#id have dean not feel the same way but the with this new knowledge be unable to repress the fact that he was into cas for years at first

[jender-studies]

Hard agree and so glad someone else sees it and it is a scholar of such renown. Love the paring but textually, Cas is in love with Dean, Dean is a deeply closeted queer man. That's what's there.

We do see Dean show a fair bit of attraction for Cas but it's all in early seasons. I think the nerfing and wifification maybe of Cas did make him less sexy to Dean, or Dean did a good job at repressing himself. Probably both. Only on season 13 but I'd say Dean is flirtiest with Cas in 4 and 5, maybe 6 I don't remember. By season 8 and probably 7 actually it's less flirty but he's at least warm to Cas and a little obsessed with him. And in 9 at least the Gas n Sip episode he clearly still cares a lot, but in general by 10 everyone refers to Cas as the Winchesters pet angel and they're kind of right. It's honestly pretty sad.

Maybe it's Carvers fault? I'd say 7-9 is where we see some meaningful affection, a lot of people site purgatory for a reason. But it really is still a stretch. Fondness and earlier flirtiness really don't equal love, especially with how cold Dean becomes to Cas in 9-12.

i have to admit that i do really have to work to read dean as in love with cas, especially before the dabb era. like, attracted to him, sure, but not like. meaningful affection. not more meaningful than, say, whatever he had with benny. if anything less meaningful

[weelittleweasley]

sheer brilliance (f.w.)

prompt: being a teacher’s assistant at a local college, you are assigned to a philosophy professor who is notorious for being young, cocky, and undeniably handsome. does his arrogance get in the way of you getting or job done? or is it his looks?

pairing: professor! fred x teacher’s assistant! reader

warnings: typically frowned upon relationships (oopsie i love forbidden romances that are legal and consentual mwah), language, food, drinking, alcohol

word count: 15k (I am so sorry I really couldn’t help myself)

author’s note: there won’t be a direct part two of this, but you can bet ur sweet booty that i will be writing more prof!fred in this universe because he’s just so HNNNGG

taglist: @rosaliepostsstuff​ @harrysweasleys​ @gcdricreads​ @lumos-barnes​ @whizboingies​ @lumosandnoxwriting​ @pxroxide-prinxcesss​ @c-t-h​ @lol-idk-oops​ @another-lonely-heart​ @kaseyrose96-blog​ @hufflepuff5972 @amourtentiaa​ @parseltongueswriting​ @shilohpug​ @peachypotter​ @spacexcowgirl​ @PaintballKid711 @vogueweasley​ @freddie-weaselbee​ @freds-slut​ @missmulti​ @gryffindcrghost​ @wand3ringr0s3​ @valwritesx​ @sweeterthansammy​ @loonylovegood13​ @lostaurorax​

“It’s so nice to see another young face here,” a blonde haired girls sighs next to you as you swipe your ID card to enter the university building for your first official day of work. “I thought I was going to be the only new TA here,” she confides in you as your shoes click down the corridor as you make your way through the halls. 

You flash her a comforting smile, “Same here. But I think there’s more of us on the way. Besides, we’re relatively early.” 

As a last year graduate student, you needed to be a teaching assistant in order to get your degree and finish your course requirements. It wasn’t an opportunity you were thrilled about, but it would give you hands on teaching experience in a university setting that could be very valuable. That was, if you had the right professor.

“I’m Luna, by the way,” the girl next to you chimes as she fixes the strap of her purse, offering you her hand to shake, gladly accepting it. “I’m a TA for Women and Gender Studies,” she adds proudly.

“I’m (Y/N),” you smile, “TA for Philosophy.” Luna looks impressed as you tell her about your area of study, making you laugh. “I promise it’s not as bad as it sounds. I quite like it, actually. Just hoping the professor I’m assisting is a good one,” you nervously speak, turning the corner to walk to the Dean’s office.

Luna shakes her head, “I hear you. It’s definitely nerve wracking, but Hogwarts University has some of the top rated professors in the country, so I really don’t think we’ll have many problems in that department.” 

You suck in a deep breath as you nod. The university was quite prestigious, you were shocked when you were informed you would be assisting here, but honored nonetheless. However, there was still a pool of nerves that swam around in your stomach as you thought about the professor you would be assisting. You could have a someone who was so knowledgeable in your field of study or someone who was a complete ass. It was a dice roll. “One can only hope,” you sigh before arriving in front of the Dean’s door, placing three knocks on the wooden door.

The door swings open to reveal a happy looking man, brown hair combed back and a toothy grin on his face. He wore houndstooth pants with a white button down tucked in and a neatly tied bow tie around his neck, matching the color pattern of his pants. His face glowed with excitement as he beamed, “Ms. Lovegood, Miss (Y/L/N), so glad to finally have you with us!” You and Luna offered him a warm smile in return as he opened his office door wider for the two of you to enter. “Welcome to Hogwarts! I’m Dean Longbottom, but you two can just call me Neville,” he smiles as he sits behind his desk adorned with small succulents and stationary. “I’ve been anticipating your arrival along with the other teaching assistants for awhile. It’s so nice that we have such a large pool of you for this semester. The professors are quite lucky to get quite a brilliant bunch like you,” he compliments.

“Speaking on behalf of all the TAs, I think I can confidently say we feel honored to be here,” Luna smiles softly as the dean chuckles and you nod.

Neville nods his head, “We are honored to have you.” You and Luna thank him before he begins again, “So, the two of you have some time before you are reporting to your classrooms for lecture. How about I give you the tour of the campus? A proper Hogwarts welcome?”

You and Luna excitedly agree and Dean Longbottom starts to walk you through the hallways of the beautiful university. The university had once been castle during the Gothic era, still maintaining the same structure. Beautiful hallways, paintings of founders hung in the walls, windows adorned with stained glass as sunlight seeped through. “The dining hall is on the left over here,” Neville gestures, revealing a large room lined with tables, school flags hanging high as students varying in year gather to chat and eat. “And if you look ahead, you’ll find the campus courtyard. It’s beautiful this time of year with the flowers in full bloom,” Neville smiles to himself. “Across the street are the campuses houses. Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Syltherins, and Hufflepuffs,” he points as you see tall houses, coated in paint of their respective colors. “I myself was a Gryffindor when I was a student,” he jokes, earning a laugh from you and Luna. “Other than that, I think that concludes the tour. Here are your staff lanyards and your professor assignments have been forwarded to you in your emails. There’s still some time left before lecture, so feel free to hang around campus or in the staff lounge. If you need anything, please, don’t hesitate. I’ll see you two very soon!” he waves before disappearing down the hall. 

In this moment, you take the time to look around the hall to see the bustling student body, smiling and laughing as they make their way down the halls. You softly smile to yourself, reminiscing about when you were an undergraduate. A freshman in the halls, excited for university. Now, you were nearly done with graduate school, soon to be a certified professor. Time had flown by in the blink of an eye. 

“You want to take a peak in the staff lounge?” Luna disturbs your thoughts.

Turning to her, you give her a smile and a nod before walking up the stairs three levels to reach the staff lounge. Inside were a few professors scattered here and there, but mostly there were TAs. The room radiated buzzing nervous energy as red lanyards signifying TA status hung around a few necks. One of the boys sitting at the table spotted the red lanyard and spoke cooly, “You’ve found the right place.” 

He rose from his chair and walked over to you and Luna with a shocking amount of confidence. His jet black hair was gelled back neatly, a crisp light blue button up and handsome tie clung on his neck as he stuck out a hand for you to shake. “Name’s Harry,” he proudly shook your hand. “I was a TA here two years ago, now in charge of the TA program and coordinator for the math department. You two look new. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just I could sense it,” he laughs.

“(Y/N),” you shake his hand firmly as he smiles. Luna does the same with a small smile. “You’re right about the new part. It’s both our first semesters here,” you confirm. 

Harry nods and walks back to his chair, leaning back, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Nice. What’s your area of focus?” he asks. 

Luna grabs a seat and speaks, “Women and Gender Studies. You by any chance know a Ginevra Weasley? She’ll be the professor I’m assisting this semester.”

Harry lets out a chuckle before an unfamiliar voice speaks up, “Oh, Potter is familiar here with Ms. Ginevra Weasley. That’s his fiancé.” You turn around to face a smirking face as he sips on his piping cup of black coffee. “I’m Seamus Finnegan. Head TA for the chemistry department,” he introduces. “You’ve lucked out,” he tells Luna. “Ginny is the best in the department. She’s a hard ass, but you’ll learn a lot from her.”

Luna smiles to herself, “Very excited to get started then.” 

“What about you?” Harry nods to you as Seamus slides into a seat next to Harry. “Area of study?”

“Philosophy,” you reply cooly. Seamus gives you an impressed look as Harry smiles lightly. “Specifically Ethics,” you add on. “I’m assisting another Weasley, actually?” you look at Luna. “Are they by any chance related?” you ask Harry and Seamus.

The two of them just chuckle as Harry sighs, “Yeah, the whole family basically teaches here. You’ll learn fast. They all got jobs at the same time since their father is on the board of directors. All of them deserve to be here though. Brilliant professors, all of them.”

You let out a sigh of relief that you didn’t realize you were holding in. Confirmation that you had a more than capable professor was good news. 

Seamus continues on Harry’s tangent. “Basically one in each department,” he shrugs. “Ginny is a  women and gender studies professor, Percy is the head of the business department, Charles is in the vet school, Bill is an adjunct professor now, but he’s in the language department with a focus in French, Ron is the European History professor and by the looks of it, he’ll be the head of the department next year, George is the chemistry professor I assist, and then there’s Fred w-”

“That’s the one,” you interrupt. “He’s the one I’m assisting this semester. How’s he? Do you have any intel that could help a new bee out?” you ask hopefully with a glimmer of jest in your voice. But the look on Harry and Seamus’ faces make your stomach do a flip. They look at each other knowingly as Seamus lets out a small chuckle. He mutters a small yikes before sipping on his coffee and excuses himself from the table to go attend his lecture with George. “What was that look about? Is he a lazy professor?” you groan.

Harry lightly laughs and shakes his head, scratching the back of his neck. “Fred Weasley is a great professor, no need to worry about that. He’s just...how do I put this without getting fired?” he whispers the last bit to himself as your eyes widen and you lean in closer with a what?, making Harry shake his head. “It’s not bad, I swear, he’s not like...unstable or anything. He’s just very cocky. Fred is good at his job and he knows it. He doesn’t let anyone forget it. He’s been ranked top professor at the school for the past three years and wears it like a badge of honor.” 

Great, a cocky professor. A narcissist. Just what you needed when starting a job that could determine the fate of your career. You sigh and flop back in your chair as Luna gives you a sympathetic look. “Bloody brilliant,” you huff.

“He’s a great professor though!” Harry tries to make light of the conversation. “Fred has been teaching straight out of university, so he knows what he’s doing. Students really admire him and his lectures are some of the best that I’ve seen. He knows how to have fun in the class, but he doesn’t take any bullshit,” Harry reassures you as you give him a weak nod. It was nice to hear that he was at least respected and admired by the students. Maybe you could learn to do the same. 

Luna takes a look at her watch and gives you a nudge. “It’s twenty minutes until the new lecture block. Reckon we should introduce ourselves to our professors?” she asks as you sigh with a reluctant nod. After that bit of information you just received, you were less excited to meet your professor. “It was nice meeting you, Harry,” she beams to Harry as you two rise from your seats. 

“Lovely meeting you two. I’m sure I’ll catch you around in the halls,” he winks friendly before you both exit the staff lounge.

Nervously, you played with the cuffs of your turtleneck, walking down the halls, parting with Luna, wishing the other good luck in their first lecture. As you strolled the hallway of the fifth floor, searching from room 523 where Philosophical Ethics would take place. You wondered how he would look. Old, no doubt. Harry said he’s been teaching since he graduated which had to mean he was in his late forties. Was he a cranky old white man? Great. Just fantastic. He probably had the traditional way of teaching which meant he sat at the front of the classroom and spoke at the class for three hours. Your worst nightmare. How could someone ruin something you loved?

You stumble upon the wooden door with golden paint etched into it 523. With a confident inhalation, you push the door open and enter the classroom, neatly set up for the next lecture. Three rows of eight, one next to the other. In the front of the classroom was a large chalkboard with the words Welcome to Ethics written in sloppy handwriting. Gently, there was soft jazz music playing from a small speaker, filling the classroom, saxophone and trumpet melodies echoing. Everything looked normal. Except for who sat at the desk.

At the front of the classroom, sitting at a dark brown desk was a tall, lean young man with tuffs of orange hair styled back. He wore a freshly ironed white button down that was tucked neatly into a pair of chestnut corduroys with matching brown chukka boots. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing off his muscular biceps and toned arms. A shiny silver Rolex watch was strapped on his left wrist as he tapped a pen against his desk. But you couldn’t get over how young he was. The youth in his face was lively as his dark chocolate eyes scanned over a paper in front of him. Your presence was unknown to him as he continued to flip through papers, dragging his pen across the margins. 

Politely, you clear your throat, causing him to look up from his paper, looking up at you. When his eyes landed on yours, you gulped thickly. His whole face was undeniably attractive. His angled jaw, full lips, soft eyes. He gave you a confused look. “Lecture isn’t for another twenty minutes,” he told you before looking back down at his paper, almost dismissing you. “But feel free to have your choice in seat. I hope you don’t mind the music. Let me know if it’s distracting,” he tells you before flipping the pages again.

You inhale deeply. “Actually, Professor Weasley, I’m (Y/N),” you introduce yourself. Professor Weasley looks up at you with confused eyes, trying to put together your identity. “Your TA for the semester?” you speak with a small smile. “I’m very excited to get started with you.”

But before you can ask him what you could do to help set up the classroom, he speaks, “I didn’t ask for a TA.”

His words take you aback for a moment. Instead of an introduction or even a simple hello, he told you he didn’t ask for a TA. “I beg your pardon?” you ask with almost a laugh.

“I didn’t ask for a TA. I don’t need one,” he clarifies to you, rising from his desk as you gulp, taking in how tall he was, standing proudly above you. “I’ve never needed a TA in the past, and I don’t know who decided I needed one this year. After being voted best professor since I got here, I don’t understand why this is the year I need one,” he laughs, making his way around the desk, leaning against it, tucking his hands in his pockets.

You give him a disturbed look. Harry telling you that Fred Weasley was cocky was a damn understatement. The bloody guy was telling you to your face that you weren’t wanted or needed here. That he could do his job perfectly fine without you. “I’m sure you don’t need one, Professor, but this was my assignment. Dean Longbottom assigned me here and I’m just following what I was told to do in order to get my degree,” you tell him, trying to remain cool and polite when you’d rather tell him to suck it up and deal with it.

Fred run his fingers through his hair before placing them on either side of his body, leaning back into his desk, tongue pressed against his cheek. His biceps flexed underneath his tight white shirt, making you gulp, trying not to get distracted at the fact that your professor was not only a dick, but an incredibly handsome one. “Neville assigned you?” he laughed. “Alright. Well, I’ll go down to office and get this sorted away,” he huffed before standing up straight.

But before he could take a step further, you stopped him, now getting frustrated that this guy didn’t even try being nice to you. “Hold on,” you stopped him, fixing the strap of your purse on your shoulder before placing it on the desk next to you. “This job was assigned to me. There are no other TA positions available in the philosophy department this late in the game. I’m not gonna lose this job just because you allegedly don’t need a TA,” you try to keep cool, but the venom leaks out every now and then.

Fred gives you a light chuckle before speaking, “Not allegedly. I don’t need one. There’s a reason why I’m one of the most successful and youngest professors. I can run this class by myself without some grad student’s help.”

Now, you are pissed. “Alright, you know what?” you fold your arms over your chest. “I don’t appreciate being spoken to like this. I’ve worked very hard to get where I am and I will be respected. Regardless if I am a TA, or a student, or a co-worker. I am here to do a job and I will do that job no matter what anyone says,” you tell him as he just stares at you, a cocky smirk on his face that makes your blood boil. It was like he wasn’t listening to a word you were saying. “So how about we save ourselves the dramatics and just be satisfied with the fact that this is the situation?”

Fred just exhales and rubs hand over his face. You could tell he didn’t want you here, and quite frankly, you didn’t want to be here either after his little stunt. You were quite sure he was capable of running his own class, but you weren’t here to take his job. You were here to be an assistant to his teaching, being there to support and help him. This was a requirement for you, not a pastime. “Alright then,” he eventually states, making the way back to his desk. “You can grab a desk from the rows and bring it up to the front, I guess,” he huffs as you remain standing with your arms still folded across your chest. 

He looks up and gives you a look. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” you ask with venom pouring from your glossed lips as you give him a sarcastic smile. 

Fred gives you a sarcastic smile back as he drops his pen and speaks, “Fred Weasley. MA in Philosophy and Human Ethics. Cambridge Graduate. Cum laude.” The pride dripped from his voice as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “And you are?”

You wanted to throw your shoe at his head, your blood was boiling at how arrogant and prideful this man was. “If you were listening before, you would know my name is (Y/N). MA in Philosophy and Human Ethics. University of Oxford. 3.98 GPA,” you mimic him.

Fred gives out a chuckle as you grab your purse and start to settle yourself in the room. “Oxford student? Fitting that our universities are rivals,” he huffs before pulling a desk and chair over for you, placing it near his desk. 

“And why would that be?” you ask sarcastically as Fred bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to snap a snarky response back at you. “Listen, Fred, I’m just here to do my job and do it well. I’m not here to step on your toes. I’m here to finish my requirements so I can get certified,” you tell him as you stand beside your desk, smoothing out your plaid skirt that your turtleneck was tucked neatly into. 

As you stand there, Fred’s eyes rake up and down your body, taking you in as a whole. The first time he’s done this since you walked in. His eyes are like magnets, scanning every inch of your body and how you carry yourself so confidently in the space. When his eyes reach yours, you inhale deeply, trying to prevent the heat from rising to your cheeks as your handsome superior checks you out. “I’m not worried about you, darling,” his thick accent coos. “You’re the least of my worries.”

Just as the words slip out of his mouth, students start to file into the classroom, greeting Fred with good mornings and how are you’s. You tell yourself to calm down, to remain friendly, and cool. As the students file in, Fred greets them all with a warm smile. “Welcome back everyone. This is Philosophical Ethics with Professor Weasley. You all can call me Professor, Professor Weasley, Fred, Professor Fred. Just not Freddie, that one is reserved for my mum,” he teases, earning a few chuckles from the class. He glances over to you with a small stare and begrudgingly introduces you, “This is (Y/N), my TA for the semester. She will be here with us for...?”

“The whole semester,” you remind him with a sweet smile contrasted by your  daggers for eyes. “Looking forward to working with you all,” you tell the class with a warm smile, receiving a few back in return.

Fred sighs, “Right. Well, anyway, let’s take roll and then get right into things, yeah?” The class nods as you sigh. “Alright, who can talk to me about Nietzsche?”

This was going to be a long semester.

Three hours of the class went by at a sluggish pace. Not to mention, Fred didn’t extent an invitation for your opinion or thoughts during the lesson. You didn’t expect him to let you teach the class, but instead, you just sat and listened to him run the class. 

Although he didn’t let you say much, you had to admit that his lecture was quite good. He led the class in a really interesting way, almost like a Socratic seminar type. He let his students make observations and create open dialogues about the philosophy you were covering. Fred encouraged student’s thoughts rather than shut them down and he tried to encourage everyone to participate to make sure everyone said what they wanted to say. But you, he didn’t extend that offer. 

Instead, you took notes. Notes on Fred Weasley. The way he spoke with his hands, how he sloppily wrote on the board with chalk, underlining words, circling, and drawing small diagrams. How he folded his arms across his chest when someone brought up a provocative thought. How he nibbled on his bottom lip when a student asked him a question. How he glanced over at you every once in awhile, catching your eye and smirking when he caught you looking at him. You would roll your eyes and continue to scribble down his mannerisms, what he focused on in class, and how he conducted it. 

The students ate up everything that fell from his lips. It was like magic, the way he could capture 20 students attention about something as niche as existentialism. But you couldn’t lie, Fred Weasley was captivating.

“Okay, for next week’s class read Nicomachean Ethics and start drawing comparisons and differences between Aristotle and Nietzsche,” Fred announces as he closes his book and dismisses his students for the day, a chorus of thank you’s and have a good day’s echo in the classroom.

The final student exits as Fred retires back to his desk, sorting papers and filing away miscellaneous papers. You click your pen as you watch him, waiting for him to break the silence. But instead he sits at his desk and starts scribbling into his planner. With a sigh, you break the silence and speak, “You give a really informative lecture. You engage with the students really well.”

You thought a compliment would be a peace offering. An olive branch of sorts. But Fred took it as an opportunity to dig into you. “I know. That’s why it’s a full class and I’ve got a waitlist 30 kids long,” he speaks without looking up at his desk. 

The guy was cocky as all hell and he was letting you soak it all in. The grip on your pen grows tighter as you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth in irritation, trying to maintain a steady facade. “So,” you breathe out as you grab your bag, pulling your notebook from your back. “You want to talk about lesson plans? I see that you’ve assigned Aristotle for the next week and a half. Maybe a smooth transition would be going into Kant and talking about the categorical imperative?” you suggest, sitting on a desk in front of Fred’s.

He peers up at you through his lashes, your legs dangling from the desk. He gives you all of his attention as he pushes his sleeves further up his arms, fiddling with the lock on his Rolex. “I’ve already taken care of the lesson plans for the rest of the semester. It’s all planned out. It has been since last month,” he explains to you as you nod your head, thinking he would offer something else for you to do.

“Okay,” you trail off. “Is there...anything you want me to do? Coordinate office hours? Set up my own as well so I can be a resource to the students. I can give you my phone number and email to put on the syllabus, so the students know they can reach out to me if they have any questions,” you tell him as you start to scribble down your email and number.

But Fred shakes his head, “Won’t be necessary. If a student needs you, they’ll come to you. Besides, they should really come to me if they need anything since I have more knowledge about the course.”

His passive comments were starting to pile up on you as you inhale deeply, your chest heaving. The turtleneck around your body felt very warm as anger started to bubble in your chest. “Maybe if you told me about the course, I could be a valuable resource to students. Remember, I’m just as qualified as you. I just haven’t graduated yet,” you remind Fred as you lean back on the desk, legs swinging back and forth as Fred starts to pack up his briefcase.

“Yet,” he looks up at you with a smirk, pink lips curled upwards as he leans over his desk, gathering his things. Even though the smirk was condescending as all hell, it did something to you. In more than one way. It made anger gather in your chest, frustration tingle in your temples, but butterflies pitter patter away deep in your stomach.

“So what exactly do you want me to do?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest as Fred grabs his jacket with one hand, his briefcase in the other as he does a once over his desk.

Calmly, Fred speaks, “You can start by filing away those papers on my desk and then once that’s done, make a list of the students in grade point average order. I want to know who needs the most help and who is fine on their own.” After he gives you that direction, he starts for the door.

With a scoff, you hop down from the desk. “And you’re just going to leave?” you laugh at him as he place his hand on the door with a shrug. “You know I am a teaching assistant. Not your personal assistant,” you spit at him.

Fred swings the door open and stands there with a smile. “Teaching is more than just standing front of a room as talking out of your ass, dear,” he tells you as the nickname makes you bite your tongue from yelling at him. 

“You really are arrogant, you know that?” you sneer at him with your hands on your hips, glaring at him. You stare at him as he stands in front of the open door, jacket laid over his forearm, leather briefcase in hand, his other hand combing through his fire red hair.

Fred smiles lightly to you before sighing, “I’m bloody brilliant, (Y/N). You would be arrogant, too.” His words make you shake your head with a scoff. “Sort those papers for me, won’t you? I’ll see you tomorrow in here. Early. 9am sharp.”

But before you can ask him why, he’s out the door and calling after another professor, leaving you alone to your own devices. You let out a frustrated groan as you cover your face with your hands. Of course, you got stuck with the prick professor who takes advantage of an extra set of hands. You walk over to his desk and see a small stack of papers to be sorted and filed away along with the list he wanted you to organize. 

You plop yourself into the desk seat and carefully start going through each file, examining each student’s credentials, organizing them by GPA and last name. You note who could be a tutor and who needs a tutor, who is at exit level, who is at entry level, so on and so forth. The task was interesting, but so time consuming. It was a way you could start to learn more about your students, even if it was through paper.

It had been an hour and a half and you were on your last file when you hear a gentle knock at the door. Slowly, it creaks open to reveal Luna and Harry together. Luna carries two lattes in her hand and smiles, extending her arm out to give it to you. “You are a saint, you know that?” you laugh as you accept the warm, caffeinated beverage. 

“You’re still working?” she asks in disbelief as you finalize some last notes in the margins of one student’s file. “But class ended almost two hours ago.”

You look up at the both of them. “Oh, I know. But Fred left after the lecture and insisted I do the filing and note taking whilst he got to leave on time,” you speak through gritted teeth, finishing scribbling your last note and flopping the pen down, leaning back in the desk chair with a huff. “You weren’t lying when you told me he’s a self-righteous fuck,” you talk to Harry.

Harry laughs and digs his hands into his pockets with a huff. “Well, I didn’t use those words,” he laughs as you give him a look through your mascara coated lashes. He gives you a sorry sigh and leans over the desk, “Fred is a great guy one on one, but as a professor...he just likes having reign over his classroom. It’s not just you. His last TA was three years ago and he made the kid miserable. The kid, Dean Thomas, was so sick of philosophy after he switched to psychology. Now he’s a first year professor.” You roll your eyes and push yourself out of the desk, grabbing your purse and notebooks, piling them all in as Harry continues. “What happened today?”

Recounting the moments of the day made you frustrated, but you allowed yourself to vent to your co-workers. “Well, when I walked in, he thought I was a student,” you speak as Harry and Luna give you an apologetic look, Harry muttering an ouch. “Oh, that’s not even the worst part. Then I told him I was a TA and he told me he didn’t need one, because he’s more than capable of running his own classroom,” you mimic his pompous attitude. “He had the gall to threaten me to go to Neville’s office and find me a replacement class! I mean, sure, he’s a great professor, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only good one in this bloody school!” you exclaim, frustrated failing your arms, earning a small chuckle from Harry and Luna. “I’m sorry, I’m just very frustrated that this is how my first day on the job went,” you run your fingers through your hair, shaking your head.

“No need to apologize,” Luna walks over and touches your shoulder gently. “He sounds...unpleasant...” she tries to be as cordial as possible, earning a giggle from you. “But maybe you’ll warm up to each other? It’s only the first day. We have a whole semester ahead of us,” she looks between you and Harry cheerfully. In a weird way, her light, happy tone made you feel a little better.

You sigh, “I guess so. Ugh, a whole semester with Fred Weasley...” 

The three of you start out of the classroom and start to make your way down the halls, retiring to the staff parking lot and bus stops. But before you can make your way to the public transportation, Harry suggests, “Hey, a few of us are headed to the bar to grab a drink before headed home. Do you both fancy coming?”

Luna perks up and shakes her head with an eager yes please. The idea of grabbing drinks sounded great and just what you needed after this gruesome day. But the looming thought of having to get up early and meet Fred in the classroom tomorrow at nine sharp hung over you like a storm cloud. With a sigh, you speak, “Wish I could. But Fred is making me meet him at nine to talk about lesson plans or something. Last thing I need is showing up hungover to my second day on the job.”

Harry and Luna groan in protest. “Oh, come on! You can’t let Fred rob you of your autonomy!” Luna stomps her foot and grabs your hand. “One drink won’t hurt! We’ll both have one pint and then I’ll take the bus back with you. We’re only one stop away from each other on the blue line,” she tries to convince you.

Harry starts dancing backwards to his car as he beeps it open. “I’ve got an extra seat,” he sing songs as he opens up the door for you.

A small smile creeps up on your face as you sigh. One drink couldn’t hurt. Just one cheeky little drink and then home away you would go. The night was still young, so you’d still be in bed at a reasonable hour. One drink. “You guys suck,” you laugh as you start walking to Harry’s car as Luna claps her hands in glee and Harry triumphantly punches the air, making you laugh.

-------

The morning sun creeps through your window, making you groan and roll over. The sunlight hurt your eyes and made your stomach churn as a headache pounds through your cranium, making you feel sick. “Bloody hell,” you whisper as you sit up and rub your eyes. 

You slowly start to remember the events of last night and everyone there. It was all the TAs, including some of the younger professors. You met another Weasley, Ron you think. The history professor. Absolutely nothing like Fred. He was charming and goofy in a lovable way as he sat next to his wife, Hermione, a classical literature professor, an arm draped over her shoulders. Seamus was also there along with a few other chemistry TAs as they sat at a high rise table, pointing and whispering about the business professors and TAs who sat all the way in the back, drinking scotch and making mild chatter.

“No bother meeting them,” Seamus told you as you sipped on a gin and tonic. “The business professors and TAs are all little shits. The one with the blonde hair is Draco Malfoy. He thinks he’s better than everyone because he got his PhD, but everyone knows his dad paid off the university to give him the doctorate. His TAs all kiss his ass to get in his good graces. Zabini, Nott, Goyle, all of them,” he groans before taking a long sip of his ale, making you laugh.

You had tried to tell yourself that you would only stay for one drink, but then you started yourself in conversation with the other TAs about undergrad and grad school, realizing the mutual friends you had with each other. And then, you found yourself being convinced by Ron to do a green tea shot with him as he toasted to all of the new TAs of the semester. And with that, one drink became six.

With a groan, you slump yourself up in your small studio apartment and rub your temples. As the sunlight leaked in through your white linen curtains, you check the clock. The hands pointed to 8:25am which made you gasp and rise to your feet. “Motherfucker,” you huff to yourself as you run to the bathroom. You had to meet Fred at 9 and it already took you twenty minutes to get to campus which left you with virtually no time to get ready. “Shit, shit, shit,” you turn on the shower quickly, running to your closet to grab a fresh pair of plaid pants and a jumper. “I’m so dead,” you whisper to yourself as you scramble to get ready.

You frantically rub soap all over your body with one hand and brush your teeth with the other, needing to freshen up after a long night out. The shower was cold and unpleasant as you shivered before hoping out and throwing your clothes on, opting to skip a full face of makeup and just pop on tinted moisturizer and lip balm. 

Checking the clock again, it was 8:35 and you groan in frustration. “I am a fucking moron,” you curse at yourself, grabbing your purse and notebooks and pens and papers, trying to get yourself organized before racing out the door to catch the bus. You run to your pantry to grab a granola bar as your phone starts buzzing on your nightstand. “Who the fuck is it?!” you scream as if your phone could hear you.

Stomping over, you grab it and see it was Harry calling you. “I’m kinda rushing to get out the door, Potter, make it quick, what’s up?” you babble as you slip your shoes in your Oxfords, lacing them up quickly.

Harry chuckles over the line. “I figured as much. You were a bit of a mess last night,” he tells you as you groan. “I’m only teasing you. But that being said, I’m passing your street in like two minutes, do you wanna catch a ride instead of betting on the bus?” he offers.

