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holyhellpod · 4 years ago

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Holy Hell: 3. Metanarrativity: Who’s the Deleuze and who’s the Guattari in your relationship? aka the analysis no one asked for.

In this ep, we delve into authorship, narrative, fandom and narrative meaning. And somehow, as always, bring it back to Cas and Misha Collins.

(Note: the reason I didn’t talk about Billie’s authorship and library is because I completely forgot it existed until I watched season 13 “Advanced Thanatology” again, while waiting for this episode to upload. I’ll find a way to work her into later episodes tho!)

I had to upload it as a new podcast to Spotify so if you could just re-subscribe that would be great! Or listen to it at these other links.

Please listen to the bit at the beginning about monetisation and if you have any questions don’t hesitate to message me here.

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Transcript under the cut!

Warnings: discussions of incest, date rape, rpf, war, 9/11, the bush administration, abuse, mental health, addiction, homelessness. Most of these are just one off comments, they’re not full discussions.

Meta-Textuality: Who’s the Deleuze and who’s the Guattari in your relationship?

In the third episode of Season 6, “The Third Man,” Balthazar says to Cas, “you tore up the whole script and burned the pages.” That is the fundamental idea the writers of the first five seasons were trying to sell us: whatever grand plan the biblical God had cooking up is worth nothing in face of the love these men have—for each other and the world. Sam, Bobby, Cas and Dean will go to any lengths to protect one another and keep people safe. What’s real? What’s worth saving? People are real. Families are worth saving.

This show plugs free will as the most important thing a person, angel, demon or otherwise can have. The fact of the matter is that Dean was always going to fight against the status quo, Sam was always going to go his own way, and Bobby was always going to do his best for his boys. The only uncertainty in the entire narrative is Cas. He was never meant to rebel. He was never meant to fall from Heaven. He was supposed to fall in line, be a good soldier, and help bring on the apocalypse, but Cas was the first agent of free will in the show’s timeline. Sam followed Lucifer, Dean followed Michael, and John gave himself up for the sins of his children, at once both a God and Jesus figure. But Cas wasn’t modelled off anyone else. He is original. There are definitely some parallels to Ruby, but I would argue those are largely unintentional. Cas broke the mold.

That’s to say nothing of the impact he’s had on the fanbase, and the show itself, which would not have reached 15 seasons and be able to end the way they wanted it to without Cas and Misha Collins. His back must be breaking from carrying the entire show.

But what the holy hell are we doing here today? Not just talking about Cas. We’re talking about metanarrativity: as I define it, and for purposes of this episode, the story within a story, and the act of storytelling. We’re going to go through a select few episodes which I think exemplify the best of what this show has to offer in terms of framing the narrative. We’ll talk about characters like Chuck and Becky and the baby dykes in season 10. And most importantly we’ll talk about the audience’s role, our role, in the reciprocal relationship of storytelling. After all, a tv show is nothing without the viewer.

I was in fact introduced to the concept of metanarrativity by Supernatural, so the fact that I’m revisiting it six years after I finished my degree to talk about the show is one of life’s little jokes.

I’m brushing off my degree and bringing out the big guns (aka literary theorists) to examine this concept. This will be yet another piece of analysis that would’ve gone well in my English Lit degree, but I’ll try not to make it dry as dog shit.

First off, I’m going to argue that the relationship between the creators of Supernatural and the fans has always been a dialogue, albeit with a power imbalance. Throughout the series, even before explicitly metanarrative episodes like season 10 “Fan Fiction” and season 4 “the monster at the end of this book,” the creators have always engaged in conversations with the fans through the show. This includes but is not limited to fan conventions, where the creators have actual, live conversations with the fans. Misha Collins admitted at a con that he’d read fanfiction of Cas while he was filming season 4, but it’s pretty clear even from the first season that the creators, at the very least Eric Kripke, were engaging with fans. The show aired around the same time as Twitter and Tumblr were created, both of which opened up new passageways for fans to interact with each other, and for Twitter and Facebook especially, new passageways for fans to interact with creators and celebrities.

But being the creators, they have ultimate control over what is written, filmed and aired, while we can only speculate and make our own transformative interpretations. But at least since s4, they have engaged in meta narrative construction that at once speaks to fans as well as expands the universe in fun and creative ways. My favourite episodes are the ones where we see the Winchesters through the lens of other characters, such as the season 3 episode “Jus In Bello,” in which Sam and Dean are arrested by Victor Henriksen, and the season 7 episode “Slash Fiction” in which Dean and Sam’s dopplegangers rob banks and kill a bunch of people, loathe as I am to admit that season 7 had an effect on any part of me except my upchuck reflex. My second favourite episodes are the meta episodes, and for this episode of Holy Hell, we’ll be discussing a few: The French Mistake, he Monster at the end of this book, the real ghostbusters, Fan Fiction, Metafiction, and Don’t Call Me Shurley. I’ll also discuss Becky more broadly, because, like, of course I’ll be discussing Becky, she died for our sins.

Let’s take it back. The Monster At The End Of This Book — written by Julie Siege and Nancy Weiner and directed by Mike Rohl. Inarguably one of the better episodes in the first five seasons. Not only is Cas in it, looking so beautiful, but Sam gets something to do, thank god, and it introduces the character of Chuck, who becomes a source of comic relief over the next two seasons. The episode starts with Chuck Shurley, pen named Carver Edlund after my besties, having a vision while passed out drunk. He dreams of Sam and Dean larping as Feds and finding a series of books based on their lives that Chuck has written. They eventually track Chuck down, interrogate him, and realise that he’s a prophet of the lord, tasked with writing the Winchester Gospels. The B plot is Sam plotting to kill Lilith while Dean fails to get them out of the town to escape her. The C plot is Dean and Cas having a moment that strengthens their friendship and leads further into Cas’s eventual disobedience for Dean. Like the movie Disobedience. Exactly like the movie Disobedience. Cas definitely spits in Dean’s mouth, it’s kinda gross to be honest. Maybe I’m just not allo enough to appreciate art.

When Eric Kripke was showrunner of the first five seasons of Supernatural, he conceptualised the character of Chuck. Kripke as the author-god introduced the character of the author-prophet who would later become in Jeremy Carver’s showrun seasons the biblical God. Judith May Fathallah writes in “I’m A God: The Author and the Writing Fan in Supernatural” that Kripke writes himself both into and out of the text, ending his era with Chuck winking at the camera, saying, “nothing really ends,” and disappearing. Kripke stayed on as producer, continuing to write episodes through Sera Gamble’s era, and was even inserted in text in the season 6 episode “The French Mistake”. So nothing really does end, not Kripke’s grip on the show he created, not even the show itself, which fans have jokingly referred to as continuing into its 16th season. Except we’re not joking. It will die when all of us are dead, when there is no one left to remember it. According to W R Fisher, humans are homo narrans, natural storytellers. The Supernatural fandom is telling a fidelitous narrative, one which matches our own beliefs, values and experiences instead of that of canon. Instead of, at Fathallah says, “the Greek tradition, that we should struggle to do the right thing simply because it is right, though we will suffer and be punished anyway,” the fans have created an ending for the characters that satisfies each and every one of our desires, because we each create our own endings. It’s better because we get to share them with each other, in the tradition of campfire stories, each telling our own version and building upon the others. If that’s not the epitome of mythmaking then I don’t know. It’s just great. Dean and Cas are married, Eileen and Sam are married, Jack is sometimes a baby who Claire and Kaia are forced to babysit, Jody and Donna are gonna get hitched soon. It’s season 17, time for many weddings, and Kevin Tran is alive. Kripke, you have no control over this anymore, you crusty hag.

Chuck is introduced as someone with power, but not influence over the story, only how the story is told through the medium of the novels. It’s basically a very badly written, non authorised biography, and Charlie reading literally every book and referencing things she should have no knowledge of is so damn creepy and funny. At first Chuck is surprised by his characters coming to life, despite having written it already, and when shown the intimidating array of weapons in Baby’s trunk he gets real scared. Which is the appropriate response for a skinny 5-foot-8 white guy in a bathrobe who writes terrible fantasy novels for a living.

As far as I can remember, this is the first explicitly metanarrative episode in the series, or at least the first one with in world consequences. It builds upon the lore of Christianity, angels, and God, while teasing what’s to come. Chuck and Sam have a conversation about how the rest of the season is going to play out, and Sam comes away with the impression that he’ll go down with the ship. They touch on Sam’s addiction to demon blood, which Chuck admits he didn’t write into the books, because in the world of supernatural, addiction should be demonised ha ha at every opportunity, except for Dean’s alcoholism which is cool and manly and should never be analysed as an unhealthy trauma coping mechanism.

Chuck is mostly impotent in the story of Sam and Dean, but his very presence presents an element of good luck that turns quickly into a force of antagonism in the series four finale, “Lucifer Rising”, when the archangel Raphael who defeats Lilith in this episode also kills Cas in the finale. It’s Cas’s quick thinking and Dean’s quick doing that resolve the episode and save them from Lilith, once again proving that free will is the greatest force in the universe. Cas is already tearing up pages and burning scripts. The fandom does the same, acting as gods of their own making in taking canon and transforming it into fan art. The fans aren’t impotent like Chuck, but neither do we have sway over the story in the way that Cas and Dean do. Sam isn’t interested in changing the story in the same way—he wants to kill Lilith and save the world, but in doing so continues the story in the way it was always supposed to go, the way the angels and the demons and even God wanted him to.

