#i really really should be allowed to kill him

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Billionaire-proofing the internet

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

During the Napster wars, the record labels seriously pissed off millions of internet users when they sued over 19,000 music fans, mostly kids, but also grannies, old people, and dead people.

It's hard to overstate how badly the labels behaved. Like, there was the Swarthmore student who was the maintainer of a free/open source search engine that indexed files available in public sharepoints on the LAN. The labels sued him for millions and millions (the statutory damages for digital copyright infringement runs to $150,000 per file) and, when he begged for a settlement, said that they would accept his life's savings, but only if he changed majors and stopped studying Computer Science.

No, really.

What's more, none of the money the labels extracted from teenagers, grandparents (and the dead) went to artists. The labels just kept it all, while continuing to insist that they were doing all this because they wanted to "protect artists."

One thing everyone agreed on was how disgusted we all were with the labels. What we didn't agree on was what to do about it. A lot of us wanted to reform copyright – say, by creating a blanket license for internet music so that artists could get paid directly. This was the systemic approach.

Another group – call them the "individualists" – wanted a boycott. Just stop buying and listening to music from the major labels. Every dollar you spend with a label is being used to fund a campaign of legal terror. Merely enjoying popular music makes you part of the problem.

You can probably guess which group I was in. Leaving aside the futility of "voting with your wallet" (a rigged ballot that's always won by the people with the thickest wallet), I just thought this was bad tactics.

Here's what I would say when people told me we should all stop listening to popular music: "If members of your popular movement are not allowed to listen to popular music, your movement won't be very popular."

We weren't going to make political change by creating an impossible purity test ("Ew, you listen to music from a major label? God, what's wrong with you?"). I mean, for one thing, a lot of popular music is legitimately fantastic and makes peoples' lives better. Popular movements should strive to increase their members' joy, not demand their deprivation. Again, not merely because this is a nice thing to do for people, but also because it's good tactics to make participation in the thing you're trying to do as joyous as possible.

Which brings me to social media. The problem with social media is that the people we love and want to interact with are being held prisoner in walled gardens. The mechanism of their imprisonment is the "switching costs" of leaving. Our friends and communities are on bad social media networks because they love each other more than they hate Musk or Zuck. Leaving a social platform can cost you contact with family members in the country you emigrated from, a support group of people who share your rare disease, the customers or audience you rely on for your livelihood, or just the other parents organizing your kid's little league game.

Hypothetically, you could organize all these people to leave at once, go somewhere else, and re-establish all your social connections. Practically, the "collective action problem" of doing so is nearly insurmountable. This is what platform owners depend on – it's why they know they can enshittify their services without losing users. So long as the pain of using the service is lower than the pain of leaving it, the companies can turn the screws on users to make their lives worse in order to extract more profit from them. This is why Musk killed the block button and why Zuck fired all his moderators. Why bear the expense of doing something nice for users if they'll still stick around even if you cut a ton of headcount and/or expensive compute?

There's a way out of this, thankfully. When social media is federated, then you can leave a server without leaving your friends. Think of it as being similar to changing cell-phone companies. When you switch from Verizon to T-Mobile, you keep your number, you keep your address book and you keep your friends, who won't even know you switched networks unless you tell them:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/29/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms/

There's no reason social media couldn't work this way. You should be able to leave Facebook or Twitter for Mastodon, Bluesky, or any other service and still talk with the people you left behind, provided they still want to talk with you:

https://www.eff.org/interoperablefacebook

That's how the Fediverse – which Mastodon is part of – works already. You can switch from one Mastodon server to another, and all the people you follow and who follow you will just move over to that new server. That means that if the person or company or group running your server goes sour, you aren't stuck making a choice between the people you love who connect to you on that server, and the pain of dealing with whatever bullshit the management is throwing off:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/23/semipermeable-membranes/#free-as-in-puppies

We could make that stronger! Data protection laws like the EU's GDPR and California's CCPA create a legal duty for online services to hand over your data on demand. Arguably, these laws already require your Mastodon server's management to give you the files you need to switch from one server to another, but that could be clarified. Handing these files over to users on demand is really straightforward – even a volunteer running a small server for a few friends will have no trouble living up to this obligation. It's literally just a minute's work for each user.

Another way to make this stronger is through governance. Many of the great services that defined the old, good internet were run by "benevolent dictators for life." This worked well, but failed so badly. Even if the dictator for life stayed benevolent, that didn't make them infallible. The problem of a dictatorship isn't just malice – it's also human frailty. For a service to remain good over long timescales, it needs accountable, responsive governance. That's why all the most successful BDFL services (like Wikipedia) transitioned to community-managed systems:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/10/bdfl/#high-on-your-own-supply

There, too, Mastodon shines. Mastodon's founder Eugen Rochko has just explicitly abjured his role as "ultimate decision-maker" and handed management over to a nonprofit:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/mastodon-becomes-nonprofit-to-make-sure-its-never-ruined-by-billionaire-ceo/

I love using Mastodon and I have a lot of hope for its future. I wish I was as happy with Bluesky, which was founded with the promise of federation, and which uses a clever naming scheme that makes it even harder for server owners to usurp your identity. But while Bluesky has added many, many technically impressive features, they haven't delivered on the long-promised federation:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/02/ulysses-pact/#tie-yourself-to-a-federated-mast

Bluesky sure seems like a lot of fun! They've pulled tens of millions of users over from other systems, and by all accounts, they've all having a great time. The problem is that without federation, all those users are vulnerable to bad decisions by management (perhaps under pressure from the company's investors) or by a change in management (perhaps instigated by investors if the current management refuses to institute extractive measures that are good for the investors but bad for the users). Federation is to social media what fire-exits are to nightclubs: a way for people to escape if the party turns deadly:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/14/fire-exits/#graceful-failure-modes

So what's the answer? Well, around Mastodon, you'll hear a refrain that reminds me a lot of the Napster wars: "People who are enjoying themselves on Bluesky are wrong to do so, because it's not federated and the only server you can use is run by a VC-backed for-profit. They should all leave that great party – there's no fire exits!"

This is the social media version of "To be in our movement, you have to stop listening to popular music." Sure, those people shouldn't be crammed into a nightclub that has no fire exits. But thankfully, there is an alternative to being the kind of scold who demands that people leave a great party, and being the kind of callous person who lets tens of millions of people continue to risk their lives by being stuck in a fire-trap.

We can install our own fire-exits in Bluesky.

Yesterday, an initiative called "Free Our Feeds" launched, with a set of goals for "billionaire-proofing" social media. One of those goals is to add the long-delayed federation to Bluesky. I'm one of the inaugural endorsers for this, because installing fire exits for Bluesky isn't just the right thing to do, it's also good tactics:

https://freeourfeeds.com/

Here's why: if a body independent of the Bluesky corporation implements its federation services, then we ensure that its fire exits are beyond the control of its VCs. That means that if they are ever tempted in future to brick up the fire-exits, they won't be able to. This isn't a hypothetical risk. When businesses start to enshittify their services, they fully commit themselves to blocking anything that makes it easy to leave those services.

That's why Apple went so hard after Beeper Plus, a service that enhanced iMessage's security by making conversations between Apple and Android users as private as chats that were confined to Apple users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/07/blue-bubbles-for-all/#never-underestimate-the-determination-of-a-kid-who-is-time-rich-and-cash-poor

It's why Elon Musk periodically freaks out and suspends users who list their Mastodon userids in their Twitter bios:

https://techcrunch.com/2022/12/15/elon-musk-suspends-mastodon-twitter-account-over-elonjet-tracking/

And it's why Meta will suspend your account if you link to Pixelfed, a Fediverse-based alternative to Instagram:

https://www.404media.co/meta-is-blocking-links-to-decentralized-instagram-competitor-pixelfed/

Once upon a time, we had a solid way of overcoming the problem of lock-in. We'd reverse-engineer a proprietary system and make a free, open alternative. We've been hacking fire exits into walled gardens since the Usenet days, with the creation of the alt.* hierarchy:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/11/altinteroperabilityadversarial

When the corporate owners of Unix started getting all weird about source-code access and user-modifiability, we didn't insist that Unix users were bad people for sticking with a corporate OS. We reverse-engineered Unix and set all those users free:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GNU_Project

The answer to Microsoft's proprietary SMB network protocol wasn't a campaign to shame people for having SMB running on their LANs. It was reverse-engineering SMB and making SAMBA, which is now in every single device in your home and office, and it's gloriously free as in speech and free as in beer:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/samba-versus-smb-adversarial-interoperability-judo-network-effects

In the years since, a thicket of laws we colloquially call "IP" has grown up around services and products, and people have literally forgotten that there is an alternative to wheedling people to endure the pain of leaving a proprietary system for a free one. IP has put the imaginations of people who dream of a free internet in chains.

We can do better than begging people to leave a party they're enjoying; we can install our own fucking fire exits. Sure, maybe that means that a lot of those users will stay on the proprietary platform, but at least we'll have given them a way to leave if things go horribly wrong.

After all, there's no virtue in software freedom. The only thing worth caring about is human freedom. The only reason to value software freedom is if it sets humans free.

If I had my way, all those people enjoying themselves on Bluesky would come and enjoy themselves in the Fediverse. But I'm not a purist. If there's a way to use Bluesky without locking myself to the platform, I will join the party there in a hot second. And if there's a way to join the Bluesky party from the Fediverse, then goddamn I will party my ass off.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/14/contesting-popularity/#everybody-samba

[ivhmavie]

➴ Give me all of that ultraviolence ༶

how would be being in a toxic relationship with them

characters: hwang in ho (player 001) and the salesman.

warnings: toxic relationship, sexual content, a little of size kink, kinda yandere!salesman, mention of murder and harassment (not in a romanticized way), age gap OF COURSE ‘cause I love it.

hwang in ho (player 001)

-he’s not controlling type, you can go almost every place you want to, but he wants to know your every step

-some places, which he says are not suitable for you, are prohibited, but he will manipulate you to give you the false impression that you decided for yourself that it was not a good idea to go wherever it was

-also manipulate you saying that because you are younger, you should listen to his advices. This way he would be sure that you are always on a path that he doesn't have to worry about trying to control you, especially because he has other priorities as the frontman

-so, no matter what, he would make sure that you would always have at least two guards accompanying you to places

-it’s hard to have privacy, because the guards tell him exactly what you did during the day, with who you talked to

-as the frontman, he doesn't have much time to spend with you. So he tries to make up for his absence with gifts. He gives you his black card, and when he sees the notifications of the unimaginable amounts you spent, he knows you're angry, but doesnt care at all, later he will resolve it with sex later

-whem he wants to spend time with you, he will order his guards to take you to his room to watch the games with him

-it doesnt matter if you support the games, it’s his job and allows him to have a luxurious life, which extends to you

-isn’t really affectionate, but likes to have physical contact with you to remind you that you are there, under his careful view

-would never lay a finger on you to hit you, but I don't mind being rough during sex

“so, what you want me to do, darling?” he says while disinterestedly swirling the whiskey in his glass, a bored expression on his face as he struggled to keep a simple conversation with you, watching the bloodbath that took place in the large room where the players slept. Superb and selfish animals killing themselves for money, that's what he would say.

Your heels make noise as they hit the ground as you walk in circles, after taking a deep breath you look towards him and take two steps towards him.

“god, hwang, take this seriously, you’re not even listeng to me.” You say angrily, a hand running through your hair, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to speak with the man sitting on the couch. “I can’t keep pretending that I don't mind being alone for so long, you’re never around, always busy with your stupid guards, the miserable players or the fucking organ trafficking scheme, damn it.”You stop when you hear the sound of him scratching his throat, whem you look at him you see him calling you with a finger, making a sign to go to him.

taking heavy and quick steps, when you arrive in front of him you are surprised by a hand pulling you by the waist. As soon as you land on his lap, inho pulls your face towards his, a firm hand on your neck.

“If you wanted my attetion, good, you have it” he says as his other hand runs under your dress, passing through the lace of your panties and tracing circles.“Now, I'm going to give you enough attention so you understand your fucking place”

the salesman

-now, he’s the controlling type. Everything you do, everywhere you go, everyone you talk to, he knows everything

-doesn't bother to manipulate you, he just dictates the rules. Who you can't talk to, the guys he doesn't approve because he swears that if they had the chance, they would try every way to get you. He’s paranoid and extremist

-unlike inho, he doesn't use your youth against you, it's actually something he adores. He loves the fact that you are so vulnerable and inexperienced compared to him, for him, this gives him more power to control you

-If you were going out, he would like to accompany you himself, he would take you to the doctor, to go shopping, even to the beauty salon

-he thinks you won't be safe if you're not with him, so freedom is not an option

-while he goes out to recruit more people for the games and work, you stay at home, being able to go out rarely. He especially doesn't like it if you go out alone or with a man, even if it's a friend. Sometimes he lets you go work with him, you just accompany him and observe

-on the very rare occasions when you go out alone, he will want to keep in touch, sending you messages, receiving photos of you and calling you. He just wants to make sure nothing bad happens to you.

-he is a paranoid man when it comes to your safety, so he is afraid that you will be harassed or even killed if you go out alone

-he’s not clingy, but he's affectionate, in his own way. He treats you as if you were made of porcelain, always says how much he would blame himself if something happened to you, and wouldn't hesitate to kill someone for you if necessary

-he wouldn't be the type to hurt you, not on purpose, sometimes he can be rude in intimate moments, always wanting to be in control, leaving you at the mercy of his wishes

It had been a busy and difficult day, he was looking forward to getting home and meeting his girl. The sound of the front door opening woke you up from your nap, you see your husband entering the house and taking off the top of his perfectly pressed suit.

“You took a while today, I tried to wait for you but I was kinda tired”You get up from the sofa, heading towards him, approaching him from behind and running your hands over his broad back. The salesman sighs feeling his small hands lightly massaging his back

“did you spoke to any of your friends today?”

“you know I didnt” you say bitterly, pulling away from him a little and feeling the anger rise.

“oh, my love, don't be mad" he says turning to you and holding your waist firmly "you know it's just for your safety" you feel his breath on your neck, followed by kisses and some bites, you wrap your arms around his neck and move away so he can kiss your chest, feeling his hand reaching under your blouse and holding you tightly, it would definitely leave a mark

"Now come on, I need you to do something for me, I want to feel you around me"

[yandere-wishes]

｡ ₊°༺ Pink Pony Club ༻°₊ ｡

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆Yandere! Dr Phosphorus x Reader ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

⋆.𝄞𝓟𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓟𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝓒𝓵𝓾𝓫 𝓑𝔂 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓡𝓸𝓪𝓷𝄞˚.⋆

✮★✮ Oh Mama, I'm just having fun, on the stage in my heels it's where I belong, down at the Pink Pony Club, I'm gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club. ✮★✮

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He lets the music roll over him, allowing the drums to melt over his flames and bleed into the marrow of his black bones. When you dance, you have to focus on the turn out of each step, on the wave of your arms, when to stiffen when to loosen. It makes it all so easy to forget the pain of being constantly on fire. To forget the melancholy that festers inside you. When the adrenaline is this high, you can only make out the strobing neon lights and the dazed amusement of the crowd.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ It's hard to hate the music and the lights, to shy away from a crowd so easily fascinated by the gleeful macabre. It's really the most sanity-inducing thing you can cling to when your body has turned into the thing you once loved. When you've become your research after watching your old self die in a furnace at the hands of those who once wielded all the power in the world. Funny how we make our own monsters, funny how the thing that kills us, is nothing more than the very man we once tried to kill, now engulfed by his own invention. Phosphorus spins, left leg, right leg, jump, and twirl.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The dancing, the music, the clapping, the lights, it's all so perfect for melting away the terrible things that slither inside him, to burn away all those good memories until the kill and the luxury are all the remains. It's getting just too easy to forget his son's face, to forget the smile his wife gave him on their wedding day.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's a moment between moments when the world seems to stop. It's only then that he notices you, or rather notices what you're wearing. It's the dress he thinks, pink like the mushroom clouds he'd once adored, like the sunset framing devastation. Or maybe it's the way you have your hair so cruelly tied. Tight circle above your head like an atom waiting to explode. In a flash it's over, someone is handing him a drink. Another sitting on his lap. And he's thrust harshly back into reality, back to a world of trying to forget.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus is and always will be a man of logic. A man of science. He lets his fingers glide over the stack of pristine hundred-dollar bills. To think he'd spent his whole life begging for a quarter of all of this. Begging for scraps of funding to save the lives of thousands. It had all been so important once. Still, he can't help but let his mind wonder, what could he build with all of this? What could he solve, discover, create? He tells his men to lock it up in the safe, he's not ready to go back to all of that just yet.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The next time Phosphorus sees you, he's half sunken into the plush couch of the VIP lounge. It's been a long day, a long tough day. Everything had gone wrong and all so right in the same breath. This time your dress is the shade of clouds marred by the blood of a dying sun. He should know this shade from the history books he'd used to read, the shade of skylines behind ancient temples. Back then he'd been trying to understand. Understand what he's not quite sure, he'd been so desperate to pry every little answer from the world. To chew their solutions, breaking them with his teeth and spitting out his own variation, his own thesis. He'd been so utterly convinced of his own intellect, convinced that reading Saadi at the same time as the latest research paper on Nuclear decay meant understanding the world.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He watched with staunch fascination as you tried to dance. Following your friend's steps, heels stepping awkwardly completely out of tune. You bend your knees, sinking to the floor. And Phosphorus can't think of any excuses for why his cheeks feel hotter than usual. Why his eyes are permanently affixed to the sway of your arms.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He thinks you look just like nuclear fission dancing in the limelight with your friends. Like you've split your own body to create them. Little atomic nucleus dancing under his microscope. You look perfect, your toned legs amplified by the radioactive pink of your heels. Long neck he'd love to kiss decorated with a thin string of gold. You don't look a thing like the other girls at the lounge, you look like an experiment beckoning him, seducing him into cutting you open, and observing how you explode.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's been following you keenly, trying to see what happens next. It's the fourth week in a row that he's forgotten about dancing for the crowd, about the girls who used to hang off his arms. He's too devoted to this experiment. "Nuclear scientist finds atomic bomb inside ancient temple from the bronze age". Phosphorus examines the sway of your hips, the bob of your head, and the crude kicks of your legs. There's something wrong with those heels, they're too thin, too high, inviting everyone to stare at you. But he's quick to shove them away, circling you from afar. He can't let anyone tamper with his experimentation. Certain matter performs differently when it knows it's being observed. So he allows the notion of invisibility, making you feel unobserved, safe in your own ignorance.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He hasn't felt this alive in years. This ecstasy tastes utterly sweet, pure saccharine. It's the same thrill as watching your particles stabilize after days of trying to find the right frequency. Watching them organize into the right motion. And isn't that what you are? An ionized atom. After all, what is dancing if not ionization, if not trying to lose a part of yourself you can no longer bear?

