#anyway she falls in love at first sight so yeehaw it works out

[moeblob]

She can transform into a dragon and then falls in love with a man on a mission to slay all the dragons he finds. Who then begins to travel with her brother and his friend and keeps hearing about how "my sister could kick your ass" and he tries to keep his sister away from the dragon slayer because that's a risk he won't take.

Then the sister ends up marrying the dragon slayer.

The end.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

Pythia - A Supernatural Rewrite. Dead In The Water, p1.

read it on ao3. masterlist.

words: 11,982

notes: this could technically be considered part .5, since we don't get into anything episode related until next chap - but i thought it was important to give u more bg on Reader!! same goes for the dean-centered parts of this episode, since for this one i'm giving you some HEAVY sam time. enjoy your cutesy but sad motorcycle not-pining.

i referenced some spn neat spn fics for this one. though you don't have to read them to understand this ep, i highly recommend it since they're so damn good: Stop Hitting Yourself by Rokhal, Fire of Unknown Origin by britomart, And Rage Is Mingled With His Grief by StillWaters1. yeehaw!

i also wanted to clarify that i don't like when people give reader inserts last names + premade parents, but our psychic reader has both for the sake of the plot!! you'll love Beth and Ray trust me ;)

enjoy <3 next part: dead in the water, p.2

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - NOV. 14th, midday.

The first snow would be hitting soon. After a childhood raised off the river here, you’d learned to feel it in the air. Fall was not the powerful, crowned buck it’d been in October; the roads of your hometown were foggy, the buildings seemed flatter, and the grass was packed down into dry gray-blonde sheets. Sometime in the weeks you’d been gone, the buck had suffered an arrow wound and was waiting for the cold to set in.

You propped your head on the chilled window of the backseat, watching the industrial brickwork and buckling sidewalks whisk by. Little avenues of rain runoff emptied into street grates. Kids spilled out of your old high school, rushing onto the sidewalk to start the trek home. Your brain instantly associated these sights with the end of a hunt—more specifically, Dean dropping you off at your apartment to go off on his own. Wistfulness dragged in your gut. For the first time in more than two years, you and the boys were going home together.

Instead of taking a left for your apartment, Dean pulled into the right turn lane and turned up the rock station. He always claimed that your hometown was the only city he’d been in with decent radio. The guys at your Dad’s old autoshop job loved Dean, so he always borrowed their garage when he was in town. You had vivid, amber memories of Dean working on the Impala there, and between asking you to hand him wrenches, he’d hum soulfully and cheesily along with what was on. So many of your quiet moments were filled with that sound, like an instrumental break in the soundtrack of your life.

“Shouldn’t we call ahead?” Sam asked, closing the book he’d been reading. How he could process letters, never mind a whole book, while Dean and Dean’s music were on full blast, you had no clue. He tilted to look back at you. “Your mom won’t be upset if we just drop in, will she?”

“Are you kidding?” Dean answered for you. “Sammy, think who you’re askin’ about…” He shot a superstitious look to the building as he pulled in, smiling. “Lady probably already knows we’re here.”

Dean parked in the slim alley behind the store, like always. The house had been in your family for a couple generations, and from the back, it definitely showed. If you squinted at the brownstone long enough it seemed to have this tilt to it, like an old man putting his weight on his cane. You’d always thought of the Proctor house as a hyper-vigilant, eerily silent butler—it had all the unease of a haunted house combined with the stateliness of a gentleman. The windows had elaborate iron frames. The roof was lined with ornate, detailed trim (with all sorts of hidden sigils you’d been trained to recognize). Your mother claimed the brick they’d made the house with had been mixed with salt, but you weren’t sure that made it possible for the place to still be standing. Knowing the house you’d grown up in, it’d probably find a way to tough through it anyway.

The gate to your mother’s back garden was locked, so you took the side alley around to the front. The face of the Proctor house was far more unassuming; the entire first floor had been gutted and renovated into your family’s business, Lucky You Antiques and Collectibles. A wall of faded glass advertised the furniture your mom had repolished, the upcoming Thanksgiving deals, yadda yadda—nothing explicitly psychic, except for the grand eye decal on the front door. At this time of day it cast an arching shadow all the way to the register. You tried not to shiver at the sight of it.

“Shit,�� you said, patting down your jacket, “I left my keys in the trunk.”

“I���ll run back,” Sam was saying, but Dean had already shimmied past you, circled through his keyring and slid his own copy into the lock. “I got it,” he said, innocently, and gestured you inside.

Lucky You was closed for the day, so Dean opened the door to an empty front room gleaming with glass figurines, books, and antique furniture. Everything was sprucey and dark, with an ever-hovering cloud of faded cigar smoke. Tightly-spaced aisles juxtaposed circles of armchairs and coffee tables for sale. Even day to day it never really looked the same way, but something about it as a whole hadn’t changed a bit since you were little. There were still identical notches carved into the bookshelves where you’d knocked them over roughhousing with Dean. Your mom had never replaced the lightbulb in the back corner, since that was Sam’s job and she just never found the time to do it herself.

The centerpiece of it all was a huge, threadbare carpet the length of two Impalas. It used to be a product, but it’d sat there for so long that eventually it was absorbed by the store. Dean used to joke that it was the mother of all dust bunnies, since every time, without fail, Sam would choke out into coughs when he crossed it. Dean watched Sam enter first with a strange look, like he was waiting for the past to recreate itself.

You found yourself doing the same. The last time Sam had been here, he’d been half as tall and half as filled out in the shoulders. You’d noticed when you’d reunited with him (especially when you’d hugged him), but the change was even sharper in a familiar place, where you could overlay the image of gangly past Sam with his current self.

But Sam didn’t cough once crossing the rug. Instead, he scratched at his neck in the anxious way he’d been doing since Jess died, completely unaware of you and Dean, and said idly, “Your mom needs to check the devil’s trap underneath this thing—all the walking’s probably rubbed it right off.”

“I’d almost forgotten about that,” you said, sliding in after him. You wondered what made him think of that. “I’ll remind her—or Dean can put it on his list.”

Sam turned on his heel, hands in his pockets, and cocked an eyebrow at Dean. He enunciated, “Your list?”

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged one shoulder, and twisted around to lock the door behind the three of you. “Sometimes the girls are too lazy to do stuff, and I gotta earn my keep, between Beth’s food and ____’s—” he gave you a dry look, “blessed company. So I do favors.”

“Chores,” you corrected, slyly. “And shut up, dick, you love my company!”

Dean flicked your ear as he passed, and sauntered down the cramped employee hall that lead upstairs. Again, he unlocked the door and held it open for you, blighting out the sun with a glowing, mischievous smile just for you. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin’.”

Opening the door to the stairwell was like passing through a portal. On the first stair, you were met by the crescendo of Elvis dancing down from the second floor. The familiar sound of your mother’s records coupled with the smell of lunch launched you back into high school, kindergarten, and all the memories in between. You remembered Sam standing guard here with a shotgun on his lap after you’d been attacked. You remembered tip-toeing down these steps to go drink with Dean. You remembered talking to the portraits of the seers before you, who followed you with their eyes even now.

Needless to say, you kept your focus on your footing.

The second floor of the house was a stark contrast to the gloomy back-garden and commercial front. All the polished paneling in the walls, the harsh brickwork, and the dramatic, smoky lighting had been replaced and overlaid with your mother’s retrofuturist decorating. Your grandmother had left behind a ton of 50s’ stuff that your mom loved too much to throw out. Ever since you were little, she’d been utilizing it. You, Sam, and Dean passed the wall of the front hallway pasted from floor-to-ceiling with vintage diner signs, most of them rosy-cheeked women selling Coca Cola or hot dogs. The three of you kicked off your shoes.

“Ma!” You shouted over the swaying music. “We’re home!”

No one emerged. Behind you, Dean was the first out of his boots and was already clearing his way to the kitchen archway. He scuttled across the checkered linoleum and landed happily in the mock-diner booth, the one your mother had repaired a thousand times, and cackled like a maniac. Laid out on the kitchen table was lunch—your favorite, Dean’s favorite, and Sam’s favorite, each on its own plate.

In one hand, Dean scooped up the huge bacon burger your mom had pan-grilled for him and uttered ravenously, “Beth, I would kill for you!”

“She must be busy upstairs,” you chuckled, and turned to Sam, “I think she made you—”

Sam had lingered behind to remove his jacket. It looked like something had caught his eye on the corner turning into the living room, something low to the ground and carefully preserved. He was running over it with delicate fingers, and hearing your voice, he looked away, embarrassed. Or maybe it was closer to shame.

You shuffled closer to get a look. At about the height of your hip, there was a soft pink line that had faded with time. ____, age four. It cascaded up a little bit, then was joined by a red marker, Sam, age three, and above that in green, Dean, age six. The lines mingled. They lapped each other, especially in Sam’s case, or clung in pairs until certain ages. You could plot out the fierce height competition you’d had with Dean in middle school. It was clear on the chart that the last time you’d been taller than both of them was at ten, just before Dean had hit puberty. Sam was a late bloomer. He wasn’t even close to becoming his behemoth self until 1998; Sam, age 15.

Sam stared at his most recent mark on the wall, letting his hand fall back to his side. He didn’t say anything—just looked and looked, like Sam, age 19, could take him back in time if he brooded on it hard enough. By then, he’d beat you out, had already started doing pre-law online, and was level in height with Dean. That had been four years ago.

You glanced at the hall behind you, where your mother had yet to appear, then at Dean, completely absorbed in his burger. “Hold on a second,” you told Sam, and started hunting around the kitchen junk drawer.

“You don’t gotta…” Sam cleared his throat, but you were already pushing him gently into the wall with a hand on his chest. He clarified, “I’m not your brother. You don’t have to…”

“No, but you’re my family,” you said, without pause. “What kind of best friend would I be if I left you out of a family tradition?”

He didn’t care that much about resisting after that, because soon he pushed his heels into the wall and straightened his back. You had to stretch a little, but without any fuss you were able to set a warm palm on his hair and draw a new line well above the others. Sam, you wrote, age 23. The other marks had all been written in your mother’s loopy handwriting. ____, age 19, and Dean, 21, matched all the others, so your addition at the top seemed out of place. You choose instead to think of it as the crowning jewel of your childhood, of all those lines. Look, it seemed to say, we’re still together after all this time.

You thunked the marker down in a nearby pen cup, then brushed the smeared ink on your jeans as you admired your handiwork. “Hm,” you preened, “Finished. Only took… what? Twenty years?”

Sam looked demure. He dipped his head, and asked no one in particular, “Have we really known each other that long?”

“Feels longer,” you remarked. Dean was loudly enjoying his burger in the other room, and you rolled your eyes at him to avoid confronting how soft Sam’s voice sounded. You thunked him on the back, grinning, “I guess we can officially say we’re never getting rid of each other, huh?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, eyes swimming with enough honesty and emotion to make your chest cave in, only to drop it all at once. You followed his gaze over your shoulder.

“There you are,” your mother greeted, her voice rendered quiet and disbelieving. She was smirking to suppress a well of emotion, and twisting constantly at a used, dusty rag she’d been using to clean. “I was just getting your room ready, ____…”

You were a spitting image of Beth Proctor, in ways so surreal and specific that you’d always figured it was a part of the family genes; each and every psychic Proctor wore the face of a long-dead ancestor. An ancestor who you thought was beautiful in a severe, Mona Lisa sort of way. At least in terms of your mother. A secret loomed permanently in her eyes, which at this moment were flush with building tears. There was a graceful, haunting air to her, which only made it easier to imagine her peering into a crystal ball or divulging everything about a person with just a look. Beth was a real seer.

She sniffed. “Are all three of you…?”

On command, Dean appeared in the kitchen archway and Sam stepped into the natural light of the open living room, each on either side of you. “Present and accounted for,” you beamed, and Dean wiggled his fingers in a wave over your shoulder, “Hi, Ma.”

Your mother’s eyes drifted across you and the boys, her thoughts a hundred years away. She propped her fists on her hips, swelled up as sternly as she could, and shook her head. Dean started inching further behind you, just in case you were kids again and Ma was about to deliver the scolding of a lifetime—for sneaking out or being reckless or worrying her sick. Instead, Beth scrubbed her tears across her wrist.

“Damn you,” she cursed, “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Sammy, baby, c’mere.”

It took Sam two steps to close the gap between them and hug her just as hard as she hugged him. He was easily two heads taller than her, but the way she scooped him close made Sam look eleven again, when he knew about the hunt but was too young to do anything about it. What he’d said barrelled right into you as they embraced: Have we really known each other that long?

John Winchester had only a few places he could leave his boys when he went off hunting, and the safest and easiest place was the Proctor House. The building itself was warded. Your mom knew the truth—about him, about the world—and knew how to take care of kids. Looking back, you imagined it had started small. John had nowhere else to take infant Sam and toddler Dean. He’d probably insisted it would only be a one-time thing, but then it’d happened again and again and your mom had cared less and less.

You’d been a real lonely baby, she’d told you once, sewing with the window open. The evening light had layered over her face like stained glass. I was so worried about you… You hardly cried. You barely made any noise at all, and you didn’t really like to play with toys. All you wanted was to hear me and your dad talk to you.

It occurred to you, as your mom hugged a man who wasn’t her blood, that the boys were here because of you. Things would be different otherwise. If you’d been a happy baby, if she’d put you in normal daycare to make normal friends, if you’d even breathed a word about being scared of John or not liking his sons, none of this would have happened. But you’d been alone and quiet until two other lonely and quiet kids walked into your life, so it didn’t matter if Sam wasn’t your mom’s blood.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, honey,” she was murmuring to him, but Sam was saying the exact same thing to her. They separated and Beth cupped one side of Sam’s face, the eye of her right palm pressed flat to his cheek. “I went to the apartment,” she told him, somber, “I couldn’t sense much, but I did get your car—it’s down in the garage, if you ever need it.”

Sam sunk into his shoe-soles. “Thank you,” was all he said, and a blue shadow passed over your mother’s face.

It went unsaid that she knew everything that had happened. You never were sure how much she knew exactly, even in comparison to what your own gift showed you, but for a brief second all of it seemed to flash across her face. She drew her palm away from Sam’s cheekbone, and on instinct you pressed your nails into the flesh of your right hand.

“You make Dean look like a shrimp,” Beth chuckled, and Dean grumbled in offense. She hooked an arm under his back and the other around your shoulder, and like you, bloomed under the relief that the three of you were with each other again. “Hello, sweetpea,” she smirked at you, then at Dean, “And oh, hush, you big baby. You jealous ‘cause you want a hug too?”

“No,” Dean scoffed, snapping his arms down to his sides. “I, uhm, just don’t want all this nice food to go to waste. Seein’ as you made it all special, n’ everythin’...”

