call him anything but Alfie.

Dean thinks it’s nice to be in the know before everyone comes to the house tonight, and he hears the stories getting repeated. Well, not everyone. It won’t be the enormous circus that came to their wedding, but it will be a big group of friends. Dean can’t help a big smile at the memory, and gets called out immediately.

“What’s that smile, Dean?” asks Mary.

“Guess,”says Dean with a look at Cas.

Cas starts blushing, and Dean nudges him. “Hey, it’s a perfectly G-rated memory.”

Mary smiles and says, “If it’s G-rated, it’s probably your wedding. Well, G-rated up to the reception. Maybe up to the kiss.”

Dean sloshes his coffee and Cas mojos a clean-up. “How’d you guess, Mom?”

“Cas and I have been talking about a lot of people and angels, and the last time they were all together was your wedding.”

“That was the first time many of the people we care about met each other,” comments Cas.

“Yeah, that was really something,” Dean says and nudges Cas’ ankle with his foot. Cas gives him an enormous smile back.

“Well, since you’re in a good mood, now is either a really good time, or really bad time for a serious talk with my son.”

Dean lets out a sigh. Cas gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Talk to your Mom. I’ll check on the bees and the garden. Yell, or send Miracle out to get me when you’re done.” He looks at Dean and then gives him a soft kiss on the lips. He turns to Mary and says, “See you later,” before flapping outside.

                                                                                                      Dean and Mary head back to the sofa. This time Miracle must sense something because he’s in Dean’s lap and being particularly distracting. Dean plants a kiss on his dog’s head, and says, “Hey, settle down.”

Mary comes to it. “You know, we were going to have a Game Night with Jack and we got interrupted by that call from Donatello. It was after that things went bad — when Jack killed me.”

“I hadn’t thought about it as being part of a Game Night.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Mom…are you ok?”

“Not exactly, but it’s not just me. I was worried about you. Time is different here, there are no anniversary dates unless you choose them to be. That sounds good, but the problem is that you don’t know when something is going to hit you bad.”

“It’s heaven. It can’t hit that bad.” Miracle is a little anxious and restless, so Dean moves him off his lap.

“Dean, when people lived in their memories — when I lived in my happiest memories here in heaven, I didn’t have to deal with regret. I had you and baby Sammy and the John I first met, and that was the ideal heaven. Now the ideal for heaven is time. Eternity to be around your loved ones, know they’re safe, and make things right. I should know that’s not always an easy process.” She gives a sad wry smile, “That’s why your dad is here, right? ”

“I just know that I thank Jack he is here. Look, I don’t care if Jack freezes Hell over and turns it into a ski resort with lines to get in — the idea of any of our family being in Hell is not something I can handle. It doesn’t mean that I want to have another happy family dinner yet, but I’ve made a home with Cas, my friends are close by, and no one is suffering.” Dean thinks about his father and grandfather Samuel and wonders when he’ll be ready. “Mom, things are good with you and me. I learned my lesson. Amara tried to tell me that I needed to get to know you as a person, and not as a saint on a pedestal, or an apple pie image. I shouldn’t have done that to you. It took me a long time to figure it out.”

“Oh Dean, you went through too much, but I still have some things I still want to try to make right.”

“We’ve had this conversation before.”

“You forgave me for other things. Not for the pain you went through when I died again, and the damage to your relationship with Jack.”

“Dying wasn’t your fault whether it was in Lawrence or years later.”

Mary sighs. “Forgiving isn’t just about fault. It wasn’t my fault that Jack killed me, but I took a chance that maybe I shouldn’t have.”

Deans eyes narrow. “You want to explain that?”

“When he stopped Nick from calling Lucifer, he didn’t just immobilize him or kill him quickly. He put Nick through pain, torture. I saw him do it. If it had been me, I admit I’d have been glad I killed him. But the pain wasn’t right — I knew who Jack was. I was with him in the Apocalypse world. I’d seen him kill to protect whole settlements and you hadn’t. I saw him when he was grim and determined. He was sometimes stubborn and too quick to make decisions, but killing Nick was different. Jack never desired to cause pain. I knew it was wrong for him.” Mary pauses and sets her mug on the coffee table. “I called Jack out on it, and he wanted me to say that it was ok. Frankly, I could have just lied. I’m a hunter. I know strategy. I could have told Jack that it was ok. We’d have all gone back to the bunker, and then I could have told you, Sam and Cas together in secret. Waiting for Castiel to get back would have made the most sense. We would have faced his soullessness together.”

Dean stands up and folds his arms across his chest. “So you’re just telling me this now?”

“I thought I could fix it. I thought that if I pushed him — me — the one who’d seen him be a leader and protect whole encampments, he’d realize something was wrong.”

“How is someone without a soul or even with a damaged soul going to feel that their soul should be fixed? Do you understand how illogical that is… was?”

“Now I do. I didn’t then. Dean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the grief and anger that you felt.”

“You don’t need to apologize. We’ll never know how much of every decision was us, and how much was Chuck warping things. It was always to his benefit for me to blame Jack. At first, I treated the poor kid so bad because I blamed him for Cas being dead. When Cas came back from the Empty the first time, I saw how much he loved Jack, and I let myself care for him. I stopped seeing Lucifer when I looked at him. The kid always looked just like Cas and I couldn’t see it until Cas was standing next to him. Then when Jack killed you that went out the window.” Dean pauses to pace around. Mary remains silent watching and waiting. After a minute, Dean turns and looks at Mary. He swallows, and starts again.

“Finally, when we understood about Chuck, and Cas brought Jack back to the Bunker with Billie’s plan, I cared again, but then Jack was supposed to be a tool to kill Chuck, and I fucking did it again. I pushed him away.  It’s not just about you — it’s about me, too. And now crazy as it seems, that sweet kid isn’t a kid anymore. He’s God.” The both look down for a minute. Dean finally says, “Have you talked to Jack about this?”

“Yes. I mean he already knows what’s in your heart when you see him, but sometimes a person has say the words anyway. Cas is next on my list. I thought I should talk to you first. He’d expect me to,” Mary says with a wry smile.

Dean shakes his head with watery eyes. Cas is going to feel all the emotions stirring in Dean through their bond. He’ll probably be pissed off that his husband isn’t happy in heaven, so he doesn’t envy Mary, but Cas is always forgiving and able to see the pain that others still carry, even in Heaven. Dean thinks that Cas will probably be better at helping Mary than he is.

“So this trauma anniversary thing… Our plan for a big heaven Game Night brought it all back to you, huh? That’s why you’re here. We did it.” Mary just shrugs.

“Since you were the one who got killed, maybe I should cut you some slack and we should talk about how you’re feeling?”

“Maybe. I don’t really know anymore. I’m not good at this.”

“But you have eternity — we have eternity.”

“So I hear. Or something close enough.”

Dean groans, and with tears spilling over says, “Get over here, Mom.”

She gets up and they hold each other for a while.

