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zepskies · 1 year ago

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In Bad Weather

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader || Sam Winchester x Eileen Leahy (background)

Summary: You and Dean tackle the biggest possible monkey wrench in your relationship yet: could Chuck have been manipulating you two all along?

[Set in S15 - "Fix It" for season finale]

AN: I had to finish the finale (maybe?) of this story verse before the end of Hispanic Heritage Month. 😘 This is the third installment of "Midnight Espresso!"

Song Inspo: “We Made It” by H.E.R. (<- On repeat. Seriously if you haven't heard this one, you'll thank me later.)

Word Count: 7,600

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smutty smut, angst, hurt/comfort, body insecurity, body appreciation, heartache, followed by the fluffiest fluff…

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Al Mal Tiempo

Dean can’t remember the last time he woke up quite like this.

“Shit,” he grunts, clenching fists into the sheets.

He hears a muffled giggle underneath them.

He’s lying on his back, one knee starting to bend as he jolts on reflex. But familiar hands are holding down his thighs, as even more familiar lips caress him through his sweatpants.

Dean raises up the blankets and sheets to see your slightly frizzy-haired head pop up. Your playfully mischievous eyes meet his.

“Hey,” you greet him.

He raises a brow at you, smiling incredulously. “Hey.”

You then give him an annoyed look. “Do you mind? I was working on something.”

You try and cover yourself back up with the blankets, but Dean tosses them down your body. He wants to see you in that tank top and those little shorts. He's already getting a nice view of cleavage, no bra, and you’re straddling his thighs. His knees slide up to press against your ample behind.

“I do mind, actually.” His voice is still coarse with sleep. He clears it a little, and he smirks. “I was getting some good Zs in. You know, before I was interrupted.”

Your hands glide smoothly up his thighs, your nails catching on the fabric. You tilt your head at him.

“You really want me to stop?” you ask. Dean can’t readily respond, because he felt the shape of your words against his dick.

He moans, his eyes closing, fingers gripping the mattress under him when your mouth and tongue continue to outline the shape of his cock through his pants.

“I think I could finish you just like this,” you tell him, and still, your lips never leave him. “Or…maybe I’m feeling generous.”

Your nails hook on the waistband of his old sweatpants. The elastic has practically no give as you pull down the hem and expose his risen length. Shooting him one more smile, you let your hands glide down between his hips before you finally take his waiting cock into your mouth.

You love the sound of Dean’s voice, especially when you have him like this. His hand buries in your hair, tangling in the curls.

“Fuck, baby…” he mutters.

That’s kinda the idea, you want to say, but your mouth is preoccupied. Your lips and tongue move over him slowly. And soon your hands join to wrap around the base of his cock, stroking whatever you can’t take fully in your mouth.

You know he’s enjoying himself when his hand tightens in your hair. His breathing becomes labored, but still too steady for your liking.

You decide to pick up the pace. In your mind you think of a song to keep a good rhythm.

Devórame otra vez, ven, devórame otra vez…

Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo. Desesperan mis ganas por ti…

“Wait, wait,” Dean says, guttural in his throat. He stops you for a moment with his hands on your shoulders. You look up at him in confusion, but you oblige him.

“What’s wrong?” you ask in concern.

“Nothin’.” He shoots you a weary, lopsided smile. “Just thinking I want to have enough mojo to give you a good morning too.”

You snort. Mojo. This man.

But you shake your head. “You’re the winner today, baby. I just wanna make you feel good.”

It’s been a long year. You all had dealt with Michael taking Dean from you, at least for a while. Now Michael is gone, thanks to Jack, and they’d managed to reunite Jack back with his soul…but there’s still Chuck to deal with. It hangs over you all like a malevolent cloud.

So you want to help Dean take his mind off all that, just for a little while. And maybe part of you thinks that if you love him that much more, he won’t despair as much over how Chuck has been manipulating the brothers Winchester…basically their entire lives.

You shouldn’t have been surprised, however, when Dean grasps your arms and tugs you up until you’re level with his chest. His hand finds your cheek, brushing his thumb there, then slides into your hair.

He smirks. “We can both be winners.”

A smile spreads across your lips, just before he pulls you into a kiss. Passion grows one into many, with hands disappearing under each other’s clothes to remove them.

Strong hands part your thick thighs further, and long fingers find their way down between them. First teasingly along the seam of your pussy, then slipping inside to get you ready for him.

Your face buries in his neck as you moan encouragements into his ear, not all of them in English. By now, he’s learned a lot of what you whisper in Spanish. It still makes electricity spark down his spine, no matter what language you’re speaking in.

He knows when it’s time when the warm inner walls of your core are slick and gripping his fingers tight. But when he removes them, you shudder.

Both of you are breathing hard by the time he actually lines himself up inside of you. You use his shoulders for leverage, and the pads of his fingers circle insistently around your clit as you slowly sink down on his cock.

A keening cry escapes from your throat, while his free hand grips hard on your ass.

“Ah, fuck,” he grunts. Your walls are already fluttering around him, squeezing him like a vice.

You pant for breath. Your loose hair falls around both of you, shielding you from all other thoughts and sensations other than this.

“You feel so good,” you breathe, shifting your hips experimentally. “Always so good.”

Dean nods, and you know what it means: For me too.

He sits up and crushes you against him, bare breasts against his chest. (He loves the feeling.) He wraps an arm around your back and twists, until you’re underneath him and laying against his pillows. He encourages your thighs to stay wrapped around his waist as he begins to pound into you.

You breathe a short laugh. “Can’t let me stay on top?”

Dean grins. He grabs your hand and manages to press a kiss to your palm in between strokes. He knew what you were trying to do earlier, by taking care of him, but he can’t help it. He’s a giver.

And he knows exactly how to give it to you, shifting the angle of his hips to have you arching underneath him, gasping, clinging to his arms.

Thanks to your earlier treatment, that about does it for him. He can’t stop himself from a shuddering release inside you (praise fucking be for birth control, he thinks), but he still makes sure you come with him. He strokes your clit at the same time as his last deep strokes, and soon your voice washes over him as you call his name.

Afterwards, Dean rests his forehead against your shoulder, laying a kiss above your breast. He just woke up a few minutes ago, and he’s already tired.

“Okay. I need a damn nap,” he pants.

A giggle pours out of you. You rub his back soothingly.

“That’s what you get for doing all the work,” you tease. “I tried to help you.”

“Help with what?”

Both you and Dean freeze at the sound of Jack’s voice. He’s just opened the door to your bedroom like you two hadn’t expressly reminded him about privacy.

You yelp in shock, and Dean’s face screws up in a glare as he reaches back fast for the closest blanket to yank over you both.

“What the hell!”

“Oh…sorry,” Jack says, shielding his own eyes. “Sam just wanted me to tell you that breakfast is ready.”

“You didn’t need to tell them right this second!” Sam calls from down the hall.

“Knock, man! We knock on closed doors in this house!” Dean says. House. Bunker. Whatever.

He adds, “Or better yet, when my door’s closed, you give it a five-foot perimeter. Understand?”

Jack nods quickly and flees the room. “Sorry!”

The door slams shut behind him. Dean shakes his head. You can almost see the fumes coming out of his ears. You’re embarrassed and blushing, but you’re also biting your lower lip to stop yourself from laughing.

