#god what does the fandom call this dean

[soft-pine]

when i think about this scene from 15.15 it makes me want to chew glass and tear up the walls in rage.

AMARA: I wanted two things for you, Dean. I wanted you to see that your mother was just a person, that the myth you'd held onto for so long of a better life, a life where she lived, was just that, a myth. I wanted you to see that the real, complicated Mary was better than your childhood dream because she was real. That now is always better than then. That you could finally start to accept your life.

for the record i want to say i am a known amara-hater. don't like the non-con shit. don't like that she's doing what so many beings in spn do and narrativizing dean's life back at him while judging him because she drew the wrong conclusions. but i think fandom does have a tendency to take those claims at face value because that is easier than combing back through to check if it's correct or not. (see for example, rachel saying dean only calls cas when he needs him in 6.18. narrativizing, incorrectly. but i digress)

so let's talk about mary. because, through the seething rage, i think two main things about this claim. 1. dean does not have this mythos around mary and 2. mary has arguably more of that mythos around dean.

first off, we'll tackle the claim that it's a myth that if mary hadn't died, dean wouldn't have a better life. because that is absolute, utter, dogshit. OF COURSE HE'D HAVE A BETTER LIFE. while i will always maintain that clearly mary and john were far from stable before she died, her death was what speared john forward into hunting, into turning his kids into soldiers, into neglect and parentifying, and every other god forsaken thing he did. "a better life, a life where she lived, was just that, a myth" - girl, i DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE DIVINE, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

like please don't come here acting like dean grieving the future he could have had that didn't include him taking care of his younger brother alone in motel rooms for days while maybe actually being left as bait for the Kid-Eater is a character flaw on his part that he needs to learn better from.

next, amara claims dean needs to see the "real, complicated Mary."

but hasn't he? dean goes back in time and meets his mom in 4.03 and 5.13. and both times he treats her both as a competent hunter and a colleague. like to be clear, before that, i dont think he was wrong to be relying on a four-year-old's memory of what his mom was like because that's literally all he had access to. but dean actually did meet and interact with the whole, complex woman who was his mother long before amara decided to teach him a lesson with her as the homework. in both 4.03 and 5.13, dean tries to give mary advice to save her life but he doesn't belittle her experience hunting or her desire to leave and life a normal life. i don't know what more you want from him in terms of interacting with his mom as a whole, real, complex person?

this also applies wholly and completely to his interactions with her when she returns in s12. he apologizes for being nervous for her safety (AFTER SHE WAS JUST RESSURECTED) at first. mary says she wants to hunt, dean gets on board. mary says she needs space, dean asks clarifying questions to best support her request. he gets mad at her not for being who she is or needing what she needs but for lying to him for months and working with people who tortured him and sam.

in fact, s12 is what i would point to to indicate how well dean articulates and navigates the nuance of being hurt by someone's actions while still understanding and empathizing with why they did it and forgiving them. for example, he says this in 12.04

DEAN: This whole mom thing, it's... I mean, we get her back, and then she leaves. I hate it, but I get it. I do. I guess I'm just...still working through some of that crap. I'll try to be less of a dick about it.

[you're not a dick, dean, ilu]

in fact, dean's much maligned "how 'bout for once, you just try to be a mom?" isn't even about dean wanting anything particularly maternal from mary. it's about him not wanting her to ditch them to hunt alone and/or with the aforementioned torturers.

so circling back to amara's speech about expectations and myths. cause while her words do not apply to dean. amara's speech does remind me of something that happens upon mary's return in s12. these lines from 12.03:

DEAN: Mom, it's okay. All right? You're home now. MARY: No. I'm not. I miss John. I miss my boys. SAM: We're right here, mom. MARY: I know. In my head. But I'm still mourning them as I knew them. My baby Sam. My little boy Dean. Just feels like yesterday, we were together in heaven, and now...I'm her, and John is gone, and they're gone. And every moment I spend with you reminds me every moment I lost with them.

of course she has every right to grieve the time she lost with her kids. but someone in this room is having trouble really looking at the people in front of them because of their idealized memory of who they were compared to are and It Is Not Dean.

and i just think about dean's speech in 12.22. cause it wasn't dean that needed to see the real mary. it was mary, tucked away in her dream world where sam is a baby and dean is a little elementary schooler who likes pie and has never held a gun, who needed to see the real dean.

[babyboywinchester]

i’m watching supernatural for the first time. i’m on season 3 right now, but i’m not that excited for castiel that comes in season 4, just mainly because misha collins gives me the ick. like calling the CW homophobic because dean and castiel didn’t get together is already weird because like why is he so hung up about it?? i know it has a lot to do with his fan base, but normal actors don’t really interact with their fans like that, like why is he leading them on for a show that ended four years ago?! also i know he’s probably done a lot of bad things but saying the f-slur when he had to clarify he’s straight is wrong. also him saying the slur in the context of gay people needing to reclaim it was so bizarre to me, like dude stop saying it?! he just gives me the ick big time with all that.

also sorry this was so long.

No need to apologize, dear one! I love getting asks or talking so fear not.

I’m excited the hear about you starting Supernatural! I loved the first three seasons. My sister and I started watching it back in the fall of 2012 when I was a senior in high school. It was so exciting and we couldn’t wait to watch as many episodes after school as we could. Anyway, the magic wore off after we got all caught up and were able to watch season 9 as it aired and I became more involved in the fandom side on tumblr… destiel was EVERYWHERE and as someone who was realizing they were a wincest shipper… that made it all that much worse.

Luckily, I have found that the Destiel screechy circle are but a VERY small minority. Thank GOD… but oh are they loud. That ties in to Misha of course. You know the signs they have in places that say stuff like “don’t feed the animals.”? Yeah, those are for people like himself who insist on baiting and egging on these mentally unwell people into believing, and filling his pockets, because it saves him the trouble of having to get a job or actually work on making changes himself.

So, the whole balls deep thing? Real bold of him to say at a convention where Jensen wasn’t present when Jensen himself, numerous times, has mentioned he does not like Destiel. Also bold of Misha seeing as he’s unemployed and the CW was the place that gave him his longest running job… that’s also called defamation and if I were the CW I would send a cease and desist letter. He’s emboldened by these people who worship the ground he walks on because they fetishize one gay ship. He takes them for the rubes they are and milks money from them by just regurgitating the same shit they pass around to each other in their little bubbles. I’m sure you’ve come across them… so I won’t even mention some of their names here as I don’t have the time or patience to deal with their lot.

Yes, bold of a man to use the word “f-g” when he had to walk back coming out as bisexual and come out as straight. He’s learned nothing. He’s also just gross, crass, and all around an unpleasant person. He knows this is his only way to stay relevant and so he’s going to milk it until it’s dry.

Fear not you are NOT the only one who can’t stand him or Castiel. Luckily, regardless of what the hellers say, he doesn’t add much to the story and his “arcs” can be completely ignored and it doesn’t take away from the story any.

Thanks for the ask! I hope you’ll send more as you continue watching the show!

[watchoutforthefanfics]

my series...

PROCESS TAGS:

⏹️ - discontinued

⏸️ - on a break

▶️ - in progress

⏪️ - being rewritten

✅️ - complete

CONTENT TAGS:

😳 - smut

🫣 - suggestive

💞 - fluff

⛈️ - angst

REDDIE (IT):

achievement unlocked || ▶️

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20

epilogues:

Summary: Richie liked to play video games, and by some stroke of luck, it became his job. Being primarily known as Trashmouth on stream, he found his own little group of streamer friends and they became intertwined: The Losers Club. It never did feel quite complete, though. Well, until, he got his very own backseat gamer in chat.

AVAILABLE ON AO3

I could be your crush, crush, crush || ✅️

Part 1, 2

Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak was built for a strict schedule and precision arrival. Of all the days to fuck up, he does it on his first official day of college. But upon running into an old friend, there just may be a positive to this shitty day after all.

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Never Goodbye || ⏸️

Summary: "He paused, turning away from the black holes that were Eddie's eyes, and trying to think of the most passive way he could say something genuine. Without professing his love, or crying, or both. Richie settled down into his bed, tucked under the covers as much as he could and he spoke. A quiet tone that honest-to-god felt unfamiliar in his own mouth. "I…" There was silence, as he refocused. Just knowing Eddie was expecting something. And Richie was never one to let down Eddie, he hoped he never would be. "I don't think there's anywhere else I'd wanna be, Eds." Or Richie tries to get his shit together, so does Eddie, and they both are oblivious as fuck for way too long."

SPN:

CROSSOVERS:

Second Chances // Fandom: It, SPN + Reddie, Destiel ▶️

Summary: "Call me crazy," Dean continued, trailing his fingers on the counter, "-but doesn't this feel like it isn't… for us… to you?" "What do you mean?" "It's…" Dean began, but faltered, "-A completely uninhabited creepy inn? With flickering lights? What does that sound like to you?" "Dean-" Sam sighed. "A horror movie, Sammy," Dean spoke, with playful confidence, "-you can't tell me I'm wrong, because that bell has a spotlight shining on it. And when I touched it-" "You touched it?!" "-nothing happened!" Dean finished, "I think we're in a horror movie waiting around for the main characters." Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean interrupted, "No, no. Hear me out." Or where Sam and Dean are trapped in a horror movie.

ELEVENTH DOCTOR (Doctor Who):

Ticking Love Bomb || ▶️

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...

Summary: Your adventure with the Doctor and the Ponds takes a harsh turn when it seems you're targeted with a potion. A love potion, specifically the type where you fall in love with whoever's eyes you met first after "drinking" it. But what if you're already in love with him?

[bigmouthlass]

Title:  Calling A Professional, part b

Series: Professional, part 1b

Author:  BJ

Fandom:  Supernatural

Rating:  Explicit

Pairing:  Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: 'You' are a career-oriented young Omega too preoccupied with school to have a dating life. Your image-oriented family decide enough is enough and give you a screamingly inappropriate present -- a night with a full-service Alpha escort, emphasis on full. And stuff happens.

Tags:  Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, AU, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Sam Winchester, Zachariah, Balthazar, Gabriel, Naomi, Castiel, Benny LaFitte, Arthur Ketch, Abbadon, Becky Rosen, Bobby Singer, Charlie Bradbury, Bille the Reaper, First Time, Sex Worker Dean Winchester

AN:  Blame the walking talking PWP device that is Dean Winchester. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

continued from part a

---

The shower is a dingy plastic cubicle shoved next to a toilet in a bathroom that's about than a yard square.  The two of your barely fit, and that's if you press against the wall.  The water is nice and hot though, soothing sore muscles you don't even remember straining.

Dean runs a soapy washcloth over you, stroking it down your skin slow and gentle.  Briefly you wonder if he usually does this with all his clients, and you can't help a hard sting of jealousy at the thought.  You reach out and touch a black-and-blue smudge on his ribcage.  "What's this?"

"Oh, I uh--" Dean raises your arm and scrubs you from armpit to hip, making you giggle when he hits your tender spot.  He grins.  "Somebody's ticklish."

You shove at him.  "Dick."

"Brat," he retorts.  "It's nothing.  Ketch got a few hits in before I laid him out.  Turn around."

You turn and lean your front against the shower wall.  Dean lifts your hair up and scrubs your shoulders, passes the sudsy washcloth down your back.  The soap smells herbal and musky, and it pairs well with Dean's dark sweetness.  You can feel your heat rebuilding, and you know you're going to want him again soon.

Soon means now, you realize as Dean squats behind you and washes down each of your legs.  You squirm at his touch, almost but not quite flaring up to Present your pussy to him.  You hear Dean chuckle to himself.  His hand, covered with a warm washcloth, comes up to gently stroke between your legs, cleaning up slick and seed as it keeps leaking out of you.  You tremble as his warm hand cups your pussy, only just barely touching where you throb.  "God your pussy's pretty," Dean says, making you blush.  One of his hands touches your ankle.  "Can I touch you?  Make you come again for me?"

"Uh-huh," you whine.  Dean guides your legs apart and shifts your stance to open you up.  Your legs tremble as he drags the warm washcloth across your swollen flesh.  Hypersensitive from heat and sex, it doesn't take long before you're shaking.

Dean stands and pulls you against him, back-to-front.  He pivots, turning you to face the shower spray.  The hot water feels divine, pelting and running down your skin.  One of Dean's hands squeezes your breasts, playing and pinching the nipples.  The other slides down between your legs, his palm rubbing against your clit and making you whine.  Dean kisses you as you come again, thrashing against his grip.

"Oh no," he sighs, bringing his hand out from between your legs and showing where his fingers are soaked with fresh slick and blobs of his own come.  "I made you all messy again."

---

You wake up late, after sleeping deep and dreamless.  Outside is quiet.  The only background noises are the rustling of the trees and the mufflered throb of the generator.  The uncovered windows let in the autumn sunshine, filtered through orange and yellow leaves.  The view through the dirty, undraped windows is of trees-- the cabin must be on the edge of some undeveloped property in the middle of nowhere, maybe part of a defunct farm.  Or someone leaving the land alone to provide cover for deer.  You can see Dean's car, covered with a dingy dropcloth.  You nod-- from a distance it'd look like something covered and forgotten, just another piece of abandoned gear.

Next to you Dean shifts a little in his sleep.  He's on his side, curled up, his mouth hanging open as he breathes deep and a little bit snory.  He's even drooling on the pillow.  You cover a giggle as you snuggle closer, seeking warmth in the cold air of the cabin.  One of his arms curls around you and you take a chance and press a few kisses to his chest.

"Your feet are freezing, babygirl," Dean grunts, and rolls you over.

---

You haven't laughed this much in years, you think to yourself later.  Dean looks up at you, his lips pressed to your ankle bone.  He's spent the last little while doing what he calls intensive researching-- laying you out on the bed, naked to his sight and touch, examining you all over.  And being very silly about it, like tracing the pattern of moles on your left hip with his tongue and trying out names for your tits-- "Tweedledee and Tweedledum?  Strawberry and Shortcake?  Heckle and Jeckle?"  He's naked too, totally unselfconsciously, comfortable with himself in a way you envy.

"This little piggy went to market," he says, kissing your big toe.

"Staaaaaahp," you groan.  "Not into feet."

Dean grins, kissing your instep.  "Flip on over."

You turn onto your belly.  Dean kisses up the back of your leg, lingering in the tender spots behind your knees, at the base of your ass.  "Uht-oh," he says to himself, kneading into the thick muscle, "your pussy's hungry for me again."  He's right, your body's going hot and slick's trickling out of you.  You whine and shift your legs apart, but Dean just keeps kissing up your back.  You can feel him smiling against your skin.  "I could do this all day."

"You bastard," you whine, pressing your ass against him, seeking his cock.

"Hey, I know who my daddy is," Dean says.  He turns your head and kisses you, all tongue.  His weight settles on your back and his thigh presses between your legs.  You push back, trying to get some friction against your clit, but the angle's wrong, you can't reach.

"I got what you need, Alpha's here," Dean says into your ear.  "But you have to ask, babygirl."

"Please, Alpha," you say.  "Need you."

"Good," Dean says, "good girl.  What do you need from me?  Do you need my cock?"

"Yes, please," you say.  "Please Alpha."

Shifting one of your legs to open you wider, Dean enters you with a long slide and a groan.  "Perfect," he sighs.  "Perfect for me, Omega.  So perfect."

---

It's hot in here now, that Dean's got the woodstove loaded up and working.  Outside, rain lashes the cabin, the kind of cold autumn rain that makes you glad for modern conveniences like hot showers and central heating.

"What's this?" you ask, picking out another scar on Dean's torso.

Dean trembles as you kiss over it, an oval of white bisected by a straight line.  "Never saw the shooter.  Just looked down and realized it was my blood all over."  His hands are clamped on the chair's back and sweat's standing out on his skin.  You lick, letting the salt sting your tongue.

Trailing kisses up his flank, you find a jagged white line arching along his rib cage.  "This?"

"Guy caught me cheating at a poker game.  I didn't realize he had a knife.  Dad had to stitch it up."

"Shit.  Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

Dean gives you a look.  "No money, no health insurance, and gambling was illegal in that town.  I'd've gotten arrested."

"Sorry," you say, hanging your head.  It's humbling, realizing on a gut level just how sheltered you really are.  Sure, your parents might've been ambivalent about raising an accidental kid, but they were never unkind and they made sure you were always safe and cared for.

"It's okay babygirl," Dean reassures you, ducking his head to kiss your forehead.  "It healed fine."

Your eyes fall to a tattoo high on his left pectoral, right about where the aorta bends down.  Your lips trail over the stark black ink-- a pentacle in a circle flanked by wavy black lines that look a little like wings.  “Dad,” Dean says.  “He found it in a book somewhere, supposed to protect you from ghosts’n’shit.”

You kiss back down and Dean shudders as you come close to his very hard cock.  You sit back on your heels and just . . . look at it.  All hard and leaking, with a knot and balls and a thicket of tawny brown hair at the base.  Dean's skin is fair, delicate, you can see the thick arteries pulsing, feeding blood in from his belly.  This has been inside you.  Your pussy twitches at the thought.  If you concentrate you can feel deep inside your sex in a way you couldn't before-- touched, wet, fucked a little bit sore.  You know it's kind of your job to touch him there, make him feel good with your hands and your mouth the way he's made you feel good, but now that you're facing the three-dimensional reality you're coming over shy again.

"You don't have to do anything you're not okay with babygirl," Dean reminds you, reading you like a headline again.

"I'm okay," you tell him.  "Just . . . first one of these I've seen in the wild.  I mean-- dumb question, but how do you manage with that flopping around-- shut up!" you whack his leg as Dean busts out laughing.  Some wicked impulse to wipe that silly grin off his face overrides your shyness and Dean coughs out a curse as you take the crown of his cock in your mouth.

A pulse of precome flows across your tongue and you grimace.  Yuck.  You pull back and explore the head with your lips, avoiding the leaking slit.  The texture of the skin is soft, a little like silk and a little like velvet but it’s mostly its own thing.  You press your tongue to a spot where the seam and the head come together and taste-- ick, sour slick and salty blargh.  It’s worth it though, for the way the muscles in Dean’s arms and chest pop out as his fists clench the back of the chair.  Alpha is submitting to you, as you touch his most tender parts.  Dean could bolt up from this chair and knot you in seconds, easily.  But he’s not, and he won’t.

