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doctorbitchcrxft · 5 months ago

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Playthings | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (Eventual ? ;) )

Warnings: DESCRIPTIONS OF CHILDHOOD PARENTAL ABUSE. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THIS. descriptions of parental death, canon violence, canon gore. please take care of yourselves, lovebugs.

Word Count: 6025

A/N: look at his gorgeous face i'm gonna scream.

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Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

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Dean definitely changed after that night with you before Sam disappeared. To be fair, you had as well. But both of you refused to talk about it. It was just subtle enough that Sam couldn’t pick up on it, but there were some lingering glances Dean stole at you and moments when your heart would swell in your chest just catching sight of him.

Well, Sam probably would have noticed your change in behavior had it not been for the John-Winchester-level investigation he was doing into Ava’s disappearance. Papers covered every inch of your motel room in Peoria, Illinois; some of which were of Ava’s face, some of etchings of demons from the pages of library books, and some even you couldn’t quite make out. You were one-hundred percent beginning to worry about Sam’s mental state.

He’d been on the phone with Ellen for about thirty minutes now searching for more information. You sat on the floor, leaned against Dean’s bed, scribbling in your journal. Dean returned to the room carrying three coffee cups toward the end of Sam’s phone call. “What'd she have to say?”

Sam sighed. “Oh, she's got nothing. Me, I've been checking every database I can think of— federal, state, and local. No one's heard anything about Ava, she just— into thin air, you know?”

Your lips twisted to the side in confusion. He gave you a coffee cup and one to Sam.

“Ellen did have one thing,” said Sam. “A hotel in Cornwall, Connecticut. Two freak accidents in the past three weeks.”

“What’s that got to do with Ava?” you questioned.

“It’s a job,” he replied simply. “I mean, a lady drowned in the bathtub; then a few days ago a guy falls down the stairs, head turns a complete one-eighty. Which isn't exactly normal, you know? Look, I don't know, it might be nothing, but I told Ellen we'd think about checking it out.”

Dean’s eyebrows raised. “You did?”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah. You seem surprised.”

“Well yeah, it's just, you know. not the, uh, patented ‘Sam Winchester’ way, is it?” Dean joked.

Sam deadpanned at him, “What way is that?”

“I just figured after Ava there'd be, uh, you know, more angst and droopy music and staring out the rainy windows, and—”

You gave Dean a look.

He deflated. “Yeah, I’ll shut up now.”

“Look,” Sam huffed. “I'm the one who told her to go back home. Now her fiancé's dead, and some demon has taken her off to god knows where. You know? But we've been looking for a month now, and we've got nothing. So I'm not giving up on her, but I'm not going to let other people die either. We've got to save as many people as we can.”

Dean snorted. “Wow. That attitude is just way too healthy for me, and I'm officially uncomfortable now. Thank you.”

Sam ducked his head, chuckling, as did you.

“I’ll call Ellen,” you said. “I’ll tell her we'll take it.”

***

“Dean, can I pick a cassette? I’m dyin’ over here with Metallica. Love ‘em, but you haven’t changed the tape in, like, a week and a half now,” you groaned.

“(Y/N), you know the rules,” Dean warned.

“Yeah, but—”

“ ‘Sides,” he cut you off, “We’re almost there anyway. I’ll change it when we’re back on the road, deal?”

“Deal.”

Sam looked between the two of you strangely.

“What?” Dean questioned.

“When’s the last time you changed your music when somebody asked you to?” Sam questioned.

Dean thought for a moment.

The younger brother shook his head. “Exactly.”

“I’m thinking,” replied Dean, scratching his head. He seemed to pick up on what Sam was suggesting and was doing his best to dodge questions. You understood; the two of you hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to discuss anything— not that you even wanted to. You were perfectly content just… “being,” as you’d written in your journal.

The car’s rumble quieted down considerably as Dean slowed in front of a victorian-style structure marked “Pierpont Inn” by the sign on the front. The air was slightly misty, blanketing the ground in a bit of a haze as your boots hit uneven gravel.

“Dude, this is sweet. I never get to work jobs like this,” Dean grinned.

“Like what?” you asked.

“Old school haunted houses, you know? Fog and secret passageways, sissy British accents— might even run into Fred and Daphne while we're inside.” He closed his eyes contentedly. “Mmm, Daphne. Love her.”

You jokingly shoved his head as if to say, “Shame on you, I’m right here.”

He chuckled at your antics. Sam turned to you strangely once more, but shook his head.

You noticed an urn on the porch next to the front door. “Hey, wait a sec,” you said, inspecting the urn more closely. You noticed a five-point symbol engraved on the urn. “I’m not so sure ‘haunted’ is the problem.”

“What do you mean?” Dean questioned.

Sam nodded. “Good eye, (Y/N/N). That's a quincunx; that's a five-spot.”

“Five-spot,” Dean repeated. “That's used for hoodoo spellwork, isn't it?”

The brunet affirmed, “Right, yeah. You fill this thing with bloodweed and you've got a powerful charm to ward off enemies.”

“Only thing is,” you began, “I don’t see any bloodweed.”

“Yeah, anyway, don't you think this place is a little too, uh, white meat for Hoodoo?” Dean jested.

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

You held the door open for the brothers and followed in behind them. An auburn-haired woman briskly entered the room. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Hi, yeah, we’d like two rooms for a couple of nights,” Dean said.

You jolted back as a young girl darted in front of your legs. You smiled at her as she ran away giggling; you couldn’t remember a time when you’d ever felt that innocent.

“Hey!” the woman called after the girl. She gave you a weary smile. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” you said.

She sighed. “Well, um, congratulations, you could be some of our final guests.”

“Well, sounds vaguely ominous,” Dean stated.

You fought back a grin.

“No, I'm sorry, I mean we're closing at the end of the month,” she said, seeming a little sad.

“Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry about that,” you told her. “I’m into antiquing; this place came up on my radar. Figured I’d stop by before you guys shut down. I, uh, dragged these two along for the ride,” you finished, gesturing between Dean and Sam.

“Y'know, speaking of antiques,” Sam cut in, “you have a really, really interesting urn on the front porch. Where did you get that?”

“Oh, I have no idea, it's been there forever,” the woman shrugged. “So, two rooms, two kings?”

“No, no,” Dean said hurriedly. “We’re brothers. (Y/N)’s just a friend.”

You nodded, feeling slightly upset by being called “just a friend,” but you understood why he did. Still, you wanted him to proudly show you off and claim you as his. “Two queens. And a king, please,” you said, handing her your card.

Moments later, she handed it back to you along with a key.

“Thanks,” you told her as she rang the bell on the desk next to her.

“You'll be staying in rooms two-thirty-seven and two-thirty-eight. Sherwin, could you show these people to their rooms?”

You turned to see a balding old man in a black blazer shuffling up behind you. You found him incredibly endearing. He grinned at you, introduced himself, and dragged your clunking duffel bag up behind him.

“I could give you a hand with that,” you suggested to him.

“I got it,” he politely insisted.

You smiled softly at him, grateful.

“So the hotel's closing up, huh?” Sam jumped in.

“Yep. Miss Susan tried to make a go of it, but the guests just don't come like they used to. Still, it's a damn shame,” he explained.

“Oh yeah?”

He went on to explain the history of the hotel; lots of weddings, politicians, and a popular spot for those passing through. He let you into your room, and you tipped him generously before telling him goodbye.

The decor of the room unsettled you quite a bit. An antique wedding dress was displayed on the wall in a weird configuration that almost made it seem like someone was actively wearing it. The room itself was clean, but everything about it made a chill crawl up your spine. You’d take a dilapidated motel room with possible bed bugs over an inn where someone definitely died on the pillow you were going to have to sleep on.