[lifblogs]

Blackout: Chapter 12 - Choking Ambitions

Rating: Explicit Pairings: Destiel, Samwena Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel, Sam Winchester, Rowena, Crowley, Asmodeus, Ramiel Word Count: 40148 Summary: The world changed after the battle on Halloween, humanity stricken with fear, and a traumatized Dean and Castiel are left trying to pick up the pieces. With Sam now ruling Hell they'll stop at nothing to end his reign and bring him home, but Sam has plans of his own and his family are at the center of it all. READ THE PREVIOUS FIC, DEATHLESS CHAPTER 1 - Something Wicked This Way Comes | CHAPTER 2 - Secrets and Lies | CHAPTER 3 - Alcohol | CHAPTER 4 - The Virgin King | CHAPTER 5 - To Hell | CHAPTER 6 - Nothing | CHAPTER 7 - Bind, Torture, Kill | CHAPTER 8 - Indistinguishable from the Part | CHAPTER 9 - Green Eyes / TRA XX | CHAPTER 10 - We Are Monsters | CHAPTER 11 - Like a Dream I Can’t Escape

READ ON AO3

“Next!” Rowena called, as two demons who’d already fallen under her knife dragged out a third. His tongue — or what was left of it — was bleeding profusely, blood dribbling out of his mouth. And the Devil’s Trap carved into his forehead dripped blood down into his eyes. The others who had been marked by her earlier on that afternoon had already gotten themselves cleaned up. The wounds were just starting to scab.

Of course, the demons didn’t know what they were lining up outside the throne room for. Some would love the torture they were receiving, but others were hopelessly afraid of more pain. Half the demon population was more interested in doling out torture than receiving it. But that left the other half desperate and trembling to have their blood drawn.

The next demon was brought in. Rowena had him chained to the floor. The chains were attached to a hook she’d had mounted in before the throne, and the chains were her own work, wrought of magic to keep the demons from escaping.

She wasn’t sitting in the throne, though she yearned to, but standing on the dais in front of it seemed to have an effect. They bowed before her, though she was not Sam.

The demon now getting chained was kicked so he was on his knees, and he eyed the blood on Rowena’s hands.

Head bowing quickly when he noticed her eyes on him in a disapproving manner he said, “You sent for me, Your Highness?”

It didn’t escape notice that he pulled slightly at the heavy cuffs on his wrists.

“Hold him,” Rowena said to the two large demons helping her, ignoring that the one in chains had even spoken.

He wouldn’t be able to say anything for much longer, so why would his words matter now?

Rowena descended the dais, smiling at him, knife drawn, hands and wrists bloodied.

With her victim held fast, Rowena opened his mouth, roughly delved her hand inside, and found what she needed. Gripping tightly, she sliced off his tongue. It fell as a thick, snakelike wad of pink flesh onto the floor, leaking blood. What was left in his mouth and throat was a bloodied stump, thrashing madly, as if searching for the missing piece she’d taken from him. Screams left him, wild tears, and he began to choke on his own blood.

Rowena rolled her eyes.

So dramatic.

Then she got to work on the Devil’s Trap in his forehead.

The screams and pleas and begging were incoherent. Without his tongue, there wasn’t much he could do.

And now, with the sigil, just like the rest, he would not be able to leave his body.

Ah, such perfect violence for creating perfect servants.

He was picked up and dragged off, the remains of his tongue kicked to the side to gather in a little, growing pile of them. Blood decorated gold.

“Next!” Rowena called again.

The next demon was brought in.

~~~

A man walked up from the shore of a lake, a fishing rod resting over one shoulder, and a tackle box with lures held in his hand. Hefted under his arm was a cooler containing two fish. They were both a decent size — more than a decent size. The trout probably weighed in at twenty-one pounds, and the herring was surely a decent seven-and-a-half pounds. Not a horrible catch, but the man had usually been able to catch more in less time. He’d been distracted lately.

Walking up the muddy path, his boots sinking into the earth, he began to whistle. “In the Hall of the Mountain King” was the song he chose, the tune coming to him without thought. The wind carried his tune back towards the lake, as it caught at his graying hair. His beard was graying too. But the man was okay with that. His looks hadn’t changed for at least a century. And when it did change, well, that was his choice.

Back up to his house, cooler and tackle box thunk, thunk, thunking against each other every once in awhile, the afternoon sun beginning to appear through the wisp of clouds.

The first sign of trouble was that his door was unlocked.

The man set the cooler, rod, and tackle box down on the porch, door slightly ajar now that he’d tried the handle.

Damn it, he wished he had a knife.

But no, he didn’t need one.

The man hadn’t been a general for nothing.

He walked into his cabin, one hand held at the ready in case he needed to defend himself, or at least kill whoever had decided to disturb his peace.

“You have three seconds to show yourself!” he shouted, voice carrying throughout his living room and the rest of the small dwelling.

A man with wavy hair nearly down to his shoulders, and a medium-long grayish beard, dressed in a stark white suit entered from the hall that led to the sparse, but homey, kitchen.

The man lowered his hand, recognizing his brother.

Asmodeus smiled, and said in a southern drawl that the man wasn’t sure he was a fan of, “Long time, no see, Ramiel.”

~~~

Asmodeus sat at Ramiel’s kitchen table, hands folded neatly before him. Ramiel could feel disdain washing off of him as he started making tea.

“Really?” Asmodeus questioned once Ramiel set the kettle on to boil.

He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “I’ve been focusing on keeping calm for centuries,” Ramiel told him. “This is one of the ways I do it.”

“You’ve gone soft.”

“No, I just don’t care for Hell’s business anymore. I assume that’s what you’re here about?”

“Yes. We have a problem.”

Ramiel sighed, and rolled his eyes, shifting on his feet. The kettle wasn’t set exactly in the middle of the burner, so he grabbed the handle and shifted it.

“I’ve heard whispers,” he began, “but I prefer to stay out of whatever it is that’s going on downstairs.”

“Even with a Winchester on the throne?”

Asmodeus had a smirk on his face, one eyebrow raised slightly.

Yes, Ramiel knew that Sam Winchester was on the throne. He had some claim to it, but that claim wasn’t stronger than Ramiel’s and his remaining brother and sister’s, even if Azazel had tried to set this up years ago.

“Do you see me getting mad?”

“No, but you should.”

“And why’s that?” Ramiel set about getting his tea cup, and then going to the little pantry he had to choose his tea. He settled for a refreshing peppermint, grabbed the bag of tea leaves, an empty tea bag, and a spoon. As he set to filling the tea bag, he went on, “I wasn’t bothered with Crowley on the throne. And I heard about that mess with Vadrach. Who knows, maybe the younger Winchester will provide some solid leadership.”

“He’s holed up in New York, and he’s obsessing over his brother.”

“How is that my business?”

Asmodeus got to his feet, and slammed his fists on the table. Ramiel didn’t even flinch, he just turned to him.

“Don’t you see? The throne has been taken from us. With our Dark Lord trapped in the Cage, Hell has grown soft and unstable. Anyone seems to think they can take the throne! Vadrach was just a stupid crossroads demon who got too full of himself, and Sam’s a spoiled brat who’s got the heart of a human! Are we really going to stand for this?”

By the time he was done yelling, Asmodeus was standing right in front of Ramiel. Too close.

“Are you going to let me finish with my tea?”

Asmodeus let out a growl, and shot his hand out. Without even touching the kettle, it crunched and squealed into a misshapen lump, water bursting from where the metal had ripped. It was flung across the room, and it smashed into the wall, sticking in the plywood. Not done with his tantrum yet, Asmodeus grabbed Ramiel’s tea cup, and smashed it into the cabinet above his head. Shards went everywhere, and Ramiel just shook them out of his hair.

Deep breaths, he told himself. Just take deep breaths.

Because if he didn’t, if he let himself get angry, he’d want to get involved, and he’d kill and rage and burn everything to the ground.

I don’t care.

He didn’t care. He wasn’t supposed to. He’d forfeited the throne. Though, it was still his by right. He was the oldest.

“Enough with your tea!” Asmodeus yelled.

That did it. Ramiel flared the fire still burning on the stove, and took a step closer to his brother, a finger pointing at his chest.

“You come in here, and you whine, and for what? All because someone else has the throne? We gave it up! It’s not ours. It’s his.”

