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fandomsonrequests · 4 years ago

Text

unexpected friend

fandom: ATEEZ

characters: choi san

reader: fem

word count: 5.4k

summary: fate decided to test this decade long feud between you and choi san

notes: enemies to lovers AU, toxic themes, character death, substance abuse (it’s not explicit) such as alcohol and cigarettes, heavy themes, language, violence

You had no idea where it started— you just knew that you hated Choi San with every fiber of your being. And unsurprisingly, the feeling is mutual with you.

Maybe it started in kindergarten when he accidentally pushed you to the ground in the game of tag. You got so mad at him, saying that he meant it when he obviously didn’t, calling him stupid because “all boys are stupid.”. Or maybe it started when you knocked over his tower of building blocks as revenge. Or was it when he dipped your pigtails in paint to get back at you? Or maybe the time he spread rumors that you had cooties causing everyone to avoid you like the plague.

Whatever the reason, it spiraled into a childhood rivalry that continued as you grew older. The endless cycle of cat versus dog, taking revenge on one another, followed into grade school, where you reached your horse phase and he reached his gun dam phase. It was inevitable you’d see him again— you both lived in a fairly small town after all.

Petty actions like drawing on the other’s homework turned into stealing each other’s lunches or setting some sort of prank at each other’s seats— whatever your ten-year-old brains could think of. Your screaming matches grew even worse and at one point, you both started throwing punches. The teachers always had to watch you during breaks because eventually, you’d be on top of each other and pulling at each other’s hair.

San had an advantage of course since he took taekwondo, you always ended up as the loser. But in retaliation, you managed to convince your mother to enroll you in some other martial art to protect yourself. And when you won your first little fistfight— you always made sure to lord it over him.

“Hah, you got beat by a little girl! Not so tough now huh potato-head?”

“Shut up horse-face!”

San saw your kindness and charisma towards others as an act. It was your own way of reeling others in to be on your side, gathering some sort of army to help you gang up against him. You on the other hand managed to convince yourself that his cute little dimples and selflessness for others was a facade, You couldn’t believe how many people he’s managed to fool or turn against you. And you’ve always hated him for that. You let it fester as you go through grade school and towards middle school. That hatred you harbored for him was always lit inside you.

Your parents and his were always apologizing to each other during parent-teacher meetings or school events, having to hold you back from jumping on one another. Your dad had given up on the whole thing so he was totally useless; that left you to run to your mother for comfort. Whatever the situation was, at the end of the day, she was always on your side.

“Things will blow over soon. But please, honey, try to stay out of trouble for me?”

So when she died in your junior year of high school, you couldn’t help but feel alone. Your dad had taken to smoking to cope with the loss, marrying a woman who was in love with alcohol while bringing her two hellish twin daughters with her into your home. Things grew miserable for you at home; your dad became a pathetic pushover, letting his new wife run the household. That made you angry— how could he get over your mother so easily? How could he let himself get walked over like that? How could he ignore the way your older step-sisters trampled all over you?

How could he let all this happen?

San’s endless taunting at school didn’t help either. His harmless pranks grew worse as time passed: spray-painting some nasty words on your locker, or setting a bucket of paint on top of the gym doors since you’re always the last one to head out. You’d heed your mother’s words, always doing your best to ignore him. For a while, it had worked and he pestered you less than usual but your mom’s death and the situation at home had triggered something in you, making you snap back. You’d shove his face down into his food during lunch or knock his books down the stairwell whenever you pass by each other. You had even managed to sneak some of the insects from the lab into his gym clothes, causing him to end up with nasty rashes all over his body for a week.

Your physical fights weren’t frequent but they became more violent, with one or both of you having to go to the nurses, holding an ice pack to your busted lips while a piece of gauze was stuck up his bloodied nose. It took several students or even teachers to pull you apart because most of the time no one wanted to jump in and separate you two; it was always so messy with fists and kicks flying everywhere. There was even one point where you both had to go to the hospital for fractured bones. You were both suspended for a week.

Fortunately, things had toned down now that you both were in your final year of high school with the pressure of college and meeting requirements looming over you. Although, neither of you managed to make up. You’d still exchange some foul words but the stupid pranks and fights had simmered down. That never meant you were on good terms though.

But then fate decided to be a little shit and put you in a situation you never thought you’d find yourself in.

Your new biology teacher didn’t seem to be informed about the decade-long feud between you and San. So when she assigned the both of you as partners, you felt your heart drop to your stomach as a sick feeling crawled over you. You wanted to cry and throw up at the same time- that’s just how much you despised him. You both tried to plead with her to change partners but she was as stubborn as a mule, insisting that you two can “sort out your differences” and finish this project as a team.

And now here you were, avoiding each other’s stares despite being sat next to each other. The proximity between you two was suffocating, it made it hard to focus on the project being explained to you by your cruel teacher. Your skin tingles unpleasantly whenever either of you shifted in your seat, your arms just several centimeters away from touching each other. Many thoughts ran through your head on how you can get out of this. But you knew that you had to find some time to work on the damn thing together or else you’d flunk high school— and being stuck in community college, never being able to leave this town, was not worth hitting San at the back of the head and gloating at him.

“You have the rest of the period to plan with each other. Make sure to have your presentation set and ready for next week.” Your teacher says and sits at her desk.

The room was filled with chatter as the students started conversing with each other. Many pairs threw knowing stares at you, worried that you’d be at each other’s throats. Surprisingly you weren’t… at least not yet anyway.

For a while, neither of you said anything to each other. San simply scrolled through his phone hidden under his desk while you organized your final notes. Minutes tick by and the class slowly comes to an end. With a heavy sigh, you decided to swallow your pride and talk to the guy.

You turn to the boy, roughly shoving his knee with yours and he sends you an irritated glare. “C’mon we need to plan for this.” You deadpan, ignoring the look he gave you.

San returned the sigh and pocketed his phone, shifting to face you. “Alright then. So what’s the plan?”

“That’s what we’re supposed to be talking about, dumbass.” You mutter, growing irritated. You clench your fists together in an attempt to keep your calm before continuing. “Anyway, we’re supposed to make some model of the nerve cells then present it.”

San stays quiet for a moment before speaking up. “My sister has some spare clay and wires from her sculpting hobby. I could ask for some.”

“Great. You work on that while I work on the script.” You conclude before going back to your notes.

“Hold on- you’re gonna leave me with all of the hard work?”

“We have the same workload?? I’m making the script.”

“That’s easy- scripts can be finished within a day or something.” San shot back, finding the arrangement you had set, without his consultation by the way, as unfair.

“Then I’ll help you when I’m done. Quit whining like a bitch.” You sigh, having no energy to continue the argument with him.

“Asshat…” He mumbles under his breath, pulling out his phone to text his sister. He expected some sort of retaliation from you but you simply remained quiet. That was odd- considering that you never missed the chance to have the last word in. Maybe you just weren’t feeling it today.

Nevertheless, he ignored you, deciding that it wasn’t worth pestering you at the moment. The bell rings, signaling the end of the class, and you’re immediately up and out of your seat, stuffing your notebook into your bag and swinging it over your shoulder. It almost hits San’s cheek in the process but you were already walking out the door before he could call you out on it.

“Geez…” He huffs and keeps his own things, glaring after you while hoping that time would fly by fast so that the project was done and over with.

A few days have passed by since the biology class. True enough, you’ve finished writing and even printing the script within the day the project was assigned to you. So now you were stuck helping out San with sculpting the whole model. You two would work together at the back of the library after school. Initially the librarian was hesitant about letting the two of you inside given your reputation and all. But when she saw that neither of you were at each other’s throats, surprisingly, she allowed for you to work on it in the library.

