#i will be lying in the grass and still thinking about supernatural early seasons

[samwinchesterunderstander]

touching grass does NOT help by the way

[gamesmakers]

Night Lily

A/N: Odesta supernatural. Some mild sexual content and some not-so-mild vampire content. Old but I wanted to reblog for October and didn’t want to hunt for the different chapters.

--

The fan above her bed cannot keep up with the sun’s heat. Annie has opened all of the windows, hoping to tempt in a cool breeze, but the day refuses. Rich tourists still flock to District Four during the winter for its warmth and sunshine, but the fancy hotels next to the pier are empty during these still days at the height of summer. In the afternoon, the streets are quiet, as everyone has hidden in their homes to nap away the hottest part of the day, and night brings little relief. Neighbors go days and weeks without seeing one another as they wait for the worst of the wet, sticky heat to recede. The district dies every summer only to be revived again when autumn arrives.

Her nightgown clings to her body, glued against her with a thin layer of sweat. Annie pushes its straps off her shoulders and hikes the hem up a few more inches. It doesn’t help. She hopes that Ronan, who she stripped down to just his diaper before lying him down in his crib, is faring better. When she leans over to rest her hand on his forehead, she realizes that her three-week-old son suffers the heat far worse than she does. The poor child’s burning up.

For what must be the dozenth time that night, Annie grabs the bowl that she keeps on her nightstand and hurries into the bathroom. It takes a few minutes for the water to cool down, but finally, the trickle of water that runs over her finger begins to grow cold. She fills up the bowl and grabs a clean cloth from the stack before she is ready to go back.

A gust of cool air lifts her hair from her shoulders, and Annie shivers in the sudden, delightful chill. The heat hasn’t broken this early in the season for years, and they haven’t had a single thunderstorm to bring in a cold front, but she’s not going to complain. A cool mist now fills her bedroom. Annie sets aside the bowl and rag. If anything, Ronan will need another layer of clothing, not a damp cloth. She lifts the few strands of hair that have escaped the bun at the top of her head and pulls the front of her nightgown, still sticky with sweat, away from her chest, allowing the mist to caress every inch of her. Her sigh doesn’t wake Ronan. For the first time in weeks, Annie slips a blanket over herself before she falls asleep, content.

--

The next day, the sun returns, and their home is again a furnace. The radio announcer makes no mention of the last night’s fog during the daily weather report, which puzzles her, but they do live far enough away from the rest of the district that she supposes there’s no reason to be surprised. The fishermen’s families that live in the little clapboard cottages only feet off the shoreline get their cool ocean breezes. She and Ronan deserve some relief as well. Annie brushes any though of the weather away and smiles at her baby. “Are you a happy boy today?” He is too young to understand a word she says, but she still makes a point of talking to him. The parenting magazines that the doctors forced her to read before they allowed her to bring Ronan home from the hospital said that it would help his language development, and, if she’s honest with herself, she gets a bit lonely all alone in their big house in the Victors Village without anyone to talk to. He’s awake, but he doesn’t respond, so Annie continues, “I would be too, if I were you. I’m very proud of you for sleeping five hours straight last night. The two of us needed some good sleep, didn’t we?”

He’ll turn a month old tomorrow, and he already looks heartbreakingly like Finnick. Once milky-blue eyes now share Finnick’s sea-green sparkle, and the few little tufts of hair on his head are reddish gold. She worries that someday he’ll be as beautiful as his father was. Being gorgeous only ever hurt Finnick, and she’s terrified that the same fate will befall her son. Her stomach clenches and her vision blurs just thinking about it.

The doctors tell her she needs to stop worrying about things she can’t control. Annie takes several deep breaths and focuses on the laundry she has been folding. When her hands stop shaking, she smiles at her baby, still thinking back to Dr. Aurelius’ advice. Find something to keep your mind off of it. Go for a walk, listen to music, make small talk. Do whatever it is that you need to do to keep yourself sane. Sane is a lofty goal, but one does have to try, don’t they? “Think we’ll get some more of that mist tonight? I could certainly use some. I haven’t been out to visit your father in a week with this weather. If only that cold could have stuck around for a few hours more, right?” She knows she’s rambling, but if she needs to talk like a crazy person to keep herself from becoming one, then that’s what she needs to do.

--

She gets her wish that night, and the next, and the next. For the next week, just after midnight, the same cool mist seeps in through the open windows and fills her room, calming Ronan’s fussing and allowing her to get some much-needed rest. By the fourth day, she finds herself looking forward to the  mist and the sweet dreams it brings with it. For the first time in months, her dreams consist not of gaping, bleeding wounds and cold, dead eyes, but of her husband’s green eyes only inches away from hers, his body pressed tight against the curve of her own, his lips against her throat, sucking against her pulse point. In these dreams, his golden skin glows pale in the moonlight, and she clings to him, trying to keep him with her. But he was always stronger than her, and he presses a kiss to her cheek before he pushes himself away.

Every morning when she wakes, Annie glances over to his side of the bed, only to find that he and the mist are gone.

--

It’s a long walk down to the town, but the clouds provide a bit of protection from the sun today, and Annie knows she won’t get another chance to get out of the house anytime soon. She still hasn’t worked up the courage to put Ronan in the little baby seat that she affixed to the back of her bicycle, so she’s carrying him in her baby sling and hoping he’ll be all right in the heat. One of her hands holds a potted lily, and she has a small shovel tucked into her purse. The bag and the sling bump uncomfortably against her as she walks, the jingle of her keys and coins the only sound besides the faint crashing of the waves against the rocks below. As she leaves the false security of the Victors Village, Annie grows more and more aware of how alone she is, how vulnerable a woman carrying far too much and with a baby strapped to her chest must seem. She slips the shovel out of her purse and fists her hand around it, alert. It’s almost as comforting as the knives she carried through the Arena.

Her grip on the shovel does not loosen until she is safely inside the town. True, the streets are mostly empty, and only a couple of the dozen shops that line the square have their doors open for business, but there are a few people out and about. Today, she’s not interested in the living.

The graveyard sits behind an old, dilapidated building that has seen no use since the Dark Days. The iron gate squeaks as Annie pushes it open with only a bit of effort. Since the revolution, this gate has seen more use than anyone wants to admit to, but today, it’s just her, Ronan, and generations of District Four’s dead.

Finnick’s sister insisted that he be buried in the family plot, not the center crypt that holds all but two of District Four’s thirteen Victors, and Annie had been in no state to argue. She walks past rows of tombstones, many of which are too worn to reveal who lies beneath. When she was young and her father would bring her to visit Grandma and Grandpa Cresta, the forgotten graves had terrified her. The thought of rotting beneath the grass, nameless and alone, for all eternity had haunted her dreams for years. When she had gone into the Arena, Annie had learned that there were far greater things to fear.

One new, white headstone sits a few feet away from the others. Annie sits down cross-legged in front of the stone. “Hello, love,” she says, and her voice shakes. “It’s good to see you again. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

There’s no answer. There’s never an answer, not anymore. She takes Ronan out of the sling and holds him out towards the headstone. “He’s getting so big.” No reply. “Isn’t he handsome? I think he takes after his father.”

“Not very talkative today, are we?” She unwraps the sling from her chest and lays it out on the ground, putting Ronan down on his stomach on top of it. “I brought you something,” Annie says, picking up the lily. “”I thought yours might not have done so well these last few days, and it looks like I was right.” The lilies she planted only two weeks before are now little more than brown, shriveled stalks. She gets to work digging them up and planting the new one. “I think… I think I’m getting better, Finn. I’ve been thinking a lot about you these last few days, dreaming about you every night, and they’re not nightmares like they usually are. We’re just really happy together.” Annie pauses for a moment to wipe her hands on her skirt. She looks directly at the engraved words that say Finnick Odair. “It’s like you’re right there with me, and I love it. I love you, and it’s good to have you back.”

--

The dream is more vivid that night. His lips travel from her mouth to her chin and down towards her neck. Annie moans and runs her fingers through his thick, bronze hair. “Finnick,” she groans when he reaches the bottom of her neck, sucking on it as he does every night. “Finnick, I love you so much.”

He doesn’t talk. In these dreams, he never does. His lips’ hold on her neck does tighten, though, and his teeth graze the vein there. Annie grimaces. “Finnick, that hurts.”

Teeth break the delicate skin there, and she screams. “Finnick, stop! Get off of me!” She pushes him away with more strength than she knew she had, and he almost flies away, eyes glowing and mouth open in a horrifying hiss. He’s so close to Ronan now, and for an instant she is scared that he’ll hurt their baby, but then she realizes that the fog is gone, and it must be a dream, but the world is spinning and that doesn’t happen in dreams, and –

When she next opens her eyes, she can remember a brief glimpse of green eyes as the mist floats towards the window and dissipates into the night. A bead of sweat runs down her face and into her eyes, and she wipes it away. “I-it was a delusion. It had to be.” Still, she gets up to check on Ronan. Her baby sleeps, content, and all she wants is to hide him away where the rest of the world can never hurt him. “It had to be a dream. Just a nightmare.” It’s still too hot to close the windows, but feeling halfway safe in her own home is more important than comfort. She sits up the rest of the night, equally afraid of the contents of her dream and the very real possibility that she might be mad.

Annie doesn’t notice the two fat drops of crimson that dot the pure white of her nightgown.

--

The phone rings four times before they pick up. “Doctor Herrington’s office. How can I help you today?”

“Hello, I’m Annie Cresta-Odair, and I was hoping to set up an appointment for my son, Ronan Odair.”

“All right, dear, let me go grab his file.” She hears a drawer open and the rustling of papers. “There we are. So, it says here that he’s not due for another checkup for four weeks. Do you have any specific concerns that you’d like the doctor to have a look at before then?”

“Yes, please. I need an appointment as soon as possible.”

“Is he sick, dear?” Annie looks over at her baby, who she left in the other room for his afternoon nap. She watches Ronan’s chest rise and fall in deep, even breaths, wondering how she should answer. “Mrs. Cresta-Odair? Are you there?”

The woman’s words snap her away from her thoughts. “He’s not sick, exactly, but there’s something that I would like to get checked out immediately. I’m worried that he might have some kind of infection.”

“The poor thing. Let’s see if I can squeeze him in sometime in these next couple days.” Annie struggles to keep her eyes open. Perhaps it’s just the stress of a new baby catching up with her, but these last few days, even the most basic tasks have been a challenge. “I’ve got an opening tomorrow afternoon. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, that’s perfect, thank you so much.” It’s all going to be okay. The doctor will be able to figure out what’s wrong with Ronan. “Have a nice day.”

“You too, dear. Take care.” There’s a click at the end of the line, and all Annie can do is wait.

