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biggest-stupidhead · 3 years

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AN: Here’s part 2 of my nurse reader and Levi request! It recently came to my attention that I was lowkey confused, I realize that you guys were asking for part 2 to my solider Levi and princess reader but I’ve been working on this one instead😂😂 So I’ll try and get to that other one soon.

ALSO 139 SPOILERS

Part 1

Summary: Levi’s dreams are coming true

Word Count: 4.6K

Warnings: mentions of scarring, blood, struggling to walk, kissing, angst

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The first few weeks were rough, he struggled to do the most mundane tasks, his fingers shook as he gripped a pen, his breathing was labored when he climbed stairs. He hated every second of it, he knew that this was part of being injured and recovering, but still, he felt weak and exposed. He also knew that it was unlikely that he would ever be the same as he was before his accident, this didn’t bother him too much. However, the thought of you only knew him as a frail wounded soldier rubbed him the wrong way.

He used this as motivation to better his condition, with the knowledge that he would not function the same as before. He quickly found out that holding a pen in his right hand was now much too difficult, so he began practicing with his left instead. He also realized that being in a wheelchair was not for him. He hated being pushed by anyone, mainly because Gabi once lost control and sent him rolling down a busy street. So he began to use a cane or crutch, he also found out that he tired much faster using this method. But he much preferred it to the chair.

After only three months of being discharged, Onyankopon had sniffed out an affordable space to open a modest cafe. The space also had a short set of stairs that led to a one-bedroom apartment above, which originally deterred Onyankopon from investing due to Levi’s state. But Levi had insisted that he would manage, so on a gloomy Thursday afternoon, they signed the papers and bought the place. Gabi and Flaco had been ecstatic to help decorate the space, scouring antique shops and pawn shops for the best (and cheapest) pieces of furniture.

Levi had watched the pair carry in the first table, a round wooden piece fit for two along with mismatched chairs to go along with it. At first, Levi disliked the way the furniture clashed, but he soon grew to like it. As the kids slowly carried in more each week the space began to feel homier. The kitchen in the back was teeming with tins of tea, recipes that Onyankopon swore by were tacked up on bulletin boards. Each weekend Onyankopon would bring the kids back with armloads of ingredients to test out the recipes he had been gathering while Levi had been in the hospital.

Soon they had perfected a menu, with croissants that were crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, sticky-sweet cinnamon rolls, and lemon tarts. Levi had never been a fan of sweets, but he knew that most people were, so each weekend they slaved over the stoves and made huge messes of flour and sugar. After two months the cafe was rather put together, tables and chairs of all sorts spread about the room in an inviting pattern. A chalkboard menu that was slowly expanding was sprawled out over the main counter, which was being stocked with pastries.

Onyankopon had brought in a box full of glassware that he had found on the side of the street, Levi had sneered at him as he watched him carefully wash them.

“What are you planning to do with those?” Levi asked as Onyankopon scrubbed the dust off of the glass.

“We can use them as centerpieces. Maybe we could cut some flowers from that field?” He said as he placed the glass vases and cups on the drying rack.

“I suppose,” Levi grumbled, happy that he hadn’t planned on using them as cups.

Finally, the day came when the menu was rounded enough and the furniture polished to open the shop. Levi hated to admit his nerves, but the truth was that his stomach was in knots and his heart was hammering out of his chest as he flipped the wooden sign on the door from closed to open.

Gabi had whooped and hollered, Falco had clapped ecstatically and Onyankopon popped open a bottle of champagne. Levi had given them the slightest of smiles as the group retreated behind the counter to wait for someone to wander in. Levi sat back on a stool that Falco had thrifted for behind the counter, his cane resting against his knee as he watched the door with a steady gaze.

“Can I be in charge of the pastries?” Gabi pleaded, big brown eyes wide as she clasped her hands together. Onyankopon shot a sideways look to Levi who inhaled sharply.

“As long as you don’t spit in the food.” Levi relented and Gabi leaped into the air in her excitement before jogging back into the kitchen to take stock.

“Falco you can carry food out.” Onyankopon offered and Falco nodded a gleam of determination in his golden eyes.

“I’ll run the register and Levi you can brew the tea.” Onyankopon looked pleased with himself after assigning the roles and Levi shrugged in indifference. The minutes ticked by and the door remained shut, the wide windows let the warm morning sun seep into the room, yet it carried no joy. Or at least it didn’t summon any deep feelings from within Levi. Just when Levi was about to give up and go brew himself his own tea before calling it a day, the door opened, the bell tinkling softly.

His mouth fell open when he saw you, in your plain clothes, a pair of dark dress pants and a silk dress shirt. Your purse was slung over your shoulder and in your hands was a bright bouquet of flowers. You pushed some stray strands of hair off of your face as you stepped into the cafe.

“(Y/n)! You made it!” Falco rushed around the counter and took your hand in his to lead you to the counter. You laughed warmly and allowed the young boy to drag you across the room.

“You’re the first person to come in.” Onyankopon mused softly as he stood behind the register, hands placed firmly on the counter. Your eyes widened in surprise before another warm grin passes placidly across your features.

“I am?” You asked, leaning on the counter and throwing a playful glance at Levi who was half hiding behind Onyankopon.

“It’s true.” Gabi groaned dramatically fanning her face, she had been fidgeting anxiously in the back for the past hour eager to serve guests.

“What can I get the good nurse?” Onyankopon steered the conversation back to business as usual.

“Ah, I’d love a cup of camomile and hmm maybe one of those lemon tarts.” You hummed, leaning over to examine the pastries that had been set on display in the glass containers.

“Excellent choice, that’ll be seven pounds.” Onyankopon slid the key into the keyhole in the register and the old thing sprang open, spilling some change. He chuckled as he awkwardly collected the spare change.

“Takes a gentle hand.” He explained as you smiled at him with the money in hand. Levi sighed and reached around Onyankopon to take the money as the larger man squatted down to retrieve the stubborn coins.

“Congratulations Captain, you’ve made this place your own.” You said, slipping the money into his hands, the pads of your fingertips brushing his calloused palm.

“Thank you, nurse (L/n).” He mumbled, trying in vain to fight off the butterflies swarming in his stomach.

“You’re so very welcome.” You watched as the rag-tag bunch began to hustle around the kitchen, Levi limped to the stove and began to boil the water in the kettle, Gabi was pulling on a pair of gloves before she began to inspect the pastries, looking for the best one. Falco gestured for you to follow him to that round table at the front of the store, right by the large window. You covered your mouth to hide an affectionate grin as he pulled the chair out for you. You sat and thanked him as you made yourself comfortable.

“I’ll bring your food to you miss.” He even did a bow which was when you could no longer hide your amusement.

“Falco, too much.” Onyankopon was also laughing behind the counter as the young boy scurried back to grab your pastry, which Gabi had carefully chosen just for you. Levi was now steeping the leaves in one of the mismatched sets of china that they had collected. Once the tea was steeped to perfection he set it on the tray with the pastry and Falco carefully picked it up, using both hands.

He set the steaming plates in front of you and you thanked him once more. You felt a bit awkward as the group watched with expectant eyes as you took the first bite. Your eyes lit up, it was just the perfect mixture of sweet and sour, the breading crumbling on your tongue.

You nodded and held a thumbs up which made Gabi clap her hands and squeal. Falco laughed and shook her shoulder, a giddy gleam in his eyes. Levi bit back another smile, not eager to let you pull them from his lips so easily. A few moments after you had begun to eat, the door tinkled open again, this time it was an older couple. They ordered and sat down near you, murmuring about the decor and such. As the morning wore on, more people began to wander into the shop, families and starry-eyed couples alike. You sat at your table, a small amount of paperwork from the hospital spread across the tabletop. You worked well into the afternoon, not necessarily because you needed to but because you wanted to catch Levi and check in on him.

You got your chance when the crowd ebbed and the orders slowed. The shop was once more empty and you could see the way that Levi limped between the sink and the stove. You gathered your courage and stood from your spot, leaving your purse and papers behind. Onyankopon was helping the kids in the back as they prepped for the pastries for tomorrow.

“I’ll dry if you wash.” You offered and Levi shot you a look over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’ve been taking up that table all day, let me earn my keep.” You teased, carefully stepping behind the counter and into the kitchen. He did not oppose as you sidled up beside him and began to towel dry the dishes he had already scrubbed clean. You worked like this for a few minutes in silence, the sound of dishes and sloshing of water filling the air between you.

“You seem to have healed well.” You commented as you accepted another clean plate.

“Hm.” He hummed, eyes trained on his task. You noted that he no longer wore bandages on his hand where his fingers had once been.

“How’s your knee?” You asked and he bristled a bit.

“....it’s fine.” He said after a slight pause.

“I can look at it if you’d like.” You offered and he inhaled slowly before releasing his breath in one long exhale.

“I’m fine.”

“Then let me look at your fingers, if you are doing dishes it’s likely to get infected.” You were a tad embarrassed to admit that you simply wanted to feel his skin against yours once more. But luckily Levi felt the same. He paused his work and grabbed a towel to dry his hands off before slowly extending them to you. You accepted them and ran your fingers over the callouses that decorated his palms before pulling his hand closer to your face to get a good look at the nubs where his fingers once were.

Just as you had thought, they were fully healed with puckering pink flesh from where stitches had once been.

“They look well, you should be fine, just...be mindful of how much time you spend washing the dishes.” You hummed, turning his hand over in yours to examine the back of it, old and new scars littered the expanse of his hands and up to his forearm.

“Okay.” His words were breathy and a bit choked. You snuck a glance up at his face and smiled sheepishly at him as you released his hand, which fell slowly back to his side. His cheeks were a soft pink, hints of a blush from the heat of your touch alone.

“I would suggest looking into some gloves.” You advised and he rolled his eyes.

“How am I supposed to wear gloves without my fingers?” He asked, holding his hand up as if to emphasize the loss.

“You seem to have adapted well, I’m sure you can figure something out.” You assured him with a nudge to his side before you fell back into the easy rhythm of drying the dishes.

____

You fell into a routine, stopping by when the cafe first opened to grab a cup of tea before your shift. Then you would go off to work and return later that afternoon to help Levi clean up. One rainy day you came in an hour later than usual, your scrubs soaked as you had forgotten an umbrella. Onyankopon and the kids had left earlier that week to go get the other cadets from Paradis, leaving Levi to tend to the shop alone.

As you entered you flipped the sign to closed and then wrung your sopping wet hair. Levi stood behind the counter, watching you with his one steel eye.

“What took you so long?” He asked before turning to do the dishes. You scoffed and looked back out at the window, the rain was pelting down mercilessly against the glass. But you said nothing, having learned long ago that arguing with him was pointless.

“What have you got for me?” You asked instead wanting to throw yourself into the work he had for you. He put you to work in the kitchen, taking stock and sweeping the floors until you thought that you would collapse. It wasn’t that the work that was taxing, but the work on top of the hours you had already clocked in on your feet at the hospital.

When he was pleased with your cleaning he waved you off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Your clothes were still wet, as you watched him thumb through his earnings of the day in the register. You now knew a fraction of what he had put those cadets through all those years ago.

“Levi?” You tested, his name falling sweetly from your lips. He turned slowly, pausing his counting to give you his full attention.

“What is it?” He asked, placing the change back into the register.

“How would you like to get some dinner?” You offered with a shy smile. His eyes widened and he whipped around to shut the register.

“Only if you’re buying.”

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So now you sat across the table from him, your leg bouncing anxiously under the table inside the warm tavern. He seemed much less anxious, hands folded in front of him and his gaze void of any particular emotion.

“So...you come here often?” You tried to start the conversation, for the first time finding it difficult.

“No actually, I despise these places.” He answered literally and you nearly blanched, worried that you may have upset him or offended him in some way by bringing him here.

“What? We don’t have to stay then we can-” You were reaching for your purse but he held up a hand to stop you.

“It’s fine.” He assured you and you relaxed back into your seat.

“Why do you hate these places?” You asked out of curiosity.

“Not a fan of drunk men and shitty tavern food.” He shrugged indifferently. If he had been feeling braver he would have told you that it reminded him of his childhood and his mean drunk uncle.

“Ah, I see.” Your shoulders slumped and you cleared your throat to fill the silence.

“I don’t usually come to bars often either. Can’t trust me around beer.” You joked but Levi arched a thin brow.

“Why’s that?”

“Oh, my dad was a drunk and they say that it runs in the family. So I’ll never touch the stuff.” You shrugged and Levi was caught off guard with your honesty. He only hummed in response. Not long after that, the food arrived and the two of you ate in near silence, the sounds of forks scraping plates and wine sloshing in glasses. You paid for dinner and the two of you slowly made your way back down the street, which was slick with rainwater. You eyed Levi’s arm a bit longingly, wanting to feel his warmth pressed against you. You rubbed your biceps in an attempt to get the message across but he seemed clueless still. So you sighed and decided to take yet another risk, in one swift motion you slid your arm through his and he went rigid. His steps faltered and you looked over at him with a smirk curling at the corner of your lips.

“Is...this alright?” you asked and he nodded tensely before resuming his pace. You were grateful that his apartment was so close to the tavern, as it began to pour once more. But of course, you could not run because you feared that he would injure himself, so the two of you simply picked up your pace. Levi held the door for you and the two of you stumbled into the dark cafe, the tables and chairs looked almost like skeletons as you weaved your way through them to the back set of stairs.

“You can stay if you’d like.” he offered, a glimmer of uncertainty flashing over his features, clearly he was treading just as lightly as you were.

“I’d like that very much.” You grinned and the two of you climbed the stairs to his small apartment. The floorplan was open, the kitchen and living room were all in one space. The furniture was also mismatched here, he set about lighting candles even though you knew that the building had electricity. You wondered if it was a force of habit, all of his years on that island with no electricity, or if it was an attempt to set the mood. You said nothing all the same as the candles set the room aglow in warm light.

“It’s nice,” you commented and Levi hummed in agreement.

“It’s no barracks.” He said as he shook the match, a small trail of smoke curling up from his fingertips.

“Do you miss the military?” You asked as you slipped out of your shoes. He paused, a thoughtful look passing over his face as he pondered your question.

“At times, there are things that I miss. But no, I wouldn’t go back.” he shook his head, damp locks of raven hair falling in curtains over his brow.

“I can imagine.” You agreed as he slipped out of his coat and hung it on the coat rack, you did the same and he gestured for you to follow him to his room.

“I have some dry clothes you can borrow.” He said as he sifted through his drawers, pulling out a simple cotton shirt and a pair of loose-fitting pants. He held them out to you and you accepted them with a smile. You noted that the clothes were larger than the ones that he pulled out and you wondered who they belonged to.

