#and like. I'm going to cry I wish it wasn't like this :'( | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zepskies · 2 days ago

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Omg really? Wow, thank you so much. That's honestly amazing to me, considering this was one of the hardest for me to write in Smoke Eater. 💞

(But after reading your wonderful review, thank you for making me cry. 🥹💗💗)

First of all, please don't apologize for the heartfelt thoughts you want to share with me. No matter how long or short, I love hearing what you think about my writing, and this is genuinely one of the best reviews I've ever received, because I can tell it came from the heart.

What's crazy is my mom and I also used to watch Chicago Fire together when she was trying to recover from surgery (where she had terrible complications and wasn't well for a long time). It became her comfort show, and I was happy to introduce it to her/have that bonding time where it kept her from thinking about her pain. But I'm so glad you thought to come here to perk yourself up after a rewatch.

honestly I have so many thoughts for each wonderful chapter but I would feel super guilty for spamming :’) this chapter in particular though, hits me harder than anything i’ve ever read before — not in a bad way!🤍

lol girl that's the best kind of spamming. I'd never be upset with that! 😂 Oh good, I'm glad it doesn't hit in a bad way. I was concerned about that for readers when I was first posting this part of the story. 💙

my mom had epilepsy, and I was her caretaker pretty much my entire life. I connect so much with this story because it, feels like i’m reading a mirror, if that makes any sense at all. with all the doctors and the worrying, it’s written so authentically, which is understandable after reading your author’s note. i’m so sorry you’ve experienced such difficult hardships and losses yourself honey, I offer my sincere condolences. and i’m sending you the biggest hugs 🫂🤍🤍

I'm sending you the biggest hugs right back, friend. I'm so sorry about what your mom went through, and what you went through too. Being a caretaker is not easy. I've seen it enough in my family that that's what I drew from in order to write this, so I'm glad it felt authentic to your experience. 🫂💞

now these lines/parts specifically had me crying like a baby lol. december of 2021, my mom had to have surgery at the start of the month. her recovery was going a little slow, but well. however she passed away overnight, 2 days after christmas, completely unexpected. the day before she had been doing so well too— she had more energy and was more mobile without needing as much assistance. came to find out later that’s something nurses call a surge? :/ either way, those moments in particular really tugged at my heartstrings ❤️‍🩹

I'm so sorry for your loss, my friend. It is blind sighting when it comes so unexpected like that. I haven't shared this publicly, but something similar happened with my grandfather this past December. His health declined suddenly, to the point we had to take him to the hospital. After seeming to get better after a few days, he went downhill even harder, and he passed away in mid-December. It's not the same thing as your situation, but I understand the feeling of "why did this happen like this?" But now he's at peace with my grandma. And your mom is free from her pain and discomfort too. ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

this line too. I felt this way for so long after my mom died. I didn’t get the final cause for a while since she passed at home and not at a hospital, and to this day I wish I could go back. wish I could’ve done something different. but SUDEP (or, sudden unexpected death in epilepsy) is completely unpreventable so far. I just find it so cruel that this illness I spent my whole life helping her with, ended up taking her anyway and nothing I did mattered in the end. so reading that line, how she broke down, and everything she had been holding in, it really made my heart ache but I also felt less alone in a way.

And I'm sure you did everything you possibly could, just like the reader in this story. 💞 I didn't know about SUDEP, but I have a family member who takes medication for his epilepsy, so I'm going to be reading up on that. I'm so glad that this simple line made you feel less alone in any small way -- I also thought when I was writing that it not only fit what the character was going through, but that other people who've been caretakers for a family member like this would be able to identify with this feeling as well.

everything that followed, it’s like reading a reflection. I shutdown and just went through the motions afterwards too, but ohhh how nice it would’ve been to have a dean ❤️ his support, how he takes care of her, it’s so heartwarming. and it’s really comforting to read. <3

It's that awful "autopilot" thing that somehow allows us to get through the aftermath, in a way, right? If only we could all have a Dean to support us in those moments. Somehow, reading hurt/comfort fics help me feel better too though. 💓💓

a lot of my family distanced themselves afterwards which, it is what it is. that being said, the sentiment in this story of family isn’t always blood resonates with me a lot. my support system is really small, but they chose to be there for me unlike my blood relatives so, that theme in this story means so much — the way dean’s chosen family shows up for her as well, it’s so sweet. 💖

Ugh really? I'm sorry to hear that. 💙💙 But thank you for pointing that out -- that is the overarching theme of this story, a la SPN style. 🥹 Your chosen family can be just as powerful, if not more, than your blood family. And in this story, Dean's family is basically "adopting" the reader/you into it. 💕

I guess the gist of what i’m trying to say, is I wholeheartedly adore this series and it truly means so much to me 🤍 I appreciate your work so much, and I love the unique feeling each piece of your writing brings 💗💗 I know I may sound like a broken record but truly I don’t think I can ever put into words how much I love your blog. you are an absolute sweetheart, truly a light peeking out between cloudy skies 💞

Wow, I really did tear up of happiness. Thank you. 🥹🥹 I appreciate you right back for reading this story and connecting with it like you did. And I'm so glad that you enjoy my blog!! I've only been here on Tumblr for about 2 years actively, but connecting with people like you is what's keeping me here, and honestly gives me energy to write and express myself when I'm going through hard times.

This chapter specifically was very difficult for me to write for multiple reasons, as you saw in my AN, but again it makes me all the more grateful that this is the chapter you connect with the most. I'm very sorry for your loss though. I'm really touched that this story can give you some small comfort. 💞

(And no it's not too much. Thank YOU for taking the time to share this with me.)

Smoke Eater - Part 11

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 5,400 Tags/Warnings: Major angst warning. But also major hurt/comfort.

Part 11: “Heart of the Home”

You sat very still.

Your hands were gripped together in your lap when the doctor entered. He was tall and lean and blonde, and he would’ve reminded you of your boss, except this man had a kinder face.

You were sitting on the edge of your grandfather’s bed, hoping the doctor would say the bloodwork and scans came back fine. That they wouldn’t need to admit George into the hospital for further testing. That he could go home in the morning.

But your life had never been quite that easy.

“Okay, George. I’m sorry, but we need to admit you,” said the doctor.

He explained that while the malignant tumor of his cancer had been removed last year, the scans that had been done last month hadn’t been able to detect the bright spots now formed on George’s lungs and lymph nodes.

The oncologist would have to confirm, but you all knew where this was headed. Likely those “bright spots” were tumors.

George nodded slowly at first, taking it all in. He asked what his options were, as far as treatment.

“Your oncologist will go over those options with you,” the doctor replied. “We’re going to move you up to Oncology shortly.”

George thanked him.

And you sat very still.

A hand fell on your arm, finally earning your gaze. George’s face was oddly calm, though the worry in his eyes was for you. You realized that he’d gently called your name, though you hadn’t heard him. Your ears were ringing.