You connected the victims from the file you put together that both victims were tied up in shutting the hotel down. However, Susan and Sherwin didn’t strike you as the type to be dabbling in spellwork. Given what she said about the urn, you thought it possible that someone who owned the hotel previously or worked here long ago was dealing in hoodoo.

You caught sight of the little girl running around outside on the playground and heading over to one of the swings. Seeing her so happy sucked you back into your memories.

Reliving your memories always gave you an almost bird’s-eye-view of the situation; you weren’t you. You were standing in the corners of your memories, helpless to change anything and forced to watch your younger self go through those moments all over again.

Your dad was cleaning his guns on the “dining room” table of the motel you were holed up in for the week. You couldn’t have been anymore than ten at the time of this memory. Stevie was playing on the floor of the room with a truck while Scooby-Doo, his favorite cartoon, played in the background on the staticky television.

“Dad, I want my toys back. I promise I’ll still practice, can I have them back?” you pleaded.

“No can do, kiddo. I sold ‘em,” he replied, not looking up at you.

“What? Why?” you sniffled, beginning to well up with tears.

“Baby, my job doesn’t pay well. I needed that money to get Stevie his toys,” he sighed. “Besides, you’re better off training with me than playing.”

“But… I don’t wanna train,” you cried softly.

Your father’s head snapped up to you, and he slammed the gun he was cleaning on the table. “Too damn bad. This is important, (Y/N). You’re the big sister. I need you sharp for when mom and I are out.”

“But Dad—”

“(Y/N). Enough,” he stated menacingly.

You cowered away, wiping your nose with the back of your sweater sleeve.

Your dad picked part of his gun up again. “And cut the crying crap. You’re too big for that.”

Your heart broke as you watched little you trying to stifle your cries. You knew if you kept crying for much longer, your father would be sure to punish you. You wanted nothing more than to hug your smaller self and tell her that it was okay to be sad, and your father was wrong. You watched Steven get up from the floor and bring you his well-loved toy airplane. He offered it up to you, and you took it, smiling through a sniffle. That gesture broke you even more.

Your brother’s kindness truly knew no bounds. He was often the one to pick up the pieces after you’d gotten into a fight with your father or mother. As much as you tried to be the strong one for your little brother, there were just some things you couldn’t hide from him.

You were sucked into another memory from that stream of consciousness.

“Dad, I wasn’t gonna shoot with you standing in the way! I couldn’t get a clear shot!” you screamed at him. The two of you had gone after a werewolf in Arkansas, leaving your twelve-old-brother and mom back in the motel room. Your dad had insisted you needed to kill this thing yourself as one of the many tests he laid for you to prove your abilities. You were fourteen at the time.

“(Y/N), we’ve discussed this. You always. Take. The shot. No matter what,” he argued.

“What, even if it costs me somebody else’s life?” you protested.

“You should be a good-enough shot that that shouldn’t matter!” he roared. “You and I are going to the range. First thing tomorrow.”

“Dad, no,” you shook your head, backing up in fear. The last time you missed a shot on one of the moving targets, he beat you so hard when you got back to your motel room that he bruised one of your ribs.

He glared at you harshly, stepping closer to you. “What was that?”

“I— I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Uh-uh,” he said firmly. “You know ‘I didn’t mean to’ doesn’t mean shit. You argued with me. We’ll go to the range every day for the next week.”

You brushed the scar on the right side of your jaw from the beating that followed one of your sessions at the range that week as you came out of the memory. He punched you so hard that he split the skin deeply, and you had to stitch it up yourself. You refused to speak to your father for a month after that.

“I do this because I love you,” he’d said. “I need you to keep getting better, so I know you’ll be safe when you’re on your own. I want you to be even better than me.”

You’d been doing well with keeping memories like that at bay while you helped Dean and Sam recover from their father’s passing. However, it was beginning to overwhelm you. The mental walls you’d built around those awful memories were beginning to crack. Leaking through those cracks was the memory of having to lay your parents to rest.

Their screams had been horrible. As fangs ripped through their gums, red rimming their eyes as the blood of the recently-decapitated vampire dripped from their lips. Your father approached you first, teeth bared. You ran through the hallways of the abandoned house, trying to find a way out. The windows of the house had been boarded, though, giving you no opportunity to escape. Cornered in a room at the back of the house, you realized what this would likely come to. You gripped the handle of your machete tightly, tears streaming down your face as your father broke into the room by destroying the door.

“Dad, stop!” you pleaded. He approached you slowly, chest heaving as he noticed a cut on your arm that one of the vampires you’d slaughtered earlier had given you. He stalked toward you, teeth glistening in the room’s dim light.

“Dad, please! Don’t make me hurt you!”

“(Y/N), you have to—” he breathed out. “I can’t control myself—”

You shook your head furiously. “Dad, I won’t—”

“(Y/N)!” he roared. “You have to!”

Your tears flowed freely down your face.

“(Y/N)! Now!” he ordered, just as he reached you.

Your sobs wracked your body as you sliced his head clean off. Your breath caught in your throat as you heaved, trying your hardest to gain your composure. You knew your mother wouldn’t be far behind him, and you were trying to keep yourself from breaking down and becoming vulnerable to your mother’s attack.

“(Y/N)!” she called. “Baby, please! Please, help me!”

You ran to her despite your instinct telling you not to. When you arrived, she was sobbing on the floor, shaking. You stayed a distance back from her to avoid her lunging at you.

“Baby, please— you have to—”

You shook your head. “Not you, too, Momma. Please—”

“Baby,” she sobbed. “I can’t control it. I don’t wanna be this. Please. Please!”

“Momma, I can’t—” You backed away from her.

“I won’t be a monster,” she said. “Listen to me.” She temporarily stopped her cries and steadied herself. “You have to. Please. It’s okay.”

You took in a shaky breath.

“(Y/N), I don’t want to hurt you,” she continued. “I don’t wanna hurt Steven. Please.”

At the mention of her potentially hurting your brother, you nodded. “I’m so sorry,” you cried.

“It’s okay, my girl. It’s okay,” she said, closing her eyes in preparation for the blow.

You swung your machete forcefully to make sure her death was quick and as painless as possible. Horrified by your actions, you dropped the machete and screamed. You sank to the floor next to your mother’s body and cried, draping yourself over her bleeding, headless body.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” you sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

Forcing yourself back to the present moment, you took in a shuddering breath. You pressed your hand to your mouth to keep yourself from crying out as you sank to the floor. You buried your hands in your hair and pulled your knees up to your chest, allowing yourself to cry for the first time in quite a while.

“(Y/N)?” you heard from the other side of the door.

‘Dean.’ You couldn’t respond due to the hold in your throat trying to suppress your cries.

“(Y/N), I think we got something, you in there?” he tried again.

Still, you couldn’t answer.

You heard him fiddling with the lock for a few moments before entering your room, searching for you frantically. When his eyes landed on your crumpled form, he rushed to your side. “(Y/N), hey, hey.” He held your head in his hands and swiped away tears with his thumbs. “Hey, I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You collapsed into his arms and wrapped your arms around his neck. You buried your face in his chest as you clung to him, and he held your head to him with one hand and held your waist with the other. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay.”

Comforted by his presence, your sobs turned to sniffles. You wiped tears away with the backs of your hands and apologized profusely for crying all over him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “What happened?”

“Just… memories.” Your mind was still hazy.

He nodded solemnly. Neither of you needed to say anything after that. He just held your hand and sat with you against your bed while you tried to collect yourself. When you had, Dean talked again.

“C’mon,” he said, standing. He pulled you up with him. “You want a burger? I’m starving.”

You snorted, grinning widely, and nodded.

***

“So,” Dean began through a bite of his cheeseburger, “We think the shut-in granny might be our witch doctor.”

“What makes you say that?” you questioned, chomping a fry.

“She’s got a bunch of creepy ass dolls, Susan was really weird about us going to see her, and they’ve got a creepy ass exact replica of the hotel,” he explained.