Your mother shared a conspiratory, amused look with you in the corner of her eye, inviting you into her secret for just a moment. Even as an adult you felt she didn’t do that with you much, but sharing the Gift gave you both a strange understanding. As much as you hated her covering for John… Like her, you’d seen the future, and there were some parts of it that just couldn’t be shared or spoken. She’d been at this a lot longer than you might ever be; and she was your mom, so you wanted to trust her.

“You’ve got that case, up in Manitowoc,” she said, (a statement of fact), “I figured you’d be stopping by, and I figured I should give you something better than road food. Get on in there and sit down. Dean, you want a beer?”

The four of you migrated into the kitchen, Dean at the lead in order to reunite with his burger. “Sure,” he said, and Beth jut up her eyebrows until he added, “—please?”

You slid into the booth where your plate was, and noticed, conveniently, that your mom had put you in the corner with Sam. The booth wasn’t the grand dining hall you remembered it being as a kid, so Sam had to fold his legs and shove into your space a little to fit. Maybe it was a little too obvious that it didn’t bother you, because you caught Dean squinting at you over his lunch. Just to remind him who he was messing with, you tapped your teeth and stuck your tongue out at him—Dean found the lettuce you were pointing to and pouted as he worked it out of his incisor.

“Can I have a beer too, if that’s okay?” Sam asked. He picked up his fork and turned over the salad Ma had made for him, warmed with gratitude. It really had been a while since he’d eaten anything homemade. “This looks amazing. I don’t know how you have all the time to put this all together, Beth.”

Ma squinted at him, then relaxed with realization. “Of course. Sorry… For a second there, I forgot you’re old enough to drink,” she chuckled and disappeared into the retro, rounded-off fridge to one side of the kitchen.

When Sam’s head was turned, she hung in place and devoured the three of you with her eyes. You could feel her basking in it, memorizing the sight of each of you, but you didn’t acknowledge it. Both of you had been captured by deja vu today. The world was right when Dean was chowing down across from you and you were fighting Sam’s legs for territory under the table, like always.

Ma cleared her throat. “And I enjoy cooking, you know that, Sam. I’m just happy to have somebody to cook for. Sometimes the neighbors or our regulars will come up for dinner, but it’s not every day I get to treat my biggest eaters.”

The smell of your favorite lunch wafting up from your plate held all the power of a comfort potion, and after the first bite you felt the tension wound in your joints dissolve. It tasted like summer wind, when your mom would pack a picnic and take the three of you to the park…

Once, a group of little kids your age had begged the boys to join their baseball game in the field there, probably imagining their tough, jaded faces made them amazing players. Sam had just left soccer behind and was eager to play a sport. Dean was all for schooling some punk middle schoolers. You remembered him, maybe thirteen or fourteen, helping you off the grass, assuming without question that you were invited too—because they’d asked Dean, and you followed him around like a third arm. But the kids wouldn’t bite. All that dumb playground shit about girls and sports and cooties. It hadn’t felt great, but Dean used to throw that same kind of stuff at you because he was a bit of a stupid kid, so you were used to it. Sam had insisted that he wouldn’t play without you, sporting a mean grin that looked a little strange on his shy face. You’re losing your best hitter.

Still, the kids had shoved you off. Both the boys had really wanted to join—they didn’t get the opportunity to play without getting in trouble for not “lying low”, so you figured they’d give up and go play without you. It was fine. Sam was lying; you were an awful shot. You were the girl, so you were used to it.

That’s when your mother had emerged from the trees, glowing in the high noon sun, the shadow of the baseball she was tossing and catching in one hand bouncing across her face. You still remembered the white sundress she’d worn. She’d known, she always knew, so she’d packed a ball and a bat too. Let’s play our own game, she’d suggested, and her little army of three had merrily lined up after her. With Dean as pitcher and Sam in the outfield, she’d taught you to hit. You insisted to this day that the wooden bat she’d brought with her was flimsy, but Sam and Dean swore that it was solid all the way through—that your eleven-year-old self had really splintered it in two hitting a home. They’d gone wild, Sam waving the ball around, Dean picking you up and running in circles, the two of them chanting: Mean Swing! Mean Swing! Mean Swing!

You wondered now if your mom had orchestrated it somehow, but that would be impossible. As afraid as you were to go home, to this old ass house with its older portraits, there were other, better things to come back to.

Beth pulled a chair up to the edge of the table, resting her elbows across the back. She laid two beers down in front of the boys, the kitchen windows throwing soft blue-gray light across her figure, and watched fondly as Dean opened his. He took one sip, and the moment he put it down you captured it and stole one of your own.

“You hear anything from our Dad?” Dean asked, putting every ounce of his focus into the napkin under his plate.

“No,” your mom was careful to reply, “but you don’t have ta’ worry, he disappears like this often. I’ve learned not to be too stressed about him, but for your sake I did put word out. I’ll keep looking, but you know your dad—his list of hunting buddies is as short as my patience. I’m not going to hear much.” Her eyes slid away from her hands to you, and you got the impression she wasn’t telling the whole truth. “____? You’ve been real quiet.”

It wasn’t a malicious probe. She was just curious, and by the soft fondness in her face you felt like she was fascinated by your inner world. You talked plenty about Sam being the only one to be genuine about understanding your Gift, but your mother was right there beside him, not just understanding but appreciating, too. Sometimes she looked at you like she knew she’d given you a terrible burden. Neither of you like the Gift. Other times, there was relief and pride there, where it looked to her as if you were doing everything she wished she could do. Run away from your last name. Run away from the parlor, and the eye brand you shared.

(But still. She’d always read with the palm of her hand, eye forward, and you hid behind your knuckles instead).

For a moment you considered pushing back on the John thing, but if your mom was choosing to cover for him, she’d go to grave about it. After all, you wouldn’t hesitate to do the same for Sam or Dean. The future could give each of you all sorts of reasons to protect them.

“Just remembering things.” You answered her, thumbing your carnelian ring, “How long has it been since we’ve had a movie night?”

“I think it’s too cold to put up the projector in the garden,” Ma said, tapping her lip, “but we can always use the TV in the living room—thing’s busted to shit, but it’s not awful.”

Dean threw an arm over the back of his bench. “S’ not giving you trouble again, is it?”

“No, it’s useable,” Ma lifted her head, “but actually, Dean honey, now that you’re finished, the bathroom sink’s all broken again. Do you think you could…?”

Dean was already up, dish in hand. “You got it,” he said, and jabbed a finger between you and Sam, “Just don’t pick anything stupid, capiche? No girly shit, or nerdy shit, or whatever you girly nerds like to watch in your free time.”

As soon as Dean had dragged the toolbox out from under a cabinet and disappeared with it, you knocked your arm against Sam’s and conspired, “So… Legally Blonde?”

Sam broke out into a hesitant, closed-lip smile. He seemed a little caught off guard by the joke, but he was your minion before anything else, and indulged most of your evil plans. “Nerdy. Girly. Sounds like a plan to me.”

“You’re my favorite,” you elbowed him, maybe fishing a little too hard for something to cheer him up. If it was possible, in any sense of the word, to cheer someone up after losing someone like Jess.

It seemed to have an effect, even if it was a minor one. Sam’s lip quirked, “I know.”

“Thank you, Han and Leia,” your mother said, dryly, and mirrored Sam by folding her neat hands on the tabletop. “Now… tell me about, your, um…”

She was going to bring up Stanford, then realized what a terrible idea that was. You filled in, “...Our last hunts?”

“No,” your mother laughed, recoiling a little in her disapproval. Seamlessly, she rolled into another subject, and you were forced to fight a little with your own awkwardness. Ma said, “Oh, I remember. These last weeks I’ve had this brother and sister coming in for readings…”

She descended into the story, keeping you and Sam entertained while dodging the subject of Stanford, where you’d been for the last month, and why you’d been gone in the first place. There was no need to talk about it. Ma already knew, and watching Sam act less and less like himself just hurt all three of you. Sometimes she’d reach across the table to squeeze his closed fists or push your plate a little closer to you, but beyond that she only observed Sam for a reaction. This was not just the kid she’d half-raised walking back into her life, but a porcelain vase scrambling to patch the cracks as they came.

Sam spent most of the time chewing slow and unwinding slower. Of course, him being the way he was, he was just thankful she hadn’t scorned him for getting out while he could. He knew he hadn’t just left John, Dean, and you behind, but Beth and Bobby too.

“That reminds me,” Ma hummed halfway through one of her stories, “That cousin hunter duo, the two girls from Arkansas, they came in last week and asked to see you. I told them that I could help them if they’d like, but they insisted on only seeing you! As confused as I was, I gotta admit, I was a little proud—they’re your first regulars, baby!” She bustled over to the sink, her palm winking at you as she walked, “I got my first customers like that a little earlier than you, when I was nineteen. But I guess you beat me out, what with the boys getting fortunes from you when you were little n’ all.”

Since her back was turned toward the sink, you were allowed to physically deflate. “Oh… I don’t remember them.”

“I gave em’ your number,” your mother brightened, and started to arrange the dishes for washing. “Honestly, I’m surprised your address book isn’t full! You’ve always been better than me at the personable part of it.”

Pathetically, you glanced at Sam like it was even possible for him to help you, and played with your carnelian ring. “The visions come easier to you.”

“Oh, but that doesn’t matter if you can’t talk to them. It’s more important to care about the people you’re giving visions to, if you really want to help them.” Ma glanced at you over her shoulder, crow’s feet wrinkling with her sigh. “I’ve been at this so long that I suppose I’m a little desensitized—but you, you always give a little piece of yourself away when you give your readings. I always wished I could be that giving.”

Sam cleared his throat, and with it you felt a bit of your composure gouged out of you. “Let me help with that,” he said, and filled her other side to assist with drying the plates.

Ma snorted, “Sam—”

Before she could get anything out about him sitting back down, Sam’s voice bowled right through her. The timbre of it was calm but forceful, and just the hint of memory in it knocked the breath out of you. It was the tone that started every argument he had with John—the voice swearing that he knew better, the voice that in another, luckier version of this life, would make him a damn good lawyer. Your fists snapped shut beneath the table.

“She is really giving,” he agreed, with just enough heat to make your gut drop. “Every day, she’s out there straining her Gift, n’ working it to the bone for people she hasn’t even met. I never really got to see her doing both until now, being a hunter and a Proctor.” He snapped a cabinet shut, and punctuated, “But she can do both.”

Your mother sharply dropped a bowl into the filled sink. Biting your tongue, you watched her raise her all-seeing gaze to Sam’s, a reply stirring in her throat. But she cared about the two of you too much to press him or you or his grief. This argument had been stirred between the two of you for years now. It came back into circulation every few months, so there wasn’t even a little anger in her face. She just tilted her head at him, curious, and sorted through what he’d said. It’d been two years since Sam had stood up for you at the smallest threat, and something about that had made your mother emotional.

(Sam had never cared about hunting. He despised what it meant to be a good hunter, and that left you wondering what he meant by that. That you could do both).

“I suppose I haven’t seen her do both, then,” she said.

And she let it go.

_

You were dreaming, but a part of you was bracing for a vision.

Usually the distinction between the two was obvious. Your own dreams sat in the cloud of your mind, the edges of each image or moment fizzing with your consciousness. Visions on the other hand totally subtracted your presence, simply dropping the feelings and pictures on top of you. It was the difference between a touch from your own hand versus the touch of a stranger’s. Ironically, it was safer to get visions of someone you didn’t know. Seeing the boys or your mother always hurt more.

That’s why you weren't certain this was just a dream. The fog of your own mind blurred the corners of every frame, but it hurt, buzzing in your beehive skull. It had to be a combination of both or something else, the clear future blended and muddled by your more human dreams.

You were dreaming as Sam: standing barefoot in the mud, watching a hunting cabin burn even in the rain. The drops were hissing against the choking, smoking blaze, not strong enough to make a difference but persisting anyway. A part of you, the Sam part, knew that even a hurricane couldn’t cleanse the fire. Your fingers and lips were blue with cold. But something inside you, living in your blood, was singeing you from the inside out. It was so hot that you ripped off your jacket and your pajama pants and itched, because your limbs were frosting over but you’d started the fire. Dean was hauling you up, and you were driving, and driving, and Dad was pissed and terrified. I forgot to blow the candles out, you—Sam—sobbed, but he knew he was lying. He didn’t sleep and he didn’t touch wood or candles or go near the fireplace at Bobby’s, because through the walls he’d heard Dean ask: Was it the thing that killed Mom? And Dad had said, I’m going to find out.

Had he?

Sam—you—were on your stomach, sinking into your mattress. Something hot dropped onto your neck. A second time. Both tears of molten iron slid down your skin and into your collar, and you knew without looking that there was an altar on your ceiling—knew without looking that Jess was being sacrificed there, even if the dream forced you to look. You saw her. She was crying, and mouthing Sam’s name. The room dissolved into skin-bubbling cabin flames.

You, or Sam, were standing on the side of the road—and then you were sure it was Sam, because he could feel you behind him, desperately trying to coax him back towards the Impala. A dog had been clipped by a truck and left in the grassy ditch. At a distance, it didn’t look like a dog. Just the vague outline of roadkill. All Sam could see was the waves of bloody blonde hair in the grass and all he could feel was the air puttering out of him, hitching and heaving. Your hand was cupping his back, then his neck, and Sam flinched. The blood had burned into his skin.

Then Sam was somewhere else, anywhere else. A motel or a house, it didn’t matter. He was in bed on his stomach again, hand clamped against the cresting sobs searing out of him. He knew what came next. It always happened, no matter how hard he fought or prayed before he went to sleep. Sam was pushed onto his back. Some nights it was Dean or Jess or Mom, and he always knew when it’d be Mom because, paradoxically, hers were always the most vivid. But this time it was you; and you were trembling with terror but you were also braving it, like you always had for him, and a seeping wound smiled its way across the belly of your nightgown. You didn’t scream. You just wept, staring at him. You didn’t say Sam’s name or cry out for him. All you said was, it’s okay, and that terrified him more than anything.

The molten blood dripped. Sam was too pinned to even squirm, to twist away, so the blood splattered onto his cheek and slid neatly into the closed line of his mouth. He could smell the iron. It tasted… It tasted…

You woke up, heart roaring in the ringing silence.

The memories of the dream sludged together, poorly translating in the transition from sleep logic to waking logic. You ran your tongue over your lip, feeling the dry, cracked skin there, and jolted up in bed.

The third story of the Proctor House was technically the attic, and on nights like these, it felt like it. Your childhood bedroom was shrouded in blue darkness, the kind that could take a limb if you dared to put your arm inside it. The room was made darker in contrast by the long square of silver moonlight carpeting the old floorboards. Your curtains fluttered on their own, shifting even when the wind wasn’t murmuring through the cracks in the panes. The entire house seemed to breathe, a dying man on a respirator, his death groaning through the walls and door frames in the old house. What sat between the cresting whispers of the wind was easily worse: long, disturbing silences that watched you sleep.

