#everything about their lore right now is too damn flimsy to go anywhere

[here-there-were-dragons]

there is so little useable lore on undertides and so much of it paints them as uniformly isolationist and unlikely for most to do anything else that i simply cannot think of any compelling reason for an undertide to live or go anywhere but the ocean between ice and fire and the thousand-current sea, much less be of any but three or so elements.

[pinknerdpanda]

Help Me Understand

Word Count: 2k-ish Pairing: Dean x Lisa, Dean x Reader Warnings: Angst, cursing, mutual pining, cheating

A/N: Hey, ya’ll! Long time, no fic, amirite? Anyway - I’m back again, though you may wish I’d just stayed away. ;) This was written for @rockhoochie​’s Love Supernatural Style challenge. My prompt was “Maybe I’m Amazed” by Paul McCartney and Wings (x). Congrats on your milestone! This takes place around Season 6.

Beta’d by the always lovely and very talented @shy-violet-soul​. Thanks for the love and support, sweet cheeks! *hugs*

x

Help Me Understand

Another night, another hunt, another smug smile from the green eyed man seated across the room from me. It’s not aimed at me; not this time anyway. No, that smile - that toothy, eye-crinkling, “light up the room” smile - it’s for her. I scoff, bringing the bottle to my lips and taking a swig, desperate to look anywhere but at his arm, curled possessively around her shoulders, or his lips as he brushes them gently against her temple.

I wish I could make myself leave; walk away and have literally anything else to look at besides them. But if I do, it would raise questions I’m not ready or willing to answer. It’s easier to stay here, glued to this seat, pretending to celebrate the end of a long-ass hunt than face the fallout of my abrupt departure.

Her laugh is bright - throaty and full of joy - as Dean whispers in her ear, her fingers fisting in the front of his shirt and her head thrown back.  

I have no right to feel the stab of jealousy as it twists into my side, steals the air from my lungs, burns at the back of my eyes. As if that wasn’t enough, it’s quickly paired with a gut wrenching, nauseating pang of guilt. The feelings aren’t new - haven’t been for longer than I care to admit. But their intensity hasn’t lessened over time. 

I focus my attention on the flimsy, brightly colored coaster protecting the already blemished wood of the table from the condensation dripping down my beer bottle. 

I can feel it. I don’t know how, but I can and I know if I look up, I’ll find a pair of moss colored eyes focused on me, despite the girl tucked under his arm.

There was a time when the pull of his gaze felt too heavy to ignore, or maybe I was just unwilling to try. This pain, though - it’s hardened my resolve; the constant friction has calloused a part of me. These days, I’ve found I can refuse him the satisfaction of direct eye contact, though I can’t be sure how much is out of self-preservation and how much is full-on, unbridled bitterness.

I wish I could say it wasn’t always this way; that the years of working together had formed this indelible bond between us. But it was there from the moment we met. The memory of that day is so vivid in my mind, I can practically feel the sizzle of electricity between us as our hands touched the first time. I may not have known the exact road that lay ahead, but I could read the road signs enough to know that things could only end one way. 

Our interactions were largely professional at first. He’d call, asking for some help on a case - sometimes vice versa - both of us eager to help the other. We’d talk about the victims, the M.O., lore, but even then, the tension was there, bubbling under the surface but neither of us addressed it. In fact, there were a multitude of things left unsaid between Dean and I. 

One night, a few months back, I’d mentioned the possibility of getting out of this life; trying to find some semblance of normalcy. He’d nodded as he listened, the cold air of the evening enveloping us as we sat on the hood of his Impala. Despite the dark, I could make out the way his throat convulsed as the moon reflected the shine of unshed tears in his eyes. 

That was the closest we’ve gotten to addressing the elephant in the room. As the conversation drifted on to other things - Sam, the Campbells, her - he stopped, sucking in a breath and looking away from me.

“Life is weird,” he began, his breath hanging in the air. He licked his lips, eyes cast downward. “It’s like, ya know, you’ll never see yourself the way I see you. Your voice sounds completely different to me than it does to your own ears.”

Silence followed. 

What could I say? Maybe it was just a brief moment of introspection, but it felt heavy.

Something had shifted then. He started calling me late at night - sometimes short conversations about the mundane, sometimes lengthy discussions about what was going on with Sam. I think he felt lost; alone. Finding out Sam’s soul was gone broke part of him, and there was only so much he could talk about with Lisa. She wasn’t raised in this life. He needed someone who understood, but someone who could provide an objective opinion. I guess that someone was me. 

Lisa’s laugh carries across the room again. Glancing up, I watch as she stands, shaking her head and grabbing empty beer bottles in each hand. Just as she starts toward the bar, Dean’s hand shoots out, gripping her wrist and pulling her down for a quick kiss. She giggles when Dean slaps her ass playfully as she walks away. 

