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theawkwardterrier · 4 years ago

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Blossoms Every Day

Summary: When you work at a flower shop requests for elaborate bouquets are just part of the job. Requests for bouquets this specific, on the other hand...

The other of my rejected Steggy Secret Santa stories. I was looking for AU tropes to play around with, thought of flower shop...and immediately began to write it in the weirdest way possible.

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After three years of being the only employee of Asters to Zinnias other than Michaela, the owner, you are fairly familiar with the peaks and valleys of the business. Valentine’s Day is big, of course (and the day or two afterward are even bigger for more elaborate apology arrangements) but considering the shop’s proximity to the university campus, there’s also an uptick in sales around graduation time and about a month after the fall semester starts each year, when the kids who’d met and fallen for each other at orientation have their first tiny anniversary.

Summer and winter breaks, though, are generally...well, you don’t want to call them dry spells because it would give Michaela an onset of migraine face, but they’re certainly less busy. That’s why on a drizzly Wednesday morning at the beginning of January, you feel certain enough about having the shop to yourself that, while you dust the vases behind the counter, you have your earbuds in playing an episode of the soothingly-voiced serial murder podcast you love.

The volume is turned up pretty loud, so you don’t hear the bell over the door (don’t tell Michaela) or the approaching customer’s footsteps, or your own shocked squeak when you turn to water the spider plant on the counter and find someone standing there.

“Sorry,” you gasp, pausing mid-murder description and hastily shoving your earbuds into your pocket. “How can I help you?”

There’s something of a stunned look on the man’s face, and he stares for a moment as if he doesn’t quite know how to answer the question and would have preferred you stay oblivious to him for another few moments while he gathered his thoughts.

Finally he says, “I—I think I need a recommendation. Can you think of what flowers would say ‘welcome to campus’ to a really smart visiting professor in the history department who specializes in European women's and gender history in the mid-nineteenth to mid-twentieth centuries?” And then, as if he wants to make sure you have every bit of information which might be helpful, he adds, “Her last book was an amazing collection of oral histories about women in the UK during World War II.”

You’ve picked out plenty of arrangements for people who didn’t know daffodil from a delphinium, for students who’ve walked in asking simply for “something pretty,” and you consider yourself pretty quick on your feet at this point. After a moment of staring, you offer weakly, “A nice plant always brightens up a new office. Maybe bamboo, for good luck?”

He walks out with his potted bamboo twenty minutes later. You spent two minutes wrapping the pot. He spent eighteen writing and rewriting cards. Hopefully the professor really likes bamboo.

Two days later, a woman walks in, comes right over to where you’re finishing up a new baby bouquet to send over to the hospital, and asks for “something to show gratitude for making me feel welcome. An arrangement expressing appreciation for brightening up my office.”

“Oh,” she adds, “and his eyes are a lovely shade of blue, if you have something that might suit.”

Holding back a groan, you start to offer some options. Apparently she liked the bamboo well enough.

You don’t see either of them for three weeks, long enough for you to have told the story to Michaela then to a couple of friends over beers, long enough that the pair of them are fading into a slightly amusing anecdote.

The man shows up just after you’ve come back from lunch break. You’re still wiping a few tricky crumbs off your sweater as he tells you that he’s looking for something that says “sorry about that horrible meeting, and here’s hoping for less exposure to jerks in the future - although since too many of them are tenured, I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Sunflowers are cheerful?” you suggest. “Maybe mixed with some tulips or snapdragons, plus white poppies - they symbolize consolation - and some greenery?”

He’s pretty young, probably too young for tenure or a significant salary, and you can see that his dark, tidy dress pants are getting a bit soft around the hems, but he doesn’t back down when you quote the price.

That evening, when it’s dark and the wind is blowing chill outside and you sit at the counter with your face in your hand dreaming of getting out of here and going home to hot soup and a blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak, there’s a call on the store’s phone. You hadn’t talked to the woman long enough in person for her voice to be familiar, but you have no doubt as to the identity of the person requesting a “thank you for speaking up to our terrible colleagues” bouquet.

The thing is that they never seem to show up or call when Michaela or any of the regular customers are around, or when any of the neighboring shopkeepers are popping in for a break and to share some gossip. You’re the only one who ever sees or speaks with them. Every month that the receipts tally with the inventory, you have a flash of relief at this small proof that they actually exist.

But this means that it’s up to you to suggest red tulips to represent “those journal reviewers were idiots to turn your paper down” and yellow poppies for “congratulations on the high average on your students’ last exam.” You’re the one charged with making arrangements in honor of “I had a great time at trivia last night,” and “best wishes on your sports team making the championship, even though I’m sorry you can’t be at the game,” and “you looked like you were a bit down yesterday,” and “that book you recommended was so great that I’ve already started on the sequel,” and “sorry I was short with you in the hall this morning, my neighbors threw a raging party last night even though it was 2:30 on a Wednesday.” In April, you help choose the three most perfect crimson roses in the shop to add to a birthday bouquet of calla lilies and orchids, and you don’t say anything about how the shade reminds you of a certain hue of lipstick or about what everyone knows red roses mean.

You’ve kept up with your schoolwork through it all, acquitted yourself nicely. Graduation day is approaching quickly now. But somehow, between helping Michaela find your replacement among the newer students and saying a slow goodbye to all your campus haunts, you can’t help but wonder how things will end for your two most politely irritating regular customers. Visiting professors aren’t meant to stay, after all.

The arrangement you put together in early May, tiger lilies and sweet peas and irises, is the largest yet. You’ve been told that it’s meant to say “I’m sorry that you can’t stay, but I know that there’s something amazing waiting for you,” although the sadness is obvious in his eyes as you hand it over. Nevertheless, he thanks you sincerely for all your help.

“I’m sure you’re glad not to have to see me anymore,” he jokes. You shake your head. Once, maybe, you would have secretly agreed, but in a certain way you’ve come to look forward to the challenge that only these two seem to give you. More than that, you’ve enjoyed seeing two people so eager to demonstrate their affection for each other. They seem to have said more with flowers over these last months than most people say with words in a lifetime; sometimes you wonder if they even have to speak when they encounter each other.

With a last smile, he turns to go, just as the bell above the door jingles, and she steps through.

“Peggy,” comes the surprised exhalation. You can’t see his face, although you can imagine the widened eyes, the parting of his mouth. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” The enormous bouquet in its vase lowers just a bit, so they can look each other in the face over your handiwork.

“Steve. Hello,” she says, surprised too but covering it better. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before our schedules overlapped here.”

You’ve seen people grin and shriek and tear up when presented with flowers before, but there’s something entirely new about the particular quiet tenderness with which they are regarding each other. It sort of makes you want to just stand quietly and perhaps hold the hand of someone you love.

“Your order is ready,” you say instead, hefting her vase forward onto the counter, filled with primroses, violets, and camellias. And before you can think better of it, before you can imagine what Michaela would say, you add, “One ‘Thank you for everything. If you ask me, I’ll find a way to stay’ bouquet, as requested.”

For a minute, nothing moves, and in the drowning silence you wonder if your last memory of this job is going to be filled with shouting and humiliation and demands to speak to your manager. But instead their eyes seem to shift into deeper focus on each other, as if you aren’t even there.

“Do you really—” he swallows, voice somehow even softer as he continues. “You don’t usually say things you don’t mean.”

“No,” she responds. “And I’m not now. They offered to have me stay on, if I want to.”

“But Cambridge—You can’t just tell Cambridge to go screw themselves.” The vase in his hands seems to be preventing him from gesturing the way he wants to, but he holds himself very still and her eyes don’t leave his.

She laughs a bit. “Of course not, but I can tell them that there are greater opportunities available to me here.” She places a hand on his arm. “And Steve? To be clear, I don’t simply mean academic ones.”

And suddenly the spotlight turns back onto you as he turns abruptly and says, “Can you send these over to the hospital instead? I don’t know that I need them anymore.” As you give a quick nod, somewhat shocked by the rapid turn of events, he strides over to set the vase gently back onto the counter beside hers.

“You can deliver mine there as well,” she tells you. “I think this is the sort of conversation you have in words rather than plants.” She steps forward and extends her hand. He glances at it, at her face, then intertwines his fingers with hers. The bell jingles behind them as they step out the door together.

A year later, you’re waiting for your lunch order at the specialty salad place near your new job when your phone vibrates with a text. You’d given your number to your replacement just in case you were needed to shed light on the location of the fancy twine or what to get Michaela at Starbucks when she was groaning over the January billing, after the holiday sales had dropped off and before the Valentine’s orders had started coming in. This is the first time it’s been used.

What in the world do I put in a proposal bouquet that’s meant to symbolize “You are the best, most brilliant woman in the world, someone who knows herself better than anyone I’ve ever met. I can’t fully describe when you are to me and I’d wait for you forever, but if you’re ready, I would love to be married to you”???????

You give a shout of a laugh, right there in the crowd, not caring about the glances thrown your way or the call of your name at the pickup area. You’re too busy typing back: Okay, you’re going to want to have orange blossoms in there…

#Steggy fic #Steggy #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #why am I like this???

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bangtanblurbs · 3 years ago

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autumn leaves

song: autumn leaves by BTS

first experience: my first listen of autumn leaves was when HYYH pt. 2 released. thanksgiving had just ended -- it was 2015. i was well into my fourth year of undergraduate studies and going through both a rough patch in some respects but also in others -- hitting my stride. i remember my first listen through of HYYH pt. 2 was in my tiny dorm room, perched on my bed, avoiding the responsibility of studying for my final exams. autumn leaves followed skit in the tracklisting, and before skit came baepsae. talk about whiplash... my emotions were all over the place. immediately i was taken by the unique backbeat and the beautiful blend of devastating vocals with emotional raps. for me, autumn leaves was immediately a favorite of mine from the album -- following closely behind butterfly. i can confidently say today though that the song is one of my top ten bangtan songs of all time. something about the sound, the lyrics, and the emotions i can hear in their voices makes it one of the most powerful rap ballads in the bangtan repertoire. i can remember distinctly i came to this revelation around christmas of 2015 as i continued to loop HYYH pt. 2 and really feel each beat and sound within the individual tracks.

at this time i was going through a period of great change in my life - and autumn leaves is the perfect song for change. it’s a song about losing a love but also about feeling as if you are losing a piece of yourself. there are many ways to interpret the song outside of just being another sad love song -- that is something that struck me. the lyrics speak to several facets of what happens when you give pieces of yourself to others, or when you reach crossroads in your life. finding this song at this particular moment in my life was like finding energy and light at a time of extreme darkness. it was healing. soothing.

feelings: i have too many. as always. autumn leaves is special to me because when i listen to it i’m reminded of both the place i was in when the sound found me, but also more recent development in my life that continue to relate to the song. when i first heard autumn leaves, i’d recently ended a relationship i’d been far too invested in despite knowing it was going to be a dead end - for about three years. i felt like i was at a point in my life where i needed to figure out who the hell i was without the one i’d loved. it’s funny though - i was happy to be free of that relationship, to be free of him, the pressures he’d put upon me. what do dead leaves mean if not a new spring right around the corner? perhaps i was feeling lost, but in my mind it was only temporary -- the dead must fall away to bring forward the spring.

that being said, i did mourn. not in the way you might think, but in the way that one mourns for lost time, lost identity. so often we, as women, give up our identities when we are in relationships. we allow others to define us in terms of those that we are in relationships with. i’ve realized this now that i’m older -- now that i’m more at peace with my bisexuality -- the notion that our patriarchal society defines us in terms of the men within our lives rather than our own talents and identities. this particular blog isn’t a space for my feelings on that topic though -- what i will say is that autumn leaves comforted me. perhaps i felt that i was at a point where my leaves were dying -- but does that mean the tree is dead? absolutely not. spring would come. my life would be reborn with a new focus taking over.

this being said -- i’ve always been one of those people that holds onto the past. i always wanted to be solid, non-changing, someone with convictions that they carried along from life. i think this stems from experiencing the death of a close friend while i was very young. i cherished the memories associated with her to the point where i didn’t want to lose the person i was when i knew her. so that’s always complicated change for me -- made the moments where the last leaves fell from the autumn trees that much harder. sure, spring was on its way, but what did that mean? would i lose the memories and the moments when my leaves where at their brilliance the previous season? or would i still carry those with me? what if i needed to correct course and completely rewrite who i was over the past -- would that mean losing who i was when i was loved by those i valued in the past? of course not -- but for some reason the more emotional sides of me didn’t see things in such a fluid way. lost was more profound when i was younger because it was also accompanied with these fears over the loss of my identity.

as i’ve gotten older i’ve realized that identity can have staying power whilst also being something that is fluid. transmuting something doesn’t mean destroying or overwriting it. it means building upon the base and modifying it so that things are more brilliant. the me that existed before and during my long-term relationship was the same me i’d carry into the future, but with many more improvements for my own wellbeing and ability to express myself. for me, autumn leaves is just that. whilst on the surface it may convey the emotions of a breakup -- it also simply conveys the feelings that we get when we progress from one period of life to another. we leave parts of ourselves behind in order to improve. does that mean we are fundamentally changed? absolutely not. it means that we have learned from the past -- that we have made progress. in the same way that trees grow and change over the years. perhaps they look differently (taller, greener in hue? more branches?) but they still provide us with lushness and shade.

personal connection: perhaps i’ve jumped ahead... i’ve already delved into this in the feelings section. that being said... i hope that my story can bring comfort to someone else. or perhaps help you all think about the ways in which bangtan songs can promote healing in your own lives.

since my initial experience with the song i’ve had many other moments where i’ve turned to autumn leaves for comfort. i didn’t just leave it in the past -- it’s come with me as i’ve gotten older and moved into new spaces in my life. particularly i quite literally moved and started a huge new chapter in my life. and on this, autumn leaves has been a song i frequently find myself searching for. there’s a line in the song that resonates with me -- it’s in the bridge: “i hold on to these faded memories / is this greed? / i try to look back on these lost seasons / i try to turn back”

initially i’d been excited for my big move from atlanta to washington dc. i thought it’d be the moment where i finally showed people back home that i wasn’t a failure, that all the pride i’d held in myself and my intellectual accomplishments was valid... but partnered with that came the intensive homesickness, the feeling of being an alien. i wasn’t really welcome here in dc. i still don’t feel welcome, but that’s a story for another day - another song. the reality is though, i moved just as the seasons turned to fall. it felt like my old life was falling away, i was bidding adieu my old life -- the community that had raised me since i was eighteen -- it was all gone. i was scared, terrified my friends wouldn’t keep in touch, afraid i’d have to change who i was to experience success (mask my accent, dye my hair, use the language of the elites)... while it’s not a breakup in the way the autumn leaves reads, i felt like i was having to plead with myself not to let go of who i was just for the sake of being accepted here, or for the sake of making my day to day life easier. the beat of the song brought me comfort as i walked to school, where i received the fake smiles of professors and classmates... i pleaded with myself -- to never let the parts of me that had gotten me to where i was fall away... to always let those dead leaves be the fertilizer for who i was becoming, for the me that would deliver myself closer to my dreams.

even now -- i listen to autumn leaves and think about what i’m going to carry forward as the seasons change and we begin to work our way into a new normal in this pandemic. what parts of me will remain? what relationships will i keep? what *should* fall away, and what will i beg to keep around rather it’s healthy or not? i’m not sure. but closing my eyes and listening to the steady sound of autumn leaves brings me nothing but comfort.

song breakdown

musically: autumn leaves is one of the most iconic songs from the HYYH era. the beat is iconic, the mix of vocal line and rap line from verse to chorus is completely seamless, it’s almost like a ballad rap (so iconic of the HYYH era, with songs like love is not over). the asian style beats, and synth... the sounds of the song are flawless from start to finish. the underlying beat of the song is so smooth, it feels almost like constant crashing waves, the ebb and flow of the beat with a few accents to highlight the emotional pick-ups of the verses.

now -- it was controversial at the time -- many claim that autumn leaves samples beats from deadroses by blackbear. rather that’s true or not, i don’t know. but i find that listening to both songs back to back, they’re speaking to a lot of similar themes but with their own distinct sound and messages. there’s something about the genius of the back beat mixed with the emotionally charged rapping that sets autumn leaves apart -- also the use of vocal line is completely distinct and adds to the emotion in the sound.

vocally: i don’t have as much to say about the vocals in this song. they’re beautiful, with vocal providing honey belts throughout the choruses, which sound more like a repeated bridge. we also see the slower, more emotionally accented rap style from each of rapline. the integration of the vocals and rap are iconically HYYH and BTS. we see the raps pick up, and slow down providing for pre-choruses to build into the beautiful vocal ballad ranges.

autumn leaves performed live -- it’s something incredible. something i’m thankful i was able to experience. bangtan obviously never disappoint, but you can really hear the emotions in their voice with autumn leaves. the perfect adlibs, the changing rap paces, the roughness of rapline’s lower registers... it delivers the sadder themes of the song perfectly.

lyrically: time for a DEEP dive yet again. autumn leaves is about change, the loss of a love. of course meanings can be layered, it can be about change, but on the very surface its a song about loss of love because of changes over time.

jin and jungkook start out the song beautifully. the lyrics lead in directly addressing the theme: “fall like those dry leaves / just falling without strength, my love.” indicating that the song is like a letter - it’s a message to a love. the speaker is comparing their situation to a dead leaf, useless... time has run out... time to leave and fade away... something new to come a replace. falling without strength, it seems as if the speaker is saying they’ve got no more fight in them anymore, they’ve given up and realized continuing the fight is futile. it’s time to just let everything fall away, fade into black. “your heart just goes far away / i can’t catch you / i can’t catch you anymore, anymore / i can’t hold onto you, yeah” as much as the speaker would like to hold onto the moment they are in, hold onto the person they’re with... they can’t anymore. the other person is too far away. time has led to them drifting further apart, their relationship falling away like a dead leaf.