You sigh the biggest sigh of relief as you immediately respond. “Harry, you are a life saver,” you huff as Harry laughs. “I’ll be downstairs in a hot second. I just need to grab my coat and keys,” you tell him before hanging up.

Someone had your back today and sent Harry Potter to you. Rushing over to your coat rack, you grab your trench coat and your keys, doing a once over of your apartment, making sure you had everything, turned off all the lights and faucets. With a confident sigh, you exit your apartment, lock the door, and rush down the stairs. 

As expected, Harry sat in his car with a ginger haired woman in the passenger seat. You give him an exhausted smile as you open the back seat and slide in. “Morning,” he chimes as you shut the door and buckle your seatbelt. “How are we feeling?”

You give him a knowing look. “Fuck off,” you grumble as he laughs. “I can’t believe I let myself get carried away like that last night.” You never let yourself loose track of time like that; you felt so irresponsible. “If you didn’t call me, I would surely have my ass handed to me by Fred today.”

“Fred?” the woman in the passenger seat chimes in. “Are you the poor TA who has to deal with my brother this semester?” she asks as you sigh and nod. “Good God, I apologize on his behalf. He can be a dick sometimes. I’m Ginny by the way.”

She turns to you, offering her hand to shake as you gladly accept it. “The women and gender studies professor, right?” you ask as she proudly nods. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m (Y/N), philosophy,” you tell her with a smile. “You and Harry are engaged, if I remember correctly?”

Ginny smiles happily and flashes you her engagement ring. “Just recently, yeah,” she confirms with an admiring look to Harry as he drives down the road, a small smile on his lips. “We met when we were both TAs and have been together since,” she recounts with a smile. “Enough of that though, how are you finding Hogwarts so far? With exception of my bothersome older brother,” she reframes the question.

“So far, so good,” you tell her honestly. The staff at the university was class. Everyone was so warm and welcoming and made you feel at home instantly. “I think last night I also met your brother, Ron. He kept handing out shots to the new TAs,” you recall as the pang in your head agrees.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Yeah, that’s him. Ron likes to mess with the new bees every year,” she speaks. “Here, take this,” she hands you a piece of spearmint gum and a tube of mascara. “It’ll make you feel better, trust me,” she winks as you thank her. “Harry should have given you a heads up on that one,” she elbows him.

Harry shakes his head, “Ron has been my best mate since grad school, I’m not revealing his tricks to anyone no matter how good of a friend they are.” And with that, Harry pulls into the staff parking lot of Hogwarts as the time reads on the dashboard 8:55am. 5 minutes to spare.

As Harry puts the car in park, you unbuckle yourself and say, “I hate to rush out like this, but I quite literally have to dash to get to this meeting with Fred on time. Ginny, it was lovely meeting you. Harry, I owe you one. Thanks so much for the ride,” you slide out of the car as you dash towards the school.

“You can buy me a round of drinks!” he teases after you as you shake your head, dashing through the halls of Hogwarts to get to classroom 523.

You dart in between students as you run up the stairs, purse in hand, hair flowing as you make a mad dash. Finally, you reach the classroom and push the door open to reveal no one in the room. “Seriously?” you huff out of breath. You just ran here for no reason. Fred was no where to be found. But after closer inspection, there was a small sticky note on the chalkboard that read be back in ten. You huff and throw your bag down, walking around the classroom, trying to distract yourself from your throbbing headache.

The classroom is neatly decorated, plants here and there, the windows open to draw in fresh air as you inhale deeply. Then you remember from yesterday. There was a small speaker by Fred’s desk, connected to the desktop on his desk. You walk over and press the power button, making the speak bleep on with a blue flashing light. You press play and see what was on the queue. Soft jazz music starts playing, specifically Frank Sinatra’s I’ve Got You Under My Skin. You smile to yourself, how fitting. 

As the jazz music echos lightly, you allow yourself to sway gently to the music, smiling to yourself. The song reminds you of working late in the library when you were in school, listening to music to maintain your focus. You hum the melody to yourself, dancing around the classroom, looking at the bookshelves, letting your fingers trace down their backbones. You allow yourself to start softly singing the lyrics as the tempo picks up, swaying back and forth as you pluck a book from the shelf, scanning it’s contents. 

The song picks up, the brass section wailing as you dance around, reading the first few pages of a random book from Fred’s collection. You continue to sing out loud, a little off key as you smile to yourself. In this moment, you were content, regardless of how gross you felt. “’Cause I’ve got you under my skin,” you sang gently as you continued to dance back and forth, cradling the book in your arms.

But you are pulled from your day dream when a voice speaks, “You’re a fan of old blue eyes?” You let out a light squeal as you see Fred standing there, watching you with a small smirk on his mouth, holding two coffees in his hand. 

You place a hand over your heart, monitoring how it thuds against your chest from being startled. You looked at Fred and sighed. He stood there, in a light tan khakis, crispy white shirt with a maroon tie hanging from his neck. A pair of square glasses sat on the bridge of his nose as his chocolate brown eyes peered at yours through them. “Sorry you had to see that,” you chuckle. “Sinatra is one of my favorites.”

Fred chuckles, “No need to apologize. Frank is one of the greats.” He walks over to you and hands you a coffee as you tuck the book in your hands under one of your arms. “Figured you’d need one of these,” he refers to the coffee. “TAs usually have quite the night out of the first day of work,” he recalls with a small smile. Was he...being friendly? But before you could ask how he knew you went out, he answered, “Ron is my brother. I know his ways. Because he learned them from me.” You laugh and shake your head. “I don’t know how you take your coffee, but I assumed a latte with an extra shot would suffice?” 

You give him a soft smile, “Yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks so much. I appreciate it.” Fred nods and sits as his desk with a huff, pulling himself close to the desk. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Fred pulls his glasses off of his face and twirls them in between his fingers as you watch the glasses spin around and around. “I wanted to talk about expectations for the class and for you,” he speaks as you nod and take a sip of your warm latte that almost instantly helps with your headache. “I...I realize that we may have not gotten off to the best start yesterday...and I apologize for my behavior,” he speak as you nod.

An apology was a good start. “You’re forgiven,” you simply state.

“Thank you,” he adds before rubbing a hand over his lips. “As for the class, I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. This class is a prestigious course. One of the harder ones in the department. That being said, I think it’s best for me to have the reigns on the class and lead class lectures. You are free to observe and aid in answering questions about assignments or papers,” he tells you as he leans back in his chair, thinking he made a reasonable bargain. But it was quite the opposite.

You weren’t here to sit around and listen to another philosophy professor spew a scripted lecture. You did that for four years in undergraduate school. You were here to learn how to teach a classroom, how to run a lesson plan, how to gain hands on experience. Being a puppet in the corner was not going to accomplish any of those things. “Fred, I appreciate the apology. But this offer is not acceptable,” you state calmly. “I’m your teaching assistant. I’m here to help in any way I can, of course, but I’m also here to help teach and instruct the class. You are suppose to help me learn how to teach the class.”

Fred nods, “And you can do that by matters of observation.”

His way of brushing you off made you infuriated again, just like yesterday. Did he do this to everyone? “But don’t you think it would be more helpful for me to have some actual hands on experience? Like actually teaching the class?” you tell him more than ask him.

He rises from his chair and sighs, “I don’t need you creating a new lesson plan. I’ve been using this one since I got here and it works. If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it.” Fred walks over to the board and writes in bold letters, Aristotle, preparing for today’s lecture. The way that he so nonchalantly stated that to you and started writing on the board as if he didn’t insult your intelligence made you infuriated.

“You’re a fucking prick,” you flat out spew. You wish you could take it back, you really did. As soon as the words left your lips, you regretted what you had said to him. Insulting your superior was surefire to get you fired and released from your job, making you ineligible to graduate. But damn did it feel good to say. 

Fred turns around to look at you, eyebrows furrows as if you just spoke in a foreign language to him. “I’m a fucking prick?” he repeats, folding his arms across his chest, leaning back on the chalkboard, crossing his legs as you stand in front of him, completely enraged, fists tight next to your sides. “Wouldn’t be the first time I heard that,” he laughs, combing his fingers through his hair, as if what you said was a compliment.

“Well the people who said it before were right! You’re cocky and arrogant and self-righteous and pompous and self-absorbed. You clearly have no intention of helping anyone but yourself! That’s probably why you like being a professor! So everyone listens to every last bit you say,” you start to ramble. Now that you had said what was on your mind, it was almost impossible to stop. The words flew off your tongue like a jet. 

Boldly, Fred pushes himself off the chalkboard, hands dug into his pant’s pockets as he walks closer to you. A small smirk dances along his lips as his tongue darts out and drags across his lower lip. The action makes your breath hitch in your throat as you mentally curse yourself, wanting to be annoyed with him, but yet you found yourself aroused. “Keep going,” he urges. “Go on. Tell me how unbearable I am. You’ve only known me twenty four hours, but it seems like you have me all figured out,” he speaks, just a foot away from your body.

Adrenaline is coursing through your veins, your lips slightly parted as you take heaving breaths, making your chest rise and fall quickly. Fred’s eyes scan your face, soaking in your annoyed and confused expression. You suddenly become very aware of how close he is to you and you shake your head, taking a step back. “I only need a day to know an asshole when I see one,” you simply state, folding your arms over your chest. Your expression reads as if it were Fred’s turn to take a dig at you.

Fred chuckles lowly before speaking, “Here’s your problem, darling.” The endearing terms makes your stomach curdle. “You don’t get the hands on experience your second day on the job. You’ve gotta prove to me that you can run a class and keep their attention for three hours. You think it’s easy keeping the attention of a bunch of twenty year olds when you’re talking about philosophy? It’s not as easy as you may think it is,” Fred explain as you roll your eyes. “I was in your shoes once before, so I know what you’re experiencing.”

You laugh, “Oh, don’t pull that card. You’re a professor now. You did your time in my shoes. Don’t pretend like you’d give anything to go back.”

“Oh, honey, you couldn’t pay me enough to go back!” Fred retorts, now with an edge. “You know what. I could let you run today’s class,” he chuckles at the thought. “I could let you run it and watch you crash and fucking burn,” he emphasizes with a shrug. “I could watch those students trample all over you, you know why?” he asks looking at you intently as you gulp. “Because they don’t respect you! They don’t know who you are. In fact, they see you as one of them! If I mistook you as one of them on the first day, then what made you think they wouldn’t?” he asks as you inhale deeply. “Respect is earned when you are in a position of authority. Even if you’re just a professor. And you, (Y/N), haven’t earned that yet from the students. And I honestly don’t know if you have it from me.”

And with that last dig, the first student enters the classroom signaling that the first lecture of the day was ready to begin. Fred and you don’t acknowledge the student, just staring at each other. Fred’s words stung. Like a fresh wound, you were bleeding out. His words were sad, but true. You were a TA, but you were still a grad student. Fred worked to get to the position he was at. You just needed to prove to him that you were capable of handling yourself in a classroom setting as a teaching assistant.

You retreat back to your desk at the front of the room and sit down with a small huff, pulling out the attendance sheet, marking students as present as they enter the classroom.

Fred rubbed his hands over his face, feeling guilty for his out burst. He knew you were brilliant. To be quite honest, Fred knew he was going to get a TA. He had checked out your academic profile, seeing that you graduated undergrad with a nearly perfect grade point average and extra circulars that were sure to blow any one away. Your thesis statement made Fred laugh to himself, it was similar to his own when he was in university; the effect of utilitarianism on free will in our post-modern society. In a weird way, you reminded Fred of himself. Confident, smart, and ballsy. But where you differentiated with Fred is your adaptability. How you could adjust and go with the flow, that was Fred’s downfall.

Soon the classroom was full of students again and Fred took a deep breath, trying to regain his focus and composure to teach the class. He didn’t dare look at you, it would just make him upset. And you didn’t want to look at him. Fred sat on his desk, his long legs almost hitting the floor even when he sat. “Hello everyone,” he addressed the class, some students chiming back. “Let’s get started for the day. Shall we?” he claps his hands together. “Who can talk to me about eudaemonia?” he asks the class.

You looked out at the classroom along with Fred, anticipating a slew of hands but instead you got nothing. Students sat in their chairs in silence, some twiddling their pens, others scribbling in a notebook, some still groggy this during the ten o’clock lecture. “Someone’s gotta know about it. Come on then,” Fred probes the class as they remain silence, only sound is some kid yawning in the back. Fred allows the class to remain silent for a moment. “Alright,” he huffs. “Rough morning for a lot of us,” he speaks, hoping to catch your attention with that line, but you scribble nonsense into the margins of your notebook. “Maybe (Y/N) could give us a definition?” he suggests.

Your head shoots up like a rocket from your paper as you look at Fred with panic in your eyes. He looks at you with a small smile and encouragement, almost as if this were his way of making amends. A twisted way. You look towards the class and see twenty sets of eyes on you as you gulp before shaking away your nerves. “Um, yeah,” you clear your throat. “Eudaemonia is the greatest good, the aim for all human thinking and rational. Another word for eudaemonia is happiness,” you simply state, making the students start scribbling in their notebooks. Pride swells in your chest as you realize what you was valuable to the students. “Eudaemonia is achieve through action in tandem with the human soul and psyche. When eudaemonia is at its highest form, it is known as virtue,” you explain further as the class continues to scribble down what you were saying.

Slowly, you look towards Fred who gives you a small smile and a nod as you just give him a curt nod and turn back to your desk. But when you look away, it’s hard to cover up the small smile on your lips as you fiddle with the pen in your hands. Fred notices your grin as smiles to himself before speaking, “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Maybe today would be better than yesterday.

--------

Another two weeks had gone by and the work relationship you had with Fred improved significantly. He let you interject at certain points in his lectures, let you pose questions to the class, and even assigned you students for office hours. Finally, you started to feel like you were doing what you came here for and you were loving every moment of it.

Fred was a great professor and an even better mentor. He commanded a classroom unlike any other professor you have ever seen. He spoke with confidence and coolness and the students ate him up. It must be rewarding for him, watching students love his work as much as he did. You would watch him with a small smile as you jotted down notes here and there. Fred would catch your eye every now and then in class and gave you a small smile or cheeky wink that made your heart stop every now and then as you turned away from him, biting the inside of your cheek to make you stop smiling. 

“Remember to finish Kant’s Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals for tomorrow’s class! If you haven’t turned in your paper on Nicomachean Ethics yet, do it by 4pm or else I will personally send (Y/N) to find you and hunt you down,” he teases the class as you roll your eyes, making the class laugh. “Happy Friday. Now scram,” Fred dismisses class as students file out.

When the majority of them have dispersed, you walk over to Fred’s desk and huff, “Good lecture today. Katie brought up some good questions about the differences between hypothetical imperatives and categorical imperatives.” Fred leans back in his desk chair, flopping his notebook down on his desk.

“Yeah, she did. But god, I wanted to punch Brian in the face. He kept talking over her while she was saying something poignant. I get it, Brian, there are different formulations, but damn, shut the fuck up,” Fred groans, making you laugh as you grab your bag and get ready to pack up for the day. “So, I hate to be the bearer of bad news...” he trails off as he rises from his seat.

You groan and throw your head back as you spin on your heels to face him. “Please, don’t tell me...” you start as Fred nods his head sadly. “Come on, Fred. It’s Friday night! Beginning of the weekend! All of the TAs are getting drinks at the pub tonight and quite honestly, I’d rather be doing that than grading philosophy papers,” you whine to him.

Fred mockingly places and hand over his heart and speaks, “First off, I am offended that you don’t want to spend time with me grading papers on the brilliance of Aristotle through a twenty year olds eyes.” The comment makes you chuckle, but he pushes on, “But I want to grade this papers tonight and finish them tonight so I, well we, can have the weekend free. You can get drinks any other night with the TAs. But we’ve got to do this tonight.”

You stomp your foot in frustration like a toddler, making Fred chuckle as he places his glasses on his face. “But tonight it’s dollar drafts! Dollar drafts happen once a week!” you beg him. “Why can’t we grade tomorrow?”

“Because I need to put these grades into my grade book before the students start wondering if they’ll ever be graded for something in this class,” he explains. “How about this?” he proposes. “We meet back here at 4:30pm. I’ll get take out for the both of us and we can drink coffee and energy drinks like we’re back in undergrad cramming for an exam. It’ll be fun,” he shimmies his shoulder making you giggle. 

With a huff, you say, “Fine. But if we’re here past midnight, I’ll never forgive you.” 

You start out of the classroom as Fred calls after you, “It’ll be fun!”

Shaking your head down, you start down the hall and see Harry and Luna talking as they leave their respective classrooms. “Heyo,” Harry calls out to you before slinging an arm around your shoulder. “So, for dollar drafts tonight we were just gonna take a cab there at around 5:00. Ron is going to be late because he’s going to wait for Hermione to get out of her night class and they’ll come together. But Seamus, Luna, Cho, and I will all be there and I think Dean said he’s coming and bringing some friends from grad school. It should be a great time,” Harry explains with a big grin.

Your ‘fomo’ was kicking in hard core as you sigh and speak, “About that...I can’t make it tonight.” Luna gives you a sad look as Harry groans and throws his head back. “Fred and I need to grade papers tonight to make the first quarter grades. If I get out early though, I’ll call and see if you guys are still there,” you offer as Harry slumps over. 

“At least it sounds like things are going better with you and Fred,” Luna tells you and you nod with a smile. “Are you learning from him?”

“Absolutely,” you tell her. “Fred is actually a great professor and the class adores him. I’ve been enjoying it a lot recently.”

Harry wiggles his eyebrows, “Yeah, I’m sure you have.”

You slap Harry’s shoulder at his cheeky suggestion that something was going on. “Oh, quit it, Harry,” you say through gritted teeth. “Fred and I have a strictly working relationship. He and I are co-workers and are professional. All of my relationships are here. That’s more that some people can say,” you tease him about his engagement to Ginny as he rolls his eyes and mimics you. “Besides, there is nothing romantic or sexy about grading papers about ethics. In fact, it’s the opposite thing.”

Harry laughs, “You never know. Maybe you two will get so caught up in talking about morals that you just start to...” he mimics the sounds of sloppy snogging and moaning as you slap his arm again, Luna giggling. “Okay, okay, I’m just teasing you! But if you can meet us at the pub, give one of us a call and we can hail you a cab,” he tells you as you hug Luna goodbye and then Harry.

“Will do. Have a drink for me. Lord knows I’ll need one,” you huff, watching them walk off to catch up to Dean and Seamus. 

Instead of getting drunk at a bar after a long week of work, you would be grading papers all night with Fred. Which honestly, maybe, didn’t sound so awful.

A few hours past and you and Fred were at on opposite sides of his desk, empty Chinese take out boxes scattered around you along with empty coffee cups and cans of energy drinks. It was ten o’clock at night and you had hardly made a dent in the papers. You throw your head on the desk with a thud, making Fred chuckle. “This is hell,” you groan. “Do they even proof read their sentences?” you ask Fred who shakes his head. “Seriously. Some of these papers are just bad. Weak thesis and an even weaker argument,” you slap the paper in front of you.

Fred scribbles in red ink on one paper and circle the letter grade on it before shifting it to the done pile. “Honestly, if it’s horrid and you struggle to make it past the third page, just skip to the end, read the conclusion and if it reads fine, give them a C minus. If they have a problem, they can come to office hours and talk about it with me,” he tells you as you laugh. “I’ve done that with two of them already.”

You place a C minus in red ink at the end of the paper and shift yours into the done pile. “How many more do we have left? We’ve been here for nearly six hours,” you tell him.

Fred examines the pile and huffs, “About four more. So two more each and then we’ll be done. The papers are ten pages long, so only twenty more pages of absolute garbage to read before we are done.”

Eh, that wasn’t so bad. You sigh and examine the room around you. Your eyes land on Fred whose eyes scan over the page as he nibbles away at his lower lip, glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose, red pen tucked behind his ear. He made markings on the paper here and there, adding comments as he sees fit. He’d mumble a bloody hell here and there if something was really bad, making you giggle. He’d catch your eye and a proud smile would form on his lips when he saw that he’d made you giggle.

After another hour and a half of grading, you were finally finished with the thick stack of papers on Fred’s desk. The two of you let out a sigh of relief as you leaned back in your chairs. “Freedom!” Fred cried out as you laughed, running your fingers through your hair. “And before midnight!” he points to his watch, the hands pointing to 11:37pm. “I think I know what this calls for,” he speaks wiggling his brows as you watch him stand up and pulls out a drawer to reveal a small handle of whiskey. 

You laugh and shake your head. “Ohhhh, no,” you laugh and wave your hands. 

“Really, (Y/N)? Eight hours of grading papers and you don’t want one drink?” he pours one glass, waiting to pour yours.

You think for a moment. You were supposed to call Harry and Luna and tell them that you would meet them at the bar. But quite honestly, you didn’t feel like leaving the classroom and the pleasant company of Fred. Maybe some one on one time could strengthen your relationship...as co-workers, of course.

In defeat, you sigh, “Fine.” 

Fred smiles and pours you a nice, hefty glass of the brown liquor before handing it to you and sitting in his chair. “To a job well done,” he toasts as you clink your glasses together, sipping from the glass. The whiskey is smooth and warms your chest up delightfully as you relax further into the chair. The two of you rest in comfortable silence before Fred starts, “So...after you’ve finished your job here, where do you hope to go?” 

You think for a moment and lean on your elbows on his desk, letting your hair flop forward. “Not too sure really,” you admit. “I know I want to teach at a university level, but it’s just a matter of where positions are available. Maybe I’ll go back to Oxford and see if there’s any availability in their department,” you toss around as Fred boos you, knowing the rivalry between Cambridge and Oxford is still fierce. “But I’m trying to go with the flow and see where the demand is.”

Fred nods his head and huffs, “Well...what if I told you that there is going to be an opening in position here at Hogwarts for next fall?” You give him a confused look as you sip from your whiskey. He says, “Professor McGonagall? She’s been here for ages and she’s retiring after nearly sixty years of teaching.” You widen your eyes and nod your head. Impressive. “The department is looking to hire a new, fresh face and I think you might be right for the job...” he takes a sneaky sip from his glass.

“It’s a really kind offer, Fred, really thoughtful of you,” you tell him. “But I want to know that where I apply for a job I’ve earned it. I didn’t get the job because someone pulled the strings behind the scenes,” you tell him. This was true. Anyone would kill for a job at Hogwarts University, but you wanted to know that you earned your title here and not because a friend handed it to you. 

He leans forward and speaks, “This wouldn’t be me pulling any strings. (Y/N), you are a brilliant person and the students adore you. Just last week four students asked for your contact information to reach out about private tutoring. Neville loves you and the department sees the work that you’ve been doing and is throughly impressed. You’ve earned this position and the respect that comes along with it,” he tells you, honestly shining in his eyes, making you melt in your chair at his gaze. You feel heat rising to your cheeks as you look away from him, sipping from your glass. The sight makes Fred’s heart skip a beat. 

“Are you saying I’ve earned your respect?” you ask him with a teasing smile as he chuckles.

“Yes. You earned it awhile ago. You’re an incredible woman,” he tells you as you smile, looking down at the glass in your hands, too meek to meet Fred’s gaze now. 

It’s quiet for a moment before Fred clears his throat and stands up, turning on the speaker as Frank Sinatra softly starts playing again as you laugh to yourself. It Happened In Monterey starts to echo in the classroom as you smile at Fred. “One of my favorites,” you tell him.

Fred nods, “One of his best hits,” he says as if it were a fact. “Give me your top three. Go.”

You think for a moment before speaking, “It Happened In Monterey, The Way You Look Tonight, and Girl From Ipanema. I think those are his best.”

Fred smiles, “Agreed. His version of The Way You Look Tonight I prefer much over Tony Bennett’s.”

“Oh, easily! Don’t get me wrong, Tony Bennett has some great hits, but he doesn’t hold a candle to Frankie,” you tell Fred, making him chuckle. The two of you chat about music for a little while longer before Come Fly With Me comes on and Fred claps his hands. “My mom loves this song,” you smile, fondly remembering her singing in the kitchen to this song.

Fred rises to his feet and immediately grabs your hands and brings you to his feet. He places your drinks down on the desk as he spins you around, making you laugh. “You can’t not dance to this song,” he tells you, placing his hand on your waist, the other holding your other hand in his larger one. The contact makes your heart flutter in your chest as you giggle as he spins you around again, this time into his chest. 

Your back is pressed against him as he sway with you in his arms before spin you back out, dancing around and around the classroom, the two of you laughing messes as you dance to Frank Sinatra, still in your work clothes from this morning. As you dance, you steal glances of Fred. How his hair was messy from running his fingers through it, his tie loose around his neck, impressions of his glasses in the bridge of his nose. He was so effortlessly handsome and it made your stomach sway at the sight of him. How he could be so handsome without even realizing it. Without even realizing how he made you feel. All warm and fuzzy inside, giggling like a child as he spun you around in his arms, making this moment feel like something out of a movie. 

The song slowly fades away before Autumn in New York starts play, changing the tone of the room. You two catch your breaths before looking at each other in the eyes, Fred’s hands on your waist as your hands rest on his chest. The two of you look at each other, and slowly start to sway as the orchestra of the song starts to swell. Frank’s clear voice echos in the empty classroom as you slowly wrap your arms around Fred’s neck, him pulling you close to his body as you start to slow dance in the middle of the classroom, neither of you registering what is happening. You two were purely acting on instinct. But god, it felt so right.

The two of you dance gently to the music as Fred’s hands rest on your lower back, his thumbs tracing small circles into your jumper as you lace your fingers around his neck. No words are spoken. You just listen to the music and stare at the other, taking each other in during the dance. How could something that started off so innocent turn so beautiful? 

Your mind was reeling, watching Fred look at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You wanted to tell him everything that’s ever happened to you in this moment. Everything that you’ve gone through that brought you to this moment. Something about Fred made you feel safe. Something you hadn’t felt in years. 

As the music starts to come to a close, you can feel Fred lean down gently and press his forehead to yours as you inhale a shaky breath. So desperately you wished to close the gap between you two, pushing your lips together, giving into him. But before anything can happen, the horns blare over the speaker, Brazil blasting over the speakers, making the two of you jump, startled at the change in pace. 

You place a hand over your heart as Fred races over to the speaker to lower the volume. “That scared the living hell out of me,” you breathe out as Fred laughs and nods. The two of you stand there, wondering what to say, knowing that you were both thinking the same thing. But no one says anything. “Um,” you clear your throat. “It’s quite late. I should probably get going...” you trail off as you walk over to grab your purse and notebooks.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he tells you with a nod, cleaning up the mess of take away boxes on his desk. “You need me to call you a cab?” he asks.

“No, no, it’s fine, I got it,” you tell him with a smile as he nods, throwing out the garbage and sorting away miscellaneous papers. “Um, I, um...”

“I had fun with you,” Fred finishes your sentence for you as you exhale and smile gently with a nod. “I’ll see you on Monday then?”

You nod your head, “Absolutely, yeah.” He grins and digs his hands into his pockets.

You start to make your way towards the door, but Fred stops you and says, “Hey, (Y/N)? On Monday, I’d like you to run the lecture. For both classes.” Your eyes widen as you look at him in disbelief. You try to protest, but Fred speaks, “I think that the class would benefit from your perspective. And your sheer brilliance.” 

A small smile forms on your lips as you let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. Okay. Yeah. For sure,” you tell him with a nod as Fred smiles. “Thank you, Fred. This is...wow. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” he tells you. “You’ve earned it. You’ve earned it all. Now, get going and get a goodnight’s rest. That you surely deserve.”

And with one small wave, you exit the classroom and start down the hall, feeling like you were on cloud nine. Nothing felt as good as this.

------

Monday rolls around as quickly as Friday left and you enter campus with a pep in your step. Today you were teaching the class and you were beyond prepared. You had your lesson plan in your bag, a coffee in your hand, and your favorite jumper on. You felt invincible. 

As you walked into the staff lounge, Harry sat with Seamus, sipping on coffees and munching on provided breakfast. “Morning, you lot,” you chime merrily as you place your bag on the table and walk towards the breakfast tray and grab a crossiant.

“You’re too cheery for a Monday morning,” Seamus says with a look on his face. “What’s got you so bright eyes and bushy tailed?”

You smile to yourself as you walk back to the table, tearing open the croissant to slab some jam on it. “Fred is letting me run lecture today,” you reply happily.

Seamus looks over to Harry with wide eyes, the two of them in complete shock. “Wow,” Seamus says. “That’s...incredible. Good on you, (Y/N),” he tells you as you thank him with a smile. “I didn’t know Fred let his TA run a class. The most he let Dean do was take roll,” he told Harry.

Harry took a sip from his coffee and wiggled his brows, “I didn’t think so either. I guess our very own (Y/N) has made him have a change of heart.”

You roll your eyes and speak, “I earned this, Harry. I’ve been working my ass off and after a long night of grading papers, Fred offered me the opportunity which I gladly took.” Harry nods his head with a mhm as you throw as piece of croissant at him. “I’m serious!”

“I’m not saying you don’t deserve it, (Y/N)! You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met; you deserve this like humans needs to breathe!” Harry exclaims. “I’m just...shocked that Fred let you make a lesson plan, nevertheless teach a whole class,” he speaks as you shrug. “Guess you bring out the best in Fred Weasley.”

You smile, “Is that such a bad thing?” Harry chuckles as Seamus shakes his head with a huff. “Well, if you excuse me, I have to get ready for my lecture,” you joke as Harry rolls his eyes.

“Don’t let this thing get to your head!” he calls after you as you flip him the bird, making Seamus laugh.

As you walk to 523, your heart patter against your chest with excitement, but also lots of nerves. What if they preferred Fred over you? What if Fred was more engaging with them? What if someone fell asleep? What if someone asked you a question you couldn’t answer?

Soon your confidence began to waver as you entered the classroom, Fred clearing the chalkboard, getting the room ready for you. “There she is. Professor for the day,” Fred claps his hands. “You excited?” he asks. But you don’t answer him. You nervously place your purse on the desk and start gnawing at your nails. This makes Fred worried as he walks over to you and places his hands on your shoulders. “You alright?” he asks, concern washing over his face.

You relax into his touch as you sigh, “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just...nervous.” Fred gives you a sympathetic smile. “What if they like you better than me? What if I say something stupid and they all laugh at me? What if I forget everything? I mean, how much do I really know about Mill? Probably nothing,” you ramble.

Fred laughs and gives you arms a squeeze, forcing your eyes up to him. “Hey, look at me,” he speaks as you huff and look into his comforting gaze. “Everything is going to be just fine. You are brilliant and the students love you. You’re gonna get up there and smash it. I know it,” he tells you with a confident smile, making your heart flutter and your stomach flip. “I was nervous for my first lecture too, but once you start, the adrenaline gets pumping and you feel on top of the world.”

You give him a shaky nod, “Yeah. Okay. I can do this, yeah?”

“Absolutely,” he laughs. “You’re more than capable,” he reassures you. “I believe in you. I always have,” he speaks, tilting your chin up with his fore finger as you gulp thickly. Fred’s eyes dart to your lips back up to your eyes as he smiles softly. “You’ll be brilliant.”

“Thank you,” you speak just above a whisper as Fred nods.