--

“No, he hasn’t had a fever or any other obvious symptoms, but he’s been very tired recently, and though he’s been eating as much as I can give him, he hasn’t put on any weight in a couple weeks.”

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” She hands Ronan over to the doctor, who smiles down at the baby. It’s hard not to smile at Ronan’s chubby cheeks and sweet little features. “You, my friend, are going to be a heartbreaker someday.” The baby’s eyes open wide at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. “I think you’re right. The measurements we took when you came in show that he’s only gained about an ounce since you were last here, but this part of summer is tough on newborns. It’s to be expected that he wouldn’t be quite as big as a child born in another part of the year would be at this age.”

Annie smiles, relieved, but she still has another request. “He also has two little cuts on his neck that I would like you to take a look at.” Doctor Harrington tilts Ronan’s head to one side. “On the other side.”

“Hmm, yes he does.” The woman runs a gloved finger along the angry red dots. “They look fairly fresh. Do you know how he got these?”

“I’m not sure when exactly they happened. I noticed them about five days ago and figured that I’d accidentally stuck him with a safety pin as I was changing his diaper, but they haven’t gotten any better since then, and I think they actually look a little bit bigger. I’m worried that they’re infected.”

The woman examines Ronan’s cuts more closely, peering at them over the rims of her glasses. “I’m glad you brought him in, then. Have there been any changes in what you’re feeding him?”

Annie shakes her head. “No, I’m still breastfeeding.” She waits as the doctor pokes and prods some more, and another thought comes to her. “We have been having some strange weather recently, though. Every night at about the same time, the heat breaks and this nice, cool mist comes in.”

For the first time, Doctor Harrington looks up from Ronan. “And you’re staying up in the Victors Village still?” She nods. “That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? I’d think the folks closer to shore would get any fog or anything earlier than you would, and I haven’t heard anything from the fishermen.”

“I can’t explain it, but it’s happened every night for the last two or three weeks.”

The woman looks down at Ronan’s cuts again. “Annie, would Coral be willing to take the two of you in for a few days? I think it might be a good idea to get the baby out of that house and see if things get better.”

“Is it serious?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’ll get someone to check out this fog you’ve been seeing.” Something in the tone of the woman’s voice is very, very wrong, and Annie has been in and out of enough psych wards over the years to know exactly what that something is.

“This is real. I’m not having hallucinations.”

“Annie, I never said the fog wasn’t real, but it doesn’t make any logical sense, and I’d like to have someone check it out. It could be a problem with one of your utilities for all we know, but until we have this figured out, we need to be very careful, especially with a new baby.” She gives her a small, kind smile and reaches over to pat Annie’s hand. “We need to work together on this, Annie. Don’t worry, I know how hard you’re working to be the best mother you can.”

“Thank you,” she replies, a few tears sliding down her face. “I’ll see what I can do.”

--

Her sister-in-law’s house is far louder than her own. Even a six-week-old that never goes more than three hours without crying can’t compete with the noise that two parents and four children between the ages of three and eight can create. Annie didn’t think that she would be able to fall asleep with the steady snoring in the next room, but she must have, because she wakes up in a dark room, surrounded by the same mist that she has seen the last several nights. Good. She isn’t going mad.

She yawns and stretches, but before she completes the action, the fog is gone, replaced by a tall, dark figure. For an instant, she’s too shocked to do anything, but when the man takes a step towards Ronan’s crib, she screams and lunges at him. Green eyes glow in the darkness, and strong hands wrap around her wrists. She meets Finnick’s gaze for just an instant, sees long, pointed teeth moving in towards her throat, and she fears that she won’t survive the next few minutes. Annie screams again. Even if he does kill her, she won’t let him hurt Ronan.

Heavy footsteps can be heard hurrying down the hall, and as suddenly as he appeared, the man is gone, dissolved into silver mist yet again. Annie drops to her knees as the doorknob twists. “Annie, are you all right?” Coral flicks on the lights. “Dear, what’s wrong? You should be in bed.” She shakes her head, not yet recovered enough for words.

--

“You think a man who looks like Finnick and is made out of mist attacked you.”

Annie’s hands are wrapped tightly around a cup of tea that’s far too hot for the season, but she still shivers. Those eyes, those fangs… every time she shuts her eyes, she sees his mouth opened wide, ready to cut open her throat. And it’s undeniably Finnick. Every time she replays the scene in her head, it becomes more and more obvious. Finnick, her lover. The man who swore to love and protect her. The father of her child.

“You realize that’s impossible, right?” Coral’s golden skin and bronze hair are so much like Finnick’s, like his.

“He was standing over Ronan’s crib, and I couldn’t let him hurt the baby, so I screamed at him and tried to keep him away. I’m sorry if you think it sounds crazy, but that really is what happened.”

“Finnick’s dead. You saw the corpse, you watched them bury him eight feet under. Only wishful thinking is bringing him back, even if it is as some type of demon.”

Annie shakes her head. “I know what I saw, and it was Finnick. How can you explain these?” She holds out her arms, already bruised at the wrists, for the other woman’s inspection.

Coral studies them for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t know, Annie, but what you’re suggesting just isn’t possible. I don’t want to think that you did that to yourself –“

“But that is what you think.”

“I’m not sure what to think about any of this. This mist that nobody else can see, my brother coming back to harass the two of you but disappearing just before I open the door? It’s all unbelievable.” Annie senses that she wants to say something more, but their conversation is cut short when both women turn as Derrick returns from outside. “What did you find?” Coral asks.

Her husband shrugs and shakes his head. “There’s nothing out there. No footprints under the window, no suggestion of a ladder, nothing, not even the fog you talked about earlier. Sorry, Annie, but I don’t think there was anybody in there with you.”

Coral leans back in her chair and watches Annie, who does her best to occupy herself with her tea. She knows there was something, no, someone, in that room with her, and she knows it was some horrible version of Finnick, but no one will believe District Four’s poor, mad girl. Coral’s voice is kind, but its words are not. “Annie, I think that maybe you ought to go in and see the doctor again. Ronan can stay with us until you’re feeling better.”

The words strike with more force than a physical blow. Annie feels the air sucked from her lungs at the thought of losing Ronan. “No, I can take care of him.”

“You need to take care of yourself first, love. Let’s focus on getting you better before you try taking care of an infant. Don’t worry, Annie, we have four kids. He’ll be very, very safe with us.”

“You can’t take my baby away from me without my permission, and I’m not going to give it.”

Her sister-in-law looks over to her husband, and Derrick runs his hands through his hair before he speaks. “Annie, you’re seeing things that nobody else can, things that defy very basic rules of how life works. If Coral got on the phone right now and called Doctor Aurelius or Doctor Harrington, they would put you into some intense psychiatric treatment and leave Ronan with us, and it wouldn’t be up to you. Coral’s offering you the opportunity to make your own choice and figure this out for yourself without the embarrassment of getting the doctors involved.”

A part of her knows he’s right, but that doesn’t dull the pain. “So you think I should be grateful towards the woman that wants to steal my baby away.” Annie’s shoulders sag, and her eyes fill with tears. Ronan has the smallest of smiles on his face as he sleeps in Coral’s arms, and it’s all too easy to imagine this scene without her own presence. “It’s not just my imagination.”

“You’re seeing things from children’s stories, Annie. It’s just stress and the heat. You need a break.” Coral’s voice leaves no room for argument.

Annie’s stomach rolls at the thought of leaving Ronan, but she pushes those worries aside and nods. “I’ll look into some options tomorrow. Until then, I’d like to hold my baby, please.” Coral concedes and Ronan is once again safe in Annie’s arms. She can’t help but wonder how long it will be until she holds him again.

--

The next morning, she begs them to stay up during the night to make sure that Ronan is kept safe. Coral and Derrick agree, probably more to keep her happy than because they believe that their nephew is in any real danger, but she knows her baby will be protected, and that’s all that really matters.

The water in the three-gallon jug she carries sloshes back and forth as she walks, and the heavy shovel bangs against her shins with every step. The bag she has filled with other essentials is no more comfortable, but she can’t stop to rest now. Perhaps tonight, when she is finished, she will be safe enough to stop and sleep.

After a night of pondering the possibilities, Annie decided that Coral was right. The things she’s seeing do belong in story books. The only reasonable way to deal with them is as the heroine of those stories might. If Finnick was here, he would agree.

--

The summer’s heat is good for one thing: there is nobody else in the graveyard to stop her. She digs for hours, but when the sun sets, Annie has not yet reached her goal. If she had another hour or two, she suspects she would hit the wood that lies beneath feet of dirt, but she can’t take that chance.

She hurries back into the town and tucks herself into the slim alleyway between two of the shops. Her mother used to be friends with the butcher, and she knows he’ll come out to investigate if he hears a woman scream during the night.

Far above her, the sky darkens, and hundreds or thousands of stars come out to illuminate the sky with tiny pinpricks of light. Though she exerted herself the entire day digging, Annie knows she won’t be able to sleep tonight. Instead, she settles back against the wall and contents herself with watching the night sky. Every once in a while, she looks down at her watch, barely able to make out the numbers with the dim light the stars provide. Slowly, the hours tick by, and Annie begins to worry that perhaps this entire ordeal has been just her imagination.

“Fancy seeing you here, love. I thought you’d still be with Coral and Derrick.” She whirls towards the source of the voice, and her stomach sinks. “Happy to see me again?” When he smiles, she can see the fangs.

“I was worried that I wasn’t going to see you tonight. Your sister doesn’t think you’re real.” Annie smiles up at him and reaches out to touch his hand. Cold, like death, it’s everything she expects. She suppresses a shudder, struggling to keep the smile on her face.

His hand wraps around hers. “But you’ve always been smart. You knew better.”

“Yes, I knew you’d never leave me.”

“But yet you attacked me.” She tries to pull away, but now his hand is vise-like around her wrist. “No, Annie, you aren’t leaving. You don’t get to attack me and try to dig up my grave and escape unharmed.”

“Why did you come back? Why couldn’t you have just stayed dead?” Annie knows she should scream for her own safety, but she keeps her voice even. If he leaves here, she has no doubt that his next destination will be Coral’s house. She struggles against him to add to the effect.

His green eyes, which were always so warm and gentle when he was alive, now are cold and harsh. “I’m not the Finnick I used to be. I have no use for him. But you…” He looks up and down her body, appraising every inch of her, “You, I’m sure, I could find a purpose for.” The man that used to be Finnick drags her a little closer.

“Wh-what are you going to do to me?” She doesn’t have to fake the fear in her voice. If only I could move him a little this way. Annie pulls away from him, and, thankfully, he steps forward to again hold her against him.

