#and this gun wound gets passed down to cas and jack | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dothwrites · 4 years ago

Text

2020 Writing in Review

Well, it’s been a shitshow of a year, ain’t it? The one bright spot in this year was that it left me a ton of time for writing! With no further ado, here are the fics I worked on the year of our lord, 2020.

---

the blood which we drew | Rated: M | Word Count: 7335 | COMPLETE

Castiel bears the Mark. And for a few months, it's fine.

It's fine until it isn't.

---

ramble on | Rated: E | Word Count: 26,875 | WIP

A series of Season 15 codas, crossposted to tumblr. Tags, Warnings, and Rating may change, based on source material.

(Technically started this in 2019, but I added to it this year, so I’m counting it)

---

protect and serve | Rated: E | Word Count: 49,953 | COMPLETE

Police officer Dean Winchester's next assignment seems easy enough: a protection detail on Assistant District Attorney Castiel Novak, who's been receiving death threats in conjunction with the case that he's prosecuting. Dean's assignment is to keep ADA Novak safe, alive, and in one piece so that he can start his trial against Dick Roman, notorious CEO charged with the death of at least eight people.

With threats that quickly spin out of control, a missing teenage genius, Dean's attraction to Novak, and Novak's mercurial attitude towards Dean--Dean Winchester's next assignment is anything but easy.

---

what stays (and what fades away) | Rated: E | Word Count: 64,421 | COMPLETE

Cas Novak’s life is perfect. He has a job that he loves and friends who support him. Most importantly, he has his husband, Dean Winchester, and his two adopted children, Claire and Jack. With them, nothing could ever go wrong.

That is, until he starts having flashes of a life that isn’t his and meets someone who shares his husband’s face but not his personality, someone who insists that he’s someone, something, different altogether. Cas’ life shatters when he’s dragged into a world that he doesn’t belong to and doesn’t understand.

Dean Winchester’s life was already shattered when he lost Castiel.

---

thunder road | Rated: E | Word Count: 20,883 | COMPLETE

After Chuck is defeated and the Winchesters settle into life without God, Dean Winchester is bored.

OR: Dean and Cas take a road trip and figure out some stuff along the way.

---

alone together | Rated: E | Word Count: 74, 239 | COMPLETE

Like the rest of the world, Dean Winchester’s job sent him home with the supplies necessary to work from home and a vague farewell of “We’ll see you when this all blows over”. Unlike the rest of the world, Dean Winchester is entering into a quarantine with Castiel Novak, his incredibly hot and incredibly uninterested roommate. How is Dean supposed to concentrate on his job while Cas is just a few feet away, being...well, Cas?

Castiel Novak was already working from home, so the news of social distancing doesn’t affect him that much. What does send him into a panic is the knowledge that Dean Winchester, his stunning and straight roommate, will also be working from home for the foreseeable future. After spending so long trying to distance himself from Dean, Castiel now has to face a future where Dean is present. All. The. Time.

They’ve got food, Internet, and all the toilet paper they need, but neither one of them is prepared for quarantine.

---

for a sinner released | Rated: E | Word Count: 8,800 | COMPLETE

Testing his theory, he runs his fingers over the soft skin of Dean’s wrist, until his thumb is pressed firmly against Dean’s hammering pulse. Cas pulls, gently but inexorably, until Dean is forced to take a step forward. The shift in positioning pushes the barrel of the gun into his forehead.

Cold metal touches overheated skin, and Cas inhales sharply at the contrasting sensations. The gun is unforgiving, relentless, beautiful.

It’s like Dean.

---

and all this devotion | Rated: M | Word Count: 10,572 | COMPLETE

Dean’s not stupid. He’s seen the looks Cas has aimed his way, when Cas thought he wasn’t paying attention. He’s leveled his share of looks back at Cas when the angel’s attention was elsewhere. More than once, he’s been caught in the act. At this point, they’re both dancing around the same elephant, too scared and caught in their ways to make the first move.

OR: Dean gets hurt on a hunt. Cas takes care of him. There's only one bed. Confessions ensue.

---

lost in translation | Rated: T | Word Count: 3,720 | COMPLETE

Cas bites at his lower lip, looking uncommonly shy. Worry starts to stir in Dean’s gut, which is only compounded when Cas says something else in soft yet clear Enochian. As the new phrase doesn’t have the word stupid anywhere in it, Dean doesn’t have the slightest idea of what Cas is saying. The guilt squirming in his stomach gets worse when Cas looks at him, with gentle anticipation, as though he’s expecting a reply. Dean does what humans have been doing since the beginning of time when confronted with a language they don’t understand and smiles, wide and sunny, at Cas. Cas’ forehead creases but he returns the gesture. His eyes are still brimming over with emotion and the sight does something to Dean.

Dean begins to suspect that he may have started something which he is not equipped to finish.

---

a new song about a new life | Rated: E | Word Count: 21,282 | WIP

There is no happily ever after. Mostly because there is no after. Life is just a series of days and nothing ever really ends. It just continues on, even after the curtain closes, and while the struggles might not be epic, they're no less impressive. Domestic life isn't without its pitfalls and trials, but at the end of the day, Dean and Cas still have each other and in the end, that's enough.

A series of timestamps detailing the small adventures of Dean and Castiel. Will contain teensy amounts of angst and a heap of fluff and domesticity.

---

angel in black | Rated: E | Word Count: 95,325 | COMPLETE

Bounty hunter Castiel Novak has simple rules for how he conducts his business. Get in, get out, deliver the fugitive, and do it all with the least amount of effort possible. Never become emotionally involved.

When he takes on the job of hunting down Sam and Dean Winchester in order to bring them to justice, his rules start shifting. Threatened by supernatural forces as well as his attraction to Dean, Castiel soon has to decide what he’s willing to stand for…and what he’s willing to die for.

---

ghosts that we knew | Rated: E | Word Count: 89,411 | COMPLETE

Dean can’t help it. Castiel’s laugh is infectious, washing over him and sweeping him up in its tide. His throat and stomach ache with the feel of it, unfamiliar muscles worked past their endurance. He hasn’t laughed like this in weeks, maybe years.

Cas doesn’t stop laughing, and Dean relishes it. It’s such a good sound, deep and throaty. It rumbles over him the same way that Baby’s engine purrs, to where he can almost feel it in his gut. Dean’s giddy, the kind of happy that hunters don’t get to feel, and if it weren’t for the ceiling, he thinks he might float away. Cas’ eyes crinkle when he laughs, and his smile goes wide and gummy. He’s so brilliant, so alive—

But you’re dead, Dean thinks helplessly. But you’re dead.

---

Castiel Novak is one of the best hunters Dean Winchester has ever worked with. He's witty, whip-smart, and has enough knowledge about the supernatural to rival an encyclopedia. He's got humor dry enough to put the Sahara to shame and he's pretty easy on the eyes as well. All in all, he's the best partner Dean could have hoped for.

Too bad he's dead.

---

the best of things | Rated: G | Word Count: 2,494 | COMPLETE

There’s something.

This is significant because, for as long as Castiel can remember, there’s been nothing. --- Castiel finds a way out of the Empty.

---

freedom | Rated: G | Word Count: 4,804 | COMPLETE

Freedom.

Dean rolls the word around on the tip of his tongue and tastes how it feels. Freedom.

It’s a strange concept, especially since he always assumed that he was. Ever since Apocalypse Version 1.0 was averted, Michael and Lucifer locked in the cage, thanks very much, he’s always assumed that he was the one calling the shots. No matter how badly he fucked up (and he fucked up a lot), he could at least take comfort in the fact that those were his choices. No one’s hand up Dean Winchester’s ass, no siree.

And then Chuck came and ripped that certainty away from him in one quick motion and then...everything was suspect. Sam, Mom, Jack...Cas. Every word, every action, every emotion... He couldn’t trust anything, so he trusted nothing.

--- OR: Dean makes a choice.

---

at the end of the world | Rated: G | Word Count: 4,631 | COMPLETE

Rebuilding Heaven is slow work, but time doesn’t really mean anything here. It’s delicate to rebuild the walls separating billions of souls so that nothing collapses. Castiel works alongside Jack, making suggestions as his mind trips along to potential problems.

Though it’s never said aloud, Castiel knows why Jack is working tirelessly. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the knowledge sits that Sam and Dean are going to die. One day, they will pass from the earth, and come to Heaven, and on that day, Castiel wants everything to be perfect for them. He wants to show them a true paradise, a place without walls or barriers, a place where emotion is genuine and not just a manufactured memory. Rebuilding Heaven is his last chore, the last of his penance to be performed.

--- OR: Team Free Will gets the soft epilogue which they deserve.

---

let your heart be light | Rated: M | Word Count: 31,651 | WIP

It's Dean and Cas' first official Christmas together as a couple. What could possibly go wrong?

Just Cas' weird family, his own personal hang-ups about Christmas, Dean's persistent belief that the miracle of Christmas can heal all wounds, and meddling friends and family.

Have a Merry Christmas.

#dothwrites #long post #2020 masterlist #i did not realize how long this was #good lord me #i'm a long-winded little SOB

66 notes · View notes

dumbbitchenergy17 · 4 years ago

Text

I’m Sorry (Part 4)

Summary- You are Michael’s vessel as you are Dean’s kid and letting him use you instead of your dad.

Dean x Daughter!Reader

Word count- 3862

Masterlist

It was an abandoned church people were hanging from chains, some crying others passed out from their wounds one man slowly bleeds in a goblet bound to a chair. Footsteps approach Michael healing a cut on the man bleeding Michael takes the goblet that is now full of blood and nods approvingly.

“A little of this… a little of that.” He pours some angel grace in and swirls it as it dissolves, “and," Michael forces the man’s mouth open and pours the blood down his throat.

“Yes, good boy.” The man begins to choke and gasp before the vessel burns out.

Michael frowns, “Hmm. Too much ‘that’. How disappointing.” He grabs the corpse and drags him over to a pile. All failed attempts bodies piled up with burned-out eyes and blood pouring from it. Looking over the line of people in chains he spins his knife

“Alright. Who’s next?”

In the bunker, Mary and Bobby look over weapons “Who goes to Duluth in October. Sure Michael didn’t touch down in Orlando?” Bobby says check over a handgun

Mary looks over at him “Jo was pretty specific. Duluth.”

Bobby sighs ”Yeah, well, angels ain’t exactly known for their veracity.” Mary clears her throat and looks behind Bobby, as Cas enters “No offense.”

Cas nods ”None taken. I tend to agree with you.” Mary clicks the barrel back in handing it over to Sam who sits with his laptop. “Here you go.”

Sam nods scrolling through the police reports “Thanks” Footsteps cause every to look over at who entered and it was Dean holding a beer

“Hey Dean how are you.” Mary greets him everyone walking on eggshells.

“I’m fine do we have anything.” Dean sits across from Sam taking a sip.

“Uh yeah, so I’ve been searching through police reports in Duluth. Cops just turned up a pile of corpses that was dumped near some train tracks just north of town and their eyes were burnt out.” Sam explains tilting the screen toward everyone else.

“So Michael. We should go now.” Sam glanced over at Cas

“No. This isn’t just Michael we’re talking about.”

“It’s Y/n,” Dean stated

Sam nodded “Yeah. Cas, you know why you can’t come with us, right?”

Cas looked down upset he couldn’t help “My angelic presence would be sensed by Michael, thereby nullifying your hopes of a sneak attack.”

Sam gave him a pity smile “Yeah, sorry.”

“And, you need me to stay here and babysit Nick and Jack.” Cas frowns putting his hands in his coat.

“It’s not babysitting, Cas,” Dean responded sipping his beer.

Cas look over at Dean and frowned “Only in the sense that they’re not infants, but they both have to be supervised. Jack is lost without his grace, Nick is...he’s just a mess.”

“Well, it-it’s not his fault. Cas, Nick was housing, you know. He-he deserves a shot at rebuilding his life.” Sam defended Nick even though he did house Lucifer.

“And yet every time I look at him, all I can see is the supreme agent of evil.” Cas retorted but frowns seeing Jack walk in feeling bad talking about a touchy-subject

“You’re talking about my dad again? Look, I understand. Being around Nick...it’s hard for me, too.” Jack says

Mary comes over placing a hand on his shoulder “Uh, Jack, we’re going to need you to sit this mission out. Not a permanent thing.” Jack nods

“I know last time, I sucked when it mattered, and I need to improve. So...that’s what I’m gonna do.” Sam stands up grabbing his gun

“Alright. Okay.” Sam looks over his family and rests on his brother who nods in return

“Let’s move.” When they arrived at the station they were taking into the morgue where multiple people laid on tables.

“These are just some of the victims. More are in the hall, a couple in a storeroom,” The coroner grimaced “we don’t usually see this kind of action in Duluth.”

Mary glanced over the other bodies “The injuries all pretty uniform?” The Coroner nodded handing Mary over a clipboard

”Yep. The boys upstairs think maybe we’re looking at a spree killer.”

“If they were DOA, you have an ETA on TOD? Any sample DFA?” Bobby questioned, Sam quickly clears his throat, “DNA.”

The woman glanced at him and shook her head. “Uh, frankly we don’t even know the precise cause of death. I mean, there were the neck wounds of course, but there was also considerable internal trauma, so-” her phone goes off “Excuse me.” She gives a smile walking out.

“Yeah. Sure,” Dean nods and looking over at Bobby “DFA.” he smirked

“I’ve been fighting a friggin’ apocalypse for 15 years, my, FBI might be a little rusty.” Bobby countered.

Mary grabbed gloves “Let’s give them a quick once-over, see what they missed.” The brothers and Bobby pulled on gloves as well each going over to a body studying it.

“Angel kills for sure, and not grunts,” Bobby look at the distinctive burned eyes, “We’re talking 5-star smitings.”

“Knife slits in the throat, but it doesn’t appear they bled out.” Dean pointed out leaning the head back pointing to the scar.

“He kept these people alive for a while.” Mary said looking at the others Sam opens the mouth of one of the corpses

“Maybe these people aren’t people. Looking at a vamp.” He presses against the gums fangs popping out.

“Same here.” Bobby said, “Me too.” Mary added.

“Why milk ‘em if he’s just gonna smite ‘em?” Bobby questioned. Dean glance at Sam “And why is an archangel hunting vampires in the first place?”

Sam went over to the Coroner’s office and knocked on the doorframe “Sorry. Excuse me. Um, did anyone come to claim or identify these bodies?”

The women nodded “Oh, yeah. A young lady. Said she heard about the killings on the morning news, thought she might know one of the victims.”

Dean leaned forward “And?”

She shook her head “She didn’t. Then she disappeared, never even gave us her last name.” Sam glances outside to the parking lot

“Huh. Do you happen to have surveillance cameras outside?”

Back at the bunker, Jack is seated at the table in the main hall reading when Cas enters. “Looks like about...two centuries of biblical lore. Light reading.”

Jack looked up at the angel ”I’m researching how long it takes archangel grace to replenish.”

Cas sits next to Jack “Well, archangels being exceedingly rare, the data on that is woefully scant.” Jack points at a section “The books say it can take from a month to-”

“A century,” Cas cuts him off, “Yeah. Complicating factor being your human component, which slows the process,” He pauses, “Jack, um...mourning what you’ve lost...it’s wasteful. Might be smarter to focus on what you still have.”

“You don’t understand what I’m going through.” Jack frowned feeling dejected.

Cas placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder “Yes, I do - a little. At the time of the Great Fall, when angels were banished from heaven, I lost what I thought was everything. I had no grace, I had no wings. I felt hopeless and useless.”

Jack looked up at the man he sees as a father-figure “What did you have left?”

“Well, uh...well, I had Sam, Dean, and Y/n. But I had something else that was extremely helpful. I had myself. Just the basic me, as, uh...as Dean would say, without all the bells and whistles. You know, Sam and Dean, they weren’t born with their expertise. They’ve been at it since they were children. Failing, winning, developing over the years. And Dean had no idea how to raise a kid and Y/n is one of the smartest, bravest, human I have ever met. Patience, persistence - those are skills too. The past, where you come from, that’s important, but it is not as important as the future and where you’re going.” Cas explained thinking of all the times the brothers and he has gone through hell and back and helping Dean raising a child was one of the greatest accomplishments in his time on earth.

In a hotel, Michael looks at himself in the mirror smoothing out the wrinkles in the suit fixing the buttons. His reflection in the mirror changes from Michael to the Winchester daughter

“Get...Out.” She breathed out angrily.

“I don’t think so.” Michael smiles staring back at the girl in the mirror

“You can’t.” She cried

The archangel grins “Oh, but I can. Because see,” Michael punches the mirror, and Y/n is gone he smirks smoothing out his vessel’s hair,

“I own you. So hang on, and enjoy the ride.”

In a cheap apartment in Duluth, a young woman lies in her bed but is interrupted by pounding on the door.

“Yes?” She calls out.

“Lydia Crawford, this is the FBI. Open up.” Sam call out Lydia looks terrified and tries running for the window while Sam keeps pounding on the door

“Open up!” Sam yells again. Dean breaks down the door and rushes in gun drawn with Sam right behind him, with Mary and Bobby following.

“Hey! Stop!” Dean yelled.

“Get away from me!” She cries trying to put as much distance between her and the Winchesters.

“Don’t move. We know who you are. We know you went to the morgue.” Sam threatened his gun pointed at her.

“We saw your license plate on the security cams and pulled your address. You should’ve ditched the car when you first got turned. Made this way too easy.” Bobby commented Lydia look at the four of them

”You’re not FBI. You’re hunters.”

“That’s right.” Dean nodded and begins to pull out a knife

”I haven’t done anything wrong!” Lydia exclaimed.

“No, vampires never do.” Bobby replied sarcastically

“My nest, we - we fed on animal blood,” Sam paused and lowering his gun and Dean lowered the knife, “We lived quiet lives, until...until she came.” Lydia explained still shaken from the incident.

“She? She who?” Sam asked

Lydia shook her head “I don’t know her name, but...she was strong. She tied all of us up and one by one she’d take blood from us. I couldn’t see what she was doing, exactly, but every time there would be this explosion, and my friends would be dead. When she was coming for me, a couple of the others tried to att- tried to attack her. I was able to get away, but...they didn’t make it.” She started tearing up at the memory.

“Why was she killing you? Did she say?” Sam questioned

“I don’t think she meant to. It-it’s just that...things seemed to go wrong. She wasn’t killing, it was like...it was like she was experimenting.” Lydia said

“Experimenting? What for?” Dean asked Lydia frowned

“That’s - that’s all I know.”

“Okay,” Bobby nods grabbing his own blade, and advances to Lydia, “Nice chattin’ with ya.”

Lydia presses herself further into the wall holding her hands up ”Wait! Wait! I-I don’t know what she wanted, I-I don’t know who she was, but I do know where she is. If - if you let me go.” Dean and Sam look at each other having a silent conversation.

The door opens in and in walks Michael and a woman.

“Thank you. Oooh, Very elegant. But then, so are you. I didn’t expect you to be interested in this side of the spectrum.” She giggles

Michael chuckled leading her into the room “Yeah… Thanks for showing me around,” He uncorks some wine and pours them both a glass, “I didn’t realize there was so much going on in...where are we again?”

“Duluth.” She answered taking a sip of her wine.

Michael nodded “Of course. Nothing like where I’m from.”

The woman hummed “What’s it like in your hometown?”

“Hmm. Empty. Windswept. Dead bodies lying around.” Michael shrugged taking a sip of his drink.

She chuckled “You’re so funny. What a nice surprise, meeting you. I bet you were wondering what I was doing, all by myself in that bar tonight.”

Michael smirked “I’m pretty sure I know exactly what you were doing in that bar tonight.”

The woman smiled setting her glass down “Oh, Michael. I am so not that girl.” she walked closer to Michael

“But you really are, aren’t you?” The woman wrapped her arms arounds around her neck

“You’re terrible.” She sighed. His vessel smiled showing off a dazzling smile

“You have no idea.” The woman giggled moving her face closer to the young Winchester and her eyes flash green and her teeth come out ready to bite what should have been an unsuspected victim. Michael grabs her by the throat as his vessel’s eyes glow blue.

“Did you honestly think I didn’t know what you are?” Michael lifts her off the floor choking her as she trashes in his arms, “You think you picked me? I picked you.” Michael throws her across the room and turns over to take a sip of wine and turns back to her still on the floor.

“Now, summon your master.”

Still in Michael’s room he hands a glass to a man seated next to the woman from earlier.

“You first.” The man points to his glass.

“One hundred-year-old cognac. Strong notes of vanilla and apricot,” He takes a sip, “and zero notes of silver.” The man also drinks “I appreciate you accepting my invitation.” Michael crosses one of his knees over the other.

“Yes, well, the ever-tactful Melanie,” he nods over to the woman, “thought a refusal might be unwise. She thinks you’re a god.”

Both of them chuckle “An archangel with a decent vessel. But close.”

The man nods “And I’m the leader of a werewolf pack. Why on earth would an archangel care about us? About me?”

Michael smiles swirling his drink “I admire you. Eating on the run, surviving, despite being stalked by those venal humans, who think of you as nothing but vermin.”

The man leaned forward “My pack has survived and prospered for centuries, despite the humans.”

“Yes, well, I’m new to town, and from my perspective, the real monsters of this world, the ones that cheat, cover, lay waste to this planet, are the humans. Who made them top dog? Pardon the pun.” Michael explained taking a drink of the cognac.

“God, I suppose.” He questioned

“God who? Between us, Phillipe, God’s on permanent vacation. Gone fishing. Demons and angels don’t seem to be much of a factor here, so, I’m in charge.” Michael smiled leaning back in the couch

“And what do you want from me?” The man we know as Phillipe asks.