Slowly, he pulls away from you and sits at his desk which prompts the first student to enter the classroom as you gather your notebook and a piece of chalk, writing on the board in bold letters, Mill and Utilitarianism. You wipe your hands on your pants and look over to Fred who gives you a thumbs up.

Soon enough, the classroom fills up with students as you try to keep yourself calm and not let the class see your nerves. “Happy Monday, everyone,” Fred speaks from his desk. “I hope you all had a great weekend. Your papers on Aristotle have been graded and the grades are posted online. Some of you did great, some of you did shit. If you have any complaints, you can see me or (Y/N) after class to discuss,” he speaks, earning a few laughs from the class. Fred speaks, “Brian, I wouldn’t laugh if I were you. (Y/N) couldn’t make it past page three of yours before handing it off to me.” This earns a loud roar of laughter from the class which eased your nerves. God, Fred knew exactly what you needed. “Speaking of (Y/N), she will be running lecture today. I’ll be playing the role of TA and you’ll give her the same amount of respect like you give me. Understood?” The class nods. “Brilliant. (Y/N), you have the floor.”

You smile at him, “Thank you, Fred, for the introduction.” Fred nods. You turn to the class. “Alright. Let’s talk about Mill’s Utilitarianism. After reading it, what are our thoughts? How do we feel about Mill in comparison to Kant or Aristotle?” you ask generally trying to ease into the lecture.

The class is motionless for a moment before Jessica raises her hand and you nod. “I found it interesting how he acknowledges the objections in his work,” she tells you as you nod. “Not many philosopher’s explicitly do that in their works.”

“Great,” you smile at her. “Let’s take a look at that. Everyone open up your copies and turn to page seven. Mill writes, ‘Life has no higher purpose than pleasure? What are we, swine?’ What do you think this means?” you ask the class. The stare blankly at you as you inhale deeply, this being a fear of yours. But before you can allow yourself to freak out, you think about what Fred would do. You repeat the quote again and add this time, “Are we swines? I mean, I don’t know about Brian, but I know that I’m not a swine.”

This causes the class to erupt with laughter, Fred included, and Brian blushes a deep shade of red before he raises his hand to answer the question. Ah, victory. 

The class continues on and the discussion was incredible with both classes you taught. The students had such provoking conversations with fruitful discussions on the topic. It made your heart swell that they were so good for you and you felt like you were in your element the whole time.

Fred couldn’t help but smile to himself as he watched you give the lecture, bouncing off points, connecting ideas, and posing new questions that he couldn’t even think of. You were electric and the students were infatuated with you, even more so than they were with him. He couldn’t help but feel proud of you. He loved watching you smile and laugh as you talked to the students. 

“Okay, well unfortunately we are at time, but next week bring in your annotated books along with your first drafts of your papers!” you tell the class as they thank you as they leave the class one by one. 

After each student has left the classroom and the door shuts, you turn to Fred who springs from his chair and runs over to you, scooping you up in a hug and spinning you around as you laugh. “Sheer brilliance,” he places you down with a beaming smile. “I’ve never seen students so excited to talk about moral philosophy,” he shakes his head as you grin widely, holding your hands behind your back. “That was great, (Y/N).”

“I feel great,” you tell him with a smile. “Seriously. It blows my mind how smart they are sometimes. Bloody Brian had such great talking points today!” you beam as Fred laughs. “But really, I learned everything that I did today from you. You are the great teacher,” you tell him, nudging his shoulder playfully.

Fred rolls his eyes, “Oh, don’t give me all the credit. I mean...give me some, but not all.” You laugh and shake your head. “Kidding, kidding,” he tells you as you smile at him, taking in the way his face looked as the sun started to set behind him, signaling the end of your day. “Um, I’ll walk with you to the lot?”

You nod your head as the two of you pack your things and make your way to the parking lot with Fred, the both of you making light chatter about the class discussions and how thought provoking they all were. As you walk in the halls, you pass Harry who calls out, “I’m guessing it went well!”

“Shut it, Potter!” you call back as Fred chuckles. 

Soon enough, you reach the staff parking lot and Fred digs around in his pockets for the key to his car. “Well,” Fred huffs. “You did a great job today, (Y/N). I would say I’m impressed, but I knew you would do brilliantly.”

You beam, “Thank you, Fred. Really. I know how much this class means to you and I thank you for trusting me with it.”

He smiles and leans against the hood of his black Audi, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows before leaning on his hands. “It’s my pleasure. I know how much teaching a class meant to you and I’m happy I could help,” he tells you as you nod. 

The two of you stand there, watching each other as the sun sets behind the castle. Fred’s eyes glossed over your body and how pants hugged your curves and how the jumper clung onto your figure. He took a deep breath in before smiling to himself as you gulped and cleared your throat, trying to diffuse some of the tension between the two of you. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, Professor,” you tease Fred as he chuckles. 

You start to walk away and towards the bus stop, but Fred’s voice stops you. “(Y/N)?” he speaks as you turn back to him, walking back to him. “I’ve got a quick question for you.”

“What’s up?”

“So, Mill said ‘There's no time for all this calculating when we're faced with an actual moral decision.’ And I’m afraid that I have a moral decision of my own,” he speaks with a smirk as you heart races at the sight of the smile you’ve grown so fond of over the past few weeks.

You smile at your feet before looking up at him. “And what would that moral decision be, Professor Weasley?” you tease him as he chuckles.

“That night, we spent grading papers,” he starts as you tuck your hands into your back pockets. “I wanted to kiss you.” His confession makes your heart race as face heat up. “And ever since then, I’ve been trying to find a moment where I can finally suck it up and kiss you,” he smirks. “So, what I guess what I’m trying to say is, is it alright if I kiss my teaching assistant in the parking lot of this bloody school?”

You lightly laugh and speak, taking a step closer to him as he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you close as you place your hands on his chest, “Well, if we are talking about this in the terms of Mill, would kissing your teaching assistant bring you pleasure?”

Fred smiles, “Without a doubt.”

“Then I think you’re morally obligated to,” you tell him as he chuckles.

He hesitates no longer and dips his head down to connect your lips together as you inhale deeply, wrapping your arms around his neck. His lips are soft, but passionate against you as they gently move against yours. His hands squeeze your hips gently as you press yourself against his body, making Fred lightly moan into your mouth. His tongue slips past your parted lips, caressing his tongue with yours as you let out a soft moan, making Fred inhale deeply. Your heart is pounding against your chest as you gently pull at the roots of his hair, relishing in the way his lips feel against yours. His mouth moves slowly and lazily against yours, making your head spin and desire grow. It’s everything you imagined it would be as cliche as it sounded. 

Gently, you pull away as Fred smiles lightly. “Thank you, John Stuart Mill,” he breathes out, making you laugh. “I’ve been dying to do that.”

“I’m glad you did,” you confess to him, arms still wrapped around him as Fred squeezes your hips, placing another soft kiss to your lips. “Now that you’ve accomplish that moral dilemma, do you have any idea what your next one is?” you tease him, wiggling your brows.

Fred shakes his head, “Oh, we’ve got the rest of the semester to figure that one out.”

[starshipsofstarlord]

First things First | Jack Kline & Peter Parker

Summary; Peter sees his ex back in town. Last time she was with her brothers, but this time, she has another companion. His name is Jack Kline, and he is her current boyfriend.

Warnings; some angst, jealousy, a bit of trash talk, smidge of violence, one swear word

“You’re back then.” Peter noticed, following you as you walked through the school halls, your head down as you attempted to ignore him. But however, you knew that you couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there forever, and so you softly sighed.

Last time, you hadn’t been in town too long, only a few weeks, cases were sprouting up left right and centre in Queens, and that was enough time for a relationship to briefly brew between the pair of you.

However, when the entourage of hunts came to an end, it had only been fair to cut sweet Peter loose, you hadn’t planned to return in any soon time. And here you were, a year in a half later, back in his hometown.

“You’re eyes are quite inquisitive, Parker, or do you need to ask me to put rock salt on my skin to prove that I’m not a ghost?” You barked back, which earnt yourself a confused frown.

“What?” He asked in reply, confused by your wording.

“Never mind, you wouldn’t get it.” You dismissed, having already had the intel and advice from your brothers that two different worlds didn’t mix.

Peter was but a boy, a smart one, but for all that you were aware, he lived a mundane life. He was bullied at school, but he had a couple of friends, Ned and MJ.

MJ. She had liked Peter before you had disappeared in the impala, it wouldn’t be a surprise if the pair were together now. He had wanted to forget you, for causing him so much pain, he deserved to move on, as you had.

“What I got was that you told me you loved me, and then you went with the wind, and didn’t look back, not once.” He bit back, his statement making your body feel heavy.

It was guilt, a familiar feeling for a hunter. It often came when a life was lost by the life of a monster, and this time, it had been the same. You had taken away the happiness from your own life, you were the beast that ripped out someone’s heart.

“I did, but that doesn’t matter anymore Pete, I’m in love with somebody else. There’s nothing that I am entailed from hiding from him, no secrets, I can be myself with him.” You pursed your lips, relieved that you had got that off your chest.

“You never had to have secrets! Your family business is what dragged us down in the first place, you feel the need to follow your brothers around the world, and for what? To end up alone and unloved?”

“I love her.” Jack entered the hallway, he had been at the front office, asking about the plumbing, he said he heard a noise. It was what the victim had said before he died, and so the spawn of Lucifer was now questioning it.

Sam and Dean were downtown, at some bar, it had been where the victim had been, with a fake id, before his body had been found in the school bathroom. This left the group of you spread out, and operating around the city, wanting to find the creature that had ended the boy’s life.

Jack’s voice had been friendly, as though he were informing Peter of your relationship status. Neither of them knew each other, so he found no harm in letting the public know of your intimate bond.

The nephilim was most often than not a free speaker, he found no foul in letting his mouth run. He was so innocent, so pure, and perfect, you were pleased that you hadn’t tainted him nor gained his spite like you had with Peter.

“Jack, this is Peter. I met him last time I was around here. Peter, this is Jack, my boyfriend.” It was an awkward introduction, you held your hands together, watching as Jack held out his hand for your ex to shake.

Peter hesitantly shook Jack’s hand, lightly glaring at the boy. “It’s nice to meet a friend of y/n’s, not many that she has are her age.”

“Thanks for that Jack.” You laughed lightly, holding sweetly onto his arm, as to ensure him that he had done nothing wrong.

“We’re not friends.” Peter corrected him, squinting at you. “She doesn’t like the idea of any relationship with me, so she can pass on friendship.” He gave you one last look, before he walked away.

“Hi.” Jack saw your ‘friend’ in the hall, whilst you were questioning some other students. Peter reluctantly turned, going face to face with your boyfriend and partner in justifying crime.

“Hey.” His head briefly leant back, curious as to why the new boy was speaking to him. “Jack, right?”

“Yes, that is my name.” Jack nodded with a smile, the adorable gap in his teeth presenting itself clearly. “Have you felt any cold spots here recently, or smelt sulphur by any change?”

His question made Peter frown, he gulped and thought before he decided to answer. “I don’t know why your going around asking questions, but I also do not know why you’re dating y/n. She’ll break your heart, it’s what she does.”

“The two of you don’t sound like very good friends.” He speculated, tilting his head like a puppy dog, his bright eyes filled with curiosity.

“We weren’t just friends Jack, I’m surprised she didn’t tell you about me. Maybe there was a reason for that, you should ask her.” Peter crossed his arms, taking note of how he seemed to have angered the other boy.

The son of Lucifer was inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils, he was attempting to remain calm. But he couldn’t, his eyes seared with their golden pigment, and upon witnessing, Peter’s eyes widened and he was fast to sling webbing towards the mutant.

But it had no affect, not as Jack’s mouth opened, and a scream on another wavelength , which happened to throw the spider man backwards into the row of lockers. This was not normal, and Peter worried for the reason that you had the company of such a creature.

“What the hell are you?” Peter asked, wanting an answer so he could figure out a way to defeat him.

“I’m someone that loves y/n very much. Don’t worry, we won’t be in town much longer.” And with that, the strange and peculiar being walked away, leaving Peter stunned. For once, he wasn’t sure how he would improvise.

“You know the boy’s toilets are for guys, right?” Peter asked later in the day, as he watched you, whom was drenched in water, leave said restroom.

“I am more than aware, thankyou for that reminder Peter.” Each footstep dripped water upon the floor. That ghost had been a bitch to send off, but to your relief, you had done so.

“What are you doing here, really?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m going to be leaving tonight, I’ll be all out of your hair.” You spoke, trying to remain calm with your previous partner. “Have you seen Jack?”

“About that...” he noticed how you furrowed your brow with his words, and realised it would be better to get straight to the point. “He’s not normal, there’s something different about him. He’s dangerous.”

“I guess you witnessed something... supernatural?” He slowly nodded his head, thinking about how it could be considered as such. “Jack, he’s a nephilim, half angel, half human. That’s why I can’t stick around, my life is messy, and I have a duty to save people, you understand that, right?”

“Why would I understand that?” He hesitated, his voice stepping over his words in a worried stutter. “Angels?!” He repeated.

“Yeah, not every takes lightly to the news, and a bit of information; the majority are dicks.” You laughed, shoving your hands in your soggy pockets. “You really think I didn’t have a clue that I was dating a spiderman? I investigate abnormal occurrences for a living, it was quite easy to notice something was different about you.”

“So you look into things like cold spots and sulphur smells?” He remembered that was what Jack had mentioned earlier. Perhaps the possibility of angels wasn’t half crazy, the universe was expanding. It was certainly out there, but so was a talking, moving tree that enjoyed digital games and was experiencing puberty.

“Exactly.” You smiled, looking into his deep brown eyes, and finding some kind of peace between the pair of you.

“I think I saw Jack in the library.” He scratched the back of his neck, deciding to be a bigger person and give into the planet’s order.

“Thanks, see ya around Parker.” That expression you gave him shouldn’t have made him feel so giddy, he knew that this was another goodbye you were sending him. But the relief on your faces was beautiful.

You walked momentarily backwards, and he raised his hand in a signalled send off. He hoped that one day, he would see you again, maybe even with Blade as he killed vampires. Who knew?

One thing he was aware of was that you were happy with Jack, and that the two of you shared a life. You had an even amount of knowledge between you, and as much as Peter hated to admit it, you weren’t bound to leave the nephilim any time soon.

[bippityboppitybibuck]

@valleydean As of the start of writing this it's nearly 3:30 in the morning, I am almost exactly 13 hours away from the minute I was born on this day 23 years ago and I am awake thinking about Dean fucking Winchester so here you go. As a weird birthday gift from me to you on my birthday, I present mild angst but also of course fluff. By the time you get this my birth minute will have passed and I will be 23 ((oh my god just like Dean and Cas AGS.)) As with all of my ags posting this contains spoilers for the story, you’ve been warned!!

Dean’s 27th birthday snuck up on him. Well, as much as a date that comes around every year without fail can sneak up on a person who also has a solid five people clamouring to remind him. Somehow even Jack memorized the date after he heard Cas talk about it one time years ago and now the kid won’t stop bringing it up, which yeah is cute as hell but also Dean’s never been one to make a big deal of his birthdays before.

But 27 fucks him up. And hard.

He’s officially lived longer than Dean Wesson did, which sure, he technically did when he made it to the end of December, but the milestone feels bigger now that he’s 27. He’s 27. Dean’s never been 27 before because Dean Wesson never made it to 27.

It shouldn't mean anything, Dean Wesson is as much him as he is, even more so now that there’s no door keeping the memories from the light of day, but as he'd watched the clock flick from 11:59 to 12:00 with Cas beside him ready to give him his first of 27 birthday kisses something within him had felt morosely finalized.

A chapter closed, one that he’ll never be able to reopen the same way he did the first time around. Dean Wesson’s story is over. Dean Wesson’s story is his, but a part of it, the largest, hell only, part of that story came to a close when those red numbers switched over.

He doesn't know what to feel. He doesn’t know how to feel the loss, he died so young, he died with so much life still to live, he died and left Sam to live his decades out alone. He was young.

It never registered, even back then, how young he was, and he’s sure that with every birthday he has going forward that feeling is only going to get worse.

He and Charlie spent the Halloween of their 21st year watching the clock in a similar way. Waiting for the moment they lived longer than the Potter’s did - Charlie's idea that Dean went along with without putting up a fight - and it felt like this did. A shock to the system, a race won that you hadn’t known you were running. The realization that they were barely adults and now you are there living past what they ever got to.

Except, this time, it’s him he outlived. He outlived himself. It’s different for Cas, or at least Dean thinks it is, because there was never that separation, that differentiation within Cas of his two lives because there was no distinct difference when it came to his knowledge and understanding of his old life - and therefore no disconnect from himself in that way. Cas’ disconnect came in another way but Cas has already outlived himself sorta… it’s hard for Dean to tell when technically Cas has only really been alive for a short time but still was resurrected at the age he died at. Either way, Cas never made a fuss about being older than his past self.

The clock reads 12:02 now, Cas is sitting behind him, arms wrapped around his middle and Dean can’t think of what to say. 27 isn't a big birthday milestone, there's no grand party waiting for him with cards that list his age or balloons or any of the hooplas that 30 or 50 gets but this birthday feels more momentous than any he’s had or will ever have. He just doesn’t know how to deal with that yet, so he just goes and grabs it all right by the horns.

“I’m older than he was,” he says into the stillness of the dark room.

“Who? - oh, yes I suppose you are,” Cas responds, dropping his chin against Dean’s shoulder and resting it there.

“You never loved me at 27 before, is it any different?” There's a fear there he can’t name, something brought forth from etches in his bones that whisper that Cas may never love him like he did Dean Wesson, shared memories be damned, years spent together be damned.

“Mhmm, no it’s not, I love you all the same. Maybe even a little more now. A little more love with every year we get together that we never got before. Also, I’m loving you right now, that counts as loving you at 27 doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess it does.” He drops his head back against Cas’ shoulder, their cheeks brushing gently together with the ebb and flow of their breathing.

“Do you feel any different?” Cas asks lightly, tentatively, as though he knows Dean is struggling with this new reality.

“Outrageously so. But I couldn’t begin to tell you why. There's just this thought that he’s not there anymore, he doesn’t have any side-by-side memories now. I don’t have any memories anymore… I sorta got used to them always being there, following me through the things I experienced in real time. But now I’m going to do things and I won’t be able to think back to what I did before. He’s not felt so separate since before Dorthey and the manor and I don’t really know what to make of it.”

“You know you can mourn him Dean. That is allowed. You can mourn that loss of yourself. Grieve for the future you didn’t get before.”

“But why should I? I mean I’m here now, with you, Sam, Mom, Charlie, Kelly and Jack too even if they are thousands of miles away. I’m getting to live, I’m getting my future and Dean Wesson is getting it too because he’s me, I’m him. I just - he feels disjointed within me now and I want the peace back but I don’t know how I’ll ever manage to get it when from here on out Dean Wesson stops being there alongside Dean Winchester. I’m moving away from him and like everything that dies, he’s stuck perpetually at 26. He’s stuck and I have to leave him behind.”

Something thick coats his throat with the words, a darkness that seeps in and threatens to choke him if he’s not careful. Grief is such a finicky thing.

“You don’t have to Dean, same as you don’t have to leave your middle school self behind or your pre my resurrection self behind. It’s all you in there still. You get to pick what you carry with you for the rest of your life. If you don’t want to leave that part of yourself in your past, then don’t and keep it with you.”

Dean’s quiet for a while, thinking about a lot of shit, including how the hell Cas managed to get so good at this shit, because that little speech would put Dr. Phil to shame in an instant. But then of course Cas would probably have had to do the very thing he’s telling Dean now.

“Do you remember how we spent my first 25th birthday?” Dean asks.

“Hmm, I do, and I gotta say the frozen ass I got from the fence was completely worth it.”

Dean huffs a laugh into the darkness, picking his head up from Cas’ shoulder as he asks, “Do you think that for the first birthday he won’t have we could do that again? Fly back to Amherst, maybe see Kelly and Jack too?”

“Absolutely, but no smoking this time, even if I did get a rise out of you back then.”

“You bastard, I knew that was intentional!”

“You caught me,” Cas says, the phrase all but dripping in sarcasm. “Jack will be thrilled to see us again, Kelly too.”

He smiles picturing it. Cas playing with Jack, running around the backyard of the duplex Kelly bought only a year ago, smiles wide, Jack’s blonde hair sticking haphazardly out of his puffball touque, Cas’ hair tucked into a hat he’ll surely steal from Dean. Their joyful shouts echoing around them all. So like they used to all those years ago when Jack was barely five, and now he’s almost double digits and Dean can’t remember the years flying by until he looked back and they were already so securely in the rearview.

“I’m old now,” Dean says a little while later.

“If it makes you feel any better, regardless of what that fake ID you made says, my birth year is technically 1845 so… I’ve got you beat in the old age department.”

“Oh Cas, you don’t look a day over a hundred and twenty, you’re fine,” Dean jokes, Cas’ light mood rubbing off on him.

Dean gets a pinch to the ribs in retaliation and awards Cas an indignant squawk and a begrudgingly given laugh before he settles back against him, his eyes slipping closed though he wants not for sleep.

“What should we do now, I’m not particularly tired, and I feel certain in assuming that you aren’t either,” Cas murmurs lowly, breath dusting the shell of his ear soothingly.

“I dunno, maybe we should just keep sitting here,” Dean says, a memory playing behind his closed eyelids. In the heat of the room, frozen air bites at his skin just as it did back then.

Cas answers this time around, but instead of using words he pulls Dean in for a kiss - the second of his 27 birthday kisses - and within that press of lips Dean knows he remembers too.

Their skin pressed firmly together, neither move, their eyes kept forward, staring through the window at the still portrait of the winter stars.

[selenitawars]

Pressentimento

Never Be The Same - Part 7.

Pairing: Sam x Daughter!Reader, Dean x Niece!Reader, Castiel x Platonic!Reader.

Summary: To save Dean’s life, Sam changes a big part of his past, hoping that he’d only forget memories with his college girlfriend. But, not only he changes his life, he also creates a new one.

Word Count: 2332.

Warnings: None.

A/N: Yes, I’m back after over a year and a half. I know I’m a dumbass for making y’all wait for so long, but, honestly, I want this to be a fun writing, so I try not to pressure myself. Won’t make promises. Either way, always love to know your opinions. Hope  you enjoy this comeback haha!

Pressentimento masculine noun 1. act of feeling in advance, more through emotion than reason, the occurrence of a future fact; suspicion. "I have a p. that this will not work" 2. knowledge of what will happen, obtained by intuition; forecast, hunch, omen.

You still hadn't explained everything to your father nor your uncle. Cas remembered one of the episodes that occurred with you when you were younger, around ten or so. It was hard for you. Every time you tried to explain yourself, things were hard to explain. All the time, something blocked you from exposing the fear inside you, the fear of letting things out.

The way their "new" memories came to them didn't help. It was so unpredictable. Cas remembered you praying first and then, mixed memories, tiny ones, which made him assume a lot about you already; and worry as well. Dean remembered more, like the time Sam was soulless and you lived with him for months, you concluded he was remembering things by the impact they had in his life. As for Sam, well, apparently things were coming more chronologically for him, but a little late, since he also had a lot of Camila to remember.

You tried to think how to talk to them about your crisis. The big ones. It was so complicated. When it started happening, you had your godmother to help with calming down and understanding how sensible you were; but even Vanessa had to talk with the Winchesters to fully understand what made you so much stronger and sensitive. Anyway, she wouldn't help you now that she was in the list of people to whom you never existed.

Oh, and your mother...

Looking at pictures of her nowadays became an addiction. You couldn't sleep before searching a little more about her, not that you've been having much sleep or any of this helped. You wish so bad you could talk to her. And now that Sam told ya you reminded him so much of Camila, you really studied her, trying to find the resemblance.

How would you tell them there's more? More of you to worry. You wanted to wait for a time when the memories hangovers weren't so heavy on them. They were all trying to act normal, but it was obvious - you've never been at home for this long, they were never so quiet. Dean wasn't even drinking, to make sure he wouldn't be more confused.

You were lying down on your bed, trying to ease the headache. It was normal to have a day just to be tired, but after the all day just resting you still got a headache by night. Went to get a pill to make it better and when you swallow it, you realize something.

"I don't exist." You whisper to yourself.

For the first time in that day, you felt useful. Even with the headache, you got in front of the computer and started to do your thing. For some reason you got happy when you confirmed your theory.

"I was never born."

"You gotta stop thinking about that." Dean warned you.

"No, I mean... I don't exist."

The three men stared at you with confusion, you repeated.

"I don't exist."

Still nothing. The room was filled with silence while you hoped for the clicking in their minds. It never came. You sighed.

"I never existed! Never did anything!"

Sam looked at you like he was starting to worry, while holding a bowl with cereal. Just like Dean, who chewed his, probably thinking you've gone crazy.

"I don't understand why you're so excited saying it." Cas finally said.

"Isn't it obvious?" They once more, didn't react. "There are no records of me, at all. Nobody knows about me. I only left the bunker once."

"What's your point?" Dean asked.

"We should keep it that way."

"What? Why?" The brothers said together.

"Well, if nobody knows I'm here, we're in advantage. It's always good to have a secret backup, right?"

"Like... as a surprise element?" Castiel suggested, you nodded. "Y/N, you don't truly expect us to treat you like a secret weapon..."

"Hell no." Dean agreed.

"It's not like it."

"Well, I don't see your point." You father stated. "I know this seems messed up, but, we can fix it. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, I'm thinking!" You made them quiet. "C'mon, think with me: I barely left the bunker, how could anyone know about me?"

"We know about you." Dean answered.

"But you've seen me. And your memories, are just yours, this doesn't mean the world knows about me."

"Ok, but you'll need to use an ID sometime. Or will you live forever here, inside the bunker?"

"Dean, you should know it's easier to make a fake ID look real if there isn't a real one to prove the fake one as fake."

Sam took a deep breath.

"Ok, so we leave it as it is. How much long do you think it would last?"

"Not much, I know. But at least, for a while it could be useful."

"I don't see how, Y/N. I'm not using you as my secret-spy-soldier or whatever."

"Sam is right. It's not worth it."

"Castiel?" You looked at him, only to find the agreeing look. You looked down.

"Look, how can you be sure nobody else remembers you?" The angel tried to clear your mind.

"For most people I know, I never happened. And the others, will probably only remember me when they see me, if they do. Until then..."

"That's not right." Sam interrupted. "I had this feeling about you, before we arrived on that day; like I left something behind, but I couldn't remember why."

"So did I."

"I got one your prayers for not getting news from us." You stood there, silent.

"That's it? A feeling you forgot something?!" You left for your bedroom, a little ofended they didn't listen to you. Your idea was good, logical. You genuinely thought they would see it as a good thing out of all this.

Reflecting on it, you finally notice: you may not know your family as well as before. At first it sounds crazy, but this is all crazy, ain't it? And after doing their exercise for a couple hours, thinking about your childhood, the events that crossed it and when it all began, you got yourself some questions.

You fell asleep while still thinking, trying to find logic somewhere and always getting to the same point, a lost point. Somehow while sleeping, you had no dreams, didn't wake up once; not even the fact that you were with a jacket bothered you.

"Hey, man. You good?" Dean noticed Sam squeeze his eyes.

"Yep. Just those flashbacks. I hate to have them by day, but I can't sleep no longer."

"Like a constant hangover, thank God it's not a heavy one." Sam did not answer. "Sam?"

"Right..." Sam stared at the floor, seeing stuff in his mind. He blinked multiple times after a little.

"You all right? You seem shocked. What did you remember?"

"It's just... Y/N's suggestion."

"Dude, that was today."

"Very funny!" Dean smiled a little to ease his brother. "It got me thinking. Why would she want that?"

"Honestly," Castiel entered suddenly. "I think she is trying to get something good out of this."

"Good? I see her point, but..."

"Not good." Cas interrupted, correcting himself. "Useful, at least."

"It's not as useful as she thinks." Dean says as if it's obvious.

"It's the only thing she has to offer." Castiel putted it in a weird way, but made sense. They silented for an instant. "Still, how does that has to do with your flashback, Sam?"

"I thought that maybe I should listen to her. Maybe there was a point."

"You, Sammy, considered the possibility of being saved by her?"

"Obviously not. I wondered: what if her non-existence helped her get away from this craziness. Like, she could get to any school if we put some effort."

"You concluded it fast." Cas commented.

"Well, yeah. Then I... questioned." Sam felt the gazes at him. "How did she get dragged into hunting in the first place? Why did I not stop it? And one more thing popped up: why did I leave college?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Dean couldn't understand his brother.

"Dean, if it wasn't for my anger towards Jessica's death, who knows..." He explained. "So why I left Stanford, making Camila stay behind and after weeks drop out too?"

Castiel took a seat.

"Why did you?"

Sam opened the door, showly. You were in your bed, far from his atmosphere, enjoying a rest you needed. He passed the door carefully, took a look at your room and turned the lights off. Ever since that hunt days ago, when he saw you sleep at the motel bed while he was reading about the case, the day he woke up before you and as you slept in the car coming back home, Sam felt peace as he watched you.

It was the moment he could breath easily and a little relaxed. You were resting, next to him, nothing could hurt you in your sleep. There, you were safe and wasn't leaving soon. So he couldn't help watch you once more; just stood by the door for a couple seconds, smiled at the taught of you having a break from this madness for some hours. Grabbed the door and heard your move, turning to check if he had woken ya.

"Sorry."

"Don't be." Your voice sounded lazy. "I have a light sleep."

"So do I." You nodded. You knew it. He regrets commenting it.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

"No, tell me." He understood you couldn't sleep anymore.

"You don't want to talk now."

"It's about earlier, I know." You said while rubbing your eyes. "Just spit it." He gave in and sat in your chair.

"Why do you wanna do it?"

"Why don't you?"

"Why would I?"

"You've always wanted this." He gulped.

"What? No!"

"You never wanted me to be in risk, you hated the fact I made you all vulnerable, now nobody knows I'm here. I know this isn't permanent and things can change, but for now, you could finally be at peace. Nobody knows me, none of you have to worry."

Samuel digested everything you said and got his answer prepared fastly enough.

"For a long time I asked myself if Jessica never died, would I be here? And you know, as things turned out to be, as I found out more and more throughout the years I got the answer." He paused. "I would. Because if it wasn't Jess, it would be Dean or dad, or a friend."

"What do you mean?"

"I left college for revenge." You got surprised. "It wasn't Jess. Not anymore." That sounded weird. "I made a choice and I know now that somehow, at some point, no matter how many times... I would make that choice again. As soon as somebody I care about got in danger. So I left college. For you."

Sam got back from his first hunt after two years. Camila was waiting. They talked and she was serious when she told him to call Dean. Leave as soon as he could. She said she had a bad feeling, he had to find his father. Was something repentine, fast and clear - the fear in her voice stopped Sam from questioning.

