#boys hunt wendigo in the snow

[kseniayahz]

idk i just really liked @taillesscomet until dawn au with garrett and ward so I came up with something like an edit

[deanwinchestersbabygirll]

snowed in

-warnings// lots of fluff, LOTS OF SMUT

-a lil summery// the usual fan fiction trope, two best friends in a cabin, will they kiss.. read to find out

Dean x reader

-word count// 2623

(gif from pinterest)

"Yeah, the doors completely blocked in by the snow, I've tried pushing Sammy it's not gonna budge, yeah okay I'll call in the morning. night Sammy" you sat on the bed as you listened to the phone conversation, you and the boys were hunting a wendigo and decided to split up, you with dean and Sam with Bobby

You and Dean stumbled upon a cabin in the woods and decided to check it out incase there was any victims hiding inside, turns out the place was empty but Dean slammed the door behind him causing the snow from the roof to barricade the door stopping you both from leaving.

Dean hung up the phone and turned to you with a sigh and dropped his tense shoulders "alright so Sam and Bobby are too far out and they said the storms only gonna get worse so they're gonna come get us in the morning"  Dean said placing his phone back in his jacket pocket "crap we can't even get out to get wood for the fire, it's gonna be freezing in here!" You said already beginning to feel the chill in the air

"Yeah.. well there's some blankets on the couch so you wrap yourself up nice and tight  I'll try and see if I can find some wood around the place that will get some kind of fire going" Dean said already rummaging through the cupboards.

You shivered slightly as you wrapped the worn red blanket around you as you sat down, your knees tucked under your chin in a huddle, there was a sound of wood snapping and dean was soon walking to the couch "so good news is we've got wood, the bad news... these people no longer have cupboard doors" Dean said with a small smirk 

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, "alright get them burning Winchester I already feel my toes going numb" you exaggerated making dean chuckle "you got it sweetheart" Dean said as he kneeled down with a light and the doors.

After a half hour of Dean breaking the doors down to fit in the fireplace he had the flame going and soon there was more heat surrounding the small cabin "any better sweetheart?" Dean turned to ask, you shook your head slightly "I think I'd feel a lot warmer if you got up here beside me" you flirted 

Dean threw you a smirk over his shoulder and moved beside you and pulled your small frame closer to him and tucking you under his arm, you snuggled into him and moved to wrap the red blanket around you both, "see I'm already feeling much better" you said making Dean chuckle.

You and dean continued to cuddle and watch the fire burn for a few hours talking about past hunts before you met each other "okay so you stuck a fish in the guys car, did you ever hear what happened after, did they find it or are they still driving around smelling dead fish?" You questioned and dean threw his head back in laughter as he thought back on the cherished memory "I hope they're still driving around with it" 

You yawned as the laughter died down to a comfortable silence and dean took notice "you getting tired sweetheart?" He asked and you nodded "yeah do you know what time it is?" You questioned "1:45am, there's a bedroom down the hall why don't you go get some sleep and hopefully Sam and Bobby will be here early" you nodded with another yawn

 "what about you?" Dean shrugged "i can take the couch it's actually not too bad" Dean replied and you nodded feeling bad about him taking a dusty old couch for a bed "you sure you'll be okay?" You asked and Dean smiled pulling you in tight to him for a hug "yeah of course sweetheart, I've slept on worse" he joked and you smiled before getting up with a big stretch "night dean" you said walking towards the room exhausted "night Y/N" his voices raised slightly so you could hear him.

You awoke a few hours later in a cold sweat, fear trembled within you from the nightmare as you wondered if you should bother dean, your inner battle didn't last long before your bare feet tiptoed through the cabin to the living room the dying fire allowed enough light so you could see the older Winchester, he looked so peaceful as he slept, like he never had a worry in his life but that was far from true…

You gently tapped deans arm "dean?" You sniffled and he groaned slowly opening his eyes "hey, what's up sweetheart, everything okay?" He slurred out you shook your head before taking a deep breathe "uh not really could you stay with me please I just don't want to be alone" you said as a few tears made there way down your cheeks , Dean got up from the couch quickly and pulled you into him "of course I can, you wanna tell me what's got you so upset?" He asked wiping your tears gently from your cheeks "not really, it was just a nightmare but it felt so real" you said quietly and dean nodded as he lead you toward the bedroom.

Deans and you made your way to the bed "which side do you prefer?" He asked scratching the back of his head "I'm usually a middle of the bed kind of girl" you flirted making him smirk "well alright I can work with that" you both made your way into the cold bed and dean was already wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to his chest 

You sighed and turn around in his arms so your facing him, he was already looking down at you "you wanna tell me what your nightmare was about sweetheart? He asked as he moved a strand of hair behind your ear, you took in a shuddering breath and closed your eyes already feeling them burn with tears

 "we were hunting a demon nest  and they had you tied up as they tortured  you to the brink of death  and when I tried to help it was like I was stuck in place and I could hear you screaming, begging for me to help… and then I woke up" you said I'm a shaky voice as you felt your tears stream down your face

"Hey it's okay baby it was just a bad dream okay? I am right here and nothing's getting me I promise" Dean reassured you as he kissed your forehead head before resting his own against yours, nose to nose as he spoke "your one of the best damn hunters I've ever known Y/N I would trust you with my life and I know you would do everything in your power to save me or Sammy and if anything ever did happen don't you dare blame yourself, I need you to promise me that" dean said quietly 

"I can't promise that Dean, Sam and you mean way to much to me to promise that " you struggled out through tears and dean sighed and held you closer "I love you Y/N, so damn much" dean said quietly his lips slightly touching yours with how close he was, you froze in his arms not expecting that to come from dean, you've been in love with him for years you thought nothing would ever happen especially with deans one night stands happening every so often, you guys flirted back and forth all the time but you took that as Dean's personality 

Dean having taken your frozen silence as rejection panicked and pulled back "forget I said anything" he said as he pulled back slightly to get out the bed, you came out of your moment of shock and grabbed his arm pulling him down to you, he looked down shocked, you grabbed his scruff covered cheeks and pulled him down to a kiss

Dean groaned against your lips as he deepened the kiss and slipped his tongue in through your lips, you let out a small moan at the sensation, you wrapped your legs around his haps your feet digging into his lower back making him press his lower body closer to you so you felt his hard shaft press against your hot core through the layers 

You pulled away from the kiss slightly and dean moved his lips down your neck sucking and kissing his way down your chest "I love you too Dean, so fucking much" you said in between pleasured gasps dean moved back up to your lips immediately getting back into the heated kiss, you fumbled with the bottom of deans shirt and tugged slightly to let him know you wanted it off 

Dean pulled back from the kiss and sat back slightly before pulling his shirt off, he pulled your own shirt over your head to be met with your bare chest as you ditched your bra for bed, his smile replicated one of a child in a candy store and he was down kissing your breasts and sucking love marks all over them before taking your nipple in his mouth, his hand tweaking and playing with the other to stimulate you 

"Oh god Dean please don't stop" you begged and held his head right your chest, Dean took your words as encouragement as he continued his movements before kissing a trail down your stomach reaching your panties as you decided against wearing your jeans to bed

Dean hooked his fingers in the waistline and he pulled them down your legs slowly, once he discarded of your panties he was back between your legs, now face to face with your pussy, he smiled as kissed your mound, you moaned feeling you get wetter by the second, "pick a number sweetheart?" He asked "three why?" You replied confused he smirked "you'll see" he said before leaning in and licking a strip up your wet pussy making you throw your head back against the pillow 

Dean began by sucking your clit into his mouth before thrusting his finger inside you immediately finding your G- spot making you scream in pleasure "please dean feels so fucking good" you slurred out, Dean chuckled against you  and added another finger, he arched them to keep hitting your G-spot and sucking your clit making you arch your back in pleasure and your hand ran through his spiked hair as you pushed him closer to you 

It wasn't long before you were seeing stars as you orgasm washed through you "holy fuck dean I'm coming!" You squealed out, Dean sped up his movements as you panted, your legs shook as you came down from your high and taking deep breathes, your break didn't last long before Dean was back on you like a starving man, eating your pussy with such ferocity it had you weighing ok the bed moaning his name like it was the only hung you knew, once again you were coming hard and dean was liking it up as he didn't stop

You grinded your hips against his face feeling your third orgasm of the night already approaching, using his free hand, dean grasped your breast in his hand squeezing as he sped up his fingers as they hit your special place over and over again, you felt the familiar knot in your stomach however, this one felt different, stronger, your breathing became more ragged as you felt your orgasm take you down "Dean!" You screamed out as felt a wetness shoot out of you

Your whole body shaking as your chants of his name contined until Dean halted his movements "that was so fucking hot baby seeing you squirt" Dean said his face soaked in you juices you giggled moving on shaky legs towards him and pulled his boxers down his legs, he helped by kicking them off the rest of the way

You gently took his big hard member in your hand smearing his pre cum around his red tip before you started to jerk him off, Dean groaned before gently pushing you back against the bed, you looked up at him confused "tonight is all about you sweetheart" dean said leaning back in to capture your lips in a heavy kiss

Dean pulled away slightly in search of a condom he kept in his wallet which was nowhere in sight  "damn it has to be out in the living room, I'll be right back sweetheart" dean rushed out before moving away, you quickly trapped him with your legs and he turned to look at you "I'm on the pill and I'm clean..." you said suggestively

Dean smirked pouncing on you, both hands grasping your shaky thighs, you moved to wrap them tightly around his bare hips and pulled him closer as you felt his hard cock press against your core, you moaned against his lips as pleasure shot through your body 

Dean heaps his hard shaft and moved his tip to press against your entrance, "please dean" you whimpered out,  dean chuckled as he gently pushed inside your dripping hole stretching your walls, you let out a shaky breath as you adjusted to his size "you okay sweetheart" dean asked as pushed all the way inside you "yeah I'm good, you can move now" you said pulling him into another kiss

Dean complied as pulled his hips all the way back before slamming back inside of you, "oh my-" you  chocked out against his lips, Dean continued to slam his hips against yours at a hard slow pace making you want to scream "faster baby please" you begged fighting your legs around him

Dean complied as he began thrusting inside of you faster, the only sound left in the room were the moans and skin slapping skin

Deans cock was repeatedly hitting your G-spot, pushing you closer and closer to your fourth orgasm of the night "you're so fucking tight baby, I'm not gonna last much longer" dean said in between thrusts "me either" you moaned out and dean moved his hand down to rub your clit making your eyes roll to the back of your head "oh my fucking god dean please don't stop!" You squealed as your scratched your nails down his back leaving deep red lines in their wake 

"I'm gonna cum again" you moaned out breathless and dean sped his hips up even more "me too baby!" Dean said and it wasn't long until your felt the knot in your stomach snap and you came all over deans cock with a scream of his name, triggering his own orgasm as his white hot seed coated your walls.

Once both of you had calmed from your highs dean gently pulled out of you making you let out a small hiss at the empty feeling , he layback down beside you both you chests rising and falling with deep exhausted breaths “that was fucking awesome baby” dean said turning to you with a smile on his face sending you into giggles “yeah it was” you leaned into give him a small peck on his kiss swollen lips before pulling away to lay your head on his chest, 

Dean wrapped his arm around your back and pulling you to rest against him “get some sleep sweetheart hopefully Sam and Bobby take there time getting to us so we can have round two in the morning” dean said  sleepily and you smiled against his chest as you already felt the heaviness of sleep pull you away along with the comforting sound of deans heart beat reminding you that he was right there with you , safe and sound. 

————————————————————————

ALL MY OWN WORK I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT TO COPY OR PUBLISH ON OTHER SITES , I.E WATTPAD, ETC, WITHOUT MESSAGING TO ASK FIRST

Hey! Long time no see, I did have a few Christmas/ new year imagines in mind when starting this account however I was just going through a really rough period of time, my dog of 14 years passed away at the beginning of January and was sick throughout Christmas so I just wanted to spend whatever time I had left with him and writing just had to be put on hold, I will be much more consistent throughout ❤️

[baconvonmoose]

Thanks again for responding to my previous ask. I have a couple of additional questions about native folklore more broadly if you don't mind.

1. With the understanding that obviously the best sources are going to be firsthand retellings, are there any particular collections or works you are familiar with that you feel do a pretty good job of accurately presenting these stories that you would recommend?

2. Seeing as the Wendigo is sort of an outlier in terms of popularity, are there stories of other specific creatures/spirits that you wish people were more familiar with?

3. Okay, this one is actually unrelated, but I love the way you use bold, dark lines in a lot of your art. Are there any specific artists that you would say have helped inspire your current style ?

Certainly! Thanks again for your curiosity. I'll do my best here.

A few people have asked me about this film already but I do stand by that it is the best film about the wendigo I've ever seen personally, Ravenous (1999). Incidentally despite people admonishing the game for this, from what I've heard Until Dawn actually got it right. But I haven't played this game, I'm just going off how someone described it to me. A book from 2016 called Wrist is by an Anishinabe author, and it's not a 1-to-1 depiction but it's sort of a combination of more modern ideas and the Ojibwe versions. Unfortunately these are the only things I can think of. I've seen far more versions that are NOT accurate.

2. YES.

On the theme of the wendigo, I was told the story of Winter Snow. I don't think there's any media for this, but the gist of it is, two boys live with their grandmother. While they're off hunting, a stranger visits the grandmother and asks about them, waiting for them to return. When they return that night it's with a buck for their grandmother to cook. She allows the visiting stranger to stay for dinner and eat some. Then, the stranger asks to stay the entire winter, which she allows, feeling that this stranger was good luck and provided medicine (sorta 'magic') when the two boys go hunting. The stranger goes by the name Winter Snow. When spring comes, the stranger thanks the grandmother for her hospitality and leaves, and as the snow melts the next morning the grandmother hears screaming and moaning outside, where she finds her two grandsons melting, having been transformed into snow (snowmen in some versions) by the stranger.

Another popular story that could be in theme with the 'misunderstanding' of the wendigo is the Deer Woman. She sometimes is a human, sometimes a deer, and sometimes a combination of both. She's benign to children and aspiring mothers, but will sometimes steal a woman's husband only to lead them to their death or to pine from heartbreak. Some say this only happens if the husband is abusive. My family that lives in Shawnee tend to tell her stories as more of a malevolent spirit that will trample young people who are being wreckless in the woods.

We also have a character named Nanaboozhoo who is a 'hero' kind of figure, and there's a lot of legends and myths about him and his brother and grandmother. (AFAIK he never turns into a snowman though lmao)

3. Thank you, I'm very flattered! However the funny truth is that the art on this blog is NOT my current art style, it's actually pretty old now, I stopped using this blog for years because I kinda gave up posting art on social media for a bit. However I can tell you what I was inspired by still; Jamie Hewlett's work, The World Ends With You, FLCL, a strange anime film called Dead leaves (big recommend), and probably a bit of Invader Zim for good measure.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

since i feel SO BAD taking this long on wendigo (i'm aiming for quality and quantity here), i thought i would treat you to another sneak peak 🥰 not feeling great about my writing lately so it's coming realllll slow. here's my apology!

read my supernatural rewrite here!

-

Before, you used to wonder why someone as rebellious as Dean would go as still as inch-thick glass when John ordered him to. Then the drills had started. You’d wake up to a faceful of ice-cold water and be chased out of bed with Sam and Dean, you’d run laps before dawn, you’d run laps again for sleeping in, for complaining about the rain, for not finishing your breakfast, for tripping. You’d run until your nose bled. Sometimes you’d fake visions just to get out of it. Until John had found out, and you’d learned to dread even normal predictions in case he didn’t believe you. You’d learned why Dean said yes sir and why Sam shielded his face when woken up.

Your eleven-year-old self had run woods just like these before. Sometimes hefting a too-big rifle over her shoulder, sometimes in winter, always alone. Once, John had walked you three miles into the forest, weaponless, lightless, and told you to find your way back through the snow on your own. You’d crawled out half-alive four hours later. Your joints had stopped working and it was too cold for your wounds to bleed, and all you’d earned from Winchester was a flat, Dean did it in two.

(Sam had been waiting with a blanket. Dean had squished you against him for warmth and whispered, Two hours and fifty minutes, actually. He’s rounding down.)

Those weekends with John were smudged ink on the timeline of your memory. Not one word had been spoken about the hypothermia or the dislocated ankle, but, like everything else, your mom had her way of already knowing. She would’ve worried more, but... After every weekend and every hunt, you reappeared like the sun emerging from an eclipse, golden and beaming.

John put you through hell. Looking back, you knew now that a good chunk of it was certified physical torture, and the only thing keeping you from breaking down about some of those memories was time. But somewhere along the way to forcing you into the mold of a proper hunter, something else had happened. You’d grown to love it. Or rather, you learned to love what always came after. Bruising your face on the kickback of a pistol, slaving away under the sun to dig up six feet of dirt by yourself… sewing a gaping wound in your stomach shut with floss and brandy, or sparring until your knuckles were slick with blood… Grueling, soul-breaking acts like those were always followed by Sam and Dean.

John never praised. He was either pissed as hell or neutral, so you learned quickly to look for approval beyond his shoulder, when John turned his back and Dean was safe to beam at you. It became easier to run. You’d come out of the woods shaking and ravenous, only to spend the ride home snuggled against Sam’s side, sharing cookies under a blanket. The dark was comfortable now. You’d pour over articles and witness statements to make a case, and it would be Dean’s hands dropping on your shoulders and melting the disappointment right out of them. John never praised, but his boys celebrated you. Rewarded you. It became easier and easier to run.

At age fourteen, John had walked you three miles out into the forest again. But this time, there was another handicap on your ability to get back to the truck: you’d be lightless, weaponless, and you wouldn’t be alone. Sam and Dean would be in the woods too, hunting you. The two greatest pack animals you’d ever met; two boys who’d trained harder than you, longer than you, and done it without anyone to lean on or rub their shoulders. They’d made the run on their own. It’d been a test of your endurance, your will, your strength, your courage.

You walked out of the forest an hour later, completely unmawled. You hadn’t glimpsed either of them once the whole way.

Dean and Sam had crawled out sometime after, leaves in their hair, caked in cold mud, and had found in the woods the boldness to challenge John’s scolding. She chased me, fuckin’ stalked me—I tried to catch her, but I just couldn’t! Dean had raved. Next to him, Sam was soaked in freezing river water and lying like a pro. She pushed me in the creek! I-I was looking for her, and she dropped out of a tree right on top of me!

John had turned to you, an eyebrow raised and mouth pressed firm with a scowl. You did this?

You’d studied the boys: Dean, who’d lost a fight to a swamp, and Sam, who’d literally thrown himself into a river for this lie. For you.

I did. You’d said, and poured every ounce of your soul into a good, strong lie. I realized I wouldn’t stand a chance against them going after me… So I went after them first.

-

tags: @seraphimluxe @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @williamstop

[nerdyfangirl67]

Roaring Fireplace - Supernatural Reader Insert (12 Days of Christmas)

Pairing: Castiel x reader

Warnings: language (like right away)!

Word count: 1068

Requested by: anonymous “I was wondering if I got get a one shot with Castiel x reader please? Maybe the reader passes out in his arms because they're sick and how he reacts ?”

A/N: I have decided to do this one with a Christmas-y spin for my 12 Days of Christmas mini-series. And I changed it just a bit from your request. I hope that is okay with you anon! I took a little creative liberty (I couldn’t find anywhere online that confirmed or denied it) and chose for the bunker to have a fireplace. Thanks for the request!! 

(For the GIF) I’m imagining Castiel watching the reader in a similar fashion, studying them with the fireplace in the background, but y’all imagine it however makes you happy!

“Fuck.” You hiss underneath your breath as pull your hat down further on your head. You and the boys had been searching for the Wendigo for the past two days in the forests around one of the Great Lakes (you had forgotten which one). Being stuck out in the forest with little sleep, and no real chance to stop and eat or even change clothes, would have been bad enough had it not been the nearing the end of December. Meaning that there was a good foot of snow on the ground and it was twenty degrees outside.

You had lost feeling in your toes and fingers a while ago and you weren’t even sure you’d be able to hit something if you had to fire your gun (it was a good thing you didn’t need a gun to kill a Wendigo). All you wanted was to be back at the bunker, the fireplace roaring, curled up next to Castiel on the couch, watching some sappy Christmas movie with him, Dean and Sam. In fact, that thought alone was the only thing getting you through this hunt.

Two more long hours passed before the three of you were able to locate the Wendigo’s den and it was another hour before you were able to set the damn thing on fire. Sam and Dean didn’t say much on the trek back to Baby. Dean did offer you a few swigs from his flask though, which you gladly accepted in hopes of it giving you some sort of warmth.

When you finally reached the car, you don’t hesitate to climb in the backseat and rummage around until you find a old sweatshirt to use as a pillow. You try to get as comfortable as possible on the cold leather seat, longing for the car’s heaters to start up.

“That hunt was a bitch.” Dean says with a sigh as he fires up the car. You hear Sam hum in agreement as the steady beats of an AC/DC song fill the interior of the car. The volume of the music is lowered as the car pulls away, starting on the fourteen hour long trip back to the bunker. On any other day this month, you would have tried to persuade Dean to play Christmas music by now(a struggle that would usually end with Dean changing the music after one Christmas song), but today you were too tired to even ask. After sending a quick prayer to Castiel, whom you hadn’t seen in days, you fell asleep rather quickly.