His mouth parted to tell you something, but nothing came out. So instead, he tugged you into his arms, and he heaved a long sigh.

“I guess we’re here again,” he admitted. He let out a chuckle. “The Lord does like his tests…but maybe that car accident was a blessing in disguise, huh?”

You heard his voice, but your mind was buzzing—mainly with the doctor’s words, and with a bone-deep feeling that threatened to consume you.

Your car, your fault. Options, again. Here again.

Your fault.

When you didn’t answer, George pulled away a bit to give you a questioning look.

“Sweetheart?” he tried. You laid a hand on his arm.

“You still haven’t eaten dinner, have you?” you asked. Neither had you, for that matter. “I’ll get us something that isn’t rubbery turkey.”

George blinked at you, confused, with a growing edge of worry.

“Isn’t Dean getting your meds? Why don’t you wait for him to—”

“I’m fine,” you said, already getting up to grab your purse. “I’ll be back.”

George called your name again, but the ringing in your ears was now pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

You made your way down the hall to the lobby at a brusque clip, even with your neck brace on. You didn’t see Dean, but he certainly saw you as he was walking back into the hospital. Frowning, he followed and called out to you.

You slowed when you saw him, and he soon caught up with you. He rested a hand on your back.

“Hey, where you goin’?" he asked.

“We haven’t eaten in a while. I’m going to the cafeteria,” you said. Though you seemed distracted, your eyes meeting his only briefly. It triggered a small spidey sense running up Dean’s spine.

He gave you your prescription pain medication, which you took with a small “thank you.”

“Everything okay?” he asked. “How’s George doing?”

“Fine. He’s resting,” you said. And by the look of you, that seemed to be true. But he spotted the tremble in your hands when you took the pill bottle package from him. It made him stop you when you tried to keep walking down to the cafeteria.

“Okay, you wanna run that by me again?” Dean asked.

You frowned, and your brows knit together. “What?”

“Is there something going on?” he pressed.

You sighed, but you didn’t answer him. You looked exhausted, and like you’d rather swallow your own tongue than speak. You shook your head and laid a hand on his wrist.

“I’m fine. Dean, thank you for everything you did tonight, but you still have to work tomorrow. Go home, get some rest,” you said.

You turned from him again. That was your first mistake. He reached out and grasped your hand to stop you.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he said.

“What?” you said in irritation. Your second mistake was not being able to look at him.

Dean was frowning in earnest now. Worry clawed in his gut, which was also telling him not to let you walk away from him. His grip shifted to hold both of your arms and move directly in front of you. He dipped his chin, trying to get you to meet his eyes.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said gently. “I need you to talk to me.”

You inhaled a shuddering breath. A wave was rising inside you, threatening to pull you into its undertow. Your eyes burned, red and shining. Dean finally saw it when you raised your head, what little you could. Your mouth began to quiver, looking into his eyes. And it was done.

You could no longer be still.

Dean held you when you fell apart in the hallway.

Dean called out of work the next day to stay with you and George. Gordon would be acting Lieutenant until his next shift, and Dean was sure the man would take full enjoyment out of it.

He couldn’t care about that right now though. He felt that his place was here, being your quiet wall of support while you and George and the oncologist talked about treatment options.

“Normally, at the stage we’re in, I would be recommending chemotherapy,” said Dr. Benton.

“Normally?” you echoed.

“At the rate this is progressing, the treatment would have to be aggressive,” he said. His gaze focused on George. “However, at your age, and the current state of your overall health…at this point, I don’t think the rigors of treatment would be worth diminishing your quality of life.”

“What are you saying?” you asked. Your voice cut like a whip, earning the other men’s gazes.

George was the first one to lay a hand on your arm. “You know what it means, honey…he’s saying it ain’t worth it.”

“Of course, it’s worth it,” you retorted. With your brows furrowed and lips pursed, your eyes went from him to the doctor. “Just because he’s older, we shouldn’t even try? Is that what you’re saying, doctor?”

At that, even Dean drew closer to lay a hand on your back. Meanwhile, George squeezed your arm.

Benton shook his head gravely. “That’s certainly not what I’m saying.”

“How much time would I get, if I started treatment,” George asked, before you could volley further with the doctor.

Benton met the other man’s gaze.

“I’m going to be honest with you, George. You may get a few more weeks, or even a few months. But that is a best-case scenario.”

Dean drove you all home that day, after George decided to formally waive treatment. Both men knew you were angry in your silence, but neither one wanted to press you. Dean was too wary, and George was too tired.

Once he was settled in bed, you hadn’t even left his room yet before you grabbed a notepad off his desk and wandered into the hall. You started to make a list of things you still needed from the grocery store, among other things. Dean took that piece of paper out of your hands.

“Good. I’ll handle this,” he said. “Meanwhile, you can get upstairs, take a shower, take your meds, and get some sleep.”

You frowned at him. “You haven’t slept either, Dean.”

“I’m used to it,” he said, giving you a wink and a slight smile. Overnight shifts could be a bitch at a firehouse, but Dean was no stranger to having his sleep interrupted.

“Listen to him, honey. He’s speaking sense,” George called from inside his room. The bedroom door was still open. He was settling into his bed while trying to stifle a cough. He sipped at a cup of water you’d brought for him.

Still, you looked reluctant. Dean held your arms and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Come on,” he said. “You were in an accident yesterday. You’ve had one hell of a night. You need your rest, or you’ll be no good to anyone.”

And if you pushed yourself much more, he worried that he’d have to take you right back to the hospital. Dean would rather not have that scare so close to the last one.

He brushed your cheek with gentle fingers. With the limited mobility your neck brace provided, you did your best to look up at him. Your eyes were softer.

“Okay,” you breathed.

“Okay? All right, good,” Dean said. You held onto his jacket for a moment, leaning against him.

“Thank you,” you whispered. You felt the burn of tears behind your closed eyelids. A few of them squeezed past and slipped down your cheeks. Dean held your face, brushing the tears away with his thumbs.

“Hey, I’m here, all right? Just let me help you,” he said. “You can lean on me when you need to.”

“I haven’t had that in a long time,” you admitted. “Part of me doesn’t know how to lean.”

“I get that,” Dean said. But you both knew that there was a long and difficult road ahead. He knew he didn’t have to remind you of it. “Whatever you need, you just tell me, okay? If nothing else, I’ve got a strong pair of shoulders.”

Somehow, you smiled. You pressed your forehead against his chest and inhaled deeply, to steady yourself.

“That you do, Lieutenant.”

You left for your room soon after, but not before you brought him down to you for one more tearful kiss.

Dean then watched you climb up the stairs to your room and nearly went up to help you, but he heard George call his name. Dean ventured back into George’s room and heeded his beckoning hand.

“You hungry? I can scramble some eggs or something before I hit the store. I think I saw two more left in the carton,” Dean said. George shook his head.