yoongi starts off the first rap, leading in with heavy emotions and continuing the story, and theme of a tree moving into fall. “those fallen leaves that look so insecure / seem like they’re looking at us.” the leaves have already fallen off the tree now, they’re dead on the ground -- peering back up at the speaker and their partner. i interpret this as the leaves are looking back at something they used to be a part of, something familiar to them, just as leaves are a part of our lives, trees spectating our lives as we live. these leaves were a part of their lives -- and now they’re gone, a piece is dead now. “if i touch your hand, even if it’s all at once / it seems like it’ll all become crumbs” -- this line illustrates again the analogy that the leaves are like the speaker’s significant other, someone that might just crumble away like it was never even there before, like a dream, it’s that distant. “i only looked / with the autumn wind” the seasons have changed, it’s that time, it’s been that time, and now the wind is a force that finally pushing the leaf off the tree, finally pushing the relationship or moment of life to end. “your words and expressions that become cold at some point / i can see that our relationship is fading / an empty relationship like the autumn sky” this line directly refers to the relationship like the seasons -- there was a spring, beautiful and blooming, love blossomed. and in summer it burned. but as time went on, the clouds went away and the rain stopped (the autumn sky doesn’t bring the spring showers to nurture the relationship anymore) and the fire consumed everything, burning it out and leaving nothing. “an ambiguous difference compared to before / today of all days, the much quieter night” there’s nothing left -- there no more crackle of the fire burning, no more love. it’s empty, and gone. but nobody knew when it became this way or why, it just did. “one lead left clinging to a branch / it’s shattering, i see the end.” there’s something hanging on -- perhaps it’s just the memory -- perhaps it’s just the part of them that is afraid of change, that wishes they could stay in the warmth. but even so, it’s beginning to crumble, it’s beginning the process to fall away. “dead leaves becoming dried / the silence inside your aloof heart / please don’t leave me / please don’t leave me, crumbling dead leaves” from dead to dried, the emphasis is made that at some point things have moved past ending or that they have been done for quite some time and for them to now also be dried. that being said they’re dried, not gone, the memories exist the emotions have left their place. someday the marks of this relationship will impact and provide the basis for another with someone else -- for better or worse.

then, we reach the bridge-like chorus. it’s simple in lyrics despite emotion packed in tone. “i want the you that meets my eyes / i want the you that wants me again” this line indicates that the partner in this situation has walked away and had decided not to even acknowledge the speaker. to pretend they don’t exist, to remove them from their life -- perhaps to not even keep them as a memory. “please don’t leave me / please don’t fall / never never fall / don’t go far away” the speaker begins to beg, holding onto the last few minutes of whatever they believe is left of the relationship. the begging of “don’t fall” is at odds with the previous verse about a leaf already fallen -- perhaps the chorus is coming from a more desperate state, or a moment before the inevitable happened (the season changed, the leaves fell).

the post chorus brings in jin and continues with the same lament - the same desperate begging. “baby you, girl i can’t let you go / baby you, girl i can’t give up on you” the speaker is determined to hold onto the moment before the final fall. they are unwilling to let it all go -- hanging on to the last moments but also to the memories it seems. “like those falling dry leaves / this love, like dry leaves / never never fall / it’s fading.” at this point the chorus has progressed to where the leaves are fading and falling -- morphing into something that is no longer a leaf anymore. what is the speaker holding onto any more? just as memories too fade -- is there anything even left?

the next verse brings in namjoon, it plays off of the themes and tones in yoongi’s verse. it begins with the leaves already having fallen. there’s no more grasping onto what was, it’s much more about moving on and the ways the memory frames our ability to go forward. “like all the dry leaves fall / like all the things i thought would last forever are leaving / you are my fifth season” the speaker couldn’t imagine this happening -- a fifth season, there is no such thing. the leaves have fallen, despite him never imagining that it would occur, he’s dumbstruck. there’s a level of naivety here -- speaking to the things they thought would last forever -- which harkens back to the entire HYYH era theme. youth. learning growth. namjoon is speaking to new steps in life happening after finding out that what was familiar and comfortable is gone, and will not return as he is stepping into a fifth season and uncharted territory. “even if i try to see you, i can’t look / you’re still green to me / even if the heart doesn’t move, it moves by itself / lingering feelings hung out piece by piece like laundry” namjoon is charging here that he’s placing more emphasis on the past and the memories he holds rather than wanting to confront the reality that the other person has changed. they’re still green - young, fresh, healthy... he can’t help but still be in love because he cannot confront the fact that the other person has in fact changed. and at the same time all of this change and loss has made him raw, he cannot conceal his feelings even when doing mundane day to day things... his emotions hung out for all to see. “only crimson memories fall / from above me / even if my branch doesn’t shake / they constantly fall” the colors have changed from green to crimson, he is forgetting the hard times -- the memories that are rotten. the other memories, even if he keeps trying to hang onto them, they’re also going - being tainted by the dark and unhappy reality of things begin done. “right, my love must fall / in order to rise” he realizes, he need to cut the baggage, cut his false belief that things are still good, so that he can start a new season and try again. embrace his youth once again and heal. “even when you’re near, my two eyes / are far away, it’s happening / i’m being thrown away like this / inside my memories, i become young again” he emphasizes again that he cannot confront the reality of loss of this other person but realizes that it’s completely out of his control - he is the one being thrown. but he knows he can retreat to whatever space he needs to in order to cope or heal, he can hide inside his youth in his mind. he can stay there until he heals and can emerge once again.

the chorus the repeats again, but this time it moves into the beautifully delivered bridge by taehyung. he begins with his low and smooth range “why can’t i give up on you yet / i hold on to these faded memories” which calls directly to namjoon’s verse. the seasons are changing, but he cannot let go of the past. things are fading but they remain his refuge. “is this greed? / i try to look back on these lost seasons / i try to turn back” he begins to realize that there’s an element to these emotions that might be toxic, that he wants but he knows he cannot have what he wants, or that he wants too much. he wishes he could retreat back to the summer, or the spring. turn back time and hide in those brighter moments.

the final verse is beautifully delivered with hoseok’s unique style. he offers an unexpected conclusion to the hopelessness of yoongi’s verse and the denial and dismissal in namjoon’s. “burn them brightly, woosh / it was all beautiful, right, our path / but they’ve all faded” hoseok remembers fondly the memories, reflects positively on the way that things had been going... but he recognizes that that path exists no more -- those leaves are dead and gone. he uses the word “burn” which is often what happens with dead leaves, they’re burning brightly those memories -- like they’re seared into his mind and heart. they’ll never leave his essence. “dry leaves come down like tears / the wind blows and everything grows apart all day” this line beautifully captures the mourning process and the confusion that follows -- the learning to unlearn and untangle your life from another person’s. to move away from something that was so permanent in your life and mind. “the rain is falling and you’re shattering / until the very last leaf, you you you” the weather references in this verse are fitting for the theme of seasons but they also take control away from the speaker - make reference to the fact that even as they speaker would like to, he cannot control his emotions just like he cannot control the situation and relationship coming to an end. the very last leaf -- he tried to hold on, he waited till the end, but finally the hope is gone.

the chorus repeats with some additional lines bracketing it by taehyung. ultimately the song leaves us with a feeling of being unsettled as things came to an ended. time passed by and things changed -- and end was inevitable. memories are what is left to hold onto. seasons change, just like we grow up or change. things in our lives will run their course, especially relationships. we learn from them, and even if we don’t want them to -- they leave scars... no matter how much we plead. but the reality is, we can retreat to whatever place in our mind or memory that we need to in order to repair ourselves to try again.

performance: the main video that is available online for autumn leaves is a performance from HYYH on tour. i cannot pinpoint the location of the filming, but it is the same as it was when i saw BTS live in 2016 in macau for HYYH the epilogue on tour. you can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrM53Y9hHV0&ab_channel=lestwins1524

the performance is very much understated but beautiful. vocals and raps are delivered with more emotion than was captured in the recorded version. members do not perform any choreographed dances, but lights and graphics highlight each member as they come into focus to deliver their portion of the song. it’s beautiful and it’s just what was needed to portray the emotion and depth of the themes in autumn leaves.

in my own personal experience, seeing this song performed live was incredibly profound. the entire arena was silent. all eyes on bangtan and listening for each of the incredibly raw verses to be peformed. the crisp emotion laden in the vocal line choruses. the song is beautiful. it’s somber and mature. it exemplifies the drama of the HYYH era -- with lyrical and performance genius that is unparalleled. i’ve uploaded to this post my horrible video but i hope you enjoy ~~

tl;dr: autumn leaves might seem like another breakup song, but there’s more to it. it beautifully emphasizes the power of memory, time passage, and the desire to hold onto past versions of themselves. which for many listeners is far more profound than just a breakup -- there’s so many times when we need to leave behind moments in our lives, friends, family members... and while we want to hold onto something that is familiar, we can’t. they’re leaving, we are moving on... seasons come and go no matter how much we wish they’d just stay constant. dead leaves fall away, even when we’d wish the summer and spring would stay, they can’t. life is cyclical in nature. which harkens us back to the themes in spring day as well. the sun will always come out, the seasons will change... but we have to confront the fact that sometimes we will experience pain, loss, and change.

#bangtan #bts #lyrics #analysis #army #autumn leaves #bts army #hyyh #most beautiful part of life

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write-place-write-time · 4 years ago

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Sharing It

[ Can be read as a sequel to “Keeping It” or as a standalone ]

“Mmm…. no.”

“You’re maddening.”

“No argument there.”

“That is also maddening.”

Molly sighed and put down her tablet, the medical journal she’d been trying to read for the last ten minutes a lost cause. “You’re both maddening.”

Her husband smirked behind his cup of tea, an eyebrow cocked over his reading glasses. “It is hereditary, you know.”

“Yeah, Mum. Uncle Mycroft is maddening, and I know Dad thinks Gamma and Papa are--”

Sherlock shot his gaze to their daughter in a mock-glare. “Shush. Gamma can likely hear you, even fifty miles away.”

“Which is what you find maddening,” was her sly response.

Molly reached for a piece of toast, a small grin on her face. Sherlock nudged her calf with his bare foot under the breakfast table.

“Dr. Hooper-Holmes, I’ll have you know you are maddening too. I’ll also remind you that you contributed the other half of the maddening genes we see in the creature at our table.”

“Creature?!” Another bare foot swept and nudged Sherlock’s calf, though harder than he’d nudged Molly’s.

Laughter ensued, as it usually did when Sherlock teased the girl.

“Darling, what prompted the maddening argument?” Molly asked her, nibbling her toast.

“I asked Dad if I could help with the Livingston case. DI Dimmock called this morning and will be here by noon.”

“And,” Sherlock interrupted, “I politely - yet firmly - said no.”

“Why?” both of his girls asked in unison.

Sherlock inwardly groaned. Twin pairs of heart-shaped faces and messy chestnut buns swung to look at him expectantly. The brown eyes were curious, but the eyes that mirrored his own in color and shape were full of challenge. A swell of pride and love rose in his chest but he beat it down so as not to look soft -- those challenging eyes were keener than his own and would see it and manipulate it with ease.

“Because it’s not appropriate--” he began.

“Fibber,” Molly smiled. “You don’t give a fig about being appropriate.”

Sherlock scowled, though without heat because she was right, of course. “Fine. Because she’s too young--”

“You were only nineteen when Uncle Greg first let you onto an NSY case!”

She was also right.

“Sherlock.”

He looked at Molly, her laugh lines a little more prominent, her own reading glasses perched atop her head. Motherhood and wifehood had not diminished her charm or her ability to see him. “Yes?”

She just smiled at him until he gave in and smiled too.

“Alright, is this going to be like when I came home early from the Watsons’ and learned what coitus interruptus meant?”

They both kicked their daughter under the table, who laughed and threw pieces of bacon at them.

“Artemis Charlotte Zephyrine Hooper-Holmes!” Molly chided the young woman. “You’re worse than your father!”

“Well you were getting all sentimental, something had to be done!” Artie (as she preferred because her full name was only for when she was truly in trouble with her parents) chuckled, crinkling her nose up at her mother. “We were in the middle of interrogating Dad about his lame reason why I can’t help with the Livingston case…”

Sherlock chewed the bacon she’d thrown at him, nodding to Molly. She could say what he felt.

“He doesn’t want to share you,” his wife said simply.

“Share me?” Artie stared at her father. “Whattaya mean?”

It was Molly’s turn to nod at him. He swallowed tightly and let himself feel. It was important, after all. “If you solve the Livingston case with me, it’ll be open range for the NSY to come to us both, then ultimately just you, for more cases.”

His daughter cocked her head to the side, a tic she’d developed early on when deducing something. Or someone.

“You’re not worried I’ll overshadow you or take over the ‘family business’, though, Dad,” she said softly and certainly. “Then why--”

“It is a wild, heart-pounding, dangerous, and exhilarating life, being a consulting detective,” he said. Molly’s warm eyes met his. “I have only ever experienced the precisely same rush in the line of work that is husband and father. And I want nothing more than for you to feel it too.”

He looked Artie right in the eye and let himself be open to her. “I don’t want to share my girl and her talents for deduction and compassion just yet. It would mean that you’re ready to not need me. Or your mother,” he added quickly, trying to maintain some semblance of his signature stoicism.

Artie’s eyes narrowed, and she was silent for a moment. As the moment stretched Sherlock was reminded that she was most definitely his child. John had said that his own silences were unnerving. But, right before the moment became awkward, Artie’s face broke into a smile.

“Dad, you’re an idiot.”

Molly cleared her throat with admonishment, but both husband and daughter waved her off with identical dismissive hands.

“Mum, you know what I mean,” Artie smiled, keeping her eyes on her father. “Dad, I don’t want to do this because I don’t need you and Mum. I do and always will. I want to work this case because I think I want to be a writer.”

Molly and Sherlock looked to each other, then to their girl. “A writer?”

Artie sat up a little straighter, pulling the sleeves of her father’s old blue dressing gown down over her hands. Sherlock inwardly grinned. Bravado and nerves in both movements; this was a big moment for his daughter.

“I figured out what I want to major in at Oxford -- creative writing. I know, I know, it’s not exactly lucrative but I could take some cases myself as you said and that could pay a bit. Besides, Uncle John’s blog inspired me, and a-actually I’m rewriting some entries for a publication. Rosie’s doing the illustrations and I found that I loved it but I’m not getting the voice of the stories right because I’ve never seen you and Uncle John on a case. Well, not a murder case -- and we all know those are the juiciest tales!”

She was babbling, outdoing her mother as she motor-mouthed her explanation. She seemed to realize this and slowed to catch her breath. Molly and Sherlock were still locked in on her, their faces a combination of shock and intrigue.

Artie took a breath and smiled at them. “I want to write and publish these stories, Dad. Your stories, with Uncles John and Greg, Mum, Nana Hudders. I want to share you with more than London and the surrounding countryside.”

Sherlock’s throat felt tight, and a strange prickling began behind his eyes. He chanced a glance at Molly, whose eyes were swimming in pride and un-shed tears.

“Oh,” he murmured, blinking rapidly. “Well, um…”

Artie’s hand slipped into his on the table. “Dad?”

Sherlock grasped her fingers in his, her touch grounding. He looked at Molly again, his foot finding her sock-clad one under the small table, and closed his eyes. In his mind palace (which had more windows than walls now, letting sunlight filter in and illuminate the ceilings and doors of the massive building), he found Artie’s room next door to Molly’s. Pushing the door open he saw her, all of eight years old with his deerstalker on her head and her faithful, never-far-from-reach diary open, a silly feathery pen at the ready.

He smiled as he opened his eyes and arched a supercilious brow at his currently eighteen year old daughter. “Best get your arse dressed and prepared for battle, Miss Hooper-Holmes. The game--”

“-- is ON! Hell yeah, Dad!” Artie tugged him forward and planted a loud smacking kiss on his forehead before bolting out of the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom, dressing gown flapping dramatically.

Molly immediately cracked up laughing, standing to clear the table. “She is so your child, Sherlock.”

He grasped her wrist and pulled her into his lap. “Again, I remind you that she is half you too, wife.” He kissed her languidly, her hands reaching into his curls (which may or may not have had strands of silver through them). They broke apart only when they heard the thump of their daughter losing her balance, no doubt trying to put on her boots without unlacing them (again).

“You better get yourself dressed too,” Molly said, pressing a kiss to his nose. “Artie’s been dead-set on joining you for a murder for ages.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose at her. “Dead-set? Molly, your jokes…”

They shared another soft, sweet kiss, ignoring the thundering footsteps and the subsequent “Ohhh come on, you two!”

#sherlolly #sherlock holmes #molly hooper #parent!lock #original hooper-holmes child

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smokeybrandreviews · 3 years ago

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Smokey brand Retrospective: Red Pill Me

Cinemacon has passed and there has been a lot of awesome sh*t revealed. On the top of that list, obviously, Spider-Man: Far From Home has me geeked to high heaven but there were a ton of other noteworthy reveals. There was some Batman reveals, a few Mission Impossible 7 and Top Gun 2 trailers, plus audiences ever got a surprise screening of Ghostbusters: Afterlife. Now, that would be great on it's own but cats even got a little sizzle real for Matrix Resurrections: The long gestating fourth Matrix film. Apparently, this thing is releasing in December. I am lukewarm at best. I have fond memories of the Matrix trilogy as a whole but, since it’s final release some twenty years ago, the Wachowskis have been revealed to be one trick ponies. They kind of suck at film making. I mean, i liked Speed Racer but i just generally enjoy Speed Racer. It helped tremendously that Christina Ricci was Trixie, too, but everything after that was kind of balls. I also really like V for Vendetta but that’s not real their movie, they just adapted it. I guess you can say that about Speed Racer, too. Anyway, in light of there near Shyamalan-esque track record with their films, i wanted to revisit the first three Matrix films and see if they hold up, to try and muster some sense of excitement for what comes next.