“Dolls can be used in hoodoo spellwork,” you considered. “So, I’m guessing after dinner, you and I are lookin’ into the grandma?”

“Yahtzee.”

“What about Sam?”

“Left his ass back at the room. He’s got enough laptop research on his plate to last him enough time for us to look into the history of the hotel at the library.”

“Aw, why’d you do that to him?” you pouted, smiling a little.

“He’s a nerd. Probably enjoys it,” he shrugged.

“You sure you’re not using this as an excuse to get me alone?” Your tone shifted to slightly more sultry, attempting to tease him.

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I’m a professional. Just thought the two of us could cover more ground lookin’ up the records together.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Sure.”

***

When you returned to the inn, police and EMTs were flanking the building.

“What the fu—” you mumbled, looking around. You spotted Susan, and you and Dean hurried to her.

“What happened?” Dean asked.

“Oh, the maid went in to turn down the sheets and he was just… hanging there,” she explained, covering her mouth with her hand.

“That's awful. He was a guest?” you asked.

“He worked for the company that bought the place.”

Dean hummed. You’d discussed your theory with him about the spellwork being used against people trying to get rid of the hotel.

Susan shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“What?” Dean pressed.

“Had a lot of bad luck around here,” she sighed. “Look, if you'd like to check out, I'll give you a full refund.”

Dean shook his head. “No thanks. I don't scare that easy.”

When you arrived at Sam and Dean’s room, Sam had his back turned to the door and was sitting in an armchair.

Dean was all-business as he shut the door behind him. “There's been another one. Some guy just hung himself in his room.”

“Yeah. I saw,” Sam said.

You turned to him, surprised. His tone wasn’t usually that dark.

“We've gotta figure this out, and fast. What'd you find out about Granny?” Dean said, still pacing.

Sam raised his hands sarcastically, mocking his brother. “You’re the boss.”

Dean wheeled around in surprise. “What?”

“You’re bossy. And short,” Sam giggled. He actually giggled.

“Are you drunk?” you asked him.

“Yeah,” he replied, still laughing. “So? Stupid.”

You suddenly noticed the several empty bottles around the room.

“Dude, what are you thinking? We're working a case,” Dean scolded.

Sam began to tear up, staring at nothing. “That guy who hung himself. I couldn't save him.”

“What are you talking about? You didn't know, you couldn't have done anything,” Dean assured.

Sam moved his gaze to his brother. “That's an excuse, Dean. I should have found a way to save him. I should have saved Ava, too.”

Dean approached his brother. “Yeah, well, you can't save everyone. Even you said that.”

Sam slammed the table next to him. “No, Dean, you don't understand, all right? The more people I save, the more I can change!”

“Change what?” you asked.

He leaned forward toward you, a hand to his chest. “My destiny, (Y/N)!”

“Alright. Time for bed. Come on, Sasquatch.” Dean leaned over and hauled Sam up by the shoulders. “Come on.”

“I need you to watch out for me,” mumbled Sam.

“Yeah, I always do,” Dean said simply.

Sam stopped his brother. “No! No, no, no. You have to watch out for me, all right? And if I ever... turn into something that I'm not… you have to kill me.”

“Sam—” Dean protested.

Sam shoved Dean to get him to face him. “Dean! Dad told you to do it, you have to.”

“Yeah, well, Dad's an ass,” Dean replied. “He never should have said anything. I mean, you don't do that, you don't, you don't lay that kind of crap on your kids.”

“No. He was right to say it!” Sam cried. “Who knows what I might become? Even now, everyone around me dies!”

“Yeah, well, I'm not dying, okay? And neither are you. Neither is (Y/N). Come on. Sam.”

He pushed Dean down onto the bed, but Sam remained seated, clutching Dean’s jacket. “No, please! Promise.”

Dean shook his head. “Don't ask that of me.”

“(Y/N), please—”

“(Y/N), don’t you dare!” Dean cut his younger brother off.

“Sam, I can’t do that,” you protested.

“(Y/N), please.” Sam stared past his brother at you with sad eyes. “You have to promise me.”

You looked between Sam and Dean. Dean cut his eyes at you harshly. However, you knew Dean could never kill his brother if it really came down to it. You weren’t sure you would, either, but you would rather Dean not have another dead family member to blame himself for.

“I promise,” you mumbled.

“Thanks,” Sam grinned. He extended a hand to you. You grabbed it and squeezed. “Thank you. You are—”

“Alright. Come on,” Dean grumbled. He shoved Sam back on the bed. Sam hugged his pillow and snuggled into it. You stared at him sadly, afraid to meet Dean’s gaze.

You turned and left the room, Dean hot on your heels as you unlocked your door.

“How dare you,” he growled. “What the fuck, (Y/N)?! I’m not gonna let you kill my brother!”

“And I’m not gonna do it, either!” you argued, shutting the door behind him. “But I couldn’t let you promise that. I won’t let you.”

“And why not?!” He roared.

“Because I’m not gonna let you have another death to blame yourself for! You’re falling apart, Dean,” you pointed out. “No matter what I say, you’re always gonna blame yourself for John. I’m sure, in some ways, you blame yourself for your mom. Sam is your world. Trust me, I know how that feels. I won’t let you be the one responsible for his death.” You held your ground as he stepped closer to you.

“You don’t get to make that call for me, (Y/N)!” he yelled. “I don’t care what happens, you’re not fucking killing Sam.”

“Dean, you think I wanna kill him? Fuck no! He’s family to me,” you retaliated. “You know I wouldn’t do that to him. But I also saw your face. You were gonna promise him, weren’t you?”

He didn’t answer, looking away from you.

“Exactly. I’d rather you blame me than yourself,” you said, voice quieting considerably.

Dean’s turned-away face was set in hard lines, but he seemed to have nothing else to say.

You stepped in front of him and held up your pinky. “I promise you, I won’t make a move on Sam unless it’s absolutely last resort. I promise I’m gonna do everything I can to try and save him, first. And even then, I won’t do anything until you give the okay.”

Dean considered for a moment, and you could see his brain flooding with conflicting thoughts. Finally and wordlessly, he linked your pinky with his.

“My parents begged me to kill them,” you said after a moment. “I didn’t want to. Everything in me screamed at me not to. But I realized they didn’t wanna become something that wasn’t, y’know, them. I can imagine Sam’s in the same spot. Except… he knows it’s coming. He wants to know that if it does happen, we’ll take care of him.”

Dean still didn't say a word to you for another few moments. “I’m gonna get a drink,” he said finally.

“Okay. G’night, Dean.”

***

The next morning, you were afraid to talk to Dean or Sam. You didn’t want Sam to remember the promise you made to him, and you didn’t want Dean to be upset with you because you were trying to protect him and his heart. You didn’t want him to have to cope with the guilt you felt every single day, clawing at your heartstrings and pounding against your memories.

Knuckles rapped against the door of your room. Having been dressed since three that morning, you opened the door expecting Sherwin or Susan. Instead, it was Sam.

“Oh, hey!” you said cheerfully.

“Hey,” he grimaced.

“Hungover?”

He nodded. “Look, uh, we’re gonna go talk to Rose. You should come with.”

“Sure,” you said. You couldn’t quite gauge if Sam remembered what you, he, and Dean had talked about the night before.

Dean picked the lock to the private quarters after ensuring the room was clear. You headed up a winding staircase to see an old woman, possibly in her nineties, sitting in a wheelchair. She was trembling unceasingly, and you started connecting the dots as to what was going on here.

“Guys… she’s had a stroke,” you explained gently as the two of them were trying to soothe her tremors.

Dean turned and spoke to you for the first time that morning. “Yeah, but Hoodoo's hands-on; I mean, you've got to mix herbs, chant, and build an altar.”

“Yeah. So it can't be Rose,” Sam added. “Hey, maybe it's not even Hoodoo.”

