#but when it comes to this shit she turns into a fucking weirdo. complete lunatic. like ohhh this is historical. yeah fucking right

[villalunae]

SHE TURNED ON BOLD N THE BEAUTIFUL LADS WE ARE FUCKING SAFE

i swear to god if i have to listen to the fucking rnc

[gwemrys]

I love your Merlin & Gwen content! I was wondering if you had thoughts on if an earlier magic reveal had happened for them (I personally like to headcanon the perfect timing for that would have been the Lamia episode) and what you would’ve wanted out of it.

omg..... I DO HAVE THOUGHTS ON THAT.. MANY OF THEM 💖.......(shit this turned into an essay abt their soulmate bond first fbdnfj i promise i will get to the point somewhere in there LMAO.) passionate monologue in 3 2 1

LETS GO so from the moment gwen first saw merlin she has been ....strongly Intrigued by his strangeness. it was like WHAT a weirdo but i like it...... she saw him and immediately felt the burning desire to be connected to him in some way shape or form .. friendship? romance? WHATEVER JUST KEEP HIM! she was used to lunatics bc she lived in camelot but with this lunatic it was like. it was like ‘ive consistently had no clue what the fuck he is on about but his soul feels familiar and warm and safe and also he is crazy. and he radiates something unique and it feels connected to his strangeness but i cant seem to understand what it is? and it feels like the only thing that matters right now is to keep him close to me?’

so she does. shes there for him when he needs her and hes there for her when she needs him (she almost feels like he has helped her without telling her? as if a lot goes on that he doesnt talk about...)

as time goes on more n more impossible things happen when merlin is around and stories dont seem to add up at all..... she gets so used to merlin being Different that it doesnt rly occupy her mind, she kind of brushes it off bc yeah merlin is merlin :) but it remains in her subconscious and there are times when it resurfaces.

lamia is one of the episodes where i think she first realised that this “being different” of merlin was.... not as trivial as she had made it to be in her mind..

(but thinking of possible explanations scared her bc it Could mean that merlin had rly been forced to live with being in deathly peril every second of his life and on top of that having to keep it secret.. so she didnt ask for more answers and instinctively just pushed the idea to her subconscious before she could rly consider it)

fast forward to sword in the stone pt2. gwen is about to fatally lose her one-on-one battle with morgana when morgana flies back and the corridor proceeds to explode, both things for.... NO reason. it has to be. magic....?

which shouldve frightened her bc she is standing in the same corridor and there is no way to know if she is in danger too but before she has the chance to feel scared she hears a familiar voice say ‘you alright?’

and that. is when it clicked.

her shock wasnt due to the mere fact that merlin, her best friend, had magic. she was shocked because she had known.... and denied it to herself.. but she had always known in some way. and it had never made him seem scarier of more evil or in any way less deserving of her love and loyalty

as the dust in the corridor clears and she looks at merlin’s just as shocked face she remembers something morgana had said earlier: ‘not even emrys can save you now.’ — followed by her own magic failing her..?

both gwen and merlin seem too shocked to bring out any words for a few long seconds, and merlin seems anxious, almost unbelieving of what he had just done in front of her eyes, waiting for her to demand an explanation.

“merlin,” she manages to bring out. “thank you.” and her smile now comes more easily than her words did.

a simple confirmation that yes, she had seen. and no, she could never hate him for it.

his face hadnt completely shaken off the expression of shock yet when he cautiously returned the smile. she held out her hand and he took it, and they silently returned to the other part of the castle. later there would be time for talking. right now theres a battle going on.

[fanmoose12]

for their sake

so, since some of you were actually interested in me writing this au, here it is? hope you enjoy!

Goddamn it!

That crazy weirdo was approaching her again. Pieck hastily turned around, trying to make a swift retreat. Of course, she knew it was futile from the very beginning - Hange Zoe, the so-called artist, who had been pestering her for more than a month now, asking Pieck to pose for her, was not only very persistent, but had annoyingly long legs too.

So, in a matter of a few seconds, she was by Pieck's side. Hange wasn't only acting like a complete lunatic, she looked like one too - the big, often dirty glasses, a messy mop of brown hair, which stuck out in every possible direction, smudges of ink, paint and god knows what else on her cheeks and nose, and, of course, that wild grin that was permanently plastered on her lips.

Just the sight of her made Pieck shudder.

"I'm busy," she tried to push her away. "Got a class in ten minutes."

Well, that was a lie, Pieck didn't have a class for another forty minutes, but she was hoping to spend that time in peace, not listening to Hange ramble about her 'unique and extremely fascinating physique'. When Hange looked at her with such intense look, it honestly made Pieck's skin crawl.

"I won't take much of your time!" Hange easily fell into step with Pieck. "In fact, I'll even walk you to your class!"

Jeez, what was Pieck even hoping for? That woman was extremely hard to get rid of.

"I'm not going to pose for your stupid drawing," Pieck sighed. "So can you please leave me the fuck alone?"

"Pieck, please! I'll do everything you want!" Hange put her hands in a pleading gesture, staring at Pieck with what she probably thought was adorable puppy stare.

In Pieck’s opinion, there was nothing adorable about it. Because Hange was a fucking adult and not a five-year old child, it looked weird and disturbing.

Pieck turned away with a huff. And then she noticed him. Another weirdo of their campus. She should have expected it, whenever Hange went, he was always somewhere nearby.

Levi Ackerman - Hange Zoe's roommate, best friend and secret admirer. Although, calling him a 'secret' admirer would be stretching it. There was nothing secret about his crush on Hange. Despite his constant resting bitch face, Levi was terrible at concealing his feelings. As a result, every last person in their university knew about his crush on Hange.

Except, Hange herself.

And Pieck would have found it really hilarious, if she wasn't stuck in the middle of their weird love dance. Every time Hange approached her, Levi was always there, always glaring at Pieck so fiercely, she was afraid she would spontaneously combust.

Damn, these idiots made her sick. She needed to do something about it.

"Listen," she grabbed Hange's arm, dragging her away from Levi's sizzling gaze. "Why don't you draw someone else?"

"Someone else?" Hange widened her eyes.

"Yes! You said you liked the color of my hair, right?"

Hange beamed, reaching out to touch Pieck's locks. Pieck expertly evaded her hand. The corners of Hange's lips slid, but only for a second. So very soon that annoying grin was back. "Your hair is gorgeous! It looks so soft, and the color is so dark, yet rich and—"

"Levi has the same hair color as I do," Pieck cut her off, before Hange launched into another one of her ramblings.

"Huh?" Hange stopped mid-step, looking at Pieck with confused expression. "Levi?"

"Yes, Levi, your roommate," Pieck sighed in exasperation. "His hair is also black."

"Well, yeah...." Hange trailed off, her eyes still clouded with perplexity.

God, she was hopeless.

"So maybe you should draw him? Since he's your roommate and everything?"

For a second, Hange just stared at her. Then, she burst out laughing.

"Me?!" she wheezed between her giggles. "Ask Levi to pose for me? Oh god, even the thought is ridiculous! He'll never agree!"

"Have you ever asked him?" Pieck looked at her seriously.

"Well, no, but—"

Before Pieck opened her mouth to answer Hange, a thought crossed her mind. Was she really going to do it? Was she really going to play a matchmaker for these two emotionally stunted idiots? Yes, Pieck decided after remembering all the times Hange refused to leave her alone and all the occasions when Levi's particularly vicious glare made shivers run down her spine. Yes, she was really going to help them get their shit together. It would make her life so much easier, Pieck was sure.

So she laid a palm on Hange's forearm, squeezing it in what she hoped was encouraging manner. "Then ask him. Who knows, maybe he'll agree."

"I..." Hange scratched her head, looking upwards. "Yeah, it won't hurt to ask,” she mumbled. “Maybe he will agree," she concluded with her usual grin.

Pieck felt a strange wave of relief upon seeing that smile. With that uncertain expression, Hange looked even weirder than usually.