Dean looks down at you.

“It’s not funny. He needs to fuckin’ learn,” he says. His brows are still furrowed, but his mouth twitches upwards. “Should’ve locked that damn door.”

You reach up and twine your arms around his neck. Your lips get tantalizingly close to his.

“You’re still balls-deep inside me,” you remind him, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “It’s kinda funny.”

Dean’s lips purse. He doesn’t want to smile, but you’re making it difficult. Your hands slide down his chest, toying with his nipples as they go. You press a kiss to his throat. Meanwhile, your thighs squeeze his hips, reminding him of where he's still deeply buried. You smile when he utters a faltering sound.

"You tryin' to start something else I'll have to finish?" he teases. You give him a playfully narrowed look.

"Sure you got the mojo?" you toss back.

Raising a brow, Dean shifts out of you a few inches, just to push his half-hard cock back inside. You moan a bit, brows furrowed when the move stirs a tremor of arousal in your core. He hardens up fully at the sound, at the feeling of you clenching around him.

He smiles. “Well, well. I’m thinkin’ Round 2 after all.”

You smirk up at him and give his ass a nice little smack. “Then it's my turn for a ride.”

With a huff, he lets the twist of your hips and soft hands push him onto his back.

In the aftermath of Round 2, both of you are spent before you’ve even gotten out of bed. It’s a rare lazy morning where you don’t want to be bothered with another hunt, or even getting dressed just yet.

You have the cover of the warm sheets and blankets. Your back rests against Dean’s side, up against the headboard. His arm is wrapped around you, his hand intertwined with yours as you play with his fingers.

He’s catching up on Dr. Sexy MD, but you’re admittedly lost in thought. You bring his hand to your lips, and you just hold it there.

Dean glances at you and finally notices your contemplation. He strokes a thumb over your ring and pointer fingers.

“You okay?” he asks.

When you register his voice, you merely nod. But Dean isn’t convinced.

“Baby,” he presses.

It finally earns your attention. You look over at him, and you realize that he knows you too well to be fooled. You sigh, in a way that has Dean pausing his show and giving you his full attention.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks.

With your free hand, you rub at your eyes and cheek. “Sam and Eileen. My heart just fucking breaks for them.”

You’re thinking about what happened a couple of weeks ago. After learning that Chuck manipulated Sam, who found the spell to bring Eileen back to life, she just…left.

Part of you wants to be angry with her; you love Sam like he’s your own brother. But you understand her as well. Being tied to Sam and Dean Winchester is like being tied to twin hurricanes. You’ve just been in this for far too long to let go of them now.

Dean nods at your admission, but he doesn’t have an answer for you. He hurts for his brother too. Part of him even feels a little guilty, having what he has with you, when Sam’s bit of happiness just keeps slipping out of his fingers.

“Maybe they just need some time to sort themselves out. Cooler heads and all that,” he says.

Time. You hope that’s all they need. However, it also makes you wonder about other things.

“That’s not it, is it?” Dean asks. He’s watching you shrewdly, and your lips thin into a line.

“Dean, what if…”

“Yeah?”

You hate yourself for even thinking it, let alone saying it. But you and Dean had survived this long on honesty, above all else. You can’t hide this from him anymore.

“What if Chuck manipulated us too?” you ask, in a small voice.

Dean’s face slackens. His hand releases yours, and he turns to face you more fully.

Emotion begins to clog in your throat and burn in your eyes.

“What if you and I would’ve never met if…” Your voice trembles, unshed tears clouding your vision. “And even if we did, would you still have kissed me that night? When we got back from that hunt—”

“Hey,” Dean protests, but now that you’ve begun, you can’t stop yourself from spilling your latest insecurities—the ones you’ve been holding onto ever since Chuck revealed himself as the villain of the whole world.

“I mean, what am I?” you ask. “Just the diversity casting in Chuck’s story?”

“Don’t you say that shit to me,” Dean angrily snaps.

You gape incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me.”

You feel how tense his body is, but your temper snaps just as well.

“Oye, mira ver,” you warn him.

You’ve levied that at him enough times that he knows all too well what it means.

“Watch it, my ass,” he retorts. “You should know better than that.”

You frown at him, but he reads the thread of insecurity in the downturn of your lips, in your eyes that are starting to shine with tears. That always breaks him down.

Dean sighs and reaches for you then, cupping your cheek and brushing a thumb tenderly at the corner of your eye. He’s even angrier at Chuck for making you doubt yourself…and doubt him.

“Come ‘ere,” Dean says.

You hesitate, but you go willingly back into his arms. You turn over and let him gather you against his chest. You rest against him. Your head tucks under his chin, and your leg slips between both of his.

“I love you,” he says, and his voice rumbles above your head. “That’s it. That’s all that matters.”

You bite your lip. “But—”

“No buts,” he says. Though his lips slowly tug at a smile. “Well, not that kind anyway.”

He gives your bare ass a playful squeeze under the sheets. You huff in amusement and swat him back.

“Ya, coño. Enough,” you say with a laugh. “I probably have bruises back there.”

He just grins. “So you get what I’m saying?”

You let out a sigh. You push back enough to see his face, and you give him a soft smile.

“Yeah.”

Dean nods, but he still sees the worry in your eyes. He tries to stamp down the rest of your insecurities with a kiss, slow and deep.

You break away from him after a while to ask, “Ready for coffee?”

Dean sighs through his nose, but he hums in agreement.

“Will you make it how I like?” he asks.

A smile breaks across your face.

“Café con leche?” you offer.

He nods. “Yeah, please.”

“So polite,” you remark with a raised brow. “What a change of pace.”

His mouth edges into a smirk. When you turn to get out of bed, he makes sure to give your ass one last smack. You jump a little with a yelp, but he catches your smile in the mirror above the dresser.

Dean watches you shake out your curls and get ready for the day. You spend a lot of time blow-drying and straightening your hair, but he likes it like this too. Natural and wild.

He likes that you wear the “dream catcher” (formerly known as your hole-ridden Journey shirt) a lot less. He likes that you’ve stopped feeling the need to wear anything to bed at all, if you don't feel like it; that you’re more comfortable with yourself. Comfortable with him.

But your smile drops. Dean sees the gears of your mind continuing to churn as you get dressed.

He has a feeling, despite his best efforts, that you’re still not convinced about the Chuck thing. And while Dean won’t admit it, that cuts him deep.

Six years ago…

Las Cruces, New Mexico

The first time Dean met you was, of course, in a bar.

It didn’t take all that long for him to notice you, if he remembers right.

You’d agreed to play pool with some guy who also speaks Spanish with you, and you seem genuinely into the game. So much so, that you don’t seem to notice how the guy is eyeing you.

Dean doesn’t like the way the man’s gaze drags over your every abundant curve. Yeah, he’s been doing the same thing, but he likes to think he’s a little more classy about it.

He’s sitting at the bar with a half-drunk beer in his hand, watching the game out of the corner of his eye. He’s so invested that his beer is already flat and unpleasant, but when has that stopped him before?

…But then, Dean notices what you’re doing. You’re playing possum, making bad shots on purpose. His mouth curves behind his beer.