“He’s not even possessed by Lucifer, so what makes it his?”

“He is Lucifer’s.”

“Yes, his pet. Pets don’t deserve thrones.”

“Then who does? You? Me?”

“Yes!”

Ramiel shoved Asmodeus aside, and he bumped back against the table.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“Get. Out. Of. My. House. Now.”

Asmodeus straightened his suit, and brushed his hair back. He twisted his hand, turning the fire off. “We’re not done here,” he said. “Please,” he said, tone softer now. “I need you. Hell needs you.”

“Hell isn’t for me anymore.”

“Then would you at least support my claim?”

Ramiel stood, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip as he thought about it. Taking the throne back for the Princes would make sense, but… Ramiel had given that throne to Crowley instead of ascending. He just… didn’t want. And even supporting Asmodeus’ claim would have things get ugly. There would be a war. It was too soon after what he’d heard had happened with Crowley and Vadrach.

Yet, there was an anger simmering in him at the thought of Sam Winchester on the throne. His brother was right. While the Winchester had a claim, it wasn’t as true as his own. Lucifer hadn’t set him up as his successor. He’d created Ramiel for that, for ruling his armies, for possibly someday ruling Hell should anything happen.

He’d given it up.

And Sam, Sam had been born, created to be Lucifer’s. His brother Azazel had aided in that. Dripping demon blood in the mouths of infants — it’d been his little passion project. Some good it’d done him. He was dead because of it, because he’d interfered with the Winchesters.

Did having his brother’s blood in him give him a claim? Yes, to some extent, and Azazel had been the next in line. Still, Sam Winchester wasn’t a Prince. He was just someone’s failed attempt at making a king. And he was a king. He’d become a demon, seized the throne.

“If I support your claim,” Ramiel said, “then things get ugly. Then demons will come to me and ask why I’m not the one battling for the throne.”

“You can be,” Asmodeus insisted.

“So what would be the plan? Hmm? We meet with a select few demons higher up in the hierarchy of Hell, and we tell them what my plan is — oh, excuse me, your plan — and we start building an army? Do we really want a repeat of Kenesaw?”

“So you know?”

Ramiel snorted, and shook his head. He went over to take the kettle out of the wall. Shit, he’d had that for years. It’d been so reliable.

“How could I not know?” he questioned. “Word about it is everywhere. Even the monsters are talking about it. So, I’ll ask again, do you really want another Kenesaw?”

“It won’t be another Kenesaw. The angels don’t have to get involved.”

“I’m sorry, have you met them?”

“Actually, no.”

Ramiel just rolled his eyes. The kettle came free with a loud crunch. He tossed it onto the counter, sighing. He should slit his brother’s throat for ruining his tea.

“Well, I have. They will get involved. They think it’s their holy prerogative, that God set us up as the adversary and them as the soldiers to be wielded against us. We did have a few angel free years, or so I’ve heard, but if we start building an army, they’re going to do the same. Amass weapons, possess more vessels. We wouldn’t just be fighting against those loyal to Sam Winchester, we’d be fighting Heaven too. It’d be a war on two fronts, and the whole world saw how ugly that is.”

“We could do it swiftly, then,” Asmodeus pointed out. “Forgo the army. We quietly turn those to our side, and we set a traitor in Sam’s midst. He can work with us to take him down. When he’s weak, we swoop in, and we seize control.”

“We?”

“Yes, we. I want this, but you should want it too. With Azazel dead at Dean Winchester’s hands, you’re next in line. And doesn’t that anger you? We lost a brother to those jumped up hunters! They deserve to pay. Dean took one of our brothers, I say we take his.”

Ramiel went and took a seat at the head of the table, head in his hands.

“What does Dagon think of all of this?”

“She has her own pursuits.”

What those pursuits could be, Ramiel had no idea. She’d always been so grossly devoted to Lucifer, so infatuated with him that she had many weak points. Planning outside of anything that had to do with their lord was somewhat of a challenge for her. She was blinded by wanting to be by his side, and after the failed Apocalypse, she had gone even deeper underground. So this, this news that she was finally starting to stir, it piqued some interest in him.

“And those are?” he asked.

“Does it matter? If she’s stirring, then change is coming.”

“It already came.”

“And why should we just sit by and watch? We’re more powerful than anything out there! We’re more powerful than our Lord’s sloppy seconds, more powerful than the witch holding his leash. Ramiel, please. You’re telling me you can just sit here, knowing that Lucifer’s property thinks he’s allowed to rule?”

It was a good question.

Ramiel didn’t like that Sam was on the throne, but he’d worked so hard for so long to not care, to stay out of this. Losing Azazel had already done too much damage to him.

“It’s not easy staying out of it,” Ramiel eventually told him truthfully, lifting his head up. “But it’s my pursuit, and I find comfort in that. So yes, I will just sit here. Do I want to? Not entirely. You’re right, Sam doesn’t have a true claim to the throne. But neither do we anymore. We gave that up, and I’ve worked a long time on letting that go. I think you should too.”

“You are weak,” Asmodeus snarled at him.

“Get out of my house. We’re done here.”

Asmodeus sneered, and then turned on his heel. He left, and the outer door slammed so hard the wood around it splintered.

Ramiel was left sitting in his mess of a kitchen, an itch starting to form.

No, put it aside.

But even as he went to go collect his fish to start cleaning them, he couldn’t put it aside.

Sam Winchester was on the throne. A deep, deep part of Ramiel that he’d kept buried under mortar and stone and adamant, was coming to life, whispering to him through the tiny cracks that had begun to form.

No, he told himself. No.

Yes, the voice whispered.

[xwaywardhuntress]

You’re Not From This World (Part Four)

Summary: Imagine the boys get sent to an alternate reality again without you, which leaves you stuck with the Winchester look-alikes, Jensen Ackles, and Jared Padalecki.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader, Jensen Ackles x alternate world!reader (Catherine, Cat)

Warnings: Jealousy, Awkwardness

Words: 2200+

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. This is fanfiction only. Please do not redistribute my writings on other sites, horrible or not. Thanks!

One, Two, Three

Both Jensen and Jared shot up from their beds as the witch events consumed their dreams. Leaving their separated rooms, they found themselves in rooms across from one another.

“Jens, did we-“ Jared started

“Yeah, that happened.” Jensen finished Jared’s thoughts. “I wonder if Y/N and the others are okay.”

As if on cue, both of the boys heard a conversation from afar with multiple voices involved. They followed the sound. As they got closer, they were able to recognize all the voices in the conversation. The Winchesters. Y/N. Castiel.

“So he was trapped?” Jensen and Jared heard Y/N ask as they entered the war table room. Y/N had been sitting down in one of the chairs next to Sam, while Dean stood behind her chair. On the opposite side of the table was Cas.

“Yes, that is what he said to me.” The angel responded before noticing Jensen and Jared enter the room, causing everyone else to turn their attention in the same direction.

“You guys are awake!” You exclaimed as you stood up from your chair to stand between the Winchesters and their alternate versions. You glanced at your watch, which read about 6:00am. “I’m surprised you both are up, we were actually all about to hit the hay soon. It’s been a long day…and night. How are you guys feeling?”

“I feel completely fine, oddly enough.” Jared questioned as he thought back to all the times he had been thrown against a wall recently.

You chuckled, “Yeah, we had Cas heal you both before we moved you onto beds.”

“Cas really does seem to have that special touch.” The taller actor wiggled his eyebrows at Jensen.

Jensen narrowed his eyes at his friend, aware of what the other actor was hinting at. One fan word: Destiel. Y/N and Castiel didn’t seem to understand, but Dean caught on as he rolled his eyes.