Of course you and San still had some disputes— how it’s supposed to be positioned, what shape it’s supposed to take, yadda yadda. But it had never escalated into a full blown argument because it always ended up with you taking the blow of his harsh words. That alone started to concern the boy, you’d always get back at him. But your resigned silence after every quip he threw at you started to worry him. Sure he hated your guts but San wasn’t a nasty person. He knew something was bothering you. But, he never took the initiative to ask what was bothering you; it wasn’t his problem anyway.

A weekend away from Monday aka the day of your presentation. The model was almost done— it just needed a paint job. Since it was a Saturday afternoon, meaning the school was closed, neither of you were able to work at your usual spot. So San decided to just take the whole thing to your home to finish it. Of course he could finish the whole thing himself but he had a party to attend later in the evening, and he didn’t want to miss out on it.

He arrives at your home, model in one hand and a crate of paints in the other. He takes note of the absence of your dad’s and step-sister’s cars in the driveway and assumed that you were all out. He sighs in frustration, hoping that that wasn’t the case. Jogging up to the porch, the boy sets down the crate and rings the doorbell a couple of times, foot tapping against the wooden floorboards as he waits.

When there was no response after a few minutes he tried again, this time ringing the doorbell a bit more frantically. Before he could turn around and head back home after getting no response, he hears frantic footsteps scurrying inside and steps back as the door swings open. There you were, hair looking like a bird’s nest while your week-old cardigan hung off your shoulders. There were dark circles under your eyes and you looked like a hobo who had the opportunity to clean after themselves. In other words: you were a mess.

“The fuck are you doing here?” You snap the minute your hazy mind registers that San was standing at your door.

The said boy snaps out of his own trance and shoves the model in your face. “We need to finish this.”

You stare at the figure in his hand then to the crate by his foot and then to his face that displayed an expectant expression. You sigh and rub your face. “Couldn’t you have finished it yourself?”

“I’m busy later.”

Another sigh leaves you and you step back to let him in. He enters the house, leaving his shoes by the door as he looks around the place. It was a bit messier than he had expected. There were rumpled coats hanging off of the arm of the couch, a small pack of cigarettes and a few bottles of cheap beer on the coffee table. The wallpaper was starting to fade with a few faint stains here and there.

San stays quiet as he follows you through the house, seeing the small stack of dishes waiting to be washed in the sink. He turns back to look at you, finding your silence as unnerving. You only trudged up the stairs, motioning for you to follow him. He expected to see you turn down the hallway and enter one of the rooms but was quite surprised to see you stop by a frayed rope hanging from the ceiling of the hall. You reach up and tug down on it, revealing the ladder towards the attic.

“Don’t tell me you live up there,” San jabs.

“Yeah and what of it?” You grumble, sending him a tired glare over your shoulder before climbing up the ladder.

He was stunned into silence when he realized that you were serious. He bites his tongue and refrains from jeering at you, handing the box of paints to you before climbing up. Several thoughts ran through his mind— why was your room in an attic? And since when did you start smoking and drinking? Was it even yours?

His head pokes into the surprisingly clean but small room. Your bed was pressed up near the slanted wall of the roof, several polaroids of you, your few friends, and your mother plastered along it. On the opposite side was your desk and your wardrobe whose paint was starting to chip off. Several boxes, labeled and not labeled, were pushed to the corner of the room, stacked in a way for them to take up less space.

San looks to you rummaging through your desk, probably finding a brush or something. He wordlessly steps into the room and pulls the rope, closing the trapdoor beneath him. He turns to you again and before he could stop himself, he found himself blurting the question that was plaguing his mind: “What the hell happened to you?”

You turn on your heel, almost knocking over the picture frame of you and your mom. Your hand reached out to steady it before answering San. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that.”

“Why do you live up here?” He motioned to the whole attic space with his arm. “Don’t you have a room downstairs?”

“I do.” You simply say and take the crate of paints, pulling out the needed colors and some paper cups for you to place them in.

When you don’t elaborate, San squats down to your level on the ground and tugs the purple paint tube out your hand. “What happened to it?”

“Why do you care?” You snatch the tube back with a hiss, preparing all the things needed. “It’s none of your business…”

The boy sighs, running a hand through his dark locks. He nibbles at his cheeks, carefully going over what he wanted to say. “...look, _____,” he starts, voice surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to tell me everything but you don’t have to keep everything in.”

You don’t answer him or make any move to acknowledge what he had said. But you were listening; part of you decided to take down your walls for just a moment and hear what he has to say. And San seemed to sense this because he continues.

“I’m not gonna say that ‘I’m here for you’ and all that crap but, there are people who're willing to listen to you. Whatever you’re going through right now, no matter how big or small it is, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Again, you don’t respond. A moment of silence full of high strung tension passed by. It was only a few seconds but it felt longer than that— especially since you both stopped in what you were doing and stared at the ground or at each other’s hands.

You always hated San but you couldn’t help but sense the sincerity in his words. It’s kind of pathetic but at the moment, his genuinity, the softness of the way he spoke was what you were craving for. At that moment, you just wanted assurance that things will be okay and that whatever you were doing in life wasn’t useless. And the guy you seemed to hate most was offering you that.

Tears prick at your eyes and you hastily brush it away with the sleeve of your cardigan, refusing to show any weakness to your nemesis. But it was hard; once the tears started flowing it was difficult for you to stop. You play it off by finishing up in preparing the paints, suppressing any hiccups or sobs that would escape before eventually giving up and bringing your legs up to your chin, crying into your sweats. Fuck it if San sees.

You curled up into yourself, crying into your pants when you felt a gentle but hesitant hand on your shoulder. You jolt at the touch, seeing San back away quickly. His brows were furrowed in concern and his lips were pursed, almost as if he were thinking about what he was going to say.

“G-go on, gloat,” You hiccup, choking on your tears. “I look like a m-mess anyway…”

You were surprised, and a little bit embarrassed, that he didn’t follow with what you said. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small packet of tissues and handing it over to you. He looked up to your desk, seeing your water container on your desk. He stands up to take it, shaking it to check if there was still some water in it, before placing it by your foot.

“I’m not going to lie, you are a mess,” San says before returning to his previous spot on the floor. “But I guess that’s normal when you’re having a shitty day.”

“More like a shitty life…” You mumble. You chug down the rest of your water, managing to stop your tears as you wipe them away with the tissues. You look up at the boy across you and sigh heavily. “It’s my step-mom,” you say.

“I’m sorry?”

“My step-mom. She made me move up here so that her daughters could take my room.” You explain. “My dad didn’t say anything because he’s a pushover, wasting his life away on cigarettes and the alcohol his wife buys…”

San nods slowly in understanding, finally making sense of what he saw in the living room and kitchen. That explained a lot of things: why you would always faintly smell of alcohol or nicotine a few months after your mother had died. It had honestly shocked him to hear that— your dad and step-mom always looked presentable in public. Your step-sisters were a bit more extravagant but neat nonetheless. The way they talked and carried themselves didn’t seem to indicate that they had any substance addiction.

Thinking back on it, it had also explained why you were so irate and moody almost all the time, leading to you losing some friends in high school as you fell back into yourself or into violence. It was a defense mechanism— you didn’t want to seem vulnerable because at home, you were vulnerable enough.

An idea pops into his head and he promptly stands up, momentarily making you jump from his sudden movement. You look up at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Come with me.”

“What???”

“I said get up and come with me.” San says and actually held his hand out to you.

You look at it skeptically before looking up at him, contemplating about any consequences in following him— if there were any. He wiggles his fingers, impatiently coaxing you to join him and you finally make up your mind. Might as well follow him; you had nothing to lose anyway.

You swat his hand away to get up on your own, mumbling something along the lines that you could get up yourself before straightening yourself out and placing your hands on your hips. He gives a satisfied nod and grabs his shoes to put them on. He then kicks open the trapdoor before heading back down for you to follow.