“Or she could be faking,” Dean suggested.

You scoffed. “Yeah, what are you gonna do, poke her with a stick?”

Dean frowned, nodding.

“Dude! You’re not gonna poke her with a stick!” you hissed.

“What the hell?!” came Susan’s voice from behind you. “What are you doing in here?”

You and the brothers babbled, searching for an explanation.

Susan rushed over to her mother. “Look at her, she is scared out of her wits. I want you out of my hotel in two minutes or I'm calling the cops.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you nodded, leaving without hesitation.

***

When you got in the car, Dean pulled just down the road from the hotel to watch the entrance and exits for anything suspicious and searching for an opportunity to go back inside.

You and Dean still hadn’t spoken to each other. It was odd; usually you were talking to each other at a mile a minute. However, to your shock, Dean took out the Metallica cassette tape he promised he’d change and replaced it with your favorite Alice in Chains cassette; “Facelift.” You took it as a sign of goodwill and smiled to yourself.

About an hour or two passed before you saw Susan exiting the hotel and packing boxes into her car. You and the brothers ducked down when you noticed Sherwin driving in your direction. When your heads popped back up, Susan was walking over to the playground at the sight of a swing moving back and forth on its own. Without needing to say anything, you and the boys hopped out of the car and sprinted into the woods to get closer to the situation and help Susan, should anything happen.

The see-saw moved up and down next, then the rest of the playset. Suddenly, her red car’s engine revved. Sam knew what was going to happen and ran at Susan to tackle her out of the way of the charging vehicle.

“Are you okay?” he asked her while he pulled her up from the ground.

“I think so,” she replied breathlessly.

“C’mon, let’s get inside, let’s go,” Dean ordered.

Sam helped Susan into the inn and over to the bar.

“Whiskey,” Susan demanded when she sat down.

You headed behind the bar and slid it over to her.

“What the hell happened out there?” she asked.

“You want the truth?” Dean chimed in.

She nodded.

“Well, at first, we thought it was some sort of Hoodoo curse,” the older brother began, “but that out there? That was definitely a spirit.”

Susan scoffed. “You're insane.”

“Probably,” you shrugged.

“Look, I'm sorry, Susan. We don't exactly have time to ease you into this, but we need to know when your mother had the stroke,” Sam urged.

She looked at him strangely. “What does that have to do with any—”

“Just answer the question.”

“About a month ago.”

You licked your teeth. “Right before the killings started.”

Sam looked to you and Dean. “See? So what if Rose was working Hoodoo, but not to hurt anyone. To protect them.”

“She was using the five spot urns to ward off the spirit,” Dean noted.

“Right, until she had a stroke, and she couldn't anymore,” the brunet finished.

Susan laughed humorlessly. “I don't believe this.”

“Listen, sister,” Dean grunted, “that car didn't try to run you down by itself, okay? I mean, I guess it did, technically, but, but the spirit can— forget it.”

Sam interrupted his brother’s quickly derailing train of thought. “Look, believe what you want. But the fact is you and your family are in danger, all right? So you need to clear everybody out of here: your employees, your mother, your daughters, everyone.”

“Um, I only have one daughter,” Susan replied.

“One?” Sam questioned. “I thought Tyler had a sister named Maggie.”

“Maggie's imaginary,” she said simply.

‘Fuck,’ you thought. “Where’s Tyler?” you asked, trying to keep your cool.

“Uh, maybe in the playroom,” Susan suggested, sounding frantic. “Tyler!” she called as she burst through its door.

You were horrified to see the floor littered with broken porcelain dolls, and Susan’s panic became worse. “Oh, my god. Tyler. Tyler!”

“Susan, tell us what you know about Maggie,” Sam demanded.

She tried to steady herself. “Uh, not much. Um, Tyler's been talking about her since Mom got sick.”

“Okay, did you ever know anyone by that name?”

She shook her head.

“No dead relatives?” you chimed in. “Maybe somebody who used to work or live here?”

“Oh, my god,” she realized. “My mom. My mom had a sister named Maggie. She died when she was little.”

“Uh-huh,” you encouraged. “Where?”

“She drowned in the pool!”

***

You and the Winchesters raced to the poolhouse with Susan in tow. You could see Tyler standing on the opposite side of the balcony, leaning forward.

“Tyler!” her mother screamed.

You ran to the other side after spotting a glass window across the way. You took the butt of your gun that was tucked into your jeans and smashed the glass with it. Your breath caught at the sight of Tyler falling into the pool below, screaming.

Finally, you managed to get the glass broken enough to get through. You dove over the balcony’s railing headfirst toward the little girl wrapped in the plastic tarp from her struggling. You turned on your back and kicked with all your might over to the side of the pool, holding the unconscious girl in your arms. You gently laid her on the pool’s edge, listening for a pulse. Thankfully, it was there, and all you could do was wait to see if she woke up.

Moments later, Tyler sputtered, choking on water, and she woke up.

“Thank god!” Susan cried, pulling her daughter into her lap. “Thank god, thank god.”

Soaking wet, you crawled out of the pool. “Tyler, do you see Maggie anywhere?”

The girl shook her head. “No, she's gone.” She buried her face in her mother’s neck, hugging her tightly. Your heart broke a little at the sight.

You rung your hair out and followed behind Sam and Dean as they discussed Maggie’s potential whereabouts, heading back up to the hotel.

Susan held Tyler close as they climbed the stairs to get the eldest woman in their family and leave the hotel.

Cold and shaking from the pool mixed with the slight chill in the air, your teeth began to chatter. Wordlessly, Dean took his leather jacket off and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you smiled sheepishly.

Suddenly, Susan screamed loudly. You and the boys ran up the stairs to see Rose slumped over in her wheelchair, dead.

***

Paramedics swarmed about as Sam attempted to comfort Susan and send them off. You were slightly drier, now, having changed into a different set of clothes. Still, you kept Dean’s much larger jacket wrapped around your body. The man in question leaned against the Impala next to you.

“Are… are we okay?” you asked suddenly.

He turned to you, arms crossed. “I don’t know, are we?”

You grimaced. “I just, after last night, I just wanted to make sure that—”

“Yeah, (Y/N), we’re fine. But I don’t wanna keep bringing it up.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

A moment of tense silence passed. Then, he draped his arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “Promise. We’re fine.”

You stuck out your pinky. He chuckled and linked yours with his.

Sam approached you and Dean, still seeming confused by the two of you. He shook his head, though, deciding against asking.

“Feels good getting back in the saddle, doesn't it?” Dean smirked at his brother.

“Yeah, it does,” Sam nodded. “But it doesn't change what we talked about last night, Dean.”

“We talked about a lot of things last night.” Dean’s voice had a warning edge to it.

“You know what I mean.”

“You were wasted.”

“But she wasn’t. And she promised,” Sam said.

You looked up at him. “Sam—”

“You promised, (Y/N).”

You had nothing to say to that. “But I am gonna try everything in my power not to have to do that,” you added.

Sam nodded solemnly. The three of you got in the car without speaking to each other and cruised down the road as Alice in Chains played in the background.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x youn #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #supernatural series rewrite #spn #spn series rewrite

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semperama · 22 days ago

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trick or treat! happy halloween!! 🎃

I know this is late, but it's still Halloween here! I wrote you a little something. <3

------

It was...ambitious of them, thinking they could take a eight week old to a Halloween party, even if it is just the rest of the 118. Everyone does their best. Karen walks her around Bobby and Athena's backyard, mouth close to her ear, talking about the moon and the stars. Bobby patiently feeds her a bottle, stuck on the couch for twenty minutes while she sucks it down slowly. Chim bounces her against his shoulder until she spits up all down his back. Jee sings the sweetest version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star they've ever heard, and Buck would cry if he wasn't so incredibly exhausted.

