#friends should make you feel safe and to be yourself

[butchpeace]

There are a couple of ways in which testosterone is scary:

1. The potential health complications, most notably including the risk of negative effects to cardiac and reproductive health.

2. The fact that passing as a man means that women will not always feel safe around you. Men and people who look like men do pose a possible threat to women, and women are right to be wary. That’s just how the world under patriarchy works.

3. The fact that it can drastically change your appearance, which is often scary for both the person taking it and to the people close to them. The feeling of looking in the mirror and not recognizing yourself, or looking at a close friend or partner and not recognizing them, is not something I would wish on my worst enemy.

None of these fears are unimportant or easy to shrug off, and they need to be taken into consideration before making the decision to alter your appearance. People should care about the effect that this drug will have on their health and relationships.

to everyone who has been talked out of testosterone HRT because it will make you "scary": no it will not. testosterone isn't "scary". masculinization isn't "scary". being masculine or a man isn't "scary". it's just another way to be a person. testosterone HRT is a good thing. it helps many people. if you want to take it, take it. don't let anyone else tell you not to because it "scares" them. it's not happening to them. their fears don't matter to you. it's happening to you. it's your choice.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 5 - If You Let Me

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Welcome back Sam Winchester I’m sorry about your girlfriend are you ready to suffer for thousands of words as these two idiots dance around each other?

Chapter title from when the party's over by Billie Eilish

Word Count: 16.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean calls you for a case, you grapple with your growing power, and Sam has questions. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 4 - Chapter 6

Read on A03!

No matter what happens, Dean can never be allowed to know how fast you’re driving. Especially because every single traffic violation you commit is in his name. In the hope of seeing him just ten minutes sooner.

In your defense, you haven’t seen him in person in almost three months. You’d gone on a hunt together, parted with the usual smile and awkward high five, and then he’d just stopped asking to you hunt with him. He hasn’t left, hadn’t vanished, and he’s been the one calling you to talk, but he just doesn’t even mention hunts anymore. You just don’t see him. And over those four months of missing him—and shoving that aching, whining feeling deep, deep down where it couldn’t feed into the White’s vast desire—he’s started to sound… off.

“Did you know that people could curse animals?”

“Yeah,” you’d said, glancing down the hall to make sure Bobby was still gone, and not about to barge in and catch you talking to Dean. “I think you can curse most anything. I’ve heard of like, babies being cursed.”

“That’s creepy, Princess.”

“I didn’t curse them-“ You’d cut yourself off with a frown. “Did you and John run into a cursed animal?”

“Uh. No?”

You’d raised your brows. “Why are you asking me, I wasn’t there.”

“No, I’m just- It’s complicated. I’ll tell you later. How did that hunt in Montana go?”

“Oh, super fucking easy.” And it had been. You may have destroyed a fire hydrant when the chimera chased after you—unable to contain or aim the Darkness like you could when you were with Dean—and almost bashed your head against the wall from the sickness crawling over your head and setting it on fire when you returned to the motel, but you’d been done in a day. And you’d been lonely—hollow and long and vastly lonely—but Dean didn’t need to know that. “What’s complicated?”

He’d sighed into the speaker. “I said I’d tell you later-“

“Are you safe?”

There had been a long pause of static noise. You’d been about to check if the call dropped—Bobby didn’t really get great reception—when Dean spoke again. His voice had sounded soft.

It had been worrying.

“I’m alright,” he’d whispered your name, and your grip on the phone had tightened. “It’s- There’s a lot going on right now.”

You’d frowned into the air, the White making a pathetic noise like it could convince you to take a car and just go. Go to Dean—you didn’t even know where he was—and try to help him with whatever was a lot, when you’d probably end up making it worse. You always made things worse.

You might have also destroyed a tree. And a mailbox. And a good part of the road.

Dean clears his throat, his tone almost nervous through the speaker. “Where are you?”

“Me?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, unless there’s someone else on the phone I should know about-“

“Shut up.” You’d rolled your eyes, sitting up in your seat as an engine sounded outside. “Shit.”

“Where’s Shit-“

“No, that’s not- Sorry, Dean, I have to go-“

“Why?” Through the phone, you hadn’t been able to tell if that was his worried voice or angry voice. “Are you-“

“I’m alright, I just-“

“Where the hell are you-“

“I’m home, in South-“ You’d cut yourself off with an internal grimace. Fucking Dean and his way of making you accidentally say too much of the truth all the time, even over the phone. “Park.”

“Isn’t that a TV show?”

Shit. Dean mostly watched children’s cartoons, daytime soap operas in motels, and really old movies. You hadn’t expected him to know that.

“No?”

“Why are you asking me-“

“Shut up. I really have to go-“

“Alright, alright, just, if you’re not busy, we’re near Pittsburgh, and we could use your help.”

You’d frowned, taking careful steps up to your room, praying that Bobby wouldn’t immediately start looking for you when he got inside. “I don’t think John would want my help-“

“Not Dad.” Dena had sighed, and you could picture him running his hand over his face. “Sammy.”

You’d frozen, the door not fully closed. “Your brother? He’s done with college?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. Kind of. It’s-“

“Don’t say complicated.”

“Uh,” he’d paused. “Complicated.”

“Dean-“

“I couldn’t think of another word! What the hell else-“

“Messy? Confusing? Complex?”

“You know Princess, you’re really annoying-“

You’d scoffed. “That’s no way to talk your very good friend and possible savior. Message me where to meet you.”

“So you’re coming?”

“Yeah.” You’d grinned into the air, keeping an ear on the door as Bobby shuffled around downstairs. “I want to meet your brother.”

Dean had groaned. “You know, you’ve met him before-“

“Doesn’t count. I want to actually talk to him this time.”

“Fucking- Fine, but no funny business, or asking him stupid questions.”

You’d hummed. “No.”

He’d snapped your name into the phone, right as Bobby had called it from downstairs, and you really did have to go. 

“See you soon, Deano.”

You’d hung up, and barely a second later Bobby had knocked on your door.

“Hey,” he’d grunted you name, and you were pretty sure he hadn’t heard anything. “You in there?”

“Yeah, wait-“ You’d checked your hand and glanced in the mirror—no bite marks or scratches, the only evidence of your pain living inside where Bobby couldn’t see it—and opened the door with your best nothing’s wrong smile. “Welcome home, old man.”

Bobby had scoffed, scanned over you with narrowed eyes, and then met your gaze with a small, tight smile. “Ain’t I the one who’s supposed to- shit-“

You’d wrapped him in a tight hug, squeezing him and letting out the long breath you always held when you left. It was an oath you kept trying to keep for yourself, that you’d always come back home because you had to let out that breath. That the highways were long, and the nights were lonely, and the Darkness kept building and building inside you—sinking deeper and deeper into the White until there was always some part of you that strained and screamed from the pain of trying to pry them apart—but you had a home to come back to, and one person who’d never call you a burden.

Because you’ve grown sicker. You only grow sicker. You only destroy more and more things, and the Darkness only slips away from you with more ease, but Bobby doesn’t give up on you. 

The demons began, and they won’t stop coming, but Bobby doesn’t give up on you. 

Dozens of demons, more and more every month, ever since that one demon you’d killed for Dean. You don’t know why. You don’t know what beacon lit up inside of you, what’s calling every single fucking demon in America to come and find you wherever you went, but they are. They do.

It's been random. Gas stations and grocery stores, on random hunts and waiting for you near your car. It’s worse when you’re alone. When the Darkness and the pain get overwhelming to the point that you’re barely you anymore, and you end up curled in a bathtub, breathing heavy through your nose. Your clothing in a pile of the floor because it aches to touch something as sick as you, the whole room disgustingly clean because you can feel the grime itch and rot at your skin, your rings on the sink because the pain of the iron sears over your ribs and organs.

And then you’ll force yourself up to go get some coffee, and the barista will have something black and malevolent and glinting writhing inside of Her.

They almost never attack. It’s more terrifying, because you’ll feel an overwhelming sense of wrong, and you’ll yank everything down with a bite on your inner cheek, and there will be the demon.

Just watching you. Smiling at you, following you for day, and then vanishing when you skip town.

Then there’s him. He’s the worst of them all. He’s more like fog, burning and glinting inside his vessel’s body. He’s yellow like sulfur or acid, and keeps appearing when you turn a corner. Passing you in the street and nodding at you in a bar, like he knows you.

He never approaches. He never attacks. He just watches, like you’re a specimen. Everything that’s wrong inside of you his worse inside of him. Potent. Eroding.

Terrifying.

And Bobby knows. Not about the yellow demon, or how the whole thing started, but that you don’t really sleep anymore because you’re afraid the night will take form and go for your throat. That you’re on more and more hunts because it’s distracting from how the Darkness always strangles the White when you’re static and useless. That all the pain has gotten far worse over these past few months. 

Although he does think that’s unexplainable. He doesn’t know it’s because you’re always alone when you’re gone, and the only reminder of Dean is his voice on your phone and his knife in your jacket. 

But Bobby still doesn’t give up on you. He made you create a plan for when the Darkness—inevitably, although neither of you would say it aloud—takes over and you aren’t able to drag yourself down in time. He still tells you to just come home and stay there every single day. And if Bobby was going to give up on you, he would have long ago. He wouldn’t return your hug with a long sigh and mutter your name like you were something important to him, instead of a leech. 

“Welcome back, kiddo.” He’d grunted, and when he pulled back and gave you one last firm look, you knew he was checking for damage one last time. “Chimera go down easy?”

You’d flinched, the beast’s shrieks of pain still echoing around your head, and Bobby had frowned.

“You have another-“

“Yeah.” You’d whispered. “Big one.” 

Bobby had sighed, rubbing his jaw as he gave you another assessing look. “Anythin’ unfixable?”

You’d shaken your head. “I would’ve called you, but I wasn’t that far, and I’d finished the hunt anyway.” 

Bobby had opened his mouth, worry painted on his features, but you’d known what he was going to ask. It was the same fear that haunted you. 

“Nobody saw me.”

He’d nodded, letting out a long sigh. “Alright, but you’re gonna need to be more careful. Our luck ain’t gonna last forever, and when someone does get wind-“

“I’ll call you, then Rufus, throw all my phones off a bridge and abandon whatever car I was driving. Go one town over from wherever I am and lock down until either you or Rufus comes to get me.” You’d given Bobby a soft smile. “I know the drill. I helped you make it.”

Bobby had rolled his eyes. “Cool it, smartass. How long are you stayin’ this time?”

You’d given him an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. “Dinner?”

“That’s it?”

“I’ve got another hunt.” You’d mumbled, and Bobby had frowned.

“You need a rest,” Bobby had grunted your name, and you’d swallowed. “Ya’ look like shit.”

“Hey-“

“I ain’t gonna lie to you. When the hell was the last time you slept a whole night?”

You couldn’t remember. 

But you really wanted to go see Dean. You missed him. You missed laughing and talking to him, and you were worried about him. And couldn’t tell Bobby that, because then you’d have to tell Bobby that you’ve actually been hunting with Dean for about two years when he’d specifically told you not to.

“A few days ago.” You’d shrugged, twisting a ring on your finger. “I’ll be okay, and I can come right back after this one.”

Bobby had sighed. “Where would you be headin’.”

“Pennsylvania.” 

“And you’re stickin’ around for dinner.”

You’d nodded, and Bobby hadn’t pushed further. You’d eat dinner with him, spoken about anything that didn’t make him look concerned and your whole body only pain, and climbed into the car with another silent promise to come back.

And you were holding your breath again. But this was a three-person hunt. A three-person hunt with Dean. 

You’d be fine.

He’s sent you to one of the usual, generic strip motels. Crowded lot, beige paint, cracked sidewalks, and stiff, square bushes lining the building. You’ve barely stepped out onto the pavement when a door slams, and there he is. Bags under his eyes weren’t there last time you saw him, a small bruise on his cheek that seems about a week old, but still grinning. Still impossibly handsome, still making the White buck and hum and ease into the Darkness, still not yours to ask for.

And really happy to see you. You’ve seen Dean’s fake smile.

This one is real.

He shouts your name, and you’re long past trying to fight your own smile at the sound of him saying it. At the sight of him jogging towards you, nothing but genuine joy on his face that you’re here.

And then he hugs you, and you’re not sure this isn’t a dream. Dean never hugs you anywhere but in your dreams. In real life he always grins at you and shoves his hands into his pockets, the most contact he offers being a nudge of your shoulder with his, or a drag of your body away from danger. But this is a hug. This is his arms wrapped around your shoulders, his body pressed right up to yours, and it’s so quick that you don’t have a chance to really return it before he’s gone.

Dean’s eyes are wide on yours as he steps back, and there’s more red near his ears than usual. His hands go in his pockets, you stand a little taller, and both of you stare at each other for a long, strange second before you find your voice.

“Hi.”

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat, glancing over his shoulder before looking back to you. “Hey. Good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.” You wrap your arms around your body, and suddenly there’s a ghost of a strong, warm body pressed to yours. Dean had hugged you, and it was far worse than just his hand. It had branded on something deeper under your skin, sinking down into the White, bleeding into the Darkness until everything was silver, and you were a little dizzy.

And you’re just staring at each other. You want to hug Dean again. He’d been warm and tangible, and he’d touched you on purpose and it had sent lighting through your blood and up your spine, and you can’t tell if your skin is prickling from the silence or the need to just go touch him

“Dean!” A loud, annoyed voice cuts through the air, and you look over Dean’s shoulder to see a tall, shaggy-haired man walking out of the motel. “You left the fucking door open, dude, you can’t just-“

The man stops, blinking at you, and you offer him a small smile. That’s Sam. He’s somehow taller, and his face isn’t babyish and innocent anymore, but you recognize him. 

And he seems to recognize you, because his words are slow, and his gaze never leaves yours.

“Dean?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t start, Sammy, I closed the door-“

“No, you didn’t. But that’s not what I-“ Sam glares at Dean, gesturing to you “Is she your contact?” 

“No, she’s my hooker- fuck-“

You whack Dean’s arm, and Sam’s eyes widen.

“I am not a hooker-“

“Obviously, Princess, hookers are supposed to be nice-“

“I’m nice!”

Dean gives you a flat look. “You just freakin’ hit me!”

“Because you called me a hooker, Winchester.” You wrinkle your nose at him, crossing your arms. “And, just so we’re clear, if I was a hooker, you wouldn’t be able to afford me.”

Dean’s jaw twitches slightly, and you frown, because he’s not sparring back. He’s supposed to spar back. The strange, hanging tension from the hug is gone—he probably hadn’t even felt it deep in his body like you had, he’d probably just been awkward because you’d been too dazed from his contact to hug him back—so Dean’s supposed to make a joke about working out another form of payment, and wiggle his brows at you in a way he doesn’t know always makes you fall a little further into him. Makes your skin warm and the world technicolor. 

But he’s just looking at you, and there’s something taut flashing behind his eyes. You open your mouth to apologize—to ask what you said because you know you’re bad at understanding the line, yet Dean always seems okay crossing it with you—but Sam clears his throat, and Dean turns away.