Thinking her job here was done, Pieck took her hand off Hange. However, before she could turn around and leave, Hange stopped her.

"Wait!" she raised a finger, pinning Pieck down with sharp eyes. "If he refuses, then you'll be posing for me, right?"

"I didn't say th—"

"Yeah, but I decided to act on your advice. If it doesn't work, that's on you. And you have to answer for it."

"Fine," Pieck shook her head. "I'll let you do your stupid drawing, but only if Levi rejects you."

"I'll remember that!" Hange exclaimed, before clasping her shoulder and running away.

Fuck, Pieck really hoped that they would sort out their feelings. Not for their sake, but her own.

 ***

The next day, she was making her through campus as carefully as possible, glancing back every few minutes to check if a certain bespectacled weirdo wasn’t following her.

Thankfully, and strangely, she wasn’t.

And when Pieck walked out of the building to enjoy the last rays of sunshine in the park near her university, she found a reason for Hange’s absence.

She was sitting there, under one of the trees. There was a sketchbook and a pencil in her hands, and a look of absolute focus on her face. In front of her, sat Levi. He wasn’t looking straight at Hange, instead staring into a distance, but there was a slight, barely visible smile on his usually neutral face.

Pieck sighed with relief. So they did sort their shit out. Good.

However, before she could take a sit at her favorite bench, she heard a very familiar voice, calling out to her. Pieck tensed as it was followed by the sound of heavy steps.

“Little Pieck!” Hange ran up to her, looking as happy as ever. “Ah, there is no need to look so scared!” she chuckled. “I won’t bother you anymore, I promise!”

“You won’t?” Pieck asked carefully, desperately hoping for Hange to ease her worries.

“I won’t,” Hange’s smile became softer. “I just wanted to thank you for… pushing me in the right direction.”

“Oh,” Pieck certainly wasn’t expecting that. “You’re welcome, I guess?”

“We should hug!” Hange exclaimed.

However, before she could act on her words, Levi appeared next to her.

“Oi, four-eyes,” he grumbled with annoyance. “What’s taking you so long?”

“Oh, sorry, I was just talking with Pieck. You know she was the one who advised me to ask you to pose for me?”

“Huh,” Levi looked away from Hange, his grey eyes focusing on Pieck. It wasn’t the usual glare she usually received from him. No, this time, his gaze was showing genuine gratitude. It made Pieck even more uncomfortable than his death stares. “It was a good advice,” he nodded at her, lifting the corners of his lips ever so slightly. “Now, come on,” he grabbed Hange’s palm and started to drag her away. “You need to finish my portrait before the class begins.”

“Then we really need to hurry, shorty,” Hange laughed, the sound filled with happiness. “Bye, little Pieck!” she waved her hand, before catching up with Levi.

As they walked away, Pieck didn’t miss the way they awkwardly, but tightly held each other’s hand.

She felt a smile tug on her own lips as well. These two were the weirdest couple Pieck had ever seen. But… she hoped they’d be happy together. Not just for her own sake, but theirs too.

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

Sunday night, April 12th, 2015.

After the winter of running around with only ice in my veins, I'm glad I'm starting to thaw back to the peaceful default of time not being of the essence. It's hard to watch the clock like a hawk and let your existential worries take you hostage when you absolutely have no time for it to peculate. Either I'm in school or I'm trying to catch up on my assignments, I'm having lunch with Ray or I'm running into my dad as he's getting ready for one of his Chevron shifts, I'm helping customers or I'm stocking shelves, I'm picking up shit from S or I'm dealing it to Natalia... and I'm so consumed in all of it that it's only in these walks to the train station and on the ride back home itself where there's ever enough silence in my mind to allow the reality of to truly sink in. Honest to God, with the rate time passes through me nowadays, I'm stuck between thinking I still belong back in February, because that was the last month I can truly remember comprehending, or I've already expedited myself all the way forward to 2016. If it weren't for my dad's birthday last week and the fact that the A's are onto a rather impressive start, I wouldn't have noticed that we're already in the smack dab of April. I'm more than okay with it though. Breathing in this warm air is almost better than the Parliament soothing my lungs as I walk, but not quite. Nothing could ever top this reunion. 

Okay, well maybe not nothing... 

I wonder if Ray texted me back.

I haven't checked my phone since my last smoke break, which was about five hours ago, so maybe she has. Not like she has to or anything. Our conversation isn't the most vital, it's just the standard "Hey what are you up to?" sort of thing...except for with Ray, that conversation isn't completely boring because she's actually up to things. Last time I checked, she was at a late lunch with a friend of hers named Michelle at some place downtown that I'd never heard of. Apparently, they claim to have the World's Best BLT. She sent me a picture of her posing next to the sign proclaiming such, her silly grin as bright as ever, the sunglasses apt for the sunlight that's drenching her left shoulder... 

"Looks like heaven." 

It was my initial thought and I had to type it in a quick frenzy since my break was up. I didn't even get the chance to tell her goodbye...not like I need to or have to, she's not strict on formalities and probably just went back to her lunch, but something about it bothers me... 

Especially since I've come back to nothing. 

From her anyway. The only thing displayed on my phone screen is a series of play by plays from my dad about the A's, of which the only one I even bother to read is the second last one. 

1-510-698-9209: "Damn you Nelson cruz!! 8-7 Mariners...we tried there at the end but sometimes things are just too far out of reach :(" 

You can say that again...��

I swipe it out of my way and enter my password so I can text him back and call Nelson Cruz the biogenesis bastard that he is but, when I expand into my inbox, it's the conversation with Ray that I senselessly open.  The corner of my mouth falters even further, setting into a frown as I just review what is lingering in the air. That impulsive sentence. 

Why the hell did I say that? 

If I had the chance to tap into any of my intelligence, I would've seen the plethora of way more interesting and thought-provoking responses to her picture. I could've asked what made them claim that because it is quite bold. I could've asked her if she'd ever had a BLT, because, now that I think of it, I don't think I've ever seen her order one. She's pretty consistent with her fish and chips. I don't blame her choice, I don't even like BLTs that much...if it weren't for my fucking dad pushing the limit of his arteries by clogging them with that potent grease, I wouldn't even eat them. There is nothing about it that would be heaven to me. So why the hell did I have it in me to make such a fucking insinuation? To lift something to a heavenly status? Sure, I just went with the first thing I thought of, but...when you don't have time to think, you're going off of pure instinct; a primitive response... 

I don't know... 

I don't, but there's this feeling, this ache in my gut that's stirring and... I can't. Not again. Letting my mind run wild the way it did this morning was bad enough, but I can at least blame that on S. I think some of the fumes of his lovesick haze may have gassed me like the exhaust of the Bravada and turned me delusional. When someone is beaming the way he was this morning, it's only natural to want some of the rays to bask on you and you just start conjuring up energy out of conjectural reveries. 

But not again... 

I can't have that light cracking onto her. I can't show her even the slightest inkling that there even could be something. 

I can't have her knowing that what really looks heavenly is her in all of her radiance. 

And she won't. 

Not from that stupid message, that's for sure. She merely thinks I'm being overdramatically wistful about BLTs and that's perfectly fine. It's not out of left field in her eyes. She's seen me eat them, she thinks I like them more than I really do, otherwise, she wouldn't have enlightened me with that fact in the first place. She was practically expecting that sort of response. 

Everything is normal.

It's all the same as it was five minutes ago. It's all the same as it was five hours ago when I was texting her and the words were tumbling out as casually as they always do. It's all the same as it always was.

And always will be. 

With that, the screen dims to black because I haven't interacted with it, and I shove the phone in my pocket and pull out my burner. 

Maybe I'll have better luck with this one. 

I can't believe I'm eager to look at it since usually it's the other way around, but...fuck, I have been a little off my typical mark today. This weird twist of fate shouldn't surprise me at all. What I'm hoping to find is a response to my apology from last night's deserted customer. Customers can be a fickle bunch when it comes to forgiveness. Most of the time, I've found that a slight fuck up like this only pisses them off until the millisecond they get their hit from either you or someone else, then their gratification induces them into some sort of amnesia and everything is all in the clear. It's just another park, another Sunday.��Of course, you never really know and it only takes one fucking lunatic to fly off the handle and make up for all of the decent, merciful, addled-amnesiacs, but I'm not going to throw myself into the furnace of paranoia over this guy. I don't think it's necessary...especially with the response I got. 