"The witching hour," Athena says when she deposits the poor screaming baby back in Eddie's arms. "I promise it passes."

They end up leaving early, despite everyone's efforts. Ava falls asleep in her car seat, and when Buck's about to take the exit for home, Eddie puts a hand on his arm and says, quietly, "Let's drive around a little."

She was dressed as a ladybug to start the night, but three spit-ups and one poop later, she's on her second back-up outfit, a plain purple footie. Her face is sweet with sleep when Buck glances back at her in the mirror. They could drive all night, he thinks. Circle LA as many times as it takes. Anything to let her sleep, because this can't be fun for her either, her little body still trying to adjust to the outside world. Even exhausted and feeling like a failure, Buck loves her so damn much.

"You okay?" he asks Eddie after a few minutes of silence. When he glances over, Eddie's head is tipped back against the seat, his eyes shut, shadows fanned across his cheeks, the antennae from his bee costume askew. "Sorry. Sleep. You should sleep."

"I'm not asleep," Eddie says without opening his eyes. When Buck reaches for his hand, he threads their fingers together, and his mouth curves into a grin.

"I know it's been hard." Sometimes Buck feels—bad. Guilty. Like he talked Eddie into something he didn't really want, and now it's all Buck's fault. The middle-of-the-night feeds, the diaper blowouts, these periods of inconsolable crying—all his fault. "Regrets?" he asks, and he hopes it sounds like he's kidding, but he also hopes Eddie answers.

The silence stretches just long enough to make his anxiety that much worse. But then Eddie extricates his hand from Buck's and slides it up his arm, up to the side of his face, sweeping his thumb across Buck's cheekbone. "Never," he says, quiet and sincere. "I was just thinking about how lucky we are."

"Hmm?" Buck asks, leaning into the touch.

"Our friends. Our family. The way she's going to grow up with all these people who love her." Eddie slips his fingers up into Buck's hair, massages his skull in a way that makes him groan. "I have no regrets, Buck. I love our life."

Now Buck is going to cry. He's on a hair trigger these days anyway, thanks to the sleep deprivation. The tears are already threatening to spill over. "I love you," he says, almost a whisper.

"I love you too," Eddie says. He lets his hand drop to the back of Buck's neck and squeezes. "Just—don't stop driving."

Buck chuckles, even as he reaches up to swipe at his eyes. "Take a nap, babe," he says. He looks over again, Eddie's beautiful face painted orange by the streetlights. Eddie, tired and trusting. Buck adores him. "I got this. You sleep."

Eddie shuts his eyes again, a smile on his face. His hand stays curled around Buck's neck.

#buddie #911 show #my writing #trick or treat

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rebouks · 9 months ago

Text

Previous // Next

Hi Alex!

I don’t think it’s stupid or cheesy to miss someone, I miss you too! Going back to normal after being on holiday is always horrible, especially after this one, and especially having to go back to school, I’m not a big fan! Do you go to school too? I wanted to ask if you did but I couldn’t… it’s nothing personal, by the way, sometimes I just can’t speak to people and I don’t really know why. I thought it was my decision if I did or didn’t before I met you but maybe not. My parents n’ the teachers at school call it selective mutism but I won’t bore you with all that crap.

I can’t see your new teeth but they grow fast so maybe next time! If they don’t maybe you could get some gold one’s like your dad has, unless you don’t wanna look like a pirate lol.. my littlest sister has four teeth now, and I have all my big teeth! I haven’t counted the twins though cos they’d probably bite me if I tried haha!!

Ava is the tiny one with the blonde pigtails! She’s cute but she still sleeps and poops a lot haha, she’s sorta chill though and definitely doesn’t cry as much as Wren and Byrd used to (have you noticed we’re all named after birds yet? I guess my parents thought it was cute since our last name is Finch) Wren’s the ginger one with plaits! She’s pretty funny but she’s super grumpy sometimes and likes to bite and kick (not me though, she loves me) I think it’s cos she’s tired a lot cos she never sleeps at night, kinda like dad.. they’re twins but Byrd is way different, I couldn’t get a picture of him cos he kept running off, he’s crazy like that but he’s super snuggly and loves playing doctor! He likes to pretend to break my legs so I can’t go anywhere then fix them for me haha. Brothers and sisters are fun but they can be a pain in the butt sometimes! We have a cat called Lou too, his full name is Toulouse and he likes to bring us leaves from the garden and scream about ‘em, and he loves stealing food when you’re not looking.

Dad’s been teaching mom how to cook cos she sucks at it (don’t tell her I said that though cos I always pretend it’s not THAT bad) she’s sorta getting better though so I suppose the whole practice makes perfect thing pays off eventually. I got a school project to make a lame volcano that I didn’t wanna do as well, but my parents made me do it anyway.. we all know that real volcanoes aren’t full of baking powder and vinegar though so I dunno if there was much point to it but they seemed to think it was important so I did it anyway, at least I got a picture of it “going off” I guess. No one likes homework, even if it’s supposed to be fun, right?!

It’s cool you set Amber free!! I’m sure she’s happier wherever she is now so I guess you could just think of that when you miss her? The rocks are way cooler anyway! My aunt Aspen has loads of crystals too, sometimes she even charges them in the sun or the full moon.. I keep forgetting to ask her why but I’ll try and remember so I can tell you next time!

Hahaa your poor dad with those birds! I’ll definitely keep the picture cos it’s hilarious, Wren found it the funniest but don’t worry, I’ll keep the picture safe from her sticky hands! I have a hiding spot in the attic for all the stuff I don’t want them touching. I guess birdwatching is sorta fun sometimes but you’ve gotta be quiet (easy for me I guess.. hah!) I’m not sure there’s any other birds round here other than seagulls since we live right next to the sea, those are the ones you can hear the most anyway cos they never shut up! My dad jokes that he used to be a seagull in a past life cos he’s loud and greedy like they are lol.. he’s been building me a treehouse too, I bet that’d be good for birdwatching!! It’ll be super cool once he’s finished but it’s taking ages cos he mostly does it all by himself, I try n’ help sometimes but I’m still too small to carry or lift most things.. I wanna be as strong as him one day, he can build and fix almost anything (he swears a lot during it though haha!) Do you ever think about what you wanna be when you grow up? I don’t really think about that sorta stuff cos working sounds boring, especially if it’s as lame as school!!

I’m ten, by the way! How old are you and when’s your birthday? Mine’s February 22nd. I don’t think I have a favourite food, anything my dad makes is amazing cos he’s a good cook and my mom makes the BEST pancakes! We’re always stuffed after dinner but dad says (lies) that pudding goes in a different part of your stomach so there’s always room for cake haha.. I think I like it best when he makes spicy food but Wren and Byrd hate it so he doesn’t make stuff like that too often. It’s fun to see how much you can eat before your mouth feels like it’s on fire and I’ve decided I’m gonna beat him one day so he better watch out!!!

I didn’t know what to write at first but I guess I sorta ended up writing quite a lot since I had some catching up to do! Are you and your dad on holiday in the tower or are you living there for now? It sorta sounded like you’ve been there a long time, where do you usually live? What kinda stuff does your dad dig up for work? It’d be cool if he dug up dinosaur bones!! I watched something like that recently and they were HUGE!

It’s hard to think of questions on the spot but you can talk about anything you want too! I probably owe you a million answers as well so you can ask anything you want too! I had fun reading your letter and I’m glad we can be pen-pals even if we don’t get to see each other! Maybe next time we meet in person I’ll be able to say something, but writing would still be fun too so I guess it doesn’t really matter, right?

Love Robin c:

ps. I’m keeping the funny photo of you yelling at your dad and there’s nothing you can do about it!!

pps!! I don’t have a way to print out photos yet otherwise I’d have sent some new ones. Dad gave me an old polaroid ages ago but it’s still broken, his friend said he might be able to fix it though so hopefully I can use that next time. Mom said you can have some of our old ones and the ones from her disposable camera whilst we were on holiday for now though so I’ll send those to you as soon as they come back!