---

You weren’t sure what woke you up, but when you do, you realize you aren’t the only one in the back seat. “Hello.” A voice you immediately recognize as Castiel’s greets you. He is sitting on the other side of the bench seat, your feet in his lap. His trademark blue tie is askew and he isn’t wearing his trenchcoat, which is unusual. Sam and Dean are talking quietly in the front seat,

“Hi Cas.” You croak out, a sting in your throat making you wince. You move to sit up but Castiel’s hands stop you. “Relax Y/N. You have a fever and need some rest.” He says quietly as he hands you an open Gatorade. “Drink this.”

You drink from the bottle before handing it back to Castiel. “Let me switch around.” You whisper, sitting up and moving around so that your head was in his lap. Castiel simply rested a hand on your hip, not one for a lot of physical contact. A shiver runs through you, causing you to pull your jacket around you tighter. In doing so, you notice that you were covered in Castiel’s trenchcoat. You tilt your head up to look at him as you murmur “Thank you.”

Castiel offers you a small smile. “I would have brought you back to the bunker but Sam and Dean aren’t in much better shape. I wanted to be able to keep an eye on all three of you at the same time.” His silent concern for Sam and Dean warms your heart and you gently squeeze the hand he has on your hip. “And I didn’t want to heal you until you woke up.” He added.

You give him a nod of acknowledgement and a soft “yes” in response before you feel his hand move to your forehead. An unexplainable warmth goes through you and a moment later, you feel normal again, albeit still a bit tired.

“Alright you lovebirds, we are a few hours out yet. I figured we’d stop at the next decent sized town and get some grub before finishing the drive.” Dean’s voice pulls your attention to the front seat.

“Sounds good to me, as long as you stop somewhere that has some decent food.” Sam says.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” You add as you sit up, leaning into Castiel’s side.

--- After a lunch filled with greasy dinner food and a few more hours on the road, you were back at the bunker. You drag your duffle bag into the war room, dropping it next to the table. The boys follow in suite, with Castiel bringing up the rear.

“I’m gonna shower and hit the hay.” Sam says, giving you all a small wave before heading down the hallway. Dean pours himself a glass of whiskey, gives you and Castiel a grunt of a goodbye, making his way to his own room. As you watch the boys go, soft Christmas music fills the room. You look around to find the source, seeing that it’s Castiel, who had just put a record on the record player.

Castiel turns his brilliant blue eyes to you, sticking out a hand for you to grab, which you do. He leads you over to the rug in front of the fireplace, where he sits, pulling you down with him. You lay perpendicular to him as he sits, letting the crackling fire warm you. You can feel his eyes on you.

“This is all I could think about when we were in those damn woods.” You whisper. “Being here, enjoying Christmas with you.” You pause before you add. “And the boys.”

Castiel gives a small nod. “I know. You prayed about it a few times.” He says simply. You realize that, although he doesn’t say it, he is going to make sure your wish, your Christmas wish, comes true.

[alleiradayne]

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part I - Are You Afraid of the Dark

Summary: The reader finds a case and brings it to Sam and Dean. Warnings/Tags: Talks of headless bodies, death, and other bodily harm. Choice language. Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Word Count: 1,397

Of all the things we had hunted together over the years, vengeful spirits had a special place in my heart. Whenever we got wind of a poltergeist or a lingering entity, I damn near begged Sam and Dean to take the case. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time they didn’t humor me. Hell, most of the time, they were equally eager. After all, that was the gig. Save people. Hunt things.

The family business.

Right?

"No, Y/N."

Dean's flat tone and even flatter stare brooked no argument. And yet, I persisted. "C'mon, man. This has gotta be one of the most well-known hauntings in the country. And now it's serious!" I brandished the stack of articles at him. "Look!"

Sam rounded the entry into the kitchen and asked, "Look at what?"

"These deaths," I said. He took the stack of articles from me. "Bodies found with their heads crushed. By cannonballs. Whip lashes all over, too. He’s never manifested quite like this before."

Sam flipped through the papers, his scowl etching deeper into his forehead with each page. He hardly glanced at the last one, then tossed the stack onto the table in front of Dean. "No."

"What?!" Incredulous, I gaped at both of them but neither spoke. "Are you freakin' kidding me right now? This is the hunt of a lifetime! We might not get another chance to take out one of the most renowned hauntings in America!"

Dean regarded the top article on the stack, then flipped to the second. "It's not real, Y/N."

“It’s not the most well-known haunting in the country,” Sam clarified. “It’s the most well-known urban legend. Kinda like Sasquatch.”

I gawked at Sam, then turned to Dean. When he shrugged, I said, “Y’all are trying to tell me that you hunted the Woman in White,” I started as I marked my index finger, “a wendigo,” I continued on the second finger, “Bloody fucking Mary,” I finished on my third finger, “and who the Hell knows how many other urban legends over the last fifteen years, but this one is fake?!”

Dean remained silent as he stared at the third article in the stack. I turned to Sam and he shrugged. “I know it’s a bummer, but think about it. We’re two weeks shy of Halloween. This sort of story always comes up this time of year from—”

“Sammy.”

The pit of my stomach plummeted. I had never heard Dean’s voice quiver with such intense fear. I turned to find his face whiter than the driven snow. Sam edged passed me for the table and looked at the article Dean held up to him. As his eyes scanned the page, the color drained from his face as if he had seen the most terrifying thing in his life.

No. Like he had just seen a ghost.

“Missed that one, huh?” Dean asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Sam choked. “We have to go, don’t we?”

Dean raised his chin, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Sam. I know you—”

“It’s fine,” he mumbled as he folded his arms across his chest.

A quick glance between them revealed nothing so I asked, “It’s clearly not fine, Sam. You’ve been bummed for months. There hasn’t been a single case since Chuck’s assholery that you’ve been remotely interested in. I thought a quick and easy win would help.”

“That’s just it, Y/N,” he started. “It won’t be a quick and easy win.”

He turned on his heel and heavy footfalls carried him from the kitchen before Dean or I could respond. Defeated, Dean’s head sank between his shoulders, forehead cupped in both hands. 

“What does he mean?” I asked.

Dean raised his head but said nothing. The longer he remained silent, the worse my fears grew. Something had deeply troubled both of them, enough that they had completely changed their minds about the case. But what had they seen?

I neared the table and slipped the article from the stack. The black and white image of two young boys and their father stared up at me. Beneath the photograph, a caption described the family:

Richard Philips (36) of Lawrence, Kansas and his sons John (11) and Thomas (7) pause in front of the  museum for a photograph while on a fall vacation road-tripping across America.

A million thoughts and none tumbled through my head all at once. My eyes snapped to the header of the article where I found the date, and gooseflesh raced along my arms as I read aloud. "October 21st, 1990." In a rush, I slapped the article onto the table and flipped through the rest of the stack. "That's not possible. I only printed articles over the last week. How the Hell…"

Dean simply stared straight ahead, glassy gaze unseeing. A moment of uncomfortable silence lingered until he spoke. "Look a little closer at that picture."

I dared not look away from him, but Dean's grave instruction left me no choice. I snatched the paper up from the table and brought it right beneath my nose. The father stood tall, broad shoulders pulled back and his hands on the backs of his two boys. John, the older boy, looked much like his father, square jaw, oval eyes, and a brilliant smile. Happy as clams, those two.

The younger son, however, appeared quite uncomfortable. He clung to his father's leather coat, and a forced smile curled his lips, but never touched his eyes. Fear hid there behind a mop of hair and a clenched jaw. What had scared that little boy so that he clung to his father for safety?

An unbidden gasp rent from my lips. Shock spasmed through my fingers, and the paper fluttered to the table. "What did I just see?! How does that article exist and how do I have it now?"

Dean plucked the image from the table. His eyes narrowed as he spun the paper about, then flicked it to me as he set it back down. "Maybe the question isn't how, but why."

"Okay, now you sound like Sam," I stated. "Can you please tell me what's going on?"

He stood then and headed for the door. "Not enough time. We need to get on the road right now. It's a long drive to New York and we're on the clock."

With Dean through the door, I stood alone in the kitchen and… stalled. Hesitated. Something about the photograph drew me in once more. I needed to believe my own eyes, but what I’d seen a moment earlier flew in the face of reality. Then again, my reality had shattered ten years ago. I’d allowed the Winchesters to tear down everything I had once believed and they had built it back up with the truth.

Truth.

I picked up the photo once more. Despite my fears, my gaze slid to the left edge of the frame where a large, black horse stood so far away. Impossible. It should have been a small spec at that distance. Unless it was the size of a small house. But that was only the half of it. Though the clarity of the horse had drawn me in at first, it paled in comparison to its rider. A tall, imposing man sat astride the beast, clad all in black.

I knew it was going to happen, but I was still entirely unprepared. I startled again as the horse reared just as it had a moment earlier, and a large cannonball manifested in the rider's hand raised high over his head. Except he had no head.

But that wasn't the entire story, either. Sam and Dean had recognized something else about the photograph. And they had kept it between them. No matter how long I stared at it, the image offered up nothing else, not even a hint. I snatched up the stack of articles, whipping it off the table and stuffing it into the crook of my arm as I stomped from the kitchen.

The Winchesters had traded a few rounds with The Headless Horseman, of that I had no doubt. Not after what I had just witnessed. If they wanted to keep their secrets, fine. But I would bet my life on the fact that they thought they had wasted the son of a bitch.

Turns out some urban legends never die.

Reblogs and feedback are awesome. If you want in on the tags, send me an ask or a DM!

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[miss-choco-chips]

Worshiping at your altar

“He confesses how long he’s looked

for a place to worship

and, oh, you put him on his knees.”

PROFANE by Ashe Vernon

A Paladin and an artificer fall in love.

Or- how Langa learns that worship comes in more than one form.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30430242

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

One of his earliest memories is this:

He sits by his father’s feet. They are in their living room, in his childhood home back in Canada. There’s a fire crackling behind him, the warmth of the flames licking his back even from the distance. His mother’s steps could be heard in the kitchen, but he can barely focus on that, utterly entranced by Dad’s stories, by the hand softly combing his hair back. He feels safe, comfortable and probably the most at peace he’s ever been. 

“A lot of people are going to get hurt tomorrow. All we can do is stand in the way of that and say, 'Not them. Me. If you need to hurt someone, hurt me'”, Dad reads. Langa’s tired eyes look up, eyes tracing the golden letters on the spine of his father’s favorite book, the tale of  ‘How the Paladin Got His Scar’. “Because the alternative is to look at someone else, someone weaker and more vulnerable, and tell them that you want them to be hurt instead of you.”

He squirms a bit in place, and Dad waits, just like every time they reach this part. He’s heard this story hundreds of times, could probably recite it himself from memory alone, but this passage is one that never fails to make him feel off. Weird, uncomfortable. As if he’s failing in some way, because…

“I don’t get it”, he says, like clockwork. Dad’s stopped reading, a single finger keeping the page bookmarked, in preparation for Langa’s usual interruption. Back in the kitchen, his mother’s footsteps fade away, as if she, too, is waiting for her son to ask. “Why do I have to hurt in someone else’s place? I don’t like to be in pain...”

As always, Dad smiles. He’s never mad about Langa’s selfishness, but, again, a five year old can’t really be expected to understand self sacrifice like this, no matter his Class. He never stops patting Langa’s head on his lap.

“It’s not about our pain. It’s about others’ joy.”

There’s usually where it stops, his curiosity sated, and lets Dad go back to his reading and Mom to her cooking. But Langa remembers something else, a new question bubbling up from him. He was in that age, Mom would say, where children stop taking everything their parents say at face value.

“But I thought us paladins were supposed to only serve a God? Why should we care about other people?”

It sounds awfully mean, he knows, but his father only laughs.

“We are not Clerics, son. As much as divine beings love us, we’re not bound to them. That’s why we have our Vow, remember? We can choose. I wasn’t forced to serve the Snow Deities, I wanted to do it. And I never regretted it.”

Langa’s frustration only grows more.

“But I don’t want to do that! To… to give...me-self…”

“Myself”, he remembers Mom calling softly from the doorway, but never how or when she got there. Only his father’s patience as Langa tried again:

“I don’t want to give myself away like that.”

“That’s because you haven't found your Worship yet, Langa. You’ll know, when you do. Because taking your Vow…”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Moving to Okinawa feels strange, in more than one way. 

For starters, it's weird to adore the Snow Deities with no snow in sight. But, to be completely honest (as he tends to be), he hadn’t felt any real pull in his nightly adoration. Not ever since his father died.

(How could he offer sincere praise to the beings that sent dad to his death?)

Still, he kept up with it. As a Paladin with no Vow, he’s taken to adoring the Snow Deities the same way a chronic smoker would use an e-cig.  Not the same, not nearly as invested, but it scratches the itch he can feel building inside him (his divinity begging for release, for reverence, for him to fall to the ground in awe) just well enough that he doesn’t go insane. It’ll be different, once he’s worshipping for real, his mom tells him. He’s not overly enthusiastic about the idea.

Something else that’s different is the quests. Official ones are offered in schools or extracurricular centers, just like back home, but he can’t even begin to imagine himself fighting his way through forests instead of frozen mountaintops. And just what creatures would he even be fighting? Snow Wassets, Kamaitachis, Wendigos… They were all born from ice, and darkness, and cold. Not exactly your native Okinawan monster.

He sighs, head resting against the car window. Watching the trees fly past as mom drives them to their new place, he starts to feel the itch under his skin again. Moving so far away had helped, the deities’ reach weak against the warmth of this land, but still notable enough to demand attention. 

It’s annoying, painful at times, and the last thing he wants to do after losing his dad- but he closes his eyes, spite burning at his core like acid, and adores.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He’s laying on the floor- no sword in sight, vulnerable, helpless to this person approaching him at high speed, unrelenting- but the pain never comes.

Opening his eyes, he looks up. And time stops, just like it did every time Langa interrupted his father during story time for a question. The world itself holds its breath, waiting for him to catch up.

And he stares at this boy, suspended above him. He sees his red hair, contrast jarring against blue skies. Sees golden eyes, bright and open and full of a life that seems to be avoiding him.

His senses are telling him- he’s a human. There’s no divinity in him, no godliness.

But his heart beats hard, almost pushing his chest open, and he’s breathing the air this boy left behind when he jumped over him. And he feels a spark catching fire behind his eyes, travelling down to his stomach, and nesting there in a way that suggests ‘I’m in no rush to leave’.

And he thinks, briefly- no one ever told me that Fire Deities liked to skate in Okinawa.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He learns the boy’s Class before his name. He’s an artificer, and he’s called Reki.

He thinks it means something, that he introduces himself like that, but Langa isn’t sure what, because all he can hear is an echo of his voice and the afterglow of the smile he shoots his way.

Reki becomes too much, too fast. He shows Langa his favorite invention, a magic skateboard, and he himself feels instantly charmed by the simple genius he exudes. He’s helpless as he follows Reki to the shop he works on, where he finds himself employed as well before he can even catch his bearings. Something about his divinity being harnessed for potions, and protecting the store. He’s not hearing very faithfully, but it sounds good enough that he nods. Without his weekly quests to the mountains, there’s few other ways for him to earn his own money and help support his mother. Though he can’t deny he’ll miss the thrill of it...

Then Reki takes his hand again, and he solves that problem as well.

The S circuit, an illegal quest spot. A rocky mounting, with its surrounding forest littered with abandoned buildings, chock full of all sorts of creatures to hunt, or other adventurers to spar; not for the money, or the honor, but for fun.

Fun is a weird concept for Langa, these days, but he can’t deny the thrill he feels when he burrows Reki’s sword (it's not like the other boy can use it, with his hand hurt as it is) and forces the man that wanted to bring pain to his new friend to the ground. When he’s standing up, looking down at this Rouge, hearing Reki’s excited screams getting closer and closer until the boy is near enough to jump to Langa’s arms, he thinks… that if this is what Dad felt on his quests, it’s no wonder he gave up his life in one of them.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He’s never met an artificer before, and Reki has never encountered a Paladin either. It's an experience for both of them.

Reki seems determined to make Langa a new sword, one that adapts to the training he received back in Canada but that he can use here, in S. It’s a challenge for him, he says, and Langa doesn’t mind the long hours spent in Reki’s workshop, as the boy tries new materials, different welding techniques and a wide variety of spells, exchanging questions back and forth.

Learning about Reki feels a little like when Dad taught him how to fight, everything new, shiny, a little scary but at the same time so safe. He finds out that his friend still hasn’t decided on a specialty, and that choosing one is in a way a little like a Paladin taking a Vow, and at the same time, nothing at all. They focus on a single path, do their best to become masters of it, but once it's perfected, they are free to pursue a different one. He’s secretly enchanted by the idea- the freedom of it. Or maybe it’s just Reki that makes him feel like that.

“I thought you guys just… fought for good? You know, to save people, end wars, stuff like that?”

Langa lays back, weight resting on his arms as he looks up to the stars . They are outside for a change, as Reki is trying to cast a few attack spells on the sword (as in, writes runes and splashes potions over the blade, occasionally cutting himself on it; Langa longs to take it away from him before he loses a finger), and refuses to do so in the relative fragility of indoors. The night sky is very pretty, the company is good, and he feels too comfortable for someone sitting on the ground.

“That’s what’s told in schools and stories, but reality is different”, he answers, eyes dancing between the stars and Reki’s eyes (just as bright, just as pretty). “‘Good’ and ‘bad’ are very subjective terms. What’s alright in some cultures is a sin in others.”

“One man’s heaven is another man’s hell”, Reki murmurs, stopping his motions as he thinks Langa’s words through. 

Langa nods. “Paladins- we do have a connection to the Gods, in a way. So it’s very common for us to give our Vows to them. But, unlinke Clerics, we’re not irredeemably bound, so there’s more of a choice factor. A Paladin can give their Vow once in their life, and then has to commit to it, but that we can decide who or what to Vow to is our form of freedom.”

Reki looks back at Langa then, sword almost forgotten in his lap. They were sitting quite close, now that he thinks about it, barely enough space between them to fill with a whisper. His entire right side felt scalding hot, like when he was a child back home and sat a little too close to the fireplace.

That heat spreads to the rest of his body when Reki throws his head back and laughs.

“That’s the longest I’ve ever heard you talk, dude!”

Time resumes, the night moves on, Langa walks home. But the warmth never leaves his body.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Reki being an artificer doesn’t stop him from participating in quests and spars. He throws himself into them, headfirst, like he’s desperate to prove something to himself. He only ever seems to take it easy when he takes Langa with him; when he holds his hand as he walks him through the differences and similarities of adventures back home and here. Rattles out information about monsters jumping them in the woods, and statistics about the adventurers they stumble upon. He seems like a never ending fountain of information, and oh is Langa thirsty. 

He doesn't think he’ll ever get tired of hearing Reki speak. And even when he slowly becomes better at it, when the newness of the creatures crawling the forest stops scaring him and he feels comfortable enough to set loose and have fun, he still clutches Reki’s hand in his. And together, they brave whatever the fates throw their way.

It's more fun, that way.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He spends the night over at Reki’s place a lot in the following weeks. They both seemed full of excuses for him to stay, to fall asleep side by side, skin on skin. Reki’s hands, always twitching for his tools to tinker with, slowly stilling, peaceful, when Langa holds them between his.

He doesn’t realize until after many, many nights together like this- that, distracted as he was with his friend, he’d totally forgotten to praise and adore. The itch of murmuring in awe about the Deities has all but vanished from him, and its- it's a freedom he had never known before.

(Reki’s hands are smaller than his, so even when he holds them, folded and sweet, the tips of his fingers meet, like a small roof over Reki’s knuckles.

It looks like he’s praying, and he wonders if that’s why the Snow Deities had left him alone. If it’s because they see these sleeping boys, see the peace in the young Paladin’s resting face, and think- ‘this one is already lost in adoration’.)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

This must be what a role reversal feels like, he thinks. Paladins are supposed to be this- this paragon of goodness, righteousness. 

But Reki is the one that, after Langa had defeated the young Sorcerer in combat, offers a hand and a smile. Even when the kid has thrown nothing but insults his way, Reki still stands straight and proud in front of him when a new enemy appears. Challenges this newcomer to a spar, to protect someone he should not be giving a fuck about.

And when the Warlock crushes him to the ground, his artifacts destroyed and blood painting the arena, he still looks Langa’s way with an apology in his eyes. 

Langa remembers when he was younger, when he wondered how someone would choose pain to protect others from it. He still can’t understand the desire to do so for a complete stranger, but for Reki-

He would brave way worse dangers than an obsessed Warlock for Reki.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He’s drowning- 

He’s drowning for days on end. The flame eating at his flesh from the inside has been burning bright ever since his interrupted combat with Adam, the press of his steel armor- Reki’s armor- against his chest worsening the pain. It fills his lungs, his core- doesn’t let him breath. He didn’t know that it was possible to suffocate in fire.

-but it's not until Reki walks away from him under the pouring rain, that he understands that the pain of drowning is nothing compared to the emptiness of death. That the itch to fight Adam pales in comparison to the all-encompassing desperation of his yearning for Reki.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He holds Reki’s hands under the stars again, and painful fire becomes soft warmth. It takes him back to his childhood, to sitting by his dad’s feet, head on his lap, hearth at his back, mom moving around in the kitchen.

He’s on his knees in front of Reki, but it’s the other boy the one who whispers words of reverence. He’s looking down at Langa, washed in moonlight and surrounded by divinity, and there’s defeat and victory in his face all at once.

He looks like he’s fallen, but he’s happy about it.

Langa is-

“I’ve decided about my specialization”, Reki confesses. His eyes don’t wander, his hands aren’t twitching. He looks the most secure in himself Langa has ever seen him. It fills his chest with a warm sort of pride. “I’ll become a Battle Smith. They are experts at defending others and repairing both materiel and personnel”, he continues, one hand dislodging itself from within the protective cocoon of Langa’s hold to trace the contours of his face. Langa feels it when he finds the thin scar in his cheek, from his latest spar in S. His fingertips tremble a bit as they touch it.