Sam got up from his chair to stand beside Dean and in front of Jensen and Jared.

The brothers looked from head to toe at the actors and vice versa. Both sides thinking to themselves, ‘so these are those other guys’

You couldn’t help but look between the two groups of boys. There were some similarities but Jensen and Jared definitely looked more refresh than Dean and Sam. “Soooo…” You began. “I don’t think I need to introduce you guys?” You squinted an eye and bit your bottom lip, not sure what to say exactly.

“No, they both had the weird names. This one we kind of met under the table already and that one is Polish.” Dean spoke first as he nodded his head towards each actor as he spoke.

Both Jared and Sam narrowed their eyes at Dean’s comment.

Jensen hadn’t exactly ignored Dean, but since he entered the room, a part of him wanted to make sure you were okay too. You looked okay physically but verbal confirmation is what Jensen sought out. He turned his attention to you. “Are you okay?”

Before you could answer, Dean stepped forward answering for you. “She’s fine.”

You smiled awkwardly at Jensen, knowing Dean had gone straight into protection mode due to slight jealousy and there was really no stopping it.

Jensen knew to back off a little as he recognized Dean’s jealousy. After all, that’s how he would’ve acted as Dean if someone like himself appeared before them. “I’m glad to hear that.” Was all that Jensen said.

There was definitely some tension and awkwardness felt within the room by all. You decided to end it as best as you could.

Sliding your hand into Dean’s, you tugged him to follow you, “Alright, how about we continue this great conversation after everyone has had a chance to sleep and rest?”

“I do not need sleep.” Cas chimed in.

You sighed, turning your head in the direction of the angel. “We know, Cas.”

Jared raised his hand in the air like a kid, “I actually have a quick question.” Everyone turned to the tall actor as he continued, “What happened to the witch possessed by the angel?”

The brothers and angel all looked at each other, while you were slowly pulling Dean in the same direction as your shared bedroom. You also had an answer ready for Jared. “Very long story. One that we can go over with you and Jensen tomorrow…err later.” You smiled at him.

Sam yawned, “Y/N is right. It’s been a long night and we haven’t slept at all. Also, our guest needs to recover too before we can even ask him questions.”

Jensen and Jared look confused at Sam’s last comment.

“Again, part of the very long story. We’ll explain tomorrow. You guys can use the same beds in the rooms you came from.” You shared catching the looks they gave each other. “Well, goodnight…err morning. You guys know what I mean.” You said as you dragged Dean with you. He hadn’t said anything, just followed your lead. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but he was exhausted.

Sam smiled at Jensen and Jared before heading to his room too.

Jensen and Jared looked at each other, then looked at Cas. They weren’t sure if they could go back to sleep with all the questions they had.

“You think maybe you could help with the sleep part for us?” Jensen couldn’t help but ask. Jared nodded his head in agreement.

The angel sighed as he quickly appeared before them and placed his fingers on their foreheads. He sent them back to the beds where they came from, knocking them out to sleep. Once that was done, Cas left to the room where the guest currently resided in a corner of the room.

---

It was around late afternoon when everyone slowly began waking up and leaving their rooms. Jensen and Jared were the last to get up again. And again they overheard multiple voices down the hallway. Entering the war room table, it was almost similar to how they found everyone last night. Y/N and Sam were seated, while Dean and Cas were standing. The one obvious difference was a man standing beside Cas that Jensen and Jared had never seen before.

The newcomer had a lanky look to him as he fiddled with a pocket watch in his hands. He saw Jensen and Jared and greeted them. “G-good afternoon.”

You tilted your head upwards as if it would allow you to see the Winchester’s doubles. Instead, you ended up looking up at Dean, who had his eyebrows raised but then gestured behind him.

That’s when you turned your body to face behind you as much as you could. “Good afternoon!” You greeted them with a smile. “I know it’s already later in the day, but we brewed some coffee anyways. Have at it and then take a seat.”

Jensen and Jared looked at each other before shrugging as they walked over to the coffee brewer atop one of the counters in the room. There were two empty mugs left and it was easy to assume that Y/N had left it there for them. Pouring themselves some coffee, they eventually joined Y/N and Sam seated at the table.

“So what did we miss? And who is that guy?” Jared jumped straight into asking questions as he took a sip of his coffee.

You couldn’t help but chuckle to yourself. “I guess we should start over from the beginning.”

Dean groaned behind you. “I need more coffee.” He shared as he left to go pour himself another cup, only to find the pot empty. “Scratch that, I’ll go get more coffee to brew.” And then he left towards the kitchen.

You looked over at Sam, seeing if he wanted to share what they had found out so far.

Sam just smiled at you, gesturing for you to do the talking.

The stranger in question took it upon himself to speak first, “I-I am Remph, an angel of the lord.”

Everyone looked at the new angel.

You decided to add on to his introduction, “Right. He also goes by Kafziel, but prefers Remph. He’s a really old angel, according to him and Cas. He’s been around for a looooong time.”

“A-as old as God.” Remph commented.

“Uh-huh. He’s also the angel of time. Remy Kyteler, the witch that Jared shot at...” You looked over at the tall actor smiling, showing that you were pretty proud of his actions at the time. 

Jensen interrupted. “Where did you even get the gun, man?”

Jared looked over at his friend answering, “On set, we have a prop gun attached near the leg of the big table. It was for fun and jokes with some of the crew, so when I actually found a real one there, I took it and...well used it. The situation seemed to call for it.” The tall actor shrugged.

You took back control of the conversation. “It was actually not bad timing though. Anyways, Remy was a really weak witch. According to her family’s past, she’s a descendant from the Kilkenney witch line. One of her ancestors, Alice Kyteler, was the first recorded witch to be condemned in Ireland. Her ancestor fled the country before they could burn her and…well...her servants paid her price instead. You could say that after Alice, her family became more supporters of other witches/monster/angels. Remy wanted power and became aware of Remph because apparently Remph and her mother had a thing since her mother was a supporter of his. Hence her name Remy.”

Jensen and Jared looked over at Remph, then at each other. Y/N could see the light bulbs turning on in their heads as if they were putting two and two together. It was the same thing the rest of them had thought initially but were told wrong.

“R-remy is not mine.” The angel of time clarified.

Castiel spoke as well, “She isn’t a nephilim.”

You continued, “Anyways, Remy did something to trap Remph and that’s the part we left off on before you two showed up.”

Dean had walked back into the room during the storytelling, this time with a beer in his hand and the empty coffee pot not with him anymore, taking his place behind your chair again. He obviously needed something stronger to get himself through this situation with him and his brother’s alternate counterparts present.

“Oh cool! I don’t think we have anything written yet about meeting a time angel.” Jared shared his excitement.

You smiled, amused at how interested Jared seemed to be with the Supernatural world, despite his most recent run in with a witch who was definitely aiming to kill him not that long ago.

“So he’s like a Doctor Strange. He can mess with time, right?” Jensen asked also sharing a bit of interest in this new angel.

“That’s right. How about we give the floor back to ‘Doctor Strange’ now?” Dean interrupted as he set his empty beer bottle by Y/N’s mug. The older Winchester just wanted to know one thing: if the angel could send his counterpart and Sam’s back to where they came from. However, he knew before he could get to that point, Sam and Y/N would want to know how the whole witch and angel possession occurred. So he continued speaking crossing his arms, “Since we’re all caught up, how did you get trapped by the witch if the witch wasn’t even powerful?” 

“S-She had a powerful Scottish witch help her.” Remph replied.

Dean, Sam, Castiel, and Y/N all looked at each other. There was only one Scottish witch they knew of that was pretty powerful.