"The way she talked to me... her eyes, getting sudden tears. At first I tried to calm her, jokes on me, I blamed her hormones. Camila proved me wrong. I knew she had that sometimes, like with tests or bad decisions, maybe something simple like knowing staying in was better than going to a party. She was always right. If not totally right, fast enough to avoid regret." He looked down as her voice came to his head and repeated her words. "'This is your family we're talking about, Samuel! Your child's grandfather.' She screamed. I was scared." You two laughed a little. "She begged. Aggressively. But, I didn't leave because she did."

"Why then?"

"I called Dean to get back there and pick me up because once we talked, I got that bad feeling too. And was suddenly afraid. Afraid something would happen to either of you." You stayed silent. "I hoped things would be more simple, soon I'd be back and things would go back to normal. You would be born and grow up, normal. We would be a family..."

"Please, don't say normal." He smiled.

"Your mother's bad feeling... I don't know what is was about exactly. She got scared too in that moment and it was the only time I saw her that scared. But I know that mine became true. Only, it was even worse. There was no blame. Of all things that happened in those months, how worried I was with my father, you, Camila and even Dean... The hunts, the confusion and overwhelming information all at once. The fear. Your mother's death was the most sudden and painful." You saw a tear run down his cheek, followed by a couple more. Sam had more to say but you spoke before, in the heat of the moment.

"She knew." He looked back at you, now with red eyes. "I think she knew something bad was going to happen."

"She knew we would be in danger." By we, he meant himself, his uncle and your grandpa.

"No. Not that. She knew that something terrible was happening already and would get worse. But she didn't tell you to go to stop it." His tears froze, lost in your words. "Like you said. Camila was always right about this bad feelings. She was certain." You were sure thanks to your own experience with it.

"About Dean needing me more than her?" You denied.

"About you needing the rest of your family once I was born."

[talesmaniac89]

The Classifieds

Pairing: Past Dean x Reader 

Summary: What lengths will Dean Winchester go to when he runs out of options to save the people he cares about? Is he willing to let go of a part of himself to save his family?

Triggers: Hurt, Coma, possible loss/death, open ending, no resolution, angst, No happy endings here guys. This is just angst for the sake of angst.

For sale: 1967 Chevrolet Impala

Lovingly restored black ‘67 Impala needs a new home. This 327 four-barrel beauty comes with a newly installed 502 Big Block 550 Horsepower Engine to give you that extra bit of push. Though it has a mileage of over 600,000 miles travelled, this beauty runs like new after several full fixups, constant servicing and a lot of TLC. Registration is up to date as of January this year. 

With its souped-up engine, new paint job and fresh set of tires, this baby looks like it just rolled off of the assembly line. Both the exterior and interior of the car have received a near perfect restoration with a few small exceptions; there’s a green army man toy stuck in the ashtray, a few Lego pieces are rattling in the vent when you turn on the heat, and there’s a small carving in the rear window sill. These are all minor interior flaws that can easily be fixed by the buyer.

I’ll share details like the VIN, classic car ID and answer any other questions directly to any prospective buyers.

She’s been with us since ‘73, and never let us down. Baby’s part of our family, and we’re sad to let her go, but I’m hoping the new owner will love her as much as I have.

Price: Best offer

---

Taking a shaky breath, Dean held back the tears that burned in his eyes, blurring his vision as he read through the classified ad one last time before motioning to hit send. His finger shook over the enter key as he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to do this, but he had no choice.

Baby meant a lot to him, of course she did. But she was only a car, and if he didn’t let her go, then he could end up losing so much more. Selling the Impala was his only choice.

He needed money. A lot of money. For (Y/N) and Sammy. Their last hunt in Chicago had landed them both in separate hospital beds after prolonged contact with a djinn, and they weren’t waking up. Even after Dean killed the fucking monster that had them trapped, they both remained unresponsive, and they were fading fast. Only kept alive by modern science and a team of hardworking doctors and nurses.

Still, Dean was in the business of saving people. And if ganking another monster of the week wasn’t gonna cut it, then he’d do whatever else he needed to do to fix this. He wouldn’t let his little brother, or the woman he loved more than life itself, die in that hospital. He couldn’t lose them, either of them.

But, their stay and continued treatment required money. More money than he had. More money than he could ever hope to get from his measly collection of fake credit cards, poker games and hustling some poor fool at the local dive bar.

Which was why he was balancing Sammy’s computer on his lap as he sat, defeated, on one of the uncomfortably hard waiting room chairs. One finger hovering over the enter button as he tried to breathe through the growing lump in his throat and the helpless panic lodged in his chest. Either way, he’d lose something. But this way he’d save his family; the only goddamn good thing left in his life.

Swallowing down the bitter defeat, he let his finger press into the enter key with a little more force than necessary. Sending his ad in to the classifieds with nothing more than a dry, low sob goodbye.

Dean would scrounge up every damned cent needed to keep his family alive. Even if it meant selling the only home the Winchester brothers had ever really had.

Because the Impala was their only real home, more so than the bunker could ever hope to be. Yet, what was a home without people to live in it? If he lost his family, then the bunker, the Impala, or any other place he tried to run away to would just be a coffin. Somewhere to lie broken, bruised and defeated as he waited for the world to catch up and realise his heart stopped beating the day that fucking djinn landed Sam and (Y/N) in that hospital bed.

“Goodbye Baby… I’m sorry,”

---

“…Winchester?”

Someone was calling his name, but Dean was too far gone to listen. His red rimmed eyes stayed laser focused on the online listing. Dry and burning after minutes spent staring unblinkingly at the picture of his Baby that topped the ad. The picture was just one of many, the first he could find without Sam or her in it, but it still meant so much to him.

In it he could see every single moment he’d spent behind the wheel of that car.

He could see nights spent by (Y/N)’s side, stargazing on Baby’s hood. His hand painting patterns on her bare arm as they just… Existed together, not talking or hunting, just living. Her head resting on his shoulder as he whispered promises of forever into her (Y/H/C) hair.

He relived every time she’d helped him fix his Baby back up, handing him his tools with that tempting sheen of moisture trapped against her neck and collarbone from the heat of the Kansas sun. Endless drives, with Sam calling shotgun; using his longer legs to his advantage and leaving the fiercest huntress Dean knew in the dust while she grumbled about deserving a front seat view for once.

He could feel the steady and safe vibration of the steering wheel under his fingers and heard her singing along to his mixtapes. Her head leaned back and (Y/H/C) hair moving slightly in the small breeze from the open window. (Y/E/C) eyes hidden behind closed eyelids and a small lazy smile, just barely visible through the rear-view mirror.

That one picture, topping the classifieds ad, held it all; every moment on the road so far. And there’d been many. More than he could ever hope to count.

From the desperate rushed rescue missions and races against the clock, to the lazier road trips after a fight well fought. The easy drives would always be his favourite moments. Just sunshine, warming the air around him as he drove his family back to the bunker. Safe in the knowledge that he’d kept them all out of harm’s way once more.

He’d spent so many long days on the road, he could picture it all perfectly. Even in the pixelated picture of an empty car. (Y/N) would be lounging in the backseat, humming along to his music. Stretched across the leather seats as Sam tried to talk both Dean and her into agreeing to change the classic rock music blaring through the speakers with a podcast or audio book. Giving his all to another convincing argument, fit for the former Stanford student, and still failing miserably every time.

“Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole,”

Dean flinched slightly at the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. Even the cracked, whispered version that left him. Yet, as soon as the words were out, he could nearly hear the echo of Sammy’s quipped “Jerk” in response to the golden rule. Barely catching the ghost of it with a trembling, empty smile before it was crushed under the louder sound of cold professionalism above him.

“Mr. Winchester?” The doctor repeated, sounding slightly annoyed at his lack of response and waving the papers in front of her as she waited for him to take them from her. The admission forms.

There were two of them. One for each of the two people he loved more than life itself. Lying in separate hospital rooms, only kept alive by machines and wires. Alive, but not really living, for as long as he had money to keep funding those fragile lifelines.

“Please fill in the fields for their insurance and the payment plan section. If there’s any issues…” The doctor said, voice free of judgement or blame as he lifted tear stained eyes to catch hers.

“No… You’ll have your money. Just… Save ‘em doc. They’re all I have,”

Dean didn’t have time to sit around feeling sorry for himself. He needed to get the money. He’d do anything to save his family. Hell, he’d have already sold his soul three times over if he had anything left to actually bargain with. And his baby, the Impala that had been their home, would never be the same again without Sam’s constant attempts to change his music or (Y/N) signing along from the backseat or making his baby brother roll his eyes at her bad jokes.

Though he’d yet to get an offer on the ad. And he needed money fast.

Cas had tried, but his weakened grace couldn’t help them, and there were no other last-minute interventions there to save the day. After all, saving the day was what the Winchesters did, and Dean was two soldiers short of a full team. 

No, he couldn’t sit around hoping someone would come rescue them and he couldn’t shoot or punch his way through this problem. All he could do was cling to his phone and hope someone offered to buy a piece of him. One he thought he’d never part with. Hell, at some point he’d even dreamed about handing the keys over to his own child one day, one with green eyes and (Y/H/C) hair, to let the Impala live on when he retired somewhere calm and quiet with (Y/N).

A dream he now realised was foolish to even hope for.

Keeping his eyes on the picture of his Baby on the laptop screen, Dean’s hand tightened around the papers. His voice shook as he prayed out loud, just as much to the classic car on the screen as to the doctor in front of him. 

“Please save my family,”

Tags:

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Forever Tags: @deanwanddamons​​ @winchest09​​ @hobby27​​  @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​​ @sea040561​​ @donnaintx​​ @alwaysdreamingforthebest​​  @thatmotleygirl​​ @chocolateheart​​ @superfanficnatural​​ @flamencodiva​​ @starryeyeseunbyul​​ @waywardbeanie​​ @supernaturalenchanted​​ @ellewritesfix05​​ @emoryhemsworth​​

[livingdeadinsideyourhead]

Free Music in a Capitalist Society - Iggy Pop's Keynote Speech Transcript

Hi, I'm Iggy Pop. I've held a steady job at BBC 6 Music now for almost a year, which is a long time in my game. I always hated radio and the jerks who pushed that shit music into my tender mind, with rare exceptions. When I was a boy, I used to sit for hours suffering through the entire US radio top 40 waiting for that one song by The Beatles and the other one by The Kinks. Had there been anything like John Peel available in my Midwestern town I would have been thrilled. So it's an honor to be here. I understand that. I appreciate it.

Some months ago when the idea of this talk came up I thought it might be okay to talk about free music in a Capitalist society. So that's what I'm gonna try to talk about. A society in which the Capitalist system dominates all the others, and seeks their destruction when they get in its way. Since then, the shit has really hit the fan on the subject, thanks to U2 and Apple. I worked half of my life for free. I didn't really think about that one way or the other, until the masters of the record industry kept complaining that I wasn't making them any money. To tell you the truth, when it comes to art, money is an unimportant detail. It just happens to be a huge one unimportant detail. But, a good LP is a being, it's not a product. It has a life-force, a personality, and a history, just like you and me. It can be your friend. Try explaining that to a weasel.

As I learned when I hit 30 +, and realized I was penniless, and almost unable to get my music released, music had become an industrial art and it was the people who excelled at the industry who got to make the art. I had to sell most of my future rights to keep making records to keep going. And now, thanks to digital advances, we have a very large industry, which is laughably maybe almost entirely pirate so nobody can collect shit. Well, it was to be expected. Everybody made a lot of money reselling all of recorded musical history in CD form back in the 90s, but now the cat is out of the bag and the new electronic devices which estrange people from their morals also make it easier to steal music than to pay for it. So there's gonna be a correction.

When I started The Stooges we were organized as a group of Utopian communists. All the money was held communally and we lived together while we shared the pursuit of a radical ideal. We shared all song writing, publishing and royalty credits equally – didn’t matter who wrote it - because we'd seen it on the back of a Doors album and thought it was cool, at least I did. Yeah. I thought songwriting was about the glory, I didn't know you'd get paid for it. We practiced a total immersion to try to forge a new approach which would be something of our own. Something of lasting value. Something that was going to be revealed and created and was not yet known.

We are now in the age of the schemer and the plan is always big, big, big, but it's the nature of the technology created in the service of the various schemes that the pond, while wide, is very shallow. Nobody cares about anything too deeply expect money. Running out of it, getting it. I never sincerely wanted to be rich. There is a, in the US, we have this guy “Do you sincerely wanna be rich? You can do it!” I didn’t sincerely want to be rich. I never sincerely felt like making anyone else that way. That made me a kind of a wild card in the 60's and 70's. I got into the game because it felt good to play and it felt like being free. I'm still hearing today about how my early works with The Stooges were flops. But they're still in print and they sell 45 years later, they sell. Okay, it took 20 or 25 years for the first royalties to roll in. So sue me.

Some of us who couldn't get anywhere for years kept beating our heads against the same wall to no avail. No one did that better than my friends The Ramones. They kept putting out album after album, frustrated that they weren't getting the hit. They even tried Phil Spector and his handgun. After the first couple of records, which made a big impact, they couldn't sustain the quality, but I noticed that every album had at least one great song and I thought, wow if these guys would just stop and give it a rest, society would for sure catch up to them. And that's what's happening now, but they're not around to enjoy it. I used to run into Johnny at a little rehearsal joint in New York and he'd be in a big room all alone with a Marshall stack just going "dum, dum, dum, dum, dum" all my himself. I asked him why and he said if he didn't practice doing that exactly the way he did it live he'd lose it. He was devoted and obsessive, so were Joey and Deedee. I like that. Johnny asked me one day - Iggy don't you hate Offspring and the way they're so popular with that crap they play. That should be us, they stole it from us. I told him look, some guys are born and raised to be the captain of the football team and some guys are just gonna be James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause and that's the way it is. Not everybody is meant to be big. Not everybody big is any good.

I only ever wanted the money because it was symbolic of love and the best thing I ever did was to make a lifetime commitment to continue playing music no matter what, which is what I resolved to do at the age of 18. If who you are is who you are that is really hard to steal, and it can lead you in all sorts of useful directions when the road ahead of you is blocked and it will get blocked. Now I'm older and I need all the dough I can get. So I too am concerned about losing those lovely royalties, now that they've finally arrived, in the maze of the Internet. But I'm also diversifying my income, because a stream will dry up. I'm not here to complain about that, I'm here to survive it.

When I was starting out as a full time musician I was walking down the street one bright afternoon in the seedier part of my Midwestern college town. I passed a dive bar and from it emerged a portly balding pallid middle aged musician in a white tux with a drink in one hand and a guitar in the other. He was blinking in the daylight. I had a strong intuition that this was a fate to be avoided. He seemed cut off from society and resigned to an oblivious obscurity. A bar fly. An accessory to booze. So how do you engage society as an artist and get them to pay you? Well, that's a matter of art. And endurance.

To start with, I cannot stress enough the importance of study. I was lucky to work in a discount record store in Ann Arbor Michigan as a stock boy where I was exposed to a little bit of every form of music imaginable on record at the time. I listened to it all whether I liked it or not. Be curious. And I played in my high school orchestra and I learned the joy of the warm organic instruments working together in the service of a classical piece. That sticks with you forever. If anyone out there can get a chance to put an instrument and some knowledge in some kids hand, you've done a great, great thing.

Comparative information is a key to freedom. I found other people who were smarter than me. To teach me. My first pro band was a blues band called The Prime Movers and the leader Michael Erlewine was a very bright hippy beatnik with a beautifully organized record collection in library form of The Blues. I'd never really heard the Blues. That part of our American heritage was kept off the major media. It was system up, people down. No Big Bill Broonzy on BBC for us. Boy I wish! No money in it. But everything I learned from Michael's beautiful library became the building blocks for anything good I've done since. Guys like this are priceless. If you find one, follow him, or her. Get the knowledge.

Once in secondary school in the 60's some class clowns dressed up the tallest guy in school in a trench coat, shades and a fedora and rushed him in to a school dance with great hubbub proclaiming "Del Shannon is here, Del Shannon is here." And until they got to the stage we all believed them, because nobody knew what Del Shannon looked like. He was just a voice on some great records. He had no social ID. By the early 60's that had really changed with the invasion of The Beatles and The Stones. This time TV was added to the mix and print media too. So you knew who they were, or so you thought anyway. I'm mentioning this because the best way to survive the death or change of an industry is to transcend its form. You're better off with an identity of your own or maybe a few of them. Something special.

It is my own personal view having lived through it that in America The Beatles replaced our assassinated president Kennedy, who represented our hopes for a certain kind of society. Didn’t get there. And The Stones replaced our assassinated folk music which our own leaders suppressed for cultural, racial, and financial reasons. It wasn't okay with everybody to be Kennedy or Muddy Waters, but those messages could be accepted if they came through white entertainers from the parent culture. That's why they’re still around.

Years later I had the impression that Apple, the corporation, had successfully co-opted the good feelings that the average American felt about the culture of the Beatles, by kind of stealing the name of their company so I bought a little stock. Good move. 1992. Woo! But look, everybody is subject to the rip off and has to change affiliations from time to time. Even Superman and Barbie were German before America tempted them to come over. Tough luck, Nietzche.

So who owns what anyway. Or as Bob Dylan said "The relationships of ownership." That’s gates of Eden. Nobody knows for long, especially these days. Apparently when BBC radio was founded, the record companies in England wouldn't allow the BBC to play their master recordings because they thought no one would buy them for their personal use if they could hear them free on the radio. So they were really confused about what they had. They didn’t get it. And how people feel about music. ‘Cause it’s a feel thing, and it resists logic. It’s not binary code. Later when CD's came in, the retail merchants in American all panicked because they were just too damn tiny and they thought that Americans want something that looks big, like a vinyl record. Well they had a point but their solution was a kind of Frankenstein called "The Long Box." It didn't fool anybody because half of it was empty. It had a little CD in the bottom. You’d open it up and it was empty. Now we have people in the Sahara using GPS to bury huge wads of Euros under sand dunes for safe keeping. But GPS was created for military spying from the high ground, not radical banking so any sophisticated system, along with the bounty it brings, is subject to primitive hijacking.

I wanna talk about a type of entrepreneur who functions as a kind of popular music patron of the arts. It’s good to know a patron. I call him El Padron because his relationship to the artist is essentially feudal, though benign. He or she (La Padrona) if you will, is someone, usually the product of successful, enlightened parents, who owns a record company, but has had benefit of a very good education, and can see a bigger picture than a petty business person. If they like an artists’ style and it suits them, they'll support you even if you’re not a big money spinner. I can tell you, some of these powerful guys get so bored that if you are fun in the office, you’ll go places. Their ancestors, the old time record crooks just made it their business to make great, great records, but also to rip off the artist 100%, copyright, publishing, royalty splits, agency fees, you name it. If anyone complained the line was "Pay you? We worship you!" God bless Bo Diddley.

By the time I came along, there was a new brand of Padron. People like this are still around and some can help you. One was named Jack Holzman. Jack had a beautiful label called Elektra Records, they put out Judy Collins, Tim Buckley, the Doors and Love. He'd started working in his family record store, like Brian Epstein. He dressed mod and he treated us very gently. He was a civilized man. He obviously loved the arts, but what he really wanted to do was build his business - and he did. He had his own concerns, and style, and you had to serve them, and of course when he sold out, as all indies do, you were stranded culturally in the hands of a cold clumsy conglomerate. But he put us in the right studios with the right producers and he tried to get us seen in the right venues and it really helped. This is a good example of the industry.

Another good guy I met is Sir Richard Branson. I ended up serving my full term at Virgin Records having been removed from every other label. And he created a superior culture there. People were happier and nicer than the weasels at some other places. The first time he tried to sign me it didn't work out, because I had my sights set on A&M, a company I thought would help make me respectable. After all they had Sting! Richard was secretly starting his own company at the time in the US and he phoned me in my tiny flat with no furniture. He said he'd give me a longer term deal with more dough than the other guys and he was very, very polite and soft spoken. But I had just smoked a joint that day and I couldn't make a decision. So I went with the other guys who soon got sick of me. Virgin picked me up again later on the rebound. And on the cheap. Damn. My own fault.

Another kind of indie legend who is slightly more contemporary is Long Gone John of the label Sympathy for the Record Industry. Good name. John is famous with some artists for his disinterest in paying royalties. He has a very interesting music themed folk art collection – its visible online - which includes my leather jacket. I wish he'd give it back. There are lots of indie people with a gift for organization who just kind of collect freaks and throw them up at the wall to see who sticks. You gotta watch 'em.

When you go a step down creatively from the Padrons who are actually entrepreneurs you get to the executives. You don't wanna know these guys. They usually came over from legal or accounting. They have protégés usually called A&R men to do their dirty work. You can become a favorite with them if your fame or image might reflect limelight on their career. They tend to have no personalities to speak of, which is their strength. Strangely they're never really thinking about the good of their parent company as much as old number one. Avoid them. If you’re an artist, they’ll make you sick or suicidal. The only good thing the conglomerate can do for you – and they’ve done it recently for me - is make you really, really ubiquitous. They do that well. But, when the company is your banker, then you are basically gonna be the Beverly Hill Billies. So it's best not to take their money. Especially when you’re young. These are very tough people, and they can hurt you.

So who are the good guys?! They asked me when they read this thing at BBC 6 Music. Well there are lots of them. If fact, today there are more than ever and they are just about all indies, but first I want to mention Peter Gabriel and WOMAD for everything they've done for what seems like forever to help the greatest musicians in the world, the so called world musicians to gain a foothold and make a living in the modern screwed up cash and carry world. Traditional music was never a for profit enterprise, all the best forms were developed as a kind of you’re job in the community. It was pretty good, it was “Yeah, I’m a musician, I’m gonna skip like doing the dishes or taking the trash out.” It's not surprising that all the greatest singers and players come from parts of the world where everybody is broke and the old ways are getting paved over. So it's crucial for everyone that these treasures not be lost. There are other people of means and intelligence who help others in this way like Philip Glass through Tibet House, David Burn with Luaka Bop, Damon Albarn through Honest John Records. Shout out to Hypnotic Brass Ensemble. Almost all the best music is coming out on indies today like XL Matador, Burger, Anti, Epitaph, Mute, Rough Trade, 4 A D, Sub Pop, etc. etc.

But now YouTube is trying to put the squeeze on these people because it's just easier for a power nerd to negotiate with a couple big labels who own the kind of music that people listen to when they're really not that into music, which of course is most people. So they've got the numbers. But the indies kind of have the guns. I've noticed that indies are showing strength at some of the established streaming services like Spotify and Rhapsody – people are choosing that music. And it's also great that some people are starting their own outlets, like Pledge Music, Band Camp or Drip. As the commercial trade swings more into general show biz the indies will be the only place to go for new talent, outside the Mickey Mouse Club, so I think they were right to band together and sign the Fair Digital Deals Declaration.

There are just so many ways to screw an artist that it's unbelievable. In the old vinyl days they would deduct 10% "breakage fees" for records supposedly broken in shipping, whether that happened or not, and now they have unattributed digital revenue, whatever the **** that means. It means money for some guy’s triple bypass. I actually think that what Thom Yorke has done with Bit Torrent is very good. I was gonna say here: “Sure the guy is a pirate at Bit Torrent” but I was warned legally, so I’ll say: “Sure the guy a Bit Torrent is a pirate’s friend” But all pirates want to go legit, just like I wanted to be respectable. It’s normal. After a while people feel like you’re a crook, it’s too hard to do business. So it’s good in this case that Thom Yorke is encouraging a positive change. The music is good. It’s being offered at a low price direct to people who care.

I want to try to define what I am talking about when I say free. For me in the arts or in the media, there are two kinds of free. One kind of free is when the process is something that people just feel for you. You feel a sense of possibility. You feel a lack of constraint. This leads to powerful, energetic, sometimes kind of loony situations.

Vice Media is an interesting case of this because they started as a free handout, using public funds, and they had open, free-wheeling minds. Originally a free handout was called Voice and these kids were like “Just get rid of the old! I don’t wanna be Vice, yeah!” Okay. By taking an immersive approach with no particular preconceptions to their reporting, they've become a huge success, also through corporate advertising, at attracting big, big money investment hundreds of millions of dollars now pumped into Fox Media and a couple of others bigger than that in the US. And they get it because they attract lots of little boy eyeballs. So they brought us Dennis Rodman in North Korea. And it’s kind of a travesty, but it’s kind of spunky. It's interesting that capital investment, for all its posturing, never really leads, it always follows. They follow the action. So if it's money you're after, be the yourself in a consistent way and you might get it. You’ll at least end up getting what you are worth and feel better. Just follow your nose.

The second kind of freedom to me that is important in the media is the idea of giving freely. When you feel or sense that someone that someone is giving you something not out of profit, but out of self-respect, Christian charity, whatever it is. That has a very powerful energy. The Guardian, in my understanding, was founded by an endowment by a successful man with a social conscience who wanted to help create a voice for what I would call the little guy. So they have a kind of moral mission or imperative. This has given them the latitude to try to be interesting, thoughtful, helpful. And they bring Edward Snowden to the world stage. Something that is not pleasant for a lot of people to hear about, but we need to know.

These two approaches couldn't be more different. To justify their new mega bucks Vice will have to expand and expand in capital terms. Presumably they'll have to titillate a dumb, but energetic audience. Of course all capitalist expansions are subject to the big bang – balloon, bust, poof, and you’re gone. As for the Guardian I would imagine that the task involves gaining the trust and support of a more discerning, less definable reader, without spending the principal. There is usually an antipathy between cultural poles, but these two actually have a lot in common in terms of the energy and nuisance to power that they are willing to generate. I wish red and blue could come together somehow.

Sometimes I'd rather read than listen to music. One of my favourite odd books is Bootleg: The Secret History of the Other Recording Industry by Clinton Heylin. I bought the book in the 90's because a couple of my bootlegs were mentioned. I loved my bootlegs. They did a lot for me. I never really thought about the dough much. I liked the titles, like Suck on This, Stow Away DOA or Metalic KO. The packaging was always way more creative and edgy than most of my official stuff. So I just liked being seen and heard, like anybody else. These bootleggers were creative. Here are two quotes from the dust jacket by veteran industry stalwarts on the subject of bootlegs in 1994.

"Bootleg is the thoroughly researched and highly entertaining tale of those colorful brigands, hapless amateurs, and true believers who have done wonders for my record collection. Rock and roll doesn't get more underground than this." – that was David Fricke, the music editor of Rolling Stone "I think that bootlegs keep the flame of the music alive by keeping it out of not only the industry's conception of the artist, but also the artist's conception of the artist." – that was Lenny Kaye from the Patti Smith group, musician, critic and my friend.

Wow!! Sounds heroic and vital!

I wonder what these guys feel about all of this now, because things have changed, haven't they? We are now talking about Megaupload, Kim Dot Com, big money, political power, and varying definitions of theft that are legally way over my head. But I know a con man when I see one. I want to include a rant from an early bootlegger in this discussion because it's so passionate and I just think it's funny.

This is Lou Cohan "If anybody thinks that if I have purchased every single Rolling Stones album in existence, and I have bought all the Rolling Stones albums that have been released in England, France, Japan, Italy, and Brazil that if I have an extra $100 in my pocket instead of buying a Rolling Stones bootleg I am going to buy a John Denver album or a Sinead O'Conner album, they are retarded."

So the guy is trying to say don't try to force me. And don't steal my choice. And the people who don't want the free U2 download are trying to say, don't try to force me. And they've got a point. Part of the process when you buy something from an artist. It’s a kind of anointing, you are giving people love. It’s your choice to give or withhold. You are giving a lot of yourself, besides the money. But in this particular case, without the convention, maybe some people felt like they were robbed of that chance and they have a point. It’s not the only point. These are not bad guys. But now, everybody's a bootlegger, but not as cute, and there are people out there just stealing the stuff and saying don't try to force me to pay. And that act of thieving will become a habit and that’s bad for everything. So we are exchanging the corporate rip off for the public one. Aided by power nerds. Kind of computer Putins. They just wanna get rich and powerful. And now the biggest bands are charging insane ticket prices or giving away music before it can flop, in an effort to stay huge. And there's something in this huge thing that kind of sucks.

Which brings us to Punk. The most punk thing I ever saw in my life was Malcolm McLaren's cardboard box full of dirty old winkle pinkers. It was the first thing I saw walking in the door of Let It Rock in 1972 which was his shop at Worlds End on the Kings Road. It was a huge ugly cardboard bin full of mismatched unpolished dried out winkle pickers without laces at some crazy price like maybe five pounds each. Another 200 yards up the street was Granny Takes a Trip, where they sold proper Rockstar clothes like scarves, velvet jackets, and snake skin platform boy boots. Malcolm's obviously worthless box of shit was like a fire bomb against the status quo because it was saying that these violent shoes have the right idea and they are worth more than your fashion, which serves a false value. This is right out of the French enlightenment.

So is the thieving that big a deal? Ethically, yes, and it destroys people because it's a bad road you take. But I don't think that's the biggest problem for the music biz. I think people are just a little bit bored, and more than a little bit broke. No money. Especially simple working people who have been totally left out, screwed and abandoned. If I had to depend on what I actually get from sales I’d be tending bars between sets. I mean honestly it’s become a patronage system. There’s a lot of corps involved and I don’t fault any of them but it’s not as much fun as playing at the Music Machine in Camden Town in 1977. There is a general atmosphere of resentment, pressure, kind of strange perpetual war, dripping on all the time. And I think that prosecuting some college kid because she shared a file is a lot like sending somebody to Australia 200 years ago for poaching his lordship's rabbit. That's how it must seem to poor people who just want to watch a crappy movie for free after they’ve been working themselves to death all day at Tesco or whatever, you know.

If I wanna make music, at this point in my life I'd rather do what I want, and do it for free, which I do, or cheap, if I can afford to. I can. And fund through alternative means, like a film budget, or a fashion website, both of which I've done. Those seem to be turning out better for me than the official rock n roll company albums I struggle through. Sorry. If I wanna make money, well how about selling car insurance? At least I'm honest. It's an ad and that's all it is. Every free media platform I've ever known has been a front for advertising or propaganda or both. And it always colors the content. In other words, you hear crap on the commercial radio. The licensing of music by films, corps, and TV has become a flood, because these people know they're not a hell of a lot of fun so they throw in some music that is. I'm all for that, because that's the way the door opened for me. I got heard on tv before radio would take a chance. But then I was ok. Good. And others too. I notice there are a lot of people, younger and younger, getting their exposure that way. But it's a personal choice. I think it’s an aesthetic one, not an ethical one.

Now with the Internet people can choose to hear stuff and investigate it in their own way. If they want to see me jump around the Manchester Apollo with a horse tail instead of trying to be a proper Rockstar, they can look. Good. Personally I don't worry too much about how much I get paid for any given thing, because I never expected much in the first place and the whole industry has become bloated in its expectations. Look, Howling Wolf would work for a sandwich. This whole thing started in Honky Tonk bars. It's more important to do something important or just make people feel something and then just trust in God. If you're an entertainer your God is the public. They'll take care of you somehow. I want them to hear my music any old which way. Period. There is an unseen hand that turns the pages of existence in ways no one can predict. But while you’re waiting for God to show up and try to find a good entertainment lawyer.