Little minx.

Until you sweep the guy for all his money, that is.

Dean watches the show in amusement. Secretly, he notes appreciation for the tight jeans, V-necked top and ankle boots. The red lipstick is the same shade as your manicured nails, and it all works well for you. The fullness of that pretty mouth would certainly work well for him.

He catches the way you sweep your hair out of the way, and the deceptive concentration in your eyes when you line up a shot on the second round. Your first turn.

You then sink each of your cue balls expertly, without missing one.

The swindled man gets mad, shouting at you in Spanish. You reply to him calmly as you lean on your cue stick. He gets even louder and reaches for the money, but before Dean would’ve intervened, you stab at the man’s foot with the cue.

Your quick and clever hand gathers the money that you won, but because you seem to be kind at your core, you leave him thirty bucks for “gasolina” while he holds his foot.

You surprise Dean further by joining him at the bar.

“Good game,” he says, giving you props with a smile.

You give him a smile back. “Thank you. Want to join me for another one?”

Your English is smooth, and so is your voice. Dean raises a brow at you.

“Even though I saw your little takedown there?” he asks. “Think I just saw all your moves.”

You laugh a little. “Not all of them.”

Was that a bit of flirtation in your eyes? Dean’s smile deepens into a smirk.

“But don’t worry,” you say. “I know how to play fair.”

He hits you with a bit of charm, lowering his voice with (he thinks) just the right amount of flirtation back.

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

Your smile deepens too, despite your blush.

Cute, he thinks, before he follows you back to the scene of the crime. AKA: the nearest pool table.

Dean wracks up the billiards and sets up a new game. You hand him his cue, and he gestures at you.

“Winner goes first,” he says graciously.

“Hmm, thought you were gonna say ladies first,” you reply.

“That too,” Dean says. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”

You snort in response. “I’m sure you are…”

“Dean,” he supplies. He earns your name by the time he sinks four balls in a row.

You sigh as you level him with a look. You seem to realize that the two of you are more than evenly matched.

“Don’t worry,” he says, shooting you a grin. “I won’t take all your money.”

And yet, when it gets down to it, he misses his last shot by a hair.

You watch him suspiciously when you two make it back to the bar.

“You wouldn’t have thrown that last shot on purpose, would you?” you ask.

Dean ducks his head and smiles, somewhat liking the fact that you caught him red-handed. You’re smart.

“Now, what kind of gentleman would I be to take your ‘hard-earned’ cash?” he asks. It earns a burst of laughter from you, with the shine of your teeth.

“You could buy me a beer though,” he shrugs.

“Wow. Okay, Señor Smooth,” you tease. Though you get the bartender’s attention and get him a fifth of whiskey instead, of the good stuff too.

Dean considers asking you out right there. Sam is waiting back at the motel, but Dean is willing to book another room just to get you to himself for the night. And if possible, for however long he’s in town.

“You know,” you say after a while, halfway through your Long Island iced tea. “The thing you’re hunting? It’s not a garden variety spirit…it’s El Duende. Creepy hobgoblin, basically. I’ve been tracking it from three cities over.”

Dean is figuratively (and almost literally) set back on his heels. He tilts his head at you, furrowing his brows.

“You’re a hunter?” he asks.

You laugh at the look on his face. “I saw you and another mountain man at the police station earlier…though nice look on the FBI get up. Think your ID guy could hook me up with a new CIA badge?”

Dean smiles. This is gonna be fun.

Now:

People were starting to disappear.

Billie, the new Death, was doing this. Dean was convinced. And Sam thought everyone from the Apocalypse world (and others who shouldn’t exist in this world) would be on her list. Ultimately, you all couldn’t save anyone. Not even Eileen.

You and Dean both comforted Sam on that terrible night. Though he was still distraught as he decided to organize the other refugees with Jack and Donna.

You stuck with Dean in his plan to raid Death’s library for Chuck’s book; the only thing in the world that told the story of how he would meet his end.

You chose to back up Dean in his plan, but really, neither you or Castiel thought it was a good idea to poke the bear known as Billie. Not for a book that none of you could read, except for Death herself.

But now here you are, in Death’s library, watching with worry as Dean holds Death’s own scythe against her.

“I didn’t hurt your friends,” Billie grits out.

“What?” Dean asks.

She laughs humorlessly. “You’re in the wrong place, Dean.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“People are gettin’ gone. I’m guessing it’s Chuck,” she says. “And that means, you’re just wasting time.”

Her hands are braced against the weapon poised at her throat. She already has a stab wound in her shoulder. She tells him that the earlier wound he gave her has festered. It’ll never heal. Eventually, it’ll kill her.

But she intends to take you, Dean, and Castiel with her.

Billie becomes the hunter, following the three of you back through the portal into the bunker. Dean’s hand is so tight around your arm, making sure you’re keeping up with him and never falter. Castiel does his best get you and Dean to safety. And after he wards it against her with his own blood, only the old dungeon is safe for you all.

For now.

Billie pounds on the door, over and over. She’ll break through the warding eventually.

You grab onto Dean’s sleeve, just to hold onto him. He brings you close to him in a protective embrace. You see the panic in his eyes as his mind scrambles to find a way out of here, knowing deep down that there’s nothing any of you can do. Castiel is nearly powerless. You’re all trapped.

“That wound is killing her,” Cas says. “We might be able to wait her out.”

His gaze is on the floor, though he briefly looks up at Dean. He shakes his head.

“And if we can’t?”

“Then we fight.”

Dean shakes his head. He pulls away from you to lean against the wall.

“We’ll lose,” he says. Your heart breaks at the way he looks, shame-ridden and defeated. “I just led us into another trap…all because I couldn’t end Chuck. Because I was angry, and because I needed something to kill, and because that’s all I know how to do.”

His eyes are red and burning. Yours swim with tears of dismay. You want to correct him as he continues to vent, speaking with a certainty that it was Chuck all along.

Dean looks at you then, and at Cas. He’s close to tears when he says they should’ve stayed with Sam and Jack. That everyone was about to die. And he can’t stop it. And he can’t stop Billie when she breaks through that door.

You don’t know what to tell him to ease his guilt. All you know is that despite everything, you made your choice to support him in this. To stay with him.

You made your choice a long time ago, you realize.

“Wait,” Cas says. His blue eyes burn with realization. “There’s one thing she’s afraid of. One thing…strong enough to stop her.”

Dean’s eyes widen. Cas uses what strength he has left to push you and Dean away, and he summons the Empty.

Dean pulls you further along with him as the formless void coils up like ink through the walls and cement floors. It drags Billie into its darkness, but it claims Castiel with it, as it once promised it would.

After the angel gives up his life, you and Dean are holding each other against the wall, on the ground, shaking and each rocked to the core.

You’re able to break out of your shock sooner than Dean, who just saw his best friend die.

You kneel beside him while he sits, and you hold him to you while you cry. He can’t speak, but you know his guilt is eating at him.

His phone rings, startling you both, and it’s Sam. Dean can’t answer it. He covers his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if that could stop the ache in his chest. You press a kiss to his hair, his temple.

“He saved us, Dean. It’s not your fault,” you tell him. He shakes his head. You know he doesn’t believe you, but when he grasps your arm, his hold is desperate.