“Come ‘ere a sec.”

Dean took the hint and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I just wanna thank you for everything you did yesterday. Everything you’re still doing for us,” George said. He looked exhausted, but whatever he wanted to say was important enough to fight off sleep. He clasped a hand on Dean’s arm.

“You don’t have to,” Dean replied.

George huffed. A smile made his eyes gleam brighter.

“I knew you were a special one, Dean Winchester. Knew it the night I met ya, on your very first date with her.”

Dean blinked, but his pause drifted into a reserved smile.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Well, I’ll be honest. When I heard that black Chevy rumble like hell’s wheels onto the driveway, I thought I might have to worry about you,” George chuckled.

Dean’s lips quirked.

“But no, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t the pretty flowers, or our mutual love of killer sharks,” George quipped, making Dean’s smile more genuine. “It isn’t your job either, or the fact that you saved her. I just believe that you can see a man’s mettle in his eyes…and I saw it in you when I shook your hand that night.”

Dean took that in for a moment. His hand flexed over his knee. Then he met George’s gaze, though he didn’t know what to say. Sometimes though, honestly was the best bet.

“I’m sorry for what you’re going through,” he said at last. “I can’t imagine…”

George let out a breath through his nose. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

He pointed to a picture frame on his bedside. It was of him and his wife, Sophie, when they were around your age and Dean’s. The couple were sitting on a pier that hung over the edge of the lake in their hometown.

She held him from behind, with her arms wrapped around his neck. Her long hair was being carried by the wind, getting swept into George’s eyes. He was smiling too hard to care.

“I’m ready to smile like that again,” he said. He had tears in his eyes, but he was already lighter at the thought. “I know it’s selfish…but I think I’ve missed her long enough.”

Dean paused. Then he cleared his throat past a small well of something he couldn’t name. He wondered if his dad ever had thoughts like that.

“Well, I’ll let you get your rest,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

George nodded and gave Dean’s arm a squeeze. “All right. Drive safe. Don’t hit any goddamn trees.”

He shot Dean a knowing wink, and it almost had the younger man laughing. George’s sense of humor was something else.

Dean then left George to rest. He made sure he had his wallet, keys, and your grocery list before he left your house and went back to the car. He checked his phone and saw a missed call…from Cas.

Dean was reminded again about Azazel, the kingpin who might’ve ordered a hit on his family. Along with the recent murders and arsons, and the connection from one of the victims to your company, Savage & Co.

Dean returned the call as he climbed into the Impala.

“Dean. Everything all right?” Cas asked. “Sam filled me in about the accident.”

“Yeah, everyone’s okay…well, not really. I’ll explain later,” Dean replied. “Listen, about what we talked about at the bar.”

“Yes.” Cas said gravely. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go to your father about this yet.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.” Dean sighed. “My girl just got some real bad news. I know you gotta keep digging into Savage & Co., but can you keep her out of it?”

“Is she all right?”

“Yeah, more or less…it’s her grandfather.”

“Ah, I see,” Cas said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks, man. I’d rather her just focus on what she needs to do right now, you know?”

“I get it. And believe me, we’re keeping the investigation of Nick Savage quiet for now,” Cas said. “But if we find something, or worse, if I can’t…I’ll likely need to question her. She works directly with Savage, and from what I can tell, she’s instrumental in bringing in and maintaining several of his major accounts.”

Dean stopped at a red light and took a moment to rub a hand over his tired face, rubbing his eyes. “You don’t really think she’s got any idea of what that asshole’s into.”

“I’m not saying she does. But in working so closely with him, perhaps she’s noticed things about her boss, and the company. Things she’s kept to herself, out of self-preservation.”

Dean frowned. He didn’t want to think about shit like that. It made his stomach churn at the thought of you working for someone who might be doing business with a crime lord, let alone Azazel.

“Well, when that day comes, give me a heads up, okay?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

Dean offered to take another day off to help you, but you wouldn’t let him. He needed to go back to work, and you were able to arrange working from home for the next few weeks.

Even Nick couldn’t refuse to accommodate you in a situation like this. He knew very well that if he pushed you too hard, you’d go directly to HR.

So he backed off, and told you to take as much time at home as you needed. It allowed you to put him, and that afternoon in his office, away from your mind to focus on taking care of your grandfather.

Though you called your best friend the day you got home from the hospital, Andréa didn’t come by your house to see you and George until the end of the week. She cited mounting projects at work and some kind of tiff with her cousin Meg, but it all sounded like excuses to you.

However, she was gracious enough to bring dinner for the three of you on a Friday night. She cut up with George like normal, and even got him laughing, until a coughing fit forced him to stop. It also took most of the joy out of the rest of the evening.

While George went up to his room to rest, Andréa later joined you in the kitchen. You were washing the dishes, trying to focus on what you were doing. But your mind was buzzing continuously with future tasks and worries. Always, tasks and worries.

“How are you holding up?” Andréa asked. She rubbed your back, and you gave her a slight smile.

“All I can do is make him comfortable, for as long as possible,” you replied. There were tears in your friend’s eyes, but she dabbed them away with the back of her hand.

“What do you need? Anything, you just tell me,” she said.

It was a little easier for you to contemplate leaning on Andréa. You had been friends with her for years, and she was like another daughter to George.

On the other hand, asking Dean for help always made you hesitate. What you two had was still so new. You worried that this was too much for your relationship, too fast.

“Well,” you sighed as you wiped your hands dry on a kitchen towel. You didn’t exactly want to talk about it, but there were things you had to start planning, even if you didn’t know the exact timeframe.

However, as soon as you opened your mouth to reply, Andréa’s cell phone rang. She held up a finger to you and checked it. To your surprise, she actually answered it.

“Hey, babe,” she replied with a smile. You heard Benny’s deep voice on the line, asking a question. “Yeah, I’m still here. I’m probably leaving soon though.”

She continued her conversation for a few more minutes, but you didn’t hear anything after that. A tension headache was sharp behind your eyes, while anger (yes, anger) rolled hot under your skin. Your lips pursed. You busied yourself with straightening up the kitchen until she continued her call for another few minutes.

“Sorry about that,” she said, finally turning her attention back to you. “So what do you need?”

You put away the last dry dish and turned to her coolly.

“Nothing.”

Andréa frowned. She knew there was something off with you, but her furrowed brows betrayed her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” you repeated. “Don’t you need to head out, anyway?”

“No, I was just…what’s up with you?” she asked.

“What’s up with me is my grandfather’s dying!” you snapped. You left her in the kitchen, precisely so that she’d follow you out. You grabbed her purse for her and went to the front door, where you stepped out.

Andréa was dismayed and confused as she followed you out onto the porch. She raised her brows at you when you shut the door and crossed your arms at her.

“I know you, and this isn’t just about that. What’s the problem?” she asked.