You wrap a hand around his knot.  Here goes nothing-- you take Dean’s cock between your lips and slide him in.  Dean moans, “Oh my God-- you’re doing good babygirl.  So good.  So fucking good.”  Like drinking a thick smoothie, you think to yourself as you apply suction.  “Teeth!” Dean warns and you open your jaw a little wider.  More fluid dribbles from him but at the back of your mouth the flavor isn’t as terrible.  The mass of spongy flesh in your hand pulses and swells in your grip.  You squeeze back against the swelling and Dean’s moan makes your bones tremble.

You look up and meet Dean’s eyes.  The need in them is overwhelming.  Cords stand out in his neck and his jaw’s clenched, lips parted in an effortful snarl.  His fangs have dropped, you can see the sharp points.  You bob your head and his head drops back.  “Fuck,” he heaves, “you’re gonna make me come if you keep doing that.”

You’re not up for swallowing, so you pull back and scrub the flat of your tongue up and down the seam of his cock.  “Yeah, use your hand--” Dean pants, “fuck, squeeze my knot.  Squeeze it.  Fuck, perfect, little tighter.”  Dean seizes the hand you’ve been stroking up and down his steel-hard cock, brings it to his mouth and licks your palm.  “Keep going babygirl, keep going-- fuck, fuck, I’m so close, God, fuck, Jesus--" all the muscles in his belly pull tight and his knot inflates in your hand.  You circle it with both hands and squeeze, as thick seed spurts out of Dean in ropes, landing on your hands, his legs, the floor, your face.

Dean’s whole body, shining with sweat in the lamplight, heaves as he works to get his wind back.  You keep your hands locked around his knot, rhythmically squeezing the way your pussy did.  Blobs of come are still dribbling out of him, Alpha seed meant to sire pups.  You look up at Dean as he sags in the chair.  He’ll make beautiful pups, you think, someday, with the right Omega.

Your Omega instincts growl, and a tiny voice inside says, quiet but very distinct-- Mine.

His cock finally sags and his knot deflates in your hands.  Dean’s staring down at you, his pupils blown wide open.  His scent’s thick in the air, sizzling apples and leather and smoke and you realize your cunt is fucking running with slick, so swollen the friction of your thighs together feels awesome.

Fast as a pouncing cat, Dean stands and pulls you up off the floor.  He sets you on the cabin’s little dining table.  Strong hands shove your legs apart.  “Show me your pussy Omega,” Dean orders.  “Hold it open.  Perfect.”  He pulls the chair close and sits.

“Dean,” you pant as he blows a puff of wind over your exposed, throbbing clit.

“Gonna eat this pretty pussy ‘till you scream,” he says.

By the time he’s satisfied, you are indeed screaming.  A lot.

---

“Hey,” you shake Dean awake.  It’s like it always is with heats-- you’re not hungry until you’re starving.

“Go ‘way,” he grunts.

“Dean.  Food.  Eat.”

Dean’s eyes flutter open, then pop wide as you hold a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon under his nose.  “You didn’t have to-- I was gonna cook breakfast when I got up.”

“Hungry now,” you say.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Hungry now,” you repeat.  He does have a point; without your phone and with no clocks in the cabin, you have no earthly clue what time it is, only that it’s dark and still raining.

Dean sits up and accepts his plate.  “Bacon,” he sighs, folding a strip into his mouth.

You point to the pile of yellow curds.  “Eggs.”  You hand him a cup of milk.  “Moo juice.”

You both pretty much inhale the food.  “Thanks,” Dean says, handing back his empty plate.  “Didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“Welcome.  Now according to the law of equal division of labor--”

“Oh no no no no no,” Dean rebuts.  “We’re in Deanland, and in my benevolent dictatorship the one who cooks is the one who cleans.”

“Nuht-uh,” you fire back.  “This is my land, as I am a born Michigander, and therefore he who eats is he who cleans while she who cooks ogles he who cleans.”  You cross your arms over your chest.  “So there.”

Dean thinks for a minute.  A tiny and very evil smile curves his lips.  “How ‘bout a bet?”

“What kind of bet?” you ask, seeing something wicked dancing behind your Alpha’s eyes.

“You know what mutual masturbation is?”

Hot blood crashes into your cheeks.  “The name’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“C’mere,” Dean pats the bed, getting up on his knees.  You kneel opposite him and he pulls you close for a kiss, his lips tasting of pepper and bacon.  Heat has you trembling, skin hot and sensitive all over.  “Hands only,” Dean instructs as he kisses and nibbles down your neck.  “First one to come has to do the dishes.”

“You’re on,” you growl and seize his hardening cock.

---

You wake up later with the sun in your eyes, a smug grin stamped on your face.  The cabin smells like vinegar and lemons.  Yawning, you stretch and see Dean wiping down the kitchen counter.  The dishes are washed and stacked neatly on the shelf over the sink.  The cabin’s practically sparkling clean, dust wiped away and clutter tidied.  There’s even a broom in the corner, and a folded set of fresh sheets for the bed.

Dean spies you and glowers.  “Where did you learn to do that twisty thing?  I demand to know.”

You grin.  “Girl Scouts.”

---

You fuck pretty much constantly for the rest of the day.  Heat and rut render you both eager, needy, hungry.  All through it your Alpha is attentive, focused, careful about reading your reactions and learning the secrets of your body, then applying the lessons and playing you like some sort of precious instrument.

“Stop,” he orders and your hand drops from where it was stroking your stone-hard clit.  Your orgasm’s there, right there, all it’ll take is a little friction to make it happen . . . but Dean isn’t letting you.  Says he just wants to play with you, see how hard you can come.  You press your chest into the mattress and swivel your hips, showing Alpha your wet and very hungry Omega pussy.  Shameless and needy and you don’t care at all.  Dignity be damned, you want.

Dean’s tongue licks at your inner lips, purposely avoiding your clit.  You bite a knuckle and concentrate on keeping your center still.  “Wanna slip right inside you,” Dean murmurs into your cunt, “right when you’re coming.  Your pussy fits me so good and you’re so fucking sweet,” he licks like he wants to eat every bit of slick you make.

Dean’s hand on your back shifts your ass further into the air.  You scream in bliss that’s more like pain as his mouth attacks your clit.  You start to cry when he stops.  “Please,” you beg, “Dean, please.”

The fat, velvety head of Dean’s cock slides across your pussy lips, across your clit.  You moan at the sensation.  “Alpha, please.”

“You’re gonna come?” Dean asks.  “Go ahead and come.  Come for me babygirl.  Let go.”

You throw your head back and howl as your orgasm crashes through you.  Dean’s cock shoves into you, fucking into the squeeze.  His fingers flicker over your clit as you slam yourself back against him.  Dean grabs your hips and fucks with all the power he’s got, until his knot pops and your cunt clamps down, so hard and tight you know you’re going to feel it forever.

“My good girl,” Dean heaves, pulling you up to sit on his lap, his knot lodged inside you.  “My perfect girl.  God, what’re you doing to me?” he asks between kisses.  His lips seize the spot over the mating gland and you whine something that might be yes when he clamps down, his teeth shielded by his lips.  Mine, something inside you says.  His.  Mine.  His.

Mine.

---

The next morning, the fever is gone and you ache all over.  On the one hand you feel like you could sleep for a week.  On the other hand, you feel . . . energized, full of life.  Downright fucking perky.

You take your time in the shower.  It feels good, washing the heat sweat off.  You feel like yourself again.

Almost.

You use a towel to clear the mirror.  In the harsh light of the bulb over the sink, it’s hard to believe the woman staring back is you.  You drop the towel and look yourself over.  Dark suck marks and small arcs of teeth color your skin.  They don’t hurt, exactly.  Except for the dark, almost black mark on your neck.  You touch it, stroke it, press down into it and relish the sting.  Dean did that.  You dig your fingernails in a little, imagining they’re fangs.  Dean marked you, right where Alpha’s claim is supposed to go.

The thought brings you up short.  Claiming?  Mating?  You’d never taken the idea seriously, imagining finding a husband and maybe having a family in some far-off future in which you’re teaching somewhere prestigious and said hypothetical husband being someone safe and solid, a good father for their pups . . .

Mine.  His.  Mine.

Dean’s up when you come out of the bathroom, dressed and drying your hair as best you can with a towel.  He’s barefoot below his jeans and barechested over them, cooking pancakes and singing along to a Bob Seger song playing on a dusty old tape deck set on top of the fridge.  You tingle when you see the marks you’d left on him, dark purple stamped into his fair skin.  Claw furrows stripe his back, red and scabbed over.

Shyness be damned.  Dean jumps when you wind your arms around him from behind.  His shoulders bear the faint ghosts of freckles.  “You’re Irish aren’t you?” you ask.

“My mom’s maiden name was Campbell,” he tells you.  He flips the pancake in the skillet over, nods at the golden brown, and flips it onto a plate already stacked high.  “Take a little bit of batter,” he says, almost to himself as he dips a cup measure into a bowl full of thick cream-colored goo, “and we pour into the hot pan.”  His arm hooks around your shoulders and pulls you around so you can see.  The batter oozes into the skillet and sizzles.  Your mouth waters.  God you’re starving.  “Make sure it doesn’t get too hot.  Look for little bubbles coming up by the outer edge, that’s how you tell it’s done on that side.”  After a few minutes of watching, Dean slips the spatula under the cooking pancake and flips.

“How can you tell it’s done?” you ask.

“You just kinda have to feel it.  Look at the edges and see if they look liquidy.  Leave it another minute or so.”  Dean looks down at where you’re snuggled against his ribs and smiles.  “Can you get the coffee going?”

“Coffee I can do,” you say, spying the dusty drip machine.

A few minutes later you bring plates and silverware and set the table.  After he sets down the pancakes, Dean reaches for a long-sleeved shirt and drags it on.  He chuckles at your pout.  “It’s cold in here sweetheart.”

“What, I can’t ogle?”

“Well, to be fair,” Dean says, “I’ve been staring at your nipples.”

He’s right, they’re poking straight through your bra and T-shirt, standing at attention like little soldiers.  You cover yourself, blushing.  Then it occurs to you how ridiculous that is, modesty in front of a man who’s literally kissed you where the sun don’t shine.

“Eat, babygirl, before they get cold,” Dean says, loading up his plate and dumping half a bottle of maple syrup over it.

Pancakes, orange juice, coffee by the pitcher.  You can feel your body seizing the calories and the vitamins.  By the time you’re full you’ve eaten enough to make a lumberjack pause.  “Oh man,” you wheeze.

Dean chuckles and you blush again.  “Big appetite after a heat’s nothing to be ashamed of.  We got an awful lot of exercise the last few days.”

“Yeah.”  Fair’s fair; you gather the dirty dishes and stack them in the sink.  Dean gets up and grunts something about getting more wood for the stove.

You’re stacking the clean dishes and putting them away when Dean comes back with his arms full.  “We need to talk.”

“Mmm?  What’s up?” you ask, helping him with the wood.  When you’re done you move to wrap him in a hug but Dean turns away.  “What’s the matter?”

“Oh I don’t know-- I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m in an off-the-books shack in the middle of nowhere with an eighteen year old girl and a trunkful of guns.  What is wrong with this picture?”

After the passionate intimacy of the past few days-- after the small-scale joyousness of the past few weeks-- you’re completely taken aback.  “What?”

“I need to get the hell out of your life.  Before I fuck it up worse.”

“Hey wait a minute,” you say.  “My life was fucked up way before you got here.  Maybe ever since my mother passed.  All you did was get here when everything went kerblooey.”

“’Kerblooey’?”

“Kerblooey.”

“The point stands,” Dean says.  “I’m a high school dropout with ten bucks and my car to my name and I make my living on my knees.  I don’t have anything going for me except a knot to stick in people and now I can’t even do that.  What the fuck am I even doing here?”

Jesus Christ, the self-hate is so hot it’s smoking.  “What in the hell brought this on?”

“I’m a grown-ass man.  You’re just a kid.”

“Stop right there,” you say.  “I’m a little naïve, I admit that, but I’m not a kid.  I quit being a kid when I got out of high school and my father decided he was done with parenting.”

“What?”  Not a stupid man, Dean does the math.  “You were sixteen for God’s sake.”

You shrug.  “Didn’t matter.  I’d been pretty much raising myself since Mother got sick.  Point is, you’re not robbing the cradle, Dean.”

“Yes.  I am.”  Dean pulls aside the collar of his shirt and shows a suck mark over the mating gland.  “You think I didn’t notice?  Do you even realize what you almost did?  That’s a lifetime commitment.”

“I know that.  Which is why I didn’t do it.  Neither did you.”  You tap the bruise on the same spot on your neck.

“You begged me to.  First time with an Alpha-- hell, first time period, and I came that close,” he holds his thumb and forefinger an eighth of an inch apart, “to . . .”  He clears his throat.  “You’ve known me less than a month and you’re acting like you want to Bond.  That’s not normal.”

Mine.  “Fine-- let’s talk about this.  I go through life, I meet plenty of Alphas.  Some of whom aren’t knotheads.  A few of whom are attractive.  Maybe a handful who’re interesting.  And none of them were you.”  You pause to let that sink in.  “I felt it the minute I got your scent.  I know you felt it too.  We’re a match.  Aren’t we?”

Sticking to his guns, Dean says, “We’re not.  You’re just imprinting on the first Alpha you got a crush on.  It happens.  Hell it happens to me on a regular basis.”

That hurts, getting reminded that making people feel special with his body is something Dean is paid to do.  You swallow back the pain.  “And do you always call your old Army buddies to run interference between your clients and their asshole relatives?  Especially when they live like five states away?”

“No,” Dean is forced to admit.  “Babygirl--”

“If this is a serious discussion you will use my name Dean Winchester,” you tell him.

“Big talk from somebody who gets off on being told she’s a good girl,” Dean fires back.

Okay, that hurts.  “Why are you doing this?” you ask.

“Because,” he uses your full name like it’s a curse, “I won’t be the asshole who destroys your future.  I refuse.”

“For Christ’s sake I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, Dean!”  Yet.

“I’m confused--” he says, “you’re saying we’re a true match but you don’t want to talk about a lifetime commitment?”

“I’m naïve Dean, not stupid.  Just because we’re a match doesn’t mean we’ll make a good couple.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You’re acting like you don’t even want to try.  Because what if we are, huh?  What if we’re a match and we wind up being good together?  What if for once life’s dropped something good in our laps?  You wanna turn your back on that?”

“Because that’s not the way it works, okay?  Not ever.”

“So all those things you said-- they were just to get me here and bend me over?” you ask, trying to keep it together.

“Pretty much.  Kid.”

You stalk up to Dean.  You’re angrier than you can ever remember being, maybe angrier than you’ve ever been in your life.  “You’re lying.”

He smirks.  “You’re adorable when you’re mad.”

“You’re not worthless,” you tell him, and the smirk dies.  “A worthless man would’ve left his father and brother out to dry years ago.  A worthless man wouldn’t leave himself open to a kidnapping charge just to get into a cute Omega’s drawers.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Of course not,” you scoff.  “That’s a Zachariah move.  Y’know, the actual worthless man in this scenario.”

“You don’t know me.  You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re still here and trying to do the right thing even after life’s kicked you in the balls for it   A lot.”  You shove Dean and he’s taken aback enough he actually pops back a step.  “Don’t you walk away because of some half-assed idea that you’re ruining me by being here.  That’s not your decision.  And fuck your martyr complex anyway!”  You shove again, Dean stumbles, and down he goes.

Swearing, you drop to your knees.  Blinking dazedly, Dean accepts your help sitting up.  “Ow.”

You sit down on the cold floor.  “Look me in the face, and tell me I didn’t have anything to do with you quitting your job.”

Dean looks you in the face.  He opens his mouth and pulls in a breath to speak.  The hammerblow that would’ve broken your heart doesn’t come; Dean closes his mouth and sighs.  “It wasn’t . . . entirely you.”

“So which parts were me?  The ones about not wanting to do the sex part any more?”  At Dean’s look, you add, “That is what full service means, correct?”

“Correct.  And yeah.  That part.”  Resettling himself to sit with you, Dean says, “Almost seven years, I’m up for just about anything.  Hell I was picking my own clients, pretty much, after the first six months.  And then I meet you and I can’t . . .” he trails off.  “Look, for all you know I’m a deadbeat paying child support to half a dozen baby mamas--”

“You’re not, though.”

“No.”  He cups your cheek.  “I’m not going to convince you how bad an idea this is am I?”

“Nope.  I’m a scientist Dean, and you haven’t offered any hard evidence that you’re a bad man.  Morally flexible, yeah, but that doesn’t make you bad.”

“You deserve better that ‘not bad,’” Dean says.

“That’s my decision.”  Mirroring him, you palm his jaw.  “Start small?  A date?”

And he smiles.  “I know a great Korean place out by East Beltline.”

You kiss him.  “For real now, what brought that on?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says.  “I was out looking at a blowdown I need to cut up and I just-- it hit me all at once.  I’m in the middle of nowhere with no money, on the run, and somebody I love’s counting on me to keep them safe.  Again.  I’m stuck on repeat.”

“Bullshit.  It’s not like we’re fleeing from the goddamned Wehrmacht.  This is one asshole with a shitload of money.”

“If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s the destructive power of assholes with money.”

“Okay,” you say, “in your experienced opinion, what now?  I should’ve been back to class-- shit!  Today!  Prof Visnyak’s gonna fucking kill me!” you moan.

“We can pack up the car and go right now,” Dean says.  “Be back in town by dinnertime,” he starts to get to his feet.

You let him help you up but when he turns for the door you say, “Wait.  I don’t know--"

Pulling you close, Dean kisses you.  “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.  I mean--” dread, that’s what it is.  The thought of going back isn’t comforting.  Home doesn’t feel safe any more.  It might never feel safe again.  Here is safe.

“Babygirl.”  Dean tips your head up to look you in the eye.  “I’m gonna ask you a question and I want you to answer without thinking about it.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean echoes.  “Yes or no-- is it safe to go back?”

“No,” you say without thinking about it.

“Then it isn’t safe.  We stay here for at while,” Dean concludes.

“How do you know it’s not safe?” you ask.

“Gut feelings aren’t random,” Dean lectures.  “They're based on stuff your brain remembers without you being aware of it.  Scents, body language, stuff like that.  If your instincts are telling you something isn't safe, it probably isn't," he concludes.  "I know you got classes and shit, but would it be the end of the world if you stayed gone for another few days?"