The White aches. You don’t have time to indulge it.

“So she is the contact.” Sam raises his brows, and Dean scowls at him.

“Obviously.” He mutters, and when he looks back to you the taut thing seems fainter. Buried down where you’re not sure you’re supposed to see it.

But you do. And it taints those fractured pieces through your body. Makes them wither and balk, because you struck something in Dean again, and you don’t ever really know how to stop.

Dean says your name, offering you a smaller smile than before. It’s still real. You’ll have to cling to the fact that it’s still real. “This my brother, Sammy-“

“Sam. It’s Sam.”

Dean shrugs. “Sure, whatever-“

“No, not whatever.” Sam frowns. “It’s bad enough you won’t stop calling me Sammy, I don’t need everyone we meet-“

“You two have actually met before-“

“Yeah, I remember. And Dad said that-“

Dean shoots Sam a sharp look, Sam snaps his mouth shut, and everything start to get too big as the Darkness vaults up to the surface. John had said something about you. He wasn’t here, but he’d told Sam and Dean something, and Sam didn’t look all that happy to see you. He wasn’t turning any weapons on you, but he and Dean were exchanging a silent conversation, and you were caving in as the world expanded. You could feel the bite of the wind on the trees, and the thirst of the yellowing grass around you, and fuck, you could taste bile in your throat because the Darkness was starting to rot in your stomach as you forced it down-

Sam says your name, and you almost don’t hear it over the ringing in your ears. “Is she good-“

“Yeah, shit- just-“ Dean places one hand on your shoulder, waving the other in your face. “Hey, Princess, come back down-“

He’s close. His hand is solid on your body. He smells like grass and spice. 

His thumb has moved to the bridge of your nose, stroking a slow line that moves the Darkness back into the cavity of your chest. Makes everything clear, even as the pain lingers. 

You let out a long breath, offering Dean a small smile. “Thank you.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and your breath is heavy in your lungs. Every time this happens, you worry he’ll snap. That he’ll demand more answers than you can offer, and his it’s probably just a girl thing will come to a crashing end as he puts together that it’s a you thing. And just you isn’t worthy of him wasting time on.

But this one doesn’t seem to be it. Dean’s lips press in a small pout, and he scans over your face, but he doesn’t push. 

“You good?”

“I’m fine,” you shrug him off, making your voice as casual as possible. “Just a long drive. It’s nice to meet you, Sam. Again.”

“Yeah, you too.” Sam offers you a tight-lipped smile. “Dean said you could help us out with this?”

You nod. “Well, he didn’t what this is, but-“

Sam cuts you off with a groan, shooting Dean a frown. “Dude, you didn’t tell her the details of the case?”

“C’mon, it’s not my job to be a freakin’ database or whatever-“

“You still need to tell her what the case is, Dean, what if she can’t help-“

“I can help.” You snap, and Sam sighs.

“Look, I’m not doubting you, but this one is really complicated-“

“Good.” You raise your chin up, holding Sam’s gaze. “That’s my specialty.”

Dean clears his throat, looking between you and Sam with a weary expression. “It is, Sammy. She’ll get this. And you know we need the extra hands.”

Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. But you’re the one who’s explaining the case, Dean. You were supposed to anyway.”

Dean rolls his eyes at you as Sam turns around, and suddenly it’s all clear and bright again. You don’t know how he does that, how he stitches everything inside you together when it starts to rip. You need to figure it out and bottle it up. How to use it on command, because this might be a long case. Sam doesn’t seem to want you here, or like you all that much, and John told them something. They haven’t killed you, but John told them something. And Dean might be strangely willing to just dismiss your episodes, but you catch Sam’s odd look as you walk into their motel room. He seems a bit sharper than Dean, a little more on edge, a little more guarded and cautious.

So you need to be careful. You need to keep it the fuck together, by yourself.

And you’re a little worried that’s not possible.

Dean gestures for you to sit in a creaking, wooden chair—Sam watching you both from across a round table—and claps his hands together as he begins.

“So, we’ve got five dead ladies, three in their twenties, one in her thirties, and one hag-“

You raise your brows at him. “Hag?”

“Yeah, she was like a million. Wrinkly. Right, Sammy?”

Sam shrugs, shaking his head. “I would’ve just said old, man.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, old. Point is, different ages. Different races too, and jobs, and social circles. We’ve been investigating for about a week, even broke into the vic's houses and went through their rooms. No connection between the vics outside of all being chicks, no deep dark secret, fucking nothing.”

You frown at him. “Like the mall.”

“Kind of, yeah, but these ladies are all going down the same way.” Dean points to his head. “Bashed in brains.”

“Gross.” You mutter, running a hand through your hair as you think. “Where are they dying?”

“Same office building.” Sam says, sliding some papers across the table. “Different floors, though. Four of the vics were employees, but one was just visiting her boyfriend.”

You nod slowly, scanning over the files. “And why isn’t it a ghost?”

“Because we figured out who the ghost should be.” Dean leans over you, tapping another one of the files. You can feel the heat from his body, and it makes your gut warm. You need to get it the fuck together. “Maggie Robins. Got her brains bashed in by her husband, Joey, in his office after she found out he’d been cheating on her with her best friend. Son of a bitch offed himself and the mistress right after.”

“Yikes.”

“Oh yeah. But here’s the fucked part-“

“Maggie’s body was cremated.” Sam jumps in, and Dean glares at him. “And all primary possessions were auctioned off by the police. We triple checked the whole office building, and were only a few things left in Joey’s office, for evidence, but nothing that important.”

You raise your brows. “What are we constituting as important?” “Personal valuables.” Sam says, frowning at you. “All that was left were some pens, generic wall art, and makeup-“ “Perfume.” Dean corrects, and Sam nods.

“Yeah, perfume-“ He pauses, turning to Dean with a dry, amused look. “Why’d you remember perfume?”

“I’m observant.” Dean snaps, looking down to you with a shrug. “It was perfume, Princess.”

“Yeah, I’ll make a note.” You smile at him, Dean smiles back, and when you glace back to Sam his expression is strained. Unreadable.

You’ll have to worry about that later.

“So,” you sift through the papers, tearing slightly at the corners. “Not a ghost. Have there been other signs?”

“Flickering lights,” Dean drops into the last chair, watching you with a gaze that seems to sear into your bones. “Few people said they’ve heard moans and screams when no one was there, and a janitor told us he’s been wiping up ghost blood, but-“

“Oh, okay. It’s an onryo.” 

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms, and Sam and Dean exchange surprised look.

“It’s a…” Sam blinks at you. “It’s a what?”

“Onryo.” You shrug, tucking your knees into your chest. “Japanese vengeance ghost, born from a really violent death that was emotionally charged, often because of a betrayal.”

“Shit.” Dean mutters. “Betrayal like your husband fucking your best friend.”

“Exactly.” You grin at him, and you could swear he puffs his chest out as he grins back.

“I told you she’d get it, Sammy-“

“Yeah, you’re a genius.” Sam’s voice is dry as he pulls the papers back across the table, his attention on you still weary. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. Did the janitor tell you he kept finding blood in random places, and it would vanished when he tried to clean it?”

Dean nods, you give Sam a pointed look, and Sam sighs.

“Fine. If it’s an onryo, how are we supposed to kill it?”

You hum, tilting your head at the air. “There should be a special kind of exorcism, but I’ve never actually done one before.”

Sam frowns. “Then how do you know-“

“My dad dealt with an onryo once.” You shrug. “And I’ve read a lot about them.”

Something flashes in Sam’s eyes, he tenses in his seat, and it makes your hold on the Darkness go slack.

He doesn’t trust you. 

Maybe he can see everything that’s wrong with you. Dean may have grown blind to it, but Sam hasn’t, and he might be able to see the rotting sickness that covers your whole body. He might not want you anywhere near him, or his brother. He doesn’t seem like John—from what Dean’s told you about him, Sam doesn’t even seem to like his father all that much—but you can’t shake the wired strain that Sam Winchester just doesn’t trust you.

“Your dad.” Sam’s voice is cautious, his eyes narrowed. “The hunter.”

You’re not sure why he says hunter like that. Like it’s a bomb that’s set to go off. 

“Yeah. The hunter.” You glance at Dean, who’s rigid in his seat, glowering at Sam. “Are you guys good?”

“We’re fine.” Dean snaps, and Sam gives him an odd, tight look.

“Dean-“

“We’re good, Sammy.” Dean turns back to you, and you’re really not sure what’s happening. No guns are pressed to your brow, but there’s a heated, brittle wire hanging over all your heads, and the Darkness is starting to slip through your fingers. Not breaching out—not as you dig your nails into your skin, and bite through your cheek—but brimming right on the surface. On edge. 

Waiting for a snap.

It doesn’t come. Dean gives you a winning grin and Sam keeps frowning between you both, but nothing snaps. Not when Sam double-checks how sure you are it’s an onryo, and you say you’d bet a lot on it, because you would. Not when Dean suggests you all go figure out exactly what the onryo ritual is, and you and Sam look at him like he’s sprouted a second head. Not when Dean insists you all drive together, and you both try to protest—almost certainly for different reasons—but ultimately lose to Dean’s dramatic saving the trees and team spirit speech.

“Still no gun, Princess?” Dean hangs over your shoulder as you sort through your bag, and you shoot him a glare.

“Is the knife no longer good enough for you?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Not when you’ve been hunting alone.”

“Because you’ve been busy.” You raise your brows at him, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I know, it’s… Complex.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “Good job.”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, but the air feels a little lighter, and the White is blending into the Darkness as it’s only you and Dean.

But it’s not only you and Dean. And Sam doesn’t seem to want you here. And it’s complex.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” you mutter, tucking your knife into your jacket. “And I did my job, I’m sure you can do the rest without me.”

“Do you want us to do the rest without you?”

You turn to fully face him, and he looks guarded. Standing a little too tall, his hands seeming to be fisted in his jacket, watching you wearily. Like you might lash out, or explode.

Something’s really off with him. He hasn’t looked at you like that in years. 

He hasn’t looked at you like that since you last saw him with John.

“I don’t have anything else to do.” You mumble, watching him carefully. “And I’m already here.”

“Awesome.” Dean’s shoulders relax slightly, and he nods his head away from your car, deeper into the parking. “C’mon.”

You sigh. “I really can drive myself-“

“Nope. We’re sticking together.” His hand finds your back, and all you can do is let him moves you deeper into the parking lot. “You’ve gotta meet my car, Princess.”

“I have met your car-“

“Doesn’t count. You’re actually gonna ride in her this time.”

Dean’s grin is shit-eating. You’re not sure if you want to punch or kiss him.

“Shut up.”

“Nah.” Dean stops in the center of the lot, saying your name with a smirk. “Meet Baby.”

The Impala looks the exact same as before, save for a sour-faced, taller Sam Winchester sitting in shotgun, glaring between you and Dean. He scowls the whole time Dean guides you into the back bench, and refuses to look at you when Dean closes the door.

You clear your throat, watching Dean move around the hood of the car. “Hi, Sam.”

He grunts, and you sigh, slipping off your shoes.

“It’s good to see you.” You try again, because silence with Dean is like soft music, but silence like this is suffocating. “You look, uh-“

“Taller.” Sam grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I know-“

“I was going to say good.” You mumble, hugging your knees to your chest. “Not like a kid anymore.”

Sam’s eyes shoot to yours in the rearview mirror, you offer him a small smile, and his mouth opens right as Dean drops into the driver’s seat.

“Hey,” Dean turns in his seat, snapping your name. “No shoes on my car.”

You roll your eyes, gesturing to your feet. “I’m not wearing shoes.” 

“Oh.” He blinks between you and your socks. “Good.”

“I’m not an idiot, Winchester. And I’d rather not be murdered because I messed with the only lady in your life-“

“Shut up.” Dean rolls his eyes, turning back to start the engine, and right before he adjusts the mirror you catch Sam glancing you at again, a small frown on his face.

“You guys were gone for a while.” Sam says, mostly looking at Dean. “How long can it take to grab a gun?”

Dean scoffs. “Wouldn’t know, Sammy. Her majesty doesn’t hunt with guns.”

“Doesn’t hunt with-“ Sam blinks at you, his face painted in disbelief. “You don’t use a gun?”

You sigh. “No.”

“What do you use?”

You open your jacket to show him your knife, and Sam raises his brows.

“That’s it? I mean, how do you kill anything-“

“With talent.” Dean mutters, and you don’t appreciate how accurate his impression of you sounds. “I’d never use one anyway-“

“I wouldn’t use it. And someone,” You punch the back of Dean’s seat, and he huffs. “Has a lot of unwelcome options about that-“

“Because it’s stupid.” He grumbles, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, for someone who’s so annoyed about me not having a gun, you sure did buy me a knife.” 

You can hear the scowl in Dean’s voice. “You wouldn’t have taken the gun. You barely took the knife.“ 

“I could still throw it out-“ 

“Nope. You pinky promised.” 

You smirk as Dean sits up slightly—hearing his own words—and Sam gives him an incredulous look. 

“You pinky promised?

“It’s- She was being annoying-“

“He had to admit he was worried about me.” You tell Sam, leaning forward in your seat with a grin. “And that he thinks Charlie’s Angelsis the best movie ever made.” 

“I- I do not fucking think that-“ 

You giggle, rolling your eyes at Sam, who’s looking at you like you just fell  from space. “He’s still in denial.” 

“I am not-“ 

“It’s okay, Deano.” You pat his shoulder, and he shoots you a glare that doesn’t really reach his eyes. “We all still think you’re very tough.” 

The words leave your mouth, Dean rolls his eyes and grumbles about not even knowing why he called you, and some sort of dam seems to break in Sam. All of his cautious, pricking hostility vanishes into thin air, and he twists to fully look at you with an open expression.

In that moment, he does look more like the kid you met in the motel. Curious and not quite in awe of you, but something close. Something similar. 

“Dean said you were on at hunt before this?”

You run your thumb over your palm, tilting your head at Sam as you try to work out how much you can say. “Yeah, I was just stopping there after I finished up a Chimera hunt.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “A- Those are real?”

“Tragically, yeah.”

Dean raises his brows at you in the mirror. “Tragically?”

“They’re mean.” You shrug. “And shit a lot.”

Sam makes a face, but doesn’t turn away. “Had you hunted one before that?”

“No, I think they’re pretty rare outside of like, Greece-“

“But you killed this one, right?”

You nod, and Sam looks like he’s going to fall out of his seat. You’re not really sure what’s happening.

“How?”

“Um…” You twist a ring on your finger as your voice trails off, because you’d killed the Chimera with the Darkness. Let it rush out of your body and infect everything around you, until the Chimera exploded in a disgusting rain of blood. But you can’t really say that, so you go with how you’d planned to kill the Chimera. “I impaled it.”

“Like in the myth?”

“Exactly like in the myth.” You grin at Sam, and you’ve never seen someone so big look seven years old. “Bellerophon.”