You stopped. There was a gentle crackling noise, like something was putting its hands flat to the windows and pressing. Sleep was still muddling your brain a little, so it took a bit for clarity to melt back into you, and for you to remember:

The rest of the day had been spent in your mother’s living room, you crammed in between the boys on the couch and your mom lounging in her wingback. Dean stopped suffering through Legally Blonde about twelve minutes in and started to enjoy it, the stress melting out of him through contact with your shoulder. Squished between him and Sam, you lent one ear to the movie and another to Sam and Ma talking avidly about the book he was reading. That had dissolved into another movie, and after that Ma had called it a night. Being on the road so long had killed the three of you, so you disappeared up into your old bedroom and the boys insisted on taking the living room. For a few minutes after you heard them fighting over who would take the couch. Then Ma had thrown an uninflated air-mattress out at them and told them to shut up, followed by a night’s worth of peaceful silence.

All of it had passed in a sunny haze, even if the first snow was fast approaching. As you’d brushed your teeth you’d felt a sense of impermanence, though, and argued away the feeling with your reflection. John wasn’t coming to pick the boys up tomorrow. The next few weeks wouldn’t be canyons of radio silence. Your wish had come true, in the ugliest possible way.

Now, you crossed the clinging silence of your room on light feet. Your dagger hung casually in your other hand, just in case. In this house you didn’t technically have to salt the room, but you’d already finished the windows when you remembered that. Similarly, it was second nature to wake up at random to check the lines, so in the navy darkness you crouched before your closed bedroom door and straightened the granules with the flat of your knife.

The only sound in the entire house seemed to be the soft scrape of the blade against the floor. Then, the softer squeak of the stairs just outside your room.

Brandishing your dagger, you held your breath. Someone’s lungs hitched. You didn’t want to wake the whole house if this wasn’t a demon or a hunter breaking in, so you quietly wedged the ancient door open and peered out. It was cast in total darkness. The pale blue moonlight from your room seeped out into the hall and passed through the banister, throwing ghostly shadows across a broad figure’s back.

Immediately, you dropped your dagger on your dresser and stepped out. “Sam?”

He didn’t turn around. His shoulders were trembling like the shivering muscle in a horse’s flank, scaring away flies. The bone-deep, unconscious sort of shaking that no actor could mimic, that didn’t look right on a person in real life. Sam’s head was tilted back to get the full scope of the staircase’s wall.

The pictures there were hard to discern in the dark, but Sam had wandered back to them so many times in his life that he didn’t need to see them. He always lingered on the stairs whenever you passed them. Beth had given Sam his own copies of them ages ago, but if you had to guess, Sam wasn’t magnetized to the wall because of the memories there. He always came back to them because of what they represented.

Most of the photos, in their mismatched frames, were of you. There was a grouping of your baby photos, each little ___ in lace dresses and pink hair bows; a cute-faced toddler on her father’s shoulders, wearing matching biker shades and smolders; you being kissed to death by your mom after your first day at school. Somewhere along the way two strangers had crept in. Sam saw a framed candid of an eight-year-old, long-suffering Dean wiping finger-paint off your face, which was glowing with pure admiration. (Because at age six, there was no one cooler to you than Dean Winchester). The one Sam hovered over the longest was of you and him, fresh to driving and posing for junior prom. A few more dotted the physical timeline of your life; the giant werewolf snowman you’d made together, Sam’s spelling bee victories, Dean and Ray—your dad—working on cars together.

Most of them, including the ones with Sam and Dean, were in one massive frame. It was inscribed with, the love of a family is life’s greatest gift.

“Sammy,” you touched his shoulder over the banister, praying for a response. “Did you—did you have a nightmare?”

It was so quiet that you could hear your heart aching, and like a question mark it didn’t have a precise sound—just a change in inflection at the end, an uptick or a downtick. The sound of worry in your chest was unquestionably a downtick.

His nickname drew him out of his paralysis. Sam swiped his wrist across his eyes, and hovering on the stairs, a soft weeping hiss seeped out of him. “I-I didn’t wanna wake you up,” he said through his teeth.

You rounded the newel and dropped down a step as silently as you could. Sam turned, now level with you on different steps, and softened in surprise. “Hey, what’s—” you started, but shut your mouth the moment you met his open, searing gaze.

“You’re crying,” Sam said at the same time as you, reaching out.

You tongued the corner of your lip, tasting salt there. You really were crying. “Huh,” you said, and maybe you should’ve been a bit more bothered by it than you were. “Don’t worry, m’ okay. I must be picking up your feelings a bit.”

Sam’s expression collapsed with remorse. “God, I didn’t even think—I-I didn’t mean to affect you—”

You took Sam’s hovering arm and drew him into an exhausted embrace, bundling both arms around his neck and taking as much of his weight as you could. The difference in height between your steps gave you a rare opportunity to be just as tall as him, which was new and yet nostalgic. He used to be the perfect height to hug you. But this hug was for him, no matter how much he wanted it to be for you, too. Sam held strong and then immediately sunk, trusting you to catch him. The unconditional faith he put in you never failed to make your tear ducts burn, so no matter what you kept the two of you standing.

Another sob jerked out of him, and Sam dug his face into your shoulder and let it all out. But after two weeks of this, his well of tears had already dried, and all the bottling he’d done hadn’t contributed anything to their stores.

“It’s okay,” you soothed, shakily, “just breathe with me for a minute.”

Sam dug his fingers into the back of your sleep clothes, heavy and feverish with loss. He flinched away when your hand cupped his neck, which was raw and red from all his phantom itching, and you thought about stroking his hair instead. You were always the affectionate one—but you didn’t want to push Sam, not now. Not when it could mean you were filling someone else’s role.

You felt Sam’s hand tap across your back, slowing with realization. He twisted the fabric of your nightgown in one hand, and slow, mounting horror filled your chest as his palm pressed carefully into your belly. Searching for a wound that wasn’t there.

Sam pulled away, voice almost too broken to hear. “...Why are you wearing this?”

It was an oversized, long-sleeve shirt for sleeping in. The fabric was light blue—but in this light, it looked white, and the Nightmare on Elm Street text at the bottom looked like a gaping, crimson wound…

Your hands snapped to Sam’s shoulders, forcing him to look at you. “I’ll change.”

“M’ sorry, m’ sorry,” Sam repeated, “You don’t have to, I just—”

“Shh,” you said, feeling beyond stupid, “You got nothin’ to apologize for. Now, go in my room and get comfy. I’ll be back in a second.”

Sam didn’t look so sure. His legs were braced to run, ready to turn tail and forget he’d bothered you at all, but you were already slinking past him down the stairs. He uttered your name to argue, but you shut him up with a warm squeeze of his hand. “Don’t make me chase you, idiot. Go on. We’ll have a sleepover, just like when we were little.”

The fight in him died, and Sam, probably feeling a little pathetic, dropped his numb shoulders at his sides. He pressed his lips together and trudged into your room. You waited until his shadow interrupted the moonlight, then crept downstairs and hunted around for supplies: meds, water, and snacks.

When you returned, you were a little impressed with yourself for not waking up Dean. He had a sixth sense for these kinds of things, and as much as you loved the guy, you hadn’t had any serious time alone with Sam in two whole years. His brother had sort of been hogging him. Sam must’ve realized this too (or maybe you were projecting), because when you returned, he was sitting on the floor beside your bed—not fighting to go back to sleep under your watch, per the month’s routine.

Sam had also turned on your lamp, warming the void-like corners of your room with buttery light. In the most detached, innocent way you could manage, you thought to yourself that Sam looked beautiful. His face was too heartful and sweet to belong to cold, blue darknesses. You thought about the last time you’d been alone with him, when he’d left for Stanford. Vile, self-loathing bubbled up out of you without your permission. You changed into a comfy flannel in the bathroom and tried not to think about it—you had moved on and Sam had moved on. Simple math.

You closed the heavy door of your bedroom with a click, and with the barrier between you and Dean’s bloodhound ears, you could talk at a normal volume. “Do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?”

Sam’s hands stilled in his lap. “No. Probably not.”

“Fine by me,” you shrugged, and glided past him to the record player on your table. Compelled to do something with your hands, you mechanically popped in one of your mother’s oldies records and lowered the volume to comforting background noise. Maybe that would keep Dean from waking up at the sound of your voices.

“Your dick of a brother has been hogging you. It feels like it’s been ages since we’ve sat down and just talked like this.” You plopped down next to him and brought your knees up to your chest, already plowing through the bowl of blackberries. “Pray to whatever god you believe in, Sam, because I’m about to unleash on you two whole years of bottled-up rambling.”

His lip quirked. “Dean doesn’t sit through your scientific conferences?”

“In the beginning,” (and what a strange phrase that was to use; there was a beginning and now an end to Sam’s absence in your life), “he tried, I think. But after two days of me explaining black holes to him, he sorta gave up.”

Sam emptied some headache meds into his hand. “How’d you do it, then?”

“Do what?” You tried to avoid thinking about how wet his eyes still were.

“Survive.” Sam snorted. “I mean, last year was huge for all the stuff you geek out about—all those exoplanet discoveries, the Mars rovers making it past their expiration date—”

You slapped Sam’s knee and practically shrieked, “Or finding proof of water on Mars!” He started smiling, so you hooked an arm around his shoulders and shook him until he was laughing at your excitement too. “Water—you know, the stuff microbial aliens might’ve lived in? Oh my god, don’t even get me started!”

This was around the marker for when Dean would say, trust me, I won’t. Even if you were putting on a bit of a show to goad better feelings out of Sam, you knew by now that you were probably being annoying and backed off.

“By all means,” Sam leaned in, his eyes glittering with interest. “Microbial aliens?”

For that reason, it was really his fault that neither of you fell back to sleep. Microbial aliens turned into wendigo sleeping patterns, and that changed hands into an hour-long discussion of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Sam had tried Twilight, but the vampire lore had annoyed him too much for him to finish reading it. Stanford had kept him pinned to his law books beyond that. This derailed into another hour of complaining—”If I were a vamp I’d be so damn offended!”—about the accuracy of supernatural literature, which passed in the blink of an eye. You did a dramatic reenactment of Rick Grimes riding through zombie-infested Atlanta in volume one of The Walking Dead, including the impressions Dean did when he read it with you. Sam was in stitches.

The rhythm of the conversation felt circadian. You graduated from the rug to curl up on your bed, just an inch away from the edge so you could incline your face toward Sam’s. He hadn’t moved from the floor, but unwound there, wrists on his knees and a constant laugh in his chest. You buried any thoughts of his moles or the pencil-bump on his middle finger under your tongue, which was cottony from the hours of talking. He offered you the last sip from his water. You rolled onto your belly and took it, shamefully wondering if his lips had touched the same place on the glass.

“Dean actually read it with you?” Sam scoffed, brows disappearing into his bangs.

“Zombies. Guns. Apocalypse drama. That is so up Dean’s alley,” you snickered, dropping the glass on your nightstand. “We kinda got each other into comics again last summer—he forces me to reread Batman Year One every few months, for the culture.”

Sam’s face had been a canvas for honest color the last hour, so you noticed too quickly when that changed. This time, he did a pretty solid impression of you innocently detaching yourself.

“You and Dean are closer than I remember.” He commented plainly. Jealousy looked strange on him.

You hummed. “What d’ya mean?”

“You guys… read books together now. Share tapes, cook together… I don’t remember you doing anything like that when we were kids.” Sounding surprised, Sam added, “You’re best friends.”

Hearing that, you couldn’t help yourself. It was impossible not to burst out laughing. Sam’s head swiveled hard to throw you his, c’mon, give me break, brand of bitchface, so you humored him.

“We’ve always been best friends,” you promised. “Must’ve been less obvious then, cause’ you and me have always had more in common than me n’ Dean, but he’s always been my best friend. You both have.”

Sam ran a finger around the rim of the blackberry bowl, staring into the dredges like he could read them. “I guess I’m just thinking of how things were when I was, um, going to leave. I thought you two were,” his eyebrows raised, “...falling out.”

The because of me went unspoken by him, but you got the feeling that Sam didn’t fully grasp the battering ram he’d hit you with by leaving. John became even more ferociously driven. Dean had phases of clinging to him with both hands or going cold on you both, because he wanted his family together but couldn’t believe John had driven Sam away in the first place. It was hard to watch, but even harder to participate in. There was no doubt in your mind that Sam had made the right choice. You believed it enough to endure John booting you out for “putting ideas in Sam’s head,” and made sure to spit in the guy's face before hitchhiking home. There were all sorts of similar screaming matches at the time. Some nearly physical.

Dean had hunted you down himself, despite John’s orders, then paradoxically snarled at you for arguing with his dad at all. It encompassed the hypocritical loyalty he had for his father so perfectly that it only made you more upset. Thing was, you always turned to Sam when you felt that way—so by the time Dean’s energy for yelling hit empty, you were bunched up on the side of the road and sobbing into your hands. A part of you had hated him for not trying harder to support his brother. You’d killed yourself watching Sam walk away, and then a second time defending his choices from John. Dean hadn’t done a damn thing.

One more angry thought and you would’ve never spoken to him again. But you understood Dean, almost as much as you loved him, so you knew that his inaction weighed on him even more than it weighed on you. Given a second try, he would’ve fought tooth and nail for Sam to live the life he wanted.

Sam had every, every right to leave. Still, half of your soul had severed when he escaped. That was one thing you had in common with his brother.

But Sam hadn’t witnessed any of that. All he’d seen was the nuclear argument the week he’d left, and now magically you and Dean were attached at the hip. Two years of silent, methodical work had occurred when his back was turned, which was something you felt he deserved to know about.

Sam’s gaze was open and curious, so you didn’t shy away.

“We almost had a falling out, yeah,” you murmured, picking your nails. “I was pissed at Dean and he was pissed at himself. But if I’m being honest with you—and you can’t even hint that I said this, Sam…your brother was real lonely.”

I know I was too, you wanted to say, but the words tasted like a guilt trip. Sam could guess, anyway.

“He had Dad. And you.” It sounded like something he told himself often.

“That’s what you’d think.” You sighed. “But John went quiet on us pretty quick, so it ended up just being me. Dean, y’know, kept waiting for me to shut him out. And it just never happened. He pushes people away when he gets like that… so it surprised me when he offered to help me rebuild The Chief.”

Sam had been marinating with the knowledge that John had mourned him, hands folded over each other in his lap and seared white by his own grip. It was The Chief that had him whirling to look at you again. He was suddenly on his knees at your bedside, a soup of surprise and old grief mixing achingly on his face. You thought there might’ve been some pride in those charged brown eyes too.