You consider, chewing on your lower lip.  "I feel like a jerk for even thinking it."

"Would you feel the same way if your broke your leg or got in a car wreck or something?"

"Point taken.  I'd just feel better if I knew what the situation was.  We're in the dark here."

"That we can fix," Dean says.  "I can make a supply run and pick up a burner phone.  Do you know Balthazar’s number?"  At your nod, Dean says, "Okay, we have a plan.  Get your coat."

---

Outside you head for the car, but when you reach for the passenger door Dean says, "Nope."

"I'm not going with you?"

Dean shakes his head.  "We gotta do something first."

Your jaw drops when he lifts the trunk's false bottom to show more guns than you've ever seen in person.  "Jesus Christ!  What're we prepping for, World War III?"

Dean shrugs, looking a little guilty.  "Sort of, yeah.  They're all legal if that's what you're worried about."  He thinks a minute.  "Except maybe the grenade launcher.  I'm not sure where Dad got that.  Still think I'm that great a guy?"

You stick your chin out.  "I'll take a calculated risk that you're better than the guy trying to knot the niece that's young enough to be his great-granddaughter."

"Touché," Dean mutters.  He reaches into the trunk and pulls out a pistol.  "Here.  Glock 19, nine millimeter, semi-automatic, fourteen in the magazine and one in the chamber.  About thirty ounces loaded."  Dean presses a button and the magazine slips out and he opens the top part.  A bullet flies out and he plucks it out of the air.  "First rule of firearms is--"

"--the gun is always loaded," you say with him.  “I don’t approve of guns.”

Dean looks down at you.  “I don’t approve of you being unarmed in case we get separated.  Your uncle--”

“Quit calling him that.”

“Whatever.  Zachariah is a threat we are going to take seriously, and that includes making sure you know how to defend yourself if you have to.  You hear me?”

“I hear you,” you grumble.  You hold out your hand and Dean slips you the gun.

---

Later you’re waiting back at the cabin, wringing the ache of unaccustomed exercise out of your hands.  There’s a sour feeling in the back of your throat, the remnants of adrenaline as Dean coached you through your very first shooting lesson.

“We are called upon by the Lord to accept that the cruelty of the world will cause us pain, and to offer our enemies the gifts of love and understanding,” Father Jim had preached in his sermon . . . God, just this past Sunday.

Fuck that, says the dull black thing on the table.

“Just let him feel like an Alpha and he’ll let you go,” your mother said.

Fuck that.

“Nothing we have is worth killing for--”

Fuck.  That.

In your hand the textured black plastic is warm.  Welcoming.  You stare down at your hand like it doesn’t even belong to you.  This hand fired a gun.  This hand can kill people.

And you’re confused by how not horrified you are at the thought.  “For a total beginner you’re not bad,” Dean had said, examining the makeshift target he’d set up with a log and some sheets of paper from your lab notebook.  Watching Dean’s easy confidence with his own, gun, every movement natural as a yawn, you’d felt like a faun trying to walk for the first time by comparison.

Sighing, you get out the little box with the cleaning supplies and start running through the steps Dean showed you to strip and clean the Glock.  Again.

He’s been gone for a couple hours and the quiet is getting to you.  It’s ridiculous; you’ve been on your own ever since Dad took off for Florida the fall you entered college.  You’ve been alone longer than that, the last dehydrated pea rattling around in the tin can that was your mother’s house on Reeds Lake.  A house meant for the large family she’d had with her first husband, the half-brothers you’d only met at her funeral.  That’s you, the half-considered, the afterthought, the surprise no one wanted in the first place and didn’t think much of once you’d arrived.

You shake your head.  That’s not fair.  It’s not your parents’ fault they didn’t think your forty-seven year old mother could even get pregnant, much less carry to term, much less deliver a healthy seven pound baby girl.  It’s not like you were the red-headed stepchild cooped up in the attic or the foundling left on a church doorstep.  You have friends, colleagues, people who respect you.  You have your brain, a decent work ethic, a future in a field you enjoy.  By any reasonable standard you’re blessed.

And now you have Dean.  He just needs to hurry his beautiful ass up and get here.

You hear the Chevy’s engine and your heart starts to beat again.  Calling your name, Dean says, “I’m coming in.  Safety on.”

You look down at your hands.  Shuddering, you put the gun down.

---

“Dear God in Heaven it’s good to hear your voice,” Uncle Balthazar says.  “Are you all right?  Where are you?”

“I’m fine and I have no idea,” you answer him.  “We’re in a cabin a friend of Dean owns.  I don’t know where, it was dark when we drove here and I lost track of the roads.  What’s going on?  Have you and Uncle Gabriel nailed Zachariah?”

“We had enough to take to Naomi and Michael.  She wailed for an hour.  It was dismally theatrical.”

“Son of a bitch!” you hear Dean snap from inside the cabin, along with a clang of something heavy.

Uncle Balthazar hesitates.  “Not to be indelicate, but, um . . . is everything all right?  Mr. Winchester wasn’t . . . inappropriate with you?”

You smile.  If you concentrate you can still feel Dean deep inside, warm and wet.  “Define inappropriate.”

“Oh good God, never mind, I don’t want to know.  In any event, Zachariah’s been relieved of his post and his access to the Family money’s been cut off.

“That’s the good news.  The bad news is, Zachariah himself has vanished into the ether.  We were trying to avoid it but we had no choice-- the police are looking for him.  Chuck’s gone too.  Sturley and Kline looks like an anthill after a tank charge.”

You pull in a deep breath.  “Have their passports been invalidated?”

“Of course but it’s entirely possible they’ve already fled the country.  Castiel and Jack,” Jack Kline, the other half of Sturley and Kline since his grandfather retired, “have been doing a thorough audit of Zachariah’s finances.  He’s filched more than enough to live comfortably in some paradise with low inflation and no extradition treaty.  Thank God that doesn’t trouble my associates in Dubai.  One way or another, Zachariah’s life is over.”

You lean against Dean’s car, bracing yourself for a fainting wave of relief.  It doesn’t come.

“Cherie, you need to come home.  Your phone has been positively screaming.”

“What about the escort agency?” you ask.

“Well, in exchange for immunity from a breach-of-contract and attempted rape charge, Ms. Rosen and Ms. Diablo have been fully co-operative.  Your escort’s friend Mr. LaFitte -- charming fellow, I think I’ll ask if he’s ever considered working in security -- did an excellent job communicating the wisdom of, shall we say, a collaborative attitude.  They both apologize for any distress--”

“Fuck them both with barbed wire dicks.”

“Indeed.  It’s enough that arrest warrants have been sworn out against Zachariah and Chuck, on the off-chance my people don’t find them first.”  Uncle Balthazar sighs.  “Which is another reason you need to come home.  The police need to talk to you and so does the district attorney--”

“Until you can guarantee Zachariah isn’t coming after me, I’m staying here.”

“Dear heart a restraining order’s already been handed down.  If you want I can hire bodyguards.  Whatever you need.”

“No,” you say.  Because when it comes right down to it . . .

“Ah hah, the honeymoon period.  I understand.  When your Aunt Anna and I first met, it was nearly a month before we were willing to come up for air.”

“It’s not like that,” you say.

“It’s quite all right darling, you haven’t had a vacation since that dreadful trip to Tokyo your father dragged you on.  If it makes you feel better to stay shacked up with your Alpha, I’d say you’re entitled.  Oh for God’s sake-- tell me you haven’t Bonded.”

“Uncle Balthazar!  Of course not!” you hiss.

“Just asking!  Just asking!  Please stay safe.  And keep in touch.”

You look at the phone in your hand a long time after Uncle Balthazar hangs up.  You should be calling Dr. Visnyak and your other professors to tell them you’ll be gone at least a few more days.  You should call Penelope to get briefed on your lab project.  You should call Ralph and reschedule your study session-- you’d agreed to work on your Cultural Evolution paper together.

So many phone calls.  So much time.  So many chances for someone to call someone else in exchange for a quick cash influx.  Money turns anyone into a potential collaborator with Zachariah.  You trust Uncle Balthazar, your Uncle Gabriel, Castiel . . . it’s humbling to realize that’s where the list ends and the names on it were trustworthy for reasons other than any affection for you.

Dean looks up from where he’s bent over the woodstove, feeding chunks of wood into the flames.  “What’s the sitch?” he asks as you hand him the phone.

You give him the outline.  Dean goes still when you tell him the family lawyer’s been caught acting wrong.  “That’s not good.  Ketch told me he worked for Sturley and Kline.”

“Yeah.   As far as I know he’s the only scary minion Chuck’s got.”

“But you don’t know that for sure.”

“No,” you’re forced to admit.

At your sigh, Dean sits on the cabin's saggy couch.  Gently, he pulls you to sit on one of his legs.  "What's on your mind, babygirl?"

"Oh I don't know," you say.  "I just ran down the list of friends I have, and I don't trust any of them to not rat me out if Zachariah waves a few thousand in cash under their noses.  It's depressing."

Dean shrugs.  "Money talks."

"I know."

"Try not to take it personally."

"I'm not.  I'm just . . . I don't know."  You look at Dean.  "Tell me about your brother?"

"Sure."  Dean pulls out his wallet and shows you a snapshot of a gangly young man beaming in cap and gown.  You lay against Dean's chest as he talks.  "Four years behind me-- Dad told me he and Mom had almost given up on having kids, then poof! I showed up.  Then Mom had a miscarriage and they thought I'd be a solo act.  Then Sammy came along.  God, he was so little.  I remember when Dad carried him into the house, he was like," Dean held his hands apart, "yea big.  Now he's taller'n me-- how is that fair?"

You relax more as Dean talks.  It's clear from the warmth in his tone-- he cares about Sam, loves him in a primal way that's totally alien to you.  Like if Sam needed blood Dean would cut his own throat for him.  "How do you do it?" you ask when Dean pauses in the middle of a story involving superglued socks and Nair in a shampoo bottle.

"Do what?" he asks.

"How did you make a living, doing what you did?  I mean, you care so much-- how did you keep from . . . ?"

"What, going insane over all my clients?"

"I mean-- no offense, I . . . fuck, I don't know what I mean."

"No it's okay.  It's a fair question, I guess."  Dean strokes down your arm, plays with a bit of your hair.  "In the business, there are rules.  There's only so close you can get with someone who's paying you to screw them.  And I was okay with that.  I’m not great with relationships.”  He hesitates.  "You know what's the best part about getting in bed with a woman?  At least for me it is?"

"No, tell me," you say dryly.

Dean gives you a sour look.  "Hey, I'm trying to do this soul-bearing heart-to-heart girly shit here.  Cut me some slack."

"Consider it cut babe."

Dean frowns at you, but after a moment's consideration he continues.  "Most Omegas-- hell, most women-- you've all been trained to expect bad sex.  One of my first regulars, she was an older lady.  Widow.  She and her husband'd been together since middle school.  Four litters of pups, about a dozen kids.  And you know she told me her husband never made her come?  Not once, in thirty-odd years of marriage.

"It's that moment," Dean says.  "When you realize how good it can be.  That look-- it’s just beautiful.  It's the best feeling ever, knowing I did that.  The rest of it-- it's a job like anything else, it's got its upsides and its downsides.  Like getting filmed?  Not as much fun as you'd think it is.  Fucking cameraman damn near burned my nuts on the lights."

"Jesus, I'm dating a porn star?!?" you squeak.

Dean laughs.  "Private collections only.  I thought about it, but the pay's crap for guys.  'Sides, escort work lets me have flexible hours.  I can take time to see Dad anytime I need to."

"What about going to see your brother?"

Dean hesitates.  "Sam doesn't like it when I come out to visit him."

"Why?" you ask.  "You're fascinating company.  You listened to me lecture you on the excavation of Chief Baw Beese’s grave for an hour and didn’t yawn once."

"Sam's got an image to maintain.  I fuck that up for him.  Besides, he doesn't trust me around his fiancée.  I, uh, might've banged his math tutor when he was in sixth grade."

"Dude!"

"Yeah.  Not exactly my finest hour.  Turns out she was only tutoring him because she wanted a piece of me."

"Still."

"I was sixteen.  Everybody's a moron when they're sixteen.”

“I wasn’t.”

Smiling, Dean kisses you.  “That’s cuz you’re weird, babygirl.”

You bite his lower lip and make him yelp.  His wounded pout is so adorable you just have to kiss it better.  Before you know it you’re sitting astride Dean’s lap in a full-bodied makeout session.  The feel of him, warm and strong and touching you like you’re something precious.   After the stress of this insane day, it’s balm and comfort.

Which is interrupted when your stomach gurgles.  Chuckling, Dean lifts the hem of your shirt and kisses your belly.  “Don’t be mad, it’s been a long day and we skipped lunch.”

---

The next morning you’re back wrestling with your old friend, Statistics.  A raid on the Chevy had produced an honest-to-God tape cassette collection, mostly old-school hard rock and heavy metal.  Outside you can hear the irregular rhythm of chopping-- Dean cutting the logs in the woodpile outside down into more manageable pieces.

You catch an arithmetic error that’s just wasted a fucking hour and clonk your head down on the table, cursing in Arabic.  “I have no idea what that means but it didn’t sound nice,” Dean says as he comes in, grabbing a mug and heading for the coffee.

“It’s pointless, dogs don’t bend that way.”  You accept a fresh cup with a smile of thanks.  “I fucking hate Stats.”

“Come on,” Dean says, closing your Stats text, “grab your coat.  I wanna show you something.”

Leading the way, Dean crunches through the leaves that’ve drifted into piles between the trees.  From the shape you guess you’re in a copse of sugar maples.  “Wait-- there’s no trail.  What if we get lost?”

“No problem.  Check it out,” he hunts around a minute, then breaks out in a grin.  “Here.”

You follow with your fingers a set of deep gouges in a tree’s bark, an arrow pointing back the way you’d come.  “Sammy got lost out here once,” Dean explains.  “I spent the next month carving these.  Just in case.”

You move deeper into the woods, the trees getting taller and the leaf litter more sparse.  Dean splashes across a small stream and lifts you over it to keep your feet dry.  He stops, taking your hand.  For a moment you see nothing but the same view of forest floor, then something clicks into place and you see it-- a large wooden cross standing up from a crude altar made of mortared-together stones.  “What’s this?”

“I don’t know.  Me’n’Sammy found it while we were wandering around.”

Letting go of Dean’s hand you carefully creep in for a closer look.  Any undergrowth was cut back at some point, and kept back with a layer of wood chips that’ve since been covered by silt and leaf litter, decomposing into the forest floor.  It’s a church setup, you can see split logs arranged as pews, making a short aisle.  Reflexively you cross yourself as you proceed to the altar.

“Nondenominational,” you say to yourself, reaching for a notebook you’re not carrying.  “No altar rail or place to kneel I can see.  You turn to look at Dean, who’s watching you with a smile.  “I think this was a setup for little kids.  See how low the pews are?  An adult would find them uncomfortable-- they’re just the right size for kids.”

“Yeah.  Sammy’n’me used to make up stories about this place.  Like it was really a place for ritual sacrifice.”  He shrugs.  “We were bored.”

“No no, here, come take a look.”  You come closer to the altar.  “See?  No blood.  Even with weathering, if anyone killed anything here there’d still be blood caught in between the rocks.”

Dean nods.  “Yeah, I gotcha.”

The cross itself is made out of what look like railroad ties notched and nailed together.  There are no candle drippings and the altar’s upper surface is a single flat boulder, worn smooth.  “This part was built,” you say.  “Kids wouldn’t be strong enough to lift this.  And the rocks are mortared together, they’re not piled like a caern.”

It’s easy to imagine, now that you know what you’re looking at-- a group of little boys and girls sitting quietly on the log pews, listening in varying degrees of attention as a grownup preaches about salvation and the Good News and the virtues of proper behavior.  You can also imagine a pair of bored little boys poking at the altar and scaring themselves silly with tales of monster gods and mad killers.  "Is there a Boy or a Girl Scouts' camp around here somewhere?" you ask.

"I don't know," Dean says.  "We asked Bobby about the place and he said he didn't know.  The cabin belonged to a friend of his-- I never got the straight on how he wound up owning the place.  If he ever did.  He might've just been squatting."

"Wish I had my toolkit with me," you say, hunkering down to take a closer look at the alter.  The base is a slab of poured concrete, eroded and pitted with weathering, dirty with silt and moss.  "Yeah, this was built by the grownups," you note to yourself.

“That makes sense,” Dean says, looking around the little clearing as if with fresh eyes.  “Yeah.  Couple guys and a wheelbarrow could get it done in a day.  Bring a bag of ready-mix, there’s water in the stream.”

“Yeah.  Have the kids collect the rocks, bring the cross,” you clap your hands, “badda-bing, outdoor church.”  One side of the altar is piled high with leaves, caked in mud around the base.  “Help me with this.”

Dean helps you clear the dirt down to the altar base.  “Here, check this out,” you say, looking at a larger stone slab set into the alter, out of place amongst the fist-sized stones.  It’s not mortared into place that you can see.  “Could this--” you carefully fit your hands on either side of the big stone.  “Hey-- I think this slides out!”

Dean takes the other side of the stone and together you wiggle it free.  In the hollow space revealed, you can see a dark shape.  “Oh wow,” you say softly, reaching in and gently withdrawing a dark metal box, about six inches square and four deep.

With the reverence it deserves, you undo the latch.  Inside, kept dry with a clear cellophane bag, is a stack of yellowed envelopes.  They’re letters, addressed:

TO:  JESUS

1 GOLDEN STREET

HEAVEN

“Oh my God,” you whisper.  All the handwriting is little kid block capitals, rendered in colored pencils and crayons.  Some kids ornamented their envelopes with drawings of trees, flowers, stick figure families.  At the bottom of the box you find a copy of the Holy Bible, New English translation.  You open it to the title page-- printed in 1949.  There’s a stamp on the page in red ink; an outline of a leafy tree, with a single branch forming the words Camp Long Lake.  “Summer camp!” you realize, turning to Dean.  “There must be an old summer camp compound around here somewhere!  The counselors built this with the kids!”

“Awesome!” Dean says.