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's late tonight, rivals had somehow bled in and were after the safe from Phosphorus' newest heist. He'd burned them to a crisp and danced on their ashes until they flew away. But that doesn't change the fact that he's late, too late in fact. When he rushes through the door, men nervously run behind him. His eyeless sockets fall upon an uttermost dreary sight...

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The problem with people is that they never truly appreciate beauty. They treat it as if it's something to conquer something to tame. They never bother to understand it, to study it from afar whispering prayers of gratitude for bearing witness to this new discipline. The man's body is too close to yours, head following your lips, as you awkwardly try to sidestep. The moment you try to flee he grabs your wrist. You scream, no one ever hears screaming through the bass and the rhythm.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's smoke in your eyes, sickly-sweet honey in the back of your throat. It's all too acrid but at least the hand assaulting your wrist subsides. The thing in front of you glows green, an acidic neon green that feels too familiar in shade. You watch as the skeleton seizes your shoulders, such a warm touch hearthlike in every way. He pulls you closer till all you can smell is null and all you can feel is smothering warmth.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never quite quiver under his touch, never fully shy away when he cups your jaw and tilts your head. It's like you want the radiation, want to feel his nuclear essence bleeding into you. Maybe then you'll be whole. Maybe then neither of you will need the music, and the lights, and the crowd to feel whole.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never belonged in the clubs, it was painfully obvious you could never mold to their dances, their music. Your heels never fit right. Phosphorous knows he's been trying to do the very same for all so long. Neither of you needed to kill off your electrons, to throw them away to ignorant nobodies who would sooner hurt you for their own voracious motivations. "Give me your electrons and I'll give you mine." Phosphorus tucks your head into the crux of his shoulder, "I'll fuse with you so you'll never need anyone else."

⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus' hands mirror yours, swaying overhead before falling lower like the cascade of a wave. Side step, side step, stop, and bend. He thinks this is better than any club, any choreography he could do by himself. He feels so whole dancing only for your eyes. He feels so happy having you dance only for his eyes. Your palms touch as you circle slowly. Dancing like the airy rotation of electrons. There's no more dancing at the Pink Pony Club.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ What do you call a dance that feels like merging two atoms? What do you call it when your heart feels like the denotation of a bomb? He presses his lips to yours slowly, feeling the nuclei crash, a nuclear reaction, his tongue hum between your teeth endeavoring to melt away your fear. His fingers, dance across your hips heating up, leaving burning hearts and hand prints, claiming you as his, making you death just like him.

Lost the request for this but thank you so so much to the sender!! 💞💋💞💋

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 3 - I Get A Little Dizzy

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Truly a disgusting amount of tabs open on my computer to research different monsters of the week for this series. Enjoy!

Chapter title from Imposter Syndrome by Abbie Roberts

Word Count: 16.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: For the first time, you run into Dean alone. Usual warnings, slight emphasis on self-harm.

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

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Read on A03!

The library is quiet when you feel it. When the White starts to rear and whine inside of you, the world goes technicolor, and you feel an odd sense of unwelcome harmony. You feel Dean.

And you could’ve pretended it was nothing, that you were simply losing your mind, if he hadn’t spoken only a second later.

“Hey, sweetheart, can you point me to any books you got on ghosts?” He’s drawling—his voice is still deep and pretty and very distracting—but there’s something tight in his words. Like he’s frowning. “And, uh, a table? Might need to sit down.”

The girl at the desk starts to fawn over him—asking if he’s okay, if he needs some of their shitty earl gray tea, how it’s so cool that he’s interested in cult and theology—and you realize you’re on your knees. Just the fucking presence of Dean sent you to your knees. 

You’re fucked.

He’s not supposed to be here. This is your case. It’s the kind of case you live for. The years blur together—all covered in blood and sweat and spit—and your nightmares only get worse as the darkness grows, but these cases are easy. Not deadly, just odd. Cases no other hunter tries to touch, because everything about them is downright strange, there’s often nothing to shoot, and the solution is usually more complex than just kill the monster. That’s the other reason you love these cases. No danger. No threat of a hunter watching you bleed into the darkness, of them seeing a monster simply ignore you like you’re not even there or doing something a regular person—hunter or not—should never be able to do. 

Sometimes, on the rare occasion you do run into a hunter, and you just have to be careful. Stay out of their view, handle the case, and vanish in the dead of night without ever being seen. 

And that’s exactly why you’re so goddamn fucked.

You can’t ignore Dean. You can’t avoid Dean. It’s been two long, strange years, and seeing him isn’t any less intoxicating than before. It might even be worse. Stronger. Because you kept reminding yourself that John would kill you—not might, would—and that Dean didn’t seem to feel this baffling, magnetic connection, but that didn’t stop you from dreaming about him. It didn’t stop his name being like a shot of some sort of painful, needy, glorious drug right into your bloodstream, or your brain from searching for him in shadows.

And you’d really tried to stop that. You’d played both days over and over in your head, dissecting every reason to hate him, every reason to be angry, every reason to forget that he ever existed. And you had hundreds of them, starting and ending with he left you. He vanished without a trace, had the nerve to pretend like he cared about you, and then act like he had the right to care when he left you. He was an arrogant, charming, handsome asshole, and he left you. You were allowed to hate him, because he’d made you smile and feel like maybe you could be wanted, and then he fucking left you.

You’ve repeated it a million times. You’ve set that anger deep into your bones to try and make it stick. Carved it into your skull to try and make it real. At this point it might be, because you’ve spent two years practicing it.

But you’ve never managed to throw out his shirt, or stop your heart from twisting and withering whenever Bobby mentions that the Winchesters had a bad hunt, or extract green eyes and a boyish smile from fantasies in your sleep. 

You don’t know how to not feel like there’s saltwater on your raw skin when he indulges the girl at the desk with sweet words, say she’s too pretty to be stuck around all these books. You can’t figure out how to make the White finally realize that it’s not an option to give into its desperation to see him. To crawl around the bookshelves and just look at Dean, to make sure he’s real and this isn’t another unwelcome dream.

There are so many reasons that would be a bad idea. John might be here, ready to put a bullet in your temple. Dean might see you, and you’ll have to explain why you’re staring at him from the floor. Onceyou see Dean, you know you’ll have to talk to him, and if you talk to him the whole hunt will be ruined. It’ll become a long week of trying to figure out the case, dodge Dean, and hide what you are from him.

Maybe he already knows. Maybe John told him. Maybe he’d be just as ready to kill you, and all you’d see is cold, unwavering fury and hatred in his eyes before he killed like the monster you might be.

And you are. You’d have nothing to offer in your defense, because the darkness has only spread in your body, and you’ve only fed it. You still don’t understand exactly what it is, but you know it’s powerful. That whatever you are, you’re rare, and that’s probably for a reason. You’ve spent hours in Bobby’s library—sitting at his desk and reading until dawn cracks and Bobby half-drags you to bed—trying to just find a name for what you are, why you’re like this, but you only ever have more questions.

You can’t stop the spells and rituals from appearing in your head, but you also can’t find most of them in any books. You still call yourself a witch, but most witches spend decades studying to learn how to do things your body just does. More and more monsters respect you. More and more ghosts have burned away with only your hands. It’s grown harder and harder to stop the darkness from slipping out, and when it does it can be dangerous to everyone around you.

Dean doesn’t need to see that. You don’t need another reason to feel like you’re wrong. Just inherently wrong. 

So you should go. You need to go. If you were smart, you’d go now, and never look back.

But you haven’t learned how to do that either. Because you rise to your feet slowly, walk silently towards the door with your head down, and can’t stop your eyes from flicking to where Dean should be seated. 

His jacket is there—hanging off a wooden chair—and there are a few books on the splintering table, but there’s no Dean. 

You go rigid, a weight dropping into your lungs as you whirl around to run, and a hand catches you by the elbow. It’s big and strong and warm through your shirt, and you don’t have to be drowning in grass and spice and leather to know who it is. 

Dean pulls you right back into his chest, his grip remaining firm, and his voice near your ear is low and mocking. “Hey, Princess. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Fuck.

You should lie. Pretend you don’t know him, wait for his grip to loosen, and run.

“Well, Winchester, I’m not sure you ever think at all.”

Fuck.

He laughs, and you also apparently haven’t learned how to not feel molten and soothed from the deep, rolling sound. “That ain’t your best,” he drawls your name, squeezing your arm lightly. “I’ll give you another shot, though. This time try to go for my looks.”

You scowl into the air. “I don’t think I could, Deano. That’s all you got left, and I’m not that mean.”

He clicks his tongue. “Ouch. You might be meaner, sweetheart. I’d say you’re a downright bitch.”

“I’d say you’re an animal in jeans and a leather jacket.”

“You’re forgetting about my boots.” Dean shrugs, and you can feel his muscles flex at the movement. “I’m an animal in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket.“

You roll your eyes, finally managing to yank your arm away from his hold and spin around. “What do you want, Dean Winchester.”

He’s grinning at you when you see him. A smug, crude smirk that tells you he’s enjoying this far too much, that he might not be trying to kill you, but he does hate you. And yet the shine in his eyes still sending you into a trance, and you’re still leaning a little forward to be closer to his body, and your nails are still digging into your skin to stop your hands from either punching him or grabbing him and never letting go. 

You hate it. You hate that he can still do this to you, that he doesn’t seem at all affected by it, and that you feel tiny fragments—catching light and scattered through your body—withering under his loathing and blooming under his attention. 

You hate that you’re staying instead of running. You’ve promised yourself over and over that, if you ever see any of the Winchester’s again, you’d run and keep yourself alive. If not for yourself, for Bobby. If not for Bobby, for Rufus, who’s told you that he had no interest in watching Bobby drink himself away if you die. 

And you’re breaking that promise. You should’ve made it an oath.

But you’d probably break that too. You might do anything to keep yourself crashing back into Dean, to stay in his shining gravity. 

You hate that most of all.

“I’m just saying hi, Princess.” He’s still grinning at you, but there’s something spiked and furious in his eyes. It’s guarded and hostile, and all aimed at you. “Am I not allowed to do that?”

“Hi.” You raise your chin, and he chuckles.

“Hey.” He scans you over, and you wish you couldn’t feel the heat of his gaze on your skin. “You look good.”

“No, I don’t.” You didn’t look bad, but you’re also sleeping in your car, so this is far from your best. “Why are you here?”

“Shit, Princess, I thought you were smart.” Dean gives you an amused, taunting look, and you want to punch him. “I mean, you can’t think I’m on vacation.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re hunting.”

“Bingo!” Dean spreads his arms wide, a shit-eating on his face. “Look at that, folks, we have a winner! The hunter is hunting-“

“Alone.” You raise your brows at him, crossing your arms. “Dean Winchester’s hunting alone.”

He falters slightly, barely a slip—his voice slightly harsher, his face a little tighter—but you catch it. “Maybe I am, but that’s not your fucking beeswax-“

That makes you stand taller, your spine snapping to attention as darkness pushes at your skin and teeth. “Is your dad here?”

He scowls. “No.”

Your grip on your own body tightens, because Dean doesn’t hunt alone. Bobby says that he’s only ever alone at all because John’s off on a hunt alone, and even then, Dean just waits. 

Briefly, you wonder if he’d wait for you. It’s a pointless hope—and you loathe your brain for thinking of it—but that doesn’t stop the idea. Dean wouldn’t wait for you. You’re not someone anyone waits for.

But you’d like to feel his pure, undying loyalty directed at you. For Dean to talk about you how he talks about John and Sam. 

He wouldn’t. And you hate him for making you want him to.

Dean must read something on your face, because he’s speaking again before you even open your mouth. “And this is a one-time thing, sweetheart, it’s not the same-“

“As me hunting alone?” You tilt your chin a little higher, holding his glare. “Why’s that?”

“Because you- You’re young and this shit isn’t a joke or game-“

“I never said it was a joke or game.” You snap. “And I’m not that much younger than you-“

“You’re young enough.” He hisses. “And you don’t get to act like you understand this life-“

You narrow your eyes. “I understand it just fine-“

“Yeah, sure you do.” Dean rolls his eyes, lowering his face to yours. You’re not sure when he got this close, or why you haven’t moved away, but he smells really good. “I actually fucking know what I’m doing, Princess. This is my life, and I’ve got people around me who-“

“You think I don’t have people?” You lean closer as you sneer, because you’ll be damned if you’re the first to cave and pull away. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? Don’t forget, Winchester, I’m the one who got the moroi and the poltergeist-“

“But you’re still hunting alone.” Dean’s voice is stiff, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think his own words were hurting him. “Which means you don’t have people. If you did, they wouldn’t let you do this shit by yourself.”

You let out a dry laugh. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite, you’re literally hunting alone right now-“

“This is a one-time thing.” He dismisses you with a glare. “Not the same.”

And you’re back at the start. “It’s the exact same. I’m just alone by choice.”

Something pained flares in Dean’s eyes, and the guilt floods you in a second. Wrapping around your lungs like iron, churning in your stomach as your nerves start to feel raw and cower into you, because you shouldn’t have said that. He’s not alone, not at all. He has John, and John’s an asshole but he does seem to at least care about his son, as much he seems capable of caring about anything. And Dean can find company wherever he wants. He just has to weaponize that cocky, euphoria inducing charm, and you think people would give him the world. 

You are alone. You’ve been alone. You have Bobby but you’re still alone. Nobody wants to give you anything, and they shouldn’t. You’d break it. Just like how Dean’s voice is now low and strained, and the guilt is ripping at your guts, and you’re just darkness. Just dark and sick and infectious, spitting venom that erodes everything it finds. 

“I wouldn’t say you’re alone by choice either,” Dean says your name, his voice only taut anger. “You just haven’t managed to trap some sorry son of a bitch into look after you.”

Your nails break skin. “Fuck you, Winchester.”

“Right back at you, Princess.” 

There’s a long moment where neither of you move or speak,  and the only evidence you haven’t become statues is your breath. You’d been so lost in shoving down to darkness—roaring through your blood and a little electric—that you hadn’t realized Dean was walking you backwards. That you were pressed between his body and the table, or that his arms were braced on either side of your body, holding you there. And you’d been so lost in your fury at him—how it had lived in your mouth and surrounded your every thought—that you hadn’t looked at him. Really looked at him.

You’re looking now. And he’s still pretty. Somehow, he might be prettier. His eyes seem to have more shades of green, more little flecks of gold—his attention even more drug-like than before, as if you’re being dragged underwater but learning to breathe it at the same time—and there are a few freckles on his skin that weren’t there last time. His hair is a little longer than, too, but still close cut and spiky, and your fingers still remember how soft it had been. They want to touch him again. You want to touch him again, maybe shove him, maybe slap him, maybe yank him down so you can feel his lips against yours-

“You’re gonna try to do this one alone too, aren’t you.”

You blink at Dean, frowning slightly. “What?”

He sighs. “You’re gonna go off and hunt by yourself.”

“Yeah, I am.” You shift your weight on your feet, trying to not be consumed by how fucking close Dean is. “And I’m-“ You swallow, the words falling out you like vomit as the guilt gnaws at your tongue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean the shit about you being alone. You’re not.”

Dean stares at you. “You’re sorry.”

You nod—because you are, you can’t fucking live with how this is eating at you, and you really don’t need another reason to be sick—and Dean shakes his head.

“You think- forget it.” He’s scanning over your face, his expression still tight. “You’re fucking, you’re impossible.”

You frown. “What does that mean.”

Dean just hums. “That I’m not alone.”

“Yeah, I just said that-“

“No, Princess.” He grins, and it creates a tiny line on his cheek you want to touch. “I’m not alone. I got you.”

“You do not have me-“

“Why not?” 

His question sounds so genuine it makes you pause, your expression slack with confusion. “What?”