The Matrix

Of the trilogy, this is easily the best film. Everything about it is exceptional. The Matrix was a whole ass shift in the cultural zeitgeist. It was a lot of people’s first experience with accessible cyberpunk and I'll always love it for that. I’ll also love it for normalizing Hong Kong style action sequences and giving us the most breathtaking application of Bullet Time I've seen to date. The Matrix s why the theater exists. If you’ve never seen this thing on the big screen, you missed out on something very special. I had just just turned thirteen when it released and checked it out at the dollar theater. I had only ever seen anything like this, in anime. Seeing all of my favorite Eighties OVAs filtered through the big budget Hollywood lens was incredible. I even like the rather pedestrian narrative. I think the story worked for what the movie was trying to do. It’s a shame the Wachowskis have tried to rewrite history about the narrative as of late. I understand the underlying themes of identity and sexuality but come on? That’s some college film theory bullsh*t that got tacked on after the fact. Now, if the original script is to be believed, then, yes, all of that, but what we got is not so profound. This is a basic Chosen One narrative with Dope ass effects that were ahead of it’s time.

A fr as the cast, what can i say? These motherf*ckers were perfect. Keanu Reeves as Neo was inspired. It’s wild to say that because dude is a plank but it works. He’s the POV character, he’s who you see that world through. Making him a blank slate so to speak, helps with immersion and that is a world you definitely wan to be immersed within. This was my first experience with Carrie-Ann Moss and I've loved her ever since. Her Trinity fast became one of my favorite characters and I'm actually pretty excited to see where she is in the new film. Lawrence Fishburne as Morpheus was an interesting choice. I wasn’t mad and it worked perfectly but it was weird seeing him in such an active, action oriented, role. That said, for me, this movie is made by Hugo Weaving. He is absolutely monstrous as Agent Smith. He’s got this scene chewing energy that mirrors Christoph Waltz’s Hans Landa and we all know how much i love that Nazi f*ck so that’s really high praise. To this day, I've got his Humanity is a Virus speech memorized. It was just that f*cking good! The Matrix is an exquisite watch and it is absolutely mandatory viewing if you consider yourself a fan of cinema.

The Matrix Reloaded

Whoo, boy, talk about a drop in quality. Reloaded released four years later in 2003 and it screams Studio Mandate. I was a sprightly eighteen years old when this thing dropped and made it a point to see it opening day. I really enjoyed the first outing so i figured this one would be just as amazing. Indeed, i remember leaving the theater thinking to myself how decent of a sequel it turned out to be. It wasn’t better than the first but it didn’t sh*t the bed like most follow-ups do. Fast forward to present day and, after watching this thing again for the first time in probably fifteen years, it’s kind of f*cking bad. Like, as a cinematic experience, it’s pretty tight Everything is amped up. Tons more action, way more bombastic set pieces, stakes have been raised considerably; The Matrix Reloaded is everything you want in a summer blockbuster sequel. However, that’s it. Everything else is worse. The acting has become way too hammy and the new cast members fit into this narrative like a square peg in a round hole. Why is f*cking Niobe even in this thing? Who even is the Merovingian? Why is Mouse? The pacing is all over the place, too. Like, this thing stops dead in it’s tracks on several occasions but that’s not the worst of it.

The worst thing is the narrative. What the f*ck even is the story trying to be told in this movie? It doesn’t make any f*cking sense. The Matrix was, very obviously, a standalone film. That was a closed narrative. Neo’s story had been told. Everything after that is unnecessary. This movie is an exercise in the unnecessary. I appreciate all of how unchained and manic Smith is in this but, outside of that, what the f*ck was the point of this whole narrative? It’s filler. This movie is filler and it feels like it. The returning cast is serviceable and seeing Zion was interesting. I like how all the survivors are just sweaty black people. I literally hated everyone added to the cast though. Well, that’s not quite true. I rather enjoyed Collin Chou as Seraph. Dude was inconsequential but i love seeing Asian martial artists not name Li or Chan getting some shine. Also, Monica Bellucci is in this and i kind of just love her in general. Her Persephone is absolutely disposable but she looks damn fine in that plastic wrapped dress of hers. I literally can’t be bothered mentioning anyone else. They are that forgettable. This movie is that forgettable. And it’s arguably the best of the two sequels.

The Matrix Revolutions

Talk about going out with a thud. Man, i saw this with my best friend, rest in peace B, and we both hated it. He was an even bigger fan of The Matrix than i was so his disappointment was palpable. I’ll never forget his visceral reaction when that rainbow spread across the super happy Hollywood ending. Dude was hot and he had every right to be. The first Matrix set up this intriguing, immersive, world full of fanatic visuals, great piratical stunts, and a very through provoking premise. The second Matrix was your basic Hollywood sequel; More shine, less substance. But Revolutions? Man this is peak Wachowski fail. You saw hints of this messiah sh*t in the first, it’s literally a Chosen One narrative, but thy went all in on that sh*t in Reloaded. By the time Revolutions finished, this whole narrative was so far up it’s own ass, it didn’t know which way was up. It just f*cking ends. Everyone is dead and it’s over. The Wachowskis went heavy on the Jesus imagery, they were not subtle, and the f*cking conflict just ends. Robot don’t stop using people as batteries. Flesh and blood Humans still have to live in Zion. The only thing that’s changed is Neo’s dead and Agent Smith has been deleted. That’s it. The Matrix still exists, people are still trapped in it, and everything that happened in these films doesn’t f*cking matter. Literally right back at the start of the whole goddamn conflict. Revolutions is so f*cking disappointing, dude, by every measure of that metric.

Hugh Weaving is still pretty good as Smith and Keanu does his best imitation of white bread as Neo but, like, everything else is just so pedestrian. Plus, this thing is long. Like, unreasonably so. Why the f*ck is this movie two hours? The entire trilogy is kind of like that but it’s most egregious in this one. This story could be told in ninety minutes, just like Reloaded. Why the f*ck do i have an extra half hour of bullsh*t in this? Like, that whole “Neo Lost” arc was unnecessary, in both sequels. F*cking why? I don’t hate Revolutions. It’s not a “bad” film per say, it’s just disappointing. It’s the poster child for the law of diminishing returns. The Matrix Revolutions is the what happens when you let creatives with fresh egos, run amok with one hundred and fifty million f*cking dollars. So much spectacle but even less substance that Reloaded and that motherf*cker was a hollow mess. Still, The Matrix Revolutions is better than anything Michael Bay or Zack Snyder has ever made so i guess it’s got that going for it.

#The Matrix #The Matrix Reloaded #The Matrix Revolutions #The Matrix Trilogy #Smokey brand Retrospective #Keeanu Reeves #Carrie-Anne Moss #Hugo Weaving #Lawrence Fishburne

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chappedandfadedvds · 4 years ago

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Dec 5th, Saturday 20:02

note:

the next two clips are co-written by @odi-et-amo85! My dearest reader turned friend over the last couple of weeks, who was so kind to put together today’s clips, as she lives in Utrecht 🥰

She basically has written these clips, I used it’s complete structure, just rewriting parts that felt odd to me or the way I view the boys would react or talk to each other. Obviously to also have it coherent to all my other clips. I hope it doesn’t stray to far from them.

lastly,

TW: mentioning of historic gay prosecution

__ __ __

Jens and Lucas had been wandering the city for hours now, the sun had already set, leaving the couple to explore the streets and buildings in the dark. Jens actually liked it a lot with all the lights illuminating the city.

„And there you have it, the Dom square. The fancy building in the corner is the Academiegebouw, where university students have their graduation,” His boyfriend next to him explained.

At this point Jens was simply astounded by all of the churches, houses, and grachten they had passed. But most of all, by Lucas’s seemingly effortless stories about each and every one of those places.

They had started in Lepelenburg, a park near Isa’s house. Jens still wondering what spoons had to do with a park, but apparently Lepelenburg was the name of an old stronghold that had been used to be there between the 16th and 19th century. They had then continued to pass through the Herenstraat, which seemed oddly appropriate to Jens, onto the Nieuwegracht, until they encountered a large sculpture that stood there kind of randomly.

„This is the first and only Dutch pope, Adrian VI,” Lucas recollected pointing towards it. The building behind the sculpture turned out to be his house, although he had never lived there. Jens didn’t quite get it, but Lucas had so much fun on his little tour, he gladly smiled and nodded along.

When the two boys passed through a tiny, cramped street called Achter de Dom, Jens had finally asked his boyfriend, what the big deal was with weird street names in Utrecht. Only to have Lucas grin back at him, for once giving now explanation.

After circling around the impressive building, they faced head on, they came to a halt.

„So, this is the Church of Saint Martin or the Dom church, the most important church of Utrecht.”

„It looks weird.” Jens proclaimed bluntly, tilting his head at the cathedral. It looked french.

The church consisted of a pretty large building and an oddly placed tall tower, divided by an enormous square. Jens couldn’tquite make sense of what he saw infront of him. Who would build something like this?

„Yeah, fair enough. However there is a reason. On the 1st of August in 1674, the city was caught in an extraordinary storm. So severe, that it caused a tornado in Utrecht. I know, sounds unreal. But that tornado destroyed a lot of buildings around the city centre. One of these was the nave, uh the middle part, of the church, but weirdly enough the tower stayed upright...”

„But why not just rebuild it? This looks a bit dumb now, doesn’t it?” Jens interrupted the younger boy, wrapping his arms around Lucas’s middle, to rest his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. It was a mystery to him, how Lucas wasn’t exhausted by now. Still finding the energy and a voice to continue.

„I was getting to that part, patience’s a virtue,” Lucas said with a cheeky grin, gently tapping his head against Jens’s. “Well, for a really long time the city just didn’t have the money to restore it. Actually, Utrecht was so broke at the time that all of the rubble just stayed there.”

Jens regarded the building again, speechless by the sheer amount of knowledge his boyfriend proved to have. How did Lucas manage to keep all this stuff in his brain, when Jens had trouble to remember where they started the tour today already?

The younger boy hadn’t lied about having an exceptional memory.

„Therefore it just became too expensive to rebuild the entire nave, so they simply added the other extensions instead. At the time though when the rubble and ruin still stood, the church had become a popular place for people to meet up. And that reminds me!”

Lucas briskly made his way to another side of the square with Jens tailing along. He first noticed the enormous sculpture of a woman holding a torch. Supposedly the freedom monument that commemorated the Second World War, Lucas informed him as they passed it. Just before the younger boy pointed to a smaller monument. A single tile so ordinary, one could almost overlook it.

Curious Jens leaned over it, having trouble to read the inscription in the dark of the evening.

„This is...” Lucas began, but paused right away again for a moment. Rather uncharastically for the younger boy, which caused Jens to look back up at him worried. But Lucas continued, his eyes strangly transfixed on the tile to their feet.

“This is the gay monument.“ He huffed. „It commemorates a very specific case of gay persecution. It’s pretty gruesome actually. You may remember the rubble by the dome that I had just told you about, where people would often gather? Well in 1730, the city’s authorities got complaints from the tower guard about men who were meeting each other there. Men like us. They prosecuted them, calling it sodomy...”

Jens wasn’t looking at the monument any longer, as he noticed his boyfriend halting mid-sentence. Instead he watched Lucas become more subdued, quieter as he went on, but with a need to speak, so the older boy let him.

„They arrested eighteen men, and after questioning them,“ The last two words bitter on his tounge, as Lucas wrinkled his nose and swallowed. „Two of them confessed. I can’t imagine what this must have felt like. In the end, all eighteen were put to death.” Lucas faltered even more at this point and it took a long moment for him to be able to conclude. „Only in 1999 had they erected this monument to remind people of what had happened. They put flowers here every year to remember.”

Lucas’s eyes were glistening in the dim warm light of the few streetlamps burning around them, close to tears, not yet crying. The Dom square looked so quiet and peaceful, it was hard not to see the beauty in it, in stark contrast to the things his boyfriend had just said.

Jens never had thought much about it before. Perhaps ignorant in his presumed privilage to that part of the history, while Lucas must have learned about this years ago, in his own struggle to make peace with his sexuality. Jens didn’t even know if they had any equivalent in Antwerp to this monument here, wondering if Robbe would be able to tell instead.

But for now he gently took hold of Lucas’s hand, their fingers tightly intertwined as Jens pulled him into a hug. Determined to wait in silence until his boyfriend would feel better again, even if it took the whole night. He pecked a kiss on Lucas’s temple, letting his lips rest against the cold skin, just in spite of history really, as Jens leaned his head on his boyfriends, swaying them lightly on the spot.

__ __ __ tagged: @odi-et-amo85, @tayspots

#week 7 #wtfock #skam #vds #jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #chapped and faded #utrecht

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incomingalbatross · 4 years ago

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It's funny. When I was a Daydreaming Wannabe-Writer Kid, I very much felt like "I should be writing my stories!! I can't believe I've had these ideas for YEARS and they're still unwritten, I'm wasting so much time!!" If I knew at ten that I wanted to write, and had specific stories I wanted to write, then not having written anything substantial in them at fifteen was disgraceful, right?

And, like... I knew even then, really, that this was kind of nonsense. That I had literally all of adulthood ahead to do things in. But I'm looking back now, and just... realizing more than ever how wrong that was.

I MEAN

At thirteen I had these three found-family characters I'd already had for a couple years. Character A had a big, close family but they got murdered when he was a teenager; Character B had a neglectful-at-best family who were really only a negative presence; and I don't think I knew what was up with Character C, but he didn't have a family either.

At eighteen... A's family was still dead because that had become formative, but I was becoming doubtful of whether it was really justified to give him a bunch of murdered siblings just to up the loss factor. B, though, definitely still had a neglectful/harmful family, and C had progressed to probably having low-key Villain Parents he'd turned against in his own teens.

Now? I see what I was trying to do at thirteen and eighteen. I get it--I wanted to emphasize their found-family bonds and create cool backstory! Valid! But I've also learned, since then, that:

I want to write familial relationships--found, yes, but also birth family. That's important to me.

Adding more healthy relationships to a character's life does not devalue the ones they have, any more than it does in real life! If done right, every relationship should actually be able to deepen and strengthen each other one. (And I ALSO want to write about community.)

Biological parental and sibling relationships, when done right, make a story richer and deeper and more complex and more real. They're maybe the hardest relationships to give their due in writing, but they're also some of the most rewarding.

With that said: Character A is still forcibly losing his family in his teens, but it's via some sort of curse, rather than death, and he's going to rescue then and get them back as soon as he reaches adulthood. Character B's family hasn't changed a lot in essentials, but they're going to be treated with NUANCE and he's still going to actively love them, even if it has to be mostly from a distance. (And they may end up being way better people/family than they currently are! I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to getting to know them.) And Character C is going to be somewhat cut off from his parents due to Personal Issues, but with his friends' help he's going to reconnect with them and repair that relationship.

This is so. much. better than the version I felt like I “should have already written,” back in my teens.

So... I’m not ever saying to not write, at any age! Writing is how we learn about the stories we’re telling and how to tell them! If you want to write now, don’t wait to be better--for one thing, if you find yourself in over your head you can always stop/rewrite, and all writing is progress. And aside from that, I’m definitely not saying every story will be beyond your depth, at any stage! Again, ALL writing is progress, all writing is productive. If you want to write, don’t wait until you’re “better.”

BUT. If a story won’t be written, or if you love the story but you just don’t want to actually write it... that’s okay too. Write down an outline of what you know, maybe, but after that leave it be. We’re not abandoning our stories, or wasting time, or whatever, when we do that... we’re letting them rest. They’ll be there later. And, as long as we’re still growing... I think we’ll find out, when we check back, that our stories have been growing too.

#writing stuff #me writing this in my twenties: ah yes i am the pinnacle of wisdom and maturity #me: ...haha yeah no now-me ALSO needs to hear this #i don't know what more i'll have learned in five years!! but hopefully it'll be cool stuff!!#do my big original stories need more years to mature with me?#i don't know #but i'm not ready for them now and i think that's good enough reason to let them lie #can't wait to see what they'll be like when i can bring more to them #(but also some of them i AM ready to work on at least. and that's also making them better!#i don't know how far i can go on them right now but i can go SOMEWHERE and i can stop when i hit my limits)#...i essentially upped the challenge factor for myself by a LOT with these plan changes #i'm not even good at inventing OCs and now i need entirely families of them!!#but... i'm happier with this outline #it feels BETTER and more like The Thing It Ought To Be #ah my boys and their traumas

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bomberqueen17 · 4 years ago

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replying to replies with bonus boob-centric fic snippet

exrayspex replied to your post “magic boobs”

this is delightful oh my god. keira is def familiar with the whole boobs trying to escape through the armholes of your sleeveless shirt thing and she would not stand for it!

sonnetsandswingouts replied to your post “magic boobs”

LOVE the premise, I always look at those kinds of necklines and shudder to think of the sunburn.

bebeocho replied to your post “magic boobs”

i would just like to say that even though i am woefully behind on Meet Death Sitting, i really enjoyed both these snippets very very much. that first one made me emotional (Lambert, baby!! :'(( ). also, GOD i wish i had magic that could keep my tits up

LOL thanks yes-- I have become obsessed with Keira’s magic invisible bralette. I say this as a certified Big Titty Bitch (who, TMI, is currently dealing with how at a certain size in the summer you just always have that bit where skin’s gotta overlap and if you don’t have The Perfect Bra at all times that’s gonna get chafed and then it won’t heal? Mega Fucking Bummer)-- all I ever do with summer fashions is look wistfully at their lack of bra coverage (WHY ONE-SHOULDER WHY FUCK U WHO CAN WEAR A SINGLE-TIT BRA THAT MAKES NO SENSE), and all those great scraps of lace they call bras that all the skinny girls get to wear, and like, *wistful sigh* wouldn’t that be amazing, anyway, back to my Glamorise old lady sports bra that goes to my collarbones cuz it’s the only thing i own that doesn’t leave overlap to chafe.