You look at the tiny packet of paper, feeling the same thrill you felt the first time you’d gone into the field and found a tiny shard of ceramic in amongst the red mass of claylike dirt.  Who made this?  What was their life?  What was their story?  "God I wish I had a camera," you say.

Reluctantly, you put the letters back in the plastic bag and seal it up.  "I wish we could take these back, figure out who wrote them," you tell Dean as you refasten the box lid.  "But . . . it feel like we'd be desecrating a church."

"We could always come back later," Dean says.

"That's true.  Take some pictures, maybe explore around a little bit more.  You and your brother didn't find anything that might be campgrounds?  Another clearing, place that look like a tent field . . ."

"Not that I remember," Dean says.  "This is about as far out from the cabin as we felt safe going."

You slide the box back into its resting place, and Dean shoves the stone back into the hole.  The move makes all his muscles stand out for a heart-stopping moment.  His body becomes an expression of perfection, a collection of almost mathematically perfect lines, an ideal expression of a divine creation.  And alive, shining from within.

A wave of pure red-tinted lust damn near puts you on your knees.  You want, God how you want.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah.  Let’s go,” you say,

“Okay, okay, jeez.”  Dean falls in beside you as you stride back up the aisle and splash across the little stream.  Your socks get soaked and you are way past caring.  “What’s the emergency?”

“Nothing,” you tell him, taking his hand and jogging between a pair of trees.

“Seriously what’re you--” you drag his head down and kiss him, hard and possessive.  He’s off-balance, it’s nothing to slam his back against a tree.  Your hand cups the front of his pants, presses, caresses.  Dean moans, deep and throaty.  His arms go around you, hands going for your buttons.

You slap his hands away.  This isn’t about you, no matter how hungry you are.  You bite down Dean’s neck, avoiding the mating gland.  Under your hand you can feel him getting hard.

Going to your knees, you undo his belt and tug open his jeans.  “Oh Jesus,” Dean groans as you pull down his underwear and his cock pops free.  It’s as beautiful as the rest of him to your eyes and you suck him down hard as you can.  He practically leaps to life in your mouth, going thick and heavy.

You pull off and take him in hand, wetting your palms and wringing him.  Dean’s knees buckle and he grabs at the tree to keep from falling.  “Oh my God, fuck, Jesus--”

“Wanna make you feel good, Alpha,” you tell him, kissing and licking up his shaft.

“So good, babygirl,” he pants, looking down at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.  “Stick your tongue out, tap it on-- just like that,” he says as you pat the head of his cock on your tongue.  You wind your tongue around the tip, doing your best not to grimace at the taste.  That look in Dean’s beautiful green eyes, you’d do just about anything for that look.

You take him as deep as you can, doing your best to push past your gag reflex.  Drool slips from your mouth and trickles down your chest.  You can actually feel him getting harder, getting hotter.  His scent mixes with the scent of sex, filling your nose.  It’s heady, and it’s got slick soaking into your panties, your body burning for Dean.

Panting and moaning encouragement and instructions, Dean squirms against the tree.  You cup his balls in one hand and his quivering knot in the other, squeezing gently.  You moan and Dean moans along with you.  His hips make tiny involuntary movements, you can see him clawing at the tree.

His balls suddenly draw up into his belly.  You pull off just in time to avoid a blast of come.  Your squeeze Dean’s popping knot, pulling at Dean’s cock as he spends all over you.  His legs give out and he slides down the tree, pants open and a total sticky mess.

Yanking you close, Dean rolls you into the nearest pile of leaves, kissing you like he might die if he stops.  He licks at the strings of his come on your face, cleaning you like a cat.  “God, babygirl,” he whispers in your ear, “what brought that on?”

“Wanted to make you feel good,” you say, kissing him back.  “Wanted to take care of you.”

Dean puts you on your back and pulls your jeans open.  “I’m gonna make you come now,” Dean tells you, a hard, determined look in his eyes that makes you whimper.  “Do you want my fingers or my mouth, babygirl?”

“I-- I--”  your whole body’s tingling, every nerve alight.

“Tell me,” Dean says.  He kisses your neck.  “How do you want to come?  Tell me.  Talk to me.”

“Mouth,” you squeak.  “Please Dean, put your mouth on me, please.”

“Oh good.  Good.”  Dean yanks your jeans off, shoves your legs apart and latches onto your pussy.  Birds take off at your cry.  Sucking at your clit, two fingers curled inside you and rubbing something that makes your body sing, Dean has you falling to pieces in no time at all.

---

It's late the next morning when you finally wake up.  The passion hadn't stopped when you got back to the cabin; you're actually sore, and there's new marks on your body where Dean's strength overrode his sense.  Smiling you reach across the bed for him, and your arm pats empty sheets.

“Dean?  Deee-an?”  You haul up out of bed.  A search of the cabin takes roughly thirty seconds and the results include a mouse and three spiders but no Dean.

The mouse you shoo.  The spiders you catch-and-release.  It’s when you’re done putting the last spider outside that you spy it-- a note on the floor.  It must’ve fluttered down when you or Dean shut the door.

GONE OUT TO CUT UP THAT BLOWDOWN.  BACK BY LUNCH.  -D

That must be the source of the chainsaw noise you can hear in the distance.  You groan at the thrill of desire at the thought of Dean in lumberjack mode, guiding a chainsaw, swinging an axe, maybe shirtless and sweating in the autumn sunshine.  The spirit may be willing but the flesh needs a break.

After a shower and a breakfast, you settle down to your Classical Antiquities paper.  The Glock Dean gave you sits on the table.  You’ve checked and it’s loaded.  You don’t know why you have it out.  You don’t really enjoy looking at the damned thing.  It makes you uneasy.  It feels like borrowing trouble.

But you don’t want to put it away.

You drum your pencil on the table.  You wish you’d brought your laptop, or your phone, or, shit, anything with an Internet connection.  You spread your notecards over the table and wait for the work to pull you in, absorb you the way it always does.

But the uneasy feeling won’t leave.  Every minute goes by, the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up a little higher.  You’ve gotten this vibe before, walking to and from your car late at night or when you’re lecturing in front of a hostile class.  The sense of being hunted.

You’ve been working for hours and getting nowhere when you give up.  You need to find Dean.  Something is wrong.

The sound of an engine strikes you still.  It pulls up outside the cabin and stops.  Heart in your throat you listen.

“This must be the place,” a man’s voice notes, smooth and polished with an English accent.  “We appear to have gotten lucky, if that’s Winchester making that racket.”

“Find him.  Take care of him.”  Your heart stops.  It’s Zachariah.

Zachariah knocks on the door, calling your name.  “It’s okay!  I’m coming in!”  Dammit, the door to the cabin isn’t locked.  It swings open and Zachariah sticks his head in.

He looks awful, skin sallow and deep shadows under his hooded eyes.  His nose wrinkles at the smells of sex and scent.  “Jesus Christ.”

How did he find you?  Who was the other man?  God damn it, where’s Dean?

Zachariah spies you and he smiles.  “Whew!  There you are!”  You start to shake.  How is it you feel brave when you’re around Dean but not here where you need it?  “We have been looking all over for you!  Why’d you run off?  Did that girl Alpha scare you?”  He’s come in and coming closer, a dog stalking its prey.  “Look, I know, she came on a little strong--”

“A little?” you squeak.

“--but that’s what timid Omegas need, a firm hand.”  He takes another sniff.  “Dear God, you two’ve been going at it for days haven’t you?”

So what?  You feel your back straighten.  Some of the trembling eases.  You’re not ashamed of being with Dean, in any respect.  Not even a little bit.

Zachariah makes that sour, pinched smirk.  “That’s okay.  Just following your instincts.  I bet you feel a whole lot better now you’ve been knotted properly.  It’s okay.  But now it’s time to come home, sweetheart.”  He’s slinking closer.  You sidle to the side, trying to keep the table between you.

Just let him feel like he’s in control and he’ll leave you alone, your mother’s voice lectures from your memory.  Let him feel that, let him have that, let him, let him let him--

You glance at the table, at the gun.  Zachariah sees it too, and his greasy smirk widens.  “Oh honey, that’s not necessary.  I’m your family.  All I want to do is take care of you.”

Dean’s phrase in Zachariah’s mouth, it makes you sick.  It makes you angry.  You snatch the gun off the table and point it at Zachariah.

“Woah woah woah, easy girl, easy!” Zachariah says, holding up his hands.  “I just want--”

“Get away from me,” you say.

“Calm down.  Nobody wants to hurt you.  I could never hurt you, baby.  I love you.  I always have.”  You can scent him now, a thick and nauseating stench of stagnation and decay driving out yours and Dean’s mingled smells.  “I can provide for you baby, keep you good.  You can have anything you want, I’ll treat you like a queen baby, just--”

“I said get away from me!”  You lunge for the bathroom.  The bathroom door locks; you throw the bolt a half-second before Zachariah slams into it.

Zachariah back off a step.  “Come on Omega, this is ridiculous.  Open the door.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Right, and you didn’t just send Mr. Ketch after Dean,” you say as the pieces fall together and terror turns your blood to icewater.

“He’s nothing, baby.  Just an overpriced whore with a crazy daddy.”  Zachariah continues in that vein but you don’t listen.  You have to warn Dean.  He has no idea Ketch is coming.

The tiny casement window over the toilet is too small for you to get through.  Or so it looks; Dean showed you a trick just in case there was a fire.  You undo the catches in the window frame and shove out the panes.  The opening’s tight but you get through, landing in a painful heap outside.

Checking the safety and making sure your finger’s off the trigger, you take off.  Dean.

---

The blowdown Dean showed you is about a half-hour’s walk away from the cabin.  Ignoring stealth, you run hell-bent for leather through the dead leaves.

You’re almost there when you hear a gunshot.  You stop dead in your tracks, panting for air, a stitch in your side like a knife.

“You know,” Ketch’s cultured voice carries to you and your heart stops, “when you locked me in that stinking toilet, I had plenty of time to imagine this moment--”

Crying Dean’s name you run towards the voice.  You plunge through a tangle of weeds and your horrified eyes take in Dean down on one knee, a hand pressed to his side and blood in his fingers.  Ketch, his face battered and bruised, looks over at you but his gun stays pointed at Dean’s head.

He smiles.  “Ah, our wayward Omega.”

You raise the Glock, finger on the trigger.  “Get.  Away.  From him.”

Ketch tsks.  “Little Omega’s grown claws.  Fascinating.”  Slowly, showing every motion, he uncocks his pistol and takes his finger off the trigger.  “See?  It’s all right, Miss.  I’m not here to hurt you.”

“No.  You’re just here to kill my Alpha and take me back to Zachariah,” you snap.

“Your Alpha?”  Ketch echoes.  He smiles, a tight, unpleasant thing.  “I told Zachariah hiring a whore--”

“Don’t call him that!” you cry, raising your gun a little bit higher.

“Really now.  You’re a bright girl,” Ketch says.  In your peripheral vision you see Dean moving, his face pale and agonal.  He’s trying to get to his gun, you realize, you can see the twinkle of chrome on the ground.  “You can do so much better.”

“Like Zachariah?” you say.

“An Alpha who will keep you as an Omega should be kept,” Ketch says.  “Winchester is beneath you, and, deep down,” he says, creeping up on you and holstering his gun, “you know it.”

“Stay right there,” you order.  “I mean it.”

Ketch shows his empty hands.  “Just come with me.  We’ll take Dean to a hospital and you can go home.  No one else needs to get hurt.”

“He’s right.”  Your head snaps around and there’s Zachariah, winded and rumpled.  The instant of distraction is all Ketch needs; quick like a snake he grabs your wrist and twists the Glock out of your hand.

“Down!” Dean barks and you drop.  A shot rings out, and Ketch falls.  You hear a few wheezes, and smell a titanic stench of shit and bowels.  Then . . . nothing.

Oh my God.  You are lying next to a dead man.

At the touch of a hand you scramble away, backing yourself against a tree.  You look over and both Ketch and Dean are lying inert on the ground.  Inert.  Unmoving.  Dead.

Shock coats your feelings in glass.  No.

Zachariah pulls himself up off the ground, dusts himself off, pulls his blazer straight.  “Well.  That was unfortunate.”  He walks up to you, a satisfied smirk on his face.  There’s an edge of madness in his eyes.  “Come on now baby,” he coos, bending close.  “It’s time to go home.”

You spit in his face and he slaps you so hard your lips split.  “You’ve picked up some bad habits,” he notes, that mad edge shining brighter.  “That’s okay, you’ll learn better.  I’m good at teaching Omegas how to behave.  And you will behave for me.”

Your eyes land on your pistol, lying on the ground next to Ketch’s curled fingers.  You lunge, grab it, and fire.  Zachariah curses as a hunk of bark is ripped from a tree next to him, covering his head, “Don’t shoot!  Don’t shoot!”

“Get on the ground!” you order and he drops to his knees.  “Hands behind your head!  Don’t fucking move!”

“I’m not!  I’m not.  See?” he smiles uneasily and puts his hands behind his head.  “Not moving.”

A stir of leaves next to you.  You glance over and oh thank God and the Virgin Mary-- it’s Dean.  He’s alive.  White as a ghost and in obvious pain, but alive.  You want to drop your gun and cover him with kisses.  You can’t.  Not with Zachariah right here.

Dean tries to get to his feet.  Oh Jesus, his front is drenched with blood from the waist down.  He says your name.  “Car keys in my pocket.  Take Zachariah.  Leave me here.”

“Fuck that!”

“I can’t walk and you can’t carry me.”

You point your gun at Zachariah.  “You wanna live through this?”

Zachariah chuckles.  “You won’t shoot me.  You’re not--”  He shrieks in a very unAlpha soprano as you put a bullet in the ground between you.

“Carry him.  Or I swear by God, Father Son and Holy Ghost I will blow your fucking brains out,” you snarl.  Your fangs have dropped and you have to shift your grip on the pistol as your claws slide out.  When Zachariah doesn’t move, you snap, “NOW!”

Scrambling to his feet, Zachariah moves to Dean’s side.  Pulling Dean’s arm over his shoulders, he slowly straightens to a stand, pulling Dean to his feel.  Dean howls in pain, a sound you know will haunt you for the rest of your life.

You look around in confusion.  All these fucking trees look the same.  “Arrows,” Dean grunts, reading you like a sign again.  “Look for the arrows.”

You look up and find one, old scratches deep into the meat of the tree.  “This way.”  You motion with your gun.

“Aht-ah,” Dean says, and he almost sounds like his uninjured self.  He jabs his gun into Zachariah’s ribs.  “Do what the lady says pal, or she won’t have to blow your head off.”

---

The slow march back to the cabin is a crazy nightmare of crunching leaves and Dean’s moans of pain.  You can’t comfort him either, you don’t dare let Zachariah out of your sight.  Underneath the glass coat of shock your Omega instincts are screaming, Alpha is in pain, Alpha is in danger.

Finally you come to the cabin.  Zachariah’s car is a big black SUV.  You growl at him, “Keys.”

He bares his teeth in a sharktoothed grin.  “Ketch has them.”

“Pocket,” Dean wheezes.  His knees buckle and he almost drags Zachariah down.

“Dean?  Dean!  Stay with me Dean!  We’re going to get help.”  Dean moans, his head rolling this way and that.  “ALPHA!” you shriek.

“He’s a dead man,” Zachariah scoffs.

“You’d better hope not,” you growl in a voice you don’t recognize as yours.  “Put him in the shotgun seat.”

“H-h-hand-handcuffs,” Dean says.  Weakly he pats at the glove compartment.  You open it and fish out a set of cuffs.  “Cuff him.  To the other car.”

“You heard him,” you tell Zachariah, holding up the cuffs.  “Do it.  Or I’ll shoot out your knees and leave you to bleed to death, do you hear me?”

“This isn’t necessary sweetheart,” Zachariah tries one last time.  “We can get clear of this if we tell the same story.”

“What story’s that?  The one where you brought your psycho to kill my Alpha and carry me away to your tower for the ravishing?”

“Two psychopaths went crazy, kidnapped you, and killed each other,” Zachariah corrects, “and I arrived just in time to save you.  It’s a good story.  We can go away, start a new life together.  A good life, somewhere warm where--”

“Where the law doesn’t think it’s weird for an Alpha to have an Omega a third his age.  Pass.  Now,” you tic your gun at the SUV, “hands.”

Once Zachariah’s wrists are cuffed with the chain threaded through the door handle, you creep back towards Dean’s car.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Zachariah snarls as his face turns red.  “I’ll never spend a night in jail.  I know people.  I have money.  You’re mine, Omega.  Just a matter of time.”

“I will slit my own throat first.”  You mean it.

You slide into Dean’s car.  God, the inside stinks like blood.  It’s everywhere, so much blood.  You have to physically peel your right hand off the Glock; your fingers refuse to let go.  Outside Zachariah is yelling and struggling against the handcuffs.  You sincerely hope he gouges his wrists open and dies.

What the hell happened to you? asks your father’s eternally detached voice.  You slap it away.  “Keep it together,” you growl to yourself.

“Doin’ great, babygirl,” Dean whispers.  “Take track to road.  Turn left.  Gas station.”

“Gas station?  No we need to get you to a hos-- don’t tell me we’re low on gas.”

“Fine.  Won’t tell you.”  Dean tries to get his keys from his jeans pocket but can’t quite manage.  You have to dig them out.  As the Chevy’s engine coughs to life you check the gas gauge.  Yep, the needle’s hovering a tick over E.  Cursing in Greek, you find the gearstick, put the car in gear, and pull away from the cabin.

You drive as fast as you dare down the rutted trail through the shitwood and weeds.  Finally you come on a ribbon of asphalt.  Blessed civilization.

Or so you think; it’s another fifteen nerve-shredding minutes until you see a sign that says JOE’S PARTY STORE, GAS BAIT BEER LOTTO.  Almost sobbing with relief you pull in front of the tin shack housing the store and cut the engine.  “We’re here!  Thank God we’re here!  Dean?”  No response.  “Dean!”

He lifts his head from where it’s slumped on the seat and smiles.  Then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps back down again.

The glass coat that’s been keeping your emotions back shatters.  Your shrieks bring out a retinue of retired fisherman.  They mill around in confusion until one fat fellow wearing a VIET NAM, NHA TRANG baseball cap takes charge.  He opens the passenger side door and askes, “Jesus God girlie, what happened?”