“Why don’t we hunt together? Hell of a lot safer.”

You shake your head slightly, mostly trying to destroy how the White is trying to grab your tongue and pull on your lips until you spit out yes without a thought. “Why would I do that. I’ve-“

“You got this, I know.” Dean raises his brows. “But you’ve also got me. And I can be helpful, sweetheart. We’ll be done in half the time.”

You do not have Dean. If you did, there wouldn’t be a single problem in the world. 

But you still examine his painfully sincere face, your words cautious. “How can you be helpful.”

“To start, I can use a gun.” He smirks at you. “Bet you don’t have that.”

“I can use a gun, Winchester, I just choose not to-“

“And now you don’t have to choose.” Dean wiggles his brows at you, and you feel the White flutter. “I’ll be the knight, Princess, you’ll just have to do…” he pauses, staring at you with a small frown. “Whatever you do.”

You can’t do what you do. Not anywhere near Dean. Not when he’ll freak out and leave you again, maybe this time returning with John in tow to put you down like a feral animal. You honestly don’t know why he hasn’t done that already, because there was no reason for John not to have told him about the poltergeist. 

But he’s just grinning at you, and his offer sounds genuine, and you really want him to stay. It would be really nice if—no matter what alternate intentions Dean had for you, no matter how he planned to look at you or speak to you—Dean stayed. Everything feels simpler when he’s right here against you. The White has already begun to blend and blur with the darkness, and everything already feels clean and silver under Dean’s attention—devoid of the loathing you’d expected, but still burning and wild and magnetic—and God, you’d like it to stay that way.

And you’d just been ready to fucking kill him.

And you don’t care.

“You’d listen to what I tell you to do.”

Dean shrugs. “Sure.”

“Winchester-“

“Cross my heart.” He pushes on hand off the table, holding it over his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

You snort. “Were you a scout?”

“No, but you don’t have to be a scout-“

“Yes, you do, that’s why it’s called scout’s honor-“

“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to say-“

“Pinky promise?” You suggest, your cheek painful as you bite down a grin at his adorably offended face. “All you need is a pinky.”

Dean scowls. “I am not pinky promising.”

“Fine,” you shrug. “Then we’re not hunting together.”

His face splits into a cocky, wide grin, and you realize what you’ve said too late. “So we were gonna hunt together?”

“Maybe,” you mutter, your face growing warm. “I was thinking about it-“

“You make up your mind?”

“Not yet-“

“I’ll listen to you.” 

You stare between Dean’s open gaze and his hand. Raised between your bodies, the pinky sticking out. “I don’t need you, Winchester.”

“Yeah, I bet you don’t.” He mutters, and you frown at the bitterness in his words. The way they sound sour, when Dean shouldn’tbe allowed tobe sour. He left you. “But I’m here whether you like it or not. Might as well make this easy.” 

He flexes his pinky, raising his brows expectantly, and your hand moves almost against your will. Looping your pinky with Dean’s, shaking it once, and freezing once you’re done, locked against him. It’s like you’ve been struck by lightning, and you won’t be able to pull away until you’re ash and smoke for Dean to breathe.

“Awesome.” He winks at you, but doesn’t pull away. Neither of you can pull away. “You got what we need?”

“Not yet,” you mumble. “But I’m working on it.”

He smirks. “Lucky you, Princess, I’m here to help.”

“I don’t need-“

“Yeah, you do.” He makes a wide, sweeping gesture to the table, his finger dropping from yours. “Sit down, sweetheart, cause I’m about to blow your mind.”

You roll your eyes—the loss of his finger, his fucking finger, feeling like you’ve been set adrift through space without a way to come back—and drop into the free chair.

Dean does not blow your mind. He’s adorable and charming as he explains his theory that you’re dealing with a spirit that uses madness to get to its victims, and he’s incredibly wrong, but it’s still cute. His chest is puffed like he’s just slain a dragon, he’s looking at you like he’s waiting for a treat, and it breaks your heart a little to give him a close-lipped smile and shake your head.

“That’s… not correct.”

He blinks at you. “Yeah, it is. I read everything,” he slaps the pile of very closed books in front of him. “And Bobby told me that powerful ghosts can inflict madness.”

You raise your brows, twisting a ring on your finger. “I don’t know who Bobby is.”

“Oh, uh, he’s like my uncle.” Dean shrugs, dropping into his own chair. “Helped my dad out a lot, with me and Sammy. When Dad had to go off on hunts, and needed to keep us somewhere safe.”

You know that. Dean doesn’t know you know that, and something feels bitter over your heart as you lie to him, but you can’t help yourself. “You like him? Bobby?”

Dean nods. “Hell yeah, he’s awesome. And he’s a great hunter, only one almost as good as Dad. Plus he’s got this room of books that Sammy loved, all about monsters. He says this is a spirit,” Dean drums his hand on the table, giving you a pointed look. “It’s a freakin’ spirit.”

“Bobby said it’s a spirit?”

Dean nods, and you pull your lips between your teeth to stop a grin. If he wouldn’t get pissed about you hanging out with Dean—where John might arrive any second, something you know but can’t really bring yourself to care about—you’d call him right now to brag.

“Bobby’s wrong.”

“Bobby’s never wrong.” Dean frowns. “And you told me you didn’t have anything-“

“No, I told you I didn’t have what we need.” You hum, allowing your smug smile to cover your face. “But I know what we’re dealing with.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You wanna keep bragging, or-“

“It’s a pagan god.” You say, and Dean just blinks at you, so you continue. “I’m not sure which one yet, but it has to be.”

He shakes his head slightly. “It doesn’t have to be-“

“Yeah, it does. The madness is spread through the town, Deano. It can’t be a spirit.”

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “It is.”

“I know-“

“But,” he points a finger at you, his features stern, and it makes the White sing. “That doesn’t mean it has to be a pagan god, Princess. We could both be wrong.“

You give him an amused look. “What have you heard about the madness?”

“They’re basically trying to killing themselves outta nowhere. People with promotions lined up, folks with families just losing their marbles-“

“How are they losing their marbles?”

He scowls. “I dunno, I haven’t been invited to their suicide attempts-“

“They’re dancing.” You run a hand through your hair as you lean forward, your smile growing. “They start waltzing, and don’t stop until someone makes them. It’s not deadly, but-“

“It could be,” he nods slowly. “If we don’t gank it.”

“If we don’t figure out who it is,” you push a book towards him, pulling another off his pile for yourself. “And kill it.”

“That’s what I said-“

“You said gank.” You flip open your book, giving him a pointed look. “That’s not a real word.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You don’t know every word ever, sweetheart-“

“Yes, I do. Shut up and read.”

“Bossy- Shit-“ Dean swears your name as you kick him under the table. “That was my good shin.”

You giggle. You haven’t giggled in two years. “As opposed to your bad shin?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, and you watch him settle into his book in your periphery. “I’m basically useless now, Princess. You killed me.”

“Maybe I saved you,” you shrug. “You can’t dance to death now. I think I’m the hero in this scenario, actually.”

He chuckles, poking your foot with his. “That would be a dumb way to go. I mean, what are we, in a reserve Footloose town? A handtight?” 

You glance up to see that he has the boyish grin—the one that makes you want to grab his face and hang against him because for some reason, you feel like nothing could ever hurt you as long as Dean was smiling like that—and is obviously incredibly proud of his joke. It makes something warm and gooey in your stomach, makes everything in the world smooth and illuminated. Flowing easily with the darkness, no pain required to keep yourself in control.

“Handtight?”

“Yes, opposite of footloose. Awesome, right?”

“I could do better.” You look back down to your book, and Dean scoffs.

“You’re just bitter about me getting a name for this first-“

“Vitus.”

You can hear the confused frown in his voice. “Wha-“

“Vitus.” You flip your book for him to read. “Sicilian martyr saint, who was associated with that French dancing plague in 1518.”

Dean blinks between the you and the pages. “This guy’s a saint, aren’t they kind of not supposed to kill people?”

You give him a flat look. “I don’t think anyone’s supposed to kill people-“

“Shut up, you know what I meant-“

“I don’t think I did. I think you should explain it-“

“I-“ He glares at you, and your grin is manic. “How the hell did you even find that so fast-“

“I’m good at my job, Winchester.” You flip the book closed with a half-shrug. “And this is literally just the 1518 plague, but in Texas. Which is, very famously, exactly like France.”

You grin at Dean—proud of your own, horrible joke—and he gives you a half-amused look with something in his eyes that you don’t know how to place. Not soft, but not hateful, like you’re blinding him, and he doesn’t care to look away. 

You clear your throat—he’s just looking at you, and it’s making your thinking hazy and your skin ache to touch his—and press on. “Now we just need to figure out why they’re doing-“

“A handtight?” Dean jumps in, and you give him a flat look. “I’m gonna get you to call it that, sweetheart, you’ll see.”

You ignore him, even as your smile grows. “And how to stop it.”

Dean gives you a look of mock curiosity. “Stop what, exactly?”

“I’m not calling it that.”

“C’mon, it’s good-“

“Nope.” You push up to your feet, still smiling at him as he almost pouts at you. “Never.”

“I bet I can get you to.” He rises as well, side-stepping to block your way to the door. You’re not sure if it’s on purpose. “Twenty bucks.”

You snort. “You don’t have twenty bucks.”

Dean’s jaw ticks slightly, and he almost recoils away from you. It’s a small movement, but you still see it. And it still hurts, because you don’t know why. That wasn’t too mean. Not meaner than usual. And he’s recovering quickly—his smile returning, the playful arrogance in his voice back in a heartbeat—but you’d still struck something you hadn’t meant to. And you can feel the sickness take root inside your veins at the thought. All those shattered, pretty pieces that line your whole body start to become heavy, because you hadn’t even meant to, and you’d hurt Dean. You hadn’t even be trying, and you’d still managed to show him just how horrible you were-

“I’ll find them.” Dean says, but he sounds a little far away over the ringing in your ears. “Gimme your number.”

That yanks you out of it, everything rushing back down to Dean as you gape at him. “My number?”

“On your phone, sweetheart.” He smirks at you. “I’m shocked you’ve made it this far alone if you don’t know-“

“Oh, fuck off, Winchester.” You flip him off. “I know what a number is-“

“Sure you do, Princess-“

“Shut up-“

“Here,” he leans down, scrawling his own number on a small paper and sliding it across the table. “That’s mine.” He pauses, his gaze on you suddenly weary. “For, uh, for the case.”

You nod, taking the paper with careful hands, like it might fly off and vanish. It had last time. Dean had last time. “You, um-“ You take slow breath, forcing your voice to remain firm and even. “You don’t need to give me this.”

Dean shifts in front of you, but you’re not quite strong enough to look up and meet his gaze. “Do you, uh, you don’t gotta take it, if you don’t want it-“

“No!” You flush at your high voice, staring at your fingers as you fold and unfold the paper between them. “I just already know where we’re off to next. So I don’t need it.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, his voice dropping to a tone you wish wasn’t so cautious and soft. “You can still take it. Safety first, right?”

You glance up, and see that he’s smiling at you. He didn’t take the out you offered him, and he’s still there, and if you reached out you’d feel warm skin and lean muscles. He’s real, and he’s not flickering away. 

And that makes the Silver—the White folded and blended perfectly into the darkness—begin to bloom. Growing like ivy over the sickness, soothing it into an easy quiet. It makes you high as you smile at him, cautious but real. This might be real. You know better than to hope, but you don’t care what you know. This time, something about this glow—mending parts of you with gold, refracting light over the Silver—feels like it might not fall to ruin. Like it will remain tangible, and not shrivel under your touch.

“Okay.” You tuck Dean’s number in your pocket, standing a little taller as his own grin grows. “Can you meet me at the town hall in an hour?”

His brow furrows slightly. “The town hall? Are we interviewing the mayor or something?”

“Or something.” You hum, and Dean gives you a questioning look. “I think it might be a political thing,” you explain. “I mean, it’s not footloose-“

Dean nods. “It’s handtight-“

“Shut up. It’s not footloose but it is town wide. Targeting random citizens.” You tilt your head at Dean, raising your brows slightly. “So that could mean it’s-“

“Political?” Dean frowns, rubbing his chin. “Like a really weird power play?”

“Really weird.” You agree. “But not impossible. Fear mongering is a very real political tactic, it could be that.”

“You think it’s that?” Dean’s watching you closely, and it’s doing something to your brain. Making it fuzzy and warm. It’s not helpful.

“I think,” you say slowly, crossing your arms over your chest. “That we don’t have any other leads. And it can’t hurt to look.”

“You’re really inspiring confidence, sweetheart-“

“Do you have anything better?”

“Nope.” Dean shrugs, tucking one hand in his pocket as the other finds your back. Resting with a flat palm between your shoulder blades, seeming to suck every bit of tension from that spot, to make you almost lean into him. He pats your back once, a little awkwardly, but then he doesn’t move away. His mouth is still open, your mouth is open, and this shouldn’t feel as powerful as it does. It’s just a hand, but you feel safe and tended to, and it’s Dean’s hand but you feel wanted, and he doesn’t want you-

Dean doesn’t want you at all. He’s looking at you like he sees you—right down to the darkness, then a little further—and he’s not flinching away or revolted by it, but he doesn’t want you. He’s touching you, and maybe he’d like that, but he doesn’t want you. 

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat, his hand still flat and frozen on your back. “We should go.”

“Yeah,” you nod, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “Figure out this reverse footloose.”

A smirk pulls at his lips. “Handtight.”

“I’m not calling it that, De.” You roll your eyes, but don’t shrug him off as he starts to guide you to the door. “Reverse footloose is already pushing it.”

He clicks his tongue, holding the door open as you walk through. “And I’m the one that’s not fun?”

You flip him off, he lets out a loud laugh, and you’re not sure what the hell is happening. He’s only looking at you, even though the lady at the desk keeps trying to get his attention with cleavage and pouting lips. He’s still touching you, even though you’re giving him no signs that you’re going to offer him what he probably wants. He’s still talking to you, walking with you, even though you’re you. Blooming with silver over your ribs but still destructive. Still sick.

“You got a car?” Dean scans over the parking lot with a small frown, and his thumb has started to trace small circles against your jacket, making it hard to think of anything but daydreams of that small motion on your bare skin.

“Um, yeah, it’s over there.” You manage to point, and Dean’s lips fall into a small, pouting frown. “I can meet you-“

“Actually, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, his voice becoming low and sheepish. “I’d take a ride, if you’re good with that.”

You blink at him. “Do you not have your car?”

“Dad’s car.” Dean mutters. “He’s using it.”

“How’d you get here-“

“Hitchhiking,” he shrugs, not fully meeting your gaze. Like he’s worried hitchhiking will make you recoil. Like the car you hadn’t just pointed at isn’t the fifth car you’ve stolen this month. “I’m not that far, anyway. And I tried to rent a car but they only had minivans.” Dean makes a sour face, and it’s adorable, but you don’t think he’d apprentice you saying that. “I’m not driving a freakin’ minivan.”

“Alright car boy.” You give him a sweet smile, and when he finally glances up at you his eyes widen slightly. “You wanna drive?”

You might as well have offered him ice cream. All his features light up, a grin that’s sort of mind-numbing breaks out over his face, and you could swear he’s suddenly taller. Bigger. “You sure? I- It’s your car-“

“I don’t give a shit.” You shrug—it’s not your car, but he doesn’t need to know that—and push the keys into his hand. “Let’s rumble, Deano.”

You start to move, but he catches your arm, and when you look back his expression is weary. Untrusting.

“Is this…” He trails off, glancing down to the keys in his hand like they’re going to jump up and attack him. “You’re sure. You’re not- I’m not gonna get in that car and you’ll start yelling at me-“

“Why would I yell at you?” You frown at him, and his grip tightens slightly. “I mean, I will yell at you about other stuff, but not this. That would be dumb.”

He blinks at you, nods slowly, and releases your arm. He could’ve held onto it. You really wouldn’t have minded. 

You’re not sure what just happened—you’re learning that, with Dean, there never seems to be any logic to what’s happening—but you know Dean relaxes again the moment he’s in the driver’s seat. Talking about the buttons, which ones are genuine improvement to the model and awesome, and which ones are freakin’ useless, and really adorable. 

Dean’s adorable. You shouldn’t be allowing yourself to crash back into him so fast, not when you’ve spent so long teaching yourself to hate him, but it’s simple. Natural. The air feels sharper in your lungs when you breathe and he’s next to you. Everything smells like grass and spice and it’s like an anesthetic to everything in you that’s usually only pain. Every feverish and furious piece in you feels calmed, and Dean’s eyes are filled with boundless color, and it’s like you could move right into them and exist in a warm, peaceful world for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t. But you can smile and laugh with Dean on the ride to the town hall, listening to him explain something about engines that you don’t really care about, but he does, which is somehow more than enough. You work together to come up with a cover story, which mostly means shooting down Dean’s ideas about being Wilson and Wilson, no relation, or just flat out breaking into the building.

“You know city halls are public places, right?” You tilt your head at him, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice. “Anyone can be there, as long as we’re not going into private offices. We could just be two college students, looking to interview our representatives for a paper.”

Dean frowns. “Is that what college students do? You’re telling me Sammy’s off in California just talking to a bunch of nerds in offices?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, watching him carefully. You haven’t actually heard him talk about Sam that much, and everything is so precariously good right now. You refuse to be the one to blow it up. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, but you’re kinda just like that.”