“Whose clothes are these?” you asked out of curiosity and a pained look crossed his face. But you wondered if you had imagined it because of how quickly his features reset into his stoic mien.

“An old friend.” That was all he said before leaving you to change. You pulled the clothes on slowly and carefully knowing that these are likely one of the last things he had that belonged to his friend. Once you were done you stepped out of the room to find Levi already changed and boiling a kettle over his small stove. The shirt hung loosely off of your frame and you pulled the collar up gently as you crossed the room to stand by his side.

“Whatcha making?” You asked softly as he shot you a brief glance over his shoulder.

“Tea.” He said bluntly as he reached up into the cabinets and pulled out two mugs. You hummed and moved to take a seat at the modest table that was pressed against the back of his couch.

“Sounds good.” You said as you slipped into the seat, watching as he moved around his space. You noted the way his cane carried the majority of his weight, the way his fingers trembled as he poured the water to steep the tea leaves. You moved to get up and help him, but decided against it, reminding yourself that he was independent and could do these tasks on his own. Sure enough Levi finished the tea and carried the two cups over to you and placed them gently down on the table.

You thanked him quietly and blew a puff of air over the surface of the green tea, sending ripples through the liquid. He watched you with unreadable features, hands crossed on the table and his cane resting against his thigh.

“Tell me of your home.” You asked, daring a look over the rim of your cup. He inhaled and a far away look crossed his face as he thought of an appropriate response.

“As I knew it or as it is now?” He mumbled as he brought his own cup to his lips.

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Hm.” He hummed as he let the hot liquid sit in his mouth hoping to buy himself more time.

“Either way it was shitty.” He said after a few moments of silence. You set your cup down and gave him your full attention.

“We never had much, and I can’t say that it was a happy life.” He said, sneaking a glance at you to guage your reaction.

“I figured as much.” You commented and he shrugged.

“There isn’t much left of the landscape after the rumbling, but that’s everywhere now.” He grumbled, beginning to lose himself in his own memories.

“There used to be open fields and massive trees inside of the walls but…” He winced, flashes of blood and gnashing titan teeth, campfires, the heavy breathing of horses, explosions of thunder spears followed by the tangy metallic scent of blood.

“Levi?” Your voice was soft and filled with concern, he snapped out of his reverie, his fists clenched around his cup.

“Sorry.” He choked out, his tongue feeling fat and his mouth dry.

“It’s alright, I shouldn’t have asked.” You waved your hands and quickly took a sip of your tea.

“No, it’s not your fault.” He dismissed you, trying to calm the racing of his heart.

“I’m sure that you’re tired, I’ll see myself out.” You began to scramble, reaching for your things and pushing a stray strand of hair from your face. Levi wasn’t sure why, but he felt an urgent need to reach out and grab you. Before he could dismiss the sense, his hand had already shot out and caught your wrist.

You looked back at him with wide eyes, not moving a muscle. He stayed still as well, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your arm. If he was hurting you, you showed no sign.

“Don’t….it’s storming.” He said stupidly, as he stood keeping a hold on your wrist. Once he was on his feet he took a step towards you and his hand slipped down to intertwine his fingers with your own.

“O-Okay.” You squeezed his fingers and he returned the gesture, eyes blank although they darted between your eyes and lips every few seconds. You took a step closer so that the tips of your feet touched his, your breaths mingling together. Finally his eyes settled on your lips and you unconsciously licked them as you wondered what he would taste like. Green tea no doubt, just as bitter and tangy as his personality seemed to be.

You let out a shaky breath as he reached out, the back of his hand brushing that pesky piece of hair off of your cheek. He hesitated but gently grasped your face in his calloused palm, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone. You carefully broke free of his grasp on your hand so you could smooth down the fabric of his shirt above his heart.

He swallowed thickly before lifting his chin, eyes trained on your lips. You tilted your head and met him the rest of the way, your lips slotting together perfectly. His other hand came to rest on the other side of your face, and you whimpered. You opened your mouth wider, your tongue slipping past his lips to taste him. He did taste like green tea after all, bitter and overwhelming. You couldn’t get enough, your hands slipping up the column of his throat to find the shaven underside of his hair.

To your surprise he pulled away with a grunt, grey eyes wide and surprised. You looked back just as shocked but then you smiled. He blinked at you for a moment before pulling away completely and turning his back to you and running a hand through his locks.

“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate of me.” He apologized and you shook your head.

“I actually quite liked it. You aren’t my patient anymore Levi.” He remained silent, his back turned to you in shame.

“You’re not even a Captian anymore, you’re just a man.” You assured him and he turned to look at you now, eyes filled with a certain grief you couldn’t quite place.

“Is that how you see me then?” His voice was flat and you couldn’t tell if he was offended or pleased with the response.

“No, I see you as a good man, who has been hurt one too many times. Someone who needs a….companion.” You settled and he finally faced you once more.

“I shouldn’t have done that to you.” He grunted, steadying himself on the table.

“It’s okay Levi, I-I like you.” You felt like you were tripping over yourself to assure him that he was not crossing any lines.

“....” He remained silent, those sad grey eyes trained on your face as your chest heaved, panic quickly raising.

“I promise you I’m fine. I’ve actually been wanting to kiss you for some time now.” You sheepishly admitted, rubbing the side of your arm.

“I know.” He groaned his hands coming to hide his eyes and you felt even more distressed, you should’ve known better.

“Look, Levi I want to be with you, and if you want the same then we can be. You don’t have to-”

“Damn it (Y/n) I want to, but I don’t” He let out another frustrated grunt before his fist came down hard on the table, the cups rattling loudly at the disturbance.

“I don’t want you to be chained to someone like me.” He admitted, eyes averted.

“You don’t have to feel that way, I’m choosing you.”

“Promise?” His eyes finally met yours and you nodded curtly, a look of determination and confidence plastered to your face.

“Promise.” You assured him, sitting back down at the table to show that you weren’t going anywhere.

“And if you bother me too much then I’ll leave.” You teased, but he seemed to take it literally, sinking back into his own seat and nodding in understanding.

“That’s good.” He sighed, shoulders sagging in relief.

“I really should go home, think about this and we’ll talk tomorrow.” You stood, leaning over the table to peck a kiss to his lips. He nodded and watched with tired eyes as you left his apartment.

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foxpaws10 · 3 years

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Don’t Forget Me When I Let The Water Take Me

It was the red hair which had done him in. His eye had latched on and for the first time in a very long time he felt his chest lift with hope. But the man had turned, eyes deadened and brown, not blue, and hope had been squashed under disappointment.

He should know by now that he wouldn’t ever see him again. Kept pushing it down down down. There were more important things to focus on than the ghost of a boy.

But as Andrew sat in the trenches, clothes soaked with mud, rain and the blood of his men, his mind conjured up old memories. Perhaps the memories were the only thing keeping him sane. Giving him a reprieve from the constant onslaught of bombs and gunfire, of men screaming and crying, of rats and lice and flies.

He held tightly to the image of the boy - because that’s what they had been, boys - and he closed his eyes against the fireworks of shrapnel in the otherwise dark sky.

He thought of nights spent on rooftops, smoking stolen cigarettes and making up stories about the bright stars above.

He thought of Nathaniel, and Nate, and Abram and Junior - of Neil.

Neil, always Neil to Andrew.

How his mother cursed them and threatened them and warned them. That boy was the son of the devil, the women of the village swore. They weren’t wrong. Neils father was the devil, with his burning temper and iron fists raining blows down on his son, painting him crimson and lilac.

But Neil, he was mischief. He wasn’t the fire and brimstone his parents raised him to be. He was sneaky and sly and a liar right down to his toes. He was a thief and he burned, oh how he burned, but it was life which coursed through him. Life which lit him up brighter than any star in the sky and drew Andrew into orbit.

He remembered the first time he saw him; galloping a chestnut mare across the fields which separated Andrew’s house from the Laird’s. They were both shiny as copper, Neils hair a fiery crown of curls, the horse dipped in blood - all but her muzzle which was a bright white.

Devils son? Well he looked the part. He took joy in the twin curls which curved like horns by his temples when his hair was wet; a consequence of either being caught in a downpour or Andrew dunking him in the river.

The river. They spent most of their days by it. Stealing the Laird Hingston’s fish, swimming in the clear depths, skimming rocks across the surface of the smoother, deeper pools.

The first time they swam, Neil had stripped naked as the day he was born. No shame in his nudity, though cautious about the scars and bruises littering his freckled skin. By the second week, Andrew was down to his underwear and then nothing at all.

They spent hours floating down the flow. Settling in shallow areas where the riverbed pushed up to the surface, keeping them locked in place despite the rushing water. Jumping off the high banks into pools, or swinging off overhanging tree branches.

They’d begun to ride Fox, Neils glorious chestnut mare, down to the river together. She would graze the lush grass along the banks, and Andrew swore she flicked them dissapointed looks every now and again when they were being particularly rowdy. Occasionally she would travel into the water with them, cooling down in the shimmering summer sun. Once, Neil had backflipped off her rear end and nearly had his skull caved in by her hoof.

She was a birthday present from Neils uncle, a Londoner by the name of Stuart Hartford. A strong Irish breed, she was to be used for hunting; covering vast stretches of land and jumping wooden gates and stone walls and deep gulleys. She had a temper worse than Neils some days; her ears would lie flat back against her skull, her nostrils would flare and she’d bare her teeth like a savage while stomping her hooves. Neil had worked through the anger with patience and persistence, and Andrew with a pocket full of sugar cubes.

Despite her bloodline boasting impressive abilities, she was just as happy pottering down country lanes and cobbled streets, loose and relaxed with the two boys riding atop her bareback.

Neil had taught Andrew how to trot, canter and pop a small jump on her. Just in case, he’d said, with a shifty look in his eye.

Andrew liked the speed of her, feeling the unbridled power in her muscles as he pushed her on until her strides swallowed the ground beneath them. Some days it felt like flying, most days it felt like freedom.

Andrew had been tucked into the corner of her stall late one evening, sharing an apple with both Fox and Neil, when he met Stuart Hatford. A man of high class and strange fashion, he was abrupt and rude but entirely harmless. Harmless to the two boys, that is.

Andrew grew to like him, enjoyed listening to him tear apart Nathan Wesninski with whip quick words. Enjoyed even better the day he’d threatened Nathan with his cane, a deadly look in his eye that Andrew had caught Neil mimicking once before.

After that incident they hadn’t seen much of Hatford, but when they did, he was sure to sneak money into pockets and biting remarks into ears.

The last time Andrew had seen Stuart, he’d been sat upon an impressive dark horse. A coat like midnight, shining like stars under a low autumn sun. He had passed Andrew, taking a shortcut through the fields, on the way to peruse the sweets of the bakery. Pulling up beside him, Stuart had made Andrew promise that he would take care of Neil, keep him out of trouble. And had warned that they needed to leave, the sooner the better.

If Andrew knew then what he did now, he would have left that very same day. But he had a brother to look after, one who confessed not long after that he’d knocked up the baker's daughter.

Their mother had been livid, and Andrew had taken the abuse in place for his brother. God only knew what the woman would have done had she found out about Andrew’s own inclinations.

He’d never understood the fascination with girls. Their curves and their high pitched giggles, their swishy skirts and small frames and sweet perfumes. He’d always been drawn to men, their deep voices and strong hands, the lingering musk of sweat and what lay between their legs.

He’d seen two men kiss behind the pub one late evening, when it was safer out in the cold night than their house. Had been fascinated with the hard press of lips and teeth and tongue, how their hands had gripped and tugged and pulled. It was a memory that wreaked havoc in his sleep, leaving him with damp undergarments in the morning and which haunted him on the days he did slide his hand between his legs.

Neil was the first male he ever kissed. Sitting in the corner of Fox’s stall, a puddle of kittens between them. Neils father had ordered him to drown them, but Neil had stowed them away in one of the outbuildings instead. They mewled and tottered between them on stumpy legs, claws digging through their trousers as they climbed into their laps.

Andrew had been sat on his window ledge smoking and watching the last dim light of the sun dipping below the horizon when Neil had stopped below him, wheels of his bike skidding in the loose gravel and dirt. His eyes had been alight with defiance and mischief as he coaxed Andrew to join him. Andrew had learnt early on he wasn’t capable of saying no to that look. It promised mischief and adventure and danger.

Andrew had mounted the bike with Neil balanced on the handlebars, telling him all about his precious find. One of his mothers exotic felines had been caught by a barn cat and given birth to five small kittens. She had hidden them away in a closet to protect them from Nathan and his hounds, but they soon found their voices and she’d been exposed.

They were a grey-blue colour with dark stripes and squashed faces. Andrew marvelled at how small they were, so soft and warm in his hands, with needle sharp claws and teeth. Despite only being a few weeks old they were strong and bold.

He dared a glance at Neil and felt his chest tighten. A bruise was splattered across his jaw, and a half circle of black skin hugged his left eye, but neither could take away from the soft smile curving his lips.

In the flickering lamp light, with the soothing sound of Fox’s heavy breathing and the grinding of her teeth as she grazed from her hay, he looked soft and melting like butter. Andrew wanted to dip his hands into him, to sip from his mouth and feel the steady pulse of his heart.

Neil came from old money produced through blood. He was the heir to the Wesninski estate, but also the Hatford’s. He had wardrobes packed with silks and chiffon, fancy coats and stiff trousers and hard boots. He had a mansion hung with exquisite portraits and oil paintings, curtains which cost more than Andrew’s house, furniture which dated back centuries yet was polished so bright it could have been made yesterday. He had a bed larger than Andrew’s and Aaron’s shared room. He had prospects and future betrothals and a list of universities just waiting to snap him up.

Yet he sat in the dirt of a horse stall, with mud splattered overalls coated in horse hair, a shirt which once might have been white but was perpetually stained yellow from hard work and sweat, boots gone soft and falling apart at the seams. His hair was an unruly uncombed mess atop his head, bright like the sunrise, and his eyes were blue as a summer sky. He smelt like sweat and horse and the Earth. His fingernails were perpetually dirty, no matter what time of day it was. He spent nights walking dark streets or sitting atop rooftops with Andrew, a bastard boy coated in poverty.

Their lives were miles apart, and yet they fit together perfectly. They had the same blase attitude about most of life, a dark humour others shyed away from, and a belief that there had always been something… missing. They had dark days and sharp days and quiet days. But together, they were learning ways to chase away the dark clouds and foreboding shadows.