“He’s been shot, he’s been shot, he’s dying,” you sob.

“Call Jimmy, tell him to shag ass.  This man needs a hospital.”  He lifts Dean’s shirt and you almost pass out.  Blood, blood, how can he be alive with so much blood?  It’s everywhere, the whole world is blood.  The Vietnam vet whips a handkerchief out of his pocket.  “This is gonna hurt mister.  I’m sorry.”

Dean screams as the Vietnam vet presses the handkerchiefs to the bullet hole.

“I know,” the Vietnam vet says roughly, “I know son.  But we gotta get this bleeding stopped.”  He looks over at you.  “You his Omega?”

“Close enough,” you say.  You’re crying, and you can’t stop.

“Talk to him.  Keep him with us.”

You nod and take Dean’s hand.  His fingers are like marble, cold and still.  He’s sort of awake, he’s trying to open his eyes.  You lay your head on his chest, hear his heart beating fast and erratic.  “Please, Alpha” you beg him and God and whoever else might be listening.  “I can’t lose you.  I just found you.  Please don’t leave me.  Please.  Please.”

Mine.

---

“Raise your right hand.  Do you swear that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?”

“I do.”  Moving a bit stiffly in his off-the-rack suit and tie, Dean sits in the witness box.  If he’s at all intimidated by the hate in Zachariah’s gaze it doesn’t show.

“Please state your full name date and place of birth and current occupation for the record,” the bailiff continues in his robotic monotone.”

“Dean Michael Winchester, 24 January 1979, Lawrence, Kansas, auto mechanic.”  Dean answers in a monotone to match.  A bare titter runs through the courtroom.

“Don’t get cute dude,” Dean’s brother Sam mutters.  You seek out his hand; he envelops yours in his huge paw and squeezes, gently.

The past several months have been both the best and worst of your life.  Taking a hurried leave of absence from school had not won you many fans; you’re not sure you would even be welcome back next fall.  The Family, exactly as Uncle Gabriel had predicted, had organized itself into pro- and anti-Zachariah camps.  Although the size of the pro-camp shrinks with the revelation of every new outrage.  Your stomach churns when you think of just what Zachariah had spent that embezzled money on.  And true to form the coward kept thinking he could squeak by.  Despite some outright pleading from his lawyer, Zachariah refused to follow Chuck’s example and cut a deal.  “’Not a jury in the world would take the word of a catamite whore over mine,’ is the exact phrase he used I believe,” Uncle Balthazar had reported.

But then there’s Dean.

Bouncing back from death’s door with only a scar and the loss of some intestine to show for it.  The two of you have been pretty much inseparable since he got out of the hospital, and every day you fall a little more in love with him.  Not that it’s all been sunshine and roses; your Alpha is moody, temperamental, and his need for independence borders on pathological.  You’d had to physically drag him to see his “uncle” Bobby and ask about a job.  Dean and Bobby had walked out of the manager’s office at Singer Salvage And Repair twenty minutes later, Dean with an armful of fresh dungarees and Bobby telling him, “Eight AM Monday morning and you’d better bring your girl ‘round for Sunday dinner.  Idjit.”

You shake yourself out of your reflections.  Dean, answering the DA’s questions politely and respectfully, is telling the jury how Zachariah hired him through the escort agency, how you met, how he quit, and how he took you away to keep you safe.  He describes cutting the blown-down tree into logs for adding to the cabin’s woodpile when Ketch surprised him.  You’ve already had your turn on the stand, and two days of getting broasted by Zachariah’s defense attorney had driven you into a vodka bottle for almost a week.

“I woke up in the U of M Medical Center.  The doctors told me later I had to be Life-Flighted out,” Dean concludes.  He makes a face.  “Thank God I was passed out by then.”

“Thank you Mr. Winchester,” the ADA on the case, a redheaded woman, ‘call me Charlie, everybody does’ says.  Retreating to the prosecution’s table, she says, “Your witness,” to the defense.

Zachariah’s defense attorney, a statuesque black woman named Billie, stands in her navy pinstripe and power heels.  You shrink a little in your seat.  The lady is fucking intimidating.

“Mr. Winchester what was it you said you did for a living before your current employment?”

“I was an independent contractor working for Rosen Entertainment,” Dean answers.

“And what was the nature of your work?”

“Rosen Entertainment provides professional escorts.  For dates, formal occasions, photo sessions, stuff like that.  Sometimes clients came with special requests, such as personal protection.”

“Special requests, yes.  Were those requests ever sexual in nature?”

“Within the confines established by Michigan state law yes,” Dean says without batting an eye.

“You’re awfully frank about it, Mr. Winchester.  Most people would at least blush to admit prostitution.”

Dean looks at the judge.  “I’m sorry, was that a question?”

“Watch the asides Counselor,” the judge warns.

“How long did you do this . . . work?” Billie asks.

“Almost seven years.”

“Make good money?”

“Enough.”

“But not nearly as much as the money some of your clients left you in their wills.”

Dean’s expression hardened.  “I never accepted any of that money.  The rules of my contract with Rosen Entertainment forbade it.”

“That didn’t stop you from accepting gifts from grateful clients.  Cash, clothes, accessories-- I understand once you got to stay on Grand Cayman for two months.”

“Objection!  Where is this line of questioning going?” Charlie snaps.

“Speaks to the credibility of the witness Your Honor,” Billie says.

“Overruled,” the judge tells Charlie.  “Proceed.”

“The trip to Cayman wasn’t a vacation; it was a job.  Personal gifts aren’t a nono under our contracts but bequests are different,” Dean clarifies.  “That money belongs in a family.”

You can see Billie yearning to bring up Dean’s juvenile record but it’s already been ruled inadmissible.  She shifts gears.  “The average escort’s career lasts less than two years yet you stuck it out for almost seven, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you just happen to meet a young, impressionable Omega with no dating experience and no sexual experience either, and you just happen to decide right then and there to quit.”

“She was a factor in my decision, yes.”

“The fact that she potentially had access to a fortune worth approximately six billion dollars didn’t factor into your thinking?”

“No,” Dean says flatly.

“I find that hard to believe,” Billie says.  “I mean, six billion dollars.  You could buy a lot of condos for that.”

Dean turns to the judge.  “Was that a question?  I couldn’t tell.”

“Let me rephrase--” Billie says, “her money did not factor into your decision making at any point?”

“No.”

“Good,” Sam says beside you, “keep it consistent.”

“Now on the afternoon of the date in question, you shot and killed Arthur Ketch, correct?” Billie asks.

“In self-defense.”

“Mr. Adler’s statement to the police says Mr. Ketch was there to arrest you on suspicion of kidnapping, which is within the scope of his duties as a private investigator,” Billie rebuts.

“Well that’s funny-- Ketch’s idea of reading me my rights was a sucker punch to the kidney,” Dean snarks back.

“Tone it down Dean,” Sam says under his breath.

“And I didn’t kidnap anyone,” Dean continues.  He nods at you.  “She didn’t feel safe at home, and she came with me willingly somewhere her folks didn’t know about.”

“An Omega in heat is incapable of making sound decisions, are they not?” Billie asks.

“Objection Your Honor-- it’s been established no kidnapping took place.  The defendant’s grandniece might’ve been in estrus but by the testimony of Castiel Novak and Abbadon Diablo she was not impaired,” Charlie says.  “No warrant was ever sworn out for Mr. Winchester’s arrest, and the death of Arthur Ketch was ruled self-defense under Michigan’s Stand Your Ground law.”

“Sustained.  Move on.”

“We’ve established she was not impaired by her estrus cycle,” Billie says.  “What about you?”

“Me?  I don’t know what you mean,” Dean says.

“Let me clarify-- after one meeting, you quit a job at which you’d been making excellent money for several years.  Could your judgement have been impaired, to come between a child and the family who loves her?”

“I watched a grown Omega cringe when a relative old enough to be her grandfather with room to spare started making dominance moves on her in public,” Dean says, with that narrow look that speaks of a fraying temper.  “Even if I hadn’t been falling in love with her, I would’ve gotten her out of the situation.  Nobody should be treated like that by their own family.”

“Please Mr. Winchester,” Billie scoffs, “you expect the jury to believe a high-class prostitute threw his career away just because of love?”

“What-- whores can’t love?” Dean asks caustically, making some of the reporters in the room gasp.  “The only reason she’s not wearing her ring is it’s at the jeweler’s getting resized-- my grandmother had tiny fingers.”  He smiles at you and you beam back.  “I loved her the minute I looked at her and I’m the luckiest sonofabitch alive she thinks I’m worth loving too.”

Zachariah’s shoulders go tight, but he doesn’t say anything, clearly prepped by his lawyer ahead of time to sit still and shut up.

“The point stands,” Billie says.  “How far should the jury trust the integrity of someone who earned his living on his knees?”

Dean draws himself up.  “Ma’am.  My father is a paranoid schizophrenic who can live out his life in a safe place.  My brother’s graduating from Stanford Law School eighth in a class of a hundred and twenty--”

“Twenty-six,” Sam corrects softly.

“--I was able to help with the little bit he couldn’t earn with that giant brain of his.  He’s graduating debt-free, which means he can afford to be picky about accepting a job, and he and his fiancée can get married now instead of waiting until she finishes med school.

“All of that is possible,” Dean says, with angry dignity, “because I got on my knees and let people pay to fuck me.  I quit because it was time to quit.  When this is over, I can take my mated wife, and get started on the next phase of my dumb little life.”

Billie looks at Dean a long moment.  Dean meets her gaze, square and unashamed.  You want to cheer.  “Nothing further, Mr. Winchester.”

“The witness is excused.  Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”  The judge whacks down the gavel and you and Sam meet Dean at the exit door.

“How’d I do?” Dean asks Sam.

“Pretty good,” Sam nods.  “You got a little emotional but I think it’ll play well with the jury.  The important thing is your stories corroborate each others’.  Adler doesn’t have a leg to stand on.  The jury will crucify him.”  There’s a greed in his voice that makes you pull back a little.  You’d found Sam to be every bit the sweetheart Dean had described, but there was still that something that made you nervous.  You definitely wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of Sam’s angry dimples.

“Well! that was fun as dental surgery.  Who’s for pizza?  I know a place off Lake Michigan Drive,” you say brightly.

---

Later that night you leave Sam, Uncle Gabriel, and Uncle Balthazar deep in a discussion over international smuggling laws.  Your uncles seem to have found a kindred spirit in Sam, and you smile at the start of what looks like a beautiful friendship.

“Babygirl?” Dean asks as you emerge from the bathroom in your nightie.  “C’mere.”

You go to where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.  It’s a bigger bed than it was at Uncle Balthazar’s condo, despite your new apartment being the upstairs of a not-very-big house in a not-very-nice neighborhood.  Between you and Dean there’re enough personal touches to make it feel like a home and not just a place you happen to inhabit.  The first real home you’ve ever had.

“Look what came back from the jewelers today,” Dean says, pulling a gray velvet clamshell from his pocket.

You giggle.  “Should we do the bended knee thing again?”

“Absolutely,” Dean says.  He slides off the bed and lands softly on one knee.  “You’re the light of my life, the twinkle in my eye, the boner in my pants--”

“Such a way with words,” you tell him dryly.

Dean smiles up at you, taking your hands.  “You remember what I told you, about how beautiful a woman’s face gets when she’s having really good sex?”

You nod.  Months of life with Dean has mellowed the sting of pure possessive jealousy when you think of his former profession.  Mostly.

“I knew I was done for,” Dean says, “when I realized I never wanted to see that look on any face but yours.  That’s what I meant when I said I wanted to take care of you.  If you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you.”  Using your full name, Dean opens the clamshell to reveal an antique gold ring set with a single blazing sapphire.  “Will you marry me, and claim me as yours?”

“Mmm . . . yeah sure, why not?”  The happy tears betray you, and Dean’s smile beams just as bright as it did when he first popped the question.

At Cedar Point of all possible places.

He slips the ring on your finger and you thank him with a passionate kiss.  Dean shifts to sit back on his heels and sticks his head up under your nightie.  “Hey now, I can smell a hungry little pussy.”

You giggle as he sniffles and kisses all around your lower belly, your thighs, your hips.  You shift your legs apart and Dean zeros in between them.  His mouth wanders over your bush, kissing your outer lips, tongue tickling the crease between your pussy and your leg.  “Deeee-ean,” you whine.

“Don’t break my concentration, I’m hunting here.”  He kisses right over your throbbing clit, making your breath catch.  “Mmm.  I think I’ve cornered her.  Let’s see.”  Parting your outer lips with his nose, Dean licks up a tongueful of your trickling slick.  “I have the trail!  You’re mine, pussy.”

“Dean!” you whack at the lump of his head under your nightie.  “Your brother is like, right next door!”

“Then you’ll have to be quiet, won’t you?” Dean says around a mouthful of your softest flesh.  “I caught this pussy fair and square.  And now,” he suckles at your clit and you choke back a scream, “I’m gonna eat it all up!”

---

The jury deliberations take an afternoon.

“Will the defendant please rise,” the judge instructs, and Zachariah, still in his silk power suit and radiating Alpha-like authority, stands.  Even after everything, he still thinks he’s going to get away with it, you realize.  It hasn’t sunk in, that actions have consequences and not everything can be papered over with money.

You shudder, remembering big pictures of tiny bodies.  Dean feels it and puts an arm around you.  Alpha is here, and you know for a fact he’d die to keep you safe.  Having six and a half feet of Sam on your other side, and Uncle Balthazar and Uncle Gabriel sitting close by; those help too.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes we have Your Honor,” the jury forewoman answers.

“On the first count of the indictment, attempted murder in the first degree, how does the jury find?”

“We the jury, find the defendant, guilty.”

A great release of air goes through the courtroom.  Your body goes cool, numb, tingly.  A release of tension you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“On the second count of the indictment, attempted sexual assault in the first degree, how does the jury find?”

“We the jury, find the defendant, guilty.”

��Breathe, babygirl,” Dean says in your ear and you suck in a breath.  Spots clear from your vision.  Dean kisses your head and lets you lean close.

It takes almost five minutes to read out the rest of the charges-- embezzlement, hiring of a hitman, wire fraud.  Guilty on all charges.  Zachariah stands firm through the recitation, a look coming over his face that actively terrifies you.

“Thank you Madam Forewoman.  The jury is excused,” the judge says.

“I know you” Zachariah says, loud and clear.  “ I know each and every one of you.”  The men and women in the jury box pause, but only for a second as the bailiff starts herding them through the exit door.  “You’re dead!  You’re all dead!” his voice rises as the last juror files out.

“Counselor, control your client,” the judge orders Billie, who looks utterly taken aback at Zachariah’s outburst.  Whatever she says gets through; Zachariah pulls his jacket straight, adjusts his tie, and goes back to standing at attention.  “Defendant’s bail is hereby revoked and he will be remanded  to the custody of the Michigan Department of Corrections--”

“Jail?” Zachariah laughs, in what sounds like genuine amusement.  “I’m not going to jail!”

“--to await sentencing.  Sentencing hearing to be scheduled at a later date.”  She brings the gavel down with a final bang and motions to the bailiffs.  “Take the defendant into custody.”

“I know you too!” Zachariah yells, lunging away from the bailiffs.  “YOU’RE DEAD BITCH!   YOU’RE ALL DEAD!!!”  His head whips around and he spies you.  A grotesque parody of a smile twists his face.  “You’ll never know what you gave up baby.  You’ll never know.”  The bailiffs finally get ahold of his massive arms and pin him to the defense table.  They twist his wrists behind his back and you hear the ratchet of handcuffs.  “YOU’LL NEVER KNOW!” Zachariah shrieks as they drag him away amongst the pandemonium.  Flashbulbs pop everywhere and you can hear reporters barking and snarling.

“Sam,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam replies, and starts elbowing his way through the crowd.  Guiding you, giving you cover under his arms, Dean follows.

“Awfully handy, having a brother who doubles as a battering ram,” Uncle Balthazar notes, falling in behind with Uncle Gabriel.  He puts a hand on your back.  “Are you all right darling?”

“Let’s just get out of here.  You look up at Dean, drinking in his eyes like a dying man drinks cool water.  “Take me home.”

---

“Gimme those feet,” Dean tells you, and you slip off your shoes and put them in his lap.  You moan as he gently rubs away the aches.

“It was a beautiful ceremony wasn’t it?” you ask.

Dean shrugs.  “I’d rather cut to the chase,” he says.  Your eyes meet and you both break down in chuckles.  Tradition dictates a claiming bite be left unbandaged and open to the air; yours is still throbbing.  Exchanging vows before Father Jim had been quiet joy.  The exquisite pain and transcendent bliss of Dean’s fangs in your neck had been heaven.  Dean’s cry as you’d sunken your fangs into his mating gland . . . you’d almost come on the spot.

At Sam’s wedding, you and Dean had shown up with your brand new rings and your brand new claiming bites.  You’d felt the joy in your own body, when the priest had declared them married, mated, and bonded forever.  Sam Winchester, juris doctorate, and his lovely wife Jessica, med student and future doctor.  Happiness makes them beautiful, your Winchesters.

Dean hits an especially sore spot and you moan. “Death to him -- because it was definitely a man -- who made heels mandatory formal wear.”

“But they do fucking mind-blowing things to your legs,” Dean says, his hands massaging your sore calves.  He picks up one of your legs.  “But oh,” he sings against your toes, “they love to watch her strut.”

You cuff him playfully.  It’s funny, after childhoods with no place for play, you and Dean can’t seem to get enough.  “Enough with your schmaltz.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean says, and the two of you sit quiet for a while.  You’re frowning at nothing when Dean asks, “Something on your mind, babygirl?”

“I’m just-- I dunno, contemplating what’s next, I guess.”

“What’re your thoughts?”

“I mean-- I want to go back to school--"

“Then do it.  Money isn’t a problem.”

“Yeah I know that.”  The bequest from your mother’s estate isn’t huge, but it’s enough to ensure you can complete any degree you want.  On Dean’s absolute insistence, that money is untouchable under a prenuptial agreement-- you and only you will ever have access and should you split up--

Mine, your Omega instincts say, looking at the scabbed gashes on your husband’s neck.

“So what’s the problem?”  Dean sits up straighter on the hotel room sofa.  “Talk to me, babygirl.”