“You and your kind, you are who you are. You kill, but not for sport, for trophies - to live. There’s a purity in that. Isn’t it time you had your due?” Michael explained waving his hand towards Phillipe.

Phillipe frowned confused “Our due?”

“There are ways to enhance your - let’s call them ‘talents’.” Michael points out.

“And these ways are..” Phillipe waves his hand hoping he would explain.

“Fully tested. There were some misfires early, I will admit to that. But I have cracked the code.” Michael explains clapping his hands together.

“And now what? Do you propose we wage a way on the humans, keeping only as many of them alive as we need for slave labor and a steady food supply?” Phillipe laughs “Because I love that world, but believe me, it’s an absurd dream.”

Michael smirks “Is it? Why be the hunt-'ed’, when you can be the hunt-'er’, hmm?” He smiles watching his plan slowly come together.

After Sam and the others had left with the information on Michael, Lydia rushed around her apartment frantically packing her stuff to leave. The sound of someone appearing and as she turns to grab another handful Michael is sitting at her table.

“Lydia..” Michael singsong. She freezes the items in her hands falling.

“I didn’t!” Lydia defended

“Of course you did.” He laughed at her attempt to lie. “The hunters,” Michael stands up, “Why do you think I dumped your brothers and sisters in plain sight? Why do you think I let you escape?” He points at her watching her face fall.

“You let me escape?” She whimpered

“Rule number one: you can’t have a trap without bait,” He smirks walking past her, “That brings us to rule number two, which says once the trap has been sprung, you don’t need the bait anymore.” Michael’s eyes glow blue and Lydia scream as she is burned out. Her body hits the ground and Michael turns looking at it before leaving.

Back in the bunker Jack turns the corners of one of the halls with Cas following him

“Jack, what were you thinking. Taking that kind of risk?” Cas scolded him

“It wasn’t a risk.” Jack disagreed

“To-to go out there alone?” Cas sputtered “Jack, you have been on the radar of every angel and demon and power broker in creation since the day you were born and I’m sorry, but you’re not exactly yourself.” Cas followed Jack as they entered the war room and Jack turned around

“Weak and defenseless, you mean.” He stated

“I mean that the possibility of capture is real, yes.” Cas explained

“I heard what you were saying, Cas, about me finding out where I came from. I never knew my mother. I thought the next best thing might be for me to meet the only real family that I have left.” Jack confessed

“That is not-” Cas visibly reins in his frustration, “Well, did it help?” Cas sighed and Jack nodded “And you didn’t tell them who you were, did you?” Cas questioned

“Of course not.” Jack deadpanned “I...wanted to. I wanted to tell them I was their grandson. They thought I actually kinda looked like her?” Cas nods in agreement Jack smiles but it fades as he sits against the steps to the library, “I...couldn’t tell them that she died. They just love her so much. I know I should have.”

”What you did you did from a place of kindness. I suppose there are worse ways to be human than to be kind.” Cas reassured the Nephilim sitting across from him

“Have you heard from Sam and Dean? Did they find Michael?” Jack asked

“Yeah, they think so.” He nodded

“So they’re going to try to kill him?” Jack stated Cas shook his head

“Uh, no. No, the plan is to subdue him using angel cuffs and spellwork. They have to get Michael out of Y/n.”

“And if he doesn’t leave?” Jack noted

“Then they’ll try to drive him out.” Cas responded.

“And if that doesn’t work?” Jack said getting upset

“Jack-” Cas started

“Cas, Michael has to be stopped.” Jack cuts him off

“I know, and he will be - after Y/n is-” Cas tries to reason with him

“No, Y/n doesn’t matter” shot Jack, “You’re all so focused on trying to save Y/n and I get it, I understand, but - if she can’t be saved, if it comes down to her or Michael - Michael has to be stopped. Caged, or killed-”

“And if that means that Y/n dies too?” Cas shouts

“Then Y/n dies.” Jack snaps, “I know this Michael. I’ve seen what he’s done to an entire world, and so have you. If stopping that from happening here means that Y/n has to die, then…” Jack and Cas both start at each other, “Do you think she’d want it any other way?” Jack stands up and walks away leaving Cas there with a choice.

Back in Duluth Sam, Dean, Mary, and Bobby enter the abandoned church Lydia told them.

“You think vamp-girl was lyin’ about Michael hanging out here?” Bobby asked looking around the place.

“Not sure why she would. I mean she has every reason to want him dead.” Dean states aiming his flashlight over in some dark corners

“She wasn’t lying about the slaughter happening here,” Mary called out her flashlight pointing to a stain on the floor, “whole lot of dried blood on the floor.”

Sam walked further into the church “Why was he killing them? And what does she mean by ‘experimenting’?” He questioned.

Bobby shrugged “Don’t look like he’s here.” The stained glass windows shatter sending glass flying as werewolves break through them. “Werewolves!” Bobby yells and is then tackled by one.

Sam fires his gun at one coming towards Dean and it has no effect. “Silver bullets aren’t working! Nothing’s working!” He yells.

Dean punches one of the werewolves “Son of a bitch!” Dean yells and is tackled by another and smashed into a bean. Mary is struggling against another as they both fall to the ground. A werewolves tries to go for Sam but he grabs his machete and decapitates one

“Well, that works.” Bobby yells and is punched by a werewolf. Dean pushes the one of him grabbing his machete and chops one of the heads off, Mary stabs the werewolf with one of her knifes but it has no effect and is shoved to the ground. Mary grab the small hatchet and began to chop at the werewolf before is falls to the ground. Bobby is pushed to the ground and before he is attacked Mary throws the hatchet into the werewolf’s back and Bobby decapitates it. Mary hears growling and turns and sees another werewolf but Dean decapitates it just as Sam kills the last one.

“Is everybody okay? Anyone get bit?” Sam pants out

“No.” Mary replies.

“I’m okay.” Bobby answers all of them grouping up again

“What the hell kind of werewolves were those?” Dean asked wiping the blood of his blade.

“Silver didn’t touch them.” Mary added Sam sighed all of them out of breath from these new monsters. A loud bang causes everyone to look towards the door as it opens revealing Michael, backlit in red light.

“Oh god.” Mary breathes out He slowly walks towards them raising his hand. Which she uses to grab a post and staggers into the light breathing heavily removing her cap as she does.

“Dad. It’s me.” You breathe out your voice shaking. Dean stares back at you tearing up. Dean rushes towards you as you knees give out and helps you sit down. Sam is sitting next to you with Dean in front of you.

“Y/n is it really you?” Dean asked looking over you

“Yeah, it’s really me.” You answer your hands are shaking trying to understand what was going on.

“Are-are you okay?” Sam questioned

“No, I’m not okay!” You yelled putting your face in your hands. Dean placed his hand on your knee making you look up at him.

“But you got Michael to leave.” Dean tried to reassure you that everything was ok.

But you shook your head. “No, I-I don’t...I didn’t.” You stated.

“What?” Bobby questioned looking at the younger Winchester.

You look at your dad in fear, “He just - he just left.”

Dean squeezed your hands “Why?”

“I don’t know…” You shuddered, “I don’t know.”

#dean winchester #dean x daughter!reader #michael!reader #x daughter!reader #Sam x niece!reader #castiel x reader platonic #jack x reader platonic #SPN #supernatural #daughter!reader masterlist spn #I'm Sorry Masterlist

76 notes · View notes

occult-castiel · 4 years ago

Text

Leave a message (after the beep!)

Suptober. Day 13: Rewind Dean has a few things to say to Cas. Word count: 2542 [Read on Ao3]

3 Weeks.

Dean's been stealing glances at his phone for over an hour. The dim light of the hall that creeps from under his door is the only reason he can see the thing, blurred out to a barely-there grey hunk of plastic.

The idea is fucking stupid. He doesn't care what Sam thinks. Sam wasn't even supposed to know. Let alone have fucking opinions.

But Dean slipped.

And it took more effort than he will ever admit to walk out of the kitchen without clocking his brother in the goddamn jaw.

Fuck Sam and fuck the phone.

He turns around, away from the stupidest temptation of his life, and demands sleep come.

It's only mildly successful.

2 Month, 1 Week.

Nothing bad can happen from a phone call. Doing it once can’t hurt you any more than you are now

Sam's a well-meaning kid. He really is. But sometimes he just needs to can it.

'Cause he had to go and say some shit like that, completely unprompted — they were talking about potential witch activity in Utah, not Dean's feelings, for Christ's sake — and now it's all Dean can think about now that the distractions of the day have bled into a dark room and cold bed.

And that gray hunk of plastic on his desk is laughing at him. He could reach it if he sat up. Stretched a bit.

But the idea is dumb. And Sam doesn't get it. He really fucking doesn’t.

Except Dean knows he's kind of full of crap.

He grits his teeth, shoves the covers to the side, and grabs his phone.

With each passing buzz, his heart stutters, breath cut into shorter and shorter spurts.

Stupidstupidstupid.

It- it isn't like he's gunna answer. Dean knows he not, but it just rings and rings and —

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

And it hurts.

He calls again every night for the next week. Of course, he never picks up. Sam doesn't ask.

4 Months.

Dean kicks the door after it slams shut. Throws his gun at his headboard, if it goes off and shoots him, oh fucking well. It's great. Just fantastic.

He pulls his phone out without thinking. Clicks Cas.

It rings, and for a moment his shoulders relax as the familiar greeting plays. Cause its Cas' voice. And fuck. Just… fuck.

Then it beeps, and he actually does the one thing he's wanted for months.

"None of your douchebag family will answer me. And I've tried friggin' everything, I swear to Christ."

He runs his hand over his face, glances up at the sour-yellow ceiling.

"How you ever stood them is beyond me dude."

And then, like a rational human being. He hangs up and pretends that whatever that was didn't happen.

Once the bitter taste of angels that don’t pick the fucking phone up from earlier that day fades, Dean stares at the darkened ceiling.

He left a voicemail. A fucking voicemail.

Pathetic.

4 Months, 3 Weeks.

So he hasn't called again since his, uh, slip up. And Sam keeps giving him these little looks. And he knows that Sam knows, and knows he isn't calling because he's a changed man or whatever.

Maybe Sam would drop it, whatever the hell he thinks Dean's mess is, if he could manage to eat.

Jody, Claire, Kaia, and Alex are all around the table with them. Jody's the charmer she always is, talking about how she's grateful for the help and oh, of course you guys are gunna stay for dinner! Ah-ah! No buts.

There was a hunt in town she tracked down with Claire, a huge vamps nest — we're talking dozens — and called them over for help. And is now feeding them. Because she's a saint and never deserved to be in the know in the first place.

Dean looks at the food. Pork lathered in dark brown graveyard with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. There's a pile of carrots on Sam's plate. Dean opted out.

Not that he's eating now. No, mostly just pushing it all around. He does eat in general.

But Claire isn't looking at him. Hasn't. She barely managed a glance up when he saved her — just a small nod and weary glance.

Sam, on the other hand, may as well be ogling.

Dean wishes he could read Sam's mind, find out where he's keeping it so Dean can wallow in misery without his brother being keen on some of the finer details, thank you very much.

He manages a few bites. Its excellent, mouth-watering, home-cooked goodness he's missed fiercely since he got a taste for it the few days Mrs. Butters was around.

But right now? Turns his stomach.

On the way back home, Sam clears his throat. Dean grips the wheel a little tighter.

"So —"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Samantha."

In the corner of his eye, Sam's shoulder slump. His brother looks down and sighs out a sad little noise.

But the rest of the drive is quiet. And that's a win in Dean's book.

It's roughly midnight, and books are scattered across the library table. They're all open to different pages, but none of it matters. Not really.

Dean's combing through it all anyway. Has been since Heavens decided they have a no-call policy with anyone named Winchester.

The piles he has laid around him have grown increasingly larger as the weeks have drug on. Spiked exponentially when he decided not to call anymore.

"Hey Dean."

Dean snaps his head up mid-sentence. Sam stands in the threshold, holding a plate. In pajamas.

Dean just looks at him. "What?"

"Made you food." He lifts the plate up a fraction

"That looks like a cold cut, so made is a generous word."

Sam has the audacity to slump into himself, full-on wounded-puppy mode. So Dean rolls his eyes and waves him over.

The plate gets sat down with a distinct clank, and Sam pats his shoulder.

"You know I just… want what's best for you."

Dean tenses his shoulders, closes the book in front of him. He speaks through his teeth.

"Yeah, well I never had it in the first place. And now it is gone, and there's nothing I can do."

"You don't know that Dean."

He glues his eyes to the back of the book. Balls his fists.

"Don't I? That — That fucking thing just —"

"I know. But it's also gone. We don't know what happened."

Dean chooses then to look over, fix his brother with a proper glare so he'll go the hell away — but sees it.

Sitting innocuously on the plate, like it isn't an affront to everything Dean would rather not, is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Sam's talking but he can't hear it. His brains turned to mush, a radio-static circus of nothing.

The bottom of his chair screeches as it drags against the floor.

And Dean can’t see.

Sam grabs his arm, he shakes it off. He moves decisively, tries too, but his eyes prickle and he can’t see shit, and he isn’t about to cry right there in front of his brother, validate every stupid thought the guy has that’s probably one-hundred percent right.

His door clicks shut, and he pressed himself against it. Slides down until he hits the icy floor.

Dean's throat is a constricted cage, each breath in has to be muscled in, down, out. Each wobble as much as the last.

Sam doesn't know shit. He doesn’t know what he's talking about. He really doesn't.

Calling someone who can’t answer, won’t ever answer, is fucking stupid. It's not therapeutic.

When he rubs a hand over his face. It comes back wet, and his eyes sting.

"Fuck."

He fishes for his phone. Going to Cas' number is muscle memory at this point.

It rings. Cause Sam can't help but keep the thing charged.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

The ball in his chest is impossibly tight. Why hasn't he called? Just to hear him again, the gruff tenor that's like gravel and silk and the only thing he ever wants to hear, ever. And now he only has nine words he'll ever hear him say again.

That's it. Two sentences.

You saved the whole world. He didn’t save shit.

And what the fuck is he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to do anything? He’s never been any good, not as good as he needs to be. Maybe if he would’ve been — or did somethin’ different, anything different —

Dean threads his fingers in his hair and balls his fist. Squeezes his eyes shut against the pool of tears that just leak out, and curls in on himself. His guts are twisted and tight, just like the rest of him. Every part of him shakes, the hand vice-gripping his hair should hurt, should be enough to pull him back to sanity, but the tears don’t stop.

And really what does it matter if he cries. Chucks gone, and The Empty, that — that thing got what was coming to it.

But Cas didn't come back.

He lulls his head against the door, untangles the hand from his hair like his fingers piston operated they ache so bad

God, Cas should’ve just left him in Hell.

Maybe he's Heaven, Billy had said with a shrug. Casual. Like she didn't understand. And Dean knows she does. She gets it more than any of them, saw just what this shit did the last time. Saw exactly how much he didn't want to be around.

Jack had to fuck off to put the universe in balance, so he’s MIA and no help. And Heaven doesn't seem to give a shit.

There must've been a beep somewhere, so Dean just goes with it. Presses the phone to his ear again and works his jaw open until it’s loose enough to allow something resembling words can happen.

"It's — it's bullshit." God Dean can't recognize his own voice, pulled thin and hoarse. "You — you know that right? Bullshit." He shakes his head. Tries to take a deep breath that comes out only slightly less ragged. "You always left. And I — I get that you had to sometimes. But no one wanted you here more than me."

He wipes his face off with the collar of his shirt. His skull screams in sharp pain, and his temples thud. And normally this would be too long of a pause, but normally you don't start a voicemail off trying not to sob, and normally they're made for people who can actually listen to them. So whatever.

"This is stupid. It's not — voicemails ain't your style." His breath leaves, and exhaustion sets deep into his bones. "You always just called back for the explanation. You'd leave 'em, though."

At least Dean assumes. Every call back he'd ever gotten from the guy he'd have to fill him in on whatever was happening anyway. Guess it makes sense in a way. If you have enough time to listen to a message, you've got enough time to call.

The space behind his robes aches when he says, "We both shoulda picked up more, I guess. And Sammy wants me to call now. Like it makes up for shit. It doesn't."

He swipes the little red phone to the left, and stares at the word Cas in his contacts page.

But the screen goes blank, and all he can see are his puffy red eyes reflected in the black screen, and that's motivation, so he gets ready for bed.

1 Year, 10 Months, 13 Days

He calls a few times after that. But tries not to leave voicemails for someone that's just gone, in every sense of the word.

It’s dumb. Still really dumb. And he has no defense for it. Eventually Sam hands him Cas' old phone and a charger. All of the missed voicemails untouched.

Dean could swear he remembers ever last one.

They're mostly simple crap, sometimes. Updates.

"Sam and Eileen are getting hitched. They're pretty fucking disgusting together. But sometimes they look at me, and I can just see it, man. See how they like, bubble themselves off." He laughs, but it's strained. "Guess it just be written on my face. Which is just friggin’ fantastic. Cause I'm happy for them. I've always wanted that for Sam. But I wanted it for us too. Fucked up that I can only say it now, huh."

"I don't like the way burgers taste anymore. And I, uh, have a bumper sticker now. It's a bee. I kept it together until Sam got misty-eyed." There's a pause for a touch too long, then, "That mixtapes been the only thing in Baby for a month."

"I kept the trenchcoat. Wore it earlier. Got cold out for the first time since —" he sighs. "You wore it better. Looks like shit on me. It pretty much lives in my closet. Can't get monster guts on it that way."

But sometimes it's just a confession, none of the other bullshit. Just the truth.

"Look. I'm not mad. So don't think that. Cause I'm not. Wish I was. It's — it's always been easier. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I would've for you. I just… Don't know how now."

"Can't tell if I like using your old angel blade or fucking hate it. Don't like much of anything anymore. You were better with it."

"Id pray to you, but this is all I got. And I wish I could hope you're up there. But then I'd hope there isn't any pay per view Earth or whatever. Cause this shit? Is pitiful." A sigh. "G'night, Cas."

And one night, a long time later, he's sitting with his back against his bed, nestled next to the end table he never used, he says the truth in a way he knows he should've years and years ago.

"Guess this is like prayin', ain't it? Sammy caught me a few months ago. He wasn't even surprised I'm still doing this. Told me it was, uh — It was okay. Even if I just… never did. And you know what? I don't think l can." He gives a small laugh. "Hell, I only leave messages when I'm feeling, I dunno, brave? Like some part of me thinks you could still hear it and tell me to get lost."

Logically, he knows Cas wouldn't have kicked him to the curb. Wanted him just as much.

"God I listen to it almost every night dude. Just hearing this stupid fucking line — It's like hitting rewind, for a few seconds."

The rest comes off easy, in its own way

"I miss you, Buddy. And I — I love you more than I know what to do with. I wish it would've been enough. But instead, it killed you."

He ends it, and calls back. Just to listen to the only thing he'll ever hear Cas say again. It’s not a replacement, never will be until he can see if Heaven really does have an angels left.

But the only faith he ever had is just an echo on the other end.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

#ok trying this agian to see if it actually pops up in anything I tag it with #destiel #deancas #suptober20 #suptober2020 #suptober #heres to hoping i guess?

123 notes · View notes

namjoonknee · 4 years ago

Text

It had been mere months since their final confrontation with Chuck, but in that time, everything had seemingly wound down. There was a finality about it, a change in the wind, that they had all felt. In the months since, for example, Castiel had been assigned the role of designated driver more and more, as Dean had given up any pretence of pride, allowing himself to be lolled to sleep sitting in shotgun. When he did take Baby out for a drive, Dean started singing again, wild and obnoxious and carefree. All the tension assuaged away, shoulders dropped, and pace slowed and most importantly, Castiel had seen far more smiles from the man in the past year than he had in the many years prior.

This was something else though. Castiel was acutely aware of the childhood that Dean had experienced, or lack thereof. It was safe to assume, then, that the idea of a birthday celebration let alone acknowledgement, must have been as obviously absent in Dean’s life as his father had been. Which is why, when Jack had brought the idea to him and Sam, they immediately assented. If there were any people who so desperately deserved recognition and honouring, it was the Winchester brothers.

Despite Dean insisting loudly and frequently that he didn’t want his birthday to be a ‘big deal’, his eager reception to any birthday related events violently indicated the contrary. Much of Dean was like this, and it seemed that everyone in his life was well aware of the façade, so it usually worked out fine. it had only a few months for Castiel to understand this about the man after all.

On the morning of the 24th of January Castiel had found Dean arisen early, sitting in the kitchen and smiling at his phone, aftereffects of facetiming Garth and the Fitzgerald IV’s. Jody had popped in later that morning, and whilst she could only stay for an hour, having a sheriff conference to attend, it was obvious that the effort was not lost on Dean. His giddiness was also particularly apparent when he received calls from both Krissy and Claire. None of the ‘old-man’ insults thrown his way weren’t contested at all, as Dean was apparently too wrapped up in his astonishment that they had even remembered his birthday.

His cheerful disposition persisted throughout the day, and Castiel soaked it up. Staring intently at Dean (more so than usual), Castiel tried to commit his smiles to memory, persisting even when Dean had laughingly told him to ‘quit it dude, you’re freaking me out’.

This was something that Castiel hadn’t even thought to pray for, most of that was spent on just making sure the man was breathing, safe and for once not in mortal peril. Seeing Dean beam was a sucker punch to Castiel’s heart. He had been in love with Dean for so long but seeing him this happy was overwhelming. Castiel had no doubt that he had fallen, he couldn’t imagine being able to deal with the extent of his feelings a hundred years ago, let alone a millennium. He really wouldn’t have known what to do with himself. Honestly, Castiel was having a hard time keeping it together, as it were. Being an angel of the lord for longer than the existence of the Earth gave him good practise though. So, if Castiel was completely overcome with adoration, no one was the wiser.