Neither of them are author-gods in the way that God is. We find out later that Chuck is in fact the real biblical god, and he engineers everything. The one thing he doesn’t engineer, however, is Castiel, and I’ll get to that in a minute.

The Real Ghostbusters

Season 5’s “The real ghostbusters,” written by Nancy Weiner and Erik Kripke, and directed by James L Conway, situates the Winchesters at a fan convention for the Supernatural books. While there, they are confronted by a slew of fans cosplaying as Sam, Dean, Bobby, the scarecrow, Azazel, and more. They happen to stumble upon a case, in the midst of the game where the fans pretend to be on a case, and with the help of two fans cosplaying as Sam and Dean, they put to rest a group of homicidal ghost children and save the day. Chuck as the special guest of the con has a hero moment that spurs Becky on to return his affections. And at the end, we learn that the Colt, which they’ve been hunting down to kill the devil, was given to a demon named Crowley. It’s a fun episode, but ultimately skippable. This episode isn’t so much metanarrative as it is metatextual—metatextual meaning more than one layer of text but not necessarily about the storytelling in those texts—but let’s take a look at it anyway.

The metanarrative element of a show about a series of books about the brothers the show is based on is dope and expands upon what we saw in “the monster at the end of this book”. But the episode tells a tale about about the show itself, and the fandom that surrounds it.

Where “The Monster At The End Of This Book” and the season 5 premiere “Sympathy For The Devil” poked at the coiled snake of fans and the concept of fandom, “the real ghostbusters” drags them into the harsh light of an enclosure and antagonises them in front of an audience. The metanarrative element revolves around not only the books themselves, but the stories concocted within the episode: namely Barnes and Demian the cosplayers and the story of the ghosts. The Winchester brothers’s history that we’ve seen throughout the first five seasons of the show is bared in a tongue in cheek way: while we cried with them when Sam and Dean fought with John, now the story is thrown out in such a way as to mock both the story and the fans’ relationship to it. Let me tell you, there is a lot to be made fun of on this show, but the fans’ relationship to the story of Sam, Dean and everyone they encounter along the way isn’t part of it. I don’t mean to be like, wow you can’t make fun of us ever because we’re special little snowflakes and we take everything so seriously, because you are welcome to make fun of us, but when the creators do it, I can’t help but notice a hint of malice. And I think that’s understandable in a way. Like The relationship between creator and fan is both layered and symbiotic. While Kripke and co no doubt owe the show’s popularity to the fans, especially as the fandom has grown and evolved over time, we’re not exactly free of sin. And don’t get me wrong, no fandom is. But the bad apples always seem to outweigh the good ones, and bad experiences can stick with us long past their due.

However, portraying us as losers with no lives who get too obsessed with this show — well, you know, actually, maybe they’re right. I am a loser with no life and I am too obsessed with this show. So maybe they have a point. But they’re so harsh about it. From wincestie Becky who they paint as a desperate shrew to these cosplayers who threaten Dean’s very perception of himself, we’re not painted in a very good light.

Dean says to Demian and Barnes, “It must be nice to get out of your mom’s basement.” He’s judging them for deriving pleasure from dressing up and pretending to be someone else for a night. He doesn’t seem to get the irony that he does that for a living. As the seasons wore on, the creators made sure to include episodes where Dean’s inner geek could run rampant, often in the form of dressing up like a cowboy, such as season six “Frontierland” and season 13 “Tombstone”. I had to take a break from writing this to laugh for five minutes because Dean is so funny. He’s a car gay but he only likes one car. He doesn’t follow sports. His echolalia causes him to blurt out lines from his favourite movies. He’s a posse magnet. And he loves cosplay. But he will continually degrade and insult anyone who expresses interest in role play, fandom, or interests in general. Maybe that’s why Sam is such a boring person, because Dean as his mother didn’t allow him to have any interests outside of hunting. And when Sam does express interests, Dean insults him too. What a dick. He’s my soulmate, but I am not going to stop listening to hair metal for him. That’s where I draw the line.

Where “the monster at the end of this book” is concerned with narrative and authorship, “the real ghostbusters” is concerned with fandom and fan reactions to the show. It’s not really the best example to talk about in an episode about metanarrativity, but I wanted to include it anyway. It veers from talk of narrative by focusing on the people in the periphery of the narrative—the fans and the author. In season 9 “Metafiction,” Metatron asks the question, who gives the story meaning? The text would have you believe it’s the characters. The angels think it’s God. The fandom think it’s us. The creators think it’s them. Perhaps we will never come to a consensus or even a satisfactory answer to this question. Perhaps that’s the point.

The ultimate takeaway from this episode is that ordinary people, the people Sam and Dean save, the people they save the world for, the people they die for again and again, are what give their story meaning. Chuck defeats a ghost and saves the people in the conference room from being murdered. Demian and Barnes, don’t ask me which is which, burn the bodies of the ghost children and lay their spirits to rest. The text says that ordinary, every day people can rise to the challenge of becoming extraordinary. It’s not a bad note to end on, by any means. And then we find out that Demian and Barnes are a couple, which of course Dean is surprised at, because he lacks object permanence.

This is no doubt influenced by how a good portion of the transformative fandom are queer, and also a nod to the wincesties and RPF writers like Becky who continue to bottom feed off the wrong message of this show. But then, the creators encourage that sort of thing, so who are the real clowns here? Everyone. Everyone involved with this show in any way is a clown, except for the crew, who were able to feed their families for more than a decade.

Okay side note… over the past year or so I’ve been in process of realising that even in fandom queers are in the minority. I know the statistic is that 10% of the world population is queer, but that doesn’t seem right to me? Maybe because 4/5 closest friends are queer and I hang around queers online, but I also think I lack object permanence when it comes to straight people. Like I just do not interact with straight people on a regular basis outside of my best friend and parents and school. So when I hear that someone in fandom is straight I’m like, what the fuck… can you keep that to yourself please? Like if I saw Misha Collins coming out as straight I would be like, I didn’t ask and you didn’t have to tell. Okay I’m mostly joking, but I do forget straight people exist. Mostly I don’t think about whether people are gay or trans or cis or straight unless they’ve explicitly said it and then yes it does colour my perception of them, because of course it would. If they’re part of the queer community, they’re my people. And if they’re straight and cis, then they could very well pose a threat to me and my wellbeing. But I never ask people because it’s not my business to ask. If they feel comfortable enough to tell me, that’s awesome. I think Dean feels the same way. Towards the later seasons at least, he has a good reaction when it’s revealed that someone is queer, even if it is mostly played off as a joke. It’s just that he doesn’t have a frame of reference in his own life to having a gay relationship, either his or someone he’s close to. He says to Cesar and Jesse in season 11 “The Critters” that they fight like brothers, because that’s the only way he knows how to conceptualise it. He doesn’t have a way to categorise his and Cas’s relationship, which is in many ways, long before season 15 “Despair,” harking back even to the parallels between Ruby and Cas in season 3 and 4, a romantic one, aside from that Cas is like a brother to him. Because he’s never had anyone in his life care for him the way Cas does that wasn’t Sam and Bobby, and he doesn’t recognise the romantic element of their relationship until literally Cas says it to him in the third last episode, he just—doesn’t know what his and Cas’s relationship is. He just really doesn’t know. And he grew up with a father who despised him for taking the mom and wife role in their family, the role that John placed him in, for being subservient to John’s wishes where Sam was more rebellious, so of course he wouldn’t understand either his own desires or those of anyone around him who isn’t explicitly shoving their tits in his face. He moulded his entire personality around what he thought John wanted of him, and John says to him explicitly in season 14 “Lebanon”, “I thought you’d have a family,” meaning, like him, wife and two rugrats. And then, dear god, Dean says, thinking of Sam, Cas, Jack, Claire, and Mary, “I have a family.” God that hurts so much. But since for most of his life he hasn’t been himself, he’s been the man he thought his father wanted him to be, he’s never been able to examine his own desires, wants and goals. So even though he’s really good at reading people, he is not good at reading other people’s desires unless they have nefarious intentions. Because he doesn’t recognise what he feels is attraction to men, he doesn’t recognise that in anyone else.

Okay that’s completely off topic, wow. Getting back to metanarrativity in “The Real Ghostbusters,” I’ll just cap it off by saying that the books in this episode are more a frame for the events than the events themselves. However, there are some good outtakes where Chuck answers some questions, and I’m not sure how much of that is scripted and how much is Rob Benedict just going for it, but it lends another element to the idea of Kripke as author-god. The idea of a fan convention is really cool, because at this point Supernatural conventions had been running for about 4 years, since 2006. It’s definitely a tribute to the fans, but also to their own self importance. So it’s a mixed bag, considering there were plenty of elements in there that show the good side of fandom and fans, but ultimately the Winchesters want nothing to do with it, consider it weird, and threaten Chuck when he says he’ll start releasing books again, which as far as they know is his only source of income. But it’s a fun episode and Dean is a grouchy bitch, so who the holy hell cares?