1-415-224-4618 "nah u good, i gotta stay off the shit tn. gonna see my sis." 

Oh shit. Okay... 

While I type back and tell him to hit me up whenever, the comedown of both relief and guilt hitting me at once is a weird feeling. I've gotten rather used to not thinking too much into my customer's personal lives, because either they're way too chatty with it to where I tune out or their guilt suffocates them from saying anything about it at all...and I prefer to keep it that way. I have to. However, I'd be a liar if I didn't say that sometimes this economy of despair doesn't thud an uncomfortable chord in that dark chamber deep within my chest when I'm reminded of the ultimate detriment, the ultimate price of these transactions... 

So much for trying to make myself feel better... 

Thankfully, all I have to do is take a moment to breathe out my pent up smoke and I'm back into the state of false security and the temporary irrelevance of morality. But, it doesn't take more than a swift movement of my thumb to scroll onto another lowercase head trip.

S.

1-415-214-4412 hey…how are u? i’m not doing so well. uh, idk what ur up to rn, or where u are, and i’m sorry in advance, but i REALLY wanna see u if ur around. it’s about lyd. let’s just say i shouldn’t have gotten so excited this morning. sorry again. i hate to be a burden. u don’t have to come, but if u feel like it i’m at that park on howard street. yerba something. i forgot. 

"Shiiiiiiit," is what involuntarily spills from my mouth as I come to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, just staring at the words like, if I do it for long enough, they'll give me some sort of answer because... 

What the hell am I supposed to do with t h i s? 

I have to do something. I can't just stand in the middle of this street forever, but dread keeps a grip on my legs. 

I don't want to get involved in this. I was perfectly fine being happy for S, because, believe it or not, I do enjoy seeing other people happy...even if they are my weirdo supplier. I wasn't totally comfortable with him or anything, but I think I came as close as I ever want to get during his story. I'm not aching to do it again, but it was a pleasant experience. 

While it lasted. 

Now, the sun has set and there's nothing but pitch black waters before me. They broke up. And...what the hell am I supposed to do about it? Why is he even asking me? According to him circa this morning, I don't know shit about relationships because I've never been in one---or, as he actually took the tactful way of translating it for once, "have yet to experience it". As much as I hate to admit it, he's right! I haven't! I know absolutely fuck all about the intricacies and feelings that go into them and I certainly know zero about the procedure of mending a broken heart. So what the fuck does he need me for? 

Oh no...is it a trap? 

Is he trying to lure me into a fucking park for some sort of vengean-- Stop. Knock it the fuck off. He isn't. He's not pushing that hard...he straight up said I didn't have to come for Christ sake, and I'm glad because I don't. The last thing I want to do is scour the uneven mountains that are the streets of San Francisco after already being on my feet forever and further scour some fucking park in the dark to get on a level I know shit about with the absolute last guy I'd ever want to be on that level with.

But I should.

My curiosity is a bitch. A real fucking bitch. The ball is so out of left field that it's plunked in the Bay and is being carried en route to the Pacific Ocean. Again, there are business reasons, but there's just something else there that's nagging within me. 

Does he TRUST me? 

Sure, this morning could've been a one-off. He might've figured that I was the only one awake enough early at that hour to even respond, but even then...there's got few other people who are in the know about his relationship with Lyd, some who would've been way more receptive to the call of duty, someone who would even be able to relate to any of this...or at least high enough to where they could improvise. And maybe there are. Maybe I'm just one of the hundred that he told and will tell. I don't know the answer to that, but, even so, it's still a good sign. He's lowered his inhibitions enough to let me into his personal circle, whatever the size of it is, and I don't know what I've done to be here outside of buying drugs from him to get in here, but we've come too far for me not to uphold it. Besides, I need to hear something besides for my own fucking shit for once. It'll be good for me. 

1-415-208-0013: Okay. It might be a while since I have to catch the train, but I'm on my way.

Send. 

Barely two seconds later... 

1-415-214-4412: thank god sorry again. hope the train doesn't suck too bad lmao.

1-415-208-0013: It won't. 

Send. 

Close. 

I slip the phone back in my pocket and ignore its subsequent buzz so I can cross the street over its intersecting tracks and not get caught in some freak MUNI accident, tossing my cigarette once I've made it over in one piece. 

As I approach West Portal Station, I stop and pull out my MUNI pass so I won't have to be that guy who pulls out his wallet at the barrier and makes two measly seconds feel like ten fucking minutes. Not like that would be a crushing blow tonight. There are more people around than there was earlier this morning, but they don't rob the tranquility. The barrier's a breeze, there's not much traffic clogging up the way so the train isn't too late, the seats are spacious enough for me to comfortably pull out The Catcher In The Rye, and by the end of the ride, I have to remind myself that I'm not the one getting off at Penn Station. Rather I'm jarred into Powell instead of the typical Embarcadero. It's closer to the park, but that promise is nothing more than a sardonic joke to the unfamiliar. If it weren't for Google showing me where the fuck to go, I'd instantly give back up and go back down nderground concrete mazes are a lot easier to navigate than the above ground ones. Fortunately, it's only a five-minute bustle around the block. Unfortunately, the second the yellow brick road stops at its' open end, all dread begins to sink in. 

I'll never find him. 

This isn't your typical sliver of neighborhood grass, nor should I have expected it to be. It's quite an impressive sprawl of land for such a cramped city. In daylight, I'm sure it's a nice place to be, but, right now, these fucking weird solar streetlamps aren't doing too much. There's not a bench in immediate sight and not a shadow of anyone of his stature sitting in the grass...but I can see that this sidewalk loops around, so perhaps he's at the other side of the park. 

If he isn't, he can get up and find me. 

With a deep sigh, I trudge on through with my hand in my pocket tentatively wrapped around my phone for when I give up and call him. My fingers get a little tighter with each fucking lamp I pass...until I see something up ahead. Several benches in the widened path, of which the closest one to me has a lanky man slumped in it, whose only seeming sign of life is the cigarette he keeps puffing on, only further highlighting the grimly crestfallen look weighing on his face. 

Holy shit. 

"Hi..." I say when I come to a stop before him, my voice perking at least some registration of the present into him as he looks up at me. It relieves a little upward twitch at the corner of my mouth, but it falters about as soon as it came. He just...does not look good. At all. I don't know what the fuck I was expecting him to look like but it wasn't this bad. There aren't any tears down his face or welling in his eyes, but I don't think there's anything in there to fire it up right now. He looks colder and greyer than the sidewalk, and, despite how he keeps puffing on the cigarette, I can tell he knows the smoke ultimately isn't helping him.Not like I'm going to be any better. As I sit down beside him and stare forward, all I can see is the mounting brick wall of the inevitable: What the hell can I even say next?

[justastormie]

I’m doing two, because I can. 

Ancient Historical meme from my drafts;

First things first: What’s their name and when and where did they live? If there are any/ you have one, add your favourite picture of them. 

Erwin Johannes Eugene Rommel (1891-1944), Germany, lived around Württemberg for most of his life, the occasional world war aside. Of historical note for being a masterful tactician, writing an important book of military theory about wwi and commanding the german forces in the north african campaign of wwii. 

Napoleon (1769-1821), France technically but had a great deal of fun on camping trips all over Europe. Of historical note for one-uping Alexander the Great. Created landmark legal, military and social organizations. List of fuckups is longer than most people’s list of accomplishments. One of the most enduring military and political legends of the modern era. Bees.

1. How and when did you first hear about them?

Rommel- I honestly can’t remember. My father is a wwii nut so i was raised on the stuff. I got serious in my interest of him about 12/13 when I first read the collection of his papers translated into English. 