“It’s me,” he says. His voice is shaking and ragged. “Everything I do turns to shit. Everyone around me pays the price. That’s just how it is…if you were smart, you’d hightail it as far as fucking possible from me.”

Your breath gets trapped in your lungs. Your heart feels like it’s shattering.

“Dean…baby, look at me,” you say with a sniffle. You gently hold his face, and he lets you raise him up. Your eyes are bright with new conviction.

“No one," you tell him, "not even Chuck can force me to love you the way I do. And not a damn thing can stop me from staying with you.”

Dean has tears burgeoning in his eyes. You caress his cheek, rough with stubble he’s let go too long.

“There’s a saying. Al mal tiempo, buena cara,” you tell him. His face shows a glimmer of confusion. “At bad weather, put on a happy face. It means even in difficult times, there’s still a reason to keep going. Right now, you are my reason.”

Dean considers that. He squeezes your arms unconsciously, as if grounding himself in you.

At the very least, he’s grateful that he’s not alone. And after a moment, he nods. You press a kiss to his cheek, and then his forehead. His eyes close at your comfort, your affection. He doesn’t think he deserves it, but he accepts it anyway.

“Come on, let’s get you off the floor,” you say. You start to help him up…but your body stills. You feel a strange prickling across your skin.

Dean notices the shift, with growing unease in his gut. He grips you tighter and calls your name in concern.

Your gasp is the last bit of your voice that Dean hears before he watches you turn to dust in his arms.

Buena Cara

Four years ago…

It’s the morning after you and Dean shared a midnight espresso. The morning after your first kiss, your first confession, and your first time.

He wakes tangled up in you, and the sheets, which are somehow tied up in knots around his legs and yours.

“What’d you do here, woman?” he asks.

His voice is still gruff with sleep, and he lays on his stomach. You giggle almost silently next to him. You’re lying on your back with the sheets somehow covering up to your chest. One of your legs is tangled with his.

“Nothing,” you claim. He snorts and moves closer. His lips find your shoulder, lazily burning a path downwards. But when he grips the sheet and tries to expose more of you, you grasp his wrist on reflex.

Brows furrowing, Dean glances up at your face. You’re biting your lip, and he sees signs of insecurity in your eyes.

“You haven’t seen me in the daytime yet,” you joke. Yet another one that isn’t really a joke, Dean realizes.

He really wishes he could find your goddamn ex and bash his skull in. Because Dean would like nothing more than to just spend the rest of the day in this bed, mapping out the smooth expanse of your tan skin.

So he slips his arm underneath you. You utter a little squeal in protest, but he manhandles you until you’re resting on his chest, bare skin against bare skin. You look down at him with fondness, touching his cheek. Dean stares up at you with a reserved frown.

“What’s it gonna take, huh?” he asks. It’s like you don’t believe he wants you, even now.

You bite your lip as your fears creep in behind your eyes, like black ink coiling in your mind. That he just likes your personality. That maybe he just wanted to try something “different” with you, a thicc-thighed, fat-assed Latina, instead of the petite, slender girls you’ve seen him go after in bars.

“You could have anyone, Dean,” you point out.

Dean’s frown deepens, his brows furrowing. His hands lower on your back, squeezing the curve of your waist and soft hips.

“Anyone’s not naked in my bed,” he says. His voice is stern and matter-of-fact.

You attempt a smile, but he’s not convinced. He blows out a breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Your ex sure did a number on you, didn’t he?” he remarks.

Your eyes widen. The more you think about it, maybe he did.

But maybe it wasn’t just him…

You tear up and blink against them, trying not to let them fall. You had thought you were happy with your curves. You really did.

You didn’t realize you had internalized so many of these negative thoughts about yourself, but here Dean was, forcing you to confront them. You’re grateful, but you also don’t know what to say.

Dean’s brows draw together. He holds your cheek.

“Okay. It’s all right. We’ll work on it.” He kisses your forehead. He also wipes a tear from your cheek. “Don’t cry, baby.”

A laugh gets choked in your throat. “You should know this about me by now. I’m a crier.”

“Yeah, you’re also rockin’ a bit of sex hair,” he says, tangling his fingers further in the wily strands. “My kinda woman.”

You sigh through your nose. This man.

You can’t help but smile softly. The tip of your finger traces his jawline, down to his chin.

“Want me to make some coffee?” you offer. “I can have you try a cortadito with breakfast.”

“What’s that?” Dean asks.

“Two shots of espresso, warm frothy milk on top,” you reply.

“God, two shots? It’s a wonder you ever sleep,” he quips. “But I do like the sound of frothy. I’ll whip us up some eggs.”

“And bacon?” you ask.

“Of freakin’ course, bacon.”

With that agreement, you two slowly get out of bed, shower, and go to the kitchen, where Sam looks bleary-eyed and annoyed at the kitchen table with his coffee mug. But he doesn’t have it in his heart to truly be mad at you and Dean.

“I’m happy for you guys,” Sam says wryly. “Just, next time, put a sock on the door or something. So I know when to break out the ear plugs.”

Now:

Sam finds Dean sprawled on the dining room floor the next morning after Castiel has died, and you have disappeared, along with everyone else on Earth.

Dean is surrounded by empty beer and liquor bottles. Sam’s heart clenches as he starts to help his brother.

“All right, let’s get you off the floor,” he says.

In his words, Dean only hears your voice. He shoves Sam off him and stumbles into the kitchen.

There Jack is starting to wash dishes. He takes your little cafetera coffee maker from the stove, preparing to dump the old grounds. Dean grabs it out of his hand.

“Leave it alone,” Dean snaps. He slams it back on the stove where you left it.

Jack is wide-eyed, but Sam gives his brother a patient warning with his eyes. Dean ignores it and heads for his room.

“Sorry,” Sam says on behalf of his brother.

Jack shakes his head with tears in his eyes. “It’s okay, I…I understand.”

He already misses you too. You’d become a kind of older sister to him…and Castiel. Well. Cas was the father Jack will never have again.

Sam agrees with a nod, clapping Jack comfortingly on the back.

Sam ventures down the long halls of the bunker to Dean’s room. He pushes the cracked open door, and sees his brother sat hunched on the edge of his bed, hands bracing on his knees.

Sam walks in, swings Dean’s desk chair around, and sits down across from his brother. He rests his forearms on his knees and waits.

When Dean eventually looks up with red-rimmed eyes, Sam’s heart breaks a little more. For Dean, and for himself.

“We’re going to end this,” Sam promises him.

“We tried to give Chuck what he fucking wanted,” Dean reminds. “We offered to end ourselves, man. He wouldn’t bite. He won’t bring ‘em back.”

Dean’s voice cracks at the end there. Sam takes a deep breath, and lets it out just as slowly.

“We’ll figure out a way,” he says. “We always do.”

“That’s just it,” Dean says, with tired, glassy eyes. “I don’t think we can do it this time.”

Sam’s throat tightens. “Then I’ll believe for both of us.”

By the time Chuck is done snapping his fingers, Sam, Dean, and Jack are the only people left on Earth.

Until they encounter the Michael of this world, formerly trapped in the cage. They hatch a plan. And even though the angels don’t cooperate, they manage to play straight into the real plan.