Season 10 episode “fanfiction” written by my close personal friend Robbie Thompson and directed by Phil Sgriccia is one of the funniest episodes this show has ever done. Not only is it full of metatextual and metanarrative jokes, the entire premise revolves around fanservice, but in like a fun and interesting way, not fanservice like killing the band Kansas so that Dean can listen to “Carry On My Wayward Son” in heaven twice. Twice. One version after another. Like I would watch this musical seven times in theatre, I would buy the soundtrack, I would listen to it on repeat and make all my friends listen to it when they attend my online Jitsi birthday party. This musical is my Hamilton. Top ten episodes of this show for sure. The only way it could be better is if Cas was there. And he deserved to be there. He deserved to watch little dyke Castiel make out with her girlfriend with her cute little wings, after which he and Dean share uncomfortable eye contact. Dean himself is forever coming to terms with the fact that gay people exist, but Cas should get every opportunity he can to hear that it’s super cool and great and awesome to be queer. But really he should be in every episode, all of them, all 300 plus episodes including the ones before angels were introduced. I’m going to commission the guy who edits Paddington into every movie to superimpose Cas standing on the highway into every episode at least once.

“Fan Fiction” starts with a tv script and the words “Supernatural pilot created by Eric Kripke”. This Immediately sets up the idea that it’s toying with narrative. Blah blah blah, some people go missing, they stumble into a scene from their worst nightmares: the school is putting on a musical production of a show inspired by the Supernatural books. It’s a comedy of errors. When people continue to go missing, Sam and Dean have to convince the girls that something supernatural is happening, while retaining their dignity and respect. They reveal that they are the real Sam and Dean, and Dean gives the director Marie a summary of their lives over the last five seasons, but they aren’t taken seriously. Because, like, of course they aren’t. Even when the girls realise that something supernatural is happening, they don’t actually believe that the musical they’ve made and the series of books they’re basing it on are real. Despite how Sam and Dean Winchester were literal fugitives for many years at many different times, and this was on the news, and they were wanted by the FBI, despite how they pretend to be FBI, and no one mentions it??? Did any of the staffwriters do the required reading or just do what I used to do for my 40 plus page readings of Baudrillard and just skim the first sentence of every paragraph? Neat hack for you: paragraphs are set up in a logical order of Topic, Example, Elaboration, Linking sentence. Do you have to read 60 pages of some crusty French dude waxing poetic about how his best friend Pierre wants to shag his wife and making that your problem? Read the first and last sentence of every paragraph. Boom, done. Just cut your work in half.

The musical highlights a lot of the important moments of the show so far. The brothers have, as Charlie Bradbury says, their “broment,” and as Marie says, their “boy melodrama scene,” while she insinuates that there is a sexual element to their relationship. This show never passed up an opportunity to mention incest. It’s like: mentioning incest 5000 km, not being disgusting 1 km, what a hard decision. Actually, they do have to walk on their knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting. But there are other moments—such as Mary burning on the ceiling, a classic, Castiel waiting for Dean at the side of the highway, and Azazel poisoning Sam. With the help of the high schoolers, Sam and Dean overcome Calliope, the muse and bad guy of the episode, and save the day. What began as their lives reinterpreted and told back to them turns into a story they have some agency over.

In this episode, as opposed to “The Monster At The End Of This Book,” The storytelling has transferred from an alcoholic in a bathrobe into the hands of an overbearing and overachieving teenage girl, and honestly why not. Transformative fiction is by and large run by women, and queer women, so Marie and her stage manager slash Jody Mills’s understudy Maeve are just following in the footsteps of legends. This kind of really succinctly summarises the difference between curative fandom and transformative fandom, the former of which is populated mostly by men, and the latter mostly by women. As defined by LordByronic in 2015, Curative fandom is more like enjoying the text, collecting the merchandise, organising the knowledge — basically Reddit in terms of fandom curation. Transformative fandom is transforming the source text in some way — making fanart, fanfic, mvs, or a musical — basically Tumblr in general, and Archive of our own specifically. Like what do non fandom people even do on Tumblr? It is a complete mystery to me. Whereas Chuck literally writes himself into the narrative he receives through visions, Marie and co have agency and control over the narrative by writing it themselves.

Chuck does appear in the episode towards the end, his first appearance after five seasons. The theory that he killed those lesbian theatre girls makes me wanna curl up and die, so I don’t subscribe to it. Chuck watched the musical and he liked it and he gave unwarranted notes and then he left, the end.

The Supernatural creative team is explicitly acknowledging the fandom’s efforts by making this episode. They’re writing us in again, with more obsessive fans, but with lethbians this time, which makes it infinitely better. And instead of showing us as potential date rapists, we’re just cool chicks who like to make art. And that’s fucken awesome.

I just have to note that the characters literally say the word Destiel after Dean sees the actors playing Dean and Cas making out. He storms off and tells Sam to shut the fuck up when Sam makes fun of him, because Dean’s sexuality is NOT threatened he just needs to assert his dominance as a straight hetero man who has NEVER looked at another man’s lips and licked his own. He just… forgets that gay people exist until someone reminds him. BUT THEN, after a rousing speech that is stolen from Rent or Wicked or something, he echoes Marie’s words back, saying “put as much sub into that text as you possibly can.” What does Dean know about subbing, I wonder. Okay I’m suddenly reminded that he did literally go to a kink bar and get hit on by a leather daddy. Oh Dean, the experiences you have as a broad-shouldered, pixie-faced man with cowboy legs. You were born for this role.

Metatron is my favourite villain. As one tumblr user pointed out, he is an evil English literature major, which is just a normal English literature major. The season nine episode “Meta Fiction” written by my main man robbie thompson and directed by thomas j wright, happens within a curious season. Castiel, once again, becomes the leader of a portion of the heavenly host to take down Metatron, and Dean is affected by the Mark Of Cain. Sam was recently possessed by Gadreel, who killed Kevin in Sam’s body and then decided to run off with Metatron. Metatron himself is recruiting angels to join him, in the hopes that he can become the new God. It’s the first introduction of Hannah, who encourages Cas to recruit angels himself to take on Metatron. Also, we get to see Gabriel again, who is always a delight.

This episode is a lot of fun. Metatron poses questions like, who tells a story and who is the most important person in the telling? Is it the writer? The audience? He starts off staring over his typewriter to address the camera, like a pompous dickhead. No longer content with consuming stories, he’s started to write his own. And they are hubristic ones about becoming God, a better god than Chuck ever was, but to do it he needs to kill a bunch of people and blame it on Cas. So really, he’s actually exactly like Chuck who blamed everything on Lucifer.

But I think the most apt analogy we can use for this in terms of who is the creator is to think of Metatron as a fanfiction writer. He consumes the media—the Winchester Gospels—and starts to write his own version of events—leading an army to become God and kill Cas. Nevermind that no one has been able to kill Cas in a way that matters or a way that sticks. Which is canon, and what Metatron is trying to do is—well not fanon because it actually does impact the Winchesters’ storyline. It would be like if one of the writers of Supernatural began writing Supernatural fanfiction before they got a job on the show. Which as my generation and the generations coming after me get more comfortable with fanfiction and fandom, is going to be the case for a lot of shows. I think it’s already the case for Riverdale. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the woman who wrote the bi Dean essay go to work on Riverdale? Or something? I dunno, I have the post saved in my tumblr likes but that is quagmire of epic proportions that I will easily get lost in if I try to find it.

Okay let me flex my literary degree. As Englund and Leach say in “Ethnography and the metanarratives of modernity,” “The influential “literary turn,” in which the problems of ethnography were seen as largely textual and their solutions as lying in experimental writing seems to have lost its impetus.” This can be taken to mean, in the context of Supernatural, that while Metatron’s writings seek to forge a new path in history, forgoing fate for a new kind of divine intervention, the problem with Metatron is that he’s too caught up in the textual, too caught up in the writing, to be effectual. And this as we see throughout seasons 9, 10 and 11, has no lasting effect. Cas gets his grace back, Dean survives, and Metatron becomes a powerless human. In this case, the impetus is his grace, which he loses when Cas cuts it out of him, a mirror to Metatron cutting out Cas’s grace.