Napoleon- fourth grade (about ten years old). We had a section of world history, dismal though it was. In one of the little “fun facts” thing they had a tiny little box describing Nap’s return from Elba with an itty-bitty reproduction of Steben’s Returned From Elba. I thought that sounded like the most badass thing I had ever heard, and was also a little in disbelief because surely someone can’t just walk back and reclaim their kingdom. Like, that shit didn’t happen in real life. So I bought my first biography to find out the real story. 

2. What do you like most about them?

Rommel

he tempered his ambition and leadership with compassion and a fierce sense of honor

genuinely seems to have been a nice dude

he and his wife are cute as fuck 

was later cute as fuck about his son Manfred 

was incredibly clever

was a peach eating lunatic adventurer masquerading as a srs prussian soldier 

he was a romantic both in the age of chivalry sense and the modern sense

Napoleon

SUCH A BADASS, oh my god

was an over-invested mono-maniac at all times, which I can related to

incredibly capable in many fields

i have been napoleon and josephine trash since day one

crowning himself. i just love that moment.

was really smart. on a ‘holy shit’ level. (even if he did some massively stupid shit sometimes)

meritocratic promotion structures

hamilton WISHES he were this non-stop. 

never gave up, never gave in. even on st. helena he started dedicated his energies to preserving his legend and legacy, to great effect. 

3. Is there anything about them that makes you angry or that you don’t like at all?

Rommel 

literally worked for nazis

pretty sexist

there’s a lot i disagree with him about, but very few things that make me truly pissed off. ie he was of the period opinion that military men shouldn’t be involved in politics, as he thought that would mean the military as an organization would start defining germany’s political future which would turn into military rule and he was catagorically against that. which i think is both wrong and allowed him, and others in the german army, to disclaim responsibility for political shit they didn’t agree with that was being done by their government. but i can absolutely see where he was coming from, and i think his concerns were reasonable and legitimate. 

so yeah. a lot of disagreements, but very few things that just piss me off.

Napoleon

w h e r e   d o   I   b e g i n

allowed his obsession with legend and conquest overwhelm his moral values 

sold his honor and his moral principles in order to maintain power

frequently only took into account the human cost of warfare way too fucking late

rampant misogyny

really fucked over Junot

really fucked over tons and tons of people who were loyal to him, from close friends to the soldiers who followed him

got a truly staggering number of people killed on account of his own short-sighted obsessions

to paraphrase the old tv show Wiseguy, You don’t get to shove people around just because your fire burns brighter, no matter how brilliant that fire is. 

never gave up, never gave in. even when he fucking should have, looking at you reasonable peace terms of 1813. 

4. If you had one day with them in our present time - what would you do together?

Rommel - Aviation museum, he’d absolutely love it. I’d get him to pick some German place to eat and interrogate him ruthlessly about what inter-war rural Germany was like. 

Napoleon- Smack him repeatedly in the face for invading Spain  Walk and talk. Have him show me around Paris and have a debate over legal systems. Nerd out over Ossain. Show him a modern bookstore. Let him see how much of his work has survived into the present day. Shove him into at least one shrubbery.

5. What would you like to talk about with them?

Rommel - Engineering, aviation, dogs and funny army stories

Napoleon- All of the things. I can only imagine the conversation would be a pinball game of madness as to topics covered. And okay. I’d have to ask about Waterloo. I’d be that person. I don’t think he’d do it, but I’d love to hear him talk about Corsica. 

6. In which way do you identify most with them or a figure they created?

Rommel - He was an intensely practical man who tried very hard to do the right thing and frequently failed. I hope that one day I’ll have the strength of character to try to rectify my mistakes as he did his. 

Napoleon - I too am an over-invested, bossy weirdo. 

7. Thoughts about their death? E.g.:Was it too early, was it deserved, woud you have tried to prevent it and how? 

Rommel- oh god TOO EARLY, UNDESERVED, that poor brave bastard. I mean the fact that he was murdered because of his role in a plot to overthrow hitler and make peace with the allies is reason enough. would have definitely tried to prevent it, but would need like. the a-team to stop it. because you’d have to rescue not only rommel but his family that was being used as leverage against him. unless you’re allowed to go really far back and then i’d just start slapping the shit out of everyone at the versailles peace conference.

Napoleon - hoooo boy. uuuuuuuh. i mean. do i like it how he died? no. does that dislike come from a rational place? ...nooo. best case scenario for me would be he gets shot before the last charge of waterloo. hell if i had my way i’d go back and convince him what REALLY needed done was him personally leading the imperial guard up the hill. heroic, dramatic death and historians get to fight over wellsley actually beat napoleon for the rest of forever. europe also gets a break from napoleonic insanity. which doesn’t happen if napoleon gets to live. once more if you’re allowed further back, i slap the shit out of him before he invades Spain and point out that Ireland is lovely this time of year (it’d still be a clusterfuck, but less of one).

8. Is there a book or movie etc. you would recommend to someone who’s new to the person and would like to learn more about them?  

Rommel - The Rommel Papers is a good place to start, there are frequent letters to his wife but the content is primarily military. 

Napoleon - Shannon Selin’s website and book. The book is fiction but she is the lord our god in this fandom for her mad research skills. She provides sources for everything, which makes her the perfect jumping off point. (Now if I can just convince her that what she REALLY needs to do is write another book starring josephine) 

9. What can we learn from them? 

Rommel - when in doubt, bluff like a motherfucker right action is not a mystical, obvious thing at all times, we must do what we believe is right to the best of our abilities while being willing to let compassion guide us onto different paths.

Napoleon - 

human beings are capable of astonishing intellectual and physical feats, and the best of our stories can still be written, they are not confined to antiquity. 

find friends who will support your goals and then listen to their good advice even when it challenges your ego. 

if loud, bossy weirdos can find devoted friends and romantic partners than we’ve got a pretty good shot too.

don’t invade spain

propaganda is half the battle

love, in all its forms, is a resilient motherfucker

don’t interrupt your enemy when he’s making a mistake

strive to be so badass that hundreds of years later, the historical fiction that is all about fighting you has their characters become complete fanboys any time you actually show up (ft. Richard Sharpe in Down With The Tyrant But OMG Harper Look It’s Napoleon *SWOON*, hon. mention also goes to William “Why Aren’t I French” Laurence). 

a willingness to take charge is half the battle for power

bees are a cute fashion accessory and go with anything  

10. Would you want to be friends with them if they were still alive? 

Rommel - I think he’d be a good Dad Friend to have. Someone to ask for advice and go to reenactments with. A good person for moral/personal advice even if their political/social views are outdated. Definite bonding over dogs.

Napoleon - Would entirely depend on how we met. I feel like we’re similar enough on a personal level that it’d be very easy for our personalities to clash, and we’d have to declare ourselves mortal enemies and neither of us would back down from that because what is admitting you might have been hasty. Or, if fate were kind, we’d get on splendidly with constant low levels of dry sarcasm and prank wars. There would also be lots of emotions everywhere, at all times. People would hide. I have to admit I’d still stab somebody if it meant I got to be a Marshal. 

11. The most powerful quote by or about them?

Rommel - have  short one and a long one

"We have a very daring and skillful opponent against us, and, may I say across the havoc of war, a great general." 

- Winston Churchill during 1942. During the fucking war. I mean damn, it doesn’t get better. Though since this is easily the most famous quote about him, have a personal favorite;

“Living legends, they project, each in his way, the classic image of a the warrior: brave, vigorous, sharp of eye and mind, rapid in decision, alert in danger, faster and bolder in the fight than his enemies. of this extraordinary brotherhood is Rommel-the brotherhood of Hector, of Rupert of the Rhine, of those who can only be described as heroes; and it is curious that so determinedly practical a modernist as Rommel-the least fanciful of men- should have joined a company so bonded by myth.” 

-David Fraser from Knight’s Cross: A Live of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel

Napoleon - 

All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others

i mean; 

History is a set of lies agreed upon. 