“Let me take a wild guess. Red hair? Carries a big book around? Accent?” Dean asked already expecting the answer they were all thinking.

“Y-yes.” The angel of time replied.

“Of course! See Sam, this is why we need to get that damn book back from her.” Dean expressed his annoyance.

“Rowena?” Jared asked Jensen as Dean and Sam bickered for a moment.

“Yeah, can only be her.” Jensen answered his friend.

You had your arms crossed now, “Wait a minute. How did you not die when I stuck the angel blade in if you were in the witch’s body?”

Everyone’s attention turned to the angel of time. Remph grinned, “T-those angel blades do not affect me.”

“We probably need an archangel blade to kill you.” Dean suggested.

The angel of time just smiled, not exactly confirming nor denying that statement.

“So how exactly did Rowena help Remy to trap you?” Sam asked.

“S-she used a spell that is similar to when an angel takes over a human body, except I had already been in this body, so it took a bit of tweaking as the red witch didn’t have a casting spell to take me out of this body at the time. R-remy was given full control, but even so, could only use a small percentage of my power. T-the power to age humans and the power to send them to another reality. I-I don’t think she knew that she only switched them out with their counterpart from the other reality.” He looked between the Winchesters and Jensen and Jared. “I-i suppose two out of the four of you belong to another reality?”

Everyone nodded their head.

“I-I will fix that.” And then the angel of time snapped his finger before anyone else could comment. The room of seven turned into a room of five in a blink of an eye.

Unfortunately, you noticed right away that there was still a problem.

You placed your elbow on top of the table as you rubbed your hand along your face. Your hand eventually stopped on your forehead. Looking down, you called out, “Jensen? Jared?”

“Yes?” They both answered.

Looking up at the two actors, you took a deep breath in and out. “Son of a –“

BAM!

Next: Part Five

Author’s Note: This part changed A LOT since part three was posted. It was technically supposed to be the last part with what I had originally written, but we’re going to continue on! Stay tuned for part five!

Feedback is welcome!

YNFTW Tag:

@chloe-skywalker @darkswanordie @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @aomi-nabi @damn-sassalecki @right-til-the-end @wingedcatninja @the-real-witch @toews-a-peek @lokilove3112 @tftumblin @calaofnoldor @monkeymcpoopoo @cassiopeia-barrow @nickyrose3123 @icequeen206

[elioetoliver]

loving you is no chore, destiel fic, 2.4k

a childhood friends to lovers fic of sorts, partially inspired by  this twitter exchange, and in which dean learns the value of doing chores

Parents have the remarkable ability to make breaks feel like anything but, Dean Winchester learns, visiting home after his first semester away at college. From the moment he stepped foot back in Lawrence, fresh off the tail end of an excruciating week of finals, he was put to work doing chores.

Dean, pick up your brother from Kevin’s house. Dean, wrap these presents for Ms. Missouri down the road. Dean, be a dear and buy the groceries today. Dean, clean the house. Dean, drop this pie off at Bobby’s and Ellen’s (and don’t eat any on the way!).

One task after another, until finally, finally Christmas eve and Christmas day rolled around, and all Dean was expected to do was eat and drink and spend time with his family.

But then his mother opens his bedroom door early on December 26th, tossing a roll of packing tape on his bed with instruction to “clean out your closet before I get back from work,” and he thinks MIT engineering might be a walk in the park compared to being home. Sure, he might be juggling a 21 hour courseload, a part time job at a garage, and a healthy social life at school, but at least that’s all on his own terms.

But alas, he’s in Lawrence through til the new year, and as such, subject to his parents’ every whim. Which is why he’s staring down a closet filled with clothes and shoes and relics from his past at 8 am rather than sleeping in til noon, as God intended college students to do on breaks.

He finds it between his old middle school soccer bag and the Gamecube he got on his 8th birthday, tucked in the far right corner of his closet’s top shelf. An old disposable camera, never developed. Dean has been shoving shit he didn’t know what to do with on that shelf for years now, can’t possibly begin to narrow down where this camera came from or when he used it – if he even ever did. Maybe it was Sammy’s, or Mom’s or something, packed away on accident and forgotten, lost to the ages.

He puts it in the keep pile, and continues sorting through his closet…

…For all of five minutes. At which point curiosity gets the better of him.

He picks up the little plastic camera, turns it over in his hands again and again, inspecting every inch of it, as though careful scrutiny of its exterior will reveal something about the content within. What could it possibly be? Photos from a weekend fishing with Uncle Bobby? Snapshots of a mundane suburban childhood? Moments from a Christmas from years past?

He must know.

He throws on his dad’s old leather jacket (another discovery from the depths of his closet), and pockets the disposable camera.

“Headed to the drug store,” is all he tells Sammy on his way out the house, “be back soon.”

Any excuse to avoid actually doing chores, right?

He recognizes no one from the photographs.

When he went to collect the pictures from the drug store several days after dropping them off, Dean was on edge with nervous anticipation. His mind had conjured infinite possibilities of moments from his life this disposable would unlock, and having had to wait days to find out, he would not delay uncovering the truth any longer. The moment he sat in the impala, in the store’s lot, he rifled through the photos.

They’re from a family vacation – but not his family’s.

There are shots of sunsets, palm trees, and members of a family all dressed in matching blue floral Hawaiian shirts. All of it looks vaguely familiar – the shirts in particular resonate with him something fierce – but the faces strike up no memory. There’s a smiling couple wearing leis and drinking mai tais, a little boy with shaggy brown hair and a lollipop in his mouth in just about every picture he’s featured in, and a girl a little older than him with sharp eyes and flame-red hair.

Who are these people? How old are these photos? Why were they in Dean’s possession? All of it is completely lost on him.

Until he sees his own face staring back at him from the last photo in the stack.

He’s seven, hair sun-bleached and a sea of freckles across his sunburned face. This is from the dinner cruise his family went on in Hawaii over a decade ago, his mind supplies. There’s a framed picture of him looking just like this next to Sammy down in the living room.

But in this picture, Dean’s got a stupid big grin on his face, and his arm around a boy his age with dark messy hair, bright blue eyes and –bingo– another of the matching Hawaiian shirts.  

Dean remembers him vividly. His name eludes him now, all these years later, but he remembers that he had been sitting at the table next to the Winchesters, and between every course of the meal the two of them wandered around the deck and the dining room and disrupted the other passengers with their incessant, delighted throes of laughter. He remembers how the boy’s blue eyes would crinkle at the corners when Dean said something funny, and how he tilted his head in confusion when Dean made Star Wars references. Most of all, he remembers how the big gummy smile the boy wears in the photo, when Dean saw it in person, made his heart flutter and his knees go weak.

It wasn’t until Aaron Bass kissed Dean in the back of the bus when they were twelve that he felt that again, and was able to recognize that the mystery boy he’d known for one night in his youth was his very first crush. He thought about him still, on rare occasion, and though time had erased his features and the finer details of his personality, Dean never forgot that feeling.

And now, seeing his face again, Dean accepts two truths: 1, he has always had excellent taste; 2, he really wants to know where this kid is now. Part of him wonders, perhaps even hopes, that maybe he hasn’t completely forgotten him, either.

He snaps a picture of the photograph, and tweets it along with the caption: “Hey twitter, I met this guy on a dinner cruise in Hawaii in 2006. We were basically best friends for that night and I never saw him again. I wonder what he’s up to. I need y’all to help me find him so I can see how he’s doing now.”

He's not expecting much success, but he’s got no name or anything else to work with. Probably this is his best shot.

Dean woefully underestimated the power of Twitter.