However, I realise that the concept of ethnography in Supernatural is a flawed one, ethnography being the observation of another culture: a lot of the angels observe humanity and seem to fit in. However, Cas has to slowly acclimatise to the Winchesters as they tame him, but he never quite fit in—missing cues, not understanding jokes or Dean’s personal space, the scene where he says, “We have a guinea pig? Where?” Show him the guinea pig Sam!!! He wants to see it!!! At most he passes as a human with autism. Cas doesn’t really observe humanity—he observes nature, as seen in season 7 “reading is fundamental” and “survival of the fittest”. Even the human acts he talks about in season 6 “the man who would be king” are from hundreds or thousands of years ago. He certainly doesn’t observe popular culture, which puts him at odds with Dean, who is made up of 90 per cent pop culture references and 10 per cent flannel. Metatron doesn’t seek to blend in with humanity so much as control it, which actually is the most apt example of ethnography for white people in the last—you know, forever. But of course the writers didn’t seek to make this analogy. It is purely by chance, and maybe I’m the only person insane enough to realise it. But probably not. There are a lot of cookies much smarter than me in the Supernatural fandom and they’ve like me have grown up and gone to university and gotten real jobs in the real world and real haircuts. I’m probably the only person to apply Englund and Leach to it though.

And yes, as I read this paper I did need to have one tab open on Google, with the word “define” in the search bar.

Metatron has a few lines in this that I really like. He says:

“The universe is made up of stories, not atoms.”

“You’re going to have to follow my script.”

“I’m an entity of my word.”

It’s really obvious, but they’re pushing the idea that Metatron has become an agent of authorship instead of just a consumer of media. He even throws a Supernatural book into his fire — a symbolic act of burning the script and flipping the writer off, much like Cas did to God and the angels in season 5. He’s not a Kripke figure so much as maybe a Gamble, Carver or Dabb figure, in that he usurps Chuck and becomes the author-god. This would be extremely postmodern of him if he didn’t just do exactly what Chuck was doing, except worse somehow. In fact, it’s postmodern of Cas to reject heaven’s narrative and fall for Dean. As one tumblr user points out, Cas really said “What’s fate compared to Dean Winchester?”

Okay this transcript is almost 8000 words already, and I still have two more episodes to review, and more things to say, so I’ll leave you with this. Metatron says to Cas, “Out of all of God’s wind up toys, you’re the only one with any spunk.” Why Cas has captured his attention comes down more than anything to a process of elimination. Most angels fucking suck. They follow the rules of whoever puts themselves in charge, and they either love Cas or hate him, or just plainly wanna fuck him, and there have been few angels who stood out. Balthazar was awesome, even though I hated him the first time I watched season 6. He UNSUNK the Titanic. Legend status. And Gabriel was of course the OG who loves to fuck shit up. But they’re gone at this stage in the narrative, and Cas survives. Cas always survives. He does have spunk. And everyone wants to fuck him.

Season 11 episode 20 “Don’t Call Me Shurley,” the last episode written by the Christ like figure of Robbie Thompson — are we sensing a theme here? — and directed by my divine enemy Robert Singer, starts with Metatron dumpster diving for food. I’m not even going to bother commenting on this because like… it’s supernatural and it treats complex issues like homelessness and poverty with zero nuance. Like the Winchesters live in poverty but it’s fun and cool because they always scrape by but Metatron lives in poverty and it’s funny. Cas was homeless and it was hard but he needed to do it to atone for his sins, and Metatron is homeless and it’s funny because he brought it on himself by being a murderous dick. Fucking hell. Robbie, come on. The plot focuses on God, also known as Chuck Shurley, making himself known to Metatron and asking for Metatron’s opinion on his memoir. Meanwhile, the Winchesters battle another bout of infectious serial killer fog sent by Amara. At the end of the episode, Chuck heals everyone affected by the fog and reveals himself to Sam and Dean.

Chuck says that he didn’t foresee Metatron trying to become god, but the idea of Season 15 is that Chuck has been writing the Winchesters’ story all their lives. When Metatron tries, he fails miserably, is locked up in prison, tortured by Dean, then rendered useless as a human and thrown into the world without a safety net. His authorship is reduced to nothing, and he is reduced to dumpster diving for food. He does actually attempt to live his life as someone who records tragedies as they happen and sells the footage to news stations, which is honestly hilarious and amazing and completely unsurprising because Metatron is, at the heart of it, an English Literature major. In true bastard style, he insults Chuck’s work and complains about the bar, but slips into his old role of editor when Chuck asks him to.

The theory I’m consulting for this uses the term metanarrative in a different way than I am. They consider it an overarching narrative, a grand narrative like religion. Chuck’s biography is in a sense most loyal to Middleton and Walsh’s view of metanarrative: “the universal story of the world from arche to telos, a grand narrative encompassing world history from beginning to end.” Except instead of world history, it’s God’s history, and since God is construed in Supernatural as just some guy with some powers who is as fallible as the next some guy with some powers, his story has biases and agendas. Okay so in the analysis I’m getting Middleton and Walsh’s quotes from, James K A Smith’s “A little story about metanarratives,” Smith dunks on them pretty bad, but for Supernatural purposes their words ring true. Think of them as the BuckLeming of Lyotard’s postmodern metanarrative analysis: a stopped clock right twice a day. Is anyone except me understanding the sequence of words I’m saying right now. Do I just have the most specific case of brain worms ever found in human history. I’m currently wearing my oversized Keith Haring shirt and dipping pretzels into peanut butter because it’s 3.18 in the morning and the homosexuals got to me. The total claims a comprehensive metanarrative of world history make do indeed, as Middleton and Walsh claim, lead to violence, stay with me here, because Chuck’s legacy is violence, and so is Metatron’s, and in trying to reject the metanarrative, Sam and Dean enact violence. Mostly Dean, because in season 15 he sacrifices his own son twice to defeat Chuck. But that means literally fighting violence with violence. Violence is, after all, all they know. Violence is the lens through which they interact with the world. If the writers wanted to do literally anything else, they could have continued Dean’s natural character progression into someone who eschews the violence that stems from intergeneration trauma — yes I will continue to use the phrase intergenerational trauma whenever I refer to Dean — and becomes a loving father and husband. Sam could eschew violence and start a monster rehabilitation centre with Eileen.

This episode of Holy Hell is me frantically grabbing at straws to make sense of a narrative that actively hates me and wants to kick me to death. But the violence Sam and Dean enact is not at a metanarrative level, because they are not author-gods of their own narrative. In season 15 “Atomic Monsters,” Becky points out that the ending of the Supernatural book series is bad because the brothers die, and then, in a shocking twist of fate, Dean does die, and the narrative is bad. The writers set themselves a goal post to kick through and instead just slammed their heat into the bars. They set up the dartboard and were like, let’s aim the darts at ourselves. Wouldn’t that be fun. Season 15’s writing is so grossly incompetent that I believe every single conspiracy theory that’s come out of the finale since November, because it’s so much more compelling than whatever the fuck happened on the road so far. Carry on? Why yes, I think I will carry on, carry on like a pork chop, screaming at the bars of my enclosure until I crack my voice open like an egg and spill out all my rage and frustration. The world will never know peace again. It’s now 3.29 and I’ve written over 9000 words of this transcript. And I’m not done.

Middleton and Walsh claim that metanarratives are merely social constructions masquerading as universal truths. Which is, exactly, Supernatural. The creators have constructed this elaborate web of narrative that they want to sell us as the be all and end all. They won’t let the actors discuss how they really feel about the finale. They won’t let Misha Collins talk about Destiel. They want us to believe it was good, actually, that Dean, a recovering alcoholic with a 30 year old infant son and a husband who loves him, deserved to die by getting NAILED, while Sam, who spent the last four seasons, the entirety of Andrew Dabb’s run as showrunner, excelling at creating a hunter network and romancing both the queen of hell and his deaf hunter girlfriend, should have lived a normie life with a normie faceless wife. Am I done? Not even close. I started this episode and I’m going to finish it.

When we find out that Chuck is God in the episode of season 11, it turns everything we knew about Chuck on its head. We find out in Season 15 that Chuck has been writing the Winchesters’ story all along, that everything that happened to them is his doing. The one thing he couldn’t control was Cas’s choice to rebel. If we take him at his word, Cas is the only true force of free will in the entire universe, and more specifically, the love that Cas had for Dean which caused him to rebel and fall from heaven. — This theory has holes of course. Why would Lucifer torture Lilith into becoming the first demon if he didn’t have free will? Did Chuck make him do that? And why? So that Chuck could be the hero and Lucifer the bad guy, like Lucifer claimed all along? That’s to say nothing of Adam and Eve, both characters the show introduced in different ways, one as an antagonist and the other as the narrative foil to Dean and Cas’s romance. Thinking about it makes my head hurt, so I’m just not gunna.

So Chuck was doing the writing all along. And as Becky claims in “Atomic Monsters,” it’s bad writing. The writers explicitly said, the ending Chuck wrote is bad because there’s no Cas and everyone dies, and then they wrote an ending where there is no Cas and everyone dies. So talk about self-fulfilling prophecies. Talk about giant craters in the earth you could see from 800 kilometres away but you still fell into. Meanwhile fan writers have the opportunity to write a million different endings, all of which satisfy at least one person. The fandom is a hydra, prolific and unstoppable, and we’ll keep rewriting the ending a million more times.