It's good to remember that this is a dream job, whether you're performing or working in broadcasting, or writing or the biz. So dream. Dream. Be generous, don’t be stingy. Please. I can't help but note that it always seems to be the pursuit of the money that coincides with the great art, but not its arrival. It's just kind of a death agent. It kills everything that fails to reflect its own image, so your home turns into money, your friends turn into money, and your music turns into money. No fun, binary code – zero one, zero one - no risk, no nothing. What you gotta do you gotta do, life's a hurly-burly, so I would say try hard to diversify your skills and interests. Stay away from drugs and talent judges. Get organized. Big or little, that helps a lot.

I'd like you to do better than I did. Keep your dreams out of the stinky business, or you'll go crazy, and the money won't help you. Be careful to maintain a spiritual EXIT. Don't live by this game because it's not worth dying for. Hang onto your hopes. You know what they are. They’re private. Because that's who you really are and if you can hang around long enough you should get paid. I hope it makes you happy. It's the ending that counts, and the best things in life really are free.

[justjessame]

Dr. Tali Sullivan Chapter 3:  Help Comes at a Price, But Who’s Paying?

I sat back on the couch. Drying my eyes and waiting for Dean to explain. I’d moved away from him. Comfort or not, I couldn’t stand how much he smelled like John. It hurt. Like feeling like he was here when he would NEVER be here again.

“Before you tell me about Sam,” I swallowed and swiped my face with another tissue, catching the remaining leaking. “Where did you-”

Dean shot me a look and realized what I wanted to know. He looked uncomfortable. “We buried his tags at the same cemetery where Mom is.” I nodded, that made sense. “I’m sorry, Tali, if I’d known Dad hadn’t-”

I shook my head. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but dwelling on it didn’t help. Wouldn’t help. “Now what about Sam.”

He explained and I listened to what he’d learned, not only from John’s warning, but since that day in the hospital. “Dad said that I had to watch out for Sam and take care of him.” I nodded, Dean had done that from the moment that Mary had died. “To save him.” Wait, from what? “And if I couldn’t,” he swallowed hard and he looked like he’d gone green in the gills. “He wants me to kill Sam, Tali. Dad wanted me to know that if I can’t save my baby brother from whatever the hell Dad thinks he needs saving from, I have to kill him.” SHIT.

Damn it John. “He didn’t give you any idea of what you needed to save Sam from, at all?” Dean looked pained. “What did Sam say to all this?” I’d never seen Dean with pinched lips before, but now I could mark it off my bucket list. “You haven’t told him.” Shit. Fuck. “You have to.”

“No, Tali,” Dean started to argue.

“Dean Winchester,” He stopped. “Your father was the MASTER of lack of communication, and I get that you have taken hero worship of him to an obscene level,” he raised an eyebrow and started to speak, but I held up my hand. “Don’t pick this trait to mimic, Dean. Don’t do it.” He closed his mouth and studied me. “I will never know how your dad might have felt-” that punch of pain in my chest that would always accompany the regret of that knowledge. “About me. I never got to say goodbye, or tell him-” I swallowed back another flash of pain. “Don’t do that to Sam. The two of you, the ONE constant the two of you have always had, is one another. Don’t keep it from him, don’t carry the burden alone. John, your dad, carried so much pain and guilt and look at how much he missed.” I was blinking back tears again.

“Tali,” he tried to reach for my hand, but I stood up. “Dad, before he told me about Sam, he-” I looked down at him and knew. John had managed to make a bit of peace with Dean. “He told me he was proud of me. He told me not to be scared.” I snorted and Dean looked up at me in surprise.

“I’m sorry.” I offered, still blinking back my tears. “I’m glad John finally told you that he was proud, but that was a shit thing, telling you NOT to be scared and then telling you that killing Sam might become a reality for you.” Fucking John Winchester, one step forward, four steps back. “Don’t become him, Dean.” It hurt to say it. To put into words the pain I felt over the loss of him, yet the absolute certainty that he could have saved so much fucking pain if he’d just opened up more to the people he really did love. “Don’t lock it down and put the hunt ahead of everything. FEEL. Tell people how you feel. Tell them goodbye like it’s the last time you’ll ever see them or speak to them, and for God’s sake, if you love someone, don’t leave it unsaid.”

 Dean left before darkness fell. He’d had a call from Sam, who I learned was getting premonitions now. He only left after I promised to answer his calls. And before he walked away, he said goodbye. He hugged me tight and promised me to check in. To let me know what he’d learned, and begged for me to find something, anything to help him save Sammy.

I got better at pushing the grief down. I became more animated during my classes, and I started researching ANYTHING that John might have meant when he gave Dean that cryptic fucking warning. I researched the Yellowed Eyed Demon, finding out more about Azazel, Ramiel, Dagon, and Asmodeus. They are higher tier demons, known for yellow eyes and their rank as Princes of Hell (well, Dagon was a ‘Princess of Hell’ I suppose, since she was female). Lucifer himself had a hand in their turning. That type of power, coupled with the extra information I managed to drag out of Dean about what he’d gone through prior to John’s death. The power of this demon, the ability to act as a deal maker, and yet flinch off the other ways that most demons get cornered in. Shit.

When the phone rang after my class, I didn’t have to look at the ID to know it was Dean. It was around the same damn time he called every damn day. “Hello, Dean.” I answered, walking toward my house. “How’s the case?”

“Ever hear of Croatoan?” I’m fine, Dean, thanks for asking. “Because for fuck’s sake, Tali, I feel like I’m in the middle of a damn Romero movie.”

“Zombies? What do zombies have to do with the lost colony of Roanoke?” I asked, shifting my messenger bag so it balanced out better during my short walk home. “I thought you were in Oregon?”

“Pretty damn sure they aren’t fucking zombies, but they’re definitely not normal.” He grunted and I heard a strange noise in the background of his call. “Sam caught sight of the word of ‘Croatoan’ carved in a telephone pole.” Bit by bit, that was Dean. Like pulling damn teeth sometimes. “Dad’s journal mentioned a demon associated with the name.”

“The plague and pestilence one.” I nodded, pulling out my keys as I walked up my walkway. “Makes sense,” I shrugged, I didn’t find the need to research demons that had been beaten into the ground by academia. “Tell me what you’re dealing with so I can work my head around what you’ve got.” He did as I walked inside the house, carefully navigating my salt line and flipping on lights after locking the door behind me. I dropped my bag on the couch and headed toward the kitchen as I listened to Dean’s report. “Yeah, that sounds like demonic germ warfare.”

“Do you have any idea of what we should do?” He asked, and I had to close my eyes against the similarities between the gruffness of his voice and John’s.

“Yeah, leave.” I heard him inhale. “Roanoke DISAPPEARED Dean. No one has any information on what the hell happened. Other than the demon’s name. No way to exorcise it or how it infects or works its bad mojo. There’s no fix for this.” I sighed, feeling useless. “Keep the blood of the infected from any of your bodily openings, and DON’T let them wound you to give you a new entrance for the infection.” I poured myself a glass of juice. “Sorry, Winchester, but this one is pretty much a blank page for me.”

“Shit.” Dean growled. “The entire town?”

I gasped. “They’re ALL infected?” Shit was right.

“No, but, enough.”

I closed my eyes and felt like a hand was gripping my heart and twisting. “Get out. Get Sam and leave. Now.” I opened my eyes and put down the glass of juice feeling nauseated. “Seriously. Leave.”

“I’ll call you later, Tali. Goodbye, sweetheart.” Damn it. Damn you, Dean Winchester, using my fucking words against me.

“You’d better fucking call, Dean. Bye.” He hit ‘end’ first and I sat down hard at my kitchen table. The Winchester men would be the literal fucking death of me.

  It was the early morning, and by early I mean pre-sunrise, when my cell rang. I groped for it on the nightstand where it was charging, finally hitting ‘answer’ before it could go to voicemail.

“What?” I was groggy. I was tired and I was scared. No good ever fucking came from an early as fuck phone call.

I heard a chuckle and rolled my eyes. “I promised, Tali.” Damn it, Dean. “We made it out, I wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Ugh.” I pulled the phone away from my face to try to focus on the time showing. “It’s two o’clock in the fucking morning, Dean.” I sat up and managed to figure out how to flick on the lamp. Blinking against the minimal, yet fucking bright light, I groaned and yawned. “I only finally passed out an hour ago.” Shit, fuck.

Another quiet laugh. “I wanted to hear your voice.” Um, no. We will NOT be doing that. He sighed. “Tali, I had to hear your voice and KNOW we made it.” Ah, thank God for that clarification. “I told him.”

I squinted. He told him? Him who? Him what? “You told him?” An hour of sleep after HOURS of worry and fear didn’t help my mental processes.

“Sam.” Ah, I waited. “I told him what Dad told me.” I swallowed and let the silence grow. “He’s-”

“Confused, upset?” I answered, coming awake a bit more. “It’s understandable.”

“Yeah,” Dean sounded tired. “I should let you get back to sleep, Tali. Goodnight.”

“Night, Dean.” I swallowed against the pain of knowing that I shouldn’t feel this much for the two of them. The fear and worry. I was nothing to them. Nothing at all, passing acquaintances from childhood, that was all. “Let me know-”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart.” That word again. “Night.”

The call ended and I sat there, in the dim light of one bedside lamp, staring at my phone and wishing like hell that I could talk to John one fucking last time.

[puddygeeks]

𝔅𝔞𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔶 - 𝔖𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔩 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔫/𝔒ℭ - ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1: ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔈𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰

Masterlist

Rating: Mature

Summary: Following the footsteps of several generations of Creed hunters, Faye’s upbringing revolved around training to continue the family legacy. Since her parents death, she has been content to work alone until a chance encounter with the Winchester’s shatters everything she believed. Despite her complicated past and initial reservations about the boys, she finds herself crossing paths with the troublemakers at regular intervals. Faye discovers more in common with Dean than she could ever have anticipated and leaning on each other becomes a habit they can’t quit.

A/N: I needed a project to give me a creative break from We Come Running, so thought I’d delve into Supernatural. This will not have a posting schedule, as I don’t need another thing to stress over! But I’ll update whenever I need to write outside of The 100 Universe. I don’t have a huge plan for this fic, but I can say that it will not be a full rewrite of the show that includes every episode like my other works. It will dip in and out of the Supernatural storylines whenever I feel she has something to contribute. I hope you enjoy this new style of writing that I’m trying <3

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: OC x Dean Winchester

My writing is entirely fuelled by coffee! If you enjoy my work, feel free to donate toward my caffeine dependency: will work for coffee

Warnings: Mature content. Language, alcohol abuse, violence, character death.

Chapter One

I stared back at my reflection in the cheap motel mirror with a strong feeling of unease. A deep sigh escaped my lips as I adjusted the blonde wig into place so that none of my natural hair was visible and checked that my makeup adequately covered the small holes that remained in my face once my piercings were removed. The black suit jacket slid easily over my shoulders and I stepped into my neat black court shoes with a wobble. I seized the worn holdall containing my ordinary clothes with attitude and stomped out to the car. The blaring sound of my trusty playlist filled the clunky old jeep and I felt myself gradually relaxing over the course of my journey to the local police station. 

This part of hunting had always grated on me. Over the years, I’d learned to embrace the lifestyle of living on the outskirts of society and enjoyed the simple pleasures of expressing myself however I wished. I wasn’t limited by the same restrictions as everyone else, I didn’t have to conform to office dress codes or feel the social pressure to dress my age. It was only when I needed to pass as law enforcement to gather information that I had to force myself into a characterless uniform and stiff appearance. Everytime that this was necessary, I felt like I stripped away all of the benefits of the hunter lifestyle and instead was left feeling like an outsider as I tried to fit into the regular world.

I parked around the corner from the station and made one last check of my appearance to ensure that nothing suspiciously unprofessional was on show. Before stepping out of the vehicle, I took a deep breath and forced myself into the facade that always gained me access to anything that I wanted. I strutted into the station with an unnecessary sway to my hips that I knew were well displayed in the pencil skirt that I wore and felt my stomach churn at the sickening manner in which the officers in the room watched me pass. It was worryingly simple to flirt my way past the first officer at the desk and into the captain's office. I didn’t even show my badge, all it took was a charming smile over the top of my horn rimmed glasses and a lingering sweep of hair behind my ear. 

The Captain was a middle aged man who at least remembered to ask me for ID before he eagerly spilled the details of the strange case. He roughly commented that I seemed very young to be working alone, FBI agent or not and I smiled through my discomfort as I grilled him for the information that I sorely needed. 

I was smoothly exiting the office in a determined march for my car and sorely needed change of clothes, when the Captain called out to announce the arrival of another couple of agents. My stomach flipped with nerves as I rolled my eyes and made an offhand comment about poor organisation at the bureau. It wasn’t the first time that I’d bumped into actual feds on a job. As a matter of fact, I’d learned early on that it was one of the many risks of investigation, but every time that I had to improvise my way out of their scrutiny left me feeling drained. 

I allowed the Captain to lead me outside the front of the station with a forced air of calm whilst I mentally rehearsed the lines that I had prepared for this situation. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to call in another favour; every time that I needed to give a number for real investigators to call to confirm my identity cost me another night of stroking a hunter colleagues ego.

My nerves dissolved into amusement as we neared two obnoxiously tall men in black suits that I recognised immediately. One of them had shoulder length, chestnut brown hair and kind eyes that twinkled as he fixed me with a warm smile. He was clearly younger than me and there was something in his posture that indicated a calm nature that was beyond his years. The other smoothly slid off his sunglasses with a brow cocked in interest as his gaze roamed my figure before landing on my face. He had shorter brunette hair and mischievous eyes that seemed to challenge me as they met mine. He had chiseled, handsome features and broad shoulders that hinted at a muscular physique hidden away beneath the suit jacket. There was no doubting that they were both attractive, but were absolutely not federal agents and everything about them screamed trouble. The Captain asked whether a little lady like me would need help arguing with two such large men over jurisdiction, but I convinced him to leave us with a polite smile and a falsely flattered giggle.

“Good to meet you. I’m Agent Stark, this is Agent Banner. We’re from the Atlanta Bureau. Could you bring us up to speed on any case details that you’ve been given?” The flirtatious man that I had easily recognised to be Dean Winchester spoke first, introducing the two of them as they both briefly held up their fake ID’s and I peeked between them with my brows raised. I’d heard descriptions of these men more times than I could count but they didn’t do justice to the hulking reality that stood before me. It wasn’t unusual for men to tower over me; at 5’4 I wasn’t exactly tall. However, I was surprised to find that the impending attitude they were often characterised as displaying seemed to be absent and I wasn’t remotely intimidated by them. 

“Stark and Banner?” I repeated as I surveyed Dean with amusement and he furrowed his brows together in confusion. I wondered if they’d ever been doubted before from the obvious shock in their body language and couldn’t help sensing an opportunity to seize the upper hand with the infamous hunters. “That’s really what you’re going with?” I drawled as I smiled smugly at them and noticed that they subtly glanced between them with concern. “I thought the Winchester’s would be better at this.” I teased as they visibly stiffened and stared at each other in alarm. I revelled in the knowledge that I’d caught them off guard as I crossed my arms and waited for them to formulate a response.

“You’re a hunter?” Sam breathed in a tone that was more of a statement than a question. He scanned me in an analytical manner and I quickly understood that he was the more logical of the two. I stretched out the silence as I prepared my answer and enjoyed watching Dean squirm nervously as he considered that Sam might have made an error in judgement. 

“Yes I am.” I confirmed firmly and caught sight of a slight sag in Dean’s shoulders. It occurred to me that he was the protector of the two and I stored this information in the back of my mind for future use. “And this is my job. I’ll handle this case from here, so you two can feel free to move on.” I revealed with a disinterested shrug as I held my ground. Confusion flitted across both of their faces at almost the exact same time and I was struck with the impression that they weren’t used to hearing women say no very often. 

“Well, hold on a second. We’re all here, we might as well help you out.” Dean suggested in a manner that tried to be helpful but mostly sounded condescending and I cocked a brow at him. Sam studied me closely as my face grew stern but Dean seemed to be completely unaware of his effect on me. 

“I can handle myself just fine, thank you. Besides, witches tend to fight much harder against men anyway, you’ll only spur them on.” I crooned as I started to wander toward my car in an effort to end the undesirable conversation and rolled my eyes when they followed with a shared look of concern. “Not every girl is a damsel in distress you know. I’m sure there’s plenty of other jobs you could pursue with girls who will be awaiting your rescue. I work better alone.” I clarified with an annoyed expression as I increased my pace to suggest that I wanted to be left alone. Dean caught my wrist to pause me in place and I whipped around on the spot to view him with suspicion.

“Hey, I don’t know what your problem is but we’re offering to make your job easier.” He remarked with a confident attitude and I scoffed. “Look, you don’t want our help, that’s fine but don’t just take off. You seem to know exactly who we are and we don’t even know your name. Give me something here.” He drawled with a keen expression and I chuckled under my breath.

“There’s not a hunter around who doesn’t know Sam and Dean Winchester.” I commented as I removed myself from his grasp and stepped out of his space with a look of disapproval. “And you don’t need to know my name. You can call me Agent Brooke if they ask any questions about who’s taking the case.” I clarified before I turned on my heel and strode to my car without a backwards glance.

I stopped back at the motel to change out of my feminine agent disguise with a tense feeling of stress. I had known that I was likely to run into the Winchester’s at some point or another, but it didn’t make the experience any less jarring. I’d been anticipating it for almost ten years whilst I worked jobs all over the country and although I’d met numerous hunters along the way, I’d somehow managed to avoid them. They were exactly how I’d expected, full of over-confidence in both their ability and charm. Enough years had gone since I ran away from my past that there was only a hint of bitterness remaining for them and I’d found that toying with them was more for my own amusement than as a result of envy. I’d grown accustomed to pushing people away and working alone so sharp, deflective humour was more of habit than anything personal.

I shook out my shoulder length purple hair and ran my fingers through it to relieve the soreness from the wig. I took a shower to clean off the taint of the act that I’d been forced to perform as an agent and changed into an old band t-shirt, black ripped jeans and a pair of black doc martin boots. I returned my black studs into the two piercings under my lips and the silver ring into my left nostril. It took some time to replace all of the ear jewellery but once I had, I started to feel like myself again. I quickly applied some black eyeliner and dark eyeshadow for my own satisfaction as a small act of rebellion against my earlier self presentation. 

I settled on the edge of the bed with my laptop to pour over the new intel that I’d received and set aside time to form a plan of action. I couldn’t concentrate properly on my task as the memory of the boys’ clueless expressions floated through my mind and after a while of battling it, I threw the laptop aside in frustration. There was a common coping mechanism amongst hunters of burying your feelings instead of dealing with them and I had depended on this unhealthy strategy for more years than I cared to acknowledge. The act of finally matching faces to the all too familiar Winchester names had stirred up memories that I’d long been repressing and I struggled to contain the feelings that came with them. 

I felt a pang of guilt as Bobby’s voice rang in my mind, scolding me for not accepting their help. He’d always recommended teaming up where possible; he considered it a good chance to learn from other hunters' experiences and to make contacts that you could utilise in future. Fortunately for me I didn’t have to do anything Bobby’s way any more. I was an adult now, if I wanted to drink myself into a stupor and pass out in my motel room, there was no one here to scold me for doing so. It was a weak justification but as I slipped into a whisky fuelled coma, I felt relieved that I had been able to drown out the criticism.

The next few days were spent in town interviewing people close to the mysterious deaths and was pleased not to hear any mention of the boys. It seemed that they hadn’t processed their investigation any further and I convinced myself that I had successfully managed to scare them from town. This assertion allowed me to focus on preparing for the upcoming confrontation. I discovered that I was dealing with a duo of witches and planned carefully to ensure that I couldn’t be overwhelmed by them. I packed a plentiful supply of weapons and visited the home of one of the previous victims to set traps. I knew that I could lure them to revisit the scene of the crime with a few simple social arrangements to inspire jealousy and used this to ensure that the fight took place somewhere that I could control.

I waited in my car, parked in the dark street for hours for any sign of the witches' arrival and was pleased to find that they were exactly as predictable as I expected. The back door allowed me to creep into the home and I could hear them frantically searching the rooms for the next victim that I’d led them to believe would be here. I carefully approached the living room where I’d planted traps with baited breath and as I neared the door, I was startled by the loud crash of a boobytrap springing into action. My stomach lurched at the unexpected sound of a mape crying out and tiptoed closer to peek inside.

“Sam!” I recognised the panicked voice of Dean from the next room as I reached the door and was able to view Sam tangled in my trap.

Dean burst through the entrance hall in a rage as Sam struggled with one of the witches who was somewhat thrilled by the containment of her new captive. I growled under my breath as they trampled over my carefully laid plans and tried to quickly analyse the best way to take control of the rapidly escalating situation. Dean charged toward his choking brother in a manic attack before the second witch revealed herself and launched him across the room with merely a flick of her wrist. It was evident from their reactions that they had only expected one enemy and I rolled my eyes at their chaotic behaviour.

“Dean! Let him go!” Sam wheezed between pants as Dean was crushed against the wall by magic so forceful that it cracked the plaster around him. I fidgeted nervously on the spot as I realised that Sam was turning blue from oxygen deprivation and I fell into the room in a moment of impulse. The two witches had their backs to the door that I rushed through and were paying little attention to each other as they individually toyed with the boys. I entangled my fingers into the back of the tangled hair of the woman who was choking Sam and yanked her backwards toward the circle that I’d prepared earlier. The moment that Sam stumbled out of my trap, I caught his attention with a wide eyed stare.

“Pull the rug!” I ordered with a firm authority before lapsing into well memorised incantations under my breath to activate the containment. He crouched to rip the rug out from under my captive’s feet without question, revealing a freshly white painted circle on the ground. Now that the shock of my assault had passed, the witch easily fought out of my grasp and whipped around to face me with an expression of absolute outrage. I jumped back to remove myself from her reach and now that the circle was active, she was unable to cast or escape. Sam leapt to the side in a frantic bid to reach a sword on the ground and the moment that he gripped it, he rushed toward Dean with a fiery determination. The witch in the circle released an agonising scream that warned the other of his approach and I flinched as I instinctively covered my ears. Dean slammed to the ground in a wheezing heap as his assailant turned to lift Sam instead and he dropped the sword with a clatter as he scraped against the wall.

I snatched the sword in a desperate movement and dove from the room before either of them could plan to attack me. The boys were manically yelling behind me as I rushed through the house to my bag that I’d stowed at the back door. My shaking hands grabbed a pot of salt and a flare before I sprinted back to the door that I’d entered the room through originally. I dumped a shaky line of salt in the doorway before I sparked the flare and lobbed it into the room to draw attention away from Sam. 

Whilst the fighting descended into chaos, I scrambled to the entrance hall and past Dean’s crumpled form at the other end of the room. The remaining attacker was still distracted by the flare which allowed me to stalk up to her from behind and I swung the sword with as much force as I could muster. The blade neatly removed her head in a clean cut and it flew across the room with a satisfying thud. The witch in the circle howled in anguish and when I brought my attention to her, I realised that her eyes had turned completely black. I didn’t hesitate for a single moment as I grabbed the flare from the ground and tossed it into the circle. It set alight the fuel that I’d doused it in earlier and I rushed through the blessing to dispel the demon.

I leaned forward with my hands on my knees as I panted from the exertion and listened to the sounds of the witch sizzling to nothing. After a few moments of recovery, I heard Sam and Dean struggle to their feet and their heavy footprints alerted me to their approach. I straightened up to fix them with a disapproving look.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” I spat in an accusing tone and they shifted awkwardly as they viewed me. I couldn’t believe that they had ignored my direct request to leave and as I stared at their guilty faces, I felt frustration building in my chest.

“We thought you might need help.” Sam muttered in a poor excuse and I crossed my arms in annoyance as I scoffed.

“Oh yeah, thank god you guys were here to save me. I’d never have managed without you.” I drawled with a heavy sarcasm and I noticed that Dean rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “You two are supposed to be the best hunters around and you just almost got all three of us killed!” I scolded in a raised voice and although Sam squirmed at my words, Dean only seemed to get defensive.

“Look, we messed up, alright. But what the hell kind of a hunter sets up contraptions like that?” Dean argued as he indicated to the trap that Sam had found himself tangled in. It was a method I’d used regularly for years now to ensure that I always had a back up plan if I found myself outnumbered or cornered. It was difficult to hunt without anyone to watch your back and I’d adapted to the challenge.

“The kind of hunter that works alone, not all of us charge in without a plan. I thought you’d be smarter than that with all the training you’ve had.” I confirmed as I surveyed him with dismay and immediately kicked myself for hinting how much I knew about their upbringing. I dropped my gaze to the ground to avoid his expression but from my peripheral vision I could see that he raised his brows at me whilst Sam observed us in silent interest.

“You’ve got a lot of assumptions about us for someone who claims they don’t give a shit...Faye Creed.” Dean drawled as his words tore my eyes back to his face. He smiled smugly at me as he paused to emphasise my name and I felt a lump form in my throat. My back stiffened involuntarily and I rolled my eyes at them both.

“So, you finally thought to consult Bobby. Guess you aren’t as dumb as you seem.” I sneered as I ran a hand through my hair and tried to present as unphased by their research into me. I knew that it had been foolish to hope that they would allow me to walk away without any interest but I didn’t expect to see them again once they had found the information. “Only a matter of time, took you longer than I expected though. How’d you get him to narrow it down? I don’t use his aliases any more.” I enquired with a controlled interest as I wondered what it was that had given me away. I had been careful about my choice of words in our first meeting and I expected my disguise to protect me from them as much as it did the police. The thought crossed my mind that Bobby may still be keeping tabs on me if he was aware of my FBI presentation and I pushed it away to deal with later.

“Not that many hunters with a British accent around.” Sam commented from the side with a charming smile and I shrugged in defeat. There was little I could do to hide that and it was an ongoing identifier that I wished I could remove.

“Took me longer than I want to admit to figure out that alias too, Agent Brooks.” Dean remarked and his voice drew my attention back to his intrigued smile. “Eric Brooks, Blade. That’s a pretty obscure reference, even for a comic nerd. No wonder those ID’s tipped you off.” He detailed with an obvious admiration in his tone and I felt a genuine smile escape my cool expression.

“So, what did your Nick Fury tell you about me to make you so convinced that I needed your help?” I grilled as I raised a brow at Dean with a more flirtatious interest than I intended. I couldn’t contain the playfulness that he encouraged from me despite my determination to keep them at a distance.

“Nothing. Just a name and a warning that you were bad news.” Dean confirmed with a mischievous delight in his eyes and I chuckled under my breath.

“Actually, he was remarkably tight lipped about it all. Maybe you could fill us in on how you know each other?” Sam interrogated, a warm smile attempting to cover his curiosity. I waved my arms in front of me as I stepped back slightly in defence.

“Oh I’m no snitch. That’s the old man's story to share, if he even wants to.” I deflected as I gathered my things to leave and increased the distance between us subconsciously. “Seeing as I saved your asses from your own idiocy tonight, I’ll leave you two clean-up duty.” I declared as I indicated to the remains of the witches that were spread across the room and they glanced at each other regretfully. “It’s been fun, see you around.” I crooned with an exaggerated solute as I wandered from the room.

The disgruntled complaints of them gathering the pieces of our enemies was clear even from the back of the house as I grabbed my duffel bag and I reached out to touch the door handle before I paused in place. A thoughtful sigh escaped my lips and my heartstrings pulled me back to the room they were in. I leaned carefully on the doorframe as I peered inside and cleared my throat to gain their attention.

“Could you...could you boys pass Bobby a message for me?” I asked nervously and they glanced at each other uncertainly before Sam shrugged in response. “Just tell him that I’m sorry. He’ll know what for.” I relayed and quickly turned on my heel to stomp out before they could ask any questions.

[pallasperilous]

22

Wordcount: 840. Content warning for implied/referenced substance abuse and mental health issues.

Twenty-two. That's the age Sam's picked for Jack on all of his IDs; easy to remember, old enough that Dean can send him on beer runs. They're minting twenty-two year olds out of babies born in 1997, now, which should probably terrify him, but instead it just feels vaguely reassuring. Proof that the world didn't end with them. 

Not yet, anyhow.

Sometimes he falls down the rabbit hole, thinking about the rickety tower of resentments and unmetered ego that added up to a Sam at that age. Some of the gobsmackingly clueless shit he unloaded on Dean after the abrupt conclusion of his four-year tour of the realms of privilege – a venture quietly purchased for Sam at the bargain basement cost of (what a coincidence) twenty-two years of Dean’s one wild and precious life. Not so much biting the hand that fed him as pissing onto it.

It's no kind of apology, but he’s told Dean plenty of times since that he’s truly over it – that original fantasy, the thing he left for. Velcroing himself before the end of freshman orientation to a smart, funny girl who went home over Christmas break to sleep in her flawlessly preserved childhood bedroom. Going into some righteously underpaid corner of the law, buying a starter house, adopting dogs with tragic backstories, switching to a digital subscription to the New Yorker because the print ones were starting to really pile up on the coffee table.

And, not that it would matter to Dean at this point, not that it even matters to Sam at this point, because it’s all been relitigated six-hundred and sixty-six ways to Sunday, but –

– but Sam is now completely certain of this fact: Sammy Does Normal would have been a complete and utter shitshow. Gods and monsters aside, he never would’ve made it to the coffee table stage. Not even if it came from IKEA.

Because Sam is Very Smart, and he tests like a fiend, but he figured out about one week into his first semester that he absolutely did not possess the sharklike, effortless brilliance of a scary number of his classmates. Papers that took him three nights of bashing away in the computer lab rattled off their laptops in the hour before class; they grazed up against some abstruse logical concept and internalized it before lunchtime while he was still doggedly beating out its name, rank and serial number.

At first he’d hoped that it was just some overdue socioeconomic catch-up, but a quick survey of his hallmates at Schiff robbed him of that illusion, too. Rich kids, poor kids, kids who’d had it worse (though not weirder) than he did: it didn’t matter. He was a leggy mutt on a greyhound track.

That left him exactly two options. One of those involved a collect payphone call and complete ego suicide, and the other involved gutting it the fuck out.

So he yoked his entirely adequate smarts to the Winchester-brand twin engines of obsessive persistence and existential terror, and floored it for the next four years. Two hours of sleep, knowledge maintenance drills, psycho case boards with the News of the Weird swapped out for German philosophers and Plessy v. Ferguson.

And he knows, from everything he has experienced since, that the tank was going to run empty eventually. He would’ve hit run up against his limit somewhere in the first year of law school, maybe. Would’ve let Jess talk him into taking some time off to recuperate, to “just be a person for awhile.”

Then, without the North star of his Grand Plan To Get Out Of The Life hitting him like a spotlight from above, he would’ve slowly careened off into the darkness. He would’ve taken some menial office job to pay the rent and not feel like a total deadbeat, and then he would’ve started to feel like he belonged there, or deserved to be there, maybe, and so he would’ve gradually started drinking, or using – probably using, because he could pretend it was some unique expression of his personality to pop uppers instead of drinking downers.