“I nuked a lot of the professional relationships I need when I took that leave of absence.  Professor Visnyak came this close to telling me I’ll never work in this field again.”

“Fuck her,” is Dean’s judgement.

“No thank you.”

“Is there some law or commandment says you have to go to that school?” Dean asks.

“It’s got one of the best Anthropology programs in the country.”

“One of,” Dean echoes.  “Nothing says you can’t go somewhere else.”  Your brow furrows as the idea sits with you.  “I mean-- MSU’s right there, U of M.  University of Chicago’s a good school.  Shit, you could go anywhere.”

“Not without you.”

Dean shrugs.  “Nice thing about being a mechanic-- the skills travel.  I could get a job pretty much anywhere.”

You know that’s not true though.  Plenty of places won’t hire someone who made a living in sex work.

“Besides,” Dean says, “you’re gonna start doing fieldwork soon, right?  We’ll be apart then.”

“I know.”  That’s one of the reasons you and Dean decided to marry now.  Dean your husband gets access Dean your boyfriend doesn’t.  A practical, sensible decision that’s completely separate from being true mates and needing each other the way you need food and water.

“I don’t want to move,” you say.  “I mean, travel?  Sure.  I want to walk the Silk Road--”

“Ancient truck stops,” Dean says, smiling.  “Awesome.”

“I know you wanted to move back to Kansas--”

“I can manage Dad’s affairs just about anywhere.”  A shadow settles over Dean.  Hus father had not taken the revelation of just how Dean made his living well.  You’re not exactly eager to see the asshole again, but you know Dean loves him and you know the rejection hurts.  To a cold part of you it’s fascinating; until you met Dean you’ve never known the kind of love that leaves a person open to agony like that.  And Dean does it so naturally, you don’t know if he can love any other way.  Nothing about Dean Winchester is half-assed, especially not love.

“Even California-- I mean, it’s nice out here.  Except for watching my husband get hit on by every Omega and Beta in town, including and especially the guys.”

“Is that why you practically tore my clothes off when we got back to the hotel the other day?” Dean asks, smiling.  “I love it when you get all possessive.”

You kick him, not too hard.  “So fine, I’m greedy.”

“You’re so mean,” Dean sighs, “and I am so okay with that.  C’mere.”

You go into Dean’s arms and snuggle into his chest.  “Grand Rapids is my home,” you say.  “I don’t want to leave it.”

“Then we won’t.”  Dean kisses the top of your head.  “I got a job, you got school.  We’ve got a home together.”

“Dean.  Alpha.”  You kiss him, just basking in his taste and his scent and his everything.  “Where you are, that’s home.”

Mine.  His.  Mine.

---

AN2: I don't know why, but the plot bunnies bit me hard on this one. The bulk of it was written in about three days-- yeah I know, it shows. If you recognize who the 'Adlers' are supposed to be expys of, or the landmarks described herein, pat yourself on the back for being a true Michigander.

[quietwings-fics]

Savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Samifer Additional Tags: Post-Season/Series 08, Lucifer in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Worship, Established Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Lucifer Loves Sam Winchester, Feels, Kissing Wordcount: 1783 Summary:

Lucifer has taken on lost causes before. He will make Sam understand what he's worth, even if he has to tell him a thousand times.

Prompt:

"If you are still taking prompts how about a scene with lucifer worshipping sam like hes heavenly gift - basically just luci giving sam a self-esteem boost (because tbh sam really needs one)"

When Sam says that he is unholy, it’s resigned. 

Deaths around me since I was born, he presents as evidence, without Dean or Dad vouching for me, I think I would’ve been shot before I turned eighteen. Always knew there was something wrong, deep down. Demon blood rotting my veins.

He doesn’t list Lucifer as one of the reasons he’s damned. Not to his face, if he does believe it, but Lucifer doesn’t think so. They’ve spent too long entangled. Sam knows his sins as well as his punishment, his part in the grand play and how few scenes he was written to be in before curtain call. Blame grows like vines up a wall, reaching higher and higher for who was actually at fault. Sam was going to be Lucifer’s from the moment he fell, but Lucifer was always going to fall. Placing the onus on God is harder for someone who never met him. (Lucifer speaks as someone who can’t despite that. Even closing his vessel's eyes can make him feel trapped, and he still loves the God who caged him.)

So, the vines reach nowhere before they’re torn down by Sam himself beside the tall stone. He takes their straining bodies and wraps them around himself to mimic chains when no one else will bind him. He leads himself to the gallows to choke for betrayals he had no control over. He thinks he’s to blame for being a baby who smiled at a stranger over his crib before the sour taste of sulfur splashed on his tongue. Someone has to be punished for it. 

If a stay in Hell couldn’t make him feel pure, how does he think tearing himself apart will?

Sam is stubborn, but he was made in Lucifer’s image and they both learned from hardheaded older brothers how to stand their ground. As many times as Sam tries to tie his own noose, Lucifer will sit beside him and undo the knots without judgment. 

After all, Sam threw him back into Hell, and Lucifer still loves him. He can’t blame Sam for anything.

His greatest crime, Sam always claims, was freedom. He knows this, taught to him by Heaven’s sifted memories and his brother’s scowl at his happiest moments. Lucifer is hungry for every minute of Sam’s life that he missed, and though most scars are ones Sam will tell stories about in detail, (“-two of them coming at me, with claws as long as my forearm, and one got lucky-“) Lucifer had an easier time wrangling the horsemen than he does getting Sam to tell him about Stanford. 

It’s strangely easier for Sam when Lucifer wears another face. With long blonde hair falling around his shoulders and soft brown eyes and a mole between his brows that Sam will press a kiss to, he’s allowed to hear about that secret life. Sam doesn’t call him Jessica anymore, but when he tells Lucifer about her, he holds him like he's half-memory, half-dream. He talks about his other friends, faces that, if he’s lucky, he hasn’t seen in years, and if he’s not… Lucifer still has yet to drag that out of him, even though he knows already about the devils on Sam’s shoulder before him. 

Lucifer kept track of exactly how long he was locked away, on Earth and in Hell. On Earth, he measure it against the rise of man’s empires. As for Hell, humans haven’t bothered to invent a number that high. Most of the stars he watched be created and grew alongside are now younger than him by millennia. 

So it is not lightly that Lucifer tells Sam that freedom is never a sin.

He’s not sure Sam believes him. 

Sam will take on every burden tossed his way. Most people seem happy to let him. Lucifer will not see him crushed. He’s too lovely for that. Too important. (After all, he’s Lucifer’s entire world. That must mean he’s the center of the universe, more gravitational pull that the sun.)

It has to be like this: in the shade of the Bunker’s main building, where the grass grows a deeper shade of green than the other side because the soil is better for reasons Lucifer is still puzzling out, Lucifer pushes Sam into a wall and kisses him. Sam makes a noise, surprise, but he came out on Lucifer’s invitation for some fresh air and he doesn’t push him away. There are dandelions growing in the crack between the cement and the ground it sticks out of. Lucifer nudges Sam’s feet gently to the side so that he doesn’t accidentally step on one. 

“If you wanted somewhere we could make out in private, my door has a lock,” Sam says as Lucifer breaks the kiss to let him breathe. His lungs expand and deflate in a strong, steady rhythm. His heart beats calmly. Lucifer listens to it. He’d gotten used to spending entire nights keeping track of Sam’s heart, fear gripping him every time it would skip a beat or weaken. The trials would have taken everything from Lucifer. He is sick of his Father’s ultimate sacrifices or how Sam always seems to be the one who must lie down on the altar. 

“That’s not it,” he says. He kisses Sam again for the easy joy of it. Sam melts into him. He has mostly recovered thanks to Lucifer’s attention, but sometimes, the weakness will strike back again. Sam’s gotten very used to leaning on Lucifer. “I want you to understand something.” Sam’s mouth curves into a smile. Lucifer lifts a finger to trace the dimple that forms. 

“What?” he asks. 

“How good you are,” Lucifer says. He can feel the words rip through Sam worse than any barb, and that hurts. He’s more used to insults than praise, no matter how Lucifer tries to make up the difference. 

“Lucifer, that’s not-“ Sam tries for the first time to push him away, and though Lucifer allows distance between them, he doesn’t let Sam run from this. Not when he needs it. Instead, he runs his fingertips gently over Sam’s skin while he’s kept at arm’s length. Sam relaxes under his touch, never fully, but Lucifer is still reintroducing him to all the love he’s allowed to have. He trails his touch up Sam’s arm to the hand keeping him at bay, firmly clasping Lucifer’s shoulder. Lucifer wraps his hand around it.

“This world doesn’t deserve you as its savior,” he tells Sam. Sam shakes his head, and Lucifer wonders which part he’s denying more, that he’s too good for the world or that he ever even saved it. They were both there in Stull, two parts of one whole, but somehow it’s only Lucifer who remembers it for the victory it was. “It’s lucky that you don’t care. That all it would take is one decent soul to convince you it’s worth it. They don’t even have to be pure. They just have to be trying to do better, and you’ll walk into fire for them.”

“That’s just my job,” Sam downplays. 

“No, your job is to hunt. No one makes you care. You’ve chosen to do that all on your own, no matter how hard it is.” Because it is hard, even for Sam. He’s as human as the rest of them. He gets frustrated and angry and hurt. He extends kindness anyway. 

Lucifer should know. Who else would find the devil half-dead on their doorstep while trying to close Hell and still bring him in from the cold? Who else would have given him a second chance he never earned?

Sam’s grip on his shoulder falters. Lucifer leans back in until his mouth meets Sam’s again. 

“I wish I could share how I see you, Sam,” Lucifer says. “You shine so bright.” Sam laughs bitterly like Lucifer’s told a poor joke.

“I went to Hell,” he argues. “I couldn’t even finish the final trial. There’s nothing pure, nothing bright, about me.”

“Hell tried to snuff you out. The trials tried to burn you until there was nothing left. You are so much more beautiful for having survived them.” And beautiful makes Sam flinch. Something Lucifer knows for certain: before him, no one had ever called Sam that, except maybe as a joke. Handsome, sure, and he is, but he’s beautiful, too, and Lucifer needs him to believe that. He will, one day. Lucifer is nothing if not persistent.

“Why do you care so much about what I think?” Sam whispers. Lucifer bumps his forehead to Sam’s, and Sam’s hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck and hold him close.

“Someone should,” Lucifer says. He shuts his eyes and thinks for ways to make Sam understand how much this matters. It goes beyond simple pride. 

And maybe that’s how to show Sam he’s serious. 

Lucifer presses one more kiss to his lips to steel himself. His grace recoils at the vulnerability of what he wants to give Sam, but he wrestles it into obedience. Sam is blinking back tears, mostly succeeding but for one or two that glance off his cheek as they escape the tip of an eyelash. Lucifer kisses the wet spots they leave. 

Arduously, he forces himself to his knees. The very concept of him rebels against it. He sits at Sam’s feet like the dandelions beside his heels. It takes everything in him to gaze upwards at Sam and see his expression. Sam’s mouth is agape. His hair falls forward into his eyes as he looks back down at Lucifer. He can’t seem to remember how to speak, and that’s just as well because Lucifer can’t either. He reaches up for Sam’s hands and manages to capture both of them in his own.

Sam is leaning back against the wall. Lucifer tips into him. His thighs lift off of his heels as he pushes himself forward. He rests his head against Sam’s stomach.

It’s peaceful. Lucifer won’t go as far as to say that he feels like he belongs there, but it’s nostalgic, in a way. He forces the air out of his vessel’s lungs. It makes the bottom of Sam’s shirt ruffle. 

One of Sam’s hands escapes Lucifer’s. It finds its way to the back of Lucifer’s head, and the uncertain scratch of nails over his scalp settles him enough that he can speak again.

“You are good,” he tells Sam. “You are good. You are good.” He repeats himself. He’s out of practice with prayer. He hopes the mantra will do. Maybe Sam can teach him a thing or two later.

Sam listens, and maybe, Lucifer hopes, he starts to believe it.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[notanettelmao]

Magic Bullet

Also on AO3

(TW rewrite)

Fandoms: Teen Wolf, Supernatural Warnings: usual TW and SPN stuff Pairings: Stiles Stilinski x reader Words: 2,2k

<<;back // next>>

Chris Argent was on his way out the front door when the two girls, both looking tired, appeared at the top of the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Allison asked her father, while Y/N inspected the duffle bag he had over his shoulder. She immediately tensed. 

“Your aunt Kate texted. She’s having car trouble,” Argent smiled at his daughter. Y/N could tell the smile was fake. She frowned and leaned her head to the side a bit, while she raised an eyebrow at the man downstairs.

“Car trouble?” She asked. Chris’ lips twitched as he kept the smile on his face. 

“Yes. A flat tire. Why don’t you two go back to sleep? You have school in the morning.” Allison nodded and disappeared back into her room, not catching the lie in her father’s words. Y/N slowly walked down the stairs so she didn’t have to talk loudly and risk Allison overhearing.

“Car trouble, huh? Does the car have a bit of fur, glowy eyes, and fangs?” She quietly asked, grabbing his duffle bag and feeling up the stuff inside it through the cloth of the bag.

“Maybe. Go back to bed. You don’t want me to call your brothers, do you?” Argent asked. The youngest Winchester rolled her eyes. 

“As if I haven’t already called them.” She mumbled under her breath, watching Argent leave.

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

“Sammy I’m telling you she’s creepy as hell. Not as creepy as Victoria, but the has some kind of bad feeling about her. I don’t know how to explain it. She has the vibes of a person that likes to fuck up teenagers,” Y/N was walking to school as she explained to her brother everything about her meeting Kate Argent just a few minutes earlier.

“It can’t be that bad, can it? Anyway, I have some news. Are you ready?” Sam asked. She could hear him talk to Dean about something.

“Yeah, I think so. What am I supposed to be ready for?” Y/N looked around and then crossed the road toward a park. She could hear someone say something that sounded like ‘do it now’ and then there was a familiar whoosh of air behind her that made her freeze in place.

“You’re kidding.” She said, her voice shaking.

“I’m not. He might be kinda… Not in the right head space but it’s him.” Sam said before he said his goodbyes and hung up, leaving her to deal with the situation alone. She slowly lowered the phone from her ear and took a deep breath before turning around. And there he stood. The first thing she noticed was the lack of a tie, but after that, he just turned into a blurry figure as her eyes filled up with tears. 

“Cas!” She squealed, jumping into his arms and hugging him tightly. 

“Hello Y/N,” he said. Y/N wiped her tears into his trenchcoat before looking up at him and touching his cheek.

“Oh my god, it’s really you! I- How? When? Why didn’t you all call me right away?” She wanted to ask much more but she didn’t get the chance. There was a blue jeep approaching. It stopped on the side of the road right next to the park and honked to get Y/N’s attention.

“Oh, that’s Stiles. C’mon, I have to introduce you two. All I’m saying is he made me mad a few days ago and is currently trying to make it up. Don’t you dare say anything to Dean or he will come here and threaten him with a gun or something,” Y/N grabbed Cas by his arm and pulled him towards the jeep. 

“Is he your boyfriend?” Castiel asked staring at Stiles through the window. Y/N choked on air. 

“Wha- No. Why is everyone- Nevermind.” She shook her head and smiled at Stiles as he slowly rolled down his window. 

“Hi.” She said.

“Hi?” Stiles asked and looked at Castiel.

“Hello. I am Castiel.” Cas said, making Y/N facepalm. 

“I’ll explain later. Cas this is Stiles. He is one of my friends. Stiles, this is Castiel. I will tell you more about him when we get to school. We are going to be late,” she checked the time on her phone. 

“I will get back to your brothers. Pray if you need me,” Castiel said and with a blink of an eye, he was gone. Stiles just stared with his mouth open. Y/N giggled when she saw him and quickly hopped inside the jeep.

“Close your mouth, Stilinski.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

Y/N spent the whole day at school with headphones in her ears, ignoring the not-so-quiet whispers of her two friends about who could have bitten Scott if not Derek. She was too happy about Castiel being alive to get herself involved in conversations. 

At the end of all of their classes, she walked out of the school building listening to Stiles explaining all of Scott’s concerns. So she basically knew everything that happened while her earphones were blasting music the whole day anyway.

“Oh- my god!” Stiles suddenly hit the brakes right after they got out of his parking spot. 

“What-” Y/N looked up from her belt buckle. She noticed Derek in front of the car, not looking good. 

“Dammit,” she quickly unbuckled herself and jumped out of the jeep. She got next to Derek just as his legs gave out and he was about to fall.

“Crap, Stiles help me get him inside of the jeep,” she shot her friend a look and started making tiny steps towards the passenger seat. She was holding Derek up by herself until Stiles finally remembered how to function and helped hold him up from the other side. They helped the werewolf up on the seat and Y/N buckled his belt, just in case. She closed the door and then got into the backseat through Stiles’ side. Stiles quickly climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, just when Scott finally decided to show up.

“What the hell?” The young wolf asked Derek, who wasn’t looking so great. 

“I was shot,” Derek groaned. That made Y/N lean over to look over the seat. She was trying to find the bullet wound. 

“Why aren’t you healing?” Scott asked again. Y/n was considering slapping him in the face. It was obvious hunters were involved. And hunters meant wolfsbane. Also Argents, but that was not the problem right now. 

“Derek, who shot you?” She asked quickly, but Derek ignored her.

“It was a different kind of bullet. I can’t heal.”

“What, a silver bullet?” Stiles asked excitedly. Y/N smacked his head. 

“He is dying. Why are you excited? How do you want to explain a dead criminal inside of your car to your dad?” She whisper yelled. Stiles’ eyes grew wide as if he just realized this. 

“Wait, that’s what she meant when she said you had forty-eight hours-” Scott said.

“Who- who said forty-eight hours?” Derek groaned.

“The one who shot you,” Scott said as if it was obvious. Y/N wanted to scream. Derek groaned in pain, this time his eyes flashed. Y/N quickly put her hands on his face so she covered them up. 

“Winchester, you are lucky I like you or I would rip your hands off right now,” Derek mumbled. 

“Scott you need to figure out what kind of bullet they used,” Y/N looked at her friend.

“What? Why me?” 

“Because you are dating Allison. And the person who shot Derek is her aunt. She has them stashed in her room, most probably,” Y/N explained already trying to come up with a plan B. 

“Why should I help him?” Scott asked. 