(witch hazel helps, word to the wise, just always be applying witch hazel to all skin, in all seasons, this is how i live, bonus you can put some rose water in it if you don’t like the smell, it’s in the indian food aisle and works basically exactly the same)

On this note however, I have found myself (it is my birthday, I am indulging myself) enmired in yet another Keira story, which is the follow-on from What Mages Are Like where she goes to Yennefer for advice on how best to give a Witcher what he really wants in bed (namely, The Strap), which was only ever a porny side idea I’d sort of abandoned, and yet, Keira walks into Yennefer’s office and all Yennefer can do is think about improvements to the invisible-bralette spell.

(I don’t write enough f/f and listen I have needs)

Keira gave the room a wary, surreptitious, and sensible once-over as she came in, and dropped into the chair with a force that should have sent her breasts right out of her so-called shirt, but they didn’t move. Yennefer itched to pick the spell apart. It would be so much more distracting, she thought, if the spell were designed to allow for some movement, like a looser-fitting breastband-- perhaps enough movement that the nipples nearly showed but not quite-- but they were held firmly.

A shame.

snoutbeetle replied to your post “fic snippet”

Oooo, I'd really like to see more of this!

bittylildragon replied to your post “magic boobs”

*I* want more Keira/Lambert from you :D

why thank you both! it is suffering currently because I realized at a genuinely astonishing eighteen THOUSAND words in that I was writing Lambert as a new face model superimposed over Geralt Is A Doormat and that wasn’t going to work, so I’ve had to go and rewrite a bunch of it, but. I am committed now, I guess.

#exrayspex #bittylildragon #sonnetsandswingouts #bebeocho #snoutbeetle #replying to replies #the witcher #keira metz #fic snippet

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schrijverr · 4 years ago

Text

A Familiar Face

Despite their looks when they return to Narnia the second time, the Pevensie siblings have all grown up once before and Peter had even been married. Upon returning he is not happy to see that an idiot of a prince has not only stolen his crown, but also the face of his lover.

Narnia Prince Caspian rewrite, but then make it gay

On AO3.