“Why?” he asks, because he knows Reki longs, too, for the thrill of a quest, for the joy of surviving the dangers thrown his way.

“I can always make my own weapons, there’s no need for me to make a specialty out of it”, he shrugs, as if reading Langa’s mind, “so I’m good to participate in quests myself. But if you’re gonna insist on throwing yourself headfirst into unprecedented danger, the least I can do is make sure you’ll be damn well protected against everything you can’t kill on sight.”

All air leaves Langa’s lungs, but at the same time, it’s like he’s never really breathed before this exact moment. He imagines being a worshipped Deity can’t feel all that different.

And he remembers his Dad again, his words when he first told him about Vows. 

‘Taking your Vow isn't subjecting yourself to a leash; it's not about servitude. To Worship is to feel the highest you've ever been, even while down on your knees’

Kneeling before Reki, holding one of his hands between his, feeling the other one caressing his cheek, looking up at his face outlined by the moon... it’s like he has stars at his fingertips and fire in his veins. He’s flying with it, touching the sky but standing straight and firm as well.

He’s never felt this way. He doesn’t want it to ever stop.

So he bends his head down over Reki’s hand, eyes closing in reverence and lips touching rough, calloused skin. And in the silence of the night, the words of his Vow sound as loud as if he’d shouted them.

Reki’s hand is in his hair now, like benediction, and he thinks- If falling is this sweet, it’s no wonder so many angels changed their wings for horns, their clouds for fire. 

It's just divine luck that he’s now sworn to someone who can give him both.

[darkstar6782]

1.02: Wendigo - My Rewatch Review

This episode is a solid second episode, and a great establishment of the monster-of-the-week format that will serve the show so will throughout its run. It also does a great job of continuing to flesh out the brothers’ individual personalities as well as the emotional dynamics between them. Dean is definitely the brash, devil-may-care type; never afraid to forge ahead, self-assured to the point of cocky, charming enough to get away with almost anything, and possessed of a deep sense of purpose, even though he tries not to let it show. Sam is definitely the more quiet, introspective type; he is the more empathetic of the brothers, a bit more cerebral and cautious than Dean, and definitely still finding his feet when it comes to hunting again. But it is clear that Jess’s death has changed him too, his anger and guilt making him more emotional and reckless than he would have been normally, and leaving him floundering for the emotional stability that he once had. I love that the show has Dean acknowledge this, and chooses to reveal the depth with which he cares for his brother by having him talk to Sam until he opens up rather than just ignoring Sam’s emotional instability and letting him tear himself apart inside. We see now, just two episodes into the series, just how much these brothers matter to one another, and just how in-tune they have been to one another their whole lives, despite having very distinct and different personalities. Their history of working together is also established further with just a few brief lines of dialogue; so much can still go unsaid and yet they work together in perfect harmony to defeat the wendigo and save the civilians.

And then there’s “Saving people, hunting things, the family business”. One of the most iconic lines in the whole series, established here and carried in the Winchesters’ hearts and on their lips for the rest of their lives. And even as the shape of their family changes over time, they never fully lose that sense of purpose and destiny, established here just two episodes into the series. Even after Heaven, and Hell, and God himself messing with them, they never question this one truth; that saving people from the monsters is the most important thing, the driving purpose in their lives. And for Dean to follow that by admitting that it can be a kind of therapy as well—if you can’t help yourself, you can at least help others until the help you need comes along—is a surprisingly deep revelation from him that doesn’t seem to be as well-remembered, and was a much better way of explaining the reason for the way their father raised them than the choppy bits of exposition dialogue in the pilot were.

The only downside to this episode is that it is the first in a fair number of episodes that try very hard and yet fail to convince me that they are actually taking place in the location where they are supposed to be set. Because no matter how hard you try, you cannot make the rainforests of Vancouver look like the pine forests of the Colorado Rocky Mountains���we don’t have ferns, for one thing, and it’s never that wet and green—and also, there is no way that you would be able to get that far into the wilderness here in mid-November without dealing with below-zero temperatures at night and at least a bit of snow. It’s nit-picky, I know (as is the fact that the boys called the state’s biggest college UC Boulder, when anyone who had heard of the place would know that it’s CU Boulder), but there just isn’t that much else for me to say about the episode. It’s a good episode that just keeps drawing me further into the story and the brothers’ relationship, and it builds upon the pilot in a way that keeps me wanting more, which is all you really need from the second episode of any new show.

[samsexualdeancurious]

Thanks For Listening | Chapter Three

Square: Free Space

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Words: 1,653

Warnings: hurt!Reader, pining, eventual smut, dirty talk, voice!kink, unprotected sex.

Summary: Sam hosts two podcasts - a secret one for hunters called the War Room and a public one with fellow hunter Y/N called Criminal History. Y/N and Sam have never seen each other, let alone met, but that doesn’t stop Sam from worrying when Y/N suddenly goes missing.

Betaed by @manawhaat​

Written for @spnkinkbingo​

Header by me and Mana

Masterlist - AO3

--

The Impala is simultaneously absolutely gorgeous and scary as fuck.

You’re sitting in a diner on the edge of town when the black beast of a car pulls into the parking lot, a stark contrast to the crisp white snow piling up. You hear the roar of the engine first and twist in your seat to see it. Sam texted you about thirty minutes ago to let you know their ETA and what the car looks like, as well as what they’re wearing - you told him what you’re wearing as well so he should be able to recognize you. Your stomach flips at the sight of the car and you force yourself to face forward in your seat instead of staring.

The waitress has just brought your coffee when the bell over the door rings. You glance up and your breath catches in your throat.

You see Dean first. He’s tall, broad shoulders made even broader by his green jacket. Like most hunters, he’s dressed in at least three layers including the jacket, blue jeans, and heavy biker boots. He’s handsome in a classically beautiful way, with his strong jaw, plump lips, and carefully styled hair. Behind him, though, is a man who takes your breath away.

Sam is taller than his brother and handsome in a more… ethereal way? It’s not a word you would ever think to use to describe a man, let alone a fellow hunter, but it fits Sam’s high cheekbones and pointed, almost delicate features. He’s layered up, too, with a dusty orange jacket over a blue and orange plaid shirt. He brushes a hand through his long hair as he scans the diner quickly. Fox-tilted eyes land on you and Sam’s face lights up.

“Y/N!” he says happily, crossing the diner with a few strides of those ridiculously long legs.

Before you realize you’ve moved, you’re on your feet and Sam is sweeping you into his embrace. You loop your own arms around his slim waist and can’t resist breathing in his scent - coffee and sandalwood and a hint of vanilla.

“Hiya, Chief,” you say, grinning up at him. “Glad to finally put a face to the voice.”

Sam’s smile is captivating. He’s a little scruffy but that doesn’t hide his adorable dimples and it definitely doesn’t hide the beauty mark beside his nose. A sudden desire to kiss that little mark wells up in your chest but you quickly push that down.

“This is Dean,” Sam is saying, beckoning his brother over.

“Hi.” Dean offers his hand for you to shake, green eyes taking you in. He’s putting on a flirtatious front but you can see that he’s sizing you up, deciding whether or not you’re a threat.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” you tell him. “Sam talks about you a lot.”

Dean chuckles and relaxes a little. “Trust me, he talks a lot about you, too. It’s about time you kids finally met.”

Your cheeks heat up and you duck your head a little, hoping neither brother notices. When you glance up at Dean again, though, he’s smirking. Shit, he definitely knows.

“I hope this place has good burgers,” Dean says, thankfully choosing to ignore your (probably very obvious) crush on his brother. “Move your ass, Sammy. I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

The brothers immediately start bickering, a back and forth that’s both hilarious and heartwarming to witness. You sit again and the boys slide into the other side of the booth, somehow managing to order their food without once breaking their stride. When the food arrives, Dean launches into teasing Sam about his grilled chicken sandwich. Sam just shakes his head and turns his attention to you.

“I’m so sorry you have to listen to this,” he says, his tone telling you he’s getting back at his brother a little.

“Hey now,” Dean protests. “I’m a joy to listen to.”

You can’t help a giggle at Sam’s eye roll. “I don’t mind, really. It’s actually kind of sweet to see you guys like this, considering the reputation you Winchesters have in the community.”

Sam’s expression softens at that and he turns his attention back to his food with a smile. Dean, however, pouts and begins shoveling food in his mouth.

“So, Wendigo?” Dean asks around a mouthful of food, interrupting the moment of silence that’s settled. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

“We packed some camping gear.” Sam side eyes his brother, who actually looks kind of adorable with his cheeks full of food. “But I’m hoping we won’t have to spend the night outside.”

“I’ve got a room at the place down the street,” you say. “It’s mine for the week. I think they have some vacancies left so you guys can sleep in proper beds.”

---

After the boys get their own cabin at the Aspen Cottages, you decide it would be better to only take one car and all pile into the Impala. You, unlike Dean, don’t mind riding in the backseat, especially of a car as gorgeous and well cared for as the Impala.

The drive to the campsite is a bumpy one and you arrive around sundown. You hate hunting in the woods at night and part of you wants to ask the boys to camp until morning but you also don’t want to spend any more time out here than is absolutely necessary.

“Holy shit, it’s cold,” Dean says, popping open the hidden compartment in the trunk.

You nod, hopping in place a little as you bury your nose in the thick scarf you’re so glad you brought, tugging your hat down tighter over your ears. Sam and Dean don their own winter gear - Sam, you can’t help noting, looks adorable in a beanie - and then you head off along the trail.

---

The Winchesters are excellent trackers. Once you reach the campsite the last victims were taken from, they quickly pick up the trail of the Wendigo. Dean takes the lead and Sam brings up the rear. You get the distinct feeling he’s doing it to protect you but decide not to mention it. If you’re honest with yourself, it’s a chivalrous gesture you can definitely appreciate.

The forest is eerily silent beyond the crunch of three pairs of boots in the snow. No one talks beyond one or two words for about a half hour, before Sam moves in to walk beside you.

“You doing okay?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“Sam,” you sigh, shaking your head in fond amusement. “It’s been over a month. I’m fine.”

You can see in the way he turns his head away from you that he would be blushing if his cheeks weren’t already pink from the cold. “Sorry.”

You bump his arm gently with your shoulder. “I don’t mind. It’s sweet.”

Sam’s cheeks turn even redder and he stammers a little. Lucky for him, Dean swoops in.

“Quit flirting, you two. That looks like our wendigo den.”

You follow his pointing finger to a pile of boulders against the cliff face. Behind one of the largest boulders is a dark opening you really don’t want to go into.

“Why can’t monsters ever live in nice places?” you complain, already digging out your flashlight. “At least a cheery little cabin?”

Sam chuckles, giving his flamethrower a once over. Dean stares at him, appalled.

“What?” Sam lifts an eyebrow at his brother.

“I make those jokes and get an eye roll,” Dean says. “She makes those jokes and gets a laugh?”

Sam shrugs, shooting you a wink. “She’s cuter than you are.”

Dean pretends to gag while heat rushes to your cheeks.

“Hey, asshole,” you yell, your voice echoing around the cavern. “Fresh meat.”

The wendigo screeches, claws scraping against the stone walls and sending a shudder down your spine. Beside you, Sam readies the flamethrower as the sounds of the wendigo grow closer.

Suddenly it’s there, looming large in the beam of your flashlight. Sam doesn’t hesitate, the burst of flame striking the wendigo right in the chest. It screams and stumbles backward before crumpling as the flames engulf it.

“Good aim,” you say, relaxing as the creature is devoured by flames.

“Thanks.” Sam flashes you a grin. “We make a pretty good team.”

You shift a little closer to him, warmth blooming in your chest. “Yeah, we do.”

He leans down so his mouth is close to your ear. “I think next time we should do this without Dean.”

You laugh softly, hoping he's hinting at what you think he is as you reply, “Well, I did get my own room.”

Sam brightens up at that. One hand comes up to rest in the small of your back. “That's true.” Something in his tone and the firm press of his hand through your puffy coat suggests he definitely was hinting at exactly what you hope he was.

You allow yourself to be drawn in closer, enjoying the way his body feels against yours even through the layers of bulky winter clothes. Sam tips your chin up with one finger, colorful eyes flickering with wendigo fire searching yours for a moment.

“You’re okay with this?” he asks. Arousal shoots down your spine - something about the desire for consent combined with Sam’s velvet smooth voice is just so… damn.

You nod, lifting your chin in invitation. That’s all Sam needs. His lips press softly against your own, testing the waters. You want more, though, and are more than happy to let Sam know with a hand in his hair. He chuckles and obliges.

“Seriously, guys?”

You break apart frantically, stumbling a little. Dean laughs and brushes between you two. The girls you came to rescue, which he apparently found, giggle and follow. Once they’re moving off down the tunnel, Sam reaches over to take your hand.

Your stomach does more happy flips. Your heart agrees with the sentiment.

--

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--

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits​ @imsuperawkward​

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[snowkatze]

Shuffle Off This Mortal Coil

Genre: angst with a happy ending (Loki Crossover) Word Count: 6010 Summary: Baz is getting attacked by a wendigo and thinks all hope is lost - when a dark-haired stranger comes to his rescue. They are more similiar than one would expect. Ao3: Shuffle Off This Mortal Coil

Well fuck, Baz thought when the wendigo was right on top of him. Its claws dragged across his chest, slicing through his skin. That was another shirt ruined. Baz pressed at the creature's wrists, trying for brute vampire strength, but they wouldn't budge. His wand was lying uselessly a few metres to the side, out of his reach.

So that was that then. Death by wendigo. It let out a screech and bared its rows of neat sharp teeth and saliva. It would rip him to shreds. There was no hope it would leave his face in tact. He would make an ugly corpse. He had imagined it a little more elegant. Dignified.

The wendigo pressed down on his chest and Baz clenched his teeth together. He tried to reach for his wand again, but it had fallen too far. Or his arms were too short. Or the wand not big enough.

Aleister Crowley. He was going to die. His breathing sped up, as much as it could with the weight on his chest. The wendigo leaned down and he could smell its foul breath against his face.

“You can't kill me,” Baz said, “I'm already dead.” The wendigo leaned closer. Maybe it only went after humans and once it realized he wasn't one of them, it would let go. The hope was probably futile. He should be bracing for it. He knew what it was like to die. He only had to do it a second time. It couldn't be that hard.

He pressed his eyes closed and imagined himself into his room at Watford. No pain in his chest. No hard ground beneath his back. And across from him no wendigo.

The wendigo roared. This was it. Baz kept his eyes closed and thought of Simon Snow.

Seconds passed. Baz waited. Suddenly, the weight lifted off his chest, there was a grunt, then a thud. He quickly opened his eyes and scrambled for his wand. There was a flash of green, the wendigo in a tumble. It let out another loud roar, then fell silent and collapsed. Baz stepped closer carefully, preparing for nasty surprises, but it laid still. It must have been dead. Once he was close enough to see the black spots on the creature's skin, he could see that there was a man lying under the monster.

So he had been saved. Like a damsel in distress. Wonderful.

He cast “Load off my chest” just to feel useful. The wendigo was magically lifted off the man's chest and rolled onto the ground. A bloodied dagger fell out of his hand. The man was conscious, but looked a little worse for wear. He sat up slowly, his eyes darting around, probably looking for a threat. Baz let his eyes glide over the stranger's form. He had black hair to his shoulders, an unnaturally pale face (vampire?) and strange green eyes and black clothes. When the stranger's eyes landed on him, Baz immediately sneered and crossed his arms. This stranger might have saved his life, but he wasn't about to trust him.

“Thanks and all, but I really didn't need your help,” Baz snarled. The stranger's eyes darkened.

“This creature was about to tear the flesh off your bones,” the man said. “Should I have let it?”

“I had everything under control.” “So you agreed to be this creature's evening meal by choice?” the man said and stood up. “Good to know.”

“It was not a choice exactly,” Baz admitted. “We had a little bit of a disagreement.” Baz started to saunter around the man, making himself look casual while he was calculating every step.

“I'm not going to give you anything, you know,” he said, “whatever you were hoping to gain from this little saviour act, you can't have it.” “Ah,” the man said, drawing himself up straighter, “I do believe I am owed a favour. You would have been lost without me. A little gratitude would do you well.”

“A little humility would you.”

Baz' eyes never left the man's face. This wasn't the sort of place where you ran into strangers and had a friendly chat. If the man was this deep into the woods, this deep and alive, he must have been dangerous. And certainly not the kind of person to lend someone a helping hand out of the goodness of their heart. But the man was right – Baz was in his debt.

“What do you want?” Baz said.

The man picked up his dagger and let it vanish. Baz tried to contain his surprise and unwittingly took a step back. He hadn't heard the stranger cast “Into thin air” and there was nothing resembling a wand. The stranger looked at the trees surrounding them before his gaze settled on Baz' face.

“What is a child like you doing in a place like this?” he asked instead of answering.

“Hunting a monster,” Baz replied simply, sniffing and looking at the ground. His voice took on a sarcastic tone. “Carrying out a job fit for the Chosen One.”

“I see,” the stranger said and fixed him with an unsettling grin. “You have certainly come to the right place.” He shook out his hair, then continued: “A little boy playing hero.”

“I'm eighteen,” Baz said, even though he wasn't quite.

“All humans are children,” the man said, shaking his head. He crossed his arms and drew his eyebrows together. Not human, then. But able to do magic? Baz tried not to let the irritation show on his face.

“I will help you find this monster you seek,” the man said, “in my own self-interest, of course. It wouldn't do to get murdered by a creature so soon. I just got here.”

Baz swallowed down his protests. The man had just saved his life, he needed to show a little good will.

“Fine,” he bit out.

“The name is Loki,” the stranger said. Peculiar name, Baz thought. Loki looked at him and Baz thought of three different ways to die. Walking over the edge of a cliff, making French Toast in the bathtub, accepting candy from a stranger...

“My name is Baz,” he said.

He started in one direction, trying to look like he knew where he was going. Loki kept his pace. They stepped over a few fallen trees. Baz ducked under the brushwood. He felt leaves and branches scratching and poking him everywhere, but paid it no mind.

“This is a dastardly place,” Loki said.

Baz wondered about the arrogance in his voice. Every sentence Loki said reeked of self-importance. Was Loki someone upper-class? Someone who thought himself better?

“I've heard it called the forest of decay,” Baz said. “It's said to be haunted.” “Why would you seek out such a dangerous place?” Loki asked, his tone of voice only suggesting curiosity.

“Maybe I just don't believe in ghost stories.” Loki paused. “Maybe you would be wiser to,” he said cautiously.

“How so?” Loki hesitated for a moment. “Tell me, boy, if you die and wake and walk among the living, does that make you a ghost?”

Baz thought of the nursery back at Watford. He kept his gaze on the path he was making for them through the woods.

“I hope not,” he said. There was something to it, really. He had been haunting the Chosen One for years, after all.

There was nothing resembling a path anywhere; in fact, it was as though nature wanted to make it as difficult as possible to get through the forest. Baz kept going, turning the thought that had led him here over in his mind, again and again.

“So tell me about this monster we are looking for,” Loki said from next to him. “Horribly dangerous, I assume.”

Baz clenched his jaw and thought carefully.

“It's something that deserves to die,” he said after a pause.

“I'm going to need you to be more specific.”

Baz stayed silent for a few moments. “I'll know it when I see it,” he said then. “Fantastic,” Loki said and rolled his eyes. “So we are looking for some vague nondescript creature in a forest filled with creatures? What has this one in particular done to become subject to your wrath? What are you looking for? Is it vengeance? Honour?” “I'm just trying to do the right thing,” Baz said.

“Ah, I see. So, you are trying to prove yourself? I have had enough of fools trying to prove their wretched worthiness for a lifetime.”

“Oh, it's nothing like that.” “Then what?”

Baz could tell that Loki would not let up. “If you will not stop pestering me, fine. It's what my mother would have wanted. That's all I'm going to say.”

“So that's the kind of fool that you are – one desperately looking for his parents' approval.”

“Don't mock me. Not about this,” Baz said tensely. “I'm not. That would be fairly... hypocritical.”

“Is that why you're here, too?” “No, no. Even I know when I am beaten. I might be foolish enough to make the same mistake twice over, but at some point I do catch on.”

The undergrowth kept getting thicker. “So what are you doing here?” “Hm. I'm just going wherever the Norns take me.”

“You're not from here,” Baz said, not making it sound like a question.

“I don't think any civilized being could grow up in these woods.” “Not what I meant.”

“You are clever, child. To be quite frank... I am not certain where I am. Midgard, judging from your substandard style of clothing.” “What's wrong with my clothes?” Baz asked, mildly offended.

“Could have a little more flair.” “That's true,” Baz conceded, allowing himself a smirk. There was a particularly big branch blocking their path. Baz quickly cast “Into thin air”. When he was finished, he turned to find Loki watching him curiously.

“What is this? Magic on Midgard? Clearly an inferior kind of magic, if you need objects and words to channel it.”

“Inferior to what? It's the only way to do magic.”

“And yet you deny being a naïve child,” Loki said and shook his head.

“Where are you from?” Baz couldn't help asking. Loki didn't seem particularly forth-coming, but Baz was too curious. They stepped out onto a clearing.

“Asgard. A place that a small mind such as yours cannot fathom.”