“You’re joking,” Sam breathed, incredulous, “Your dad’s motorcycle? I thought it was destroyed in his accident?”

You resisted the urge to lean away from his proximity, and it was all too easy to stay in. Shrugging one sleepy shoulder, your voice ticked up: “Basically. The remains sat in the garage for years, rotting away into scrap metal. Dean kept reminding me that my Dad had wanted me to inherit it, and eventually we fixed it up together.”

Sam caught your wrist. “Where is it?”

“The garage,” you sat up, grinning despite yourself. “Do you wanna see it?”

_

Like bandits, you and Sam hurtled into your jackets and planned to escape out into the night. You both knew the house by touch, so you navigated easily through the dark apartment, giggling and hushing each other as you slipped past Dean. You thought you saw him lift his head in the darkness, but it gradually fell back onto his couch pillow. It’d been a long time since you and Sam had been able to slip away together.

The garage was a stout little building across the alley, filled to the brim with the discarded memories of a dozen generations of Proctor. It was cold enough to see your breath in the air ahead of you, so you and Sam bundled close as you skirted quickly across the alley. The walk was maybe twenty steps from the backdoor, but it felt like any other time you and Sam had run off as teens. The unfallen snow waited in the silent air. Frost grew like moss on the pavement. You caught yourself preparing to turn right, which after a short walk would lead you to the nearest 24-hour convenience store. You and Sam rarely had money for yourselves growing up, so sometimes you would pool your resources and share a jumbo slushie, which you traded sips from huddled together on the pavement. It was too cold for that now.

While you fought with the garage’s side-door, Sam dropped his hands into his pockets and stared down the endless length of your street’s back alley. From here, you could make out the shadows of chain-link fences thrown across the tarmac. It was so silent you thought you could hear the tinking of moths against porch lights. You felt his hand brush your back. For no reason at all a stomach’s worth of butterflies roared over you, but you knew he was just reaching for your dagger in case something crawled out of the dark. The house was warded; not the slim strip of street behind it.

“Open sesame,” you murmured when the lock was close to giving. Finally, the ancient door groaned open, gliding inward to reveal a wealth of rich cobweb-y darkness.

A single sconce bathed you both in amber light. You threw a grin at Sam underneath it, and gestured for him to enter the slightly-terrifying, cramped murdershed. “Gentlemen first,” you flourished, smirking.

The sound trailed off—Sam was already looking at you, and intensely. The tips of his nose and ears were rosy from the cold, but his cheeks were especially red, coloring him down into his collar. He glanced away from you and lost a bit of the pigment.

“You’re twelve,” Sam muttered. But he really was a gentleman, since he graciously led the way inside.

The darkness was less intimidating once you were inside it. Your eyes adjusted after a few blinks, then you could make out everything you and Dean had left here last summer. There were huge wooden shelves of random bins and shit, then tall metal tool chests that Dean had put wheels on decades ago. The bike had been finished by spring of Sam’s first year gone, so the last time you’d driven it was the following summer. You hadn’t touched it since. That probably should’ve disappointed you and Dean, but it was less about riding it and more about the cheesy, Hallmark movie time you’d spent putting it back together.

“Here?” Sam said, approaching the heavy tarp you’d thrown over it.

“Here,” you agreed, and hit the button on the wall which retracted the garage door. The motor rumbled it up, slowly exposing the silhouette of the bike to the moonlight. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Sam found a fold in the top, hefted it up and pulled. As expected, The Chief had hosted an entire realm of spiders while you’d been gone. Sam hardly cared. A laugh bubbled out of him, ecstatic and young, and in a daze of nostalgia he ran his hands over the familiar chrome and leather motorcycle. Chief reminded you of the cowboys from Dean’s favorite westerns. She was a steely sonuvabitch, with a tall windshield, a broad, muscled body, and three glaring headlights mounted on the front. The frame was a deep water blue with soft beige accents. Even if she’d been almost entirely rebuilt, you and Dean chose to keep the quirks that made her charming.

“Man,” Sam whistled. “She looks exactly the same!”

The Impala had the toy army man Sam had crammed into the ashtray in the backseat, and Dean’s legos were still rattling in the radiator to this day. Similarly, the Chief still had the B+R heart drawn in sharpie on the saddlebags. You’d torn a line in the passenger’s perch when you were little, and your mom had sewn it shut with pretty blue thread. What was new was the long, jagged scar in the head of the body. You had tried everything to get it out, had even painted over it, but the mark from your Dad’s crash was still there.

“You and Dean did this together?” Sam asked. He acted like you and Dean had never even looked at each other before, and silently you wondered if your argument with Dean two years ago had really been that terrible. It was apparently grave enough to wipe Sam’s memory of any friendship you and Dean had ever had.

“It was his peace offering, I think,” you cleared your throat. “He arranged everything with Ma, then surprised me one day with lunch and offered up the idea. It was… It was really sweet. Dean, he’s… he can be—”

“A closed-off asshole?” Sam offered. You huffed out of your nose and swatted him on the shoulder, but it was hard to even jokingly scold Sam when he was lit up like that. He crouched beside the bike, admiring the work that’d gone into it.

“Yeah. But a bit of a sucker, too. He loves you and he loves me, and it was one of those times where he was desperate enough to show it,” you shrugged. “We spent months in this garage, fixing it up. I learned a lot from him. So… yeah. I guess this is why we’re closer than you remember.”

All the spiders grossed you the hell out, but you kind of wanted to be a big girl for Sam, so you grabbed one of Dean’s old rags off the shelf and wiped down the seat and handlebars. Sam stepped back to watch you work; there was a similar admiration in his eyes then, too.

“I love it,” he gushed, “You guys did a great job. I know it must’ve been hard for you, after your Dad.”

Sam was full of sincerity, as usual, but the fact that he talked about it at all was refreshing. It’d been more than ten years since your dad had died, but Dean still kept his mouth shut and your Mom always changed the subject. You knew that they were mourning too—he’d been a partner and teacher, as well as your father. But you’d been ready to talk about him again for a long time. Not his death, but his life, which was understandably harder. Dean and your Mom just weren’t the type to roll that way, but Sam had studied how grief festered with age. He’d let you talk.

“It made me feel closer to him, to be honest with you. I don’t know if you remember, but we used to joke that he had two great loves in his life: my mom, and the Chief,” you snickered.

“I’m sure Beth enjoyed that,” Sam replied, dryly. He hovered at your shoulder while you cleaned up the bike, close enough to put you in the bubble of his warmth.

“Oh, she pouted, but deep down I know she loved it just as much as him.” It only took a little to make the bike gleam again, so once again your hands were left with nothing to do. You tossed the rag back on a shelf, hyper-aware of Sam and the two helmets hooked on the wall. “They took the Chief on their first date. She used to say that she fell in love with my dad on this bike.”

Sam leaned against the saddlebags with crossed arms, rolling a question around in his mind. The night was so soundless that you could hear a pin drop a block down. But it was a peaceful silence, with room in the air for thought, so you looked at Sam and tried not to explode with joy. It’d been weeks now, and you were still blown away that he was here in person. That you had him all to yourself again. Standing across from you, Sam seemed to glow with the same soft relish.

Unlike Sam and Dean, you’d had the fortune of growing up in a place with roots. You had a childhood home and a hometown. When you went to school, you went there until you graduated, and people knew you and you knew them. You had friends. Girls that you’d known since kindergarten, boys who’d been coming to your birthday parties since you were in diapers. But your lunch table-mates, your lab partners, and study buddies—not even one of them could even imagine what your real life was like. What you were really like. The only people who’d ever actually understood you had all been passengers on The Chief: your parents, Dean, and Sam.

“You should take it with when we leave tomorrow,” Sam suggested, smiling down at his warped reflection in the handlebars. “It’d be real handy to have two vehicles, I think, and you can get some use out of all the work you put into it.”

You probably should. It was a good, reasonable idea, but the picture of yourself alone on your bike, chasing the Impala’s exhaust… “I prefer the Impala’s backseat. S’ more roomy,” you smiled at your shoes. “Maybe I’ll take her tomorrow. But I don’t think I could ever handle riding it by myself for long.”

“Well,” Sam hummed. He pushed himself off The Chief, and you took that as a sign to leave. Stupid, childish disappointment welled in your chest, but it was your fault for hoping for something that wouldn’t happen. Sam was tired. He didn’t have time for teenage rebellion, not now.

Sam reached over your head. You thought he was going to collapse the garage door, but instead he unhooked a driving helmet from the wall. He offered it to you, a rebellious smile dimpling his cheek.

“I’m here, and I’m with you. Shall we?”

You double-taked. Wild, fervid excitement reignited in your limbs. You took the helmet, observing him carefully. “It’s past midnight. You haven’t slept in days. Are you sure?”

Sam got a helmet off the wall for himself, but thunked it onto the driver’s seat of the bike. Then he was suddenly in your space, dropping your heart into your boots and thudding it up into your throat in one simple step, rendering you still just by coming closer. It was different when Sam was the one initiating contact. The ball wasn’t exactly in your court this time, and there was no way he didn’t see it in your face because that’s all he was looking at. The helmet was taken from your hands, then set carefully onto your hair and over your face. You could feel his hands cupping either side of your head. Sam flicked up the visor so he could see you more, and pitifully your knees turned to jelly.

“Of course I’m sure. I trust you,” he promised, squeezing your shoulders. “Now, c’mon. I haven’t ridden this thing in years! We don’t have to drive long, I swear.”

Sam tugged on his own helmet and you sighed until your chest felt tight. It wasn’t obvious that he’d been crying just a few hours before, but you could still feel it in him. The difference between now and then comforted you. He was happy; he still could be happy, once this was all over.

When he didn’t get an immediate answer, Sam slyly commented: “You know, you called me your favorite earlier today. Seeing as I’m your favorite, I think that means you should drive me—”

“Alright, alright!” You laughed. “Get on the damn bike, Winchester. Just a few minutes, then we’re coming right back. You are such a snot.”

“Your favorite snot,” Sam reminded, and didn’t waste any time hopping onto the pillion.

Your mother and father had fallen in love on this bike. You’d put it back together with Dean, who was your best friend as much as he was your brother. But Sam—he’d always lived in his own realm, where he was both within your family and outside it. He was special.

This truth dug a little deeper into you than it usually did as you mounted the driver’s seat. Sam’s gangly legs were all in your way, his knees pressing into your thighs and his chest into your back. Even with the pillion being slightly elevated behind you, Sam made that distance feel small, snuggling closer without order and getting comfortable. The seats were freezing cold and so were the handles, but Sam was a furnace that melted any discomfort down the drain. You started the bike, and it rumbled to life like it’d been patiently waiting for the day you would come back. The motor’s throaty growl hit you like a punch to the teeth. It sounded exactly as it always had, when your dad was finally home after a long, faraway hunting trip.

You thought about your dad, and how he would race to get off his bike in time to catch your leaping hug; you thought about Sam making a point to talk about Ray when no one else would, and the little squeeze he gave you when The Chief pulled out of the garage. Sam shut the garage door behind you and together you peeled out into the cool, serene night.

You knew exactly why Sam didn’t fit a Dean mold or even a friend mold in your life. You knew why he felt special to you. But it would be murder to do that to Sam now, and you’d had enough of killing lately.

-

tags: @cookiemumster1 @seraphimluxe @leigh70 @emily-roberts @lacilou @cevans-winchester

ask to be added to my taglist!!

NEXT PART: dead in the water, p.2

[fragmentedink-archived]

Hell to Pay: Chapter Forty-One

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, IX, IX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XVIIII, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII, XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVI, XXXVII, XXXVIII, XXXIX, XL

cowritten by @lux-scriptum​

Killing usually brought a certain amount of satisfaction. Perhaps not the best response to murder, but it was Amara’s job, and this out of all jobs should have been something to look forward to. Instead she was just... focused.

Perhaps this was for the better. Stars knew if circumstances were different she would have loved to drag it out and have her fun. She’d missed that opportunity with Remiel, and Destris deserved to suffer just as badly.

Having Cyrus on her heels only made her more wary. Cyrus had no training in killing, or stealth. She was just lucky the witch was a genius at his job and when she demanded he walk quieter, had a spell up his sleeve to keep himself from making any sound at all.

It’d taken her all night to find Destris. And she’d spent the day debating how to go about this. It didn’t- it wasn’t fair, because Amara was gonna have to do this quick and efficient. It was going to be anti-climactic. She just knew it.

The only dramatics she was going to be able to comfort herself was this: walking right up to the door instead of sneaking in a window like she would on another job.

She knocked. Cyrus was a few feet behind her, as requested, out of harms way.

And then there Destris was. “Can I help you?” he asked mildly, lifting a single brow.

Banter was for after the fatal stabbing, so Amara flipped a knife out, and had Destris gutted from pelvis to throat in a heartbeat. She watched him crumple, feeling oddly empty as she watched the black blood pool.

Cyrus was kneeling, muttering a spell quickly as Destris went very, very still. Amara turned away when a sickly white glow filled the container Cyrus had brought. She dropped the knife on Destris’ front yard as she walked back to Cyrus’ car, sending Cameron a text to let him know it was done.

By the time Cyrus got to the car, she’d gotten her response: a single “k.” in response.

---

Amara had Cyrus drop her off at Bay’s house. She pushed open Bay’s front door and stepped through. She didn’t make it two feet before Bay appeared from the kitchen. “Get out of my house,” Bay said, irritated.

“I’ve got to talk to Nik,” Amara said.

“I’m not letting you until you learn some manners.”

“I need to talk to nik, please,” Amara replied, too... too much of something to force her tone to be flippant.

Bay gave her a flat look, but said, “Good enough. He’s upstairs.”

Amara jogged upstairs, going faster once she was out of sight for Bay. She found Nik in bed, but she expected that. She threw herself down beside him, curling into his side without a word.

“Hi,” Nik said sleepily.

“I bailed on you yesterday, and I shouldn’t have. Promise it was important.” She closed her eyes, and wrapped an arm around him.

Nik pulled her arm closer. “I know.”

“I’m hoping I can stop this soon.” She let out a shaky breath. “Go into semi retirement or something. I don’t know. Be a trophy wife for Cin, have a few kids around. Become domestic.”

Nik snorted. “I thought Cin was the trophy wife.”

“Cin’s a rich motehrfucker and I haven’t let him spend a cent on me, if I could help it.” Amara squeezed Nik lightly. “And stars know I haven’t saved any of my money. And I won’t touch the account Gramma set up for me.”

“That’s because you’re a prideful idiot.”

“Why take money that someone who hates me wants to give me?”

“I don’t know, then why do you take money that Cameron gives you?”

“Cus I earn it,” Amara said. “He buys my silence and time away from his house when I get too annoying.”

“And yet you still annoy him, so are you really earning it?”