Ships: Peter/OMC that is also Caspian, Peter/Caspian

Warnings: homophobia mentioned, Peter is grieving and angry. Tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag somethine

~~~~~~~~~

The Pevensie siblings had been quite confused to hear about love between a man and a man or a woman and a woman when they had first started their reign. But in Narnia love is love and with their young minds this was a simple truth to accept.

For the first few years none of them really thought about it, until Peter was saved on the battlefield by a young dashing soldier, who had hauled him up with a grin and a bow.

Peter had stared after him dumbfound for a second, before his attention was pulled back to the battle by an ax nearly hitting his head.

Over the next few weeks, he couldn't get the young man out of his head. He’d tried to shake it off and didn’t want to believe it. It was only okay for others to feel like that, not him, not High King Peter. What about heirs?

No, Peter could not be like that.

However, the thoughts stayed and he found himself wanting to give in. He knew he couldn't, he had avoided finding out in which squadron the boy was so it wouldn't cloud his judgment when coming up with a strategy. But his mind did long for it.

Peter grew over it though and only saw it fit to mention it to his siblings when it had happened again. This time it had been a young knight, who had bested him during a tournament.

When he returned to the others later, after he had talked to the knight, who was called Darian. He softly said: “It is good that we came here, for I might be able to marry out of love in these lands.”

He swallowed thickly as he waited for what they would respond. He knew they were accepting of their subjects, but how would they feel about their own brother?

“Oh, oh my.” Susan replied with wide eyes, before her face softened and she smiled as she said: “Well, then I am also glad that we came here.”

Lucy engulfed him in a big hug, nearly the same height as he was now, as she said: “Oh, Peter, how wonderful for you!”

Edmund waited until the hug was over, before he knowingly smirked: “Any reason you’re telling us this now, brother? Perhaps a fellow swordsman?”

He had always been too observant for his own good and Peter could feel the blush creeping over his face as he looked away quickly. Susan and Lucy quickly caught on and soon he was pushed down on the couch as they tried to drag all the details out of him.

Later he would be grateful to them for pushing him to talk more with Darian, but now he grumbled embarrassed as he was.

Darian was kind and funny and an amazing sword fighter.

Everyday Peter fell harder and he couldn't be more overjoyed that his feelings were returned with Darian claiming he never made the best decisions when it came to love with a smirk and a wink after Peter had asked him if he didn’t mind Peter being the High King.

Susan once commented to Lucy and Edmund that she had never seen Peter happier than when he was with Darian. Something they agreed with wholeheartedly.

Peter and Darian married in the fifteenth year of their reign when Peter was twenty-seven and Darian twenty-nine. It had been a logistical nightmare to prepare the law for it to work out seamlessly, but the ceremony had been beautiful.

Both had worn white tunics and at the end their cheeks had hurt from smiling and their feet from dancing.

Three years later the four siblings disappeared chasing a white stag that was said to be able to grant any wish. Peter would never tell his siblings how he had intended to wish he and Darian could’ve had children of their own.

Darian would try and pick up the reign in their absence, but die in from heartbreak soon after his love had vanished. Leaving Cair Paraval vulnerable to attack.

Meanwhile Peter had suddenly been pushed back into the body of a child, just twelve-years-old, with the mind of an adult and the grief of a widower.

Susan had tried to broach the subject with him, but he had snapped and yelled, only breaking down to cry when she had fled the room for his outburst. He wanted to go home, he wanted to see his husband and have him hug him and tell him it was alright.

He ruined his hands trying to break the back of that goddamned wardrobe trying to return to his love to no avail.

They were stuck here and it didn’t look like they were going back as life went on.

Their mother had no clue what to do with the serious and far away eyes her children now wore and had send them away once more, this time to a boarding school.

Peter remained silent throughout almost the all years. Sure, he would talk with the others about the Beavers, Mr. Tumnus and all the other things they had left behind, but he would become withdrawn and silent whenever Darian was mentioned.

The first time he mentioned the name himself was after he’d been beaten up on a train station for the so many-th time. Susan asked: “What was it this time.”

“He bumped me.” Peter answered shortly.

“So you hit him?” Susan exclaimed.

“No, okay, that’s not the reason- just, nevermind.” Peter turned away from her, fists clenched.

“Then what was it, Peter? Just talk to me.” Susan said, trying to get through to her brother for once after all this time. They used to be so close, now it was just this.

Peter took a deep breath, then he turned around and looked her in the eye: “He looked like Darian, okay. I ran up to the guy because for a split second I thought I saw him and then it was just a stupid guy, who asked me what the fuck my problem was, so yeah, I hit him.”

“Oh, Peter.” Susan sighed as the other two gave him a look of pity.

He snapped: “Don’t ‘oh, Peter,’ me, okay, just don’t. I’m just tried of being treated as a kid.”

“We are kids.” Edmund said and sometimes Peter hated how the little shit was always right. It was annoying.

“Well, I wasn’t always.” he moped as he slumped down on the bench, “It’s been a few years and I just want to go home. How long does he expect us to wait?”

Susan gave him a sad look and softly said: “I think it’s time to accept that we live here. It’s no use pretending any different.”

She looked over to the platform and got big eyes, but before she could say something else Lucy shot up with a shriek. So, she hissed: “Quiet, Lu.”

“Something pinched me.” she exclaimed, looking around.

Peter was about to look who it had been when someone tugged on his hair from behind, Ed, the fucker. He got up and yelled: “Stop pulling.”

“Not touching you.” Edmund frowned at him.

Susan looked at the train starting to pass and asked: “What is that?”

“It feels like magic.” Lucy replied.

“Quick hold hands!” Susan told them.

Beside Peter Edmund complained, but Peter didn’t really listen and grabbed his hand. They were going home, he was going to see Darian again.

The train station turned into a cave and soon they were running on the beach and into the water while yelling a having fun. Their return was interrupted by Edmund, who asked: “Where do you suppose we are?”

“Well, where do you think?” Peter couldn't believe Edmund hadn’t realized where they were, they had ruled these lands for eighteen years, even Edmund couldn't forget that in a few years of being back in their original world.

“Well, I don’t remember there being any ruins in Narnia.” Edmund said.

That got Peters attention and he looked up. They had to rebuild their land from scratch and every ruin had been a reminder of what had been lost to the White Witch, so they had made sure none were left, but Edmund was right, again, and also annoying, again.

There was a ruin on top of a familiar hill.

A pit started to form in Peter stomach as they all hurried to put their shoes back on so that they could explore these mysterious ruins.

Lucy frowned, probably desperate not to believe, and asked: “I wonder who lived here.”

Susan picked something up from the ground and confirmed their worst fears: “I think we did.”

“Hey, that’s mine.” Edmund pulled it from her hand, “From my chess set.”

“Which chess set?” Peter asked, still hoping it all isn’t true.

Edmund didn’t care or didn’t notice as he replied: “Well, I didn’t have a solid gold chess set in Finchley, did I?”

Peter was about to break down and cry, his home, his husband to which he wanted to return so badly was ripped from him, even if he was here once more, when Lucy pulled him away from the edge with a: “It can’t be.”

Then she ran off and Peter would always be the big brother that ran after her, while he yelled: “Lucy!”

“Don’t you see?” she asked, standing on a ruined platform.

Peter desperately didn’t want to see, but still asked: “What?” hoping the answer wouldn't be what he thought it was.

“Imagine walls, and columns there and a glass roof.” Lucy sounded excited about it as she pointed and made the other look at their former home.

Before his eyes the walls rebuilt themselves in his memory along with stolen moments and good times. He confirmed: “Cair Paravel.”

They explored the ruins of Cair Paravel as they wondered what could have possibly happened and how long they had been gone.

“Catapults.” Edmund suddenly said, looking down.

“What?” Peter choked, immediately all kinds of scenarios started to whirl in his head as Darian died a thousand horrible deaths in his minds eye.

“This didn’t just happen, Cair Paravel was attacked.” Edmund explained, taking his upset for confusion.

If there was a siege, perhaps their stuff from when they were young would have been taken as well, and Peter didn’t want tot think about what certain things could to in the wrong hands. He followed old routes easily and soon he and Edmund were clearing the way to the treasury room.

There was a bit of levity as Edmund tried to cheer him up with the flash-light. Peter smiled at his brother, he appreciated the gesture, but there was still a heaviness in his heart.

“I can’t believe it. It’s all still here.” he said, glad their weapons hadn’t been taken by whoever had done this as he approached his chest, while the others rushed to theirs as well.

Lucy pulled out a dress and exclaimed: “I was so tall!”

“Well, you were older then.” Susan replied.

“As opposed to hundreds of years later. When you are younger.” Edmund added and Peter felt a stab of pain go through his heart once more. He had returned, but he was too late. His lover was dead, his home was destroyed and he hadn’t seen any of his people.

In the background the others chattered on while Peter slowly drew his sword. It felt balanced in his hand as it had always done and he read the inscription out loud to himself: “When Aslan bears his teeth, winter meets its death.”

“And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.” Lucy finished, then the realization of what it all meant sank in on her as she said: “Everyone we knew: Mr. Tumnus and the Beavers, they’re all gone.”

“I think it’s time we found out what’s going on.” Peter said, before he fell to his knees to rummage around in his chest, hoping to find some clues or at least some better clothes to wear.

He ignored the wedding tunic in his chest as he blinked away the tears, he knew that they had saved a few clothes from their youth at the bottom and he assumed that with everything as they left it, those must be there was well.

With no new clues there, they set out to find someone they could talk to in the hope that a person could tell them more about what had happened, both to Narnia and Darian. Although Peter was privately more interested in one of the two.

They meet a dwarf, Trumpkin, who was only slightly helpful even after Edmund beat him in a duel and he believed they were who they said they were. Although they did get the clue that Telmarines had invaded their country and they had been called by their Prince, Caspian.

“They used to dance.” Lucy lamented once they were in the boat.

Trumpkin gave her a look and explained: “It wasn’t long after you left that the Telmarines invaded. Those that survived retreated so deeply to the woods. And the trees have retreated so deeply into themselves that no one has heard from them since.”

“I don’t understand. How could Aslan have let this happen?” Lucy exclaimed, before Peter could ask about Darian.

“Alsan?” Trumpkin said, “I thought he abandoned us after you lot did.”

“Who took our places. Was it Darian?” Peter asked.

“Who’s Darian?” Trumpkin asked in return, stomping on the last bit of hope Peter had as the chasm in his chest opened further.

“No one.” Peter said, ignoring the looks from his siblings as he told Trumpkin: “We didn’t mean to leave, you know.”

“Doesn’t make much of a difference now, does it.” Trumpkin told him and Peter was honestly starting to get annoyed at the dwarf.

“Get us to the Narnians and it will.” Peter said determinedly. Fighting he could do, just turn off his mind and ignore the loss until it was over. Aslan must have returned them with a reason, he could figure out what had happened to Darian on his own.

None of them had realized how bad it had truly gotten until their encounter with the bear. It was all wrong, this wasn’t their Narnia, not anymore.

They walked through overgrown lands, without structures that could point them in the right way. Peter was not in the best frame of mind, but he kept pushing onward, perhaps letting his bad mood flow out in harsh comments to his siblings and the newly acquired ‘DLF’.

His siblings seemed to understand and didn’t push him. He tried to ignore the guilt at his own words, but it was easy to allow himself to wallow in the feeling. Better guilt than that ever crushing heartbreak and grief.

He just needed to find Aslan, once they found him, he could tell the Lion about everything and plead for his love to return to him.

But then Lucy saw him, but they didn’t and a small part of Peter began to doubt if Aslan would even come, even care.

However, Lucy kept on believing, which wasn’t really discouraged with how they got over the gorge. Already annoyed Peter followed her as she walked away from their camp on her own and almost got herself killed.

Peter signaled her to be quiet as he walked up to the minotaur, but before he arrived someone else came out of nowhere and clashed swords with him.

The new person left Peter unbalanced and in shock. He looked so much like Darian that it was almost unnatural, he was also just as good with a sword and after a few years without practice, Peter was on his back before he knew it.

“Prince Caspian?” he asked, starting to put together who they must’ve ran into.

“Yes.” he answered, with a slight foreign accent, “And who are you?”

Right at that moment Susan came running, calling out his name along with Edmund and Trumpkin right behind her. With the name Caspian looked at the sword as his eyes grew wide: “High King Peter?”

Peter had gotten up and replied: “I believe you called.”

“Well, yes, but I thought you’d be older.” Caspian told him.

So did I, Peter thought, getting irrationally irritated at the boy who had stolen his lovers face. He answered: “Well, if you’d like, we can come back in a few years.”

“No! No, that’s alright.” Caspian came back on his words, “You’re just- you’re just not exactly what I had expected.”

“Neither are you.” Edmund told him, looking at the minotaur and Peter was glad he was here to talk to this prince.

“A common enemy unites even the oldest of foes.” a badger said and they all hadn’t been more glad to see a talking animal.

A mouse walked up to Peter and bowed, before pledging his service. There was a slight miscommunication when Lucy couldn't help but comment on the apparent cuteness of the mouse, but Peter was glad he was here.

“Well, at least we know some of you can handle a blade.” he told the mouse.

He was even more glad when the mouse told him about the weapons they were gathering and told him as much: “Good, because we’re going to need every sword we can get.”

“Well, then, you’ll probably be wanting yours back.” Caspian offered him back his sword, the same expression on his face Darian would get whenever he had beaten Peter in combat. Wordlessly he snatched it back, before walking off. He did not want to be near this Caspian.

They were led to Aslans How and Caspian let them go in first. He apologized for the lack of luxury, but was ignored as Susan yelled: “Peter, you might want to see this.”

He ran up to her to see a carvings on the wall depicting the four of them. She looked at him and said: “It’s us.”

Next to him Lucy turned to Caspian and asked: “What is this place?”

“You don’t know?” Caspian asked with a frown and Peter kind of wanted to hit him, because of course they didn’t know, they had been away for so long that everything they did know had disappeared.

Still, he followed the prince as he showed them through the How to Aslans table. Peter silently hated seeing his face again after he pulled them back without giving him a chance to see his husband again.

Lucy saw his look and assured him: “He must know what he’s doing.”

“I think it’s up to us now.” Peter told her, not wanting to ruin her connection with Aslan, but also not in the mood to like the Lion or believe in him.

In the days after, he spent hours looking at the carvings. He still showed enough interest in all the other stuff to avoid suspicion from everyone that weren’t his siblings. But they knew who he was looking for on the walls.

There was nothing.

No clues, no tales, not even a mention. He knew this was about the four of them and Darian had only officially been part of the royal family for three years, but he couldn't imagine something so important being omitted.

Of course, there was also the option of the How being built by Darian in honor of their memory after he had left him behind, but that hurt too much to think off.

He only saw Caspian whenever he needed to do something about the war.

Peter didn’t know how he felt about that. On one hand, he was glad that he didn’t have to see that face without the person and the love he knew behind it, but on the other, he was desperate to imprint it in his mind while he still could.

Most of the time he was more glad. It was irrational to be mad at someone for not being the person you want them to be, but Peter still got angry whenever that accented voice spoke, instead of the kind teasing voice he knew.

So, he mostly ignored him and was glad of that fact.

Now, however he had to see it. Caspian had allowed him to speak, which had already irritated him, but he pushed it away to propose his plan: “Our only hope is to strike them before they strike us.”

“But that’s crazy, no one has ever taken that castle.” Caspian protested, too young to see the How for what really was.

“There is always a first time.” Peter told him, trying not to get irritated.

“We’ll have the element of surprise.” Trumpkin said, Peter was starting to like him more.

“But we have the advantage here.” Caspian argued.

“If we dig in, we could hold them off indefinitely.” Susan agreed with Caspian, making something flare up in Peters chest that he quickly pushed down.

“I for one feel safer underground.” the badger said.

Peter ignored the badger and turned to Caspian as he explained: “Look, I appreciate what you’ve done, but this isn’t a fortress, it’s a tomb.”

He had led enough sieges to know what starvation could do to people and with his own paintings on the walls it had never felt more like a final resting place, especially once you knew what had happened on that table.

“Yes, if the Telmarines are smart, they’ll starve us out.” Edmund agreed with Peter, he had always been a good right-hand man with a smart head on his shoulders and Peter was glad to have him on his side.

There was a bit of squabbling between the mouse, Reepicheep, and an squirrel, which Peter ignored in favor of asking Glenstorm: “If I can get your troops in, can you handle the guards?”

“Or die trying, my liege.” the centaur promised.

Peter was about to thank him when Lucy cut in: “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“What?” Peter asked, he appreciated Lucy’s input. He hadn’t forgotten how she had charged into battle alongside him and Edmund even if her body was too young to do so now.

“Well, you’re all acting like there are only two options: Dying here or dying there.” she said and Peter would really like to know what else she thought they could do, because in his eyes the situation was dire enough for a suicide mission and if he could save his men, he would.

Still, that third option was hard to believe and Peter already had a hard time believing these days, so he said: “I’m not sure, you’ve really been listening, Lu.”

“No, you’re not listening. Or have you forgotten who really defeated the White Witch.” she gestured to the Aslan mural on the wall.

He wanted to sigh. He knew Lucy had always had the most faith out of all of them, but couldn’t she see that Aslan had abandoned them? He did not care for this world or he would have never kicked them out, make him leave Darian behind.

It hadn’t even been Aslan who had pulled them back, just a harsh reminder that took the shape of a prince. Alsan wasn’t here anymore, it was up to them now.

“I think we’ve waited for Aslan long enough.” he told her, not missing the hurt look in her eyes, but he couldn't believe, not now, not after everything.

Peter had a plan to make, it had to be perfect or they were all doomed. He had to make sure this suicide run wasn’t for nothing.

When he finally realized he shouldn’t have given Caspian such an important roll, it was too late. He had allowed the face to make him over-calculate Caspians skills and now he was running off and ruining everything.

Getting to Miraz room and he was already there, ruining the plan by waking him. Caspian should have been ruthless. He was outnumbered, he couldn't afford to be dramatic, didn’t he see that? Beside all that, he wasn’t even supposed to be here.

“Caspian, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be at the gatehouse.” Peter was going to kill him once they got out of here. What were their troops going to do now?

The prince ignored him as the situation got more and more out of hand.

By the time they got out the bells were already ringing and all the surprise they had on their side was gone, but Peter wasn’t about to abandoned ship like that, he wasn’t like Aslan. So he ran down a different hallway as he yelled at Susan: “Our army is just outside.

Then he was yelling at Edmund, loyal Edmund, who was where he was supposed to be: “Now, Ed, now! Signal the troops.”

Edmund yelled something back, but he couldn't hear it, since he was too busy with opening the gates.

“Peter, it’s too late. We have to call it off while we still can.” Susan was next to him, but she wasn’t helping.

“No, I can still do this. Help me.” Peter told her desperately, he could still do this, he could still save Narnia, he could still make up for what he had done to his people, to Darian. Didn’t Susan see that they had to make it right again?

She started helping him along with Caspian, who should’ve been here already. As they were opening the gate, she asked him: “Just who exactly are you doing this for, Peter?”

“You know who.” he mumbled to her, but then the gate was opened and their troops ran in, so he screamed: “For Narnia.”

Then all around them there was the all too familiar chaos of battle. People were falling left and right from both sides, but they had to make it through.

“Get that gate closed.” he heard from above and soon enough the gate started to close.

Asterius was holding open the gates and it was too late. They had failed in seizing the castle. He yelled: “Fall back! Retreat!”

Glenstorm charged past, swinging Susan onto his back as she screamed at him: “Caspian.”

Peter looked around to see the idiot prince missing and he yelled back: “I’ll find him.”

Frantically he looked around for the missing Caspian. He’d hated him, still hated him, but he couldn't fail him. He was too much like Darian and he did not need to know how his husband would’ve looked like once he was dead.

A wave of relief crashed over him when he saw Caspian on horseback with an older man, presumably the professor he had wanted to free.

With that solved he set to retreating himself as well. Right as he was through the gate, Asterius collapsed and he looked back to the troops trapped inside with horror. They were going to get slaughtered.

He wanted to go back, go help them. As High King he should go back for them, he couldn't abandon his troops, but they also couldn't loose him. Then Caspian would be in charge and they would never survive with him.

Hot rage burned through his veins as he fled. Better rage than grieve and loss, he told himself, just push it down, don’t think about it.

They returned to the How lesser in number with no victory under their belts. Peter had ignored Caspian and Susan on the way back along with most of the troops that hadn’t been wounded.

“What happened?” Lucy asked, face horrified.

“Ask him.” Peter spat, nodding to Caspian.

“Peter.” Susan chided, and of course she did. She never took his side in this sort of thing, just like during the fight when she had insisted Caspian could still get to the gate in time. Like that had gone over so great.