And all this is not even talking about the fact that Chuck is a man, Metatron is a man, Sam and Dean and Cas are men, and the writers and directors of the show are, by an overwhelming majority, men. Most of them are white, straight, cis men. Feminist scholarship has done a lot to unpack the damage done by paternalistic approaches to theory, sociology, ethnography, all the -ys, but I propose we go a step further with these men. Kill them. Metanarratively, of course. Amara, the Darkness, God’s sister, had a chance to write her own story without Chuck, after killing everything in the universe, and I think she had the right idea. Knock it all down to build it from the ground up. Billie also had the opportunity to write a narrative, but her folly was, of course, putting any kind of faith in the Winchesters who are also grossly incompetent and often fail up. She is, as all author-gods on this show are, undone by Castiel. The only one with any spunk, the only one who exists outside of his own narrative confines, the only one the author-gods don’t have any control over. The one who died for love, and in dying, gave life.

The French Mistake

Let’s change the channel. Let’s calm ourselves and cleanse our libras. Let’s commune with nature and chug some sage bongs.

“The French Mistake” is a song from the Mel Brooks film Blazing Saddles. In the iconic second last scene of the film, as the cowboys fight amongst themselves, the camera pans back to reveal a studio lot and a door through which a chorus of gay dancersingers perform “the French Mistake”. The lyrics go, “Throw out your hands, stick out your tush, hands on your hips, give ‘em a push. You’ll be surprised you’re doing the French Mistake.”

I’m not sure what went through the heads of the Supernatural creators when they came up with the season 6 episode, “The French Mistake,” written by the love of my life Ben Edlund and directed by some guy Charles Beeson. Just reading the Wikipedia summary is so batshit incomprehensible. In short: Balthazar sends Sam and Dean to an alternate universe where they are the actors Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, who play Sam and Dean on the tv show Supernatural. I don’t think this had ever been done in television history before. The first seven seasons of this show are certifiable. Like this was ten years ago. Think about the things that have happened in the last 10 slutty, slutty years. We have lived through atrocities and upheaval and the entire world stopping to mourn, but also we had twitter throughout that entire time, which makes it infinitely worse.

In this universe, Sam and Dean wear makeup, Cas is played by attractive crying man Misha Collins, and Genevieve Padalecki nee Cortese makes an appearance. Magic doesn’t exist, Serge has good ideas, and the two leads have to act in order to get through the day. Sorry man I do not know how to pronounce your name.

Sidenote: I don’t know if me being attracted aesthetically to Misha Collins is because he’s attractive, because this show has gaslighted me into thinking he’s attractive, or because Castiel’s iconic entrance in 2008 hit my developing mind like a torpedo full of spaghetti and blew my fucking brains all over the place. It’s one of life’s little mysteries and God’s little gifts.

Let’s talk about therapy. More specifically, “Agency and purpose in narrative therapy: questioning the postmodern rejection of metanarrative” by Cameron Lee. In this paper, Lee outlines four key ideas as proposed by Freedman and Combs:

Realities are socially constructed

Realities are constituted through language

Realities are organised and maintained through narrative

And there are no essential truths.

Let’s break this down in the case of this episode. Realities are socially constructed: the reality of Sam and Dean arose from the Bush era. Do I even need to elaborate? From what I understand with my limited Australian perception, and being a child at the time, 9/11 really was a prominent shifting point in the last twenty years. As Americans describe it, sometimes jokingly, it was the last time they were really truly innocent. That means to me that until they saw the repercussions of their government’s actions in funding turf wars throughout the middle east for a good chunk of the 20th Century, they allowed themselves to be hindered by their own ignorance. The threat of terrorism ran rampant throughout the States, spurred on by right wing nationalists and gun-toting NRA supporters, so it’s really no surprise that the show Supernatural started with the premise of killing everything in sight and driving around with only your closest kin and a trunk full of guns. Kripke constructed that reality from the social-political climate of the time, and it has wrought untold horrors on the minds of lesbians who lived through the noughties, in that we are now attracted to Misha Collins.

Number two: Realities are constituted through language. Before a show can become a show, it needs to be a script. It’s written down, typed up, and given to actors who say the lines out loud. In this respect, they are using the language of speech and words to convey meaning. But tv shows are not all about words, and they’re barely about scripts. From what I understand of being raised by television, they are about action, visuals, imagery, and behaviours. All of the work that goes into them—the scripts, the lighting, the audio, the sound mixing, the cameras, the extras, the ADs, the gaffing, the props, the stunts, everything—is about conveying a story through the medium of images. In that way, images are the language. The reality of the show Supernatural, inside the show Supernatural, is constituted through words: the script, the journalists talking to Sam, the makeup artist taking off Dean’s makeup, the conversations between the creators, the tweets Misha sends. But also through imagery: the fish tank in Jensen’s trailer, the model poses on the front cover of the magazine, the opulence of Jared’s house, Misha’s iconic sweater. Words and images are the language that constitutes both of these realities. Okay for real, I feel like I’ve only seen this episode max three times, including when I watched it for research for this episode, but I remember so much about it.

Number three: realities are organised and maintained through narrative. In this universe of the French Mistake, their lives are structured around two narratives: the internal narrative of the show within the show, in which they are two actors on a tv set; and the episode narrative in which they need to keep the key safe and return to their own universe. This is made difficult by the revelation that magic doesn’t work in this universe, however, they find a way. Before they can get back, though, an avenging angel by the name of Virgil guns down author-god Eric Kripke and tries to kill the Winchesters. However, they are saved by Balthazar and the freeze frame and brought back into their own world, the world of Supernatural the show, not Supernatural the show within the show within the nesting doll. And then that reality is done with, never to be revisited or even mentioned, but with an impact that has lasted longer than the second Bush administration.

And number four: there are no essential truths. This one is a bit tricky because I can’t find what Lee means by essential truths, so I’m just going to interpret that. To me, essential truths means what lies beneath the narratives we tell ourselves. Supernatural was a show that ran for 15 years. Supernatural had actors. Supernatural was showrun by four different writers. In the show within a show, there is nothing, because that ceases to exist for longer than the forty two minute episode “The French Mistake”. And since Supernatural no longer exists except in our computers, it is nothing too. It is only the narratives we tell ourselves to sleep better at night, to wake up in the morning with a smile, to get through the day, to connect with other people, to understand ourselves better. It’s not even the narrative that the showrunners told, because they have no agency over it as soon as it shows up on our screens. The essential truth of the show is lost in the translation from creating to consuming. Who gives the story meaning? The people watching it and the people creating it. We all do.

Lee says that humans are predisposed to construct narratives in order to make sense of the world. We see this in cultures from all over the world: from cave paintings to vases, from The Dreaming to Beowulf, humans have always constructed stories. The way you think about yourself is a story that you’ve constructed. The way you interact with your loved ones and the furries you rightfully cyberbully on Twitter is influenced by the narratives you tell yourself about them. And these narratives are intricate, expansive, personalised, and can colour our perceptions completely, so that we turn into a different person when we interact with one person as opposed to another.

Whatever happened in season 6, most of which I want to forget, doesn’t interest me in the way I’m telling myself the writers intended. For me, the entirety of season 6 was based around the premise of Cas being in love with Dean, and the complete impotence of this love. He turns up when Dean calls, he agonises as he watches Dean rake leaves and live his apple pie life with Lisa, and Dean is the person he feels most horribly about betraying. He says, verbatim, to Sam, “Dean and I do share a more profound bond.” And Balthazar says, “You’re confusing me with the other angel, the one in the dirty trenchcoat who’s in love with you.” He says this in season 6, and we couldn’t do a fucken thing about it.

The song “The French Mistake” shines a light on the hidden scene of gay men performing a gay narrative, in the midst of a scene about the manliest profession you can have: professional horse wrangler, poncho wearer, and rodeo meister, the cowboy. If this isn’t a perfect encapsulation of the lovestory between Dean and Cas, which Ben Edlund has been championing from day fucking one of Misha Collins walking onto that set with his sex hair and chapped lips, then I don’t know what the fuck we’re even doing here. What in the hell else could it possibly mean. The layers to this. The intricacy. The agendas. The subtextual AND blatant queerness. The micro aggressions Crowley aimed at Car in “The Man Who Would Be King,” another Bedlund special. Bed Edlund is a fucking genius. Bed Edlund is cool girl. Ben Edlund is the missing link. Bed Edlund IS wikileaks. Ben Edlund is a cool breeze on a humid summer day. Ben Edlund is the stop loading button on a browser tab. Ben Edlund is the perfect cross between Spotify and Apple Music, in which you can search for good playlists, but without having to be on Spotify. He can take my keys and fuck my wife. You best believe I’m doing an entire episode of Holy Hell on Bedlund’s top five. He is the reason I want to get into staffwriting on a tv show. I saw season 4 episode “On the head of a pin” when my brain was still torpedoed spaghetti mush from the premiere, and it nestled its way deep into my exposed bones, so that when I finally recovered from that, I was a changed person. My god, this transcript is 11,000 words, and I haven’t even finished the Becky section. Which is a good transition.