He doesn’t answer, instead pushing her hair over her shoulder to bare her neck. His lips press against the side of her face first before he leans down further to caress the large vein on her neck, the exact ritual he has performed every night in her dreams. Now, though, what seemed so loving and intimate turns into a nightmare, a sick mutation of what their relationship had once entailed. Annie forces herself not to struggle as his fangs break through the delicate skin. Finnick smiles against her neck as he sucks, not allowing a single drop to escape and run down her neck. Though disgusted, she holds his head flush against her neck with one hand as she reaches towards her bag with the other.

Her jaw tightens as she reaches the item she has been looking for. The odious white flowers will only scare him away, but this should banish the vampire forever. Already, her vision narrows, and her grip is not as strong as it was just a few minutes prior, but Annie gathers all the strength she can to send the stake through Finnick’s back.

He releases her with a horrible, high-pitched shriek. Annie pulls the stake from his back and plunges it in again. Finnick managed to grab one of her arms, but she’s not finished yet. Again and again, Annie stabs the vampire, not stopping even when he has collapsed to the ground. She arranged the stake carefully over his heart. He’s almost certainly already dead, but when the tip of the stake pierces his heart and blood seeps from around the edges of the stake, she knows he will never come back to haunt her family. With gentle hands, she shuts the man’s eyelids. “I really do love you, and I always will” she whispers into the night.

Annie sits there for long minutes as she considers what to do next. Eventually, she pushes herself off the ground and wipes her hands on her pants. There are still a few hours before dawn, and there’s no reason that anyone has to know what happened here tonight. As she drags him through the two blocks of brick roads that separate the alleyway from the graveyard, Annie tries to think of a reasonable explanation to give everyone for the pile of freshly-dug earth over his grave. She shrugs when she pushes his body back into the hole she created this afternoon. Nobody will doubt that the mad Victor had a fit that led to erratic behavior. Even she isn’t quite willing to say that this isn’t a hallucination. She throws the first shovel full of dirt back over the body. She has a lot to do before sunrise.

--

“I just needed to figure some things out for myself. Don’t worry, I have it all taken care of now. I won’t be seeing anything like that again.” It’s enough to convince Coral that she’s ready to take care of Ronan again. True, she does ask Annie to continue to stay with them for a couple more days, just to be sure, but she can live with that.

When Ronan is older and he goes through the silly phase of believing in ghosts the way all children do, Annie does what her own mother did and assures him that the supernatural is nothing more than the imagination playing tricks on people. It’s almost always true, after all, and she’s wise enough now to know that almost always true is as close to certainty as the living can come. Even she’s not certain the ordeal was more than the product of stress and heat. He never asks about the twin scars on the side of his neck, and Annie is glad that she doesn’t have to choose between lying to him and telling the truth.

She still plants flowers on Finnick’s grave, and she still means it every time she whispers that she loves him.

[amirosebooks]

Dean’s Old Yeller Principle

“He made me so mad at first that I wanted to kill him. Then, later, when I had to kill him, it was like having to shoot some of my own folks. That’s how much I’d come to think of the big yeller dog.”

— Fred Gipson, Old Yeller, Chapter 1 (Published in 1942)

When I was twelve or thirteen my English teacher passed out copies of Old Yeller as assigned reading. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the book, the quote above from the opening chapter tells you most everything you need to know for the context of this meta post. And for those of us who are still emotionally scarred from the damned book, I’m sorry for dredging up those memories.

Now, before I go any further, a disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, this meta and interpretation of canon is my own. I’m not trying to “preach” to anyone about why Dean “is allowed” to be an asshole while he’s grieving or going through some shit. Or any other argument that consistently gets thrown back in the face of meta posts like this whenever Dean is being an emotional dick. You’re entitled to your interpretations, feelings and reactions, as am I. I’m merely offering this meta to 1) get it out of my mind 2) point and wave about the nods to this classic book that’s traumatized generations of American children 3) cheer Dean on for turning yet another teaching from the “older, wiser generation” John came from on its head.

Groovy? Okay, now we can move on.

I’m gonna throw the rest of this under the cut for length and to keep people who are sensitive to pets / animals dying in really sad ways from having their days ruined by talking more about the book unless they’re good with having that happen.

Now, as I said in my disclaimer bit, Old Yeller is largely considered classic literature here in the states. My memories of it are a weird mix of vague on the details and strong on the emotions it evoked. From what I remember, the main character was a young teenager when his family brought home Yeller. For whatever reason, our main character hated this dog. I don’t remember the details and they’re honestly not important to this meta. The hate he felt toward the dog is important. So is the fact that the hate slowly turned into love and devotion to the dog. Which made it even more gutting when, on a hunting trip (if I remember correctly) Yeller was bitten by a rabid animal and contracted rabies.

At the end of the novel, the Coates family are once again attacked by a wild animal, a wolf, and saved by Yeller’s bravery. Yeller is bit during the attack and becomes infected with rabies. Travis knows that despite his connection to Yeller and Yeller’s protection of his family, the dog must be killed before it becomes fully rabid and does any harm to him and his family. As the man of the house while his father is gone, Travis takes it upon himself to put Yeller out of his misery with his hunting rifle. Travis is heartbroken by what he has done, but knows that it was the right thing to do for his family. (From here.)

Sound familiar? Good. That’s what I thought too when we got the shot above in the graveyard in 14x20.

[Obviously, rabies, once there are symptoms like Yeller had, is incurrable, so putting him down was literally the only option. And we are talking here about Supernatural, which operates on soap opera rules so anything goes, but let’s just roll with the similarities for the sake of argument.]

I remember telling my husband while we were watching it “Dude, they’re really going to Old Yeller Jack, omg.” (I even made fanart of the moment.)

And then, something incredible happened.

Dean threw out the script yet again and set off season 15 with the dull thud of a gun being tossed into the grass.

Now, I hear you. “That’s great, Ami. Why should we care?”

Lemme tell you a thing, friend.

In order to tell you thing thing, I want to take a trip way back to season 4. Back when the brothers were still nose deep into John Winchester’s gospel of Monster = Evil = Kill The Thing.

(Screencaps are all from Home of the Nutty.)

4x21 - When the Levee Breaks

Sam: Stop bossing me around, Dean. Look. My whole life, you take the wheel, you call the shots, and I trust you because you are my brother. Now I’m asking you, for once, trust me.

Dean: No. You don’t know what you’re doing, Sam.

Sam: Yes, I do.

Dean: Then that’s worse.

Sam: Why? Look, I’m telling you-

Dean: Because it’s not something that you’re doing, it’s what you are! It means- Dean cuts himself off.

Sam: What? No. Say it. (Sam has tears in his eyes.)

Dean: It means you’re a monster. (Transcript from here.)

I remember the first time I watched the show and I got to this episode. That fucking line was such a gut punching moment. And it was such an effective and emotional moment that Ruby was able to extend it later to further manipulate Sam.

Now, the screencap I grabbed for this moment is of Dean in tears (well, that single man tear he’s known for) after labelling Sam a monster for a reason. I want to remind all of us of just how much it killed Dean to have to use that label for Sam. To have to try to rationalize that the boy he raised, his brother, the guy who has been there forever and has always been Dean’s charge to take care of is now the thing that Dean is going to have to put down because he falls under the label of monster.

You know what, let’s go back a little farther, to the first episode of season 2. To this moment:

Remember this look? The one we later learned was thanks to John telling Dean that Dean was going to need to put Sam down? That Sam was going to become a monster? Yeah, ouch.

I added the year Old Yeller was published (1942) to the quote at the top of this meta to help give some context about the time it was written and the world it was released into. I’d also like to make note that in 1957 (or about a year before Henry Winchester jumped forward in time to meet the brothers in season 8 and give them keys to the bunker and had to choose to abandon John when John was still a fairly young boy) Disney released a movie version of the book. It’s absolutely, if the movie exists in the SPN world, the kind of thing young John would have watched and taken some kind of black and white moral guidance from.

It’s the kind of book/movie that John would have probably (note, this is where we start diving into my own headcanons for a moment) made sure the boys were aware of when he started thinking about bringing them on hunts to keep them from freezing because the “person” on the other end of their shotgun is someone’s mom. I could see it being the kind of thing he’d use as a way to show them both that, yes, shit is hard but you have to do the right thing and sometimes that means killing the thing you love. At least, I could picture him thinking that way. (Also, this still makes me wonder about exactly how early John started suspecting there was something different about Sam, but that’s a whoooole other post.)

Moving on and forward to season 6.

6x20 - The Man Who Would Be King

Castiel: The angel-proofing Bobby put up on the house – he got a few things wrong.

Dean: Well, it’s too bad we got to angel-proof in the first place, isn’t it? Why are you here?

Castiel: I want you to understand.

Dean: Oh, believe me, I get it. Blah, blah, Raphael, right?

Castiel: I’m doing this for you, Dean. I’m doing this because of you.

Dean: Because of me. Yeah. You got to be kidding me.

Castiel: You’re the one who taught me that freedom and free will –

Dean: You’re a freakin’ child, you know that? Just because you can do what you want doesn’t mean that you get to do whatever you want!

Castiel: I know what I’m doing, Dean.

Dean: I’m not gonna logic you, okay? I’m saying don’t… Just ‘cause. I’m asking you not to. That’s it.

Castiel: I don’t understand.

Dean: Look, next to Sam, you and Bobby are the closest things I have to family – that you are like a brother to me. So, if I’m asking you not to do something… You got to trust me, man.

Castiel: Or what?

Dean: Or I’ll have to do what I have to do to stop you.

Castiel: You can’t, Dean. You’re just a man. I’m an angel.

Dean: I don’t know. I’ve taken some pretty big fish. (Transcript from here.)

This was after two seasons of Cas fighting by their side. Two seasons of Cas giving heaven the middle finger on behalf of the Winchesters. It was enough time for Dean’s first reaction in a time of confusion on a hunt was to call Cas for help. And it was enough time for Dean to go from assuming Cas was a demon summoned with “bad mojo” to drag him out of hell on behalf of Sam to genuinely starting to care about Cas.

Dean did threaten to take Cas out here if he persisted down the path he was on, but you can tell by the rest of the conversation and just how hard it was to convince Dean that Cas was lying to them that Dean was hoping talking would work and he wouldn’t be forced to put Cas down.

Unfortunately…

6x22 - The Man Who Knew Too Much

Castiel: You doubted me, fought against me, but I was right all along.

Dean: Okay, Cas, you were. We’re sorry. Now let’s just defuse you, okay?

Castiel: What do you mean?

Dean: You’re full of nuke. It’s not safe. So, before the eclipse ends, let’s get them souls back to where they belong.

Castiel: Oh no, they belong with me.

Dean: No, Cas, it’s it-it’s scrambling your brain.