In any case, the birthday festivities had gone wonderfully. Most of the appropriate customs had been observed, at least in Winchester fashion, which meant the substitution of cake with pie and singing with Dean’s threat that ‘if anyone so much as starts singing you won’t get any pie, got it’.

The roast dinner Jody had brought over in the morning, warmed from the oven, was sprawled out on the map room table and passed around amongst the group. Jack had bought Dean a cowboy hat keychain, which he promptly added to Baby’s keys, after pulling a delighted Jack in for a hug and ruffling his hair. Sam got the same treatment, expressing much less appreciation for it, when he slid Kurt Vonnegut’s Palm Sunday across the table towards Dean. Minutes later Dean was barking a laugh and professed his love for Eileen as he swept her up. She had produced a smuggled bottle of Midleton Very Rare, which they wasted no time pouring it out and pairing with Castiel’s cherry pie, the best pie in the country he had found. His week-long pilgrimage had been under the guise of ‘angel crap’. Thankfully, the mission was aided by his recent reacquisition of his grace, but it would have been worth it regardless, Castiel thought, as watching Dean scarf it down. When Dean emerged with whipped cream on the tip of his nose Castiel feel like it might have actually been his birthday instead.

Presently, they had just finished watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the third in the marathon of cowboy movies that Dean had prepared, seemingly oblivious to the pointed albeit good natured eye roll from Sam and the bemused glances shared between Jack, Eileen and himself.

“Alright, I think I’m going to head in” Sam yawned and rose slowly.

Eileen followed suit, signing “Hope you enjoyed your birthday” to Dean who smiled softly at her and signed “thank you” back.

Castiel turned to regard the boy pressed to his side, but the steadily rise and fall of Jack’s chest and a trail of drool on the arm rest answered his question. Castiel reached over to tap Dean’s shoulder and jerked his head towards the sleeping boy. “I’ll take him up to his room” he spoke in a low voice, “when I come back, we can watch Tombstone if you’d like.”

Surely, I can count on him not being tired yet, Castiel thought, his entire plan had depended on it, on them being alone. He had waited weeks for Dean’s birthday to arrive, the timing was finally right, and Castiel had to make his move now.

Dean grinned broadly, “I’ll set it up.”

Castiel gathered Jack up and carried his son in-all-but-blood to his room. After tucking him in, Castiel made a pitstop in his own room. Reaching into his bedside drawer, Castiel retrieved the object that he’d been mulling over for weeks on end. The package was small and neatly wrapped in glossy paper. Castiel turned it over, weighing it in his palms. He had been restless for so long and yet, Castiel suddenly found himself unable to move. This is ridiculous, he thought, I am one of heaven’s fiercest warriors, I’ve averted apocalypses, faced gods and monsters alike and triumphed, I should not be scared of giving my friend a gift for his birthday. Taking a deep breath, Castiel made an attempt at summoning courage.

“Hey Cas, did you change your mind about Tombstone? I mean I know it’s not your favourite, but I’m telling you it’s not just guns and tuberculosis-”

“Dean!” Castiel jumped in alarm and juggled the present in his arms, in attempt to prevent the imminent destruction of his hopes and dreams. Composing himself, he turned to face his friend, who was stood in the open doorway.

“Hey buddy” Dean said slowly, taking in the scene with an amused smirk, “whatcha got there?”

It took a moment for Castiel’s thoughts to catch up with him and he realised, flushing, that there was nothing subtle about the way he had reacted and was continuing to react, his arms having forced themselves behind his back. Yeah, definitely the picture of an innocent man. Castiel scolded himself for his childishness, brought his hands back to his sides and sat himself down on the edge of his bed.

Dean planted himself down next to Castiel and looked at him expectantly. “Here” Castiel said, not trusting himself to speak he thrust the package into Dean’s hands, hoping, no, praying that Dean would understand.

Castiel stared at the package in Dean’s hands and watched as Dean examined it. In his periphery he saw Dean stare back up at him in apparent curiosity. Okay, that’s fine, Castiel thought, this is absolutely fine. Upon realising that Castiel was not prepared to give him either a reaction or explanation, Dean returned his attention to the gift and began unwrapping it. Dean pried it open deftly but carefully ensuring that the packaging was not ripped. After what seemed to Castiel as an eternity, Dean unveiled the gift and Cas raised his face in time to watch the widening of Dean’s eyes and realisation dawning across his own face.

“Cas’ Top 13 Zepp Traxx” Dean read faintly and matched his gaze.

“It’s a sequel,” Castiel started, looking back down at his palms, “of sorts. The mixtape you gave me was so thoughtful, Dean. And so, I just-” he was cut off by a pair of strong arms pulling him in. Castiel let go of the breath he didn’t realise he was holding and folded his arms around Dean, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder.

“Thanks Cas” Dean whispered.

“Happy Birthday Dean.”

.........................

There’s more to this story x

#destiel #destiel fic #destiel ficlet #spn #supernatural #post season 15 #it's shane #the mixtape

61 notes · View notes

yet-another-fan-girl9 · 4 years ago

Text

Different Worlds (6)

Summary: You’re the youngest Winchester, a girl who needs to show her big brothers that she doesn’t need help. Then one day, on a totally normal vampire hunt that you had all under control, three meddling Avengers come barging in.

Warnings: language, violence, canon divergence, slow burn, me making stuff up

Word Count: 2342

A/N: I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much I enjoyed writing it! Please comment your thoughts and if you want to be added to the taglist! 💗💜💙

~*~

Chapter 6: In Which Dean Is an Annoying Cockblock on Earth and in Hell by Fall Out Boy

“You’re back soon.” The words spilled from Jack’s mouth when he saw Bucky.

“Yeah, I just…” Bucky shifted his feet awkwardly. Why did he come here again? He certainly was curious at everything that was going on, but there was something, someone, else.

“Come in.” The young man stepped aside and Bucky stepped into the bunker. “Did you want to see (Y/N)?”

“That would be great.” The ex-assassin did feel more comfortable around (Y/N) rather than her brothers.

They passed the library where the team had learned about the supernatural. Today, the tables were covered in strange items, bowls, and open books. Nobody was doing anything with them at the moment, though.

Jack led Bucky deeper into the bunker which seemed empty at the moment. Bucky studied the man in front of him. He didn’t look like a great fighter, but after everything that was revealed to him, Jack could totally kick his ass. They walked down a hallway before coming to a stop in front of one of the doors.

“Everyone’s getting ready,” Jack explained. Ready for what, Bucky didn’t know and Jack didn’t specify. “This is (Y/N)’s room. You can wait in here.”

He opened the door for Bucky before heading back in the direction they came from. The first thing he noticed was that (Y/N) wasn’t there. Then he saw the other door and heard the sound of running water. She was probably showering.

(Y/N)’s room was clean enough; Bucky knew that it was sometimes hard to gather enough energy to clean up. Her blankets were pulled over her bed, but it was obvious that the action was done haphazardly. Her drawers weren’t closed all the way; a sign of either laziness or being rushed. A few photographs were displayed on the nearby desk that was cluttered with crumpled balls of paper, hair ties, and a couple of knives.

Bucky smirked at the sight of the knives before turning his attention to the photos. The first one showed a group photo. He recognized (Y/N), her brothers, and Cas, but not the two other women or the man in the wheelchair. Everyone, especially (Y/N), looked much younger.

The second picture was another group picture. This time, Jack was in it so it had been taken in the past… how old was Jack? Seven years? That fact still threw Bucky off. He was used to older people looking younger, like Steve and himself, rather than the opposite.

The last photo was much older than the first one. A woman wearing a sundress and a large sun hat was smiling widely at the camera while holding the hand of a toddler. Bucky came to the quick conclusion that it was (Y/N) and her mother.

The sound of the en suite’s door opening caused him to whirl around to face (Y/N). Why didn’t he hear the water turn off? The woman looked up and gasped at the sight of the man in her room.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky,” she scolded and placed a hand over her chest.

That’s when he noticed that she didn’t have a shirt on. She had on jeans and a sports bra, and he saw a tattoo above her left collar bone. Bucky still wasn’t used to seeing women in just bras. Walking down the streets of New York, there were always advertisements for women’s lingerie. It made him uncomfortable, but for some reason, he didn’t feel the same discomfort around her.

As Bucky’s thoughts ran wild, (Y/N) continued swearing.

“You scared the goddamned fucking shit out of me. Don’t do that again or I’ll use you as a sacrifice,” the woman finished her rant. Then a smile broke out on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“Just—I… uh,” the usually suave supersoldier stuttered. He didn’t know what made his brain stop working. Maybe it was because of (Y/N)’s lack of shirt? Or maybe it was just being in her presence that halted all train of thought.

“What’s wrong?” She followed his gaze and looked down before laughing. “Oh, usually I get dressed in the bathroom in case something like this happens but I forgot a shirt this time. Some people living here don’t understand personal space.” Bucky’s face grew red and (Y/N) narrowed her eyes. “Was it Jack or Cas who let you in because I know my brothers wouldn’t even let you close to my room.”

“Jack,” Bucky laughed and felt himself relax. “I didn’t mean to startle you, by the way.” A moment of silence. “Is that your mother?” He gestured towards the photo.

(Y/N) moved closer until they were standing just over a foot away. She glanced at the photo and nodded in confirmation.

“She’s really pretty,” Bucky continued. “You look like her.”

(Y/N) looked at him with a large grin on her face. “Did you just call me pretty, Sarge?”

He felt his breath hitch as she inched closer to him. Bucky was sure that she could see all the details on his face because he could see every detail of her’s. He could see a small scar near her hairline and another one above her right eyebrow. He could see into her breathtaking eyes. He followed the slope of her nose which led his eyes to her soft lips. They were beckoning to him, parted slightly as (Y/N) studied his face. When had they gotten so close? If he just bent down slightly…

“(Y/N)!” Dean’s incessant banging on her bedroom door forced them apart. “What’s takin’ so long? Get your ass moving!” Then they heard his footsteps recede.

“I have to go,” (Y/N) sighed.

She slipped on a shirt, grabbed her knives and leather jacket, and walked out of her room. Bucky followed her out and could tell she felt the same way he did at the moment: disappointed. Why did her brother have to knock then?

They emerged into the library. Everyone looked up at their arrival and everyone but Jack did a double-take when they saw Bucky. Sam and Dean’s mouths became straight lines while Rowena, who was bent over a book, smirked.

“I guess you’re the reason she was taking so long,” Cas said.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked, mostly to (Y/N).

“We’re going to Hell,” Jack smiled.

“Crowley took the Magicae Libro while we all drank beers the other day,” (Y/N) explained. “So we’re going to Hell to take it back from that son of a bitch.”

“Don’t call me a bitch, darling,” Rowena cooed as she added something to a bowl. “Is everyone ready?”

(Y/N) gasped and turned to face Bucky with her eyes wide. “You’re not busy, right? ‘Course you aren’t, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” She paused for a breath. “Do you wanna come to Hell with us?”

“Are you sure that’s wise, (Y/N)?” Sam asked.

“I’ll come,” Bucky said. “I can handle myself, I’m a supersoldier.” (Y/N) smiled at him and he was glad he said yes.

“I’m only saying okay because we don’t have time to argue,” growled Dean.

Rowena motioned for Sam who walked over to the bowl, cut his hand, and let his blood mix with the other ingredients. He stepped back next to Cas. The man in the trenchcoat nodded to Sam. Cas held his hand, that began to glow, above the taller man’s wounded hand and suddenly Sam’s hand was healed. Bucky watched the interaction with awe, but everyone else seemed used to it.

“Everyone who’s going, put your hand on the bowl,” Rowena ordered. They obliged and Cas moved out of the way.

“Remember, Cas,” said Dean. “Don’t let the fire die, or we’ll be stuck in Hell.”

“I know, Dean.” The angel rolled his eyes.

“Initium ad inferna permittatur,” Rowena read from her book. She picked up a nearby candle and lit the bowl’s content on fire.

The items in the bowl sparked and the flame turned purple. Some wind started to blow through the room causing hair to get into eyes and mouths. The library’s lights flickered as a bright white light filled the room and the purple flame jumped higher. Then everything reached its max and the flame almost reached the ceiling.

Bucky closed his eyes against the light and when he opened them again they were in Hell.

~*~

Once everyone got their bearings, you took out your weapons. You and Sam had angel blades and Dean had his demon-killing knife. Jack had his powers and Rowena had her magic.

“Here.” You nudged Bucky and held out a second angel blade. “Regular guns and knives don’t do shit to fuckers like demons.” He took it in his metal arm and examined it. “It’s called an angel blade. ‘Cause they belong to the angels. We kinda took ‘em, we did take them, but they can kill lots of things.”

Bucky smiled at you. “Thanks.”

“So where do you suppose we are?” Dean looked around.

“Somewhere in the castle,” Sam answered. “Hopefully near the throne room.”

“Looks like Fergus redecorated again,” Rowena sighed.

“Rowena is Crowley’s mom and his name was Fergus,” you whispered to Bucky when you saw his confused expression. “Don’t worry, it gave me a bit of a headache too.”

You walked quietly and cautiously down the castle’s hallways in pairs. Your brothers at the head of the line while you and Bucky lingered in the back. There were no encounters yet. Only seemingly endless doors that you knew held souls that were in line for torture. You remembered your time behind one of those doors. In total, you had spent fifteen earth days in Hell which was more like five years downstairs.

“How are you doing?” you whispered to Bucky. You were getting a bit bored sneaking around. And, of course, being in Hell wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“Fine,” he responded.

Wow, you loved his voice. Even in the literal Hell, Bucky and his voice managed to soothe you. Your mind flashed back to the moment in your bedroom. Only Chuck knew how bad you had wanted to punch your older brother for being a cockblock. Honestly, you still wanted to punch him, but now was definitely not the time.

“There’s just a general feeling of unease and despair,” he continued.

You nodded in agreement. “I never like coming here.”

“So you have been to Hell before?”

“Yep,” you said a bit louder than you intended and Rowena looked back at you with a glare. You lowered your voice and continued, “Been here both as a guest and a soul.”

“When you died,” the blue-eyed man said slowly. “You came to Hell and you were tortured?” You nodded. “I-if you don’t mind me asking, how?”

“Well, there were lots of different ways.” You trained your eyes on the ground before you. “The usual strung up on racks and cut open torture. There was some psychological torture, you know. Making you think that you’re saved, only to be brought to some demon who likes to flay people.”

You felt Bucky’s gaze and looked up to meet it. You weren’t met with pity, but rather a look of understanding. You’ve done your research on Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and you know that he’s been through something like Hell too.

“Apparently, according to Cas, Crowley turned Hell into a giant line that souls had to wait in,” you said trying to lighten the mood.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“You just did,” you smirked at him but told him to ask away.

“You have a tattoo,” he said. “I was just wondering what it was.”

“Not really a question,” you joke. Bucky rolled his eyes, but you couldn’t help yourself. “But it’s an anti-possession tattoo.” You stop in your tracks and pull your shirt collar down to show him. “Kinda puts a damper on things when you have to kill a demon possessing your friend. All hunters get them. If you’re gonna be hangin’ ‘round us, you’re gonna need one too.”

“Can I?” He reached out his right hand and motioned towards the tattoo.

When you gave your nod of approval, he ran his hand over the inked skin, tracing it gently, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You stepped closer and his hand stilled.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“What for?” You bring your empty hand up to his and held it to your chest.

“That you had to be tortured. That you actually went through Hell.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that. Not at all.” You stepped closer. Close enough to feel his body heat. “I’m sorry as well. You basically went through Hell too.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” Bucky repeated.

His lips were so close. If you just moved forward…

The sound of someone loudly and obnoxiously clearing their throat forced you apart once more. You closed your eyes and tried to convince yourself that you shouldn’t resort to murder just because you couldn’t kiss someone. Dean continued to clear his throat until Bucky was at least three feet away from you.

While you were gearing up to kiss Bucky, the four other members of the group had made it to the end of the hallway. You made your way to the group, glaring at your oldest brother the entire way.

“About time,” he snarked and you rolled your eyes.

“I think we’re getting close,” Sam said quickly to change the subject. “Can you guys hear that?” He gestured to the ornate door that had escaped your notice.

You all became silent and the sound of music reached your ears. Everyone glanced around at each other in confusion.

“Is-is that,” you listen for a second longer, “Fall Out Boy?”

It was indeed Fall Out Boy. Dean pushed open the door and you all readied your weapons and defenses. You were met with a long table covered in food. Crowley stood at the head of the table with his arms open wide.

“Welcome to Hell.”

~*~

Tag List (strike though means tag didn’t work):

@grav3dollie-666 @broco8

52 notes · View notes

katsidhe · 4 years ago

Text

Fic: vladimir and estragon are dead [15.19 coda]

AO3

Summary: what plea, what surrender, will a bored God possibly accept at this late hour?

The world is empty.

They drive across a landscape that is only a little more desolate than it always has been. This is their end and their beginning, this is where their roads always lead: to highways with no cars for miles, empty backwaters and ghost towns. This time it’s only slightly more literal. The fulcrum of the universe shifts and tilts with them; the center of mass of the earth moves devastatingly, tenderly.

Sam waits for the gutting claustrophobia to kick in, and finds that he can’t make the feeling truly latch on. Maybe it’s because it’s always been here, curled up in his heart like a parasite. It’s not that Sam isn’t used to the idea of a prison larger than a planet, creation as a dark and empty pit, company laughably limited. He finds his mind instead attempting to flit over more practical concerns. When will the electrical grid fail? How many fires have already started, set by unattended stoves, how many cities are burning? How long until every light winks out, until darkness and silence returns to swallow the trappings of civilization?

Cas is dead, and he has died so many times, they’re all dead, they’ve all died so many times, but the pain still squeezes his heart, catches him under the collarbone like a knife. It hurts moving, breathing. But the losses Sam carries mean nothing compared to the weight of what he has personally managed to erase. His stubborn spite, his fetid desire to carve out a life for himself and his tiny family, his rebelliousness managed to get the fucking multiverse killed. Sam has never been to Asia, but now four billion people who lived there are gone. It is absurd to mourn. It is absurd to exist.

Sam won’t allow himself to feel the grief but he will permit the guilt to cripple him. What does it matter if he’s crippled? What does any of it matter? His defiance led to this: a blank page. An empty canvas.

When they reach the Bunker, the stars are bright above. It is the impossible, cold glory of a vast aquarium, viewed from the inside.

They drink together in the quiet. More accurately, they attempt to. Dean gamely downs pull after pull of whiskey. Sam tries. The first shot has him retching, spitting like it’s battery acid. He vomits on the library floor.

Dean laughs meanly, says, “I can drink for both of us.”

Sam looks up and meets his eyes and feels his face twist into a rictus laugh too. He finishes being sick and he doesn’t clean up, doesn’t bother. Cleaning, like many things, is not a concept.

It doesn’t feel like the world has ended down here, even though Sam knows it has. Could be any other day, miles and miles from civilization, insulated underground behind wards that keep out anything short of a god (or anything without the keys). This hole in the ground doesn’t feel vaster or emptier than it normally does. The wider world has never existed in this space; this is the center of the entire universe, just the two of them.

Dean passes out at some point, and Sam lays his head down too. He strips down to one layer, tosses his overshirts at a chair, kicks off his shoes, then his socks. He runs his fingers over the smooth grain of the table, over and over and over. He feels the worst kind of drunk, dizzy and lightheaded with a pounding headache. He should drink some water. He should eat some food. He won’t, though. Who’s depending on him now? For what purpose should his body be fueled? What power, fair or foul, mundane or magical, ought to keep his bones from collapsing in on themselves, into bloody withered dust?

“How do you summon God?” Dean asks muzzily, when he blinks awake again under the golden fluorescent light.

”Maybe the amulet,“ Sam offers. He’s been picturing it mutely all night, turning it over and over in his head, with the weight of heavy responsibility.

It’s dragged out of hiding. The brass is not just warm to the touch, it’s searingly hot. It burns Sam’s fingers when he tries to take it out of the box: even the barest brush of the cord makes him flinch away. Dean wraps his shirt around his hands and tries, and swears. The heat is not diminished one degree. Eventually Sam just takes the entire memory box, upends it messily on the library counter, uses a broken pencil to fish out the amulet and dump it in the metal bowl, among the herbs and the roots and the bones of a small furred creature.

By silent agreement they take everything outside, blinking in the bright dawn chill, leaving Jack to his miserable sleep. Sam is still barefoot. The sharp gravel opens tiny wounds. Shoes seem a pointless inconvenience, some petty barrier between himself and the world, and for what? What can reach him now?

It’s the strongest summoning spell Sam knows. Enochian and Sumerian, to call like to like, to invoke heavenly power. A sigil Rowena taught him, that inscribes itself in purple flame.

He chants quietly in the stillness. The amulet flares in blinding white light, but as the brilliance dampens Sam can make it out when it melts, when it dwindles into pointless black sludge. Dean touches the bowl briefly. Sam feels nothing.

Not that it matters. He knows Chuck can hear them. He prays, too, with belief and desperation he hasn’t felt in years. He gets on his knees, and after a moment, Dean joins him. It makes Sam’s heart twist.

They pray to a God who is not absent. The spot in his shoulder where Sam shot God and himself aches sharply. God wants him to suffer, he knows. He understands where they live now, in a wasteland with something that hates them. This is familiar territory. They are Chuck’s entertainment, his bulwark against a devastating darkness.