“Bless you.” Dean mutters, and Sam gives his brother a look of exasperated disappointment. 

“No, dude, Bellerophon is the slayer of the Chimera in Greek mythology. He impales it in the mouth, using the Pegasus.”

“I don’t need to know why impaling worked-“

“Because of the angle.” You offer, ignoring Dean’s glare in the mirror. “It melts the spear with its fire-breath, and then it suffocates.”

“Yeah, that’s cool, but I still don’t-“

“What did you do with the body?” Sam interrupts, leaning forward to keep talking to you, and Dean seems to be pouting at the road.

Dean ends up pouting for most of the day, because after you lie about how you’d disposed of the Chimera—once again employing the very useful tactic of what you’d meant to do—Sam starts to ask about other things you’ve hunted, and how you’d killed them, and what you’ve learned about monsters overall. It lasts from the car and into the library, through almost the entirety of your research, and Dean barely gets a word in, only sulking over a book as Sam shares their own hunts. You decide not to comment on it when Sam says curses can’t be broken, because you’re positive that’s not true but you can’t say why, and answer all of Sam’s questions about alternative ways to deal with various spirits and monsters.

You’re shocked he remembered you telling John that.

You’re baffed as to why he’s suddenly treating you like a friend to catch up with, instead of whatever he’d thought you were before. You’re not really sure want to know what he thought of you before. Not when it’s suddenly changed to something far better.

“You’re afraid of flying?” You raise your brows at Dean, and he scowls. 

“I don’t trust it.” He mutters, turning a page so aggressively you’re worried he’ll tear it. “It’s high, and loud, and pointless. People belong on the ground.”

You hum. “What about boats?”

Dean shoots you a glare, you just grin at him, and his lips twitch slightly. You won.

“We dealt with a guy on a boat too.” Sam looks up from his own book, a slight frown on his face. “But that was kind of a bummer. Did you know spirits could possess water?”

You did know that. A powerful enough, angry enough spirit can possess most anything. But you only nod, because you’re mostly looking at Dean. Sunken into his chair, still mostly pouting, glaring at his book like it’s just insulted his car. You’ve never seen him act like this—silent, barely offering a comment or glance up at you and Sam, mostly pretending to read and fidgeting with his pen—and it makes the White spin and whine.

“Hey, De.”

You nudge his calf under the table, and he looks up at you with a frown.

“I’m hungry.”

“We passed a cafe on the way in,” Sam offers, and Dean raises his brows at you.

“You heard him.” He looks back to his book. “Go eat.”

You frown at him, even as the White bucks around inside of you. He’s not moving, or asking for food, or making fun of you for asking permission to go eat. Something’s off. Something’s been off, and you don’t know how to fix it—you don’t know how to fix anything—but you can’t stand how Dean’s silence is eating at your throat and lungs. You’re really going need to learn how to control his effect on you.

But not right now. 

“Do you want anything?”

Dean glances up at you again, something odd flashing in his eyes. “Me?”

“Yeah, you, dumbass-“

“Get me a burger.”

You give him a flat look. “It’s a cafe.”

“Whatever. Just figure something out.”

He still doesn’t move, or stop frowning. The moment you cheer him up, you’re going to kill him.

“Winchester.”

He grunts your name, and you glare at him as you continue.

“Where’s the cafe.”

“I dunno, ask Sammy.”

“Down the street.” Sam’s eyes bounce between you and Dean, a small frown on his face. “Just go straight, then to the left.”

You nod, giving Sam a thankful smile. “You want anything?”

Sam shakes his head, and you look back to Dean.

“Dean.”

That gets his full attention, and it seems to burn right into your body.

“I’m going by myself.” You rise to your feet, giving him a challenging look. “And I’m not good at directions. I might end up at the grocery store, and come back with carrots.” 

Dean narrows his eyes at you, but Sam just shrugs. 

“Actually, carrots sound-“

“C’mon, Princess.” Dean cuts off a surprised Sam with short words, pushing his chair back. “You’re paying.” 

Sam calls after you that he’ll call you if he finds anything, but you don’t really hear him. Not as Dean lowers his voice and leans down to your ear. His breath is warm. You might fall over.

“You’re really determined to get me to eat, sweetheart. Should I be worried?”

You hum. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean Winchester.”

He clicks his tongue, and he’s grinning again. You won. “Full name. What did I do?”

“Sulk like a baby for an hour?” You raise your brows at him, and he’s a lot closer than you thought. You can count all his freckles. They’re kind of like stars. 

You can feel his breath on your face when he laughs. It’s warm, and smells like coffee and mint.

His body is like a furnace, and it’s melting everything to silver inside of you.

You’re losing your mind. 

“I can still kick you out of this hunt, you know.” He drawls, and you shrug, trying not to think about how Dean’s hand on your back shifts with the movement.

“Good luck with that.”

“It’s my hunt-“

“It’s your and Sam’s hunt.” You correct. “I think I’d have his vote to stay.”

“You would.” Dean lets out a dry chuckle, and you don’t even realize you’d made it to the cafe until Dean’s suddenly stops walking, and you’re waiting in a short line. “Fucking nerds.”

“That’s rude.” You shove his arm, and everything feels color when he laughs, and it’s real. There’s still something tight and coiled in his eyes as you make it to the counter and order, but he’s not slumping anymore, so you’re going to push it.

You’re going to ask what the hell is happening. Why he hasn’t been hunting with you, why Sam’s back, where John is, and why he’s been so strange. You turn your drink between your hands as Dean grabs the food—frowning at his empty seat and rehearsing your question in your head—and the moment he sits down you-

“Dad’s missing.” 

You blink at him. “What?”

“Our dad.” Dean mutters, sliding your food across the table. “He’s missing. And not just one of those longer hunts, we’ve been looking for months and he’s… Just gone.”

“Shit.” You mutter, pieces sliding together in your brain as Dean’s words sink in. “Where have you checked?”

“His last case. And we got activity on his phone, but…” He trails off with a shake of his head, not fully meeting your eyes. “We can’t fucking find him, and Sammy’s- He’s not doing well.”

You nod, and wait for Dean to continue. If you say something, you might say the wrong thing, because you don’t give a fuck if John Winchester is missing or dead or just on a bender. You’re breathing a little easier just from the knowledge that you can be here, and it won’t end in a bullet through your brain.

But Dean gives a fuck about John. And you—despite your best judgement and all rational reason—give a fuck about Dean. You give a fuck that he’s been so off because his Dad’s missing, that there seems to be something a little heavier in his eyes and on his shoulders than the last time you saw him, that you can almost taste his bitter, taut worry for Sam. 

You give a fuck that he’s telling you at all. That whatever he sees when he looks at you, it’s bright enough that he’d trust you with anything at all.

So you’ll bite your tongue, and let him keep going when he’s ready.

Dean draws in another long breath. “You can’t tell Sam I told you this.” He mutters. “I- We’ve barely talked about it, and he doesn’t know you, and it’s really fucking complicated-“

“Dean.” 

His eyes meet yours, and the guarded expression is back. It’s not your job to break through it. It’s not your job to do anything for Dean, but you want to. His tension seems to be moving into your body and making your muscles and organs sore, the Darkness is twisting and coiling in your body to find something to break. Churning until you let it flood out, pushing at the White in a way that makes you feel a little sick. 

You might as well find something to break for Dean, while he’s still here. While he hasn’t left, and everything feels big in a way that’s not suffocating and crushing.

“I won’t tell Sam.” You say, holding his gaze as you lean forward, raising your pinky. “Promise.”

Dean swallows, but takes your pinky and shakes it. “His girlfriend died. The same way our mom did, too, right after we lost the trail on Dad.”

“Your mom-“

“Burned on the ceiling.” Dean mutters. “We don’t know what did it, but Dad’s been hunting the son of a bitch since it happened, and then he vanishes, and it happens again? Right fucking after? That’s-“

“Not a coincidence.” You finish—letting out a long, slow breath—and Dean nods.

“Never a coincidence.”

You hum, frowning into the air as your head starts to kick into a high gear. This is just another case. Just another problem to solve that might call to you, a piece of the Darkness you could use. You can help with this. You can fix something. Dean’s isn’t guarded anymore—only sitting a little taller than usual, watching you carefully—and he’s still here. Dean’s still here, and he trusts you, and those fractured pieces in you are starting to stretch towards each other again. Bleeding through the Darkness in vibrant color as Dean holds your gaze, and you can help. 

If Dean wants your help. If he’d want you. 

The thought makes the White flash and sing. You need to keep it together.

“Is Sam okay?” You ask, your voice soft, and Dean sighs, rubbing his face.

“He’s not sleeping well. Thinks I haven’t noticed, but we share a damn room every night.”

You nod slowly. “Are you okay?”

Dean blinks at you, a small frown on his face. “Me?”

“Yeah, who else could I be asking-“

“I-“ Dean shakes his head, tapping his knuckles on the table. “I’m fine, Princess. Dad’s gonna turn up, and he’ll have a good reason for going off. Maybe he found what killed Mom, and he’s just waiting to grab us for help. Then we’ll get back to normal.”

You narrow your eyes. You don’t believe him. He’s still off, and the weight on him suddenly seems bigger now that you know where it’s coming from. But you’ve barely opened your mouth to push him when the little cafe doorbell rings, and Sam calls your name.

“I got it!” He stops at the side of your table, looking between you and Dean with a wide grin. “It’s called a harae, ritual purification. We just need to build a shrine and learn the words.”

You take the book Sam passes into your hands, scanning over the pages as Dean gives Sam a pat on the back.

“Nice one, Sammy. Once we gank this bitch, we’ll get you nice treat as a reward for good work-“

“Fuck off, jerk.“ Sam shoves Dean’s arm away in your periphery, and Dean just laughs.

“Hey, Dean?” You look up with a frown, turning the book for him to read. 

He doesn’t. He just says your name and stares at you, and it’s not really helpful. “What’s up?”

“You guys did interviews, right?”

He nods. “I did a lot while Sam was looking at the office. Looked at all the vics and our suspects.” He frowns. “I lost rock, paper, scissors.”

Sam laugh. “Again.”

“Shut up, bitch-“

“You’re the one who lost, Dean, it’s not my fault you suck-“

“I do not suck, you just play fucking mind games-“

“Winchester. Pay attention.” You give him a stern glare and kick under the table, and he scowls at you.

“Sammy started it-“

“I don’t care.” You tap the book, pushing it closer to him. “If you did the interviews, I need you to write down a list of things people said about our onryo, and get some stuff for the shrine. It will work better if it’s in closer relation to who Maggie Robins was in life.”

“Why do I have to do it-“

“Apparently because you suck at rock, paper, scissors.” You shrug, looking up to Sam. “We can go back to the motel, learn the ritual, and hopefully kill this thing by tonight.”

It takes another five minutes to get Dean to agree, and he’s still scowling when he drops you and Sam back at the motel, but it’s not heavy anymore. He’s not silent either, grumbling the whole way about being saddled with freakin’ shopping duty, and shouting that he better not come back to find that you and Sam threw a party while he was gone. 

Then it’s just you and Sam. Alone. Speaking chopped and stilted Japanese, giving each other odd looks as you adjust to the shift.

It’s not hard to be alone with Sam. He’s nice, easy to talk to, and doesn’t seem to have nearly as much fun pushing your button as Dean does. But it’s still strange. He keeps giving you odd looks and opening his mouth with a small frown, but shaking his head and shutting it. Your brain keeps spinning around what Dean told you, and how the Darkness seems... Off with Sam. His presence doesn’t blend it into Silver like Dean’s does, and it’s not volatile like with a monster or spirit, but it’s not normal. It’s turning and humming and beating into the White, like Sam is setting it off.

And you don’t even know what it is.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom when it starts to get overwhelming. When the Darkness starts to leak and your breathing has to be shallow to control it. Sam asks if you’re alright, and you just wave him off and lock the door behind you. Sinking onto the cold floor with your fingers squeezing at your throat, trying to drag it back down by force. It’s not enough. Whatever is happening is only feeding the Darkness, and it’s not dangerous but it could be. One wrong word, one accidental push, and you’d lose control in a second. You can feel lingering warmth of the sheets on Sam and Dean’s beds, and the ache of the creaking bathroom door, and the grime of tiles, sick and itching and all over your skin-

You bite down on the back of your hand, and everything falls back into you. You’re alright. You got through it. You always get through it. You’ll get through this hunt—rising to your feet and rubbing your face, checking in the mirror that no pain is visible—and you’ll help Dean, and everything will be alright. Maybe if you figure out what killed their mom, John won’t try to kill you when they find him. Maybe they won’t find him. Maybe you’ll be safe, and Dean could stick around for you, just for you because you’d helped him, helped his brother, and done it without breaking anything or losing control. Maybe you’d be able to tell him what’s wrong with you, and you’d have been good enough—done a good enough thing—that he wouldn’t call you a monster.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” You give Sam a small smile, twisting a ring on your finger as you walk back to the table. “Just had some sketchy road food yesterday. Happens to the best of us.”

Sam nods, and you think he bought it. Most people usually buy it. Even Bobby isn’t great at picking up your lies, because you’re careful and deliberate and practiced, and every lie you tell is purposeful and vital. A barrier to the horrid truth of how you’re always a little cancerous. 

You’re pretty sure the only person who sees past it is Dean. And that’s just another thing you’ve given up on hating him for.

“Do you know when Dean will be back?” You ask, because you can’t help yourself. You made the critical error of thinking of him, and suddenly the White is desperate for him to be close once more, and you’re too tired to fight it. 

“I dunno, probably soon.” Sam shakes his head, giving you another odd look. “Do you guys hunt together a lot?”

You hum, pulling another book from Sam’s stack. “Usually, yeah.”

“Usually?”

“We haven’t been on a hunt since October.” You shrug, and when glance up, Sam’s still staring at you.

“Has he been… Talking to you?”

“Yeah, uh, we call about once a week.”

“Dean calls you?”

You nod, frowning slightly. “That’s what I said, yeah.”

“Huh.” Sam’s looking at you like he did in the car. Like you’re an alien, or weird plant. It’s not hateful, and it doesn’t make the Darkness riot in defense, but it’s… unnerving. “How long have you guys been talking, again?”

“Uh,” you tilt your head, your brow furrowing slightly. “A little over two years?”

Sam makes a slight face. “Cool.”

It doesn’t sound cool. It sounds like Sam’s as confused as you are, which is unfair because you don’t even know what you’re confused about. All Sam should know is that Dean left you once, years passed, and now you’re friends. 

But maybe Sam knows why Dean left you. And he could tell you, and it could either mend all those shattered pieces lining your body in a single moment, or snap you entirely. At least if it snaps you this will be over. You won’t have to deal with the circling question of does Dean feel this too. Is he looking at you like that because he feels this. Is he still here—despite you being irrevocably you all the fucking time, despite John obviously hatred of you and what you are—because he feels this too.