It’s your turn to frown. “Like what?”

Dean waves a hand, giving you a flat look as he parks to car. “You know.”

“I don’t know-“

“You’re all books, Princess. You found that Cletus guy-“

“Vitus-“

“Yeah, whatever, you found him really fast. And you don’t use a gun.” He makes face like he’s smelt something foul. “How the hell don’t you use a gun.”

“With incredible talent and skill. And I am not all books-“

He smirks. “You’re pretty much 90% books, sweetheart.”

You glare at him. “Shut up-“

“Nah.” He turns off the engine, glancing out the windshield to the city hall. “So we’re college students?”

“Or grad students.” You tilt your head at the air, hugging your knees as you think. “Might be easier to sell.”

“Alright.” Dean claps his hands, shooting you a wink as he turns to fully face you. “I’m Robert Page, and you’re-“

“I’m me.” You let out a long sigh, giving him a flat look. “And you’re Dean Winchester. I don’t think we need aliases for this one, De, that’s the point of public places.”

“I’m trying to make it fun though-“

“It will be fun.” You smile at him as you unbuckle from the seat. “We’re going to gank a martyr who’s reverse footloosing a whole town. What’s more fun than that?”

“Handtighting a whole town,” Dean mutters, but he’s smirks again. You won. “I’m gonna get you to say it, Princess, just wait.”

“I am waiting.” You step onto the curb, grinning at him over the hood of the car. “I believe in you, buddy. You can do it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling as you walk up the steps of the city hall, and throughout the entire, exhaustive process of combing through department after department, looking for any sign of Vitus. It’s long and boring work, but you’re both still smiling, nudging each other to whisper stupid jokes and making fun of the strange artwork lining the hallways, standing far too close together and laughing far too long at nothing at all.

It’s jarring. Frightening. You hate him. You’re supposed to hate him. He’s given you so many reasons to hate him, and he’ll give you more when he leaves again. When he presses on another raw nerve that only he seems to be able to find, and you snap because you’d crashed fully back down to him in just a few hours. 

But God, it’s so comfortable down here. Peaceful in your head and silver in your chest, everything exactly how it should be. Dean keeps placing his hand onto your back as you move through the building, and it feels like it’s burning and branding you, pressing it’s way under your skin until there will always be a place for Dean’s hand to fit. He smells so good, and you could drown in it. He looks so pretty—fidgeting with his jacket and tossing you thoughtless, charming grins that make your heart glow—and you could get lost in him. Get high on him and the deft, careful fingers that are spinning a pen and brushing against your skin. They must be filled with lighting, because they’re jumpstarting and feeding the White until it’s all just silver, and nothing is waging war inside you.

You could fall further. You could fall so much further. All the way down until you never had to be worried about being pulled back up. Until you were shining with lightning all the time.

You won’t. You’re just strong enough not to. But you’re not strong enough to not stare at him as he interviews another random secretary—pinned up gray hair and a sickly-sweet voice—or to not imagine if he’d go down with you. To fight it as everything starts to grow, and you can feel the humming joy of the electrically through the building, or the safety of the coffee in the secretary’s mug, or leather of Dean’s jacket, and how it feels like it belongs right where it is, on his body-

“Do you play the piano, Honey?” 

You blink, because the secretary’s talking to you. “Sorry?”

“I was just telling your lovely friend about how music has lost so much of its joy in these heathenistic times.” The secretary sighs, shaking her head. “No one appreciates a good classical piece anymore. It’s like water, dear, it needs to flow smoothly, in time and key. And nothing better for that than a piano.”

You glance at Dean, who shrugs and mouths crazy, just out of the secretary’s view. You give him a stern look that makes him wink at you, and turn a gentle smile to the secretary. 

“I do play, actually. Could I ask why-“

“You play the piano?” Dean’s frowning at you, and there’s something rough in his voice you don’t understand. “Like, well?”

“I’d like to think so.” You shrug, looking back to the secretary, but Dean keeps going.

“What, did you have like a freakin’ tutor-“

You shoot him a glare, because this is really not something to get stuck on. “No, my uncle. He had a piano, and I used to visit him a lot.”

You’d visit Rufus when Bobby had other hunters over—had the Winchester’s over—and eventually he got sick of you shuffling around and causing small accidents when you got lost in your own head. It became a tradition for him to sit you down and make you play until everything shrank back down to the right size.

Dean doesn’t get to know that. You have to remember that, despite every part of yourself Dean seems to be finding without effort, he can’t be allowed to find that.

“Sorry about that, ma’am.” You turn back to the secretary as Dean keeps staring at you, and she smiles.

“No worries, men can be foolish.” 

You seal your lips in a tight lip to avoid a loud snort as Dean huffs—looking like a kicked puppy in your periphery—and the secretary continues like he’s not even there.

“Do you dance?”

You nod, and Dean’s going to get stabbed later if he keeps acting like it’s shocking you could do anything at all. 

“You can dance-“

“Anyone can dance, Deano.” You shoot him a grin, and he shakes his head.

“Not everyone-“

“Not the sick.” The secretary corrects, and you feel a tendril of darkness creep up your throat, vile on your tongue. “The pious dance, boy, it is God’s will that we have music.”

Dean nods, giving you an amused look. “I’ll amen that, sister.”

You roll your eyes, looking back to the secretary. “Why do you ask?”

She hums. “You have the energy of beautiful music, honey. It would be an act of the devil if you didn’t.”

Dean was right. This lady was crazy. But you mumble your thanks, and keep your tone sweet. “What type of music do you like, ma’am?”

The secretary beams at you, and she leans forward, pulling at a charm around her neck as she speaks. “All of the classics, honey. The good, well-designed music-“

Dean nods in seeming agreement. “Like Zeppelin-“

“Dear Lord, no!” The secretary gapes at Dean, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a laugh. He looks like he’s been shot. “That’s devil music, boy! So much art has been lost to youth like you, corrupted by Satan’s song-“

You side-step, blocking Dean’s path to the secretary as his jaw clenches, holding your gaze on the secretary. “I love your necklace, ma’am, where did you get it?”

“Oh, this?” She lets out a soft laugh, running her fingers through the chain. “It’s protective, from the demons. You like it?”

“It’s very beautiful.” You say, and it’s not. It’s a large, lumpy shape and horrible, slate shade of gray, but you’re not dumb enough to say that aloud. “And thank you for your time-“

“Wait,” the secretary pulls off the necklace, grabbing your wrist and shoving it into your palm. “A lovely young woman like you should have protection for devils.” She shoots a glare over your shoulder, at Dean, and you glance back to see him scowling.

“I, um,” you turn back to the secretary, trying to return the pendant to her desk. “I appreciate it, but-“

“Take it.” Her voice is almost stern, and you feel Dean tense behind you. “And remember, no pleasure is worth more than the love of the Lord, honey. And he loves to sing for us.”

You nod slowly, backing away from the desk with the pendant still in your hand. “Of course. Love of the lord. De?”

He grunts your name from behind you, and you grab his hand without looking away from the desk. “Wha-“

“I’m hungry.”

“Well, we can get you some chips from that vending machine-“

“Yeah, let’s do that.” You drag him out of the room, down the hall—past the vending machine—and right into the women’s bathroom.

“Princess, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I don’t think I’m allowed-“

“Bigger issues.” You pull him into the large stall, dropping your voice to a hushed whisper. “It’s her.”

Dean frowns. “The mean old lady who called me a demon?”

You nod, passing him the pendant. “Cauldron. Vitus’ symbol, he was boiled alive in one-“

“Gross-“

“Yeah. And the lady’s a fanatic, so it wouldn’t be unbelievable that she thinks she’s cleansing the town of sinners or something.”

“So… she’s using this Vitus dude to what, punish those with taste?”

“Yep. Not a spirit.” You grin at him, taking the pendant back and flushing it down the toilet. There’s nothing in it that feels magical, and it’s really fucking ugly. “I love being right.”

He scoffs. “Whatever, sweetheart-“

“You were right, too.” You offer, dropping down to sit on the toilet. “It’s a handtight. Similar motivations, too.”

Dean’s eyes flash, and you think you might melt under the focus of his smug grin. “You called it handtight.”

“Yeah.”

“Because you realized I’m right?”

You give him a close-lipped, grimacing smile, and he groans.

“It doesn’t count if I didn’t earn it,” he grumbles, dropping down to sit against the wall. “You have to call it handtight because I’m a freakin’ genius.”

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine, I’ll get you later.” He shoots you a half-smirk, and you roll your eyes, because he has got you. Against all odds and logic, you’re not leaving this bathroom stall unless Dean goes with you.

“You really believe that.” You give him an amused look. “That’s cute.”

“Shut up.” He mutters, scanning over your face with a frown. “Why did you say it? Cause you feel bad about saint lady calling me the devil?”

“No,” you pick at the skin around your fingernail as you sigh. “I said it because I want you in a good mood.”

Dean blinks at you. “Why?”

“Because we’re about to deal with Vitus,” you hold Dean’s gaze, leaning down until your only a breath apart, and you can see every freckle, scar, and line on his face. He’s beautiful. You can’t focus on that right now. “And we’re doing it my way.”

—————————

Her way was insane. Her way was a crime. And Dean didn’t have a problem with that—crime was hard to avoid for any good hunter—but it was fascinating to watch Her dance around the words breaking and entering. 

It would be fascinating to watch Her dance at all. Dean’s mind was stuck on that image, scratching like a vinyl record of Her siren-like voice saying De, and a stuttering film of Her dancing. Crazy Lady had been right. It didn’t make any fucking sense, but She had the energy of beautiful music. She was a melody that had engraved its way into Dean’s brain with a scalpel, too amazing for him to every really pull it out or forget it. A melody that, even after two years, he’d still known to follow down and chase to hear just a little more.

She was fucking infuriating.

He’d spent those two years pretending he’d forgotten Her. Two years with Dad on the road and in motels—as he always had been—acting like his heart didn’t do a stupid little flutter when he saw hair like Her’s in a crowd, acting like he didn’t check every palm he touched for a scar. When he didn’t pretend, he told himself he was looking for Her to shout at her. To warn Her to stay the hell away, because he wasn’t a goddamn toy to be lured and trapped and thrown out. For Her to smile at, for Her to make vast and certain that he was being looked at, only vanish. To just go, right when he’d been in pain, right when he’d been so close to placing that fruity smell and learning how to ask Her if she was sorry, if she’d start over and if she could feel this too.

But She’d gone. Dean had woken up with a spinning head and sore body, Dad had told him She’d run right after they’d ganked the poltergeist, and Dean had forced that not to matter. Dean still dreamt of brilliant eyes and a star in his hands, but that wasn’t real, and didn’t matter. Everyone left, so that didn’t matter. Mom was gone, Sam didn’t want him, and Dad would get sick of him soon.

Dad was already a little sick of him. Dean wasn’t Sammy. He wasn’t useful except as a blade or gun, and he was too fucking empty to try and be more. And nobody could be Sammy. The kid was brilliant and kind and deserved the whole world, he was made for more, and Dean was just a selfish asshole who wanted Sam to stay with him. Who wanted to stop being lonely, who’d wanted the one person he knew would always be next to him to stay next to him. 

But Sam could see the pit. She could see the pit. Dad could see the pit. The only people who couldn’t see the pit were people who passed him in the dark and never heard him speak words that were true.

They were the people Dean had planned to waste his time with while Dad was off on one of his solo hunts. He’d had a motel, a scammed credit card with a full line, and week to kill.

But he’d gotten restless. And there was some strange dancing shit going on just a town over, so Dean was technically staying put like Dad had told him to. And it was barely a case anyway. It had been more of a reason to do something. To not be flat out useless until Dad returned.

Then he’d seen Her in the library, and everything else had vanished. It had just been Her, real and touchable in front of Dean, looking like She’d landed from the sky once more for Dean to orbit around. 

And he had. Damnit, he really had. They fought, and She’d bitten him, and he’d bitten back, then the dust settled and Dean still wanted Her. He wanted to walk in Her wake wherever she went. Let Her flood him however she wanted, because at least then he’d be full of that flowing light again. Just for a day, he’d pretend he wasn’t pathetic and caked in mud and dirt under his skin, and exist in Her wake like it could be as easy as it felt. He could look into Her blinding eyes until She looked back and he felt electric and alive, he could figure out what the hell that fruit smell was, figure out if She was really just an illusion. If She was working some kind of voodoo on him, and that’s why he kept forgetting the ache of Her lying, playing, and using him when just She looked at him—truly fucking looked at him—and said Deano like it was a note in the best song she could ever sing.

Why Her leaving had left a scar a little to the left of his heart, when he’d never seen Her for more than a day. What She’d done to him to make it so that as the years had passed, he could sometimes feel Her hand in his, although it had never been there in the first place. Why She haunted in him the dead of night—lonely or filled with fake company—by calling his name. His name. Just Dean, echoing in his ears until he was driven mad.

She’d never just called him Dean, either. 

Even now, in the car, She hummed De and brushed Her skin against his like it wasn’t a searing, painfully glorious mark She was leaving on him forever. 

“You’re gonna have to leave the guns in the car.”

Dean frowned at Her. “No, I am not going in unarmed like a dumbass-“

“What did we say, Winchester?”

She raised Her smooth brows at Dean, and he rolled his eyes.

“We’re doing it your way.” He muttered. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not bringing my gun-“

“Yes, it does.” She crossed Her arms, pushing her tits a little further up her chest, and Dean needed to get a hold of himself. He’d seen boobs before, there was no reason this should be making him short-circuit.  

No reason but they were Her’s. And they looked soft. All of Her looked soft. Soft and pliable, ready to be touched and tended to, capable of Dean sinking some part of himself into until it stuck and She’d remember him forever-

Dean blinked as Her hand waved in front of his face. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, course I am-“

“What did I just say?”

Dean had no idea—his mouth slightly open and brow furrowed as he raked his brain for a guess—and She sighed.

“Guns will be useless here, Winchester.” She said, and Dean opened his mouth to protest that guns were about safety when you were a freakin’ hunter, but she pushed on. “All we need to do is destroy the alter. We can use our hands.”

“What if crazy devil lady discovers us?” Dean snapped, giving Her a pointed look. “You’re gonna ask nicely for Her not to sick that dancing son of a bitch on our asses?”

“She won’t discover us, that’s exactly why we’re waiting until she’s gone to go inside.” She paused, frowning into the air. “There is a chance she’s got Vitus patrolling her house-“

“What-“

“But it’ll be fine.” She shrugged, twisting a ring on Her finger. “We’ll get through it.”

Dean scowled. “I am not dancing to death tonight, Princess, I’m bringing my fucking gun-“

“No, just-“ She sighed. “It’s really unlikely she’s doing that, it’s just a chance-“

“I don’t know about your luck, but mine luck isn’t good enough to go on chance-“

“We don’t need guns-“

“We do.” Dean leaned over the arm rest until he could see the little bit of spit on Her lips when she pulled them between her teeth. “What if one of us is in trouble? Gunshot will let the other know.”

She gave him a flat look. “I am not using gunshots as a safety system. That’s paradoxical.”

“Well unless you’ve got something better.” Dean smirked, because he was going to win this one. They’d gone to the town hall, and he was breaking into Crazy Ladies house to destroy the alter and leave town—She said something about saints and pagan gods not liking to be caged, and how Vitus would almost certainly take care of Crazy Lady for them—but Dean would be damned if he didn’t win one thing today.

She was scanning over his face, Her eyes narrowing, and just when Dean was ready to declare victory and tell Her they were going to his motel room so they could grab Her a gun too, She turned away. Pulled fully back and started rifling through the glove compartment, Her brow in an adorable little scrunch as she searched. 

Dean watched Her, trying not to let his brain latch onto the pretty pout of Her lips from focus, or how quick and deliberate Her fingers were. “What are you-“

“Here.” She rose back up and shoved a flashlight into Dean’s hands. “We can use signals with these. Like morse code.”

Dean frowned. “Do you know morse code?”

“No-“

“Then how the hell-“

“I said like morse code, Winchester, keep up.” She angled Her own flashlight down, her mouth hanging slightly open as she thought. Dean wanted to push his thumb between Her lips. “What if-“

“What if I brought my gun-“

“Shut up. What if we did one to check in.” She flicked the light on and off,  Her words picking up pace as she continued. “Two for I’m in danger, three for I’m safe.”

“Why not one for danger, so we’re not wasting our fucking time-“

“Because if you accidentally turn the light on and off I’ll come running, you’ll be fine, and I will kill you for making me run.”

Dean pushed down how the idea of Her running to him made his head a little fuzzy, and scoffed. “You don’t run or use guns? How the hell are you still alive?”

She shrugged. “I run when I want. And I can shoot, I just choose not to.”

“What, on fucking principle-“

“On lack of necessity.” She raised Her chin slightly, an odd look flashing over Her pretty features that felt hollow. Felt bigger than the bored, amused pride in Her voice. “I told you, Deano. I’m just that good.”

Shit, She really was. She was blinding. Burning into Dean’s eyes until he’d keep seeing Her everywhere for a million years, pulling him in with that fruity smell and causing strange explosions along his ribcage and up his spine, lighting up every nerve something raw and golden, and he wasn’t alone, how could he be alone when the universe was in front of him and had all been concentrated for him to collide with-

“She’s out. Let’s go.”