Before I can look away, his eyes lock on mine. As much as I want to ignore the tingle running down my spine at the pleading expression on his face, I can’t. And that’s what propels me to my feet, the chair creaking backward abruptly and me knee banging on the underside of the table. My nearly empty beer bottle wobbles precariously before tipping over completely, the remaining liquid splashing against my thigh. Gathering my coat and purse, I reach inside to grab a few crumpled bills and throw them on the table. I don’t look back as I make my way to the exit, but hearing the sound of shuffling behind me hastens my steps. I’m desperate to feel the kiss of winter air against my flushed skin.

“Y/n.” Dean’s voice is muffled as the front door swings back in place behind me. Maybe it hit him in the face. 

I rifle blindly through the contents of my purse, anxious to find my keys somewhere in the mess. Just as my fingers close on the metallic ring, a hand grips my arm, halting my steps.

“Y/n?” Dean sounds slightly breathless. 

Though I’ve stopped, I haven’t turned around and frankly, I don’t plan to. As though he realizes this, his grip tightens as he pulls me around to face him. 

Lines of worry and confusion furrow his brow and his lips are pressed together in a harsh line as he searches my face. 

He tries again, his voice low. “Y/n. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just getting late.” A carefully practiced smile curves my lips as I gently pull my arm from his hold. “I think I hear my bed calling my name. Goodnight Dean.”

“Y/n, wait. Please?” The pleading look I’d seen from him inside seems to have found a voice, the words thick on his tongue.

“What?” My response is more clipped than I mean for it to sound. Sighing, I try again. “What do you need, Dean.”

His mouth moves silently, stopping and starting as though he’s weighing his answer carefully. The muscle in his jaw flexes under his scruffed cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are so soft, I wonder for a moment if I’d imagined them, but the look in his eyes shows me I didn’t.

“Sorry for what?” I try for oblivious, but it just sounds tired.

The dull roar of the bar behind him echoes around us, and Dean looks back to find two men stumbling out of the building toward the patio, probably to smoke. Wordlessly, he pulls me behind a large dumpster and out of view from anyone coming out of the bar. The pleading look I’d seen before is back, his eyes flicking across my face as he steps closer. 

My heart is beating violently inside my chest due to his proximity and his scent is overwhelming - beer and gunpowder mixed with something musky and clean. Then, it happens. It’s simultaneously the best and the worst thing that’s ever happened in my life.

His lips are soft against mine and a stark contrast to the bristles of his beard against my cheek. It’s slow - not demanding, or full of fiery passion. A sigh passes from my lungs to his as he tilts his head to one side. I know it’s wrong. I know this is exactly what was never supposed to happen, but it is. It is, and there’s no point holding back now.

I flick the tip of my tongue against the crease of his lips, and he moans, opening up to me as he pulls me closer - one hand in my hair and the other in a crushing grip against my hip. He tastes like beer and home, and my heart aches at how right it feels and at the same time, so wrong. 

The sob that bursts from my chest ends it and I pull back, dropping my gaze to the ground to hide the tears. Dean just pulls me against him, pressing my face against his chest and rubbing soothing circles against my back. He shudders, pressing his lips against my hair.

When I can finally catch my breath, I pull free and step back. He doesn’t try to stop me, just lets his hands drop to his sides, sighing.

“Why?” 

It’s one word; three letters to try to unravel everything between us. 

Dean pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and takes a deep, shuddering breath before speaking.

“I feel like these last few months, there’s been this thing,” he sighs, “between you and I. I don’t understand it. It’s like you’re the only person in the world who really sees me. Sometimes it feels incredible, and sometimes it’s so damn scary I can hardly breathe.”

When I don’t answer he scrubs a hand across his face, huffing out a breath.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he mutters.

“What about Lisa?” Dropping my gaze to the ground, I cross my arms tightly, trying to hold myself together against the crack in my chest. I don’t know whether he’s hurt or angry, but I can’t look at him as he scoffs.

“I love her.” His voice catches. 

The crack in my chest deepens, and I curse myself as another sob breaks from my lungs.

“I can’t help it. I do.” Dean pauses, gripping my chin and forcing me to look at him. The sight of tears trailing down his cheeks catches my breath. “But I love you, too. And honestly, it terrifies the shit out of me. I know, it’s so goddamn selfish, but I can’t lose you.”

“Well, Dean. You can’t have it both ways,” my voice trembles, but I continue. “It’s not fair to me, and it’s sure as hell isn’t fair to her.”

“I know.” He releases my chin and rakes his hand through his hair, tugging violently on the short strands. “I know. I’m sorry.”

And there it is. The answer I always knew, but never wanted. It will never be me - at least not while she’s around; it can’t be. No good can come of me staying. I can’t be responsible for her heartbreak, no matter how shattered my own heart is and no matter how selfish I wish I could be. I straighten my shoulders and suck in a steadying breath.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

I don’t wait for a response before striding past him. The cacophony of the bar fills the night once again, and I know before I ever hear her voice.

“Dean? You out here?” It’s clear from her tone that she’s clueless, and I’m grateful for that, at least. 

I wrench the door of my truck open, tossing everything across the seat before climbing inside and shutting the door. It’s fitting, I realize as I look up to see Dean striding to meet her. The door is finally closed for good and, despite the ache in my chest, I feel relief wash over me. Some doors are just better closed.

-

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