- Napoleon at some point, i’m not sure. But i’ve always loved it and found it apt. 

[superninjaviolinist]

The Girl With The Black Dragon Tattoo, Chapter 3

I would find out much, much later, what all this future-talk meant, but at that point I was overtaken by overwhelming panic. Romance and love? Big fat red flags in my book. It’s how I was lured before and I swore to myself that I’d never let it happen again.

I took a step back from the brothers. “Stay away from me.”

“Eva, wait—“ Sam started to say.

I began moving faster towards the Continental. “Both of you just stay the hell away from me!”

I’d automatically locked the door when I’d gotten out, and since my brain had gone stupid all I ended up doing was yank uselessly at the handle. Someone put their hand on my arm and I instinctively swiveled around and punched its owner in the face.

Dean Winchester staggered back a few steps and palmed his cheek. He whipped his gaze over to his brother. “Where the fuck did you pick her up?”

“Oklahoma.” I could swear Sam was trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, well, Busty Asian Beauty she ain’t.”

Oh. That tore it. I hate that magazine. My body was closer to Lucy Liu, the A-list actress, than Lucy Lee, the C-cup porn star, and I was tired of hunters trying to compare my more toned, small-breasted form to those squishy, silicone-enhanced inaccuracies. Time to take a stand.

I walked up to Dean and stabbed him in the chest with my finger. “You listen to me, you dim-witted, inbred hick. I don’t know what pool of stupid you crawled out of but I’m not some starry-eyed slut that’s going to fall into your arms just because you went and made up some sci-fi fairy tale!”

“It ain’t a fairy tale!” Dean shouted down at me.

“You expect me to believe that someone flew you into the future where not only am I dead, but I’d had some kind of relationship with your pretty-boy ass?”

“Yes.”

The conviction with which he said that single word took me by surprise. Either Sam’s brother was a complete lunatic or… well, we’re hunters. Weird and unusual is part of the gig. But time travel? That was stretching it. “Prove it.”

I’d apparently stunned the man. “Uh…”

“Something like this happened before,” Sam offered. “Angels have the power to transport people through time.”

“You expect me to believe that? On your word alone?” I threw my hands in the air. “You’re both crazy! Why the hell did I let you drive me all this way after that shit last night? For all I know you two are psycho killer rapists!”

For some reason Dean took a good deal of umbrage against what I’d accused him of. “We ain’t psycho… killer… what you said!”

“Eva,” Sam said gently, “what’s wrong?”

Everything. “Nothing.”

“What’s she talkin’ about, ‘last night’?” Dean asked his brother. “Did you two…?”

Both Sam and I vehemently cried, “No!” “Look,” Sam said to me, “we can still get you to Bobby’s. It’s maybe two hours out. After that, you don’t have to see us ever again.”

His sentiments were wrong, but there was no way he could have known what was to come. Our lives would eventually become so intertwined it would be impossible to separate one from the other without creating tremendous, vacuous spaces. Regardless, I warily accepted the offer of transportation. “Long as we’re going straight there.”

Dean was giving his brother the stink-eye. Sam, thankfully, was unrelenting. “Dean, I promised.”

“Fine,” grumbled the pretty-boy. “Get in the back, Xhang Xiyi.”

I put him on the receiving end of one of my finest glares. “I’m not from China, I’m from San Francisco. And I’m Korean, asshole.”

He threw up his hands in surrender and backed away. “Sorry.”

By the way, Dean still can’t tell the difference. It’s all tits and exoticism to him.

After Sam and I got our things we headed out. The tension in the car was thick; not only were the brothers still dealing with the issues had separated them, Dean was pointedly ignoring me. I had the feeling that he was embarrassed over his proclamation and was now pretending he’d never said it.

We arrived at Bobby’s around noon. I escaped the car as soon as it had rolled to a stop, not bothering to wait for Dean to kill the engine. “Hey!” he barked out the window.

“Fuck off,” I said loudly as I tore open the screen door and headed inside.

I expected to be able to throw myself into Bobby’s arms and give him a tremendously big hug. It had been several months since I’d been able to visit and I was very fond of him. He was sitting behind his desk when I walked in the study and rolled out to greet me. Bobby Singer was wheelchair-bound and I had no idea when or how. “What happened?”

Before he could answer, Dean yanked me out of the room, nearly tearing my arm from its socket in the process. He shoved me up against the hallway wall and pressed one of his forearms against my neck. “Don’t you know not to go barging into people’s houses like that?”

“Let me go. Now.”

“I’d take heed, son,” Bobby said. He sounded way too amused by the situation.

“You know her?” Dean asked incredulously.

Bobby didn’t bother answering. Instead, his eyes flicked downwards. When Dean complied with the silent request he found one of the small daggers I kept up my sleeves pointed directly at the V of his jeans. He grimaced at me. “Now that’s just rude.”

“Me and Eva go back a ways,” Bobby answered. “No need to get your undies in a bunch.”

Reluctantly, Dean backed away. “How?”

“None of your business,” I snapped at him. In a far more sympathetic tone, I repeated my query to Bobby. “What happened?”

“Demon,” he replied succinctly as Sam came in bearing my saddlebags. “Guess that thing down in Oklahoma didn’t go so well.”

“Steve’s dead,” Sam said quietly. “The others got away.”

“Still don’t explain why Eva didn’t come here on her own wheels.”

“Because those fuckers ran over my bike!” I exclaimed.

“On purpose?”

“On purpose.”

“Dickhead move. What did you do?”

Yeah, okay, he was right to assume it was my fault; Bobby knew my mouth tended to run faster than my brain. Except this time I had the upper hand. “Tim-fucking-Janklow sucker-punched me and then used me as bait!”

“Bait for what?”

“Me,” Sam replied. “They… Um…”

“No need, son. I get it.” The gentleness in Bobby’s tone was new to me. I’d never seen him act so paternal to anyone other than me before. Most of his relationships with other hunters were purely professional, Rufus Turner being the exception. I suppose you could call Bobby and Rufus frenemies, if you were being generous. Cantankerous old grumps with grudges would be more accurate.

The Winchesters, seeing that their duty to me was done, prepared to leave. They gave their farewells to Bobby and headed back to their car. I followed them to the porch. “Sam.”

“Yeah?”

”Thanks.”

He gave me a smile. God, the man did and still does have the cutest little dimples. “You’re welcome.”

“Say,” Dean inserted, “how do you know Bobby?”

I’d already told him to mind his business, but seeing the way Bobby acted around these two made me trust them a minuscule amount more. “He saved my life.”

“He does that a lot,” Sam said as he opened the passenger’s side door. “Well, good luck with everything, Eva.”

“See ya,” was Dean’s farewell. I waved, their engine turned over, and they were gone.

I headed back inside. “I don’t got a new bike for you, darling,” Bobby said. “But if you hang about I’m sure one’ll turn up. Unless you think you might head on home?”

Home? I didn’t have a home, not really. I had a place of origin, certainly, but San Francisco wasn’t home anymore. The old, narrow house that I grew up in was sold, its blood-spattered walls covered with thick beige paint. I wonder if the new owners know about the history of horrors their million dollars granted them. “Can I stay upstairs?” I asked. “I won’t get in your way.”

“Back in the old bedroom? Sure. You know, there’s parts and frames all around the yard. Maybe you could cobble something together.”

Put together some Frankenstein’s monster of a motorcycle? “Think I’ll just wait.”

“Suit yourself. Room and board’s same price as always.”

“Home cooked dinners and the occasional supply run. Got it.”

Bobby smiled. “Glad to have you back, Eva.”

We’d had this arrangement, at this point, for about five years. I’d get melancholy and need company, he’d get sick of canned chili, and the two of us would be housemates up until one of us needed to get on the road. Unfortunately, with Bobby’s debilitating condition the only one of us able to indulge in extracurricular activities was me, and he wasn’t shy about showing how dejected he was about it. The man found relief by plugging himself into a bottle of whiskey. Hauling up a dead weight, middle-aged, belligerent alcoholic off the floor is about as easy and delightful as it sounds.