He returns to the living room with you trailing behind, still wondering where exactly he wanted you to go. When you glance at the clock you see that it’s already 5:30 in the afternoon. Your thoughts were interrupted when you felt something land by your feet. You whipped your head around to see San pointing at your shoes which he probably threw at you from the door.

“We’re heading out for a while.” He says as he exits your house. You take a moment to process what was happening when he pops his head in. “Come on slowpoke.” He ushers you.

You hastily throw on your shoes, grabbing the house keys hanging by the coat rack, and hop out of the house. You lock the door behind you and approach San who was sitting upon his notoriously loud motorbike. “Where are we going?” You ask, settling down behind him.

Your arms awkwardly flutter beside you, opting to hold onto whatever space was left on your seat. You jump in surprise when you hear and feel the engine roar to life, eliciting an amused chuckle from the boy in front of you. You glare at the back of his head, smacking his shoulder and settling yourself once more.

“Hold on tight,” San tells you as he revs up the motorbike.

“I am.” You argue and strengthen your grip on the seat, shaking the bike a little to emphasize your point.

“No you aren’t.” You feel heat rise to your face when he tutted in annoyance, taking your arms and placing them around his waist. “There you go. See? No harm done.”

You only grumble something in response, making him chuckle to himself. It was a bit strange to see you tame like this. Sure it kind of boosted his ego considering that he managed to make you flustered with just a few words and a simple action but he actually kind of liked it when you weren’t at each other’s throats. He revved up the engine again before taking off and speeding down the road.

The evening breeze is cool as it whips through your hair and brushes against you, sending small goosebumps running down your skin. A small yelp escapes you when San picks up speed, causing your grip on him to tighten. He glanced back at you for a moment before taking the turn that exits the town and towards the road uphill. It led to the small forest that overlooked the city; it was a popular place in town for hiking or camping. You remember going there to play as a kid.

The air gets chillier as you both reach a higher altitude. You unconsciously nuzzle closer to the boy in front of you in an attempt to seek some body heat. The sky grows darker, turning into a deeper blue shade as the night slowly creeps upon the town. Some stars start to peek and settle themselves in the dark blanket of the sky by the time San slows down to a stop. He had stopped by the edge of the forest, a metal railing along the opposite end to keep people or vehicles from falling off the edge.

“We’re here.” San says and looks back at you. “You can let go if you want now.”

At that, you peel yourself away from him and hop off his bike mumbling something about how cocky he was while walking over to the railings. He joins you soon after, keeping a respectable distance from you. None of you say anything at first, simply taking in the view of the city in front of you. Now know why San took you out here: to breathe and clear your mind of things; something that you didn’t know you needed at the moment.

The spot you were in allowed you to overlook the town, seeing the lights from the roads and houses down below. You could spot the water tower in the distance along with the radio tower next to it. As you survey the scene before you, you make out one house in the distance with a multitude of colored lights flashing around it.

“Looks like someone’s having a party.” You muse, finally breaking the silence.

San hums in acknowledgement. “I hope they aren’t missing me.”

It takes a moment for you to understand what he said, perking up when it made sense to you. “So that’s what you meant when you were ‘busy.’” You say as you lightly punch his arm. “You’re such an ass.”

“What? I wasn’t lying; I would’ve been busy.” He defends himself, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Yeah,” You huff. “Busy shoving your tongue down people’s throats.”

A mischievous hum. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Ew no, gross- I’ll pass.”

You share a small laugh together before settling into silence again. It was… kind of cathartic, being able to actually laugh for a long while-even if it was with your longtime nemesis. It was better than crying yourself to sleep almost every night.

You turn to lean your back against the railing, using your arms to support you as you mull over the forest.

“I used to come here a lot as a kid.” You say, managing to capture San’s attention. “Pretended to gallop along the trees like some sort of princess when I was in my horse phase… I would always come home with scraped knees. I was a clumsy kid.”

“Except when you’d throw punches at me,” San interjected, ghosting a hand over his jaw. “You sure knew how to pack a punch.”

You smile apologetically, a sheepish flush on your cheeks, and look over to him. “Well you did deliver some pretty good kicks- I needed to learn how to defend myself.”

San shrugged in agreement. “I guess,” He muses and offers you a small smile, lapsing into silence again. “You know… it’s actually kind of surprising but you aren’t so bad to talk to.”

You nibble at your lower lip at his confession, unsure of what to make of it. When you look up at him, you see that he had inched a little closer to you. He still kept a reasonable amount of space between you two but it was apparent that he wanted to get closer. He drums his fingers against the cool metal of the railing, brows furrowed as he thinks over his next words carefully.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts out. “I’m sorry for all the times I’ve been an asshole to you. I know that I’ve hurt you, not just physically, but emotionally too. And I want to apologize for that… I know, words are just words. It won’t do anything to reverse or take back what I’ve done to you then, but please, take it as a first step to making it up to you.”

San decided to meet your watery gaze, his chest clenching at the tears you were trying so hard to hold back. He holds his hand out instinctively, wanting to offer some sort of physical comfort. He stops himself midway, opting to just settle it on the rail halfway from you. “You don’t have to make a decision right here and now. You can still hate me all you want, but I promise to leave you alone from now on.”

You whimper pathetically, finally letting the tears flow down your cheeks. You felt guilt consume you at his apology. Why was he taking the blame for everything? It should be you who was saying sorry. After all,you were just as cruel as him. And thinking back on it, this feud had most likely started with you. You raise a sweater paw to wipe at your tears, sobbing into your hand.

God you were a mess.

“Don’t, don’t blame yourself… I should be apologizing too. It takes two to tango right?” You hiccup, managing to give him a shaky smile. “I could’ve chosen to ignore you or direct my anger elsewhere but I still ended up targeting you at the end of the day…”

“_______, it’s okay—“

“No it’s not.” You hiss. “I’m not just talking about what I did in high school. I’m talking about every instance I was cruel to you. It was petty, extremely childish, and just horrible overall. I don’t expect you to forgive me but I want to apologize too. I’ve made part of your life a living hell.”

You glance at his hand on the railing before holding your own out towards him. “Truce?” You offer. “We don’t have to be all buddy-buddy after this but at least we can just end this whole thing.”

San gripped your hand in a gentle but firm handshake. “Truce.” His touch lingered for

just a second before he gave a gentle squeeze and pulled away. He returned it to the previous spot on the railing.

The both of you remain for a while, just overlooking the town and reflecting on what had happened. The quiet atmosphere that you both shared suddenly didn’t seem so awkward anymore. Instead, it was filled with some tension but with a bit of comfort at the same time. It was similar to the feeling of a thorn being plucked out of your side: painful but relief that it was finally out.

You don’t expect that things would go right at once— this wasn’t like the movies or the books where everything was magically solved. You both had left some scars on each other, some that are too hard to forget or too deep to heal easily. But you two were working on it: healing and forgiving each other. It was still a long journey but it was something you were both willing to go on together.

You glance to San, seeing how relaxed he was right now. He didn’t look so annoying or so terrifying anymore. A tiny grin makes its way to your lips; never in a million years did you think you’d find solace in someone you despised so much.

“Hey San,” You call out to him, resting your hand beside his, your pinkies brushing against each other. “...thanks for this. I really needed it.”

He smiles at you, flashing his cute dimples at you. It sends a warm, tingly feeling down your spine and you couldn’t help but feel calm at that. “Glad I could help.” He momentarily pat the back of your hand, engulfing it with his larger one when you didn’t pull away.

It was late when he drove you home to finish the project. Unsurprisingly, your family was still out, probably at an event they forgot to tell you about. But you didn’t mind, you had an unexpected friend with you right now.