She pinched his side. “I never said it’d be a permanent leaving. I’d miss you too much. What would I do without my best friend?”

“I don’t know, what would you do?”

“Be very bored,” Amara said, before resting her hand on his stomach. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but Nate must be feeding you well. I was worried you’d need to be tricked into eating like Cameron.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Nik accused.

Amara thought about that. “Not in a bad way,” she said, deadpan, before, “You just... look healthier already.”

“I don’t know why. I’ve been sick for days,” Nik muttered.

Amara hummed. “Probably stress.” She paused, and then took on a mock-serious voice. “Have you tried being less stressed?”

“Yeah, but then I overdosed.”

“Oof, had to make it serious, didn’t you?” She reached up, tugged on his hair. “Can I stay and take a nap? Not gonna lie, my job sucked ass.”

“It’s not like I’m doing anything.”

Amara hummed again, and pulled her phone out to text Cameron that she was going to be late for dinner. After that she tossed her phone to the other side of the bed. No need to look at the response; she knew Cameron wasn’t going to reply at all.

---

Cyrus showed up at his house at the designated time, on the dot. Cameron had to admit that he respected Cyrus’ need for punctuality as well as being an organized person in general. That made the witch tolerable. “I trust you have everything you need with you?” Cameron asked, at the doorway, eyeing the small bag with him.

“Yes,” Cyrus said. “Where do you want me to set up?”

Cameron led him back to Lev’s former bedroom. “In here,” he said, waiting at the doorway for Cyrus to enter. “If you fail this time,” Cameron said. “You will not get a third try.”

“I already told you this is my last attempt,” Cyrus replied. “I won’t put Lev through this again.”

“I am aware you have already told me,” Cameron said, annoyed. “I am saying I am keeping you to your word. If Amara tries to manipulate you, as she has already done, then I will leash her. Before you get started,” he said, “We are waiting for Ash to arrive. He’ll be here in a few moments.”

He didn’t give Cyrus a chance to respond before he turned around and went to get the door before Ash had the chance to knock. Ash looked a little worse for wear, but Cameron did not feel like commenting on it before wordlessly leading him back to the bedroom where Cyrus was already starting to set up.

Ash leaned against the dresser and folded his arms, waiting; watching. “Think it’ll work this time?” he asked.

“If it doesn’t,” Cyrus said, “There will be no third attempt. You have my word, as well as Cameron’s.”

“Well yeehaw,” Ash said. “Then we can all put this to rest. The moment you bring him back- if you manage it this time- I am taking over. I do not need your magic when I have my own.”

“Okay,” Cyrus agreed. “I streamlined the spell, so it shouldn’t take as long.”

“As long as you do it right,” Cameron said, mildly. “Do what you need to.”

Cyrus set up his candles where he needed, and looked to Cameron when finished. “You don’t have to knee, but I need some kind of physical contact. So I can channel you.”

“Very well,” he said. “When do you want to start?”

Cyrus moved to pull a book out of his bag, flipping to the page he needed. “Now.”

Cameron moved to press his hand to Cyrus’s back while he started reciting the spell for the next half hour. Both he and Ash watched acutely. Towards the end, the ashes that Cyrus had spread along the bed began to darken, until every speck seemed to suck the light from the room. Slowly a shape took form on the bed.

As the last word fell from the witches mouth, the whole room went dark. When the light came back, bit by bit, Lev’s body was there, chest rising and falling evenly. Ash pushed off the dresser the same time Cyrus hunched over. “Alright, witch,” Ash said, “step back. It’s my turn. Go take a nap. I’m sure Cameron will let you use one of his fancy bedrooms for all your trouble.”

When Cyrus seemed to not be able to move, he said, “Give me a second.”

Cameron leaned down to pick him up and carry him to one of the closer bedrooms and plop him down on the bed. “I know you did not take the magic you needed from me,” Cameron said.

Cyrus laid down and pressed his palm to his forehead. “I took what I needed and nothing more. Lev needs you walking and functional, not me.”

“I am perfectly capable of doing both,” Cameron clipped out. “But sure. This selfless act of yours is as annoying as Amara is. Sleep for however long you need. I will wake you for dinner.”

Cyrus closed his eyes. “Text Sorin for me?” He asked. “He’s going to worry, and I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist very soon.”

Cameron detested cell phones, but he did as asked. “When he shows I will direct him to your room,” he said, turning to leave, flicking the lights off on his way out. Cameron went back to Lev’s bedroom and leaned in against the doorway while Ash seemed to be doing a physical of Lev’s body. His face was drawn, tight and focused. “His body is here,” he finally said. “But I cannot sense Lev. I’m thinking a coma, or something similar at the very least.”

“Do you have an estimate for how long he will be like this?”

Ash shook his head. “Sorry but necromancy is a little outside of my wheelhouse of knowledge. The best I can tell you is either he comes back or he does not. I’ll do my best to keep his body functioning, but right now, he is the equivalent of brain dead.”

----

Nate slipped his phone into his back pocket. They had Lev’s body, and right now… Nate could not sense Lev’s soul. Not anywhere Inbetween anyway. He supposed his best option was to go see Lev for himself, to see if he could sense Lev’s soul there. But first he needed to check on Nik, and he found both Nik and Amara curled up asleep on a bed in the room Nate had set up for Nik.

Nate carefully went and grabbed a throw blanket to cover them both before quietly shutting the door behind him and decidingly drive to Cameron’s house. He spent the entire time seeing if he could sense Lev’s spirit, but got nothing. There was Darius though, and Darius joined him on the drive to Cameron’s house. “Do you feel him?” Nate asked, flicking him a look.

Darius seemed thoughtful, contemplative. “I don’t… not feel him. It wasn’t like before, when you had to bring him back. He’s… I think he’s stuck.”

“I’ve never really felt something like this,” Nate finally said. “Then again necromancy isn’t something that had been done before- at the very least in my lifetime.”

“Mmm.” Darius seemed a little amused. “Not something that’s been done in mine either. Life or deathtime.”

Nate snorted, but then sighed. Darius had the strangest sense of humor sometimes. And it was something Nate had come to appreciate. “After all these years,” Nate said, “You still care.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Darius asked, golden eyes lingering on Nate’s face.

Nate gave a small, rueful laugh. “I just might.”

“I understand; Why you’re so hesitant about Cameron. Nik is your brother. He’s your baby brother and he loves with everything he has,” Darius said. “And now he’s with my Cameron, who can come off as so reserved. You’re worried Cameron will repeat history.”

Nate thought on that for a good long minute. “I was,” he finally said. “Now, I’m reassessing my reservations. Or at least I’m trying to.”

“He does not make it easy,” Darius observed.

“That he does not,” Nate said, pulling into the driveway. He had the truck in park when he looked over, unsurprisingly seeing Darius not there. He had gone to knock on the door, only for Cameron to open before he had one knock in. “He’s in his bedroom,” Cameron said. “Next to mine.”

Cameron didn’t offer any more words before moving aside to let Nate in. The house was as spotless as his own, but seemed to lack the kind of warmth that Nate was used to. Though, it did feel like a calculated coldness; like his house was more a fortress than a home. Another stronghold of defense.

Lev was in a clean set of clothes, under a blanket with his hands folded on his stomach. If Nate didn’t know better, he’d say Lev was just sleeping. But he did know better, and he’d almost say that Lev looked like he was on display for a wake, as well.

Cameron leaned against the doorway, arms folded over his chest while he silently watched Nate work. The only problem was he didn’t quite know where to start, not when it came to things like this. He crossed the room to settle on the edge of Lev’s bed, brushing his fingers along Lev’s cheeks; his forehead, his chest.

Lev’s heart was beating, he was also breathing as far as Nate could tell. Granted, these kinds of matters were Ash’s domain but as far as he could tell, Lev’s body was in peak condition- he even wasn’t as thin as Nate had grown accustomed to.

Cameron seemed to let him work as long as he needed without unnecessary commentary. Nate closed his eyes, reaching for his magic and touched Lev’s skin. The glittering shadows that brushed underneath Lev’s skin weaved through blood and bone right down to Lev’s very core. “He’s there,” Nate finally said. “I can feel him. He’s just. Deciding.”

“Deciding?” Cameron asked, mildly.

Nate smoothed down the blanket and stood up. He stopped at the doorway and looked down at Cameron. “You asked if he was there,” Nate said. “And I said he was. He’s making a choice.”

Tagging: @incandescent-creativity @idreamonpaper @solangelo3088 @i-want-to-pinch-cams-cheeks @halstudies @alittleyellowdinosaur @caelisis

[leverage-ot3]

notable moments from The First David Job

leverage 1.12

sophie organized the notecards for the intervention

- - - - -

Sophie: Drunk again?

Nate: Are we still unclear? I'm a functioning alcoholic, you know? And the trick is not to get hung up on the "alcoholic." But celebrate the "functioning" part of the sentence.

- - - - -

Nate: Yeah, I- I know all this.

Hardison: No, no, no. See, while you are well-versed in dead-guy art, I myself am not. My entire criminal career is based on technology built after 1981. So I am riveted. Quite so. Please, do go on.

- - - - -

Hardison: Man, am I glad I don't have to break in there. That is one sick security system.

Parker: What, with our tools? Give me three days of prep, it'd be like taking diamonds from the French national bank. That's like taking candy from a baby.

Hardison: I got it.

Parker: A very easy thing to do.

Hardison: Got...it

I love her

- - - - -

Parker: Oh, look, little buddy. (picks up fake statue) That's your new home!

Hardison: Can you please not play with the little naked man? Please.

Parker: I'm not. (sets the statue down)

- - - - -

Eliot: You guys--you know each other?

Ian: Of course. Maggie is Nate’s ex-wife.

Eliot (nervously): Oh.

eliot being completely RATTLED lmfao

- - - - -

Parker: Which conversation do you want to listen to?

Hardison: That's what stereo was invented for.

- - - - -

Hardison: Now, Nate, is Maggie a very good Art Inspector?

Nate: Yeah, she's the best.

Parker: No, no, no, we can't let your ex-wife anywhere near our little naked man!

parker: don’t talk to me or my naked son ever again

- - - - -

Hardison: No, no. Nate, we haven't done any prep. We don't have our tools.

Parker: You want me to break into a secure storage facility with whatever I can scrounge up at the buffet table?

Nate: Pretty much, yeah.

Parker: Cool. I think Sophie left some dresses in here. (turns to look through things)

Hardison: I'll go, too. I, uh, I got a white shirt. I can go wait staff.

(Parker takes off her shirt and Hardison looks the other way, turning the fake statue away from her as well)

hardison is a bashful lil respectful boy and we stan him for it

- - - - -

parker walking in in that amazing dress and everyone looking? good, it’s what she deserves (I’m gay)

- - - - -

Parker: Door's got a silent alarm. (to Sophie) You should hide. (to Hardison) We should pretend to make out.

Hardison: Make what?

(Parker grabs Hardison and they begin to kiss and she pushes the door open a little)

[Founder’s Reception]

(Nate and Eliot turn to look at the building as the sounds of making out come over the comms)

[Museum]

(Sophie goes around a corner out of sight)

Hardison: Let's talk about-- A little bit--

(Parker and Hardison continue to make out. Two guards approach and seem embarrassed. One clears his throat)

Guard: You, uh, bumped the door there. Sets the alarm off.

Hardison: You know what?

Parker: Oh.

Hardison: We, you know how it is.

Parker: Sorry.

(guards walk away and Sophie rejoins them)

Parker: Makeup. (takes makeup from Sophie) Come on. (goes through door)

Hardison: Can we talk about the pretending? That was nice.

(Sophie pushes him after Parker and returns to the party)

poor hardison’s heart must be beating wildly

- - - - -

Eliot: Which one of you did she kiss?

(Sophie sighs)

IMAGINE IF IT HAD GONE THE OTHER WAY THO

- - - - -

parker’s laser grid dodging skills are legendary + her delight when she stands up to see the first david !!!

also we stan a QUEEN who broke into a vault with only a glass of ice, a roll of aluminum foil, gum, and eyeshadow (and a fake makeout sesh)

- - - - -

Hardison: You did not just think about this on the way in from the van.

Parker: Some people do crosswords

- - - - -

Maggie: I-I just, I’m just trying to tell you that I still care.

Nate: No, I-I was –

Maggie: Care what happens to you, I mean. I've never stopped caring about you, Nate

maggie is such a genuinely good person and we love her for it

- - - - -

Parker: Ready?

(Hardison uses his phone to access remote system)

Parker: Come on, come on.

[Parking Lot]

(alarms begin to blare an all the cars)

[Security Control Room]

Guard 1: Hey, the vibration alarm just went off in the restoration room.

Guard 2: Wait. (points at monitor) Look. The car alarms all went off in the parking lot.

Guard 1: Little earthquakes.

Guard 2: Just another tremor.

that’s so smart tho???

- - - - -

Parker tosses the real David to Hardison who catches it)

Hardison: Wha-you-- Don't throw the David.

Parker: You caught it, didn't you?

Hardison: You're crazy

I would have had a HEART ATTACK

- - - - -

Maggie: Adam!

Eliot (turns): Uh, yeah?

(Eliot stops as Nate continues away)

Maggie: Let me give you my number.

Eliot: Great.

[Leverage HQ]

Eliot: I'm sorry your wife gave me her phone number.

Nate: Don't want to talk about it.

Eliot: I-It was only to coordinate where we were gonna go anyway.

Nate: Not talking about it.

hardison is enjoying it so much in the background dnjsjajsjsnnsnn

- - - - -

(Parker puts the statue on the table between them)

Parker: We just stole an $8 million statue on, like, our day off! (she shakes their shoulders happily)

SHES BABY

- - - - -

Pilot: Uh, work? W-what are you talking about?

Hardison: Spot inspection. FAA. Now, look, I want to see this plane's TCAS, VRSM, and 8.1 FM spacing in operation to make sure it's fully functional and in compliance with the new FAA regulations.

Pilot: New regulations?

(Hardison takes out a pen and writes on a clipboard)

Hardison: Pilot unaware of latest regulations.

Pilot: Oh, the new regulations. Of course. Please, come this way. I'll take you right up.

Hardison: Oh, no, no. It's cool, it's cool. I don't need to go up. Just taxi me around the building.

Pilot: Taxi? I thought you need to get up in the air.

Hardison (writes on clipboard): Uncomfortable with black authority figures.

Pilot: Sir, please don't write that.

Hardison: Oh, I will write a letter to your mama if I feel like it.

Pilot: This way, please. It's in order. I-I promise. This way. It's okay. (to copilot) FAA, he's a hard-ass.

(copilot tries to get bags)

Pilot: Screw the bags. Let's go!

this was really funny but also SUCH A GOOD WAY to con people

- - - - -

quinn’s hair did nothing for him in this episode. i said what i said.