He left at one point because of what he said was a witch. I was a little worried about the gleam in his eye, but I knew better than to pry. When Bobby got back, I was surprised to see that his spirits had risen. The older hunter merely said that he’d had a change in perspective.

A Triton motorcycle from the sixties came in shortly after the witch incident and finally answered my prayers. Some idiot had seen the handlebars and the seat as prime parts and had left the engine intact. It was going to take a bit of work, but that baby was going to be mine.

Several weeks after meeting the weirdo Winchesters I was done fixing up the Triton. The day before I’d done a test run and she moved like a dream. I was wiping the last bits of dirt and oil off it when Bobby rolled in. He gave an appreciative whistle. “That is one mighty fine lookin’ bike.”

I gave him a grin. “No backsies. She’s mine.”

“Promise is a promise.” He scratched under his hat a bit, a sure sign that whatever he had on his mind was something that made him uncomfortable. “Look, I got company coming and I don’t think you wanna be here.”

I grabbed a rag and began cleaning my hands. “What, embarrassed that some Asian chick is now King of the Scrapyard?”

He snorted derisively. “You need a couple more decades of tinkering around here before I give up that title.”

“Then what?”

“It’s Sam and Dean. They’ll be here tonight.”

Ick. “You’re right. I better get going.” I sniffed under an armpit. “Do I have time to get cleaned up?”

“Maybe. Depends on whether or not Dean or Sam is driving.”

“Better hurry then,” I said as I started jogging towards the house.

I’d showered and dressed and was putting the last of my things into my saddlebags (of course I’d gotten them replaced) when I heard a car pull up. I looked out of the window and spotted a truck. The woman getting out was around Bobby’s age: Ellen Harvelle. She strode right in and I could vaguely hear her and Bobby greet one another.

I knew the woman from when she’d managed the Roadhouse, a great bar where hunters had gathered to swap info and stories. I used to swing by whenever I was near; it was nice to talk to a woman that didn’t treat me like either a rival hunter or a stupid little girl that didn’t belong. Her daughter, Jo, and I were on friendly terms through mutual association; we both liked her mother. The place had been demolished by a demon, so I was told, and I was happy to see Ellen alive and well.

When I came down the stairs, bags in hand, I saw Bobby and Ellen in the kitchen talking quietly. I didn’t want to interrupt; I’d been brought up to respect my elders’ privacy. That all went to hell when a low, gravelly voice said from behind me, “Who are you?”

I immediately stepped forward and swung my saddlebags around to clobber whoever it was. My belongings smacked into the man’s head before bursting from their confines and scattering everywhere. Apparently I hadn’t closed them as tightly as I thought. Much to my irritation, the stranger didn’t even flinch. I drew a fist back but was arrested by Ellen shouting, “Whoa whoa whoa!” as she came rushing over.

“Cass, you idjit!” Bobby snapped as he followed her.

I let my hand drop and peered at the newcomer. He was almost the same height as Bobby, a healthy six feet, with tousled dark hair and a set of ancient blue eyes. No standard hunter gear (jeans, shirt, flannel, boots); this guy had a trenchcoat, suit, tie, and even dress shoes. It was like being stared at by a weirdly intense accountant. A handsome accountant. Which made him even more weird.

“Who is this?” the man asked, this time directed at Bobby.

“Evangeline!” Ellen cried warmly. She knew I didn’t like being hugged and settled for patting my cheeks. “It’s been a while.”

Yeah, more than a year at least. I gave her a smile. “I missed you, too. Where’s Jo?”

“Oh, she’ll be along soon. Out with those Winchester boys retrieving the Colt.” I couldn’t tell whether the woman was proud or anxious that her daughter was out with those two freaks.

Hold up. “Wait, the Colt?” I asked, astonished. “The Colt?” Everyone knew about the magical gun wrought to kill everything.

“One and only. Were you heading out? It’d be a shame if you two missed each other.”

“‘Evangeline’,” said the stranger in a thoughtful tone. “‘Bringer of good news’.”

I lifted an eyebrow without looking at him. “Someone want to tell me who special ed over here is?”

“That there’s Castiel,” Ellen replied. “He’s an angel. It’s why he doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of what you’d call ‘social graces’.”

“I’m working on it,” the angel said testily.

“Well, keep at it,” I snapped. “Learn that it’s not nice to sneak up on a girl.”

So it wasn’t love at first sight. That’s for fairy tales and silly romantic movies. In fact, it wasn’t even like at first sight. All I came away with from this encounter was the impression that he was just another big dumb idiot. It would take months, years even, for Castiel to make a dent in that thick steel wall I’d built around my heart, but when he did…

“All right, all right,” Bobby scolded, “stop trying to piss him off. Didn’t you wanna head out before Sam’n’Dean get here? Any minute now they’re gonna be drivin’ up.”

Oh shit. I immediately knelt down and started shoving things back into my saddlebags. The so-called angel stepped out of the way and Ellen joined me. I was still scrabbling for wayward arrows when the sound of an approaching engine came rumbling through Bobby’s screen door. “Sweetie,” Ellen whispered as she handed me a shirt, “you wanna tell me why you’re running from the Winchesters?”

“No time,” I answered as I zipped and buckled up. I hurried to the front door and swung it open… only to smack face first into someone’s chest.

“The hell…?” said its owner, one Dean Winchester.

I shoved passed him, nearly knocking Sam and Jo down on the way, and walked as fast I could towards the shed and my bike.

Of course, the dickhead followed me. “Eva!”

I turned around after getting my bags attached. “What?” I snapped.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For freaking you out last time! I shouldn’t have told you… you know…”

“What?” My lip curled into a sneer. “That we were destined to be? That you’re apparently going to be there holding me when I die?” I walked over to the workbench and snatched up my helmet.

Dean grabbed it out of my hands as soon as I got close enough. “Listen, we don’t know the first thing about each other—“

“You’re goddamn right.”

“—And so far the only things I know about you are that you’re hot and you’re freaking insane!”

I breezed by the first thing he said and latched onto the second. “I’m insane?”

The man gave an exasperated sigh and plunked my helmet onto the back of the Triton. “Look, we’re heading out tomorrow to take on Lucifer. Could use another hand.”

I paused. This was important. Fighting ghouls and vampires wouldn’t mean anything if Satan roasted the planet. I could be part of something big, something vital. It could be that my presence could mean the difference between someone living and someone dying.

There were, however, two big issues with Dean’s request, both of them having to do with him. For one, going up against Lucifer was suicide at best, and with Dean in attendance I had no intention of prophetically fulfilling my demise. For the other, there was no way I was going to dive into that handsome, green-eyed trap. Going into a life and death situation with the man would leave too many openings for him to show me that he was worth falling for. “No,” I said as I swung one leg over onto my bike.

Dean looked at me in disbelief, like I’d told him I hated kittens or something. “No?”

“No,” I repeated as I squished my head into my helmet. The engine purred when I turned the key and I revved the handle a few times to get Dean out of the way. He stepped back and I nearly broke the sound barrier getting away from him.

I didn’t see the Winchesters again for several months after that, thankfully. The world didn’t end but the Apocalypse kept on rolling, which meant that they’d probably failed at stopping Lucifer. When I called Bobby about it a week later he broke the news that the Harvelles had died and confirmed my suspicions about the Winchesters’ defeat.

So much time and so many hunts passed that I figured I was done with those two idiots and put thoughts of them aside. In the weeks before it all went to shit there was a werewolf in Utah and a djinn in Vegas (selling “dreams come true” of all things). Afterwards I’d headed to San Francisco and checked on my sister (still whoring it up on Geary), solved a haunting at Ghiradelli Square while I was there, drove up to Idaho for a pair of ghouls, swung all the way over to North Dakota for a nest of vamps (I loathe those assholes), and ended up in Blue Earth, Minnesota after hearing about a demon infestation.

What’s the saying? Hindsight is 20/20. If I had known how bad it was going to get I would have turned the fuck around.