You smile to yourself as you wave goodbye to San from the doorway, seeing him speed down the road and into the night. He may have been the bad guy in your life but it turns out, he wasn’t such a bad guy. And you were thankful that you were able to see that because at least you knew you had someone in your corner.

#ficscafe #ateez #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez imagines #ateez angst #ateez choi san #choi san x reader #ateez san #ateez headcanons

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

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Angel, Angel, Burning Bright (Rated M)

Summary: In a dystopian society where free thought and speech are both outlawed, and firemen set fires instead of putting them out, Aziraphale is a rebel, trying to rescue books from incineration, with the help of his friend, Crowley, who happens to be a fireman. (4422 words)

Notes: Human AU. Inspired by Fahrenheit 451. Warning for angst, hurt/comfort, mention of oral sex, injuries involved with a blow to the head and burning, description of which get moderate towards the end, but not too tremendously graphic. You wanna hate Gabriel more? This is the story for you XD

Read on AO3.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Aziraphale says, gathering the books that are the least damaged out of the ruins of the destroyed Bodleian Library. He picks through what remains of the tattered volumes, frowning at the ones that simply fall apart, turn to ash at his touch.

“Look who’s talking, angel.” Crowley tosses aside a few charred tomes and rescues a mostly intact manuscript. “I’m a fireman. At least I have an excuse for being out here. You … you’re likely to be killed on sight!”

Aziraphale scoffs but goes about his business.

Crowley hands over the manuscript to Aziraphale, whose arms are just about full. “What?”

“Fireman.” Aziraphale exhales sharply. “I remember when we were little - you wanted to be a fireman. A real fireman. Back when firemen put out fires. Now you’re the ones who set them. Demons … the lot of you …”

Crowley feels splinters of old arguments prickle beneath his skin like angry sea urchins anxious to break free. He appreciates what Aziraphale is going through, everything he’s lost.

His mother’s bookshop was one of the first places to go.

Then the firemen descended on Oxford.

The two places Aziraphale has ever called home up in smoke, and Crowley was there on the front lines pulling the trigger. But regardless of his actions, Crowley isn’t the enemy. Unlike Aziraphale who chose the life of a rebel, Crowley didn’t get a choice.

Crowley’s caretakers aren’t quite as forgiving as Aziraphale’s.

And Crowley understands all of this, understands how his involvement hurts Aziraphale, cuts him to the bone. He’d change it if he could, and every day he searches for a way.

Till then, he refuses to be Aziraphale’s punching bag.

He grabs Aziraphale’s shoulders, nearly knocking the books loose from his grip.

“Do you think I like this?” he snarls in a low voice. “Do you think I want to be one of them?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, accepting Crowley’s anger coolly. “I don’t. But you don’t seem to have balls big enough to walk away from them either.”

“Bastard!” Crowley holds onto Aziraphale a little longer, squeezes his arm a little harder before pushing him away. “Easy for you to say. You have no obligations. No one’s putting your feet to the fire.”

“I have friends,” Aziraphale says, ignoring Crowley’s vitriol. “I have them to look after.”

“Right. That computer major drop-out and his weird-ass witchy girlfriend?”

“You, too, you idiot. Or have you forgotten?”

“I can look after myself.” Crowley goes back to picking through the ashes to keep Aziraphale from seeing the smile on his face because thank Go---someone (not God because where they Hell are they? Not here at the moment, that’s for damned sure!) Aziraphale hasn’t given up on him. Not after this fight.

Not after all the fights.

He can’t lose Aziraphale. If he does, he might as well turn his flamethrower on himself and pull the trigger. He’d have nothing left to make this apocalyptic bullshit life worth living.

Sifting through the splintered, blackened wood of the library shelves masks the sounds of footsteps coming their way.

Crowley and Aziraphale don’t hear them until it’s too late.

“Did you see the way it collapsed?” a voice echoes through the deserted halls.

“Yeah!” a second voice cackles. “Once the flames hit the support structure, the whole thing crumbled like a house of cards!”

Crowley’s head snaps up from the wreckage beneath his feet to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks back, frozen with the books cradled against his chest.

“Go!” Crowley hisses, pointing to the caved-in doorway they had come in through. “Go home! Quickly!”

“What about you?” Aziraphale calls back in a hoarse whisper.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Go!” he repeats, motioning with his hands. “Now!”

Aziraphale bounds forward a few steps, but his foot hits a loose patch of ash and he slides forward. His feet fly out from under him and he falls into the pile, landing on his tailbone, sending dust and debris spilling like an avalanche toward the exit, blocking his escape.

“Shit, Aziraphale!” Crowley races toward him, the heavy fuel tank of his regulation issue M2 flamethrower bouncing against his back. “Can’t you do anything right!?”

“Well, you’re my best friend,” Aziraphale grumbles, scrambling to get to his feet, “so apparently not!”

“Hey! Crowley!” the first voice calls, footsteps becoming louder as the young men head for the gutted library. “What the Hell are you still doing here?”

Crowley turns quickly, shielding Aziraphale’s prone form with his bulky gear-covered body.

“I could ask you the same thing, Gabriel.”

Gabriel used to be an Oxford student like Crowley. His pudgy little minion Sandalphon, however, hails from another university Crowley has never heard of before.

Nor does he care.

“I’m just showing Sandalphon here around the old alma mater,” Gabriel preens, clapping him on the shoulder. “This was his first major burn. I wanted him to take a moment to appreciate it.”

“Good for you,” Crowley sneers. “We’ll be sure to get you a medal.”

“You’ll have to forgive Crowley,” Gabriel says, his words infused with the assumption of superiority. “He’s still a little attached to this place.”

Crowley stares Gabriel down. “Forgive me for valuing education.”

Gabriel chuckles, utterly unaffected. “That’s rich coming from the man who claims to not read.”

“Like you need an education,” Sandalphon adds, words punctuated with jealousy. “Word has it you have enough money to buy yourself a small country.”

“Right …” Crowley nods in sarcastic agreement, “aren’t I lucky? Well, if you don’t mind, I’m having a moment here …”

The sound of muffled scuffling can be heard clearly when the conversation drops off. Gabriel grins, the curl of his lips becoming more suggestive the wider it grows.

“Ahhh.” He takes slow steps forward. “Did you bring someone here to gloat over your big masterpiece?”

Crowley holds his breath. From behind him, the scuffling stops, and Crowley knows Aziraphale is waiting to hear this new information …

… the details of how his oldest friend in the world demolished Aziraphale’s beloved Bodleian Library.

“His masterpiece, huh?” Sandalphon asks.

“Yeah! You should have seen him!” Gabriel takes a step closer to Crowley as he speaks. “He totally took the charge! Came storming in here first thing!” Gabriel shoots Sandalphon a heated look. “I think he wanted all the glory for himself. But his technique sure leaves something to be desired.” He bends over and picks up a thin publication, entirely unscathed except for some charring around the edges. “Take a look at this one! It’s still readable!” Gabriel turns to Sandalphon and gives him a nod. Sandalphon’s wolfish grin takes up his entire face as he reaches for the flamethrower slung over his shoulder. Gabriel tosses the book like a Frisbee, and Sandalphon pulls out his weapon, firing on the paperback as it spins in the air, setting it ablaze. The book drops amid another pile of partially burned books, setting them on fire. Gabriel watches a small bonfire start, then turns venomous violet eyes back to Crowley. “You see? Even newbie here knows how to get the job done. How come you have so much trouble?”

Crowley isn’t about to admit with these two asshats present that he had done it on purpose - led the charge into the library to make sure the books didn’t get burned too badly. That way he could bring Aziraphale back here to collect them afterwards. He had it planned out from the day the firemen were told that the library at Oxford – Aziraphale’s library – would be the next place on the government’s hit list. Crowley would put forth the appearance of doing his job, even being zealous about it, so the group of men who had already begun to side-eye him with suspicion would be none the wiser.