Nothing and nobody shows. Sam shifts from his knees into a full-body prostration, doesn’t look to see if Dean does the same. Instead, he buries his face in the dirt. Tears still won’t come. It’s not that he’s numb. He’s just had too much practice, that’s all. Please, he prays, please, he is so sorry, he will bear any humiliation, any torment, he will bear any trial, please, for mercy—

A thought, a message, or a memory. Will you, Sam? Will you? What will you do for me? Will you cut out your heart for me, hold it in your hand, will you eat it?

And Sam knows this isn’t enough. Of course not, their mere surrender is never what Chuck wanted. Sam knows what Chuck wants, right? He’s lived it long enough. Chuck wants to watch.

“Dean,” Sam says. He sits up and brushes dirt from his face. Dean is already standing. Staring up at the risen sun. He’s holding his knife. He’s figured it out too.

“I know,” Dean says.

Still on his knees, Sam looks at the knife. “We have to make it good,” he says. “Not too fast, right?”

Dean stares down at him in horrific fury. There are tears in his eyes. “This is fucked.”

Sam smiles like a flinch, just at the corners of his mouth. “Not like we haven’t been here before,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Dean comes a step closer. Close enough. Hit me, Dean, Sam thinks, Sam urges. He wants it with his whole being, invites it. The whole universe sings with the cosmic rightness of it. The new sun wants this to happen, the sky the Kansas fields the deep blue sea God in his Heaven and the Devil in his Hell, every molecule, every uncounted star and every grain of sand wants this. Sam wants this, with sublime intensity.

Sam wants to say the words to summon Dean’s wrath, but in this moment he can’t remember them. Maybe just being is enough. It should be. Maybe just kneeling here in the dew-damp grass will be enough, to fan the sense-memories. It is for Sam. He can feel the tears coming, for the first time since the world ended.

Dean’s face forces itself into something like a snarl. It’s ugly. “I’m not torturing you, asshole,” he says.

Sam shrugs, with one shoulder. His other hurts with an abominable, shooting pain. “Gut wound?” he suggests. This time he does smile.

Dean scoffs. “You do me first,” he says. He takes Sam’s arm and drags him upright. He paws at his belt, brings out his gun, and presses it into Sam’s hands.

Sam doesn’t fumble on the slide, on the grip. His fingers check the weapon and click off the safely with automatic efficiency. He nods loosely. He understands. This too is the sacrifice demanded, and neither of them may shirk their parts.

“At the same time, then,” Sam says.

Dean scrubs his hand over his face. He nods.

“Chuck!” Dean screams. “Chuck, this is for you! You’d better fucking FIX THIS! Bring them back, bring them all back. Here’s your goddamn ending.”

He looks at Sam, and Sam looks at him. Sam puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, to keep them both upright. Dean grips his arm with painful intensity. When the knife slides into Sam’s abdomen, and twists in a burst of breathless star-bright agony, some puzzle piece of the universe slots into alignment. When Sam’s fingers bury the muzzle between their bodies and pull the trigger, crimson relief overtakes him in a flood.

Their breath releases in a gasp. For long, impossible moments they remain upright, swaying, foreheads pressed together. Sam wants to clutch instinctively at the fatal wound, but that would mean releasing the gun or releasing his grip on Dean’s shoulder, both absurd impossibilities. Dean’s hand is cold on his arm but so warm in the mess of his stomach.

An eternity later they stagger apart. Sam watches fascinated as his breath mists in the dawn air. He gasps again as the knife slides out and drops, as the gun drops next to it. Now finally his fingers are permitted to explore the bloody gape of his torso. His searching eyes meet Dean’s, similarly poleaxed. Now his brother’s face has relaxed into half a grin, high on gory oblivion.

“Together,” Dean breathes, on a trickle of blood. “Hah.”

Sam nods. They’re both sinking inwards, gravity dragging them down. Where will they go, he wonders, with Death’s death, God’s spite, the world’s emptiness. Somewhere either better or worse than here, he decides, and it doesn’t matter which.

“Picturesque enough?” Dean spits at the sky. His smile is broadening. His eyes are red. He’s hungover, or actually, still drunk, Sam thinks. Blurry with misery. Sam is only drunk on guilt.

The sun climbs higher. Sam breathes in bloody panting gasps and watches red mud form around them. He and Dean aren’t touching anymore, and somehow that too feels right. He can listen and watch Dean curled into himself and dying out of the corner of his half-slitted eye. The heat of the new day builds, skimming over them like the brush of a giant hand. The pain in his shoulder splits him through, worse than the pain in his gut. When he coughs, the world itself shudders.

The blood pools in grass and dirt, forming little eddies and ponds. Like an ecosystem, Sam thinks. He tries to imagine a new world springing up from where he and Dean are soaking into the soil—fresh life, a microcosm of new biota. It’s all he wants. But the only image he can picture is the slick of black oil sheen at dusty gas stations, the unnatural rainbow opalescence of toxic reflections, a poison where nothing at all can grow. He doesn’t pray for meaning, but he wishes he were allowed to. Like in the Cage, it carries the sick certainty that the only God that can hear him is one that certainly means him ill.

Between one blink and the next, Chuck is standing on the grass, loafers brushing the pooled blood. “Hey, guys,” he says. He’s smiling, only very faintly.

“Bring them back,” rasps Dean. He’s nearly gone. They’re both nearly gone. “We did what you wanted.”

Chuck doesn’t respond. Doesn’t do anything like pull up a lawn chair, either, like Sam might have expected—just stands and stares with perfect inhuman attention.

Sam doesn’t feel it when Dean dies, but he knows it happened. When Sam dies, God is still watching over him.

Chuck is smiling when Sam gasps back to life, when he hears Dean gagging a few feet away. Sam recognizes the expression, because he’s seen it before, in a dim and bloody tunnel, in a different universe.

#spn spoilers #my fic #15.19 #sam and dean #sam and death #sam and grief #sam and chuck #absurdism #suicide #pictured: me desperately struggling not to keep quoting beckett #Where's the scene of sam cutting off his belt to hang himself and then his pants fall down #that's the vibe of 15.19

13 notes · View notes

mattzerella-sticks · 5 years ago

Text

Stubborn, Coda to 15x03 “The Rapture”

Sam finds Dean after causing the rupture in his and Cas's relationship, trying to heal the wound with a familiar potion. When Dean can't answer a very easy answer, tensions finally boil over and Sam says a few things that Dean needs to hear. Needed to hear for years. Surprising how it takes only one domino to fall for an entire structure to collapse.

Sam softly closes his bedroom door, wincing as the hinges squeak. Echoing in the too empty hallway. Once he hears the small click of his lock Sam steps away. Then he shuffles down towards the kitchen. Each step brings with it a small jolt of cold as his bare feet connect with the tile. He welcomes the distraction as it pushes the more troubling thoughts from the front of his mind.

His path would lead him to the kitchen, if he kept on course. Seeing as the day’s theme is the opposite of that, Sam finds himself following the clattering sounds of the alcohol decanters and his brother’s growling in the War Room.

Dean sits hunched over the glow of the world map. Arms splayed across the surface, one traveling up the length of South America where his pinkie finger gently rubs against Middle America. The other hand clutches to the glass of half-drunk whiskey floating in the Pacific.

Sighing, Sam moves closer. The mutterings he could barely hear earlier become full sentences, a familiar name popping up every few words. He clears his throat. Announcing his presence before Dean could say anything he might regret. That he wasn’t ready for.

His brother tenses, head turning to where Sam entered. Glassy, bloodshot eyes swim in a sea of liquor as they try to focus on him. When the flash of recognition dimly lights up his gaze, the frown smeared across Dean’s face lightens into a harsh line. “What’re y’doin up?”

Great. Slurring means Dean drank enough to kill a horse. The empty row of containers scattered across the map provides enough evidence for his theory.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam says, “Figured I’d make some coffee… what about you?”

Dean rolls his eyes, lazily saluting with his glass. Whiskey sloshing inside. “Drinkin’.”

“I can see that.”

“Good f’you…”

Sam leans on one of the chairs, sour mood curdling further. His brother takes the barbed silence as an end to their conversation, sipping at his drink and laying his head across the map again without care.

Not ready to leave yet, Sam searches for something to say. Looks in every corner of the War Room, past the archways and into every shadow. The overwhelming absence needles him. “Where’s Cas?”

Scoffing, Dean tucks himself further into his arm.

Sam repeats himself. “Where’s Cas?” Then he scrapes the chair across the floor. Dean stiffens into a seated position, posture straight and face wrenched in pain.

He glares at him, “What was that for?”

“Where’s… Cas ?”

“Why you wanna know, huh?” Dean asks instead, shifting awkwardly. Wobbling to and fro in his seat. “You think you mean that much to him? I got news Sam - you don’t . None of us do.” He empties his glass, slamming it onto the map. “Where’s Cas?” he mocks, snarling, “Who cares - how’s that for an answer?”

Sam’s lips twisted in disgust at the sheer ugliness marring his brother’s features. Gone was the smooth mask of professionalism. With nothing weighing on his shoulders, all the hurt and pain from days ago could swim to surface and take their wretched breaths.

“I care, Dean,” Sam starts, “and so do you -”

Dean scoffs. “I care… maybe once, maybe…” He swallows roughly, gaze darting to his lap. “I don’t anymore. S’all that matters. Cas could go off himself in some stupid way or,” the next part comes out rough, dragged through his clenched teeth. “Or give up this whole rotten business and settle down with some pretty young thing. He made it perfectly clear where the line’s drawn… Us on one side, him on the other.”

Sam glares, Dean’s tantrum eating at his already frayed nerves. “What did you say to him?”

“ Me ?” he splutters, “Why’re you sticking up for that little punk , huh? What’s he ever done for us?”

“What’s he ever - Dean . Do you even hear yourself?” His grip on the chair tightens, the wood biting into his skin. “Cas has given everything to help us. To help you . Sacrificed himself time and time again for the greater good, doing what he thinks right -”

“Yeah, right ,” Dean chuckles darkly, “What he thinks is right . Like smiting the useful demon and forcing Rowena to off herself - he thought that was right .”

Sam sees white. The anger passes, vision sharpening as his teeth press so fiercely against each other they might shatter. “Plans change,” he says, “We didn’t have any other choice -”

Dean rushes to his feet, chair clamoring as it falls backwards. Every muscle wired and ready to pounce, sobriety hemming the steely green of his iris. “Because he didn’t give us a choice, Sammy. He went AWOL and did this to us. Every damn time something goes wrong Cas is there, red-fucking-handed.”

Shocked, Sam distances himself from the brother he barely knows. Anger possessing him like a demented spirit. “If you really think that,” he says, “then it’s your fault. You taught him about free will, about how to make choices. Even if they’re the tough ones, like today’s.”

“Well that was a fucking mistake,” he says with no hesitation. “ He’s a mistake. A lost cause. A - what did he call Bel-bel-bel-whatever? Abomination? Sure let’s go with that.”

“Dean, he’s your best friend -”

“He’s not my -” Dean teeters, so close to falling over. Sam reaches out, ready to catch him. His brother shakes off the stupor and bats Sam’s hand away. More tentative than last time, Dean continues, “Wasn’t my best friend… not for a long time… he was - and now he’s not really…” Nose scrunching in confusion, Dean wipes at his teary eyes and growls. “It doesn’t matter anymore Sam! He never mattered, never cared . Castiel is an angel, and like every other feathery bastard like him all he did was interfere .”

Vein throbbing, Sam sucks a deep breath low into his gut to try and smother the rising flames of his temper. They only fan it. The fire rages across his conscious and turns any remaining patience inside to ash. “I’m fucking tired of this, Dean.”

“So am I. Finally something we can agree on.”

“No, I’m tired of you ,” Sam says, startling Dean. “I’m tired of this .”

“Oh, so you’re gonna move on from me too, Sam?” Dean asks, fear visibly paling his expression. “Leave like Cas, like Chuck -”

“Enough!” Sam roars, “Stop pushing all of your problems onto other people! I’m not Chuck, Cas isn’t Chuck. We actually fucking care about you. The sooner you stop taking your anger out on us - on him - the better all our lives will be.”

“But I am angry with Cas,” Dean argues still, “Sam, Cas he - he let mom die -”

“Yes, mom died,” he says, “Mom died. Jack died. Ketch died, and too many innocent people died… Rowena died, Dean.” Sam stutters a shaky sigh, heart clenching. “I had to kill someone I was getting so close… someone I loved and could see myself loving for a long time. She followed the plan Billie set out perfectly for us, and look how it turned out. Another woman I loved who ended up dead at my hands .”

Dean stares with precise focus at the ground, unable to meet Sam’s gaze. He carries on. “Rowena and me though… we didn’t get a choice. At least there’s some comfort in that, knowing she went out saving the world. Giving other people the chance to decide how they’ll spend their next day. But if you expect me to throw you a fucking pity party for pushing Cas away then you’re skunked. No one held a gun to your head and forced you to hold this ridiculous grudge against him, you pushed away someone you loved all on your own.”

Flustered, Dean meeks out a response. “I didn’t lo… I didn’t… Cas left on his own -”

“Cas left because you gave him no choice,” Sam tells him. “You took away any option he had and when he could only do what was left you blamed him for it. Would you blame the car in front of you for traffic if it was construction’s fault for blocking out the other lanes? No! Then why Cas?”

Sam answers for Dean. “Because you figured Cas would stay. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this but it’s the first time Cas called you on your bluff.”

Dean holds his ground. “There is no bluff -”

“Don’t,” he warns, “Do not… you can lie to everyone, lie to Cas - hell, lie to yourself. But don’t look me in the eye and tell me it isn’t exactly what we both know it is.”

His brother opens his mouth as if to speak, only to snap it shut with enough force to bite the head off a snake.

“You never learn… you lash out at the easiest targets. Probably thought you could get away with it because it was Cas. Cas never leaves you, Cas is always there. Cas will come back - even if it shouldn’t be possible. You had so many chances,” Sam’s voice breaks, a tear slipping free. “And you wasted each one. This isn’t on Cas, man. It’s on you. You’re the reason your world’s falling apart. You’re Chuck. And if you keep on acting this way you’ll end up just like him… miserable, depressed, and alone.”

No more steam left in his engine Sam spins on his heel. Coffee forgotten, he stomps towards his room without glancing back. Not when Dean calls for him, demands he stay. Nor when curses echo in the Bunker’s halls, followed by the smashing of glass against stone.

Sam keeps moving forward, hoping Dean will see the light soon and follow.

He needs to, because with Cas gone there’s one less star brightening his darkness.

#Supernatural #Spn #Spn15 #15x03 #The Rupture #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #Samwena #Destiel #Deancas #Castiel #Rowena MacLeod #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #spn coda

469 notes · View notes

lifblogs · 5 years ago

Text

SPN Hiatus Creations: Week Two - Favorite Quote

@spnhiatuscreations

“He was our kid.” -- Dean Winchester, 15x01 “Back and to the Future”

Buy Me a Coffee!

Castiel couldn’t look at that thing that was… that was inside—

No, he couldn’t even think it.

It talked with his voice, but it spoke differently. It moved differently. Castiel didn’t even want to call it Belphegor. It was garbage, waste, ruin. No better than whatever festering rot graced the bottom of his Father’s shoes. His lying, traitorous, monster of a Father. They were nothing more than mud to be scraped away.

But that thing in—in…

It was the lowest of the low.

It was violating everything that he loved, and doing it all with a smile. If that face wasn’t so familiar, he’d want to punch it, knock its teeth down its throat.

But it was familiar.

It was everything to him.

Even now with the way it was ruined.

At least the sunglasses hid most of the damage.

Castiel’s stomach was burning, boiling, and his insides were hot and cold and tingly.

This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

~~~

“He was our kid.”

~~~

“Jack, what are you doing?” Castiel asked. His son was in the kitchen, doing… he wasn’t sure. The kid had once claimed he’d seen Dean make a “spaghetti taco,” so he wasn’t sure their kid knew exactly how food worked. He was putting bread on top of… bread.

“Oh, I’m making a sandwich,” he responded, like it was the most simple, obvious thing in the world.

Castiel entered the kitchen, a bemused smile on his face. He went over to Jack’s creation, and took the top of the bread off, then going to the fridge and grabbing meat and cheese and mustard. Ooh, there were even some pickles lying around!

“Typically,” Castiel began as he dragged the plate over to him and got to work, “a sandwich has other food between the bread.”

Jack shrugged, smiling. “Yeah, but I like bread.”

“Didn’t Dean show you how to make a sandwich?”

His son shook his head. “No, he just makes them for me. Actually, he makes everything for me.”

“Well, I’m making this for you.”

“Cas, it’s just food.”

“And you’re a growing boy.” Jack gave him a confused look, so Castiel added, “Mentally. Sort of. I know you gave yourself an eighteen-year-old’s body, but you still have to nourish it.

“Now you sound like Sam.”

“Good.”

Castiel finished up, and passed the sandwich over to Jack. There was delight on the kid’s face as he ate it.

“This is good!” he commented.

Cas took a seat across from him at the table.

“Jack, if you ever need anything, from any of us, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re here for you. It’s what your mom would’ve wanted.”

Jack put his food down. “I miss her.”

“I miss her too.”

“But…” Jack gave him a look that was hopeful, while grieving; loving, while pained; accepting, while angry. “I have you,” he finished.

And Castiel had Jack too.

“He was our kid.”

Dean didn’t feel anything as he looked at Belphegor. Nothing. Nothing at all. That’s what he’d trained himself into feeling. He’d taken every last painful emotion that wanted to worm its way into his goddamned brain, and he buried it under the now, under their survival, and their priorities for saving the world… yet again.

It wasn’t there.

It couldn’t be there.

Not with the way Belphegor smiled, or the way he swaggered around, the way he could so easily hold a still-bleeding heart in his hand.

That wasn’t his son.

And the body, that wasn’t his son’s body anymore.

Jack was gone.

Dean had to keep him that way in his head, to not think of all the ways he’d loved him, or else he’d lose it.

“He was our kid.”

Dean felt a comforting warmth that he’d really only felt while raising Sammy, as he took Jack’s hand, and showed him how to hold the knife.

“See, you hold it like this. Keep your wrist loose, grip comfortable, not too tight.”

Dean brought his hand away to let Jack try on his own, and to inspect how he was doing. The kid was a fast learner.

“Now what?” Jack asked.

Dean would teach him some moves later, but he wanted Jack to get the feel of its weight first, so he told him, “Now you swing it.”

And he should’ve stepped back for this part.

Because Jack started swinging, and he almost accidently sliced right into Dean’s chest. Dean did jump back now, and brought his arm up to block any potential incoming blows.

Jack winced, realizing his mistake, knife lowering from his hand. Despite the evident worry in him, Dean felt pride that Jack hadn’t dropped the weapon. In a fight, a weapon could be your lifeblood. It could be the only thing keeping you from death. And he and Sam had been trained that you didn’t drop your weapon when you were afraid. You held on tighter and brought it in close to protect yourself.

“Sorry,” Jack apologized.

Dean joked, “What, already trying to kill your old man?” Jack opened his mouth to say something, but Dean began, “Come on, arms up.”

Jack awkwardly held his arms up, and Dean stifled an affectionate laugh.

“Okay, okay. Like this.”

He repositioned Jack so that his feet were shoulder-width apart, and he was crouched down just a bit as if sitting on a high stool. With his shoulders back, left arm up by his chest, ready to protect and counterbalance the weight of his swings, and right arm angled outwards, he was now in the correct stance.

Dean pat him on the elbow, but made sure to not put to much force so he wouldn’t jostle him and mess up the stance.

“Alright, kid, there you go.”

“Now…” Dean directed him on slashing. That was your best bet in a fight with a knife. The stabbing came from closer quarters, when things got desperate and ugly. And Dean never wanted a fight to get ugly with Jack. Ever. And he was just starting out, so Dean didn’t teach him those things yet.

He just wanted his son to know how to protect himself, to know how to stay alive.

Dean’s heart hurt knowing that he wouldn’t always be there for him, knowing that something could get them separated, hurt him, or try using him to get to Jack.

Love could be a liability.

But Jack was part of his family now.

And a Winchester needed to know how to survive.

~~~

“He was our kid.”

~~~

Sam got as far away from Belphegor as possible, jumping right into the guise of an FBI agent, getting people out of the town, keeping them safe.

He hadn’t been able to keep Jack safe.

He’d failed.

He’d failed so badly, and had done so even before God had… Before he’d…

Yeah, Sam’s head didn’t want to go there. It couldn’t.

Get people out of the town. Get them safe.

His shoulder ached as he did his work, as he pointedly ignored what was in his son. As he ignored all of it.

Dean had been in that graveyard with a gun to Jack’s head.

God had wanted his son… gone, stripped away from them.

Sam had locked his son in the Ma’Lak box, betraying him, hurting him; that one action telling him he didn’t matter.

But, god, he did matter. He mattered so much. So much so that Sam wanted to rip himself apart for not being able to save him, to—to properly be his father.

His shoulder ached.

~~~

“He was our kid.”

~~~

Someone was opening Sam’s bedroom door, and quickly and quietly, he reached for the gun under his pillow before the dim light from the hallway could stream down on him.

But then Sam recognized the sound of the movements, the footsteps.

He released his grip on the weapon, and sat up, turning on his lamp.

“Jack?”

His son stood in the doorway, dark shadows under reddened blue eyes.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Sam asked.

“I had a nightmare.”

At that realization, Sam was surprised he hadn’t heard it, what with Jack being right next door.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

Jack didn’t answer, and just questioned, “Can—Can I come in?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Sam made room on his bed, and ran a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it. It decided to still be a mess, so he let it go. A yawn cracked his jaw, and he was rubbing sleep out of his eyes, as Jack came over to sit on the end of the bed.