Dean blinked, and pulled his gaze away from Her’s to look out the windshield, right in time to see Crazy Lady’s car pull out of the driveway. ���So we’re just breaking in?”

She nodded, shooting him a small, teasing grin as she moved out of the car. “Unless you have an objection on principle-“

He couldn’t stop the low chuckle the fell from his mouth. “You’re think you’re really funny-“

“I am funny. I’m hilarious.” She ducked down to give him a mock-stern look. “Haul ass, Winchester, we got a saint to kill.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean rolled his eyes as he stepped onto the curb, smirking at Her as she rounded the car. “Bossy.”

“Suck my dick.” 

Dean laughed, and didn’t fight his hand as it found its way to Her back, resting easily between Her shoulder blades as they moved around the back of Crazy Lady’s house. He couldn’t stop doing that, but his hand felt right there. It grounded him—Dean thought it might be like waking up in your own bed—and he told him She was there. That this wasn’t another dream, and he could keep Her down here—in the blood and dirt, Her strangely ethereal presence perfectly in harmony with how fucking mortal Dean was—for as long as possible. That he could hold onto Her if the wind tried to take her away, could keep Her from bruises and pain with one strong movement.

And She wasn’t shrugging him off, and it made everything worse. Dean didn’t know how to fight this instinct to wrap Her in metal, then trail after Her like a lost puppy. He wanted Her to keep shining on him, and him alone, and stay safe but with him. She was a spoiled brat and a liar and Dean would end up alone again when this was done, but right now he felt useful. He felt wanted. 

And it was a sickness he’d never want to cure.

Not when She was smiling at Dean as she picked Crazy Lady’s lock, or flushing as he pushed open the door and guided Her through. Not when She was walking right against him, so he could feel the warmth of Her body, could brush their skin and make it look like an accident. Not when She tripped over the carpet, Dean’s arm shot out, and She was steady and safe. Pressed right against him. Squirming slightly and tilting Her head back to meet his gaze, Her eyes like a searchlight that reached right into the darkest place in Dean’s body as She—at least for now—didn’t seem to be disgusted. 

“Do you have your flashlight?” She whispered in Dean’s ear, and he held it up with a grin.

“One to check, two bad, three good.”

She nodded, her hand squeezing on Dean’s arm, and she probably hadn’t even been thinking about the movement—Her attention focused on the doors and stairs with a small frown—but it was going to haunt him for a hundred fucking years. 

“We can split floors.” She muttered, Her voice a little far away as she thought. “I’ll take up, you take down.”

Dean made a low noise of agreement, and dragged his body away from Her’s. She’d be fine. He was right down the goddamn hall, this was far better than Her hunting all by herself, and it wasn’t at all Dean’s job to protect Her. She didn’t need it. She was here by choice, She’d thrown herself into this life, and Dean had enough shit to worry about without being responsible for Her safety.

But that didn’t stop the way his stomach clenched and twisted in those brief moments when he’d angle his light out into the hallway, up the stairs, flash it, and then wait for Her response. He didn’t know why they couldn’t just fucking shout. She’d mentioned something about sound being an attractor to music-based saints and deities, but that seemed like bullshit. All of this felt like She was trying to fuck with Dean, make him get sick and tight when She’d take too long to answer, make his focus more on the heaviness over his chest between the second and third flashes. 

He wasn’t finding anything. No alter, no suspicious books, no big sign that said Go This Way To Gank Evil. Crazy Lady even seemed downright boring. She had yarn. Who the hell has yarn.

Dean groaned as he existed one of the last rooms—no summoning ritual guides next to the toilet—and sent a flash up the stairs. 

Nothing. Not one, not two, and definitely not three.  

Then there was a clattering sound, and Dean roared Her name before he could think, sprinting up the stairs and grabbing his gun out of his pants. She hadn’t fucking patted him down and checked, or asked, and he hadn’t planned to use it unless it was necessary, and it was. She was in fucking danger, and She’d thank Dean when he saved Her hot, annoying, insufferable ass-

She was not in danger. Dean burst into the room, raised the gun to eye level, and froze at sight of Her. Standing with Her hands on her hips over a flipped table, turning to look at him with raised brows.

“We said no guns.”

“You said no guns.” Dean grumbled, shoving his own pistol back into his jeans. “I never actually agreed, sweetheart. Shoulda had me shake on it.”

She rolled Her eyes as Dean moved to stand at Her side. “You’re an ass.”

“I know.” He winked at Her, and felt something at the very bottom of his gut coil and spark when She flushed. “Why the hell didn’t you flash back?”

“I didn’t see it, De.” She shrugged, surveying Her mess with a smug expression. “It’s not a great system, in a place with walls.”

“Then why the hell did you make it-“

“You looked like you’d lose your mind if I didn’t.”

Dean stared at Her for a long moment before shaking his head in slight disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

She smiled, Her eye barely flicking to him as she hummed, “I know.”

He scoffed, his hand returning to Her back. His hand kept returning to Her back, like a goddamn magnet, and She kept letting out a slow breath at his touch, and Dean was going to lose his goddamn mind. He might have already lost it, given how She was so close to his body, and he couldn’t think of anything outside of how every part of Her should be touching every part of him-

Every thought vanished from Dean’s head when She moved. Sent Dean stumbling behind Her as a blonde man covered in burn scars flickered into the room, his face painted in anger and his arms outstretched to grab at Dean. 

And now She was in his way.

Dean’s heart was in his ears, his blood too fast in his body, and his tongue was heavy and made of sandpaper, because She wasn’t even goddamn running-

He fumbled behind him as he regained balance, the boiled son of a bitch barely a second from grabbing Her, and fired right as grayed and jagged nails reached the space right over Her head.

Saint Ugly exploded into the air as the bullet pushed through him, and Dean lunged forward, grabbing Her wrist as she remained rooted in place.

“Why the hell did you push me-“

“I- I’m not-“ She shook her head, still rigid in Dean’s grip.  “Fuck, we’ve got to go, now, he might come back-“

Dean scowled. “You said he wouldn’t go after us!”

“I was wrong, okay!” She shouted, but she was also moving. He’d fucking take it. “Maybe he liked being trapped, I mean it’s not like a bunch of people are worshipping first century Sicilian saints right now!”

“Goddamnit, just-“ Dean’s jaw ticked, but he shook it off as he pulled Her out of the room, into the hall. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” he muttered. “Before that crazy music bitch gets back and Saint Ugly turns this place into a blood-“

“Wait, Dean!”

He froze at Her shout of his name—just his name, like he mattered—turned to Her as something kicked and flared near his heart, before stumbling back as the door slammed, and Saint Ugly appeared right where he’d been standing before.

“Shit-“ Dean ducked Ugly—he didn’t really seem like a saint right now—and pulled Her backwards into a bathroom, slamming the door behind them. “How the hell are we supposed to keep him-“

She let out a strangled gasp, and Dean turned to find Her back pressed to the wall, Her eyes glassy and wide as her hands curled into tight fists.

He half-shouted Her name, grabbing one of Her shoulders and holding her steady as he angled Her face around, looking for a cut or bruise or bump or evidence that Ugly had gotten to Her. “Fuck, sweetheart, you gotta talk to me-“

“I can’t- I don’t-“ She looked bloodless, Her lips pulled into a tight line. “I’m sorry-“

“You’re sorry-“ Dean shook his head. “Shit, what’s wrong with you-“

She made a choked sound, still frozen against the wall, and Dean groaned.

“Just, just fucking point to where he got you-“

“No, I-“ Her hand shot to his wrist, gripping him like iron as he stared at Her. “Deal with Vitus, I- I’m okay-“

“I’m not blind, you’re losing your fucking mind-“

“I’m just, don’t-“ She dropped Her head slightly, flinching as the lights started to flicker over Her head. “Fire, Dean, he’ll hate fire-“

Dean glanced around the bathroom. “How the hell am I supposed to torch the douchebag in here-“

She opened Her mouth to answer, and all that came out was a high noise of fear as She grabbed Dean’s arm, grabbed him forward, and he narrowly missed another attack from Ugly.

The bathroom was not a good place to fight an evil Saint, but Dean could manage. He’d kicked into high gear the moment he collided with Her body once more, found his footing, and moved. This was what he knew how to do. It didn’t matter that She kept saving his ass, or that Ugly seemed hell-bent on Dean and not Her, Dean was comfortable here. Fighting. Trusting his body—not his mind, never his mind—to know when to duck, when to pull Her to the side to keep her out of Ugly’s warpath, and knowing how to fight.

And he was fucking fighting. She’d been right, anything warm seemed to do Ugly in, because when Dean shoved him back into a heater he roared and vanished again. Dean could work with that. He could grab the thermostat dial and crank it all the way up, turn on the hot water until steam was rising from the sink, and keep his gun raised until he figured out something more permanent. Firing and swinging with his fists, unhooking to iron towel hanger and brandishing it like a blade, splashing the hot water in Ugly’s face-

The son of a bitch didn’t like that. He screeched, the scars on his skin starting to bubble and blister like they were new, and Dean felt everything settle. There it was. He had Ugly now.

Dean kept Her within arm’s reach as he grabbed the fancy, stupid little paper cups from the sink and started to fill them up.

“Dean,” She hissed, and when he glanced at Her she was hugging herself, fingers curled on her arms. “What-“

“I’ve got it Princess, just-“ Dean’s head snapped up as Ugly reappeared—seething and downright disgusting—and his face cracked into a wide grin. “Shower time, bitch.”

He threw the cups, splashing the water right on Ugly’s face, and grimaced at the sound of pain that echoed through the bathroom as Ugly melted. Turned into a puddle of slightly brown water on the floor. 

“Is it-” Her voice was soft as She grabbed the hook of Dean’s elbow, looking over his shoulder with a frown. “It’s glittering, right?”

Dean nodded, letting out a long, slow breath. “You wanna go?”

“I, uh-“ She swallow, leaning a little into Dean’s back, her breathing still shallow. “Yeah. Yes please.”

She was really quiet. As they moved out of the house, into Her car, and took off down the street, She barely said a single word. She just stared at her hands and picked at her skin, barely humming when Dean spoke and closing Her eyes for long moments when the silence stretched on. It was fraught and painful, like a live wire Dean had to brace himself against. Like something that could snap.

It was driving Dean insane. He hated it. She was downright docile, not protesting or arguing with Dean when he muttered that he was taking them back to his motel room. Not angry at him about the gun, or telling him how he could’ve handled Vitus better, or doing anything but sitting there and shutting down. 

And he had to fix it. She didn’t even have to smile, She just had to look at him, and breathe evenly, and stop making Dean feel like he was failing Her without ever having Her to begin with. 

When he parked Her car, Dean sighed, and move his hand to grab Her’s. Raising it out of her lap as She frowned at nothing, placing it carefully on the armrest.

“Stop doing that.” He muttered, tapping the raw, bloody skin around Her fingers. “You good to stay here for a minute?”

She nodded—so small he almost didn’t see it—and Dean ran a hand over his face, shaking his head before dragging himself out of the car, watching Her for a long moment through the windshield before he moved on. Her face titled down and cast in shadows, Her fingers curled on the armrest, and Her body so small he’d think she was trying to hide from something.

He wasn’t sure She’d be there when he got back. And he had to move some shit around, but he didn’t know what he’d do if he returned and She was gone. She wasn’t moving, wasn’t even glancing up to see where they were or where Dean had gone, but he didn’t trust it. It could be another con, another trick, another scam that didn’t make sense, that he was all too happy to fall for. 

But he didn’t want to drag Her inside. She looked fragile like this, and Dean was not soft or gentle. He didn’t care for things. He killed them. 

And She didn’t really look like she could afford to be handled by someone who didn’t know how to be gentle right now. 

And that made Dean sick. 

But he still, somehow, made himself turn away and walk into the motel room. She might have vanished when he returned, and Dean couldn’t know if She was truly just turning to stone and he wasn’t doing anything to fix it.

He moved faster because of that. Made sure his bed was passably made before he grabbed his bag, pushed through weapons and cassette tapes and clothing, and found what he was looking for in a matter of minutes. Stuffed all the way at the bottom, exactly where they always were.

Dean tossed Her jacket and flask into the closet, thought about it for a second longer, and tossed all of his laundry in there as well. She didn’t need to see his boxers. At least, not the dirty ones.

When he walked back outside, She was still there. She hadn’t moved an inch. Fuck, She barely even flinched when Dean knocked on the window. If he didn’t know better, Dean wouldn’t be sure she was breathing.

He opened the door, hanging off the hood of the car as he lowered himself down to Her eye level. 

“Hey,” he said Her name slowly, and She still didn’t look at him. “Are you living in here now?”

She didn’t respond, but She did move. Her eyes dragged to Dean’s, and he felt like someone was grinding his bone to dust and sticking needles into his skin. He didn’t know what the hell was up with Her, but she looked lost. Like She didn’t know where she was, why she was there, or who  She even was. She was watching Dean like he wasn’t Dean. Like he was more, and She didn’t know what that meant.

“Are you, uh…” Dean trailed off, and She still just stared at him. He didn’t have a freaking clue how to deal with this, not like She probably needed. He’d handled Sammy’s freak outs, when he was a kid. When Dad had grunted that of course you should be careful ‘round strangers, Sammy, they might try to fuckin’ kill and eat you, and the eight-year-old hadn’t taken that very well. But that had been easy. Dean knew Sam, he knew what calmed him down. 

And he didn’t know Her. He couldn’t move away from Her, and he kept liking everything he learned about Her against his best judgment, but Dean didn’t really know Her. Everything he did know was what She probably didn’t want him to, and what he wished he could unlearn. And everything else was useless here. He knew She didn’t drink. He knew She knew a lot about monsters, that she wore the best perfume he’d ever smelt. He knew She liked stupid things, and smart things, and telling Dean what to do. He knew he dreamt about dragging Her down into him and kissing Her until she was as dumb as Dean always felt in Her presence. Good dumb, where She rolled around his head and made everything illuminated so Dean knew there was something. That in his pit there was something, that She really was something, and whatever the hell he couldn’t stop feeling about Her was something.

He knew how he’d imagined Her being dumb, just for a moment, just for him. How he’d imagined Her being slack jawed and all his in a way he couldn’t afford to have, or lose. 

But that wasn’t real. Dean didn’t know which parts of Her were real. Dean didn’t know Her at all.

Yet he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t move, couldn’t walk away, couldn’t let Her rot in the car. It felt unforgivable, and Dean wasn’t looking to be forgiven, but he didn’t want to be damned. 

Not for this. Not when it seemed like it might cost Her too.

“C’mon.” Dean grabbed Her carefully, helping Her out of the car and into the motel room. She didn’t fight him. She only moved with him like she was rain, and he was wind pushing Her where he wished her to fall.

Down on his bed, Her back flat on the mattress, Her chest starting to rise and fall in a slower pattern. 

Dean dropped at Her side, bracing his elbows on his knees as he cleared his throat. “So, uh, you were right. Didn’t really need the gun, I guess.”

She sighed, and when she spoke Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper. “You used the gun, De.”

“Didn’t kill the son of a bitch with it, though.” He shrugged, watching Her carefully. Her eyes were closed, her face slack, and Dean wished it didn’t make his blood flow lower than it should. “If we had just brought Hot Pocket’s we’d have ganked the asshole right off the bat.”

“You’re a genius.” She mumbled, and that sounded better. She still wasn’t moving, so Dean wasn’t sure. 

“I know, sweetheart.” He kept going. Just until She smiled, and the whole world lit up because of it, he’d keep going. “With my brains and your criminal skills, we’ll have all the boring, anti-good music puritans out of the handtighting business in a week.”

She opened Her eyes, and they were filled with something Dean didn’t recognize. “We?”

Dean blinked at Her. He hadn’t expected Her to hang on the we. He’d expected Her to tease him about being the brains, or get adorably offended over being called a criminal, or scold Dean for saying handtight again. But Her gaze was intent, and Dean had to acting like his whole body wasn’t rioting against him from it. 

“Yeah. We.” He offered Her a small grin, and hoped She’d take it. Dean really needed Her to take it. “We ganked that asshole together, Princess. We’re an okay team.”

Her eyes sparked slightly, and let out a small huff that didn’t sound like pain. “A team.”

“Think that’s what they call it, yeah.”

“What would you call it?”

Dean paused, scanning over Her features. Open. Soft but no longer fragile, and open. And he could see the universe in Her eyes again. “I’d call it a team.”

She hummed. “Good. We can make a business card. No more handtights under our watch.”

Something Dean exploded, and his grin was probably dopey and too wide, but he didn’t care. Not when he felt lit up like this. “You called it handtight again.”

“Yeah.”

“You mean it this time?”

She tilted Her head at him, and that wasn’t a smile, but it was closer. “I think so.”

Dean scoffed. “C’mon-“

“I meant it.” She said, Her smile growing slightly. “I think it’s stupid, but I meant it.”

He narrowed his eyes at Her. “And you’re not gonna try to make me go back and kill Crazy Lady-“

“No, I don’t have an ulterior- Shit!” She sat up straight on the bed, Her eyes wide. “We didn’t deal with the secretary-“

“Fuck, we didn’t.” Dean ran a hand over his face, frowning into the air. “Do you think she’ll be able to summon Vitus again?”