Jack is the ace up Team Free Will’s sleeve, and as it turns out, that bomb inside the kid (made of the first Adam’s rib) was good for something. The nephilim absorbs the power of Lucifer, Michael, and ultimately Chuck himself.

Jack is the one who saves the world.

Before Dean leaves with his brother and Jack, away from that grassy cliffside in Lebanon, he turns to Chuck.

“Answer me this. Did you…” Dean says, struggling with how to formulate his question. “Meeting my girl. Was that us? Or was it just another manipulation?”

Sam watches his brother with concern. He sees the way Dean’s hand is already itching for his gun. Chuck is human now, and Sam knows how tempting it would be to truly end it.

Chuck himself is still prone on the ground, sitting up with wariness behind his eyes.

“I didn’t tug on that thread, actually,” he admits. “Made sense to let you have a glimmer of happiness, something to hold onto. To fight for.”

Then he looks up at Dean with a tremulous smirk pulling at his lips.

“But I did wait for the perfect moment to dust her, didn’t I?”

Within seconds, Dean’s gun is slipping into his hands with the safety cocked back, the barrel lined up for a straight shot between Chuck’s eyes. Sam barks a warning, but Dean doesn’t altogether care. He’s furious, sneering at the former god who cowers like the coward he is.

“Dean?” Sam calls to him. It’s a question and a warning all at once.

Dean’s mouth works, quirking at a humorless smile. He cocks the safety back in place and lowers his gun with a shaking hand.

He stalks back to the Impala and doesn’t look at his brother.

The only three people left alive in the world ride back into the empty streets of Lebanon, Kansas.

When Jack snaps his fingers, it’s like this little planet is reborn.

Suddenly, it’s filled with life. People walking their dogs, their kids, hailing cabs, nearly rear-ending each other’s cars in traffic while texting. It’s like the chaos never happened, and equilibrium is restored.

Even the shaggy dog Dean found last week bounds up to him. He bends down to pet the dog’s furry head, scratching behind his ears. Dean’s going to actually have to come up with a name for this thing now.

And yet…

In a world full of color, Dean still just sees gray.

He and Sam say a bittersweet goodbye to Jack, who ascends into Heaven. Dean can only hope the kid has a good WiFi signal if they ever need him again, like if he can’t find…

The forgotten cell phone in his pocket buzzes on a ring. He shares a wide-eyed look with Sam, licking his dry lips before he reaches into his jean pocket. He flips the phone over and finds your name across his caller ID.

With a shaking hand, he swipes his thumb across the green button and raises the phone up to his ear. He can’t even make his voice work right away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to.

“Dean?” your beautiful voice greets him.

His lips pull at a tremulous smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You let out a relieved breath.

“Oh, thank God. I’m here at the bunker. Where are you?”

Dean wants to quip that Chuck had nothing to do with it, but he humors you.

“Not too far,” he says. He gestures to a smiling Sam, and together they haul ass back to the Impala.

“Promise?” you ask. Dean grins.

“I’ll be home before you know it.”

Once again, you’re tangled up in the bed you share with Dean. Almost every morning without fail, he teasingly grumbles as he tries to free his legs from the knotted sheets.

“What the hell did you do here, woman?”

“I didn’t do anything,” you refute. Though your giggle betrays your guilt while he continues to struggle. “You’ll just have to stay in bed then.”

You drag him back to you, and it’s not unpleasant to be welcomed back to the soft warmth of your body.

“We’ve got some monsters waiting,” he reminds you.

“They can wait,” you say, and ply him with a lazy morning kiss. It heats up in passion as your hands slide under his shirt…

But of course, one of said “monsters” predictably starts banging at the bedroom door. It opens a crack, revealing a head of light brown hair and tearful hazel eyes.

“Mo-oooom! Cari keeps hitting me after you told her not to,” cries your son.

His older sister stomps behind him, so he ducks into the room to flee from her, heading for the bed and jumping into your arms.

Dean sighs, hiding his disappointment. You give him a secret smile while brushing back your son’s hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. To Dean, you gesture with your eyes at the doorway, where your nine-year-old daughter peeks in. She eyes her little brother in annoyance.

Tattletale, her face says.

“Caridad,” you call to her in your sterner mom voice. “Come here, please.”

Cari is most definitely a daddy’s girl, and she beelines for her father. He picks up the nine year old and settles her on the bed, tucked into his side.

“Robbie’s a crybaby,” she says.

“No, you are!” Robbie cries indignantly. He tries to push her, but you grab his hand and push it down to the bed. Dean has to do the same with Cari when she tries to pinch her brother.

“All right, all right, enough,” Dean says, with all the authority his own father once had. “Can’t we all just have one morning in peace?”

That’s when Dean’s phone rings on his nightstand. He sighs and answers it, and it’s Sam, asking what time you and Dean plan to come over his house today for the Fourth of July barbecue.

“Give me a couple hours to wrangle the kids,” Dean replies. He has to curl an arm around Cari so she won’t throw another pillow at her brother.

“Tell Eileen I’m bringing the dessert,” you chime in, calling to Sam in the phone.

“You got that?” Dean asks his brother. A moment later, he reports back to you with a nod.

“He’s wanting the fluffy cake thing,” Dean says. “The sweet one with the lil’ cherries on top.”

“Tres leches?” you supply with a smile.

He nods again. “Yeah, that one.”

“Not a problem, but let’s get them cleaned up so I can start baking,” you say. Though you grunt as a small bare foot kicks at your side.

“Hey!” you reach for your daughter’s arm. “Ya, that’s enough. Te calmas, o te calmo. Los dos, coño.”

Dean snorts, watching his children now wrestling each other in the middle of the bed despite your best efforts to keep them apart.

“Easier said than done,” he mutters. He hangs up with Sam and then surveys the familiar chaos in front of him.

“All right, you guys want to see your cousins?” Dean bribes. The kids actually pause and perk up at that.

“We’re going to Uncle Sammy’s house?” Cari asks.

“Yep, so quit screwin’ around. Let’s up and at ‘em,” Dean says. “Brush your teeth and wash your face, then meet me downstairs for breakfast.”

“Can we have Cap’n Crunch?” Robbie asks.

“No, Raisin Bran,” Cari insists. You have to laugh a little, reaching out to stroke her cheek. Your daughter surely is a special sort of child for genuinely liking Raisin Bran.

“Fine,” Dean agrees to both with a nod. “Get to it. Come on, let’s go!”

He claps his hands until the kids are up and out of his bed, running to the door.

“Don’t run!” you warn them. “Caridad Marie Winchester, stop pushing your brother, or you’re not going anywhere.”

The door hangs open as the sounds of small feet patter down the hall, accompanied by childish giggling and yelling. You sigh and lean back into the pillows, closing your eyes.

“I’m already tired. Why did we have two of those?”

Dean smirks and leans over to press a kiss to your forehead. You keep him close with a hand in his shirt.

“If I remember right, having the first one was so much fun, you just couldn’t keep your hands off me,” he teases.

“Is that what happened? I seem to remember some tequila and cajoling involved,” you smirk, cracking your eyes open. You pull him to you and kiss him thoroughly.