“You can’t seem to detach from your boyfriend for more than five minutes to just be my friend. That’s the problem,” you replied. “But why should I be surprised? Like always, you’re too wrapped up in yourself to consider anyone else.”

Her brows knitted together; she looked hurt by your words, but also defensive.

“How can you say that when you’ve been exactly the same way?” she accused. “Since you met Dean, I’d be lucky to see you once a week—”

“I call you every week,” you began, counting the list with your fingers. “You’re always busy, but you never give me a day that works for you. And when we do make plans, you usually cancel. Why? Because you’re going sailing with Benny. You’re going to a restaurant, hours away, just to try the new sushi bar beer garden, or whatever the hell. Or you’re going on an impromptu road trip, or you’re planning a summer trip to Greece. Give me fucking break, Dre.”

By now she was frowning angrily, her arms crossed. “You’re mad at me because I have a life?”

“No. I’m happy for you that you found someone. I really am,” you said. “But we clearly live in two different versions of reality. I just don’t have the time or the energy to entertain yours.”

You knew you were being too harsh. You felt incredible guilt as soon as it all left your mouth…but part of you also felt like a weight had been lifted off your chest. The problem was, you still felt heavy. Just in a different way.

Both of you were crying when Andréa left your house.

All too soon, a week became a month. In that time, Dean called you every day to check on you. He spent most of his evenings with you and George when he wasn’t on shift. And when he was, sometimes Meg would drop in.

She understood your argument with Andréa, and she respected you for taking a stand when you needed to. She even confided you that she’d had similar frustrations with her cousin lately.

But Meg wasn’t your only visitor. Ellen had come a few times to bring you lunch and dinner, even breakfast, though you hadn’t asked her to. You realized then how close Dean must be to his friends at the firehouse, along with the Harvelles; Ellen also refused to take any money from you for the food.

By the end of the month, George mainly spent his days sleeping. Pain medication made his days nearly painless, but not without struggle. You were doing your best to care for him while continuing to work full-time from home. You were also exhausted, though you refused to admit it.

Today was a better day, however, because George was awake. He was also more aware of his surroundings than usual.

He stopped you from adjusting his pillow so you would sit down on the edge of his bed. He took your hand in his, brushing a thumb over the back of it.

“I’m okay with this, you know,” he said. You pursed your lips, but he stopped you from whatever you were going to say. “I don’t want to leave you. You know that…but I’m so damn proud of you. Your Gram was, and still is…”

Your lower lip wobbled as you tried and failed to keep your tears at bay. They stung in your eyes and slipped past your defenses, down your face.

“The house is yours. But if that’s too hard for you, just sell it,” he said, heaving a deep breath. “It’s just the bones. You’re the heart. And you always have been.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but not a sound would come out. You held his hand with both of yours and stared down at them. Until his voice once again commanded your attention.

“I always thought…moving to the city ruined my daughter. That we should’ve stayed in Lebanon. That maybe I gave her too much freedom, and I failed her somehow along the way,” George said. His eyes were heavy with old heartache. And yet, they soon began to lighten.

“But the day we lost a daughter, we gained one too,” he said. Then, he chuckled a little. “And I know I never failed with you, sweetheart.”

That proved to be too much for you. He pulled you into his arms like you were still a child, and he held you for a long time while you cried yourself out.

Though he eventually spotted Dean hesitating in the doorway. He’d probably let himself in with the spare key you’d given him.

George raised a hand from your back and silently beckoned Dean inside his room. He was getting tired, drifting off thanks to the morphine.

“Hey, lookie there. The boyfriend’s here,” George whispered with a bit of cheek. You sucked in a breath and raised your head, wiping at your eyes before you turned around. Dean met you with an attempt at a smile and a gentle hand on your back.

“Just got out of work?” you asked. He’d been on a 24-hour shift, and you’d missed him. You stood and stepped into his welcoming embrace. He dropped a kiss on your forehead.

“Yeah. I’ve got the next couple of days off,” Dean said. He greeted George next and asked him if he needed anything.

“Just some water,” the older man replied.

“I’ll get it,” you said with a sniff. “Need to start dinner too.”

“I already brought some food. You like Italian, right?” Dean said, with a subtle smile. It earned your sigh and a grateful smile. He knew very well that it was now one of your favorites. Italian meatballs always reminded you both of your first date.

“Thank you,” you said, grasping his hand. He squeezed yours with a nod, before he let you go.

When you were out of earshot, George cleared his throat past a wet cough. Dean reached over and grabbed him a tissue. George took it with a nod. Again, he encouraged Dean to come closer.

“I’m not worried,” George said, between deep breaths. “You know why?”

Dean just stared back for a moment. He genuinely had no idea what the man might say next.

“Tell me,” he said.

“My granddaughter’s strong. Always has been, because she had to be,” said George. “But you’re gonna be there when she’s not.”

Dean considered the weight of that charge. The anxiety in his chest felt familiar; like the day he got his badge at the Fire Academy, knowing then the responsibility he held in his hands.

That’s a lot to put on just three months of knowing this girl, came a more selfish thought. It sounded a lot like the guy he used to be, not too long before he met you.

But when Dean thought about you, and what you’d begun to mean to him…

He realized that he only had one answer.

“Yes, sir. I am,” said Dean.

George gave a tired smile. “Good man.”

And that night, an agreement was made.

In the morning, your grandfather was gone.

Dean held you through what he thought was the worst of your heartbreak. But after that dour morning, it was like a switch flipped inside you.

In the days after George’s death, your shutters came up. You threw yourself into checklists and task after task—in funeral arrangements and planning and contacting distant relatives and friends.

This was your failsafe. Your version of “autopilot.” And these things needed to get done, after all.

But Dean worried when he no longer saw the softer side of you. Like your heart had been wrung dry.

He inevitably had to go back to work, but in between the demanding hours of his schedule, he tried to get you to slow down. He saw the warning signs of you running yourself into the ground. He just didn’t know how to help you land.

So Dean picked up slack where he saw it, often without you asking him to. He began fixing the house, one section at a time. He enlisted Benny’s help, since he actually had a small construction business. Dean even paid for the materials himself without you knowing.

And one sunny afternoon, he took a break from repaving part of the cracked and uneven driveway to grab a beer inside. You were sitting at the kitchen table with stacks of papers all around you, your cellphone on speaker as some kind of elevator music continued to ring on a loop.

“Can you believe I’ve been on hold with the funeral director for 20 minutes?” you told him in irritation. But you didn’t truly take sight of him until he came back from the kitchen.

He wore a familiar ensemble of jeans and black undershirt with a plaid shirt, rolled up to his elbows. He was covered in a fine layer of sweat, and his hands were dusty and stained from his work on the driveway. Dean looked tired, and that made you feel guilty.

Meanwhile, he frowned and popped open a beer. “You want one of these? Looks like you could use one.”

You shook your head. With a sigh, you hung up the phone. You’d try calling again later. Instead, you focused on the next item of your checklist for today.