Blue Earth had been taken over by the church. It’s inevitable that when you deal with Heaven and Hell you get tangled up with religious nuts. This wasn’t the first town like this I’d encountered and it wouldn’t be the last. The difference this time was that I’d ridden willingly in and now I wasn’t allowed out.

The inability to go was more due to the abnormal amount of demons surrounding the perimeter than anything else. Anyone that tried to go by freeway ended up running into a blockade. Anyone trying to go through the woods ended up dead.

I think I could have stood the isolationism if a lot of those people didn’t start seriously freaking me the fuck out. In the past seventy-two hours I’d gotten three marriage proposals, dozens of admonishments over my cleavage (you know, the minuscule amount that I had), and several lectures about my habit of using profanities. The latter two I could ignore, the first was unnerving. Couples were marching down that aisle every day, ones I suspected hadn’t even considered the other person as a viable husband/wife prior to that morning. Unfortunately, this town had more men than women, which meant that the more I refused the more frowns were thrown my way. I slept with my blade in hand just in case someone decided to rouse me in the middle of the night for a shotgun wedding.

The bartender, Paul, was the only person I could regularly stand to be around. We’d even flirted a bit, but the watchful eye of Leah Gideon and the Sacrament Lutheran Militia kept us apart.

Speaking of which: Leah Gideon, Prophet of the Lord, gave me the creeps. I don’t know how to describe it, but there was something about her that was just off. It made me want to stab her in the face.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re the Whore of Babylon masquerading as the pastor’s daughter.

The bar Paul ran was full from lunchtime to closing due to the fact that these people knew the Apocalypse was nigh. It was strange to be around non-hunters who talked about angels and demons casually, slipping them into conversations like some people do sports teams. I suppose with the actual hellspawn around the perimeter and the Prophet talking about her connection to Heaven they had a right to be casual and supercilious about the whole thing, but it didn’t make it any less odd.

Paul was pouring me another beer when they walked in. I’d heard that strangers had rolled into town, demons hot on their tail, I just didn’t expect it to be the Winchesters. There wasn’t much I could do to hide (other than duck under a table), so I did what I could to keep my face pointed away from them. It seemed to work. Sam waltzed right on by while dialing a number on his phone and Dean plopped down at a table almost directly behind me.

I waited to see how long the giant would stay on his call. Once he started talking to Castiel’s voicemail (I didn’t know it then, but for the crime of siding with humanity Cass had been cut off from Heaven’s energy; thus the mundane communication method) I figured that was distraction enough for me to escape. I slapped a twenty down on the bar top, swiveled my stool, and took two steps towards the exit.

“Don’t think I don’t see you there.”

Shit.

“Been a while, Eva,” Dean continued. I turned around, my lips pressed tight. He was slouched in his seat facing the opposite wall and didn’t bother changing positions.

I folded my arms and glowered at the back of his head. “Not long enough.”

“How long would that have to be?”

“I was honestly hoping for, you know, forever.”

Dean gave the peanuts a wry grin. “Yeah, well, me too.”

This was weird. At the time, I didn’t know Dean very well, but I’d gotten the impression from our two rather heated encounters that he was a little more… I don’t know, alive? The way he sat, the way he spoke, it was as if whatever spark had once lit Dean Winchester had guttered out. It was disheartening, and pitiable.

What had happened to him would have been devastating to anyone, really. Dean had basically found out God had said, in terms of the Apocalypse, “Fuck it. You’re on your own.” I’m sure there were more nuances to the message He’d left, but that was the gist. Before receiving that message, Dean had already been on a steady slide towards self immolation and God’s apathy just steepened his descent. This shitstorm at Blue Earth would get him to smash right into the bottom.

Sam slipped by me to sit down with three beers. He held one up to me and gave a small smile in greeting. I’ve never been one to turn down free alcohol. “Hey, Eva,” he said as I sat. “Came here because of the same reason, I assume.”

He was at least unchanged. I nodded. “Been here couple of days already.”

“You’ve been sticking around that long?”

“It’s not a matter of ‘sticking around’. It’s a matter of ‘I can’t fucking leave’.”

Sam glanced at his brother who, I assumed, was supposed to glance back. Instead Dean kept drinking, his eye-line somewhere around his brother’s stomach.

This had passed awkward straight into excruciatingly uncomfortable. I decided to change the subject. “Who were you calling?” I asked (even though I already knew the answer).

“Cass—uh, Castiel. The angel? He said you guys met at Bobby’s and you hit him with your stuff.”

I shrugged. “That’s what he gets for sneaking up on me.”

“He probably didn’t sneak up so much as… appeared in that space.”

“Great. Do they just pop up whenever? Should I expect angels to show up in my shower at some point?” I was starting to wonder whether I could be alone and naked without fearing angelic intrusion.

Sam gave a little chuckle. “I don’t think… well…”

“The bastards are junkless,” Dean inserted. “Probably see a woman’s ass and wonder where her balls went.”

I thought back to that first encounter with Castiel. Clueless and tactless. “Well there’s one less thing to worry about.”

Sam took a swig of beer. “So any clues why the demons are circling this town in particular?”

I shook my head. “Best I could come up with was that they didn’t want the Prophet slipping through their hands.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe the angels are making these people do their dirty work.”

Both Dean and I asked, “Yeah? And?”

Sam blinked disbelievingly at us. “And they could get ripped to shreds!”

“They’ve got their stupid little exorcism chant,” I retorted. “Not to mention their phone line to Heaven. Believe me, these guys are a lot more prepared for slaughter than anyone else I’ve met.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Dean added dismissively. “These people ain’t freaking out, they’re runnin’ to the exit in an orderly fashion. I don’t know that that’s such a bad thing.”

“Who says they’re all gonna die?” Sam snapped back. “Whatever happened to us saving them?”

The church bells started ringing, cutting through whatever Dean was going to say (and also the biting remark I had in mind). I sighed and spent a few seconds chugging down the rest of my beer, a good three-quarters of the bottle. When I was done, I found both brothers goggling at me. Apparently girls in their world didn’t really drink. “What? Ding dongs mean Leah’s had another vision. Time for church. You two coming?”

“You know me,” Dean said with a ghost of his former spunk. “Downright pious.”

The Prophet had seen demons about five miles out all gathered nice and neat in an abandoned farmhouse. This all stank of setup and stupidity but it wasn’t like anyone was going to listen to the drunk old maid who’d rambled into town a few days ago. The only thing of any real consequence occurred when Pastor Gideon began the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

Dean was right behind me. Under his breath he muttered, “Yeah, not so much.” When I turned around, puzzled, he shifted, but didn’t acknowledge my silent query.

The raid itself went without a hitch. People running about chanting their little chant and black smoke flying out of the windows like someone had let loose really ugly balloons. It was afterwards when it all went to shit.

Most of us had already left, me included. Sam and Dean had lingered and so had Dylan, the son of some locals (Rob and Jean? Jane?). Not all the demons had hightailed it as soon as the guns started going off; one had decided to hang out underneath the Winchesters’ car. It pulled the young man underneath and slit his throat before the brothers could do shit.

They came driving back, solemn as all hell, and quietly informed the others about Dylan’s fate. His mother let out a terrible wail. I flinched, not at the mangled body in their back seat, but at that unearthly, devastating sound. I’d seen a silent version under my grandparents’ lips at my parents’ wake. No one should live to bury their own child.

Funerary services were hastily put together for that very evening. Sam, Dean, and I stood at the doorway of the church as it filled. We all felt as if going inside would be an unwelcome intrusion; after all, we were the only non-residents currently in town. A young man’s death was too intimate a tragedy to barge in upon.

Eventually, Dylan’s coffin passed by. His pallbearers, none of whom acknowledged our presence, appeared to be an uncle, grandfather, and several of his friends. Mother and father came stumbling up the steps shortly afterwards. I was staring at the grim wooden box when I heard Dean attempt to give his condolences. “Ma’am, we’re just… very sorry.”

“You know,” the woman hissed through her tears, “this is your fault.”