And he would’ve gotten increasingly weird and self-justifying about it, and then he would’ve sent Jess packing because they “came from different worlds” or some equally inane bit of self-destructing crazoid guy-logic. From there he would’ve picked up with some comfortably broken girl, somebody with sharp edges he could cut himself against. Then he would’ve had a bad day, and then a worse day, and so on until they accumulated into a bad year, and then he would’ve woken up one morning to find himself wearing slip-on shoes in a mandatory group therapy session somewhere with security doors and visitor sign-in sheets.

And then?

Then he would’ve ended up in the exact same place he did:

Lying pale and half-stunned in the back of the Impala, Dean glancing at him every twenty seconds in the rear view mirror. Silently handing him french fries, one by one, as if he were a baby bird.

{on AO3}

[sculptorofbeginningslibrary]

Black Eyes & Bloodlust - Chapter 11

THIS IS A RE-POST SINCE THIS CHAPTER WAS POSTED RIGHT BEFORE THE PURGE. THIS STORY AND ALL MY FICS WILL BE POSTED FROM HERE AND REBLOGGED (POSSIBLY POINTLESSLY) TO MY MAIN BLOG UNTIL TUMBLR UN-BLURRIES ME.

My Masterlist

Black Eyes & Bloodlust Masterlist

Summary: Dean has never met his Omega, never even thought there could be one waiting for him–but she’s out there, and they’re connected in ways they could never have imagined.

Characters: DeanxReader, Sam, Cas, a few OC’s

Warnings: SMUT so typical A/B/O warnings, Slow burn (and I mean it. SLOW BURN GUYS.) Language, depictions of mental illness, Gore and Violence. (Warnings will apply to all chapters just to cover all the bases.)

Word Count: ~ 3800

A/N: Pretty Dean-centric chapter :)

Beta’d by @justcallmeasmodeus

AS ALWAYS,

ENJOY!

__~*~__

“Didn’t we just have a conversation about how you liking serial killers is weird?”

Sam rolled his eyes as he fixed his tie in the motel mirror. “I don’t like serial killers, Dean. I just…like studying them. It’s an interesting statistical anomaly that–”

“Woah there, Einstein. You start talking statistics and I’m gonna take a nap.” Dean snagged Baby’s keys from the table and looked over at Sam. “I’ll be in the car when you’re finished primping.”

“I’m not–” Sam started, but the door slammed shut, cutting him off yet again. He rolled his eyes good naturedly, just glad that Dean seemed to be in better spirits knowing that Cas was actively searching for Y/N.

They still hadn’t told Dean what Cas knew, but he seemed to appreciate their new-found enthusiasm enough to agree to check out the Omega serial killer Sam had been following in Colorado. Dean had insisted it ‘wasn’t their kind of thing,’ because monsters didn’t take their time to mutilate their victims only to steal their eyelids before moving on–that was crazy human shit–but after a few days of nagging, he gave in.

Which led to now, with both Winchesters headed up to the police station to interview the sister of a missing Omega. The missing girl fit the victim profile, but normally a body would have been found by now.

Dean was sure it was unrelated, but the sheriffs were insistent that since she was an unmated Omega, they had to treat her case as if it were related to the others.

Sam dropped into the passenger seat of the Impala just as Dean started her up. The comforting purr of Baby’s engine always lulled Dean into a sense of peace he couldn’t find anywhere, especially now that the Mark was assaulting him with new and improved spats of unrest that tested his control in new ways.

“Alright so what are we lookin’ at, Sammy?” Sam pulled up his laptop and went through the case file again.

“Well, uh, the sister’s name is Lane, and Y/N has been missing for almost a week. They found her apartment all torn up. Lane is staying in town even though she lives two hours away so she’s agreed to come in and talk to us.”

“Y/N?” Dean asked, his gut twisting at the name. Sam’s eyes flicked to Dean’s hand tightening on the steering wheel.

“Yeah,” Sam replied softly, “Dean it’s probably not–”

“Yeah I know.” Dean brushed off what he knew Sam was going to say. It probably wasn’t his Y/N. That would be too much of a coincidence, even for their crazy life. “So what else?”

__~*~__

Tex had arranged to meet the witch somewhere on the Colorado Wyoming border, and you drove non-stop to get there. You had been in contact with her through Tex’s phone, and she seemed eager to meet you despite the weirdness of your request.

After assuring her that Tex had kept you safe and given you his phone as proof that he had sent you, she texted you an address.

Another handful of suppressants and Benadryl didn’t help the swelling in your arm or the cramps occasionally rolling through your body, but you chalked it up to lack of sleep. You hadn’t gotten one wink in since killing Tex, nor had you wanted to.

There was a pull guiding you to where you needed to go, and it wouldn’t let you rest until it was satisfied. Like some kind of psychic GPS it was leading you straight to Rowena, as she’d said her name was. The strong feeling made you wonder absently if she really was a witch. If magic was real and this whole time you’d been living in a sweet bubble of normal life not knowing that the supernatural existed, what would that mean for your life? How had it found you  after twenty-odd years of boring normalcy? It all seemed too ridiculous, but then again you were certified crazy and officially a murderer but couldn’t bring yourself to care, what did you know?

Your fingers tapped on the steering wheel in time with the soft rock playing on your stereo, not a care in the world despite the growing pile of problems and  the blistered wound on your arm. You had a good feeling about this woman.

She had the answers you needed. You didn’t know, like everything these days, how or why you knew that, and the part of you that cared was slowly being replaced by the beast that had been shredding away all sense of who you were.

__~*~__

When Sam and Dean arrived at the station there was a small group of people waiting for them.

Three officers and two doctors were crowded around a crying woman Sam could only guess was Lane. The closer they got to the group, the stiffer Dean’s body went. Sam scented the air, but nothing seemed amiss despite the stomach churning mix of smells that accompanied places like this.

“Hello,” Sam said as the group glanced up, finally noticing their presence. The male doctor looked visibly uncomfortable as the Winchesters stepped close enough for their scent to carry. The female doctor, however, looked ravenous. Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, who was glaring openly, and without reason, at the male doctor. “We’re Agents Allman and Betts,” they flashed their badges before stuffing them back into their jackets, “We’re looking for an Officer Bishop?”

A sturdy looking officer stepped forward, removing his arm from around the crying woman. “That’s me.” He reached his hand out and Sam shook it, Dean seemed lost in his own world and missed the hand offered to him, looking as though he was trying to solve a particularly aggravating puzzle. Sam cleared his throat and Dean shook himself out of it, glancing suspiciously around the group.

“Are you Lane?” He managed to ask gently towards the only obvious civilian. She nodded, appearing to collect herself and step forward.

“Yes. T-Thank you for coming.”

“It’s not a problem Ma’am, we’re here to help.” Sam tried to smile reassuringly, and started to speak but he was cut off by the female doctor.

“Is there a reason the FBI stepped into this? Is it because you’ve read Y/N’s file? Because I didn’t authorize—”

“Woah woah woah,” Dean said quickly, shutting down her rant. “You mind telling us who you are? Actually, I’m gonna need each of you to provide identification before we discuss any specifics of the case.”

“And…” Sam glanced around, noticing the rising interest in their gathering. “We’re going to need somewhere more private. I think Lane here has had enough being ogled for one day.”

Bishop hopped into action, ushering everyone towards a back room with two couches. Sam let Dean, Bishop and Lane enter before stopping the two doctors and other three officers from going any further. He shut the door, separating the two groups. The officers took the hint and left, leaving only the doctors.

“Excuse me what do you think you’re doing?” the male doctor demanded.

“I need IDs. From both of you.”

“My name is Doctor Mara, and this is my colleague Doctor Cameron,” offered the female with a sultry smile. She produced her ID and piqued an eyebrow at the man beside her until he did the same. “I was the head of Y/N’s medical team while she was in our facility.”

“Your facility?”

“Yes, a psychiatric facility. With Y/N being a missing person of questionable mental integrity Lane called us in, hoping we could provide some help. I’m afraid, however, that a warrant will be necessary for you to access her files.”

She smelled like too-strong cinnamon as she stepped into Sam’s space. It was a seemingly innocent movement, but Sam knew she was trying to bully their way into the room behind him. Doctor Mara seemed like the kind of woman who was used to getting her way.

“Well Doctor, the warrant isn’t necessary in an active missing persons case because of relevant information that might lead to the victim’s whereabouts. I’m guessing you have the file on you or you wouldn’t have brought it up, so how about we cut the crap and you tell me what’s going on here? Since when do contracted psychiatrists make house calls to family members?”

“Y/N is a special case,” Doctor Cameron spat. He had decided he didn’t like the FBI Agents the second he scented them. The way they carried themselves and the way the shorter one smelled rankled him. He reeked of gunpowder and old leather–a combination that had been intolerable since Y/N had almost killed him.

Their attitudes didn’t help. Like all Federal Agents they thought they owned every piece of ground they walked on, he could see it plain as day.

“A special case?” Sam asked, waiting patiently and making it obvious they wouldn’t be going any further until they told him something worth knowing.

__~*~__

“Knowledge? Dearie, I know everything worth knowing.” The red-headed woman with the thick Scottish accent was beautiful as she sipped her wine, looking other-worldly. You felt mildly self conscious sat at the same table, but mostly you were curious about her.

How did someone so gorgeous know someone like Tex?

“Then you can help me find them?”

Rowena grimaced. Perpetually, the fucking Winchesters were a pain in her ass. Even hundreds of miles away she couldn’t escape them.

“Why d’you want the Winchesters? I can teach you everything you need to know. I can feel the magic wafting off of you, dear. You shouldn’t want them for anything. What is it? A spell?” Her eyebrow arched perfectly as you stared blankly at her, unsure of what to say. “For your heat, dearie. Doesn’t take a witch to smell that too.”

“You can do that? Take it away?” You voice lowered excitedly as you surveyed the room suspiciously, missing her comment about your magic.

“Of course! Didn’t Tex tell you who I am?” She seemed slightly offended, but you shrugged.

“No…I mean, nothing other than you being the most powerful witch he’d ever met.” He hadn’t said that, but you had a feeling it was something she liked hearing.

“Well,” she gushed, feigning bashfulness, “he wasn’t lying there. I can do just about anything you need.” Rowena contemplated you for a moment before reaching some kind of decision. “Give me your hand.” She held hers out across the table, smiling encouragingly for you to do the same.

When you slid your arms across, your sleeve rolled up, revealing the rash on your arm. You didn’t miss the widening of her eyes as she spotted it, and you quickly covered it back up.

“No no no, love. Let me see.” Rowena caught your arm, her delicate fingers clasping you with a strength her petite frame hid well. You hissed when the fabric brushed against the raw flesh as she gently rolled your sleeve up. “Oh my,” she mused, taking in the oddly shaped blister on your arm.

It was raw and red, seeping where spots had popped. There were tinges of black beginning to vein out around the edges which usually meant infection…but you were sure that wasn’t the case here.

You could practically see the gears turning in her head as she examined you. The warmth of her touch was soothing and discomforting at once.

Rowena knew more about you than you could ever imagined. She had divined your purpose right after talking to you for the first time and now, after touching you and the vicious curse on your arm, she understood your predicament fully.

Dean Winchester’s Omega had the Mark of Cain, just like her Alpha. It was an interesting development, one that Rowena knew she should be working in her favor, but she found herself feeling bad for you. She could see the black ooze overtaking your aura, smell the curse on you as surely as she could smell your heat, even with her Beta nose.

The power emanating from you had her wondering just how someone could acquire a curse in the way you had. Your personality was hidden under layers of desperation she didn’t think even you could see any longer, but she could tell you were an innocent buried under the blanket of evil the Mark had thrown over you.

She wanted to help, but as of yet the Winchesters were her enemies, and no matter how much she liked you, pride wouldn’t let her. Better to let the pains in her ass have a pain of their own.

“What?” You asked, suddenly worried as something flickered in her eyes. It was the first real emotion you’d felt since leaving Tex.

“Oh it’s nothing. Just…” her well manicured nails ghosted across your palm and she closed her eyes, feeling the magic there. “I can feel him. Your mate.”

You snatched your hand back, astounded. Maybe she really was magic after all.

“How do you know about Dean?” You hissed. Her smile was patient.

“Your body told me. And the magic. He is the source of it.” Her smile formed into something more sinister as she continued, taking in your shock. “He’s there you know. I saw him when I touched your mark. He’s at your home, standing in your living room as we speak.”

__~*~__

Dean stared at the file, fighting the urge to vomit. Sam had strong-armed the doctors into giving up Y/N’s file while Dean had interviewed Lane. She hadn’t been able to offer much besides Y/N suffering from nightmares, being committed, and the strange turn of her personality. None of it seemed relevant to the serial killer, but his gut was telling him something he couldn’t understand.

The file was thicker than any patient file either brother had ever seen, and contained more than just the pictures Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from. It was a record of everything Y/N had said while interred, every procedure and every move she’d made, but Dean hadn’t made it past the pictures.

It was her.

She looked like shit in the first one, dark bags under her eyes, hair ratty and unkempt, her body swallowed up by an unflattering patient’s uniform. In the other she was smiling wide for the camera, lit up eyes sparkling out at him under perfectly styled hair. His finger traced longingly down the center of her happy face, wondering if being connected to him had done this to her.

“Dean? What’s going on?” Sam closed the door, leaving Officer Bishop to lead Lane to his car for the trip back to her hotel. Sam didn’t like the look on Dean’s face, at all.

“Sammy…” Dean started, his voice cracking as he laid the folder flat so they both could see. “It’s her…It’s…this is her.”

New panic was taking him over as he realized how close they had been, and now she was ripped from his grasp. “God Sammy, what if she’s…” he broke off, voice cracking and unable to form the words.

Sam wanted to object, but the pure emotion and certainty on Dean’s face stopped him.

Looked like his hunter senses had been more on point then expected.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Dean removed the pictures and handed Sam the file. There was one photo remaining Dean hadn’t seen, and Sam slipped it to the back of the pile before he could dwell too long on it.

The last thing he needed was to analyze the familiar looking rash.

The most recent files were on the top, and it only took three pages for Sam’s stomach to finish dropping to his feet. He swallowed thickly as he read the lines she had babbled while unconscious.

They were transcripts of Y/N’s last, and apparently most intense, episode. Behind those were the transcripts of her hypnosis session with…Doctor Cameron.

Sam’s head snapped towards the door, eyes narrowing as he tried to put all the pieces together. When he looked back at Dean, his brother hadn’t moved, still entranced in the glassy eyes staring up at him from the lifeless photo paper.

Turns out it was their kind of thing after all, and it was time to call Castiel.

__

Dean had Y/N’s picture safely tucked into his jacket the minute Castiel had convinced him to move from his stupor. Cops had watched warily as the terrifying Agent stomped his way through the precinct and slammed his way out the door, Castiel in tow. Sam had waved apologetically, hoping they wouldn’t attract too much more attention.

The ride was awkwardly silent.

Castiel revealed Y/N’s prayers and the life he thought she’d taken once they’d gotten into the car and Dean hadn’t said a word since. Dean’s pounding heart practically filled the empty space as he raced to the address they’d been given. Sam’s stomach felt like it had pushed up into his chest as Dean took a few rough corners, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“Dean…”

“Shut up Cas.” Dean’s tone was shaky, but firm. No words would suffice now that he knew the truth of what Castiel had seen.

Dean was furious at both of them for so many reasons. A week. She’d been missing for a week. If they hadn’t searched so hard for Cain they might have found her before this.

As if sensing Dean’s thoughts, Sam’s were running along the same line. His guilt was compounding with every word he read from Y/N’s file. He turned another page.

From the looks of it, she’d been suffering a breakdown since Dean had taken on the Mark.

In the silence, all they could do was think. All they could do was ponder their mistakes and every sign they’d ignored.

Every time they’d brushed Dean off in favor of curing the Mark. They’d told themselves it was for Dean. It was for the greater good.

As Sam handed Cas the file, open to the pages where she had directly quoted Dean while he was being cured, he knew it was a lie.

__

Dean was tapping her song onto the steering wheel as he glared at Y/N’s apartment building. Sam had cleared his throat twice, but nothing was pulling Dean out of the car until he was ready.

Castiel had a habit of not realizing awkward situations, but this one was unavoidable. He knew finding Cain had been the right thing, but it didn’t feel like it at the moment. He exchanged a loaded glance with Sam in the rearview mirror that felt endless, their shared guilt simultaneously connecting them and separating them from Dean.

Then the driver door was flung open and Dean was gone. He was on the landing by the time Sam and Castiel entered the building, his head dropped against the door and eyes tightly closed as he inhaled the scent of death seeping thick though it.

Sam and Castiel smelled it too, and wondered what the police could have missed that was causing it. Dean’s hand hovered over the doorknob before he shoved it open, taking the crime scene tape with him when he stepped inside.

The smell of her was faint, it was obvious she hadn’t been there in a while, but it still smelled just like he expected–minus the rotting flesh somewhere in the apartment. His experienced eyes searched everything from the blood stains under his feet to the vomit stains by the couch.

The room was a disaster unlike anything he’d seen, but some part of him knew there hadn’t been a struggle. She’d done this herself.

His connection to her was singeing his arm, digging in and giving him flashes of emotion that came and went, flitting about like a hummingbird in search of nectar. His eyes followed the line of destruction until they found the room he was searching for. The one that contained her scent stronger than any other.

His feet were moving before he told them to, carrying him into what he discovered was her bedroom. Castiel and Sam hovered in the entryway surveying the damage as Dean had, but not seeing the pattern Dean had followed. Dean had no care for them as he stood just inside her door with his eyes closed, letting his nose and the Mark lead the way. He could hear them moving around despite the carpet muffling their steps.

“Get out!” He yelled suddenly. The feel of them inside her space was too much combined with the scent of Y/N, death, and the dozens of people that had traipsed through collecting evidence. Dean heard them stop then shuffle out the door. He waited until he heard the click before he really started searching.

The idiot officers couldn’t have used their noses because the scent of rot was strongest here. The knot headed alphas probably only scented her panty drawer, while the Betas probably hadn’t smelled anything besides the rotting flesh somewhere in the apartment.

Everyone was operating on the assumption that her body was hidden somewhere inside the apartment from the smell, but Dean’s instincts were telling him different. There was something dead, but it wasn’t his Omega.

The song playing in his head was evidence enough of that, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t been taken. Maybe the man she’d killed was the one who’d taken her…maybe she was on her way home.

Dean didn’t need to open any drawers considering they were all on the floor already. All but one.

His Alpha raged at seeing her panty drawer placed on the bed, two familiar Alpha scents lingering around it. They’d been at the police station.

There was only red as he grabbed the wooden drawer and slammed it into the wall. His chest heaved with the effort as he tried to control himself, forcing himself to remember that they hadn’t actually touched her. That crime was reserved for someone else. Someone who was possibly dead, and if they weren’t…they would be.

The Mark amplified his anger, but he was dealing with it better than anyone else would have. He caught a whiff of the death through the disturbed air and followed it to where the drawer had shattered against the wall.

Almost absently he grabbed a pair of her panties, barely a scrap of fabric, and tucked it into his pocket before moving the broken pieces of wood. Underneath, a small pile of books had been tossed just as carelessly as everything else around him.

“Sam!” He called, knowing they would come.

Everything in him knew what he was about to find, but he couldn’t believe it until he pulled the Bible from the bottom of the pile.

Dean almost gagged as his hand touched it, violent visions of sticking knives into innocent Omegas assaulting him.

“Dean?” Sam called from the doorway, knowing better than to step inside. His nose rankled as Dean crossed the room with the Holy book in hand. Castiel arrived just as Dean opened it to pages that were bulging the book out at the center.

The three men stared, disbelieving, at the Bible in Dean’s hands.

Castiel covered his mouth as realization set in, his eyes taking in the multitude of emotion the brothers were expressing.

Pressed between the pages, rotting, slick and wet, staining the pages black, were eight sets of dismembered eyelids.

__~*~__

Questions? Comments? Incoherent screaming?

Bring it on!

🖤

__~*~__

Story Tags:

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4ever&ever Tags:

@ain-t-bovvered @bamby0304 @curly-haired-disaster @dean-winchesters-bacon @ldyhawkeye @justcallmeasmodeus @maddiepants @mogaruke @mrs-meghan-winchester @stormy-skies-1997 @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @waywardbaby

Dean Tags:

@adoptdontshoppets @akshi8278 @bobasheebaby @paranoiadestroyah

[brxedens]

lost boys like me / self para

WHO: Ben Braeden

MENTIONED CHARACTERS: Lisa Braeden, Dean Winchester, Pierson Lowle ( Ben’s stepdad ),  Carson St.James.

WHEN:  March 16, 2018

WHERE: Whitmore College, Virginia.

TW:  alcohol, drugs, abuse,  blood. 

Ben’s held a lot of anger within him since Lisa had died. It’s only been recent that he's found ways to release it. A lot of it was anger at himself because he blamed himself for how the night when down the same way his stepfather liked to remind him that it was his fault after a drop of alcohol sunk in. Pierson was an ass. Maybe his mother didn’t see it, but Ben had. He’d been the lucky guy of Lisa’s to manage to get past that third date. That’s all been saw it as. He got lucky. He didn’t deserve his mother and he always thought it. He’s a loser. 

Maybe he wasn’t dealing in the best way but who was anyone to judge how he grieved for his mother? His mother definitely wouldn’t like the fact he’d been smoking pot as a mechanism and Dean had seemed just entirely disappointed with him which to Ben, was the worst part. He didn’t understand why Dean gave some much a damn about him. To add, why did it matter to Ben so much that he cared about letting him down. He went over millions of theories but he couldn’t get any of them to fit. 

Dean, for the most part, had been the one person he felt like he could count on around here but regardless of if he was protecting Ben or not, the young man felt as though he was being ridiculously secretive. It’s one thing to be an FBI agent, which is what Ben still thinks he is, but there must be more. He can sense it now. Maybe that’s why he exploded at him on top of the fact he rejected any male authority figure in his life that would come in as a father role. He had his mom and he never needed a dad. He thought about it, as anyone would, but it’s the value held no importance until his mom died and meant he was alone. 

As he went about his days now, he just regretted that outburst he had. He didn’t deserve it. Ben had seen signs in Dean that reminded him of his step-dad so he needed to step back from it. From him but he acknowledges they were the same people. At least, more so now things had died down. He wants to apologize. He’d rehearsed it over in his head but he hadn’t seen him. Ben went back to his place and found no sign of him staying there. He’d call, but he’d rather say everything in person. He didn’t see the Impala around Mystic Falls at the time so maybe he’d left for work? 

Ben was making his way from a quick victory celebration from the day prior’s victory at their baseball game back to his dorm. And the question of where Dean was, echoed in the depths of his mind. When his friend, Troy, had died, Ben was reluctant to go back to playing for the school’s team only because it didn’t feel right but he had to channel this aggression into something he was good at. And he’s really good at baseball. He’s the star player. The team’s much better with him than without. He needs some sort of support system in his first official game back. Carson had been that.

Carson had been there for him literally whenever he needed. Whatever he had with him was new. Exciting. An adventure in his life he needed to make him feel less shitty about the fact he’d recently been made an orphan. Maybe Carson doesn’t want to call him his boyfriend but they're in agreement they like what they’ve got. He’ll take it gladly. Carson made him a happy guy even in the times he felt he wasn’t going to be.  Little things like that had Ben more excited and having Carson show up to something as insignificant as his college baseball game and even meet a couple of his friends, was everything to him. Ben’s not particularly nervous. Not around a general crowd at least but Carson had him more relaxed than anybody at this point. Ben’s coming to be more open. He believes Carson’s a good influence the person he’d like to be. It still didn’t the fact, that he wanted Dean there at his game too. 

“Ben!” 

A voice called over which immediately grabbed his attention. It’s familiar and hauntingly so. It sent a chill down his spine and he froze in place, slowly turned around to face the source. His step-father. “What do you want?” Ben’s voice filled with a certain disgust. He could already tell from that slightly slurred tone of his voice that he’d been drinking and now he could see it all over his facial expression and body language. This couldn’t be good...It couldn’t end well. His first instinct, was to throw a fist at him. So he did. Drawing red crimson to run from his stepdad's now bloody nose. Pierson just chuckled a little at it, tutting his tongue and shaking his head. 

“Woah, woah, woah. I think that’s the wrong attitude to have, pal. How about a little gratitude for the fact I didn’t cancel those cards you stole from me or report you to the cops for stealing my car? I came to check on you. Don’t be ungrateful. I took this whole ride here just to come on see how you were doing and I don’t even get a hello? Where’d your manners go, kid?” 

“Oh, hi, Pierson. Good to see you.” Ben said with an immediately obvious sarcasm laced in his words. “How’d you ever know I’d be here?”

“It’s the twenty-first certainly, dumbass. The GPS on your phone is still on. I was in Mystic Falls earlier. It didn’t take me long to get here. Besides, I dropped you off with your mom on your first day at this place, remember?” Pierson threw his arm around his step-son who was around the same height as him. The fact he did that immediately made Ben uncomfortable because of what Pierson had done to him before when he’s drunk. Thrown glasses at him. Hit him. At one point, Ben had convinced himself Pierson wasn’t such a bad guy. It just took him his mom dying for Ben to figure out he was only good around him for his mother’s sake. “I thought you were staying with that guy that came to the hospital. What’s his fucking deal? Is he your dad or somethin’ kid? Sure as hell act’s like it.” 

“Well, he’s not,” Ben said with certainty. Dean didn’t know his mom to his knowledge. He could smell the alcohol on his stepdad's breath. He smelt horrible on top of that too. “Doesn’t matter. Just a family friend.

“What was his name again?” 

“Dean...” 

“Never heard of him....” Pierson furrows his brows. He didn’t like the fact Ben was staying with this guy he didn’t know about. He’d much rather have him in his vision and care. As his guardian, it falls down to him. 

“Anyway, what you been up to, kid? You playing baseball again, I see. Nice job.” Pierson went to shaking his hand in his hair to ruffle it up a little bit. “You know, I got a call earlier. The strangest thing happened?” Ben’s eyes turn to face him as he stops from their walking. “I got a call earlier about your mom’s grave?” 

“Wait. What about it? Someone didn’t do something to it, didn’t they?” Of course, Ben would be fulling with rage if anything happened to it. 

“No. It’s actually nothing to do with it. I woke up from a nap earlier to this call about if I know some guy. I said no? Some fucking loser decided to call it quits and died right by your mom’s grave, kid. What are the chances? They said he’s random and they have no idea who it is cause he had no ID on him but what a piece of shit, right? Died with a bottle with him, they tell me.” 

Ben doesn’t know how to feel about that. For starters, who is Pierson to call some guy he didn’t know a piece of shit when he’s a walking-talking waste of human air and space. A reminder that shitty people do exist on this glorious earth. Then again, it’s another death in his life that affects him in some way even if he doesn’t know who that guy was. He felt lost again at the idea of processing death by his mother’s grave. Maybe it was someone she knew. He thought about that but he doesn’t say anything as he walks along with his stepfather. 

He felt like a lost boy of Peter Pan’s. Young and trapped. 

[foxyorston]

Kolb Cycle Learning Experience

The Cards for Play Experience:

The Cards for Play Assignment experience in BCT has probably been one of the biggest learnings for me. It left me thinking, reflecting and analysing my takings from the experience for weeks afterwards, and has affected the way I approached future assignments such as the current Data Objects assignment. The Cards for Play task forced the need to think creatively, yet at the same time critically. Forcing idea and concept development and redevelopment. It put me in the mind of a creative designer and forced me to think in ways I hadn’t previously. It set a good example for me personally of how a designer should think, and approach difficult scenarios.

Designing a set of cards that facilitates play sounded easy. A deck of playing cards flashes through your mind, easy. Simple. And yet, even within the first few days I was being forced to think in new ways, challenge myself and my “comfortable” design processes. The fact that it was a team exercise made me feel confident in my ability, as I excel in a group environment, being extroverted. I find it easier to bounce ideas off others and thought that working in a team would be easy and would accelerate the solving of the ‘problem’. Throughout the experience this assumption was proven wrong however. At first the group couldn’t think of enough ideas, and then we boxed ourselves in by deciding on one that was complex because we wanted to do something ‘unique’ and ‘risky’. As the experience neared its end we had cycled through so many different concepts, and ideas that didn’t work that by the time we had one that ‘might’ be workable it was too late to back out, and we had to rush through and complete the idea we had due to the now miniscule time left before submission. In the end we finished the morning it was due and looking around at other team’s work I realised our project was one of the more ambitious ones, and while it had worked out in the end, it was shallow and not as fleshed out as it could have been due to being rushed. I think the lack of clear focus and proper productivity in the beginning of the experience really held us back as it came to the later weeks in the assignment. By the time we had all found our ‘places’ within the group and started to work efficiently it was already almost too late, and we found ourselves panicking and rushing to finish our project.

 Experience Observations:

I believe one of the major challenges to face in this first assignment was that for most of the group, this was their first proper University assignment. This meant that a challenge to tackle as a group was the independency, and the need to self-direct ourselves as an efficient team. Luckily, the team was confident that we would be able to create a unique set of cards that fit the brief well. Often ‘Team confidence is related to, but distinguished from, efficacy and group potency. Efficacy researchers have shown that individuals who believe they can perform needed actions exert effort and are productive’ Steve Alper, Dean Tjosvold, Kenneth S. Law, Interdependence and Controversy in Group Decision Making: Antecedents to Effective Self-Managing Teams (1998). This added confidence in our own skills both independently and as a team meant that we were productive moving into the concept stages. I think that this was one of the major factors that helped our team pull through as we faced concept failure after concept failure. I noticed that despite our ideas often falling short, there was always another one to replace it, and the group never lost confidence that we would be able to complete a high-end product.

Something that I noticed throughout the project was that there tended to be a singular person, or two people taking control and guiding the other team members to a solution. This seemed almost natural, as certain individuals were more vocal leaders, and more outspoken. According to the ‘Babble Effect’ Daniel Levi, Group Dynamics for Teams, ‘Group members are more likely to select the most frequent communicator as the leader’ Mullen, Salas & Diskell (1989), Group Dynamics for Teams (10.1). Whether this is a subconscious or conscious ‘election’ of a group leader, I viewed it happening as my team members seemed to gravitate towards one person’s ideas and listen to what they had to say primarily. While this was effective, it was never clearly voiced that ‘this person is the team leader’. And while this doesn’t always have to be the case, the unproductivity of our group in the early stages could have been prevented if someone was to properly take charge and set everyone on a productive path.

It was interesting being in a group with largely Introverted or silent people, as they would only contribute ideas when asked, or after others had put forward their ideas. The Extroverts seemed to be the ones taking control of the project and putting forth the ideas, ‘Intrateam communication will be more natural for the extrovert than the introvert’ John H. Bradley, Frederic J. Hebert, (1997) Journal of Management Development. However, upon reflection, everybody had ideas, the people who were more silent and ‘introverted’ just required more prompting to divulge their ideas, whereas the more vocal and ‘extraverted’ required none. Prompting the more silent members of a group proved to be vital towards the end of our assignment, as some major problems were solved with their input. Knowing this now will enable me in the future to take into consideration even the those who don’t seem to want to talk at first sight but might have crucial information or concepts in their thoughts.