“Food. Because we’re gonna need to eat after the service,” you inclined your head. “Okay, still need to come up with a list of caterers, because I don’t think I can cook for that many people.”

Dean nodded at that. “Let me talk to Ellen. She’ll give you a good price, and her food is good.”

You looked up from your notepad and considered him thoughtfully. You wouldn’t have thought to cater from a bar, but he was right. Ellen had great food at the Roadhouse.

“Okay, I’ll call her,” you said.

“No, I’ll call her,” Dean insisted. He set down the beer on the table and leaned his palms flat on its surface. “Sweetheart, I told you I’d help you with all this. You don’t have to do it by yourself.”

“Dean, you’ve done enough,” you replied. Your brows drew together stubbornly. “You’re paving my driveway right now, for God’s sake! This is my responsibility, not yours.”

Dean frowned, making you sigh. You leaned back in your seat and crossed your arms.

“Look, we’ve only been dating for three months,” you said. And in your mind, a good chunk of that time had been spent in the worst hell of your life. “This right here? It’s a lot. I’m not expecting you to deal with all this…”

You bit your lip, and your gaze fell away from his as your insecurities took hold. The thoughts that had been plaguing you every night since this all began, on the night of the car accident.

“And…if you’d rather take a break from us for a while, I’d understand,” you said.

Your voice was more collected than you felt. But that didn’t make it any easier when Dean stared back at you, mostly incredulous. You even thought you saw a thread of hurt there, and it made your heartache worsen.

Dean came around to your side of the table. He dragged a chair back and sunk into it, facing you directly.

“You think that’s the kind of guy I am?” he asked.

You immediately shook your head. You weren’t trying to upset him, or imply that he wasn’t reliable, or trustworthy, or whatever was running through his head. You were just trying to be realistic.

You’re so pragmatic it hurts, as Andréa had often told you.

“Dean, it’s not that…” you began, a bit helplessly. “I just—”

“Just, nothin’.” His chair scraped toward you as he reached out for your hand. He made sure you looked him in the eyes when he said this next part.

“I’m not leaving you with this.”

Your gaze met his, though you desperately tried to keep your heart from rising into your throat.

“I’m not leaving you,” Dean said. His tone, his eyes, his hold on your hand was firm.

For a moment, you stared at him, unblinking, even as tears swam in your eyes.

He’s not leaving you.

Not like everyone else in your life.

You were grateful. Too grateful, even, for words.

When you finally broke down into tears, Dean realized what an idiot he’d been. Your wall of stoicism had been just that—a flimsy wall. Now it was shattered, and so were you.

It scared him just how much, as he gathered you onto his lap and into his arms. You didn’t seem to care that he was dirty and covered with sweat. You clung to him strong, and he held you back just as tightly.

“No matter what I did, it wasn’t enough,” you confessed. “You save people all the time. I couldn’t save anyone in my life.”

Dean frowned. He cupped the back of your head, and he felt your tears sliding down his neck. His voice was thick with emotion when he was able to reply.

“Oh, baby. It’s not your fault.”

“I can’t…I can’t do anything. Anything that matters.” Your voice was a broken whisper. It damn near broke his heart.

“Now you know that’s not true,” he said. “I’m not gonna let you lie to yourself like that.”

You trembled and heaved with sobs, and he continued to hold you.

Just be there, Sam had told him, when Dean had called him from the hospital. Sam reminded him again last week, when George finally passed.

Is that all I’m supposed to do? Dean thought. His brows furrowed, but he tried to hide his frustration.

He was used to people depending on him. He led a team. Before then, he’d looked out for Sam all his life. Dean had never had to help someone get through this kind of grief though. He just wanted to help you, in whatever way he could.

Because he was worrying, just like you. That whatever he did, it wouldn’t be enough.

But he couldn’t leave you.

I can’t, and I won’t, he thought. So he took a breath, and he said the first true thing that came to mind.

“You’re the strongest woman I know, you know that?” Dean said. He spoke low and steady, but with the conviction he felt. “And that’s a tall order, considering some of the badass ladies I’ve got in my life.”

A smile tugged at his lips when he considered people like Ellen and Jo, Jody and Donna. He might’ve lost his mom, but he and Sam hadn’t lacked when it came to influential women in their lives.

“But I saw it the day we met. I see it every time we’re together,” he continued. “You work hard as hell. You take care of everyone around you…”

You were still quiet, trying to stifle your crying.

Dean let out a breath. “Man, if you only knew how much you’ve been helping me. Keeping my damn feet on the ground with this whole…arsonist mess my dad’s been investigating. Digging up the past, my mom, the whole damn thing.”

With a sniffle, you uncurled from him, just enough to reveal your face. Your grip on his shirt loosened, your palm flattening on his chest. He held your hand there and turned his lips to your forehead. He sensed that you were calming down. That you were listening.

“That matters to me,” he told you.

You nodded and tightened your hand on his. “Me too.”

Your voice was still shaky, but it sounded a little stronger.

“See? You might as well face it.” Dean grinned. “You’re a badass chick with a big heart.”

You snorted in response. Your lips even twitched at a smile. He spied it when he looked down at you. And you rested easier against him as your tears subsided.

“Thank you,” you whispered. He dried your cheek with a brush of his hand.

“For what?” he asked.

“For staying.”

AN: So first off, I'm sorry for the gritty "reality" of this one. It's just where the story took me, though it serves a purpose narratively and for both the reader and Dean's character development.

But also, I think this has just been on my mind, since both my grandmother and great uncle (brother and sister) died within a year of one another due to different forms of cancer. My great uncle passed in May of this year, and my grandmother two years this past October.

Again, I'm sorry if this one was too heavy, but art does imitate life and this was probably my brain trying to express those emotions I couldn't fully make sense of at the time. George will be missed, but will still be felt in the rest of this story, as I'm sure any of you who've lost close family members will understand. 💙

Next Time:

The identity of Azazel will finally be revealed in Part 12. But first...

You nodded. “By the way, it was nice of Sam and Eileen to come. And Meg and Cas.”

Dean smiled.

“They can be your people too,” he said. “If you want ‘em to be.”

You couldn’t help it. Your tears brewed and bubbled over. And you moved slowly across the couch to twine your arms around his neck. Dean’s lips tugged at a smile, and he welcomed you with an arm wrapping around your waist.

Both of you were still wearing the same clothes you’d been wearing all day; you in your black dress and Dean in his slacks and white buttoned-down shirt, though by now without the jacket, and the shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

You were infinitely exhausted. But one thing had become clear to you over the past few weeks.

“Thank you. Thank you for today, and for every day since we met,” you said shakily.

Keep Reading: PART 12

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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uas-fics · 2 days ago

Text

Title: Pestering Brothers

Rating: T

Summary: Narinder goes to pester Kallamar at the Healing Bay.