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lethalchiralium · 2 years ago

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Imagine It | Simon “Ghost” Riley x Wife!Reader

a/n: i have an itch i need to scratch and that is simon being happy. thanks

warnings: mentions of babies, mentions of simon’s kids winnie and mellie, mentions of simon’s past a little

summary: It was just a nice afternoon, your husband’s brothers in arms trying to name your imaginary baby for you.

PREVIOUS << | >> NEXT

“Rhia?”

“Write it down.” You answered, wiping baby food off of your finger onto a paper towel. Mellie giggled in her high chair, watching you as you brought Simon the little glass jar of mashed bananas.

Soap scribbled the name down on the piece of paper, sitting next to Winnie at the dinner table. The little girl was drawing on Gaz’s arm with a Sharpie, you just didn’t have the heart to tell him that.

“I like Ava.” Gaz piped up, looking up from his crossword puzzle. Soap looked to his friend then to you, you shook your head.

“Had an Ava in middle school who stole my hair tie and cut it into pieces, and kept doing it until junior year of high school.” You moved back to the fridge, opening it and looking into it. “We don’t have that much food, boys.”

“Ye kept a grudge this long?”

You looked over the fridge door at Soap, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Sort of. My brother handled it by getting her expelled.” You closed the fridge, walking back towards your dinner table and pulling a chair from it. You settled yourself beside Simon as he fed Mellie her mushed bananas, her little head trying to get a peak at Price at the head of the table. But, of course, he was completely disguised by the newspaper he held up, just like a grandfather. “More suggestions?”

Soap looked down at the list of names he had printed and brought, shoving the paper past Winnie and to Gaz, the man put down his pencil and took the packet in his hand while giving the Scot a side-eye.

“Just going to roll them off.”

You looked to Simon, the unmasked man glanced at you with a nervous glare. You looked to your left and spoke gently, “Make sure they’re not stupid ones. We’ll say yes or no.”

“Lila.”

“No.”

“Penelope.”

“No.”

“We’re talkin’ to yer wife, buddy.” Soap commented, Ghost had rejected the names while you just smiled at your husband. His eyes were still on his daughter, the little baby’s gaze now on her father.

“We’re not even having a baby anytime soon.” The Lieutenant commented, you nodded.

Soap shrugged, Gaz scoffed. “We get to name the next one - this is a meeting, for your information.” The Brit looked down at Winnie, she was still focused on whatever she was drawing on his arm.

“Oh, so you lot get to name my baby?” You laughed a little. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, Mellie’s my godbaby!” Soap whined. “Gaz’s gotta have one too!”

“He’s right, I’ve got to have a godchild too.” Gaz declared, Winnie switched markers from black to blue, beginning to color in some of her drawings. “This one’s Price’s.”

“I’m not popping out kids for each of you to have if we both die.” Your voice was loud and declarative, Soap and Gaz shut their mouths. “What if these are the only two we have? You gonna go to court and get joint custody?”

“Leave the lady alone, muppets.” Price’s voice echoed through the kitchen, he flipped the page in his newspaper.

Soap turned to Gaz, a mischievous smile on his face. “We shuid git married sae we have joint custody.”

You burst out laughing, hand flying to your mouth as Gaz squawked like a bird. Simon glanced at you before staring at Soap, who was cackling and saying , “Wh-What?! ’m right!”

“They’ll be adults before I die anyway.” Your husband commented, before turning back to Mellie - her little hand was reaching for the spoonful of banana he had in his hand. He moved the spoon towards her hand, her fingers curled around the plastic as her father commented, “Last time I checked, my girls’ godfather is Price.”

“They’ll all raise ‘em together anyway,” You then looked back to Gaz and Soap. “Won’t you, boys?”

“Yes ma’am.” Both soldiers nodded, now looking away and interested in Winnie’s art.

Soap began to chuckle as he grabbed her black marker. “Ye'r gonnae hae her art oan yer arm forever, buddy.” He held up the Sharpie in Gaz’s face, whose face paled. He looked down at the marker she was coloring her drawings on his arm in, seeing that it was washable before staring at you.

“You gave her the marker!”

You shrugged, nudging your foot on Simon’s calf. He glanced at you before he took the spoon away from your baby, she made a noise of annoyance and tried to reach for it again. The eight month old let out a whine, tears bubbling up in her eyes but he was quick to hand her the spoonful of banana again. Mellie giggled, taking the spoon from his hand as he said, “Thank you.”

“You gotta name for ‘em, Price?” Soap asked, yanking his list of names from Gaz and grabbing the Sharpie.

Price hummed from behind his newspaper. “Yeah, my mum’s name. Used to be a volunteer at the women’s shelter, used to help troubled kids.” He flipped the page. “Her name was Lyra.”

Your eyes shot to Simon, who looked like a fish out of water for just a moment. His eyes narrowed just a little as he went to wipe away some food from Mellie’s cheek with a wipe. The baby babbled a little, trying to grab his hand and chew on it.

You saw Price’s eyes over the newspaper, the little crinkle of eyebrows told you all you needed.

Simon knew Price’s mom from when he was a kid, at the woman’s shelter Simon’s mom went to several times. He must have been one of those ‘troubled teens’. Your hand went to Simon’s knee, giving it a squeeze before looking back at Price, who had disappeared behind his newspaper again.

“Mumma,” Winnie spoke from beside Gaz, looking over to you.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can I color on Uncle Soap?” Her hazel eyes were big, she looked as if she was going to pop her lip out to beg. You smirked and pointed to Soap, who had a big smile on his face.

“You need to ask Uncle Soap. Did you ask Uncle Gaz if he liked your art?” You nodded towards Gaz, who stared at the Sharpie in Soap’s hand until Winnie looked up at him.

She quietly asked him if he liked his new art, he smiled and said, “Love it. I’ll keep ‘em forever.”

The girl squealed in delight before looking back at Soap, blue marker in her hand. “Uncle Soap, can I pretty please draw on your arm?”

Soap jutted out his arm, letting the little girl grab it with one hand and immediately began to scribble. Soap’s smile got even bigger as he watched the little artist, you looked back at Simon. He settled the small glass jar on the table beside Soap’s packet, moving to wipe off Mellie’s face as she chewed on her spoon.

Your arms went around Simon’s bicep, moving to rest your cheek into his shoulder to gaze at your baby. You do want another one, but it’s up to your husband - another little girl that smiles just as wide as her sisters, or a boy that loves to play firefighter with his sisters.

You pressed a kiss to your husband’s shoulder before looking at the rest of your family at the dinner table, holding your husband just a little closer. He pressed a kiss to your head before trying to take back the spoon from his daughter, who almost started screaming bloody murder.

———

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley call of duty #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley cod #simon ghost riley headcanons #simon ghost riley x fem!reader #simon ghost riley x afab!reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley call of duty #simon riley cod #simon riley #simon riley headcanons #simon riley mw2 #simon riley x you #simon riley x wife!reader #lethal chiralium #lethalchiralium

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fullofgutsndopamine · 4 months ago

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Just A Spark (Gonna Let It Happen)

Or: five times hasan helped you + 1 the one time you helped him

feat: fire fighter hasan

tw: mention of drinking, cursing, mention of ptsd/trauma

thanks to the wonderful @the-phantom-author for letting me run with their idea. @medlarmeadows and @abadarkade for their wonderful suggestions and always offering ideas when i run out

more hasan here

one. first encounter

sometimes, when the thick blanket of night falls in the room, hits his eyes even though they’re blocked by his arm-he wonders exactly what he did wrong in a past life to be here.

he isn’t sure if he believes in that past life bullshit; people with cards and stars that tell him he looked at someone the wrong way, years ago, in a different lifetime, landed him here- but fuck, he did something wrong.

it’s the steady beep of a half broken fire alarm that makes an eye snap up. it’s ironic, or something, that the fire stations fire alarm would be broken, but he can’t find himself caring enough to pull up a chair, find the screwdriver, to care long enough to do something for it.

instead, he lays with his forearm over his eyes, counts the seconds in between the beeps, find the peace in the lull between the five seconds.

there’s parties to go to; things he could make himself do-instead, he lays in a twin sized mattress that lightly reeks of a delicate mixture of body odor and oil.