Then Aziraphale might think he was a hero.

But that plan is falling apart at the seams as these two try to pick him apart in front of the only person in his life that truly matters to him – the one shivering at Crowley’s feet with an armful of books, most likely thinking that Crowley is the worst kind of liar and traitor.

None of that matters when out of nowhere, after his attempts to hold it back for this long, Aziraphale sneezes, and the two goons with their flamethrowers cocked seem to suddenly remember that someone else is in the room.

“So,” Gabriel says, fondling the weapon in his hands, “aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

Crowley holds his ground, mentally screaming at Aziraphale to keep still.

“I’d rather not,” he says, pulling his own flamethrower off his shoulder and holding it defensively in front of him.

“And why is that?” Sandalphon asks, tilting his head and taking a step to circle around Crowley while Gabriel does the same on the opposite side. “Any friend of one fireman is a friend to us all.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees, taking another step. “Maybe your little friend would like to join us. You know, fight the good fight.”

“I don’t think my friend’s interested.” Crowley watches the two circle around him like jackals vying for whatever Crowley is protecting.

Aziraphale can’t stand it anymore.

He can’t stand waiting to be sniffed out by these two heathens. He can’t stand hiding behind the man he thought he knew so well. Why? Why would Crowley do such a thing, especially when he knows how much those books mean to people? To him? Part of Aziraphale’s brain – the part not currently trying to plan his escape - tells him that he should have more faith. Crowley had to have a reason for torching the library - Aziraphale’s favorite place in the whole world.

Aziraphale knows why Crowley became a fireman. He did it because he was forced into it – asked too many questions, hung out with the wrong people, people he thought he could trust. They have something over him – something he won’t admit to Aziraphale. They threatened to turn Crowley over if he didn’t join up.

Whatever it is he’s protecting is worth his freedom, his principles … and his life.

Crowley is right - he didn’t have a choice.

Crowley does have a choice putting his life on the line to help Aziraphale, and Aziraphale recognizes that huge sacrifice, but sacrifices are being made all over. He can’t discredit the sacrifices of those rebels hiding underground, sticking to their beliefs, not giving in, relying on him.

Ugh! Aziraphale can’t afford to be this confused! Not right now!

“You know, we’re a brotherhood,” Gabriel says. “Brothers have each other’s backs.”

“And brothers don’t keep secrets,” Sandalphon points out.

“You’re no brothers of mine,” Crowley growls, releasing the safety on his flamethrower.

“Is that a threat?” Gabriel asks, a predator’s grin on his face – spread lips and white teeth.

“It sounded like a threat to me,” Sandalphon says, affecting the same hungry grin.

“We don’t like being threatened.” Gabriel stops and aims his flamethrower at Crowley. To his left, Sandalphon does the same. The air becomes strained with the threats being tossed about as the stand-off begins. On the floor, hidden from view, Aziraphale carefully puts his coveted pile of books down. He unbuttons his shirt and unzips his slacks.

“I think we should just torch them both.” Sandalphon releases the safety on his flamethrower, a small lick of blue flame dancing from the barrel of his weapon. “Let the authorities sort it out later.”

“Might be difficult though,” Gabriel says. “They’ll need to sift through their cremated remains to separate them first.”

“No!” Aziraphale screams, jumping to his feet, holding his arms up in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t! It’s not his fault! I---I wanted to come here.”

Crowley doesn’t see Aziraphale step out behind him. He can only see the expressions of the two men staring at them, eyes blank and brows furrowed in confusion. Aziraphale comes around Crowley, and Crowley lowers his weapon in surprise.

He’s never seen Aziraphale without a shirt on before.

Aziraphale isn’t exactly what one would call an athlete. He only runs when chased. So Crowley has never seen him undress - in the locker room or anywhere else. Crowley has spent many an evening lying awake wondering what Aziraphale’s body looks like beneath his clothes, imagining undressing Aziraphale slowly in the quiet of his bedroom.

Reality, Crowley decides, is remarkably better than anything he came up with.

But with Aziraphale’s trousers falling down around his hips, Crowley forgets how to breathe.

“What … what the fuck is this!?” Sandalphon asks, livid.

“That’s the big secret?” Gabriel asks with a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Crowley is gay?”

“Ye-yeah,” Crowley stammers, struggling to pull his eyes away from half-naked Aziraphale. “That’s … that’s it. That’s the secret.”

“Well, fuck!” Sandalphon sputters. “That’s barely worth wasting any juice over. Half of the students on campus are some kinda queer, aren’t they?” He powers down his weapon and slings it back over his shoulder.

“Now, hold up, Sandalphon. What were you guys doing in here?”

Crowley wraps an arm protectively around Aziraphale, his hand splaying out over Aziraphale’s bare stomach, feeling his skin jump beneath his touch. “I would think that would be obvious,” he says, pulling Aziraphale as close against him as he can.

Gabriel’s eyes rove once over Aziraphale’s body in a shameless, filthy way before returning to his face.

“What is the reward for burning down library though?” Gabriel asks, his stare driving deep into Aziraphale’s blue eyes. “A blowjob?”

Aziraphale stares back, unwilling to be intimidated by this mindless ox who ransacks houses, bullies people, and burns the only things left in the world that have any meaning.

“Yes.” He relaxes against Crowley’s body, his hands tracing his friend’s hips and down his legs as far as he can reach. “Definitely.”

Crowley, caught in the middle of this ruse, swallows lightly, trying not to focus his attention on the hands exploring his body.

Gabriel leans in closely. Aziraphale can smell the stench of alcohol on his breath and gasoline on his clothes. It’s the smell of ignorance and reckless destruction.

“I think that’s something I’d like to watch,” he whispers, the tang of him growing stronger beneath Aziraphale’s nose. Aziraphale’s stomach turns to jelly but he doesn’t let it show. He’s not going to let Gabriel have the satisfaction of knowing that anything he says affects him.

“Well, I don’t,” Sandalphon balks. “I mean, come on, Gabe. Gross-ville. Let’s get out of here.”

Gabriel doesn’t move. He tries to see through Aziraphale, but Aziraphale doesn’t let him. His hands roam absently over Crowley’s body as he waits, as if he has all day to stand here and nothing better to do.

“Right.” Gabriel backs away, not appearing too fooled by Aziraphale’s ploy. “Come on, Sandalphon. Let’s leave them to it.”

Gabriel grabs the arm of Sandalphon’s thick, fireproof overcoat and tugs him along, throwing a look over his shoulder every five steps to see that Aziraphale and Crowley stay as they leave them, with the plump, partially dressed man still groping at his fireman.

When they retreat through the double doors and disappear from sight, Aziraphale collapses to the floor.

“Fuck!” he sighs, raising a hand to his face and unwittingly wiping ash onto his skin. “That was close.” He crawls back to his abandoned shirt, leaving Crowley stunned where he stands, all thought of his near death experience dissolving with the memory of Aziraphale’s hands running over his body.

Crowley turns, catching Aziraphale right as he pulls his shirt over his arms and starts to zip up his fly.

“Aziraphale,” he says, watching Aziraphale collect the books off the floor, “I … what Gabriel said … a-about the library … I didn’t …”

“No,” Aziraphale cuts him off, “you don’t have to explain. I think I understand.”

Crowley sighs, relieved that his friend saw through them and their Evil. Aziraphale knows that Crowley is different, always has been.

“You do?” he asks, helping Aziraphale fit the last few books into his arms.

“Yeah. I mean, you need to save face. You have to make them think you believe in all this book burning shit, right?”

Crowley deflates at Aziraphale’s words.