Three days later, his plea to find the boy from the dinner cruise has been retweeted over 20,000 times, and has amassed several hundred replies from people wishing him luck and asking if he’s found him yet. He’s begrudging the fact that, no, he hasn’t, when he refreshes the page and a new reply appears.

It’s a photo of a man holding a framed picture of his family of 5 in matching Hawaiian shirts. The frame obscures part of his face, but his ethereal blue eyes and messy hair perfectly match those of the boy in the picture, and there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that it’s him.

Even with part of his face covered, it’s clear that time has been kind to him. He was cute as a kid, but he’s devastatingly handsome now.

“Heard you were looking for me ;)” the tweet says, and the name on the account reads “Cas.”

“Man, you have no idea,” Dean mutters. He retweets Cas’s reply, then scopes out his profile.

He’s barely finished reading Cas’s bio, which proclaims, “Berklee ’22. Apiarist. Star Wars Enthusiast. Expert Napper.” before he’s sliding into his DMs.

“Hey man!” Dean writes. “Glad I found you. Looks like we both go to school in Boston!”

Dean keeps folding his hands on the table in front of him, then unfolding them when, moments later, they go clammy. He keeps fidgeting. And checking the time. He should’ve ordered a calming tea or something, instead of coffee.

Really, he shouldn’t be this nervous. He’s been on lots of dates, and it was Cas who asked him out, having beat Dean to it. They’ve been talking nonstop since Dean messaged him, and he has no reason to expect this encounter will go poorly. Cas is handsome, funny, and easy to talk to. They’ve got loads of common interests, but enough varied ones to keep things interesting. On paper, Cas is perfect.

Dean is terrified he’s gonna blow it. This reunion of theirs feels impossibly significant to him. He has the chance to reconnect with his first childhood crush who, by some miracle, is also into guys and now lives in his city. It’s like the stars aligned to make this happen for him and there’s so much riding on this meeting and so much pressure for it to go well and Dean has never been so nervous in his life.

Cas interrupts Dean’s mounting panic by walking into the coffee shop. His coat collar is popped against the wind, though his cheeks are still flushed pink from the cold. He scans the crowd for Dean, eyes lighting up in recognition when he spots him. He smiles that same big, gummy smile that absolutely besotted Dean as a kid. It has the very same effect now. As he walks over to Dean’s table, he shrugs off his heavy winter coat, only to reveal –

“You’re kidding,” Dean blurts out when Cas reaches the table, which is not at all the fist thing he wanted to say.

Cas raises an eyebrow, and is evidently biting back a grin. He drapes his coat over the back of his chair. “That bad?”

He’s wearing the blue floral Hawaiian shirt. It’s dated and tacky, and it’s wholly ridiculous attire for winter in Boston. But somehow, unfairly, Cas looks good. The shirt is tucked into his skinny jeans, the sleeves are cuffed, and it is unbuttoned about halfway. Anyone else would look like some wasted indie front man wannabe, but Cas looks hot.

And Dean, despite all reason, thinks he might be in love. “No just,” he laughs, “I can’t believe you’re wearing the shirt.”

Cas shrugs, sliding into his chair. “I wanted you to be able to recognize me. Though to be fair this one’s my dad’s. Mine hasn’t fit in a good 10 years.”

“Wearing your dad’s duds to a first date? Real sexy, Cas.”

“Well, you know,” Cas presses his palms against the tabletop, leans forward ever so into Dean’s space, “how long it’s on me it is entirely up to you.” He then leans back into his chair, ever so coolly, like he didn’t just proposition Dean in a busy coffee shop at 11 am.

Dean’s throat goes dry. He wants so badly to divest Cas of the shirt right now, but instead he says: “Later. But first,” he reaches into his coat pocket, and from it produces the envelope of developed photos. He slides them across the table.

Cas picks up the envelope carefully, then flips through the photographs in quiet reverie.

Dean watches as he takes them in, delighted to see Cas beaming as he looks through them all.

“I was so upset,” Cas says, eventually. “I remember getting back to the hotel that night and realizing I didn’t have the camera anymore. I thought I left it on the boat. Thank you. I cannot believe I’m seeing these right now.” He tucks the photos back in the envelope, then, in turn, tucks it into his own coat pocket for safekeeping. He then fixes Dean a look heavy with intrigue and sincerity, “And I cannot believe I’m seeing you again.”

Dean blushes under the weight of his gaze. “Me neither. I’m just sorry it took so long. I didn’t even know I had the camera ‘til a few weeks ago.”

Cas shakes his head. “It’s ok. I’ve got them now. And anyway,” he winks, “I’d say it was well worth the wait.”

Eight months after cleaning out his closet at home, Dean Winchester is hanging up the articles of clothing that survived the purge next to Cas’s Hawaiian shirt in their shared closet in their new Boston apartment. He’s admiring his work when warm, gentle palms cover his eyes. “I want to show you something,” Cas says. He presses a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. With Cas’s guiding words and careful steps, Dean lets himself be taken into the living room, where he is eventually stopped. “You ready?”

“Born ready, sweetheart.” Dean says. But when Cas takes his hands off Dean’s eyes, reveals his surprise, Dean realizes he was not ready at all. The wall in front of them is covered with framed photos of their friends and family, and at the center of it all is the two of them, seven years old on the dinner cruise.

His heart swells at the sight of it, and he’s overwhelmed, as he often is, by how much he adores this man. He turns around, pulls Cas to him in a desperate, bruising kiss.

Cas pulls away infinitesimally, rests his forehead against Dean’s. “I take it you like it?”

“I love it.” Dean confirms. He kisses Cas’s cheek. “And love you.” His jaw. “So fucking much.” His neck. “Gonna prove it to you, baby.” He palms his boyfriend’s dick through his jeans.

“Later,” Cas says through a moan, and pulls Dean’s hand away. “Later,” he repeats, a bit more sobered and with far more conviction, “I’ll hold you to that. But first we have to unpack the kitchen stuff.” He kisses Dean once more, then saunters off to the kitchen.

There was a time in Dean’s life not long ago when he would have contested that assertion. He’s on break, after all, and only for a few days more. His second year of college starts up Monday. He should be relaxing, for the most part, and only exerting himself to have very noisy, enthusiastic sex with his boyfriend in their new apartment.

But really, he knows he’ll never lament having to do chores again.

In fact, he owes the very best part of his life to them.

[dvddggs]

To the Four of Us (Part Twenty Three)

premise: modern AU chronicling the squad as they make their way through college and deal with general life things. soundtrack song: if anyone has a song rec for this chapter lemme know! full soundtrack: x  words: 3,131 (THERE U GO ITS NICE AND LONG YALL) warnings: kinda strong warning for this one!! ptsd, anxiety, alcoholism, death mention (if i missed anything please let me know!!) a/n: panic! at my chapter (thx @seas-space-and-stardust) all chapters: x tags: @heythereitsloey @anitheunicorn @newyorkyoucanbeanew @lafbagxette @justafangirlwithanavy @iamgrayfox @ordinaryornate @schuylerjoon @angelica-peggy-eliza @trashyperson101 @crazydragon15 @but-if-you-had-to-choose @geespilots @marvelous-hamilfan @5p00kygh05t @panda-powers @and-maria @lafeyettegunsandships @schokoobananaa @allthegoodurlshavebeentaken @aphboi @hell-yes-puns-and-ships @aham-threw-his-shot-away @hesitantcat @nonstopspook @hamrevolution @writethewayout @alexander-did-you-know @allthegoodurlshavebeentaken @sun-tree @angelizaandpeggy @isis278 @idk-destiel @engulfedinstars @hamiltrashuniverse @ahrupe @just-me-an-asshole @readfizz

dedication: everyone who’s messaged me that they’re refreshing their computers waiting for the update oMFG

It was a Wednesday. The house was quiet. It had been quiet for a long time. It would probably stay quiet for awhile longer. Alexander was sitting on the deck in his backyard, watching the sun rise. He could see his breath when he exhaled—it was freezing. But it was quiet.