“Hey, Sam-“

“Something’s not making-“ Sam’s eyes widen slightly as you speak over each other, and he raises his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, you first-“

“No,” you shake your head, keeping your desperate question lodged like a stone in your throat. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not a big thing, just that it’s kind of strange that the onryo is going after only women.” Sam frowns at his book. “Everything I’ve found says they should either kill just about anyone in their path, or just target reminders of the person who wronged them. And with the whole cheating thing I’d imagine it would be men and women, not-“

“Just women.” You reach a hand out, and Sam passes you his book. “You’re right. If you’re sure it’s Maggie-“

“We’re sure.” Sam says, leaning back in his chair. “She had her brains bashed in exactly like all the vics. And the husband, actually.”

You pause. “And the husband?”

Sam nods, grimacing slightly. “The crime scene photos were really gross.”

“And…” You glance at the case files, still scattered on the table. “How did the mistress die?”

“Gunshot. The cops worked out that Maggie got her brains bashed by Joey, Joey shot his mistress-“

“What was the mistress’s name?”

“Uh, Becca. But-“

“And she was Maggie’s best friend?”

Sam nods, his brows drawing together as he starts to play catch up. “I think so, yeah. Dean said all the families were shocked that, uh, Becca would betray Maggie like that.”

You let out a long sigh, running a hand through your hair and giving Sam a disbelieving look. “Jesus fucking Christ, men are idiots.”

“Hey-“

“I’m back!” Dean bursts through the door, several plastic bags in hand. “Got all the shit, Princess. Looks like this Maggie chick even used the same-“

You hold up a hand, and Dean falls silent. “Sam, tell Dean what you just told me.”

“Uh,” Sam glances at Dean, who’s dropped down on the edge of his bed with a frown. “Becca-“

“Who the hell is Becca-“

“The mistress, dumb dumb.” You give Dean a glare, jerking your head at Sam. “Listen.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender, and Sam keeps going.

“Becca and Maggie were best friends, and you told me all the families were shocked about what happened.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, they all kept going on about how close those chicks were. Maggie’s mom said that Becca would stay with her when the husband was out of town on business.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god.”

“You got something you wanna say, sweetheart?“

“Not that you’ll want to hear, Deano.” You wrinkle your nose at him, even as a little bit of guilt eats at your throat. He’s gonna be pissed. “We need to start the ritual over.”

Dean blinks at you. “What.”

“Maggie isn’t the onryo.” You sigh, leaning back in your seat. “Joey is.”

Sam’s mouth falls open. “Fuck. That- It explains the targeting.”

“Yep.” You give him a tight smile. “And people don’t just bash their own brains in. Joey probably did kill Maggie, but then Becca killed Joey before shooting herself.”

Dean shakes his head, an adorable look of confusion on his face. “Why the hell would the douchebag get offed by his own mistress-“

“Because she wasn’t his mistress.” You say, and Dean just stares at you, his lips in a small pout that you want to bite.

“Huh?”

You exchange a look with Sam—who’s very poorly covering his snicker with a hand—and look back to Dean with a sigh. “Lesbians, Winchester. The mistress was the wife’s, not the husband’s.” 

“The- oh.” Dean goes red, scratching the back of his neck and looking anywhere but you. “Awesome. Good for them.”

You shrug. “I mean, they are both dead. But yeah, awesome.”

“For them.” Sam adds, letting out a long breath. “Not us. You’re right, we’re going to have scratch everything and work out how to do the ritual for Joey.”

“Fine.” Dean groans, kicking one of his bags. “But there’s no way in hell you’re making me do all those interviews again, Princess.“

You sigh, scratching at your fingers. “Sam, if you do the interviews, I can work out the MO to see if we can lure the onyro out, and Dean can make the ritual stick.”

Sam nods, looking back to a book, and Dean gapes at you.

“Ritual what?”

“Stick.”

“It’s a shaker made of paper.” Sam explains. “For the harae. It’ll be easy, dude.”

“And.” You give Dean a pointed look. “It’s either that or the interviews.”

Dean scowls, but relents with raise of his hands, and you grin at him.

“Great. We’ll have to wait for morning to do this, so, uh…” You trail off, frowning at your car out the window. You had really thought you’d be done by midnight. You can’t afford a motel room right now, and you don’t think Sam and Dean won’t notice you sleeping in your car. Bobby’s car. One of Bobby’s junkyard cars, which was in no way suitable for sleeping in. 

Dean says your name, and you turn your head on instinct alone. “You got a room?”

“Uh, no.” You glance back to your car. You can just drive it away, to a different lot, and make do. You know how to make do. “But I’ll find one, it’s fine-“

Sam shrugs, barely looking up from his book. “Just stay here.”

Heat rushes to your face, and you freeze in your chair. “What?”

“You can bunk with us, we’ve got the space.”

You can’t look at Dean. You and Dean don’t share a room. You don’t know why he’s never offered, but you know why you haven’t, and at this point it’s an unspoken rule.

But Dean’s not shutting Sam down, and the White has started to burst and glow at the idea of it. Of being closer.

You cannot share a room with Dean. It will destroy this. It will give you the opportunity to ruin your friendship with him, give you another place to fall further into him, provide another opportunity for the White to pull you closer and closer, down, down, down into Dean. 

“No, no it’s okay, I’m sure somewhere has a room-“

Dean cuts you off, and you’re going to go insane. “You can take my bed.” 

“It’s- it’s really fine-“

“No,” He says your name casually—like your brain and heart aren’t exploding—and pushes up off his mattress. “You’re doing us a solid, we can put you up. And I’ve shared with Sam before. I can deal with his Sasquatch starfishing.”

Sam glares up from his book. “I do not starfish-“

“But you are a Sasquatch?” 

Dean smirks at Sam, Sam flips him off, and the conversation seems to be over. Sam’s still reading. Dean’s kicking the bag and grumbling about stupid rituals.

But you’re frozen.Time isn’t really flowing, and the world isn’t really moving, because you have to talk your way out of this. You have to figure out what you can say so you can leave, without Sam and Dean being gentlemen and insisting you stay, or asking questions about why you’re so frantic to be anywhere but here.

And you’re not. Every single fiber of your existence wants to stay in this room, where it’s warm and demons might not find you. Your body wants to rest in Dean’s bed, because it will probably smell like grass and spice and Dean. Your fucking tongue keeps trying to move against your will, to suggest you and Dean just share a bed. 

And you’re strong enough to hold yourself back from that, but not from the rest of it. Not from the high that rushes through you when you give in, mumble that you’ll go get your bags from the car, and Dean insists on walking with you. You can’t stop your laugh from echoing through the parking lot at his stupid jokes, or the Darkness from moving out of you in a way that’s not painful. In a way where you can feel how calm the grass is in the quickly sinking twilight, or how soothing the gentle wind is to the tree branches.

Dean guides you back inside, and you stumble. Just a normal, boring trip over your own feet that Dean saves you from, catching you with firm hands and a laugh. 

He’s real, and he’s not gone. The streetlight over his head is casting a gold glow over his skin and hair, and everything about him seems fake—still far too pretty, made of gold but warm under your touch—but he’s real.

And he smiles at you. And that light flickers.

And you’re so fucked.

——————

Dean needed to get a grip. He needed to stop being a freaking creep, and act like a normal person.

He couldn’t. And he wasn’t going to figure out how to in one night. But he needed to, because there was no goddamn way She hadn’t cast some sort of spell on him, and not a chance in hell he was going to make it through the night without acting like She wasn’t only a few quick steps away.

She couldn’t be doing this on purpose. She’d have to be a demon or something, sent to torture Dean with Her… everything. To make him sit at the table while She showered just a room over—if Sam had given him one more amused look, Dean would’ve punched his lights out—and then come out of the bathroom with steam and light surrounding Her, like a beautiful, tempting nightmare. She’d grabbed a little, colorful bag—given Dean a smile because she must hate him—and vanished back into the bathroom.

She’d come out a little while later with soft, almost glowing skin and shiny hair Dean had wanted to touch. She’d passed him on her way to bed, and smelled like sugar and fruit.

The whole room had been surrounded with that fucking fruit smell. Dean had been losing his goddamn mind. 

He’d ended up flat one his back, staring at the ceiling through most of the night, something tight and hot lodged in his throat and gut. Sammy was fine to share a bed with, but Dean wanted to be across the room.

With Her. Holding Her like they were real people, smelling her hair like a goddamn creep and talking to her in the dark. 

Dean really just wanted to be with Her in the dark. To wrap around Her and keep her against him, where She wouldn’t have one of those weird freak outs he’d slowly learned to handle, where no strange, haunting monsters would find Her and take her away.

He didn’t want Her to go away. It was getting fucking crippling, how Dean wanted Her around all the time. How he was so fucking selfish and empty that, since Jessica, he’d started to spiral into thoughts of Her finding out what a mess his life was, and leaving him alone. Of taking all Her blinding, silver light that Dean was more than happy to follow down into the dark, and turn it somewhere else. That he’d been given a chance to see the universe in brilliant eyes, and now it would be ripped away from him.

Worse, he had nightmares that She was on the ceiling. And he’d tried to dismiss them as stress—Dad was missing, Sam was on edge, and Dean was fucking exhausted, so stress seemed reasonable—but they’d persisted. Which was crazy. Jess had been Sam’s girl. He’d had her, and lost her. Mom had been Dad’s, and that was why Dad had become Dad after her death. 

Dean had never had Her. He’d held Her hand once, and kissed Her forehead twice. She wasn’t Dean’s to fear for, or protect, or imagine pressed against him in the dark. She wasn’t Dean’s to keep near him, wasn’t Dean’s to fantasize about, wasn’t Dean’s to want. To get anxious about introducing to his family, because they were all born and made in the mud and She seemed to be created from starlight. He’d never even meet Her family, because she still wouldn’t tell Dean the damn truth about them.

He still didn’t know how to be furious about that in a way that stuck. How to not care when Her eyes went glassy, when She looked small and lost. How to not feel alive when She smiled, and orbit around Her when her world was more colorful than his.

And Sam liking Her had made that worse. Made it more real. Sam liking Her meant Dean wasn’t going insane. It meant that Dad might have simply been wrong, and She wasn’t just an illusion, and that if She left it would just be because Dean wasn’t worth her time.

And She hadn’t left. He’d told Her about Dad and Jessica and Mom, and then watched her shuffle around their motel room in the morning with an adorable, sleepy face. He’d watched Her in Baby’s passenger seat—Sam taking her car for the interviews—and had to force his hand to stay on the wheel and not Her thigh. 

He was looking at Her, across the diner table and poking at Her breakfast with a fork. He wasn’t sure how She managed to look so beautiful all the goddamn time, even when her lips were still swollen from sleep and her eyes were a little glazed from exhaustion. How Her voice always sounded like a song that echoed through Dean’s body, spurring something a little to the right of his heart and making him do almost anything she asked.

Like making a that stupid stick while She wrote on a paper napkin, that adorable furrow in Her brow.

“Sam should be back soon.” She mumbled, crossing something out on Her list. “Are you almost-“

Dean placed the stick over Her napkin, grinning at Her when she looked up. “Done.”

She gave the stick a once over, sighed, and went back to Her napkin without a word.

Dean frowned, leaning over to try and read Her scrawling. “Can you read that?”

“I’m writing it.”

“That’s not an answer, sweetheart.”

She glanced up, Dean winked, and She rolled her eyes.

“Shut up.”

Dean just hummed, leaning at little further forward. “So that’s a no?”

“I’ll stab you.”

“Damn, Princess, I thought you liked me-“

He cut himself off with a grunt, and She was flushing. It was the best color Dean had ever seen.

“I can like you and stab you.” She muttered. “I’d stitch it up after.”

Dean wanted to ask how much She liked him. If She like liked him. If She breathed easier when he was there and felt peaceful when he was by her side. If his voice haunted Her dreams.

He shrugged the urge off, and pushed on.

“You stab me, I’m asking Sammy to fix it. You don’t have good bedside manner.”

“Or you’re just a terrible patient.”

Dean gasped—making his most dramatically wounded face—and when She looked back up, she giggled.

“You’re such a fucking idiot.”

He smirked, nodding in agreement, and Her words didn’t hurt him. People had called Dean an idiot before, and it had always stuck on his skin and coated over his chest. But She said it like it was endearment. As if the softer tone lining Her voice could be affection. For Dean.

She was looking back down to the napkin. Dean needed Her to look at him. To either help Her with what she was doing, or listen to her giggle again. Nothing was ever complicated when She was smiling and giggling at Dean.

“What’s it say?” Dean tried to grab the napkin, and She snatched it away with a glower.

“Hey-“

“C’mon, you’ve been losing your mind over that for like an hour, I could help-“

“So ask like a big boy, Winchester. Say please.”

Dean held Her gaze, grabbed Her wrist, and smirked as she flushed.

“Please, Princess.” He squeezed Her wrist, and he could’ve sworn She leaned into him. “Tell me what’s on your dumb napkin.”

“It’s not dumb.” She mumbled, Her voice a little breathy. It was distracting. “I’m just- I’m trying to figure out the onryo’s MO. Usually they don’t have one, but Joey seems to, and I can’t work it out.”

“What’ve you ruled out?”

“Appearance,” She frowned at Her writing. “Profession. Marital status-“

“Vics weren’t cheaters?”

She shook Her head. “Most were single. It’s just- It’s not making a lot of sense.”

Dean shrugged. He still hadn’t let go of Her wrist. His hand might be trapped there permanently. “Doesn’t matter, right? Long as we gank the fucker, we’re in the clear.”

“Yeah,” She let out a long breath, glancing up at Dean with soft eyes. “I guess. I just- It’s weird.”

“Our lives are weird, sweetheart.” He grinned at Her. “Chill out. Sammy’ll be back soon, and we’ll be done before dinner.”

She nodded, her features relaxing, and Dean felt something loosen in his stomach. He was still touching Her. He couldn’t pull away. She wasn’t even trying to move, not trying to break his gaze, and he had grabbed Her over her shirt but She’d shifted and now he could feel Her skin. It was soft. Warm. It felt so goddamn right under his palm and She wasn’t moving away-

Sam cleared his throat, standing at the side of the table, and She and Dean flew apart. He yanked his hand away—grabbing his fork and tapping it in an uneven rhythm on his plate—and She moved backwards in her seat, hiking a knee up to her chest and looking up at Sam with wide eyes. 

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey, Sammy, you’re back-“

“Yeah.” Sam was looking between them, his lips twitching. “Am I interrupting-”

“No!” Her voice was high, and frantic. Dean frowned. He would’ve said no too, but She didn’t need to say it like that. “We’re just, um, talking about the case. Did you get what we needed?”

Sam nodded, pulling out a folded paper from his pocket and passing it into Her hands. “That should be enough, right?”

“Uh… Yeah.” She scanned over the list, and Dean didn’t miss Sam’s grin at Her approval. “I’ll head out now to set up?”