Last nights call plays in his head: what was suppose to be a harmless call for a ninety year old-the flash of fear in her eyes when he gets there, holding her hand and promising her it’ll be okay-

he sits up and flips the pillow over to the cooler side, hopes that makes a difference, tries to face the wall and count the markings that line the wall.

An alarm blares over head.

he wonders if he squeezes his eyes shut long enough, picks the sides of the pillow up and slams it into his ears. instead, he sits up with a sigh, pulls his shoes up and says a hail mary to whatever supernatural powers be, wills it to be better.

The engine starts up, James, his partner forever, hops into the seat next to him and they’re off.

Three streets away in a yard only lit up by a fire, you find yourself borderline pacing.

The coughing didn’t bother you. At least, not at first.

The bonfire started hours ago, before the sun had set, hiding behind clouds and dipping in and out of them, as if it was an elaborate game of hide and seek that you were losing badly.

The coughing was almost expected. Peter and Paul, the two idiots together, disappeared off an hour ago with a large container of gasoline and a glint in their eye that you didn’t fully trust-honestly, you were surprised it took this long for it to catch up with you.

“Dude,” someone, you think his name is Scott, a friend of a friend, speaks up: “The first cough is whatever. The second? Sure. but the third? Can you please get it together?”

It’s dramatic.

an anxious habit, your hands go to the side of your hand, nail to your head to scratch at an invisible itch.

"Hey," Scott says in-between the coughs, scratches at his throat, "what's in these brownies anyways?"

Peter speaks up: "Nothing ground breaking. A family recipe-"

"Oh, please," Ava snorts, "Is the family recipe from a box found at Meijer's?"

"Fuck off, you're disrespecting my dead Nana," Peter puffs his chest out, "Who's dead, by the way, you sick fuck-"

"Guys," Scott is borderline wheezing, "The brownies?"

Peter rolls his eyes, "Oil, mix.." He ticks them off on his fingers, "Oh, I added some chopped walnuts in, to spice them up-"

"Stop trying to make 'spice them up' happen. Your Nana did not say that."

"Walnuts?" his eyes go wide, "I'm allergic-"

it's a blur after that. Yelling, running around, phone calls with fingers shoved in their ears to block out the noise, frantic googling that yielded no results

Honestly, the first thought you had when you saw him was relief. you wonder if that's what he's use to; the guardian angel status, the way he walks into a room with authority, like nothing actually scares him

Ava walks next to him, although it's less walking and more running, trying to run to keep up with his strides

You have Scott leaning against a dead tree trunk, his shirt ripped off in a panic, his hand on his throat as if he could scratch the itch out-your hand rests over his, your face close to him as you try to talk him off an invisible ledge.

"You're going to be fine," You're saying, trying to convince yourself, more than anything, "by tomorrow this is going to be a funny memory we'll all look back at-"

Hasan recognizes this-knows that it's you more panicked than him, and he realizes how out of his element he is-needs to rescue a cat in a tree, reset a fire alarm-

EMS comes in first, breaks up the two of you-you take the hint, inch further away so you're not in the way, but can still hear what’s going on-if he’ll make it.

“Hey.”

your head whips up. eyes stinging, didn’t realize you were crying until the familiar pinch came.

“Hey,” you shake your head, “sorry. Am i in the way?”

The taller man shrugs, “he’s good. James got him, too.”

He studies you for a second.

“are you okay?”

before you can answer stuff is flying from his belt; a smaller pack hits by your feet, a walkie talkie inches from your toes-

he plops down next to you with a groan, like that took a lot out of him.

Panic looms. blooms in your chest, fills it, threatens to take over-

“here.”

he digs in his jeans and pulls out a caramel candy, holds it by the wrapper.

“isn’t that an old man candy?”

you sniffle but a shaky hand reaches out, grabs it and unwraps it.

“it’s Hasan, by the way.” the man says gently, eyes downcast as he unwraps his own, “and it’s not.”

finally some comfort, the rise of panic crashing like a wave in your chest as it retreats for now.

“Hasan the old man,” you settle on, “got it.”

two

"You've got to be kidding me."

Hasan chomps on gum as if he doesn't have a care in the world

"I know the medical emergency was a little above your pay grade," You hope your voice doesn't come out as shaky as it feels, "So I figured saving my cat would be more up your alley."

He snorts, rolls his eyes as he cranes his neck to look up the tree.

"What's it's name?"

"My name?" You scratch at your neck, not sure how this is relevant but if it saves your cat-

"No," hasan says slowly, "The cat-"

"Oh."

You hope he doesn't see the rising red splash across your face

"Tomato," You clear your throat, "Tomato is the asshole who thought it was a good idea to climb a tree at five in the morning when i have an interbiew in an hour and my hair is still wet-"

and my hair is still wet- your hand flies to your head, where a towel is still damp and wrapped around your head, stained and worn with age-past hair colors stained and marked the towel up

"Hey,"

Hasan's voice brings you down, crashes you back to earth. Instead of the rising heat on your face and the worried roar in your head, your back in your front yard. Hasan stands in front of you-a too tight uniform shirt across his chest, stained, a mop of curly hair and a constellation of freckles across his face.

wide eyed, looking at you, his hands on either side of your arms:

“you’re fine,” he’s saying, “Tomato is fine. i’ll get her down in time.” he hesitates for a second, considers the weight behind it, “i promise.”

he turns to the tree before you can see him flustered:

“what a fucking stereotype,” he sighs, calls over his shoulder, his shoulders already aching from the work out he’s about to get: “got a ladder?”

there’s a quick fight between you two (“just tell me where the ladder is“ “you’re going to save tomato! you can’t carry the ladder too!”) before he throws his hands up and makes his way to the small shed in the corner of the yard, ignoring you, all but marching back to the scene of the crime.

“can you hold the ladder?” he says gently, before a smile paints across his face, “can you handle that much?”

the bastard is smirking now. in the sunlight his freckles are more pronounced, can trace the lines of them on his face.

“shouldn’t you have someone with you?” you’re calling up gently as he scales up a ladder. he’s clicking his tongue as he does so.

he doesn’t answer:

“i fucking hate cats,” he’s saying instead, “murderous, ungrateful bastards-“

his fingers reach out at the branch, so close to touching Tomatoes tail-he hisses, climbs up another branch.

“I don’t think he likes me.” Hasan huffs, scaling the tree higher

“can you blame him?” Nibbling fingernails, “some scary man is climbing up a ladder and invading his space-“

“handsome?”

head titled back as he slowly climbs the ladder, “what?”

“a handsome man, i assume you said,” hasan continues, silence for a second before there’s light rustling; a branch falls, a bundle of leaves-you’re about to ask if he’s okay before he retreats back, an orange bundle under his arm, meowing and yelling at him as he carefully climbs down. Heavy gear clatters around him, and you worry about it falling off of him for a second

once his feet are down he continues:

“a handsome man,” he finishes, “who rescued your cat, right?”

silence

“right?”

“thank you, hasan.”

three

you run through the list in your head: eggs, milk, loaf of bread-

music seems to blare around you. wraps around you, makes your head pound-your only plan to try and get out as quickly as you can.

Faces pass; none familiar, all just as frantic and busy as you are-

cans of soup- your eyes scan the shelves, falls on the familiar red branding-fingers reach out, almost grasp it-fall

again.

reach, fingers brush against it-push it back a little further.