Both of you try not to lose track of time, but in the ten years since retiring from hunting, learning how to be civilians, true partners, and parents, you’ve become pros at stealing the small moments for yourselves.

“Come on, babe. Don’t you want Cari to have a little bro?” you mock in his deeper voice. “They’ll protect each other, be each other’s best friends.”

Dean chuckles at your interpretation of him, giving a teasing yank to one of your stray curls.

“They will, one day. Sam and I didn’t really get each other until later on.”

You smile at that and raise your hand to the beard he’s trying to grow out. You remember him teasing Sam for sporting a “ferret” on his face, once upon a time. But it seems that both Winchester brothers are well-suited to the lumberjack look.

“Maybe we can get Sam and Eileen to keep the kids tonight,” Dean suggests.

You like the sound of that. Cari and Robbie take any chance for a sleepover with their cousins.

You run a hand down his chest. “You’re saying I’m going to get all this to myself tonight?”

He grabs your hand and kisses it. His gaze holds a familiar heat that makes you smile. Your fingers wiggle teasingly in his grip, which curves his lips as well. Your wedding rings gleam in the lamplight.

We don’t have time now, but we will later, his gaze promises.

So with a sigh, he releases your hand.

“All right, lazy. Time to get a move on,” he teases. He then points at you. “Good face.”

Buena cara. Your smile deepens as you start to rise out of bed. It’s become his thing with you, starting the day with a good face.

Nowadays, you don’t often have a reason not to.

“I’ll make coffee,” you offer, as you do most mornings. The one time Dean tried to make it your way, he burned the bottom of your coffee press.

He tosses you a smirk as he pulls on a new shirt. He then digs in his side of the dresser for a pair of jeans that don’t have jelly stains, imprinted on with small fingers.

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” he agrees. “I think today’s a two-shot kinda morning. What do you think?”

You sidle up behind him at the dresser and swat him on the ass. He jolts a little, making a rumbling sound as he eyes you in your little black nightgown. It’s a warning, not to start something you two won’t have time to finish.

“Sounds about right.” Bracing your hands on his hips, you lean up on your toes so you can rest your chin on his shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror. You smile.

“Two cortaditos coming up.”

AN: Aaaand I am soft. 🥹 I've been wanting to get to this for a while now. If you like it, let me know! ❤️

Some more Spanish translations for ya:

This is a callback from "Devour Me" with “Ven Devórame Otra Ves” by Lalo Rodriguez.

Devórame otra vez, ven, devórame otra vez… Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo. Desesperan mis ganas por ti…

Translation:

"Devour me again. Come, devour me again…

Because my mouth has the taste of your body. My lust for you is exasperating."

“Te calmas, o te calmo. Los dos, coño.”

Translation:

“Calm down, or I’ll calm you down. Both of you, damn it.” [😂 I think every Latina mom has spouted this at least once lol.]

Keep Reading:

Next up in this series is “Dream With Me.” It's set in the time gap in this story. Specifically, in 15x20:

Summary: When your ex-boyfriend calls for help on a case, you have a tough decision to make. But Dean isn’t going to let you do anything alone. (AKA: The last hunt you, Sam, and Dean will ever go on together.)

▶️ Next Story: Dream With Me (PART 1)

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wolveria · 8 months ago

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The Raven's Hymn - Ch 50

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: “This is insane. We’re going to die down here.”

Chapter Warnings: SCP-106's pocket dimension

AO3

Spotify

It wasn’t infinite darkness once you had a moment to let your eyes adjust. It only seemed infinite in the dim light and the oddity of the room. You stood within a central foyer constructed of colorless brick, gaping doorways, each leading down a dark tunnel away from the circular room.

The purpose of the room was obvious. It was the beginning of a maze, a game that would be played among unwilling participants for the sadistic pleasure of their captor. You weren’t sure how the game was watched, but you doubted 106 would want to miss any of the fun and games.

This was his domain. Perhaps he saw all. If he saw you coming, that was fine with you. Better that then to surprise him.

Each doorway looked the same, equally dark and foreboding and entirely unhelpful. The shadows pervaded everything without a source of light, an unnatural realm that didn’t obey the laws of reality as you were used to. You had a feeling that was important. Maybe it didn’t matter which way you chose, just as long as you had a destination in mind.

You turned to Leahy, about to order him to move, but he was hunched over as if to catch his breath. He also gave you a strange look, and you automatically glanced down.

You were… glowing. Or not glowing, but as if the darkness of this place didn’t touch you, and in the end, it was the same result. You shone like a soft beacon, and it would be impossible to hide your presence.

Leahy’s uneven, labored breaths continued, his skin pale as he clutched his leg above the wound, and it seemed to grow worse by the minute.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He didn’t, or couldn’t, respond, as if it took all of his concentration to remain upright. You made a frustrated noise, stalked forward, and grabbed the sleeve of his dress shirt, yanking it up his forearm. As soon as your fingers clasped around his wrist, he took in a large gulp of air.

The same glow/absence of darkness surrounded him, and some color returned to his cheeks as he no longer looked on the verge of death.

Great. You fixed the problem, but now you had to hold onto him like a wayward child dragged around by his mother. His expression wasn’t far off, a bitter, wary frown that made you want to grab him by the scuff of his nape instead.

He didn’t thank you, but he did say, “This is insane. We’re going to die down here.”

An interesting way to put it. This dimension did feel downward, as if you were buried beneath the layers of reality in a place no digger could reach. Not a comforting thought.

But all you said was, “Be quiet,” and tugged him along. He followed, albeit unwillingly and at a slower pace thanks to his limp, but he did follow.

The corridor stretched onward, and even after several minutes you felt like you hadn’t gone anywhere at all. So, you stopped trying to go somewhere and just… walked. You emptied your thoughts until nothing remained, a blank determination to keep moving.

The labyrinth wanted you to grow tired, panicked, and riddled with fear. When you gave it nothing it could find pleasure in, that’s when you felt the way give, and before you lay a dark, open room. Only a narrow walkway over a chasm could be seen, and you walked forward without pause, otherwise it might be seen as hesitation.

Leahy didn’t make it easy, his uneven gait behind you threatened to throw you off balance. He better hope he didn’t, because you would take the bastard with him.

You did jolt to a stop when something massive and heavy whooshed inches from your nose. A large stone something moved in the dark, weaving in and over the pathway, a mad man’s puzzle that one was meant to solve while blind.

“We have to turn around,” Leahy growled past your head. “It’s a trap.”

“It’s a test,” you corrected him with a snap. Funny how he thought his opinion was wanted in any shape or form. “And if we go back, I guarantee we’ll end up right back in this room. Now shut up and let me think.”

There wasn’t much to think about. It was all timing, and you couldn’t see the way the pillar moved in the dark to find the rhythm.

Fuck it.

You dug your fingers into Leahy’s wrists and moved as soon as the pillar slid past your face. Your movement nearly tipped the man off balance, but he found his footing and stuck annoyingly close. Unfortunately, it was the best plan. The smaller a target you made, the less likely to go plunging into the depths.

The pillar continued to move in the darkness, an ominous low vibration marking where it passed, sometimes so close the displaced air tugged at your clothes and hair.

And then you were on the other side, untouched and unbroken. The rush that flooded your veins was dangerously satisfying, like you’d played Russian Roulette with the devil and watched as he blew out his own brains.