Neil had been the one bright spark lighting up Andrew’s life from the first day. Everything was on fire, every atom of his being burned and yearned to be swallowed within Neils own blaze.

Andrew could remember, as clear as if it were yesterday, how his stomach had tied itself in knots. How his palms had dampened with sweat, catching the fine hairs of the soft kittens. How dry his mouth had gotten, all the moisture whisked away by nerves.

He could remember the wrinkle of Neils brow as he glanced at him, concern tightening his eyes as he realised something was wrong. The soft murmur of his name, slipping between smooth lips.

Andrew had asked, because he couldn’t bare to be pushed away once he leant in. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost Neil, if Neil looked at him with disgust and swore to never see him again.

But Neil had merely smiled, eyes gone soft and dewy as he set aside a kitten and leant in. His lips were even softer than Andrew had imagined. They were both inexperienced, and yet somehow it was perfect. The fumbling movement of their mouths as they tried to slit together in an even rhythm; the heavy gusts of breath as they tried to breathe and then forgot how to and almost choked on lack of oxygen; the first quick swipe of tongue to dampen the dry stickiness which suddenly turned the quiet kisses loud and sucking; the gut tightening sound Neil made when Andrew lifted a hand to his jaw, careful of the bruising, and tilted him down into the kiss; how they kept trying to get closer, ignoring the mewling and sharp claws of the kittens between them; Fox’s snort as hay dust swirled in her nostrils and she splattered them with wet droplets; how Andrew opened his mouth to breathe and suddenly Neils tongue was on his and it was like the beginning of a universe.

He could remember it all like it was yesterday. As another whizz-bang exploded overhead, he struggled to decide if it was a blessing or a curse. The memories were a warm blanket, a honey soaked film trying to cover the worst memories he’d occurred over the last few years. Where once everything had been bright and golden and beautiful, everything was dark and cold and horrid, leaking blood and guts everywhere. He could slip away for a second, a minute, an hour, and remember the boy he had cherished above all else. But it never lasted.

He didn’t know what happened to Neil. One day he was there, the next he was gone. Slipped out from under his fingertips, stolen on the wind as more bad news about the war blew in.

Andrew had tried to write to him once, but he’d never gotten a reply. He’d tried to find him, but so far there had been no news of a Wesninski or a Hatford in their ranks. Every glance of red hair was a beacon of hope, yet they left nothing but dark disappointment behind.

When the horses passed them, mud splattered and skeletal, he looked for red with a white muzzle. He dreaded the day he’d find it, abandoned on no-mans-land.

A whistle blew further down the line and he heaved a heavy breath before standing, so used to the feel of his clothes stiff and ridged and mud soaked he knew it shouldn’t bother him anymore, yet somehow it still did. He had a team of men to lead, he couldn’t dwell on the past. His brother, a medic now, among them.

Perhaps one day, the war would be over. Today wasn’t yet that day.

They had an advancement planned, a move to gain back what had been taken. A move closer to the enemy. It would be another week before he heard more than whispers travelling down the lines. They had a new battalion joining them in the meantime, due some time tomorrow evening.

Among them, a new translator. Andrew hoped Private Josten would be more help than their last one had been.

{READ ON AO3}

#my fic #give me validation #aftg #all for the game #tfc #the foxhole court #war au #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil #mine #foxpaws10

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yourfinalbow · 3 years

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Ack anon I'm sorry. Tumblr ate your ask and I'm 🔪 But I saved your ask to put on the Google Doc so don't fret! I have it!

“Hi Ghastie Ghast, I wanted to share a prompt with you lol. I decided to go more holiday theme’d because it’s never too early to get into the holiday spirit.

“Your favorite winter drink was back on the menu, so I decided to surprise you with it.”

Please enjoy this prompt lmao”

The nickname made me -_- but hi Little Gray Circle Dude With Sunglasses! Thank you for sending me this! I had fun writing it. I'm assuming you wanted a Destiel fic, so that's what I wrote! (Also bonus points for Saileen as a background ship?) I sort of strayed a little from the prompt and the tone gets heavier as it goes on… 👀 I also accidentally wrote more than intended, so you can read it on Ao3 if that's easier. (And maybe give it a kudos because you’re the best?)

Title: Black Coffee Derangement Syndrome

Ship(s): Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy.

(Basic) Tags: Fluff, Slight Angst, Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker, Established Dean/Cas, Established Sam/Eileen, Using black coffee as a metaphor for hypermasculinity, With a whip cream style topping of internalized homophobia. *Finger guns.*

Warnings: Coffee gatekeeping and small sections of fluff that are as sweet as Cas’s Starbucks order. Also I’ve been to Starbucks once. Maybe twice? (Also a single mention of a drug that's commonly found as white powder, the non-descriptive comparison of Sam’s stupid health stuff with emesis, and use of the name that the figurehead for Germany in WW2 bore, just to be safe.)

Rating: T? Maybe? For language?

Word Count: 9k+

Quick thanks to my awesome beta @walksinstarllight! They are a poet and a writing sorcerer (wizard without a hat), and the only reason this fic even makes sense so please go shower them in kudos. (You can find their work here.)

Another thanks to @internetintroverts, who described a peppermint mocha to me in like 300 words because I drink black coffee and know nothing of anything ever. You can find their work here! (There's an Easter egg of one of their fics in this one hehe.)

The first thing Dean did when Cas got back from the Empty was give him coffee.

Okay no.

The first thing he did was fall into Cas’s arms and grip that stupid trenchcoat until his knuckles turned white. Shaking and laughing with hot tears streaming out of his eyes, he told him he was an asshole for leaving him like that. And to never, ever do it again. With blurry eyes and all other thoughts hazy, he told Cas he could have it, he could have what he wanted. Whatever he wanted. He told Cas he loved him too.

But then the next thing was coffee.

Caffeine is a hunter’s number one best friend, and since Cas was human again, Dean knew Sam was going to come at him with his stupid green health drinks and herbal tea. As Cas’s knight in shining armour, (a title used by Dean and Dean only), it was his duty to protect him from the disgustingly liquified rabbit food.

Now he expected Cas to like black coffee, you know, like a normal person.

But no, oh no. Apparently, he was dating a heathen.

Dean had to actually rub his eyes the first time he watched Cas fix his own coffee. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, mouth agape.

Cas was leaning on the counter, humming some song that Dean could neither recognize, nor would he approve of, thank-you-very-much.

(Ok it was Champagne Problems by Taylor Swift and it's entirely possible he's listened to it once or twice but he still doesn't approve of it, thank-you-very-much.)

He held his yellow and black striped, bee-themed ceramic mug Eileen had bought him in one hand, and the entire five-pound bag of cane sugar in the other. And there he stood, happy as can be, pouring it directly into his mug.

Dean rubbed his eyes again.

And not even like, a normal amount either.

He just kept pouring, and pouring, and Oh my god he’s still pouring. Dean thought. It would honestly be more believable if it wasn’t sugar at all, and instead was in fact Cas’s secret stash of cocaine.

Dean might actually have to put sugar on the grocery list after he was finished.

His thoughts traveled back to Ishim doing the same thing with his coffee, in the tiny little diner Cas had set up as a meeting place. Dean had barged in that day, not thinking of his brother mocking him, or the possibility of danger inside. His vision was as tunneled as his thoughts focused only on Cas, not caring about anything else.

By that time the following day, Dean thought they were both going to die. The bloody and uneven sigil on the wall, Cas no more than ten feet away. Not quite within a comforting reach. The room was spinning from the blow to his head, and he could barely make out the words being spat from Ishim’s mouth.

“You blast me away, you’ll blast away every angel in the room. I’ll survive. Castiel, on the other hand, he’s hurt. He might live, or he might just end up a bloody smear on the wall.”

He almost lost Cas that day.

The blood rushed to his ears as his instincts sought out the mark on the wall. Ishim had told him to roll the dice, but in his head he couldn’t look past the chance of rolling a one. Watching the acrylic cube bounce until it decided Cas’s fate. There was no dilemma, there wasn’t even a decision to be made. He would always choose Cas over himself. Silent acts of care he could never vocalize.

An inability to speak formed from fear and cowardice. Like a lion in his stomach scratching at the words until they fell back down his throat.

And it was that inability to speak that led Cas to think he was nothing more than a tool for the Winchester’s to use.

He almost let Cas believe he meant nothing to him.

Dean cleared his throat. “Mornin’ Sunshine.”

Cas set down the bag of sugar and picked up the pot, the glass making a small clink as it hit the top of the coffee maker. “Goodmorning Dean. Would you like any coffee?” He greeted cheerfully, turning around like he hadn't just put enough sugar to make a pound cake in his coffee.

“Uh.” Dean was still caught off-guard by Willie Wonka over there. “Sure Cas.” He took the coffee pot from his hand and muttered a thank you.

“So,” Cas started while Dean reached into the cabinet for his own mug. “What ingredient do you suggest I put in my coffee this morning?”

“Uh...I don't know man. I drink my coffee black.”

“Yes I know you’re boring Dean, but you can still help me not be.”

“Black coffee isn't boring it's-”

“Dean, if you say ‘manly,’ I will sit you down and make you eat only spinach and kale for a week.” Sam said, walking into the kitchen, hair still spiked up from sleep. He used one hand to sign the words, his other one occupied by Eileen, who was sleepily shuffling closely behind.

Dean looked aghast. “I would starve.” He attempted to sign his indignant response, hands moving sloppily while holding both his mug and the coffee pot.

“I think that's the point.” Eileen said, laughing. She looked at Cas. “Is Dean gatekeeping your coffee aspirations again?”

“Yes.” He answered, ignoring Sam’s laugh and Dean’s huff of exaggerated outrage.

“Have you tried cinnamon?” Sam suggested. “You like Dean’s apple pie, and that has cinnamon in it.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Sam. Dean told me not to ever take cooking advice from you.“

“And I stand by that.” Dean interjected suddenly.

“I can cook!”

“Ehhh…” Eileen’s comment bought her a look of betrayal. “Though Sam may be right on this one, you might like it.” She shrugged.

“See.”

Cas pondered the thought for a moment. “Perhaps I will then.”

“Do we have nutmeg?” Eileen said, breaking away from Sam’s grip to check one of the cabinets. He walked to the other side of the kitchen, intending to look through the spice rack, knowing exactly what his girlfriend was getting at.

“You better not mess up my damn kitchen.” He said quickly. “Or you're organising them all next time.”

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing full well Dean would never let him organise the kitchen. Eileen looked through them, carefully turning the bottles around until the labels faced her. She pulled out the cinnamon and clove while she was looking for the nutmeg.

“Found it.” Sam called from the other side of the kitchen, walking over and putting a hand on Eileen’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” She said with a smile, grabbing the plastic spice jars.

She individually tossed each one to Cas. “Use these, it will taste like a pumpkin spice latte.”

“And don't forget the milk.” Sam added.

Cas scrambled to catch the spices, successfully grabbing two of them out of the air, the third one intercepted by Dean.

“What’s a pumpkin spice latte?” He looked at Eileen before snatching the bottle of cinnamon from Dean.

“It's a famous drink you can get at Starbucks.” Sam answered.

Cas tilted his head to the side and squinted at him. “What's a Starbucks?”

“You know, the coffee shop Alex and Patience drag Jody to all the time.” Dean said.

“I’m pretty sure Donna drags her there too.” Sam added. “Something about girl’s date night out.”

“The one Claire says is for ‘basic bitches’?” He lifted his hands, forming air quotes as he spoke.

“Yeah.” Dean answered, quietly laughing. “That's the one. She’s probably right, too.”

Cas carefully put the different spices in his coffee, eyeing the mug warily. His light brown coffee now had specs of...stuff in it.

(And unbeknownst to him, there was also a small pile of sugar at the bottom, the coffee so saturated it wouldn't dissolve any more.)

Eileen laughed at the look on his face. “It's good, I promise.”

Sam turned to look at her. “How would you know? Most of the time you get hot chocolate and spike it with bourbon.”

“You’re the one who gets a Pink Drink.”

Dean choked on his coffee. “What?”

“It's strawberry and coconut milk, and it's delicious.”

“Sure it is Sam.” Eileen jabbed.

“So what I'm getting here is that not only have you two been to Starbucks often enough to have a regular order, but Sam gets something called a ‘Pink Drink’?”

“No…” Sam started, trying to find a way to defend them. “Sometimes we…”

“...Make our own drinks.” Eileen snapped her fingers as she finished for him, attempting to save them from the endless stream of good-natured insults Dean would throw at them otherwise.

“Well you two are a real Martha Stewart, aren't you?”

“Yeah, except she's a convicted criminal.” Sam attempted to snark back.

“So are you!”

Before either of them could respond, Cas shoved his mug into Dean's face. “You have to try this, Dean. It tastes like pumpkin pie.”

Dean carefully grabbed the hot mug from Cas and took a sip. He was right, it did taste kinda like pumpkin pie. He took another sip, letting the pleasant flavor sit on his tongue. The different spices mixed perfectly together.

“I mean it's… okay.” He lied.

Dean contemplated his pumpkin themed food options. “Though I would rather just have pumpkin pie.”

Cas took his mug back. “Fine. More for me.” He said with a smirk, mimicking the look Dean gives him every time Cas says he doesn't want anymore bacon, before taking another sip of the makeshift pumpkin spice coffee.

Dean smiled at him, setting his own mug down and moving Cas’s out of the way to pull him into a kiss. He could smell the nutmeg almost as much as he could taste the cinnamon on his lips.

“Mmm we should bake pumpkin pie tonight.” He said, pulling away just enough so he could talk.

“I would like that.” Cas answered. “All four of us could make pie. According to the 'mom blogs', as you call them, it would be a good family bonding exercise.”

“That’s right. And if they want any pie, they gotta help make it. That means more for us if they refuse.” He grinned.

“A win-win situation, really.” Cas smiled before tugging Dean close so their lips met again.

“I love you.” Dean muttered.

“I love you too.” Cas said softly.

Behind their backs Sam and Eileen were fake-gagging at their sickly sweet interaction, but secretly just glad the two of them had finally gotten over their stubborn (and oblivious) selves.

Sam was honestly overjoyed to see his brother finally happy. He would even go as far as saying finally willing to be himself, too. (Not that he would ever say this outloud. Sam can practically see Dean’s eyes roll farther back into his head than should be possible at the words.) All four of them had gone through more shit in the last few months than any normal person would in their entire life. They were all just lucky to be alive, and with that, learning how to savour the little moments of overly sweet normalcy.

(And the pumpkin spice-life Dean had secretly been longing for since they were little kids.)

So of course they were going to help bake pie.