- - - - -

(Sophie and Nate get into his car and leave while Quinn continues to take pictures from the open door of the hanger. Eliot walks up behind him)

Eliot: I'm gonna count to three.

(Quinn turns and hits Eliot hard, knocking him across the floor)

Eliot: Nate, we're blown. W—

Nate: Eliot, what’s--

(several feet away, Eliot’s earpiece is lying on the floor. Eliot tries to scramble away, but Quinn kicks him in the ribs, throwing him back, and kicks him several times more)

Quinn: That rib's broken.

(Eliot manages to get to his feet)

Quinn: He said you'd be tougher than this.

quinn: *is a really good fighter*

eliot: *surprised pikachu face*

ALSO the reason eliot was beat up so bad in the beginning was because he kept on trying to get back to his comm every chance he got INSTEAD of truly fighting back. his first priority was warning his team over his own personal safety and ugh we stan a man who cares about his family

- - - - -

,,, imagine you’re driving on a highway and see a chick jump off a bridge onto an armored car, pick its lock and then BREAK INTO said armored car ,,, wyd

- - - - -

poor hardison was ready to relax ,,, he got a soda and made himself some popcorn too

- - - - -

(Quinn and Eliot both stand hunched over, breathing hard)

Quinn: Why won't you go down?

(Eliot laughs, blood falling from his mouth to the floor. Quinn comes at him again, but Eliot catches him and knees him in the chest several times before pushing him away. Quinn falls to his hands and knees, gasping for air)

Eliot: Now that rib's broken.

(Eliot hits Quinn in the face hard, sending him to the floor. Holding his ribs, Eliot walks to the earpiece and puts it in)

payback is sweet

- - - - -

Sterling: Mr. Spencer?

(Quinn is still unconscious as Eliot walks out the hanger doors, breathing hard, limping and holding his ribs)

Eliot: Hey, Sterling. I got some dental work with your name on it. What do you say me and you hook up so I can give it to you?

- - - - -

Sophie: Sterling knows us. He knows how we think.

Nate: So we think like somebody else

THEY THINK LIKE THEIR KIDS

- - - - -

Nate: With a couple broken ribs and a concussion, I don't think Eliot can take out six guys.

(Eliot looks like he’d give it a try)

Nate: You know, but then I thought, "what would Hardison do?"

(Hardison looks at Nate in surprise)

(Eliot pulls out his phone and accesses the computer system, sending a high pitched whine into the comm. devices of the guards. They all bend over in pain. Eliot punches the one closest to him. Nate grabs Geary and slams his head down on the table. Hardison hits another guard in the face with his tied hands)

THAT MEANS ELIOT WAS ALSO THINKING LIKE HARDISON IF HE KNEW WHAT TO DO WITH THE PHONE AND WAS READY FOR IT

also YEET hardison is a badass but wbk

- - - - -

(Parker runs for Sophie. Sterling and his men run for Sophie and Parker. Parker reaches Sophie first and the dive from the roof, Sophie screaming and Parker laughing all the way down)

parker is the only character I’ve ever seen that can scream “yeehaw” and “yahoooooo” without it sounding ridiculous

- - - - -

(Eliot walks into the lobby, holding his ribs. He turns to yell over his shoulder)

Eliot: Hardison!

(Eliot follows Nate toward the door)

Hardison (breathing hard): Wait, Eliot. Eliot, come on.

(Eliot goes back inside)

Eliot: You've got to be kidding me, man.

(Eliot goes to help Hardison carry the painting out)

Hardison: Bring it out, come on.

Eliot: This is just weird.

Hardison: I painted this

okay so we all know that hardison actually hit a lot of cash in the painting but also, eliot actually goes back to help instead of just rolling his eyes and leaving hardison behind. eliot can get annoyed with him but he’d never leave him behind. not even on day one when hardison fell in the exploding building in the nigerian job. eliot was there for him then and he will be there for him for the rest of their lives.

ALSO I really hope eliot got his ribs checked out sometime soon after

- - - - -

Sterling: You're fired. Dust the whole place for fingerprints, okay? I want a forensic computer spec—

(the monitors come to life, showing Hardison’s face)

Hardison: Hey, Sterling. Get out of my house.

(display changes to a 30 second clock that begins to count down)

Sterling: Run. Run!

(all of the men run from the office, coming out onto the street)

Geary: Maybe he was bluffing.

(the entire floor of the building explodes, shooting fire)

Sterling: That's the funny thing about con men. They don't bluff.

- - - - -

the third “scattering scene” of the series

[maatryoshkaa]

Stray Kids as Roommates | Thread

some roommates-to-lovers fluff coming at you!

Bang Chan

You guys are the pair that n e v e r sleep

Turned his room into a home studio; probably would have thrown out his bed and turned his room into an office if you hadn’t stopped him

You often fall asleep to the sound of his humming and tracks muffled through your bedroom wall

You see the most of him during exam season, while pulling all nighters

He’s always in the kitchen making his 14th cup of coffee when you get up to go to the bathroom at 3 am

Lots of deep, meaningful conversations over late night snacks

You swear you’ve heard him talking to his Goku figurines during the unearthly hours of the morning

You’re the only one Chan lets ruffle his fluffy dandelion bedhead in the morning

Takes care of you more than he takes care of himself

Always asks you how your day went when you get home and insists on listening even when he’s been awake for over 48 hours

Always there to give you advice and comfort you when you’re feeling down! A living breathing mental health hotline

Walked into your room when you were studying for finals at 2am

You were in your pajamas, hair a mess and eyes barely open

And that was when Bang Chan decided he was in love with you

Ah, the couple with matching bags under their eyes.

☽ Read the rest of the boys under this cut! 

Woojin

Fried chicken takeout for dinner is a big Friday night thing

Kind of like a big moral support teddy bear, his hugs are the greatest

You steal half his closet in the winter because his hoodies are the comfiest

Literally the dad of your household

Checks up on your health and how you’re doing every now and then

Pushes you to finish your work and makes sure you’re not procrastinating

Honestly, your grades are soaring thanks to him

Helps you with homework

Your parents love him

Always saves and brings you good things to eat

Tucks you in at night when you can’t sleep nyahh i’m soft

And a couple times, when you wake up shaking from nightmares, homesickness or stress, he’s always there to comfort you, lying there until you fall asleep again.

“Woojin?”

“Yeah? Shh, don’t worry, I’m here.”

You always sit outside the bathroom and listen to him sing in the shower

Until he suddenly opened the door in nothing but a towel and you couldn’t face him for weeks

He thought your furiously blushing face was the cutest thing he’d ever seen and teased you about it, 

Until you finally kissed him to make him shut up

Hint: it worked wonders.

Minho

Saturday night dance battles are a t h i n g

Doesn’t do any chores unless he notices you’re feeling tired

Tried to cook once and probably accidentally gave the both of you food poisoning

Remember when he cooked rice cakes in the unwashed metal pan I’m--

Likes you a lot more than he lets on

Like, you’d mention craving a certain food or not having saved up enough money for something, and voila, the next day it’d be sitting on the kitchen table.

“What? It was on sale, just lying around. Don’t think too much of it.”

Clowns you for every little thing, but the moment he hears someone make fun of you, it’s on sight

Bicker like an old married couple, lots of back and forth catfights

Evenings falling asleep on the sofa, both tipsy and giggling while his two cats snuggle up around you

Arguing over who the cats love more

Endless crackhead antics; the neighbours probably hate you

Insists on walking his cats around the apartment complex, when in reality he just wants to spend more time with you

Everyone already knows you’re basically dating but you’re both too stubborn to admit it

Probably hooked up once or twice, or more than once or twice ;)

Changbin

Honestly when you first got him as your roommate, you were terrified

Because this 5’6 ball of dark is intimidating as frick

Realized how soft he really was when he whipped out his Munchlax plushie

Petty arguments with him are impossible because he speaks so fast

So you just let him win

Makes you kill the spider

Always manages to convince you to watch horror movies at 1 am

Probably as an excuse to have you in his arms if you get scared ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) he thinks he’s slick

Perfected the “stretch and put his arm around your shoulder” move

Made a special playlist for everything you do together: good vibes for breakfast, upbeat jams when doing the chores together, chill indie mixes for cozy evenings in doing work

Insists on helping you around the house

Bringing you fresh ice coffee, cookies, and convenience store hauls whenever he gets off work

“B-but the Peperos were on a buy one get one free sale 👉👈”

Suggests playing the pocky/pepero kiss game to which you smack him in response

But you end up giving him a quick peck anyways, and he freezes, stunned

You run off, face red, Changbin chasing after to you with a wicked grin

“What was that? Is that buy one get one, too, because I want another oneeee!”

Hyunjin

The chillest roommate, but when he gets hyper oh m y

I ain’t gettin no sleep cos of y’all, y’all not gettin sleep cos of me

You have to wake him on the weekends because this boy would sleep until the evening

You want to let him rest, though, since he’s always out and working so late ;(

Secretly takes so many candid, soft pictures of you and saves them as his wallpaper

Loves to take you shopping and dress the both of you in matching #OOTDs

Hypes you the heck up

“She’s sister snatched today! Skin glowing, outfit on point -- oh look at that SMILE! Do the thing again -- oh my gosh. You’re killing it, y/n!”

Gives you fashion advice and beauty tips, although you keep bugging him for his skincare routine cuz damn

Probably share skincare products

Always do face masks together but fail at keeping them on because the two of you keep laughing at the stupidest things

Sometimes he has to put you to bed when he comes home late, and you’ve fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him to get back

Can’t resist kissing your forehead sometimes when tucking you in

At moments like these, he finds himself wishing for a sliver of a chance that you might feel the same way he has

He’s honestly so damn obvious though, getting you matching “roommate” things when he goes out -- plushies that remind him of you, little snacks when you’re down, cute accessories, you name it

This boy also forgets that he talks in his sleep -- and is very hard to wake up

So one morning, you’re leaning over his bed, about to shake him awake, and hear him mumble

“y/n, y/n, y/n...i like you sooo much...what do i do?”

You nearly choke on your toast, effectively waking the boy up, and he stares at you, half-awake and mortified.

“What? Did I--did I say something in my sleep?”

The smug, blushing smile spreading over your face is enough to send him diving back under the covers as you begin to tease him

Jisung

So comfortable to be around, he’s basically your best friend from day 1

Except for the fact that he’s so. Damn. LOUD

Noise complaints filed from the neighbours, the landlord, the neighbour’s dog, you name it

Another soft bean whose bedhead you love to ruffle

I mean have you seen My Pace dance practice? That boys mane has a mind of its own--

Brings you lots of cakes and pastries from cute bakeries when you’re stressed

A responsible boi™ ! always helps you out around the house.

Grocery shopping together? What a concept

Except he piles the cart with chips and snacks when he thinks you’re not looking

Lots of late nights binging movies on Netflix

This boy loves moves

But he loves them even more when he watches them with you ;D

Afterwards, you’re both too lazy and comfortable to move, so you end up falling asleep cuddled up against each other

Always runs away and hides when you ask to see his songs

You find scraps of hastily scribbled lyrics and ideas strewn around the house all the time

Little phrases like “i think i love you” and “my heart beats impossibly fast when i’m with you”

So you manage to collect enough to bring them to him and tease him about it

Jisung gets all quiet, though, instead of whining like he usually does, and you quickly apologise, thinking you’ve gone too far

You reassure him his writing is amazing

“It’s not that.”

He finally looks you in the eye, the intensity of his stare making your heart stop for a moment.

“They’re about you.”

Oh, how the turn tables.

Felix

i hate him sm, blease

Why did you even agree to room with him

Rooming with Felix is a one way trip to insanity -- we going ✈️✈️ acid trip

You can hear him yelling yeets and yeehaws when he plays Fortnite while you do your homework, and you swear you’re t h i s close to putting his head straight through his screen

Video game marathons when you’re not busy though, you have to admit, are the bomb

Probably convinced you to make TikToks with him

Makes you do all the viral challenges, including the couple trends

Honestly the most fun guy to be around ever

Your daily dose of memes and sugar

Knows when to be down to earth and serious, though!

Gives the best massages when you’re overworked and runs you a bath, promptly ordering your favourite takeout and making sure to feed you

Building pillow forts together on rainy days and snow days, and having sleepovers!

Binging vine compilations together during said sleepovers

Sending each other memes at 1 am when you’re both simultaneously procrastinating on homework

You basically became a couple without really going through the confession stage; it just sort of happened

“Hey, ‘lix?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I think I kinda like you.”

A sideways smirk. “Well, yeah, you’ve dealt with me for this long.”

The best-friends couple: soulmates, and, more importantly, partners in crime vine

Seungmin

Sweetest roommate!! Honestly you feel bad for even asking him to do chores

Has a bit of an evil side, though

One second he’s flashing you an angelic smile, the next he’s roasting you for your selfie skills on your recent Instagram post

You make one (1) complaint about the living room being messy, next thing you know you wake up and it’s spick and span

Cooks?? Really hecking well?

Sometimes you wonder if you signed up for a roommate or a housekeeper

Your apartment is so clean

Taking evening strolls together after dinner and taking pictures at the park

Walks you to and from work/school like a little puppy, and gets anxious if you’re late coming home

Doesn’t know how to show how much he cares about you and gets frustrated with himself

So he indulges in the little things, like packing you cute little lunches with sticky notes on the containers

Little notes around the house on days he stays out working late, like make sure you’re eating! And don’t sleep too late!

Honestly, you fell for him the moment he first smiled at you

Once, he was working overtime nonstop, and you didn’t get to see him for over two weeks

When he finally came home on time, you couldn’t help tackling him in a big bear hug

After he got over his initial heartbeat racing a thousand miles per hour, he dropped his head into the crook of your neck, hugging you back tightly

No words were needed, you missed each other’s presence so much, it seemed to say itself

I love you, and I missed you.

Jeongin

Is this boy even old enough to rent out a room? He is babie

So incredibly shy when he first meets you, but warms up quickly

Owns animal-printed pajamas and onesies

You both had a mini celebration when he got his braces off, complete with banana milk and animal crackers

You are both babie

An early bird, always wakes up before you

You wake up to him shaking you and laughing at your scrunched up face

“Wake uuppp, y/n, you’re going to be so late!”

“Ergghhhh.”

Can’t clean to save his life; always ends up breaking something or knocking things over

So he’s in charge of doing the laundry

Had a fat mental breakdown when he realised that meant your underwear

Your apartment is littered with figurines and plushies that both of you collect and don’t have the heart to clean out

“Jeongin, where are y----” you stop. “Why are you lying face down on the ground?”

“...we’re out of banana milk.”