Oh, Becky. She is an incarnation of how the writers, or at least Kripke, view the fans. Watching season 5 “Sympathy for the Devil” live in 2009 was a whole fucking trip that I as a baby gay was not prepared for. Figuring out my sexuality was a journey that started with the Supernatural fandom and is in some aspects still raging against the dying of the light today. Add to that, this conception of the audience was this, like, personification of the librarian cellist from Juno, but also completely without boundaries, common sense, or shame. It made me wonder about my position in the narrative as a consumer consuming. Is that how Kripke saw me, specifically? Was I like Becky? Did my forays into DeanCasNatural on El Jay dot com make me a fucking loser whose only claim to fame is writing some nasty fanfiction that I’ve since deleted all traces of? Don’t get me wrong, me and my unhinged Casgirl friends loved Becky. I can’t remember if I ever wrote any fanfiction with her in it because I was mostly writing smut, which is extremely Becky coded of me, but I read some and my friends and I would always chat about her when she came up. She was great entertainment value before season 7. But in the eyes of the powers that be, Becky, like the fans themselves, are expendable. First they turned her into a desperate bride wannabe who drugs Sam so that he’ll be with her, then Chuck waves his hand and she disappears. We’re seeing now with regards to Destiel, Cas, and Misha Collins this erasure of them from the narrative. Becky says in season 15 “Atomic Monsters” that the ending Chuck writes is bad because, for one, there’s no Cas, and that’s exactly what’s happening to the text post-finale. It literally makes me insane akin to the throes of mania to think about the layers of this. They literally said, “No Cas = bad” and now Misha isn’t even allowed to talk in his Cassona voice—at least at the time I wrote that—to the detriment of the fans who care about him. It’s the same shit over and over. They introduce something we like, they realise they have no control over how much we like it, and then they pretend they never introduced it in the first place. Season 7, my god. The only reason Gamble brought back Cas was because the ratings were tanking the show. I didn’t even bother watching most of it live, and would just hear from my friends whether Cas was in the episodes or not. And then Sera, dear Sera, had the gall to say it was a Homer’s Odyssey narrative. I’m rusty on Homer aka I’ve never read it but apparently Odysseus goes away, ends up with a wife on an island somewhere, and then comes back to Terabithia like it never happened. How convenient. But since Sera Gamble loves to bury her gays, we can all guess why Cas was written out of the show: Cas being gay is a threat to the toxic heteronormativity spouted by both the show and the characters themselves. In season 15, after Becky gets her life together, has kids, gets married, and starts a business, she is outgrowing the narrative and Chuck kills her. The fans got Destiel Wedding trending on Twitter, and now the creators are acting like he doesn’t exist. New liver, same eagles.

I have to add an adendum: as of this morning, Sunday 11th, don’t ask me what time that is in Americaland, Misha Collins did an online con/Q&A thing and answered a bunch of questions about Cas and Dean, which goes to show that he cannot be silenced. So the narrative wants to be told. It’s continuing well into it’s 16th or 17th season. It’s going to keep happening and they have no recourse to stop it. So fuck you, Supernatural.

I did write the start of a speech about representation but, who the holy hell cares. I also read some disappointing Masters theses that I hope didn’t take them longer to research and write than this episode of a podcast I’m making for funsies took me, considering it’s the same number of pages. Then again I have the last four months and another 8 years of fandom fuelling my obsession, and when I don’t sleep I write, hence the 4,000 words I knocked out in the last 12 hours.

Some final words. Lyotard defines postmodernism, the age we live in, as an incredulity towards metanarratives. Modernism was obsessed with order and meaning, but postmodernism seeks to disrupt that. Modernists lived within the frame of the narrative of their society, but postmodernists seek to destroy the frame and live within our own self-written contexts. Okay I love postmodernist theory so this has been a real treat for me. Yoghurt, Sam? Postmodernist theory? Could I BE more gay?

Middleton and Walsh in their analysis of postmodernism claim that biblical faith is grounded in metanarrative, and explore how this intersects with an era that rejects metanarrative. This is one of the fundamental ideas Supernatural is getting at throughout definitely the last season, but other seasons as well. The narratives of Good vs Evil, Michael vs Lucifer, Dean vs Sam, were encoded into the overarching story of the show from season 1, and since then Sam and Dean have sought to break free of them. Sam broke free of John’s narrative, which was the hunting life, and revenge, and this moralistic machismo that they wrapped themselves up in. If they’re killing the evil, then they’re not the evil. That’s the story they told, and the impetus of the show that Sam was sucked back into. But this thread unravelled in later seasons when Dean became friends with Benny and the idea that all supernatural creatures are inherently evil unravelled as well. While they never completely broke free of John’s hold over them, welcoming Jack into their lives meant confronting a bias that had been ingrained in them since Dean was 4 years old and Sam 6 months. In the face of the question, “are all monsters monstrous?” the narrative loosens its control. Even by questioning it, it throws into doubt the overarching narrative of John’s plan, which is usurped at the end of season 2 when they kill Azazel by Dean’s demon deal and a new narrative unfolds. John as author-god is usurped by the actual God in season 4, who has his own narrative that controls the lives of Sam, Dean and Cas.

Okay like for real, I do actually think the metanarrativity in Supernatural is something that should be studied by someone other than me, unless you wanna pay me for it and then shit yeah. It is extremely cool to introduce a biographical narrative about the fictional narrative it’s in. It’s cool that the characters are constantly calling this narrative into focus by fighting against it, struggling to break free from their textual confines to live a life outside of the external forces that control them. And the thing is? The really real, honest thing? They have. Sam, Dean and Cas have broken free of the narrative that Kripke, Carver, Gamble and Dabb wrote for them. The very fact that the textual confession of love that Cas has for Dean ushered in a resurgence of fans, fandom and activity that has kept the show trending for five months after it ended, is just phenomenal. People have pointed out that fans stopped caring about Game of Thrones as soon as it ended. Despite the hold they had over tv watchers everywhere, their cultural currency has been spent. The opposite is true for Supernatural. Despite how the finale of the show angered and confused people, it gains more momentum every day. More fanworks, more videos, more fics, more art, more ire, more merch is being generated by the fans still. The Supernatural subreddit, which was averaging a few posts a week by season 15, has been incensed by the finale. And yours truly happily traipsed back into the fandom snake pit after 8 years with a smile on my face and a skip in my step ready to pump that dopamine straight into my veins babeeeeeeyyyyy. It’s been WILD. I recently reconnected with one of my mutuals from 2010 and it’s like nothing’s changed. We’re both still unhinged and we both still simp for Supernatural. Even before season 15, I was obsessed with the podcast Ride Or Die, which I started listening to in late 2019, and Supernatural was always in the back of my mind. You just don’t get over your first fandom. Actually, Danny Phantom was my first fandom, and I remember being 12 talking on Danny Phantom forums to people much too old to be the target audience of the show. So I guess that hasn’t left me either. And the fondest memories I have of Supernatural is how the characters have usurped their creators to become mythic, long past the point they were supposed to die a quiet death. The myth weaving that the Supernatural fandom is doing right now is the legacy that will endure.

References

I got all of these for free from Google Scholar!

Judith May Fathallah, “I’m A God: The Author and the Writing Fan in Supernatural.”

James K A Smith, “A Little Story About Metanarratives: Lyotard, Religion and Postmodernism Revisited.” 2001.

Cameron Lee, “Agency and Purpose in Narrative Therapy: Questioning the Postmodern Rejection of Metanarrative.” 2004.

Harri Englund and James Leach, “Ethnography and the Meta Narratives of Modernity.” 2000.

https://uproxx.com/filmdrunk/mel-brooks-explains-french-mistake-blazing-saddles-blu-ray/

#transcripts #supernatural #supernatural podcast #<60mins #this is first and foremost a podcast about cas and misha collins

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heirloommtomatoes · 5 years ago

Text

Together (Sam Drake x Reader)

This was a requested fic for “Don’t you dare ever do that again!” & “Who gave you that black eye?” from...four years ago? I posted it a while ago, deleted it, updated it coincidentally a few weeks ago, and @seizethesam was looking for it so here we are! Enjoy this throwback!

Word Count: 5,621

Warnings: Violence against a minor depicted. Might be disturbing to some. Strong language, depictions of PTSD. Mentions of suicide (implied).

————

“The truth is, unless you let go, unless you forgive yourself, unless you forgive the situation, unless you realize that the situation is over, you cannot move forward.”

―Steve Maraboli

The day Sam Drake died, he broke his wrist. He suspects now that it was likely more of a hairpin fracture, and wonders why it is this he remembers with such clarity. Not the gunshot, not slipping from his brother’s hand, not the sickening lurch in his gut as he fell, nor the stench of sweat and blood and metal and the red-hot wet of the pool of blood he lay in. Instead, he remembers trying to break his fall and failing, remembers the crunch of his wrist against the cement and the darkness that followed.

Fifteen years later, and all he has to show for it are bullet scars and a brother who learned to live without him.

“Sam, it’s four in the damn morning,” Nathan whispers into the phone as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, sensing Elena shift beside him at his movement. The feel of his brother’s name on his lips is still odd after having not spoken it for so many years.

Even just hearing Sam breathing on the other end still hits him with a surreality that nearly takes his own breath away. When you lose someone you respect, they become God. Nate had never been one for the pious doggerel of the nuns at St. Mary’s Boys’ Home where they had grown up. He had never prayed, had never presumed to try and speak to God. But over the last decade, he did speak to Sam. His grave had become his temple.