He wanted to protest. To tell Her to just stay and eat with them. She’d barely touched her plate, and something in his stomach kept gnawing at the idea of Her going off alone. She might hunt alone all the time, and Dean might know she had her knife, know that he’d be right behind Her, but he still didn’t want to Her to just go alone. He had twisting feeling over his heart at the idea of Her going alone-

“Sure.” Sam passed Her the keys to her car, stepping out of the way so she could exit the booth. “Call if you need anything, and we’ll meet you there in an hour.”

She hummed in agreement, giving them both soft smiles, and Dean was rooted in his seat. He should follow Her, or insist she stayed, and she’d get all fucking pissy about him not thinking she could handle this alone, but he still rather get yelled at then watch Her walk away. She was walking away. Dean needed to shout after Her and-

“She walks fast.” Sam said, dropping in Her now empty seat, and Dean blinked.

“Huh?”

Sam said Her name, settling in his seat. “She walks-“

“I heard you.” Dean snapped, looking out the window to watch Her move through the parking lot. She did walk fast. He’d never really noticed it before, because She always walked just a pace ahead of him, matching his speed perfectly. But alone, She did seem to walk faster. With purpose.

Towards Her car. Away from Dean. He could still run and grab Her. Convince her to come back to the booth-

“Does Dad know you were hunting with her?”

Dean turned back to Sam with a frown. “What.”

“Dad,” Sam leaned back, giving Dean a pointed look. “I remember what he said about her, Dean. Shit, dude, he hated her, even before he dug that stuff up-“

“Dad didn’t hate her.” Dean muttered. “He was just looking out for us.”

“He was being paranoid. And, just for the record, that woman,” Sam pointed out the window, and Dean realized She was gone. Fuck. “Doesn’t really seem like a spoiled, bratty con-artist.”

Dean scowled. He fucking knew that. And Sam needed to stop saying it, because it made Her more real. Made Her more possible, made Dean crash further up into Her. Fed the idea that he could, maybe, touch Her and not get burned.

“Dad doesn’t know, does he.” Sam crossed his arms, raising his brows. “You lied to him.”

“I didn’t-“

“You did. There’s not a chance he would’ve let you just go off hunting with anyone, let alone her.” Sam grinned at him, and Dean didn’t appreciate the glee on his face. “You were fucking lying to Dad.”

Dean braced his arms on the table, lowering his voice to a hiss. “I’m serious, Sam. Drop it.”

Sam did not drop it. He might be trying to get punched. “No, Dean. You’ve been lying to Dad. You never lie to Dad about anything.”

“Sam-“

“I mean, you’ve lied for me. But c’mon dude.” Sam let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Even you have to stop and think about why you don’t want Dad knowing about her. I mean, she’s nothing like what he said, but Dad’s Dad.”

“What the hell it that supposed to mean?“

“It means he’s not going to like that he was wrong. That she’s cool.” Sam shrugged. “I like her. The only thing I’d worry about is the, uh…”

He trailed off, and Dean frowned. 

“Worry about what?”

“I don’t know.” Sam’s brow furrowed slightly. “I mean, I don’t know what they are. Panic attacks?”

Dean shook his head, his brow drawn in confusion, and Sam gave him an odd look.

“C’mon, dude, there’s no way you haven’t noticed. I mean, you helped her, when she got here. When you did the, uh,” Sam reached up to his face, running his finger over his nose. “That.”

“Oh, yeah, that always calms her down-“

“But what is that?”

“I don’t know.” Dean muttered. “Probably just some girl shit-“

Sam scoffed. “That is not a girl thing. That’s like… an episode or something. Have you asked her?”

“No. And you,” Dean point to Sam with a glower. “Better not say shit.”

He didn’t need to give Her a reason to leave. A reason to think he didn’t want Her around. Those moments were strange—and had been happening more and more frequently—but Dean had dealt with stranger, and he knew how to handle it now. 

And Sam paused, tilting his head. 

“Holy shit, dude.” His face split into a shit-eating grin. “You really like her.”

“What?! No- I- Why the-” Dean narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about-“

“Yeah, I do. I know you, Dean. You don’t want to make her upset, you have a crush-“

Dean slammed his fist on the table, leaning forward with a glower. “Watch it, I’ll kick your fucking ass-“

Sam just shrugged, a shit eating grin on his face. “Whatever. Won’t make you not have a crush on her.”

“I do not have a fucking crush. She’s my friend-“

Sam laughed again, this one louder. “Sure, dude. You looked like you were gonna cry when she walked away. I bet you wanna go after her-“

“Because she doesn’t need to do this alone! We hunt together, that’s the point of partners-“

“Partners?” Sam raised his brows. “Do you not hear yourself? You’re so worried about her-“

“Sam, I swear to fucking god-“

“Fine, man.” Sam raised his hands in surrender, still smirking. “Chill out.”

“I am fucking chill.” Dean grumbled, glancing at Her abandoned plate. “If you’re not eating that, we can go now-“

“No, I’ll eat it. And she’ll be fine, Dean. There was a lot of overlap on this list from the Maggie one, she just needs to find a really specific kind of beer. I mean, you got the perfume, right?”

Dean frowned. “Perfume?”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded, poking at the plate with his fork. “That bottle in his office, same kind you bought for the first ritual.”

Dean sat up in the booth, a creeping, almost painful chill shooting up his spine and through his blood. “Yellow bottle?”

“Uh huh-“

“French name?” 

“Yeah, dude, I just said it was the same-“

Pieces fell into place in Dean’s head, and he felt sick. He’d fucking seen the bottle in Joey’s office, and remembered it because of Her. Then he’d forgotten until last night, and She’d cut him off before he’d had a chance to tell Her, when he’d gotten back. If he had told Her, she would’ve put it together faster. She would’ve seen the overlap on the lists, pointed out that it was strange to keep perfume in your office if you weren’t actually having an affair. 

If you were confronting your wife about her affair.

Dean shot out of his seat. “We need to go, now.”

“Woah, slow down, we still need to pay-“

“No, fuck, it’s-“ Dean ran a hand over his face, snapping Her name. “She uses that perfume.”

“So?”

“So, if you were a woman trying to cover your affair with your girl best-friend, how would you do it?”

Sam looked at him like he was insane. “I don’t know, man, that’s not a situation I’ve thought about once-“

“Would you make your girlfriend use the same perfume you use? Would you buy it for her?”

“Dean, I don’t know-“

“It’s the perfume, Sam!” Dean was shouting. He didn’t care. “We didn’t think about it! We thought it was the wife who got slighted, but it’s the fucking dude, and all the vics had that goddamn perfume! And-“

“The wife and mistress were using it.” Sam’s eyes widened, and his words far too slow when they had to go. “To hide their affair. And if the husband put that together, he’d… and…” Sam said Her name, and Dean felt his lungs tighten. “She uses…  Fuck.”

It was good Sam got up when he did, or Dean would’ve started to drag him out of the diner. The waitress shouted after them to pay, but he didn’t hear. There was red lining his vision and blood in his ears because he had been an idiot. They never would’ve gotten what the spirit was without Her, they never would’ve gone after the right douchebag without Her, and if Dean hadn’t managed to catch it, She would’ve paid the price for helping him. For Dean being unobservant asshole.

She still might pay the price. They hadn’t saved Her yet. Dean was violating traffic laws and testing Baby’s bounds, but She was in fucking danger and nothing else mattered.

“So,” Sam cleared his throat. “How do you know it’s her perfume?”

“Shut it, or I’ll fucking shoot you-“

“No, dude, I swear I’m not teasing. I just want to be sure-“

“I’m positive.” Dean grunted, not bothering to look over and see if his brother was listening. “And you better be ready to exorcise this son of a bitch-“

“I got the Japanese down last night. And I’m sure she’s fine, Dean-“

“Shut up.”

Sam raised his hands, and made the smart choice to close his fucking trap and let Dean focus. 

He didn’t bother with proper parking, stopping right on the curb outside the office and sprinting inside. The building was cold. Too cold. Fucking freezing the closer they got to the office, lights flickering in the hallways and all of Dean’s attention narrowed to listen for screams or bangs or cries for help-

The door to the office was locked. He pounded on it—shouting Her name and making the walls shake slightly—but there was no noise from the other side. The overhead lights sparked and flickered, wind seemed to rush through the half-empty hallway, and Dean took several steps back. This building was probably insured, and he needed to get in that fucking room.

Dean cracked his neck, braced his body, and threw himself forward.  

The room was pitch black when he crashed into it—one the overhead lamps hanging from the ceiling and light flooding in from the hallway—and She was sitting in the corner. Her back was pressed to the wall, Her hand around her throat, and Her eyes glassy as they found Dean’s.

He shouted Her name, dropping to his knees at Her side. “Fuck, are you-“

She shook Her head, pushing at his chest. “Dean, go, you need to go-“

“Are you goddamn crazy, there’s no way I’m leaving-“

“No, I’ve- I’ve got it, please-“

Sam finally caught up, the paper shaker in one hand and a gun in the other. “Shit, where’s the-“

“Don’t know. Get ready.” Dean never looked away from Her bloodless face, keeping it cradled in one hand. “C’mon, Princess, you a target, we’re going-“

“No!” She screamed, and Dean didn’t have time to feel something snap in his chest before She was kicking him away.

Before a large, white-clad and blood covered figure appeared right where he’d been before. Reaching down for Her as she curled further down into herself, not even trying to goddamn defend herself.

Dean was certain his heart stopped. That it exploded through his body in a firework of blood and feral, uncontrollable fear. And there was something else, too. Rioting in his chest, burning and golden and bellowing for Her. To save Her. To pull Her from danger, from the pain, from the dark-

He could only see red, only hear his own roar of Her name as the onryo grabbed Her head, slammed it into the wall, and She didn’t fight back.

Dean tackled the onryo. Wrapped his arms around its throat and yanked it away from Her slightly slumping body on the floor. Slammed his knees into its back and crashed them both against the desk, raising his fist to pummel it fucking bloody and uglier-

It threw Dean off with a guttural, ear-bleeding roar, and Dean felt pain pound over his back as he slammed into the wall. He was vaguely aware of Sam beginning the ritual, but he didn’t care. 

The onryo was heading back for Her. And Sam had realized and was running forward, but he wouldn’t be strong enough if Dean wasn’t, and She wasn’t fighting back.

All the lights in the hallway sparked and flickered, and Dean saw a flash of silver in the dark. He could hear low chanting and muttering in a soft, musical voice, and his head was spinning but he could swear She was moving.

The onryo screamed, and a blinding pillar flame burst through the room. Dean couldn’t think outside of fire. Licking at the ceiling and walls, and he couldn’t see Her anywhere at all-

It was gone in a second, and the room when dark once more. 

A small, weak noise came from the corner of the room, and when Dean’s eyes readjusted, he could see Her in the dark. He didn’t need to think to move to Her.

He just did. 

Holding Her face with his gentlest touch, angling it carefully to check for blood or bruising, muttering Her name until she made another soft sound and he knew she was conscious. He let Her slump forwards into him as Her eyes fluttered, and her breathing eased.

She’d be fine. Dean could see a cut on Her brow, a bite mark on her hand, and a gash on Her shoulder, but he’d stitched up worse for Dad. Her eyes weren’t staying open for more than a second, and her heart was racing when he checked Her pulse on her neck, but her gasps weren’t choked or stuttered so she’d be fine.

“Dean.” Sam muttered from behind them, his voice soft. “Is she-“

“She’s fine.” He grunted, wrapping his arm around her waist to hold Her steady as he moved to his feet. “Hold on,” he whispered Her name in her ear, and she listened, her arms looping around Dean’s neck. 

It was relieving and worrying all at once. She felt fragile again. 

Dean didn’t know if he could live with himself if he broke Her.

“Sam,” Dean didn’t take his eyes off of Her as he spoke, because looking at Her seemed to make just a little bit of the panic fogging his brain clear. He could see Her chest rise and fall. She’d be okay. “I know we still gotta check-“

Sam understood immediately. He usually did. “I can do it. Take her, I’ll meet you back at the motel.”

Dean nodded in silent thanks and—after carefully grabbing Her keys out of her pocket and throwing them to Sam—carried Her in his arms out of the office and into Baby. 

He drove slowly, his grip on the wheel white knuckled as She made soft sounds of pain at his side. Dean had brought Her here. He’d put Her in danger, just because he had missed Her, missed moving in her orbit. She was hurt because he’d been an idiot and brought Her into harm’s way. He’d triggered one of Her episodes because he hadn’t done his job and protected her, and She’d still ended up doing the ritual herself because he was fucking horrible at his job. He’d been lost in his head, just like Dad always told him not to be, and now She was in pain. She’d be okay, safe in a fancy home in some mystery town, if Dean just hadn’t called Her.

And he was a selfish, lonely piece of shit.

And he didn’t want Her to go.

She let him move Her from the Impala to the motel room, leaning into his side and walking in uneven, unsteady steps. At least She was walking. At least when Dean set Her down on his bed, she was able to pull off her own jacket and remove Her own shoes. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, and there was swelling on Her cheekbone where the onryo had grabbed her, but at least She was sitting upright, watching Dean grab their med kit. 

She was a statue, but at least She was here. With Dean. 

Where he could hear Her low, strained noises when he touched her gash, and he could rip his head apart with guilt. 

He’d fucking let that happen to Her. She wasn’t speaking, and Dean couldn’t tell if she was angry, but she should be. Because Dean had failed. 

Dad wouldn’t have failed. Dad would kill Dean if he found out he’d dragged Her into their family business, and she got hurt. He’d yell at Dean for letting Her everything distract him, because she wasn’t a real hunter, she was just a girl.

That’s what Dad had always called Her, when Dean managed to bring Her up. When he’d been testing the waters about telling Dad about Her, and always decided against it because Dad said She was just a lying, spoiled little girl, who didn’t give a damn about Dean.

But She’d killed the onryo. And She’d left him with the Poltergeist, but She’d chosen him with the Demon. When he’d only had Her, even if the worst of his injuries had been a mild concussion. 

Sammy liked Her. She liked Sammy. 

And when Dean glanced back up at Her beautiful face—cast like artwork in the shadows and cool lights of the motel—She was watching him the same way She always did. A little hazier, Her face more open and gentle than usual, but still the same.

Like Dean might be something. Anything at all.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Dean’s hands stilled.

“What.”

“I’m sorry.” She repeated it, and Dean felt sick. He might break his jaw. “I didn’t mean to. Please, I’m really- I didn’t mean to do that-“

Dean looked up at Her. Her eyes were glossy, Her features bloodless, and her every word choked as Her body curled into herself. Like She was trying to make herself small. Like She was trying to hide.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered again, and Dean glanced down to Her hands in her lap. 

Raw and bloody, lined with marks where She’d begun to scratch.

He grabbed them without a word, moving them apart to rest on the mattress. She made a weak, strangled noise, and Dean could feel it in the goddamn cavity of his chest. Echoing around and burning a hole in his body that was shaped like Her.

“I’m sorry-“

“Why.” He muttered, refocusing his attention onto the gash. “You didn’t fuck anything up. You ganked the son of a bitch, and Sammy’s finishing the ritual for you. We’re fine.”