“mother fucker-“

“need help?”

the voice is familiar. too familiar. your eyes narrow, back still to them.

“i think you need me at this point,” the voice is almost gleeful, “should just follow you round to help-what is it? chicken noodle? you look like a chicken noodle soup enjoyer”

“it’s tomato.” you grumble unhappily.

“tomato?” he turns around, head over his shoulder, “hmm.”

he looks tired. bags under his eyes, hair a million different directions, shirt is untucked and stained-a pen cap is hanging on for dear life at the neck of a stretched out shirt.

“shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“shouldn’t you be calling the fire department for something?”

“awe,” you finally smile, snatching the can, “you do miss my calls-“

“when they see your number they automatically dispatch me to you. you’re a liability.”

you reach for the can but he holds it higher in the air, a smirk creeps on his face:

“what do you say?”

a huff, “please?” you try, “pretty please?”

he rolls his eyes: “there’s no way you think that’s what i want.”

“who’s your favorite fire fighter?”

“what’s your partners name? Rob? He is-“

he huffs, turns his back to you and sets the can back on the shelf, his fingers still brush against the can as he hums like he’s considering his own soup options-

“hasan, please. my chili depends on you-“

he ignores you, still humming, as you pull on his shirt:

“you’re my favorite firefighter,” you find yourself saying, “it hurts to say that.”

he turns around, hands you the can: “was that so hard?”

four

weeks pass. with job deadlines on the horizon, your apartment all but falling apart-it’s easy to forget about about anyone else.

sleep finally finds you. a cold side of the pillow, eyes finally shut-

a fire alarm blares that makes you shoot out of bed. tomato lays at your feet, grabbing him, running outside to the yard, sweater long forgotten.

by the time you’re at the yard, you can at least see the building isn’t burning up. in fact, you can’t see anything. you weigh your options for a second, considering ignoring the blaring fire alarms before you hear the fire truck and groan, knowing what’s coming up, knowing who’s around the corner.

the second the car parks everyone is running out, talking into walkie talkies-

“is this you?” hasan calls as he jogs past you, “you’re an arsonist at this point-“

you go to yell back and he’s gone.

an hour later he appears. his hair is disheveled, his shoulders slump. he walks next to his partners, something in his hand-

“if you need cooking lessons, i volunteer,” hasan says, “i can teach you how to fucking make ramen-“

“why do you assume that i’m behind all bad things that happen here?”

“your track record doesn’t help,” he says, “to begin with. and this has your name written all over it. please,” he stops, drops the pan and claps his hands together as if begging: “let me teach you how to cook.”

“it wasn’t fucking me!”

his eyes narrow: “Please. no one believe you-“

“you’re a dick. don’t you have a donut to eat? or-“

“that’s police officers, idiot.” he huffs, “and fuck them, anyways. look-“

he stops, leans into you, “i know just the place. i’ll teach you-“

“you aren’t teaching me how to cook! and it’s not me!”

“fine,” his eyes narrow, “but the next call here, if it’s yours, i take you to a cooking class-“

“what-“

“even if it isn’t your call. you owe me a date.”

his hand outstretched to you: “a deals a deal-“

“what’s in it for me?”

“i’ll leave you alone.”

you groan, knowing that’s not going to happen. sunrise threatens to fall over the horizon, and you know he won’t give up anytime soon-

your hand falls into his-larger and calloused-slips into his like a missing puzzle piece, like a perfect piece-

“it’s a deal.”

five

look, this isn’t bribing.

but after your fourth call to your apartment this month, you figured you at least owed them something for coming out-even if they somehow always sent just Hasan out-

you couldn’t sleep, anyways. or at least, that’s your excuse. the tray of baked goods threatens to fall out of the seat any second.

The door to the station is open, all the workers walking around, half suspenders down, shirts untucked, plates of food half eaten-

you couldn’t find your guy in the line up,is your first thought. before you quickly shake your head, trying to get that idea out as quickly as it came. he isn’t your guy. if anything, he’s the pain in the ass who keeps saving your ass-

putting the car in park, saying a prayer before grabbing the plate and walking in, hoping you look more confident than you feel.

“Well,” one of the firefighter smirks as you show up, “have any batteries that need to be changed?” he teases, “or is cilantro in trouble? hasan hasn’t shut up-“

“it’s tomato,” hasan appears behind him, “i know my mortal enemies name.”

“look what the cat dragged in-“

“it’s almost like you’re at the place where i work. imagine that-“

“i made brownies.”

the guy next to him immediately perks up, grabs the plate and pulls back tinfoil: “thank you!”

hasan stops him before he can run off, grabs a brownie before he can leave, eyes it as you stand in front of him.

“so,” he says, “what’s the trick with this? i don’t have any allergies-“

“damn. nut allergies are the most common allergies. i thought that’s how i could take you out-“

“and they aren’t burned-“

“that wasn’t me with the ramen, you dick.”

“these look good.”

“always the tone of surprise,” you roll your eyes, “most people would say thank you.”

“why would i say thank you before I’m potentially poisoned?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“here,” he smirks, “you take the first bite.”

“i’m not hungry-“

“that’s exactly what someone who poisoned food would say to get out to eating it.”

“you’re a dick, give it to me.”

“ah,” he says instead when you reach for it, his hand still on the brownie as he leans forward, a hand cupped under your mouth as he goes to feed you the bite.

“this is outrageous,” you roll your eyes as pink rises up, but don’t put up more of a fight as it makes contact, as you bite off, “it’s delicious”

he watches you carefully as you chew

“see?” you roll your eyes: “now you.”

“eh?” he shrugs, “i don’t know how hungry i am-“

you gasp and he giggles, before shoving it in his mouth:

“not bad.” he settles on.

“if you’re looking for your guy, he called in sick.”

you aren’t proud of the fact that they know who you’re really here for, and less that you know the man who yelled that-Michael-will proudly tell hasan that.

“what?” you tease, “the big baby can’t handle a little bit of a cold?”

he snorts: “he did the kids fire safety at the elementary school this week-he blames them.”

“what a baby.”

you try and make polite small talk. they’re all fine-the entire time, thinking of the plan you’re already cooking in your head.

everyone knows where he lives. the house was famous before the newest fire fighter bought it (and when you’re in a small town like this, a new guy on the team is a big deal, gets around) and in the center of town, you pass it every day on your way to and from work: seeing him leave in the morning, at night, still in his uniform, shirt untucked and wrinkly as he moves around his front yard: tends to the garden on the side of the house (looks like he’s very proud of his herbs he’s growing, at least) hunched over as he flicks his tongue and has a small ceramic bowl of kibble for the gang of cats that seem attached to him-

a quick stop at the only grocery store in town, the paper bag of groceries on your lap, your stomach bubbles and bursts as you worry your lip about this-

you park the car and find yourself in front of his house before you can talk yourself out of it.

tapping your foot, waiting for him to answer-

“hullo?”

he still looks good, even sick.

glasses crooked on his face, his hair a mess, the tip of his nose is red, lines over his freckles from a pillow-

he groans. stands in the doorway, his hand against the doorframe.

“i’m off duty,” he tries, “you’ll have to put out your own fire-“

“heard the kids made you sick,” you say instead, ruffling through the plastic bag on your wrist, “nothing ramen can’t help.”

“ramen?” he laughs, “like-“

“it wasn’t me!” you insist, can feel your heart thump in your ears, “let me redeem myself; make you some soup.”

“i can’t call the fire department-“

“if i start a fire i’ll put it out myself, i promise.”

he laughs: “i guess i’d like to see that.”

comfortable silence for a second.

“so?” you push, “the soup?”

his eyes narrow for a second before his hand slowly slides up the doorframe, an invitation in-you duck and act like you can’t see the smile light up his face

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