Reflection:

On reflection of the project, the early weeks where the teams were told to constantly scrap their ideas and start over make a lot of sense. I believe it was this that nailed in the message of learning from failures, and always striving to improve. As more of our joint ideas “failed” the group strived to better the concepts and learn from past ones to come up with more effective solutions.

The project taught me a lot about how to manage and work with different learning styles and personality types within a group. This was one of the most important take-aways from the Cards for Play experience because for the rest of the time I will be working as a Creative Technologist I can expect to be working with many different types of people. And understanding how best to work well with them, and slot into my own spot within a group dynamic is important. Not knowing how to do this before Cards for Play affected the speed with which we were able to reach an effective solution. I believe that If I had known how to mesh better with a team and work together in a self-directed environment sooner we wouldn’t not have been as rushed and unrefined by the end of the project. Being able to take that knowledge into future projects will enable me to more effectively work with differing learning styles and personality types while staying productive.

The skills I can take away from this learning experience are endless. The different ways to approach problems and constantly better my ideas kindly ‘hammered’ into me by the repeated process of scrapping and improving one’s ideas, to the ability to quickly get a team into a productive headspace. Being able to take these skills forward has already helped me, as the Data Objects Assignment has in my opinion progressed much smoother now that I have a greater experience in with properly working and meshing with different learning styles.

 References:

Daniel Levi, (2015) , “Group Dynamics for Teams”, https://books.google.co.nz/books?hl=en&lr=&id=l3tZDwAAQBAJ&oi=fnd&pg=PT18&dq=group+dynamics+teams&ots=GlazVg2Yf4&sig=DgSs1e6SS-kwUZqw0X2tMftb2QE#v=onepage&q=leader&f=false

Steve Alpera, Dean Tjosvold, Kenneth S. Law, (1998), “Interdependence and Controversy in Group Decision Making: Antecedents to Effective Self-Managing Teams”. https://www-sciencedirect-com.ezproxy.aut.ac.nz/science/article/pii/S0749597898927480

John H. Bradley, Frederic J. Hebert, (1997) "The effect of personality type on team performance", Journal of Management Development, Vol. 16 Issue: 5, pp.337-353, https://www-emeraldinsight-com.ezproxy.aut.ac.nz/doi/full/10.1108/02621719710174525

[fanfic-from-a-67-impala]

Bad Terms (Part One)

Characters: middle sister!Reader, Dean, Sam, a medical examiner, a waitress

Word Count: 3602

Summary: Requested by anonymous: Can you please do a oneshot where You and brother dean are constantly at each other’s throats till he/or you get caught by a djin and get saved by the others and like you and Dean hug for the first time in over a year?

Warnings: estranged sibling angst, Lawrence house fire angst, reader likes girls (which isn't really a warning), cliffhanger

A/N: I don’t think I’m supposed to say this, but this is my favorite request so far. Part one of two for this request.

You were always scared of the dark.

It’s why the why the soft flickering glow from the crack under your door, for the last few peaceful moments of your life, comforted you. There, in your bedroom – the one up the stairs, the first door on the left, right next to Sam’s, right across the hall from Dean’s – your small, two-year-old hands inched your blanket down so you could peek out from behind it.

When you caught a whiff of smoke, though, a tingle of fear settled into the pit of your stomach.

“Mommy!” you yell.

Laying still, sweat forming on your forehead, you waited for her to burst through the door, as she had so many times before when you’d had a nightmare or heard a strange noise. But she doesn’t come.

Instead, you heard a scream. You heard crashing, bounding footfalls. Then, the roaring and crackling of a fire. Your dad shouting.

You didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, until your door creaked open. Your eyes, trained on where your mom should be, instead darted down to where your big brother, Dean, waited with the baby Sam in his arms.

“Dad says we have to go, (Y/N),” he shouted over the fire. “Come on. We have to go.”

You slid out from under your covers and toddled over to where he stood. You left your room, standing back to memorize its place up the stairs, first door on the left, before following him down the steps and out the front door, but not before catching a terrifying glimpse of the fire swallowing Sam’s room.

Your thirty-three-year-old self stands in a blazer and a button-down, surrounded by chatter and indistinct police radio, when you spot the tall man in a suit across the wall of metal slabs, flashing a badge to the medical examiner. And, for some reason, that night – the night of the fire – consumes your mind.

His eyes flicker over your head, then snap back to you, questioning.

It can’t be him, you think. He’s too tall, too grown-up, his eyes have seen too much.

His lips form your name, though, as he crosses the buzzing room separating you. It’s not until you’ve pulled him down into your arms (you have to pull him down this time), not until the chatter, the corpses, everything has disappeared, that you allow yourself to believe it’s him.

“Sammy,” you whisper.

He embraces you tightly, so tightly you can feel his heartbeat against yours. It feels familiar but all kinds of different at the same time.

After not nearly long enough, you pull away. “Ah, let me look at you!”

His eyes are still wide with shock, but he lets you hold his hands out to the side and step back to examine him.

You push aside the sharp twinge in your chest and instead let relief flood your heart with the knowledge that he’s alive.

He glances down, a light blush rising to his cheeks.

“You grew out your hair,” you tease, twirling the strands in your fingers. “You look good, Sam.”

His face softens. “Thanks, (Y/N). You’re looking good, too. What’s it been – like, thirteen years?”

“Closer to fourteen, yeah,” you agree. “Not since–”

“Stanford.”

“You’re right. It’s been–” you clear your throat after your voice breaks– “it’s been a while.”

“I don’t really know where to start,” he admits. “We didn’t… we didn’t even know if you were alive.”

You nod, ducking your head in apology. “I guess a low profile’s one of the perks of, you know, not saving the world everyday.”

“You heard about that, huh?” he mutters.

“A lot of people have,” you say. “Makes it easier to keep tabs on you.”

“That right?”

The figure behind Sam creeps into focus. He makes the same confident strides he’s always made toward you before coming to an abrupt stop next to his brother.

“No, please, go on,” he remarks. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“Dean,” Sam warns.

“Sammy, stay out of this one.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Actually, Sam, don’t bother. You two obviously have things covered here. I’m moving on.”

“Deserting your family again,” Dean says. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Consider it an act of mercy. I'll even leave that pretty face of yours intact this time,” you add.

He clenches his jaw as you imagine he recalls your last encounter. In fact, you can't remember the last time the two of you were in the same room that didn't end in at least one of you with a broken bone.

As you turn to leave, Sam catches your arm. “(Y/N), wait. Dean…” he pleads.

The air between you and Dean chills, your glaring lines of sight freezing over. Before the two of you can disintegrate each other, Sam steps in front of you, blocking your sight.

He throws his arms out to the side and drops them. “Will you just… tell me what happened to you two?”

“This isn’t exactly a new thing,” you reply. “We’ve been at each other’s throats since before I can remember.”

“But you could always work together. I don’t understand what happened there.”

“I left, as I’m sure you’ve heard,” you say.

“She made her choice, Sam,” Dean sneers. “We came to work the case. Let’s work the case.”

He tugs on Sam’s shoulder, but Sam shrugs him off, tilting his head at him. Dean responds with a firm stare, but it withers and reduces to a conceding eye roll.

Sam turns to you again. “One case. Please.”

You glance at Dean, who avoids your eyes, before dragging your gaze to Sam again.

“You know, that thing–” you wag a finger around his face– “that wide-eyed puppy dog thing you’ve got going on?”

He chuckles and shrugs.

“It’s still not freaking fair,” you groan.

“Something we agree on,” Dean says. “Now do we have more feelings to feel, or can we get to the body?”

“All right,” you sigh, extending an arm in the direction of the lab-coated woman across the room. “Your lead.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

You glance between the two brothers, examining the way they move with each other, even during an argument. You don’t underestimate their bond, or the disadvantage it leaves you at as an outsider.

“Unless you want to spend more time discussing it,” you snap at him.

He raises a hand in surrender before continuing on to the doctor.

“Agents,” she greets. “What can I do for you?”

“Hey, doc. I’m Special Agent Clapton. These–” he gestures to you and Sam– “are Special Agents Baker and Bruce. We’re investigating the John Doe with the jelly insides.”

“Cream puff guy?” she says.

You stifle a laugh, but she notices and smirks in your direction.

“Sure thing, agents.” She leads you to the wall with the metal doors and pulls one open, sliding out the slab with a massive, swollen body laid atop it. “Appetizing, isn’t it?”

You mumble in agreement.

“We haven’t done the autopsy yet,” she explains. “The chief wants to run the corpse through some forensic radiological imaging before we perform any extractions.”

“People speak, doc,” you request.

She laughs. “Basically, we cut into him now – Vesuvius. We’re going to run some tests, take an x-ray, and then we’ll take a giant syringe and draw out the… jelly.”

“Now, what do you know so far?” Sam asks.

“They found the guy in the park, no ID and no one else around. I don’t have cause of death yet, but we did find something interesting.”

You tilt your head to watch as she lifts the shoulder of the body, revealing a large blue handprint. “We swabbed it, but nothing came up. It’s almost like it’s tattooed on there.”

“When do you think those lab results will be ready?” you ask.

“We’ll put a rush on it. Have it ready for you in a couple hours,” she answers.

You nod. “Thank you.”

She holds your gaze a little longer while she gathers some papers before crossing the room again to leave. “He’s all yours, agents.”

You turn away from the boys’ direction until you feel the blush in your cheeks cool.

Dean taps Sam’s arm. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That someone’s got the hots for (Y/N),” Sam teases.

“One of the perks of not actually being a fed,” you say. “There’s no one to tell you you can’t hook up with the cute M.E.’s.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you, Sammy?” Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably.

You shoot him a proud beam. “Wow, remind me to ask about that one later. In the meantime, what is it you were thinking?”

“Djinn,” they respond at the same time.

“Djinn? Since when do djinn liquefy their victims?”

“There’s an offshoot,” Dean explains. “We caught one of these last year.”

“Now all that’s left is to find out where it’s staying and kill it,” Sam states.

You nod. “Easy enough, right? How many tattooed, blue-eyed, pasty-skinned freaks can be running around this town?”

They exchange a glance.

“They’re not tattooed, blue-eyed, and pasty-skinned, are they?” you frown.

“That’s the thing – they can pass as humans,” Sam notes.

“We’re going down to the station to check out the missing persons in town. Why don’t you stay here with your… girlfriend… and wait for those results?” Dean suggests.

“Or you could come up with a better excuse for getting me out of the way.”

He draws back from your comment, but then shrugs. “All right. How about the last one of these we worked, it turned out to be the coroner?”

You turn to Sam, who nods. Out the small window of the swinging doors, the doctor reaches across the counter to hand a file to the receptionist who greeted you earlier.

“You think it’s her?”

“I’m not thinking anything yet,” Dean says. “So, you good here?”

You nod.

As Dean leaves through the same swinging doors, Sam sucks in a breath, which he sighs out again. “Wow.”

“What?” you prod.

“Nothing, just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “If he thought I was so much as looking at someone we might have to kill, he’d never leave me alone with her.”

“Well, I always was the detached one. Maybe that’s part of why he hates me.”

“Or maybe it’s why he wants to hate you.”

“What do you mean?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Sam!” Dean calls, propping the door open. “You coming or what?”

Sam follows him out the door, sending a small wave in your direction.

The doctor – Doctor Elizabeth Finch, you learn – performs the autopsy and has the results to you before lunch. Pouring rain splatters the parking lot as you walk across, clutching the folder against your chest. You reach the diner and spot the boys in a corner booth.

“Hey,” you greet, sliding into the bench next to Sam.

“That it?” Dean nods to the folder you dump on the table.

“The autopsy report of one John Doe,” you confirm.

“Not anymore,” Sam states. “The guy’s name was Karl Sanders.”

“You ID’d him?”

“He’s an attorney from a town in the next state over,” Dean says.

You shake your head. “This is making less and less sense.”

“What do you mean?”

You flip open the folder and point tap a point on the first page. “The doctor found trace particles of wood and lividity marks from a paneled surface. She thinks it’s from finished wood from some kind of structure.”

Dean frowns. “So, what the hell is going on here?”

“Beats me.”

“What else did she get from the body?” Sam asks.

“It looks like he died of a fever. The creamy filling was essentially his melted internal organs.”

“Oh, perfect timing,” Sam says. He eyes the waitress who carries three plates of food over to your table.

“All right, we’ve got the double bacon cheeseburger…” she announces, “Cobb salad… and a BLT, extra bacon for the lady. Enjoy.”

Her words, the sight of the sandwich she places in front of you, hurl you back in time. Suddenly, being here with your brothers, sitting in the same greasy diner every town has, doesn’t feel foreign at all.

“Wow,” you breathe. “I haven’t had one of these in ages.”

Sam shifts in his seat. He must have remembered from all those years ago that it was the only thing you ever ordered. The thought warms your heart.

“I, uh, just kind of assumed,” he says. “We can get you something else if–”

“It’s perfect, Sam. Thank you.”

He offers you a shy smile, barely meeting your eyes before turning to his salad.

You clear your throat. “If we’re still liking the doctor for this, I’m on board.”

“Why’s that?”

“Apparently, she does a lot of travelling, works all over as a forensic pathology consultant,” you repeat what she told you. “And besides, no one that interesting becomes an M.E. for the hell of it.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “If you think she’s so sketchy, why trust her autopsy?”

“I got a couple other doctors’ opinions without her knowing. They all agree.”

“We checked her out, too. Red flags everywhere. No family, no permanent address.”

“The gig makes it easy to cover up her kills,” Sam adds, “and the liquefied organs lines up with what we know about this kind of djinn.”

“We should track her down, find out what her deal is,” Dean suggests.

You bite your lip. “Well–” you pull out a business card, a room number of the hotel where she’s staying scrawled on the back– “I’ve got that one covered.”

The crackle of static over the speaker alerts Dean to your presence down the hall.

“Radio check,” you test.

He turns the receiver over in his hand and holds the button. “10-2. Loud and clear, (Y/N).”

“What am I looking for?”

“We don’t know yet,” Sam responds from over Dean’s shoulder. “Just keep an eye out for any red flags.”

“10-4. I’m going in.”

“Be careful, (Y/N),” Sam says.

Dean watches the video feed from the camera attached to the button of your shirt as it moves with you on Sam’s computer screen.

“Why do you have to do that?” he grumbles, setting the receiver on the glass tabletop of the hotel room with a clatter.

Sam’s eyes dart around in confusion. “Do what?”

“With (Y/N).” Dean flings a hand toward the radio. “Treating her like…”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Like she’s our sister?”

“She’s not,” Dean snaps, “all right? She walked out on us.”

“She walked out on you,” Sam retorts. “And so did I, but you came and got me at Stanford anyway, so don’t pretend that’s what this is about.”

Dean draws back in shock at his brother’s words. The two of you had issues since the night of the fire, and when Sam left for Stanford, you lost what little buffer he provided. That, Dean always thought, was when the tension gave out and you finally snapped. It was what made you leave, too.

He doesn’t respond to Sam as your three raps on the door sound through the speaker.

It opens with a click, revealing the doctor’s casual form.

“Agent Baker,” she greets, her voice sultrier than Dean remembers.

Your voice deepens to a low hum. “Doctor Finch.”

She chuckles. “You can call me Liz.”

“Well, in that case, you can call me–”

“Okay.” Sam reaches over and turns a knob on the radio, muting the voices. “That’s enough of that.”

The picture shakes as you make your way inside, the video scanning the room. Dean glances over the suite, complete with a king-size bed, kitchenette, and a sofa, its design similar to the room they rented for tonight.

You sit on the couch and the camera stills, following the doctor – Liz – as she stands with her back to you at the minibar. She makes her way toward you, a glass of something clear in each hand, one of which she holds out to you.

She joins you on the couch, close enough to reach out and touch you. She crosses one leg over the other, pushing the fabric of her skirt up her thigh, and when you turn, Dean can see her arm slink across the back of the sofa.

Sam mutters something about him staring, but Dean only waves him off.

You set your drink on the coffee table and make your way across the room toward a bathroom.

Sam turns the radio up again. “(Y/N), tell me you didn’t touch that drink.”

“Of course not,” you whisper.

When your reflection in the mirror comes into view, Dean can see the fading blush in your cheeks.

“What do you see?” Dean asks.

You open a cabinet in the corner of the bathroom, which holds only a few white towels on the shelves. At the vanity, you run the faucet before shuffling through the drawers. You pull back the shower curtain to find an empty, pristine white tub and a shower caddy with hotel soaps.

“Nothing but normal human people stuff,” you conclude. “But if I were a djinn, I wouldn’t be draining people’s blood in my company-sponsored four-star hotel room either.”

“See if you can get anything out of her,” Sam says.

“All right, stand by.” You turn off the water and make your way outside again.

The screen travels from the empty couch to the bed, where Liz perches. The picture shakes as your breath hitches in your chest before you shuffle across the room to meet her.

“You know, the people I work for always set me up in these big hotel rooms with these huge beds,” Liz drawls. “They really are cozier with two people.”

You chuckle, and even Dean can barely pick up on the shocked quiver in your laugh. “I’ll bet they are.”

She extends her arms to you and you accept with your own. When she pulls your chest against hers, she covers the camera and the screen goes dark. Dean hears static again as your mic brushes against fabric.

“You don’t want to get to know me better?” you murmur.

“Not particularly,” she teases. “Do you?”

“I think I know enough,” you say. “You’re not what I thought you were.”

Dean looks to Sam for confirmation of what he already knows: your last comment was meant for them. She’s not the djinn.

Before he can curse, the sound of your lips smacking against hers cuts through the disappointment and fills the room. This time, Dean’s hand shoots out to turn down the volume knob.

“Well, now what?” he huffs.

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I guess we– Wait.”

On the screen, Liz looks directly at them – or, rather, at the camera. Dean can’t hear her, but the rage and disgust in her eyes leave little to the imagination as her lips move at you.

The video follows you all the way down the hall until you burst through the door of their own room, eyes wide. You lean your back against the door, your chest rising and falling.

After a few silent moments, Dean opens his mouth to speak.

“Nope,” you interject, “we’re not talking about it.”

Later in the night, you pore over a map splayed out on the table while Sam traces his eyes across his computer screen and Dean rifles through the pages of an ancient book. Your head bobs back and forth as you struggle against your leaden eyelids.

“That’s it. I’m getting coffee,” you declare. “And some food. Any requests?”

The boys glance at each other before turning to you again.

“That’s not a good idea, (Y/N),” Sam says, “not with a djinn running around.”

You raise a tired eyebrow at him, daring him to try a better reason.

“Besides, that lady probably called the cops on you. They could catch you,” he argues.

“I’d like to see them try,” you remark.

He looks to Dean with pleading eyes, but Dean doesn’t meet them.

“The diner’s, like, three blocks away. I’ll be twenty, thirty minutes tops, all right?” you say.

Your voice is firm, but you still wait for his sigh of reluctant agreement before you head out the door.

Gloom and mugginess hangs in the air from the earlier rain, and you track mud into the lobby of the hotel when you make your way back, a carrier of coffee in one hand and a plastic bag of Styrofoam plates in the other.

Sam clears a space so you can drop them on the table, looking more content than earlier. As you survey the room, you guess why.

“Where’s Dean?”

“Look, don’t be mad,” he says. “He went to follow you.”

You narrow your eyes at him, still too tired to process his words. When you finally do, the thought of Dean going after you tugs the corners of your lips up.

Your hope sinks as quickly as it rose.

“We’ve got to go,” you say, collecting a silver knife and the small pot of lamb’s blood from the table.

“(Y/N), wait. It’s okay,” Sam insists. “He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

You pocket the knife and check the magazine of your gun. “I know he’s good, but so am I. Sam, I would’ve known if someone’d been tailing me the past half hour.”

The realization seems to strike more quickly with him before he springs into action, echoing your movements before following you out the door.

Read part two here!

[roadtripwiththewinchesters-blog]

S1E3 - Dead In The Water (Chapter 1)

A/N: I’m posting again after taking a really long break. My apologies, I had a bit of a family crisis. Everything’s all good, time to get back to my preferred universe. 

Word count: 3,080

Summary: It’s been over week since you took the wendigo case in Blackwater Ridge. With no new leads on their father’s whereabouts, the Winchester boys are getting antsy and clash about what to do next. A newspaper article sends the three of you to Wisconsin, where something stirs in the dark waters of Lake Manitoc, responsible for the disappearance of a young girl. 

“And last night, Joni invited Mrs. Lieberman over for dinner and she brought one of her tuna casseroles-”

“Oh no...” I groaned, having had a firsthand experience of our neighbor’s cooking skills. 

I had spent the past ten minutes of my Wednesday morning in one of Wyoming’s finest payphone booths, as my little brother Gus filled me in on the latest events back at home. 

“I tried to get her cat to finish it for me, but even he wouldn’t touch it.” 

Despite how much I loved hearing about the things going on in his life, right now my stomach was growling, egging me on for some breakfast, making it increasingly difficult to pay attention to him. My eyes trailed to the hotel diner behind me, where Sam and Dean had occupied the counter - their heads were practically butted together and I rolled my eyes at the thought of them arguing again. It had been over a week now since we had left Colorado and we had found no new leads on John’s whereabouts, which made everyone tense. Dean had started looking for cases elsewhere, to Sam’s annoyance. Sam didn’t think we should be doing anything else but searching for their dad. I knew he was worried, but I had to agree with Dean - although I didn’t tell him so. The last thing I wanted was for Sam to think I was taking his brother’s side. I only agreed that until we had something real to follow, taking cases was all we could do. 

I said my goodbyes to Gus and headed inside. Sam saw me come in, holding up a hand to wave me over. It seemed their squabbling had simmered on its own - I couldn’t help but notice the vacant seat that was now left between them.

With a small smile of greeting, I hopped onto the middle seat, eyes skimming the menu suspended on the wall. The smell of pancakes and bacon was almost intoxicating enough to make me forget we were looking for a job. 

“So, got anything?” I asked, eyeing the newspaper spread out in front of Dean.

“Think so,” Dean placed the page in front of me, the article he had circled in red capturing my attention. 

“Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin.” He began, paraphrasing. “Last week Sophie Carlton, eighteen, walks into the lake, doesn’t walk out. Authorities dragged the water; nothing.”

I stared at the photo they had used of Sophie. It struck me that she was only a few years younger than I was. I remembered taking my yearbook picture like it was yesterday. Dean continued, “She’s the third Lake Manitoc drowning this year. None of the other bodies were found either.”

I admitted it sounded like our kinda gig, but more than that, Sophie’s life was over before her senior year was and nobody had a clue what had happened to her. I felt like her family was owed the truth.  

“Alright, Lake Manitoc,” I said, nodding. “I’ll get breakfast to go then.”

We made the thousand miles from Wyoming to Wisconsin in about two days. We made an overnight stop at a motel for what I knew was my sake - despite Sam’s protests that he and Dean were tired too. We both knew they could’ve made the trip in half the time without me, but Dean insisted I was doing them both a favor for coming with them. I was grateful regardless, I wasn’t used to living on the road like they were. Apart from Sam’s hiatus to college, this was the only lifestyle they had ever known, and it seemed old habits really did die hard, as he had adjusted back to it with ease. If my aunt Joni hadn’t taken me and Gus in when my mom died, we probably would have faced the same upbringing.

Since I had hit the road with the Winchester boys, I had thought over my decision profusely. There wasn’t much else to do on our travels but listen to the radio and think, until the ever-moving horizon turned my brain to jelly. 

I realized I might have been a bit rash, tossing my college degree aside to come with them, but I had convinced myself it was the right thing to do. Their dad was missing, and Sammy was grieving, and whilst I could never imagine myself completely embracing hunting as a lifestyle, it offered me the kind of freedom I had been craving my whole life. 

I had decided that I would stick with them at the very least until we found their dad, alive and well. I owed John that much considering all he had done for my mom before she passed. 

It was around midday when we reached town and we didn’t plan on wasting the day. Sam and Dean took off right away to talk to the Carlson’s. I didn’t have an ID for the Wildlife Service (I’d have to get that one made for the future), so I checked us into a motel and began digging through website after website for anything on the history of the lake. 

I didn’t mind being left alone for a while. I had been stuck in a car with them both bickering for two days so I rather appreciated the silence. I sat cross-legged on the bed in my room, Sam’s laptop propped up on my lap. I really hadn’t been snooping, but I had saved a document to the computer and when I searched for it in his recent items, I stumbled across a picture of him and Jess. I was compelled to click on it. From the costumes and the date on the file, it was from Halloween, just days before... 

Jess was dressed as a nurse, but I wasn’t surprised to see Sam not in costume. He had never liked the holiday - too much crazy in his life already, I supposed. She was in his arms, and they were both beaming at the camera. That wasn’t for me to see, and it only infuriated me. I closed the file, slammed the laptop shut and pushed it aside, suddenly feeling very guilty. Sam had been happy. He was doing what he wanted for the first time in his life. I had been so proud when he was accepted into Stanford, I had even been the one to send him off. But now it was back, the thing that had killed his mom, and it was fucking with his life once again. Maybe I was going to have to stick around to see the thing dead after all. 

I jumped at the sound of my ringtone. It was Dean. 

“Hey, what you got?” I asked, nonchalant. 

“We’re on our way down to the police station now,” he informed me. I could hear the rumble of the Impala’s engine in the background. “We were just at the Carlton’s house. Sophie’s brother Will says she was a hundred yards out, when she was dragged under.”

“Well, what did he see?” I inquired, sitting upright as he peaked my interest. So far, we really had no clue as to what we were dealing with. 

“He wasn’t there.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “But if he didn’t see anything, how can he be sure she didn’t just drown?” I had to ask the obvious, we had to be certain this was our kind of job. 

“Sophie was a varsity swimmer.” Dean said shortly.

“Oh.” That was good enough for me. “I think I have something too.” I began. “It’s a good thing you called before, I looked into the area. Manitocs’ dam is falling apart and the town can’t get a grant to repair it-”

I heard him and Sam discussing something in low tones so I wasn’t sure he was really listening. “Dean? Listen, this is important. It could blow your cover with the Sheriff. The lake’s gotta be the source of this thing, but it’s going to be gone in a few months, so I was thinking that might explain the increase in bodies, right?”

I waited for his judgement, but all I got was some feedback on the other end of the line. He was distracted. “Alright, good job, we’ll be back soon.”

I busied myself with reading John’s journal the rest of the day. Dean had left it with me for research, but, naturally, I was distracted by the vast knowledge it contained. I soaked up page after page of notes on creatures I didn’t even know were real, some I hadn’t ever heard of. John’s sketches were terrifying. I noted down a few phone numbers scrawled in the margins that caught my eye - I presumed they were family friends so I set them aside for Dean to call later. It didn’t feel like my place to follow them up myself, but I thought maybe one of them may have heard from the eldest Winchester.

A couple hours passed, I had exhausted my resources and was staring idly out of the window, consumed in a daydream, when I caught a glimpse of the Impala turning into the motel lot. 

There was a knock on my door a minute later, I called out that it was open and Sam stuck his head through the gap to tell me that they were back. I was still a little dazed, and he must’ve noticed because he frowned at me slightly before coming to a stop at the foot of the bed. 

“You okay?” He asked, shrugging off his jacket.

I gave him my full attention, suddenly burdened by a surge of guilt as I remembered how I had invaded his privacy earlier. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. What did the cops say?” I said, turning our focus back to the case. 

“We talked to the sheriff,” he informed me, the bed dipping slightly as he sat on the edge. “He did a sonar sweep of the entire lake.”

“And?” I prompted, hopeful, as there was another knock on the door.

“And nothing.” Dean interrupted his brother, shutting the door behind himself. “Lake was clean.”

“Well I dug up as much as was on public record...” I scooted down the bed, to present my finds to them. I flicked through the disordered stack of paper that was my research until I found what I was looking for. “Turns out there’s been six more victims over the last thirty-five years, and none of those bodies were recovered either.” Dean paced the length of the room in thought, his arms folded. “The most recent three were all only in the last couple of months.”

Dean scratched his chin before deciding, “I think you were right about the dam. The lake’ll be gone soon so it’s upping the body count.”

“Whatever this thing is, it’s running out of time to get what it wants.” I concluded grimly.

“So, what?” Sam interjected, setting the records aside. “We got a lake monster on a binge?” 

We exchanged glances - all three of us skeptical. “The whole lake-monster theory- it just bugs me.” Sam said, not yet satisfied with the verdict.

“Maybe a water spirit?” I offered half-heartedly.  

“We have to find out more about this thing before somebody else gets hurt,” Dean decided.

“Dean, we don’t have any leads.” Sam said shortly. He turned to me to elaborate. “Will wouldn’t let us talk to his dad.”

“I mean, the poor guy...” I muttered at the thought of Sophie’s father.

“I don’t know,” Sam said unconvinced, glancing at his brother. “Did you get the feeling he wasn’t telling us everything?”

“You should’ve seen the look on his face,” Dean told me. 

I glared at him. “Yeah well, next time we need to pose as Federal Wildlife I’ll have my ID ready.” 

“Barr.” Sam interrupted suddenly. He was peering at his laptop in thought, eyes tracing the screen as he read. “Barr. Where have I heard that name before?” 

Christopher Barr was one of the three recent victims. I learned he had been married to the Sheriff’s daughter, Andrea, who the boys had met down at the station along with their son Lucas. Sam mentioned there had been some shameless flirting on Dean’s part, of course, but I cut him some slack - he hadn’t realized she was a widow. A year ago, Christopher had taken Lucas swimming when he disappeared just like Sophie Carlton. The poor kid was left floating on a wooden platform for two hours before he was rescued.

“Maybe we have an eye witness after all,” I muttered, exchanging grim glances with the pair of them. None of us wanted to drag a kid back into this mess but it was looking more and more like the only lead we had. 

“No wonder that kid was so freaked out,” Dean remarked. “Watching one of your parents die isn’t something you just get over.”

I skimmed my eyes over him. 

Damn. I had forgotten hunts could get like this; really fucking personal. 

My mom had been dead for almost nine years now. It was an accident; I was thirteen. That’s how I had really met the Winchesters. My dad had been out of the picture for years, so when she passed we fell under the care of my aunt Joni, as my mom’s only living relative. Joni had the funeral once we moved to Oregon so Gus and I could still be close to her. I got my first glimpse of Sam and Dean at the service. Even among crowds of people I had never met, the pair of them stuck out like sore thumbs. I didn’t know it then, but they had come to attend in the place of their dad, an old friend of my mom’s, who was... otherwise unavailable. 

 As if high school wasn’t brutal enough, I had to start freshman year, not once, but twice. Had I not bumped into Sam underneath the bleachers on that very first day, my life would probably be very different now. It had been his first day too, Sam and Dean had enrolled for a couple of months, and we quickly found we had more in common than just that. Dead moms, annoying brothers, and the like. I had never had a friend like Sam before, but with the Winchester’s arrival in town, so came the sudden presence of the supernatural into my life. 

It hadn’t really been their fault, it was just a coincidence. In fact, had they not realized a poltergeist had latched itself onto my brother and I, we probably would have died. They said it was attracted to the negative emotions surrounding my mom’s death - the grief, the anger. When everything was over, Sam told me what he’d been hiding from me, his family secret; the truth of what was really out there - and it scared the shit out of me. I had just been a kid, trying to wrap my head around the concept of death and the loss of my only parent. But what was the existence of the supernatural after dealing with all of that?