She shook Her head. “No, he’s dead. But she might be able to summon another saint-“

“Will she be able to do it tonight?”

“I don’t think so.” She said slowly. “I mean, he was probably like her patron or something, and that’ll take a minute to replace.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. Then it can wait.”

She blinked at him. “But-“

“Look,” Dean said Her name, giving Her his best stern look. She was in no shape to confront Crazy Lady, Dean didn’t really want to leave Her here alone—He was certain She’d sneak out after him anyway—and this hadn’t been fatal. For once, there was something that could wait, and he was going to take full advantage of it. “Either I go deal with it alone, or we stay here. But you just-“ He paused, looking Her over slowly. “You need five. Take it.”

She glared at him. “You’re not in charge of me, Winchester.”

“No.” Dean winked at Her. “But if you get up, I’ll push you down, and I think we both know who will win that wrestling match. I’m warning you, Princess. I play dirty.”

He knew that flush, and he knew how to grab onto it like fuel. He hadn’t seen the hitched breath before though, or the way Her mouth parted slightly.

It made his heart volcanic in his chest.

“You’re the worst.” She mumbled, and Dean laughed.

“Sure, Princess.” Dean moved his hand to Her chest. Just the top of it, nowhere obviously inappropriate, and slow enough to give Her time to shove him away. She didn’t. “Down.”

He gave Her a light push, and She moved. Went flat on Her back with a tiny pout and glower at Dean, and he just grinned. 

“You can stay here, for the night.” Dean spoke before he could think, and didn’t know how to stop. “Just to, uh, save time. When we track down Crazy Lady in the morning. Get it over with sooner.”

She blinked at him, something glazing over Her eyes slightly as she nodded, Her voice soft once more. “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean nodded. “Awesome.”

“Sure,” She held Her hands over her head, her nails scraping at already raw skin. “For the case.”

Dean frowned, but pushed past it. “So you, uh, you want some food-“

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what-“

“Act like you want me here.” She mumbled. “Like you’re not just trying to make sure I don’t run off and handle the secretary by myself.”

Dean frowned. He wanted Her here. He wanted Her here more than he should. He just didn’t want whatever that had been to happen again, because it made him feel foul and rotten and useless, just watching Her breathe too fast and stare at nothing and pick Her skin bloody.

He didn’t know how to say that in a way that didn’t sound pathetic. 

But he also hated how She was small again. How She wasn’t looking at him. So he took a long breath, and made his words steady. Not certain—not when they weren’t the full truth—but steady.

“I’d like you here, Princess.” He lowered his back flat onto the mattress, keeping his gaze trained on the ceiling as he settled at Her side. “I’d get bored without you. And I think I owe you one question, anyway.”

She sighed. “I- I don’t want to answer questions right now.”

“Okay.” He turned to look at Her, and found her already watching him. So close. “You’re still staying, though.”

She looked at Dean like she’d never seen him before. Like he’d dragged himself up from the center of the Earth—drenched in dirt and something sticky—and she wasn’t sure what she was seeing was real.

He knew the feeling.

“Okay.” She whispered, and that was it. Dean gave Her a small smile, She returned it, and this silence didn’t feel like a live wire. It felt like the whole world, just in Dean’s shitty motel room. She turned her head back to look at the slightly stained and cracked ceiling, Dean looked at Her, and he couldn’t sit up. If he sat up, She’d find a way to leave. He didn’t want Her to leave. Breathing was easier when She was next to him. The world felt more colorful, and he felt like something had moved and found a home in a strange depression in the cavity of his chest. It washed always all the foulest parts of him and made him feel clean, shining so brightly that the remaining filth didn’t seem all that bad to live with. 

And it was fake. It was irrational and fake, another scam this enigma of a woman was probably trying to pull on him, and Dean still didn’t give a fuck. He’d believe lie after lie if he could keep feeling useful to someone like he was useful to Her. Just a voice and hands and a mouth who’d made Her smile again, and cleared that glassy look from Her eyes. 

He should ask Her now. Demand to know why the hell Dad had found all that shit on Her, demand for there to be an explanation. A reason that made him think this moment could last.

But he didn’t ask. He just basked in the glow and gravity of Her, and didn’t bother to fight his hand as if drifted across the mattress between them. Brushing his pinky with Her’s, and doing nothing more. Keeping his breathing steady as She didn’t move for a long moment, blinking at the ceiling and not looking at Dean—but not moving away either—and grinning wide and dumb when Her pinky hooked into his. 

“I can sing, too.”

Dean blinked at Her. “What?”

“You were shocked I could play the piano and dance.” She whispered, and even in side-profile Her smile was blinding. “I can sing too.”

“Your uncle also teach you that?”

“No. I taught myself.” She sighed. “Growing up I didn’t… I didn’t have much else to do.”

When She turned to look at him, Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All the air was gone from his body as She scanned over him, and Her eyes were made of stars, and Her face had fallen right from a heaven that wasn’t real-

“Led Zeppelin, huh?”

Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you dare trash Zeppelin, Princess-“

“That was a neutral statement.” She gave him an amused look. “I wasn’t going to make fun of you.”

He scowled. “Yeah, sure-“

“I wasn’t!” She rolled on Her side—Her pinky still locked in Dean’s—and his body was either going numb or coming alive for the first time. “I don’t make fun of things people like, De. Art is inherently subjective.”

He chuckled, ready to poke and tease Her, but she looked so goddamn sincere that the words died on his tongue, and he had to cough slightly to find his voice again. “You got thoughts on Zep, then?”

“I have thoughts on everything.”

That pulled a low laugh from Dean’s chest. “No shit, Princess-“

She scowled. “Sorry I care-“

“No, you’re not.” Dean grinned at Her. “And it’s better than being a boring fucking bum with no thoughts.”

“I guess, yeah.” She gave him an odd look, her words slow. “Do you… do you want to hear my thoughts on Led Zeppelin?”

Dean nodded, shooting Her a wink. “Be careful, sweetheart. You’re not the only one with thoughts.”

She was not careful. She spoke so fast and gestured like a mad woman, sitting up on Her knees for more dramatic motions and saying every word like a spell that just drew Dean further into Her. Her thoughts on Led Zeppelin were acceptable—there was always room for improvement, not everyone could appreciate their genius the way Dean did—but neither of them seemed to know how to finish a conversation. Dean certainly couldn’t remember. He kept following Her down every path she dragged him, until he was talking about food andcartoons, and She told him a story about making her father watch old Disney movies, and He was telling Her a story about Sammy trying to reenact a whole episode of Scooby Doo with toy soldiers for him on his birthday. 

Dad didn’t even know that story. He’d been off hunting. But She was giggling and smiling and leaning down over Dean’s body, so he’d tell it to Her a million more times.

“And Sam, he-“ She was covering Her mouth to stifled Her laugher. It wasn’t working. “He tried to make you kiss the Daphne solider?”

“He thought it was the best present he could give me.” Dean smirked up at Her. If he hooked his arm around Her waist and tugged her down, he could kiss Her. “Am I gonna lose you if I tell you I did it?”

She snorted—it was the cutest fucking thing Dean had ever seen—and gave up completely on trying to cover her sheer joy at his embarrassment. He was okay with that.

“Did you,” She took a long breath to control her laughter, Her eyes glowing on Dean’s. “Did you use tongue?”

He placed a hand over his chest, acting offended at the very question. “Course not, Princess, I don’t put out on the first kiss-“

She raised her brows. “Put out your tongue?”

“It’s my second-best limb, sweetheart.” He winked at Her, savoring every bit of Her reaction—flush, hitched breath, widened gaze—that told him She might feel this. She could, maybe, feel this, and nothing else would have to matter again. “Girl’s gotta earn it.”

She rolled Her eyes, but her voice was a little higher than before. “The tongue is a muscle, dumb dumb.”

“Huh.” Dean paused, furrowing his brow in thought. “Second best appendage?”

“I mean, I think ranking them in the first place is stupid-“

“You only say that,” Dean cut Her off with a smirk. “Because you don’t have one that’s obviously the best like I do.”

She gave him a flat look. “And what appendage would that be, Winchester.”

Dean wiggled his brows at Her. “Why don’t you guess- Ow!”

She’d shoved his arm, and Dean grabbed it as dramatically as he could, acting like She’d stabbed him.

“God, I’m dying, you’ve killed me-“

She snorted again. “Oh, fuck off, you big baby-“

He pouted at Her, barely containing his grin. “That’s no way talk to your victim-“

“Shut up- Dean!”

He grabbed Her arm, yanked Her back down to the mattress, and Dean would never allow Her to stop calling him his full name again. It sounded awesome when She said it. Not just a name, but Dean. She said Dean like it could only be him, and no one else. It was just them in the room—a little bit just them in the universe—but there could be a million other Dean’s but he’d still know She was only calling for him. 

“You’re such an asshole-“

He shrugged, not flinching as She glowered at him and slapped his hand away from Her. She was half fallen over his body, wiggling slightly but not trying to pull away, and he didn’t really have the brainpower to think about anything but that. “It’s payback, Princess.” He smirked up at Her. “Teach you to shove me.”

“Yeah,” She swallowed, and Dean was deeply aware of how She was molded perfectly into him. Too perfectly. “I learned my lesson, Winchester. Good work.”

Dean could taste the shift. It was sudden, but had still lay under everything, just waiting to be dragged back to the surface. 

And here it was. Here She was. The sugar was gone, but the fruit was strong, and Dean was intoxicated by it. Intoxicated by Her, so close and beautiful above him, beautiful in a way that made him sure She was royalty. There was no other explanation. That must be where Her wealth came from, from being created to be worship and obeyed like a living god. To be followed down, down, down, shining wherever She could be seen and coming apart only in the dark.

Dean could be Her dark. He could be the one to stand near Her in the shadows and unravel her where it was only them. The one who smirked when She told him what to do because he’d do it then and make Her scream his name later. Scream it like that. Like She had before.

And he still didn’t know where the hell that desire came from, but it didn’t matter. He felt it, more than he’d ever felt most things. And She was so fucking close, and Her eyes were wide and unreadable and infinite on his, and Her breath was warm on his face, and all it would take is a small movement to find out if he’d be worthy of being Her dark-

Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and they both tensed. She stared at Dean, he stared at Her, and he tried not to dwell on how empty he felt when She rolled away, giving him space to pull his phone out of his pocket, glance at the contact—Dad, shit—and put it to his ear.

“Hey-“

“Dean, there’s a bus down to Louisiana that should be leavin’ in about an hour. Pack up and catch it.”

Dean frowned, sitting up on the bed and adjusting his grip on the phone. “Dad, I don’t-“

“This son of a bitch is two-man job.” Dad snapped, his word clear through the phone static. “Need you here by the morning. Room’s paid for ’till next week, we’ll come back and grab everythin’ when we get this asshole.”

Dean swallowed, glancing over at where She was watching him with a far too neutral expression. “It leaves in an hour?”

“That’s what I said, boy.” Dad paused, his voice dropping in a way that Dean knew meant he was frowning. That meant he was, rightfully, sick of Dean speaking. “This gonna be a problem?”

“No, sir.” Dean muttered, running a hair through his hair, suddenly unable to meet Her gaze. “I’ll be there by morning.”

“Good. I’ll be waitin’ at the station.”

That was all Dean got before the line went dead.

“Was that your dad?” Her voice was small, back to the soft tone from before, and Dean grimaced inside as he nodded.

“Yeah, I, uh, I gotta go.” He gave Her an apologetic look, standing from the bed and pulling his shit into his bag. “Dad needs my help on his case.”

“Oh.” She nodded slowly, Her voice growing back to its usual tone, but still not easy. Still not fully Her. “Okay.”

“You can stay here.” He offered. “It’s paid for. And I’m, fuck, I’m out in an hour but we can go back to Crazy’s house now, I guess-“

She shook Her head, and something in Dean dulled at the fucking passiveness on Her face, in Her voice. “It’s fine, Winchester, I know how to handle a religious fanatic.”

He couldn’t just nod and let go. He couldn’t just walk out the door. “I’m serious, if we leave now-“

“I’m serious too.” She crossed Her arms, still watching him from the bed. “I’ve had… a lot of practice. I’ll be fine.”

He made a low, grumbling noise, and glanced at the closet. “You gonna stay here?”

“Yeah,” She said, watching Dean carefully. “I mean, if you’re really okay with it-“

“Yeah, like I said, it’s paid for.” He moved to the closet, blocking Her view of the mess inside with his body as he shoved the jacket and flask into his bag. Whatever this was felt like it was growing, and he was not about to bomb it with how much of a freaking creep he’d been for the past three years. “I, uh,” he rose back up, giving Her a small, nervous grin. “I’ll call you. To check on how dealing with Crazy went. And you need me, call me.”

She sighed. “Yeah, got it.”

Dean frowned. She didn’t believe him. “I will call you, Princess.”

“Okay, Winchester.” She gave him a close-lipped smile, and Dean’s brows furrowed. “See you in a few years, I guess.”

“You’ll see me sooner.”

“Sure-“

“Tell you what.” Dean dropped his bag, marching across the room to stand above Her at the foot of the bed, and not allowing himself to get caught up in the euphoria of standing above Her at the foot of the bed. “I’ll call, and we’ll see each other by three months.”

“De-“

“Pinky promise.”

He stuck out his pinky, and She gaped at him.

“Are you serious?”

“As cancer, sweetheart.” Dean flexed his finger, raising his brows. “I take my pinky promises very seriously.”

She rolled Her eyes, but didn’t say anything as she scanned over his face. Dean just reminded silent and still. Whatever She wanted to see She’d find, and it was all Her. Her call. Her choice if Dean remained alone until they collided again, if he’d keep forgetting, over and over and over, how to hate Her until the very idea of hating Her was just a far-off fog.

And when She raised her hand and locked her picky with his, Dean felt something settle a little to the side of his heart. Something he hadn’t felt in two years, and came back with an almost brutal force as She smiled at him, and Her voice fully regained that siren-like quality that might end up the death of him.

He’d just have to see.

“See you soon, Winchester.” She said, and he grinned.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You gonna take my car?”

Dean blinked, realizing the keys were still in his pocket. “I was actually just gonna walk, it’s a small town-“

“Take it.” She shrugged. “You can take a long route, spend some time driving. I’ll walk and find it by the station in the morning.”

Dean stared at Her, unable to wrap his head around what exactly She could be. A princess, an angel, the hottest lady he’d ever seen, sent to tempt him and make him go goddamn mad with whatever the hell She was doing to him. 

“Are you-“

“I’m sure. Bye, Dean.” She gave him another smile, and he felt like he was drowning in the moon. 

That didn’t even make any goddamn sense.

“I, uh, bye.” He made a stuttering motion to the door, and—before he could think better—turned around, leaned down, and pressed a small kiss to the top of Her head.

And he was a goner.

Because this time as he left Her, everything was still made of color.

And nothing felt lonely at all.

End Note: John Winchester winning terrible parent of the century three chapters in a row he’s on a roll folks.

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

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[voidwizardwholikestheshadows]

I’ve decided I want to say something. I’m going to try to see things equally as I talk about it but I will acknowledge my bias toward Tommy. He is and has been a favorite creator of mine and I want people to know that I acknowledge that I might say bias things and to take that into account.

I watched Dream’s stream three times. Once when Dream streamed, Kwite’s stream and Tubbo’s stream. I also would like to acknowledge that they both tried to give him the benefit of the doubt many times and Kwite and Tubbo tried to reach out to him. Also my apologies if I miss anything important in the stream, please just let me know if any of what I say is incorrect.

Firstly and foremost, I will say that Tommy should have backed down with the pedo jokes or stopped altogether. It just doesn’t look good, I’m sorry. I have watched Dream’s “The Truth” video before and tried to look into it myself and I honestly don’t believe that those allegations are true.

I will say that I am not in any way, shape or form okay with telling someone to kill themselves. It’s just not who I am and I don’t like how widespread of a thing that is nowadays. I understand other Tommy fans are upset but god fucking damn it that’s not okay to do toward anyone. I made this post earlier but leave Techno’s name out of this. I am absolutely disgusted by the fans that made “Dream SA” comments toward his fans and how he was going to SA them. It’s gross and you don’t look like a good person.

I have my grievances with Tommy fans but that’s not what I wanna say right now. I didn’t like when Dream was making any sort of sexual remark toward any of the minors. Like in this stream with Tubbo’s sister around 39:55 to 40:02, he made a weird joke about her respawning in Vik’s house. Idk if anyone else cares but that made me uncomfy personally, there was no need to say that. Or this Dream and Tommy interaction, maybe this isn’t as much of a big deal, they were friends and Tommy joked about it but it made me uncomfortable. I would like to specify again that these are my personal grievances with Dream. Or when Tommy joined the server for the first time and Dream and George had him do the crafting table bit which was a reference to sex, that was not cool, Tommy was 16, a minor, it just doesn’t feel okay to me at all. Also he had no clue what the joke was, he did what they asked him to do. Those are my main examples of that.

Also Dream skipping over all the important criticisms that Tubbo was giving him only to act shocked at not having context. It kind of irked me, I don’t know if it was done on purpose or not but either way, Tubbo reacted to the whole thing and Dream couldn’t be asked to do the same, slightly disappointing.