Nate remembers the shouting, the gunfire, the stench of humidity and smoke and sweat. He remembers his hand in Sam’s as he held onto his brother with everything he had over that ledge. But Sam had dropped anyway, and a part of Nate’s heart had gone with him, and he wasn’t sure if it had ever come back up.

“I know,” comes Sam’s reply, but his voice sounds broken, cracked, “I…uh,” he drags a hand down his face as he stands from where he was sat on the edge of the bed, offering a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he doesn’t disturb your sleep. He stands slowly, walks heel-to-hoe to the door, twisting the handle slowly.

“I need to talk but I—I don’t wanna wake Y/N,” he whispers, and it’s silence from the other end as Sam makes his way to the kitchen to take a seat on a stool next to the island.

“Ah,” Nate finally says, “So you wake me,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat and hits the silence that follows like a wall.

“I keep having these dreams, Nathan—” he takes a shaky breath and lowers his head; half in sorrow and half because he’s too tired to keep it up, “I keep remembering him.”

Sam presses his hand against his younger brother’s chest, pushing him back. A group of guards, three or four strong, train their guns on the pair of men.

“Hey, you keep your gun on me!”

Careful what you wish for. Sam doesn’t remember feeling the bullets hit, but he remembers the force of it pushing him back and his heel slipping on edge of the roof. It seems now like something that happened to someone else — and Sam supposes that if he were inclined to such thoughts of spirituality and philosophy, he would think that in a way it was. He doesn’t recognize himself in that man anymore.

His heel goes over the edge, but with a sharp pain in his arm he realizes he’s not falling. Nathan lunges for him, grabbing his wrist before gravity could complete its job. He hauls on his arm so hard Sam is afraid his shoulder will pop right out of the socket. He lets out a manic laugh at that when he remembers he was just shot, and thinks to himself that might be the wound more worth worrying about. Blood sputters from his mouth with it, splattering onto Nate’s face.

“Sam, don’t you let go!” Nathan shouts at him, face grimaced with the effort of carrying his brother’s weight. He thrusts his other arm down and reaches for Sam, “Grab my other hand!”

Sam looks up at Nathan. His face is covered in dirt and sweat and blood, his head haloed by the flat white light of a cloudy mid-afternoon sun. His breath comes hard, fast, and it takes a moment for Sam to register the tears making tracks down his brother’s face. Is he dead already? It seems fitting they would die together.

He falls.

Sam is vaguely aware of the stinging pain in his abdomen, and more aware of the cold that spreads through each and every limb like a wildfire. The dampness around his abdomen seems to weigh on him as if someone has decided to stuff a molten bowling ball into a gaping hole in his body.

“Cuidadoso! Él todavía está viva!”

When darkness swallows him, there’s are only two names that stay gasping at the surface:

Nathan.

Y/N.

He wakes, hours or days later, to a light that sears straight through him and aches in the backs of his eyes. He doesn’t remember dying. With some hazy sense of dread, he wonders if the voices that sound as though people are shouting at him from behind glass are some sort of chorus of angels, or more likely, demons. He hadn’t believed in any of what they’d taught in the Boys’ Home, but old habits persist. A breath enters his lungs, one that feels as though he’s stepping out into a winter’s day from a cabin on fire, his chest burning with the effort. All this pain and numbness fighting for dominance in his stomach, in his legs, in his head. Tingling, stinging, aching, all so persistent. Darkness swallows him, and it’s weeks before he wakes again.

Nathan.

Y/N.

Two years later, and he’s been in the same cell as some child for the better half of it. Sam thinks he must be a teenager still, and something in his chest aches at that that he can’t quite place.

Panama is nothing like he thought it was going to be. Maybe it’s just that he’s alone now. That’s probably it. He thought he’d get used to it more quickly, but falling asleep in the same bed that always pokes at his lower back no matter which way he turns and spending his days brawling and trading cigarettes has yet to become monotonous. He’s not sure if this is a blessing or a curse. He’s not sure what that says about him. He’s not sure if he wants to know.

With a gnawing guilt, Sam has come to find that prison is one of the only places he’s felt free. No responsibility weighing over him, no little brother to parent and worry over, no need to be constantly searching for work. It’s a loveless existence, but no one he cares about on the outside know where he is or what he’s doing. It’s his own kind of hell and kind of heaven, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if he did die that day, and every day after.

The humidity and heat takes some getting used to, though. The stench it brings, both from the men and from the miles of green around them was fierce and unrelenting and ever-present. And despite the wet season that comes and goes through March to December, dust clings to the walls year round, smelling of tobacco and sweat and blood.

Not long after waking and Sam has plucked out a book from underneath his mattress. It’s some shitty millionth-edition copy of a book on Henry Avery, but he figures it’s better than nothing and probably the best he’s going to get in this shithole. The boy sits silently on his own bed, and for a fleeting moment Sam wonders what goes on in that small head of his. As if on cue the boy opens his mouth to speak.

“What’re you gonna do when you get out?” he asks, accent thick. Sam looks over.

He can barely see him sitting on his bed in the shadows, knees drawn up to his chest, arms resting lazily over the tops of them.

“How old are you?” Sam counters, ignoring the question. They weren’t going to let him out of here. It was a stupid question.

“Dieceséis,” comes the reply, “My name’s Roberto, by the way.”

Sam sits up suddenly, setting the book down by his side, “Sixteen? Fucking sixteen? Jesus, you’re a kid. I didn’t know they even let people that young in here.”

Roberto shrugs, “Ran out of space everywhere else, I guess.”

A silence settles over them and Sam lays back down, hands clasped over his stomach, thumb rubbing over one of the small dips in his skin where his scars are.

“You got a lady out there? Waiting for you?”

Sam snorts, “I don’t know so much about the waiting part, but yeah.”

He tries to not think of you. This place would spoil your memory, like a song you listened to over and over during a breakup and can’t listen to anymore without thinking of it. When — if — he sees you again, he doesn’t want that. He knows you don’t deserve it.

But as if he can help it. Memories of you are among the only things keeping him sane. He remembers waking next to you, the soft golden glow of dawn washing through the nearly-transparent curtains of a hotel room. The hum of the fan wasn’t enough to drown out the songbirds that had decided your window was most appealing that day and had rudely awoken him at such a small hour. He remembers flopping over to face you, watching your breath rise and fall, reaching out to trace the gentle curve of your spine—

“You gonna marry her when you get out?”

Sam takes a breath in. As he lets it out he tightens his jaw. He knows the kid is an ignorant shit. He doesn’t know better. “I’m not getting out,” he replies, “So stop acting like that’s ever gonna fuckin’ happen.” The response comes out as more of a snap than Sam had intended, but he pushes away the feelings of guilt, forces himself to keep his gaze away from his cellmate.

“Oh.”

Sam closes his eyes, tries to think of something else other than the way Roberto’s tone reminded him so much of Nathan when they were kids, but it’s like someone telling you not to think of the phantom pain after losing a limb. And what do you think of?

He hears shuffling from the other side of the cell. The lifting of a mattress, a grunt of effort, the crinkling of paper and the heavy thud of setting it all back down again.

“Here,” Roberto says, and Sam feels his weight at the end of the bed. The older man groans and runs his hands down his face as he sits up, shirt sticking to his back that’s wet with sweat from the midday heat.

Roberto lifts a small square piece of paper in his hands, “Mira,” he says, gesturing to the photo.

It’s a black and white photograph of a woman, heavy-set with kind eyes and a massive grin plastered to her face, the several missing teeth only adding to her obvious charm. Her hands are clasped over her stomach, an apron bound as tightly around her as the head wrap she wears to stave off the heat of the day.

“Who’s this?” Sam asks, not bothering to wonder how he managed to get it in the first place.

“Mi madre,” Roberto responds, “When I get out, I’m gonna find her. Maybe you can come visit us,” he adds with a childlike enthusiasm that’s like an arrow to Sam’s heart. God, this kid deserves so much more than this.

“Do you have any pictures of your girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you scared you’ll forget what she looks like?”

Another year passes, and eventually Sam gets used to the torrential rain November brings. Or more importantly, he gets used to what it means; the cigarette trading turns into more frequent brawling in the laundry rooms or courtyard and the withdrawal symptoms make the fighting take on an animalistic turn as the men become restless. He leans against the railing that overlooks one of the courtyards, clasped hands fidgeting as he watches the men below, screaming and grunting and splashing in the mud as punch after punch lands.

He can sense Roberto’s presence beside him before the kid announces himself.

“The guards are looking for me,” he says, voice small, “I took a piece of bread from the kitchen.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of hiding yourself,” Sam responds without turning his gaze to look at him.

“They’re distracted by the brawling anyway,” Roberto says, shuffling closer as if Sam’s shadow could hide him. Hell, Sam thinks it probably could. The kid must weigh barely a hundred pounds.

“I fuckin’ hate this rain,” Sam says, picking a cigarette out from his pocket and fiddling with it in his hand, “Can’t even light a goddamn smoke.”