---

“I want to try Starbucks.” Cas said the next morning, both of them still in bed.

Dean groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Can I ask why, or is this one of those, 'I'll tell you later’ disasters like with the slime ingredients?”

“I want to try all the human things that I didn't get to try last time.” He said offhandedly.

Dean pictured Cas’s hurt face when he had told him he couldn’t stay, smile broken as Dean’s own heart shattered from the look the newly-human angel was giving him.

He wanted to tell him it was going to be okay, that Cas himself wasn’t the reason, but the lion in his stomach clawed the words down faster than even the thought of ruining Sam’s chances at survival could.

With a pang of guilt from the memory, Dean pulled himself closer to Cas and rested his head on the other man’s chest. He wrapped his arms around him, trying to preserve as much warmth and comfort as he could until they had to inevitably get out of bed. “Only if you let me sleep like this for thirty more minutes.”

Cas smiled. “Oh, are we making deals now?”

“I’d sell my soul for you.” Dean said cheekily, which earned a glare from Cas. “Believe me, I know.”

After a beat he went on. “Fine, you have a deal.” Before Dean could celebrate by tugging the covers over their bodies, Cas added another clause to their agreement. “But... in true Crowley fashion, you have to seal the deal with a kiss.”

Dean lazily threw his arms into the air. “Victory.”

He turned over, pulling himself upwards until he was just inches from Cas. Cradling the angel-turned-Winchester’s head in his hands, Dean placed his lips on Cas’s, melting into the touch as he felt the other man’s arms wrap around his torso.

When he broke away from the kiss, Dean found himself face to face with the most beautiful smile he had ever laid eyes on, one born from adoration and love. Cas’s eyebrows were slightly scrunched up, but for once it wasn’t a sign of confusion when met with some obscure eighties rock reference. It was a tiny expression of care, and it was one that was truly Cas. Not Jimmy’s, not even one Cas had picked up from him or Sam. It was completely and wholly Cas, and a completely and wholly human thing to do.

He realized Cas had been doing that long before the Empty stole his grace.

Dean smiled back at him, relaxed. Like taking in a deep breath after being under murky water for forty years. He brushed a loose strand of soft, brown hair into its place, before falling back into his spot and closing his eyes. “Crowley would be proud.” He whispered with a soft laugh, smile deepening as Cas joined him.

When their quiet laughter died out, there was a pause, air stagnant and in its own sleepy haze

“Oh and Dean?”

“Hm?” Dean turned his head to look at him, eyes not failing to glow with their unusually bright, green pigment. He took a deep breath, the lids of his eyes already started to slowly fall back down again.

“The slime wasn't a disaster. You enjoyed it.”

“I did.” He muttered sleepily, a loose smile forming on his lips as he drifted off to sleep. Cas laid there, running his fingers through the other man’s hair, contentment and admiration showing itself in every feature on his face.

This was more than he could have ever wanted.

---

“Dean. Dean wake up.” Cas was excitedly whisper-shouting in his ear like a kid on Christmas morning. It was exactly thirty minutes later, (he had counted), and Cas was ready to get moving.

“No.” He answered back, mimicking Cas’s tone.

“But you’re like a cat.” He teased. “You're on me and I can't get up.”

Dean sighed. “I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

“It didn't take much convincing.”

Dean rolled over to give Cas a playful glare, but was met with the saddest puppy dog eyes he had ever seen, completely throwing him off his guard.

“I'm going to kill Sam for teaching you that.”

Cas just continued to give him that look.

“Fine.” Dean relented, sitting up with a yawn and thinking about how he will now never be able to win another argument.

“Get dressed.” Cas said excitedly. “We're going to Starbucks.”

“Hooray.” He gave a sarcastic laugh, but a smile creeped on his lips.

They walked out of their room together, heading towards the bunker’s library. Dean slid in one of the chairs, turning Sam’s still-open laptop around and waking it up.

Cas, meanwhile, turned to a random page of the lore book resting on the table and started reading in an attempt to pass the time.

The sound of Dean typing filled the air. “So, I just looked it up, and do we have to go to Starbucks?”

“Yes.” Cas said simply, not looking up from the book.

Dean groaned. “Cas there isn't one in the county, let alone Lebanon. That's probably why Sam and Eileen make their own.”

“Where's the closest one?” Cas asked, his blinding, blue eyes glaring at the back of Sam’s computer like he was trying to will the coffee shop to be near.

“I thought it was across state lines and in Nebraska at first, but it looks like there's a small one in a town called Washington. It's about 80 miles from here.”

“Let's go!” Cas excitedly straightened his trenchcoat and headed towards the door.

“Or, we could leave Starbucks to the fourteen year old girls.”

Cas turned back around and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure their entire demographic is fourteen year old girls, staff included.”

Alright, smartass. Dean thought, struggling to hide a smile.

Cas walked out the door, expecting Dean to follow.

“It takes an hour to get there, our coffee’s going to be cold by the time we get home, and it's freezing outside.” Dean muttered under his breath, but he grabbed his keys off the table and stood up, willing to follow Cas to the ends of the earth if it meant he would stay with him.

Not that he was going to enjoy this trip. In fact, he was currently doing the opposite of enjoying, and they hadn’t even gotten into the car yet. Starbucks. Starbucks. Really, Cas? Of all the places he wanted to go, it had to be Starbucks. He couldn’t want to explore humanity through Target or something?

Even Claire wouldn’t be caught dead in that place, with all the frou-frou toppings, elaborate drink mixes, and colourful, drizzled syrup. The people who go to Starbucks are the kind of people who like coffee that doesn’t taste like coffee. Teenage girls who might as well just be drinking whip cream, and that was without considering the seasonal drinks they fawn over.

Seasonal drinks that shouldn’t legally be allowed to be referred to as coffee.

Dean couldn’t believe he ever agreed to this, but still, he begrudgingly followed.

---

Using the GPS on Cas’s phone, (Dean said his insane directional skills helped out too), they found the Starbucks relatively easily once they were in the little town.

They parked the Impala, and Dean looked at the modern building. The green lettering contrasted with the tan plaster walls, spelling “Starbucks.”

He heard Cas get out, his feet making a crunching noise as they hit the gravel, and watched from across the top of the car as he started towards the coffee shop. Dean looked at the building warily, reluctance painted on his face.

Cas was telling him some random fact about a bird he saw, but Dean could only think about his reputation that was about to shatter like a vase dropping on tile floor.

Reputation with who? He didn't know.

Well, he had a vague idea, but chose not to let his thoughts wander that far.

It was okay. This was fine. He could swallow his pride and-

“Ooh. The peppermint mocha looks good.” Cas was reading the limited edition drinks on the drive-thru menu as they traveled across the parking lot.

Dean was going to barf.

They walked into the building, immediately hit with the overwhelming smell of excessive amounts of flavoured syrup indoused coffee. Dean glanced around the well-lit building, taking note of the many different people there.

(He wasn’t about to have any black-eyed minions reporting his Starbucks order to a very judgmental Queen of Hell.)

Cas pushed Dean’s protesting body into the line, looking pleased with the many different options written on the menu overhead.

He enjoyed the small touch of Cas’s hands on his back, moving him forwards to the line, but was grateful Cas was careful not to let them linger there too long.

He was still wary about doing… this, in public.

He knew Cas was patiently waiting for him to be ready, so he didn't know how to tell him that he might never be.

The teenager working the cash register interrupted his train of thought. “What will it be for ya?”

“I would like a peppermint mocha please.”

“Alrighty. And you?”

“I'll take just a black coffee.”

The barista looked unimpressed. “And your names?”

Dean grinned. “John and John.”

“No relation.” Cas added.

The barista just sighed. “How do you want me to differentiate the two of ‘em then?”

“Oh you can put ‘John Bonham’ on mine.” Dean replied.

“Comin’ right up.” Their tone didn't change, still just full of apathy that could only be perfected by the work of a burnt-out teenager.

Dean and Cas walked down to the end of the counter and towards the pickup section. “Now tell me, Castiel.” He stressed his partner’s name. “Who’s John Bonham?”

Cas sighed, but the corner of his mouth upturned in a grin. “John Henry Bohnham, affectionately referred to as ‘Bonzo’, born in 1948 and was most well known for being the drummer of the rock band ‘Led Zeppelin’.”

“Mmm very close, but unfortunately you forgot the word ‘best’ in front of ‘rock band.’” Dean smirked before leaning in for a chaste kiss.

“You should have said I was ‘John Bon Jovi.’” Cas said, smiling.

“Why? Because you’re only good at this sometimes?” Dean closed the gap between them.

As soon as their lips met, Dean pulled away instinctively, realization hitting him like a hunter with a bat as his eyes widened in terror. “I-I'm sorry, I didn’t...” His words faltered as he looked around at the people sitting in the coffee shop, all of which were paying no mind to them.

He felt sick, guilt gnawing at him from a pit in his stomach.

“Hey, it's okay Dean. You know I'm perfectly fine with public displays of affection, and no one else even saw us. There's no need to apologize.”

“Yeah-h.” He said shakily. Before he could figure out who he was apologizing to, a voice from behind the counter called.

“I have an order for a mister ‘John’ and ‘John Bonham’.”

“That's us.” Dean spat the words out quickly, turning around to take them from the barista’s hand. He rushed out of the door, the small tinkling sound of the welcome bell and the blood rushing to his ears drowning out the sound of Cas’s call from behind.

He sat in the front seat of Baby, knowing he was being childish. Dean took a shaky breath and tried not to think about it.

About what the hell he was thinking, kissing Cas out in public like that. The judgemental eyes- black or not- that were watching. He thought about what his father would say, mind instantly going back to a moment in his childhood he has tried to forget since it happened, wondering where he went wrong.

About the time John had caught him and Lee, ignoring the weak excuses Dean was stuttering out. Skipping town faster than they had done in years.

About how the left side of his face had been a yellow-ish purple for weeks following, and the sore spot on his arm from where he caught the pavement as he flew towards it.

About how he had told Sam he just fell on a hunt. “Don't worry kid, you should have seen the vamp when I was done with him.” He swung his fist around in slow motion, pretending to punch an invisible enemy as his little brother giggled in childish bliss.

About how John never looked at him the same. The disgust in his eyes, harsh words on his lips.

About how he vowed to never disappoint his father like that again, and their joint hatred for that part of him. Sometimes it felt like the only thing they could agree on.

About how somewhere, somehow, he had decided Cas was different. That he somehow didn’t count, and that losing him hurt so much, was such an egregious pain, he wanted as much of Cas as he was allowed to have. And how that was something insurmountable stronger than the twisted, sick feeling John had placed in his gut.

He remembered something Cas had told him once: “Hatred isn’t a natural trait, Dean, it’s a learned one. A baby isn’t born with the ability to hate, it’s passed on from one broken soul to another. Love, love however. That’s something different altogether.”

Cas’s hand on his shoulder pulled Dean out of his thoughts. “Hey.” He said softly.

“Hey Cas.”

“I love you.” He got in the passenger's seat, taking his coffee from Dean’s still frozen hand.

“I love you too.” He whispered absentmindedly, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing but thoughts from the past. His mind fighting an internal battle, logic telling him that what he had with Cas wasn’t wrong, and even though everything from fate to God had tried to wedge itself between them, it was still the most right thing he had. And he knew that, but his dad’s drunken, booming voice echoed throughout his head, telling him that he was dirty. Telling him the Winchester men had no place for someone like him.

“You better stop that now, boy. Bad things happen to you when you’re weak.”

At the time he had taken that as a warning, rather than a threat. But now Dean wasn’t so sure.

It’s not even that his Dad was particularly religious. He wasn’t told that it was a sin, or that he was going to Hell. Though it’s not like that particular statement would have been wrong. He thought with a bitter laugh.

While the thoughts in his head were screaming mercilessly, the drive home was in a simple silence. The only noise being Cas’s occasional sip, and the sound of soft fabric rubbing against skin as Cas moved his hand in small, comforting motions against Dean's back.

When they got to the bunker, Cas, who was genuinely impressed that Dean managed to drive them home without crashing into a tree, pulled Dean out of the car and gently shook him out of his self-imposed stupor.

“Your coffee's cold.” Cas said with a laugh.

Dean blinked a couple times, clearing the fog from his mind, before laughing along with him. “And who’s fault is that? You were the one who insisted on traveling across the state to get it.”

“Do you want some of mine?” Cas asked. “There's a little bit left, and I held it next to the heater. It should still be lukewarm.”

“No thanks, Cas. I can go make some in the kitchen.”

“But what if I want you to try it?” Dean glared at him. “Don't make me do Sam’s ‘puppy dog eyes’ again.”

“Okay, okay. You win.” He put his hands up, mimicking a surrender. “I'll try some of your stupid, Christmas cookie, candy-cane flavoured coffee thing or whatever.” They started walking towards the entrance to the bunker.

“Peppermint mocha?”

“That's the one.”

Cas laughed at him.

“Oh just, give it here.” Dean said. He took a long sip from the disposable cup. He could taste a vague hint of whipped cream mixed in with the coffee, its light fluffy texture sticking to the last swallow of smooth liquid in the bottom of the cup. The chocolate and espresso rested on his tongue, and the peppermint was strong and refreshing. He took another sip.

“Does that face mean you like it?”

Dean looked at him guiltily. “No.” He opened the bunker’s door and started walking down the metal stairs.

“Yes you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“You took a second sip.”

Dean reached the bottom of the stairs first, and walked over to the War Room table to set both coffee cups and his keys down.

“So? I was trying to make sure I properly understood the flavour. Since when is that a crime?”

“You wanted to properly understand a flavour you didn't like?” Cas walked up to Dean and pulled the nearest chair out to sit down.

“What are you two arguing about this time?” Eileen asked from the library.

Cas clenched both of his hands into fists, putting the right one on top of the other. He made small, circular, stirring motions with his right hand. “Coffee.” He signed swiftly, movements fluid.

“Ah. That makes sense.” She spoke the words.

“What makes sense?” Sam asked, walking in from one of the hallways, making sure Eileen could see his lips before speaking.

“They're arguing over coffee again.”

Sam glanced at both of them, before his eyes reached the two cups on the War Room table.

“Wait a second… Dean?” He looked at his brother, before turning to face his best friend. “Cas?”

“Yes, Sam?” Cas answered.

“Did you two go to Starbucks?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Dean grumbled.

“Yes, we did!” Cas sounded way too excited to be referring to coffee. “I got a peppermint mocha, and Dean tried some and liked it.”

“I did not.”

“I don't care what coffee you like, Dean. What I do care about is that you went all the way to Starbucks, and didn't bother to ask if we wanted to come.”