“Anyone ever tell you you're full of yourself?” Baz was about to come up with some other insult, when something shot out and threw itself at Loki. Baz took in the lion and the dragon head, the leathern wings, the snake for a tail – a chimera. A male one, corporeal. Good. They wouldn't have a chance against a female one, not without Snow. Baz hurriedly pointed his wand at the creature and cast “Off with your head!”. The lion head fell off, but the dragon head, which had been biting into Loki's shoulder, shot up and roared. “Sod off,” Baz tried, but the chimera only took one step back before charging at him. Baz rolled out of the way, holding his wand tight. Loki threw his dagger into the creature's neck and it let out a strangled cry. It turned away from Baz and gave its full attention to Loki. “Off with your head!” Baz cast again, just as the creature was about to sink its teeth into Loki's neck. The head fell onto Loki's chest and he quickly shoved it off him, rolling to the side. Panting, he laid back.

“Shit,” Baz said and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. He wasn't used to fighting – and every fight seemed harder to win.

“I believe my thanks are in order,” Loki said from the floor. He was clasping his shoulder. Baz stepped closer.

“We're even now,” Baz said and crouched next to Loki.

“All the same. My magic... is weak in this place. In this realm.”

He bit his teeth together, clearly in pain. “Let me -” Baz started and Loki moved his fingers from the wound. Baz cast some healing spells, but it didn't do much – the wound was too deep.

“Maybe you should go home,” Baz said with a hollow voice. He didn't want to admit he was out of his depth.

“I have no home,” Loki answered. He sat up, probably trying to seem unperturbed, but Baz noticed the tenseness around his eyes.

“I'm sorry. I can't take you back to my home. I... I need to finish what I came here for.”

“Do you really think I am so weak as to be indisposed by a simple flesh wound? Certainly not. I require no help. And no rest. Let's find that monster of yours and show it to Hel.”

“Maybe that's not such a good idea -”

“We're going. I will hear no more of it.”

Loki strode forward into the direction they had been going, but he was clutching his shoulder again. Baz tried to shake the uncertain feeling and followed him.

“Maybe I could take you to your family -” Baz tried.

“I have no family.”

Baz thought of how Loki had talked of gaining his parents' approval earlier and decided not to press the issue. And it was not like he had much room to argue – they were too deep into the forest. Baz was not sure he would even know how to leave. The forest got darker the deeper they went. Loki's breathing got heavier. And Baz couldn't help but think it was his fault somehow. Loki was here because of Baz' stupid whims, because of the stupid thoughts circling in his brain over and over.

Who was this strange man? Nothing added up. And it kept coming back to him... The peculiar language, the pale skin, how he had called Baz 'human'.

“You're not... a vampire. Are you?” Baz asked cautiously. Loki looked at him in surprise.

“What's a vampire?” Baz' eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you having me on?” “I... no.” “Vampires are... monsters, they-”

Loki sucked in a quiet breath.

“How would you know that I – I -” Loki kept his gaze firmly on the ground. “Vampire... is not, perhaps, another term for... Frost Giant?”

“What?” Baz grew more confused by the second. “No. They're not giant. And they don't have anything to do with frost. They just... Suck blood and kill people. It's what they do. They're – not human. They used to be, but – then they died and got Turned.”

“And you would think me one of these... vampires?” Baz shrugged.

“You're strange, that's all.”

“And... the monster we seek is one of these vampires?” Baz grimaced before quickly schooling his expression.

“Yes,” he said quietly. He could only see in the dark because of his heightened senses. There were no stars. Loki was... a complication. He would feel guilty leaving him to fend of the creatures of the forest alone. And while he could not stop thinking about what he had read earlier, he couldn't bear thinking about what he had come for. He was procrastinating. But now that he had Loki to worry about, he was painfully reminded that while he had striven to make it deep into the forest, he had never planned to make it back, too.

“Are vampires native to the forest?” Loki asked. “Oh. No. They hunt humans, so live among them.”

“But still you are certain that the one you seek is here in this forest.” “I am,” Baz said tersely. “There is something strange about you too, child. Do not be so witless to think I will not figure out what it is.”

Baz flinched slightly. He wondered how much longer the night was going to last. If you could even see the sunrise from this place and through the branches.

There was hedge full of roses that they either needed to circumvent or get through.

“Why did you come here?” Baz asked again as they started to walk alongside the hedge. “I would think you would only come here if you were a complete fool. Or had a death wish.”

“Or if you lost your way.”

Loki lifted his bloodied hand of his shoulder and let his dagger appear in it.

“I don't have the patience for this,” he said and began cutting through the vines. Suddenly, the vines raked around his dagger and pulled it out of his hand. Another one wound around his arm. Baz was too shocked to act and felt a vine snake around his leg. In his surprise, he dropped his wand and couldn't pick it up again as vines wound around his whole body. Loki let out a groan of pain next to him when one of the vines snaked across his shoulder.

“You don't happen to have another dagger up your sleeve?” Baz asked. “Or an ace?” “No,” Loki ground out, “can't teleport either. I'm stuck.”

Baz pulled and twisted his arms, but the vines were stronger. They must have been magical somehow, so that they could withstand even his vampire strength.

“You can teleport?” Baz asked. He would have been more intrigued if he weren't so distracted. “I would have liked to see that.” “Do you think I'm lying, child?” “I think we're not getting out of here anytime soon.”

One of the vines wound around his neck and Baz feared it would start choking him soon.

“I can't cast a spell without my wand,” Baz said, “and I don't have any weapon.”

“You come well-prepared for a monster hunt.”

“Why don't you lay off the sarcasm,” Baz snapped, “I'm trying to wallow in misery.”

The vines stopped moving, but they had his arms and legs bound. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything. For a few minutes, they waited, just in case the vines would let up on their own.

“I think it's a defence-mechanism,” Baz said. “I don't think they'll let us out. And I can't think of any way to get us free.”

He tried to hold in the tears that started to prickle his eyes. He let out several jerky breaths as reality set in. He was going to die. Maybe he was going to die of thirst in a few days. Maybe the vines would wind further and start choking him. He didn't have to wait for any monster to rip him apart. And the worst part was, Loki was going to die, too. And that was on him. If he wasn't such a coward, none of this would have happened.

“Great,” he said and laughed a bit hysterically. “So this is how I go. Like a fucking prince from Sleeping Beauty.”

“It's not how I would have imagined my death either,” Loki said, sounding strangely resigned. “I was never stupid enough to dream of Valhalla, of course. I was never a warrior. But I did imagine I would die a Prince of Asgard.”

“A prince?” “Not any more.” The vines cut into Baz' skin painfully. He could not see Loki's face from this angle, only the pitch black sky and the tall rose hedge.

“It's not as desirable to be a king as one would think, mortal,” Loki said.

“Mortal?” Baz felt another burst of laughter bubbling up in him. “Guess again.”

“So that's what was strange about you,” Loki said, “you are not human.”

“No. And neither are you. Though I must say, we're both looking pretty mortal right now,” Baz said softly.

“There is still time yet, child. Who knows what might happen.” “I wouldn't hold out for it.” “I am sorry we didn't find your monster. It must have grievously wronged you.”

“Ha. No worries. I'm getting exactly what I came for,” Baz said and turned his gaze to the sky again.

“You don't mean -”

Baz could hear the agitation in Loki's voice. He chuckled darkly.

“I do. I'm... I'm a vampire.”

He could say it, now. There was really no point in keeping a secret. “You suck the blood of humans and kill them, then?”

In shock, Baz stayed silent.

“I'm not judging,” Loki added.

“No, of course not,” Baz said, silently horrified. “I've never bitten a person. I never would.”

“I have a feeling you are a better man than me.”

“I'm a monster.”

“Oh, that's right. And you're just trying to do the right thing, am I correct? Silly mortal.” “Vampire,” Baz insisted. “Mortal in all the ways that count. You don't know the first thing about monsters.”

“But my mom did,” Baz said and sniffed, thinking of the article he had read in the morning. “She was there when the vampires attacked the nursery. When they bit me. She died – no. She – this morning I found out that she cast – that she – she got Turned that day. And then she killed herself. She knew how to do the right thing.”

Loki stayed silent for a moment, the air heavy with Baz' words.

“I'm sorry that happened to her. And to you. But it doesn't mean she was right.”

“She was. I've always known. I'm just not as brave as her. That's why I came here. To let someone else do the job. To a place where I knew I wouldn't make it out alive. Even though I still want to.”

Baz was never usually this honest. But there wasn't a lot of time left to say the truth. All energy had drained out of his body. He didn't want to fight any more – not for his life, but against the knowledge that he still wanted it.

“I'm sorry,” Baz said, his eyes burning from tears. “I didn't mean for anyone to get dragged into this.”

“If you are so intent on killing monsters,” Loki said tiredly, “you will be happy that I am dying with you.”

“You said you were no vampire.”

“I'm not,” Loki said, “but I am a frost giant. A Jotun.” “I don't know what that is,” Baz admitted quietly.

“Imagine finding out you are the monster hiding underneath children's beds.”

“Oh, I can imagine that.” “Did your parents love you, boy?” “No one can love a monster. She loved who I was. Not who I became.” “Well. I was a monster all my life. Only I did not know. I was chasing after a love I could never hope to gain,” Loki said. “And I have proven everyone right. You tell me you have never hurt anyone. I have. I have tried to eradicate an entire race of Jotuns. How is that for a monster?”

“Simon Snow has killed vampires. Lots of them. And he's not a monster,” Baz said. “You were... misguided, probably. But you don't have to be like that. I can't believe that an entire species is made up of monsters. Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“And how is that different from being a vampire?” “Vampires are made. And all that changes is that they become deadlier. Their only purpose is to kill.”

“'Their'. You do not seem to count yourself as one of them. It might be your intellect poking through,” Loki said drily. Baz snorted.

“And that will be that, then,” Loki said, “a man and a monster dying in the woods.”

“We might both be monsters.” “We might both be men.”

“And here I was thinking you only saw me as a boy,” Baz said with exasperated humour.

He watched the night sky for a little longer.

“So how did you come here? Will you tell me now?” “We're not so different, you and I. I... let myself fall into the void. I didn't expect to come out of it alive, either. And I came out here. It must be a different universe. This is not the Midgard I know.”

“So that is why you are so strange? You come from a different universe?” “Oh, there might be an Asgard and a Jotunheim in this universe, too.”

They fell silent again. Baz thought about this morning, when he'd last seen Snow. He'd taken one long moment to look at him before he left. He was going to die thinking about that moment.

“Baz!” someone called suddenly. Baz couldn't turn his head. But that voice...

“Simon?”

Snow stepped into his field of vision and Baz lost his breath. He was here.

“Oh no,” Snow said as he took in the scene before him, “what happened?”

And Baz thinks of ways to die. Inviting a chimera over for tea, falling down the stairs, kissing Simon Snow... “Attempt at gardening gone wrong,” Baz said.

“Stop talking and get us out of here,” Loki called.

“Right,” Snow said and lifted the sword he was already holding in his hand.

“This might work,” Baz said, “it's a magical sword. But be quick about it.”

When Snow started cutting through the vines, the vines tightened around Baz' body and he began choking. When he was free, he fell to the floor and sucked in a few deep breaths.

“How did you find me?” he demanded when he could speak again.

Snow was supporting Loki with one arm and examining the wound on his shoulder.

“I cast a tracking spell,” Snow admitted, not even sounding apologetic. “I... I knew you were up to something when you left this morning. When you didn't come back, I... Well. It's good that I came, isn't it? What are you doing here?” “Yes, boy, what are you doing here?” Loki repeated innocently. Baz nearly growled.

“I'm... helping him get home,” Baz said then. The last thing he wanted was for Snow's hero complex to kick in. “He's not from here. You can go back, right?” “There might be another portal around here.”

“I'm going to help you, then,” Simon said. Baz let out a deep sigh. There was no appeasing Snow once he had set his mind on something. “I don't believe you, but. I'll help.”

“Another naïve mortal,” Loki said, “excellent.”

“Let's just keep going,” Baz said, eager to get away from the rose hedge. He couldn't help but feel lighter, more hopeful, now that Snow was here. It was terribly annoying.

But instead of walking alongside the hedge, Snow cut through it with his sword. Baz quickly ducked through the hole before any of the vines could grab him. The woods cleared up behind the hedge. A field with a myriad of flowers stretched out before them. In the middle of the field, there was a stone statue. It was a woman in a dress, holding a dancing position. Baz carefully watched it, not trusting the situation. When he turned, he saw that Snow was already walking into the field.

“You complete imbecile,” he called out, at the same time as Loki said, “you mule-headed oaf!”

The flowers wound around Snow's legs – Snow started making erratic movements with his sword. He cut some flowers, but they kept dragging him deeper. Baz watched in astonishment. He tried to think of a spell that would help.

“Let go of me!” Snow called.

“I can't use my magic,” Loki said, turning to him, “do something!”

Baz scrambled for his wand, but he had forgotten it on the other side of the hedge. He tried to walk back, but the hole had closed up again. There was nothing he could do. Snow's movements became more desperate. Baz was ready to run into the field when it happened – what inevitably happened whenever Snow took too long to fight something. He went off.

Baz was thrown against the hedge. He quickly stumbled away from it. The flowers on the field were obliterated. Baz cautiously stepped forward. The only thing left standing was the statue. Snow was still half-way in the ground. He wavered, then fell unconscious. Baz heart skipped a beat. He wanted to reach out to him. Then he noticed the vines from the hedge wrapping around Loki to his side. His head whipped around when he registered movement to his right.

The statue was moving – moving towards him. Her expression had gone furious.

“You have made a massacre of my field of flowers,” she snarled. “You are monsters. I will take you, with the long hair, as recompense for my flowers.”

“My deepest apologies,” Loki said, “we didn't mean any harm.”

“It will be forgotten in a moment, so long as you come with me. You are the prettiest one. I will make you my statue.”

“I'm flattered, really, but I'd rather not,” Loki said, but the vines prevented his struggles.

“You come with me, or I will kill you all,” she snarled, incensed.

Be brave, Baz thought. Be brave, be brave, be brave. He took a deep breath and thought of his mother casting “Tigre, tigre, burning bright”.

“Take me instead,” he said firmly, “he's extremely annoying. You wouldn't like him at all.”

“He has a terrible habit of self-pity,” Loki said, “and he is foolishly reckless. You have made the right choice in me.”

“Don't do this, Loki,” Baz said. “I think the portal might be on the other side of the field, in that pond.”

“You are a child,” Loki snapped, “you have lived not even half a life. I won't let you waste that. Not for me.”

“The portal is right there, Loki. Go home.” “I don't have a home!”

“I don't believe that. And I don't believe you are a monster. You just need another chance. Just bloody take it.” “And pay the prize for it? And have that on my conscience for the rest of my life? I don't think so. Just walk away from here. Forget this ever happened. Forget any stupid reason you had for coming here.”

“I've been dead for a long time,” Baz snapped, “this won't change anything.”

“Ah, dying. I'm quite used to it, too.”

“I thought I was just a worthless mortal with inferior magic and no sense of style. What are you doing?”

“The right thing. Maybe,” Loki said and turned back to the statue. “It's okay. I agree. You can have me.” While they argued, Snow had regained consciousness. The statue was looking at him and Loki. She didn't see Snow pushing himself up and out of the ground. He approached them. Baz was careful not to look at him directly. Then he raised his sword and let it come down on the statue. She turned around and made a grab for the sword immediately. Baz dived down and slipped his arm through the hedge to reach for his wand.

“A monster doesn't save people,” Loki yelled at him. “It might save other monsters. So did you save one or did you not? You can't have it both ways.”

Baz pointed his wand at Loki and cast: “Let him go!” A few of the vines came loose. Baz kept casting the spell, but he could feel his magic diminishing. Snow was still fighting the statue. Finally enough of the vines came loose for Loki to break out.

“I've tried to kill my monster,” Loki said to him, “And I ended up here instead. If I were a more feeble-minded man, I'd call it destiny.”

“I'd call it luck,” Baz said. “Luck... Yes. I believe you are right.” Loki smirked. “Farewell, mortal. Do try not to get yourself killed.”

With these words, he made off to the pond.

Baz tried casting “Freeze” on the statue, but it only slowed her down a little.

“Snow,” he yelled, “come on!” He cast “Make way for the king!” and the hedge parted. Snow slammed his sword against the statues' arms, grinding his teeth together. “Snow!” Baz yelled again and grabbed his arm. “Run!”

And he ran and dragged Snow with him. He could see in the dark, so he led them through the trees as smoothly as he could. And he didn't slow down. He didn't want any monster to catch up with them.

They kept running, until Baz could tell that Simon's breath was coming short. He leaned against a thick tree, breathing heavily. Snow leaned next to him.

Baz didn't know what to think. He had been so certain when he had come here. Now everything seemed upside down. Then he turned his head – there was Simon Snow, red-cheeked, breathing, alive. The one thing Baz was always sure of.

“Simon -” Baz started. “I need to know if – Because you'd do the right thing. I know you would. Please -” Baz swallowed. He had to tell him, otherwise he would never know. And there was nothing left to lose.

“I'm a vampire, Snow.” He waited with bated breath. Snow was just looking at him. Open-mouthed. Nothing else. Then -

“You called me Simon before.”

Baz laughed, because it was all too much.

“I tell you I'm a monster, and that's your response?” “I... I knew you were a vampire. I mean. I didn't have proof. But I knew. Can't be wrong about everything, me” Snow said and smiled. “But you've never bitten anyone, have you?” “No.” “Right again. Seems like I'm having a streak. So, when I tell you you're not a monster, it must be true.”

“Simon-”

Baz felt close to tears again, but he didn't want to break down in front of Snow.

“I thought you were stronger than me. I thought you would do the right thing.” “I am. I am doing the right thing.” Snow was close, but he leaned in closer. He tentatively put a hand on Baz' chest. Nothing was going the way Baz thought it would.

“Baz, when you didn't show up in our room tonight, I... I went crazy, I was so worried.”

“Worried,” Baz said and swallowed, trying to get himself under control, “or suspicious?” “A little bit of both. But mostly worried. Why did you come here? Are you insane? It's the most dangerous magical forest.”

“I know. That's why I came. I was... I... had a few things wrong, apparently.” “Come home with me, Baz. Please. Let's get away from this place.” Simon was smiling, at Baz. And suddenly Baz could think of three ways to live. Playing piano, inventing a spell, kissing Simon Snow...

He licked his lips. And Simon was right there, and so alive. Baz leaned closer just the tiniest bit.

“Can I -” Baz said. “Could I-”

“Baz,” Simon said quietly. Baz leaned a little closer still.

“I can't lose you,” Simon whispered. “Come here. I need you to-”

Simon moved his head and their lips brushed together. Simon was so warm – so warm – and only now, Baz was realizing how cold he had been. Baz pushed against Simon's lips. He felt so alive – Simon felt so alive, but Baz felt so alive. Maybe Loki had been right. Maybe Simon had been right. Maybe this was a forest full of monsters, but he was not one of them. Maybe there were no monsters in this forest.

He tangled Simon's fingers with his and lit a flame in his palm. It was still dark. They were still deep in the forest. Baz took a hesitant step forward, then he became more assured. He knew the way out.

[at-the-exd-of-everythixg]

][Mahogany and Rhys for ship headcanon meme][ 1 || 2 || 4 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9 || 11 || 12 || 14 || 16 || 18 || 22 || 23 || 25 || 28 || 29

@blind-mutant

1. Who makes the first move and how?

Mahogany does! They bring Rhys a bunch of rats and flowers and flowers with rats buried between them. They took some creative liberties.

2. Who is the most insecure and what makes them feel better?

Rhys is since he's considerably smaller, weaker and Mahogany is so clear sighted about what they want in life. Mahogany can usually smell these moods from him and it immediately calls for some good Wendigo cuddles and aggressive rolling in the nest and cooing over how smart and how tricky Rhys is. Worst comes to worst??? Sex.

4. Who can’t keep their hands to themselves?

Mahogany since they had to be told to be aware of their personal space when they and Rhys first met. But when he let's them touch him freely? Holding his hand, hugging him, carrying him when they can and kissing Rhys is the best! They get huffy if they can't touch him at least once lt twice an hour.

6. Who would they ask if they ever had a threesome?

Oof uhhh,,,,if they were to find and know a more friendly other wendigo then probably them but I also imagine that if Rhys had someone he wanted to keep around and introduce to Mahogany then they would accept that person into their pack and be happy to take care of their new mate. Ngl if Rhys talks 'bout Blue then I imagine Mahogany silently considers her part of the pack when they smell how sad and in love Rhys was.

7. What do they get up to on a night out?

Well, mostly just sneaking about to get meat but Mahogany likes wandering about places at night and crawling along walls and overall seeming creepy. They like looking into windows and staring at sleeping people which,,,,Rhys slowly nods at that and just gets them to the nearest park or forest where they demand to know how playgrounds work and Rhys, a full grown man I guess, has to slide down a small plastic child's slide so his 6'9 lover can nod and clap.

8. What do they like in bed?

Rhys loves it when they bite him and wrap their arms around him to tug him closer to hold him close as they lift him up. He likes overall reminders that they can crush him yet he's the only one who can put his fingers in their mouth and be completely safe.

Mahogany loves it when Rhys bites them too and they love it when Rhys is always a bit rough, like forcefully spreading their legs or tugging their hair when he's feeling so good. They like having their attention on him. Oh and eating him out.

9. What is the most embarrassing thing they have done in front of each other?

Rhys tried to hunt with Mahogany but couldn't even catch a running squirrel before he slid off a steep edge and fell into a river. Mahogany fished him out and caught a bird in midair. He sulked in the bath for hours.