“Me?” Caspian sounded indignant, “You could have called it off. There was still time.”

“No, there wasn’t thanks to you.” Peter shouted at him, “You’re too emotional and inexperienced for battle. You might as well have killed them with your own hands. If you’d stuck to the plan, those soldiers would still be alive right now.”

“And, if you’d just stayed here like I suggested, they definitely would be.” Caspian yelled back, like Peter hadn’t explained to him why they couldn't stay there.

“You called us, remember. You called us, because you couldn't handle it on you own.” Peter spat at him.

“My first mistake.” Caspian bit back.

“No, your first mistake was thinking you could lead these people.” Peter told him coldly, “You abandoned them in the middle of the fight when they needed you most, for a personal vendetta, great leadership.”

“Hey! You abandoned Narina first, in case you have forgotten.” Caspian yelled back, the words cutting through Peter like a knife.

“You think I abandoned my home? Think I left my life behind on purpose?” Peters stare was ice, “I was forced out. Stuck. Back into the body of child. Left in a world that wasn’t my own anymore, tossed to the side, like my people here, who got invaded by your people, in case YOU have forgotten. You have no more right to it than Miraz does. You, him, your father. Narnia is better off without the lot of you.”

Caspian had no response to that and just yelled as he drew his blade. Peter didn’t mind, he was mostly back in shape and he would love to beat the others face in, no matter how much it would hurt. He had seen his love bleeding on the battlefield before, he could bear it.

They were stopped by Edmund, before anything could really happened and when Trumpkin was healed, Peter stormed off. He needed to be alone right now.

He had been planning to yell at Aslans mural when he saw Caspian, hand outstretched to the White Witch as she beckoned him close. His eyes grew wide as a hand squeezed his heart tighter. He ran towards Caspian, Edmund and Trumpkin on his heels, and yelled: “Stop.”

There was a fight, but he heard the White Witch call Caspian and he couldn't let it happen, not again, not her.

He pushed Caspian away, another person echoing through his mind, as he yelled at her: “Get away from him.”

But then he was stood in front on her and she gave him such a pitying look as she said: “Peter, dear, I have missed you. Come on, just a drop. You know you can’t do it alone.”

Peter tried to fight her and although he wasn’t moving away, he also wasn’t giving in. She reached for him and whispered: “I can get him back for you. Darian was such a darling.”

A shock went through his body as a bit more fight drained out of him and he hesitated before lowering his sword. He wanted to give in so badly, to be able to return to the arms of his lover, have him by his side again, smiling and making him laugh with a stupid joke.

Then the wall shattered and the White Witch disappeared, leaving only Edmund standing there, looking as kingly as Peter remembered him to be.

If it had been anyone but Edmund he would have gotten mad, now he just looked defeated as his little brother told him: “I know. You had it sorted.”

Edmund left and now it was just Caspian and Peter along with the remnants of the ice where the White Witch had stood. Caspian sagged to the ground and buried his head in his head as he took a few shaky breaths.

He looked so unlike Darian, whom he had only known as self assured and happy, and after that Peter could hardly blame him for almost giving in. So, he sat down next to him and looked at the carving of Aslan with him.

“She offered me my uncles head on a platter.” Caspian softly confessed after a few minutes of silence, “It seemed so easy, just shake her hand this would all be over.”

“I know how that feels, Edmund knows it too. Happens to the best of us.” Peter comforted him.

“Edmund?” Caspian asked.

“Not my tale to tell.” Peter answered.

“Oh.” it was quiet for a few seconds, then Caspian asked: “What did she offer you?”

For a moment Peter considered not telling him, but the prince had told him and he needed his trust if their last stance against Miraz was going to be a success. So he said: “She offered me help, for all this. And,” he hesitated, “and a chance to see my husband again.”

“Your husband?” Caspian exclaimed surprised.

“I know we don’t look it, but when we left Narnia I was thirty. Lucy was already twenty-seven, if you can believe that.” he told him, “When we returned to our world we were the same age as when we entered. It has just been a few years for us there, not centuries.”

“That explains some things, I am sorry.” Caspian said, “I did not know you had been married.”

“No need to apologize. It seems like no one remembers him.” Peter said sadly, then he sighed: “I just wish to know what happened to him.”

It was silent again, then Caspian asked: “What was his name. What was he like?”

That was the first time someone had asked him that. All his siblings had known Darian and no one back in their world knew of him, nor anyone here.

A bit of happiness floated up in his chest that he could talk to someone about him, without getting a pitying look.

“His name was Darian,” Peter smiled softly, “He was amazing. He was kind and funny and good with a sword, beat me the first time we met at a tournament. We were married for three years before I disappeared. He looked a lot like you actually, but different accent. Perhaps I put some of my grief about him on you, for that I apologize.”

Caspian thought over his words, before he replied: “He sounds like a lovely person. I can understand how being thorn from your word and pushed back with healing scars and no explanation can leave one irritated. I do not hold it against you.”

“And for that I thank you.” Peter told him.

“No need to thank me.” Caspian said, “This might not be anything, but all I have learned about Narnia came from professor Cornelius, I can ask him if he know something about what happened to your husband.”

“If you did so, I would forever be in your debt.” Peter smiled.

“Like I can ever repay you for helping me, High King Peter.” Caspian replied.

“Call me, Peter.” Peter told him, “It looks like you’re going to be my equal if we make it out, might as well start acting like it.”

“Alright then, Peter.” Caspian said, smiling as well.

They leaned back against the table and Caspian asked: “Can you tell me more about back then? About the Golden Age? I hear so much, but know so little. I wish to know more about this land if I am to rule it one day.”

“It will be my pleasure.” Peter told him as he started telling Caspian about the rebuilding of their home, the wars, the feasts, the treaties and the small moments of peace.

Late at night after many tales from back then, Caspian thanked him once more, before he retreated for the night. Peter stayed there in front of Aslan as he wondered if he would ever return to them and if he could do what the White Witch had promised.

He was still sitting there the next day when Lucy sat down next to him and looked up at Aslan as well.

“You’re lucky, you know that.” Peter broke the silence.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“To have seen him. I wish he’d just give me some kind of proof.” Peter sighed, “All I have is a too small army and no clue how Darian died.”

Tears sprung in his eyes and Lucy threw one arm over his shoulders as she said: “Maybe we’re the ones who need to prove ourselves to him.”

He looked at her and could see the smart woman she had been, who had kept hope in the hearts of their men and themselves. Lucy always had the most faith, if she still believed it would be alright, it had to be.

Maybe he couldn't believe in Aslan right now, but he could believe in Lucy.

Before he could reply to her, however, Edmund stormed in. He looked tense as he said: “Pete, you better come quickly.”

Then he hurried away again as Peter and Lucy rushed after him. Outside the Telmarine troops marched. The waiting time was over, they needed a plan and quick.

Luckily, the faith he had placed in Lucy wasn’t for nothing and she had a plan. Now they just needed to hold Miraz off for as long as they could.

“Cakes and kettledrums! That’s your next big plan? Sending a little girl into the darkest parts of the forest alone?” Trumpkin wasn’t happy with Lucys plan it seemed.

“You forget she is Queen Lucy the Valiant, my friend.” Peter said, “It’s our only hope and I trust her to come through.”

“And she won’t be alone.” Susan added.

“Haven’t enough died already.” Trumpkin was certain this plan was doomed.

At least the badger, Trufflehunter, was there to calm him: “Nikabrik was my friend too, but he lost hope. Queen Lucy hasn’t and neither have I.”

He seemed to have the right idea Peter thought approvingly. Reepicheep chanted: “For Aslan.”

And a bear echoed, with that settled Peter turned to the next point, keeping Miraz troops away from the forest. Behind him he heard Trumpkin say: “I’m coming with you.”

“No, we need you here.” Lucy told him, she knew war well enough to know each and every soldier counted.

“We need to hold them off until Lucy and Susan get back.” he said, looking over the map and calculating their numbers, knowing they didn’t have enough.

“If I may?” Caspian stepped forwards.

Peter would have shut him down by now before, but he knew Caspian was trying to win, trying to be a leader worthy of Narnia. And he had the same pleading eyes Darian had had, which he never had been able to refuse.

So he allowed him to speak.

“Miraz might be a tyrant and a murderer, but as King, he is subject to the traditions and expectations of his people. There is one particular thing that may buy us some time.” Caspian said as he began to explain his plan.

Grinning Peter told Edmund to start writing a duel challenge, his brother had a way with words, so he only gave the order: “Make it sting.”

Edmund grinned in return and before Peter knew it they were anxiously awaiting his little brothers return. Beside him Caspian asked: “Is he going to be alright?”

Peter glanced over and saw genuine concern. He smiled and assured Caspian: “Ed is always alright in these sort of things. I once witnessed him insult the entire royal house of the Lonely Islands, before he convinced them to surrender to us, without them even noticing.”

“Really?” Caspian asked with big eyes.

“Jup, really.” Peter confirmed with a proud grin.

In the How behind them Trumpkin was making sure Lucy and Susan would be on their way safely, before joining Peter and Caspian just in time for Edmunds return.

Peter got ready for his fight, knowing that Glenstorm was keeping an eye on the forest to make sure his sisters would be safe. He knew they were deadly on their own, but the big brother instinct stopped him from leaving them unguarded.

In front of him Miraz said: “There is still time to surrender.”

“Well, feel free.” Peter had won enough fights not to be intimidated by a man with a metal beard on his helmet.

“How many more must die for the throne?” Miraz asked him, trying to get a rise out of him.

Peter couldn't help but roll his eyes as he replied: “Just one.”

Then the fight started for real, swords swinging through the air as they clashed. He and Miraz were dancing around each other, looking for any weak spots. Muscle memory took over for the most part, but his body wasn’t the same as the last time he’d been here.

He made a wrong step and was on his back, tripping over Miraz feet. He kept rolling to break his fall, but Miraz stepped on his shield and his arm twisted, making him cry out in pain.

Trying to get away, he kept on blocking, but it wasn’t looking good. It was a stroke of luck he managed to trip up Miraz as well.

Both got up quickly and he saw Glenstorm riding with Susan on his back. Caspain gave him a short nod, before rushing towards them, giving him a thumbs up, but Peters attention was already back on Miraz, who asked: “Does his highness need a respite?”

“Five minutes.” he needed to know what happened to Lucy.

“Three.” Miraz said and Peter was willing to take that.

They limped back to their respective sides and slumped in their seats. With fear in his eyes he asked: “Lucy?”

“She got through, with a little help.” Susan told him, nodding to Glenstorm.

“Thank you.”

Glenstorm bowed his head: “It was my honor and duty, but your sister oversells it, they did not need much help.”

Peter turned back to Susan and nodded to the How: “Better get up there, just in case. I don’t expect the Telmarines will keep their word.”

Susan quickly hugged him, making him wince in pain. She let go if burned and softly apologized, he waved it away and assured her he was alright.

“Take care.” she told him.

“Keep smiling.” Edmund said next to him, signaling to him that he was being watched and shouldn’t show weakness.

“I think it’s dislocated.” he told Edmund, then he a sudden thought came up in him “What do you think happens back home if you die here? Would I go to the same afterlife as- …You know, you’ve always been there, after Darian. I never really-”

His thank you and maybe farewell speech was cut off by Edmund, who relocated his shoulder and sternly said: “Save it for later.”

It wasn’t the first time they gave each others words that might become their last, but Edmund knew Peter could survive this and he wasn’t about to listen while the other talked himself into a spiral that could effect his performance.

And with that the fight started again. It was harsh and it hurt, but Peter was managing this time around. He had been able to study how his opponent fought and was ready with some new strategies to try.

He practically had Miraz when the man yelled: “Respite! Respite!”

“Now is not the time for chivalry, Pete.” Edmund shouted from behind and Peter knew this. Still, he hesitated. He was High King Peter the Magnificent, it would be wrong to kill a man unarmed, he had won.

Edmund might be Just, but he could be a cold blooded judge and had always fared better in backroom backstabbing than duels, which said a lot seeing that he was already an amazing duelist.

Peter lowered his sword and walked away. The moment his back was turned Edmund began to shout: “Look out!”

He dodged just in time and cursed himself, how many times did he have to learn to listen to Edmund before that lesson stuck? His little brother had proved himself to be wise beyond Peter many times and still he forgot.

But, Miraz was weakened and Peter was not intending to stop right now. With a few blows he had the self-proclaimed King on his knees before him.

“What’s the matter boy? Too cowardly to take a life?” he asked tauntingly, not realizing that the boy in front of him was way more than he seemed.

Looking back Peter was every inch the High King he claimed to be as he said: “I am not cowardly and I have taken many lives on many different battlefields. I just know when a life is not mine to take.”

He offered Caspian the sword, who took it with determination. He had earned this kill, if he wanted it, it was his for the taking. He raised the sword slowly as his uncle told him: “Perhaps I was wrong. It seems you have the making of a good Telmarine King after all.”

Caspian screamed and plunged the sword into the soil. There was fury in his eyes as he said: “Not one like you. Keep your life, but I am giving the Narnians back their kingdom.”

As he walked back to them everyone cheered, but Peter and Edmund exchange looks. They had just seen how treacherous a Telmarine could be with your backed turned to them and they did not trust them to keep theirs turned.

Soon they were proven right as Miraz died at the hands of one of his own men and the troops were called to arms anyway.

Peter quickly found Caspians eyes and the prince nodded at him self assured, before he rode back into the How, while Peters heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t seen Darians eyes this time, but still there was that reaction as he started to count.

The fight was brutal and Peter was keeping a strong face because he had to, because he couldn't fail once more. He couldn't disappoint Lucy or Caspian or Edmund or Susan or any of the men under his care, he needed to keep them safe for Aslans sake.

With no Lucy in sight, however, there was no other choice. He called out: “Back to the How,” he wouldn't make the same mistake twice, they were retreating. Now.

But their escape was cut off as the How collapsed and there was no other choice than turn back to face the Telmarines once more. With Edmund by his side and Caspian on the other of the battlefield they charged again.

Then the battlefield was filled with trees and Peter smiled to himself, not all hope was lost. He rushed over to where he had seen Caspian last and pulled him up with a grin that was returned. Looking back to the fight he shouted: “For Aslan!”

And they charged again, making the Telmarines retreat back to the river, where they were intercepted by what could only be Aslan and Lucy.

With the Telmarines dealt with, the three of them and Caspian knelt before Aslan as they waited for him to speak: “Rise, Kings and Queens of Narnia.”

Everyone except Caspian rose, surprising Peter, but also making a wave of pride surge through him when Caspian responded to Aslan with: “I do no think I am ready.”

And he could not agree more with the Lion as he said: “It’s for that very reason that I know you are.”

After that they got interrupted by Reepicheep and his friends, while Peter threw an arm around Caspians shoulders and smiled at him, getting one in return, before he let go.

Then the four of them were busy helping Caspian set up and make everything go more smoothly. He at least had the luck that there was already a system in place that he could mold to fit the current situation instead of having to start anew, but it was still a lot of work.

Peter and Caspian were almost constantly together and Peter had grown very fond of the pri- uhm, King.

With very fond, he meant he had fallen for him and he had fallen hard, but he did not want to burden the young man with it, for it felt he was projecting Darian onto him, which would be unfair to him.

Still that did not stop his eyes from lingering and his lips from smiling as he found himself seeking out Caspians company more often. Finding he had a bigger sense of humor than the dire situation they had met in, had allowed.

He still missed Darian so much, but it felt like the salt was removed from the wound and he could start to heal now. He had asked Aslan about him, but the Lion had only responded: “He died peacefully in bed, trying to care for Narnia the best he could.”

“Can you bring him back?” he had asked as well.

“Maybe if you look he is already here.” Aslan had said mysteriously, “All will be revealed later, do not worry, Peter.”

And with that he had left Peter to his own.

Now he and Susan were walking through the courtyard and she commented lightly: “So you and Caspian have grown close.”

He blushed and replied: “I have become quite fond of him, I must confess. But I fear I might only see him as replacement and I cannot do that to him, he deserves better.”

“You really have a magnificent heart.” she teased him, but there was truth in her statement.

“And you are too gentle, Su.” he told her.

Before she could say something else, they were interrupted by Caspian, who called out: “We are ready. Everyone has assembled.”

They hurried to the tree where Caspian addressed his people: “Narnia belongs to the Narnians just as it does to man. Any Telmarines who want to stay and live in peace are welcome to. And for any of you who wish, Aslan will return you to the home of our forefathers.”

One of the Lords called out: “It has been generations since we left Telmar.”

“We are not referring to Telmar.” Aslan took over, “Your ancestors were sea-faring brigands, pirates run aground on an island. There they found a cave, a rare chasm that brought them here from their world, the same world as our Kings and Queens. It is to that island I can return you. It is a good place for any who wish to make a new start.”

It was quiet for a moment, then Gozelle stated: “I’ll go. I will accept the offer.”

Next to him Prunaprisma stepped forwards as well with her child and said: “So will we.”

“Because you have spoken first, your future in that world will be good.” Aslan told them as the tree unwrapped into a portal through which they disappeared.

“How do we know he is not leading us to our deaths?” someone from the crowd called out.

“Sire, if my example can be of any service, I will take eleven mice through with no delay.” Reepicheep said with a bow to Aslan.

“I can go.” Peter offered.

He got looks from his siblings and Lucy frowned: “Why Peter? You love it here, this is your home, do you want to leave? Go back to where they hate you for nothing?”

Peter gave her a sad look: “I do love it here and I do not want to go, but these people need to be assured and I leave this place in good hands. Beside, there is a lot of hurt for me here too, I do not even know where my husband is buried, Lu.”

“So you have not figured it out yet.” Aslan asked.

“I tried, Aslan, I did. I searched high and low, but there is no headstone here.” Peter told him.

“What is he talking about, Peter?” Susan asked.

“He told me Darian is already here, but I cannot find him and the search is hurting. I want to believe, but I do not wish to chase false fantasies and keep opening up a wound that should be healing.” Peter explained.

“My dear boy.” Aslan said, “In my land people can choose to stay there if they wish or be reborn to find their true love again.”

Peters eyes grew wide as the meaning of what had just been revealed to him sunk in. It was no miracle he had been brought back now, that the person he met with a duel wore the face of his lover and reminded him so terribly of Darian.

He turned to Caspian is shock, who wore the same expression on his face as he too, realized what had just been said.

“Is that really true?” Caspian asked Aslan, “Was I Darian in a former life?”

Aslan nodded and Peter started crying. Unsure of what to do Caspian approached and softly said: “If you cannot love me back that is okay and I shall let you return to the world you came from without protest.”

“Love you back?” Peter asked, hope building up in his chest.

Caspian blushed and it was even prettier than he remembered as he admitted: “Well, I never claimed I make the best decisions when it comes to love.”

He could not know how achingly similar it was to the last time he had confessed and more tears flowed out of Peters eyes as he embraced Caspian. He quietly asked: “Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

Nodding Caspian pulled back and allowed Peter to bring their lips together as they kissed softly, a thousand words hidden in a kiss.

When they pulled back people cheered and Peter saw his siblings smile at him. Both of them blushed scarlet, but could stop the big grins from taking over their features as they stuck close together, hands fitting perfectly in one another.

Aslan turned to the crowd and said: “I myself shall walk through the portal. After I am through, it shall remain open for a day, then it shall close forever. Think wisely of whether you go and what you bring with you.”

Then he turned to the siblings and said: “I was truly an honor to have met you. You shall help the new King greatly. Till we meet again.”

Lucy embraced him in a big hug, tears falling down her face as she clutched his manes tightly and said: “Thank you, Aslan. Goodbye.”

The others also said goodbye to the Lion, before he roared to his people and walked through the portal without looking back. He was not needed for now, he had left his kingdom in the right hands and he could only look forward to a better future.

#RR writing #narnia #peter pevensie #peter pevensie x caspian #peter pevensie x caspian x #caspian x #prince caspian #susan pevensie #edmund pevensie #lucy pevensie #aslan #narnia prince caspian

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abusybuzzingbee · 5 years ago

Text

Dead in the Water | Supernatural Season 1 Episode 3 Rewrite | Dean x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Major Character: Dean Winchester, Reader, Sam Winchester

Warnings: Canon level violence, language, Dean and the reader being assholes to each other

Word Count: 9,161

Summary: Dean and the reader still do not get along, but they slowly begin making progress toward a healthier relationship in a town threatened by a lake-dwelling supernatural creature.

Series Rewrite Masterlist

Season 1 Masterlist

Click here for the series playlist!

You were sat inside of a diner across from Dean, munching on the last of your fries as he circled names in an obituary. Sam had gotten up to go to the bathroom, and you and Dean refused to speak to each other unless it was to start a petty fight.

The pretty blonde waitress returned, leaning over the table and showing off her boobs. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked Dean.