“Not cool Dean.” Eileen walked in, shaking her head and hiding a smile.

“I might have thought about buying you two drinks, but there was no way I was ordering yours with a straight face.” He looked at Sam. “And it's an hour away, they wouldn't have been hot or cold or whatever they're supposed to be by the time we got here.”

“Well then we'll just have to go back, all four of us.” Eileen put simply.

“It's an hour away.”

“We know.” Sam added.

“Let me say that again, in case you weren’t listening. It's an hour away. For coffee. That isn't even that good.”

“I beg to differ, Dean.” Cas said.

“Yeah I'm definitely with Cas on this one.” Eileen agreed while Sam nodded along.

“No. There's no way I'm getting back in Baby to drive all the way to Starbucks again.”

“Fine. We’ll go get our own.”

“With what car?” Dean said, very sure of himself.

Sam snatched Baby’s keys off the war room table, which in hindsight was probably something Dean should have expected.

“Let's hope Sam doesn't have too many shots of espresso.” Eileen said, faking concern. “I would hate for your baby to pay the price.”

“Fine. I'll drive you.” Dean grumbled while Eileen double fist-pumped her win.

Cas looked very pleased with the thought of getting to try more coffee.

---

They left shortly after, the drive over painful for everyone except Dean, who listened to the same four songs on repeat the entire hour.

(It’s their own fault, really.)

---

“Can we please listen to something other than Bob Seger on the trip home?” Sam complained as he slammed shut the door to Baby’s backseat.

“You’re just mad you didn’t get shotgun.” Dean said, closing his own door. “Besides, driver picks the music, everyone else shuts their cakehole.” Sam mouthed the words along with Dean, having heard the speech a million times before.

Eileen and Cas got out, neither one of them had any desire to input on their squabble, and were instead engaged in their own, quieter discussion.

Both brothers continued to argue until they walked into the Starbucks.

“Ah. There's the scent of overpriced coffee I missed.” Eileen joked as she took her first breath inside the building, using her hand to waft the smell towards her.

“What are you getting?” Cas asked Sam.

“I want my usual, and Eileen, what are you having?”

“Hot chocolate with espresso shots please. This place doesn't sell liquor.” She shook her head sadly and Sam laughed. “Good thing I brought my own.” She winked at them, opening her jacket just enough so they could see the inside pocket and showing off her flask.

“Oh, now that would be a Starbucks I would go to.” Dean said.

“You two wait in line.” Sam pointed to Cas and Dean. “We’ll save a table.”

Dean looked like he wanted to protest, but they walked away before he had the chance. Cas leaned over towards him. “Don't worry. I'll order Sam’s.” He very conspicuously winked.

Dean smiled at his attempts of regular human interaction, before over-the-top winking himself.

“Can you order for us? I need to talk to Sam about something.”

“Sure thing…” Cas had to think before finishing his sentence. “...buckaroo.”

Dean outwardly cringed. “Keep trying, you'll get there eventually.” He patted Cas on the back, which was slightly moving in a chuckle.

It was good to see Cas filled with so much simple joy. Face creased from laughter rather than stress, he seemed so much lighter. Happier. It was only a small sliver of what he deserved, but it was something. Maybe he could live with driving an hour to get what he assumed was half-decent coffee.

“What would you like?” Cas asked him, eyes still filled with a sparkle that only comes from gaining something you thought you lost.

“Uh.” He thought about it for a moment, almost considering branching out into the unexplored terrain that was the dark green menu with small, white text, before shuddering at the thought.

“I think I'll take that expensive black coffee I didn't get earlier.”

Dean was not going to turn into one of those people, if he had any say about it.

Cas walked into the line, leaving Dean to scan the room, furiously waving Sam over when his eyes found their booth.

“Sam.” He sounded like he was trying to whisper, but his volume raised far higher than that. The patron closest to Dean gave him a look before turning back to their work.

“Sam, come here, it's urgent.” His brother turned to look at him, rolling his eyes before getting out of the booth.

“What do you want?” He said once he reached Dean.

“Sam. Help. What do I do?”

“About what?”

“About what kind of coffee Cas is having.”

“Oh god, Dean let it go. He's not going to only ever drink black coffee. Contrary to popular belief, former angels do actually have souls.”

Dean ignored the implications that he didn't have a soul, too distracted by Cas. “But look.” He motioned his head towards where Cas was standing, next in line to order. “He’s eyeing the weird fruity drinks.”

“Dean. It's Cas. The man’s favorite food is PB&J. What did you expect him to have, taste?”

“Alright that's rich coming from mister Pinkity Drinkity or whatever the fuck.”

“You walked into a Starbucks and ordered black coffee, I don't think I'm the wrong one here.”

“Wait, wait. Shut up. Quiet.” He hit Sam on the shoulder in a childish attempt at getting him to stop talking so he could listen.

“Ow. That hurt.” Sam muttered, before turning to watch Cas, which Dean was already doing.

“I would like to try a…” Cas methodically scanned the menu again. “A ‘Passion Tango Iced Tea,’ please.” The barista took no mind to the excessive air quotes.

“It's not even coffee.” Dean said to Sam, clearly distraught. He turned to look back at Cas.

“And your name sir?”

“Lizzo.”

Dean threw his arms up into the air. “I can't believe this is the man I love.” His voice cracked like he was holding in tears of anguish from listening to Cas order.

Sam just rolled his eyes at the theatrics. Right, and he’s the dramatic one.

“Aw. You're in love.” Sam held his hands up, forming a heart and mocking his brother.

“Oh shut up. What are you, seven?”

“Is Cas your gay thing?”

“You shut your mo-”

“What are we gossiping about?” Eileen whispered, cutting Dean off and causing them both to jump.

“We're not gossiping.” Sam said indignantly.

“Sam started it.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“This is where I call you two ‘asshats’, right?”

“It's ‘assbutt.’” Cas said, walking up to them and catching the tail end of their conversation. “And that's my line.”

Cas handed them each their drinks, before excitedly trying his own. He put the plastic cup up to his mouth, almost missing the straw. When he swallowed the cranberry-colored liquid, his face relaxed in pleasure.

“I know this one isn't coffee, but it's really good.”

“We didn't get coffee either.” Eileen said. “So don't worry, Dean's the odd man out here.”

Dean glared at her before trying his own coffee, and well, it was coffee. The point of buying expensive caffeine still went straight over his head.

The four of them went over to their thankfully-still-available booth and sat down. Dean and Cas sat on one side, both instinctively choosing the side that faced the door, with Sam and Eileen sliding into the seats directly across from them. They sat there, talking about nothing in particular, and certainly nothing of importance, before falling into the natural art of storytelling.

Aside from killing monsters, that’s what hunters did best. Sitting around and sharing stories. As tiring and dangerous as their lives were, some hunts were worth sharing exaggerated and hyperbolic versions of, especially over drinks.

Sam’s favourite story to tell changed every time, and one would almost be inclined to believe that most of it wasn't real, but the wildest parts also caused the most merriment. (Dean pretended he hadn’t witnessed the whole thing, sparing Sam by not telling the other two how it actually went down.)

Eileen shared of her time in Ireland. “Foreign country, foreign monsters.” She said with a wink, telling of creatures neither Sam nor Dean had even read about.

Dean’s favourite story to tell, aside from the fact that he killed Hitler, was the time he got to solve a mystery with everyone’s favorite talking dog. And yeah, all three of the people that sat at the table had heard both many times before, but that didn't matter, it was still enrapturing to hear them again.

Cas had millenniums to choose from, but always found the most interesting hunts to be the ones with the Winchesters. He also had many hilarious stories about his adventures with Crowley, but he was less fond of those.

“I remember once, Dean went on a hunt with Dad.” Sam started. “Nasty vampire, it got a hit or two on Dean. I think you guys went with another hunter. Young. About your age, actually. Uh…”

He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name. “Lee. That's it.” Dean looked up from the coffee right as Sam said it. “Do you remember him?”

Something flashed in Dean’s eyes, but his brother didn't seem to notice.

Cas, who was used to admiring every minute detail of Dean's expression and posture, didn't miss the ever so slight, yet sharp, inhale. Or the way he swallowed before speaking, trying to clear the small lump from his throat.

Dean noticed too, internally rolling his eyes at his own reaction.

“Yeah it's been a while, but I remember him.” Dean was blatantly ignoring Cas’s burning stare from beside him, and the fact that he had stabbed Lee through the chest just last year.

Cas made sure no one was watching before gently placing a hand on Dean’s thigh. Knowing it would comfort him from both intuition and experience. Dean stiffened under the touch, but after realizing no one could see where Cas’s hand was, he visibly relaxed.

“What happened to him?” Eileen asked innocently.

“Oh uh, a hunt I think. Most of us go that way, I assume he was no different.” Technically Dean dealt the final blow, but it was the entrancing call of the monster, greed, and the life Lee and Dean had both secretly wanted, that caused his former-friend’s downfall in the end.

“Yeah.” Sam said solemnly, suddenly lost in his own thoughts, most of which were riddled with grief.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the weight of their many losses wash over them like a tidal wave.

One made of espresso and milk rather than the rough waters of the sea.

---

The ride back was more manageable, Dean allowing them one song choice each, complete with a warning to pick wisely.

(They all very cheekily chose the songs they knew would bother Dean the most.)

---

Full on coffee, cookies Dean bought for them at Starbucks, and brimming with contentment, (as well as the fact that they spent half the day in the car), Cas suggested to Dean that they “hit the hay” as they stepped back into the bunker.

They laid there in silence, breathing in scents of comfort, coffee, and each other, until Cas eventually drifted off to sleep.

Dean, however, continued to lay there. Thinking.

He remembered the first solo case John sent him on.

Something curled inside his gut.

They had been two nuns, their fate a product of hate crime. Put to death for simply being themselves.

Dean didn't blame them for coming back as ghosts.

He remembered the words - ones he would soon learn were slurs - that John would spit out like acid.

Or offhandedly toss like they didn't bear enough weight to shatter the window of a person's self-image.

It had taken him almost forty years to realize that very same window inside of him was in sharp, jagged pieces. Cutting anyone and everyone who came near.

It had taken Cas dying to start picking them up again.

He turned to look at the man next to him, relaxed and blissfully sleeping. His chest moved up and down rhythmically, and Dean slowed his breath to match until he fell into a surprisingly peaceful slumber.

---

When Dean woke up, the other side of his bed was cold.

He didn't panic, knowing full well that Cas probably ran to the bathroom, or was pouring another mountain of sugar in his coffee.

Losing Cas again to the Empty had ripped him apart, but months of spending every night with his partner left him with less nightmares and waking in cold sweats then he had since before Hell.

Dean also learned that his own presence was enough to fight off the demons of solid, black goo that plagued Cas’s head at night.

He was finally starting to understand why life seemed to lose all meaning when Cas was gone, and from there he could slowly start to rebuild both of them.

Dean heard soft padding noises as socked feet walked down the hall, and there was a knock on the bedroom door. "S'your room too, Cas. You don't have to knock." He laughed, words slightly slurred from just waking up

Cas walked in, wielding two mugs of coffee and a proud look shining in his eyes. “I made us coffee.” He said triumphantly, handing one of the mugs to Dean.

“I put chocolate and peppermint in your coffee.”

Dean fake-gasped. “You monster. Ruining the integrity of my drink like that.”

“I'm a human, you ass.” Cas responded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Besides, I know you liked mine yesterday.”

“I did not.” He said, discontentedly crossing his arms. “I only drink coffee that's as black as my soul. Darker than the night sky. Hotter than the bunker’s computer when it overheats. As manly as-”

“Oh, just drink your damn coffee.”

“Fine.” He groused. “But I'm not enjoying it.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at him, before setting his mug on the bedside table and sitting down behind Dean. The bed creaked underneath him as he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist. “Is this why you and Sam never use umbrellas?” He joked.

Dean laughed.

Cas rested his head on the crook of Dean’s neck and whispered. “You know you don't have to pretend.”

“Pretend what?” Dean asked softly.

“You know.”

“That I don’t like flavoured coffee?” He said with a snort.

“Sort of.” Cas hugged him tighter. “No one’s going to think any less of you Dean. You’re allowed to like the things you like.”

“I know.” He resigned.

“John isn't here anymore.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” The words barely came out as a whisper, hot tears betraying Dean’s eyes as they silently leaked out and ran down his cheeks.

He tried to wipe the tears away, hearing his Dad’s voice in his head and knowing he was being stupid.

Dean couldn't help but think of himself as a small, living-room window, from an old, dilapidated house. Stained yellow with age. Cracking from wear.

He let the drumming of his Dad’s words in his head be drowned out by Cas’s voice.

He couldn't unwrap the fuzz from around him, so he didn't know what Cas was saying, ears seemingly filled with cotton. It was just the knowledge alone that he was there. That he was holding him and whispering comforting words into his ear. That even as a human he could heal Dean at his lowest points, and still see him as the brightest, strongest, soul.

You don't really know what a picture is going to be until it's done.

Maybe that window is a beautiful stained-glass portrait.

“Uh.” Dean cleared his throat. “What-what do you have?” He indicated Cas’s coffee by angling his head towards where it sat on the nightstand.

“I made iced coffee.”

Dean just looked at him, astounded, eyes widening. “You mean it’s not hot?”

“Yes, that's where the ‘iced’ in ‘iced coffee’ comes from.” He said very seriously.

They both sat in silence for the next hour, peacefully drinking their coffee and enjoying the presence of one another.

---

When they got out of bed and ventured into the rest of the bunker, they found Sam and Eileen in the library.

They were sitting in adjacent chairs, with Eileen laying her head on Sam’s shoulder and reaching for her water bottle on the table. They were reading a book together, but Eileen shook Sam indicating she had seen them walk in.

“Goodmorning.” She greeted cheerfully.

“Mornin’.” Dean pulled up a chair across from them, and watched as Cas did the same.

“What are you two reading?” Cas asked.

“The Men of Letters’s Bestiary.” Sam said.

Dean snorted. “Ah. Doing a little light reading are we?”

“We're thinking about filling in some of the pages.” Eileen added.

“Yeah, for all of the stuff they have here, it's surprisingly empty.” Sam continued flipping through some of the pages, most of which were blank.

“Heh. I should put you in that thing, Cas.”

Cas let out a laugh. “Right. Because I’m a good example of an angel.” The sarcasm was masking something else in his voice.

“If it makes you feel any better, you’ve always been my favourite angel.” Dean only realised how sappy he sounded after it came out of his mouth.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the rest of them are dicks.” Eileen added.