“The ritual?”

Dean nodded, glancing up at Her. The little furrow was back in Her brow, and she was breathing so fucking fast-

His thumb moved up before he could think about it. Running a soft line down the bridge of Her nose until she let out a long, slow breath, and the sound washed over Dean like rain. 

She’d be okay. Her eyes were still clouded, and She still looked far too small, but Dean would patch Her up and She’d be okay.

He rose without a word when he finished the stitches, muttering an order for Her to stay there, and moves to the kitchenette before he can think better of it. Opened the cabinet and started heating some water, just because he had to do something. If Dean was something, She was more, and he had just fucking do this. A silent apology.

A plea to not leave. To stay with Dean, because he was the fucking worst, but he’d never let that shit happen again. 

She’d moved to the headboard, Her legs curled under her body as she rested against the headboard. And She was still watching him. He wanted to brush the sweaty hair from Her face, and kiss the bruise on Her head, and pull her into a long hug to swear that would never goddamn happen again. 

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t even know how to grab Her face between his hands and tell Her he was sorry. That he’d felt like was suffocating when She’d gotten hurt, that he felt like the lungs and heart—and something else he didn’t even have a word for—were being crush and shredded apart all at once when She’d screamed. 

But he could do this. Dean could walk mix in the cocoa powder, grab one of Sam’s stupid thermoses, and pass the hot chocolate into Her shaking hands. 

He just looked at Her for a long moment. Gorgeous in an almost indescribable way, right before him where he could touch Her if he tried.

He didn't know where to start touching Her. How to start caring about Her the way something like Her—breakable and furious and brutal, brighter than anything Dean had even seen before, would ever see again— would deserve to be cared about. But he had to try. He had to keep Her close, where he could always make sure She’d be okay.

“How’d you know to come?” Her voice was still a breath, but it sounded more like Her, and Dean could take that.

He shrugged. “Got a gut feeling.”

“A gut feeling?”

“Yeah.” Dean gave Her a small smirk, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “Tells you what’s wrong and right, when something’s going bad-“

She whacked his arm, and it was weaker than usual, but still Her. She looked more and more like Her by the moment. “Shut up.”

“Bossy.”

She wrinkled Her nose at him, glowering over the thermos as She drank.

He chuckled. “You know, I mean that as a compliment-“

“Don’t tell me what I know, Winchester.”

The laugh that left Dean was loud, and real, and made Her smile. And he felt alive. Right now, Dean was alive at Her side, golden under Her attention, and more relaxed in the dark than he’d been in days.

“Yes, ma’am.” He drawled, and She rolled her eyes.

When She moved the thermos away from Her mouth, there was a little line of milk above Her lips, and Dean grinned. 

“Nice mustache, Princess.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Your- here.” Dean reached forward before he could think better, and wiped it with his thumb.

He froze in place the moment he drew away. He’d touched Her. And She’d been warm and soft and real. His thumb had brushed over Her upper lip for only a second, so now the feeling of it might be branded on his skin. And when he looked back to Her, she was flushed. With the hitched breath. The parted mouth.

He wanted more. He wanted Her. He didn’t ever want Her to go.

“Uh, where are you going?” He cleared, trying to make his voice as casual as possible. He could do this. “Once we wrap up the loose ends here?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged, settling back into the mattress. “Probably home.”

“Which is where?”

She gave him a small smile, taking a long sip of the coco without an answer.

“Never gonna tell me, huh?”

She shrugged. “Maybe next time, if you make me more of this.”

She tapped the thermos, and Dean felt his own mouth twitch.

“I think that’s bribery, Princess.”

“Maybe.” She hummed, raising Her brows at him. “Are we above bribery?”

Dean chuckled. “Guess not. And, uh,” he took a long breath, scratching the back of his neck. “Would you need it to be next time?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if there wasn’t a next time?”

Something flared on Her face, she leaned slightly away, and Dean’s throat tightened. Not like that. Not at all like that.

“Oh.” She mumbled, and the words began to fall out of Dean like vomit.

“No, I’m not saying that. Opposite of that. I mean, I told you everything, and Sammy likes you, and we’re a good team, Sweetheart, so if you want to, I’m sure Sam wouldn’t be pissed. He’d be for it. He said you were cool, and three is ever safer than two. So, uh, yeah.”

She only blinked. “What?”

Dean felt his face heat. He hadn’t actually said the thing. “Stay.”

“Stay?”

“With me. And Sammy. Just to help us find Dad, then Sammy’ll probably go back to a normal, boring life, and you can do what you do. Just, uh, you can stick around after the hunt. If you want.”

“Stay with you, to find…“ She trailed off, and Dean couldn’t read that expression. He couldn’t fucking think, not outside of Her eyes on his, and the smell fruit dragging him into a pure sense of Her.

“Our Dad.” Dean finished Her sentence, and her throat bobbed. 

She let out a slow breath, hugging Her own body and ducking Her head, and Dean felt his chest go numb before she even spoke.

“I can’t.” She mumbled, rubbing that scarred palm over her calf. “I’m really sorry, Dean. Just, my dad-“

“Don’t. It’s fine.” He rubbed his own brow, his gaze fixed on Her hand. Close enough to touch.

But not really close at all.

“Dean-“

“I’m serious. It was just an offer.”

“But-“

He snapped Her name, and it was harsher than he meant it, but something also felt like it was peeling along his ribs. She didn’t want him. Nobody would want him. He’d gotten Her hurt, and he had no good reason to think She’d stick around for him. She didn’t feel this, it was all only Dean losing his mind and falling to his knees for a woman that he could never have. She sounded wounded and desperate, but She wasn’t his to wound, and She’d told him she didn’t want to stay. That She wanted to go back home. Somewhere of the mud, somewhere Dean wasn’t good enough to follow her to.

“I’m-“

“Don’t apologize.” He muttered. She needed to rest, and Dean didn’t need Her sorrys. He didn’t really deserve them. “Go to sleep, Princess. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She took a long breath. “Dean?”

He grunted, unable to look Her in the eyes, and She sighed.

“I know I, you-“ She cut herself off with a swallow, her voice growing softer by the second. “But can you, um, can you please- I don’t want to- Could you please sit?”

Dean frowned at the floor. “What.”

“With me. Sit with me. Until I fall asleep.” She whispered. “You can go after, if you do, but… Please.”

Her voice was so goddamn light, so dream-like, and Dean didn’t think he’d ever learn to not bend for it. Not when his eyes dragged back to Her’s, and they were calling him further down. Drawing him closer with only Her. Still just Her, at Dean’s side, in the whole universe of a motel room.

And She wanted him for this. Only this. 

But at least it was something.

He nodded, and forced himself to ignore the spark up his spine when a She mumbled a thanks, and closed her eyes with a soft breath.

She was passed out in only a few minutes, and Dean stayed at Her side. Just a nod felt like it was an oath, when it was for Her. So Dean sat at Her side, and watched her sleep like that same creep he’d been the night before.

He didn’t really notice Sam returning. He couldn’t look anywhere but Her. Slack faced and breathing slow, drooling onto the pillow in a way Dean wanted to wipe from her chin, hair in her face he wanted to brush away, lips parted that he always wanted to touch. 

Beautiful. Not his to have. 

But She’d be here until morning. And She’d asked him to stay with Her, so he’d sit in the dark for Her and practice how he’d let Her go when she walked away. Remind himself that it was for the better She wouldn’t stay. She wouldn’t get hurt. And he would see Her again.

Maybe, while she was hunting without him, She’d find someone who actually kept her safe. Who did what Dean wasn’t good enough to do, and didn’t just watch Her in the dark. They’d hold Her in the dark. They’d be Her dark, just like Dean irrationally craved, but deserving. Worthy of a star falling into their hands, worthy of holding it with them all the time. 

Dean felt sick. Her hand was splayed across the mattress. 

He let himself hold it. If this was the only chance he had, and She didn’t flinch away when he twined his fingers with Her’s, he’d hold Her hand.

He’d take tonight. 

And he’d learn how get a grip in the morning. 

End Note: Diversity win! These Lesbians were part of a triple murder suicide!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[hiddengiggles]

Let’s talk about consent and smart ways to play

Yes, consent can be revoked at any time. That’s normal and your boundaries should be reexamined regularly as part of your own check ins.

No, it doesn’t mean either party did anything wrong, it can just be a change of what either wants. Shaming either party for changing their mind serves no one. Don’t act like the person who was receiving the action is unfair or a “tease” for changing their mind. Don’t act like the person giving the action was bad or wrong for doing the thing for which they had consent at the time because you didn’t like it.

Yes, it’s awesome to be able to open yourself up and be vulnerable for different activities and kinks. When you don’t have a partner to engage with regularly, it can be thrilling to finally find a person to play with, I know.

No, blanket consent for EVERYTHING right from the jump is NOT a good idea. If you’re connecting with a play partner the first few times, start slow and expand. Feeling enough trust to give consent for some kinks can and probably should take time so uou can be really comfortably vulnerable

Yes, it is exciting to safely meet play partners from the online world when you are BOTH ready for it! When you’re safe about meeting (getting to know them slowly, setting a neutral meeting point, letting a few people know where you’re going and the name of your friend, etc) it can be a great way to get time with your kinks. When it isn’t forced, rushed, or for too long a time period, the organic connection can be magical!

No, you should not assume each party is on the same page unless you’ve communicated multiple times, especially in writing. If you had a phone call a month ago that talked about boundaries and assume all is well, you’re not actually playing safely. Some people write out rules, some BDSM players sometimes make it a “contract”, but a verbal conversation will not protect you or help you if worse comes to worst. This is especially important for partners still new to playing together. Record the hard conversations in some way.

Yes, you can start a conversation on boundaries and kinks with generalization. Example on my end, my husband and I both are okay with pictures and videos taken of us and posting them. In the early days of our relationship, we checked every time we played “Is it okay if I film this?” but after years together we’ve both agreed it’s okay to take them anytime, though we check with each other if we’re comfortable with what was captured regularly.

No, a general conversation is not enough. Continuing my example, we both have boundaries for ourselves and for each other to make sure we’re okay with it being posted (or sometimes sold). Earlier today, I put on a really pretty lingerie set for some birthday giggles. However, I stopped and asked “If you wanted to film this, would you be comfortable with me being seen in this publicly? Our usually boundaries call for a top and bottoms covering”. He paused, considered, and said no, so I put on a tank top and shorts too. Get specific with every aspect of your play, from your comfortable clothing levels, to where content can be posted, to areas you don’t want touched that day that you might normally be okay with otherwise. Assuming you already know the answer is not enough, say it again.

Consent is a lot bigger and more complicated than just this post, so talk about it A LOT with your partner(s). The biggest key to a good relationship in and out of kink (friendship, mentorship, romantic relationship) is to NEVER STOP TALKING. Communication is key, talk about your boundaries and consent over and over and over. They will change and grow, and so will you.

Mistakes and miscommunications will happen, but it’s important to talk about them like the grown people you are. A lot of consent issues with new partners aren’t malicious, they can easily stem from either party being unclear or simply not thinkinh to ask about something that could be a boundary issue. Unless it was a blatant “I KNEW the boundary and disregarded it purposely because I wanted to do it” situation, be an adult and talk about it. If you’re adult enough to be engaging in activities or kinks for adults, you need to follow through and talk about what went right and wrong. Learn and grow from the stuff you didn’t do as well before, accept responsibility for your part, and move on, with or without that partner.

[fangsandfeels]

It's not that Rook as a project manager/leader/decision-maker doesn't work or has no value. However, what bothers me is that Rook feels like they literally exist to fulfill that role, but they have no part in the story.

For instance, in DAO Warden ends up with the mission to save Ferelden because there is nobody else. The King is dead, their Grey Warden mentor is dead, everyone is too busy playing politics - and the Warden just happened to survive. However, at the same time, they also have stakes of their own. They all have their reasons to go on, to do all that:

Cousland: "I will find and kill Howe for what he did to my family"

Aeducan: "I will take back my throne from my traitor brother"

Tabris: "If darkspawn reach Denerim, nobody will bother to protect the Alienage, so I must do my best for Shianni and all the people there" // "I will kill every fucking shem in my way and I'm not letting the Blight take it from me"

Mahariel: "I lost my best friend to the taint and I almost died myself. I must make sure my people are safe from it, whatever it takes."

Amell: "I narrowly avoided the Rite of Tranquility in my own Circle and there is no place for me anywhere else, so I better get used to this Grey Warden thing" // "Fuck yeah! I got my freedom and no templars, no darkspawn will ruin it for me!"

Surana: "I narrowly avoided the Rite of Tranquility in my own Circle and there is no place for me anywhere else because I am a mage and as an elf I have slim chances of not being harassed in the first place. I really need to make this Grey Warden thing work."

Brosca: "I didn't survive this long just to die here. I will keep climbing out of this pit and nobody will ever look down on me"

These reasons make the Warden more than just a placeholder for team leader - they make the Warden a person with their unique struggles, motivations, and experiences.

In DAI, the Inquisitor is less detailed, but they are put in a unique situation - they have The Thing in their hand and now people think they're the Messiah. Also, the local Pope is dead, there is a gaping hole in the sky and people are losing their shit, and The Thing seems to be the key to dealing with all of that, so the Inquisitor literally has to be the leader.

(Let's ignore the fact that the Inquisitor is also appointed the leader because they can be conveniently turned into a scapegoat for the enraged mob should something go wrong.)

The Inquisitor can be a fierce believer committed to the cause. They can be a reluctant leader and a loud non-believer, but their motivation is clear: I'm dealing with this shit not just because it threatens the world, but also it affected me personally.

Rook, however? They lack that nuance and range. They join Varric behind the scenes for no other reason than "cuz saving our planet is a thing to do!". Moreover, somehow they instantly buy Varric's story that must sound like some tinfoil hat level insanity:

"Alright, so elven gods are real and one of them is hanging around right now and he wants to explode the Veil and drown the word in demons. Wanna join me and stop him? It'll be fun. Yeah, he is literally a god who can kill you in your sleep and you're the only person I've recruited so far, I think our odds are good."

After all, in DAO the darkspawn threat is obvious and very hard to ignore: Mahariel gets the firsthand experience, Aeducan and Brosca' city is literally under constant threat, and the rest of Wardens get a glimpse of what the darkspawn will do to Ferelden in Orzammar. There is no denying the necessity to fight them. But Solas, though? He is subtle. Racism and prejudice against elves play in his favor. The only people who understand the threat are the ones he revealed his secret to.

So, why does Rook join Varric without a shadow of doubt, especially if they aren't even exiled from their faction (more like asked to take a break)? They obviously has a place to return to and things to do, why get yourself involved?

In other words, Rook lacks personal reasons and deeper motivation to go after Solas, which makes them look inauthentic and awkward (even though they're supposed to be capable and skilled) because there is no essence to their interactions.

Moreover, there could be reasons.