You looked over at him as he grinned around the pen he was chewing on.

You suppressed an eye roll, addressing the waitress. “Just the check, please.”

“Okay,” she smiled at you, glancing over at Dean once more. The waitress strutted away, and Dean dropped his head down before looking over at you.

“You know, (Y/N), we are allowed to have fun once in a while.” He pointed at the waitress as she walked into the kitchen, “That's fun.”

“You can have fun when we find your dad.”

Dean went to say something back to you, but Sam sat down and effectively cut the conversation short.

“Hey,” he said. “What’d I miss?”

“Just your brother trying to pick up our waitress,” you stated, glaring pointedly at Dean.

“Can it, (Y/N).” He put the newspaper in front of Sam. “Take a look at this, I think I got one. Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin.” He pointed to the obituary he had circled in the paper. “Last week Sophie Carlton, eighteen, walks into the lake, doesn't walk out. Authorities dragged the water; nothing. Sophie Carlton is the third Lake Manitoc drowning this year. None of the other bodies were found either. They had a funeral two days ago.”

“A funeral?” Sam questioned.

“Yeah, it's weird, they buried an empty coffin. For, uh, closure, or whatever,” the older of the two shrugged.

“Closure? What closure? People don't just disappear, Dean. Other people just stop looking for them.”

Dean’s expression hardened. He squared his shoulders and leaned forward on his forearms on the table. “Something you want to say to me?”

You took a sip of your drink, eyes widening as you looked down and to the side of you, feeling pretty awkward.

“The trail for Dad,” Sam started, “It's getting colder every day.”

Dean sighed. “Exactly. So what are we supposed to do?”

“I don't know. Something. Anything.”

“You know what? I'm sick of this attitude.” Dean’s tone was harsh as he spoke. “You don't think I wanna find Dad as much as you do?”

“Yeah, I know you do, it's just—”

Dean cut his younger brother off. “I'm the one that's been with him every single day for the past two years, while you've been off to college going to pep rallies. We will find Dad, but until then, we're gonna kill everything bad between here and there. Okay?”

Sam rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he did so.

The waitress walked past again, effectively distracting Dean from his anger toward Sam. His gaze was focused right on her ass.

You scoffed and snapped your fingers a mere inch in front of his face.

He jerked back, furrowing his eyebrows at you. “What was that for?!”

“For focusing on getting your dick wet instead of the task at hand,” you replied.

Dean went to shoot something back at you, but Sam was quick to jump in. “Alright--” he directed his next question at Dean, “--Lake Manitoc, how far?”

***

The car rides between hunts were the only things in your life that resembled “normal.” They were an opportunity for you to get to know the boys better, even if Sam was the only one who talked to you.

“Sam, you cannot look me in the eyes and say Clueless is a bad movie.” You crossed your arms over your chest. You were sitting behind Dean’s seat facing Sam with your right leg up on the seat to look at the boy a little better.

“I just did. So, ha,” he quipped lightheartedly. “I mean, it’s borderline incest, (Y/N/N).”

It made you happy that Sam had given you a nickname.

“Not really. They weren’t blood-related,” you shrugged. “Sure, the relationship’s a little weird, but it’s part of the comedy of the movie.”

“Agree to disagree,” Sam chuckled.

“Sure.”

“You ladies done with the chick flicks?” Dean questioned.

“I guess we are now,” you retorted. “Why?”

“Because we’re here,” he informed you as the Impala pulled up in front of a lake house.

“Oh, would ya look at that,” you commented.

You got out of the car and headed up the painted green steps leading to the house. The wooden stair boards creaked beneath your boots as you walked. Dean knocked on the door of the house and was greeted by a man that looked to be about your age standing there.

“Will Carlton?” Dean questioned the young man.

“Yeah, that's right.”

“I'm Agent Ford,” the older Winchester started. “This is Agent Hamil--” he gestured to Sam, “Agent Fisher--” he gestured to you, “We're with the US Wildlife Service.” He held his fake badge up for Will to see. “Can we ask you a couple questions? Maybe see the spot where your sister went down?”

“Sure,” Will nodded. He led you and the boys down to the edge of the water. “She was about a hundred yards out.” He pointed at a spot far out into the lake. “That's where she got dragged down.”

“And you're sure she didn't just drown?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. She was a varsity swimmer,” Will answered. “She practically grew up in that lake. She was as safe out there as in her own bathtub.”

The older man sitting on a bench on the wooden dock that jutted out into the lake grabbed your attention. The following interrogation was just background noise to you as you studied the man’s slumped over form.

“So no splashing? No signs of distress?” Sam piped up.

“No, that's what I'm telling you.”

“Did you see any shadows in the water? Maybe some dark shape breach the surface?”

“No. Again, she was really far out there.”

“You ever see any strange tracks by the shoreline?”

“No, never. Why? Why, what do you think's out there?”

“We'll let you know as soon as we do,” you heard Dean say. You sucked in a breath when Dean suddenly yanked on your arm to get you to follow him to the car.

“What was that for?” you hissed, ripping your arm out of his grip.

“You wanna stop creeping on the old man and focus on the case?”

“I wasn’t creeping on him,” you replied.

“Yeah? Well, then what were you doing?”

“Just... thinking,” you answered.

“You can think when we’re not in the middle of talkin’ to a witness,” he told you.

“Are you that much of a control freak that I can’t think when I want to?” you asked incredulously. “Grow up.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something back to you, but Sam cut him off in an attempt to stop a fight from happening in front of the Carltons. “Okay, so. Can’t talk to Mr. Carlton.“

“Okay...” you trailed off, “So our best bet is the police station, then.”

***

The sheriff, whose name you found out was Jake, walked out from behind the desk in the police station’s lobby as he addressed you and the boys. “Now, I’m sorry, but why does the Wildlife Service care about an accidental drowning?”

“You sure it's accidental?” Sam challenged. “Will Carlton saw something grab his sister.”

Jake led you and the Winchesters into his office. “Like what?” He motioned to the two chairs in front of his desk. "Here, sit, please.”

You took a seat in one of the chairs and Dean sat in the other. Sam leaned on the back of your chair as the sheriff continued to speak.

“There are no indigenous carnivores in that lake. There's nothing even big enough to pull down a person unless it was the Loch Ness Monster.”

“Yeah, Dean laughed, “Right.”

“Will Carlton was traumatized, and sometimes the mind plays tricks. Still--” Jake sat down behind his cluttered desk, leaning forward on it on his forearms, “We dragged that entire lake. We even ran a sonar sweep, just to be sure, and there was nothing down there.”

“That's weird, though,” the older Winchester noted, “I mean, that's, that's the third missing body this year.”

“I know,” Jake started, “These are people from my town. These are people I care about.”

“I know,” Dean told him.

“Anyway,” the sheriff sighed, “All this...it won't be a problem much longer.”

“What do you mean?” Dean questioned.

“Well, the dam, of course,” Jake stated as if it were obvious.

“Of course, the dam. It's, uh,” Dean stuttered awkwardly, “it sprung a leak.”

‘This dumbass,’ you thought.

“No, it’s falling apart, remember? The feds won’t give us the money to fix it, so they opened the spillway,” you told him.

“It’s good to see somebody does their research,” the sheriff commented. “As Federal Wildlife, you should already know that.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed.

A few quiet knocks on the door drew your attention behind you.

A pretty brunette walked into the office. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

You and Dean stood up, facing the young woman.

“I can come back later,” she said, turning to leave.

Jake’s voice stopped her movements as he stood up as well. “Gentlemen-- and lady-- this is my daughter.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” the older Winchester smirked.

‘Oh, this asshole’s making his voice deeper.’

“I'm Dean.” He shook the woman’s hand.

“Andrea Barr,” she smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“They're from the Wildlife Service,” her father interjected. “About the lake.”

“Oh.”

A little boy with shaggy, copper-colored hair walked out from behind Andrea, his head down low.

“Oh, hey there,” Dean grinned. “What's your name?”

Lucas looked up at Dean with sad eyes before turning and walking out of the room without saying a word. Andrea looked at Dean apologetically before following who you assumed was her son out of the room.

“His name is Lucas,” Jake answered for the boy.

You watched as Andrea gave Lucas a box of crayons and ran her hand over his hair.

“Is he okay?” Sam asked.

“My grandson's been through a lot. We all have,” the older man admitted. He went and stood by the entrance to the office, turning to face you and the boys. “Well, if there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know.” He led the three of you out of the office.

You thanked the sheriff.

Dean looked at the sheriff as he began to talk.“You know, now that you mentioned it--”

‘Oh, boy.’

He directed his attention toward Andrea, “--could you point us in the direction of a reasonably priced motel?”

“Lakefront Motel,” she told him. “Go around the corner. It's about two blocks south.”

“Two—” He pretended to be confused. “Would you mind showing us?”

Andrea laughed. “You want me to walk you two blocks?”

“Not if it's any trouble,” Dean stated, his smile bright.

‘Is he for real?’

“I'm headed that way anyway,” she shrugged. She told her father she would be back to pick up Lucas at three and told Lucas that she would take him to the park before leaving with you and the boys.

“Thanks again,” Sam nodded at Jake as he followed Andrea out of the station.

You and Sam stayed a few paces back from Dean and Andrea as he attempted to charm the brunette. You and Sam both wanted the pavement to swallow you whole.

“So, cute kid,” you heard Dean tell her.

“Thanks,” she replied.

‘Short, to the point, not taking any of his crap,’ you thought. ‘I like her.’

“Kids are the best, huh?” the older Winchester tried again.

Andrea glanced back at him over her shoulder, shaking her head with a smile on her face as she continued walking.

She stopped in front of a place that said “Lakefront Motel” in bold, white letters, contrasting with the red background the words were placed upon. “There it is. Like I said, two blocks.”

Sam thanked her.

She turned to address Dean. “Must be hard, with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.” She walked away, calling back over her shoulder, “Enjoy your stay!”

You let the laugh you were trying to suppress burst out of your lips. “I love her!”

“‘Kids are the best'? You don't even like kids,” Sam pointed out.

“I love kids!” his older brother argued.

“Name three children that you even know,” Sam deadpanned.

Dean paused to think for a moment but came up empty. You waved your hands at him in a shooing motion before walking toward the motel with Sam.

“I’m thinking!” he called after the two of you.

“Have fun going to get the car, dumbass!” you called back to Dean as his younger brother chuckled.

“We seriously just walked two blocks and left the car at the fucking police station all so Dean could try to hook up with the hot mom,” you sighed, shaking your head.

***

You and the boys had gone to your separate motel rooms to unpack once Dean had grabbed your bags--well, his and Sam’s, making you go out to the Impala to get your own.

Sam told you that he and Dean were going to take some time to unpack and the three of you would meet up again later. You were never one for unpacking your duffel bag on hunts since you would not be staying in one location for very long. Instead, you took the downtime you had been given to do some research.

You pulled your laptop along with a few other items out of your bag before flopping down onto the flimsy mattress and kicking your combat boots off. As you blew out a puff of air, you opened your laptop to The Lake Manitoc Tribune’s browser page. You scrolled through article after article on the drownings in the town. One article, in particular, caught your attention. The headline read “Local Man in Tragic Accident” with the story of a man named Christopher Barr written below.

‘Christopher Barr... as in Andrea Barr?’

Your question was answered when you scrolled a little way down the page to see a picture of a soaking wet and seemingly traumatized Lucas wrapped in a towel. He was standing next to a policeman who you assumed was Lucas’s grandfather.

You read the article in full detail. It told the story of how Lucas and his father were out swimming in the lake when Christopher was pulled beneath the surface of the water. Lucas was floating on a nearby wooden platform at the time of his father’s drowning. Two hours later, Lucas was rescued.

‘That poor thing...’

You were no stranger to witnessing the death of a parent, so you knew how hard it must have been for Lucas. You had been older than Lucas was when you witnessed the deaths of your parents, so you could only imagine how crushed you would have been had you been as young as he was.

As far as you could tell from reading through loads of articles, Lucas was the only eyewitness to see whatever creature you were dealing with. This struck you as peculiar since there were so many accounts of other lake monster sighting, making you believe you were not dealing with something corporeal.

You heard a knock on the door moments later, and you opened it to find Sam standing there. You invited him into your room, and the two of you sat at the small table by the window of the room to talk.

“So,” he started, “we figured out what’s up with Lucas.”

“Yeah, I did too,” you responded. “That poor kid.”

“Yeah...” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“Where’s Dean?”

“Back in our room. He’s still unpacking.”

“Jesus, how much shit does he carry around with him? He’s been unpacking for, like, forty-five minutes,” you scoffed.

“He’s slow,” Sam chuckled.

“Yeah, so I’ve gathered,” you retorted. “Oh, hey, since Lucas is the only eyewitness, we should probably try to talk to him. Andrea said she was gonna take him to the park at three back at the station. Should we go try to catch ‘em there?”

“‘S worth a shot,” the younger Winchester shrugged. You saw his eyes drift over to your bed where some of the contents of your duffel bag were scattered. He nodded at what you assumed was your sketchbook as he questioned, “You draw?”

“Yep,” you replied.

“Can I see?”

“Sure,” you nodded, leaning back in your chair to grab it off your bed. You opened it to some of your most recent drawings and let him flip through them.

“Dude, these are really good,” he complimented you.

You thanked him with a smile. “I did one of you last week.” You showed it to him.

“Thanks,” he grinned. “This is amazing.” He looked from the drawing back up to you. “But why’d you draw me?”

“Well, I draw people I find interesting,” you shrugged. "You and that freaky head of yours are interesting.”

“Who ‘re the other people you drew?”

“Not a clue,” you answered. “Like I said, people I find interesting. Randos in bars, diners, pretty much anywhere.”

“That’s so cool,” he told you. Sam handed you the book back.

“What about you?” you asked as you took it from him. “You have any fun hobbies? Hidden talents I should know about?”

“Not really,” he replied. “I mean, I like to read.”

“Lame,” you joked, leaning back in your chair with your arms crossed. “C’mon, there’s gotta be something more fun than that.”

“Well, I liked going to the gym at Stanford and going on runs.”

“Oh, so you’re a health nut,” you chuckled.

“I guess so, yeah,” Sam laughed.

Your conversation was cut short by a knock on the door.

“You girls done in there?” Dean called through the door.

“I guess we are now,” you remarked.

Sam got up and let his brother into the room as you glanced at the clock on your bedside table that read “3:15.”

“We should probably head over to the park now,” you told the boys.

“Park? Why?” Dean inquired.

“Andrea said she was bringing Lucas there at three. He’s the only eyewitness we got, so we should probably try to talk to him,” you informed him.

“Alright, let’s go.”

***

Conveniently enough for you and the Winchesters, there was only one park in Lake Manitoc since it was such a small town. You noticed Andrea sitting on a bench on the outskirts of the small field near the playground watching over here son. He was sat on the ground by another bench a little ways off from Andrea, using the bench as a table for him to color on. Lucas had crayons, paper, and what appeared to be green army men scattered on the bench.

“Can we join you?” Sam asked Andrea once you three had gotten up next to her bench.

The brunette looked up at you three, smiling as she stated, “I'm here with my son.”

“Oh,” the older Winchester started, “Mind if I say hi?” Without waiting for her answer, he went over to Lucas.

Andrea addressed you and Sam as the two of you sat on the bench next to her. “Tell your friend this whole Jerry Maguire thing is not gonna work on me.”

“I don't think that's what this is about,” Sam told her.

You watched as Dean knelt next to the young boy while Andrea and Sam talked about Christopher’s drowning. Lucas paid Dean no mind, continuing to color as Dean played with the army men on the bench briefly. He spoke a little more before grabbing a piece of paper and sitting on the bench. Dean showed off whatever he had drawn to Lucas before putting the drawing down when Lucas was unresponsive and decided to say something else to the young boy. Moments later, the older Winchester walked back over to you, Andrea, and Sam. Andrea was saying something about how Lucas had not spoken since his father’s death as Dean reached your group.

“Yeah, we heard. Sorry,” Sam told her. “What are the doctors saying?”

“That it's a kind of post-traumatic stress,” she explained.

“That can't be easy. For either of you.”

“We moved in with my dad. He helps out a lot. It's just...when I think about what Lucas went through, what he saw...” she trailed off and shook her head.

There was a short silence broken by Dean. “Kids are strong. You'd be surprised what they can deal with.”

You noticed Lucas get up from his seat by the bench out of the corner of your eye and make his way over to your group with a piece of construction paper in hand.

“You know,” Andrea began, “he used to have such life. He was hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there. Drawing those pictures, playing with those army men. I just wish—” she was caught by surprise to see Lucas suddenly next to her. “Oh, hey, sweetheart.”

Lucas ignored his mom and looked up at Dean. He handed the man the picture.

“Thanks,” Dean nodded, looking the drawing over. “Thanks, Lucas.”

You caught a glimpse of the paper, recognizing the house in it but unable to place where you had seen it.

“We’ll see you around,” Sam told Andrea as you and the Winchesters turned away from the Barrs.

You studied Dean as he looked over the picture. In your mind, he was still a dick but had made the child feel comfortable enough to communicate by some means with him.

“What are you looking at?” Dean interrogated you gruffly, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

‘And he’s back to being a dick.’

***

You slept pretty well that night but woke up groggy and in deep need of coffee. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and got up from your bed, moving over to your duffel bag. You grabbed a clean black shirt from your bag along with a pair of jeans and socks. You tucked the oversized shirt into your jeans and tugged on your combat boots. After finishing your morning routine, you headed out of the door. You figured it was late enough that the boys should be up, and knocked on the door to their room. Sam opened it a few seconds later.

“I want coffee,” you stated dryly, feeling a bit like a zombie in your decaffeinated state.

“Me too,” he answered. “You want anything, Dean?”

The older brother grunted in response from somewhere within the room.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

After grabbing the Impala’s keys, you and Sam headed over to the car.

“Is he always that cheery in the mornings?” you asked referring to Dean.

“Yeah, he’s a joy to be around when he first wakes up,” Sam responded sarcastically. The two of you got into the car and Sam began to drive away from the motel.

“Ooh, I saw a cute little coffee shop over that way.” You pointed out of the passenger’s side window.

Sam followed your instructions, and soon the two of you were off for a drive in the neighborhood around the lake with coffees in hand.

You straightened up in your seat when you saw an ambulance in front of the Carlton house. “Pull over.”

Sam did as told, and the two of you hopped out of the car. There were several other onlookers standing near the house.

“What happened?” you asked one of the older women nearby.

“Oh, the young man who lived here, Will Carlton,” she began, putting a hand on her chest, “he died last night.”

“What?” Sam asked incredulously.

“The poor thing drowned.”

“How?” You gave the woman a quizzical look.

“I don’t really understand it myself,” she laughed uncomfortably, “he drowned in the sink. His father didn’t find him till this morning.”

“What the hell?” you muttered under your breath.

“Poor Bill,” the older woman sighed, looking at the house. “First his godson in May, then his daughter, and now Will.”

“His godson?” Sam questioned.

“Christopher Barr.”

You looked up at Sam, who looked down at you with a confused expression that mirrored your own.

You said your goodbyes to the older woman and headed back to the car.

“This just gets weirder all the time,” Sam commented as he drove the two of you away from the scene.

“At least now we know there’s a connection to Bill Carlton,” you reminded him.

“But what did he do to deserve this?”

“Hell if I know.”

***

You and Sam filled Dean in on the situation as soon as you walked into the boys’ shared motel room.

“What the hell? So you're right,” Dean said, talking to Sam, “this isn't a creature. We're dealing with something else.”

“Yeah, but what?” you asked.

“I don't know,” he told you in an annoyed tone as if you had asked a stupid question. “Water wraith, maybe? Some kind of demon? I mean, something that controls water...” he trailed off. He straightened up and his eyes grew wider as he came to a realization. “Water that comes from the same source.”

“The lake.”

“Yeah.”

“Which would explain why it's upping the body count. The lake is draining. It'll be dry in a few months. Whatever this thing is, whatever it wants, it's running out of time,” you added.

“And if it can get through the pipes, it can get to anyone, almost anywhere.” Dean got up from the bed as he spoke, his stress level seeming to rise slightly. “This is gonna happen again soon.” He sat down on one of the chairs at the table near the window.

“And we do know one other thing for sure. We know this has got something to do with Bill Carlton,” Sam mentioned.

“Yeah, it took both his kids,” the older Winchester acknowledged.

“And this lady at the Carlton house said that Chris was Bill’s godson,” you explained.

Dean looked up at you and Sam. “Let's go pay Mr. Carlton a visit.”

***

Your attempted questioning of Mr. Carlton had gone unsuccessfully.

“My children are gone. It's...it's worse than dying. Go away. Please,” the older man dismissed you. Through the duration of his visit, he refused to look up from the boards of the wooden dock. His posture had been slumped over, and his facial expression remained solemn.

“We’re sorry,” you told him before you followed the boys back to the car.

“What do you think?” Sam asked.

“Aw, I think the poor guy's been through hell,” Dean replied. “I also think he's not telling us something.”

“So now what?” the younger brother inquired, leaning on the roof of the car.

“Huh,” you let out.

“What?” Sam asked.

“You got Lucas’s drawing on you by any chance?” you asked Dean.

He looked at you questioningly but pulled it out of his jacket pocket nonetheless.

You unfolded the paper and held it up next to the Carlton house. Lucas had drawn Bill’s house on the paper, which is why the drawing looked familiar to you.

“Maybe Bill's not the only one who knows something,” Dean commented.

***

You and the boys were just inside the door of the Barr household, trying to get Andrea to let Dean talk to Lucas.