Another hidden evil bean who clowns you for everything you do once he warms up to you

Baby boy!Jeongin switches to Savage!Jeongin in a matter of seconds

Also makes you kill the spider

Helps you cook, but only if you tell him how to do everything or he’ll freak out

Putting mukbang channels on the TV while eating together and watching in comfortable silence

Loves watching you eat and has a million derpy pictures of you saved on his phone

Poor boy has no idea how to tell you he’s falling head over heels with you

Accidentally blurts out “I like you” during a screaming contest

Lots, I mean LOTS of awkward laughing as Jeongin feels his face heat up, watching yours do the same

The longest moment passes, and Jeongin is getting ready to disassociate when you’re finally able to open your mouth and scream back,

“I like you, too!”

Baby boy found his soulmate.

[b99fandomevents]

Thank you again to the awesome folks who joined our first ever Fic Exchange!!! We hope you enjoyed writing your fics as much as we loved reading them. 

Under the cut is a masterlist of all the submitted works, compiled and arranged in alphabetical order by the amazing @amez-santiago. ♡ (If you don’t see your fic here or notice any errors, please let us know!) 

If you’re interested in joining the Fall 2019 Fic Exchange, definitely keep an eye out for our next announcement post within the next couple of weeks. 

a summer rain is passing over, and it feels like a dream | AO3

↝ by @exploding-snapple for @storyinmyeyes​

Amy takes Jake to go see a play, but it’s really the walk home afterward that he enjoys the most. (set a few weeks after 3x02)

Cause you’re what I always wanted | AO3

↝ by @sandylovesfandoms for @a-wren-d

Rosa shows Gina Babylon, and sparks fly

Coming Out | AO3

↝ by @the-poodles-of-pulitzer for @yaboring-yabasic

Rosa’s POV for coming out.

Dancing around each other | AO3

↝ by @disruptedvice for @amydancepants-peralta

“Ah! Amy! Help!” Jake shrieked the moment she answered her phone, not really concerned about volume control since he was kinda trying to not die at the moment. It had gotten through four rings before she finally picked up, and this would’ve been it for Jake if it’d gone straight to voicemail. Amy frowned, looking around as if he could see her, but soon brushed it off as her being paranoid. “Jake? What’s wrong?” “I’ve got the goose!” He shouted, jumping to dodge another swipe that could only be described as intelligent and intent. “The goose is here! The goose is here!”

Soulmate AU where one person finds a goose who leads them to the other person. The difficulty comes in not being mauled by a goose 

doggone summer | AO3

↝ by @timeforginasopinion for @sandylovesfandoms

Amy should have known it was going to be an awful summer from the moment Jake Peralta appeared on her front doorstep carrying a dog. “Morning, Ames,” he chirps, irritatingly cheerful, as if he’s passing her in the hallway at school rather than standing in front of her house during the sadly fleeting time of year she’s supposed to be free of this bullshit. “Cheddar, say hi to Amy.” The corgi swaddled in his arms, predictably, doesn’t respond. Jake fixes it with an offended frown. “Well, that was rude.” Amy sneezes a lot and thinks longingly of her bowl of oatmeal squares, now growing soggy on the kitchen counter. Her life was so much simpler ten minutes ago.

everything's good, everything's just as it should be | AO3

↝ by @fezzle for @the-poodles-of-pulitzer 

“Jake,” she starts, slow and deliberate. “Do you know who I am?” He stares at her a moment before shaking his head, and her stomach swoops. Oh my god. or Jake gets an appendectomy, and there happens to be an amusing side effect as he wakes up from his anesthesia.

foolishly, completely falling | AO3 [E]

↝ by @fezzle for @kamekamelea

“Are you… asking to hook up with me?” Amy asks slowly, every syllable enunciated carefully. “Whaaaat? No! Nope. No, I definitely was not! What I meant to say was -’’ “Becausetheanswerisyes.”Jake freezes, eyes bugging. “Wh-What?” “I-I said yes.” or Jake and Amy are friends with benefits. What could go wrong?

Heads and Hot Dogs and the Best Day Ever | AO3

↝ by @vernonfielding for @nerd-husbands

Nikolaj spends a day at the precinct not helping Rosa solve a case. He's never been happier. 

hold me in this wild, wild world | AO3

↝ by @dmigod for @santiagoswagger

He wants to say he doesn’t know how he got into this situation, but he knows exactly how it happened (or, at least mostly): with a bet. It’s not news to anyone that he and his professional partner are competitive—Santiago is a type A tightwad who feels like she has to prove herself to everyone (except him), and Jake, well, Jake likes to spite her. And to win. He really, really loves winning.

hold me in this wild, wild world | AO3

↝ by @johnny-and-dora for @meepmorpperaltiago

“It takes every ounce of willpower he has left not to kiss her like it’s their last night on earth. Despite the odds, he refuses to kiss her like he’s saying goodbye.” or, a forbidden love/royalty/fairytale au in which jake comes up with an alternative solution to amy being forced into an arranged marriage with the most boring man in the seven kingdoms.

i found a mirror for my soul (i don’t need no other) | AO3

↝ by @b99peraltiago for @exploding-snapple

When she realizes her sleeve has rolled up a little, showing the skin of her wrist and tries to cover it again, it’s already too late. Jake’s seen it. He’s caught sight of the glowing “S” printed there. “S” as in, Soulmate. Amy finally found hers – and, obviously, it’s not him. (Post-4x22 soulmates AU, in which Jake and Amy are not soulmates and she finds hers while Jake is in jail.)

i’ll put it all on the line | AO3

↝ by @amydancepants-peralta for @callginalinetti

"We have to find her, Jake!” He looks up from an evidence marker, furrowing his brow. “I’m sorry … her?” “Your mystery woman! The beautiful woman you were stuck on the subway with. She’s obviously your soulmate.”

I’m going home, to the place where I belong (where your love has always been enough) | AO3

↝ by @storyinmyeyes for @outofinspo

It’s moving in day for Jake and Amy and she’s a little stressed out over all the boxes that need unpacking, but in true Jake fashion, he provides a distraction.

I’ve got a really bad feeling I’m gonna love you so good | AO3

↝ by @amesantiagos for @romanovember

A typical Friday night at Shaw’s bar with the Nine-Nine …or not quite. “Really, I just wanted to check if you’re okay.” “Why wouldn’t I be?” She frowns at him, her eyes dark in the dimly lit booth, “and why do you even care?” “Well, first off, that’s rude,” he raises he eyebrows at her, “and secondly, because you’re my partner, and I know I normally come across as a badass, emotionless action-hero like type– ” “No, you don’t.”

if they’re meant to be together, they won’t stay too long apart | AO3

↝ by @startofamoment for @e11evenseggos

They’d first met in the fall of their freshman year. Amy can still remember it with perfect clarity: how Jake rushed into the lecture hall, hair unruly and plaid shirt rumpled. He looked like he’d just woken up, or maybe never slept. Perhaps he’d pulled an all nighter in prep for their big exam. (She had gotten the recommended eight hours of sleep, naturally, and had gotten up with more than enough time to have a balanced breakfast and to go over her review sheets.)

It is like Oatmeal……. | AO3

↝ by @dancezwithwolvez for @cheddar-the-dog

Another chance.

it’s your love i’m lost in | AO3

↝ by @stolethekey for @ofbuttsandbombs

She smiles. “That’s been the theme of the entire Holt-Cozner relationship. Finding love, despite everything telling them that they cannot. Being confronted with danger, with fear, with risk, but making the incredibly brave choice to love anyway.” or, an mcu post-snap au in which holt and kevin renew their vows

julian santiago and the case of the sister’s mystery boyfriend | AO3 

↝ by @amyscascadingtabs for @397bartonstreet

Eventually, he makes the educated guess that there must be someone else in her life. She must have wanted for this to break-up to happen, he figures, and a new mystery lover could very well be the reason. Julian simply has to figure out who it is.

long live all the magic we made | AO3

↝ by @benwvatt for @startofamoment

He deserves to know about cheering charms, or spells that change mice into teapots, or a potion that could double his age. He belongs in her world, she thinks. If only he were. Rule number one of being a Santiago: Neighbors like the Peraltas don’t have any business knowing about magic. Amy ignores it and finds everything she was dreaming of.

of babies and binders

↝ by @a-wren-d for @acanoftrash

domestic peraltiago

Of Debates and Chickenshit Boys | AO3

↝ by @professionalpenthief for @imalloutofhoots

Amy’s happily dull life turns upside down when a mystery admirer’s love for her goes viral in her high school. As she navigates the new uncharted territories of being in the public eye, she finds love does defy all expectations. 

Regarding The Incident In Which Raymond Ran Away To Mexico | AO3

↝ by @nerd-husbands for @amesantiagos

“Can you clarify,” Kevin said into his cellphone, using his other arm to hail a cab, “how much wedding cake did Cheddar eat?"  The Honeymoon episode, from Kevin’s perspective.

Run, Hide, Fight (Show Me Going) | AO3

↝ by @cheddar-the-dog for @vernonfielding

around two days after the active shooter situation in Brooklyn Heights Hotel Rosa wakes up from a nightmare that she soon realizes was not a nightmare at all

sailing home once and for all | AO3

↝ by @kamekamelea for @disruptedvice

In the universe where Jake is a sailor from New York, he finds himself coming back home to this one special girl - detective Amy Santiago.

Sick Leave | AO3

↝ by @winnietherpooh for @amyscascadingtabs

Amy decides that Jake needs a vacation after he returns prison, and he finally begins to open up about his recovery as they read Harry Potter together.

Something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts | AO3

↝ by @chipmunksallshipklefan for @professionalpenthief

Jake and Amy go undercover as a couple.

The Beer Burglar | AO3

↝ by @outofinspo for @cheeto-anaconda

Brooklyn Nine-Nine and The Good Place crossover where Jake arrests Eleanor

The Date Night 

↝ by @meepmorpperaltiago for @amazingsantiago

Based on the prompts: jealous Amy and Jake being Amy’s hype man

The Desert Sucks, But Being a Damsel in Distress Isn’t Too Bad | AO3

↝ by @romanovember for @fezzle

I’m never drinking again. Jake Peralta thinks as he comes to consciousness, his mouth full of cotton swabs and sandpaper and his head pounding like a sledgehammer on concrete. Or maybe 50 million sledgehammers, a freight train and another 24 elephants. Ugh Jake rolls over, and pulls his crinkly and hot duvet closer, relaxing his aching and hungover body into the cool embrace of… sand? And on his head? An honest to god cowboy hat. Yeehaw?

The in-between | AO3 

↝ by @disruptedvice for @amydancepants-peralta

Amy’s thoughts between ‘go back to being colleagues’ to ‘screw light and breezy’

the interrogation room | AO3

↝ by @yaboring-yabasic for @timeforginasopinion

one-shot based loosely on the prompts badly trying to keep a secret, locked in, and kid fic with some peraltiago, dianetti, and the whole squad.

the smell of coffee runs through my veins | AO3

↝ by @elsaclack for @winnietherpooh

five times jake smells like fresh coffee grounds (and one time he doesn’t)

the stars lean in a little closer all because of you 

↝ by @peraltasames for @b99peraltiago

baby peraltiago + beach house 2.0

there was a time when a moment like this wouldn’t ever cross my mind | AO3 [E] 

↝ by @kamekamelea for @disruptedvice

She looks deeply into his eyes, dark from the desire overwhelming him and whispers straight into his lips in an authoritative tone. “No, Jake. Fuck me with my uniform on.”

THIS BOY WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME | AO3

↝ by @ofbuttsandbombs for @stolethekey

Jake Peralta and Amy Santiago, self- proclaimed 'best detectives of the Nine-Nine’ (and 'of the NYPD’, 'no, USA!’, 'no,the entire freaking world!!’, when they get a little drunk) are handed a routine murder investigation which goes off- track. Will this cause their already fragile relationship to change? The journey from 'Peralta and Santiago’ to 'Jake and Amy.’

time is ticking away (and there are too many things I wanna say) | AO3

↝ by @what-about-gay for @johnnydora

Amy is stressed because she can’t find her soulmate, while Jake couldn’t care less about his soulmate. Time is ticking and they have to find their soulmates, because when the clock is at zero and you haven’t found your soulmate yet, you and your soulmate both die.

Variations on sharing a bed 1/2/3 | AO3 [T to M]

↝ by @disruptedvice for @amydancepants-peralta

Peraltiago drabbles + sharing a bed trope

We Are The Greatest Love Story (The World Had Ever Seen) | AO3

↝ by @cheddar-the-dog for @dancezwithwolvez

the night they meet his life changes forever and he’d never go back to before or how the story of Kevin and Raymond found its start

we could be a beautiful miracle, unbelievable | AO3

↝ by @stolethekey for @johnny-and-dora

Kylie hums, reaching over to unzip the back of Amy’s dress. “Well, whatever you’re not anxious about is going to lose his mind when he sees you in this. Seriously.” “He has a girlfriend,” Amy snaps, shimmying out of the dress and snatching her leggings off the wall. “And this isn’t for him.” - in which Amy throws a New Year's Eve party that subsequently implodes.

we were good at faking forever | AO3

↝ by @johnnydora for @dmigod

David Santiago has super powers. No matter how much effort Amy gives to everything she does, he always manages to beat her tenfold, including obtaining the girlfriend of his parents’ dream. With ten days until her brother Miguel’s wedding and no date, Amy has no choice but to convince the next person she sees to fall madly in love with her.

we were wild and fluorescent, come home to my heart | AO3

↝ by @santiagoswagger for @benwvatt

Desperate to find a last minute gift for her mom, Amy stumbles into the only open flower shop in her neighborhood. Unfortunately, the florist is very annoying.

we won’t run (we can fight) | AO3

↝ by @amydancepants-peralta for @chipmunksallshipklefan

“Be careful who you give your midnights to, my darling. Midnights are for talking - for old friends and new; for truth and never for lies. When you’ve only got the stars to illuminate, everything else falls away. Midnights are for confessions.” Her hand falls to Amy’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “They’re for falling in love.” Well that’s just ridiculous. She and Jake were definitely not falling in love. Oh. Medieval AU where the evil King Vulture is ruining Brooklyne. Amy and Jake work together to take him DOWN.

whelp, this might be your view for the next seven years | AO3

↝ by @callginalinetti for @galaxygaydreams

sometimes you get to meet your soulmate twice (basically a new version of how jake and amy meet and fall in love)

When You’re Home

↝ by @397bartonstreet for @peraltasames

jake and amy’s first night back together after the ambulance scene in coral palms pt 3 + fluffy reunion goodness.

where’d you go, david santiago | AO3

↝ by @acanoftrash for @brillliant

when amy’s brother goes missing, she hires private detective jake peralta to find him.

You Already Know | AO3

↝ by @e11evenseggos for @what-about-gay

a one-shot of Gina and Rosa’s wedding ceremony.

you showed me something i can’t live without | AO3

↝ by @amazingsantiago for @dailyb99

Alternative ending to Casecation. Jake is left reeling after Amy’s “start over” comment. Title from ‘I Believe’ by the Jonas Brothers.