“You want to talk about it?” Sam asked.

“I don’t really remember it.”

“But it hurts,” Sam stated, knowing how nightmares worked all too well.

Jack just nodded.

“Hey, it’s okay to have nightmares, you know,” Sam said. “They’re scary, or—or painful, or sad, but it’s the brain trying to figure this stuff out. It’s our minds trying to look out for us.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Sam gave him a knowing look. “Believe me, I get it. Trauma, grief — the stuff we go through, it’s hard to process. So even when we’re not thinking about it, in the back of our heads, there’s attempts at healing going on.”

“Will I heal?” Jack asked.

Sam scooted forward, and brought him into a hug, one hand patting the side of his face.

Sam still had PTSD, still had nightmares, and body memories, and flashbacks, and the fear, and the pain. But he could function better than he could years ago, and sometimes he had good days, and sometimes he knew that the gaping wounds had turned into fading scars.

“Yeah, Jack. We’ll both heal.”

And Sam hugged him closer, wishing he could save his son from the nightmares. But protecting him in the real world, caring for him, was the best he had. It was the best any of them had.

~~~

“He was our kid.”

#spnhiatuscreations #Supernatural #SPN #Supernatural fanfiction #SPN fanfiction #fanfiction #writing #my writing

19 notes · View notes

swlbarnes · 6 years ago

Text

Soul - Jack Kline x Reader

Summary: Castiel always insists that it is impossible for humans to perceive the physical form of a soul. After spending time with Jack, you swear Cas is wrong.

Pairing: Jack Kline x Reader, Father figure!Castiel x Reader

Word count: 8.1k

Warnings: canon typical violence, light torture, some slight angst, fluff, danger to reader, danger to characters, blood, fatherly castiel (is that a warning? idk), basically there’s some good stuff and some bad stuff, but overall it’s fluff! slight canon divergence, vague early season 14 spoiler, but the main Jack plot in season 14 doesn’t apply here

A/N: I had this idea like FOREVER ago bc of that shot of jack asleep in the back of the impala (gif below), and i just got around to writing it bc school is garbage (pls stay in school). Hope it’s alright! Feedback is always greatly appreciated!

gif creator here, give them love!

Soul /sōl/ noun - the immaterial essence, animating principle, or actuating cause of an individual life.

You often found yourself asking Castiel the most random of questions about the universe. What was the beginning of the world like? What did the Bible completely get wrong? How have things changed over time in Heaven? Who thought the platypus was a good idea?

Most of all, though, your questions seemed to focus on one thing: souls. You were absolutely enamored by the subject. Something about them felt so incredibly intriguing, and after having seen the change in Sam Winchester when he happened to lose his soul, you wanted all the information you could get. Having an angel friend to answer your questions was exactly what you needed.

“Cas,” you spoke his name softly, intent on not destroying the peacefully quiet nature of the bunker’s library at 4 o’clock in the morning. The pair of you were up researching for a hunt after you found yourself unable to fall asleep. You insisted that instead of having Cas use his grace to help you sleep, that you could use your time to get some work done. The seraph reluctantly agreed.

“Yes?” He hummed in acknowledgement. His eyes lifted from his book in front of him just slightly to meet your gaze.

“What does a soul look like?”

Castiel let out a quiet chuckle, leaning back in his seat and pushing the book away just enough to show that you had his attention. A small smile quirked at the corners of his mouth at the question. This was far from your first time asking it. You questioned him relentlessly about every topic you could think of, but no matter what, you always came back around to the same question. What does a soul really look like?

And every time he gave the same answer: “They look like light.”

Sometimes you took this at face value, just glad to hear him say it again, but sometimes, like this particular night, you needed to hear more. You gave him a nod of encouragement, urging him to continue speaking. He took in a breath and cast his eyes over the room momentarily. His hands clasped together in his lap, and the small, relaxed smile remained on his face. He loved answering your questions and you could tell. There was always a childlike excitement to you when he would offer you a new piece of information. You would take his words and hold them close to you, eager to commit them to memory. You knew secrets of the universe that other people could never even dream of knowing. It felt nice to take you under his literal and metaphorical wing to teach you the things you wanted to know.

“Souls tend to shine differently depending on the person. You can tell so much about someone based on their soul alone. This is why demons are so easy to spot: their souls are so twisted that they become something so much different than the purity of a human soul,” he elaborated, his eyes trailing over the swirls of the wood grain on the table top.

You leaned forward slightly. “But surely not all human souls are so… pure,” you pointed out. He nodded.

“You’re correct. Many human souls find themselves being twisted in their life on earth as well, but never to the extent of a demon’s, of course.”

“But demons manifest themselves as black smoke. So, does that mean that the purity of a soul is based on how bright it is?” You continued to pester. You trailed your nails along the edge of the table subconsciously.

Castiel shook his head side to side. “No, not at all. It’s less of it being one rule for all and more of just a… feeling. Much like you are often able to tell the intentions of a fellow human with a glance, souls are much the same. Some souls are dim, but that does not mean that they aren’t beautifully pure,” he informed you. His voice remained level and patient, as it always did when you started a line of questions. You smiled at his tone. You were always grateful for the care he took in these situations. He never made you feel bad for your questions or your lack of knowledge, something you wished that your old school teachers had taken lessons in.

Your gaze travelled down to the pages of the lore book still open in front of you. The old weathered paper was yellowed and tattered with time. The top right corner of the page you were on was creased from someone who knows how long ago that dog-eared their spot in the text. You fought the urge to grimace at the foul treatment given to the book and focused instead on posing your next question. “What does… my soul look like?”

This was another familiar question, but still, Cas humored you. He trailed his eyes over your face with a thoughtful expression before he opened his mouth to reply. “Your soul is… complex. It shines bright, and has a slight, dare I say, twinkle to it. Like a star.” He paused to cast you a proud, fatherly smile. “You’re the team’s North Star, forever helping to guide us home.”

You cast your eyes downward, hoping the way your hair came down around your face was enough to hide your reddened cheeks and meek smile. You reached a hand up to trail a finger along the edges of your book. The worn leather of the binding was soft beneath your fingertips, and the scent of old pages wafted around you like a blanket in the serenity of the library. “I wish I could see souls,” you commented in passing, your voice heavy with exhaustion.

Cas was quick to recognize the wobble of your form and the half closed position of your heavy eyelids. He stood from his seat and made his way around the table, placing a hand on your shoulder and coaxing you upright. “Humans can’t see souls, and I promise that if there was a way for you to do so, you would be the first person I would tell.” With that, he led you down the maze-like halls of the bunker and into your bed. He brought the covers up to your chin, giving a light chuckle as he heard your soft snores before he was even able to shut the door behind him.

A year or so had passed since that night. Things finally settled down, and for once you could feel at peace. The bunker now consisted of the two Winchester boys, your fallen angel mentor, an ex-trickster archangel, and the son of Lucifer himself. Things were… good. There was just one thing…

Castiel had lied to you.

He had told you that humans could not see souls. That humans were incapable of comprehending the visual aspects of a soul. And you swear to every higher power you know, he lied to you. He must have. It was the only explanation.

These thoughts paraded around your mind, your brain’s mess of emotions a swift contrast to the atmosphere of the Impala you were sat in the back seat therein. Your eyes fixated on the nephilim sat by your side. Jack’s body leaned limp against the car door, his hand placed with his palm against the window to act as a barrier between his cheek and the icy glass. The sun was setting just on the other side of his window. The sky was streaked with endless shades of pinks, yellows, and oranges, spreading out in wisps that curled lazily around the surrounding landscape. Your ears were filled with the soft guitar riff of Dean’s favorite Led Zeppelin cassette. The scent surrounding you was that of old leather, whiskey, gun powder, and a swirling mixture of both Sam and Dean’s favorite colognes - in other words, it smelled like home.

You fixed your attention on Jack’s form. Your gaze swept over him, taking in every detail you possibly could. You noticed the way the tips of his fingers twitched in his dreaming state. You noticed the slight part of his lips as he let out soft, even breaths. You noticed each little freckle that dotted his skin. You noticed the way that his favorite red jacket was tugged up to tuck into his neck, as you knew he loved how the fluffy fabric felt comforting against his skin. You noticed it all.

Most of all, you noticed the way the light of the sunset behind him framed his form. The remaining rays trickled in through the car window, casting a gentle glow around his silhouette. The orange tendrils of light curled along his hair and tinted his dark brown curls a lighter, more fiery blonde color. The slant of his cheekbones was far more distinct in this lighting. The shadows of his face were dark and impressive, but somehow his features maintained his tender nature. In fact, you swore you could make out the shape of a halo at the crown of his hair. Everything about him and the way the sunset curved around him felt so celestial, so strong. Yet still he retained an air of care and love about him. He just looked so… Jack. And it was incredible.

“What do you mean you’re scared of the dark?” Dean asked in a teasing tone. An annoyed scowl formed in your lips and your arms wound around your own torso as you sought out as much comfort as you could get.

“Oh, shove it Winchester. We’re all scared of something. You wouldn’t be so cocky if we were in an airplane right now,” you shot back. You tried your best to hide the shake in the back of your throat, but you knew by the eldest brother’s deep chuckle that you hadn’t done as well as you had hoped.

“That’s because a plane crash will kill ya, and you just have to go down without a fight. Seriously, you’re a hunter, how are you afraid of the dark?”

You shuffled around from your place in one of the plush couches of the library. The darkness surrounding you curled its claws around your neck and began to squeeze, but you just shook your head in an attempt to fight it off. “I know what’s in the dark. I think we have more reason to hate the dark than anyone else does,” you insisted. You could practically see the stupid smirk on his face, and you wanted nothing more than to punch it right off.

Your knees tugged themselves up against your chest so you could wind your arms around them. Gazing into the endless darkness was unsettling no matter what, but to make things worse, you didn’t know what was really in the bunker. The last time something got out, the Wicked Witch tried to destroy Oz, and you weren’t too keen on fighting both your fear of the dark and another old fairy tale on the same day. Nope. Definitely not. You were much more comfortable sitting right where you were on the couch with your back pressed against the wall and your feet up off the ground so nothing could grab you from somewhere in the emptiness.

The sounds of shuffling coming from the winding corridors caused you to jump in fright. “Wh-who’s there?” You stuttered out, turning your head from one side to the other as if you could see who - or what - was making their way over to you.

Around the corner, the flame of a lit candle made itself visible, the light it emitted casting a soft golden glow over the surrounding few feet. “Dean? (Y/N)?” The soft, familiar voice of the nephilim called as he rounded the corner, candle in hand. Your heart jumped at the sight.

“Jack!” You cried out gratefully. You instantly flung yourself off of the couch, the balls of your feet barely hitting the floor with each step before you leaped forward again, all the way up until you made it to the man. You ducked underneath the candle and wrapped your arms around his waist, tugging him close to you in search of comfort.

The air in his lungs was exhaled with a huff upon impact. He raised the candle above his head to ensure the flame wouldn’t catch on your hair or clothing before he wrapped his free arm around your shoulders in a comforting - yet confused - manner. “Are you alright?” Jack asked with an edge of worry in his tone. You nodded against his chest.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good. Just… don’t like the dark. And Dean is mean to me.” Your accusation brought forth a cry of offense from Dean, which in turn caused you to chuckle into the material of Jack’s shirt, which you were still clinging to as if your life depended on it. Jack looked up to Dean in an ever-so-serious accusatory manner.

“Sam is working on getting the power back on still. He said he’s almost got it, but I should come check on you in case you were worried,” the nephilim explained, turning his gaze to you once again. You cast him a small smile and took a step back.

You coughed to clear your throat from the awkward silence that followed, much to Dean’s amusement. He indicated this with a rather unflattering snort that you would have demolished him for in other circumstances. Instead of tearing into the older hunter, you peered upwards at the man in front of you. “Well, thank you for coming to make sure we were alright. I don’t know how much more of Dean’s teasing I can take, especially when it’s too dark for me to even take a swing at him.”

A smile bloomed on Jack’s lips, and your expression brightened to match. He lowered the candle again, now that you were a safe distance away. You instantly found yourself mesmerized by the way the shadows shifted across his skin, accentuating the hills and valleys of his face in different ways based on where the flame sat.

The soft orange glow flickered in his irises. The light was just bright enough to illuminate his face, chest, and shoulders, but the rest of his body seemed to fade into the darkness all around you. A few strands of chestnut hair were still visible, and the light brought forth more details of his natural highlights than you had previously noticed. Overall, he looked warm and safe, and you found yourself shuffling to remain close to him with each movement. You would later insist to Dean that this behavior was a result of you wishing to remain close to the light, but deep down you knew what the true source of your comfort really was.

“They’ll never find you, y’know,” the young janitor insisted as he strolled leisurely around the empty space. Well, to be fair, this wasn’t really the janitor. The real man was likely off in some remote location with a slit throat like all the other poor vics you had come across in the coroner’s office on this particular case. No, this man was the shapeshifter you and the team had been hunting for the past week.

You weren’t entirely sure how you had gotten caught. Your plan was foolproof, at least it was all the way up until it wasn’t. Perhaps it really was never the best idea for the whole team to split up and have each of you going off on your own, but there were simply too many possible hotspots the shifter could have shown up to and not enough hunters to adequately cover them all. You were all hoping to figure out who the latest face claim was tonight, and had no intentions of moving in on the creature. Apparently it had far different plans.

All you could remember was an ear ringing thud against the back of your head before you woke up tied against one of the rickety support beams in an old abandoned warehouse close by where you had been conducting your personal search mission. An hour and a half had already passed, and you found yourself running low on snarky quips to fire back. The backhanded commentary about the cliched locale ran out of steam about thirty minutes ago, and he really wasn’t giving you much else to work off of.

This had clearly worn you down, and you wanted nothing more than to get back to the motel room, shower off the blood and dirt clinging to your skin, and collapse into bed. Of course, your idiotic friends would have to actually find you and save you before that could happen.

“If you were really that confident in them not finding me, then you wouldn’t feel the need to constantly remind me how hopeless it is,” you pointed out, shrugging nonchalantly. “But, whatever, that’s just psychology or whatever. I’m sure the world renowned Winchesters will be completely fooled by you, some random back alley shifter with a thing for the dramatics.”

The noise that ripped from the man’s throat could only be described as a growl; it was a bit too human to be an animal, but just animalistic enough to not feel human either. All in all, it was utterly unsettling, and you found your feet shuffling around in discomfort. “Shut up,” he snarled. His lip curled upwards to bare his teeth, an act that seemed out of place when the pearly whites being revealed were the dull, omnivorous ones of a human being. You quirked a brow in question.

The shifter twirled the knife in his hand as he made his way over to where you stood. The cool metal of the blade was chilling against the skin of your neck, and you pressed your back into the wooden beam behind you in an attempt to retreat from his threat. “For someone about to die, you sure do talk a lot,” he hissed. You winced against the scent of tobacco and cheap liquor clinging to his breath.

“Well,” you muttered, mustering a smirk despite yourself. “For an evil mastermind who wants to kill me, you sure are taking your precious time.” Perhaps goading a mentally unstable form changing monster into killing you wasn’t the best course of action, but it was the only comeback your brain could think of as you felt the kiss of his knife against your bared throat.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m just letting you simmer for a while,” the shifter hummed. He raised the knife to brush a lock of hair from your eyes before trailing it down the side of your face. Your fists clenched from their place tied behind your back. “That fear in your eyes, the fear you’re trying to hide from me, it’s… thrilling. You act so high and mighty, you act like you’re the one in control here, but all it would take is one… little…” The knife in his hand trailed down the column of your throat and paused just over your heart, where he pressed down the flat of the blade just enough that the edges dug into your skin. “Slip.” On that word, he flicked his wrist, drawing a line of scarlet blood along your chest. You hissed out in pain.

“Oh, screw you, man,” you muttered through clenched teeth. He gave a dark chuckle and ran his knife through the stream of blood trickling down your skin.

He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a bang sounded from behind him. “Jack, wait!” Sam Winchester’s gruff voice called. The old, dilapidated door of the warehouse opened and slammed against the wall, revealing the young nephilim’s fuming form in the doorway.

“Jack!” You cried out in desperation. His gaze flickered over you momentarily, scanning your injuries and growing darker and darker with each new one he found. At the sight of the knife still being held against your chest, Jack’s eyes went alight.

“Stop!” He shouted, throwing his hand out in front of him and sending golden beams of his grace towards your attacker, who went flying far from gracefully across the empty room. His body slammed into one of the support beams, causing the wood to crack and splinter.

Sam and Dean came barreling into the warehouse after Jack, guns and knives at the ready. Sam wasted no time before rushing towards you, slicing through the rope around your wrists with his blade and catching you in his arms when your legs collapsed beneath you. You sighed and settled into his grasp, turning your eyes to Jack’s squared shoulders as he made his way to the crumpled form of the shifter.

Dean stepped forward to help the nephilim, but with a wave of Sam’s hand, he held his place and watched from afar instead. Jack’s entire body seemed to glow with his grace, his eyes a brilliantly bright gold unlike anything you had ever seen from the man. His jaw was set in determination as he reached a hand down and gripped the shifter’s shirt collar. He dragged the struggling man a few feet to the wall, where he slammed him against the ramshackled wooden planks.

“You should never have touched them,” he spat menacingly. Golden irises swept over the shifter’s body in disgust. The veins in Jack’s arm took up his signature glow as well, the light travelling up to his hand, where it seemed to sizzle against the shifter’s skin. An ear splitting cry ripped from the man’s throat, his legs thrashing wildly in an attempt to escape, but Jack made no move to let go. He simply tightened his grip and continued on. The shadow of two large wings spanned out along the wall, each wing easily seeming to be at least twice as large as Jack himself. They flared out in a way one could only describe as threatening, and for the first time in your life, you could understand the fear others seemed to have when they spoke of Jack Kline. The golden glow emanating from his being sent the hairs along your arms and at the back of your neck standing on end. Never had you seen Jack so… frightening. You tended to spend most of your time around the man cooing over his soft spoken nature and kind smiles. Seeing the full extent of the nephilim’s powers felt like being thrown into a bath of ice water. This truly was a being of immense strength and unimaginable power, and that fact was being thrown in your face quite suddenly.

“Jack!” You called out, voice wavering slightly in fright of the sight of such a cool and collected man in a state like this. He froze at the sound of your voice and turned his eyes to you. His grip loosened ever so slightly and his face fell as he realized what was wrong. He blinked away what he could of his anger and shifted his hand to the man’s forehead, sending one last blast of his grace to smite the shifter on the spot. The body crumpled to the floor, burnt out eyes gazing into nothing.

Jack turned on his heel and made it over to you in a few long strides. His hands reached out and he took you from Sam without a second thought. The golden glow in Jack’s eyes still had not disappeared entirely as he scanned over your injuries. His brow furrowed in unease at the sight of the various bruises and cuts marring your skin. Slowly, he raised a hand up to your cheek and pressed his palm against you. His grace flooded over your body, surrounding you in a warmth and comfort that felt so utterly Jack. Your injuries burned briefly as the grace touched them, but the discomfort was gone as quickly as it came.

At some point during the exchange, it seemed that your eyes had closed on their own volition. You allowed them to open once more, and they locked on to the fading light surrounding Jack’s pupils. Neither of you said a word, you just pulled him towards you and buried your face in his chest.

You tugged your jacket closer to your body against the chill of the late night winds. The tell tale splash of yet another rock being tossed incorrectly into the lake could be heard clearly as it echoed through the trees. A chuckle escaped your lips, an the nephilim by the shoreline pouted in response.

“I just don’t get it!” He complained, hanging his head low as he shuffled over to you. Your smile practically split your face at this point.

“Jack, it’s all about the technique. Plus, you have to get the right kind of rock. Make sure the rock is flat. Like…” Your eyes scanned over the rocks all around your feet until you found one that suited your needs. “This one!” You plucked it out of the mess and held it up to Jack for him to inspect. He turned it over in his fingers, brushing over the rock’s surface and giving an understanding nod.

“Okay,” he hummed in acknowledgement. “What next?”

You reached down and grabbed another similar rock that would suit your needs before standing upright once more. “Next, you want to crouch down a little, get yourself closer to the surface of the water, you know?” You do so as you speak, and Jack slowly moves to follow. “Turn to the side…” He shuffled so his side is facing the water. “Now, from here, you need to throw the rock as close to matching the surface of the water as you can, throw it kinda sideways, and flick your wrist.” With a quick flick of your wrist, the rock skids over the water and hops one, two, three times before it finally drops beneath the surface entirely.

You stood to your full height and turned around to face Jack, who had his arm wound back in preparation and a look of utter determination in his eyes. A small smile graced your lips at the sight. The light of the full moon illuminated his features in a soft, innocent glow. This setting felt so much different from the usual yellow tinted bulbs back in the bunker. The natural white light conveyed a sense of purity you had yet to see of him, but once it has been seen, the image will surely never leave you. His hair was pushed back to ensure there would be no distractions during such an important moment. Your gaze followed his arm as he flicked his wrist forward, sending the rock hurtling along the water. The ripples of the stone against the surface distorted his reflection, and you felt a small sense of pride when you saw how it bounced up and hit the water again with a splash.