“I'm sorry,” Andrea expressed, “but I don't think it's a good idea.”

“I just need to talk to him. Just for a few minutes,” Dean pleaded.

“He won't say anything. What good's it gonna do?”

“Andrea, we think more people might get hurt. We think something's happening out there,” Sam explained.

“My husband, the others, they just drowned. That's all.”

You could tell Andrea did not really think that.

“If that's what you really believe, then we'll go. But if you think there's even a possibility that something else could be going on here, please let me talk to your son,” Dean tried one last time.

Andrea gave in, showing you and the boys down the hall to Lucas’s room. Your group found Lucas sitting on the floor surrounded by drawings and army men. He was coloring another picture.

Dean walked into the room and crouched down beside the boy’s setup. “You know, I, uh, I wanted to thank you for that last drawing. But the thing is, I need your help again.”

You looked over at what Lucas was drawing. It was a person in the water. You quirked an eyebrow at it as Dean placed the picture of the Carlton house in front of Lucas.

“How did you know to draw this? Did you know something bad was gonna happen? Maybe you could nod yes or no for me,” Dean offered.

Lucas ignored him.

“You're scared. It's okay. I understand. See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see, my mom—I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave. And maybe, your dad wants you to be brave too.”

That seemingly touched something within Lucas, who dropped the crayon and looked up at the older Winchester.

You heard Andrea suck in a breath as Lucas handed Dean a picture of a white church, a yellow two-story house, and a little boy with a red bicycle.

“Thanks, Lucas,” Dean said quietly.

***

“Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died,” Dean brought up as he drove along the highway. The three of you were attempting to find the place Lucas had drawn.

“There are cases—going through a traumatic experience could make people more sensitive to premonitions, psychic tendencies,” Sam explained.

“Whatever's out there, what if Lucas is tapping into it somehow? I mean, it's only a matter of time before somebody else drowns, so if you got a better lead, please,” Dean remarked.

You leaned forward on your elbows on the back of the leather front seat. “All right, we got another house to find.”

“The only problem is there's about a thousand yellow two-stories in this county alone,” Dean brought up, his tone once again implying what he thought you were suggesting was stupid.

Sam looked at the picture, which he held in his hand. “See this church? I bet there's less than a thousand of those around here.”

“Oh, College Boy thinks he's so smart,” the older brother mocked. SAM

“You know, um...” Sam started. “What you said about Mom...You never told me that before.”

“It's no big deal,” Dean shrugged.

Sam looked at him with his signature puppy dog eyes expression.

“Oh God,” the older Winchester groaned. “We're not gonna have to hug or anything, are we?”

***

You and the boys walked up to the yellow house that matched the one in the drawing. The house just so happened to be across the street from a church just like Lucas had drawn.

You were greeted at the door by a petite old woman. “Hello,” she smiled.

“Hi,” you grinned back. “I’m (Y/N), this is Sam and Dean--” you gestured between the two boys, “--we just have a question for you.”

“Come in, come in.” Her friendly disposition was incredibly welcoming as she allowed you and the Winchesters into her home.

“We're sorry to bother you, ma'am,” Dean began, “but does a little boy live here, by chance? He might wear a blue ball cap, has a red bicycle.”

The woman’s formerly cheery disposition suddenly shifted to solemn. “No sir. Not for a very long time.” She looked over at a picture of a smiling little boy on a table in the living room. “Peter's been gone for thirty-five years now.” She turned back to you and the boys. “The police never—I never had any idea what happened. He just disappeared.” The woman’s voice wavered as she spoke.

Your eyebrows turned upwards out of sympathy for her.

Sam nudged your elbow and pointed out toy soldiers sitting on one of the side tables.

“Losing him—you know, it's...it's worse than dying.” The woman echoed Bill Carlton’s earlier statement.

“Did he disappear from here? I mean, from this house?” the older Winchester question.

“He was supposed to ride his bike straight home after school, and he never showed up,” the woman whimpered.

Dean picked up a picture off of a mirror in the room. It was of two little boys in boy scout uniforms, one of them being Peter with his red bicycle. “Peter Sweeney and Billy Carlton, nineteen seventy,” Dean read from the back of the photo.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Sam stated softly. “We’ll just be going now. Thank you for your time.” He and his brother turned to head out of the door.

The woman turned away, her sniffles tugging on your heartstrings as you went to follow the boys.

“Mrs. Sweeney?”

She turned to you, as did the boys, who watched from the door.

“Can I give you a hug?”

She seemed surprised by your question but accepted your offer nonetheless. As soon as you wrapped your arms around her, she broke down into sobs.

“I’m so sorry about Peter,” you whispered to her.

She nodded into your shoulder as a response.

After another moment, you released her and rubbed up and down her arms. “It’ll be okay.”

She nodded once more.

You and the boys showed yourselves out. None of you said a word until about halfway through the drive.

Sam was the one to break the silence. “Okay, this little boy Peter Sweeney vanishes, and this is all connected to Bill Carlton somehow.”

“Yeah, Bill sure as hell seems to be hiding something, huh?” Dean mentioned.

“And Bill, the people he loves, they're all getting punished.”

“So what if Bill did something to Peter?”

“What if Bill killed him?”

“Peter's spirit would be furious. It'd want revenge. It's possible.” Dean’s eyes flickered to yours in the rearview mirror. “This is probably the quietest I’ve heard you since I met you, (Y/N). Wanna share what you’re thinkin’ about with the class?”

“Like you give a shit.”

“I was trying to, but fine, keep being a bitch.”

You could not believe Dean. “What, you treat me like I’m stupid, act like a dick to me for weeks, and suddenly I’m supposed to believe you’re genuinely concerned?”

“Forget I asked.”

***

The Impala pulled in front of the Carlton house, and to your surprise, you had not seen Bill sitting on the dock. You and the Winchesters got out of the car, calling out to Mr. Carlton.

You wheeled around when you heard the roar of what sounded like a boat engine.

“Guys?” you called to the boys behind you when you saw Bill driving his boat out into the lake.

You immediately broke out into a sprint, yelling for the man to turn his boat around.

Bill turned his head to look at you three standing at the edge of the dock but continued driving out. As soon as he turned his head back around, the water beneath the boat sprang up as if a bomb had been blown up beneath the surface. Bill’s boat flipped over into the water, and neither Bill nor the boat ever resurfaced.

You and the boys called Jake to the scene of Bill Carlton’s disappearance. Neighbors gathered around the lake, looking for signs of Bill, the boat, or whatever had taken him down. After Jake found nothing and questioned the neighbors who witnessed what had happened, he asked you and the Winchesters to head back to the station with him.

Once inside the station, you spotted Andrea and Lucas sitting behind the desk in the police station’s lobby.

When the young woman saw you, she bounced up and put the bag that was in her hands on the seat behind her. “Sam, Dean, (Y/N), I didn’t expect to see you here.

Jake looked between your group and Andrea. “So now you're on a first-name basis,” he scoffed. “What are you doing here?” He directed the question to his daughter.

“I brought you dinner,” she explained.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart, I don't really have the time.” He shook his head and moved past her to head into his office, you and the boys hot on his tail.

The sound of Andrea’s voice made all four of you stop and turn around.

“I heard about Bill Carlton. Is it true? Is something going on with the lake?”

“Right now we don't know what the truth is,” Jake relayed. “But I think it might be better if you and Lucas went on home.”

As soon as the older man mentioned Lucas going home, the little boy jumped up with a panicked look on his face. He whined and tugged on Dean’s arm as Andrea and Lucas tried to comfort him.

Andrea managed to get her son off of Dean and pull him out of the office. You watched the pair as they left, and noticed Lucas’s eyes never left Dean.

The sheriff threw his jacket onto a chair and scrubbed a hand through his hair as he walked into the office.

You looked at Sam and the two of you supposed you were to follow Jake.

You sat in one chair, Dean sat in the other, and Sam leaned on the back of your chair just as had happened before.

The older man leaned on the front of his desk in front of your trio. “Okay, just so I'm clear, you see,” Jake trailed off, recovering a moment later, “something attack Bill's boat, sending Bill—who is a very good swimmer, by the way—into the drink, and you never see him again?”

“Yep, that about sums it up,” you replied.

“And I'm supposed to believe this, even though I've already sonar-swept that entire lake? And what you're describing is impossible? And you're not really Wildlife Service?” Jake casually mentioned.

You managed to keep a poker face on, but apparently, Dean gave you away.

“That's right, I checked. Department's never heard of you three.”

“See, now, we can explain that--” Dean started, but was immediately cut off by the officer.

“Enough. Please. The only reason you're breathing free air is one of Bill's neighbors saw him steering out that boat just before you did. So, we have a couple of options here. I can arrest you for impersonating government officials and hold you as material witnesses to Bill Carlton's disappearance. Or, we can chalk this all up to a bad day, you get into your car, you put this town in your rearview mirror, and you don't ever darken my doorstep again.” Jake jutted his finger in your face as he spoke, his tone harsh.

“Door number two is... rather appealing.” You were trying to keep up your plucky attitude despite your circumstance.

“That's the one I'd pick,” he said sharply.

***

You had your head against the window, legs tossed to the side of you as the hum of the Impala’s engine was slowly lulling you to sleep.

Sam’s voice pulled you out of your haze. “Green.”

“What?” Dean asked. Apparently, he had been in a daze, too.

‘Not good considering this asshole’s the one driving.’

“Light's green,” Sam elaborated.

Dean turned right.

“Uh, the interstate's the other way,” you yawned,

“I know.”

“Okay--” you dragged out the word, “--so why are you heading back to Lake Manitoc?”

“Cause I think we still got more work to do,” he responded.

“But Dean, this job, I think it’s over,” Sam interjected.

“I'm not so sure,” Dean replied shortly.

Sam gave his brother more pushback. “If Bill murdered Peter Sweeney and Peter's spirit got its revenge, case closed. The spirit should be at rest.”

“All right, so what if we take off and this thing isn't done? You know, what if we've missed something? What if more people get hurt?” Dean argued.

“But why would you think that?”

“Because Lucas was really scared.”

The younger Winchester was caught by surprise. “That's what this is about?”

You were caught by surprise, too, but for a different reason. Once again, the scents of coconut and tobacco filled the air.

“I just don't want to leave this town until I know the kid's okay.” Dean tried to play off his concern nonchalantly, but you could see right through the bullshit act.

“Y’know, I’m actually with Dean on this one,” you declared.

Dean quirked a brow at you in the rearview mirror, but you simply shrugged at him.

“Who are you two? And what have you done with (Y/N) and Dean?” Sam quipped sarcastically, glancing between you and his brother with a confused expression.

There was a slight pause before both you and Dean said in unison, “Shut up.”

***

“Are you sure about this?” Sam looked around as you and the Winchesters stood on the front porch of the Barr house. “It's pretty late, man.”

Dean ignored him, ringing the doorbell. Immediately it opened to reveal a panicked Lucas.

“Lucas? Lucas!” Dean called after the boy as he took off into the house.

You followed behind Dean as all four of you sprinted through the house. You heard a splash beneath your feet and realized water was pouring down the stairs in front of you. Lucas started to pound on the door that led to where the water was coming from, which you assumed was a bathroom.

Dean pulled Lucas out of the way just before you gave a powerful kick to the door, effectively knocking it in.

Inside the bathroom, the tub was filled to the brim with murky, brown water. You jumped out of the way to let Sam try to pull Andrea out of there, knowing he would be a better fit for the job than you were.

Sam eventually managed to pull her out of the bathtub. They landed with Sam on his back and Andrea on top of him, sobbing and coughing up water. You immediately offered the woman a towel you had found and wrapped her in it.

Lucas threw Dean off of him and immediately wrapped his arms around his mom.

Happy to see that she was okay, you and the boys let Andrea have some privacy to get dressed. After she had done that, she and Sam went into the living room to talk while you and Dean looked for a connection to Peter Sweeney.

You found a bookshelf full of photo albums and began giving the labels a quick once-over. You found one with “Jake-- 12 years old” scrawled across the white label of the brown cover. You flipped to a page with pictures of the same Boy Scout troop that Peter Sweeney seemed to have been in from that picture you saw at the Sweeney house. You shut the book on your finger, holding your spot in the photo album.

“Whatcha got?” Dean asked.

“You’ll see.” You walked past him back into the living room. You opened the photo album to the page your finger was tabbing, putting the book in front of Andrea on the coffee table. “You recognize the kids in these pictures?”

She seemed caught off-guard, and you felt bad for potentially startling her after the night she had had.

“What? Um, no.” She took a pause. “I mean, except that's my dad right there. He must have been about twelve in these pictures.” The brunette dragged her finger across the page gesturing to her dad as a young boy. Jake was standing next to who you recognized as Peter Sweeney in several of the pictures.

“Chris Barr's drowning,” Dean spoke up. “The connection wasn't to Bill Carlton. It must have been to the sheriff.”

“Bill and the sheriff,” the younger man corrected his brother, “they were both involved with Peter.”

“What about Chris? My dad—what are you talking about?” Andrea was looking at the three of you like you were crazy.

“Lucas?” Dean’s voice brought your attention to the little boy staring out of the window. “Lucas, what is it?”

Lucas kept his gaze focused outside as he walked out of the door. Andrea continued to call after Lucas as you all followed him outside. Lucas stopped and looked at the ground and then up at the older Winchester, who stood beside him.

Dean faced Andrea. “You and Lucas get back to the house and stay there, okay?”

Andrea did as told, pulling her son away from your trio.

“You guys still have those shovels in the trunk?”

***

“Keep workin’ hard over there, sweetheart,” Dean deadpanned.

You pushed yourself off of the tree you were leaning against. “Dude, you only had two shovels and you were too busy being macho and dig whatever’s down there up yourself to let me use one of them,” you protested. “So don’t tell me shit about ‘working hard.’ But by all means--” you then started to use a mocking baby voice, “--if Dean is getting a wittle too sweaty, I’d be happy to take his pwace.”

“Nope. I got it.”

“So hush your mouth.”

He glared back at you and plunged his shovel back into the dirt when the metal part of the shovel hit another piece of metal. You and Dean both looked down at what laid beneath the ground and you helped the boys pull the object out of the dirt.

“Peter’s bike,” Sam remarked.

You heard a gun cock behind Sam and Dean. “Who are you?”

You looked up to find Jake standing there and pointing a gun at the three of you.

The boys slowly turned around.

“Put the gun down, Jake,” Sam pleaded.

Both he and Dean dropped their shovels.

“How did you know that was there?” The sheriff demanded.

The older Winchester did not answer his question. “What happened? You and Bill killed Peter, drowned him in the lake, and then buried the bike? You can't bury the truth, Jake. Nothing stays buried.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about.” The sheriff’s lie was not even in the ballpark of convincing.

“You and Bill killed Peter Sweeney thirty-five years ago. That's what the hell I'm talking about.”

“Dad!” Andrea yelled, running up on the altercation.

“And now you got one seriously pissed-off spirit,” Dean continued, keeping his eyes trained on Jake.

“Peter’s gonna get everyone you love--Lucas, Andrea-- and drag their bodies god knows where, so you can feel the same pain Peter’s mom felt. And then it’s gonna take you. It won’t stop until it does,” you informed him.

Jake looked at you as if you were stupid. “Yeah, and how do you know that?”

“Because that's exactly what it did to Bill Carlton,” you told the older man.

“Listen to yourselves, all of you. You're insane!” he chided.

Dean scoffed. “I don't really give a rat's ass what you think of us. But if we're gonna bring down this spirit, we need to find the remains, salt them, and burn them into dust. Now tell me you buried Peter somewhere. Tell me you didn't just let him go in the lake.”

“Dad, is any of this true?” Andrea interrupted, her voice shaking.

“No,” her father lied. “Don't listen to them. They're liars and they're dangerous.”

The brunette wasn’t having it. “Something tried to drown me. Chris died on that lake. Dad, look at me.”

He did.

“Tell me you—you didn't kill anyone.”

Jake looked away from his daughter, unable to form a response. The guilt was too much to bear.

“Oh my God,” Andrea breathed.

“Billy and I were at the lake,” Jake started to explain. “Peter was the smallest one. We always bullied him, but this time, it got rough. We were holding his head under the water. We didn't mean to. But we held him under too long and he drowned. We let the body go, and it sank.”

‘Great,’ you thought. ‘Makes our job so much easier.’

“Oh, Andrea, we were kids. We were so scared. It was a mistake. But, Andrea, to say that I have anything to do with these drownings, with Chris, because of some ghost? It's not rational.”

Dean was done with Jake’s skeptical attitude. “All right, listen to me, all of you. We need to get you away from this lake, as far as we can, right now.”

Andrea turned her head and immediately cried, “Lucas!”

You turned your head in the direction she was looking to see the little boy leaning over the side of the lake reaching for something.

You took off, following close behind Jake as you ran. You spotted Lucas get pulled into the water by something, causing you to cry out his name.

You ran off the solid ground onto the dock, leaping into the water once you reached the edge of the platform.

You dove deep into the lake, trying your best to make out the shape of Lucas or the spirit of Peter. You went back up to the surface, taking in a deep breath.

You looked over to Andrea on the dock, and she stared back at you with a panicked expression. You shook your head, diving back below the surface.

While you did not see Lucas, you did see a boy with skin a pale gray and tattered clothing rising to the surface. You flinched back, the appearance of Peter’s spirit catching you off-guard. It grabbed Jake, who you just noticed had gone into the water and began pulling him under.

You sprang into action, swimming as fast as you could over to where Jake was being pulled down. You reached your hand down, trying to grab him, but. it was too late. You were running out of air, and because the water below was getting blacker as you went deeper, you could not see Jake anymore.

You clawed your way back to the surface, gasping for air when you came up.

Andrea looked to you frantically, and you shook your head once more.

She screamed “No!” just before splashing coming from behind you on the right caught your attention. You looked behind you to see Dean holding an unconscious Lucas to his chest. The poor little boy’s head was lying on Dean’s shoulder limply, and you and Sam swam to help him. Sam took Lucas ashore, and you checked him over to see if he would need CPR. Once you determined that he would, you immediately set to work.

You were able to revive him with two cycles of rescue breaths and chest compressions. He immediately coughed up water as air filled his lungs once more.

You got out of Andrea’s way and let her hug her son.

The scene before you-- Andrea on her knees, crying and hugging her rescued son-- was the reason why you did what you did. Seeing families reunited and given a temporary happy ending was what made you love hunting, despite how gruesome the job could get at times.

You figured that even though your life was so screwed to hell, at least you could save the lives of others.

***

Once you and the boys had changed clothes, dried off, and packed up, you began loading your stuff into the car.

Dean clearly had something on his mind, and you were not the only one to notice.

“Look, we're not gonna save everybody,” Sam reminded his brother, having figured out what Dean was mulling over.

“I know."

“Sam, Dean, (Y/N),” you heard Andrea call.

You looked up to see the young woman walking toward you with Lucas, who carried a tray of food wrapped in cellophane.

You all walked toward each other, stopping once you had met in the middle.

“We're glad we caught you. We just, um, we made you lunch for the road,” Andrea smiled. “Lucas insisted on making the sandwiches himself.”

“Can I give it to them now?” Lucas asked his mom.

The sound of his voice made you smile.

“Of course.” The young woman kissed her son’s head.

“Come on, Lucas, let's load this into the car.” Dena led Lucas over to the car, and you stayed with Sam to talk to Andrea.

“How you holding up?” the younger Winchester asked her.

“It's just gonna take a long time to sort through everything, you know?”

“Andrea, I'm sorry,” Sam sighed.

Andrea shook her head. “You saved my son. I can't ask for more than that. Dad loved me. He loved Lucas. No matter what he did, I just have to hold on to that.”

You heard Dean talking to Lucas from behind you, and you turned around to face them as Dean spoke. “All right, if you're gonna be talking now, this is a very important phrase, so I want you to repeat it one more time.”

“Zeppelin rules!”

“That's right. Up high.”

The two boys high-fived as you, Sam, and Andrea began walking over to them.

“You take care of your mom, okay?” Dean told Lucas.

“All right.”

Andrea leaned over the open door of the Impala that Dean stood behind and pressed her lips to his.

“Thank you,” she said to him.

You rolled your eyes, pissed at him for his ability to pick up whoever he wanted.

He scratched his head, walking around to the other side of the car. “Sam, (Y/N), move your asses. We're gonna run out of daylight before we hit the road.”

You got into the seat behind Dean, waving to Andrea and Lucas who were waving back at you as Dean backed the Impala out of its parking spot.

Once you were on the road, you spoke up over the music. “Y’know, I’m not dissin’ on Zeppelin because I love them, but there were so many other amazing bands that ‘rule’ that you could’ve told Lucas about.”

Dean groaned. “Really? You’re picking a fight with me about that?”

“I’m not picking a fight, I’m giving my honest opinion,” you replied.

“Okay, well, who would you ‘ve told Lucas about?” he questioned.

“Um, how ‘bout Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles, Queen, need I go on?”

“I cannot believe you just said Fleetwood Mac is better than Zeppelin,” he stated incredulously.

“It’s fucking Stevie Nicks, dude, of course Fleetwood’s better than Zeppelin,” you argued. “She’s a goddess.”

Dean turned left onto the Insterstate, picking up the Impala’s speed. “Robert Plant’s better.”

“Yeah, no,” you responded dryly.

Instead of responding verbally, Dean put one of his Led Zeppelin tapes into the cassette player and cranked the volume up. “What’d you say? Can’t hear you over the greatest band of all time!”

For the first time since you met him, you laughed at Dean’s antics. “You are such an idiot!”

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