But there wasn’t time to gloat. You tugged Leahy along before he could fully catch his breath again, but at least he didn’t complain past a weakly uttered curse.

This corridor was different. It seemed to expand the longer you traveled, the bricks made of tan-colored stone, the grout crimson and tacky like blood. It gave the uncomfortable sensation of walking in a house made of flesh, and the rooms you passed with stone cells hanging from the ceiling did nothing to help that image.

You pushed forward and did your best to ignore the soft crying and moans that came from within.

The crimson grout seemed to spill outward until the stone was drenched in the color of blood everywhere you looked. The passage continued to expand until you stood inside a space that could only be described as a throne room. There was no lighting, no decorations, save for a massive stone seat that sat in its middle. The room was so dark it took a moment to realize the chair was occupied.

106, a grotesquely large version of him, leaned forward in his throne. There was a curious glint to his endless black eyes, his skeletal grin depicting malicious glee or hunger of the flesh. It was difficult to say.

The entity didn’t speak, if he even could. Instead, he simply… waited. Watching.

He knew why you were there, then.

By Leahy’s pale expression as he sized up the behemoth, he was starting to figure it out, too.

Your words were flat.

“Get on your knees.”

“No.”

To his credit, his voice didn’t shake, but you could feel the tremble that had started up within his bones.

You released his wrist. The glow blinked out like a burnt bulb, and he immediately gasped for air, gravity doing the work of collapsing him into a kneeling position.

The entity eyed the Site Director with barely contained hunger, but you stood behind Leahy and grabbed him by the nape of his neck, just as you imagined earlier. The glow returned, as well as the air to his lungs, and he spit out a guttural, “God… damn you, Reid.”

You ignored him, your hold on him firm when he attempted to struggle. But he was too weak, too overcome with pain and blood loss, and you didn’t need 714 to keep him under control.

You looked 106 in the eye.

“Am I to assume the Site Director had countermeasures in his office you couldn’t breach?”

Leahy had been entrenched, trapped, easy prey. 106 hadn’t attacked. A clever fox wouldn’t enter the hen house when the floor was covered in snares, but he would wait for them to come out, feeling safe and assured by the light of day.

Silence. Or… mostly silence. There was a low, gurgling noise coming from somewhere within the anomaly, like an eternally ravenous stomach that demanded to be fed.

“Well, here he is. And you know what I want.”

You said it anyway so there was no mistake.

“SCP-049.”

You were forced to hold on tighter to the back of Leahy’s neck as balked.

“Reid,” Leahy gasped out, desperate. “You can’t trust him. You can’t trust them!”

“Like I could trust you?”

Your words bit, colored by the rage that always simmered beneath the surface.

“Like you gave me a choice? As if I wanted to put the entire facility at risk? Put my friends and coworkers and the anomalies in danger? As if I wanted any of this—Shut up!” you snarled and cut through whatever he was going to say.

The entity remained silent, but the glittering eyes spoke of interest and amusement.

“I want to see him,” you hissed through your teeth as you glared upward at the entity. “Alive, or no deal.”

What you lacked in confidence you made up for with anger. There might not be much you could do if 106 decided to dismiss the bargain and simply take what he wanted. But you were done with anomalies using you for their own means, and there was no guarantee he could overpower you.

You remembered the test. Those black eyes glittering with something other than malice and hunger. You didn’t forget the fear you saw, and you were sure he hadn’t forgotten either.

Come on. You were counting on his predictability. 106 was a predator, but not always the pursuing kind. Sometimes he would lie in wait. Other times, perhaps he just wanted an easy meal.

This was a show for his benefit, proof you were a hunter, too. All you were doing was swapping prizes. His prey for yours.

Come on, you bastard. Come on.

And then 106 moved. He leaned back in his throne, his posture relaxed, lazy, a king before his trope of jesters.

You ground your teeth together. He wasn’t going for it. Why would he? Even if you escaped the pocket dimension, he count hunt Leahy on his own terms. You weren’t giving him anything he didn’t already have—

The wall to your right moved in an odd way. It bubbled outward, as if boiling on the surface, and then something broke through. It was difficult to make out the shape, nondescript and dark, some kind of fabric…

…And a white beak.

The figure slid from the wall, and you released Leahy the moment it hit the ground.

It wasn’t a great distance to run, maybe seven meters, but by the time you reached him it was as if you’d run a marathon, your breaths harsh and hitching. You grabbed his shoulders and rolled him onto his back, your hands desperate on his robes as if to prove he was real.

He was barely conscious, his grey eyes hidden behind heavy lids, unable to focus as his gaze slid past your face. The same glow illuminated him thanks to your touch, but he didn’t recover like Leahy had. Whatever had been done to him wasn’t surface level damage.

There was a scream, so full of agony and fear that you froze, instinctively looking up for the source of what could cause such a noise.

Leahy was sinking into the ground, or it was swallowing him. One of his hands had gotten free, but the other vanished into the black floor, his legs and knees already disappeared.

The hand that remained clawed outside the ravenous circle, as if to pull himself free. Leahy’s fingers dug at the tile for purchase, but he continued to sink, the floor now up to his waist.

You turned back to 049 and pushed out everything else. He must have been able to feel your grasp on his shoulders, his head tilted in your direction, but his eyes couldn’t focus—

Another panicked scream. Another involuntary turn of your head. Leahy wasn’t clawing at the ground now. He was reaching out. To you.

You tried to ignore him. You did, up until he cried out your name. Not your last name, but your first. You hadn’t known he’d even bothered to learn it.

Your hands shook as you pulled 049 into a sitting position, his weight difficult to move. You had to get him out. He wasn’t going to get better, not here, and you had to leave.

You had to leave.

“Get up,” you choked out with a desperate tug on his arm. “049, get up!”

Bit by bit, you managed to get him to his feet. He staggered and swayed dangerously, but you kept him upright, propped against your shoulder. Your journey back to the corridor was a drunken shamble, but there was progress.

You shut your eyes tight, fighting to block out the cries of Leahy begging you not to go, not to leave him like this. His pleas for mercy created a trapped scream in your throat.

Why didn’t 106 just kill him already?! But you knew the answer to that. 106 couldn’t have fun with them after death. You wished he would just end it, if only to stop the screams.

Each step was a battle, each breath too fast and shallow. 049 didn’t sound much better, his lungs rattled and wheezed, his arm draped over your shoulders heavy and boneless.

You couldn’t tell if the screams had finally stopped through the ringing in your ears, and you couldn’t see past the faint glow that surrounded you both. Like a lantern-lit ship in the mist, you sailed through a sea of inky black, unable to tell the waves from the sky. There was no direction, no physical space, not even a change of temperature. The darkness was so complete it suffocated.

It might have continued for minutes or centuries until your foot caught on a hard barrier and launched you forward. You clung to 049 as you fell, and fell, and hit the ground with a surprisingly soft landing.

Not that the ground was soft. It was hard, cold, and entirely too bright. Everything was bright, and you blinked the pain away until the room came into focus.

The medical bay, exactly as you left it—or almost. Aside from you and 049, the room was empty. 682 and 079 were gone.