Mahogany isn't ever really embarrassed by stuff? But one time they went out in nothing but Rhys's shirt and wondered why he had suddenly raced after them, red faced and trying to apologise to a woman as he patted their bare butt back into the motel. He laughed tho when they asked if he was going to slap it more.

11. What do they hide from one another?

Rhys hides a surprisingly big amount, both small and large issues due to the fact that Mahogany acts on heart rather than thinking. He doesn't want them to know how someone had called him a freak earlier or that he wasn't a wendigo. I feel like Rhys often manipulates Mahogany for their safety and that even includes a time he told them that it was dangerous to go outside when maybe it wasn't really??

Mahogany often hides stuff that has happened to them or about the Wendigo history. Rhys hardly knows anything about their kind and he doesn't know about certain incidents like how someone tried to attack them earlier. They see no reason to worry their mate and they don't want Rhys to get upset like he always does if someone may be leaving gifts for Mahogany and always leaves the smell of a potential mate around.

12. What first changes when it starts getting serious?

Mahogany beings to get extra protective and officially starts calling Rhys their mate as well as trusting him entirely while Rhys officially starts to get worried at times for their hunts and becomes a lot more receptive to Magni bringing him gifts and their more possessive touches.

A bad side is Rhys becomes more stern on bath times and crying doesn't work anymore to make him soften up ;_;.

14. When one has a cold, what does the other do?

Mahogany panics and goes on a wide range stealing episode of getting as many clothes as they can to add to the nest. Curls up around Rhys to keep him cool or even wears more clothes if they're too cold for him. Whines and cries since they obviously think he's dying and if I'm honest, I wouldn't put it last Mahogany to get a human or a mutant to try and make him better. Spends most of the time crying and pressing their face against his to try and breath in his illness and take it away.

Mahogany is so confused when they get sick but it's in the summer and they can't keep anything down at all and start bloating. Probably tries to carry on as normal but Rhys has to be stern and make them lay in the nest. Like Pascal, an ice bath is needed and having to put their hair up while telling them fairy tales as they cry and sneeze repeatedly. Mahogany probably refuses to eat and only does when Rhys begs them and even then its slowly licking/drinking/slurping some watered down chicken soup he got for them.

16. When the zombie apocalypse comes, how do they cope together?

Oh god, Mahogany is in heaven. They get to eat people??? And not get yelled at??? Rhys undoubtedly has a breakdown or two but Mahogany is loving being able to play about with zombies and they're actually kinda chubby in this verse due to eating so much. I imagine it's a 50/50 of people wanting to be near or away from the pale mutant who is technically dating a form of zombie and honestly there's a point where Rhys probably has to have Mahogany wear a collar so others feel safe. Overall? They do pretty well! Especially with Mahogany's hunting.

But oh man scremaing has ensured at there being some sort of wendigo-zombie apocalypse. Mahogany suddenly being surrounded by forms of their own kind??? Angst.

18. When they fight, how do they make up?

Rhys apologises and it depends where they are because his apologies range from sex to getting them meat and a story. Most of the time he has to wait an hour or two because Mahogany wants to sulk and they have their hair spiked up around them to ensure he can't get near. And growling. They look like a sea bunny slug when they're mad so all he can do is sit near and wait for grumpy snuffling as they eat their meat and lick his fingers.

Mahogany hunts for Rhys and depending on how big the fight was is now big the animal is going to be. A small scuff? A rabbit. A big screamer? Mahogany drags a moose through the door and I mean. One of those fucking huge ones. They're bleeding but it's worth it to see Rhys's face when they drop it in front of Rhys and offer love making and bath times.

22. Where does their first kiss happen?

Well, technically when they first had sex on that surprise thread we did but I'm also soft at the idea of them kissing in an apple orchid because Mahogany heard that Rhys was hungry so they just....broke in and took him apple picking aka lifting him up to trees to get apples while listening out for the owners and whoop Rhys is turning around to kiss them and oh their hips are wiggling and they're chuffing loud enough to alert people better run!

23. Where is their favourite place to be together?

Anywhere with nature! Rhys probably learns to love it so much when he associates it as the safest place where Mahogany likes cuddling and rolling in the snow and swimming with him in quarries during the summer. Also having sex up against trees is great for details I probably should not get too deep into here.

25. Why do they fight?

Mahogany is rather protective and gets huffy when they can't kill humans who hurt Rhys, despite whether he agrees with it or not most of the time. He also needs to worry about how little care they give when going out to hunting and the harm they do to themselves.

A bigger issue is probably over how insistent Mahogany gets over Rhys becoming a wendigo because they see how mutants get treated and their Rhys is a mutant, so what if he gets treated badly? They get anxious and huffy more over it, desperate for their mate to be safe for good.

28. Why do they get jealous?

Mahogany gets jealous of anyone who dares goes near their mate with lustful smells. But then Mahogany just has to make Rhys smell more like them and cover him in more bites so he cannot be mistaken as free mate for anyone at all. He belongs to someone and that someone is staring angrily through a window and yeah you better slowly back away and ask why there's a tall naked person pressing up against the glass and snarling and good Rhys better be running back quickly to not let an imprint of a vulva stain the glass. Rhys is too good and too wonderful and no one should take their mate but Mahogany.

Rhys would 100% freak out and I'm laughing at that freaking out if Mahogany starts getting meat left for them and smelling arousal everywhere. Huffy gremlin man when he hears a pleased chirp as Mahogany gazes at the honeycomb pieces that got left for them and honestly I'm too invested in the idea of a mysterious creature flirting with Mahogany and Rhys just "seriously??? I get an undead - last of the species probably - lover and yet someone better still comes along??" Shshnsns

It has just occured to me that maybe this question means what they may be jealous of each other oh boy. But yeah uh, Mahogany is always jealous of how good Rhys is with human stuff and how smart he is. He always has to clean up their messes and he much better at general life stuff than them while I think Rhya would be jealous at Mahogany capabilities and how unafraid they are to get what they want and their openness.

29. Why do they fall a little bit more in love?

Mahogany falls in love with how Rhys just...accepts them how he's the only one who doesn't seem to care as much about what they are. They adore how sweet he is and how easily Rhys goes along with whatever they do and how darling he is about the way they think.

Rhys falls more for just how dedicated Mahogany is for everything about him. Rhys wants food? They're going out to hunt. Rhys wants to feel warm, awkwardly dragging blankets over him. He also likes their refreshing views and how Mahogany sees him as perfect and wonderful to be unique. They hear the phase "best thing since sliced bread" and immediately say that Rhys is better.

[javocjovian]

The Wendigo - PB Gift Exchange

Happy Exchange @maggiemaybe160​ !!!

I wrote this for this year’s Profound Bond Gift Exchange!!! The theme was ‘Masquerade’!

Title: The Wendigo Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21522769 Ship: Destiel Word Count: 3568 Warnings: PTSD trauma, parental abuse trauma Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, past physical/emotional abuse, PTSD, Trauma, Injury, Healing, Happy Ending, Fluff, First Kiss, more Fluff, Supportive Sam Summary: Dean has a lot of baggage from his childhood. Castiel wants to help, if Dean will let him.

Beta-ed by @cozibizzle​

The Wendigo

Dean was injured. Not enough to threaten his life, but certainly enough to gripe about, especially as it was making Sam fuss unnecessarily over him.

"Would you stop already? I'm fine," Dean snapped. He was sitting on a moth eaten couch in an old cabin—one of their dad's from a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. Dean's jacket sleeve was bloody and frayed, and he had snow in his hair. Sam and Dean were both flushed from the cold.

Sam glared at him incredulously. He tossed the first aid kit on the ground at Dean's feet and stalked away.

Dean felt a sick satisfaction at making Sam mad—it eased his own pain somewhat—but it didn't last. Shame washed over him as soon as Sam left the room, and the burning pain in his arm increased tenfold. Dean shut his eyes.

 Sam and Dean came to this cabin once when they were kids. John was hunting a wendigo, but it got away. When Sam and Dean heard about similar deaths happening in the same stretch of woods, they had to come.

At least the wendigo was finally dead, Dean thought. What was one burnt forearm compared to that? Hell, they even saved the girl this time. Dean would call that a win any day. He was just tired, in pain, and he'd never wanted a drink so badly in his life. He'd apologize to Sam later.

 A rush of wintry air blew Dean's thoughts away as the cabin door opened.

Dean looked up in surprise at the messy haired, trenchcoated figure of Castiel. He looked severe—although he always sort of looked like that.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said, dropping his voice.

Castiel shut the door. "I got your message," he rumbled.

"Yeah, well, you're late," Dean grunted. "Party's over. We killed it."

Castiel looked Dean over. He didn't seem to have heard a word Dean said. He was staring at Dean's singed sleeve.

"The campers are fine, by the way," Dean added, but when Castiel only squinted harder at his arm, Dean sighed and added, "I'm good." He shifted his arm to prove it and doused the resulting pain with a rough smirk. "Why don't you go check on Sam?"

Dean could have kicked himself. Why did he have to be such an ass? He stared Castiel down, anything to avoid looking at the cabin.

Castiel seemed immune to Dean's rudeness, however. He strode over to the couch and sat down beside Dean. Despite feeling suddenly numb, the pain in Dean’s arm doubled when Castiel touched it.

Dean hissed, making Castiel look up. For a moment they made eye contact, and Dean felt his own gaze harden.

Castiel didn't flinch. He maintained his hold on Dean's arm and said, "Take off your jacket."

Dean eyed him, feeling a kick of defiance. What would happen if he refused? The impulse faded however, and he began taking off his jacket.

Castiel didn't help at all, even though Dean was sure he looked like an idiot trying to wiggle out of his jacket with only one functioning arm. It was cold in the cabin, but it felt good on his burned arm. Finally he was free and returned his arm to Castiel.

Castiel's hands were warm and surprisingly gentle as he rolled up Dean's sleeve. The burn was worse than Dean thought. He regretted pushing Sam away, and yet he knew he was doing it again to Cas by being so rude.

"Can you heal it?" Dean asked, only to break the silence.

"Yes," Castiel said softly. "But it will hurt."

 A sound from the hallway made both Dean and Castiel look over. Sam was watching them with what Dean thought was entirely too much understanding.

"Hello Sam," Castiel greeted him.

"Hey Cas," Sam replied, although his eyes were on Dean.

"What?" Dean grunted.

Sam sighed. "Nothing."

Dean glared at him, then at Cas, and said, "Just do it."

Castiel eyed Dean curiously, and Dean had to fight the urge to take his arm back. Why did Castiel have to look at him like that? It made Dean feel weak, and he didn't want that. Not there, in that cabin, with Sam's knowing gaze burning into his soul.

Without warning, pain shot up Dean's arm. The wintry air inside the cabin vanished, and it felt like all the bones in his arm had been replaced with white hot rods. He swore and grabbed onto the couch. Just as Dean was sure he would retch from the intensity of the pain, it was all over.

Dean leaned back on the couch, panting. "God dammit, Cas," he said weakly.

Something in Dean's voice made Castiel's gaze soften. Dean shut his eyes again and just focused on breathing.

It was only when Castiel shifted slightly that Dean realized he'd been gripping him, not the couch. Dean pulled his arm away reflexively. It didn't hurt anymore. He looked it over and was surprised to see his arm whole and intact. Fresh, white skin was stretched over the burn, which now looked several weeks old.

"That will fade with time. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

Dean's expression softened. "It's good, Cas. Thanks." He flexed his hand, wishing Castiel would look somewhere else.

"Well, I'm turning in," Sam said quietly, an undeniable note of relief in his voice. "Do you want the bed, Dean?"

"No," Dean said a little too firmly.

Sam sighed again. "Alright, well, I say we head out in a few hours. Get some sleep. See you later, Cas."

"Goodnight, Sam," Castiel replied.

Dean didn't look at Sam as he walked into the back bedroom. He was gazing at the blue veins under his healed skin.

"So," Dean finally said, "are you gonna poof away now or what?"

Castiel looked surprised by the question, and it reignited Dean's shame.

"If you want me to," Castiel said simply.

Dean suddenly felt uncomfortable with himself. He couldn't stand sitting still. He got up and walked to the empty fireplace. He could feel Castiel's eyes on him as he examined an old iron poker.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Is this you?"

Dean turned to see Castiel holding a picture frame. There was a circle of dust on the side table from where it had sat dormant for decades. The picture showed a young boy holding up a fishing line with a large bass on the end. He was glowing with pride.

Dean went numb again. It was a strangely calm feeling. He walked over to Castiel, took the picture out of his hands and placed it back on the table. His eyes were set.

Castiel stared at him. "Dean?"

"What, Cas?"

"Did something happen to you and Sam?" Castiel's brow furrowed.

Dean thought about the question for a while. Finally he walked back to the fireplace and said, "I told you, we hunted a wendigo.”

"But… you prayed for my help. Why?"

Dean didn't respond.

"You and Sam clearly handled it fine on your own. Why did you need me here?" Castiel sounded pensive.

Without the pain in Dean's arm, he could feel something else aching. Stinging. Trapping his body to the floorboards of the old cabin like a rock. Dean wished Castiel hadn't healed him. He felt shaky. He shouldn't have drank all the whiskey the night before.

"Dean."

"I told you."

"You told me you were hunting…" Castiel was starting to sound annoyed now, but Dean cut him off.

"...a wendigo." Dean turned to look at Cas. He knew he'd have to do it eventually. Dean watched as Castiel's annoyance turned to concern. Dean must have looked as exhausted as he felt.

Dean sighed and knelt down at the fireplace. He took some wood they'd collected earlier and began making a fire.

"We hunted a Wendigo, Cas. Fifteen years ago. It got away. So we came back here to finish the job," Dean said. His voice was gruff and worn. He could feel Castiel squinting at him.

"What happened?"

There was no point feigning ignorance. Dean balled up some newspaper and began stuffing it under the wood before continuing. "Dad took us here when we were kids," he explained. "Sam had been hunting for about a year, and I think the thrill had worn off. He didn't want to come. It pissed my dad off so much,” Dean smiled. “Sam, he… he was a natural." Dean paused to grab more newspaper. "I wasn't. I followed my dad's every rule, and still… I had to work twice as hard as Sam. So dad said, 'fine, stay here and pout' and he took me out into the woods, alone. Now I was pissed at Sam, too.” Dean struck a match slid it under the wood. “He was just… so different from dad and I. Without even trying. You know dad, he… he never disciplined Sam like he did me." For a moment it looked like Dean hadn’t meant to say it. He bent down and blew on the flames, causing smoke to rise in serpentine spirals between the logs. He kept fiddling with it until the papers were in flames. "So Dad and I went hunting the wendigo."

"But… you didn't find it?" Castiel asked carefully. He assumed a single wendigo wouldn't be able to escape two hunters, especially not John Winchester and his son.

Dean watched the embers slowly eat the newspapers, reflecting gold in his eyes. It was cold in the cabin. Dean could feel it on his arms and face, on his frostbitten nose and ears, but it felt like someone else’s body, and the warmth growing in front of him provided no relief.

"No, we found it." Dean said, then added, "I found it."

Dean could hear a silent question hanging in the air, but Castiel didn't say anything.

"The missing campers were there,” Dean said quietly, “Well, half of them, anyway. All dead, except one. The wendigo was eating her."

For a moment, only the sound of the crackling wood filled the cabin. Dean was inexpressibly grateful for the silence.

"She was still alive. She was just lying there… gurgling… staring at me. And I…" Dean watched the flames consume the last of the old newspaper—an article about a missing blonde haired girl. "She died like that. Staring at me. I had the flare gun, but I didn't…" Dean stopped.

Castiel looked at him. Dean was outlined by the glow of the fire, his face hidden in shadow. After a long silence, Dean spoke again. His voice was shaky—Castiel had never heard a more terrible sound.

"I froze," he said simply, "and the wendigo got away. God, dad was pissed." He gave a wounded laugh. "He came running and saw me standing there. I'd never seen him so mad."

Castiel frowned. "But you were just a child. Surely he didn't blame you."

"Oh, he blamed me. I let the thing go, Cas," Dean explained, but the certainty in his voice was hollow. He stared into the flames, absentmindedly rubbing his healed arm. "We burned the campers, or what was left of them. The girl, too. And when we got home," Dean smiled darkly, "Dad, he… he whooped my ass." He tried to laugh again but the sound came out like a cough. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes, letting the orange light of the flames envelop him.

"He beat you?"

Dean nodded. "Yup. Worst one of my life. I couldn't aim a gun for a week."

"Does Sam know?" Castiel asked quietly.

Dean sighed. "Yeah. I mean, he was in the next room. He knew. Dad never laid a hand on Sammy, but…" Dean trailed off. He wiped his eyes with his palm. "It got better after that. Dad didn't… I mean, he found other ways of dealing with us." When Dean looked at Castiel, Castiel looked upset, hurt even. Dean thought he knew why. Dean got to his feet at last and brushed himself off. "The John you met, or watched, I guess, that wasn't my dad. The John who was destined to marry my mom, that wasn't my dad."

For some reason, it was these words that made Dean unable to go on. He shut his eyes, willing himself to keep steady. He would have given all the whiskey in the world to keep it together, but half of him wanted to stick his arm into the fire again and burn off the memory—burn off his fate, his curse.

It took a few minutes for Dean to collect himself, but finally he wiped his eyes and moved back to the picture frame on the side table. He picked it up. Etched on the back was a date some thirty years earlier. Castiel watched him sadly.

"This was the John you knew,” Dean told him. “The John he was supposed to be."

Dean was suddenly filled with the desire to throw the picture across the room. He wanted to know that satisfaction. To destroy it. To punish it. Instead he put the picture face down in the dust.

Despite everything that had happened at the hands of his father, the thought of John gave him strength enough to look at Castiel. Or maybe he just wanted to punish himself further. Either way, when his hazy green eyes met Castiel's blue seas, Castiel reached up and touched Dean's arm. Castiel hadn’t moved since Dean started talking. He’d barely said a word. But it seemed that Castiel was finally unable to stand by while Dean suffered alone.

Dean knew what about to happen seconds before Castiel touched him, but he didn't do anything to stop it. Castiel's warm, surprisingly gentle grip found Dean's arm, and Dean felt hot tears slide past his eyelashes, burning his frostbitten cheeks.

"You know…" Dean said, his voice choked, "The first thought I had when that girl looked at me? I was grateful.” He tried to laugh. “Grateful that Sam stayed behind. That I was the one who found the wendigo." Dean wiped his eyes with his free hand. He didn't know why he was still talking. Distantly he heard Castiel get up. "I was grateful that it was happening to me, and not Sam."

Dean looked at Castiel and, without a word, Castiel pulled him into his arms. Dean wanted to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there and sink into Castiel's embrace, but he couldn't move. He lowered his face into Castiel's shoulder and felt a warmth that no flames could provide. It pushed the cold off his skin, purging him of sin and putting him back in his body. He put his shaking arms around Castiel. For a moment, he felt no pain. His tears flowed freely but there was no shame. Dean knew what it meant, and he felt sick with himself. He wiped his eyes once more and pulled away.

"Cas… I can't," he said. He didn't expect Castiel to understand. He expected Castiel to look hurt. He expected to feel the guilt and shame he knew he deserved.

But Castiel did understand. He looked at Dean, still standing much too close to him, and asked, "Why not?"

Dean stared at him, unsure what to say even though he knew the answer. It was because he, too, was a wendigo, masquerading as the human being it once was. Consuming others to stay alive, letting people die just to hold onto that cursed life—Dean was no different. He knew his only relief, his only redemption, his fate, would be that of fire and brimstone.

At last, Dean rasped, "Because you deserve better."

Castiel looked so tired and incredulous that it reminded Dean of Sam. "Dean," he said firmly, "I don't want better. And neither should you."

Dean wanted to sink back into Castiel's warmth, even if it felt like condemning Castiel to his own fiery curse.

"Dean."

Dean looked at him and his mind went blank. It was bliss. He knew it was selfish, it was wrong, but he'd never wanted anything so badly in his life. He felt Castiel’s hand move down his arm. He felt Castiel’s fingers intertwine with his. Castiel was so close his nose could have brushed against Dean’s.

“If you and Sam have taught me anything,” Castiel whispered, “it’s that people don’t often get what they deserve. You didn’t deserve any of that. You don’t deserve the fate you’ve been given.” Castiel’s eyes were like a whirlpool, capturing Dean’s and not letting them go. “You deserve to be happy,” Castiel said firmly. “So… if you tell me what you want, I’ll give that to you. I want… I want you to be happy.”

Castiel’s gaze felt like an endless ocean, washing over Dean. After what seemed like a lifetime of silence, Dean nodded. He gripped Castiel’s hand and leaned against him, taking comfort in their closeness. "Okay."

Castiel looked relieved, and Dean knew that he understood that answer when he felt Castiel take him by the hand. Dean was grateful he didn’t have to say more. Together they sat on the couch, the glow of the flames dancing over them, and Castiel took Dean into his arms. Dean was surprised at how readily he succumbed to it. It was like coming home. He leaned into Castiel and closed his eyes. Castiel kissed Dean's head, and Dean felt an inhuman warmth flood him. He didn't think he'd ever known anything like it. It was like basking in a warm sea, each wave another beat of Castiel’s heart.

 Dean didn't remember falling asleep, but when he woke up he thought he was dead. He was enveloped in such warmth and comfort that he couldn't possibly be alive. There was no pain, only the heavenly smell of Castiel’s familiar musk and the feeling of his body breathing gently against Dean’s. Surely this couldn’t be Earth—This couldn’t be a place where demons and monsters roamed and where Dean hunted them.

It was only the realization that they were covered in a blanket, and that neither of them had gotten up to get a blanket, that told Dean he had to still be alive. Sure enough, as he came to he heard Sam packing up the Impala outside.