No. He doesn’t understand after all.

Crowley opens his mouth to explain, but a sharp pain to the back of the skull sends him straight to the floor.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screams, but a pair of thick boots steps over Crowley’s body, pushing Aziraphale backward.

“I knew there was something fishy about you,” Gabriel spits into the fallen man’s face. “I knew! I just didn’t have any proof. Now I’m going to turn you in …” Gabriel looks at Aziraphale, grinning to end all grins. “And I’m going to finish the job you didn’t.”

“No!” Aziraphale holds the books to his chest and backs away. “You don’t have to do this!”

“Yes.” Sandalphon comes up behind his friend. “We do.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley groans, trying to rise from the floor, his head spinning, lights colliding behind his eyelids. “Put the books down and run!”

“No.” Aziraphale trembles, nearly out of his skin, but he keeps his eyes on the men with the flamethrowers pointed at him.

“They’re going to burn the books, Aziraphale, whether you’re holding them or not!” Crowley implores. He looks into Aziraphale’s soot stained face, pleading with bleary eyes, saying all of the things with one look that he doesn’t dare say out loud. Whether Aziraphale understands his message or not, he’s made his decision. He holds the books tighter to his chest.

Gabriel continues forward with his flamethrower at the ready. “He warned you.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley manages to kneel, attempts to crawl forward over the uneven mass of decimated books and scorched wood. “Don’t be stupid! They’re not worth your life!”

“You’re right! They’re worth more! There aren’t that many left, Crowley! I can’t let them go!”

“Let it alone, Crowley.” Gabriel shoves Crowley to the ground with a kick of his boot. “He’s made his choice.”

“Yeah,” Sandalphon says. “It’s not like we weren’t going to punish him anyway.”

“No!” Crowley screams. “You can’t …!”

“Yeah.” Sandalphon looks from Crowley to Aziraphale with a grotesque smile on his face. “We can.”

“I don’t understand you rebels and your love of books,” Gabriel says as he closes in on Aziraphale, herding him out of Crowley’s reach. “Stupid material possessions with nothing but other people’s thoughts scrawled in them. So I say burn the books and think for yourself! Or better yet … let us think for you.”

“I’d rather burn!” Aziraphale replies.

Gabriel shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“No!” Crowley lurches forward, but the men with their weapons – and his beloved, stubborn Aziraphale - are too far out of his reach.

Aziraphale turns to run, but he’s not quick enough.

Little in the world can outrun the fire of an M2 flamethrower.

The wave of orange flame that engulfs Aziraphale is hotter than anything he’s ever felt in his life. More than a thousand sunburns, more than the scalding hot water that spits out of his shower unexpectedly in the rat infested basement he’s been hiding in for months ever since they took over – the regime that doesn’t believe in independent thought or free speech, the new government that turned its people into refugees. The fire consumes Aziraphale’s body and his entire world becomes pain.

Against his wishes and all his impulses, the books fall from his arms. Their pages loosen from their bindings and fly free - the blackened feathers of scorched wings deteriorating in God rays of the late afternoon.

The last sound Aziraphale hears above the crackling of the fire is Crowley wailing his name before his mind shuts off to avoid the agony of his body burning.

Then everything goes black.

***

“Aziraphale …”

One word.

That’s the next sound Aziraphale hears.

He doesn’t know if he hears it days later, weeks later, or months later, but it’s a welcome sound.

One of the most welcome in the world to him.

“Newt,” he tries to say. He thinks his mouth moves, thinks he makes the sound, but it turns out none of it is true. He can’t say a word.

His lips are fused together.

And whatever other damage has been done to his body hides beneath a powerful concoction of morphine and valium, both fighting to drag him back to sleep.

He wants to move his eyes but he can’t open his eyelids. He doesn’t try, afraid that maybe they’re fused shut as well.

If they are, he doesn’t want to know.

How Newt even knows he’s awake is a mystery if he can’t talk and he can’t see.

Maybe it’s his fiancée, Anathema, who knows. She has a sixth sense about things.

“Can he hear us?” Newt whispers.

“I believe he can,” a woman’s voice responds. Aziraphale knows that voice, too. It’s Madame Tracy – a lady that some of the grad students rent rooms from. She used to be a nurse … he thinks. He doesn’t know too much about her, but she sure seems to know the ins and outs of the human body. She escaped down to the sewer with her husband - a grisly old man who most of the guys call Sergeant but whose real name is Shadwell. A few young kids from a nearby secondary school - Adam, Warlock, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale - found their way down to the hideout, too. They’d been playing hooky on the day the firemen set their school on fire.

As far as they know, no one else made it out alive.

“Look at how he’s trying to move his mouth, the way his eyelids flutter. That’s not just a nerve response. He’s waking up.” Tracy tuts sympathetically. “It’s a miracle he’s not dead right now. Someone upstairs definitely wants him alive, I’ll tell you that.”

Aziraphale’s body shudders as her words ignite his memory, and a sudden burst of pain along with them.

“Look at him!” Brian cries. “He’s convulsing!”

“Calm down, love,” Tracy whispers. “You’re gonna be all right. I promise. Just calm down now.”

Aziraphale hears whimpering. It takes him a moment to realize it’s his own voice. His throat burns, the sting of gasoline rising up in his sinuses where it had settled but he can’t swallow. But he needs to speak. He needs to know what happened.

Where is Crowley? Is he alive? Is he safe? Did Gabriel and Sandalphon set him on fire, too?

Aziraphale feels a wash of calm flow through his veins, cooling down his body from the inside, settling his nerves, keeping him calm. He slips back to sleep without a single question answered, unable to stay awake in his weakened state, not that he wants to try.

“Yes,” Tracy coos, “that’s better, isn’t it, sweetie?”

Aziraphale’s whimpers stop in his throat without him doing anything. He relaxes, melting into the bed beneath him, and sleep wins its battle.

“We’re going to need to find him more morphine,” Tracy says with a troubled sigh. “We’re starting to run out.”

“We’ve never had anyone burned as badly as him in the infirmary before,” Anathema points out, sniffling back tears.

“We’ll get him some,” Adam offers.

“Yeah,” Warlock concurs. “No problem.”

“Thank you, boys,” Newt says with a sad smile. “Thank you very much.” The time when Newt would turn down their offers for help as too dangerous have long gone. Even if he strictly forbids them to do anything as dangerous as stealing from the hospital, they’ll wait till nightfall and do it anyway. So far, they have yet to be discovered. He prays they never are.

The penalty for stealing from the government (and everything belongs to the government) is immediate incineration.

Newt can’t imagine what it must be like for them. Everyone they know and love is gone. This ragtag group is all the family they’ve got now. Keeping them from helping? That would be a crime.

But Newt’s heart hangs heavy knowing that the majority of the food and supplies they have have been provided due to the bravery of eleven-year-olds.

“There,” Tracy says as the twitching in Aziraphale’s muscles stop. “I think he’s back asleep. That’s best for him for now.”

Everyone nods, grateful that he’s still alive.

Aziraphale has sort of become the unelected leader of their group simply for the fact that he gives them hope. He reads to them, plays them music, performs magic for them, gathers them together and has them put on plays for one another.

Shakespeare is his favorite. He knows all his works by heart.

Recently, he had them perform Hamlet.

He threatened them with Romeo and Juliet if they didn’t.

He feeds them plain toast with scrapes of butter but promises them that they’ll eat crepes with him someday, and cheesecake and puddings and pies, talking them up so vividly they can almost taste them in their mouths while they chew stale bread.

Every day, he reminds them what in this world is worth living for.

He inspires them to go on when they would rather give up.

But barely a one of them can look him in the face.