Cas smiled at that, seemingly back to normal.

“Right, well you three can do that, I'm off to the Dean Cave.”

“Or…” Sam started.

“We could go back to Starbucks.” Cas finished, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Yeah... that's not where I was going with that, but I like where your head’s at, Cas. We should definitely go back.”

“Eileen?” He asked.

“Hell yeah.”

“Dean?”

Dean pressed his mouth into a thin line and glared at him. “Yes, sure, fine. But we're not making this a daily thing.”

“That's fair.” Cas agreed. “It's probably not very healthy.”

He went to grab his wallet and keys before Sam could start his speech on the nutritional value of green things, and Eileen snatched her water bottle off the library table as they all got up to leave.

---

Dean gave up on letting them choose the music after snickering and requesting “Friday” by Rebecca Black for the third time in a row.

(It wasn't even Friday?)

---

Dean stepped out and closed Baby’s door in the parking lot of Starbucks an hour later, kicking the loose pieces of gravel on the asphalt for the third time in two days.

“We might as well just live here.” He said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I wouldn't make that offer if I were you, Cas looks like he’d be totally on board.” Sam laughed.

Cas went and stood beside Dean as they started walking towards the building, smiling.

“What?” Dean asked, question genuine and free of all malice.

“Nothing.” Cas answered, smile not faltering.

His eyes revealed nothing but pure devotion for the man he was staring at. A silent promise, one without pressure, that he would be standing there, and Dean could take the leap anytime he wanted.

Dean was slowly inching towards the end of the diving board.

---

“I think I'll just drink my water.”

“Oh that's exciting.” Sam joked. “If I got you a lemon to go with it, would you be able to handle that?”

“Don't talk to me about my drink, when yours is a vivid green puke colour.”

“Hey, at least it actually has a colour. And a flavour at that.”

Dean couldn’t believe those words were coming from the same man who drinks exactly a hundred and one ounces of water a day. (Which, according to Sam, is the recommended amount for males, as stated by the Institute of Medicine.)

(Dean didn’t care.)

“Fine then.” She turned to look at Dean. “Get me the strongest thing on the menu.”

Dean laughed before turning to Cas. “Let's just go get in line before we suffer at the hands of the Leahy like Sam.”

Sam and Eileen went to look for a place where they could all sit again, playfully bickering the entire way.

While he was standing in line with Cas, Dean looked over at his brother, and found him and Eileen sitting at a small table in the corner.

Cas was still helping him learn ASL, so he caught parts of their conversation.

“If Jack is in every drop of rain, do you think he's in your water?” Sam signed, trying to contain his laughter.

Eileen pushed her water away with a look of disgust. “You’re lucky I love you.” She answered back.

“I know I am.”

He watched her silently laugh before turning back to look at Cas.

They really did have it good, didn't they?

“What are you ordering, Dean?”

Dean stood there silently, contemplating. He internally weighed his pros and cons, mind leaving the menu entirely. While there was still a lot of shit he had to work through, (shit he had been actively not working out his entire life), there wasn’t much of a decision to be made.

He would always choose Cas.

“You know what?” He reached out and grasped Cas’s hand firmly. “I was thinking about being less boring. What ingredients do you suggest I try?”

Cas smiled warmly, reaching the crinkled corners of his eyes. “They have a cinnamon flavoured one. That’ll be almost like apple pie.”

“Will it really?” Dean’s tone was dismissive, but there was a smile on his face.

“Yes, Sam told me.“

“Not that I trust Sam’s judgment, but okay, I think I’ll take one of those.”

“I'm going to have a real pumpkin spice latte this time.” Cas seemed very pleased with the aspect of buying something they could make it home, but Dean wasn't going to fault him for it.

The patron in front of them finished ordering, clearing the way for Cas and Dean. The barista from the first time they went caught sight of them and made a face. “Wait a minute. I think I know you two.”

“Yes, we came here yesterday.” Cas helped. “Well, we actually visited twice, but you weren't working the second time.”

“Right... John and John, how could I forget?”

“This time we're ordering for four though.”

“I would like a…” Dean squinted at the menu, looking for the cinnamon flavoured coffee. “‘Cinnamon Dolce Latte.’ And my devilishly handsome friend here will take the pumpkin spice version.”

“And what are the other two drinks and names?”

Dean whispered something in Cas’s ear. “I'll drink the coffee, but I won't budge on this one.”

“That's okay Dean, you’ll get there eventually.” He whispered back.

The barista looked unimpressed with them. Again.

Dean cleared his throat. “Ahem, sorry. The tall one with the stupidly long hair,” he pointed towards Sam, “is getting…” he trailed off before looking to Cas for help.

“I don't know, man. It was something sickly looking. Cold? Green? Possibly tea?”

“And Iced Green Tea Latte?” The barista suggested.

“That's the one. His name is Jimmy.”

“And the lovely lady sitting next to him would like the strongest drink you have. Her name is Robert.”

“Her name is Robert…?” He slowly pointed towards Eileen, sounding unsure of himself.

Or them.

“Yup.” Cas said.

Eileen gave a little wave from across the room.

He gritted his teeth in a very clearly fake smile. “Coming right up.”

They paid for their coffee and picked it up, taking the travel cups across the room and towards Sam and Eileen.

Cas took a sip from his pumpkin spice latte, gleefully smiling. “As much as I like trying different drinks, I think I might start just getting this one. It's my favourite.”

Sam leaned over to Dean, neither one taking their eyes off of Cas. “Should we tell him the drink is seasonal?” He glanced at Sam, before staring back at his partner, whose face was beaming like a literal ray of sunshine.

Dean’s face softened. “Nah. Let’s not ruin his moment.” He took a sip of his cinnamon coffee and damn, it was delicious.

Nothing at all like apple pie, but still delicious.

Cas walked over to him, making eye contact in a silent question. Dean nodded with a small smile, and Cas took his hand.

“I love you.” Cas whispered.

“I love you too.” He whispered back.

They didn’t whisper to hide, and it wasn't because he was ashamed. It was because that exchange was just for them.

Dean leaned in and softly kissed Cas.

Now that was to tell everyone in the shop that his devilishly handsome friend was spoken for.

Slowly, the sun would come out and shine through the stained-glass window, shadow portraying the picture of an angel.

And alright, fine, Dean could admit that he enjoyed the peppermint mocha.

He thought about it for a moment, before giving a light chuckle, realising something.

“What?” Cas asked, turning to look at him with a soft smile resting on his face.

“Nothing.” Dean whispered, squeezing Cas’s hand in his. He took a sip from his coffee, relishing in the warm and cozy flavour enrapturing his tongue.

He was only thinking that maybe, just maybe,

Cas had changed him too.

---

Bonus Epilogue:

Dean held the glass door open for the other three, and they all walked out onto the asphalt, laughing, and making their way towards Baby.

The street lamp overhead flickered, and all four of them froze.

“Did anyone happen to get the salted caramel macchiato?” Dean whispered.

---

-This fic on Ao3 (Kudos and comments would be greatly appreciated.)

-Writing Tag

-Ao3

-Request fics/drabbles/ficlets. (Please)

17 notes · View notes

hermannsthumb · 4 years

Note

Would you please be willing to write 54 from the winter prompt list? About having a rough day?

54. we don’t really know each other but you look like you’re having a rough day so i got you my favourite hot drink from the cafe

from winter writing prompts here

sometimes it’s fun to write things where they were never penpals and they’re just kind of bastards to each other. this is a WELL needed break from working on finals and zine stuff

-------------------

Newt’s not really sure what he did to be stuck with this utter bastard of a lab partner—what sort of, like, karmic punishment he’s facing, and for what, or who high in command he pissed off in his job interview—but in terms of utter bastards, Hermann Gottlieb pretty much takes the cake. He snaps at Newt over everything. He tears down Newt’s theories in front of their superiors whenever he gets the chance. The dude even took a fucking roll of tape and divided the lab in half just so he wouldn’t have to look at Newt’s face—totally nuts behavior. Like, right? Who does that? He’s not even sure why they have to share a lab in the first place. It’s not like Hermann’s jumping at the chance to stick his arms in a kaiju chest cavity with Newt, or Newt can make head or tails of Hermann’s bizarre equation chains. Half of him is convinced they’re all just bullshit, anyway. But whatever.

At least Hermann’s being significantly less of a bastard today. Newt hasn’t heard one peep out of him—not even when Newt started playing music without his headphones, or knocked a whole chunk of kaiju intestine over onto the floor and it rolled (with a series of admittedly nasty splats) an inch across the dreaded tape line. He’s just been standing, motionless, at his chalkboard. All day. Not even writing anything. Occasionally, Newt’s heard him sigh.

It’s a drastic departure from the routine Newt’s used to. Newt doesn’t care about Hermann—he really doesn’t—but if he did, he might be…a little worried about the guy.

Hermann sighs again. This time, he wipes a hand down his face.

Oh, good grief.

Newt pulls off his work gloves with two snaps, switches his headlamp off, and clears his throat. “Hey, uh,” he says, timidly, and cringes at himself even as he does. Newt would say his odds are 50-50 that Hermann’s just gonna yell at him to mind his own business and get back to work. “Gottlieb? Hermann?”

Hermann turns from his chalkboard with a low “Mm?”

He has dark circles under his eyes; his collar, Newt notices, is tucked into his shirt, and one shirttail hangs out from his sweatervest, like he was distracted when he got dressed this morning. It’s the most disheveled Newt has ever seen him. Instantly, he feels a strange surge of pity for his weird, prickly lab partner. “You all good over there, dude?” Newt says.

“Yes,” Hermann says.

Then he sighs, and sits down heavily on the metal stool he keeps next to his ladder. It looks like the most uncomfortable thing in the world. “Frankly, no, Dr. Geiszler,” he says. “I’ve not had—the best of days.”

“Oh,” Newt says. He scuffs his boot against the floor. “…Do you want to, like…talk about it or something?”

Hermann works his weird, angular jaw furiously. For a second time, Newt’s sure the rebuke is coming—the stay out of my private affairs, Dr. Geiszler, an invitation for Newt to fire back at him with a nasty jab of his own, and then they can both be on their merry way like it never happened—but none does. “I am sure you have noticed I am not making as much headway in the updated jaeger coding as I would’ve liked,” Hermann says.

Newt didn’t notice. He doesn’t make a habit of paying attention to Hermann if he can help it. “Uh, sure,” he says.

“To put it lightly,” Hermann says, “I am stumped. And on top of this, my father—well.” He rubs his hands over his face again and doesn’t elaborate.

The amount Newt knows about Hermann can be counted on one hand. He knows that Hermann was like him—a child prodigy. He knows that Hermann cuts his own hair, because there’s no way something that bad could’ve been paid for, and Newt found dark brown hair clippings in the k-sci bathroom sink the same day Hermann’s bowlcut looked just a bit more severe than usual. He knows Hermann walks with a cane, but he doesn’t know why. He knows Hermann’s father founded the jaeger program, stuck his son at the head of it, and then suddenly and inexplicably publicly called for defunding it in favor of allocating resources to some stupid coastal wall instead. Newt can’t even imagine the pressure Hermann’s dad is putting him under to follow in his footsteps. Or how much harder it is for Hermann to complete even menial work tasks with that weighing over him. “Dude,” he says, sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

Hermann snorts.

“No, really,” Newt says, and he’s surprised to find he means it. Hermann is a bastard, but Newt kinda thinks he’s growing on him like…well, like a frumpy, bitchy old tumor. Or something like that. “I am. That really sucks. Can I help you with anything?”

“Not unless you can write this damn code for me,” Hermann says, scowling and banging the end of his cane against his chalkboard viciously. “Oh, never mind. I’m going to get a tea from the commissary before I tear my bloody hair out.”

He makes to stand, but Newt shakes his head, and says quickly, “No, dude, let me! Just stay here and chill. I was going to run out for a sandwich anyway.”

It’s a misstep, maybe—Hermann’s scowl darkens. But Newt presses on anyway. “Seriously, I’ll get it. I want to help you. Do you want a sandwich or anything too? Or noodles? I think the mess is serving noodles today. Or I could run out to get you takeout, whatever you want.”

“Newton,” Hermann says. Not Dr. Geiszler. Newt’s heart skips a beat for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. “I don’t want a sandwich or anything like that. I just want some tea.” His jaw moves back and forth again. “But—if you are so inclined to fetch it for me—I would…appreciate the gesture. I take it with milk and two sugars. Just a tea. That is all.”

“Okay!” Newt says, grinning goofily, and jogs from the lab.

He slams a bio-degradable cardboard coffee cup and a small box of pastries down onto Hermann’s desk thirty minutes later. Hermann, who was poring over a bewildering jumble of code on his computer screen, startles so badly his glasses slip off the end of his nose and bounce against his chest. He crooks his eyebrow at the cup and pastries. “Those are not from the commissary,” he says.

“They’re not,” Newt says. “Come on, the comm stuff is crap, you know they water everything down. There’s a café I go to just off base and they’ve actually got the good stuff.” It costs him a fucking fortune these days with rationing, especially on the tiny salary the PPDC is able to scrape together for him, but Newt firmly believes it’s worth it. Spending that much on Hermann is worth it too, he thinks, if it means Hermann can go back to their usual sparring faster. Sad, mopey Hermann unsettles Newt. He slides Hermann’s drink closer to him. “Come on, come onnn, try some.”

Hermann sniffs it suspiciously. He pries off the plastic lid, revealing a mountain of whipped cream and chocolate drizzle beneath. “This does not look like tea, either,” he says, and stares at Newt—unimpressed—over his glasses.

“It’s not,” Newt says. “It’s called the Geiszler—it’s my custom order at the shop. Well, I call it the Geiszler, anyway. I think they just call it ‘that one fucking guy is back again’.” Hermann cracks the world’s smallest smile, and Newt feels like he’s just scaled Mount Everest. He also feels like his stomach might twist itself up in knots, because it’s kinda a cute smile. Is that weird to think about Hermann like that? It’s totally weird. Whatever. “Go on, try it, for real. I promise it’s good.”

Hermann delicately snaps the lid back on and takes a long sip; he swallows, and hums thoughtfully. Newt has never cared about Hermann’s opinion this much before. “Well, it’s not tea,” Hermann finally says, “but I will admit it could be worse. Thank you.” He gives Newt another funny little sour smile—like it can’t decide if it wants to be a frown or not. “And thank you for the pastries, as well. Though I don’t know how on earth I’m meant to finish them all.”

“Dude, they’re totally not all for you,” Newt laughs. He digs one out of the box, takes a bite, and waves it at Hermann. Crumbs rain down on Hermann’s desk. “As if. We’re sharing.”