 It was light out and the fire had burned itself to embers, glowing faintly through the lumps of blackened wood like a burnt corpse.

Dean and Castiel had slept through the night, far longer than a few hours, yet Sam hadn't woken them. He’d put a blanket over them. It was a musty, old blanket with holes, but he knew it was the best Sam could find.

Dean felt Castiel stir. Castiel opened his bleary eyes to look at him, and Dean felt himself smile. He didn’t feel like speaking yet, so he kissed Castiel's cheek. Castiel didn't move away or say anything, but Dean felt Castiel smile. They lay like that, cheek to cheek, both awake but not speaking, just laying in each other’s arms.

The front door opened and Sam came inside from the cold. There was no mad scramble to get up, but Dean felt himself go red in the face despite the fire being out.

"Hey," Sam greeted them, his voice gentle and earthly. "I got everything packed up so… whenever you're ready."

Dean could tell Sam was eager to leave the cabin, but suddenly Dean didn't feel the same way.

Dean looked over at Sam. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam paused, taken aback. Dean hadn't called him that in a while. Sam looked between Dean and Castiel's tousled heads and smiled, and Dean knew he was forgiven. Hell, if Sam was still with him, ready to kill wendigos and fight their fate, maybe Castiel would be alright, too.

Sam walked back outside to let Dean and Castiel get ready to leave. It was cold in the cabin without the fire, but Castiel was like a beacon of warmth, always a few inches from Dean. They didn’t speak much, but the silence was nice, Dean thought.

When Dean was ready to go, he asked, “Are you going to…”

“‘Poof away’?” Castiel smiled slightly.

Dean smiled back.

“Do you want me to?”

Dean’s smile softened. “No.”

Castiel stepped closer to Dean, looking relieved again. “Then I won’t.”

Dean knew Castiel would have been happy to just stand close to Dean forever, but Dean suddenly found himself wanting more. He leaned in and, when Castiel didn’t back away, when they were so close they could taste each others’ breath, Dean kissed him.

Dean wouldn’t have believed Castiel’s lips could be so soft. Castiel kissed him back, feeling Dean’s lips gently, curiously, and Dean felt all of his fears and insecurities wash away. The cabin was suddenly warm again and Dean’s mind drifted pleasantly into space.

It was over all too soon, but neither were in any rush to go anywhere. Dean hovered over Castiel’s lips, breathing in his scent.

Finally, Dean smiled. “There’s room in the Impala. If your wings are tired, this is.”

Castiel smiled back. “They are. Very tired.”

Dean chuckled softly. He put his arm on Castiel’s back and walked out of the cabin with him. The winter’s day was bright and tranquil. The woods were free of wendigos and more beautiful than Dean had ever realized. His boots crunched over wet, melting snow, burying the ash and rubble from many decades ago.

[nedcanquen]

Le Loupgarou - Chapter 4 - Home/Journey

I’m still insisting on finishing this one!

Tags: Werewolf AU, supernatural, Historical AU.

Pairings: NedCan

Image from Pexels

Names: Christian - Luxembourg Odd - Norway

It’s no longer home.

After Daan had walked out into the storm into certain death, Matthieu had raged. First came the denial - it hadn’t happened, or clearly, the other man must have lied to get Matthieu to stop him from trying to save him. After a while, Matthieu had to face the truth: the confession had simply felt too real. Desperate but real.

Then the fury came - roaring against the man who had taken his food and space, and squirmed into his heart, but more than that, it roared against Matthieu himself. Matthieu had saved the man’s life, had decided to share a part of himself on his own. Why was Matthieu always so stupid?

When the fury finally abated, all that remained was a hollow emptiness, and shame. Matthieu had chosen to save a man because it was the right thing to do. Whatever “right” meant anymore in this world. Maybe he truly was stupid, maybe doing the “right” thing was the path to death and pain and nothing else now. Still, Matthieu had long ago decided that he would rather hide from the world than be forced to do things he did not wish to, in order to survive. Here, he learned that doing right or wrong barely mattered - he helped someone, and this was what he had earned.

Matthieu didn’t know how much time had passed that night before he eventually tried to follow after the creature - not for concern but out of anger. He wanted to do the exact thing that it seemed desperate for him not to do. Even though the loupgarou had made a futile attempt to block his door, it wasn’t difficult for Matthieu to open it. But it wasn’t the door or the feeble attempt at stopping Matthieu that actually stopped him. It was nature itself.

White upon white, the wind howled with the same rage that howled through Matthieu’s own heart. He wanted to scream into it but he couldn’t. Spit would freeze before hitting the ground at these temperatures - no sky, no ground. Could he die if we ventured out on some mad quest for vengeance? Absolutely. A great part of him was tempted - cold numbs everything. Before the end Matthieu would finally be numb to all pain, he would no longer feel his flesh protesting his folly, he would no longer feel the tear deep within his heart, the heavy weariness in his eyes, or the pounding in his head.

Ultimately it’s the same fury that saves him. If he’s going to die, it’s not going to be for that thing. Matthieu has done his part. If it dies, it dies. If it...he…no...Leve...oh God.

Matthieu throws his door shut in rage and helplessness and screams. He screams and keeps screaming until there’s no voice left. He can’t take it anymore. He can’t keep feeling, he doesn’t want to be this raw, he has to...he…

There. Matthieu crawls over to his chosen supply chest and pulls out the old bottle of rum - a curiosity purchase he had traded a pelt for a few years back. Usually he only drinks it to help numb the pain after stitching up a particularly painful wound, but tonight is different. Matthieu tosses the bottle back and gulps it down like water after a scorching day. He lets the fire burn through him - through the back of his throat, settling in his belly, but most importantly, it burns through his mind, banishing feelings he wishes were never there to begin with.

Matthieu does eventually try to look for him. After the hangover, after doing all the practical things he can think of doing, by the third day he can stand it no more. Even though it’s going to be useless, Matthieu sets out to find...something, anything. Some hint of a body, or fight or…

“There are many things that can survive a storm like this.”

Matthieu shakes off the chilling hope at the memory of those words and walks.

He loses count of the days that he searches to no avail. He’s also lucky that he’s stored extra with the expectation of needing to feed and house an extra person, but eventually that also runs out. He had even brought along the creature’s hand-drawn map from the many papers he had left behind - Matthieu hates it, but the Loupgarou had mapped the surrounding terrain with incredible detail and it would have been foolish to leave such a useful tool behind.

Purposefully or not, as the weather warms, Matthieu travels farther and farther from his little cabin, setting up traps, gathering food and other needed materials, hunting when he needs to, and sleeping under the temporary shelters he builds from the branches he finds. When he has time, he expands the map as best he can. It’s not as accurate as the Loupgarou’s but it fulfills its purpose.

When the snows have completely melted, he backtracks, circling the cabin from afar and closes in. There’s no body to be found but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Months have passed, the werewolf could have been dragged away or eaten by other hungry animals or humans even, scavenging in the winter. He could have…

Matthieu sighs and looks down at his feet in front of the door. The snows have melted, green has started to show itself in the fresh beginnings of spring, but Matthieu still feels the emptiness of winter howling within him. He looks at the cabin, once the only home he chose, but now it’s just dried wood and something he can’t recognize. Matthieu looks around him and it’s already painful. He feels the absence of Leverett where the wood stacks are piled, all around this now neglected little haven he once had. Now he knows that if he walks inside the ache will be worse, that he’s been avoiding coming back because that means he will have to face reality, no matter how irrational -

It’s no longer a home.

And he knows, he knows that that man (he can’t say his name anymore) that man deserves his curse, deserves his fate. Matthieu thought he had taken in a man in need of help, he was wrong. He had taken in a wendigo into his home, into his-

Not anymore.

Matthieu stands, he doesn’t even open the door, he can’t. He turns, and goes where the wind takes him.

---

Six years later

The full-time wandering lifestyle suits Matthieu. Before (before), as a part-time coureur des bois , he did caught enough to get what he needed to hide and retreat to his cabin for periods of time. Now he has developed a comfort of sleeping anywhere - in the woods, on his canoe, a floor, an inn, it did not matter - Matthieu finds rest in his wandering. It is harder to be an independent coureur these days, regulations were turning most into owned employees of fur trading companies - voyageours . Matthieu did not feel like being owned. He could handle independent contracts between two people, or even small groups, but if he were going to sign himself away, he would have stayed with the Jesuits.

New France was changing once again. Once he would have cared, once that change would have terrified him. Now Matthieu has grown numb. Life is change, New France is simply some idea that the Europeans had come up with, the land had already been here before it was renamed. Tomorrow who knows? They may change the name again.

People changed. The idea of a new name is no longer so significant to Matthieu, people live short lives and they are meant to change. He now knows many people who have had more than one name in their lifetime. Ironically, his own name never changed, but he had.

Matthieu inhales deeply from the pipe again, letting the sweet flavor rush into him before breathing it out. “This is the best tobacco I have smoked in a long time!”

The man sitting across from him smiles just like he does - like his mother did, and her older sister did. Maybe Matthieu is imagining it, but he’s hoping he isn’t. Some things, time cannot change. The Haudenossaunee may have taken his cousin and given him a new name, as was the post-war custom (at least, Matthieu is pretty sure that this Mohawk warrior/trader called Odeserundiye is his cousin), this is the same boy who took it upon himself to always make sure that odd little Matthiue had been included. The same boy who had always been the most adaptable of them all.

Matthieu wonders if he’s right, if he’s imagining it, if Odeserundiye recognizes him, or is playing along for the sake of a good business relationship, or if there’s some kind of funny charade that they’re both going along with here.

“Best batch of the year!” Odeserundiye boasts. “Worth some of your best pelts.” As the bargaining began in earnest, there were forms to be observed - of course both of them were terribly inconvenienced, no the tobacco wasn’t that good, the pelts not that important. Bargaining is a pretty terrible charade at the end of the day, but a necessary part of the process. Shame, because Matthieu is terrible at it, and only gets through it by pretending to be someone else. It makes him grit his teeth painfully, but it kind of works.

“If you’re not careful, you’re going to be toothless before you hit old age.” Odeserundiye laughs. “And there’s no reason for you not to grow ripe and old. I used to think you were an angry wanderer but now I think I’ve figured it out - I only see you when we have business to do and you just hate bargaining so you make that face. Well if that’s the case, don’t bother, just be yourself.”

Matthieu has to laugh back, all relaxed now. “Yes, you would prefer that wouldn’t you? Then I’ll be limping back to Montreal naked and unarmed because I’ve given you everything for a handful of tobacco.”

Odeserundiye smiles fondly, and that familiar face pulls at Matthieu’s chest. “Relax, relax. Just enjoy the moment.” Matthieu inhales another long drag from the pipe and slowly breathes it out. After a long pause of taking Odeserundiye’s advice, Matthieu focuses on enjoying the sound of the river next to them, as they comfortably sit along its banks.

Eventually the other man breaks the silence. “If you’re willing to take advice, I already like doing business with you. I wouldn’t let you limp back anywhere unarmed and vulnerable - it means losing a good trading partner.”

Matthieu snorts. “I can handle myself.”

“I am sure that you can...you’re alive after all. You’re one of the very few independents still around, still thriving. You can probably continue doing this, but the companies are taking over. It’ll be difficult to survive as an independent for long.”

The contented mood is broken, and Matthieu exhales his smoke this time in frustration. “Why do we always have to accommodate them? They come here, with their new things, and they destroy everything. I was perfectly happy living here before they brought their guns, I was perfectly happy living on my own before I had to sell them fur again, and I have been content as an independent agent. What else will they ruin?”

“No you were not.”

Matthieu turns sharply and peers at his smoking partner, who slowly inhales from his pipe and lets the smoke out from his nose. “No one is perfectly happy all the time. I am guessing your father is one of them, you favor him. You still speak with the accent of the People of the Bear, so you must have been raised as a child with your mother’s people. While there are many children among our nations with European fathers, it is rare to favor them as much as you do; blonde-haired and pale-skinned. Perhaps your mother herself had some voyageur blood as well. It cannot have been easy, looking so different from everyone else-”

“I had a family!” Matthieu hasn’t felt this pain in a long time, he’s used to clamping it down. “They took care of me. They would have continued taking care of me, people would have gotten used to me eventually.”

Odeserundiye simply looks at him, assessing and sad. “I have lost three mothers. My first died of the pox, so my first mother’s sister adopted me. She was killed in the war, and I was given to a new mother in place of the son that she had lost. My third mother was killed in a retaliatory raid. Clearly they succeeded, but it never brought any of my mothers back. Matthieu, there has been war for as long as I can remember. If business is the price of whatever form of peace we have now, I will take it.”

Matthieu does not know where his temper had come from, he usually controls it well. Maybe Odeserundiye is right, war would have come sooner or later. Even before the Europeans had appeared his nation had struggled to keep the peace with the Haudenosaunee. He’s not going to imagine everything would have been perfect, but he likes to imagine that the conflict would have been less imbalanced - a series of small conflicts and skirmishes, but with his people and nation still existing. Not the aftermath of a genocide that he lives with now. “So, you want to keep me around as a business partner, and somehow this means I must join a company?”

Odeserundiye shrugs. “They would hire you. I could be your business partner. They wouldn’t hire me.” He says matter-of-factly. Matthieu knows he’s right - other than a European appearance, another thing that he inherited from his unknown French father was papers. Either that, or the Jesuits invented them for him. These ridiculously fragile papers gave Matthieu rights he never would have dreamed of being denied in his own birthplace - they mark him as a recognized citizen of New France. In these papers, his name is written as Matthieu Gellone. His father’s name is Francis and his mother’s name is written as Marguerite. He knows that’s not the name she used when he was a child. He sometimes wondered if she was actually baptized out of a real sense of faith or out of convenience to have her child with this ‘Francis’ recognized. Either way, he has saved these papers for no other reason than to have this tiny shred of evidence of her existence. The papers have been more useful than he had ever imagined they could be. The entire time he lived in the cabin he mostly forgot about them unless he was especially homesick for the past. Since he’s left the cabin and New France has grown, they have become more important.

Matthieu lets out a sigh. “Is this advice or is this a proposition to form a business partnership?”

“You could start your own company, don’t look away Matthieu I am serious! We could pool our resources, and start a company, have the protections afforded to a company! Under you, we would be protected from European advancement.”

What madness is this? “Protection? The companies go to war as much as our nations used to! I’ve seen so many dead tradesmen I leave them well alone. Staring up a fledgeling company is to put a target on our backs, on the backs of your family!”

“And what happens without risking this? We become enslaved to the companies that remain after the dust settles?”

Matthieu shakes his head. “You have the wrong business partner. I don’t have the brain for it. I don’t like it.” He knows who would have...once upon a time. Matthieu forces the memory of a tall man, straight-backed and lost in his world of calculations, out of his thoughts.

Odeserundiye places a comforting hand on Matthieu’s shoulder. “I would prefer you, but I will ask more. Think about it at least. Here, this is your tobacco. As agreed.”

Matthieu hands over the pelts and gathers up the tobacco. Before they part ways they embrace briefly.

“I am serious Matthieu, think about it.”

Matthieu doesn’t want to, but nods anyway.

---

On the way to Montreal, Matthieu thinks about the man who either looked and acted a lot like his former cousin, or was his cousin. If he is his cousin, this company formation is another act of his older cousin looking out for him. Matthieu cannot deny Odeserundiye’s read on their situation. And really, Matthieu is long past the point of pretending that he only needs his own company to survive. Ever since setting out again on his own again, Matthieu had to put aside enough of his aversion to other people to build a solid network for himself - reliable trade partners, customers, and bases of operation. Still, he likes being on his own. As much as he likes some of the people in his network, it’s easier to bargain with himself - put up with the social niceties and haggling, and reward himself with months of solitary travel.

“Still holding yourself back.” A familiar voice sounds in his head, it’s not accusing, it’s sad. Matthieu narrows his eyes and pushes on, focusing on the path.

Matthieu’s pelts and tobacco earn him good money at Montreal, he’s become familiar enough with the town that it is a comfortable base for now. It’s big enough that no one wants to know too much, it’s close enough that he’s treated to meals when he arrives. Odeserundiye’s words echo in his mind and he thinks deeper than his own instinctive aversion to the idea - objectively, Matthieu does well for himself, he has a small network spread across New France and among the Confederacy. Starting a small company is not inconceivable, and wouldn’t it serve to use his European face and name to afford some protection over this network? There’s a part of him, still a child, that is somewhat averse. Odeserundiye belongs to the nation that killed his family. But he has more in common with them now than to the Europeans.  

Speaking of the Europeans, Matthieu has become adept at imitating them too. Right now he’s sitting comfortably in his favorite inn - not too fancy, not too bad. It’s owners are honest immigrants who try a little too hard to marry him off to their daughter, but he knows how to avoid that for the most part. Instead, he observes.

There were newcomers to Montreal all the time, it was the center for fur trading, and it attracted more and more people. Then … there! Out of the corner of his eye.

Matthieu freezes, then he cannot help but look. Nothing. He looks again to make sure then laughs at himself in relief.

It doesn’t often happen now. In the early years just after he walked away from his cabin, Matthieu always imagined the Loupgarou just out of sight - in that corner, in the turn of that man’s face, in the shadow before a man moved. But it was never him. He thought he felt the other man’s familiar company on lonely walks for months on end in the woods, before realizing that he was only imagining a travel companion in the silence to keep loneliness at bay. It shamed him that of all the companions he could have imagined, it was still him.

He waits for his heart to calm itself then continues drinking. Still, he can’t help but turn around to get another glimpse over his shoulder, just in case.

It happens again. Matthieu thinks he sees a familiar head walk into a hidden corner.

‘I will put this idiocy to rest once and for all.’ He tells himself and stands to confront his imagination, where he is sure he will find nothing.

He turns the corner and finds a knife threatening his gut, held by an unknown man who is sitting across from a very very familiar face.

“Turn around now. Find another boy.” A deep voice advises with a bored tone - accented, Scandinavian? Those Northern settlers were usually more competent than the others, taking to the woods and surviving in them like second skin, almost as well as Matthieu himself.

“What?”

“I said-”

“I heard what you said! I’m not here for…” Matthieu looks at the boy with the very familiar face again and is horrified at the resemblance. But it’s not him. The boy, no young man, is shorter, his hair wavier and loose. His face however, is recovering from shock and settling into a familiar look of concentration.

“Odd please!” The young man suddenly smiles, all amiable as if he owns the Inn and is trying to attract a guest. “Let our new friend sit. I know what men look like when they want me, this one...isn’t looking at me like that. But, that’s not important. Sir...you look like you’ve seen me before.”

Matthieu looks between the young man with the Loupgarou’s face, which is trouble enough for him and his memories, and the other man...Odd? Who is putting away a very large knife. The latter has sharp, almost feminine facial features, very light blonde hair, a long walking staff strapped to his back, and there was just something about him that put Matthieu on edge. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but there was something...more about that man. Too much trouble. Nope.

He tries to turn around and finds that he can’t. Now instead of holding a knife to him, the man... Odd , is holding his arm. Matthieu has to fight an odd compulsion to stay and easily twists his arm out of the grip. Odd looks somewhat surprised at that.

“Look you two,” Matthieu says, “I can’t imagine what kind of unsavory characters have come after you since you’ve arrived here but if you -” He looks at the younger man with the too familiar face, “insist on looking like a bag of gold with legs, I would do something about not looking like that. Meanwhile you -” He looks at Odd and pauses, what did he want to say? “You ah, clearly have skills as a woodsman and you can teach him how to look less…” polished? Rich? “Obvious, but if you insist on pulling a knife on everyone who looks at him the wrong way, it’s not going to help you both stay hidden. None of these things gives either of you the leave to manipulate me or manhandle me. That’s all the help I can offer, I’m going now.”

“Wait!” The younger man runs in front of him with an earnest look he has never seen before but he can’t quite ignore either. “Sorry about that, we started off wrong. Let’s try again please? My name is Christian, and I’m looking for my brother!”

The world condenses right then and Matthieu has to take a deep breath and let it out.

And do it again, and again. Matthieu has to keep doing it….this boy is looking for his brother. Of all the brothers, could it be? Memories comes back, a too familiar voice sounds in his head - ‘somewhere my sister and brother are laughing and they don’t know why…’ the warmth in those eyes whenever he spoke about his siblings, then ‘I bought...my mother her retirement and my siblings a future out of a whorehouse…’

Matthieu looks away.

“You know him.” Christian declares. It’s not a question. “He’s alive then, I knew it. I wasn’t wrong, I couldn’t be. Please tell me where to find him. I can find him myself eventually but it will be so much faster if you-”

“I can’t help you!” He didn’t mean to be so threatening, but Christian shrinks away from him and Odd is standing in front of Christian protectively, looking ready for a fight again. Matthieu takes a deep breath. “I am sorry. I know you must have come a long way, but people arrive here all the time and disappear. Our land is much bigger than yours.”

Slender fingers take his hand, there’s a strange...tingle to them. “Is he dead?” Odd asks softly, almost a whisper. Matthieu did not expect that strong pull to answer...

“I…” Why can’t he answer? “I…” He looks Christian, at those familiar green eyes and that eager face. He doesn’t want to break it, he doesn’t...he knows what it’s like to lose someone he loves, and to search, and search...and search. It would be cruel to let that search continue, this young man should live his life properly - too many had died just for this boy to live a happier life. “I once met someone who looked like you. He’s dead. A winter storm took him.”