Castiel: No, I’m not finished yet. Raphael had many followers, and I must punish them all severely.

Dean: Listen to me. Listen, I know there’s a lot of bad water under the bridge, but we were family once. I’d have died for you. I almost did a few times. So if that means anything to you… Please. I’ve lost Lisa, I’ve lost Ben, and now I’ve lost Sam. Don’t make me lose you too. You don’t need this kind of juice anymore, Cas. Get rid of it before it kills us all.

Castiel: You’re just saying that because I won. Because you’re afraid. (Behind him, Sam picks up the angel killing sword.) You’re not my family, Dean. I have no family. (Sam stabs Castiel in the back with the angel killing sword. Sam groans. Nothing happens. Castiel pulls the sword out. There’s no blood on it. He puts it down.) I’m glad you made it, Sam. But the angel blade won’t work, because I’m not an angel anymore. I’m your new God. A better one. So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you. (Transcript from here.)

Again, Dean tried to argue with the overpowered angel, he tried bargaining, pleading, and appealing to Cas’s fondness for them, but it didn’t work. Sam was the one who was forced to try stabbing Cas and it… also didn’t work.

7x01 - Meet the New Boss

Sam: Dean, look, I know you think that Cas is gone –

Dean: It’s 'cause he is.

Sam: He’s not! He’s in there somewhere, Dean. I know it.

Dean: No, you don’t.

Sam: No, I don’t. But, look, I was pretty far gone sometimes myself, and never gave up on me.

Dean: Yeah, and it turns out that you’re about the Same open book as you’ve always been. Hallucinations? Really? I got to find out from Death?

Sam: What was I supposed to do?

Dean: How about not lie? How about tell me that you’ve got crazy crap climbing those walls?

Sam: Why? You can’t help. You got a lot of pretty severe crap swinging your way lately, and – and I thought –what? I thought why burst the one good bubble you had left? It’s under control.

Dean: What? What, exactly, is under control?

Sam: I know what’s real and what’s not.

Dean: Sam –

Sam: Dean, look, we can debate this once we deal with Cas.

Dean: Yeah, you know how I’m gonna deal? I’m gonna stuff my piehole, I’m gonna drink, and I’m gonna watch some Asian cartoon p**n and act like the world’s about to explode because it is. Hey. You got to be kidding me. “Massacre at the campaign office of an incumbent Senator by a trench-coated man.” There’s security footage. Well, I think reaching Cas is, uh… out of the cards. (Transcript from here. And hopefully my slight censoring the last paragraph keeps tumblr from blacklisting this post into the aether…)

Here’s a sad thought for you, how often do you think–while Cas was terrorizing the country as Godstiel and, later, after he walked into the lake and exploded into Leviathan goo–Dean thought about how he should have listened to Bobby and Sam and taken Cas out before he had the chance to swallow the Leviathans and become super powered? Probably a lot, I’d guess.

This moment, as much as I, personally, hate seasons 6 and 7, went pretty damn far to reinforce this Old Yeller principle in Dean’s moral code.

He had to sit back and watch, literally, while someone he cared about went out of their goddamn mind with power while killing and terrorizing people. He had to do that knowing that there was a moment when he could have done something to prevent it. He could have killed Cas when he had him locked up in the ring of holy fire and they were having one of their many breakup moments.

Dean felt like he could have stopped all of this, but he’d been weak and tried talking it out first instead. And you can’t convince me that he didn’t check the news and every drop of blood Godstiel brought about to the blood on his own hands because of that choice to give Cas a chance to see reason.

10x09 - The Things We Left Behind

CASTIEL: How are you, Dean?

DEAN: Fine. [Cas gives him a look.] I’m great!

CASTIEL: No, you’re not.

DEAN: Yeah, well, I lost the black eyes, so that’s a plus. But I still have this. [Dean reaches over and gently slaps the Mark on his arm.]

CASTIEL: Is the Mark of Cain still affecting you?

[Dean flashes back to his dream from earlier, of the blood covering him, the dead bodies lying around him.]

CASTIEL: Dean?

[Dean blinks hard, coming back to the present.]

DEAN: Cas, I need you to promise me something.

CASTIEL: Of course.

DEAN: If I do go dark side, you got to take me out.

CASTIEL: What do you mean?

DEAN: Knife me. Smite me. Throw me into the freakin’ sun, whatever. And don’t let Sam get in the way, because he’ll try. I can’t go down that road again, man. I can’t be that thing again.

(Transcript from here.)

I may hate seasons 6 and 7, but holy damn do I love season 10. I know it’s not a favorite among many people in the fandom, but it’s one of mine.

This moment, this burger date of sadness and pain, is a big favorite for me. Dean sees the writing on the wall. He’s been a Knight of Hell now. He’s been as darkside as he can get. He’s, likely, being reminded daily of his time in Hell in the last ten years of his stay there where he was torturing souls. And he’s begging Cas to keep him from returning to that place. He’s begging Cas to adopt the Old Yeller principle because he sees it as the only option left if the mark consumed him again. And that kills me.

Let’s take another jump forward to season 13, where Dabb & Co really started putting Dean’s Old Yeller principle into text in a heavy, purposeful way.

13x02 - The Rising Son

SAM Dean, wait a second. (Sighs) The kid came through for us today. Jack saved us.

DEAN No. No, whatever that was, that was a reflex. It was a sneeze. Maybe next time he sneezes, he kills us. Good night.

[DEAN hears a clacking sound coming from a distance. He follows the noise to JACK’s room.] JACK Ah!

[DEAN finds JACK trying to stab himself with a blade. The wounds immediately heal.]

DEAN Okay. What the hell?  (he gets in the room) Give me that. You—Don’t be an idiot. Look, A, this is not gonna do anything to you, okay? And B, you… What the hell?

JACK Exactly. What the hell am I? I can’t control… whatever this is. I will hurt someone.

DEAN You know, my brother thinks you can be saved.

JACK You don’t believe that.

DEAN No, I don’t.

JACK So… if you’re right?

DEAN If I’m right… and it comes to killing you… I’ll be the one to do it.

[DEAN leaves.]

(Transcript from here.)

Can I just bask in the glory of the grieving widow!Dean arc from the beginning of 13 for a moment? I’d also like to take a moment to 🙌 Jack for being a wonderful Team Free Will mirror (and mimic) from the word go.

Ahhh…

Okay, moving on.

I loved this bit in 13x02 so much. Partially because it’s such a heavy handed foreshadow to 14x20, but also because it shows so clearly how good Jack is at reading the emotions in the room. He’s, like, three days old at that point, but he’s already having an existential crisis about whether or not he’s evil. He already understands (yes, thanks to jackass grieving widow!Dean…) the whole Monster = Evil = Kill The Thing.

He also shows that he understands the Old Yeller principle. And, for better or worse, he and Dean reach an unspoken agreement here about it. (Again, this is my reading. Your mileage may vary.)

13x04 - The Big Empty

JACK I’m afraid.

MIA/KELLY Why? Why are you afraid?

JACK Sam thinks you were right, that—that I’m good. He wants me to believe it, and I wanna believe it, too. It’s just, I… I’ve hurt people. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. And I know I should feel bad, and I say I feel bad, but most of the time, I mostly… I don’t feel anything. And that’s why I think maybe… Maybe I’m a monster.

MIA/KELLY Jack. It doesn’t matter what you are. It matters what you do. And even monsters can do good in this world.

JACK You really believe that?

MIA/KELLY I have to. I have to.

[MIA hugs JACK again.]

(Trancript from here.)

Killing me would be kinder than subjecting me to these feelings so soon after being introduced to this fucking character. Omg. Poor Jack.

Now, yes, a huuuuge part of Jack’s opinion of monsters and the whole “What do we do with monsters children? That’s RIGHT, we kill them.” thing is because Dean is an asshole when he’s emotional and grieving and deep into survival mode.

But, that doesn’t change the fact that Jack is still worried about the fact that he doesn’t feel things the way that everyone else seems to. That he has powers no one, including him, can understand. And that he’s killed people without meaning to. He’s afraid of himself just like Dean was afraid of what he was capable of if the mark took him over again.

13x23 - Let The Good Times Roll

(Sam continues down the hallway while Dean turns to another hallway and approaches his bedroom door. He stops as if to listen to something and then continues down the hall, away from his bedroom door. He enters Jack’s room, where Jack is sleeping and talking in his sleep)

JACK Stop! No!

DEAN Jack? (Dean touches Jack’s shoulder to wake him) Hey. (Jack jumps up, anxious and disoriented. Dean holds out his hand towards Jack to calm him) Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy. You’re just having a bad dream.

JACK (breathing heavily) Sorry.

DEAN It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I have 'em, too. All the time.

JACK You do?

DEAN Sure.

JACK You, um… What do you see?

DEAN Well, depends. Mostly…mostly people I couldn’t save.

JACK Me, too. Over there in the other world, I said I’d protect those people. But…I saw so many of them die. And…I tried to save them. I…I tried, but… I’m sorry. I wasn’t strong enough.

DEAN Jack… (Dean sits on the edge of Jack’s bed) it’s not about being strong. I mean… Look, I don’t know what you saw over there, and I don’t know what you went through. I know it was bad. But I also know that you came out the other side because you are strong. But even when we’re strong, man, things are gonna happen. We’re gonna make mistakes. Nobody’s perfect. Right? But we can get better. Every day, we can get better. So whatever you’re dealing with, you know, whatever…whatever comes at us, we’ll figure out a way to deal with it, together. You’re family, kid, and we look after our own.

(Transcript from here.)

It’s not about being strong. IT’S NOT ABOUT BEING STRONG.

This is where we veer away from Old Yeller a tiny bit because, again, in the book Yeller had rabies which they could do nothing about.

The moments I’ve highlighted in this post all come back to one motivation. The overpowered person/angel/asshole in question was trying to gain enough strength through supernatural (lol) means in order to have the power to destroy a (perceived) bigger threat than whatever the cost was to get that power.

Sam’s demon blood drinking was supposed to give him the power to destroy Lucifer and get revenge for Mary and John and their lost childhood. It went badly and earned Sam the label of monster and falling, at least temporarily, into the territory of the Old Yeller principle.

Cas started lying to the brothers and working with Crowley so they could gain the power to stop heaven from starting yet another apaocalypse. Cas wanted to keep the Winchesters (Dean) safe from being destroyed in a holy war after being forced to fight his brother to the death. Again, this did not go well and lead to Cas succumbing to the Leviathans’s power and dying front of Dean after losing the Winchester’s trust.

Dean took on the Mark of Cain to defeat Abaddon, the evil that made John grow up without a father. It left him torn between going on a, essentially, soulless killing spree or becoming a Knight of Hell… again.