Behind you, the black portal in the wall faded until it was a faint rust color, the surface stained but solid. It seemed 106 wasn’t in the mood for any more visitors.

Your hands were immediately on 049’s robes, checking for any obvious signs of injuries, feeling for his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. He was unconscious, the last of his strength used to get him this far.

It was the last of yours, too. You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, curled up against him where he lay on his side. He smelled of things tainted from entropy. Rust and ruin and dust.

But his scent was still there, trapped under the bitter note of 106’s noxious lair. You buried your face in the hollow space under his hood, your nose against his neck. His familiar scent was there, both a comfort and an ache in your chest.

He was alive, he was breathing, but what if he didn’t wake? You didn’t know what 106 had done to him, or how to help him. No one at the Foundation had ever been able to keep 106’s victims alive more than a few hours, and you had no working equipment even if you knew what to do.

You were exhausted, in pain, tired and filthy. Worse, you were helpless. 049 was here, but he might already be gone.

What had been the point? What had been the goddamn point of it all if you couldn’t even save him!

You’d taken too long, been too slow. You were too late. You were too late—

Faint pressure on your back as a pair of arms slowly encircled you, and 049’s cheek pressed against the side of your head. Careful, gentle, and warm.

Alive.

You breathed.

Next Chapter

#scp 049 x reader #scp 049 fanfiction #the raven's hymn #scp fanfiction #scp 106 #my writing #source: me stumbling through 106's pocket dimension way too many times #each time i made it out was a miracle

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terrible-eel · 3 months ago

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I know the topic of "What if kamala Harris is elected? what will she do for Palestine has been a circulating topic. I just want to point out: What will be the alternative?

Trump has been quoted saying "Israel should finish the job"

But lets look at his track record regarding Palestine.

Here is an article from 2018

Trump cuts more than $200 million in U.S. aid to Palestinians

excepts from the article include:

"The announcement came at a time when the Palestinian leadership has angered the White House by boycotting its peace efforts since President Donald Trump recognized Jerusalem as Israel's capital and moved the embassy there, reversing decades of U.S. policy."

"The status of Jerusalem - home to sites holy to the Muslim, Jewish and Christian religions - is one of the biggest obstacles to any peace agreement between Israel and the Palestinians."

"The State Department cited the Islamist militant group Hamas' control of Gaza as part of its justification for reallocating the funds. The United States and Israel designate Hamas as a terrorist group."

"The decision is almost certain to exacerbate the dire humanitarian situation in Gaza. More than 2 million Palestinians are packed into the Gaza Strip, which suffers deep economic hardship."

"The Palestinian people and leadership will not be intimidated and will not succumb to coercion," she said."

"Ambassador Husam Zomlot, head of the PLO General Delegation to the United States, said in a statement: "Weaponizing humanitarian and developmental aid as political blackmail does not work."

"Jordan, which hosts the largest number of Palestinian refugees in the Middle East outside Palestinian territories, warned this month that a severe financial shortfall facing UNRWA could have a “catastrophic” impact on the lives of millions of refugees in the region."

"U.S. Senator Patrick Leahy, a Democrat, criticized the Trump administration's decision.

“Inhabitants of Gaza are already suffering severe hardships under the tyranny of Hamas and border restrictions imposed by Israel. It is the Palestinian people, virtual prisoners in an increasingly volatile conflict, who will most directly suffer the consequences of this callous and ill-advised attempt to respond to Israel’s security concerns.”

J Street, a liberal pro-Israel group, called the Trump administration’s move a “moral outrage and a major strategic blunder.”

Here is an article from 2021

Trump-era spike in Israeli settlement growth has only begun

"EFRAT, West Bank (AP) — An aggressive Israeli settlement spree during the Trump era pushed deeper than ever into the occupied West Bank — territory the Palestinians seek for a state — with over 9,000 homes built and thousands more in the pipeline, an AP investigation showed."

"Satellite images and data obtained by The Associated Press document for the first time the full impact of the policies of then-President Donald Trump, who abandoned decades-long U.S. opposition to the settlements and proposed a Mideast plan that would have allowed Israel to keep them all — even those deep inside the West Bank."

"Hanan Ashrawi, a veteran Palestinian spokeswoman, called the Trump administration a “partner in crime” with Netanyahu. She said Biden would have to go beyond traditional condemnations and take “very serious steps of accountability” to make a difference."

"According to Peace Now, an anti-settlement watchdog group, Israel built over 9,200 new homes in the West Bank during the Trump presidency. On an annual average, that was roughly a 28% increase over the level of construction during the Obama administration, which pressed Israel to rein in building."

"Perhaps even more significant was the location of the construction. According to Peace Now, 63% of the homes built last year were in outlying settlements that would likely be evacuated in any peace agreement. Over 10% of the construction in recent years took place in isolated outposts that are not officially authorized, but quietly encouraged by the Israeli government."

“What we’re seeing is the ongoing policy of de facto annexation,” said Hagit Ofran, a Peace Now researcher. “Israel is doing its utmost to annex the West Bank and to treat it as if it’s part of Israel without leaving a scope for a Palestinian state.”

“2020 was really the first year where everything that was being built was more or less because of what was approved at the beginning of the Trump presidency,” said Peace Now spokesman Brian Reeves. “It’s the settlement approvals that are actually more important than construction.”

"Israel went on an aggressive settlement spree during the Trump era, according to an AP investigation, pushing deeper into the occupied West Bank than ever before and putting the Biden administration into a bind as it seeks to revive Mideast peace efforts."

Here is an article from 2023

Trump vows to expand Muslim ban and bar Gaza refugees if he wins presidency

"Monday vowed to bar refugees from Gaza and immediately expand his first-term Muslim travel ban if he wins a second term following the deadly attack on Israel last week."

"Trump pledged to bar the entry of refugees from Gaza fleeing Israel’s retaliatory strikes after the surprise 7 October attack, just as he tried to bar citizens from seven Muslim-majority countries during his first term with an executive order. The executive order, however, was met with fierce opposition and was fought all the way to the US supreme court. The high court eventually upheld a third version of the ban, which included travelers from North Korea and some from Venezuela."

"The ex-president and 2024 Republican frontrunner also said he would aggressively deport resident aliens with “jihadist sympathies” and send immigration agents to “pro-jihadist demonstrations” to identify violators."

“In the wake of the attacks on Israel, Americans have been disgusted to see the open support for terrorists among the legions of foreign nationals on college campuses. They’re teaching your children hate,” he said. “Under the Trump administration, we will revoke the student visas of radical anti-American and antisemitic foreigners at our colleges and universities and we will send them straight back home.”

Kamala Harris does need to fight harder for Palestine, but keep in mind, she has been actually seeking peace deals. The Biden administration has not been doing everything I want them to do, but at least they are not an active hate group with their leader saying "Finish the job" when referring to the Palestinian genocide led by Israel.

Sometimes decisions come between doing some amount of good and being complacent in a genocide. Personally, I would rather someone in office who can be reasoned with and who has been quoted saying "I believe a two-state solution can be reached" on multiple occasions than someone who actively shows support for genocide.

#joe biden #kamala harris #2024 election #donald trump #trump #harris 20204 #trump 20204 #palestine #free palestine #palestinian genocide #genocide #israel #israel palestine war

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