And for a moment it happens - Christian’s face goes slack with shock, before twisting into a look of such pain it’s too achingly familiar. Matthieu tries to steel himself from it, to remind himself of what the Loupgarou had done for the sake of this younger brother. He looks at his young man who is falling apart - is he worth everyone and everything that Matthieu’s ever loved?

As Christian folds into himself in grief, and Odd goes to comfort him, for the first time Matthieu allows his thoughts to fly where he’s never allowed them to go - at the volatile age of fourteen when he almost ended his life on this world...if someone had brought his mother back to him, but with a knife held to her throat...promised her freedom if only Matthieu agreed to something that could kill everyone on some nameless nation he didn’t know, across the sea, would he have at least tried?

‘It’s not the same’ Matthieu tells himself. ‘It can’t be compared.’ It didn’t happen that way. “I am sorry for your loss.” Matthieu says, surprised to realize that he actually means it.

Christian shakes his head, but his voice is breaking. “No. No it can’t...he’s a fucking cockroach! Nothing can...he can’t....” Odd’s face is soft and sympathetic, he envelopes the younger man in a hug. Christian grabs onto him, sobbing into his shoulder.

Matthieu turns and sighs - three men arguing then one young man losing all composure is attracting too much attention. “We should leave. I have a room upstairs.”

---

Well...this is awkward.

Once again, Matthieu finds himself sharing his personal space, except this time with two strangers. His sympathy for a young man who has just suffered a great loss has led Matthieu to let Christian sleep on his bed. Tonight, he will make do with the floor, together with another man he barely knows, and who had greeted him with a knife.  Perfect. Why does he keep doing this?

‘You’re not even here, you’re dead…’ Matthieu speaks to that all-to-familiar memory in his head. ‘Why is it that I can STILL blame all the strange things in my life to you?’ Why could he not turn away a boy with that familiar face? Why does he feel a churning inside?

Odd sits on the bed, leaving a steadying hand on heaving shoulders until exhaustion finally takes the younger man into dreams. Once Christian is softly snoring, Matthieu finally speaks.

“You have younger siblings don’t you?” He whispers.

Odd looks over and nods, suddenly appearing far more tired than Matthieu initially thought.

Matthieu now wonders about the Loupgarou’s European life, about this strange place called Europe in general, and how terrible it must be for so many of its people to willingly leave it. “Did you know his brother?” He has to ask. There’s a part of him that tries to imagine Odd in the Loupgarou’s embrace, but it is gut churning. Matthieu chases the image away and looks down, cheeks burning - what’s wrong with him?

Odd settles down next to Matthieu on the floor and shakes his head. “No, Christian was already looking for him when we met. Or rather, when he met my brother. Those fools had originally planned to come here, just the two of them, without telling anyone. I managed to stop my brother in time and make sure he stayed but I had to come here anyway, with Christian, to make sure he didn’t get himself killed.”

Matthieu looks back at the slumbering young man. “That...must keep you very busy.”

“Yes,” Odd agrees with an exasperated sigh. “It does. Though he’s not without his skills, they’re just completely misplaced. Put that boy in the middle of a thriving city like Amsterdam and he would keep us alive. Here, he has a lot to learn.”

Matthieu could see that. “So that means...who did your brother come here to look for?”

Odd’s face takes on a wistful look, lips turned into a reluctant smile. “An idiot. A ridiculous, self-sacrificing idiot who tries too hard, and if there’s even the smallest chance he’s still alive, I’ll find him. If he’s not, I’ll gather whatever remains and bring him home for a proper burial.”

Matthieu’s stomach calms itself and he finds himself smiling with sadness and admiration. It’s a nice sentiment, but he shakes his head all the same. He can tell just by looking at him that Odd knows what he’s just sworn - a lifetime to this other mysterious idiot who managed to get lost in Matthieu’s home. For heaven’s sake. “You may never find any remains either. Is there really nothing else you’d rather be doing than wandering around my homeland for the rest of your life?”

Odd’s only answer is a scoff. He gives Matthieu and unreadable look then shrugs and lies down on the floor. He’s asleep in no time, and Matthieu wonders about why these two strangers have decided he’s not going to kill or rob them.

Softly, Matthieu knocks his head against the wall. He’s the fucking idiot. A sap. He never learns. Still, he can’t help but stand and silently make his way over to the slumbering young man and drink in his familiar features. Why is he doing this to himself?

It’s torture to see Christian lost in the world of dreams, relaxed from care, just like Leverett had been in those few precious days after learning how to sleep. Matthieu thought time would erase Leverett’s face from his mind, turn it blurry, but even if that had been true, it’s not now. Looking at Christian, Matthieu remembers everything. He remembers enough that he can see where the brothers do not resemble each other, and aches for the familiar even as he detests what he sees.

He reminds himself - Matthieu’s entire world, gone, for this little brother.

---

“Where did you last see him?” The boy asked the moment he realized Matthieu was awake.

Matthieu looks around the room. Odd is not there. With a sigh, Matthieu hauls himself up and stretches. He stands, ignoring Christian for a moment and pours himself a drink, his mouth is feeling dry. To the young man’s credit, he doesn’t push or ask again, waiting as Matthieu walks around the room, loosening the kinks in his neck. Finally, with a sigh, Matthieu realizes he is curious enough to answer some questions, just to see where it leads. He pulls over the lone stool in the room to sit next to the bed. “Christian, the man I saw...that was six years ago. Six. By now there are no remains to be had.” Besides there was one other sibling the Loupgarou had mentioned. Matthieu hoped this sister wasn’t running around here too. “You should go home.”

Christian nods, thinking, and Matthieu is filled with dread. There is no grief in the boy’s eyes, only determination. “Was he alone?”

Matthieu wonders if Christian knew about the curse. “Yes. He was. Look Christian, the man I saw may not even be your brother. For all I know, you all look the same over there.”

Finally, Christian focuses on Matthieu, his eyes searching. It’s mildly disturbing and yet Matthieu can’t really separate himself from staring back. When Christian is calculating something, like he is now, he looks even more  like the man Matthieu knew. Finally, Christian relaxes, “When you saw me, my face, you recognized it. You looked broken, then you looked like you wanted to kill me. You gave me a bed to sleep on instead.”

Well he was certainly just as straightforward as his brother had been. Why is Matthieu here? He may have loved Leverett the Loupgarou, but he knew he hated Daan. This boy sitting on the bed in front of him was part of Daan’s world and acting like who Daan had been - throwing himself into places he had no business being in, spearing through things he didn’t understand. Christian would kill to find Daan, just as his brother had been willing to do the same to give this little brother a different life.

Matthieu stands. “I know what it’s like to lose family. Go home to the rest of yours before you can’t.”

As he’s striding out from the room, Matthieu feels a small sense of satisfaction that he’s just going to pay and leave. This is all the closure he’s going to get - Leverett and Daan dead, his family now knowing about it.

Maybe a different man would seek vengeance on Christian. The thought crosses his mind for a moment and Matthieu angrily dismisses it. It wouldn’t do anything - certainly not bring his family back, just like how a retaliatory raid had not brought back any of Odeserundiye’s mothers. Punishing Christian would not change what Daan did. It would be a waste of energy, time, and peace for nothing.

---

He’s left the confines of the town and is well on his own trail by the river when he senses he’s not alone…he’s also not surprised. Matthieu slows his pace, and Odd matches step with him, as if they were both sharing this journey together all along from the beginning. Maybe they had been. “Why are you so amused?” He stops to ask Odd..

“It’s not amusement.”

“Then?”

“Just trying to complete this puzzle. His brother. You loved him, you hate him, but not enough to really leave Christian behind. You knew we’d follow.”

Matthieu frowns. Is he this easy to read? What was it about Odd that was just so...well, odd? In the distance he can see Christian finally catching up, eyes locked on him in a familiar grim determination. Matthieu looks back to Odd and he voices out his suspicion. “You’re a shaman aren’t you?”

“I promise, other than assessing your intentions when we first met to find out how dangerous you are, and to find out where his brother went, I’ve done nothing else. Your thoughts and decisions are your own.”

Mattheiu thinks he can believe that, other than those first two times, Odd hadn’t touched him. Still, he wasn’t quite sure how to act around this European shaman. He’s partly fascinated by the existence of one - they had struck him as a people so far removed from their earth that he figured they didn’t have any shamans. Not to mention, the Jesuits seemed especially adamant against such practices. Still, there’s difference enough, Odd does not look like any Shaman that Matthieu remembers.

“You walk fast.” Christian pants when he finally reaches them. “And Odd, how could you leave me?”

A slight smile plays at the edge of Odd’s lips as he answers “You were going to be fine. Besides, this is a life you’re going to have to get used to if you insist on going through with this idea of yours.”

Matthieu cannot help but smirk as well. “Dare I ask?”

Christian squares his shoulders and looks directly into Matthieu’s eyes. Matthieu somehow feels like he is about to hear a sales pitch.

“Alright Monsieur Matthieu, you’re right. This land is big. It’s so big it hasn’t even been mapped. Who knows what is out there? I am just one man, I’ll never find my brother, or figure out if he’s still alive, simply by physically looking for him.”

Stubborn boy, but smart at least. “Yet, it sounds like you won’t go home.” Matthieu replies.

Christian frowns. “If he’s alive, I know how to find him, but please Monsieur, I will need your help.”

Curious, Matthieu has to ask. “I’m not agreeing to anything, but what do you propose to do?”

Odd sits down on a nearby rock, indicating that this is going to take a while. Meanwhile, Christian smiles in relief. “It’s a last effort but if I can’t find him this way, I’ll give up the search. I know how my brother’s mind works...strategically. I used to think the world of him, he was never really an affectionate older brother but he did his best by trying to teach me important lessons. You said my brother perished in a winter storm. I know he got on a boat and crossed here in late summer. Either he survived on his own in this strange land for months before running into you and somehow making enough of an impression in that short time, that you now keep looking at me as if you can’t decide whether to cry or to kill me...OR, he stayed with you and traveled with you for months and you cared for him until winter.”

Matthieu frowns and looks at Odd. Odd’s hands are up defensively. “I told you he has different skills.”

Matthieu really wonders how obvious he is, and realizes how lucky he is that his business partners must be fond of him. If he’s this readable he truly must be a terrible businessman. “Fine, I met your brother, we know this. What does this have to do with your plan?”

“My point is, if he stayed with you for months, you know about his curse.”

Matthieu freezes. “I did not mention it because I was unsure if you knew about it.”

“Fair.” Christian shrugs. “And I thought maybe you killed him, except you seemed genuinely sad when you told me that he was lost to a winter storm. So if he survived the storm, and was doing his usual idiocy of running away from the few people he cares about so he doesn’t hurt them, there’s only one way he would have survived!”

Matthieu thinks the answer should be obvious but he honestly doesn’t know it, “How?”

“Change his name and start a trading company of course!” Christian exclaims while jumping in excitement. “I’ve been reading about all the new trading companies that have been exploding in New France in the past five years! It’s easy to hide in one of those! Also, a new territory? Easy to have papers made up for you if you have the right connections and price. My brother wouldn’t disappear into the woods or anything like that, he’s a city man, an entrepreneur. The only place he could hide would be in business! And if he’s hiding in business, I can find him!”

Matthieu shakes his head, thinking of the thousands of trading companies, some so small they only last less than a day. “How could you possibly find him through business?”

Christian grins, “I know how he thinks. Let’s start a company. You’re the local expert, Odd could help us with intelligence gathering behind the scenes, and I’ll handle business. Give me a few years to understand how things work here and I’ll figure out which companies have been around long enough to have possibly been started by my brother - there can’t be that many that have survived for what? Four or five years?. Then I’ll figure out how each of those are run, the history of growth and purchases. I don’t need his name to find him, but trust me, I’ll recognize how he runs a company! He can’t hide that from me!”

This? This is the plan? Matthieu cannot be as enthusiastic as Christian clearly is. He’s also wondering why everyone is after him to form some kind of company lately. “Christian, by some miracle, if you start up a company, and it survives, and you manage to come up with a list of potential companies, and um...all that you said...it’s been six years. Let’s imagine your brother is alive, you may still never find him because people can change a lot in six years.”

The little brother’s grin turns mercenary. “Then I find nothing and I sell you my shares in the company and go home. Then you can sell them and retire and do whatever you want, and not have me bothering you anymore.”

Matthieu groans and looks up at the sky with a frustrated expression. “I was just telling someone yesterday that I don’t want to start a company.”

“Oh great! Who? I sense a new business partner. The more locals the better, most of these places will fail because they won’t have local expertise and networks as its foundation.”

In the end, Matthieu accepted his fate. Which apparently, was to register a trading company. Himself, Odeserundiye, Odd, and Christian were equal partners, with Matthieu and Odeserundiye having the local network and exclusive area knowledge to find resources where most companies didn’t know where to look; Christian handling accounts; and Odd handling...information and intelligence gathering. The deal was, if Christian found his brother, or decided the search was over, he would keep a percentage of his earnings to live comfortably back in Europe, and divide the rest of his shares equally between Matthieu, Odeserundiye, and Odd. As for Odd, as it turned out, the man he was looking for was afflicted with the same curse that Christian’s brother had, so finding one Loupgarou  would hopefully provide a strong lead to the other.

Matthieu for his part, found himself on a new journey that he never expected. Part of his life at first was mostly unchanged. He did the same things he used to do, traveled, built networks, caught beavers; except now he also trained other people to do the same occasionally, and he did all this while...being an owner of a company and having earnings be stored in several banks - Christian took care of those details. The other part that surprised him was that Odeserundiye was right, there was protection to be had under the cover of a company, and as a person with European paperwork, Matthieu did find himself having a little more power than he ever felt before, to protect the parts of his home that he had always seen as under attack. He bought land so that native nations would not be forced to move from it, he used his position to try to warn people of harmful new policies when he learned of them. Of course, Christian would catch wind of it, tsk, shake his head and go straight to the Governor with gifts and flowery words to completely distract him from implementing such boring and unimportant new laws.

Odd’s words from that first day “In a city, he would keep us alive” were truer than ever. Montreal was slowly becoming a city, and it was Christian’s oyster.

Matthieu was no more comfortable as an owner of a well-to-do company than he had ever been before. Change still came too fast, and he wasn’t sure if it was serving his home for the better. He also learned that he would never really be fully accepted among the original nations, even though he was born one of them. It pained him, but he also could not blame them for this prejudice when he obviously gained so many advantages simply for favoring his European father’s looks. And anyway, Matthieu held onto his own prejudices so tightly, even with Christian and Odd as colleagues and eventual friends.

They were a strange group, but they were his group. There’s no time now to imagine he can hear the Loupgarou speaking to him in his head. There’s no time to sit for hours, lost in the memories of the dead, or to listen to the wind howl. He doesn’t know if this is better or worse, but it certainly is different.

The most obvious thing he realizes, is that he’s no longer alone.

[idreamofhazeleyes]

Snowed In -- TiB Drabble

Idea: Aaliyah, the boys, and Bobby get snowed in at Bobby’s for a day or two.

Tags: @mrswhozeewhatsis @impala-dreamer @winchestergirl-13 @winchestergirl-13 @percussiongirl2017 @optimisticpeacecollector5 @squirrelnotsam @idreamofplaid

Words: 758

Notes: Not sure where this might end up. Early seasons to be sure, might be S4 somewhere. Not exactly how I kinda wanted it to go, but hey. Blame the muse. Not to be confused with #blame the musk

Aaliyah walked into Bobby’s kitchen after kicking her boots against a wall, freeing snow from them. The snow had picked up in the twenty minute drive from town. Traffic could have been better in town where people seemed to be in a mild panic to do their grocery.

“Hey, Liyra,” Dean greeted just as Sam put down a card. “Draw four? Come on, Sammy.”

Aaliyah chuckled to herself as she started putting the food that she brought away. Leave it to the boys to find Uno to pass the time. She opened the fridge to see that it was fuller than usual on her visits. Either Bobby made his own run into town, or that the boys stopped before coming like she did along with Bobby’s own run. It didn’t matter.

“Don’t be sore about it,” she commented, putting her cold food away.

“Easy for you to say. You weren’t down to two cards and ready to win the hand.”

“I’ve been there before with my siblings.” Aaliyah gathered up the empty bags and trashed them. “And I recall a certain game we played…”

“Okay, I get it.”

Aaliyah smirked to herself as she stepped back into the entry way and shed her boots. “Where’s Bobby?”

Sam motioned to the study. “Garth called about some new creature down south.”

“Where down south?”

“Florida.”

“You sure it wasn’t a snake?” Aaliyah started up the washer before picking up her two clothes bags. “Those things get big down there, yah know.”

“Garth said something about a creature like Bigfoot but smelled like a skunk,” Dean added.

“The Skunk Ape?” Aaliyah said as a chuckle came out. “I’ll believe just about anything nowadays, but not that. Or anything else like it.” She put a load of colored clothes into the washer and closed it.

“You believe in wendigos, ghosts, angels, vampires, and shape shifters. But not the Skunk Ape?”

“I didn’t believe in all that before that werewolf back in college.” Aaliyah grabbed her backpack and walked back into the kitchen. She drew four cards and handed them to Dean without looking at them.

“…No, Garth,” Bobby said as Aaliyah entered the study and put her bag on the couch. “There’s no such thing as a Skunk Ape. Go find a new case and leave me alone.” He pulled the phone from his head and ended the call. “Hey, Kid.”

“Hey, Bobby. I made a stop at the store on my way in.” She pulled out the cord for her laptop and plugged it in. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. From what they’ve been sayin’, this storm could last for a full twenty-four hours.”

Aaliyah made a face at that while she pulled out her laptop and a notebook. She decided to take a few online classes in her spare time between hunts. Maybe it would give her something to fall back onto if she ever got out of hunting. The boys’ voices drifted from the kitchen in a debate over the rules of Uno. Aaliyah chuckled and caught Bobby shaking his head.

Aaliyah went off to change into sweats and a tee shirt while she waited for the laptop to boot up. Bobby had given her the spare bedroom when they all in a way knew she would be coming around more often. She ducked back out of the bathroom and got comfortable on the couch. She could hear the wind howl through the window and shivered a little. She wasn’t sure how old the window was, but knew that it sprung leaks.

Time slipped by with Bobby flipping through the odd book once in a while or taking a phone call from either a hunter or some local law enforcement. One of the brothers started making noise in the kitchen before asking if anyone had a preference for a dinner meal. Reclined back against the arm rest and the laptop propped up on her thighs, Aaliyah fought against her body’s urge to fall asleep. She pushed herself harder in the last hung.

“Go to sleep, kid,” Bobby told her, handing her a thick blanket. “The food will be there later.”

Aaliyah looked at the offered blanket and mentally debated if she should wait for a hot meal or get it later. Another head bob solved the debate. She closed the laptop and put it and the notebook on the floor before taking the blanket. “Thanks, Bobby.”

She settled down as the wind howled again and the boys discussed the finer points on cooking whatever meal was being cooked.

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 18: Hunger Pains (Transcript) - 12th October 2015

tw: cannibalism, gore

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Today’s episode is the second of four that will be released during the month of October. It’s a month known for its focus on folklore, legend and superstition. We’ll be back to a biweekly schedule in November, but October calls for something special. No tricks, but I do hope that you’ll enjoy the extra treats. And now, on with the show.

One of the most chilling historical events of the last 200 years, one that has fascinated me for most of my life, is the 1846 pioneer journey of the families and employees of James Reed and George Donner. I can’t think of a last name that evokes as much emotion, as much fear, and as much instant visual imagery, as the Donner name. In the years since that fateful winter, the name has become synonymous with mountain passes, frozen bodies huddled around dead campfires, and of course, cannibalism. The Donner party has a way of stopping us in our tracks. We are morbidly fascinated with their tragic journey, but even more so, we’re amazed at how far they went to stay alive. Their story forces us to look straight into the face of a fear that most people bury deep beneath the surface: people eating other people. We can look for justification. We can research the reasons behind their situation and write sterile and safe papers about the horrible plight they found themselves in. But at the end of the day, we are simply and powerfully horrified. From the story of Hansel and Gretel to the modern TV show Hannibal, we have always maintained a repulsive fascination with those who cross the line. We can’t stand to think about it, and yet we can’t look away, either. Maybe it has to do with the morbid symbolism of one body within another. Perhaps it’s the realization that, like cattle or wild game, humans can sometimes become food for something, or someone, else. Or perhaps, deep down, we’re fascinated with cannibalism because we believe that maybe, just maybe, it could turn us into monsters. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Humans have been confronted with cannibalism for a very long time. Archaeologists have discovered signs of the act that date back tens of thousands of years. In some instances, the reasons have clearly been ritualistic, while others have been driven by food shortages. There’s a lot we still don’t know, but what we do understand has highlighted the fact that, long ago, it was far more common than it is today. In the realm of ancient history, Greek and Roman historians recorded instances related to war and conquering. The Roman siege of Jerusalem in 70AD, for example, resulted in scattered reports of cannibalism. Decades later, when the Romans attacked Numantia, historians in Alexandria recorded similar stories. One interesting observation is that, over the centuries, the accusation of cannibalism has been a political and colonial tool. The ancient Greeks assumed that all non-Hellenistic peoples were simply barbarians and cannibals and used it to justify their hostility toward them. For many empires, even up through the British Empire of the 17th and 18th centuries, it was a way to demonise a people group, and to give themselves permission to come in and take over – to bring civilization, so to speak, which led to deep prejudice against these people groups. One example from 1820 stands out: that was the year a whaling ship called the Essex was rammed and sunk by one of the whales it was pursuing. If that plot sounds familiar at all, it’s because that story went on to inspire the novel Moby Dick. After the accident, the captain and crew of 21 boarded three of their whale boats. They had two choices for a route to safety: they could sail 3000 miles against the wind to Chile, or half the distance with the wind to the Marquesas Islands. But the Marquesans were rumoured to be cannibals, so they took the longer route. As a result, the crew spent months at sea, and eventually resorted to cannibalism themselves to survive. Reality can be cruel – and ironic, apparently. But something darker sits at the centre of many cannibalism stories.