“I did it!” He cried in victory, jumping up with a look of sheer joy.

You smiled back and nodded, trying your best to match his excitement. This proved to be an easy task, as anything pertaining to Jack and his happiness brought you joy. “You did! That was great, Jack!” You praised. He took a step towards you and pulled you close to him, wrapping his arms around you in a grateful embrace. Just like that day in the warehouse, you found yourself easing into his arms without a second thought. You slumped against him and pressed your face into his neck, glad to simply bathe in his presence and nothing more. The light of the moon cascaded down upon the pair of you, casting a line of white over the surface of the water. You trailed your eyes down the path of moonlight until your gaze rested on the still rippling reflection of your embrace. A smile settled itself on your lips, and you allowed your eyes to flutter shut.

He wasn’t supposed to run off. He was supposed to stay with the group. Where did he go? Why did he run off? Why did he run off?

Your panicked gaze scanned over your wooded surroundings in hopes of spotting the familiar nephilim, but it was to no avail. This hunt was lasting longer than it was supposed to. The last rays of the day were disappearing and the streams of sunlight that once ran through the treetops were quickly being replaced by a shroud of dark night sky.

A scream of his name bubbled up in your throat, and it took everything in you to force it back down and continue your quiet search. You could hardly even hear the shuffling of the rest of the team around you over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You tightened your grip on the handle of your gun, hovering your pointer finger over the trigger in case of an emergency. The bullets loaded into the gun wouldn’t do much good against the wendigo lurking somewhere in those woods, but you held on to the hope that you would be able to distract the thing long enough to molotov the son of a bitch.

“I just don’t understand why he would go off on his own like that,” you muttered aloud, voice audibly shaking with unease. Dean let out a sigh.

“You know how the kid has been lately. He hasn’t felt the same since he came back without his mojo. He’s probably trying to prove he’s still valuable to the team,” the older hunter explained. He kept his voice as quiet as possible so as not to disturb the bloodthirsty monster hiding in the shadows, but even at such a low volume his baritone seemed to echo endlessly through the trees. You winced at the idea of the wendigo perched atop one of the many branches looming overhead, simply listening to your conversation and waiting for the right time to strike.

You let out a frustrated huff. “He doesn’t have to prove a thing. We all know he’s a valuable asset to the team. Plus, he’s family.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Sam nod his head, his chin length hair swaying with his movements. “Of course we know that, but I don’t think he’s trying to prove it to us. He’s doing this to prove it to himself.”

Your heart constricted at that. Jack didn’t believe he was capable without his powers, and now he was risking his life to make a point to himself. You swallowed the rising lump in your throat and blinked away the sting of would-be tears. This wasn’t the time to get emotional.

Your search seemed fruitless, and soon enough you found yourself unable to see past a few feet in the darkened woods. Castiel’s eyes shone a bright blue, the only light you could make out in the otherwise almost pitch black night. The moon provided little comfort from its place shrouded behind the tops of the trees. A chilling wind swept through the forest floor, sending an unnerving chill down your spine.

“Can you see anything, Cas?” You asked the angel, whose eyes flickered back and forth across the landscape. He furrowed his brow in frustration.

“I can’t find any signs of Jack’s presence. No trail of footprints, no broken branches, nothing to indicate where he might have gone.”

This answer was unhelpful, but exactly what you expected. Jack might be practically human now, but he isn’t a fool. He knows how to cover his tracks like the best of them. Castiel continued to examine the terrain, being the only one of the four of you who could still manage to see. Meanwhile, you followed close behind and tuned your ears in to listen for anything suspicious. It didn’t go over your head that there was still a ravenous wendigo prowling around, and three blinded hunters would surely be a tempting meal to the beast. If it wasn’t stalking Jack, then you had no doubts that its eyes were on you. To be entirely honest, you weren’t sure which option made your stomach turn more.

You had just taken another step forward when you heard the scream. Jack’s voice. Undeniably, that was Jack’s voice. “Help!” He sobbed, the piercing sound bouncing off the trees. “Please help me!”

It took less than a second for you to turn and dash in the direction of the disturbance. The cries of your friends behind you, begging you to stop were drowned out in favor of pushing all of your energy forward. A hand made a grab for your jacket. You yanked the material away in one smooth motion.

Once a set of fingers wrapped around your elbow and pulled backwards, that was when the world came flooding back to your senses. Your body tumbled to the cold dirt floor. Your limbs scrambled to right yourself and continue on, but you were ultimately stopped by a pair of arms curling around your waist and lifting you up and away.

“Sam, let go of me!” You pleaded as you continued to thrash in his hold. His grip only tightened. “Sam, please! I need to save him!”

“I can’t let you do that!” His voice sounded pained, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care at that point.

“Why not?” You hissed through your teeth. Frustrations were mounting and anger bubbled up deep within your chest. “We can’t just leave him! He’s gonna die, I can’t lose him! We can’t lose him!”

“God, this is like trying to keep Jack from barging into that warehouse to save them all over again,” Dean muttered. His hands worked to keep you still, and your legs worked double time to kick him away. “Dammit, stop that!”

“No! Let me go!”

“(Y/N), have you forgotten what we’re hunting in the first place?” Castiel butted in. “This is a wendigo, their mimicry of human voices is perfect. We can’t trust anything we hear!” His tone begged you to understand. It told you how upset the situation made him as well. The amount of pain he felt from being unable to save the boy he sees as a son was clearly audible. And it made you even angrier.

“Sam, I’m sorry about this.”

A pause. “Wait, what?”

Without another word, you threw your elbow back to meet his chin. His hold on you released instantly, and as soon as your feet touched the ground, you were off. You could no longer hear their shouts. You couldn’t hear the pounding of your feet against the leaves and branches littered beneath your boots. You couldn’t hear your heaving breaths. All that registered in your mind was the pumping of the blood in your ears and the memories of Jack’s cry for help. Maybe it was the wendigo, but if it was, then it knew Jack. And now you had no doubt in your mind that it planned to go after Jack first. Maybe you were running straight into the monster’s trap, but if there was even the slightest chance that you could kill this thing before it set a claw on Jack Kline, you were going to take it.

Your search brought you to the mouth of a cave. All you could make out was the rock’s shape around a gaping, pitch black hole. Carefully, you tucked your gun in the waistband of your pants and replaced it with your lighter in one hand and your homemade molotov bottle in the other. In a few quick flicks the lighter sparked to life. Upon waving the flame over the ground outside the cave, a few old splotches of blood became very apparent, and your hunter instincts kicked into overdrive. This was the wendigo’s lair. There was no doubt about that.

You took silent steps into the cave. The humid air held the unmistakable scent of rotten flesh and the metallic tang of blood, new and old. You swallowed down the bile that threatened to creep up your throat and continued on. The shake that previously overtook your hands was long gone now, replaced by the deadly, steady accuracy of your rage.

Your venture took you deeper and deeper into the cavern. The farther in you got, the heavier the stench became in your nose, and it took all you had not to gag on each breath. The air was stale and the ground was just damp enough to utter a soft squish each time your boots sunk into the dirt. The cave took a sharp turn, and you pressed your back against the wall before swinging out around the corner with your lighter and bottle outstretched and at the ready. What you saw, however, wasn’t the wendigo, but a clearly winded Jack Kline pressed against the wall where the cave hits a dead end.

His eyes met yours and instantly you saw the fear filling his body. “No, you shouldn’t be here!” He cried out, struggling to his feet with one hand planted firmly on the rock wall.

Your jaw clenched at the sight of crimson staining his left pant leg, the denim clearly torn where the wendigo must have slashed at him to immobilize him. “Where is it?” You growled out. Jack opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short when the sound of skittering claws rang from behind you. You turned around in just enough time to see the beast swipe a hand at you. It sent you flying into the far wall of the space. Your grip on the bottle and lighter tightened as your back slammed against the stone. Pain exploded in your side, and only once you felt the blood soaking into your shirt did you realize it was coming from the large gash along your torso.

The wendigo let out a ferocious snarl as it stalked towards Jack, seeming ready for a meal now that it had stocked up on a new victim to keep for later. Blood trickled down your neck from where the back of your head had connected with the wall, and the pounding sensation sent your vision swirling and fading in and out. You couldn’t see much, but from what you made out of the creature raising its claws to strike Jack down, you were ready to jump into action.

One flick of the lighter seemed to be enough this time, and you barely gave the cloth enough time to catch the fire before you screamed out, “Duck!” and hurled both objects, molotov and lighter combined, in the direction of the monster. Jack dived towards you to the best of his ability with an injured leg. The molotov connected with the wendigo’s calf, the glass shattering and allowing the fire to spread to consume its entire frame.

You closed your eyes against the sudden light and turned to face Jack, who now sat next to you against the wall. Your hand reached out to instinctively cover Jack’s face from the flames, only to find that he, too, had turned to face you. You kept your hand in place on the side of his head. Your fingers curled into his hair and your palm pressed against his cheek in an effort to ground yourself.

Slowly, you opened your eyes to take in Jack’s features. The flickering orange flames illuminated his tousled mop of waves. With the fire placed where it was, only one side of the boy’s face was visible, but from what you could see, his skin was blotched with a layer of dirt. Some patches of skin were also coated in the telltale crimson of blood, while others were tinted a deep purple with an oncoming bruise. A distinct line ran down from his eye to curve around his chin, the path his tears continued to take along his cheek. His eyes fluttered open, a red tint surrounding the blue of his iris. The orange glow of the fire flickered in his glassy pupils. His eyes were wide and his pupils were blown like a frightened animal. His bottom lip pouted out, only adding to the image of a scared little boy being built in your mind.

His frame shook so heavily that you could see the shadow behind him quivering as well. He was scared - no, he was terrified. He was beaten, bruised, clawed, and thrown around, but all you could see was that he was alive. And in a moment of absolute clarity and overwhelming relief, you did the only thing you could think to do. You placed your palms against his cheeks and pulled him towards you into a kiss. He let out a gasp against your lips, but melted into the kiss only a moment later. He shuffled as close to you as he possibly could. His hands clutched desperately at your shirt and tugged every so often as if he wanted you even closer. Your hands drifted to the back of his head and your fingers curled through his hair. You gripped at the roots with just enough force to remind him that you were there, and you weren’t going anywhere.

By the time you both broke away from each other, Sam, Dean, and Castiel were stood over the flaming wendigo. The brothers’ chests heaved with the exertion of their run, and each of the three men wore expressions of mixed relief and understanding. Your cheeks flushed at the sight of the bruise forming on Sam’s chin. Dean let out a huff and shook his head to remind you that you would be getting a lecture for what you had done, but kept his speaking tone soft and clear of judgement for the time being.

“Come on, lovebirds. Let’s get you two patched up.”

You lounged lazily across the couch in what Dean had deemed his “Dean cave.” You had mentioned your favorite movie the other day in passing, and Jack had seemed quite interested in the subject, having never seen the film before. When Sam and Dean went out on a local salt and burn with just the pair of them, you decided that would be the perfect chance for you to introduce the ex-nephilim to your world. After mentioning the idea to Castiel and wondering if he had seen it before, he told you that he knew about it from the information Metatron gave him, but held no personal memories or thoughts on the subject. He seemed glad to join yourself and Jack on your movie night, and you were more than prepared to have a nice, calm night with your favorite celestial beings.

The room was dark except for the soft glow of the DVD’s menu screen on the flat screen Dean had splurged on a few weeks prior. You were grateful that you no longer had to crowd around someone’s laptop for movie nights, and the dedicated room for relaxation was a necessary add in to the bunker after everything you all had to deal with. You fiddled with the remote in one hand, your arm spread out towards the TV as it hung off the couch.

Castiel sat upright in one of the comfy old recliners placed on either side of the couch. His hands rested on his knees and a soft smile settled on his lips. His cobalt gaze swept over you in amusement and a bit of wonder. “(Y/N),” he addressed into the silent air. As usual in these situations, he kept his tone soft.

You looked up at him, your vision of him upside down from your position. “What’s up, Cas?”

“I was just wondering,” he began, fiddling with his thumbs. “We haven’t had a talk in a while.”

You paused a moment to think. “We have, Cas. We usually have a talk at least once a week. We had one a couple days ago, right?” You reminded him. Your brows were furrowed in confusion. Castiel gave a quick nod.

“Yes, I suppose, but I more so meant we haven’t had a talk about a specific subject in quite a while.” His rephrasing cleared up little in your mind, but from the look in his eyes, he was expecting you to come to some sort of understanding.

Your eyes wandered the room as you continued to rack your brain for a clue. “Do I get any hints? Am I allowed to phone a friend?” You joked casually.

Now it was Cas’s turn to furrow his brows. His gave his signature head tilt as he spoke. “I… don’t see how calling a colleague might help in this situation, but…” He trailed off and shook his head in dismissal. “What I mean is, you seem to have lost interest in the lore on human souls. I simply find it peculiar how you have stopped asking about wishing to see them and wondering what they look like so suddenly. I hope you know that you are not bothering me when you ask things like that.” His tone held an apologetic edge to it, as if afraid that he had seemed to disinterested and had scared you off of the subject. A smile found its way onto your face at the thought. Castiel, angel of the lord, worried he made you feel bad about your interests and curiosity.

“No, Cas, I know. You’re always very patient with me during our talks, and I really appreciate that. It’s just… I don’t know. I guess I kinda… understand it now?” You tried to clear things up, but it came out sounding more like a question than an answer.

“How so?”

You gave a vague shrug. You dropped the remote onto your stomach and picked absentmindedly at your nails, trying to hide the crimson blush creeping up your cheeks in the low light available. Around anyone else you would be certain that they could not see such a thing, but you knew better with Castiel. His vision that night in the woods was proof enough that he could see in the dark without issue. “I guess I just… I understand how you can just… tell what someone is like through something as simple as a light. I understand that feeling of looking at something and understanding how it’s feeling. I used to think that a light couldn’t possibly be enough, that a soul can’t be made up of something so simple, but I guess I figured out how complex it can really be. Complex, but still… really beautiful. And good. And pure. And sure, maybe sometimes it’s a little scary, but at the end of the day, it stands for power and beauty and life, and that’s pretty amazing.” You trailed off of your tangent with a cough. Your cheeks were on fire, and you could practically feel Cas’s gaze burning holes in your head. “Or, like, something like that. I guess. Whatever, it’s not important.”

The angel opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Jack opened the door with a bowl of freshly popped popcorn in hand and a bright smile on his face. He raised the bowl in celebration. “I didn’t burn it this time!” He cheered in victory. You grinned.

“That’s great, Jack! Now get over here, and let’s get this movie started.” You raised your head up just enough so he could sit down before dropping it back down onto his lap. He placed the bowl on the coffee table to free up his hands so he could begin running them through your hair.

You wouldn’t notice the way Castiel’s gaze lingered on you both for the better portion of the movie. You wouldn’t notice the way he picked out each little social cue Dean had taught him about romance all those years ago. You wouldn’t notice the pleased smile that would tug at the corners of his lips when he realized that this was real. But you would notice the way Jack’s face would change with each twist of the plot. You would notice the way the dull light from the TV cast a perfectly cut shadow to define his jawline. You would notice how different he looked in the different color palettes present in different scenes. You would notice how the shadows across his face danced and shifted each time he would lean down to plant a random kiss on your lips, cheek, or forehead. You would always notice these things, because that was Jack Kline’s soul. Every little flicker of the light across his skin, every shadow along the curves of his body, every glint in his eyes, everything you saw was a part of who he is. And in your eyes, who he is is the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen.

2K notes · View notes

dumbbitchenergy17 · 5 years ago

Text

Best Day Ever

Winchesters x Teen!Reader

SUMMARY: Think it’s a normal day in school to have your world turn upside down.

Warnings: *TW* School shootings (Major triggers for people who been through this), blood warning, death, probably more.

Word Count- 2,268

“Well, what do you expect what was going to happen,” Cassie complained pulling you down the halls, “I don’t know I thought Tate would be more understanding there’s nothing wrong with him but I like someone else,” You mumbled following her down the halls to your lockers.

“He’s pretty strange anyway like he just sits in the back and draws in his notebook or whatever,” Cassie started opening up her locker grabbing the rest of her books as you both made your way out the building.

“What’s wrong with that he does really good in our art classes and he has so many awards for it,” You responding pulling my phone out seeing a message from Dean that he was heading over.

“Yeah yeah, so how are things with Jack...” Cassie cooed a smirk on her face your face burning up “Things with Jack are fine we hang out all the time but he doesn’t know anything.

Hearing the rumble of the Impala as most of the girls gawk at the sight of Dean. “Will they ever stop staring at him, they have seen him for 3 years now.” I sighed facepalming. “Who knows? See you next week we still up for movie night Sunday.” Cassie waved as you climbed into Baby.

Walking into school on Monday still tired from the extended weekend and the movie night at Cassie’s. Sam and Dean were off on a hunt they wanted you to have a semi-normal life. Cas was off in Heaven and Jack was at the Bunker still getting adjusted to the world.

Opening my locker to only get jumped by Cassie her yelling in my ears. “Guess who got asked out!” jumping at her loud voice closing the locker. “Cassandra Jones scare me again and they won’t find your body.” You glared at her. She stuck her tongue out.

“Charles Stephson asked me to the movies.” Cassie cheered doing a little dance. You laughed smiling at your friend's happiness

“You should get Jack to come with us on a double date. O-M-G you guys will be so cute.” she squealed throwing her arms around you. You chuckled “I’ll see what I can do.” You smirked

Cassie threw her hands up “Best day every nothing can go wrong!”

The sound of a gunshot pierces through the hall as screams reach them as students run down the halls to classrooms or to exits. Snapping out you pull Cassie down the halls and the shots get louder as the shooter makes there way down the halls.

Shoving her and yourself into the nearest bathroom as you shut the door behind you, Cassie noticed that you weren’t alone. Three other girls stand in the bathroom tears streaming down there faces. Fear in all of us as you pull out your phone my hands slightly shaking

‘Code Silver’ -Y/I

‘What’s happening Sam and I are heading to our location right now.’ - DW

Getting ready to respond to the sound of footsteps running down the halls as someone frantically bangs on the door. Holding your hand out as some of the girls freezes in fear. Footsteps continue down the halls the sound of a gunshot and a thud causes some girls to cry out at the sound.

Slow steps make there way down the hall the sound of ‘Here comes the Sun.’ is whistled as they make there way down “ Y/nnn... where are you more people are going to get hurt until I find you.” The sound of Tate’s voice echoes down the halls.

Cassie looks at you as fear courses through your veins he’s here for me. Slowly walking to the door only to get grabbed by Cassie “Are you fucking crazy he’ll kill you!” She whispered tears in her eyes.

“I know! But more people are going to get hurt if I don’t.” You hissed back running a hand through your hair sighing. the sound of his footsteps fade. “Ok, we are not that far from an exit if we stick together we can make our way out of here,” You explained looking at the other girls.

------------------

They nodded as we all got closer to the door, peeking your head out the door seeing no one down either hall as the exit wasn’t that far away. Signaling your hand you all slowly make our way out the bathroom and keeping close to each other rush down the halls. Halfway towards the exit the sound of a gun cocked causes us all to freeze.

“y/n did you really think you can run.” Tate frowned pointing the gun at the group of us. “Just let the rest go, Tate, it’s me you want anyway.” You try to negotiate.

“No,” he yelled point the gun right at you, “ Why didn’t you just say yes. I love you we can be together. But everyone else is keeping us apart.” He yells gesturing the gun at the group.

“Tate calm down just put the gun down and we can talk.” You said calmly holding your hands up slowly making your way towards him very slowly

“No! You can be with anyone just me. If you won’t be with me no one can!” he yells his breathing heavy. “Tate please put the gun down no one else needs to get hurt.” Looking behind him seeing Sam and Dean down the hall fear on there faces.

“NO! JUST STOP!” He yelled waving the gun “Tate stop!” You yell. His finger slipping pulling the trigger. The echo dies down as the girls around scream feeling the wind knocked out of you. Looking down at your shirt seeing it slowly stain red as Tate falls to the ground a bullet wound in his chest. Looking up seeing Dean holding his gun.

“Guys...” You breathe out your knees hitting the ground as blood pours out of you as Cassie screams while Sam and Dean run down the halls. Sam skidding onto the floor before the rest of your body hits the ground ripping his flannel off himself putting pressure on the hole in your chest. “ Hey look at me hey... hey!” Sam says keeping the pressure as you cough up blood some landing on him. “Everything going to be fine. You’re going to be fine just a scratch it’s nothing.” Sam says tears filling his eyes your head lolls over your vision slightly fuzzy. Dean is holding Cassie back as she screams while the other girls have tears in their eyes.

The sounds of people rushing down the hallway as my vision slowly fades the voices of paramedics yell out orders as I’m lifted onto the stretcher the last thing you see is the dead body of Tate his eyes glozed a pool of blood surrounding him.

------------------

The sound of beeping pulls you slowly out of the dark. Opening your eyes to see Sam head on the side of the bed and Dean hunched over in his chair small snores coming from both. Not remembering what was going on only for it all to come back the beeping of the EKG picks up speed as tears blur your eyes. Waking up Sam and Dean, Sam tries calming you down whispering soothing words as Dean runs out to get a nurse or doctor.