Ships: N/A

Content Warnings: N/A

AO3 Upload

When The Lamb wandered towards Narinder's sunning spot, Narinder pulled his robe's hood down over his face. The Lamb would understand he wished to be left alone to enjoy the nice sun and did not want to be roped into whatever task they had on hand.

The Lamb plopped next to him with a noisy sigh.

Or perhaps not…

"Your older brother is…" they paused momentarily to gather their thoughts, "a bit much."

"You can say 'annoying,'" Narinder grumbled, adjusting his hood so only one of his three eyes peeked out towards The Lamb.

"I said he's 'a bit much,' not 'annoying'."

"Are those not the same?"

"Not the point." The Lamb rubbed their temples with the heel of their palms.

"Then what is the point? If you are here to bemoan your mistake of bringing him to the cult, take it elsewhere. I tried to warn you."

"I'm not." The Lamb jutted out their chin. "I'm being nice and giving you an update how your older brother is doing."

Narinder didn't want any updates on Kallamar. He wanted to lounge in the sun until he had to go prepare the temple for the evening's sermon.

The Lamb said, "Giving you and your siblings specific jobs seems to have helped you all adjust faster to mortal life."

Narinder conceded this fact with a slight nod of his head.

Leshy lived for the drama and fighting he encountered at the drink house. Nearly every other day, his youngest brother had some tale to tell of the night prior where he had to step in and calm down a particularly nasty argument—or goaded the fight into continuing, depending on how he was feeling.

As for Heket, she enjoyed cultivating the garden plants. If Narinder stood up from his sunning spot, he could easily see the sizable pumpkin his sister had been babying for the last month and a half.

"You gave a job to Cowardly Kallamar then?" Narinder smirked. "What do you have him doing? Scaring off birds with his shaking?"

"I brought him to the healing bay," The Lamb explained. "He was the god of sickness, so he must know what helps the sick, too."

Narinder made a noise of agreement, then added, "Let me take a guess: He spent ten minutes bragging about how true that was and telling you that you are a fool for not realizing it sooner?"

The Lamb slumped down into the grass. "Five minutes, but, yes, more or less."

Kallamar was insufferable. He had always been insufferable…and vain and annoying and a coward and--

"He was going through the herbs and tinctures when I left, " The Lamb continued. "I'm sure he will have a list of complaints about what we have and don't have when he is done." They threw their arm over their face with a groan.

Narinder knew he would. Unless Kallamar was in his own temple in Anchordeep, he would criticize and complain about every little thing, from how the bottles were stored to how the poultices were mixed.

Narinder stood, wiping the grass off his robes. "I will go check on him."

He had barely taken a step when The Lamb grabbed his ankle. "Don't go harass him. He needs time to adjust. You all did. Besides, I just brought him back from the dead. I don't want to waste bones doing it again so soon."

With a snort, Narinder pulled his leg away. He adjusted to being in this weak, ungodly body quickly. It only took him a week to remember he had to eat food and drink water every day.

"I won't make him cry," he promised, though he wasn't sure he would be able to keep it.

The Lamb sent a pointed look at Narinder, a wordless warning not to be a jackass.

Kallamar did not know that bothersome lamb had given him a Sisyphean task! Kallamar took a cracked bottle from the shelf and turned it over in his hand. Brittle leaves rattled against each other in the bottle.

Narinder rolled his eyes and started toward the healing bay.

---

It seemed half the bottles Kallamar had pawed through were like that. They were cracked, cloudy, dirty, or all three at once. Much of their contents had turned to dust or evaporated away to nothingness—completely useless!

How did that lamb keep a cult running with their medical supplies in shambles like this?

No wonder it took so long for Kallamar to heal when The Lamb forced him to join their pathetic cult.

Kallamar pinched the cork and pulled. Instead of popping out of the bottleneck, the top of the bottle snapped off at the crack near the base of the neck.

Kallamar looked from one part of the bottle to the other before heaving a sigh. He set the broken bottle top to the side then dumped the leaves into his palm to examine.

Kallamar jumped from the warm breath on his shoulder. The bottom of the bottle fell to the floor and, by some miracle, it didn't shatter.

When he spun around, he found himself face to face with death itself—his little brother, Narinder. No, no, not death. Not anymore. Kallamar had to remind himself that Narinder didn't have the crown. He held no more power than Kallamar, Heket, or Leshy. He was a lowly, earthly follower now.

Narinder raised his eyebrows before pointing back down at Kallamar's hand.

He said something, but Kallamar found himself still too shaken to pay attention enough to see what was said.

"W-what?" He stammered.

"Raspberry leaves," Narinder repeated, pointing again to Kallamar's clenched hand.

Kallamar opened his palm. He had accidentally crushed the dried leaves to dust when Narinder scared him. He wiped the powder off on his robes and did notice the slight scent of raspberry.

"What do you want?" He narrowed his eyes, focusing hard on Narinder's lips.

Without his crown to dampen the blaring tinnitus in his head and strengthen what little hearing he still had, he had to concentrate to understand what anyone said to him. Reading lips and paying attention to the slight sounds he could still pick out was all he could do.

Narinder straightened himself and took a look around the healing bay.

"I was told you were assigned to clean out this old place. I thought you might need some help," Narinder commented idly, as if he had just stepped in for a chat.

Kallamar knew better than that.

"I don't want your help."

He didn't want Narinder anywhere near him.

Kallamar turned around to the table to continue to sort through the bottles, boxes, and satchels of medicine. He had hoped that his curt reply would drive Narinder off, but instead of leaving, Narinder moved to sit on the bed, the least musty thing in the whole place. He stretched, yawned, then laid back with his eyes shut.

Of course, Narinder would not leave. Narinder never listened to Kallamar before, why would he start now? At least before, Kallamar could retreat to the safety of Anchordeep and his temple when Narinder antagonized him. Now Kallamar was stuck in this pathetic, little base, in this pathetic, little body with no powers, no followers, and no place to go.

He gritted his teeth.

No, he was not going to let Narinder get to him. They were not gods anymore. Narinder was not death and Kallamar was not blight. Narinder was just Kallamar's annoying and pestering little brother now, nothing more.

The medical bay's bed was comfortable, if a little too cool for Narinder's taste. If the bed was pushed towards the door and the warm sun, then it would be an excellent new napping spot. The Lamb wouldn't be able to find him as quickly and make him 'get back to work' or whatever other nonsense they ordered.

He had to just ignore him. If he focused on his task at hand, he could do that with ease.

---

He sprawled, listening to the clinks of bottles as Kallamar worked. Every so often he would hear a mumble "What is this?" or a groan of frustration.

Narinder considered holding a one-sided conversation, mostly to annoy Kallamar when he finally noticed he was doing it, but decided against it. Just staying there after he was told he wasn't wanted was enough to mess with Kallamar. To Narinder's pleasure, he had noticed a tenseness in Kallamar's movements and the occasional glances at Narinder when he thought he wouldn't notice.