It’s gone, every distinguishing feature morphed into a single blackened lump of flesh. He’ll never talk again, probably never see. He’ll be locked in his body for the rest of his life … if his injuries don’t kill him first.

“What do we do with the fireman?” Pepper asks. “I mean, he saved Aziraphale’s life.”

“If you can believe him,” Anathema snaps.

“Why would he lie?” Adam asks. “Why would he risk his life bringing Aziraphale here, knowing what we might do to him?”

“He brought him here because we’re the merciful ones,” Wensleydale deduces. “The government says that makes us weak and stupid.”

“But it doesn’t,” Pepper counters. “It makes us strong.”

“I believe him,” Warlock says.

“Yeah,” Shadwell says, “but you know the rules. They’re in place to keep us safe. And the rules apply to us all.”

“You’re right,” Newt says. “I do know the rules. And they do apply to us all. But if he’s telling the truth then that fireman killed two other firemen to save one of us. He’s a hero with nowhere to go. So now he’s a fugitive like us.” He puts an arm around Anathema’s shaking shoulders and hugs her tight. “He stays here. It’s the least we can do.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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arazialotis · 8 years ago

Text

A Girl Called Mike - Part 1

Characters: Dean, Sam, Reader

Word Count: About 2900

Summary: The reader disguises herself during hunting jobs as a man named Mike and has met up with the Winchesters several times. They are unaware of her true identity. Feeling they know and trust Mike, they agree to invite the reader to the bunker.

Warnings: Language, Mentions of Violence

This is purely for a hobby and my enjoyment. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I am by no means a writer so I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

-----

“You doing okay there Mike?” Dean came up asking you.

You had joined up with the Winchesters on a case, as you occasionally did, this time by accident as you both caught wind of a this one from a state news site. Ghouls it turned out to be. You couldn't care less usually about ghouls, helped out the problem of decomposition, but when they started making snacks out of the living you had to put them back into place.

You used your ball cap to brush the dust and cobwebs off your flannel (the blood would require more intense cleaning) and placed it back atop your short haired wig that concealed your longer hair.

“Yup, I'm good.” You confirmed in your long-practiced lowered voice. You had used cigarettes at first, but after months of learning to talk with your throat, it eventually came naturally. “Except I keep wondering when it's your turn to be the bait.” You joked.

Dean rested his hand on your shoulder as he laughed unknowing sending a wave of electricity through your body upon contact. “I suppose when you stop volunteering.”

“Reckon we better find Sam?” You suggested.

His hand left your shoulder and you resisted the urge to reach out and grab his hand. You had played this act for so long it was second nature, but Dean Winchester was the one weakness that could unravel it all, and you hated yourself for it.

Sam found you both before you had the chance to go looking for him. “Hey, you guys okay?”

“Yeah,” the both of you responded in unison. “You?” You added rubbing at the glued on facial hair on our jawline.

“Unscratched.” Sam boasted.

“I need a beer.” You commented.

“I'm with ya.” Dean added. “Same place as last night?”

“Absolutely,” you agreed. “But first I need to freshen up.” You mentioned as you all made your way out of the crypt.

“Always trying to impress the ladies Mike.” Sam joked.

“Yeah, it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I smell like a grave or the blood stains.” You remarked sarcastically. “I'll meet up with you.”

“Don't be too long, Dean thrives off the competition.” Sam said referring to the local ladies.

“I could take your ugly asses on double or nothing.” You challenged, cringing on the inside, comments like these being part of the reason you felt the need to disguise yourself.

“I’ll be rolling over in my grave the day that happens, shorty.” Dean bantered.

“If only you knew the possibilities when you're at the same level.” You winked.

“Oh, I do know, but have since graduated from middle school, and let me tell you, it's a whole new world up here, brother.” Dean joked.

“Ahh.” You waved him off hopping into your old beater.

You let the Winchesters pull out first, giving them some distance. When you pulled out onto the drive you pulled the hat and wig off, letting your hair fall down. After shaking it out, you finally were able to itch a spot that had been bothering you for a half hour.

When you finally made it back to your hotel you started a hot shower. You looked in the mirror, it was crazy what makeup, a bit of fake facial hair, and practice could do. You grabbed a make up removal wipe and went to town. With a sigh you asked yourself if it was really worth it just to put it all back on again. You smelled the collar of your shirt and there was no way around it, you smelled like death.

Taking off your shirt, you carefully undid the wrap that compressed your chest. You stepped out of the baggy jeans and biker boots and hopped into the shower washing with axe. You really didn't know if the axe helped keep up the appearance but you would never hear the end of it if Dean thought ‘Mike’ smelled like cashmere lavender.

Stepping out and wrapping a towel around your body you finally felt like you again. But there was no time to soak the feeling up, Mike had a beer waiting for him. You dried your face and immediately got to work. Maybe someday you could open up to the Winchesters you thought as you applied the makeup to your face. They were the closest thing you had to a family or friends or whatever they were and you had known them for a while now. But you threw away that train of thought, tonight was not the night for that.

After your face was completed, you found the wig again, itching that same spot on your head and considering ditching the boys tonight. You smelled it and realized you wouldn't have time to clean it, but thought perhaps it would just give you a hint of muskiness. Back on it went along with the wrap, a fresh flannel, and cargo pants.

Taking one final look in the mirror to ensure the transformation was completed, you winked at yourself. “Here's looking at you kid.” You said with your unaltered voice.

Before you hit the bar Sam and Dean were chatting over a beer.

“All I'm saying is Mike is a great guy. I think we owe it to him to offer the bunker as a resting place. You know as place to stay when cutting cross country, somewhere to do research. But not like full on moving in.” Sam explained.

“Like a hunters hotel?” Dean asked skeptically.

“If that's what you want to call it sure. He's saved our asses on more than one occasion. We can trust him.” Sam continued.

“You’re right, you're right.” Dean agreed. “We’re close enough to Kansas, let's have him stop by tomorrow.”

You strolled in the bar, trying to puff yourself to appear bulkier than your actual self. You nodded at the Winchesters but headed to the jukebox. ‘Thriller’ seemed appropriate given the nature of the hunt. You walked over and joined them at the high top.

“So what are we drinking tonight fellas?” You asked, back to Mike’s voice.

Dean signaled to the waiter for three more rounds. “For once success and not sorrow or regret.”

“I hope those are to share. How many has he had?” You asked Sam playfully concerned. “Ya’ll are given me an advantage tonight.” You scanned the crowd playing the act.

“We had to level the playing field with you being so late.” Sam teased.

“You know I can’t skip my nightly pedicure.” You joked back.

“By late he meant short.” Dean corrected Sam.

“Hey, that’s twice in one night now.” You told Dean. “Don’t want things getting too personal.”

The waitress dropped off three more beers before Dean could continue teasing you. As she left you turned your head around, really reading there chalked specials, but knew they would assume something else.

“Hey, Casanova,” Dean called to get your attention back to him. “Already beat you to it.” He gloated waving a napkin victoriously.

You waved your hand in the air as if wiping away a thought. “Alright, alright, let’s forget about this nonsense for a bit and just enjoy a celebratory drink.” You suggested raising your glass and taking a swig.

“Giving up so easy?” Sam asked you.

“Nah, just letting him have a freebee tonight, so when I crush his ego next time it will feel that much better” You made up trying not to sound depressed thinking about what Dean would be doing later tonight.

“Never gonna happen.” Dean argued.

“So, how have your cases been going? Come across anything weird lately?” Sam asked you thankfully changing the direction of the conversation.

“Weirds the job man. I mean, after the angels came into play, I think the next level up would be aliens.” You commented. “I was recently up in Montana hunting a wendigo, but god did I wish it was bigfoot.”

“Hell yes, that would be awesome.” Dean agreed. “Although, when he doesn’t wax,” He pointed at Sam. “Pretty much the same thing as a sasquatch.”