“Because if you don’t I’m going to mix all the wolfsbane that’s in the house and shove it down your throat while you sleep. Now go!” Y/N shoved Scott’s chest through the window and told Stiles to drive.

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

They were driving through the streets of Beacon Hills when Y/N realized they were on the way toward the preserve.

“Stiles, stop the car.”

“Why? We are almost there.”

“Almost where?” Derek joined the conversation.

“Your house,” Stiles said as he parked the jeep. Derek quickly turned to look at him and just as he opened his mouth to say something, Y/N beat him to it.

“Stiles, you can’t take him to his house. He was shot. By a hunter. Who knows where he lives and who probably came only to finish the job,” Y/N explained. Derek winced at the last part but Stiles ignored it, he didn’t know the full story anyway so he didn’t find it weird. 

“Where am I supposed to take him then?” He asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll call Scott. Drive somewhere else though,” Y/N already pulled out her phone and searched for Scott’s number.

“But-”

“Start the car and drive. Now. Or I’m gonna rip your throat out… with my teeth.” 

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

They ended up going to the animal clinic. Stiles and Derek were in the middle of a fight about Stiles chopping Derek’s arm off when Y/N got an idea. 

“Noone is going to chop anyone’s arm off,” she said quickly coming over to get the saw away from them. 

“But-” Stiles started just as Derek collapsed.

“Fuck. Castiel if you hear me this is the time for you to show up. Please.” 

“Like the dude from this morning?” Stiles asked and let out a noise when the trenchcoated man appeared right in front of him. 

“You need my help?” Castiel asked. Y/N quickly pulled him towards Derek.

“Heal him. Please. We are running out of time and Scott got held up and-” Y/N started explaining everything at once. Castiel just pressed his fingers to Derek’s forehead and let his hand glow. Stiles watched all of the black veins disappear from Derek’s body. 

“Whoa,” he let out and leaned closer so he could get a better view. 

“There,” Cas said. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much Cas,” Y/N hugged him. At the same time, Derek opened his eyes and sat up with a gasp. 

“I have the bullet!” Scott ran through the door just a few seconds later.

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

After Stiles went home, Derek took Y/N, Scott, and Cas to the hospital. He wanted to show Scott how kind is the family of hunters he likes so much. Y/N was there as a support and Cas just tagged along. They walked through the corridors until they got to the room  Derek wanted Scott to see. 

“Why are we here?” Scott asked, looking around the room.

“Who is he?” He asked again when he saw the man in a wheelchair. 

“That’s Peter Hale,” Y/N mumbled loud enough for the wolves to hear. Derek nodded.

“He is my uncle.”

“Is he… Like you? A werewolf?” Scott looked like he was scared to move.

“He was. Now, he’s barely even human. Six years ago, my sister and I were at school. Our house caught on fire. There were eleven people inside. He was the only survivor.”

“And you are telling me because…?” Y/N groaned. Scott was so dumb.

“He’s telling you because the Argents set the fire,” Y/N explained.

“What makes you so sure?” Y/N was ready to jump at Scott and beat him up with the bullet she had in her pocket. 

“Because they were the only ones that knew about us!” Derek said angrily. 

“Should I heal him?” Castiel asked and everyone in the room stopped what they were doing. They all slowly turned to look at him (except Peter of course). Y/N blinked a few times and then exchanged a few looks with Derek, who looked like he might pass out. 

“You can heal him?”

“I mean, I did cure you from the wolfsbane. I think few burns are nothing.” Castiel explained himself. Y/N frowned. 

“But the brain trauma- and-” Castiel placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“I pulled your brother out of hell Y/N, I also took on your other brother’s pain which sent me into a mental hospital. I am still not quite okay but I will help whenever I can.” Castiel said and took a few steps towards Peter. He placed his hand on Peter’s head and let it glow, letting the angel magic do its thing. They all watched as Peter’s scars disappeared and his eyes started sparking with life. Just as the last few scars vanished his eyes shone blue, making Derek respond with his own blue ones. 

“Thank you,” Derek said as he looked from Castiel to his uncle, who was now looking around trying to understand what was going on. Cas only nodded and turned towards Y/N to smile at her. Y/N knew he was ready to go. She waved at him and watched him teleport away. Scott was standing in the corner of the room looking confused as hell. 

“Come on Scott, let’s leave them to catch up,” the Winchester said. Derek shot her a thankful look as he watched her and Scott go. 

“You really need to explain who the man in the trenchcoat is,” Scott mumbled.

“I will when Stiles is there also. I don’t feel like explaining it twice.”

[hekate1308]

Fictober 9, Don't Listen To Me, Listen To Them

Prompt: Don't listen To me, Listen To Them

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Crowley/Dean Winchester

The new guy – of course everyone still calls him the new guy, he’s only been living in Lawrence for a year, so he’ll carry that with him until either someone else moves here or he goes to college with the later much more likely – arrived a year ago and promptly decided he would much rather be an outsider than try and fit in, and Dean has always respected that. He might be a good kid, well, a good enough kid, helping Dad at the garage during the weekends, getting grades that are passable enough, going out with girls on the weekends because that’s what a guy like him is supposed to do, even though sometimes his eyes stray in other directions as well, only he’ll never admit it –

The point is, of course he noticed the new guy, and he knew immediately that he would be trouble so he’s stayed away.

What kind of name even is Crowley? Yeah, he has a first name, but the one and only time Gordon tried to call him that and laugh at him about it he showed him exactly what he thought of it and since then no one has dared try to make fun of him.

Dean, meanwhile – he hasn’t really talked to him, or even looked in his reaction, because Crowley is known to be a troublemaker, even though so far he has seen no evidence of it, and he doesn’t want to be known as the friend of the troublemaker, he can already imagine what dad would have to say… and Mom would probably just look at him with sad eyes again, as she is wont to do when she is not busy with Sam and his extracurricular activities.

Whatever. Dean knows he’s not supposed to talk to Crowley, so he doesn’t.

Until the day when he’s snuck away to the library once again because it’s the one thing, the one place he has where he doesn’t have to pretend that he’s this jock who only cares about football and cars (not that he doesn’t – he does – it’s just that he very much cares about other things too, things no one else knows) and he turns a corner and there he is. Crowley. Large as life and twice as natural (again, no one will ever know that he likes to read).

Dean really should back away, so he says “Hi”.

Crowley turns and looks at him and then says, “Dean Winchester.”

He’s not surprised that he knows who he is. Crowley knowns everyone, that’s what they say. “Hey.”

He studies him, then raises an eyebrow, although whether in surprise or contempt he can’t say probably the later. “What are you doing Herer?”

He might tell him that he has as much a right to be here as Crowley himself since it’s the library but instead he answers, “Wanna find something go read.”

“That should not be too difficult in a library.”

He snorts. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“If you believe that to be an actual quote, might I suggest you start with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s actual –“

“Already worked through them all” he interrupts him because the guy has somehow hit an nerve he usually manages to keep hidden. “Even The Lost World. Jurassic Park was just a cheap copy. Broke my heart.”

Crowley stares at him, and this time, there is no doubt – he has actually baffled him. Dean sort of feels proud at that.

They become something like friends after that, sneaking around to meet and having fun by planning things like reporting the unfair math teacher for using drugs in the breakroom after he’s been mean to Garth too many times.

And Dean becomes very ware very quickly that Crowley understands him in a way no one else ever has, and ever will, and that he shouldn’t care Abouzt that, but does, most definitely does.

And then the rumours about them start. They don’t reach the teachers, or Dad, thank God, but still.

On a day where Dean’s been asked a couple of questions by his other friends about Crowley, said guy looks at him as they share a cigarette on the roof and says, “It’s been fun.”

“It still is” he tells him the truth “Just because some of the others think this is weird – “

“Don't listen to me, listen to them. Things are only going too get complicated…"

Crowley trails off and Dean doesn’t understand until he turns his head and sees the same longing on his face that he himself has been feeling.

And, even though he probably should not, no, he definitely, shouldn’t, he moves forward, and they kiss right there in the library, where they met for the first time.

When it eventually becomes known, Dad all but has a heart attack of course although he eventually learns to deal with it, after college, that is, with Crowly’s well-running consulting business and Dean’s political career well established.

[sammyluvr]

HEY BABY IM SENDING IN MULTIPLE FOR THE CHARACTER ASK GAME :D

2, 8, 15, 21, and 24 for sammy

4, 12, 18, and 25 for spencer reid! or if not emily prentiss :))

(also fun fact ive never finished criminal minds LOL i got to the point where derek left and i stopped watching it, i should probably finish it though)

ughh i love you so much and i hope you have a good day!!

YAHOOO HEHEHEHE sorry this post is so very long LOL

character ask game !

SAMMY ! 2. favorite canon thing about this character? .... everything maybe ???? omg how do i choose i love everything about him uhhhhh . he's awkward and so so sweet <3 he learned sign language for eileen, he has beautiful hair, he's sassy, he's a gentle giant, he wants so badly to be good but doesn't think he is T_T and on and on and on and on because everything about him is my favorite

8. what's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise? oh my fucking god do NOT get me started LMAO . blaming him for things he didn't do/couldn't control (usually because dean blames him for it). ignoring how queer coded he is / calling him the straightest character (often in a destiel context). just consistently and aggravatingly misinterpreting / misunderstanding his character and hating on him for their bad and unintelligent takes on him! i could go into lots of detail about that but i won't because then this will be a rant post that will make me so angry :D el oh el

15. what's your favorite ship for this character? (doesn't matter if it's canon or not.) i think samjess heh i'm basic but i'm a huge sucker for them. and definitely definitely saileen!

21. if you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? what's something you don't like? hehehe hmmm i don't have a singular favorite thing, but i love making him call reader "honey." i adore giving him softness and care and so much love and a goddamn break! in general i love writing hurt/comfort with him as well <3 and i love describing his emotions and exploring how i interpret his character through that. as for dislikes i'm not too sure hmm

24. What other character from another fandom of yours that reminds you of them? i haven't really watched much since i started spn so i haven't really been watching anything and been like omg! that person reminds me of sam! but i totally see the sam and spence parallels (super smart, autistic coded, younger brother vibes, tall, sweet and awkward etc)!

...

SPENCER & EMILY ! (doing both because i adore em too much not to lol) 4. if you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in? spence : huh i've never thought of this before uhhh i'd put him in a studio ghibli film! so he can be the sweet main character but end up with a lovely, poetic, simple life instead of being constantly traumatized by one thing or another LOL i just think he'd make the cutest studio ghibli love interest?? emily : anything with lesbians so she can kiss girls :D HAHAHA or i'd put them all in supernatural for a spn x cm crossover !!! i think that would be way too fun ugh. wanna see her as a vampire also.

12. what's a headcanon you have for this character? spence : he dislikes overhead lighting! it's the autism :] emily : she's lesbian but that's canon to me RAHHH um. that she prefers to listen to music in different languages and really likes finding obscure artists! (but still has her favorite emo grunge stuff that she listened to in middle/high school heh)

18. how about a relationship they have in canon with another character that you admire? spence : him and garcia!! i really really really adore their friendship so so very much <3 and him in luke in later seasons! emily : heh. jemily ??? lesbians ??? okay but i really love her and garcia as well i just love penny so so much

25. what was your first impression of this character? how about now?spence : thought he was very very cute and endearing! i still think that way, but i also love having a more informed and nuance view of him after so many seasons and developments to his character. emily : i thought she was really interesting! i was intrigued by her character and the way she was very forward and didn't back down when there was a misunderstanding about her transfer to the unit. love that she stood up for herself! and wow she's so pretty (didn't know i was gay yet) now it's just RAHHH LESBIANISMMM (i adore everything about her character and again, i just love knowing her better and seeing all sides of her)

[endofbeginningarchive]

oh my god why does everyone in reanimator fandom have herbert call him daniel do i live in a different reality did i watch a different film. iirc and according to a shitty transcript of the movie that i just found to double check. herbert never ONCE says the word daniel. in fact nobody calls him daniel except faculty (the dean & dr hill)... otherwise it is always DAN!!! herbert says DAN(!!!) about a THOUSAND TIMES in the most MEMORABLE and ANNOYING gay little voice what the fuck. everyone please wake tf up... kill the reductive "cold scientist" archetype that lives in your head and tells you herbert west would sooner cooly full-name him than call him DANNY - which he actually DOES do at least once, in that one extended/deleted scene btwn the two of them and megan (because he's mimicking megan) (while gay). please. im begging you

[baldy-wan-kenobi]

Okay people, here we go:

Baldy's Book Club

Episode 1: "Into the Storm"

By Taylor Anderson, Book 1 of the Destroyermen series.

Okay, so, on the recommendation of my most esteemed mutual @frogblast-the-ventcore , I have been coerced to read the Destroyermen series, and post my thoughts about them as I do.

So, for part 1, here we go. I'm going to assume those of you reading have read the book, cause if you haven't, you should be going to buy it, right now. I mean it.

First and foremost, this book was written by a ww2 nerd, for ww2 nerds, and by god does it show. Taylor Anderson is a professor of history, and it shines through in every part of the book. From the technical details of the USS Walker, to the shortcomings of the Mk. 14 torpedo, to the attitudes, lives, and habits (both good and bad) of a 1942 Asiatic fleet destroyerman. Speaking of which, call me Dean Kamen, cause that's a perfect segway to talk about

The Characters

To begin with, do not expect a normal person's assessment of these characters. Expect a Normal™ person's view of them.

First: Captain Matthew Reddy. Oh my lord this man. He's an absolute mess, knows it, and yet cannot let that show, because, well he's stranded in an alternate universe with humanoid lemurs and sapient velociraptors. In my head, he's got total divorced dad energy going on, 30-something going on 50 because of stress, greying at the temples but still hot in a DILF kind of way, not overly muscular, and with one hell of a voice. (I'll admit the audio book colored my perception, but it's a fantastic audio book so I don't care.)

Next, Chack-Sab-At, the biggest and most baddass guyfailure to ever live. "Oh, I'm a pacifist" then the very second that an enemy without moral repercussions comes along he's all "I love violence and killing and murder and death and injuring people and blood and biting and cutting and-" like, seriously, dude says he's a pacifist before turning around and becoming Furry Doomguy.

Next, Dennis Silva, he-who-was-told-not-to-fuck-the-monkey-cats-but-did-it-anyway. Moving on,

There's literally more I love about the characters than I want to sit here and type out, so I'm going to cut it short, but Oh My God these characters are A+.

Next, I just want to touch on something these books made me feel. A lot of times, as an USAmerican with an actual brain, I can get bogged down in the fucked-up shit my country has done and feel like I can't celebrate what makes the US cool without making it sound like I'm excusing all the bad stuff, but this book kinda made me stop for a minute and go "man, the US is kinda fucking rad, when you think about it." Because, you know what? It is. Yeah, we've done fucked up shit, but we've also done some pretty awesome stuff. For every My Lai Massacre, there's a moon landing. For every Trail of Tears, there's a Berlin Airlift. Sometimes, it's okay to take a moment and just go "Fuck yeah, guys. Were pretty cool." Because this book really makes you feel that, at least it did to me, but I'll get off my red, white and blue high horse and keep going.

Alright, now we come to the part that I need to get out...

THE BRITISH EAST INDIA COMPANY

Literally everywhere in my life, I am haunted and stalked by the specter of a long-dead megacorporation. In every piece of media, in every topic I research, no matter what, they're there. As the Frogman quoted from me in a meme a while back "I'm being haunted by the ghost of English imperialism". What the fuck? Anyway, if you wanna chat about the book, please do, because I am at terminal levels of Fandom.

Anyway, if you want to read along for the next Baldy's Book Club, we'll be reading Crusade, the next book in the Destroyermen series.

(P.S. Frogman, I know this review isn't very good, but my brain is soup rn so this is whatchu get.

[witchimagefanfic]

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Three.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

579,734

3. What fandoms do you write for?

On ao3? Harry Potter, Funny Games (2007) and an obscure Slenderman ARG called EverymanHYBRID (???)

But wait. There's more. I've posted stories on fanfiction.net about The Dark Knight (Joker x OC), Labyrinth (Jareth x OC), Repo! The Genetic Opera (Graverobber x OC) and Phantom of the Opera (Erik x (you guessed it!) OC)

But wait. There's even more. In my google drive live (and die) dozens of unpublished fanfics from various fandoms. Right now, my favorite is about Resident Evil: Village (Heisenberg x OC), but god there are so many more. Every time I fixate on a piece of media, I have to write about it and insert myself into the universe. Usually I abandon the fics though.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Broken Silence (Harry Potter, Snape x OC)

:D (EverymanHYBRID, HABIT x OC)

Whether by knife or whether by gun (Funny Games, Paul x OC)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

No, only occasionally. I could be better about it but anxiety. Plus I get quite a lot of comments and idk...I'd feel bad making it a habit if I only had the bandwidth to answer some. Plus PLUS most of what I would say boils down to "thanks for reading bby" and that gets repetitive. I do read and cherish every single comment I get though.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Haven't ended any yet. Striving to make people cry with BS though.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Again, I have a terrible habit of simply just never ending my fanfictions.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No. Well, once someone tried to defend JKR. Like ??? what a hill to die on.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yeah. Dom/sub vibes, flavors of daddy issues and brat taming, maybe some dubcon floating around.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I have this one wild fanfiction that's a crossover of the 2001 Stephen King miniseries Rose Red and the videogame Dishonored. I wish I was fucking joking. Otherwise no.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of. Other stories yes, though.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Well people asked, but I don't think I ever replied.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not unless you could DnD stuff.

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

I think I'm abnormal among fandom authors because I never get very excited about shipping canon characters. The one exception is Dean x Castiel -- I am a fucking DIE HARD Destiel shipper. But otherwise, fanfiction for me is about inserting myself or my relatable characters into fandoms.

So when you ask my favorite ship, it's gotta be me x Karl Heisenberg.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Take your pick. Probably the Repo! fic I started in college.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue. Flow. ... clarity?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Metaphors and poetry. Can't do that shit. If I write something beautiful, it's because I tripped over my own feet and accidentally landed in it.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Cool, do it, just do your research. Does feel a tiny bit pedantic though.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Labyrinth. I was like 10 and Jareth was ALL I could think about.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

I'd like to say Broken Silence, and in a lot of ways it is. It's certainly the fic I'm proudest of, and one I'm certain to finish. But in terms of just me having fun? My Heisenberg fic is eating my brain right now. Someday I'll post it. Probably.