Hermann wrinkles his nose and sweeps off a layer of crumbs from some paperwork. “Hm,” he says. “Please do refrain from eating over my work station, Newton. I know you are far laxer with your sanitary habits, but…”

There it is again—Newton. Not Dr. Geiszler, and not Newt. No one’s called Newt Newton in years. It’s for the Newton that Newt forgoes the fight and just backs off with his pastry and a smile. “Sorry,” he says. “You’re right, that was rude of me. Enjoy the coffee.”

They’re back at each other’s throats in a day, but Hermann doesn’t stop calling him Newton, so Newt figures that’s gotta mean something.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

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abyssal-hoonter · 4 years

Text

Evie walked to the table and examined the papers laying on the wooden surface. She had spent years working on the research of the Pieces of Eden but this was the first time she had seen so much about the topic that she put all her mind and heart to care for. Her fingers glid slowly on the documents as she narrowed her eyes to focus on reading with the assistance of the Eagle vision.

There was nothing hidden here, on the lines, yet it could be the other person who was carrying something unclear and mysterious within her rib-cage. Evie turned and saw the woman got up on her feet by gripping the cane in her hand. The assassin felt pity, somehow, though she didn't know why she got that feelings for her enemy.

"Is it true that you want me to help?" Evie raised a question, and was responded by a simple nod. Of course, she hadn't found it enough to believe in, as she continued, "How could I know this is not a set up?"

The woman started to pace toward Evie and came a halt just at a dozen centimeters between them. She lifted her face to look at the young girl by an eye of pain and also, a small piece of disdain. She smiled. A smile that made Evie shiver.

"Were I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be standing here, staring at me like a hungry bullet awaiting to pierce through my body once again, Miss Frye." Lucy stated coldly and confidently with her voice lowered since tired and bored. Evie felt that. A voice that contained a fire of angry and disgust not toward Frye, but to the man that had used her for a very long time and now he was waiting to take over what was rightfully hers and keep those as his own possession. Crawford Starrick, a hypocrite who seemed to be promising and sophisticated upon his outlook, was really a too ambitious, power-hungry and ungrateful son of a bitch.

"You read the letter he sent me, didn't you? Didn't know how long he took to think of a way to comfort me for what he would do, but, I think that was quite enough." Lucy added, waving her hand into the air and walked to the table, "All these years working, bleeding myself dry to uphold the principles of our Order and all that for which we stand, without a thinking of betraying. Wow, Miss Frye, it had led me to this. What a miracle, isn't it?"

"You should have known it would come someday, sooner or later. Society and politics sometimes run by that way as well as people could live by cheating and robbing. You're in a higher place, I wonder why you didn't come to realize that, Miss Thorne." Evie shook her head in frustration.

Lucy took a manuscript on the table, showing it in the middle of the documents so that both women could observe it clearly under the light in Thorne's chamber.

"I thought about what you said. But still, there are hope and faith, victory and achievements we have. So I kept trying and fighting... At least it took him 10 years to cut down this partnership. This manuscript, it's mine, I got it in the auction where I met him for the first time. That was quite a long time, I suppose."

Lucy paused for a few seconds, thinking, and finally let out a chuckle, "Hm, I've been through a lot of things in my life, Miss Frye. Vengeance, well, vengeance is kind of a bad game that we shouldn't play it... But, it's fun, in my way." She narrowed her eyes and glared at the younger one as a mean of both evilness and pleasure. "Care to join me?"

"I'd rather not, Miss Thorne. I'm..."

"A coward, who stabs from behind and runs when face-to-face." Thorne laughed, for the first time in front of Evie and the assassin saw that redhead was pretty attractive and beautiful even when that was her archenemy who was supposed to be eliminated.

"I mean... I'm not sure about your method and your honesty. Even you can see how a Templar brings you disgust and hatred. We have observed for a very long time and see the way The Order treats the lives of people under their control. You say good but that's not what you bring. From oppression, corruption, exploitation and death they suffer." Evie shrugged, "I can't trust you, Miss Thorne... For now, at least... I still can't trust you immediately."

"I understand. I understand." Lucy blinked and nodded. "Everything and everyone has their own reasons. I'm sorry, Miss Frye. I took your time." The redhdead moved to sit down on a dark brown chair while Evie went to the opened window to flee from the manor. All of sudden, she turned back to look at Thorne. She didn't know why she did that but she had already done what she found hard to understand. Why does that older woman seem poor and lonely like that? Perhaps it is because she was still weak and pale after getting a big ass attack that had nearly taken her life? Or maybe it is something else the young girl hadn't figure out?

And she saw Lucy smoking at the table, coughing and breathing hard but still, the woman didn't stop. She smoked fast at a speed of completely consume a cigarette in half of a minute and continued to the point she coughed out her saliva. Evie couldn't stand that as she felt like each time Lucy made sound was a time her heart got punch. Eventually, she jumped back into the room, rushed to the table side and snatched the cigarette out of Lucy's hand in her surprise.

"You've honestly lost your mind!" The brunette's eyes wide opened and glared at Thorne angrily. "I didn't kill you but this one might." She threw the cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out by her heel.

Lucy watched the younger woman did that as she leaned backward and inhaled.

"I know you wouldn't trust me. Since our paths are crossed, we meet and fight, die and survive, not to share our stories nor listen to what the other say. For the first time, Miss Frye, may I ask what drove you to be an assassin?"

Evie looked at Lucy, face-to-face, and none of them blinked or a second until the Frye twin broke the silence.

"I was raised to be what I am now."

"You didn't choose to start it?" Lucy asked, and there was no answer.

Miss Thorne sighed, "Have you ever lost someone you really love, Miss Frye?"

Evie didn't know whether she should answer or not but finally, she swallowed hard, "Yes, I did. Why did you ask?"

"Because losing my daughter put an entrance for me to find the Shroud."

"Really? I'm sorry for your lost." Evie replied.

"Not your fault, Frye. To be honest, that's a long story if you're willing to spend time listening." Lucy released a soft smile.

"Alright then." Evie pulled the chair and sat down opposite to the woman, "This is strange. I could never believe I'll spend such a good time chatting with you, Miss Thorne. Especially..." She wasn't able to fill the sentence when she saw Lucy was staring at the floor, motionless like a statue showing its non-verbal sorrow.

"When I was 18, I saw a family in which the wife had a bad illness. The husband took a loan from some people and put the money into curing for his wife. Once she recovered, he worked his ass off to pay the debt, well, funds and profit, until he passed away for overexertion, leaving half of the debt to his poor family. His wife became a courtesan to earn living for both her and the daughter as well as paying the money. It wasn't long after that, the mother got killed by a robber, only for a few pounds, leaving the child totally alone then without any care or protection." Lucy paused as she poured the tea to the cups and gave one to Evie.

"What then?" Evie asked.

"I raised her on my own. And finally, ha, she left me 5 years ago. Tuberculosis. I watched the kid breathed her last."

Lucy stood up, looking outside the town, "I collected all of those memories and events only to have a question: Is there anyway I could do to make things less bitter? And I think... The Shroud's going to be one of the solutions."

Evie kept listening without saying a word. Perhaps she was opening her mind to digest something new and big.

"I see, that was quite a story."

"Uhm hum, so next time if you think all Templar are the same, then remember me. I might be fool enough to be stabbed on my back, but I have my sense to pursue what is necessary for the betterment of humanity. And... There's no good way for the future that contains no weakness, no pain, no sacrifice, no any negative points. Remember that... At least, we'll try and I'll prove what you want me to."

Evie crossed her arms across her chest and frowned, "Are you serious? Can't we just move on and focus on finding The Shroud instead of revenge?"

Lucy chuckled at that, "Maybe, we can do stuff as you pleased. That's a way to prove I'm not playing an upper-hand." Then she walked closer to Frye, whispering into her left ear, "But save that Crawford for me."

"And no more cigar, okay?" Evie raised her eyebrows as her eyes followed Lucy's steps.

"If that's what you like... Sugar."

#assassin's creed syndicate #evie frye #lucy thorne #assassins creed #assassinscreedsyndicate

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mwolf0epsilon · 4 years

Note

((As kids)) the polks let Sammy live with them after being abandoned by his parents. At first he’s rude to them but then he gets straighten out. Maybe he helps around there farm/ work?

Reworked a few things here to fit the prompt considering Samuel Sr. wasn't the best person or parent, but he he wouldn't just abandon his child, and the fact my Norman is 20 years older than Sammy in the canon compliant verse.

Summary: Sammy was a weird kid. Norman thought he must have been a major brat to get thrown out, and the blond spitfire never tried to disprove it. Then he got wiser.

---

Everyone in their area knew the Polks. They were a quaint little family that owned an equally quaint little farm out near New Orleans. Nothing too fancy, just a few sugar cane plantations, and a bit of cotton on the side. Enough to get food on the table, pay for studies, and even support a few hobbies . It was a comfy lifestyle for a tight-knit family.

Those who were aware of the Polks also knew what they tended to do when not tending to their crops.

Despite a few shady (and sadly true) rumours about dear old Poppop Polk, the military background of a few of the Polk men, and the sheer physically intimidating bulk that they often grew into (even the women) due to years of hard work, the only hardened part of them were the muscles. In truth the Polks were the kindest most soft-hearted folk in Louisiana. As such they were suckers for a sad tale, second chances and what not. This tended to lead into them bringging in strays...

The most recent, much to a young Norman's displeasure, being a bit of a sour crumb.

Sammy Lawrence was this pale tiny boy with a shock of curly blond hair and eyes that weren't a color Norman couldn't quite name. Something in between a soft brown and a flicker of green.

He was a skinny sort, no more intimidating than a little fuzzy newborn chick, with knees marked by bruises and scratches (from climbing trees and skinning his knees on gravel) and unevenly cut nails that looked like they'd been bitten until they were short (a nervous tick).

But, most notably, the kid was a snake. One with venom in his eyes, and words that bit into flesh like a snapping turtle out for the kill.

Now Norman's mama always told him never to judge a book by its cover, but surely the saying couldn't apply if he judged the contents, right?

The kid was just... Mean-spirited...

Yelled, had tantrums like the devil himself made him whacky, and honestly watching his mama fret over him and try to make him more comfortable staying at the farm was like watching a trip for biscuits. Completely pointless.

Sammy was a weird kid. And Norman thought he must have been a major brat (because obviously he was) to get thrown out by his parents.

To his credit the blond spitfire never tried to disprove it or give any logical reason to be there. Instead he resorted to verbally attacking him and his older siblings at every chance he got.

Norman didn't much care for those wordy insults of his. The kid thought he was smarter than him, so fine let him believe that. But the moment he told his sister she looked like a little ugly ape, Norman's composure snapped like a twig.

"Yous thinks yous plenty rugged uh? Spoutin' all them nonsense fancy words like ta rest o' us don't get what yous sayin'?" He'd spat out twice as venomously, with a hint of fury over little Jolene's tears cutting his heart deep. "What sorta wet sock goes 'round throwin' crust at little girls?!"

"None of your business you slobbering cyclops!" The little shit had his fists balled like he thought he could take on someone who brawled with two much larger siblings. He may not be able to beat Franny and Carol in a fight but damn, Phineas couldn't tear them off him either and he was 16!

At 12 Norman wasn't stocky but he put up a fight. This 10 year old egg would go down easily. "She started it!

"She's 5! I bet this why you ended up here. So dang mean not even your parents could love yous!"

"Nomie!" Jolene protested, but the damage was done.

The little blond stared wide eyed with his mouth hanging open, before his face went red with rage. Like the devil possessed him.

Shrieking loudly the brat lunged and both he and Norman went rolling downhill into the creak.

On Jolene's account, both of them were in trouble for saying and doing bad things (his one regret was not biting the kid harder when he tried to go for his neck). She also got a light spanking for something she'd said.

Much to Norman's embarrassment, matters parteining his behavior were taken up to his Great Nanna. And boy did she look angry...

"Bárbara told me yous went and said some evil things to that poor boy." The burn of her gaze made his cheeks hot with shame. But also a little bit of resentment.

"Not like he a saint Nanna! He called Jolene a monkey, she was just playin'!"

"She also insulted him to his face, cuzz you boys drilled it into her head that it's fine ta go around making fun o' people you don't know as long as you ain't caught doin' so." Nanna pointed out. "Now why'd ya go an' tell him what yous did?"

"Ain't it obvious? Kids out here for SOME reason... And his attitude sure makes it seem like he gots thrown out with the rest o' the trash."

"NORMAN ELIAS POLK!"

Norman yelped in fright as his great grandmother pointed her long crooked finger at him and began laying down the law. You did NOT piss off Nanna.

"You do NOT get to say such evil things in this household! You don't know nothin' 'bout why that poor boy is out here, and goin' bout saying such booshwash will get your hide tanner than a leather belt!" She spat as she went, her toothless sneer a great sign of her displeasure. "That boy just 'bout went and lost his poor mother, and his father is in hospital sick as a dog, so you best go out and 'pologize to that frightened child before I get half a mind to drag you there by the ear and spank your butt in front o' the whole family 'til the only words comin' out that crude mouth a'yours are words a regret!"

"Y-yes Nanna!"

"Go on then! Git!" She pushed him out the door. "Apologize!"

His Nanna was crazy scary when she wanted to be. Her promises were also always kept.

He shakily apologized as soon as he caught sight of Sammy, and he must have well and truly looked shaken up because the kid took it without so much as putting up a fuss.

At dinner things simmered down, and the little blond didn't put up a fight about staying or eating "slop" like he'd his memaw's cooking before.

According to Phineas, their pops had sat the kid down and layed it out just as hard as Nanna had done to Norman.

Either behave or risk getting sent somewhere less friendly. His pops also called in for extra drills the next morning, as punishment for their bad influence on Jolene. Sammy would participate, as his father thought such exercise routines were good for later on in life.

You never know.

Through following the same routine as everyone else, Sammy seemed to overall mellow out. He was less aggressive towards everyone else, actually did a decent job, wasn't too bothered about the farm work (apparently his dad owned a cattle ranch), and he actually started playing with the other kids as well. It took time for him to get comfortable, but heck if he wasn't fun to brawl with! Least now Norman had a chance to win!

Sammy Lawrence's stay wasn't a long one though. A month and a half.

As soon as Mr. Lawrence got out of the hospital he'd practically floored it all the way down to their farm to get his boy as far away from the black folk (no wonder the kid was such a ball of bad manners, his old man was one of THOSE people) as quickly as possible.

Must of thought they'd tainted the kid or something...