His statement on Aimsey really made me upset. Calling them a mastermind when they only tried to support their friend was a very odd choice. I have no knowledge on the George drama if anyone does please let me know.

Saying people hated him for playing a villain character on the Dsmp is kinda crazy. I believe that most fans can differentiate reality from fiction. No, I don’t think that’s why people dislike you Dream, when watching Tubbo’s stream he mentioned that Dream seemed to skip over the important bits of their phone call to focus on the smallest thing. Whether that was done on purpose or not is just not cool. If he wants people to form their own opinions and look into the facts themselves, at the very least give everyone the full facts.

Dream’s mention of the nsfw artwork posted in the discord in the early days of the SMP… I honestly don’t care what anyone else has to say on this point, it is his server and his responsibility to make sure the minors in the server are safe and not exposed to anything. Showing or allowing minors to see nsfw shit is a Crime. I’m sorry to say but that’s a fucking crime. I know Dream didn’t show it but if Tubbo was uncomfortable, it’s his job to make sure that stops. If nobody else was going to be the responsible adult, it’s his discord server and his Minecraft server, he should have some say if not have all the say in keeping minors safe. Even if they asked to be treated like adults which Tubbo doesn’t remember saying at all, YOU DONT TREAT MINORS LIKE ADULTS IN THAT WAY, THAT IS A CRIME.

And at the heart of it all. The R slur. Reclaiming a slur is for deweaponizing the slur. You can Not reclaim a slur by using it against a group of people, that’s the opposite of reclaiming, that’s just using the slur as a slur. I am not down for ANYONE using slurs they can’t reclaim or are weaponizing it. I am not for people calling Dream slurs when all that went down, it’s not okay. I will agree with Tubbo that his drama did kinda outgrow the MCYT community. Different communities have different tolerances on what can and can not be said, I don’t agree with it but that’s the truth. If there were a lot of people in the MCYT community throwing slurs around, I personally don’t want them here. Using slurs if you are weaponizing it is not fucking okay.

These are my personal opinions and thoughts and why I dislike Dream. I’m sorry if this upsets anyone, etc, etc. I might edit this later if I think of anything else.

[lair-of-platonic-yanderes]

Platonic Yandere Fyodor Dostoevsky Alphabet

Warning: BSD Manga spoilers (About Fyodor's ability). Platonic Yandere. OOC

GN! Baby/Child/Teen Reader

A - Adopt (How long will it take for them to start planning "to adopt"?) 

Normally, Fyodor is "picky" about "adoption". His child will stay with him until their final breath, and it is not that long, in Fyodor's eyes. And he doesn't want to deal with a bratty attitude, spending precious time on it. He will "adopt" an orphan, or a kid from a bad/abusive family. So he will have someone, who will view him as a Savior.

But, if you have a similar ability to his, or just an immortality ability... He would immediately "adopt" you. He won't care, if he will tear you away from your family and friends. He was alone for so long, and you can finally be his eternal company. His family.

 

B - Baby (Is age of their "adoptee" important to them? Will they reconsider "adoption" because of the age?) 

While "adopting" a baby means spending more time with them, Fyodor understands, that it's almost impossible for him to raise one without having a actual home, and Rats'/DOA's HQ aren't a suitable substitute. So, he would wait until Baby became Child to adopt them.

But, if "adoptee" are an immortal... Well, Fyodor will find a way to make HQ baby-proof.

C - Cage (How free their "adoptee" will be?) 

You are free to explore HQ. You are not allowed to take a single step outside it. Without him. He doesn't trust anyone to look after you. You should always be near your father, or where he can see you. 

D - Domestic (Beside the room, what did they do in their in the house for their "adoptee"?) 

You have multiple playrooms with different kind of toys (including consoles and computers). There's also a library, filled with books by your favorite authors.

E - Enthusiasm (How enthusiastic they are about the whole "adoption" ordeal?) 

Very, especially if his "adoptee" are an immortal. He couldn't wait for a moment he will have his child near him.

F - Family (Will they insist on being called father/mother/brother/sister etc.?)

Yes. And Fyodor is not above punishing you for not calling him dad. He will never hit you, but he will take away playtime with consoles or computer, making you stay in your room.

G - Guilty (Do they feel guilty for taking their "adoptee" from their previous life?) 

No. Nothing will make him regret his decision. And if his "adoptee" an immortal, Fyodor will firmly believe, that his decision was ultimately right. He is saving the kid from a life of loneliness.

H - Harsh (Are they harsh with their "adoptee"?) 

For an outsider perspective, Fyodor is a normal father, who is strict, but not abusive and who loves his kid greatly. And in private... Fyodor remains the same. He isn't yelling. He will never lay a finger on you. He would talk you into not doing something, and being grounded is the harshest punishment you get.

I - Ill (What will they do, if their "adoptee" became sick, and they can't treat them on their own?) 

Fyodor will take you to a hospital. Yes, really. There will be some manipulation involved, so doctors and nurses won't ask questions. And some soft manipulations with you. 

Hospital food is gross, but dad is bringing you tasty treats every day. There is nothing to do, but dad is bringing you books/phone/toys/tabletop games every day. The hospital is scary at night, but dad can sneak in and stay here, so you won't be alone. But, if you want, you can tell about your situation to others. And dad won't be here. 

And you will return to your mortal relatives/terrible family/orphanage.

Fyodor knew what he is doing.

J - Joke (What kind of parent they are? Serious or Fun?)

Fyodor is serious, but he is willing to show his soft side to his "adoptee".

K - [Character specific letter] Keep (Will Fyodor let you leave, after you reach eighteen? Or he will still keep you?) Bonus Round [Kill - Will they kill for their "adoptee"?]

He will keep you. He is old enough to be considered your ancestor, so you will be his child forever.

And, yes. He will kill for you, if he thought, that it will protect you, or your and his lifestyle. He will not kill with his own hands, he will send his underlings, or orchestrated the attack of random criminals, but he will ensure, that obstacle are dealt with.

L - Liquid (Do they have any special drink they make for their "adoptee"?)

Tea with honey.

M - Meal (And what about meals?)

Fyodor wants to make sure that you have a proper diet. So, no mountains of junk food and sodas. But he will gladly make pastries for you.

N - No (What they will never do to their "adoptee"?) 

Hurt, hit or broke you. Fyodor wants to have a living being for a child, not a doll. Yes, you should be a good child, who listen to their dad, but Fyodor is chill about you acting according to your age.

O - Obvious (Is it possible to catch on their intention to "adopt"?) 

Yes. Because your first meeting face to face (that you are aware of) will end in adoption. Before that - no. You might not even know that he exists, while he is planning an "adoption".

P - Place (Favorite place to took their "adoptee")

Any café, that serves good tea.

Q - Quit (Is there anything, that will make them reconsider to "adopt"?)

No. There are no chances. If Fyodor decided, that he wants to "adopt", he will adopt.

R - Rule (Do they have many rules for their "adoptee" to follow? Are there any strange rules?)

Not too much. Don't go far away from Fyodor, keep your room clean, do exercises Fyodor gave you. There aren't any strange rules. Fyodor, despite being controlling, is reasonable.

S - Sharing (Do they "adopt" because they wanted to give love to someone, or they want someone to give love to them?) 

Fyodor can't tell for sure. He was alone for so long, so he isn't sure, if he wants to be someone important for someone, or he wants to have someone to care about in his life.

T - Thing (What is the first thing they get for their "adoptee"?)

Before "adoption" - a matching ushanka for winter.

As an "adoption" present - cute tea cup

U - Unite (Will they welcome someone into the "family"?)

No. Fyodor doesn't want to see anyone else in this family. But Gogol invited himself and dragged Sigma with him. Fyodor will tolerate them as long as they don't try to hurt you or "poison" your mind with negative thoughts about him.

V - Vacation (Will they take their "adoptee" on vacation?)

Technically, yes. Fyodor is often moving from one country to another, and you are always traveling with him. He even makes sure, that he will have some free time to go with you on few excursions.

W - Wish (How much they will do for their "adoptee"?) 

Fyodor won't spoil you rotten. But he will always put a lot of thought in his gifts, and he won't tolerate you being bullied.

X - [Wildcard. Anything you want to share about them?]

Actually, despite everything, Fyodor is terrifying. Not because he is actively hurting you. It's because even before he "adopts", he makes sure, that you have nowhere else to go. When he finally gets you, you will see him the only person, who will care for you. He will manipulate your family members and friends to ditch you. So he can take care of you and finally have someone in his life.

Y - You (What make them want to choose their "adoptee" specifically?) 

His loneliness. When it became too much to handle, Fyodor will seek for a child to adopt. And, if something click in his mind, when he sees you, he will "adopt".

Z - Zero [Bonus Round - Character Specific Point] (When did Fyodor start "adopting" kids?)

Somewhere after first century of living. One day, on a whim, he took in a orphan. Since then, sometimes, Fyodor would "adopt" kids to take care of and keep him company.

[cosmerelists]

If Cosmere Characters Starred in Procedural TV Shows...

In a development that is surely not at all indicative of my mental health, I have been watching a LOT of 2000s style "special-est guy" procedurals. You know, like Psych or White Collar or Bones...those shows where Some Guy with a Special Talent or Quirk helps the police (or FBI or whatever) solve crimes. So in this list, let's talk about the Cosmere version of those procedurals.

1. Psych: Starring Renarin & Rlain

In Psych, Shawn Spencer pretends that he is psychic to cover up the fact that he's just hyper-observant and wants to solve crimes. In the Cosmere-version of Psych it's...pretty much the opposite. Renarin must hide the fact that he actually can see the future, and so he pretends that he's solving crimes through totally natural and normal detective means when really he is having visions. Rlain is his best friend who is helping him in his capers and coverups.

2. Bones: Starring Jasnah and Dalinar

In Bones, Dr. Brennan's extensive knowledge of forensic anthropology allows her to help the FBI solve murders. In the Cosmere version, it would be Jasnah's historical knowledge that is somehow endlessly relevant in for Dalinar's crime solving. Think of him bringing her into his vision that one time to figure out what part of history they were in. It would be like that, 22 episodes a season.

3. Grimm: Starring Vin and TenSoon

In Grimm, Nick discovers that he has magical grimm powers and now he can see monsters and solve monster-related crimes. In later episodes of the show, this sadly devolves into him mostly killing monsters, but that's a gripe for another blog. Vin is also someone who woke up one day to realize that she had magic powers in her blood and that there was a whole world out there, and she also fights monsters. Or, in this version, solves crimes involving them. Also Nick's partner was Monroe, a blutbad (basically werewolf), and Vin also has a dog-coded sidekick, TenSoon.

4. Burn Notice: Starring Nomad, Hoid, and Rebeke

In Burn Notice, Michael Western is a former operative who gets "burned," meaning he's cut off from his spy agency and left to fend for himself. Instead, he uses his spy knowledge to...well, not solve crimes, actually, but at least solve problems. And yes, I use Nomad here in part because he's on a world where you have to run constantly from the sun to avoid being burned, so it's funny, but also because it fits. In this version, Nomad must use the skills and knowledge he developed in his past role as [spoilers redacted], alongside a slightly untrustworthy, Hawaiian-shirt wearing, not-played-by-Bruce-Campbell-in-this-version Hoid. Rebeke can be Fiona, although she's slightly less prone to explosions.

5. White Collar: Starring Shallan and Adolin

In White Collar, Neal Caffrey is a con artist turned FBI informant who goes undercover every episode to use his con artist knowledge to solve crimes for the FBI. In this version, Shallan uses her lightweaving to go undercover every episode to help Adolin, who I guess is in the Rosharan FBI, solve crimes. My wife complained that in this version there's no obvious OT3, so I guess Adolin is married to Kaladin or something to make it work.

6. Alternative White Collar: Starring Shai and Gaotona

I also like the idea of it being Shai who is Neal--since she is captured and then forced to use her powers to help the government, ala Neal on his work release program. Only in this case, Shai would somehow use her Forgery powers every week to solve crimes alongside her handler, who I guess is Gaotona in this version.

7. Lucifer: Starring Kelsier

In Lucifer, the title character is, well, the devil, who's moved to LA and also helps solves crimes (man, there's a lot of these shows!). And Kelsier is a guy who crawled up out of the Pits of Hell--I mean, Hathsin and, in this version, proceeds to go back to the city and solve crimes I guess! I'm not sure who should play the non-devil-believing detective, though--any ideas?

8. Lie to Me: Starring Eshonai and Venli

In Lie to Me, there's like...a lab, I think? That studies micro-expressions, which are things that people can't hide and which reveal the truth of what they're saying. I like the idea that there are, like, micro-rhythms that even humans can't control, and so Eshonai and Venli are able to work as investigators solving murders using their...micro-rhythm lab, I guess.

9. House: Starring Lirin

House is a Sherlock Holmes adaptation where Holmes is an asshole doctor with chronic pain and a drug problem who solves really complicated medical cases. Now, Lirin is nothing like House (aside from being a bit grumpy sometimes), but I still want the adaptation where he moves into Urithiru and then solves super complicated medical cases that the Radiant healers can't handle for some reason.

10. Dexter: Starring Lessie and Wax

In Dexter, the title character is a serial killer who works for the cops as a blood splatter analyst and spends his free time hunting down criminals so that he can murder them. And, well, Lessie is a serial killer who helps Wax solves crimes, so it's kinda the same thing! Only I guess the serial killing happening after the crime-solving in the real Cosmere timeline...so in this version we'd need to have Lessie get into serial killing early so she's doing it while also helping Wax solve crimes.

11. Castle: Starring Ellista

In Castle, a mystery novelist named Richard Castle helps the police department solve crimes. Now, Ellista is not a novelist. Nor does she even read mysteries. But I like the idea of her romance-novel knowledge somehow coming in clutch in a series of romance-novel-related crimes that only she can solve. Tell me you wouldn't watch that.

12. iZombie: Starring Raoden and Galladon

In iZombie, Liv is a well, zombie, who gets visions when she eats brains and uses that power to help solve murders. I know Raoden is not a brain-eating zombie, but I couldn't pass up our one zombie character. So this show would take place in Elantris, where Raoden and Galladon (who spend a lot more time there, as zombies) solve crimes.

13. Angel: Starring Painter

Angel is a Buffy spinoff where the vampire Angel moves to LA and broodingly solves monster crimes while brooding. Painter is not a vampire, but he does like to linger in the shadows and he does fight nightmares...and much like the titular Angel, he's way more of a dork than he'd like you to believe. There's even a body swapping episode in Angel!

14. Pushing Daisies: Starring Endowment, Vasher, and Vivenna

In Pushing Daisies, there's a piemaker who can bring back the dead with a touch--but only for a minute (or else someone else has to die). Ned uses this power to temporarily bring back murder victims to, you guessed it, solve crimes, alongside his childhood sweetheart Chuck and his detective partner Emerson. Now, there one character who can temporarily bring the dead back to life--but if they want it to be permanent they have to steal "life" from others. And that's Endowment. Imagine if she decided to use her Returned powers to solve crimes! Now cast Vasher as the grumpy detective and Vivenna as...Endowment's love interest? I think it works.

[luxcuriousao3]

Continuation of this angsty Ghoap blurb I wrote (part one is here). This is still from Ghost's POV.

-

They don’t talk about it.

It's normal that they don’t, really. Routine. They fight, they don’t speak for a few days, but they’re always drawn back towards each other, like moths to a flame. The pull is a siren call, irresistible. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before.

The next time they fuck, Johnny insists on riding him, clearly not trusting Ghost not to pin him down and bite him again.

That hurts, but he knows he deserves it, so he allows Johnny that sliver of control.

His teeth didn't end up breaking skin, and Ghost is glad for that, in retrospect. He doesn't want to hurt Johnny—and as good as Ghost’s mark on him would look, it doesn't belong there. Johnny isn’t his, can’t be his, doesn’t deserve to be his. Johnny deserves something soft. Something kind. If Ghost were a better man, he’d cut him loose to go find it.

Every time Johnny comes to his room at night—not as often as before, even less so since Ghost went rabid and bit him—he tells himself that he’ll do it. He’ll be better, just long enough to free Johnny of the burden that he is. But he never does.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

They’re at a pub tonight, all four members of the 141. Johnny’s traded his usual spot next to Ghost for one next to Gaz, and Ghost pretends he doesn’t notice, that it doesn’t bother him. He shouldn’t notice. It shouldn’t bother him. They’re teammates, colleagues. Nothing more, nothing less. Just like he told Johnny all those weeks ago.

So Ghost doesn’t burn with jealousy when some bloke starts flirting with his sergeant. He doesn’t grind his teeth when Johnny doesn’t turn him down right away. Doesn’t ache when he thinks about how Johnny wouldn’t have entertained so much as a glance at someone other than Ghost, before. He doesn’t clench his fingers around his pint so hard the glass creaks ominously, doesn’t glare daggers at the stranger’s ugly mug, doesn’t feel the urge to grab Johnny and bend him over the table right then and there, show everyone in the damn bar exactly who he belongs to.

Mine, mine, mine.

But he’s not, he’s not, so Ghost just gets up and slips outside for a smoke as Johnny charms the fucker effortlessly and gets free drinks in return. He’s on his way to getting properly sloshed, but he’s not there yet, and Ghost can feel those blue eyes on his back as he leaves. It’s as gratifying as it is infuriating, that Johnny notices him leaving. That he doesn’t hop up to join him like he used to. Like he should.