He needed quiet.

Because it was a  Wednesday.

The sky lightened over the horizon, blossoming slowly from a deep, calming indigo to a bright and bubbly pink, welcoming the hope and happiness of a new day. But there was no hope. There was no happiness.

And yet the sun continued to rise.

Why?

Alexander sighed, gazing across the yard to his old swing set. He and his father had built it together. Fog danced across the snow which covered the ground in a thick blanket while his mind spun in relentless circles.

He wished the sun would just set again because, honestly, what was the point? It was a Wednesday. Soon enough, John would wake up and learn why Alexander had been up since five o’clock in the morning.

And then?

The world would come to an end.

His mind wandered back to the text from John’s brother. “Dad’s dead.” So blunt. So matter-of-fact. Clean. Done. Over.

Suddenly, a smiling face crossed his mind. It was nothing but a deep, embedded memory that would never be fully whole, but that would also never be fully gone.

His mother.

It was a Wednesday.

“Lex,” she said.

Sometimes the doctors tried to call him Lex but he wouldn’t let them—that name was reserved for his mother. Alexander looked up at her. She was grinning, showing her teeth. They were nice and white—he remembered that. Not too big, not too small. When she smiled, it could light up a room.

“Ready to eat?”

Alexander nodded and climbed onto the bed next to his mother. He was only seven, though she wasn’t much larger than him. She told him that it was because his father was a giant, so Alexander was part giant and he grew really fast. That was also why she said his father had left them—he had to go back and live with the other giants. The showers here were too small for him. Alexander had understood.

Twice a week, the nice nurses from Alexander’s hospital brought him to visit his mother. She told him that the nurses were real-life angels who were sent to make sure that they got to spend as much time together as they could. Every week, Alexander counted down until Wednesdays and Saturdays. Until he got to see his mother.

They ate lunch and watched TV and talked. Sometimes, on his mother’s better days, they would go on adventures. But that only happened twice. Only when the doctor said so.

Once in awhile, the doctor would interrupt their TV show to give Alexander’s mother a needle or ask her some questions. Alexander asked him a lot of questions in return. As time went on, the routine got longer and longer. They added tubes and lines dripping something into a needle on her hand and a machine that went beep, beep, beep…

When Alexander asked the doctor what these machines were, he told him that they were turning his mother into a robot. Then his mother would talk in a choppy, monotonous voice, and Alexander would laugh. He would forget the initial question. This was, of course, the goal.

One day—a Saturday—his nurses brought him to his mother extra early in the day. They even had to wake him up. When he walked into her room, her robot gear was gone. The tubes were gone. The needles were gone. Alexander gasped, grinning, and ran to her. She pulled him into a tight—albeit bony—hug and spoke softly.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Mommy,” he responded happily. “Are you feeling better?”

Usually, when he hugged his mom he had to be extra careful so as not to displace the robot equipment. This time, however, it was all her.

“I sure am, Little Lexie.”

Alexander’s grin, if possible, widened. His mother tried to smile back, but her eyes did not seem happy. He tilted his head a bit but decided that it was probably nothing.

That day, they ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. They watched Alexander’s favourite cartoons, played I Spy, and talked until sunset. When Alexander’s nurses stopped by to pick him up, his mother began to cry.

“It’s okay, Mommy,” Alexander said. “I’ll be back on Wednesday! We can finish the show then, right?”

She sniffled, nodding, and let Alexander wipe a tear off her cheek.

“I love you, mama,” Alexander said, letting his mother squeeze him tighter than she ever had.

“I love you too, my precious boy. Just wait till Wednesday, okay? We’re going to have the best day ever! I love you more than anything else in the entire world, did you know that? You are my everything, Alexander. Goodnight, baby boy.”

“See you on Wednesday,” Alexander said as he left the room.

“See you then.”

It was a Wednesday. Alexander awoke bright and early and waited for his nurses to come get him. He squinted at the analog clock on the wall, trying to remember what his mother taught him about how to tell the time.

Little hand on the nine. Big hand on the twelve. Nine o’clock. They were late.

Alexander stood by the door with his backpack on his little shoulders. He’d packed his colouring books that day, excited to show his mother how he’d coloured in the most detailed picture.

Finally, when the big hand hit the two, his nurses showed up. Instantly, Alexander knew that something was wrong. They were not their usual bright and happy selves—their eyes were red and puffy and they looked unbearably sad.

“Alex,” said Nora, the taller of the two. “Do you want to sit down for a minute?”

“But I wanna go see my mama. I want to show her my colouring! Wanna see? Look—”

“Alex,” Nora said again. She was quieter this time—more serious. Alexander sat down and gazed between the two nurses, between his two angels. “Your mommy—”

What Nora told Alexander made his entire world come crashing down around him.

It was a Wednesday.

That was when Alexander usually shook his head free of thought and forced himself back into the present.

The present. A Wednesday. The sun had fully risen and the fog had lifted. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before his father, ever the early riser, got up and began to cook breakfast for the three of them.

The present. A moment of peaceful grief. For his mother. For John. A final quiet moment before heading back inside. Back to bed.

The present. His warm bed. John. Darkness. Quiet. A bit more sleep.

The present. Yawning. A lazy kiss on the cheek and a sleepy smile.

The present. “Good morning, Lex.”

The present. The end of the world.

“I’m feeling a bit better,” John remarked lazily, blinking his eyes awake and sitting up in bed.

Alexander nodded vaguely but didn’t respond. Nausea suddenly erupted in his stomach and he lost the ability to speak. How did he even begin? What could he possibly say?

It was the type of speechless that bound his entire body and left him without even the faintest idea of what to think. He was consumed by it.

John raised an eyebrow, laughing a little.

“Is something wrong? Is this about last night? I mean, I had a little meltdown but I’m good, see?” He pointed to his mouth, which he warped into a wide, happy grin. “Sleep fixes everything! Well…not everything, I guess. But it helps. Right, Lex? Lex?”

Alexander was staring at his lap the entire time John spoke, unable to look him in the eye. He couldn’t hide this—there was no way. And why should he? He wasn’t even supposed to know. What right did he have to withholding information?

“John,” Alexander whispered.

John’s smile transformed into a furrowed brow. He looked confused and increasingly concerned.  What could have possibly happened that made things worse between the end of his nightmare last night and now?

“I need you to listen to me, okay?” Alexander continued, swallowing hard. John nodded, his heart rate increasing rapidly. “Your brother texted you last night after you went back to sleep. Something—happened.”

Alexander took a deep breath, no idea how he was possibly going to get the words out.

“Alex…”

“It’s your dad, John—your dad…he died. Last night.”

Nothing.

Silence.

A minute.

Two minutes.

John was staring at nothing. His eyes glazed over and he looked at nothing. He felt nothing.

Inside, he was falling down a pit of darkness. Cold, alone, and broken. He hit the bottom then kept going. Kept falling. Nothing hurt though, he felt nothing. He was nothing. He was numb.

Empty. Hollow. He had nothing left. The world had taken from him—taken and taken and taken—until he had nothing left to give. And here he was, scraping the bottom of the pit, giving up the last thing that he could possibly give—his own father. 