Hell, even the way Jack came into the world was fraught with Sam lying to Dean about working with the BMoL to have the power and strength to defeat Lucifer/the nephilim. Not to mention the months of lying Cas did after he decided that Jack’s power and strength was the only way they could destroy Lucifer once and for all. Again, this ended with Cas dying in front of Dean and the BMoL trying to exterminate everyone including the American hunters.

That’s the lesson Dean is trying to instill (hypocritically, let’s be honest) to Jack here. Strength and power come at a terrible cost and if you can solve a problem without resorting to that level of fuckery that things will be better.

And, also, that if things do go bad, that Jack is family and “we look after our own.” To Dean, this is where the Old Yeller principle kicks in. It is, in a rather fucked up but well earned way, the best option he knows for making sure another one of his loved ones doesn’t fall under that monster label. That none of them end up with more blood on their hands or bringing about the end of the world, again, because of their soap opera problems.

13x23 - Let The Good Times Roll

JACK I’m sorry.

(Jack walks towards the exit and Castiel goes to follow him)

CASTIEL Jack!

(Dean grabs Castiel’s arm)

DEAN No, hey, just – just let him go.

(Jack is walking through the woods, banging a closed fist into his hand and punching his shoulder)

JACK You keep hurting people! You keep… (Jack flashes back to all the people he has hurt with his powers – Nate, Sam, Dean, the female police officer) hurting… (flash to the male sheriff) (yelling) Why do you keep hurting people?!

(Transcript from here.)

This lesson, the lesson of power and strength not being the best answer because of the cost it comes with is not an easy one to learn. Especially when you were born as a superpowered, emotional Winchester by adoption. Life is scary when that’s the hand you’ve been dealt and using the power you have is an appealing balm to combat that fear.

13x23 - Let The Good Times Roll

JACK (moving towards Lucifer, eyes glowing and hand outstretched)Tell me the truth!

(Lucifer’s eyes start to glow, his head tilts to the side and he starts speaking)

LUCIFER She saw me when I was scouting out the bunker. She saw me and she screamed, and then…so I crushed her skull with my bare hands. And it was warm and wet, and I liked it.

(Lucifer’s eyes return to normal and he looks confused)

JACK You’re not my father. You’re a monster.

LUCIFER (yelling) Come on, man! (Lucifer bellows so forcibly that Sam and Dean cover their ears, his eyes glowing red) Okay. I tried with you. I really tried with you.

JACK Everything you told me was a lie.

LUCIFER Because I told you what you wanted to hear, man. So what?! I killed the girl! Big deal! She’s a – she’s a human! She doesn’t matter!

JACK So am I!

LUCIFER Yeah? And that’s your problem. (pointing at Jack) You’re too much like your mother.

(Transcript from here.)

To me, this moment reads as Jack embracing that black and white Winchester thinking. He has yet (even now that’s he’s currently dead in season 15) to grasp the concept of people being morally gray. He sees himself as either embracing the monster side of himself from his bio dad or rejecting that side of himself to embrace Kelly’s human side. The side that can’t hurt people on accident. The side that makes him more like the Winchesters. Because he doesn’t want to fall under than monster label. He doesn’t want to fall under that Old Yeller principle. He doesn’t want to hurt so many people that he will have to die because neither he or anyone else can control him.

Yes, this moment is FAR more complicated than just that, but it’s definitely part of it.

14x10 - Nihilism

DEAN Sam said that one of your reapers really came through with the assist. I’m thinking that was probably you.

BILLIE Don’t tell anyone.

DEAN You broke the rules.

BILLIE I took a calculated risk. I warned you about the dangers of jumping from world to world. But you ignored me, didn’t you?

DEAN Rescuing Mom and Jack, helping out those other folks – I’d say it was worth it.

BILLIE And just look at you now. Do you remember visiting my reading room? The shelves and shelves of notebooks describing the ways you might die?

DEAN Yeah. Upbeat classics.

BILLIE Well, it’s the funniest thing, but they’ve all been rewritten. They all end the same way now – with the archangel Michael escaping your mind and using you as his vessel to burn down this world.

DEAN All of them?

BILLIE All of them. Except one.

(Billie hands Dean a book. He opens it and then looks at her, stunned)

DEAN What am I supposed to do with this?

BILLIE That’s up to you.

(Dean looks at the book again and when he looks up, Billie is gone. He looks back at the book and then looks around, a mixture of fear and confusion on his face)

(Transcript from here.)

Remember what I said about Dean being well aware of the price that has to be paid in exchange for the power and strength to defeat supposedly unbeatable enemies?

Yeah… Dean “knows” that the time has come for him to call his own bluff. The one from all the way back in 10x09 (not that he was bluffing then, but he didn’t have to take action on it then) when he asked Cas to take him out. “Knife me. Smite me. Throw me into the freakin’ sun, whatever.”

We didn’t know that was what this moment was until the next episode. But this is the moment when the Old Yeller principle went into effect again. And you can see how much it hurts Dean, how resigned and heartbroken he is over it.

14x11 - Damaged Goods

DEAN It’s a Ma’lak box. [DEAN closes the door to the box. He and SAM are standing over it.] Secured and warded. Once inside… nothing gets out, not even an archangel. Especially an archangel.

SAM Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve – I’ve read about these, but – but no one’s ever – they’re impossible to build.

DEAN Yeah, well, not so much.

SAM That’s your plan? You want to be buried alive?

DEAN Buried’s not safe enough. Plan is, pay a little hush money, charter a boat to take me out to the Pacific. Splash.

SAM You and Michael, trapped together – for eternity?

DEAN Yeah.

SAM You do realize how insane this is, right?

DEAN It’s the only sane play I’ve got. Michael gets out, that’s it for this world. And he will get out.

SAM Well, how do you know that for sure?

DEAN Because I do. Because I can feel him in my head. That door is giving. I can feel it giving.

SAM But there has to be another way.

DEAN There’s not, okay? There – Sam you’ve tried. Cas has tried. Jack… And I love you for trying. But none of it’s gonna work.

SAM We don’t know that.

DEAN Yeah, we do.

SAM What?

DEAN Billie.

SAM Billie?

DEAN She paid me a little visit. She said that there’s only one way this ends right. And this is it. This, right here, this box. So, she gave up the special recipe, and all I had to do was the work. It’s fate.

SAM Since when do we believe in fate?

DEAN Now, Sam. Since now.

(Transcript from here.)

Here is the moment. The one where Dean was at his absolute lowest. When he hit that point where resignation about his fate met having to act on his principles. 

14x12 - Prophet and Loss

DEAN Well, I will call this a win. Kinda nice. Going out on a high. SAM “Going out” being the operative phrase. DEAN Sorry. SAM “Sorry.” How sorry are you? Sorry that you fight to keep Donatello alive, but when it comes to you, you just throw in the towel? Or are you sorry that, after all these years, our entire lives, a-after I’ve looked up to you, after I’ve learned from you, I-I-I’ve copied you, I followed you to Hell and back… are you sorry that all of that it – it – it means nothing now? DEAN Who’s saying that? SAM You are, when you tell me I have to kill you. When you’re telling me that I have to just throw away everything we stand for, throw away faith, throw away family. We’re the guys who saved the world. We don’t just check out of it! [SAM pushes DEAN.] DEAN Sam, I have tried everything. Everything! I got one card left to play and I have to play it. SAM You have one card today! But we’ll find another tomorrow. But if you quit on us today, there will be no tomorrow! You tell me, uh, you don’t know what else to do. I don’t either, Dean. Not yet. But what you’re doing now, i-it’s – it’s wrong! It’s quitting! I mean, l-look what just happened. Donatello never quit fighting. So we could help him because he never gave up. [SAM moves closer to DEAN.] I believe in us, Dean. [DEAN doesn’t say anything. SAM gets angry and punches DEAN in the face.] I believe in us. [SAM tries to punch DEAN again, but he stops him.] DEAN Hey, hey, hey, hey! [SAM hugs DEAN.] SAM Why don’t you believe in us, too? DEAN Okay, Sam. Let’s go home. SAM What? [SAM pulls away from the hug.] DEAN Let’s go home. Maybe Billie’s wrong. Maybe. But I do believe in us.

(Transcript from here.)

And just like Dean predicted in 10x09, Sam was able to talk him out of sacrificing himself. How was he able to do that? By reminding Dean that they were the fucking Winchesters. They fucked with the cosmic balance constantly and always, always found another way. A way to avoid the Old Yeller principle. A way to live and fight again.

Which, they totally did, but the price of not throwing Dean into the ocean for an eternity of alone time with alt!Michael banging away in his head was their adopted child.

14x20 - Moriah

JACK: You’re not gonna lock me up again, are you?

DEAN: No.

(Dean raises the gun, aims at Jack and exhales deeply. Jack kneels down and bows his head. Dean, looking puzzled, lowers the gun and walks closer towards Jack. When he’s right in front of Jack, he aims the gun directly at his head. At this moment Sam comes speeding into the cemetery, car tires screeching. He gets out of the car and starts running towards Dean and Jack)

SAM: Dean? Dean!

JACK: (to Dean) I understand.

(Sam is still running, yelling for Dean. The music is getting more suspenseful as Dean holds his aim steady at Jack)

SAM: Dean, don’t! Dean? Dean!

JACK: I know what I’ve done.

SAM: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, Dean! Hey, hey, hey! Dean!

DEAN: Stay back, Sam!

SAM: (Panting)

JACK: And you were right all along. (Chuck comes up alongside Sam) I am a monster.

SAM: (to Chuck) Do something. … You’re enjoying this.

CHUCK: Shh.

(Dramatic music plays)

(Dean cocks the gun. He looks Jack in the eye for several seconds and then slowly lowers the gun. At this point, Castiel also comes running towards the area)

(Dean uncocks the gun and tosses it to the side)

(Transcript from here.)

I have yet to rewatch this episode, but from what I remember I don’t think it had completely sunk in to Dean in that moment of choice that Chuck was there revealing that he was invested in the outcome of this showdown between Dean and Jack. In that moment, that split second of choice between following through with what he’d believed for so long for following through with an extension of the order John gave him about Sam back in the hospital back in 2x01, Dean made a choice for himself. And that choice was to believe that they’d find another way. He decided that when it came right down to it, he couldn’t kill his child for making the same bargain for power and strength that he himself had made multiple times over the last 14 seasons.

He was also directly confronted with a similar situation to that from the end of season 6 and beginning of 7 with Cas and the Leviathans, in that when it really came down to it, he wasn’t capable of murdering someone he considered family.

And then Chuck had to go and erase any chance they had in following up on that. He killed Jack so that they didn’t have a chance to find a way to help Jack balance the power he’d absorbed from destroying Michael or living without his soul.