After the doctors and nurses finish checking up Sam is holding your hand. “What happened in school?” You questioned taking a small sip of the water given to you. “Well, Tate didn’t make it there were 17 injured and 5 dead not counting Tate. After everyone found out what you did they set up a memorial for the ones who pass and many wished for you better even someone who has wanted to see you for a while.” Sam said just as the door open Cassie walking in

“Don’t you ever do that to me again.” She cried rushing towards you pulling into a hug her tears wetting your shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere trust me.” You cried into her arms tightening your grip on her. After a few hours of hanging out with Cassie, she had to leave to go see her parents playing pulse oximeter as you looked around the room. You hated hospitals ever since a child you hated going to the doctors and be touched and probed, hearing a knock on your door Dean poked his head in.

“Hey sweetheart I got you some food,” Dean walked in holding a takeout bag sitting in the chair next to your bed, “Sammy is at the bunker getting rest while I watch over you.” He explained pulling out some burgers and fries. Nodding nibbling on your fries somewhat spaced out.

“Hey,” Dean grabbed your hand “you okay kiddo?” he looked at you with concern. “It’s my fault.” You say your voice lacking emotion, “if I said yes he wouldn’t have flipped and brought that gun,” You start to choke up tears filling your eyes “parents are n-never going to see their kids b-because of me.” you say tears roll down your face.

“honey this isn’t your fault it’s Tate’s.” Dean tries to comfort you “No. they had so much ahead of them... I-I took that away from them, I’m no good than those..those monster you hunt.” You cry hearing the EKG start to beat more rapidly. Dean places his hands on your shoulder making you look at him

“Listen here, it’s not your fault at all and you’re not those monster out there, you are the kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever met. You understand.”

He wipes the tears on your cheek. nodding you cry harder as he pulls you into a hug, your sobs getting muffled by his shoulder as he runs a hand up and down your back soothing you. “You’re alright sweetheart, I got you.” He whispered into your hair.

After spending beeing in the hospital for a little under two weeks that were filled with Cassie visiting when she was free from school she caught you up with most of the work and Sam helping too, Dean keeping you happy and entertained in the hospital, Cas visiting when he can at first upset he couldn’t heal you due to his lack of grace but was there for you and same as Jack. After a few more days in the hospital, you were finally allowed out and to start school. It was a bit awkward people coming up to you and hugging and crying thanking you for saving their lives. You didn’t do anything just got shot as a result you spent half of the lunch at the memorial read and memorizing the names of those who died and cry for a bit.

Climbing into the car Sam and Dean in the front “Hey kiddo how was being back in school.” You smiled one that felt genuine “Good I’m happy that I’m back.” Sam and Dean looked back at you and gave you smiles. “good,” Dean nodded, “now PIE!.” Dean grinned pulling out of the school you laughter filling baby.

#spn masterlist #spn angst #reader #dean x reader platonic #sam x reader platonic #castiel x reader platonic #jack x reader platonic #oc!cassie x reader #winchester x teen!reader #teen!reader #spn x teen!reader

63 notes · View notes

occult-castiel · 4 years ago

Text

Leave a message (after the beep!)

Suptober. Day 13: Rewind Dean has a few things to say to Cas. Word count: 2542 [Read on Ao3]

3 Weeks.

The idea is fucking stupid. He doesn't care what Sam thinks. Sam wasn't even supposed to know. Let alone have fucking opinions.

But Dean slipped.

And it took more effort than he will ever admit to walk out of the kitchen without clocking his brother in the goddamn jaw.

Fuck Sam and fuck the phone.

He turns around, away from the stupidest temptation of his life, and demands sleep come.

It's only mildly successful.

2 Month, 1 Week.

Nothing bad can happen from a phone call. Doing it once can’t hurt you any more than you are now

Sam's a well-meaning kid. He really is. But sometimes he just needs to can it.

And that gray hunk of plastic on his desk is laughing at him. He could reach it if he sat up. Stretched a bit.

But the idea is dumb. And Sam doesn't get it. He really fucking doesn’t.

Except Dean knows he's kind of full of crap.

He grits his teeth, shoves the covers to the side, and grabs his phone.

With each passing buzz, his heart stutters, breath cut into shorter and shorter spurts.

Stupidstupidstupid.

It- it isn't like he's gunna answer. Dean knows he not, but it just rings and rings and —

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

And it hurts.

He calls again every night for the next week. Of course, he never picks up. Sam doesn't ask.

4 Months.

Dean kicks the door after it slams shut. Throws his gun at his headboard, if it goes off and shoots him, oh fucking well. It's great. Just fantastic.

He pulls his phone out without thinking. Clicks Cas.

It rings, and for a moment his shoulders relax as the familiar greeting plays. Cause its Cas' voice. And fuck. Just… fuck.

Then it beeps, and he actually does the one thing he's wanted for months.

"None of your douchebag family will answer me. And I've tried friggin' everything, I swear to Christ."

He runs his hand over his face, glances up at the sour-yellow ceiling.

"How you ever stood them is beyond me dude."

And then, like a rational human being. He hangs up and pretends that whatever that was didn't happen.

Once the bitter taste of angels that don’t pick the fucking phone up from earlier that day fades, Dean stares at the darkened ceiling.

He left a voicemail. A fucking voicemail.

Pathetic.

4 Months, 3 Weeks.

So he hasn't called again since his, uh, slip up. And Sam keeps giving him these little looks. And he knows that Sam knows, and knows he isn't calling because he's a changed man or whatever.

Maybe Sam would drop it, whatever the hell he thinks Dean's mess is, if he could manage to eat.

Dean looks at the food. Pork lathered in dark brown graveyard with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. There's a pile of carrots on Sam's plate. Dean opted out.

Not that he's eating now. No, mostly just pushing it all around. He does eat in general.

But Claire isn't looking at him. Hasn't. She barely managed a glance up when he saved her — just a small nod and weary glance.

Sam, on the other hand, may as well be ogling.

Dean wishes he could read Sam's mind, find out where he's keeping it so Dean can wallow in misery without his brother being keen on some of the finer details, thank you very much.

He manages a few bites. Its excellent, mouth-watering, home-cooked goodness he's missed fiercely since he got a taste for it the few days Mrs. Butters was around.

But right now? Turns his stomach.

On the way back home, Sam clears his throat. Dean grips the wheel a little tighter.

"So —"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Samantha."

In the corner of his eye, Sam's shoulder slump. His brother looks down and sighs out a sad little noise.

But the rest of the drive is quiet. And that's a win in Dean's book.

It's roughly midnight, and books are scattered across the library table. They're all open to different pages, but none of it matters. Not really.

Dean's combing through it all anyway. Has been since Heavens decided they have a no-call policy with anyone named Winchester.

The piles he has laid around him have grown increasingly larger as the weeks have drug on. Spiked exponentially when he decided not to call anymore.

"Hey Dean."

Dean snaps his head up mid-sentence. Sam stands in the threshold, holding a plate. In pajamas.

Dean just looks at him. "What?"

"Made you food." He lifts the plate up a fraction

"That looks like a cold cut, so made is a generous word."

Sam has the audacity to slump into himself, full-on wounded-puppy mode. So Dean rolls his eyes and waves him over.

The plate gets sat down with a distinct clank, and Sam pats his shoulder.

"You know I just… want what's best for you."

Dean tenses his shoulders, closes the book in front of him. He speaks through his teeth.

"Yeah, well I never had it in the first place. And now it is gone, and there's nothing I can do."

"You don't know that Dean."

He glues his eyes to the back of the book. Balls his fists.

"Don't I? That — That fucking thing just —"

"I know. But it's also gone. We don't know what happened."

Dean chooses then to look over, fix his brother with a proper glare so he'll go the hell away — but sees it.

Sitting innocuously on the plate, like it isn't an affront to everything Dean would rather not, is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Sam's talking but he can't hear it. His brains turned to mush, a radio-static circus of nothing.

The bottom of his chair screeches as it drags against the floor.

And Dean can’t see.

His door clicks shut, and he pressed himself against it. Slides down until he hits the icy floor.

Dean's throat is a constricted cage, each breath in has to be muscled in, down, out. Each wobble as much as the last.

Sam doesn't know shit. He doesn’t know what he's talking about. He really doesn't.

Calling someone who can’t answer, won’t ever answer, is fucking stupid. It's not therapeutic.

When he rubs a hand over his face. It comes back wet, and his eyes sting.

"Fuck."

He fishes for his phone. Going to Cas' number is muscle memory at this point.

It rings. Cause Sam can't help but keep the thing charged.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

That's it. Two sentences.

You saved the whole world. He didn’t save shit.

And really what does it matter if he cries. Chucks gone, and The Empty, that — that thing got what was coming to it.

But Cas didn't come back.

He lulls his head against the door, untangles the hand from his hair like his fingers piston operated they ache so bad

God, Cas should’ve just left him in Hell.

Jack had to fuck off to put the universe in balance, so he’s MIA and no help. And Heaven doesn't seem to give a shit.

There must've been a beep somewhere, so Dean just goes with it. Presses the phone to his ear again and works his jaw open until it’s loose enough to allow something resembling words can happen.

"This is stupid. It's not — voicemails ain't your style." His breath leaves, and exhaustion sets deep into his bones. "You always just called back for the explanation. You'd leave 'em, though."

The space behind his robes aches when he says, "We both shoulda picked up more, I guess. And Sammy wants me to call now. Like it makes up for shit. It doesn't."

He swipes the little red phone to the left, and stares at the word Cas in his contacts page.

But the screen goes blank, and all he can see are his puffy red eyes reflected in the black screen, and that's motivation, so he gets ready for bed.

1 Year, 10 Months, 13 Days

He calls a few times after that. But tries not to leave voicemails for someone that's just gone, in every sense of the word.

It’s dumb. Still really dumb. And he has no defense for it. Eventually Sam hands him Cas' old phone and a charger. All of the missed voicemails untouched.

Dean could swear he remembers ever last one.

They're mostly simple crap, sometimes. Updates.

But sometimes it's just a confession, none of the other bullshit. Just the truth.

"Look. I'm not mad. So don't think that. Cause I'm not. Wish I was. It's — it's always been easier. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I would've for you. I just… Don't know how now."

"Can't tell if I like using your old angel blade or fucking hate it. Don't like much of anything anymore. You were better with it."

And one night, a long time later, he's sitting with his back against his bed, nestled next to the end table he never used, he says the truth in a way he knows he should've years and years ago.

Logically, he knows Cas wouldn't have kicked him to the curb. Wanted him just as much.

"God I listen to it almost every night dude. Just hearing this stupid fucking line — It's like hitting rewind, for a few seconds."

The rest comes off easy, in its own way

"I miss you, Buddy. And I — I love you more than I know what to do with. I wish it would've been enough. But instead, it killed you."

He ends it, and calls back. Just to listen to the only thing he'll ever hear Cas say again. It’s not a replacement, never will be until he can see if Heaven really does have an angels left.

But the only faith he ever had is just an echo on the other end.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

#suptober20 #suptober2020 #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancasfanfic

6 notes · View notes

mathiascdaley · 4 years ago

Text

The Singer Chronicles

Summary: You had been trained as a hunter their whole life, usually hunting solo. Until 6 years ago when Cerberus became your new hunting partner and you finally figured out who was looking after you all these years.

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and language

A/N: So...finally writing again since I have my computer back. Story takes place in Season 13. Readers' thoughts are in italics. Any feedback is more than welcome. This is planned as a series so let me know if you guys want more.

And as always all characters and events are property of Warner Brothers and the CW Network. Only original character of my creation is Nichole Singer.

______________________________________________________________

Nichole sighed with exhaustion, as there had been more ghouls than expected in the old farm house. Stupid stupid stupid, I should have called in another hunter. She pressed the wound on her side, hoping to help stop the bleeding. When she heard a pair of heavy footfalls coming from the front porch, “Shit!” she muttered through clenched teeth. Frantically looking around trying to find Cerberus, she started to worry when she couldn’t see him.

“I don’t know Sammy, it doesn’t look like anyone is home. Guess we should knock and double check,” she heard one say as the other one tried to pick the lock on the front door. Nichole started feeling more light headed as she propped herself against the wall. She struggled to keep her gun out in front of her. She hoped she would be able to take out at least half of the pair that were breaking in.

“Dean,” was the only thing that she heard once the door opened. Her lids started to become heavy, looking down she noticed there was more blood on the floor then should be. Wait, she realized she may know those voices, it couldn’t be the stupid Winchesters. Could it?

"Sammy, look there is a lot of blood here. Do you think another hunter cleared the ghouls out first?" she hears Dean ask his brother. The world had started to tilt more the longer she stood there with her arm outstretched. Nichole had no plans to lower her weapon until she was 100% sure that it was the Winchesters in the farmhouse. There was a small creaking noise when one of the hunters pushed the door open. “Whoa, there sweetheart. No need for that,” Dean was looking at the gun pointed at him, when he noticed that her eyes were barely open. “Shit, Sammy in here. CAS! JACK! We need..” Nichole didn't understand the rest of what Dean was saying as the world started to go black.

Coming to, Nichole noticed several pairs of eyes staring trying to figure out if she was a threat or not. Nichole recognized three of the men immediately; groaning she stood up on unsteady legs, looking to gather enough strength to wash the blood and ghoul guts off of her face. “Good to see you too Winchester,” Nichole glared at the oldest one, not once forgetting they were part of the reason that her dad was dead. She could tell Sam and Cas were still clueless on who she was, but the mumbled curse from Dean confirmed that even under ghoul guts, he remembered her.

“Singer,” Dean bluntly stated as he lowered his gun and tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans. “You wanna tell me why you’re huntin’ by yourself sweetheart?”

“Call me that again and you’ll be leaving with one less part then you walked in with, Winchester.” After a few tries, Nichole made it to the sink and washed off the pieces of ghoul from her face and hair. But her threat didn’t seem very real as she stood there reminiscent of a drowned rat, with her hair plastered down. By now Sam and Cas had recognized her as Bobby’s daughter..

"Nichole, it is good to see you again. How have you been?"

"I'm fine Cas, just working like you are.” She paused and turned, “if you don't stop gawkin’ at me kid, we are going to have a problem." Nichole bit out, glaring at the youngest of the men in front of her.

“Hi, I’m Jack. I healed your wounds for you. But I agree with Dean, you shouldn’t be hunting by yourself, it is very dangerous.”

“Wow, kid. You new here? I’ve been huntin’ almost as long as Sammy has, and a lot longer than Cas over there. There ain’t much that can cause me issues. Now if you’ll boys excuse me, I’ll be going.” Nichole had almost made it to the front door, looking to see if she could spot Cerberus. She hadn’t seen him since before the fourth ghoul had decided he wanted to try out for the next biggest horror movie and appeared out of nowhere.

“Hey Nichole, wait a second,” she rolled her eyes but stopped for Sam since she liked him more then Dean most days, “how have you really been?”

“I go one day at a time Sammy, it’s all I can do,” she finished with a sigh, “some days are harder than others, but you know us Singers, no one can tell us when to stay out of a fight that isn’t ours.” Nichole had made it to her car and still couldn’t find Cerberus. She tried to stall as long as possible, hoping that the Winchesters would leave soon. She needed to finish cleaning up and change out of her blood soaked flannel; and hoping Cerberus would show up so Nichole could make sure he was okay.

“Alright, Sammy, you heard her. The princess is doing just fine, never mind the fact that Jack had to literally save her life before she could bleed out. We should go check the vamp case you said might be up North.” Dean was interrupted as a growl ripped through the air. “What the hell was that?”

The audible clicks of the safety being taken off of the Winchesters colts had Nichole’s breath hitch, causing Jack to pull her behind him and Cas. Shit, I hoped Cerberus would be smart enough to stay out of sight till everyone left. Nichole noticed the boys still had the same hunting patterns they had all those years ago, Sam went to the right and Dean went straight for the danger. Everyone stayed silent a little longer before Cerberus growled again, and Nichole saw him in the reflection of her car.

“DOWN!” Dean commanded, aiming at Cerberus. Nichole knowing how skilled Dean was did the only thing she can think of.

“NO! Don’t Dean, Cerberus won’t hurt anyone here.” Nichole stood between the man she once considered family and the three headed hell hound that was now her family. “Cerberus, you ok boy? The ghouls didn’t get you?” Nichole glanced back and made sure he was in one whole piece.

“Nichole, why is Cerberus here and not in Hell?” Cas asked, being the only one who didn’t look like they were about to pass out. Nichole looked back at the Winchesters and hoped that they would relax now that Cerberus had stopped growling, but to be fair she had freaked out at first too.

“It’s a long story. I’m staying next to the old diner in town. Meet us there and I’ll explain everything. OK?” Cas nodded, “And Dean, you shoot Cerberus, I’ll make your stint in Hell look like a weekend spa getaway.” Nichole heard Sam chuckle in the background and the younger one asking Cas something, but she was already focusing on Cerberus and making sure he was ok. “Hey boy, you did so good in making sure I stayed safe.” She had already walked around and made sure he wasn’t bleeding. Nichole sighed with relief when she finally decided he was okay and got him in the car to meet the Winchesters at the motel. “Okay boy, time to tell our story. Can you be nice to them? I know eating Dean may sound like a good idea, but then you’d have to eat Sam. And I don’t think you could finish both of them while I took out the angel and the gawker.” She waited hoping he would do something so she knew he understood her. When he didn’t respond Nichole looked back and saw him sleeping soundly. “Yeah, me too bud. Me too,” as she slowly pulled into the motels parking lot, she can see that Dean was already pacing back and forth.

“What the Hell Singer?!? Why are you fighting with a hellhound?” Dean started in on his tirade before she could step foot out of the car. “Are you insane? Not only is this a completely idiotic idea but how the hell is it not eaten you yet?”

Nichole rolled her eyes, “Well if you would give me a second to get Cerberus out of the car. I’d be glad to tell you everything,” she could hear Sam warn Dean to calm down a little bit. She shook Cerberus awake and then followed him to the room and she got started on getting the beers passed around. As she closed the door to the fridge, she heard Cerberus growl, “you better get off his side of the bed. I won’t tell him not to take a bite out of you.” Nichole turned to see that it was Dean on the bed. “I mean it, that’s his side of the bed and he doesn’t like people on it,” she stated, while handing Dean a beer.

“You seem to know a lot about Cerberus Nichole, how did you find him and why is he out of hell? Surely someone noticed he was gone and came looking for him to be returned.” Cas inquired.

“Yeah,” Dean added as he surrendered the spot on the bed to Cerberus. “Surely a three-headed hell hound is noticeable and someone must’ve called the cops on you by now.”

“You’d be surprised how many people just ignore him and he only shows himself in front of others if he thinks I’m in danger. But no, no one has tried to get him back, I’ve been hunting with him for almost 6 years now. It started maybe a year or so after Dad died. There was a case up in Washington, people were getting junk mail about a dog walking service where the dogs would show up at your house and not leave until you took them on a walk,” she paused to take a sip of her beer. “However, every once and awhile, the person who took the dog out never returned home. I managed to move to the town and sign up for the service. I had normal dogs the first few times, until I figured out it was a witches coven getting revenge for something or another. The next dog I got was a hell hound, I thought that was the end of the Singers right then and there. But it led me to the witch's house and then helped me kill her. It ran before I finished clearing the house and I thought that was the end of that. But the next morning there was another dog waiting outside of the motel I stayed out a few towns over. It was Cerberus and had this note attached to its collar.” Nichole handed the note to Sam.

"Hope he helps you with all your needs, and you never again worry about hunting unprotected or alone my love." Sam read the note out loud for everyone.

“I don’t know who sent it or Cerberus , and I asked everyone I could think of but no one seemed to have an answer,” you finished.

“You don’t think it was Crowley do you?” Cas asked Sam.

“It doesn’t seem like something Crowley would do. Anyways he had a deal with Bobby and I doubt protection for Nichole would have been added to the deal.”

“Wow, thanks Sam, I’ll remember that next time I need to save your hide.” She had finished off her beer by now and was debating on getting another one or not. “Anyways I know it wasn’t him, I asked a few different demons and they all seemed to think Cerberus was a thing of myths. So I doubt Crowley would have helped me.”

“What if my father sent him? In order, to keep a track of the hunters in the area?” Jack added looking at Cas. “He might be interested in Nichole due to the angelic residue around her."

Nichole interrupted Cas before he could answer, “what are you talking about, kid? I’ve never had an angel hitch a ride in me and I'm left alone by most of them. And who’s your dad that they would give a shit about keeping track of me?” Nichole saw the brothers look at each other and cringe at something, “Would one of you spit it out, already? You had the same looks on your faces when you came and told me my dad had died helping you out with the Leviathans.”

“Lucifer,” Sam whispered out, “Jacks’ father is Lucifer. Jack is the Nephilim that the whole world went crazy over a few months ago.”

“You’re shitting me?! You have to be actually insane! Do you not remember what that fucker did to me?! He had me trapped in a cage for a year before any of you realized that he was me!!!” Nichole shouted over Cerberus’s growling, “ Get out. All of you, now.”

“Nic, it’s not what you think. He is nothing like Lucifer, he thinks of Cas as his father. I swear he won’t hurt you and neither will Lucifer.” Sam pleaded with her, “just let us explain what has been going on. I remember what Lucifer did to you, as much as you remember what he did to me. Do you really think I would bring someone like that around you again?”

Nichole took a deep breath. “Fine, but the moment I sense something is up or off, I’m blasting him with a holy water Molotov cocktail.” Sam nodded and waited for her to sit back down, before the brothers started to explain everything that had been going on in the last few months for them. “Wait, so let me get this straight. You stuck Lucifer on a alternate universe...with Michael...that has been practically destroyed by an all out angel war...Crowley’s killed himself to save y'all...your MOM was alive cuz y’all are apparently best friends with God now...and now a PRINCE OF HELL is after Jack...did I miss anything else in the years that I’ve been ignoring your crap?”