[comphersjost]

Happy ➸ Travis Konecny

hello I’m back AGAIN with some TK smut :)) been feeling lots of inspiration lately after a long writers block so yeehaw here you go. i love this dumb angry baby so much.

Words: 1.3k+

Warnings: nsfw, smut, sex, fucking. a bit of overstim seriously this is filthy. like very. get a bible or something. im sorry.

find my masterlist here

If there was one thing you loved about Travis, it was his perception. His ability to read people, to know exactly what they need. To know exactly what you need. Sometimes it consisted of cuddling on the couch watching Disney movies. And other times… well it consisted of tying you up and spending hours with his head between your thighs. Either way? He knew.

Tonight was one such night. You heard the click of the key slide into the lock and the door open. You'd given him the key to you apartment after a little over a month of almost constant hook ups. He's been gone for 5 days, and of course he'd come to see you first, before anyone else. One look at you and he knew it was your mother, bothering you about being single, not finding a “nice boy to settle down with”. You sighed at that. It wasn't really her fault. If the press hasn't even picked up on the fact the you and Travis are sleeping together, then how would she? But still, it annoyed you infinitely.

“Your mom again?” TK rumbles, dropping his keys on the table and kicking the door shut behind him, locking it without taking his eyes from you. He doesn't move from his place by the door until you nod, sighing.

“I know she just wants me to be happy but I…” you drift off, tears welling in your eyes. “It’s just so frustrating, especially because… because I am happy.” Your words warms Travis’s heart, so much so that he almost doesn't feel the pang in it at seeing you in distress. It's then he takes off his jacket, slowly, allowing you to savor the sight. Even through your distress, you couldn't help but be reminded of how attractive this man was. And you couldn't help but he reminded that of all the people in the world, he chose you. And that makes you feel just a bit better.

Travis drapes his jacket over the sofa and strides over to you, curled up on the couch. “C’mere,” he whispers, pulling you into his arms. You're used to being held securely in his arms, so the sudden feeling of not being on a flat surface feels normal to you. Your curl up around him, burying your face in his neck as he shifts you so that he's carrying you bridal style. You almost scoff at the thought, considering the two of you aren't even officially dating. Just sleeping together, fucking around.

Travis walks the two of you to your bedroom, his heavy footfalls lulling you into a sense of peace.

His breath hitches at the soft wet kisses you press against his neck. “Lemme take care of you,” he murmurs into your curls, nudging the door to your room open with his foot. He uses his hip to push the door shut before setting you gently on the bed. He mouths at your throat as soon as you're laying back against the sheets. “Gonna let me take care of you, honey? Hm?” You whine softly as he sucks a mark into the spot above your pulse. “Gonna let me make you feel good? Take your mind off everything?”

“Yes,” comes your hum of approval. TK peppers soft kisses against your skin, leaving as many marks as he can. Soft, breathy moans escape your lips as he marks you up. You're his; you know it and he knows it.

“M’gonna treat you so good, honey.” Your breathing almost stops at the words muttered against your collar bone. “Gonna make you forget. Gonna make you focus on me. That sound good, hm?” You can only whimper in response.

Travis let's a rough hand slips under your too-big t-shirt, reaching to unclasp your bra before he realizes that you aren't wearing one. “Fuck,” he swears, reaching for your breast, pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You keen and arch your back.

“Travis, please.” He chuckles and only leaves another mark on your skin.

“Relax, baby,” you can hear the grin in his voice, and feel it on your skin. “M’gonna take it slow today. Gonna hold you ‘n make you fall apart.”

Your mouth drops open at his words. It was never slow with Travis. He was rough, quick, fucking you so that you couldn't even think. Orgasms with TK were mind blowing, they had you seeing white. He had you seeing white. He knew you, your body inside and out, he knew exactly how to treat you and what you needed. No one knew you better than TK, and yet, he wasn't yours. Just a friend. A friend you happened to be having wild sex with almost everyday for the past 5 months.

He continues to tug and pinch at your abused nub, his lips on your neck never letting up. You gasp and moan and wriggle around, if only for him to give your nipple some sort of relief. He does, for a moment, only to move to the other side and give your other breast the same treatment. “TK, please, please, I need you.”

Travis’s lips come back to your jaw at your whimpered words. His mouth is pressing softly against your jaw, your cheeks, lips, nose. “Need me, huh?” He tugs roughly at your nipple again.

You're so overwhelmed with emotion that your eyes start to fill with tears. “Please,” your voice is hoarse and thick, and it makes him pull back to look at you. You stare at him, silently pleading him not to press. “Can't wait for you, need you.”

Thankfully, he relents. “Okay, honey, alright,” he pulls your shirt up and over your head before moving down your body. “You're alright, angel, I got you, I got you baby.” The sweet names he’s calling you don't make your emotions go away, in fact they only strengthen everything you're feeling. Travis tugs at your sweatpants, wasting no time as he pulls them down your legs and off of you.

You barely remember that you haven't shaved anything before the though his lost in TK’s lips on your thighs. It didn't matter anyways, he didn't care if you shaved or not, and at this point - you couldn't wait.

Travis slowly spreads your legs open and buries face nose in your clothed cunt, nose nudging at your clit through the cotton. You moan out, wanting to plead for him but somehow not being able to find your voice. His tongue slips out to lick a line up your panties. His thumbs hook on either side of the material, sliding them off of you. You though he was done making you wait, but instead of touching you where you need him, TK kisses and sucks and licks at your thighs.

“I have you, baby, I got you,” he repeats. “I got you, I got you.” He says it like a mantra as he marks up your thighs, and just as you're about to grab his hair and lead him to your center, he dives into your pussy. A cry escapes you, habit causing you to attempt to close your legs. But - fuck - Travis is so big and his broad shoulders keep you legs open for him.

“Tra-Trav-Travis,” you plead for more, even though he's giving you everything you wanted and needed. “Travis, fuck fuck fuck.” He’s sucking roughly at your clit, moving his head back and forth so that you can feel him. Fuck you can feel every bump and ridge of his tongue. You want to beg, but for what, you're not sure.

Travis mouths your clit, his hand coming up to rub his thumb slowly against your clit. He wasn't playing, he’s taking his time with you tonight. The slow circles he's rubbing and his tongue sliding through your wetness and into you usually wouldn't be enough to get you off, but for some reason you're already climbing closer and closer to your peak. It feels like hours that his mouth is on you, and it feel so so good.

“Taste so good, honey,” he says against your cunt, “love this pussy. All mine, hm?” You don't have it in you to answer. You want to say Yes. Yes I’m yours, you own me but you're so scared that if you speak you'll tell him what you really mean. How you really feel. You gasp and jerk when his palm collides with your thigh. “I said all mine, hm?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you whine, back arching when he pulls your sensitive nub back into his mouth and slides two incredibly thick fingers inside of you. “M’all yours, all yours, Trav- fuck.” You can barely speak, can barely form words in your brain right now. Fuck, he's treating you so good. “Yours yours yours.”

“C’mon, honey, think you can come for me? Want you to come for me honey.” The words bring you so much closer to your peak. You finally look at Travis, only to find his eyes already on you. They're so dark and blown with lust and fuck he's gonna make you come. “Come for me, honey, I got you.”

“T-Travis, m’gonna come, m’gonna come, please please please.”

Fuck his fingers move faster inside you, so thick that you felt stretched around only two of them. He hums against your clit and you cry out again. “Please please.” You don't know what your begging for. He slams his fingers back into you and you're there. “Travis! Fuck fuck fuck m’coming, I’m coming!” Your orgasm rips through your belly, he built you up so that it could tear you down. You see stars and fuck you need him to go slow more often.

You're writhing around, shaking and clenching around his fingers. He doesn't let up, working through your high and still going when you start to come down. You whine, reaching for his hair to push him away from your over sensitive cunt. Instead you find yourself pulling him down again, his tongue doing wonders to you.

“Ah ah ah, Travis, please I’m so-oh!” His mouth is off of you now, a third, thick finger sinking into you, thumb toying with your clit again. You're so swollen and hot and absolutely wrecked and Travis can't help but think that he's never seen anything so beautiful. His fingers move faster, TK is desperate to push you over the edge again, needs to make you fall apart again. And before you know it, you are.

You can't speak this time, moaning incoherently. A few tears slip down your face, you're so so sensitive and fuck, he's fucking you through it with his fingers. You feel destroyed when you come down from your high, but you need Travis, you need his cock inside you. TK eases his fingers out of you, pussy clenching around him as he does so. He licks his fingers clean, keeping his eyes locked with you.

Your legs feel weak, so you just let them fall open when TK stands and moves out from between them. What a sight you must be, you think, flushed and red and swollen, pussy on display for anyone that were to walk in. You look absolutely wrecked and looking down at you, Travis can't help but feel proud that he's the one you're wrecked for.

“Love you like this,” he mumbles, a blush creeping up his neck as if he's embarrassed to tell you what he's thinking. “All spread out ‘n marked up like this. You look so beautiful like this. All mine.” Your half lidded eyes blink slowly up at him, and you think for a split second that he might feel the same. Nolan’s words echo in your head. ‘Why aren't you two together already? He’s whipped, I’m sick of watching him make googly eyes at you like that’ which he immediately followed up with a faux gag.

The notion that he might feel for you like you do for him is gone in a split second when he starts to strip. He was just here to fuck. You'd return the favor and take care of him next time he has a tough loss, that was it.

Even if your thing or whatever this was hurt you, God, he was beautiful. He lets his gray t-shirt fall to the floor and reaches for his belt, unbuckling the leather and then unbuttoning his jeans. The denim falls to floor, quickly followed by Calvin Klein boxers. He was so fucking big, every time you two fucked, you doubted that he'd fit.

Travis clambers on the bed, sliding his hips in between your legs. The head of his cock catches on your slit and you let out a moan. TK’s calloused hand comes up to your face to brush a strand of curly hair from your face. “Imma make you feel good, pretty girl.”

“You already have,” you chirp back, earning a soft laugh from him.

“Don't want me inside you then?” Travis teases back. “That’s alright then, I can go.” You make a noise of protest and your hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, pulling his lips down to yours. It's the first proper kiss you've had all night, soft, slow, gently. This kiss isn't like your usual kisses; those were rushed, desperate. He kisses you desperately, but for another reason, and slowly. You let the warmth flood your belly. He wants to take care of you.

His hand cups your jaw, pulling away from you for a moment to change the angle, scruff along his jaw rubbing deliciously against your face. You tug gently at his bottom lip, cupping his face with both your hands. You hope that the way you kiss him conveys every emotion you feel for him. You don't think you can handle the humiliation of admitting your feelings out loud, so the kiss will have to do.

While your lips are connected, Travis sinks into you without warning. You break away from him to moan loudly. He’s slowly inching his cock into your waiting, soaked pussy. “That's it, honey,” he moans. “Thatta girl. You can take it honey, I got you. Take all of me.” And you do. You're so stretched and full by the time he's bottomed out that you think he's gonna split you in half. He's so fucking long and thick and you think you've never been so stuffed before.

“Trav-fuck you feel so fucking good.” The corners of Travis’s mouth curl up at your words, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Think you can look at me, baby?” he questions softly, running his thumb over your lip. “Want you to look at me when you come, honey, wanna see you.” Your eyes slowly open again, eyelids feeling heavy.

“Mhm,” is all you can manage before he's moving. His movements aren't like the usual quick, rough, thrusts. He's grinding into you, the skin of his pelvis barely disconnecting from you. His hips roll against you, and he's hitting a spot so deep in you you've never felt it before, and you definitely don't think anyone will be able to fuck you like this ever again. He's ruined all other men for you.

You say his name like a prayer, and he's the fucking god. Travis connects your lips again, swallowing all the moans leaving your mouth. You keen and writhe for him, he's so good, he's so so good.

“Want you to come again, baby, m’not gonna last long,” come his words against your mouth. “Think you can do that for me? Come one more time for me, baby?” You nod, forehead pressed against his. You yelp when he reached down to press his thumb against your clit.

“Come for me honey, open your eyes, look at me when you come.” The authority in his voice leaves you no choice but to obey. It’s so hard to keep your eyes open when your orgasm hits, but the way he's looking at you - fuck you love the way he looks at you. Like the only thing in the world. Like he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. Like he loves you.

“Ah! Fuck! Travis!”

TK let's out an animalistic moan, actually thrusting this time as he fucks into you, chasing his orgasm and dragging yours out. “Fuck! Y/N! I’m coming, Y/N, fuck.” He grips your hips, stilling and muscles clenching as he shoots ropes of his cum into you. And you can feel him, fuck, you can feel him inside you, thrusting a couple more times to make sure his cum stays in you, before slowly dragging himself out. You whine at the way he stretches you out and then you feel empty.

Travis doesn't bother to clean either of you up, just slipping you both under the covers and wrapping an arm around your waist. You wonder why it hasn't occurred to you how tired he must be - a long road trip and coming back to fuck you. He presses soft kisses all over your face, causing you to giggle and push him away by the shoulder. You can feel his smile against the skin of your neck, where you're all marked up, his beautiful smile.

“You okay, honey?” he murmurs. “Better now?” You hum a soft yes.

You lay in silence for a few minutes before you break it, “Trav?”

“Hmm? What's up pretty girl?” he slurs, drawing patterns into your thigh. Your voice is raw, throat rough from exertion.

“I think-” you force yourself to continue. “I think I found someone, maybe, I don't know. I don't know if he...if he feels the same.” TK is wide awake at that.

He tries to hide the hurt he feels when he speaks. “You’re seeing someone?”

“Well-” you pause. Did this count? “Not exactly, we've been...hooking up. I like him a lot. I might even love him. My mom really likes him too. But I don't think he feels the same.”

He feels his heart break. Your mom likes this mystery man, and if there's one thing that Travis knows, is that your mom liking the people in your life is the most important thing to you. And even worse, TK isn’t only one that’s been in your bed. You’re his. “Who?” TK sounds hurt, heartbroken, and for some fucked up reason it gives you a rush of confidence - he does like you! And you know that this is the moment that changes everything.

“The only other person that has the key to my apartment.” You find the courage to turn to look at him. His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion.

“But that's…” his eyes widen in realization. “That's me,” he breathes. “Oh thank God. I thought you didn't feel the same and Nolan kept telling me to fucking ask you out on a date and I didn't know how to tell him that we were already sleeping together and that I’m literally in love with you and that I didn't think that you like me like that and-” You cut him off with a kiss.

“I love you, Travis.” You can help the smile that overtakes your face. “But I’m tired, and completely fucked out, and I wanna sleep. We can talk about the first date in the morning, hm?”

“After I fuck you awake,” Travis grins, and he leans in to kiss you.