Narinder rolled so his head lay off the side of the bed. He looked upside down at Kallamar.

Much like his younger siblings, when The Lamb hauled Kallamar from his torment in purgatory, they left all of his thousands of years of divinity behind. The air of godly power that somehow clung to Kallamar, despite his cowardly nature, evaporated when Kallamar fell face-first onto the indoctrination circle. How sickly and weak he looked then, barely able to hold his head up as an odd green color painted his face. The weakling spent days on bed rest before he was able to stand again.

Narinder almost laughed at the memory.

Kallamar took a wooden box from the counter and shook it. Pursing his lips, he pried the lid off. With a puzzled expression, he tipped over the box until the contents fell out to the tabletop. Kallamar carefully picked up something wrapped in paper and herbs. He pulled away at the wrapping before gagging.

Narinder rolled over to his belly and pushed himself up to his knees.

He cringed and dropped the bundle back in the box.

"Why?!"

"What? What is it?" he asked, but Kallamar didn't respond. Instead, he held his face in his hands and groaned.

Narinder frowned. He took the pillow from the bed and threw it. Kallamar jumped when it hit his side and said a swear in a language no mortal spoke anymore.

When Kallamar turned to glare, Narinder repeated, "What is in the box?"

A smirk crossed Kallamar's face as he returned the lid with a sound tap.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would. That is why I asked."

Kallamar hummed in reply and set the box to the side. He proceeded to pop the top off of a cloudy bottle and give it a sniff, completely ignoring Narinder.

Narinder bristled with annoyance. He came here to mess with Kallamar, not to be messed with.

Narinder jumped to his feet and started towards Kallamar and the box. Kallamar snatched the box, holding it to his chest. Narinder stomped his foot down, knowing the vibrations through the floor would be enough to scare that coward into losing his grip.

A sharp pain shot up his leg from the sole of his foot. With a cry, he hopped back, lost his balance, and fell to his back.

He bit his tongue to hold back a cry, trying to force his head to stop spinning so he could focus on the stabbing pain in his foot. He hauled himself to the bed before he set his foot propped up on his other knee.

Glass and crushed raspberry leaf clung to his bloody foot.

It's from the bottle Kallamar dropped earlier, he realized. Kallamar had been so busy pretending to ignore him, that he never picked it back up.

An instinct Narinder usually ignored reared its head. With pain and annoyance on its side, the primal urge beat any rational thought. Narinder stuck his tongue out to lick clean the wound.

Kallamar grabbed him by the cheeks and forced his face up.

"Are you stupid? Do you want glass in your tongue, too?" He snapped.

Though Narinder knew he was right, he huffed in defiance and looked to the side.

Kallamar pulled his hands away. He carefully picked his way through the remaining shards and started rifling through items on the table. He hoped Kallamar would leave to find The Lamb or their younger siblings for help, but Kallamar returned a moment later and sat next to Narinder.

He held out his hand.

"Let me see your foot," he ordered.

Narinder snorted. "No. I will be fine." He pinched the largest piece of glass between his fingers and sharply pulled. A hiss of pain slipped from his teeth.

"Fine." Kallamar sniffed. "Get an infection, die of sepsis. I do not care what happens to you, anyway." Kallamar dropped the items he'd brought in a heap next to Narinder. Narinder stared at the blood dripping down his foot.

An infection? He couldn't remember when he had last had one, but he could remember the infections and sepsis he saw in his followers, the burning flesh, the oozing pus, and the writhing pain they were in until Narinder ended their suffering.

He groaned. Before Kallamar could get out of reach, Narinder grabbed his robes.

He didn't speak; he just met his older brother's eyes for the heartbeat his pride would allow.

For an instant, Kallamar looked fearful and untrusting, but his expression shifted to one of annoyance.

The bloody glass shard clinked against its brethren on the red stained cloth.

"You've always been such a pest," Kallamar grumbled, taking Narinder's hand off his robe.

---

Kallamar bend down to the bowl of steaming water he'd rush to the kitchen to get. He didn't dare light the fire pit in the medical bay to boil water. Whoever had been keeping the bay up before Kallamar had put baskets of vomit stained blankets right next to the pit. Some of the blankets had even spilled into the ring of stones, and Kallamar refused to touch something so disgusting with a new body so susceptible to illness.

He took a cloth rag from the bowl and rung the water out before pressing it to Narinder's foot. He would need to stitch up some of the gashes, but the skin had to be clean before he made any attempts.

Narinder hissed through his teeth.

"Oh, do not act like a baby." Kallamar rolled his eyes.

Narinder glowered, attempting to sit up from his back, but Kallamar lifted his foot up higher.

"This needs to stay above the level of your heart."

Narinder huffed and laid back down.

"I've seen you cut in half before. This should be nothing to you." Kallamar returned the foot to his lap.

"Being cut in half doesn't hurt," Narinder retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

A bellowing laugh burst from Kallamar's chest, making Narinder jump.

"You are a dirty liar. It does hurt--a lot. " Kallamar moved the rag away from the foot. He gave Narinder's foot one last wipe and a good look for any more glass before dropping the rag next to the glass pile.

As he picked out the needle from the bottom of the water bowl, he continued, "Your usurper cut me in half the first time they killed me." He pointed the needle to the top of his head and drew it down to his belly

He had fought for his life, sending wave after wave of curses and minions and Anchordeep beasts to kill that vile creature masquerading as a god of death. He accomplished his task twice before The Lamb came back a third time, accompanied by two small demons and a glowing, godly axe. It was this axe that the Lamb slew him with, striking him when he took less than a second to breathe. The Lamb sliced through his flesh and bone, leaving blood and pain in the axe's wake.

To add insult to injury, as Kallamar lay dying, he watched as a third demon came flying in, bringing with it a spirit heart for the victorious lamb.

"Foul, terrible, cruel creature…" he muttered, shaking his head.

Kallamar tied a knot in the silk thread. He had always preferred the use of catgut to close wounds, but dried intestines were among the many other materials The Lamb's medical tent lacked. He didn't bother to warn Narinder of the pain as he stabbed the needle into the soft flesh.

Narinder bit down hard on his lip as Kallamar worked to close the largest of the gashes. Kallamar took another rag from the side of the water bowl and wiped away the new blood.

If Narinder attempted to speak to him while he worked, Kallamar couldn't tell. His focus lay solely on closing the wounds. He felt calm, the most calm he'd felt since being indoctrinated into this blasted cult. Patching up wounds was his second nature.

As he pulled tight the last stitch on the final large wound, he saw Narinder's jaw moving out of the corner of his eye.

"What? Do you need to cry? Does it hurt worse than being cut in half?" Kallamar mocked.

He tied off the thread without having to look at his hands. He knew taking stitches without any type of numbing hurt, but he didn't want to give Narinder any pity.

Narinder made a rude gesture towards Kallamar with his middle finger.