Maybe, they lost someone due to Solas' machinations and actions, they realized that there was something mysterious about the tragedy and felt like they were going insane until they crossed paths with Varric who gave them answers.

Maybe they got framed by Solas' spies and lost their place in their faction, their political status, everything - so they literally have no other option but to start beef with a literal god.

Maybe they were one of the slaves freed by Solas' agents but realized that he expects them to die for him now, which rubbed them the wrong way.

It is a compelling reason: to find the mysterious and supposedly powerful being, to be able to thwart its scheming, to ask "Remember me?" right in their face or to demand answers. It's a powerful motivation to keep going, to gather allies and work with people. It would have even made Solas getting stuck in Rook's head more impactful and allowed for more personal and sharper conversations.

In fact, now I think that if Rook got absolutely wrecked due to Solas actions (as a collateral damage) and became a down on their luck depressed mess or a restless seeker of answers putting themselves into dangerous situations, it would have made for a much more protagonist.

What’s really jumping out at me on my second playthrough is that the writers of the first three games understood that your character was the main character. The Veilguard writers clearly thought that the main characters were their characters, the companions.

Every scene is about setting the companions up as cool or competent or sympathetic. Often, this is done at Rook’s expense. The companions get all the witty one-liners; Rook’s attempts at humor not only frequently fall flat, but are frequently called out for falling flat (even when they’re completely automatic and the player has no say in them).

The companions have all the knowledge and skills; Rook just brought them all together and gives them all pep talks so they can focus. I’m trying to edit out all of the comments where Rook is like “Um… what????” from my videos, and let me tell you, it takes WORK. There are A LOT of them. I can count on one hand the number of times when the Inquisitor or Hawke comes across as dumb, but it seems to be a built-in, unavoidable part of Rook’s character. I have not selected a single “purple” option in all of Act 1, and Rook is still coming across as the kid who tries to be the class clown to cover for the fact that he’s always confused. Rook’s role in most scenes is to say “Uhhh… what?” so that the companions look smart.

Rook is always the one offering sympathy and never the one getting it. No one actually comes to comfort you after Varric’s death. No one asks you how you’re feeling about having to lead the team now that Varric is gone. No one tries to reassure you or give you advice for dealing with the trickster god haunting your dreams. We’re told that Neve could keep Solas out of your head, but she never actually offers to do this for you. No one comforts a Shadow Dragon Rook when Minrathous is destroyed or a Grey Warden Rook when Weisshaupt is destroyed. Rook’s problems don’t matter. Only the problems of main characters matter.

Rook is a secondary character in their own story.

[rosenclaws]

Could I pleasssse request a smut/fluff fic with Logan where he secretly likes the reader and doesn't like the readers bf? The reader is in their early to mid twenties and has been best friends with Logan for years and he snaps one night when her bf is being an asshole 👀 thank you so much 😭

warnings: Angst to fluff, asshole boyfriend, he's mutant hating low key, threats, fighting

a/n: Hehehe i fucking LOVE a good jealousy fic, also I based the asshole ex on multiple asshole exes of my own lol.

Things were well and truly complicated. You always knew what being a mutant meant for your relationship life. Having to dip your toes into the water to see if they the kind of person who wanted your kind dead or if they were more open to the idea of mutants.

Even then you ran into all kinds of assholes. If you could even get past the first date then you'd have to drop the bomb that you work at a mutant school with mutant children. Safe to say your dating life was pretty empty.

"You here again sweetheart?" You roll your eyes when you hear Logan's voice. It's Friday night and you're sitting in the living room of the mansion with a root beer.

“Yeah, so are you.” You bite back. He just chuckles and takes a seat next to you. Spreading his legs until his knee knocks into yours.

“Weren’t you supposed to go out with that kid, what was his name Jacob or…”

“Jason. Yeah he canceled when he saw the pick up address.” You remember the absolute terrified voice he spoke to you in, afraid you were going to melt his bones through the phone or something.

“You really know how to pick em.” You shove Logans shoulder as he laughs.

“Fuck off, I don’t see you getting any action lately either.”

“That’s because I’m not interested in dating some stranger.” He grumbles.

Truth is Logan hasn't been interested in anyone except for you for a while now. Its been years and as pathetic as it sounds Logan was too afraid to say anything. But there's no reason to mess up a good thing right? Plus it's not like you've been showing any interest in him.

“Look, any guy would be lucky to have you sweetheart, you just need to find the right one."

"Feels like I've been searching forever. Feels like I should make a marriage pact or something." You say with a groan.

"A marriage pact?" "Logan questions.

"Yeah you know, if we haven't found someone by the time we're forty we just, get married."

"We?" Your eyes widen and you start to flounder. The last thing you want is for Logan to think you're a creep or something. It's not like you fantasize about Logan or anything. Totally not.

"Not you, I mean if you wanted to then sure but I was just talking hypothetically you know. I mean god could you imagine you and I?" The words tumble out of your mouth with no filter. You just can't stop yourself. Logan cocks and eyebrow and you pray for something, anything to happen to help you shut up.

"Yeah...hard to picture you and I" Logan's face hardens as he talks.

Like he thought before, you don't want him. You could just burst into flames right here and now. The tension is palpable. Logan has been your friend for a long time but he never fails to make you a little nervous. He shouldn't have this hold over you but god he's just so big and intimidating.

"You know what? We should go out." You say abruptly.

"What? Hey give that back!" You grab the beer out of his hand and he looks at you confused.

"It'll be fun please, I'll buy the first round." You offer and he thinks for a second.

"Fine."

You don't really know what drove you to want to come here. It was loud and crowded and you and Logan had gotten separated after the first drink. Maybe you just wanted to avoid the odd feelings you get whenever you're alone with him. Plus that last conversation was awkward as hell.

You sigh as you swirl your drink around. You spot Logan across the room. He's leaning against the wall while a very pretty red head is all in his space. Your heart clenches as you notice the cocky smile on his face and how he's not pushing her away. Guess someone is getting lucky tonight and it isn't you.

"Hey, couldn't help but notice a beautiful girl all by herself." You look to your side to see a guy slide into the seat next to you. He seems nice enough. He's cute and all.

"Oh I'm here with a friend." You say looking back at Logan.

"Yeah, he seems busy to me. The name's Carter. Let me buy you a drink, no strings attached I swear." He offers. You take one last look at Logan, that woman's hand snaking up his arm. Fuck it.

"Alright deal."

Things since that night have been, a little off. You went home with Carter after Logan had disappeared. Carter was nice enough, at least he was at first. He treated you nice, bought you flowers. He didn't care you were a mutant or that you worked at a mutant school. He was the perfect gentleman. For the first couple months.

It happened so slowly you didn't even notice at first. You spent less time at the mansion, instead now spending it with him. The kids started to miss you and so did your friends but you were happy and they were happy you were happy.

You rarely saw Logan anymore. Ever since you came home from the bar he had been avoiding you, or something. Carter would come by the mansion but his nice guy persona seemed to fade the more he spent with everyone. It didn't help that one of your students accidently lit him on fire once. That's when the fights started.

He didn't trust the kids there, said they were dangerous. He would tell you that he liked mutants but h was worried for your safety. And he really didn't like Logan. The first time the two of them met it ended in a fight on the car ride back to his place. Logan was a strong personality and the two men clashed.

Soon every time your job got brought up it ended in a fight. He'd talk bad about your students, about your friends, about Logan. Carter wanted to keep you away from there because he loved you but they were your family.

He loved you, you had to believe it was all because he loved you. I mean you had spent so long looking for a man who didn't care about your job or your mutant abilities and Carter was that guy. At least you thought he was. You won't find anyone better. Carter liked to say that. It's hard to come by someone who's okay with what you are. So you just had to believe he did it all because he loved you.

"Do we really have to go to this stupid thing? Can't we just stay in..." Carters hand snakes up your leg but you bat his hand away making him huff.

A pissed off look on his face as you drive to the mansion. It was a simple staff party but it had been too long since you got to relax with all your friends. Carter had insisted on coming along but right now you wish he had just stayed home, especially if he was going to complain the whole time.

"This is really important to me. We don't have to stay long I promise." You say in a cheerful tone but Carter just rolls his eyes.

"Whatever." It was exhausting. To Carter anything he wanted to do was fine but as soon as there was something you wanted to do it was a chore.

"Don't understand why you're so obsessed with being around these...people." He mumbles under his breath. Not this again. You plaster on a fake smile as you pretend you didn't hear him. He loves you for who you are right?

The party was in full swing by the time you get in. You greet your friends, trying to hide your feelings as Carter says something about getting a drink.

"You finally made it." You turn to see Logan standing behind you.

"Logan! Didn't expect to see you here." You tease. Parties were never Logan's thing.

"I heard you might show up, can't miss that now can I?" He opens his arms and you don't hesitate to hug him. You missed this. Your nights used to be filled with movie nights and late night snacking with Logan. It's been so long since you got to do any of that.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Logan clocks the fake smile immediately. He's noticed the ways you've changed. You're deflated, tired. It's all that assholes doing and he knows it.

"Yeah every things fine," Logans hands rest on your arms, he's about to press you a little further but Carter comes back.

"Hey man get your hands off my girlfriend." Carter almost seems to puff out his chest as if he was trying to appear bigger than Logan. Logan rolls his eyes.

"Calm down bub, just saying hi to my friend."

"Well she's my girlfriend."

"Yeah she's also a person not a fucking object." Logan growls and you step to get in between the two of them. The last thing you wanted was a fight right now.

"It was great seeing you again Logan." You smile as Carter wraps his hand around your wrist.

Logan reluctantly lets go of you as you're taken away by your boyfriend. He feels this anger burning inside of him. Every time he sees that bastard touch you he wants to rip off his damn arms. Every time he sees your smile fall or hears your fake laugh.

"Jealous much?" Scott comments, a smirk on his face as Logan turns to glare.

"I ain't jealous." Logan snaps as he stalks away.

Yes he is, he's very jealous. He's jealous that asshole is your boyfriend and not him. He's jealous that he's not the one who gets to hold you at night and call you his girl. But he was too late. So he's got no one to blame but himself.

Carter hadn't left your side since your moment with Logan. Normally you'd be happy about this but he was doing nothing but complain every chance he got.

"Can we just fucking go home already. You saw your little friends."

"It's barely been an hour Carter. All I asked for was this one thing! These people are my family would it kill you to try and act interested." You snap, finally fed up with his attitude. He scoffs and crosses his arm.

"I am trying. It's not my fault your family are freaks! Especially that fucking monster." He says with an extra glare towards Logan. Heads start to turn as he raises his voice.

"They're not freaks and don't call Logan that! He is not a monster!" You hiss. You've had it up to here with Carter. Everything you thought about him was crumbling down. If this is what love was then you'd rather be single.

"Of course you come to his defense. What are you fucking him on the side?" He spits.

Logan looks ready to pounce but he's being held back. If he could he'd maim this guy until he's nothing but blood and bones. He doesn't care what insult this guy spews his way but the second he disrespects you, all bets are off.

"He's my friend that's why I'm defending him. I will not let you talk about anyone of these people like that! You are nothing but a hateful asshole. You can go home and don't wait up because you're done."

You're seething with anger but there's a sense of relief that washes over you. You can feel every ones eyes on you but you don't care. You turn around to walk away but Carter grabs onto your wrist.

"Don't fucking walk away from me!" You wince at how hard he grabs you and that's when Logan snaps. Like an animal he's on Carter in an instant. Claws out and a murderous look on his face.

"Get your fucking hand off her before I slice it off." Whatever arrogance Carter had was gone in an instant. He lets go of your wrist and grabs at Logan's arm but Logan is unmoving.

"Listen here bub, you're going to get your sorry ass out of here and never come back." Logan leans in, just close enough that Carter is the only one who can hear his next words.

"If you even think of contacting her again I'll find you and I'll rip you limb from limb." Carter scrambles out of Logans grip and falls to the ground.

"You're all fucking insane." He yells as he runs out the door.

There's a weight that falls off your shoulders the second he's out of your sight. You let out a sigh as you turn to face everyone. Some of them were looking at you with pity and others were happy he was finally gone.

"I am, so sorry for ruining the party."

"You didn't ruin the party sugar, we're glad he's gone. Now we can really party." Rouge says with a smile, you're grateful for her as this breaks the awkward tension.

Things seem to go back to normal but you slip outside, not really feeling a party mood anymore. You hear the door open and foot steps behind you. A root beer is placed in front of you and you gladly take it. Wordlessly Logan takes the spot next to you. Man you can't remember the last time you got to sit down with Logan.

"Thank you, and I'm sorry." You say. He shrugs and throws an arm around you, pulling you closer.

"Nothing to be sorry for sweetheart, asshole had it coming." He takes a sip of his beer and you sigh, leaning a little closer to him.

"How could I be so stupid, things went south way before tonight. I just...didn't want to see it."

"Hey, you're not stupid. You were in love." Love makes you do a lot of things. Turn a blind eye or in Logan's case. Pretend like the feelings aren't even there.

"No I wasn't. Not really. I think...I was so afraid of never finding someone that I latched onto the first guy to give me an ounce of attention." You groan. What's so wrong with wanting to be loved huh? Nothing. But you deserve a guy who isn't a complete asshole.

"There will be other guys, anyone would be lucky. to have you"

"Yeah? Like who?" You say with a snort.

"Like me." Logan says simply. Your eyes widen as you taken in what he just said.

"What?" You ask in disbelief.

Logan shifts where he sits. Fuck this isn't how he imagined telling you, in fact he thought he never would. But Carter made him so angry and he'd be dammed if he let another dick come and take you away again.

"Like me, I want to be the lucky bastard."

"I...Logan how long have you felt this way." You ask, a hand coming to rest on his chest.

"It doesn't matter,"

"Yes it does, please. I need to know how much of an idiot I've been." You beg and Logan frowns, he doesn't like it when you call yourself an idiot.

"Years sweetheart, I've been in love with you for years." He confesses.

All this time. He's been there. As your friend, as something more. Too wrapped up in his own shit to say something at first and then by the time he worked out some of it, it was too late. He hates to admit it but that asshole did one thing right, it pushed him to stop hiding how he really feels about you.

"Logan..." You whisper as your lean in close to him.

His hand snakes around your waist and pulls you closer. Your lips ghost each other for just a moment, before he leans closer and kisses you. Your lips move together slowly. Logan groans against your lips as he pulls you even closer, if anyone were to look outside they'd see you practically crawling onto his lap.

His other hand cups your cheek, keeping you right there for him to kiss over and over. A part of you is kicking yourself for not saying anything to Logan sooner. So much pain and annoyance could have been avoided had one of you just confessed, but the other part of you is too happy to care. Too happy knowing that he felt the same way and that he was finally yours.

"I wish we had done this sooner."

"Me too sweetheart, but you have me now." He says as he kisses you again. A thought lingers in your mind and you pull away from Logan much to his dismay.

"Fuck, I need to get my shit from Carters place." You say with a groan.

"Don't say his name ever again," Logan grumbles and you laugh.