So yeah, from where we sit now with only one episode of season 15 under our belts waiting with baited breath to see where the rest of this end of the road season takes us, it makes sense that Dean, of all people, would be in the middle of an emotional fucking collapse. And that he would be a huge, whiny, pissbaby douchebag about it because that’s the Dean Winchester way.

Does that make his behavior okay? No, of course not. But does that turn any of the rest of them into saints? Nope, of course not. And I, personally, wouldn’t have it any other way. I like that they’re flawed and fucked up and keep getting back up and going back to each other and keep trying. That’s why we’ve had 15 goddamn seasons of this. Because it’s what they do.

[rizlowwritessortof]

I’m Good

This is the fic that was published in the Seasons Supernatural short stories anthology a couple of years ago. I realized the other day that I had never posted it on here. Beta’d by my lovely @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan (before that was her url :D)

Characters: Bobby Singer (Bobby’s POV)

Word Count: 1242

Warnings: None, a little angst maybe

Summertime was always my favorite.

Of course, South Dakota has unforgiving winters that last way into spring some years, and fall that usually ends early with a blizzard. Summer’s where all of my good memories live. I married Karen in the summer. Why she ever married me, I’ll never understand. But we loved each other somethin’ fierce, and I always considered myself damn lucky to have her. I mean, after all- I was never anything but a grease monkey with a salvage yard, and the house was smack-dab in the middle of all that. But she always seemed content.

She was always on me for workin’ too hard. She’d come out to the shop, yellin’ my name until I stopped pounding around and looked up. There she’d be, hands on her hips, that stern look on her face. “Bobby Singer, I did not just spend two hours in the kitchen for this food to sit on the table and get cold. Now get to the house, it’s supper time.” I could never help but smile at her, scowling at me like an angry kitten, and then she’d march off to the house. She always got so mad at me when I’d come up behind her and swat her on the butt. “Damn it, Bobby, if you got grease on my dress, I swear...” and I’d just laugh, and give her a kiss, and she never stayed mad very long. That fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh baked biscuits, and pie for dessert… I can almost taste it.

Then there’s the summer John Winchester left his boys with me. Not quite the whole summer, but close enough. That was the summer I started to think of them as my boys.

John loved those kids. He did. But he was a driven man, determined to find and kill what took his Mary away from him and the boys. There were just things he had to do that kids couldn’t be around to witness. So in his own way, he was trying to protect them.

I’ll never forget the day they walked in. Sammy was still just a kid, ten years old or so, all arms and legs and awkward smiles. And Dean... No fourteen-year-old should look that burdened, that worn. I decided, right then and there, that while the boys were here- they were gonna be kids.

Dean even tried to argue with me at first. “But Dad said...” I never even let him finish his sentence.

“Look. While you’re here, you follow my rules. And I say you two are gonna get the hell out of this house and go have some fun. Take the poles, go fishing. Or just go exploring. Now get outta here, and don’t let me see your faces again until supper.” And when Dean looked at me, still hesitant, I added, “Don’t worry, kid. As far as your Dad will know, you did exactly what he said while he was gone. Okay?”

Dean took Sam with him everywhere. They came home one day, excited about exploring the abandoned farm down the road, making their own little hideaway in the old barn. They went fishing in the creek, even caught enough for a meal a couple of times. Sometimes I’d look out the window and see the boys just lying in the grass and watching the clouds.

Sure, I asked Dean to help me overhaul an engine or two, give me a hand doing some body work, like his face didn’t light up at the suggestion. Dean was right at home under a hood, or beneath a car, lost himself completely in the challenge of figuring out why it was doing what it was doing. There was pure joy in his eyes at the sound of that broken-down Plymouth sputtering to life when he turned the key. That thing ran just as smooth as when it was new. And when I clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder, told him, “Good job, son” - that kid’s face just glowed.

Sam asked a lot of questions. I answered him as well as I knew how, leaving out all the details that I could, tried to cushion the blow. I tiptoed around the big stuff, and taught him what I could about the lore. Sam never asked his questions in front of Dean. I didn’t know at the time if that was Sam sparing himself an ass-chewing, or sparing his big brother the worry. Knowing those two as well as I do now, I know it was the latter.

Yeah, Dean put on a good act. He liked to tell stories about John’s hunts, about the few he’d been there for, like it was all some big adventure. Like watching his dad battle some monster out of every kid’s nightmares, helping patch up John’s injuries, didn’t scare the hell out of him. He’d put on like he’d take Sam apart if he didn’t toe the line, but Dean would never let anything hurt Sam if he could throw himself in front of it first. I could read him right from the start, see the heart underneath all that tough guy bullshit, the part Dean didn’t want anyone to see.

Like the deer hunting incident. I took the boys out in the woods one day. Dean had a bead on a beauty, a big doe, but he wouldn’t pull the trigger. I watched that kid chew at his lip, refusing to look me in the eye, as he claimed he didn’t have a shot.

 “She bolted right when I was gonna pull the trigger, Bobby. I didn’t have a shot, okay?” The kid was embarrassed, and half-pissed off, and I put my hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze to let him know it was okay.

“Hey, kid, no big deal. Do you know how many deer I’ve actually shot at and missed? Hell, happens to all of us.”

And the night I overheard the boys talking after they’d crawled into bed for the night. I could hear Sam, sounded like he was crying. Dean’s voice was quiet, but I heard every word.

“Sammy, Dad’s fine. He’ll be back. Promise. Sometimes he just gets busy, he forgets how long he’s been gone. But he’ll be back.”

“But what if one of those monsters he hunts… what if something killed him?”

Dean snorted. “Shit, Sam. No monster’s gonna kill Dad. He’s the best hunter there is. Just ask Bobby tomorrow, I bet he’ll tell you the same thing. Dad’ll be back as soon as he can, Sammy. Just stop worrying, okay?”

Yeah. That was a good summer.

And then there were the hunting trips with Rufus, that son of a bitch. “Bobby, that is not how you kill a rugaru. I oughta know, I’ve killed enough of ‘em.”

“Right. Like you’ve ever even seen one. You gotta burn ‘em, dumbass.”

“Fine, we’ll try it your way. But when you find out I’m right, you owe me a bottle of the good stuff.”

“And when I find out you’re wrong?”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

We never did anything but argue, but damned if he wasn’t the best friend I ever had.