Alexander didn’t dare to breathe. He didn’t move closer to John, he didn’t offer any comforting words. He studied John’s face. There was no sadness, no reaction.

“John…”

But he just shook his head vaguely.

“He’s dead.” John tested the words on his tongue. They sounded strange and foreign. Wrong.

Alexander said nothing.

“He’s dead,” John repeated, inhaling shakily.

Alexander’s eyes widened a bit.

“He’s dead.” A third time. “Okay.”

Internally, Alexander fought between past and present, the murky, unclear memory of his mother fighting for dominance over John. But no. No, he needed to be here. This was not about him. He fought the urge to submit to the comfort, to the warmth of his mother’s face. To where he usually retreated when he needed a break from the present.

“I’m so sorry,” Alexander whispered. He knew from experience that those words were empty, meaningless. But he didn’t know what else to say.

He understands? He knows what John’s going through?

But it wasn’t about him. He couldn’t make it about him.

John just nodded, staring into space. He made no attempt to move even after Alexander stood up.

“Do you want to call your brother?”

Another dazed nod.

Alexander unlocked John’s phone and dialled his brother’s phone number, handing the device to John as it rang. Through the pressing silence in the room, Alexander could hear James pick up the phone.

John said nothing, so James began to speak.

“John.”

No response.

“You got my text,” James continued. “I don’t even know what to say, John. I am so, so sorry.”

John nodded.

“Okay,” he said when he realized that James could not see him.

“They said there was some internal bleeding…that they didn’t catch in time. It was fast.”

“Okay.”

“John?”

No response.

“Can you come home?” James’ voice broke a bit on the last word.

John shifted his gaze into focus and looked at Alexander, who nodded. Somehow, they would find a way.

“Okay,” John repeated.

Alexander’s heart ached—John sounded like he had absolutely no substance left to him whatsoever.

“John,” James prompted. No response. “I’m really sorry.”

John paused, waiting for something more to be said. When it wasn’t, he hung up and handed his phone back to Alexander, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. His eyes glazed over once again as Alexander put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I need to go talk to my dad,” he said. “Do you want to come or stay here?”

“Stay.”

Alexander nodded, kissed John tenderly on the top of his head, and walked downstairs. When he left his room, he let himself feel again. He had to try and hold it together for John but, god, he didn’t realize how much it was hurting him to see his boyfriend in this much pain.

“Morning, Alex,” George said brightly when he heard the footsteps descending the stairs.

“Dad,” Alexander said. His voice was hoarse and his hands were still shaky. He told his father what had happened—everything from John’s nightmare to this morning with his phone call to James.

By the end, George had fallen into a chair and was staring at Alex.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, when his son finally stopped talking. “Is he okay? I mean—of course he’s not…but, you know what I mean.”

Alexander shook his head. “I think he’s in shock. He’s barely said two words since I told him.”

“Are you okay?”

“It’s not about me, Dad, it’s—”

George shook his head, cutting Alexander off.

“Answer the question. Are you okay?”

“Um, no…not really. I—I keep thinking about Mom. I know it’s really selfish of me and I’m trying to focus on John but—”

He was cut off again by his father pulling him into a tight hug. Alexander felt hot tears spill down his cheeks.

“Alex,” George said fiercely. “Of course you’re allowed to be thinking about your mom. This thing that’s happening to John right now—this terrible, horrific thing—the exact same thing happened to you. I’d be concerned if you weren’t thinking about her.”

Alexander nodded, wiping his eyes quickly.

“Thanks, Dad.”

George stood up and pushed back the sleeves on his shirt.

“Well, go and get your stuff,” George said.

“What do you mean?”

“We need to take John home, right?”

Alexander almost smiled.

Almost.

John sat on the bed while Alexander gathered their things—a pile of stray clothes which had accumulated in the corner of the room over the past few days.

It was strange—it seemed like Christmas had been a lifetime ago, though it had only been a few days earlier. How had so much happened since then? How did life get to this point? In the blink of an eye, how had the world as they’d known it changed?

As Alexander shoved his clothes into a duffel bag, he heard John’s voice from behind him.

“Laf,” he said, into his phone Alexander presumed. “My dad is dead.”

His voice, Alexander noticed, sounded no more emotional than it had this morning. It was as if saying it out loud helped him realize the truth of his words.

“Oh, great,” Alexander heard Lafayette say through the speaker. “What’d he do this time?”

Dead silence.

Alexander’s eyes widened as he whipped around to see John’s reaction to their friend’s misinterpretation of his words. His jaw dropped when John smiled, but he almost passed out from shock when he started laughing.

And once he started, he couldn’t stop.

John was cackling through the phone at Lafayette, who had no idea what was going on. Alexander was mildly afraid that John was having an actual full-blown mental breakdown. For almost five straight minutes, John laughed and laughed until tears began to stream down his face.

John’s laughter faded into a chuckle so that he could gasp for breath. In, out. In, out. Before he could inhale again, the tears of laughter turned into heaving uncontrollable sobs. His phone slipped from his hand and crashed to the ground, leaving a crack through the screen, but John didn’t react. He was crying harder than Alexander had ever seen anyone cry. He wretched and heaved, doubled over, absolutely stricken with grief. It was as though the realization of what had happened had finally come along and punched him in the gut.

Alexander dropped the sweater that was in his hand, picked up the phone, and wrapped John tightly in one of his arms.

“Shh…I know, John…it’s okay to cry…I know…” he murmured softly before pressing the phone to his ear. “Laf—John was being serious…his—his dad died last night.”

At Alexander’s words, John let out another loud sob into his shoulder. Alexander winced and pressed his cheek to the top of John’s head. With each sob, it felt like a knife slicing through Alexander, opening up the almost-healed wounds that had been inflicted upon him when his mom died. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling and cry for twelve hours straight.

But he had to be strong for John. He had to keep him afloat. Right?

Lafayette hadn’t spoken except to whisper, “Oh my god. John, I’m so sorry.”

“Me and my dad are taking him home,” Alexander said quickly, his voice wavering. “I’ll update you.”

Without waiting for Lafayette to respond, Alexander hung up the phone and wrapped his other arm around John. He buried his face in his neck and took a deep breath, willing himself not to cry.

As he stroked John’s hair, brushing it down his back, behind his ears, off his forehead, Alexander let his mind wander to his mom. The dark corner of his mind that no one could access but him. He had not thought about her in a long time, so today was like an assault on the senses. He didn’t know if John realized how strongly he understood the feeling of absolute hopelessness that sat in the pit of his stomach, relentlessly punching him, beating him up, killing him.

John’s grip on Alexander’s neck tightened and that was when he lost it too. Alexander simply couldn’t hold himself together anymore—he didn’t have the fight. He let his emotions spill forward as he clung to John and let himself cry. He was quiet, not even sure if John knew he was crying, but listening to John’s pain verbalized was too much.

When Alexander ran out of tears to shed, he sat there holding John. He was numb—out of emotion. John’s gut-wrenching sobs had slowed to silent streams of tears. They held each other, not speaking. Not needing to speak.

They didn’t move until George knocked softly on the door and let himself in.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked softly.

John didn't respond, but Alexander nodded for the both of them. He stood up and pulled John to his feet. Though he wavered a bit, after a deep breath he was alright. They leaned on each other as they walked to the car and climbed in the backseat, John’s head resting on Alexander’s shoulder.

John fell asleep, the sun illuminating the fresh tears that were still wet on his cheeks. Alexander rubbed a thumb gently along his jawline.

“Dad,” he said quietly.

He saw George’s eyes shift to him in the rearview mirror.

“Hmm?” he replied.

“I don’t think I can go through this again.”