“Yeah, but that’s the most recent that you’ve missed,” Dean replied as he moved his empty beer bottle out of his way. Nichole leaned back in the chair and tried to fathom the fact that Lucifer was trapped, and he could never get to her again. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but we have a permanent place to stay now in Lebanon. We could use the help and I think you could use the family sweetheart. So come with us, and help us stop the last Prince of Hell.”

She looked up at Dean and his outstretched hand, knowing if she took it she’d never leave the Winchesters. She had missed working with family and they were the last of the family she had living. Cerberus seemed to sense that Nichole was debating it, so he nudged her arm and gave her a look that said he’d be by her side the whole time. She took Deans’ hand, “fine, but I am taking the room farthest from you, you pig.”

#supernatural #fanfic #thesingerchronicles #part one #sam winchester #dean winchester #original character

1 note · View note

naitiaclo960writings · 5 years ago

Text

Day 10, 11, 12 - Season 15 / Weapons / R.I.P

Fine!

Dean threw his fist randomly, hitting a jaw, an eye, an arm. It didn’t matter. Hands held his legs, pulling him to the ground, tearing his clothes.

That’s the way you want it?

An hoarse cry rang to his right, grunts rising from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Dean gasped when teeth connected with his shoulder, piercing his jacket, and responded as he could with a violent knock with his stake in the creature to his left. As he tried as hard as he could to repel the dozens of zombies that attacked him, he looked frantically around him, looking for his brother’s face, a piece of trench coats, anything. However, all he could discern in this inhuman mass was blood and violence.

Story’s over.

- "Sam!" He called desperately. Fingernails were sticking up in his neck and he let out an anxious growl.

Welcome to The End.

- "SAM!"

- "Dean?!"

It was Castiel’s voice. Cas was alive, somewhere, also drowned in the crowd. Dean turned his head in the direction of the voice but saw nothing but creatures. With one hand, he planted his makeshift weapon in as many zombies as he could reach, with the other he repelled three assailants at the same time. The whole universe seemed to spin, alternating between grunts close to his ear, then a foul breath against his neck, replaced a moment later by teeth, nails, blood, he was pushed to the left, then to the right, and suddenly he found himself torn apart in the middle of tens cold bodies.

He clenched his jaw. It was unbearable, he did not know how much longer he could hold on or even if his family was safe.

- "At eight o'clock!" Sam’s distant voice cried out.

Dean took care to remove his stake from an eyeball before daring to turn his head in the indicated direction. As he struggled to discern the slightest sign that his brother was alright, he noticed a large vault hidden by the trees which was completely open after his previous occupants had decided to join the conflict.

Without further thought, Dean threw his body forward and repelled a dozen of the undead at the same time, bending his muscles to make himself heavier and to fight his way as quickly as possible. He had to get to that vault if he wanted to survive. He needed to take stock of the situation and check that Sam and Castiel were okay. To take shelter. His heart tightens when he briefly saw Jack’s deformed-faced corpse further into the cemetery.

He rushed to the vault without thinking any more, his weapon firmly in the palm of his hand. Dean felt a multitude of hands clinging to him, trying to hold him back, but he pushed them all away, feeling the collar of his t-shirt cracking after a move more abruptly than another. He managed to walk a few meters before finding himself in front of a creature larger than the others. The body that this soul occupied must have been at least six feet long and it was missing the jaw as well as most of the skull and an ear.

Dean growled. From the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel trying to rush to Jack’s body before confronting himself to a zombie wall. The angel seemed to hesitate for a long time, looking desperately at Jack before steps backwards, going the opposite way to the vault.

Dean turned his attention firmly to the gigantic creature in front of him. He quickly realized that his opponent would not let him pass without a fight, so he quickly threw himself forward and decided to attack his legs to easily put him down and continue his way. However, despite the obvious lack of brain in his cracked skull, the monster understood his strategy and intercepted Dean’s attack with a knee blast. The hunter barely managed to avoid it before swooping again on the zombie, this time using his stake to try to destroy the rest of his skull.

The creature deflected his blow, taking advantage to grab his arm and twist it painfully. Dean uttered a strangled cry and dropped his weapon. It was his luck to fall on the six-foot zombie capable of freaking kung fu. Suddenly, he used his other hand to blind his enemy by sticking two of his fingers into the creature’s eyes. Dean repressed a retching when one of the eyes dislodged and sunk into his opponent’s face, but he was relieved to see that his arm was free again, the creature pushing a complaint more upset than painful while backing down.

The hunter did not waste time and rushed back to their makeshift shelter, leaving his lost weapon in the lawn, the sudden night giving him no indication as to where it had fallen. He did only half a meter before feeling long fingers grabbing his ankle and pulling him to the ground. Dean found himself falling face down with a choked oof. His heart went crazy, panicked, as he turned around to see what had caught him.

The giant was there, at his feet, and wasted no time to climb over him, painfully sticking his nails into Dean’s ribs. The latter let out a new complaint before kicking furiously, trying to dislodge the creature and stood up. When the zombie approached his foul breath from his face, he winced and crushed one of his hands against the monster’s chin, trying as hard as he could to shove him back. The pointed nails rose on his body and lodged themselves in his shoulders, some in the back of his neck, pushing his head irreparably towards the creature’s contorted mouth.

As distressed grown inside him, Dean turned his big green eyes away from the mutilated face of the creature and frantically looked for something to help him. He certainly wasn’t going to die under the weight of a walking corpse in the middle of a cemetery, not without leaving with a bang anyway.

The other zombies around had stopped, forming a circle around them as in a bad boxing match, the spectators eager to know who would win the game. Dean turned his attention to his opponent when he found nothing to defend himself. In a rush of despair, he dislodged his left hand from under the zombie’s body and began to grope the ground near him, his right hand still holding the face of the other at an acceptable distance. His heart swept when his fingers came into contact with the cold metal of a firearm.

Not believing in his luck, Dean uttered another grunt facing the effort of repelling the creature upon him and closed his hand on the gun. With a sharp and skillful gesture, he positioned it correctly in his palm, directed it towards the creature’s belly and removed the security. With one last gasp, he pulled the trigger.

A deafening explosion rang and immediately the creature uttered a cry and threw itself back, probably more surprised than because of the pain of the gunshot. In his movement, he scratched Dean’s torso and sides wildly, his body automatically shriveling with pain. But the hunter did not have the opportunity to feel sorry for any longer, and he gathered his last strength to give a violent kick into the wounded belly of the monster in order to remove it definitively from him.

Immediately, Dean pushed on his arms and legs and stood up, stumbling briefly in his haste, the gun still firmly in his palm. The other monsters did not react immediately either and he took advantage of it to rush towards a breach in the circle of creatures in order to escape. He passed the body barrier without much difficulty and ran as fast as possible to the vault, sneaking through the remaining enemies.

Sam and Castiel were already there, barely defending the vault until Dean joined them. When this was done, Castiel repelled one last creature who was trying to reach them — stabbing it in the throat with his angel blade — before the two brothers heavily closed the doors behind them. Outside, monsters pushed and pressed against the massive wooden shutters, howling, scratching, growling, striking.

- "Sam! The candlestick!" Dean cried, the three men holding the door with all their weight.

The youngest turned his head sharply to the side and noticed a large iron candlestick placed on a dusty headstone. He hurried to pick it up and jammed it tightly between the two door handles to hold it shut. Dean and Castiel moved hesitantly away from the entrance and Sam breathed a faint sigh when they noticed that the candlestick seemed to hold, the youngest passing a distressed hand in the hair.

The crypt was dimly illuminated by some torches — strangely lit — and by the glow of the moon filtering by some rare loopholes. The place was jumbled with dust and old objects, the tombs occupying the entire back wall being completely open and empty.

Apart from the muffled screams from the outside, the place was silent except for the three erratic breaths of the newcomers. Castiel still held his angel blade as if he were ready to fight, eyes glued to the door that trembled fiercely on its hinges. Sam had begun to pace back and forth in the room.

Dean let out a trembling sigh, trying as hard as he could to catch his breath, a stitch in his side plowing his belly as he glanced through the crypt. He winced when he carried a hand to his ribs and felt the scratches that the zombie had left there. When a more pronounced pain flared out in his belly, he grits his teeth and let his fingers slide down. He frowned when he came into contact with something wet.

Confused, Dean lowered his eyes and pushed his hand away from his stomach, the simple act of grazing his skin sending waves of pain through the top of his body. His expression hardened when he noticed that his hand was drenched in blood. His blood.

Suddenly, as if the mere sight of his own blood had activated something in him, he felt sick. Dean then noticed the pain that radiated throughout his body as the adrenaline gradually left him. His hands were shaking and he was pale, his legs like cotton. Without really understanding why, the taste of iron had invaded his mouth and something was flowing from a corner of his lips, tickling his chin.

- "Dean?" Castiel called, turning himself in his direction with a restless face.

Sam also turned his head towards him. Dean glanced at Castiel’s face as the angel’s eyes widened, all his attention turned to his bloody hand.

- "Dean…" He then repeated in a strangled breath. His eyes passed over the hunter’s other hand and he suddenly seemed horrified.

As if in slow motion, Dean followed his gaze, his brain almost paralyzed by too much information. He raised his left hand and remembered that he still had the weapon he had used in the cemetery. It only took him a few seconds to notice that it was the Equalizer that Sam used to shoot God. The weapon that inflicted the same wound on his wearer as on his opponent. His heart fell into his chest.

His legs could no longer bear his weight and he collapsed to the ground, the pain in his belly now too much present. He heard Sam and Castiel calling him again and rushing at him. Everything seemed to be happening too fast for his poor, numb brain. Was he dying? Did he kill himself? The wound he had so far ignored — probably due to too much adrenaline — seemed to overwhelm all his senses, and soon it was the only thing he could focus on. His world then boiled down to the gaping hole he had in his abdomen. He tried to analyze the information that reached him as the smell of blood flooded his nostrils. He could still distinguish the voices of Sam and Castiel over the buzzing sound in his ears.

- "Cas, do something!"

- "Did you see him shoot anything?!"

- "I don’t know, you have to heal him now!"

- "I don’t think I can-"

- "Castiel!"

- "I CAN’T, SAM!"

Dean coughed once. Twice. He spat some blood too. The pain that this created in his belly was agonizing and he threw his head back, whining. His world was gradually reduced to muffled sounds and blurred shapes, the blackness threatening to swallow him up. It was strange. Dean always thought dying from a bullet in the stomach would be slow and very painful. That he would have time to feel every little piece of his body die before finally giving up his last breath. But while the pain was indeed unbearable, he quickly lost his sensations. Maybe the bullet had time to do more damage than he thought while he escaped from that bunch of zombies.

Dean almost did not feel the hands that landed on the sides of his face, or when someone forced his head to stand up, a pair of knees coming to lodge underneath him as a pillow. He barely reacted to the slight slaps on his cheeks, or the voices that kept calling him, begging him to hold on. He was unable to speak and was getting cold, his eyelids constantly trying to close.

Let me sleep, he thought. Please let me sleep. Everything hurts less when I sleep.

- "DEAN!"

He did not answer, his mouth furry, his eyes finally closing without succeeding in opening again. Seeing his life flash in front of his eyes before dying was bullshit, thinking about all the people we love and leave behind as well. Dean was just falling asleep, and everything he had been, everything he had felt and experienced, none of it mattered. As if he slowly evaporated into the air in the simplest way it can be, its existence extinguished at the same time as the pain in its body with a form of inexplicable relief.

And he stopped breathing.

And time passed. Quickly and slowly at the same time, darkness being his only companion in death. No Hell, no Heaven. No Purgatory. Just the most total silence and the feeling of floating. He was neither sad nor happy. He didn’t think of anything, like he didn’t know how to do it anymore, like he was never capable of it in the first place. An eternity like a second could pass that he would not notice. Then the pain resumed in his belly and he opened his eyes.

Dean took a big breath of air, opening his lungs to the fullest, his pupils shrinking as light flooded his vision. He felt that it was the first time he had breathed in his life, and maybe it was somewhere. He recognized the crypt that he had left an indefinite amount of time before, heard the zombies scratching at the door not far away, felt the hands of his brother and his best friend grasping him while he stood up hurriedly. What the hell just happened?

As Dean struggled to catch his breath, the noise outside stopped abruptly. The door stopped jumping back and forth at the pace of the horde of creatures and the candlestick stopped clicking between the two wooden doors. An unusual silence set in and the whole universe suddenly seemed dead.

Dean firmly grabbed Castiel’s arm, which helped him to stand up, his eyes wet and unable to focus somewhere, the pain he had previously felt in his belly replaced by panic. A trembling hand against his abdomen confirmed that he no longer had any injuries. The hunter lifted a frightened look at Castiel who looked back at him, none of the three men understood what was going on.

- "How are you? How do you feel?" Sam asked quickly, passing a worried and maternal hand on his older brother’s forehead.

- "F-Fine. I think." Dean pants.

Castiel nervously squeezed Dean’s arm and checked by himself that the hunter no longer had any injuries, his fingers slightly shaking for someone who was not supposed to feel the slightest emotion. Dean was still trying to figure out what had happened when a thud echoed behind the three men, startling them. They turned around and saw on the ground a heavy tombstone broken in half, visibly fallen from one of the walls of the crypt. On the top was engraved a simple name. Winchester.

Dean swallowed. If they really needed a final warning, here it was. The end was here.

* * *

@winchester-reload

Hey! I know, I’m like super late. But hey, life happened (and 15x01 of Supernatural too), and I didn’t want to be too much behind with the Suptober sooo... I kind of cheat with this one haha. I tried to make it a little longer, hope y’all enjoyed it anyway ^^.

You can check my masterlist for the Suptober 2019 here

Tagging peoples cause why not :

@echooz @aliceollormusic @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover@styggtroll@thanks-tacos@petrichoravellichor@iamcharliebradburylevelperfect@ladywaywarddsc@hellfire37 @didnt-survive-twist-and-shout @destiel-221b-sabriel @aloha-cowgirl @alexia-kline-winchester@destielhoneybee@mylifeisbrulette@dysfunctional-destiel @ozonecologne@doofcas@castielrisingabove@zoerayne2426 @tibbinswrites @naomishamiga @vicmc624 @thegirlofstarlight @berrieseveryday

( and @staycejo1, sorry, I didn’t saw your comment before now, but here you are haha).

#suptober2019 #suptober #inktober #inktober2019 #day 10 #day 11 #day 12 #Destiel #destiel fanfiction #destiel fanfic #supernatural #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #angst #season 15 #weapons #r.i.p #suptoberart2019

57 notes · View notes

eleventhdoctorsangel · 5 years ago

Text

The hunter and the dauntless leader

Summary: Y/N and jack find themselves alone in the divergent world. Now both having to by time till Sam, dean, and cas find them. But they had to choose a faction. That faction was dauntless.

Of course Peter was on Eric's team also. Molly and Edward was also on Eric's team. I actually like the two of them and most everyone else on Eric's team. I help passed out the guns to the people who are on Eric's team. I got a little nervous when I gave Peter his gun. Because he gave me smirk that made me feel uncomfortable. Once I was done I went to stand next to Eric. The train finally stopped near an abandoned carnival. That's when the teams split up. "Stay with me ok." Eric said to me. I nodded as I followed Eric. I listen to Eric as he and the rest of the team made the plan for the game. Everyone was told were to go and want to do. Edward and I were told to stay with Eric. “Funny how she was the first one pick to be on this team. Now she get told to stay with Eric.” Peter said. “Dude can you just leave her alone for once.” Edward said. “You guys do know why she is ranked number one? She is sleeping with Eric. That’s why she is ranked number one.” Peter said. I rolled my eyes. “You’re full of shit.” Molly said. “You don’t believe me then how do you explain this bruise on her neck.” Peter said has he grabbed me pulling me towards him moving my hair. “Let me go.” I said as I started to hit him in the chest. That's when Eric grabbed me by my waist pulling me away from Peter and pulled his gun on him. “I’m only going to say this once and very slowly hopefully you might be able to understand. Y/n is not ranked number one because she and I are sleeping together. She is ranked number one because she is one of the best if not the best initiates dauntless as seen in years. Just because you are threaten by her does not give you the right to make up lies about her. If I hear another lie about her come out of your mouth you are out am I making my self clear.” Eric said. Peter nodded. “Good. Now everyone spread out.” Eric said and everyone went to where they were told to go to.

I was sitting behind a wall with Edward listening for when Four’s team would show. “You shouldn’t let Peter bother you.” Edward said. “I don’t. I never had why started now.” I said. “Are you actually sleeping with Eric?” Edward asked. “No we haven’t slept together. But have we kissed a few times yes.” I said. “Well maybe Peter is jealous of Eric.” Edward said. Which made me laugh softly. “Please Peter has hated me since day one.” I said. Then I started to hear voices. I motioned for Edward to be quiet and motioned with my hand for him to go one way. He nodded and did. I was about to go the other when I was slammed into the wall and fell to the ground. I let out a small groan of pain. “So the prized girl can feel pain. You know I started to believe that you were some sort of robot that Erudite created. Because no one can be that good.” Peter said. I laughed. “Well I can’t believe a Candor could be as stupid as you.” I said grabbing my gun and shooting him in the dick. Peter shouted out in pain as I quickly got up and ran as I heard peter’s gun go off. “I can see ‘em.” A voice said. “Light ‘em up!” Eric said as I made it to his side. I felt something drip on my cheek. I put my hand on my cheek and when I pulled it away I saw that there was blood on my hand. That’s when everyone started to shot each other. I had to get my mind back on the game and worry about my injury later as I started to shot at Four’s team. I watched as Eric and two other team member started to move and that when I saw Four and Jack. Jack must have seen that I was bleeding because he gave me a worried look. Four used one of our team mates as a shield as he shot at Eric. The two shot at each other missing till Four finally managed to shot Eric in the ankle then again in the chest. I stayed in my spot as Eric fell to ground groan out in pain. When Four got up from the ground and left I stood up and shot him in the back. Then I went to help Eric. He had already took the dart from his chest and I took the one out from his ankle. “Hurts like a bitch huh? Been shot a few times myself.” I said as I helped Eric sit up. “You were hit.” Eric said as he pulled a dart out from my shoulder. “ I didn’t even feel that. Must have been when Peter shot at me.” I said. “Hey your bleeding. I’m guessing Peter did this too?” Eric asked as he pulled out a cloth and put in against my forehead. “Yeah he attacked me. I’m guessing he didn’t like the way you spoke to him.” I said. Eric turn on his light to look at my cut. “This looks like it will need stitches.” Eric said. Then I saw Tris and Christina on top on the Clock tower showing that they caught our flag as their team started to cheer. “Let’s get you back to the train. There is no way that you are taking the zipline back.” Eric said. “Zipline?” I asked. “Don’t worry. There’s always next time come on let’s get you up.” Eric said as he help me up. But my legs gave out from under me. “Woah I got you.” Eric said as caught me then lifting me up and started to carry me.

When we reached the train Four was about to climb on when he saw that Eric was carrying me and he came up to us. “What happened to her?” Four asked. “Peter. She’s going to need stitches.” Eric said. “I got him back. I shot him in the dick.” I said. “Of course you did.” Four said as he climbed on the train. Eric sat me down on the side of the train as he climbed in then he picked me back up taking me over to a bench setting me down. “Here you might need this.” Four said as he handed Eric a first aid kit. Eric gave four a nod as he opened the first aid kit and started to clean my wound. “I’ll get you stitched up once we get back.” Eric said. “Aren’t the first round of ranking going to be announced later?” I asked as Eric put a of gauze over my wound till we got to his apartment. “Yes and you’re not going. You made it you’re ranked number one.” Eric said. “Why can’t I go?” I asked. “You probably took quite a hit. I don’t want you to over do it.” Eric said. I nodded as I felt the train stop. “Can you walk?” Eric asked. “I think so.” I said as I stood up slowly and started to walked off the train. I was about to step off the train when it all went black. I woke up on the couch in Eric’s apartment. “I’m glad that you’re awake.” Eric said as I noticed him walking back in the room. “How long was I out?” I asked. “Just a hour. Don’t worry I already stitched you up while you were out.” Eric said as I sat up and he sat beside me. “I was probably easier to handle huh?” I asked laughing a little. “You’re always easy to handle. You’re friend Jack was ranked fourth. The rest of your friends made it.” Eric said. “ I should get back they’re probably worried about me.” I said. “Well you said you could walk and you passed out. You are staying with me tonight.” Eric said. I nodded. “You need to wash off. I’ll carry you to the bathroom.” Eric said as he picked me up carrying me to the bathroom. He sat me on the counter. “I’ll go get you something to wear.” Eric said as he left and came back a few minutes later. “Here it’s going to be big on you.” Eric said. “I can handle it from here.” I said taking the sweater from Eric sitting it next to me. “Sure you can.” Eric said. “You just want to see me naked don’t you.” I said smirking. “I just don’t want you to pass out on me again.” Eric said. “Sure. If I need help I’ll yell for you ok.” I said. “What if I just want to take a shower with you.” Eric said and kissed me. “Mmmhh as tempting as that sounds I should take alone. Since it is now official that I have passed the first stage I will tell you everything.” I said. “You don’t have to if you are not ready.” Eric said. I shook my head. “No I’m ready.” I said. “Ok. I’ll be right outside the door yell if you need help.” Eric said kissing my head and walked out of the bathroom. I carefully got off the counter and walked to the shower and turn the water on. As I waited on the water to warm up I took off my clothes and got a towel. I washed the blood off from around the wound being careful about not getting the stitches wet. I washed my hair and body then stayed under the hot water for about ten more minutes. Then I turned off the water and grabbed my towel. I stepped out of the shower and dried off then put back on my sports bra and underwear than the sweater that Eric gave me to wear. I folded my clothes up then left the bathroom.

The hunter and the dauntless leader taglist: @importanttyrantruler @jaiboomer11 @darkqueennox @letsthedogpackandthecats

Supernatural taglist: @darkqeennox

Overall taglist: @the-broken-halo-writer

#eric coulter imagine #supernatural imagine #jack kline #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #kelsee's works #Do not reblog unless it's from me

49 notes · View notes