I hadn’t realize that there were other ways for death to cripple a kid until I saw Lucas. I didn’t think it was such a good idea - going to a playground without a kid - but Dean insisted we play it cool. With a bit of subtle stalking, we found Andrea and her son on the grass - the kid a few feet away, his head down as he drew with a fistful of crayons. Sam and I let Dean take the lead on this one.

“Can we join you?” he asked Andrea, casually.

Dean was undoubtedly a people person, though he didn’t always come off that way. He was also good with kids, which didn’t take me by surprise like it did everyone else. I knew he had practically raised Sam himself, but sometimes when he wore his aloof attitude for too long, even I could forget this side of him. 

Andrea looked up. “I’m here with my son.” She was pretty, I noticed. 

“Oh. Mind if I say hi?” Dean said, already making his way across the grass.

“He’s harmless, I promise,” I smiled sitting beside her. I held out a hand, “I’m Y/N by the way, we haven’t have the chance to meet.”

She introduced herself politely, still looking uneasy about Dean approaching her son. Sam interjected with some timely small talk. 

“Tell your friend this whole Jerry Maguire thing is not gonna work on me,” Andrea said, eyeing him stubbornly. I suppressed a smirk as I realized she was attracted to him.

“I don’t think that’s what this is about,” Sam told her, sitting next to me.

“He seems wonderful,” I said, watching Dean kneel beside the small boy. “Lucas, is it?”

Andrea smiled warmly. “He’s a real good kid.”

I nodded. “I have a kid brother,” I felt compelled to tell her. “He’s a little older than Lucas.”

“They grow up fast, don’t they?” Andrea remarked.

“Just wait ‘til he starts bringing bugs into the house,” I warned her, earning a laugh from her. 

Andrea seemed more comfortable after that, as I had hoped. She eyed Sam and I for a moment. “So, how long have you two been together?” 

“Oh no-” I shook my head.

Sam cleared his throat, “We’re not-”

Despite the same assumption being made incessantly over the years we been friends, we had never learned how to deal with it.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Andrea said, and the three of us sat in an awkward silence broken only by Dean’s return. 

Before he said anything, she began explaining her son’s disposition to us. Since his dad’s accident, Lucas hadn’t said a word, not even to her. Doctors had said it wasn’t an uncommon result of post traumatic stress when it came to kids. 

“You know, he used to have such life.” Andrea sighed, watching Lucas with the kind of softness only a mother could harbor for her child.

“He was hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there. Drawing those pictures, playing with those army men. I just wish...” Her sentence trailed away from her as Lucas approached us, a picture in his hand.

Andrea smiled at him.“Hey sweetie.”

But Lucas stopped in front of Dean, his head down, holding out one of his drawings . 

“Thanks.” Dean looked taken aback, swiftly accepting it. “Thanks, Lucas.”

Lucas quickly returned to his mother’s side, but Dean seemed troubled as he stared at the page. He flipped it over for Sam and I to see, whilst Andrea’s back was turned - it was a simple picture of a house, but it left the three of us unsettled. Was this Lucas trying to tell us something?

GIF CREDITS

1. @always-keep-writing

2,3. @gracefuldean

TAG LIST 

@be-with-me-for-evermore

@a-little-bit-of-everythin

@puppies-make-me-extra-happy

@for-a-brothers-love

@that-was-scary

@sherlock44

@dean-is-my-favorite

@blxrrytylxr

[elizabethrobertajones]

13x04 watching notes

TBH that is my exact strategy when I am tired and want to go home.

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it's 2am and I just woke up after a lengthy power nap/full REM cycle because going to bed at 9 is for cool kids so uh I'm watching the episode but also it's 2am. I didn't do it deliberately but here I aaaam.

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Getting right in there with Dean telling the the truth in the recap - is he really gonna spill it all to a therapist? experts have been awaiting it ever since 1x10 so

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"experts" being me, I am an independent judiciary body

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*grief grief grief* *Jack angst*

Oh yeah Cas recap because Cas is back

Should I even write expectations for this episode? I'm a bit late since I already started watching :P Blah blah Glynn blah blah probably going to be fine, blah blah swear I saw someone say she's "never written Cas before" but uh we just had recaps from 12x19 so I mean who wrote that?

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this guy has a weird reaction to the dead wife coming back

like, oh, okay, that happened. guess we say hello

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Is this the "understated" reaction when Cas comes back

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Oh we're doing regular old stabbing? Is this a shapeshifter thing or a revenge curse thing? Is it all going to be romantic couples? because lol pls don't

Also the recap did expressly list off 2 dead moms and a dead crowley along with a dead Cas who is also a brother and father to active main characters

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Sam like "hey"

Dean like >.> Are you trying to be friends after I yelled at you?

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Sam being remarkably cool about Dean's netflix and holy oil suggestion

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Dean being extremely less cool about Sam's suggestion

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They're sort of recapping the argument from the end of last episode for us, which is good because it wasn't in the recap unless it was but it's 2am and my brain randomly discarded that

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oh my god it was

okay these are not meta notes

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Sam's trying to play at grief counsellor and it's super not working because he's using it as their fight. You don't get in a snappy comeback about "oh so you want to move on"

Dean looks extremely murderously done with all this because How Dare etc

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"For me"

God damn puppy dog eyes.

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awww Jack's watching The Clone Wars. Because he is a wee new baby and this is his star wars generation I guess.

mittensmorgul pffft. (I have never seen Clone Wars so I have no idea what that even means)

elizabethrobertajones It's the adventures *drum roll* of Darth Vader when he was still Anakin, before he went evil Ashoka or however you spell it is his Padawan

mittensmorgul aahhh

elizabethrobertajones Jack's identifying with her and not with the pre-evil but still getting the Imperial March music layered over his bad decisions Anakin the entire show is 10000 episodes just an endless "we can't make him go evil because that happens in the movie but we can tease basically everything up to that" stuff

mittensmorgul At least he's iffy about Anakin...

elizabethrobertajones yeah good choice, basically it's also brand new he found the non-dinosaur version of Star Wars of the previous generation :P and it's less political than the prequels I think The Clone Wars is generally well-liked whereas nerd rage dictates the Prequels are the Worst and I guess it's Too Soon to get into the newer Star Wars films since we don't know how the arcs of the new kids pay off

[side note: I haven't watched it per se because there's tons of it but I've been in the same room as my brother watching it, and seen a lot of pop culture general knowledge that I've sponged up so I could be wrong about some little details as I mostly know how it's been described to me]

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Also Jack's identifying with the female character, because fuck off toxic masculinity, she seems awesome and he has no idea he isn't “”supposed”” to. She also is one of the aliens with the huge tentacle things on her head so idk if it's a good idea for him to get too into this without  meeting more of the general population - Sam's probably right

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Uhoh, Jack kinda does a snarky eyebrow about "you're the good guys" - Did Sam fail to sell it or is Jack really just starting to have trust issues now he's watching TV with black or white morality (literally a dark side and a light side - hrm.) and given his experience of the Winchesters yelling their very shades of grey takes on him at each other

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Well he hasn't learned to be cagey about overhearing that

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*blink blink blink* *sigh*

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"You're *using* me"

Oh no, poor Jack :(

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He also implicitly trusts Dean's judgement more than Sam's bonding, despite how Sam has made all the movements towards him. As people have been meta'ing, Dean's being extremely honest and Jack's setting his markers by that, even if it's horrific to the point of deciding he has to be evil because Dean thinks so.

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Sam says he, Dean and CAS closed the rift - hey, Cas got knocked out by Lucifer in round 1 of that as a distraction and Crowley helped you close it.

They probably have not explained Crowley to him at all.

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At least Sam is being honest now about what happened with the rift, and that it's their mom

and Jack speaks the language of lost moms. Now HE looks at SAM with sympathy.

Probably also explains Dean...

I think Jack is defaulting back to thinking about Dean way more than Sam's opinion of him, although perhaps he may like Sam more now he was upfront and some of why "so uh yeah I was KINDA using you" is on the table

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Jack was wearing a darker henley, which tbh with Dean wearing them again all of a sudden makes it blurry to me if this is not about his Dean-alignment more than colour coding his feelings on being evil (like how Amara's nail polish started off black and got right down to light grey by the end of the season). Now he's swapped to being the Cas Intern.

Ow.

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and aww all the fake IDs. There's a lot to take in about these guys :P

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Oh no Dean said "loony toons" on the episode which may or may not be an exact use of 8x08 for Cas, for Jack. Jack's a bit more of a trial run about wanting to BE a hunter since he is mostly just curious. Also amused Dean has to rephrase for Jack because he actually knows he's a week old or so, and he's not going to enjoy repeating himself or explaining, while he always found it kind of funny to just say a whole string of incomprehensible pop culture at Cas without slowing for a breath.

Not funny now, is it Dean?

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Wait have they never actually fought a revenant aka, idk, it sounds like a naturally occurring zombie? They mention it from time to time but as far as I remember they've never actually called zombies revenants because they're one of the shows where they just embrace the horror movie tradition about zombies completely, so it always seemed like revenants were something slightly different, at least, in the sense that they get named like a different category. And they just lumped them in with ghosts here, as restless spirits but i guess this time *with* the body?

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Dean tells Jack to sit, like he was a dog being kept in the car.

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Unlike dogs he knows how to work the door handle.

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Jack no don't touch the blood

oh good Dean stopped him

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Aw no he's still wearing the dark henley under the tan jacket. That's awful :D

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Pfft Dean's like immediately "it's a revenant" because they know what those are really well after a billion years hunting and we've never watched them ever name anything on screen a revenant before with that vocab, and they're really sticking with not crossing them over with zombies exactly...

I mean Dean said he wasn't a revenant after he got back from hell and I think they've chattered about them before

if I check this on superwiki it's way too early for there to be a spoilery "so it's not a revenant" line from later in this episode highlighted when I hit the search :P

Oh good, I'm glad I'm right.

A revenant is a visible ghost or animated corpse that returns to terrorize the living, usually people it knew in life. Unlike the zombie, a revenant is not under another person's control, and has returned from the grave on its own for a specific and often personal purpose. In 4.01 Lazarus Rising, Bobby accuses Dean of being a shapeshifter or a revenant. Dean proves he's neither by cutting himself with a silver knife. In 8.06 Southern Comfort Garth takes a call from a hunter asking how to deal with a revenant. Garth tells him to get a casket and some silver spikes, then nail it in and bury it. He also warns that getting bit will hurt like hell, but will not turn you into one.

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I wonder if those were revenants in 4x07 and I only ask because it was like almost exactly an anniversary to it in OUR time :P It's still May or maybe June for them in-show

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Okay Dean left Jack to dig but Sam chased after Dean rather than it being a synchronised Winchester ditching of Jack :P

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Little on the nose about "You're starting to sound like dad!" :P

"Is that a bad thing" Oh Dean, no.

Fortunately the theme of this season is fathers so I suspect you're gonna have to deal with this at some point or another

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Sam like "the drill sergent thing won't work on Jack" to the sound of Jack merrily digging in the background because Dean told him to

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I really hope that wasn't an on-set hazing that they actually left him to dig :P

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I love my smol gravedigger son

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I love how Jack did all the digging anyway because Sam's still not actually dirty and Jack's still standing in the hole

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Lol not a revenant, well there's a surprise. I'm glad I double-checked the lore anyway because I have the time to so I'm not going to spend the rest of the episode like "wait what IS the difference between them and zombies anyway and why have we never seen one?"

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I mean it's not gonna be a ghost either, we're 9 minutes in and they're salting and burning because it makes more sense to Dean to do that than not to - I guess a precaution for accidentally angering her spirit for digging her up...?? :P I mean no he still thinks she's a ghost but I mean maybe it's not a total waste of salt.

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OH NO Jack don't ask about if Kelly is a ghost, that's very painful.

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OH NO I thought he was going to ask about Cas but instead Dean said "what gets burned, stays dead" and that hurts a lot

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FORTUNATELY for me the viewer as opposed to Dean the grieving ball of angst over there, I can go check up on Cas immediately.

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He doesn't seem to be doing too good but more in an existential way since he's at least up and walking about.

I like how Jack woke him up but it's probably got to be like a baby bird has to hatch itself.

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He's using up all his "hellos" on the void. Save one for Dean.

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You know if the MotW is imitating dead loved ones I have to say I am not exactly looking forward to this :P I didn't say earlier but the cold open gave me 11x13 vibes and honestly I don't want a repeat of the stress of waiting for Cas to show up for Dean but it not happening... Okay, belatedly 10 minutes in, there's a baseline expectation for the episode that that doesn’t happen. Then again I forgot to check the names at the bottom of the screen except for being happy to see Misha's there so they could spring anyone on us

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Throw a real curveball in just like bring some random dead loved one from the first 3 seasons back :P

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Or waste Jim Beaver's season 13 appearance on it and he's never even in the AU with Mary :P

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Anyway Jack is waiting patiently in the car.

(or, well, not so patiently.. He's starting to get an idea of how the job works, and that Dean is usually repeatedly wrong about everything as he throws spaghetti at the wall about the case...)

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Anyway, dead son, dead wife, so that's quite a neutral combination.

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Asking what they had in common probably means the grief counsellor, but Dean says that and then we go back to Cas right when I've been musing on the loved ones coming back for them thing and honestly it's like Dean's words are just summoning Cas right now.

....... 8x08 used flashbacks to summon Amelia for Sam, just saying

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I hope Cas finds Billie and hopefully a bar immediately and they can become drinking buddies.

I don't even think she's in this one?

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I like those assertive footsteps though. "I have no clue where I am, I am just going to walk in this direction like I mean it"

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Lol they're in Madison i was KIDDING about bringing back a dead loved one from like season 2 or something. Oh well, if it's her, it's her. I'm still bitter about Sarah because I only just re-watched it with my mum the other day.

I should probably stop bringing up Sam's dead or lost girlfriends because it's just bumming me out on his behalf.

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Teehee "he's not our intern"

well

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"I asked you to keep an eye on him" "I can see him"

It's amazing Dean didn't volunteer just to get away from Jack

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Sort of weird existing in a post That Declaration world where I can just canonically know Dean staring at Jack is making him think sad things about Cas without any fear whatsoever

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Oh boy killer grief counsellor probably. "Mia is promising to provide the catharsis I've been craving for so long" and then she gets ripped to shreds by her son.

I feel a little bad reading this woman's diary, but the first line is about not "getting over" it and learning to live with it. Blah blah heal and rebuild yourself, blah blah whole again but never the same

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"Shrinks... Snake oil for the mind." "Or how healthy people deal" Pfft

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Jack being baffled by the issues of customer vs hot dog guy without understanding it's an ancient war fought across the world

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Dean equates "catharsis" to "happy ending" - I can't tell if he's innuendo-ing or accidentally revealing too much and being mournful about it.

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The house has a great fence - its parts are all misaligned. Very visually uncomfortable :D

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Awww someone said "hello" to Jack and Jack was like !!!!! another person!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HELLO! :D :D :D

how can you possibly think he's bad

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Anyway I was about to type that Dean hates it because of course he feels the most vulnerable talking about his feelings all the time, either for performing Dean reasons about needing to keep up a facade of strength (LET YOURSELF CRY, MAN) or because feelings for Cas being inconvenient to him

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UHoh Dean grabbed Jack's shoulder - he did it to Mick to be threatening last year in a Glynn episode, while Mick was wearing a long tan coat. And called Jack "Spock" which is not really accurate characterisation at all. Jack's pretty much nothing but a bundle of emotions, he's just not used to using them around other people. Now CAS on the other hand.....

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I do like that Mia decided to see them because Jack is sweet and was upfront about losing his mother and he's just adorable.

They bluff their way in by losing a collective mother, Sam once again lining them up as family and siblings.

Play it cool, man. You’ll scare Jack off.

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I'm starting to think we haven't seen Cas between scenes for a while because Dean hasn't said anything angsty enough

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But idk if we trust her or not. She has a lot of alcohol stashed on that shelf.

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Jack wisely doesn't sit on the sofa with them all.

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"Oh well Mom was great and now she's dead so what's the deal with catharsis" Dean, no.

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Sam continues with what should be the pre-arranged plan of spill closed truths like well we don't journal but our dad did

also I am so annoyed that confirms they don't keep hunter journals??? grarghgh

Google has ruined this generation

And Dean makes fun of journaling as being for little girls, even though Sam literally just said that about John. Last year in 12x04 he said he was a 13 year old girl when trying to text Mary so he's actually regressed even further backwards at losing her again >.>

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"I'm good with death, closure, the whole friggin bottle of Jack"

it's a shame he would never put a bumper sticker on Baby, because that...

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Oh boy we're still having this fight. "My brother's delusional..." yeah oh dear.

Is this going to be one of those things where I basically just want to transcribe the whole thing?

Dean calls out Sam for not being able to even admit that Mary's gone so he hasn't even moved past denial - which to be fair, Sam IS right she's not dead and that they DO have a means of getting her back and everything... Was thinking about how last season was a "Dean is right about everything" season and this time is clearly a Sam is right about everything one... but of course both only to a certain degree, and in this case it's much blurrier about approach and how these fights are going because of course Sam's not being a perfect Saint Sammy that Dean is being unfairly awful to in the entirety of what's going on here. Sam IS struggling and resisting confronting things in his own way and adopting Jack as a pet project is definitely a form of avoidance or at least wanting to get concrete closure on Mary's death before he will fully mourn. Which makes Sam and Dean existing in the same place terrible because they're only in the same physical location

anyway Dean's about to yell  about how hard this all is for him too so I better unpause once I'm holding a stuffed toy again

"At least you had a relationship with mom" WAHEY

I mean that was awful but I'm delighted Sam yelled that because there's ALWAYS something else going on underneath Sam, and I've been waiting for more Sam and Mary angst, since I spent so much time on them last season and at least obliquely referred to this... Talked a lot about how hard Sam had it to reconnect with Mary... That Words with Friends scene from 12x07 was basically floating along waiting to come back up at some point or another, but it took Sam a long time to reach out to Mary personally, and really only in 12x14 (hi Berens, I just accept you and Glynn are brain twins these days) did he pick a side in THAT fight and picked Mary. And we said it was to get closer to Mary but he made it all about the BMoL instead of just confronting that he wanted a relationship with her, and the BMoL ended up just keeping them apart ANYWAY and tl;dr am I going to have to write the reverse version of A World Without Monsters from Sam's POV or can we just agree that my subtext in that fic was exactly what just bubbled up here? :P

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I just spent the entire length of that paragraph trying to work out when I wrote the meta about how Sam felt about Mary and it took me until that last point to realise it was not a meta, it was a fic where I roundly abused poor Sam for the sake of making that point.

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Dean's like hey therapy is great! *eyebrows at Jack* *snarky smile at the doc*

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Sam is like *anger-drinks water*

*refuses to cry as well*

BLOOD

(CRY, DAMMIT, SAM.)

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That sign was down earlier

is this the poor receptionist?

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Or... ew, shifter gunk?

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LOL Dean just takes a flask out of his pocket in the middle of their appointment

Mia asks him to look at Jack, which is the last thing he wants to do, but blah blah meta about 12x22 and how he needs to "see" Jack, and she's pointing out that Jack is terrified which is exactly what Dean needs to see about him

subtle

She actually points out his anger issues as well so I think Dean's getting homework whether he has to write it in a journal or not :P

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*suddenly everyone is pointing guns*

Hey if she's a a shapeshifter why does she live in an all-white house when shifting makes bloody goo stains everywhere?

Or her assistant, I guess. They haven't had eyes on him :P

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Ooh that explains why the guy was not surprised to see his wife. Well, kind of surprised, but not nearly horrified enough.

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Sadly if she is telling the truth that means someone else is using her method to get their guard down to kill them for kicks...

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Also shades of 9x13 because they had that spa where the monster would use their unique skills to help, but then of course another of their kind - a sibling - had to go and ruin it...

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Oh hey, it's Cas! I guess the time ran out on a good transition from Dean, so we go over here on "I'm telling you the truth"

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Lol it's another Cas... Who ever would have expected it. /Misha being the worst at spoilers

Or something with a very silly voice. "Friendly neighbourhood cosmic entity" that sounds like that and won't show its face is either someone pranking Cas or about to go very bad.

Cas is like "do I look like that" "I'm getting a new coat as soon as I'm alive again"

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if this thing is The Empty itself it's probably kinda crazy after eons being nothing

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Oh NO Cas's face when he says "every angel that ever died is here?" because oh boy did you put like 90% of them in here yourself. There's about 3 faces you'd be happy to see again of the entire lot. Hey, it's never too late to give Cas that guilt all over again that made him stay in Purgatory out of penance.

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I mean among other things but it's probably worth mentioning there are a whole bunch of lil purgatory parallels here in the loosest sense of it being a hostile other realm, and the way Cas is basically Dean in Purgatory in here.

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Cas has been back for like 5 minutes of screen time and I want to protect him and wrap him in blankets

there's no need to be mean, The Empty, just because you got woken up... I say... at nearly 4am... because I woke up when I didn't want to...

you know what, The Empty's being mean to Cas probably kind of justifiably, even if it's a dick.

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pretty clever to use a shifter as the motw in this episode too

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oh, poor Cas is horrified to think Sam and Dean made some sort of deal for him

he says "I don't know" which is ironically what Jack's saying all the time

like father like son

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LEAVE HIM ALONE

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last episode we had James keeping memories of Missouri, who he had cut out of his life, in a box. Now Mia has a box still dedicated to "Buddy" her asshole ex who hurt her, and good on her for leaving him. He's another shifter, we're halfway through the episode, so we probably need to find him now, and also have a good 10 minutes more of whatever's going on with Cas. :P

She also owns up to have done much worse things in her past with Buddy, although presumably not killing people, and probably because they were super toxic together, and she had the sense to get out and try and help people now.

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Jack said "I'll come with" which is adorable. He's learning to be like them :D

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Wheeeee he's riding shotgun! Guess Dean couldn't make him stay in the back without Sam around.

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Sam's plan's don't always work out :< Oh no, Dean, you still don't have much faith in Sam's ability to handle himself.

Fortunately this does seem to be a mostly Sam is right season, and I think of all the overwhelming reasons why you don't trust Jack, not trusting Sam to trust Jack is probably relatively low on the list underneath the Cas stuff or you'd have just yelled that at Sam the other day instead.

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Uh, why do I feel like the shifter just phoned Sam and somewhere between here and there something went really wrong?

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Oh god I'm going to have to watch the face peeling scene with my own two eyes at 4 in the morning, aren't I?

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Meanwhile Mia explains why her catharsis works to Sam - I hope he doesn't sneak back at the end of the episode for a chat with "Mary" because that would be AWFUL.

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Oh it was that other guy - wait, also, Sam was already doing this before Dean phoned? Seems like he doesn't trust Dean's methods either :P

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CAAAAAAAAAS

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I love how Cas is so practical like, "will you pay me $200 to stop annoying you and go away?"

UHOH guess we're getting right into it. "You don't want to go back" "Sam and Dean need me" You don't want to be needed, you want to be wanted!

Wheeee text on that and also wheee over on the other side of the story last week Dean finally made the i/we distinction about Cas. Now we just need to get them alive and well and actually dealing with crap

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oh boy I shouldn't have paused there except that i suppose for the sake of meta-ing remotely clearly it was probably a good idea not to watch straight through from that into the empty accusing Cas of having feeeeelings and "I know *what* you hate, I know *who* you love, what you fear." especially since Cas hates being needed but not wanted and uh Dean made the i/we distinction at long last over on the other side of the story so um does Cas fear something related to all that?

I mean to be fair Cas has been through this exact thing before with "he's in love... with humanity" / "all of it for one man" which was an "i/we" distinction of planetary proportions :P Of course he just mutely responded to it there because he was sad Dean was dead, and had no idea Metatron had accused him of being in love in any form, so that was Metatron's private joke to himself.

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The Empty telling Cas there's "nothing for him back there" also makes like next to no sense if you take season 12's family read at surface value and has the bonus of being, I'm pretty sure, a line Elrond tells Arwen in the movie when he's trying to make her leave Aragorn and go across the waters to the undying lands.

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I know they're just starting with it in a long selection of terrible things that happened to Cas but starting with his grace being stolen really sucks :P

Especially when I am still daily haunted by his season 9 arc.

See above: Metatron and "in love with humanity"

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More miscommunication of the "didn't bother to call you" variety (I hope this doesn't blow up in Sam's face, although of course trying to nurture Jack is slow mo doing that, especially if he and Dean are meant to swap stances on the kid >.>)

The intern pulls Mia aside for a chat.

OH NO Jack wants to see his mom. OH NO OH NO

I will be so upset if that happens...

Oh nooooooo

he's crying.

Who can say no?

This is extremely awful.

I guess Glynn didn't want to let Kelly go like that. I'm glad if Mia was going to do this for anyone it would be for Jack and not Sam and Dean's cycles of nonsense.

I REALLY hope the bad shifter doesn't burst in here and try to/actually kill Mia right now. Jack doesn't need that in his life.

In the mean time, Mia better friggin HUG Jack even if it's technically hollow and he would know it.

Also did she do the whole disgusting skin thing or can she transform on the spot?

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HUGS FOR THE NOUGAT BOY

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They look so much alike :')

Oh no Jack you probably don't feel anything because they made you horribly depressed within 2 days. Also you have angel grace. Historically not good for helping you feel things. You're sweet and cry about your mom and feel bad about stuff in other ways so I think you have a heart no matter what, like Cas does.

Mia gets some catharsis from getting to hug Jack and reassure him that even if he's a monster and what makes him in-human isn't letting him emote how he's supposed to, he can still be good. She's got a monster soul, after all. There's a lot of good monsters out there.

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I was about to say lol is this now Sam not on the phone because he actually is a shifter now mostly to tease past!Me but then they panned down and Dean's unconscious, which makes sense because they probably still want to show us Dean tearing his own face off at some point and honestly I'd rather just get it over and done with because if it's still to come after this D:

"that was too friggin easy" though - Dean getting overwhelmed in another fight. He's really not had a great rate of success... He only beat the wraith last episode with Patience's warnings, and other than that it's been a terrible track record even if he fights back as hard as he can when he gets jumped

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shifter!Dean2 better not go in and try and kill Jack

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Not gonna have much luck, I just don't want to watch it :P

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MORE HUGS FOR JACK

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WAIT NO YOU CAN'T HUG HIM AND THEN HAVE HIM KNOCKED OUT IN THE SAME SCENE

I TYPE NOT LOOKING AT THE SCREEN BECAUSE DEAN'S RIPPING HIS FACE OFF

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Shifters are gross

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Oh no don't call Cas a disappointment, The Empty, we're so proud of him!

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He just told him to "save yourself" which is probably going to have the direct opposite result to what he wants while I'd hope Cas goes and does exactly that

"I'm already saved" blah blah Cas insults The Empty and I love him, "because somehow I'm awake, and I'll stay awake" - exactly how many times can I use "i love him" as punctuation in one sentence?

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Where is that gif of the woman banging the pots and pans about not getting any sleep so they're not getting any sleep

that's something I ought to have saved :P

Someone almost certainly has made a post already.

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Cas is the literal embodiment of "fight me"

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This Buddy guy is a total douche. He says in this world everyone uses everyone. Which is a theme of the season I guess - Cas feeling used, Jack feeling used... He's the villain with the most negative version of the theme in his mouth right now

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Dean's got to pep talk Jack if he wants to save the day or Jack goes and saves the daaay - I'd prefer Jack does it

Look, Mia's getting hurt and she was kind to you and in the most literal use of character mirroring in 1000 miles is an actual stand in for your mom!

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Ooh is Jack gonna save Sam instead? Dean just pep-talked him specifically about how Sam believed in him which was having to start to admit that Sam, well, believes in Jack. Which Dean couldn't even accept last episode when he was saying that he was just using Jack

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Yay thanks Jack, kinda figured Sam wouldn't get shot :P Jack's powers are fascinating - he's definitely bending time... from Sam and Dean's perspectives last time they were caught in it they were at least sort of aware of things, but Jack pretty much works in bullet time.

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I also like how he kind of had a ridiculous "NooooO" because he's been watching Star Wars. I don't know if there's a "Nooooo" in the Clone Wars but I mean have you met a Star Wars

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Anyway good riddance douchey ex with extra douchey powers.

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I love the shot of them all standing together and Jack has that benign :3 face on again. He's really insufferably cute.

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Ewww the Bunker sink is gross. I assume that's from decades of lying in disrepair and that those are stains Dean could not get out.

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I guess Jack's getting a glass of water and Dean's midnight snacking. I have no other explanation for this encounter despite the fact it could theoretically happen at literally any point of the clock :P

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Oh gosh, is he going to give Jack a beer

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Yay, actions helped

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Aw, the other beer is for Sam. Guess this doesn't have to be midnight after all. I thought he might have a longer chat with Jack

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oops is this the beginning of the slide in the other direction? Sam's been undermined and even though he was proven right to Dean's eyes and Dean's had to grudgingly hand Jack the win in the case and admit it to Sam, Sam's like, "I guess"

And they don't know what Jack asked for from Mia because patient confidentiality! Argh!

Oh no Sam don't start wondering if Dean is right.

AAAH they're actually talking about things really well. Dean's like "don't say that" - even if he can't believe it he doesn't want to HURT Sam and rob him of his hope... Sometimes yelling about things does make them get better in the long run once you get it out there >.>

And Dean deputises to Sam for the feelings. And admits how HE has been feeling, because he believes in nothing, because all his faith has been taken away because there was only one thing he ever ended up believing in no i didn't see the next scene transition before i hit pause what are you talking about

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Again, though, if this is Cas back in the mortal plane after annoying his way back to life (worrisome, since he's 2 episodes out of reuniting with them and where's Billie? Oh gosh is Billie back for reals too if he IS back? Whaaaat.) then that's another awfully convenient moment to transition scenes from. Dean finally using "i" instead of "we" about Cas and making it abundantly clear that he and sam didn't feel the same about that, was, whether the direct reason or just narrative karma they chose to bestow on Dean, what made Jack reach out to Cas. Now he admits out loud that he doesn't believe in anything with the implication when you look at Dean vs belief that this is about Cas, and we go over to Cas definitely at least in an improved situation.

Goddammit that's the new coat which means he didn't come back naked but wait! Lizzy's hope wasn't the same as everyone else's at all! Although that was a shallow moment of defeat :P Mwa ha ha, I was hoping Cas would come back and be gifted a whole new Cas get up and lo and behold unless he chose to manifest these clothes onto himself and there's noooo ulterior motive at all going on here (uh... probably not going to get more than 1 per show and we used it up on Mary :P) but he's confused and waking up and the last time we saw him he was in the clothes he died in... So of course if he's being sent back to earth then someone else chose the battle armour he'd be returned in. One Cas, fit for purpose.

Also, realising once he sat up more it was the new coat makes me pretty sure he is back on Earth.

Also he looks happy to be here and I think he can tell :P

Same, Cas. Same.