"I'll take care of everything so you never even have to think of that asshole." Logan buries his face in your neck, kissing every bit of skin he can reach.

"Now, lets ditch this party and make up for some lost time." Logan purrs.

God there's so much time to catch up on, you mourn what could have been but Logan taps your cheek. Snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts.

"You alright sweetheart?" You nod, shaking your head free of those thoughts. That's all in the past now, it took a while but you found your way to Logan and that's all that matters.

"I've never been better. Now, take me home."

[sturnwh0re]

Dear Bri,

I do NOT give a fuck about how many people have already gotten on your ass about this situation, and nobody else does either. As somebody who is a victim of SA multiple times, It’s my turn.

The fact more and more victims keep coming forward saying you constantly kept making them uncomfortable and disgusted of themselves IS FUCKING SICKENING! you are a 28 year old grown woman who has a child living in your household.

Your intentions were made clear and in your fuck ass apology you stated “my wanting for friends wasn’t made clear” it obviously wasnt. Asking MINORS, can I say it loud enough MINORS about their personal and sexual experiences is far beyond the line of what’s okay to ask a minor about.

And let alone, you shouldn’t be making friends with little girls / boys / people WHO ARE CHILDREN. You are a fucking predator and at this rate need to get off the internet fully if your parents still haven’t taught you what’s okay and what’s not okay to put on the internet.

preying on naive children on the internet is fucking disgusting; and to make your grave deeper, you’ve openly admitted to ‘crushing’ on minors. THE SAME MINORS YOU WANTED TO BE FRIENDS WITH? I hope your child is safe and is soon to be kept away from you because plenty have seen what you can do behind a screen.

I hope the children and teens YOUVE made uncomfortable soon feel safe on this app and don’t have to experience something as disgusting as this again. You need help, you need therapy, and you need to face the consequences of your vile actions.

Tens by tens there are more children and teens coming forward sharing similar experiences of ‘grooming’ FROM YOU. you are mentally fucking ill and no words can describe how gross you are for taking advantage of people 10 years younger than yourself.

I guess 28 years isn’t enough to get normal internet rules & laws through your thick fucking skull. You had only posted a lame ass apology because your old ass got caught. You should be ASHAMED of yourself and I hope you realize the damage you caused on these people.

as somebody who is half your age, and on the behalf of other people my age too— we shouldn’t have to act like the adults in this kind of situation. And you shouldn’t act like a clueless child on the internet.

Don’t put children through this, and I by Gods grace hope your child doesn’t have to either. Your apology is shitty and borderline dehumanizing. Fuck yourself man.

and to the victims of this dirty bitch, you are seen. You are valid for having the feelings you have & I really hope you know that. People like this on the internet are dangerous and make me gag thinking about it. You are loved & heard. You have hundreds of not thousands accounts on your side— including myself. ❤️

- sturnwh0re

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

What Making Friends Should Feel Like:

I CAN Network Ltd

[pleasedontcareaboutme]

It's missing my father hours rn so imma just dump a bunch of pictures here and cry

( sorry i don't know the source of anything I just had them on my phone)

(also dont read the tags i just need to let it out lol)

[groupwest]

Want to actually kill myself :-/

[the-bloody-sadist]

I think English isn't your first language or something but you need to know straight up you're being an asshole, and you're coming across as a really mean person. People sharing their ideas with you is just that; they're just sharing their ideas with you. And you telling them they're basic and to be more creative can ruin their day and ruin them ever wanting to talk to their favorite creators again. Do fucking better.

BAHAHAH do you honestly think I care if you think I’m a meanie weenie 😂 hold up let me feel guilty real quick and come back bowing and scraping and apologizing—😔🙏

I’m not sure what you expect from someone named SADIST, but I’m not here to come across as a nice person. You must’ve mixed me up with TheFriendlySadist. I’m here to create, little guy. If I think it’s a dumb or uncreative idea, I’m gonna say it because that’s what I’m thinking. Didn’t they share it with me to hear my opinions? I’m not gonna lie to them. I honestly don’t care about the feelings of some innocuous, invisible internet person who’s dropping me a random idea from their head like I’ll care. I hope to discourage that, actually. It’s weird to me.

You’re so cute, though, sorry you had to strive for attention by reaching out to a meanie like me (on behalf of a person who never asked).

Next time try something a little more scathing. I was unimpressed. And if it ruined their day like it ruined yours, I hope they get a better grip on their lives (and you, too). There’s a lot worse that can happen than being told your idea was uncreative.

Trust me, I've been told the same. You get over it or you're too sensitive. Grow balls. Be ready for rejection when you share your ideas.

(My favorite part is that you tried to give me a good excuse for my behavior by saying that English must not be my native language 😂 as if I wouldn’t be straight up mean on purpose LMAO. I can assure you it was wholly intentional.)

[inutaffy]

"i didn't want to talk in front of archie and the others .... as it turns out, peabody had a lot to say. the bounty on your pal Archie, it's not just on him. it's on anyone who's with him or is helping him. which means there is a target on your back now too jughead. it's the same if he goes back to riverdale. archie's dad, archie's friends, everyone is at risk. which is why you got to cut him loose."

"im not just gonna ditch archie, mom! he's my best friend."

here's how j/archie can still win

[gentlenotes-moved]

living in fear may have kept you safe in the past, but it won't help you now. i know it feels the most comfortable to live within the anxieties caused by the unhealthy environment you used to be in, truly, i get it. but almost every time, true comfort will be found outside of your current comfort zone. because right now, it's a toxic zone, no matter how safe it feels. it's a barrier of fears from an unsafe environment that you're no longer living in. you're safe now, so be brave and find joy outside of the anxious barrier your past unhealthy environment has given you.

[sunnywalnut]

No because the last part actually saved younger me from a lot of trouble and/or embarrassing situations.

Like it's easy to pretend that your social media page is basically a diary and treat it as such. It's easy to vent about that annoying girl Brittney that goes to your school, or post a photo of your outfit as you wait outside of your school. It's easy to think that "well I'm 17. That's close enough" when adults say that no minors should be allowed to do x thing online.

But you know what's not easy?

Getting all of that back from bad people who don't tell you they're saving it.

From your online friends to literal strangers who read all of your posts and piece things together, everyone could be using this information for bad.

It is up to you to figure out what information you're willing to have used against you.

And yeah. Sometimes that means having boundaries with your online friends that you don't have irl.

There's something that I find equal parts hilarious and terrifying.

On one hand it is so funny watching the generation previous to mine (I was born in 84) absolutely say the most unhinged shit online, doxx themselves, and get fired, after spending my entire childhood teaching me online opsec because every stranger was a potential murderer. Social media done rotted their brains.

But on the other I'm seeing kids coming up, seeing them spew all their personals online, and using that to model their unsafe behavior and put themselves at incredible risk because the internet actually got way more dangerous than it was, ironically, when I was coming up being told I had to basically outsmart the fuckin CIA. Now the actual CIA and other bad actors (government, private, and individual) really are out there and these kids are watching fucking meemaw post a photo of the front of her house practically captioned with her fucking SSN and thinking, "yeah, sure, the adults know what's safe."

I gotta be a fuckin millennial about this and beg younger folx to listen to the VCR generation: hide yourself online. Nothing should go there you wouldn't want in the hands of the person who hates you the most.

Be safe, be smart, be a fucking ghost.

[sturionic]

Activism is not cold-calling.

Activism is not cold-calling, and this is critically important to understand.

I'm seeing a lot of posts on here about 'building bridges' and 'finding community,' and then (extremely valid) response posts saying "BUT HOW??" And I'm going to explain something that can be very counter-intuitive: there is strategy involved in community.

As a longtime volunteer labour organizer, I’ve taken and taught many trainings on the strategy of talking. Something that surprises a lot of people is the very first thing you do in a union campaign. You sit down with your organizing committee, take out pen and paper, and literally map it out. You draw a physical map of the workplace: where are the entrances, exits, break rooms, supervisor offices. Essentially, ‘where is it safe to have a union conversation.’ Then you draw another physical chart of your coworkers. You sort out who is union-friendly, openly hostile to unions, or somewhere in the middle, and then you plan out very deliberately and carefully who talks to whom and in what order.

Consider: If Vocally Leftist Jane walks up to Conservative David and says "hey what do you think about unions," David is going to shut down immediately. He's not inclined to listen to Jane. But if Jane talks to Moderate Jason and brings him into the fold, then Jason is a far more effective strategic choice to talk to David, and David may actually hear him out without an instant reaction.

IMPORTANT CAVEAT: If Conservative David turns out to be Alt-Right David, and could be dangerous to follow organizers, we write him off. We are not trying to reach Alt-Right David. We are trying to reach Conservative David, who may actually be persuaded to find solidarity with other employees as fellow workers. Jason is a safe scout to find out which one he is. It does no one any good if Leftist Jane (or even Moderate Jane who is a visible minority) talks to Alt-Right David and puts herself on his radar. Not only has she done nothing to convince Alt-Right David to join a union - she's probably actively turned him against the idea - but now she's also in danger and the entire campaign is at risk. NOBODY WANTS THIS. Jane was NOT a hero for doing this. The organizing committee was foolish and enacted a terrible strategy to everyone's detriment.

Where you can make a difference is with people who will listen to you. You having a conversation with your well-meaning but clueless Centrist Democrat Auntie, and maybe gently helping her understand some things the media has been glossing over, is way more strategically useful than you marching up to MAGA Neighbour You've Met Once and trying to "build community" or "understand" them. They don't care. They're impervious, dangerous, and cruel. But maybe your beloved auntie will think about what you said, and then talk to her friend Anna who IDs as "fiscally conservative" but didn't vote because she can't bring herself to get on board with Trump. Then perhaps Anna talks to her brother Nic who has MAGA leanings but isn't all the way there yet. Proto-MAGA Nic would not have listened to you, nor would he have listened to Centrist Democrat Auntie, but he might absorb some of what his sister is saying.

This is not a cop-out or an echo chamber. This is you spending your time and energy strategically and safely. You are not a useful activist to anyone if you’re dead. Anyone who is telling you to hurl yourself directly at MAGA assholes like cannon fodder has no understanding of the strategy behind community building, and you should feel comfortable writing them off.

Last point: If you are tired, emotionally devastated, and/or in danger: take a break. This post is for people who would feel better jumping into action, not for people who are too overwhelmed to even think about it right now. You are worth so much even if you’re not actively Doing Activism, and your rest is worth more than “a break period so you can recharge and Do More Activism.” We all deserve the individual dignity of being worthy of comfort, rest & safety just on the basis of being human, outside of whatever we're doing for others' benefit. To deny ourselves that dignity is to devalue ourselves, and that’s the absolute last thing any of us should be doing right now.

[eddieydewr]

Hi! This may be a bit of a rant but there is something I really wanna share with someone so I hope you don't mind.

I have a friend who I knew 'cause we were in the same club at uni. He's very eloquent and smart, so I really respect him (but mostly from afar 'cause I was shy lol). And then I saw him post about ST season 4, and about Will in particular so I mustered up my courage and messaged him "hey have u seen the parallels between Will and Vecna?". And we started talking about other ST-related stuff. We even ranted a lot about vol 2 after watching that lol. We also talked about books and TV shows and overall, I was glad ST helped me make more friends.

When the free Palestine movement became popular last year, I was not surprised when I saw him post about Gaza or Rafah 'cause well... he's just like a typical queer, chronically online, twitter user lol (both complimentary and derogatory, sometimes I find his humor funny, sometimes I just wanna roll my eyes). We have never talked about this topic and honestly I really don't feel like. I just simply carry on sharing posts and stories about discrimination against Jewish and Israeli people and anti-Hamas stuff.

And then recently I saw him posting overtly anti-Israel things, like "u think this is hot now, wait til you go to hell for supporting Israel". Not gonna lie, I chuckled when I saw that 'cause first of all, I am an atheist so whatever man I don't believe in hell anyway. Second, I don't know what other non-Jewish people who support Israel (as in 'its existence is legitimate and the people there deserve peace', not the government itself) may feel about hell, but as far as I'm concerned, Jewish people don't seem to put that much weight on the concept of hell and heaven, right?. So like "bro you should have choose something else more menacing than that lol"

Now I can scroll through that post but what irks me the most is what he chose to share today.

https://x.com/redstreamnet/status/1841561550378651724

I find it so freaking ironic how after everything that has happened in Iran recently (and how many Iranians have spoken out against the Islamic republic), this is the first Iran-related thing he posted about. Like I'm so close to just forward to him a video of Iranians celebrating the death of Nasrallah or comments/posts of Iranians thanking Israel for it, or overall just people between these two countries wishing each other peace and freedom. I'm not sure if I can call what I'm feeling "anger" 'cause it's not exactly strong as when I see people deny October 7. But there is surely a sense of resignation.

I don't see those pro-pal people as bad or evil. I actually believe that most of them have good intentions, but to me, they are too caught up in their self-righteousness and black-and-white views to acknowledge the grey area of this whole mess.

I saw you own up to your own hypocrisy a few days ago and ngl I admire you for that lol. I only think of humans as "paradoxical by nature" so a person saying conflicting stuff is normal to me. But it's annoying as hell when someone doesn't think they are capable of hypocrisy or double standards.

Anyways, have a great day. Thank you for reading all this. Sorry it's kinda long. Being concise is not my strong suit lol.

hey anon, let’s hug. if you want?

i rly don’t have much to offer bc my brain is currently mush, you probably just wanted to vent and that’s ok. i just didn’t want to leave you on read. 💚

look, i’m using jquinn even though he annoys me atm but i just couldn’t resist, lmao. like yeah, #me.

[elldritch-horror]

Spicy-brained friends, I would like to propose an update to the very useful ‘if you hate everyone, eat, if everyone hates you, sleep, and if you hate yourself, shower’ mantra to live by

Have you suddenly become a petty, hateful little gremlin who thinks people should face the firing squad for (checks notes) leaving teabags on the counter, breathing loudly, or daring to exist in the same space as you? Perhaps mundane and reasonable requests like ‘hey, we agreed to hang out now, let’s hang out’ make you want to scream and move to a yurt in the woods.

You. Are. Overstimulated.

People talk a lot about being overstimulated, and the physical/mental effects of it. What I haven’t seen is people talking about what it does emotionally, and it took me an embarassingly long time to link up those nitpicky, resentful emotions with the state of overstimulation/meltdown/shutdown.

These feelings do not mean that you’re a bad person! They probably aren’t how you actually feel about the people around you. They probably do mean that your nervous system is at its absolute limit and any request/demand/stimulus is Too Much and taking you into fight or flight territory.

Go lie down in a dark room for an hour, or find somewhere safe and familiar to stim for a bit. If it’s happening a lot, schedule yourself regular low-stimulation shutdown time

Signed: someone who moved in with their nearest and dearest only to have a massive crisis of faith about Suddenly Hating All of Them. I don’t hate them, it’s just overstimulating living with people. If I can spare anyone else a similar 9 months of suspecting that they may actually be a bit of a shit person, then this post is worth it!