No skin off Norman's nose. He may have been in the wrong about why Sammy lashed out the way he did, or about the kid being a crumb, but that didn't stop the little shit from being a weirdo.

Hopefully he'd grow out of the superiority complex.

#Eps Writes:#Bendy and the Ink Machine #BATIM #Sammy Lawrence #Norman Polk

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indigaux · 5 years

Text

Rose x Palo Santo Jar

***Disclaimers: (1) All of my spells are original, created by me based on the information I receive from reading about Hoodoo and my personal experiences or preferences. (2) Hoodoo is an ancestor-based practice created by African people who were enslaved in North America. If you’re not Black or Indigenous, you have no place in this work. Go back to Wicca. Your ancestors cannot help you here. (3) Hoodoo is also known as rootWORK. These spells can be energy and time consuming. Hoodoo is reliant on numerology. If you mess up a chant, start over. If you skipped a day, start over. If you forgot a step, do your best to make up for it but you’ll get better results it you start over. Hoodoo is hard work. Some of you ain’t ready to put it in. If you’re not ready, hire a conjurer to do it for you.***

The purpose of this spell is to attract a person or thing that you desire. Attraction jars like these are often used to bring love or sex. This jar can be used universally and certain spell enhancers can help make the results more specific for you. For best results, please be well informed on the metaphysical properties of the enhancers you use before adding them to the jar. Know what you want. Understand what herbs and crystals are best for your desires.

MUST HAVE TOOLS

- A jar with a secure top.

- Rubbing alchohol

- Basil

- Rose petals (preferably dried)

- Rose oil or rosewater (self prepared)

- Palo Santo

- Palo Santo water

- Coarse Himalayan pink salt

- Organic raw sugar cane or brown sugar

SPELL ENHANCERS

feel out when and how you want to incorporate these tools

- Cinnamon

- Honey

- Nutmeg

- Sigils or symbols

- Candles

- Crystals

- Names, photos, or personal items of the person or thing you wish to attract.

PREPARING THE ROSE OIL OR ROSEWATER

- Make the rose oil or rosewater during the half waxing moon.

- Drain the rose oil or rosewater from the rose petals. Keep the rose petals for future conjure or carefully dispose of them with magical intention.

- Put the rose oil or rosewater in a container until the half waning moon.

- Add rubbing alcohol to the rosewater to better preserve it.

PREPARING THE JAR

This is done during the half waning moon.

- Prepare the space for the presence of an Oshun. Purify the space, give her an offering, open yourself up to receive her blessings and knowledge.

- Light some palo santo and invite Oshun to the space with a prayer, song, or dance.

- Grab the jar with your less dominant hand and use your dominant hand to hold the palo santo. Circulate the burning wood clockwise around the jar and ask Oshun to bless the jar.

- Sprinkle a few grains of pink salt into the jar.

- Add some basil to the jar. If the basil is dried, put a palm-full into the jar using your dominant hand.

- Add rose oil until the basil is sticky and pasty. If you’re using rosewater, wait for later steps.

- Use your dominant hand to add two palm-fulls of rose petals into the jar.

- Prepare the space for your ancestors by burning their favorite incense or giving them an offering if you haven’t already.

- Ask your ancestors to assist you in bringing Oshun’s blessings to fruition. Ask them to guide you in preserving the blessings and ask them to give you the wisdom make the best of these blessings.

- Add any significant number of tablespoons of raw sugar cane or brown sugar into the jar everyday until it is half full. You can use honey instead or use both. (If you start off giving # tablespoons, keep it that way! No switching up.)

FINAL STAGES

This can be done anytime starting at the new moon and before the full moon. Witness the spell come to fruition as the moon grows.

- Now that the jar is half full, you’ll begin stirring the contents to activate the magic that has been marinating all this time. Call upon Oshun as you do this. Welcome her with a song or prayer. Thank her for her assistance so far. Give her an offering.

- The contents of the jar should be well blended. Now, either fill the rest of the jar with palo santo water or fill the rest with half palo santo and half rosewater.

- Seal the jar and use your dominant hand or both hands to mix it by moving in a fast, clockwise circular motion. As you’re doing this, pray aloud, sing, or medidate your intentions for the jar.

- At the next half waxing moon, pour the content out or bury the jar in a location that is relevant to your intention for the spell.

- Pray, sing, or dance over this place before leaving an offering for the ancestors, saints, or other spirits that you revere.

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mcmansionhell · 6 years

Text

2018 McGingerbread Hell Competition Winners

Happy New Year, Folks! I’m pleased to announce the winners of this (past) year’s McGingerbread Hell Gingerbread House Competition!!

First off, I cannot find the words to say how much joy each and every entry to this competition has brought me. Every single one of the participants put their 100% best McMansion Hell face on and the results were charming, hilarious, and, if we’re being punny here, downright sweet. This may be the best idea this blogger has ever had.

Second, let me say that the when I say the competition was fierce, I mean, it was fierce. So much so that I drafted the fellow judgement of two of my favorite colleagues, my literary agent Caroline Eisenmann, and fellow architecture critic/Editor of Chicago Architect Magazine Anjulie Rao to help me narrow the 43 contestants down to 8.

Just a note: Last names of the winners have been abbreviated for privacy reasons. If you would like your full name to be published instead, please email [email protected] with your preferred name.

We’re going to start our line up with the 5 honorable mentions in alphabetical order, after which there will be a break to take those of you scrolling through this on the dashboard to the full article where the top 3 McMansions will be revealed.

Without further ado...

Honorable Mention #5 : Manoir de emporte-pièce by Anya D.

The judges were impressed by the whimsy, creativity and finely detailed execution of Anya’s house. Caroline summed it up best: “what else is a McMansion if not a bunch of smaller houses wrapped into one package?”

Anya writes:

Hi I'm Anya and I'm 12. I made my Gingerbread house from Gingerbread I mixed and baked myself. The house shapes came from a cookie cutter. It's held together with royal icing frosting I made. The shingles are almonds and the house off to the side is the dog house and has candy dog bones on it. The "lights" on parts of it are candy balls. I hope you like it!

Honorable Mention #4: AMAZING Custom Home with Quality Features by Sydney E.

The judges were impressed by the house’s fine craftsmanship, attention to detail (especially the peppermint columns, the gumdrop crenellations, and the chandelier in the back) and great sense of humor. Anjulie remarked: “Love the inclusion of the nuclear family.” What really had us in stitches was Sydney’s wonderfully rich description, especially this part:

“...You'll know you're living in the lap of luxury when you see the ENORMOUS GOLD CHANDELIER in the dining room. But it's the ROOFTOP PATIO with no discernible purpose or point of entry that will really set you apart from your neighbors. "Hey, how did you get up there?" they'll ask, but you're not telling (mysterious!). The landscaping will make you feel like you're in the countryside, in a sea of royal icing TURF GRASS (shown here, lightly dusted with coconut snow). The FOUR TREES on the property are either too far from the house to provide any shade (stately!) or extremely close to the house and actively obscuring at least one window (posh!). The entire house, the front walk, and the driveway are all bordered in royal icing ENGLISH IVY, which is definitely never going to be a problem for native plants (colonial!).”

Honorable Mention #3: Suburban Hobbit House by Jennifer K. & Cara M.

The judges were impressed by the difficulty of execution in Jennifer and Cara’s house, especially the dome, the cleverness of using almonds as cladding, and the hilariously barren “asphalt” lawn complete with soul patch. Kate remarked: “Pretty sure I saw this exact house in Bergen County, New Jersey.”

Jennifer and Cara wrote about their house:

Made of solid gingerbread in shape of skulls (had the pans), graham crackers, lots of icing, nuts, chocolate, a candy cane, grape tic-tacs, decorator sprinkles, butter-rum Lifesavers, fondant, Tootsie Rolls, and a loaf of rosemary bread. Round center mass house with back porch nub, two wings, a charming turret. We totally meant for it to look this way.

Honorable Mention #2: European Charme by Núria O.

The judges were very impressed with the fine detailing (such as the columns, balustrades, and front door), the crisp, clean execution of the design, and total commitment to the McMansion Aesthetic™ from front to rear, including the completely barren lawn.

Núria describes the house in finely practice Realtor-ese:

Beautiful gazillion-square-feet chalet featuring lots of personality and European flair. This cozy 4-bedroom, 10-bathroom cottage is made of sturdy construction-grade tan-beige gingerbread from top to bottom. Roof plates are structurally tinted, not painted, ensuring a durable color that will last until the last crumble is eaten. Windows glazing is made of gelatine sheets coated with black-coloured blueberry jam to ensure privacy as you lounge by the bay window or enjoy the views from the beautiful faux-balcony.

All doors are solid gum paste, with royal icing on all window frames as well as the balustrade. This home is ideal for entertaining, with its luxurious two-story entrance featuring genuine Spanish _neula_ columns with doric capitals, ornated pediment and a quaint half-tindered wall that gives true European _charme_. Utilities are housed in a lovely turret next to the service door. The garage accomodates two SUVs or six European sedan cars. The magnificent brown-sugar-paved front yard features icing plants and a signature landscaped crushed-sprinkle turf patch on cookie soil. The same type of grass was used in the large, sunny backyard which also has a patio area.

Honorable Mention #1: Existential Crisis on 34th Street by Caitlin R.

The judges were very impressed by the house’s clever use of different baking materials and attention to detailing, especially in the icing work. Kate was especially excited by the rounded gingerbread turret, and Anjulie loved the “Existential Crisis” detail and monumental marshmallow columns. The description had Caroline especially in stitches.

Caitlin describes the house:

This nine-bedroom mansion is made from the most exquisite of gingerbreads. Lovingly handmade from scratch, and crafted by local artisans, it's ready for your own sweet family. Grecian inspired columns impose your might on the neighborhood, while a pebble-clad tower with bay windows adds a touch of country charm. Architectural details include a 'stonework' wall and chimney, sweet dormer windows, and a luxurious back porch. A myriad of windows let light into this expanded historic house - the original building dates all the way back to 1982! Come by today, and soon you'll be calling this three-and-a-half story, Greco-Chateauesque Italian Revival Americana, 18,600 square foot mansion - home!

Now on to the TOP 3 PRIZEWINNING HOUSES!

It all comes down to this. It was stiff competition through and through, and the judges deliberated long and hard about who the top 3 spots should go to. Each house showed tremendous ability in craftsmanship, detailing, and McMansion Engineering. Without further ado:

Third Prize: Saccharin Sanctuary by Christa H.

The judges were wowed by the amazing craftsmanship and attention to detail present in Christa’s house. Caroline was impressed by the use of Cinnamon Toast Crunch as shingling, Anjulie loved the jellybean stone accents, and Kate found the use of sticks of gum as fake-stucco siding to be very clever. The execution of the lawyer foyer, turret, and appropriately nonsensical rear exterior put this house in to the third place slot.

Christa’s description, in perfect Realtorese:

This fabulous 1.5 story house features a gorgeous columned entry, double garage, show-stopping turret, and the picture perfect back patio. Built from the finest gingerbread and white chocolate... you can be sure that this house has a superior foundation that you can trust for years to come. Jelly Beans, spear mint Lifesavers, Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Double Mint gum among other award winning materials make this house’s curb appeal unforgettable! List Price: 🍬574,900 Est Mortgage: 🍬2,240/mo Listed By: Sugar & Space Reality®️

Second Prize: The Hundred Thousand by Louisa G.

The judges were blown away by, as they say, the sheer size of this lad. The monumentality of such a massive roof must have taken some serious gingerbread engineering, all while perfectly encapsulating McMansion Roof Culture. The engineering, clean execution, attention to detail (millions of nonpareils!!), and true, well, McMansion-ness of this house vaulted (ceiling) it into 2nd place.

Louisa describes the house thusly:

The Hundred Thousand has no equal. This 37-piece towering gingerbread edifice was baked and constructed over four days during the heat of an Australian summer, by an Australian and a Finn, using a Finnish gingerbread recipe. Inspired by Mt. Nub, The Hundred Thousand boasts a porcine screaming porch, eight ahoy-mateys windows, a royally-iced gable front that almost but not entirely obscures the front door, and palatial grounds landscaped with topiary sweets, all topped off with a soaring roof tiled with hundreds & thousands.

So many hundreds & thousands were used that the builders ran out of material - causing the construction project to grind to a halt for almost ten minutes, until the Australian’s father arrived with more much-needed building supplies. The Hundred Thousand was fixed together using high-quality caramel, and is internally braced by two large gingerbread cross-panels. This fantastic abode required nearly 2kg of flour and eight eggs (provided by the Australian’s chickens) and was constructed as large as the oven would allow, measuring a whopping 40 cm across on the front facade, and nearly 30 cm high.

And finally, (DRUMROLL PLEASE)

First Prize: Casa de McGingerHell by Beth and Tina C.

From the moat, dome skylight, and lawyer foyer, to the rice crispy treat retaining wall, and chocolate rocks, this house, in the words of Caroline, was “truly next level.” The judges were blown away by the incredible attention to detail and clever use of different materials, specially the pretzel railing on the bridge, the marshmallow penguins, and we all freaked over those sugar glass and water elements. From the several different types of windows, bizarre massing, and three car garage, this house encapsulates the deranged opulence of McMansions in the sweetest way possible.

Beth and Tina describe their house:

Located centrally and literally dominating the entire living room, this McGingerMansion features over twenty handcrafted stained glass windows, a double sized garage, and three hand laid rock face walls! This gingermansion also has not one, but two incredible water features including a delightful frozen waterfall in the spacious backyard. Boasting several pre-decorated pine trees surrounding the property, this festive gingermansion showcases several dozen strands of lights and as well as a handful of charming wreaths.

The one hundred percent genuine pretzel log deck overlooking the backyard is the perfect place to entertain friends and family alike, especially during the holiday season! Standing at just over a foot and a half tall, this truly massive gingermansion has a total composition of just over twenty pans worth of gingerbread. Call now to schedule a tour today; this gingermansion won't last long! *Disclaimer: As required of us by law, we must disclose the presence of a minor pest infestation in the form of roughly a dozen cute, but possibly rabid penguins on the property.

On behalf of the judges and McMansion Hell, we would like to thank everyone who entered the competition for their amazingly wonderful houses, and for the funding from McMansion Hell’s Patreon supporters whose generosity made running the competition and supplying the prizes possible.

Stay tuned for this year’s new and exciting McMansion Hell features:

- The conclusion of the 50 states, starting with Virginia next week. - A series of essays on kitsch - Looking at McMansions decade by decades - McMansions in film and media - Updates on the McMansion Hell Book

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