No, not like he should. Rather, how Ghost wants him to. Wants him at his side, always.

Selfish bastard.

He stares out into the dark street, trying to pull himself the fuck together. He can’t be acting like this. Like a schoolboy with a crush. Like a possessive boyfriend. He’s not Johnny’s, he never will be. He can’t be. Everything Ghost touches, he destroys. He’s breaking Johnny already—he can see how the other man still craves something more from Ghost, despite pulling away. That he always will, that no matter how many pieces of him Ghost steals and grinds to dust beneath his boots, Johnny will never leave, not entirely.

Ghost knows. Sometimes, Johnny looks at him with so much heartbreak and want in his eyes, it takes his breath away. And fuck, his sergeant was staring longingly at a couple in the pub just tonight, before that prick came over to flirt with him.

Ghost is ruining him. Soon, there will be nothing left of Johnny but an empty shell.

A cold sort of acceptance falls over his shoulders, and Ghost stubs his smoke out on the bricks behind him before flicking it away. As he heads back inside, he knows there’s no more running from this. No more being selfish. He will end things. He’ll let Johnny go, even if it kills him.

And fuck, but it feels like it just might.

Especially when he gets back to the team's booth, only to see that Johnny and the bloke that's been chatting him up are both gone. He stops, goes still, stares at Johnny's half-finished pint on the sticky tabletop, wonders if maybe he was wrong, maybe Johnny scrounged up enough survival instincts to leave Ghost after all. Like prey spooking in the presence of a predator.

“He's takin’ a piss,” Price speaks up, reading his mind and cutting through Ghost’s spiraling thoughts. He’s got a hand on Garrick’s nape, the younger man groaning pathetically as he leans against his Captain, green around the gills. “Think Kyle's had too much ta drink, gonna bring ‘im back to base. You mind tellin’ Soap where we went?”

Ghost gives him a jerky nod, and Price drags Garrick out of the booth, slinging his arm around his shoulders.

“Ta. See you in the mornin’,” he says, and Ghost watches him lead Garrick outside before sliding into the booth. He stares hard at the door to the men’s room for nearly five minutes, but Johnny doesn’t reappear. He can already feel his determination to do the right thing slipping, and so he gets up and strides over, the crowd parting for him as it always does. Johnny’ll hate him for ending things in dirty pub toilet of all places, but perhaps that’s for the best.

Ghost would rather hurt Johnny a little bit right now than shatter him later.

And he will, if Johnny stays. Ghost will sink his teeth into him and rip apart slowly, piece by piece.

Ghost wasn’t made for love. He was only made to destroy.

Abandonment is the only mercy he can offer.

[dangermousie]

Confession time - I find Miles Wei’s character more interesting that Li Xian’s.

It’s honestly The Double again for me - a female centric narrative about a driven woman with a terrible weak ex and a powerful new dude - and I find myself much more interested in the bad dude than the good one.

OK, before people come for my head, this doesn’t mean I find Peony husband a better person than the Envoy or that I ship him with FL (no thank you!), I just find him more interesting as a character for the same reason that I found Shen Yurong more interesting in The Double (tho in The Double, it was exacerbated by the fact that SYR and Princess Wanning actors gave the best performances in the drama - the mains were great but those two were another level. Here I don’t think Husband is giving a better performance than Envoy.)

You never truly know how Husband would act and which way he’d jump. He’s not the noble main character bound by the narrative restrictions (and censorship restrictions) within a certain path. And that is what makes him interesting to me - the complexity but also the uncertainty. I mean both actual MLs of The Double and Peony have a bit of an edge - Duke Su is dramatic and ruthless and starts out using FL and Envoy is dramatic, standoffish from FL and seemingly corrupt. But it’s a cdrama in this era, not a decade plus ago, we all know every minute they are actually good guys - no, Envoy is not actually corrupt and Duke Su is not actually murder happy - the former is saving the bribes for the people of treasury or w/e, Duke Su only kills death penalty people and both are super super duper loyal to the crown and of course would save the FL if she really needed it.

That makes them great husband material but it removes a lot of the tension I find interesting. No, a character does not need to be dark and/or unhinged for me to find them interesting - I loved 17 in LYF and am loving XXC in The Blossoming Love and those two are utter Boy Scouts - but it is hard to do in such a way they grab me.

Meanwhile secondaries are out there running free of confines of the moral messages which gives them an edge.

In the olden days, you could have MLs which were like this (I am thinking of Glamorous Imperial Concubine - the deliciousness of it was that Kevin Yan started ready willing and able to harm FL for his goals, not to mention all the “proper” historicals - think of Three Kingdoms or Advisors’ Alliance - those were not romantic heroes in traditional sense or a more recent example of Goodbye My Princess or Siege in Fog - except their inability to let FL go it was anything goes for those MLs) but for obvious reasons, this doesn’t happen much any more - the closest we’ve come recently is Kunning and Blossom and I adored both - there a lot of tension was that even after we realized MLs would die for FL, you often had no idea how they’d jump for other reasons and it gave us tension.

(Interesting side note is something like Eternal Brotherhood where even until the last episode, in terms of romance, I could not tell how Xiu would react to Ning - he was a very good person but the tension in the narrative came from his immense damage - every scene between them crackled with whether his feelings would win or his issues - it was constantly his issues but in every scene I kept going…but what if? That’s good acting and writing! But then there was the other tension because what Xiu was dedicated to was brotherhood and his platonic ideal of what a just society should be - which put him on a collision course with the wishes of his heart, and his friends and even the ruler - it gave uncertainty also. That’s a hard balancing act.)

Anyway this is a ramble so I will finish this failed attempt at an essay by saying - if cdrama rules allowed mains more edge and uncertainty, I’d probably be (even) more interested but as is, much as I love the mains, I often end up more drawn to secondaries in terms of interest.

[nalyra-dreaming]

I know people have a lot of different theories about this, and my apologies if you've already shared your own but do you think it was really Armand that got Louis out of the wall after the trail? Louis said he recognized Armand's blood in the rocks, but Louis has also been wrong about the way a lot of things happened. When he asks if Armand saved him at the trail and Armand says yes, I hear more hesitation there while he is bald face LYING than in his next yes to Louis' question about if he freed him, which makes me think it might be at least some what true? And if it is why save Louis when he'd just tried to have him killed? Maybe some kind of parallel of him counting on Louis to destroy the coven the way he'd manipulated Lestat into doing the same before?

The main thing that bugs me is that obviously Armand's whole "Woe is me I was being punished by the coven for saving Louis" schtick is bullshit, so how much of the following part of that story about how his "reduced status" allowed him to sneak Louis out of the wall is true? There's also the fact that Lestat was still in Paris, and I cannot imagine a reality where Lestat knows Louis is being starved to death in a wall and doesn't try to save him. Like. If he had any control in the matter, he wouldn't let that happen, period. There is of course that we know for sure now (thanks Sam lmao) that Lestat was coerced/controlled into being at the trail in the first place, so he very well could have been in some kind a captive state himself, in addition to probably also being grief mad over Claudia, while Louis was trapped in the coffin that would have stopped him from doing anything about or knowing it was happening in the first place.

I am so excited for s3 I am going to gnaw off my own arm! Anyway, would love your thoughts, thanks!

Okay, so up until yesterday I would have said: well it must have been Armand, Lestat was chained up in the tower after the trial.

However, the writer's room just posted this:

And look, there's a "Lestat's coffin"... that we see Armand close when he tells of how he has been "demoted".

Now, I always thought that Lestat would be there, I mean we see him sitting there, but I thought that he might be in one of the tombs maybe, but no, they put him in a coffin.

And when he didn't behave like he should at the trial they punished him, and Armand went and took his coffin, which is a very Armand thing to do, I can tell you, lmao. (Arguably he is seen doing that in his narration of events, too.) (EDIT: @lightleckrereins pointed out it likely wasn't Lestat's coffin after all, so I'll stay with 'Armand so would' *g*)

Anyways, back to your question:

The show established that maker and fledgling can feel each other through the cord.

There is no way - no way! - that Lestat would have stayed calm and silent while he would have felt Louis starve to death (as you also point out). NONE.

Which makes me think that maybe he made some kind of deal with Armand (and this is one of the approaches I am using in my fic, just for the record), to get Louis out.

Now. The thing is.

There IS a possibility that Armand got Louis out, dragged the box through the sewers to a certain point, got Lestat, took him also through the sewers, to revive Louis.

But I think that is unlikely, as much as I would love it to be true. Because I don't think there's a way in HELL that Lestat would have left Louis then.

And Louis wasn't dead or deaf, he would have noticed Lestat and Armand there.

I think it is far more likely that Armand freed Louis, and then left him, as part of ... whatever deal.

There is also the third possibility, that Armand and Lestat took Louis out of the wall, Lestat revived Louis, and then Armand dragged Lestat away (who was clearly not at the top of his powers as seen and stated by Sam).

But I think the coven dynamics after the trial would argue against that, as well as the aforementioned fact that Lestat would have wanted to stay, and even then, even in his weakened state he would have fought.

EXCEPT maybe... that part of the tale is true, namely that Armand waited for Santiago to be distracted to make his/their move. But again, there, still, does someone not being there when Louis wakes up come in. Which weighs heavily, imho.

All in all - I think it is a possibility that it was Lestat who got Louis out, yes. A high possibility if you factor a deal in.

The blood? Possibility as well, but not likely, for practicality reasons. Except, of course, the whole aftermath went vastly different, which is another possibility.

We do know Lestat's skin looked weirdly like still healing from burns in the reunion scene after all....

So maybe he did, and was still there when Louis burned the theater.

That, too, is a possibility.

Until we get more posts or clues it will be impossible to tell, tbh. :)

And yes, I am soooooo excited for s3, I can't even :)))))) And the tease in OnlyFangs with the quote between Lestat and Gabrielle!!!!!!!!!

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Twilight AU where everything is the same but Bella has 9 cats. The only luxury she allowed herself while going to Forks was her fur babies coming with her. Charlie now has 9 seperate litter boxes in the house. She's still all for the Cullen life, she loves her cats but wants Edward more.

How does the series go on? How does Edward sneak in to Bella's room to protect her from spiders without alerting 9 cats?

This is very hard for Bella.

Edward Sneaking into Her Room

As you note, this becomes more difficult as cats will smell him better and we know from canon that vampires make animals freak the fuck out.

Edward steps in there for ten minutes, those cats will lose their minds in terror for days. However, will that stop Edward? No.

I imagine, if the cats are in the bedroom with Bella, he moves them out of the room whenever he enters. They make a fucking racket in the middle of the night, Edward hides in Bella's closet while she asks them what is wrong? Why are they so scared? And eventually Bella goes back to sleep, repeating the cycle if she brought the cats in with her.

(Bella realizes this is yet another sign that something is strange in Forks, Edward thinks he's nailing it.)

You Can Be Vampire, But Cats

Bella's similarly enthralled by Edward, figures out what he is in part thanks to her cats, and it's all great until one of the big reveals.

Not only do animals not like vampires, vampires causing them insane amounts of stress because they're afraid, but vampires are very likely to kill them accidentally simply by touching them wrong and the Cullens, well, they eat animals.

To become a vampire, just as Bella will have to give up her human life she will have to give up her nine cats.

Bella's horrified. This hits home in a way the "my parents will be fine" rationale she has in canon doesn't. Her babies will not be fine, she loves them, and she can't send them back to Renee and oh god can Charlie take care of nine cats???

But Bella's also in love with Edward.

We enter a similar scenario to what happened with Jacob, but this time, with nine cats. Not wanting to give up on either Edward or cats, Bella insists that they can totally keep her cats when she turns. They won't be afraid of her! They'll know it's her! And she'll never hurt them.

Edward doubles down, seeing the cats as one of the strongest means of keeping Bella human (even if he privately thinks they're annoying and smelly).

The Switzerland debacle is born again, only this time it's "I am neutural territroy in the conflict between 'choose my cats' and 'choose vampire'! I choose both! I CAN MAKE THIS WORK!"

Canon continues unhindered.

When Breaking Dawn occurs, the nine cats do indeed move into the Cullens' house because who is going to tell dying pregnant Bella that she can't have her damn cats? The family will put up with them, make sure not to kill them, and the cats cower in terror while simultaneously meowing at Bella and her diseased smell.

"Oh, precious, Mittens," Bella says to one of her cats feebly, "My son will love you all."

This goes awry when Bella does survive, is turned... and now the Cullens have nine fucking cats.

Any thought of saying "you know, Bella, maybe we should rehome these guys because this really isn't a good environment for them" is squashed as Bella just takes it for granted that the cats are here and it's wonderful! Renesmee loves the cats too! They're having a great time! (They are not).

... The likelihood the cats suffer a fatal accident when all the vampires arrive is quite high.

[thetrashthatsmilesback]

Tbh Callum betraying Ezran for Rayla could have been interesting if they had time to explore Rayllum's codependency issues and how fucked that actually was, but they just don't get that much time. It is dumb that Callum was allowed back on the council after the Aaravos fight, realistically nobody would trust him anymore.

And this isn't Callum hate. After Claudia, he's my favorite character. I just wish the show had enough time to actually explore what his betrayal meant and how unhealthily attached he and Rayla are (i say this as a massive Rayllum shipper. Only valid hets fr. I read rayllum fanfic, I shipped them from day one. I love rayllum. I just wish the show had the time to explore their obvious codependency and how dangerous it actually is. Callum defended the man who killed the king for Rayla - that is literally high treason. He defended the man who killed his step-father for Rayla. I thought we were going to get a Katara "you didn't love him as much" moment from Ezran and we didn't. I just think that this plot point really should have been explored more if they wanted to do it, but they were limited by the episode count)

[egittae]

A dreamless sleep was suddenly interrupted by noise and chaos, lots of movement and then chattering. Part of him did wish to ignore the noise and prioritize his own recovery, after all he wasn't alone in the bunker, but a much louder piece of his being made it impossible for his eyes to even stay closed. Springing out of his cot, biting his lip to hold back the pained hiss from his still sore torso, Lambert looked around for the source of trouble.

It took him a few moments to fully realize what had been taking place- but once he noticed no active danger was taking place, the professor approached the commotion.

"That is no common wolf, food will not sate its tendency to weave chaos. Crest Beasts are composed of strange magic, and their behavior tends to diverge from their more natural counterparts. The plains of Itha are filled with these creatures." A gentle addition to the conversation before icy pools fully framed the creature in their vicinity. It was indeed a beastly wolf- but juvenile.

Lambert kneeled, keeping his back straight for the sake of his injuries. "Had this been an adult, we would have needed to kill it with no exception. Even at the promise of using one in our favor, they are quick to attack both friend and foe. This one, however..."

He stared at the wolf, locking eyes with the creature for a solid minute. With no warning, Lambert spread his arms and the wolf jumped at him in a playful fashion, wishing for a fun brawl. "...is just a big baby, and I suppose we still have the means to properly train it to at least act in our favor. Right, you big doofus?" He then gave the wolf belly scritches, smiling.

"...who in the Goddess' name brought this little one here, though? That individual deserves a nice, firm knock on the head for reckless behavior." It was a fatherly threat. Smiling and warm, but you know the intention in there. In full.

He then turned his head to the Golden Deer. "Claude, is it? Allow me to come with you, I know I should have been resting but....I am so painfully bored that the idea of going back to that cot feels ghastly." He wanted to feel useful, desperately so. Even though he technically was by taking time to recover...Lambert just really wanted to do something.

Maybe the one who truly wanted walkies was not even the wolf, but him.

Big Maybe Not So Bad Wolf

Infirmary Gang Tames Al's Fucked Up Dog || #TOAEpiphany2025

[daeluin]

not even a day after christmas and my manager is already screaming 😑

[mohntilyet]

still i think the one of the more fun differences drawn between illario and lucanis that was lost would be illario's ability to endear himself to others but serious lack of empathy, vs. lucanis' (self perceived) inability to be charming but how much he cares. it's interesting that the game has gone with the "lucanis' ability vs illario's lack thereof" because i think illario being the dellamorte 'best in show dog' vs. lucanis' attack dog would have made me so unwell.

lucanis is... awkward. he's not unlikable, because he is usually very polite, but he doesn't speak much and only seems to care about the other dellamortes. he once sent viago de riva a knife with no note (who knows what he could have meant by this). he does what caterina asks of him, and by his own admission, cannot say no to her. he is a dramatic and prolific killer, and that makes how untouchable he is even worse.

and the crows like illario, sure, AND he's a good assassin! he's even a good crow! he's so good that he can make lucanis smile, and so he is the charming, sociable one. he's the one that stays in treviso and can be relied upon to care, illario's even the one people prefer over caterina and lucanis!

but illario is decoration. he's the prize poodle, and even if poodles were bred to be working dogs, nobody will ever pick him to protect the house over the german shepherd that regularly mauls intruders. anyways the analogy is getting away from me. the point i'm trying to make is that i want illario to have a different kind of jealousy/hatred that's not just over 'being bad at killing' but also an arrogant loathing for everyone around him that is getting harder to hide, because they've forgotten he can bite and is just itching to rip someone's jugular out. illario is very good at hiding his family resemblance to caterina, while lucanis suffers under his grandmother's, and his own, reputation.

[thewiglesswonder]

"NO, I WANT TO KILL HIM!"