“Actually Sam,” You started. “A few weeks back, ran into something that called itself a Vodnik. You ever heard of it?”

Sam racked his memory. “Not that I can think of. Why?”

“Well, the thing was drowning people so I put the little bastard out of it’s misery. But I can’t help feel I am missing something.” You explained.

Sam used this as an opportunity. “You know, we have a pretty extensive library. You could come check it out.”

You became confused thinking the Winchesters were the ‘live on the road’ kind of type like you. You couldn’t imagine them with a dwelling, but you guessed it wasn’t that unusual for hunters to have a few safe houses around the country.

“We hang our hats up just a couple hour from here.” Dean explained.

“Well, look at you, all domesticated.” You teased.

“It’s more like a den for lions.” Dean argued trying to stay masculine.

“Yeah, right, you’ve got an apron and everything.” Sam teased.

You threw your head back chuckling silently. “Man I gotta see this.”

“Forget you asshats.” Dean pretended to be offended and headed off to the bar. Really he was just looking for an excuses to chat up the waitress.

You watched him walk away considering trying to cock block but knowing it would never work. So you spent some more time with Sam. Discussing some more details about the Vodnik case and playing a few rounds of gin rummy. You bit your cheek when you noticed Dean leave with the waitress and heard the start of the impala.

“Looks like I’m your ride back tonight,’ You offered. “I mean unless…” You looked around the room for someone Sam might be interested in.

“Yeah, that’d be great actually.” Sam said.

As you pulled up to their motel, Sam noticed the impala in the parking lot and a light on in their room.

“Great,” He rolled his eyes. “Looks like I’m sleeping in the car tonight.” “With your feet hanging out the window?” You laughed trying to imagine how uncomfortable that must be for him. “I got a double open, if that sounds more accommodating.” Shit. You face palmed yourself mentally as the offer left your mouth before thinking.

“You sure? That would be great.” Sam said

You couldn’t take it back now. “Of course.”

The motel you had found was only a few minutes away, your heart racing trying to think of what was out and what needed to be hidden. Definitely a bra was out and the makeup bag.

“I just need a minute.” You said trying to mask the anxiety as much as possible.

“Trust me, I'm sure I've seen worse.” Sam said still following you in.

Okay. You thought quickly. If you could just grab the duffel and run to the bathroom, you should be able to explain everything else away. You purposefully screwed up the key card a couple of times just so you could run through it again.

When you finally unlocked it you tried to act cool, but went right for your duffel. Sam has a quick look around before sitting on the unused bed and started taking off his shoes. You let out a sigh of relief and headed for the bathroom closing and locking the door behind.

Fuck what have you done. You looked at yourself in the mirror. With as much glue and makeup hair spray (as you called it) you had on, you were unsure if the appearance could last through the night. If you set your alarm early enough, you could probably get away without him noticing if anything came undone.

You looked through your duffel. You'd have to keep the girls wrapped and you brought a hoodie which would help. You said a prayer of thankfulness upon finding baggy Adidas sweatpants compared to your usual cotton sleepwear. Now for feet, you looked down. A couple pairs over each other might do the trick to make them appear slightly bigger.

After packing up all the makeup and burying it as deep as it would go in your bag you gave yourself one final look over in the mirror. This is a sleepover from hell, you thought. But hey, if Amanda Bynes could do it, so could you.

You walked back out and Sam was surfing channels.

“It must kill you not to have your laptop.” You commented.

“Tell me about it.” Sam said standing up and stripping down to his boxers.

Even though you had no feelings for him, you couldn't help to feel a blush start to creep up. He threw his stuff in the corner and noticed the bra hanging over the lounge chair.

“Dude?” He called you out.

“Trophy from Wednesday night.” You said with a smirk.

“I lose one Dean only to be replaced by another.” Sam laughed.

If he only knew you thought jokingly to yourself. That night you hardly slept a wink, too concerned if something were to fall off or makeup was to be smudged. Probably between the hours of 4 and 6, you were able to shut your eyes for longer than twenty minutes at a time. But by the time 6:30 rolled around, you were surfing the web on your phone before the alarm sounded. You caught the beep fairly quick, but Sam still stirred and you jolted to the bathroom. Other than some of the contour faded, things seemed to last pretty well. As you had taken a shower last night, you figured you could just touch up the makeup and threw on the flannel too as it was the only outfit still semi clean.

Sam was still asleep when you came out. You packed up your things, threw the bag in the trunk, and walked down the street to a dinner. You had two cups of coffee at the counter and then order another cup for you and Sam along with some bacon and bagels to go.

When you got back Sam had woken up and showered. It seemed he was ending a phone call with Dean.

“Hey,” You said, voice a bit high. You cleared your throat to correct it. “Picked you up some stuff.”

“Thanks man.” Sam said opening the carton.

“Ah shit. I forgot you were the healthy one. Not sure they would have had any spinach egg white omelettes anyways.” You teased. “Everything seemed to be covered in grease.” “Including the coffee.” Sam added after taking a sip. “So what if we ride up together, I can just show you the way.” “Oh if you just give me the address.” You started.

“We’re kinda off the grid.” Sam explained.

“Yeah, sure.” You gave in, it was good practice to keep up this demeanor for longer than usual anyways.

After a ways down the highway and a bit of small talk, Sam asked you, “So what got you into the business?” Your mind froze. It had been so long since you had thought of that day. It was demon who got his kicks off of tormenting you and your family just for the hell of it. You were the only survivor had the demon intended it or not.

“Revenge, as it is with most hunters I guess. It was a demon, killed my mother, father and brother… I’ve been hunting the son of a bitch ever since.” You kept it brief.

“Revenge is a slippery slope.” Sam said

“Easy for you to say, yellow eyes is dead and gone.” You said knowing most of their story.

“True,” Sam agreed.

After a moment of awkward silence, you plugged your phone into the cassette adapter and shuffled the songs trying to occupy your mind with something other than the past. ‘There She Goes Again’ first came on and you skipped trying to find something more fitting for Mike. The Goo Goo Dolls ‘Iris’ came up next and you laughed trying to play it off. After the third attempt of Taylor Swift’s ‘Love Story’ you paused it and purposefully sought out the Beastie Boys ‘License to Ill’ album.

You were a bit confused when Sam’s directions led you up a dirt path in the woods and to what looked like to be an abandoned structure. Maybe they had squatted there once and turned it into their own, you thought. Upon pulling closer, you saw the impala.

“How’d Dean beat us here?” Sam thought out loud.

“Love this car, but can’t get her over 75 otherwise she overheats.” You explained.

“You’re never going to hear the end of that one.’’ Sam warned.

“Lost my bragging rights two days in a row.” You pretended to be defeated but smiled unfazed.

Sam lead you in through the front door. You paused immediately this being the last thing you expected. Your jaw hung open looking at the expansiveness, furnishings and details. Sam started down the stairs and your feet slowly followed.

“We call this the war room, and this is the library, pass there is the kitchen, bedrooms down that way.” Sam explained the layout to you.

Dean came out of the kitchen in his bathrobe and cups of coffee. “And we keep finding new rooms each day.” He bragged.

“Can I?” You asked pointing at the bookshelves.

Sam nodded giving you permission. You ran your fingers across the embroidered edges trying to find just the right one to pick off the shelf.

Dean whispered to Sam. “So we are charging him for this right?” He raised his eyebrows excited for the proposition.

“What? No.” Sam shot him down.

You turned around facing them, flipping through the pages of an ancient book. “Listen, there’s something I feel like I should tell you.” You started.

Click Here For Part 2

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@akshi8278 @nanie5 @sea040561 @crushing83

#dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x you #spn #supernatural #spn fandom #spn fanfic

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