Her husband said her name quietly in admonishment (Jane! That was it), but before they could go any further, I stepped in front of Dean and snapped, “You can’t blame him for a damn demon. What, you think he personally stuck that thing under his car just to fuck over your son?”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Jane snarled at me. “Blasphemous, drunken whore.”

Dean grabbed my arm and pulled me away before I could smack the bitch. Dylan’s father took the opportunity to hustle Jane inside.

As Pastor Gideon began the service, I jerked my limb out of Dean’s grip. He frowned at me. “She just lost her son,” Dean scolded. “Let her blame whoever she wants.”

I threw my hands up and let them drop. This apathy of his was starting to grate on my nerves. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Before he could retort there was a commotion inside the church. Sam gestured us over. On the floor was Leah, seizing, her father making blandishments until the fit passed. When it did, Pastor Gideon helped his daughter sit up. “Dad,” she gasped, “it’s Dylan.”

“Just rest a minute, huh?”

“No, listen! Dylan’s coming back.”

Leah Gideon, Prophet of the Lord, stood at the pulpit and promised paradise, including the inevitable reunion with lost loved ones… if we followed the angel’s commandments. As I listened to her rattle off the list of demands my eyebrows crawled higher and higher. No gambling. No drinking. No premarital sex. In fact, no unmarried man or woman was allowed to be alone with the opposite gender without a church-sanctioned chaperone. Prayer morning, noon, and night. Curfew from nine to six.

Dylan’s parents, as well as a majority of the townsfolk, ate it up. Sam and I glanced at each other, astonished. I looked over and saw Paul staring at the girl in disbelief. Dean projected weary resignation.

The brothers split up when the congregation finally dispersed. Dean went back inside to speak to whomever while Sam started walking towards the town’s single motel. Paul had given me one of those sweet smiles of his as he’d passed. Maybe we could start following the rules tomorrow instead…?

I headed for the bar. It was nearly dark, but unlike every other night I’d been in town no one else came in. Whatever. It wasn’t curfew yet and Paul was a local. He flipped the neon “open” sign and settled behind the counter. I swung myself onto what I had privately claimed as “my” barstool and he plunked the usual down in front of me.

A few minutes into my beer and Sam walked in. He greeted us both before sitting beside me.

The boys bantered for a bit, Paul revealing the abrupt change in most of the town’s attitudes once Leah had gone Prophet. He was the only person I knew that was outspoken about the obvious fraudulence underlying everyone’s sudden piety. It’s why I liked him best.

“Not a true believer, I take it,” Paul said to Sam.

“I believe, yeah. I do.” He shrugged. “I’m just pretty sure God stopped caring a long time ago.”

We scoffed at the indifference of our supposed creator. “What about you?” Sam asked me.

I was on my third beer and my guard had slipped a bit. “Parents were devout. I believe that He’s out there but I’ll be damned if I give the son of a bitch the time of day.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Paul said. The three of us clinked mugs.

We continued to drink until curfew. Paul and Sam talked about demons and television and sports while I munched on nuts and irregularly provided my opinions. It was a comfortable spot, cushioned by alcohol, and we drew a modicum of relief after the trials of the past twenty-four hours.

Of course, shit wasn’t done yet. I’d been scrolling through news bits on my phone when my service abruptly died. “What the fuck?”

“What is it?” asked Sam. I showed him. He and Paul pulled out their own phones and, despite the varying carriers, found the same problem. “What the hell?”

“Great,” Paul grumbled. “And it’s ‘curfew’.”

Sam groaned and staggered to his feet. “Guess I’ll see you two tomorrow then.”

We ribbed him for a bit about being a good little cultist before he left. Paul sighed and picked up Sam’s empty mug. “You going too?”

“I dunno.” I gave him a (drunken) smile. “You want me to go?”

He returned the expression, eyes dipping down to the skin I had peeking out from the V of my shirt and back up again. “Not particularly.”

I reached over to grab his button-up and pulled him close. “Then what do you say you lock up that door, close the lights, and we see what happens?”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied huskily.

Sex with Paul was what I had come to expect from these small-town guys, but in his case the alliteration was in a good sense. See, when you live in a place where nearly everybody knows everybody most people end up having no more two or three sexual partners; the variety is lacking and the gossip is damning. These guys were, unfailingly so, inexperienced, with more clumsy enthusiasm than anything else. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

Paul fell into that same, sorry category, but he had the exception of being gifted in both stamina and endowment. Good God, his was a dick to remember. He was sweet about the whole thing, too, getting all shy about putting on a condom and insisting on lapping at my folds until I was good and wet. I was the one who was pushing, eager to lose myself in the exertion, the alcohol not nearly enough to dull the effects of all the messed up shit that had gone down in the past eighteen hours.

The man obliged, eventually, after he had slid himself deliciously inside of me. We were on the edge of one of the tables and I bit my lip as I gazed into his eyes, my hand gripping his shirt as my legs wrapped around his waist, before quietly requesting he get on with fucking me. Paul grinned, gave me a few experimentally harsh thrusts, before shunting that wonderful cock of his in and out of my cunt.

We were just coming down, wrapped in post-coital bliss with his head resting between my breasts, when a rock came crashing through a window. I let out a shriek and he hurriedly drew away. Paul buttoned his pants back up as he went to investigate while I shoved my bra and shirt down and went looking for my jeans. I didn’t find them before the door smashed in and a half dozen locals, spearheaded by Dylan’s parents, marched in.

My shirt was thankfully long enough to give me a shred of modesty, but it was obvious what we had been doing. Paul was still flushed and his buttons were askew while I was, well, pantsless. Jane’s lip curled up at me. “She was right!” the woman cried. “You’re the reason why the angels are angry at us! Fornicators! Unbelievers! Blasphemers!”

I could have sworn we were in Blue Earth, Colorado, and not Castle Rock, Maine. “We’re two consenting adults,” I said as calmly as possible. “What does it matter?”

“What matters is that you are keeping us from joining our son!”

Okay, that made absolutely no sense, but when Pastor Gideon came rushing in things started to click into place. “Please!” he cried. “Calm down. There’s no reason to do this! Let’s just talk it over.”

“The angels are angry, Pastor,” said one of the other women. “If we want to enter paradise we need to be rid of these people!”

“They need to leave town now,” Rob growled. “Then we can tear apart this den of debauchery and lust.”

A chorus of agreement swept through the group. Bolstered by the support, Rob lifted the bat and smashed it down on the nearest set of liquor bottles. Seeing his livelihood threatened, Paul grabbed the weapon and began grappling with his old friend. Pastor Gideon did his best to physically come between them while shouting for peace.

Jane and another local woman tried to corner me into the bar. I still hadn��t found my pants, goddamnit! “Touch me,” I warned, “and I’ll break your face.”

My bravado was swept away by apprehension when I saw Jane reach into her jacket. There was no mistaking the black object hidden within as anything other than the handle of a semiautomatic. I was contemplating ways of disarming her when a new voice asked, “Need some help, padre?”

Fuck. Dean Winchester. I risked glancing over towards the doorway and saw the poster child for Prozac assessing the situation. My underdressed state made him blink but he was otherwise concerned by the rest. Pastor Gideon took advantage of the momentary lull in violence to plead, “Just everybody cool down for a minute.”

“‘Cool down,’ hmm?” Paul repeated angrily. He turned towards Dean. “My friends are trying to run me out of town. Do you think I should ‘cool down’?”

I lost track of the ensuing conversation as I had, with great relief, finally caught sight of my missing jeans. I was inching towards them when I heard Paul say loudly, “This is my home. You want me out of here? You’ll have to drag me out.”

I snatched up my pants and held them close to my chest. Maybe I’d get ten seconds in all this chaos to shove them back on.

Or not. I was sliding my way to Paul’s side when Dean abruptly slugged Rob. The Pastor shouted, “No no no— stop —“

There were two loud reports. Something punched me in the stomach.

Then nothing.

Acknowledgement : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode “99 Problems” (SPN 5.17).