"Lucky for you, I am all done sewing you up," Kallamar said, twisting the lid off a glass jar. Inside was the saddest excuse for a wound poultice Kallamar had seen in centuries -- there wasn't even any flax in it—but it would have to do to keep the wound moist and protected from dirt.

Narinder said something, but Kallamar was too busy slathering on the poultice to catch it. He set it aside and went for the bandages before turning his attention to Narinder's face.

"Hmm?"

Narinder opened his mouth, then shut it a heartbeat later. He looked away and shook his head.

Kallamar shrugged and started to wrap up Narinder's foot. As he worked, a thought came to him. He'd never dressed any of Narinder's wounds before then. Even before they sealed him away, Kallamar had never had to step in and suture closed gashes or apply honey and bandages to scrapes on him, unlike the rest of their siblings.

With how many fights Heket tended to pick, she was the worst of them, though Leshy was a close second since he liked to join Heket in her scuffles. Though uncommon, even Shamura had to be patched up when they underestimated the army or god they waged war against.

Narinder never needed wounds shut or a poultice applied. He would not scar. His wounds would not fester. He would die and bring himself back before that could happen.

Suddenly annoyed, Kallamar pulled the bandage a little too tight—not enough to cut off blood flow, but enough to be uncomfortable.

Kallamar lifted Narinder's foot from his lap and scooted out before dropping it unceremoniously back down.

"There. Done, " he said, tying up the cloth with the glass shards. He took them to a pile of old and broken containers he'd made earlier to throw out. He grabbed a straw broom and quickly swept the remaining glass on the floor into a pile. He was not going to risk having to use any of this cult's medical supplies on himself, not until The Lamb had replaced them with items of higher quality, at least.

Narinder moved his foot into his lap to examine the bandaging. An odd expression crossed his face, guilt or sadness, maybe? Kallamar didn't have time to dwell on it before that complete fool swung his legs out and attempted to stand.

Narinder yelped and fell back onto the bed.

"I will see about getting you some help to hobble back to your quarters." Kallamar waved his hand. "The sooner you are gone, the better for me."

He expected a snarky retort or another rude gesture, not for Narinder to smile softly at him.

"You know, I have seen you throw around your plagues and spread your miasma thousands of times," he mused. "I always found sickness a terrible way to die. There is no honor or glory in succumbing to a fever. It's pathetic."

Kallamar bristled, wishing he had tied the bandage even tighter.

Narinder chuckled. "Thousands of times," he repeated. "Thousands of thousands, even, but I only ever saw you cure sickness one time." He held up his pointer finger. "One of Shamura's soldiers brought back some sort of terrible illness, a cough that racked the body and fever that brought delirium, " Narinder recalled. "Shamura summoned me to help those that they knew would not make it pass on peacefully."

"I remember you actually scolded Shamura," Narinder shook his head, "and told them they should have called you sooner. That they know better than to let sickness spread."

Kallamar furrowed his brow. He vaguely recalled that. It was thousands of years ago, possibly more than that. Well before Heket or Leshy joined their family at the least, back when Narinder was the youngest bishop and Kallamar held less fear of him.

"You cured that whole army with ease, soothing their fevers and easing their coughs with merely a wave of the hand." Narinder met Kallamar's eyes. "I was jealous, you know."

"What?" Kallamar gasped. "You were jealous of me healing some mortal soldiers?"

There was plenty Kallamar could understand Narinder being jealous of, including his good looks, the glory of his temple, and the majestic beauty of Anchordeep, but that? Something so simple?

"I could only end suffering. I could not ease it nor erase it." Narinder looked at his hands, his eyes heavy with sorrow. "That has not changed, I'll admit."

Kallamar's chest twisted uncomfortably. How could Narinder have admire his abilities? Admired him? It made no sense.

He looked away, more emotions pulling at his heart. He should still be mad. It shouldn't matter what Narinder said. Kallamar should still hate him…

No, he never hated Narinder. He was scared of him, angry that his cult swelled while Kallamar's waned, upset about his handsome ears and hearing loss, saddened by chaining Narinder up for a thousand years, but he never actually hated him.

Kallamar had his head turned away and was uncharacteristically quiet.

Kallamar blinked at the tears welling up in his eyes, but despite his best effort, they overflowed and ran down his cheeks.

---

Narinder pursed his lips. He knew he shouldn't have said that, but the pain brought old memories to the surface and loosened his tongue.

A sniffle brought Narinder out of his thoughts. He winced as he saw Kallamar wipe his eyes with his wrist.

The one thing he had promised The Lamb he wouldn't do, make Kallamar cry.

He turned his attention to his lap, pretending he didn't hear anything. Kallamar stepped forward until his feet were in Narinder's line of sight.

"I have two little brothers and you are by far the worst of them," Kallamar stated matter-of-factly. "You are egotistical and annoying and a pain in my ass."

Narinder glared upwards, about to make a retort, when Kallamar continued, "However, you are still my brother, and it is clear we are stuck with each other here from now on. We should at least try to get along. Here. Fulfill your curiosity, Nari." He shoved the wooden box into Narinder's hands.

Narinder skeptically shook the box once before opening it. He took the object wrapped in brittle paper and herbs from inside and slowly pulled the paper back.

Inside was a dried, wrinkled, black-and-white spotted--

"By The First God's wounds!" Narinder yelped, dropping the bundle back into the box. Though he hadn't touched the dried flesh, he wiped his hands on his robes regardless.

"Is this a--?" He wrinkled his nose up.

Kallamar cackled. "A charm to increase male potency, yes. The wive's tale goes if one sleeps with a bull's manhood under their pillow it'll help them, well, you know." He clicked his tongue twice and jabbed his thumb up.

Narinder dropped the box as far from him as he could on the bed. He did not know why The Lamb had such a thing, and he did not want to ask.

"Disgusting. " He shuddered. "That can't possibly work."

"Oh, it doesn't," Kallamar shrugged, "but it is not the strangest 'remedy' for that particular problem I have come across. Once, some mortal brought me the foulest concoction I have ever seen, and claimed that was why he and his wife had so many children." Kallamar met Narinder's eyes with a serious expression. "They were rabbits."

The brothers held each other's gazes for a moment longer before their lips started to pull up and they both burst into laughter.

Kallamar wiped fresh tears from his eye. "Narinder…here." He held out his hand. "Let me help you back to your quarters. I'll have someone bring you some tea to help with the pain. I definitely saw some willow bark…somewhere in this mess." He gestured with his head to the table of herbs.

Narinder took his big brother's out stretched hand.

"Thank you, Kallamar."

---

AN:This was techically my first COTL fic, but I didn't finish editing it until recently. Also I have next to no medical knowledge, so those parts might be wrong.

#cult of the lamb #kallamar #narinder #cotl #cult of the lamb fanfic #one shot #cotl narinder #cotl kallamar

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