At the core of almost all Native American cultures, across Canada and the northern part of what is now the United States, there are stories of the supernatural effects that eating other humans can have on a person. Each tribe seems to refer to the stories with different terms, but they’re all eerily similar. Wabanaki legend speaks of the man-eating snow giant, Giwakwa. The Cree tell tales of the Witiko, also a giant and also a man-eater. The Micmac tribes of northern Maine up through Nova Scotia tell stories of the Chenoo, creatures that were once human but had been transformed through some horrible crime that was usually cannibalism. The most common name for these creatures among Native Americans, however, is one we already know from popular culture. They are the Wendigo, a creature that was once human, but had been transformed by their hunger for human flesh into a monster that can’t ever be satisfied. One Native American description of the creature claims that a Wendigo is taller than a grown man, with a gaunt body and dead skin that seems to be pulled too tightly over its bones. Tales speak of the tangle of antlers upon its head, and the deep eye sockets that seem to be dead inside, and it smelled of death and decay. In Cree mythology, though, the Wendigo was simply a human who had become possessed by an evil spirit. It would take over, and then turn its hunger and hatred toward the people around it. To the Cree, the Wendigo was most often just another person: a neighbour, a friend, a sister, a son. There was no hope for those who were transformed into man-eating creatures. There was only one solution available: these creatures must be hunted and killed. It’s fantasy; it’s a cultural meta-narrative about something else, something deeper – at least, that’s what the anthropologists tell us. But some have taken those legends at face value.

Swift Runner was a Native American from the Cree tribe that lived in the western portion of Canada. He was born in the early 1800s and worked as a hunter and trapper in the north country, near Fort Edmonton, as well as a guide for the north-west mounted police. He was a big man, standing over 6ft tall, and according to the reports, he was well-liked and respected among his people. He and his wife had six children; it was said that he was a loving father who cared deeply for his family, which is why the winter of 1878 will be remembered as a tragedy. According to the reports, Swift Runner stumbled into a Catholic mission in St. Albert, sometime in the spring of 1879. He was distraught and unfocused; he told the priest that the winter had been harsh, and that his entire family had starved to death. He was, in fact, the only one to make it out alive. But something didn’t sit right with the priest. For one thing, Swift Runner didn’t look like a man who had endured starvation throughout the winter months – he was a solid 200lb and seemed healthy and strong. Another hint that all was not well were his nightmares, which often ended with him screaming in the night. In the end, the priests reached out to the mounted police. A group of investigators were dispatched to look into the matter, and they took Swift Runner back to his winter camp. To his credit, Swift Runner was helpful – he immediately showed the men a small grave near the campsite, and explained that it was the grave of one of his boys. They even went as far as to open the grave, and everything lined up with his story. They were the bones of a child, and it was safe to assume the child was Swift Runner’s. But then the police found other clues that began to paint a darker picture. Around the camp in scattered locations, they began to uncover more bones and a skull. Not just a few, either. There were bones everywhere. Some of the larger bones were hollow and snapped in half, clearly the result of someone sucking the marrow out. They also found bits of flesh and hair. The evidence began to pile up, and they looked to Swift Runner for an explanation, and that’s when he told them the truth. According to him, a Wendigo spirit came into their camp during the winter. It spoke to him and told him to eat his family. At first, he resisted, ignoring the voice. But slowly, over time, the Wendigo took control, and then it took action. Swift Runner’s wife was the first to die, then one of the younger boys, and one by one his family was killed and eaten. Then the creature moved on to his mother-in-law, and his own brother. To Swift Runner, it was cold fact – a monster had eaten his family, and the police agreed. They simply disagreed on the identity of that monster. The mutilated human remains were collected and transported to Fort Saskatchewan, along with Swift Runner himself. His trial began on August 8th of 1879, and it was about as cut and dried as it could be. Both the judge and jury refused to accept the story of the Wendigo. They saw the man as a murderer and sentenced him to be hanged. Over 60 people gathered at the fort on December 20th to watch the hanging. One witness to the execution, a man who had reportedly seen several hangings in his life, was said to have slapped his thigh and declared “Boys, that was the prettiest hanging I’ve ever seen”.

The Severn river in Ontario winds through the homeland of the Sandy Lake first nation. This area of Canada is so isolated that it wasn’t until the early decades of the 20th century that the western world really made an effort and reach out and connect with the people who lived there. It’s way up in the far western corner of Ontario, in the kind of territory where lakes have islands that have their own lakes. By the late 1800s, the Hudson Bay Company had closed down enough of its trading posts that the closest one to Sandy Lake was over 140 miles away. That was a 50 hour walk across rough terrain. I’m not really sure that “isolated” is a strong enough word to use here, the place was practically alien. Jack Fiddler was born in the 1830s - or maybe it was the 1840s, most people aren’t sure, but we know that he was a Cree Indian, and he worked as a trader. He made the trek between the villages and the trading post for a living, and in the process, he met lots of people. He was also the son of the Sandy Lake people’s shaman, and over his lifetime he had five wives and many, many children. When Jack’s father died in 1891, he took over as the leader of the Sandy Lake people. Now, that sounds fancy, but in reality, there were only roughly 120 people living in this community. He had influence over the wider geographical area as well, but his real power came from his role as the tribal shaman. A shaman’s powers were a vital part of his leadership – when Jack became the spiritual leader of his people, he became the keeper of their ancient traditions and their guardian against the approaching darkness that was western civilization. There are even legends that tell of Jack Fiddler curing illnesses. But most importantly, Jack became their first and only defence against the Wendigo, often called upon to hunt down and kill them. I know, this sounds like the stuff of comic books or Hollywood movies, but Jack Fiddler lives up to the hype. In fact, over his lifetime, he claimed to have defeated 14 of the monsters. But Jack didn’t go looking for tall, monstrous creatures with antlers and bony bodies. No, he understood the Wendigo to be more subtle. Some Wendigos, Jack said, had been sent to attack his people by other shamans. Others had been members of his own tribe, who seemed to have been overtaken with an unstoppable urge to eat human flesh. When it was his own people, Jack said that he and his brother, Joseph, were the ones called upon to do the hard thing and kill the individuals. And not just kill them, no, that wasn’t enough to stop the possession. You see, it was believed that the Wendigo’s spirit could actually hop from one body to the next, so those who died as a result of their possession were often burned to stop the infection from spreading. For the Sandy Lake people, and many of the other Native American tribes that cover much of the northern half of North America, the Wendigo stories were more than just here say. It was an idea that was rooted in ancient tradition. Ceremonies were built around the legend. People were warned and educated constantly about the danger this creature posed to the community, and then suddenly, all of that tradition and history ran headlong into the modern world, and the results were disastrous.

Some time in 1905, Joseph Fiddler’s daughter-in-law was brought to Jack’s village. She was very sick, according to multiple first-hand accounts. She was in deep pain that often drove her to cry out and moan and constantly make noise. Some of the women tending to her would even have to hold her down to keep her under control. Jack and his brother, Joseph, were brought in. They were old men by then, both in their 80s and very frail, but they knew what was causing her illness, and they knew how to stop it. They had done it many times before, and so they did what they did best: they took a thin rope and looped it over her head, and then, slowly, they tightened it. It wasn’t done in cold blood - it was a calculated decision that these men came to only after deep discussion, but it was driven by fear. If the Wendigo spirit inside her had been allowed to take control, there was no telling how destructive it might have become. To them, this was preventative, it was mercy, a form of euthanasia that protected the entire community. The Fiddlers were mere instruments in the hands of a culture driven by superstition. Witnesses testify to their quiet, dignified nature, but it didn’t help; the men were brought before a six-man jury later that year. The Toronto newspapers printed sensational headlines about the trial, crying out against devil worship and murder, and in response, people around the country cried out for a conviction. And they were guilty, without question. These men had killed a member of their family – it might not have been a crime of passion, but they were still murderers, so when they final verdict came down, it was far from a surprise: guilty. The Cree people of Sandy Lake lost their leader, they lost two of the most respected elders of their tiny community, and most frightening to them, they lost their last remaining Wendigo hunters. Real or not, these men had been a wall that kept the darkness and fear at bay, and now that wall was gone.

Superstition has often served to answer our questions and calm our fears. From the Changelings of Ireland to the vampires of New England, the stories we tell have helped us explain the mysteries we don’t understand. That’s not all superstition does, I know, but it makes up a lot of the examples we find. We fear the unknown and we come up with anything to explain it away. Cannibalism is something that humans have feared for a very, very long time, not because we’re actually convinced it could change us into supernatural monsters. No, at the root of it all, cannibalism is just a line that we don’t think we should cross, and rightly so. History is littered with examples of people who have crossed the line, not because their life was at risk or because they had no choice, but because of something darker. Deep belief in the folklore of their upbringing, mental instability, premeditated violence… whatever the reason, every example reveals humans to be the true monsters, capable of anything, even the things we fear the most. Maybe Jack Fiddler understood this; perhaps he knew that he represented the final entry in a vital, ancient lineage. He saw a world ill-equipped to defend itself against the evils he had fought all his life. I have to imagine that the idea of it simply exhausted him. On September 30th, 1907, while on a walk outside with a police constable, Jack escaped into the woods, where he strangled himself with the sash he wore. His brother would later die in prison from tuberculosis. On July 30th, 2008, a man named Tim Mclean was riding a greyhound bus along the trans-Canadian highway in Manitoba, when one of the other passengers attacked and killed him. The man, Vince Weiguang, did more than just kill Mclean, though. He stabbed him, beheaded him, and then proceeded to cannibalise the body. Was the killer just insane, or did he perhaps meet an evil spirit there, on his trip through Wendigo territory? That’s a question that would be impossible to answer for certain, but the courts ruled in favour of insanity. In the end, he was held in a high security mental institute in Manitoba, but he stayed there for less than a decade. Earlier this year, in May of 2015, he was released back into society.

This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. Learn more about me and this show over at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow along on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, @lorepodcast. You can back the show over at Patreon.com/lorepodcast, and get some sweet rewards in return, like extra episodes, premium transcripts, and so much more. This episode of Lore was made possible by you, listeners who are always hungry for more. [Insert ad break]. And one final note: the recent live show in Portsmouth, New Hampshire was an insanely good time. The theatre sold out, and I got to meet so, so many of you – it was awesome. If you missed it and you wish you’d been there, I’ve added an audio bootleg to the shop on the website. $5 will get you all three live episodes, plus a healthy dose of my witty banter, so be sure to check that out. And as always, thanks for listening.

[themoonandotherslikeit]

The Daughter of a Righteous Man - Chapter 7

*SEQUEL TO THE LOOK IN HER EYES*

After her husband is drug to Hell, Ava Winchester and her brother in law Sam try their best to do right by Dean and raise her daughter, only to find that good intentions aren’t always enough. Loving someone isnt always enough.

Chapter Seven, Incomplete

Ava

It had been two months and three weeks since Dean had died. It had been one week since Sam walked out.

I walked the steps to Bobby's front door. I held my jacket in my arms. It was the first week of March and the sun was finally out after weeks of snow. Everything was melting. Everything was being reborn.

I knocked on the door, and to no surprise, Sam answered. "Ava." He said, his eyes wide.

"Samuel."

"Where's Nel?"

"Your Dad is watching her. I thought we should talk. Do you have a second?"

"Uh, sure." He said, scratching his head. He had scruff on his chin, he was wearing a T-shirt, and sweats. He opened the door wider so I could come in. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"I'm fine." I said stepping into the house.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a coffee, obviously avoiding my gaze.

"Sam, you broke your promise to me. You left."

Way to come right out with it, Ava. No beating around the bush.

"I... I know." He peeked at me through his hair. "I figured you wouldn't want me around."

"Oh, so you're a mind reader now?"

"No." He cleared his throat.

"I never said you had to leave."

"But I kissed you." His voice was quiet, like a child's.

"I know. I was there."

"So you know why I left."

"You were afraid."

"What? No... I betrayed your trust."

"You did. You betrayed my trust by walking out when you said you'd always be with me."

He sat down the coffee and crossed his arms.

"What?" I asked. 

"I just didn't expect this to be the conversation." Sam admitted.

"What did you think I'd say?"

"Well I thought you'd slap me. Tell me that I'm immoral, and I shouldn't have done it. To start."

"Oh trust me. I want to slap you. You Winchester's are so fucking frustrating I could scream. But not because of the kiss." I uncrossed my arms and stepped toward him. "We don't run away. That's not what we do."

"I also shouldn't be kissing my brothers wife, but I guess I'm full of mistakes right now."

"Why did you kiss me, Sam?" I asked him, stepping a little closer.

"I don't know." He shook his head.

"Are you going to do it again?"

"No."

"Then come home. Nel misses you."

He smiled a little. "Did she tell you that?"

"Mhm. She even looks a little disappointed when it's me picking her up."

"I don't believe that, but I appreciate what you're trying to do."

I shrugged and picked up his coffee cup, taking a sip. "Family doesn't run out on family, Sam. I told you I wouldn't let you. I let you go lick your wounds and now it's time to come home."

"I can't believe you want me home."

I cautiously took his hand in mine. "We need each other. I knew I needed you that first day in the hospital when you got me the plan B and told me I could come on the road with you two. If you had said no then I would've never fallen in love with Dean. I wouldn't have my daughter. You're my best friend, Sam. I love you, and I'm not ready to lose anyone else that I love."

Sam sucked in his breath and pulled me into his arms. "I'm sorry." He breathed.

"It's okay." I said, hugging him back. He was easily a foot taller than me and my head rested perfectly on his chest. I could hear his heart pound. It was surely broken. "I know you miss him too, Sam."

"I do." He held me tighter and let go of his inhibitions. His tears flooded into my hair and his body racked with sobs. I held him as tightly as I could and let him get it out.

We stood like that for minutes as he let out all of his grief. He hurt just like I did.

I understood him better, then. Maybe he was looking for comfort just like I was. He wanted to be strong, just like I did. Maybe it's impossible. Maybe this is all we get.

"Hey." I whispered moving his head off of mine. I held his face in my hands and wiped his tears. "Don't think you have to drown in this Sam. You've supported me since Deans death. We can carry each other's load."

"You shouldn't have to."

"What do you think family is?"

"You sound just like him." He said with a weak smile.

"Sometimes I see him in your eyes." I met his eyes and sighed. "We can help him live on within us."

"That's a nice sentiment."

"Do you want to go somewhere?" I asked him quietly. "Your Dad has Nel all day."

"Okay."

————————

We walked along the river to the dam where I found Dean after our wendigo hunt. After Sam was in the hospital. Back when things were simple. We passed a flask back and forth between the two of us. After being pregnant and breast feeding, my tolerance was a joke. We were halfway through the flask when I was sufficiently buzzed.

"What did you two talk about that day?" Sam asked me.

"Can I have a sip?"

He nodded and handed me the beer. "How'd you find me?"

"Sam."

"Little rat." Dean said shaking his head.

"What's going on?" I reached for his hand.

"I just have a bad feeling." He admitted. "It's in my gut."

"What's it saying?"

"I just think something bad is going to happen. I just keep seeing you and Sam hurt. I can't lose either of you."

"You're not going to lose us, Dean."

"You don't know that. This job is dangerous."

"But it's worth the risk. We are all good at it. We will always be there for each other. You know why? Because we are family. Just like you always say. Family doesn't give up on family."

I smiled at the memory and suckled my flask. "He was afraid something would happen to us. To me and you."

"Why?"

"Gut feeling."

Sam laughed. "He always was talking about his gut feelings."

"Well he wasn't wrong about this one. It wasn't too much longer that I died." I wiped a stray tear and downed more of the flask. The world was fuzzy around the edges.

"I've never been more scared in my life than when I saw you laying there covered in blood."

"Worse than with Dean?"

"We knew Dean was going to die. There was a small hope we could save him, but the look in his eyes when he held you was the most terrifying moment of my life."

"Why?" I handed him the flask.

"I didn't think Dean would survive your death." Sam took a swig. "I didn't think I would survive it either."

I stumbled a bit on a rock and he caught me, his arm around my waist. "Hey, steady."

I giggled and leaned my head against his shoulder. "Maybe I should sit down."

"Maybe." He agreed, lowering us to the ground.

I leaned on his shoulder and stared at the water. "It peaceful."

"It is." He agreed. "Ava are you drunk?"

"What are you, my mom?" I asked moving my head off his shoulder.

"No. I'm just wondering."

I laughed again to myself. I couldn't keep the bubbles in my stomach at bay. I couldn't conceal my giggles. "Are you drunk, Samantha?"

He wrinkled his nose and laughed. "Buzzed."

"Good." I said with a wide smile. "We deserve some fun, don't you think?"

"Yeah." He agreed with a smile. "We do. You always brought that out of us."

"What? You didn't have fun before me?"

Sam laughed. "No way. Other than strippers and late night tv we didn't have much fun. We never laughed like we did with you."

"I never had fun before either." I told him. I laid back on the hard ground and stared at the sky. The clouds traveling by the wind. The sun was warm on my face despite the chill in the air.

He laid on his back next to me and stared at the sky, his arm behind his head. "Ava?"

"Mhm."

"I'm sorry I kissed you."

I rolled onto my side and looked at him. "You shouldn't be sorry." I closed my eyes humming quietly to myself.

"Of course I should. You're not mine to kiss."

I laughed and propped myself up by my elbows. I looked down at him. "What is it with you boys. Sweetheart. Mine. I don't belong to anyone Sam. Only to myself."

His eyes searched my face. "I'm still sorry."

"Why did you kiss me Sam?"

"You already asked me that."

"I didn't like your answer." I said raising an eyebrow.

He propped himself up to meet my face. "It's wrong."

"Maybe."

I searched his face. Maybe it was the whiskey in the flask, or maybe it was the numbness that was growing inside of me. I didn't want to lose the happiness I had for that moment. I didn't want to fall into the hole again.

"Maybe?"

"I don't think we can know that. Not really." I rested my palm against his cheek.

"Ava what are you doing?"

"Shh, I'm thinking."

I kicked off my shoes and ran toward the beach. It was the first time I'd be on the shore in awhile. Living in Seattle didn't provide for a lot of beach days.

The sand felt good in my toes, and I ran with my hands up to the sky. I spun around, watching the birds dance in the sky. It was beautiful. I couldn't help but laugh. Life was so stunning. It was only a few days before that that I was in so much pain, but when I breathed the sea air it felt like I was breathing for the first time.

"Ava!" Sam ran to me, scooping me up into my arms.

"Sam! Oh my god!" I laughed.

He spun me around. His hair whipping in the wind. It felt good to laugh.

"I'm so glad you're feeling better." He said with a wide smile.

"Me too."

He sat me down in the sand, my toes connecting with the cool powder.

"It looks amazing." He commented, staring out at the ocean.

"Have you seen it before?"

"No."

"You travel all over the United States and you've never seen the ocean? Sam that's pitiful!" I pushed him.

"Hey!" He laughed, tussling my hair.

"Samuel! Don't touch my hair, the humidity has it looking bad enough."

"It doesn't look bad." He said quietly. "You look beautiful."

Sam seemed uncomplicated. He never lied about how he felt or what he was thinking. He never pushed away my friendship. He was alive.

Before I could talk myself out of it I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. His mouth opened in surprise, sucking in his breath. Sucking in my breath. His arm snaked around me. I rested my hand on his chest. He kissed me back gently. It was unlike any kiss I ever had.

Being with Sam may have been wrong. It probably was, but fuck, it felt so good to not be in pain. Even for just a minute. It felt so good to not be in numb.

Sam

She brushed her hair in the bathroom. Staring at her reflection in the mirror. "Morning." I said walking up behind her.

It had been a week since that day by the dam. We had been straddling a line together. We hadn't done more than kiss. I even felt guilty about that, but when I felt her with me I was at peace. She was healing my heart.

I pressed a kiss against the crown of her head and she looked at me in the mirror.

"Can you do something for me?"

"Anything." I said simply.

She ran her fingers through her curls. "Cut my hair."

I raised an eyebrow. "You want me to cut your hair? Why?"

"I don't feel like myself." She pulled on her curls. "I want my reflection to match what I look like in my mind."

I smiled at her. I loved her long hair. It smelled like her rose shampoo. I loved the way it blew around her face. The curls danced down her neck.

"I'll do it." I told her. I'd do anything she asked me to.

I got into the drawer and got her shears. "I can't promise that I'll be good at it."

She turned to me and smiled up at me, her eyes lightening up. "Why not take the leap?"

"Turn back around." I instructed her with a smile. I gathered her hair in my hands. "How short do you want it?"

"Surprise me." She said. There was excitement in the way her voice seemed to hop and dance.

My heart pounded in my chest as I took the scissors to her hair. It took some time, curls falling to the floor like the first day of autumn.

Her curls fell above her shoulders, resting there. She looked different, but the same. It appeared that a weight had lifted from the hair that left her scalp. She touched her reflection in the mirror. "Thank you." She breathed a sigh of relief.

"You look gorgeous." I told her, tangling my fingers in her curls.

Her eyes met mine, and for the first time in awhile her expression resembled happiness. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes looked alive. I couldn't help it. I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. How could I not kiss her? I didn't know if I would ever be able to stop.

—————

Chapter Eight, Just For Tonight 

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