I guess my Heaven don’t look like much to most people. But I got some Johnny Cash on the old radio, my comfy chair, a glass of Jack, and an eternity to spend on my memories. I’m good.

~~~~~~~~~~

@saenalife    @deanscarlett    @misswhizzy    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog    @geeklibrarian    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid    @aprofoundbondwithdean    @mamapeterson    @mrswhozeewhatsis    @littlegreenplasticsoldier    @sleep-silent-angel    @darcia22    @winchesterprincessbride    @ackeviddlestan    @ellen-reincarnated1967    @eyes-of-a-disney-princess      @deanslittleangel2y5    @melanie451    @lovin-ackles    @spectaculacular-sammy      @bookchic20    @jodyri    @selma-jean           @savingapplepie-eatingthings    @angelofwinchester17    @kittenofdoomage    @masked-maiden42    @lean-mean-deanwinchester    @ericuhlorain    @undecided-garden    @ceeceewinchester    @typicalweirdbookworm          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit    @youtoldalie    @tanithlowisabamf    @deandoesthingstome    @jxackles    @nerdwholikesword    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic    @kreweofimp  @gabavaldman    @chaos-and-the-calm67    @darkx143    @disassociativedogma    @ioanashalala    @jencharlan    @deansthirst     @dorky-and-i-know-it    @mischief-maker1    @hamartiamacguffin    @winchestersandwordprocessors    @percussiongirl2017    @bringmesomepie56   @akshi8278    @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester    @torn-and-frayed    @sandlee44  @kathaswings   @evansrogerskitten   @emoryhemsworth  @peaceinourtime82

[eternalstereksecretsanta]

Seeing Blind

@anchorsandadderall | AO3 | I hope this is the canon-compliant tale you wanted this holiday season!

The thing was, Stiles hadn't been lying when he said going blind was his greatest fear; he just hadn't bothered to admit some things might be worth it.

The thing is, he wasn’t lying.

Going blind really had been his biggest fear, the thing that haunted his nightmares long before the nogitsune transformed his dreams and days into a waking horror. Before the Wild Hunt erased him from reality, rendered him helpless in a way he didn’t think it was possible to understand until you’d seen everyone you knew and loved walk past you with... nothing... in their gaze.

Losing his vision meant losing his edge, meant losing the only tool he had to make connections, to solve puzzles, to find that one, vital piece of information that would keep them alive to fight another day. His eyes were more than his primary sense, they were the way he made sense of the world. There was a reason his mystery board was a mass of pictures, colors, strings; sight lent the chaos order, signal overload made the random logical.

Even his combat skills stemmed from his eyesight. He would never be able to hear or smell as well as the wolves, or move through the world guided by currents of electricity like Kira. Never be able to track a path with a slight touch here and there along the ground like Argent.

But he could swing a bat, watch for uneven movement and strike at the weak point. He could be the getaway driver, barrelling through buildings and danger to take them far away from the danger (always, forever) biting at their heels. He could be the research guy, sleep and relaxation traded for the final solution.

All of it just part of being Scott’s friend, Derek’s ally, his dad’s back-up, and all of it based on being able to see.

So when his vision started to dim, he naturally ignored it as long as possible and kept the information to himself.

The first inkling he had was in Mexico, Derek on the ground in front of him and the rest of his friends rushing into danger just beyond. At first glance he didn’t see any visible injuries, it just looked like Derek was resting. Stiles knew that couldn’t be right, knew from the sounds of the fight before and Derek’s posture that there mustwounds, but he accepted the wild hope that somehow Derek had escaped the odds again.

Derek told him to go, sent him to help his friends, and Stiles ignored the almost physical pull he felt to go to Derek, to gather him up and drive far, far away from there. Stiles went to aid the others, secure in the belief that Derek was just gathering his strength before following Stiles into the fray.

Afterwards, knowing that Derek’s wounds had been fatal, knowing that it was only by the grace of another supernatural miracle and the resilience of Derek’s own spirit that he wasn’t gone forever, the pull he felt towards Derek bordered on painful to resist. In fighting that impulse, frozen in denial as a flash-fire sequence of terrible almosts ran through his mind, Stiles chalked the momentary darkness that blocked his sight up to nerves and adrenaline after-effects.

But then Derek left, left Beacon Hills and Stiles in his wake. Stiles had to accept the ache he felt for never yielding to his desire for Derek, his need for a deeper connection, was more than just mundane regret.

More than the bittersweet yearning for a missed opportunity, the chance at real, tangible love.

More than longing for a piece of happiness born of a multitude of sorrows.

As his dreams were consumed with increasingly elaborate visions of a life lived with Derek, of languid mornings drenched in sensual touches and days measured in warm glances and liberal embraces seen in his mind’s eye with crystal clarity, his days were filled with increasingly frequent moments when his vision failed.

Finding a way to get his eyes checked without alerting his dad, or Scott, or anyone else had taken a fair amount of subterfuge, but Stiles was nothing if not resourceful. The results offered no answers, the doctor clearly confused at Stiles’ dismay to be told his vision was near-perfect.

Supernatural it was, then. Again. Which wouldn’t have been so dire in and of itself, if Stiles had found a shred of information to suggest there was a solution. Or even a known cause. But Stiles found nothing, and none of his hints and inquiries to Deaton or Lydia had yielded anything, either.

For a while, the episodes seemed to level off. Stiles dared to breathe a sigh of relief his sophomore year in college, following nearly a month of only occasionally blurring vision after hours of reading on top of too little sleep.

That relief was short-lived once winter break ended, and Stiles woke from another dream to the crushing realization that Derek wasn’t really there. And the terror of seeing only vague patterns of light and dark, like shadows through cheesecloth.

While his vision cleared after less than five minutes Stiles could no longer ignore the fact that this problem was not going away, was in fact getting worse. Could no longer avoid contemplation of what would happen if his vision failed while he was in pursuit of someone (or something), while he was firing a weapon. While he was driving in general, but that wasn’t something he was ready to address…

What he could do was figure out a way to reshape his future, to find a path that would allow him to use the skills he had and his affinity for mysteries and protecting others without endangering them with his weaknesses.

Most of all, how to keep putting one foot in front of the other without falling apart and without laying another brick on the backs of his family and friends.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“The FBI internship program?” Scott asked, puzzlement on his face and in his voice.

“Yeah. Figure it’s probably a great way to get my foot in the door, see what options might be out there with the Bureau, you know?” Stiles strove for casual, willing his heart-rate steady in the face of Scott’s suddenly sharpened focus.

The early afternoon sun dappled the grass in front of him, shadows weaving with the intermittent breeze as they lounged on the ground after an impromptu shared lunch break.

“But-- why would you care about that? When you’re coming back to the Beacon Hills PD?”

It was the last day of April, and they were both enjoying a long weekend before the summer semester ramped into full swing. For Scott, that meant another attempt at organizing a weekend getaway with Liam, Mason, and Corey that would somehow resolve the still-awkward limbo that still stood like the elephant in the room when it came to their “pack.” Stiles got it, he really did. It was hard to be “the Alpha”, or even establish an identity as a pack, when you were dealing with a werewolf, a chimera, and...whatever Mason was. Add to that the very small age difference, and the secondary challenges of integrating Lydia and Malia, and Stiles could well understand Scott’s continual dismay at the prospect.

But he could also use Scott’s preoccupation with the task to his advantage when it came to dodging questions that hit a little too close to home.

“Hey, it can’t hurt to pad the resume, right? Anyway, why are you worried, aren’t you going to be tied up with the Pack Junior this summer? And learning the ropes for your assistant coaching gig with Finstick?”

Scott laughed, chuckle turning into a groan as he flopped back onto the ground. “Don’t remind me! Don’t think I don’t see your real motivation.”

“Real motivation? Why, Scotty, whatever do you mean?” Stiles forced a casual laugh, worried for a fleeting second that Scott might have realized, might somehow know.

“You’re running away to D.C. so you don’t have to sit through yet another night of Liam moaning about Hayden, while Corey and Mason make out in the corner.”

“Don’t forget about Malia, sharing in thorough, excruciating detail her plans for international travel and European men!”

They both snickered, chuckles turning to outright laughter until they ran out of breath. Lying on the grass, looking up through the canopy of branches and leaves, Stiles could almost write off the indistinct image as a product of sunny glare and a shifting breeze. Almost, and yet that “not quite” held a lifetime of terror and terrible possibilities. For the moment, it was easier to just close his eyes.

“Well, just don’t decide you want to stay there.” Scott’s words were punctuated with a gentle fist bump against his shoulder. “You know we count on you to be the voice of insanity around here.”

“Ha ha, very funny. You know you’d be lost in a fog of noble intentions and self-sacrificing logic without me. Or something.”

“Or something.” Scott snorted, waggling his eyebrows sarcastically.

Stiles forced himself to relax, storing this feeling for the future. If he was correct, if his waking eyes were fated to grow ever more unreliable while his dreams grew more vivid, then he would make every effort to capitalize on moments like this.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seeing Derek running through the woods, hearing the instructor capture everyone’s attention with references to a “feral unsub”, Stiles felt the low-frequency hollowness he’d grown accustomed to flare to screaming, excruciating, life.

For the first time in weeks, his vision sharpened to perfect clarity, misty edges growing crisp as if he’d finally been able to blink away the ever-present film through which he’d viewed the world for the past month. More than just visible details, he could see the possibilities and paths before him. And while the routes wound in different ways, the final destination never wavered: Derek.

Over the next days he found himself energized in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He slept less, researched more, gathered facts and intel from reliable and unreliable sources (each less “official” than the last). He maneuvered his way into a field op, managed to leave with Derek with both of them free and (mostly) in one piece, and ultimately drove back to Beacon Hills in time to walk head-first into a melee more deadly and widespread than anything they’d faced before.

The fact that he’d given little thought to Lydia as more than a friend and potential confidante--

The fact that he’d given less thought to the long-term ramifications for his career in leaving D.C. in the midst of his internship and in the open, known company of a prior suspected serial killer--

The fact that his vision never wavered after he saw Derek on the video feed--

That fact that the empty, hollow feeling was filled with total rightness once they were again breathing the same air, even as they hurtled back towards likely mortal danger--

Well, denial was another of his best skills, after all.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Confessing blindness as his greatest fear was surprisingly easier than it should have been, especially after years of hiding both his fading sight and his turmoil about it. Of course, Stiles was counting on their preoccupation with the dangers at hand and the conflicting he-said/he-said stories he and Derek crafted on the drive to distract them from examining his statement too closely.

Derek’s scepticism worked to further divert any uncomfortable questions about his phobia. There was a pulsing sense of happiness that they were so in tune, even if it was completely inadvertent on Derek’s part. Stiles carried that feeling of warmth with him, weirdly confident in their chances for victory given both the scope of the dangers they faced and the brutal losses of the past.

They would win.

The anuk-ite would be defeated.

Gerard’s henchmen/henchwomen… henchpeople… whatever, would be diverted.

He would have the chance to finally follow the impulses he’d been fighting for years, wherever they might lead and however they might resolve. The hardest part of the conversation would likely be explaining to Derek just how long he’d been fighting the compulsion to find him in a way that didn’t sound completely obsessive. Or the connection between his unreliable eyesight and the dreams of their life together in a way that didn’t sound completely delusional. Or the fact that Stiles was increasingly positive he’d been half-way in love with Derek for years, but afraid enough of what a real once-in-a-lifetime commitment to someone with a past as emotionally complicated as his own would mean, that he’d willfully clung to the concept of Lydia-and-Stiles.

Stiles wasn’t naive enough to think Derek would respond with easy acceptance or declarations of love of his own, but he also knew it was no longer a choice to stay silent.

Just as everything he’d never allowed himself to consciously reach for seemed within his reach, his vision darkened to nearly black-out, and Stiles felt like he’d been stabbed.

He refused to consider what that could mean. Refused even the possibility that Derek could be gone entirely, and did what he always did - turned adversity into advantage.

When he faced the anuk-ite, his aim was true. Mountain ash enveloped the creature, the plan worked flawlessly, made possible only because Stiles was not frozen to stone.

Because Stiles was immune to the effects of the anuk-ite’s gaze.

Because Stiles was blind.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Oh, my God. We did it. We did it!” Lydia’s voice scaled from shock to giddy joy, as she turned to fling her arms around Stiles’ neck. “We did it.”

“Yeah, we did.” Stiles forced a smile, hugging Lydia tightly for a moment before she drew away.

“I need to go--” her voice trailed off, a bit of embarrassment creeping in.