[ihatedean]

Is jojo's bizarre adventure a good first anime? I've only watched Sailor Moon as a kid and maybe Dragon Ball but the art is so gorgeous I'm kinda curious!

people who aren't fans appreciating the art style give me life omg<33 i agree it's stunning ! ! just look at this ! wow ! !

EDIT: WOW OH MY GOD WE'VE ENTERED YAPPING STATE. SORRY. SHORT ANSWER YES IF YOU LIKE MULTIGENERATIONAL FAMILY SAGAS AND THEMES OF FATE AND BLOOD BUT IT'LL TAKE SOME GETTING USED TO. JOJO IS A WEIRD SHOW. ITS WIDELY KNOWN AS THE GAY ANIME FOR A REASON.

but to answer your question,, i'd say it's 50-50? i know a lot of people that aren't anime fans that LOVE jojo. it's a very unique show that doesn't follow the classic formula that other shonen anime follow like DB does, for example- this is either a huge bonus or it completely ruins the experience, because a lot of people compare it to other shows they're already familiar with. there's no better word for it, it's a BIZARRE series. everything is weird, the dialogue, the characters, the setting, the art. the author's writing style is something everyone sort of had to get used to and we love him for making us go through that.

i actually avoided the anime for years because i thought the characters looked gross and the lack of female characters was kind of an issue for me back then (it gets better it gets a lot better you just have to see it through). but it was my boyfriend's first shonen and he begged me for months to watch it together so i said fuck it- i think i made him watch twilight or play danganronpa in exchange.

.....it might not grip you from the start. part 1 is not a lot of people's favorite part. it wasn't mine- after like four or five episodes (of nine ! it's very short !) of being weirded out by it, i realized that i had to stop seeing it as a shonen anime, and instead began to see it as,,, a play,, of sorts. if you watch the first two parts you'll know what i'm talking about. it's drama. once i changed my perspective on it, i completely fell in love ! ! from part 3 onwards it's a lot more like the usual shonen, and i know it's a lot more enjoyable for the average fan, but the first two parts are charming in their own weird little way :)

looking back on it after watching twin peaks, there are a lot of similarities, with the quirky characters and the themes. i only started twin peaks because of a jjba fic inspired by it. if you like twin peaks, i'm certain you'll like jojo.

but this is my spn blog and i assume you like supernatural so. i'll say: don't expect the same focus on relationships that spn puts on the characters, but know that its present in every interaction. where sam and dean hold each other tenderly and talk about how they're the only thing that matters, in jjba you'll have one character looking at the other in a way that's just drawn differently and the fandom will go insane. the supernatural characters are built very very carefully and have a lot of details that fans memorized- jjba characters are just as good but have a lot more space to play with if you want, regarding headcanons and storylines. their lives and thoughts aren't as well documented as sam and dean's is what i'm trying to say lol you'll know what brand of underwear a character likes most but you won't know his birthday. it happens. yes a lot of the fanfic is ooc because there's barely any character to remain inside of.

last but not least. this is a wincest blog. the first six parts of jojo follow six different generations of the same family. this is not minor. there will be daddy and mommy issues, there will be strange family dynamics. the family tree is FUCKED up and when you learn why you'll either drop the show or become sickeningly obsessed with a certain little guy called DIO. yes like THAT dio. there are a lot of musical references. unlike some characters i know, he's canonically bisexual.

anyways WOW do i like this anime. idk what else to say if you need more convincing this is the opening i guess

[clumsyclifford]

hell yeah @allsassnoclass tagged me to post snippets from WIPs with the words "warm," "heavy," "almost," and "talk" !! let's fucking go. fair warning: these WIPs are for the assorted fandoms of 5sos, percy jackson, teen wolf, supernatural, and hawkeye/mcu. okay lessgo.

warm

supernatural:

Dean feels warm as he tightens the knot on Cas’s tie and leans away. “Is there something I'm missing?” Sam interjects. “No.” Dean and Cas, simultaneously.

5sos:

"Michael, this water is perfectly warm," Luke calls over. "You've probably been using the wrong handle." Michael turns on his heel and scurries over to the sink. He sticks a finger in the stream; it's comfortably lukewarm, despite the fact that only one faucet handle has been twisted. The one for cold water, Michael is sure. Pretty sure. "The hell?"

heavy (none of my open WIPs had this word damn dude i had to break out the summer camp fic for this one!!)

“Yeah, it looks like a lot of heavy lifting,” Michael says distastefully. “That’s why I’d never do it. I’m not so bad with A/V stuff but between an air-conditioned office with constant access to the internet and having to be out in the sun all day doing physical labor, it’s a no-brainer.” “Yeah,” Calum says. He laughs. “Well, that’s how we’re different. I like the time in the sun. And the physical labor really isn’t so bad. We’ve got golf carts, which makes it easier.”

almost (i use this word a lot so i pulled a few snippets)

spn:

“Please,” the woman whimpers, throwing her head back to look Dean in the eye. Dean jolts. Almost falls on his ass. “Uh-oh,” comes the grating taunt of Alistair. “You didn't know who you were slicing and dicing?” Dean blinks and stares. His voice shoves one word from the traffic jam in his throat. “Mom?” 

teen wolf:

“Eh,” Malia says, back to human and brushing dirt from her clothes. “It’s fine.” “It’s not fine! I just almost killed you!” “I almost killed you too,” Malia says, as if she wants it known that she was just as capable of killing Kira as vice versa. “But I think the bigger question is, why did we almost kill each other?”

pjo:

“It's fine,” he says quickly. “I'm trying to learn Ancient Greek, I just didn't see the sign.” “You almost got eaten.” Percy sets his shoulders. “This is a problem.” “It's not a problem.” “Too late, it's a problem. Don't worry, I'm on the case.”

5sos:

The young man sits up, then freezes and grips both edges of the sofa, instantly several shades paler. “Fuck. I don’t feel good.” “Did you even hear me say you were almost killed?” Michael, hesitant to touch his apparently amnesiac patient, tries to pin him with a glare instead. “Lie down. It’s only been a day and a half. You need rest, you’re probably just disoriented and concussed.”

i am really entertained by the fact that every one of these snippets discusses a character who is in some way suffering or almost died. that says something probably but i don't know what!

talk (once again...multiple snippets)

spn:

“What were you dreaming about?” “Kristen Stewart,” Dean says icily. “Drop it, okay?” Cas says, “You can talk to me, you know,” and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean flinches.

my self indulgent pjo x tw crossover:

“Which god?” Lydia asks. “And how do we kill her?” Liam adds. Jason frowns. “We're not trying to kill her. You can't kill a god, and anyway, we just want to talk.”

my self indulgent hawkeye x spiderman mcu pseudo crossover:

Spiderman does a double-take. “Kate?” he says, and then, stumblingly, “Uh, Bishop? From, uh, I— I recognize you from the— the…news.” “The news?” Kate’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?” “Yeah, you’re the new Hawkeye,” Spiderman says. “Right?”

more than anything this game made me realize that maybe i don't use some words nearly as often as i think i do. self-five for vocabulary variation! anyway imma tag @ijustdontlikepeople @igarbagecannoteven @kaleidoscopeminds for the words "clean," "house," "anyway," and "class" :) have fun

[whateverthedragonswant]

So, I finally caught up on the past two cons for the most part.

As a writer, Dean's death will never not be tragic to me, in the worst way.

We can talk about bad messaging. We can talk about the ridiculous way it happened (rusty nail, anyone?). We can talk about COVID and how that impacted everything they decided to do behind the scenes.

But ultimately, it was not the right way for Dean to go out. I respect Jensen's opinion, feelings, and eventual acceptance on the matter (obviously) but there's some things that are missing here that aren't being talked about. By him, anyone else involved with the show, or even the fandom.

Dean didn't die a hero's death or a warrior's death as Jensen called it. A hero's death is when there is some form of self-sacrifice involved. There was none of that happening in that scene. Had Dean pushed one of the kids out of the way and then was impaled, or pushed Sam out of the way even, then it could be considered a hero's death. Even if there was no one to push out of the way, had Dean gone up against the Big Bad, dying in the process, again -- sacrifice. But that didn't happen either. No, instead, he is sacrificed in the story line (to set up Sam's endgame), sent to drive around Heaven for 40 years, and his agency is taken away from him. Had he truly been a side character all along, then obviously this wouldn't even be an issue. But he wasn't; he's been a main character since at least season 4 of the show or even earlier. The show may have started out with Sam as the sole protagonist but it had evolved by the time season 4 rolled around and Dean had been made one as well.

Dean only regains agency in that one scene in The Winchesters (1x13) when his primary motivation (Sam) is given back to him through the exposition he does in the scene with The Winchesters' characters, Bobby, and Jack.

Your hero (like I said, this includes Sam as well) is not supposed to lose their agency. That's the whole point. They're always given a choice even when their circumstances might not be of their own choosing. Think Jon Snow. Think Aragorn and Frodo. Think Iron Man. Even Buffy Summers or the Halliwell sisters. Maverick in the second Top Gun movie, sacrificing himself to save Rooster and then (not to spoil for those who may have not seen the movie yet) we see what happens. But the point is, he made that choice. Rooster made his choice. The two main characters of the film. The hero is always given the choice.

If this had happened when facing off with Chuck, even then it still might have been better. Chuck was the final Big Bad; you don't get higher than God in this fictional world, right? Again, that would have been a warrior's death.

And that doesn't even begin to address that this was not where Dean and Sam's stories were leading in the narrative. I know we've all talked about the "two finales" that 15x19 and 15x20 were respectively, but I do wish they had left it open-ended like they did in 15x19. That not only would have made more sense for their arcs over the past ten plus years but it also would have allowed (again, narratively) for a proper reboot/continuation/revival down the road. I am interested to see how the idea Jared talked about would come about and I'm sure they'll make it work, but seriously (and I mean no disrespect to Jensen, Jared, or the crew who worked hard on the episode) that whole ending was a disaster that just didn't need to happen. Both boys died to keep the parallel going but them being alive and on the open road would have kept that parallel between them going as well.

Dean already had a beautiful death monologue in 9x23 to Sam. While Jensen and Jared gave their all in that scene and I fully acknowledge that and appreciate it, I do wish we hadn't gotten that dialogue in the barn scene. It has nothing to do with ship wars or fandom drama -- it has to do with the character development for both boys being nuked solely by the dialogue in the five minutes it took for Dean to die. It literally undid every single thing that happened since 1x01 for each brother and everything they had been through. While I'm all for the beautiful brotherly moments (and Jensen and Jared acted the crap out of that scene), this just felt so completely wrong. I don't care about the forehead touch or the hand holding or anything else. All of it was fine except for that dialogue that mentions John, Stanford, etc. Just completely nuking 15 years, all to bring it back to the pilot. But instead of it being a beautiful tribute to their beginning while also showcasing their development and their journey, they brought it right back to that moment instead, in a way that just makes you scratch your head and go "what?" It reminds me a lot of Daenerys' death scene monologue actually - completely nuked character development and conflicting messages to the audience.

Like I said, I completely respect Jensen's (and Jared's) opinion on the 15x20 death and if Jensen eventually got to a place where he's at peace with it and that's how he views the scene (a warrior's death), then I'm happy for him. But writing wise, the way the show chose to go about it didn't make sense. And that includes Sam's ending as well. Sam may have honored his brother's wishes to live his life peacefully, that's great and true of their brotherly bond and to Dean's character, but showing Sam in the party city wig breaking down crying in the Impala years down the road was not it.

Sure, he missed his brother and there's nothing wrong with showing that, but again conflicting messages in the writing. He left Dean and hunting behind in the bunker and moved on with his life (the whole significance of him sitting in Dean's room and shutting down the bunker btw), marrying and having a family. He even had Dean 2.0 as his son, a part of Dean living on and Sam honoring his memory. So why the breakdown scene?

15x20 will always be a sticky point with me when it comes to the series as a whole. Like Jensen said once upon a time, those who like it and those who have issues with it are both valid. But me, I tend to lean towards the latter camp though I don't completely hate it. It's still part of our boys' story. I just wish they had decided to go about it a different way or at the very least, make some tweaks to make it make more sense in the end while staying true to the characters and everything they had endured for 15 years.

[howldean]

aren't fans kinda doing exactly what that article was talking about now to jensen? like we've literally been down this road before, shouldn't we kind of all know better than to project onto these dudes? especially when he has never labeled himself as queer and has been called het by his friends, + referred to the queer community as "that community" -- idk, it just seems like people setting themselves AND jensen up unnecessarily

i have absolutely no idea why i of all people have been by some force of god, nature, or reason, deemed the best and most qualified person to answer this question but ill roll with it

i don’t really give a shit. and to what degree it can be considered projection when these guys make a Living putting themselves in Situations. eh. but in regards to “that community” if jackles is homophobic still he does a GREAT job of hiding it because he gave me a genuine smile when i told him my name is dean and patted me on the back in a one of the guys way. so really eh. sparkle on jackles it’s wednesday don’t forget to be yourself. keeps talking anyway

first of all i think that everyone should get to do whatever they want forever until the end of time. second of all i think that to some extent by being not only an actor but actively engaged with your fandom you open the door to people being parasocial freaks about you. if you have boundaries, you’re a multimillionaire who goes to golf opens in hawaii who owns a half million dollar stove you can tell people they’re making you uncomfy. it’s also the nature of the acting celebrity experience to be host to speculation about who you’re with. it’s no one’s business but yours, and i think people waste a lot of time infighting about how much thirsting or speculation is allowed. if you don’t like shipping real people then don’t be around people who do and if you do then there’s this wonderful thing called ao3 i think you’re gonna enjoy.

let’s also acknowledge that this is welcoming discourse through a fucking buzzfeed article. we’re not exactly scholars here. be serious

in terms of homophobic jackles allegations, people have been DYING to know if that man is queer since his twink days. not for nothin but literally back to his soap times he’s mentioned being comfortable with the idea of playing a gay character. however he is also a cis white man from texas with a father who thinks drinking out of straws is gay. of course he’s a little homophobic, that’s what cyberbullying is for. but also people can grow and change and i really don’t think that proves things one way or another as internalized homophobia exists AND a shift in language is good and ideal regardless. so if he wants to platonically kiss his male bestie and get stage boners from him and call him his and his wife’s boyfriend and *gestures to the manifesto* then that’s literally his prerogative. and if he thinks he’s doing some bruce springsteen clarence clemons shit then a) how dare he and b) he needs to be put down c) you will NEVER be them. you work for the cw

ultimately, i really don’t mind regardless. if he’s straight congrats. if the j2 love tunnel beard wife theory is correct what the actual fuck but congrats to you guys i guess. if some jenmisheel throuple situation is happening congrats. but i don’t waste time overthinking the ethics of behavior that people online engage in. i personally believe that no one should be forced or pushed to disclose their identity if they don’t want to. but if something ever is said in any given manner i know that im going to have a WONDERFUL time on the internet about it

this is not a comprehensive Statement in any way, just some current thoughts. it’s past midnight and i’m not bothering to proofread

[ama-dillo]

So I was talking to my brother and we were cackling about the deaths in supernatural. Like this isn't how you end a show. Who tf did Sam marry? Where is Cas? How the fuck did he "help" with heaven if he's DEAD!?! Dean never got his tetanus shot and dies and Sam agrees to not bring him back. Who on spn's writing and producing staff was like " I know! We retcon the already flawed ending we had and kill them off!" And everyone clapped I presume. Like what? Sam's son! Does he hunt? No? Then what? Sam looks so old and his son looks like 16 and his son doesn't even cry he's just like "you can die now" DIRECT QUOTE. What fan is clapping at the end of this.

Me personally watching it again I was singing and dancing and making paroidies of songs about how everyone is dead. I was ngl actually insane. I have never been so mad everrr. EVERRRR. Idk I just feel betrayed by this season. Besides the episode about Lady Luck. Everything else made me pissed.

This isn't a win. I have been explaining the plot to my brother and he said " Why wouldn't they just except gods deal, if everyone dies" and that's true! And some redditor reminded me. Wtf happened to the other worlds are they just dead forever. Sam and Dean were okay with every other world dying except Thiers. They only surrender when there is nothing left. No matter the good they have done BILLIONS UPON BILLONS OF LIVES ARE GONE BECAUSE THEY WANTED TO NOT KILL EACH OTHER. That is in direct conflict with EVERYTHING THIS SHOW HAS BEEN ABOUT!!!

That's not the boys I've been following for 14 seasons. Is that the ones you have? And also I realize Supernatural isn't as popular as I once thought. Most people haven't even binged the whole thing. They think it should have ended after season five. Or their favorite character is someone who briefly shows up and then never comes back again. What I have to say about those people is do you care about these characters? Do you like this show? Because in season five Sam gets sent to be tortured in hell forever. Clearly you didn't like him.

One of my favorite episodes EVER "Lebanon" is in the later seasons. And dismissing seasons you haven't even SEEN is ridiculous. How can you call yourself a fan if in all those years of fandom you could watch four more seasons. Or whatever. It makes me kinda mad. I know that's not the case for everyone but I seeing a shit load of it on mother's Hellsite ( aka Here, duh).

I have changed and grow throughout this binge and learned to like Supernatural on a deeper level and those who reduce it to " It's SUPPOSED TO BE BAD" Make me want to pull a Crowley and 😁🗡️ 💀⚰️

But those are my feelings. If yours differ that's valid. You are valid.

I just wish this whole season didn't feel like a dark fever dream. Every scene was like some weird song and dance sequence. Or a bizaro reality played out for way too long. At every death or absence someone at some point said that they wouldn't be gone " tHeY wOuLd Be iN tHiEr HeArT" ☹️😭🤢🤮

Criminal.

Everything seemed weak like at the end they were gonna pull some "it was all a dream" crap on us. Season 15 didn't feel like an ending. Not even close.

I can't express how I felt at the end of this. Hollowed out, would be the closest. I thought I would cry or something but it felt so cheap.

Don't get me started on the reconning of the lore. I haven't seen the prequel yet but I'm guessing it's more of the same. People told me it was a flop so I'm guessing keeper of spn or whatever revival reunion spin-off isn't happening.

Disappointed. But also I felt freedom. Like supernatural was holding me to something and finishing it let me go.