“Why don’t you go find Jackson, make sure he’s okay?” Stiles suggested. The sooner Lydia was on her way, the less time he had to try and hide his sudden loss of vision. It wasn’t rational, Stiles knew, but he couldn’t stand the thought of everyone knowing. Not now. Not yet.

“Thanks, Stiles.” Punctuated by a quick kiss to his cheek, Lydia left in a flurry. He could almost be insulted with the speed at which she accepted his offered out and exited the room, but that seemed petty given his motivation was getting her to do exactly that.

Slumping against the wall, Stiles ran a shaky hand over his closed eyes, ostensibly giving privacy to Scott and Malia who (by the sounds of things) were making sure Scott’s healing continued by duplicating the catalytic kiss. Repeatedly.

Footsteps alerted him to their approach, and Stiles forced himself not to flinch as Scott grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into a near-crushing hug.

“Thank you.” Scott’s voice was quiet, but fervent. “Stiles, thank you so much. I don’t know how you did it, but…”

“Did what?” Stiles asked, genuinely confused. “You’re the one who won, Scott.”

“Trapping the anuk-ite. Facing it head on. Coming back to Beacon Hills. Take your pick.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Scott, like I would let you have all the fun without me? I’ll always come when you need me, you know that. It’s what we do.”

“Yeah, but we couldn’t have won if you hadn’t sprung the trap. Speaking of -- how did you manage it? How’d you get the ash all the way around the anuk-ite without looking at it and getting turned to stone?”

Stiles forced a laugh, patting Scott on the shoulder as he drew away from the hug. Leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closed, Stiles hoped his posture looked like a natural enough pose of tired relief that Scott wouldn’t question it.

“That, my friend, is a long story. Why don’t you go check on everyone, see if we have any more to do here, and I’ll tell you all about it later tonight?”

Stiles breathed a shaky sigh as Scott left with Malia, both of them too focused on each other and the need to find any stragglers or survivors that might need their aid to examine Stiles’ brush-off. The sound of measured steps to his right and the impression of solid warmth at his side alerted him that someone had joined him. The accelerating pulse of near-here-now that flared back to life in his center identified that someone as Derek.

“You okay?” Stiles asked, unmoving except for swallowing nervously. “Not hurt?”

“I’m fine. But you’re not.” Derek’s voice was quiet, sure, his hand coming to gently press against Stiles’ arm. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t see anything. I’m bl-blind.” He stuttered over the words, voice breaking as a tear spilled from his tightly squeezed eyes. “I’m blind, Derek.” Saying the words made it suddenly real, terrifying. “Oh, fuck, I can’t see. What am I going to do, how am I going to-- I can’t see!”

He wondered if his panic would have continued to spiral, anxiety escalating into all-out hysteria, but he didn’t have the chance to find out. He felt himself pulled gently forward, his head tucked underneath Derek’s chin, hands clutching the front of Derek’s sweater as Derek held him immobile in the circle of his arms.

“We’ll fix it, Stiles.” The matter-of-fact words were at odds with the closeness of the embrace, a non-nonsense contrast to the slow sweep of one hand up and down Stiles’ back as his other hand moved to cradle Stiles’ head closer to his shoulder.

“Okay.” Stiles whispered. “Get me out of here?”

Derek hummed in reply, navigating them out into the hallway and back to the car by tucking Stiles against his side, arm snugly around his shoulders. They managed to avoid crossing paths with anyone inclined to ask questions, and the silence continued all the way back to the loft. It felt surprisingly easy to wait for Derek to come around, to slip an arm around his waist and nudge him in the right direction, to lead him to the edge of the sofa and wait for him to sit down as well. It was significantly less easy to answer Derek’s question.

“What happened, Stiles?”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“I’ve been having… issues… with my eyes. For a while.”

“How long? And what kind of issues?” Derek’s voice was calm, but Stiles could hear the heavy sound of his exhale. A small smile teased the corner of his mouth, ridiculously charmed by Derek’s attempt to stay calm for his benefit.

“Losing my sight, or having my eyes go fuzzy for a while. Since Mexico.”

“Since Mex-- Stiles, that was years ago!” There was the agitation, the edge of fear/anger Derek was trying to hide. “Have you seen someone? What’s causing this?”

“Yes, I have ‘seen someone.’ In fact, several someone’s. As far as any medical professional is concerned, my eyes and eyesight are perfectly normal and healthy. But it just kept happening, and at the same time I was having these really intense, really detailed dreams.”

“Okay, so not a human problem. But what about Deaton? Did he have any suggestions? Or Scott? Lydia?”

“They don’t know.”

There was another moment of silence and then Derek cleared his throat, his voice going tight. “What do you mean, they don’t know?”

“No one knows. Not Deaton, or Scott. Not Lydia. Not my dad. No one. I just… I couldn’t tell them. There was only one person to tell, one person that might be connected. But…” Stiles voice trailed off, words failing him.

“But I wasn’t here.” Derek finished for him, utter certainty in his voice.

Stiles’ eyes flew open, his head whipping in Derek’s direction. “Wh-- how do you know?!” he demanded.

“Because you’re not the only one who’s been having the dreams, I don’t think. I just thought it was wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking?” Stiles asked, his voice hushed and hopeful. “You mean you wanted…” Stiles stopped, closing his eyes as he gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know what you were dreaming Derek, but I doubt the dreams were the same as mine. Because my dreams? Were of us, you and me. Together.” Stiles gestured quickly between them, before dropping his head, shoulders slumped in defeat as he waited for Derek’s outrage.

But instead of agreeing with Stiles--

“We lived in a yellow, wood-frame house. There were three steps that led up to the front porch, but you always complained that there should have been four because--”

“--because the bottom step was weirdly tall and I stumped my foot on it at least once a month when I was carrying groceries inside.”

Stiles felt Derek shift closer, a solid press of warmth against Stiles’ side as he continued talking.

“You worked for the sheriff’s department, and I was doing some freelance work as an editor but we used to argue about whether or not I should go back to college and finish my degree.”

Stiles laughed, the sound turning into a sob as he leaned over to rest against Derek’s shoulder. “Because I said that you would be the best thing to ever happen to the Beacon Hills High department of English, and it was only fair that you teach the next generation of authors instead of just--”

“--complaining about their poor grammar after the fact.” Derek murmured the words against Stiles’ temple, his arm wrapping around Stiles’ shoulders to draw him closer.

“Oh, shit, you had the same dreams. You had them, too.” Stiles turned towards Derek, half crawling in his lap as he clutched him tightly. “Does that mean-- do you want--- oh, God, do you want me?”

“Other than having my family alive, I’ve never wanted anything more.” Those words, the reality of them, the fact that Derek couched his desire for Stiles in terms that were so completely honest, convinced Stiles more than anything else could have. There was only one reply he could offer.

“Other than my dad, you’re the most important person in my life. And, honestly--” Stiles stopped, swallowing heavily before breathing the final truth between them “--honestly, if the bullets were flying, I don’t know who I’d jump in front of first.”

Derek growled softly, giving Stiles a small shake before pressing his lips against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “Neither. You won’t jump in front of either of us. You will keep yourself safe, and you will stay alive for us. For me.”

It was both completely surprising and entirely expected when Derek followed the statement by sinking his hand into Stiles’ hair, gripping and tilting his head back to take his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. Stiles exhaled heavily, mouth opening under Derek’s as he wrapped one hand around Derek’s neck and snaked the other between Derek’s back and the back of the sofa.

Stiles felt the world shift, Derek lowering him back to recline against the sofa, shifting himself forward as he lifted Stiles’s leg underneath him until he was lying half on top of Stiles. Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ neck, tilting his head just enough to press a series of kisses against Stiles’ throat. “It doesn’t have to be a dream.” Derek murmured.

“But my eyes, what about the fact that I can’t see? I don’t know…” Stiles trailed off, hope and joy warring with outright terror at the thought of facing the rest of his life without sight.

“I know we’ll find a way to get your sight back. And I know that even if we can’t, it won’t keep us from building the life we’re meant to have. Together.”

And, really, who was Stiles to argue with that? He tightened his arms around Derek, shifting one leg to tangle with Darek’s, as he nodded. “Okay,” he replied, “together. I think that sounds like a dream come true, already.” It wasn’t I love you, not really, but it was somehow so much more.

Derek sighed in satisfaction, growing heavier against Stiles as the events of the day swept them both toward exhaustion. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about the details of this new reality, and how (and what) to tell everyone. Tonight was for them, for sharing space and breath that was more than, better than, a dream.

And if the price for this was facing his greatest fear, was losing his sight? Well, nothing less would be a fair price for the possibility of a future this wonderful. For both of them.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As it turned out, telling everyone was both far simpler and more complicated that he’d considered the night before.

Simpler, because Stiles opened his eyes the next morning to the sight of...sight. The light filtering in through the huge windows was a weak, watery gray. It streaked across the floor in hazy strips, dim enough to lend a damp, subdued air to the room but bright enough to throw the dust into sharp relief. This was a loft that hadn’t seen full-time habitation in a while, and it showed. Still half asleep, Stiles tracked the light with heavy lids, to where small fingers striped across Derek’s back, turning swaths of his hair silver-tipped and casting his eyelashes into sharp relief against the cheek not pressed to Stiles’ chest.

He was truly beautiful, relaxed completely with a faint smile curling the corners of his lips. Stiles raised his hand, tracing delicately down the curve of Derek’s jaw as an answering smile teased hip own lips. Such a wonderful sight, like so many dreams, but--

But--

Stiles stilled, eyes snapping open as the reality hit him fully. This? Was not a dream. He was awake, lying on the sofa in a neglected loft, pressed into the cushions by the solid weight of a fully relaxed Derek. A Derek who had dreamed of him just as he longed for Derek. The werewolf who wanted him enough to consider their dream world - one in which he came back to live in the town where his entire family had either been killed, betrayed, or left him- a desirable future.

The man who held him close, and told him in no uncertain terms that his blindness was a challenge to be accepted, and no barrier to the happiness they both deserved.

The Derek who had been such a huge part of Stiles’ life, whether in thought or in deed, for so long that Stiles had a hard time remembering his reality before him.

The man he could see, in all his glorious imperfections. The small patch of stubble slightly thinner than the rest near the curve of his chin. The dark shadows under his eyes, testament to the effects of recent months of too little sleep and too much stress. The gap in his eyebrow, still too bushy to be fully fashionable but so completely, endearingly Derek.

Stiles inhaled, a soft, shuddering gasp that woke the other man. Derek’s head snapped up at the sound as he turned towards the door, one head clenching into a fist, before swinging his gaze back to face Stiles as he registered the absence of a threat.

“Stiles?” he asked, brows furrowing in concern as he took in the stunned expression on Stiles’ face.

“Don’t frown, Sourwolf. It’s too early for that.” Stiles watched the smile bloom across Derek’s face at his words, had the pleasure of seeing Derek’s eyes crinkle with joy before he bent down to rest their foreheads together.

“You can see me, can’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, YES! I can see you!”

They were both laughing clutching each other and shaking with relief, and Stiles could honestly say he’d never felt more alive than he did in that moment. Every inch of skin pressed against Derek’s felt warm, the rhythm of Derek’s laughter rolled against his belly like the tide, and the hot, damp flow of Derek’s breath against his collarbone sent a shiver up his spine.

He turned his head, nuzzling against Derek’s temple as they stilled, and felt Derek cant his hips closer in response. Stiles rolled his own hips in response, pressing his hardening cock against Derek who shuddered, before surging up the last few inches needed to take Stiles’ mouth in a deep, wet kiss.

Stiles rocked upwards, feeling Derek’s cock hardening against his hip. He slid his hand down Derek’s back, pressing against his ass as he thrust upward as much as Derek’s weight allowed. Derek grunted in response, sound transforming into a near growl as he sank deeper into the cradle of Stiles’ thighs.

Stiles broke away from the kiss, panting softly as he met Derek’s heated gaze. He raised both hands to cradle Derek’s face, stunned at the utter tenderness reflected there.

“I feel like I’m dreaming, like this is too much, too perfect to be real.” Stiles confessed.

“It’s no dream, or if it is it’s one we’re going to share forever.” Derek replied.

Stiles giggled, rolling his eyes. “Dude, that’s ridiculously sappy. Even for you.”

“Even for me?” Derek asked, schooling his face into mock sternness. “I’ll have you know, I am renowned for my sentimental side.”

Stiles snorted, nodding his head sarcastically. “Uh huh, sure. Derek Hale, Giant Softie.” He drew Derek’s face downwards, pressing a row of kisses down his cheek and across to claim his lips once more, the kiss turning from teasing into something hot and urgent in the span of a breath.

And if the rest of the morning was spent in a haze of lust, if Stiles lost count of the number of times he came on Derek’s cock, with Derek’s lips or hands wrapped around his cock, with Derek’s tongue buried in his ass as he screamed into the pillow beneath him, with his cock buried balls-deep in the tight clench of Derek’s ass as he gasped out a mixture of Stiles’ name and pleas of don’t stop, never stop, Jesus fuck-- Stiles!?

Well, that was one secret that they kept for themselves.