Roberto’s shoulder is almost touching Sam’s side. He looks down at him and frowns. The kid looks like a wet rat in his white t-shirt, black hair matted to his forehead. Sam shrugs off the navy prison jacket and drapes it over the kid’s shoulders, “You’ll catch a cold,” he says when Roberto looks up at him in surprise and grabs the lapels to tug it closer to himself as Sam sticks the cigarette in his mouth. He wasn’t about to try and light it in the downpour, but it felt good to hold there.

Sam meets the boy’s gaze, and its only then he notices the dark bruising around his eye, “Who gave you that black eye?” he demands, the intensity in his own voice surprising himself as he leans forward to tilt Roberto’s head in the light.

The teen swats him away and grumbles something under his breath, turning his gaze back to the courtyard.

“What?”

“I got in a fight,” he says, “It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Sam tells him, “Those guys down there could snap you like a twig, you know that? Don’t you dare ever do that again,” he says, taking the cigarette from his mouth and irritably throwing it over the edge as he leans over.

Roberto shrugs his shoulders and hugs the jacket close, “Let’s go back to our cell. I got a deck of cards.”

Sam looks back down at him at the suggestion and slings an arm over his shoulders, steering him back down the stairs and under cover.

“It’s called crazy eights,” Sam tells him later as they sit opposite each other on Roberto’s bed, raising his voice to be heard above the rain that had worsened on their way back. Thunder cracks and Roberto jumps slightly, looking over his shoulder toward the cell bars.

The air is thick with the humidity of it, as if the rain is pushing all the heaviness that had been hanging above them back down. It brings about new smells too; smells of faeces and urine and vomit that Sam knows are a result of the practically non-existent plumbing of the place. He turns his gaze back to Sam, scrunching his nose as he sniffs. Nervous habit.

“My little brother and I used to play it,” he continues as he shuffles the deck he imagines Roberto traded for a pack of cigarettes back in March when it was still possible to smoke them outside. It feels almost natural to talk about Nathan again, but god help him if he was going to speak his name aloud.

“Our parents would fight sometimes,” he says, “He’d get scared, so he and I would hole up in his room, play cards. Talk about history, practice our latin.”

“He sounds nice,” Roberto says, and is aware of how bland his response is. He’s worried anything else will make Sam shut up, and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Too nice for his own good, I’d say,” Sam says as he nods and deals out the cards, “Last person I taught this game to was my girlfriend,” he continues, and wonders why he’s only telling him this now. God, it feels good to talk about the two of you, “She was awful at it,” he laughs, and Roberto decides then and there that if he had an older brother, he would have a laugh like that.

“Do you love her?”

“Yes,” Sam says with no hesitation, the answer coming like a reflex. Of course he loves you. Kid has a habit of asking stupid questions, “What about your family?” he asks as he finishes dealing the cards and picks up his hand.

Roberto seems to have nothing to say for the first time since Sam befriended him two years ago as he reaches for his cards and shrugs, “They’re nice. I have a younger sister. My parents have work in town, but they come home in the afternoon and make the best dinners for us,” he says, setting his hand back down in front of him and sitting cross-legged, hands gripping at his ankles. Sam thinks he looks younger than he is sitting like this.

Heavy footsteps sound down the hallway and Roberto tenses, looks over his shoulder.

“I told you the guards were after me,” he says in a quiet voice, but Sam’s brow furrows. He’d stolen from the kitchens before. Everyone had. The punishment for it was far from severe, but of course as everything in the prison it depended what kind of mood the guards were in. The worst he’d seen was someone thrown in solitary for a day or two.

Five guards approach the door, hands set to their guns as a man clad in brown opens the door. Sam looks at Roberto with wide eyes and gets to his feet, “Hey, hey, hey,” he says quickly, holding his hands out in front of him as if that might stop them, “What the hell—”

“Cállate, gringo,” a guard yells at him, shoving his shoulder against his chest hard enough to knock him against the back wall. Sam lets out a grunt as he slides down, the force nearly knocking the breath out of him as he turns his gaze to Roberto.

“¿Dónde es?” the guards yells at him, lifting his gun to line up with his head. Roberto crawls back on his bed until he hits the wall, sending cards flying to the ground in his struggle.

“No—no sé lo que estás hablando,” Roberto stutters, and Sam wonders if it’s the fear or dampness making him shiver.

Sam scrambles to his feet and grabs Roberto’s wrist, shoves him behind himself, “Hey, you keep your gun on me,” he says, the words tasting familiar to him. He holds out an arm protectively and can feel Roberto gripping his shirt and peeking out from behind him.

“¿Qué carajo crees que estás haciendo?” the guard spits out, “This doesn’t concern you.”

The guard raises his arm and slams his elbow against the side of Sam’s head, knocking him to the concrete floor.

As one of them keeps a gun on Roberto, the other four lift the mattresses and throw them to the floor, one of them trapping Sam’s arm. When he goes to reach for one of the guard’s legs to trip him, another sends his boot into his ribcage. Pain explodes across his abdomen and when he opens his mouth he finds he has no breath to gasp at the agony of it.

“What do we have here?” a guard says, holding out the small slip of paper Roberto had kept under his mattress, “Where did you get this?” one of the guards spits at Roberto, holding up the photograph, “Who gave all this shit to you?” he repeats, gesturing at the cards.

“No va a halbar,” another guard says, snatching the photo out of his hands and shoving it in front of Roberto’s face, “Keeping a photo of your dead madre around? You want to be a traitor like the rest of your family?”

Roberto stares, frozen where he sits, back still against the wall, eyes wide.

“Alright, hijo de puta,” the guard says with a sigh, “Grab him,” he gestures to Sam and two others tug him from the ground, holding each of his arms back. Sam hangs his head, legs limp as he spits out a mix of phlegm and blood onto the ground.

“Don’t—don’t fucking touch him,” he croaks, feeling as though he’d been cut in two, his breath still returning to him.

The guard who has established himself as the leader of the group throws the first punch. Then another. Sam roars. He lurches forward, and his shoulders hurt when the guards pull him back. When Roberto starts to hit back, a renewed fire in Sam’s belly causes him to throw himself back in hopes of catching the guards by surprise. It earns him a mouthful of fist, and darkness swallows him.

When he comes to, hours or days later, the rain has stopped.

He’s laying on the ground at the foot of his bed, the mattress sprawled next to him. Slowly, he pushes himself onto his hands, wincing at the aching in his abdomen. He turns his gaze to the bed at the other side of the cell to where Roberto is curled up, breath coming fast, hands clutching at his middle.

And suddenly his pain is just pain and he stands, scrambling to the other bed.

“Roberto, hey, can you hear me?” he says, grabbing the boy by his shoulders and turning him onto his back. Blood stained his shirt where it had dripped from his nose, his face a sickly pale, stomach bloated and purple.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, shit, shit shit—” Sam feels his throat tighten, the pain in his abdomen fading almost entirely in the face of this new crisis. An anger replaces it, bubbling in his belly, tingling in each of his limbs, spinning the world around him until his eyes can’t focus on a single thing anymore.

The only thing he can think of is that he can’t lose him—not again. He’d failed him before, failed him so many times back in Cartegena, back at the Boys’ Home, back when he couldn’t make their parents stop arguing, back when he didn’t just give him his other damn hand when he was shot and dangling from that roof, back when he didn’t get out of bed when he heard his mother close the door to the house at three in the damn morning he could’ve gotten up he could’ve told her not to leave he could’ve stopped her and all this never would have happened—

“Sam?”

“Roberto, hey,” Sam says, breathing a sigh of relief, “Don’t move, okay? I’ll—I’ll get you some water, alright? By the end of the week we’ll be laughing about all this, yeah? How does that sound?”

“I’m—I’m sorry I lied, Sam,” he continues, voice cracking, “About my family.”

“Just rest, Roberto, c’mon—”

“No,” he says firmly, and Sam can tell he has to strain to raise his voice, “I wanna tell you now.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows the boy is going to die. Sam knows what he is about to hear will give him the reason no one will be willing to help the kid the way they helped him with his bullet wounds. He knows these four walls will be the last thing Roberto sees, and he feels like throwing up; feels as though he’s on a boat lost at sea in the middle of a storm and the compass is spinning.

“My parents, they—” he coughs; a dry sound, closer to hacking than anything and blood sprays onto his white shirt, “They were involved with the wrong sort. I—I don’t know, but the others, they visited our house in the middle of the night and they—” he coughs again, “They burned it down. I tried to escape with my sister, but the police arrived and—” he takes a gasping breath, “My father escaped. He has one of the guards working for him and he promised he was gonna get me out and I wanted you to come with me so we could still be together and I could meet your little brother and—” he takes another breath, tears swelling in his eyes that spill over the sides of his cheeks, “Some of the others, they found out about me and that’s—that’s the fight I told you about,” he finishes, daring to turn his head to look Sam in the eye. The moment they lock gazes, Sam can feel the tightening in his throat loosen like a dam.

Born into something so much bigger than himself, all choice ripped from him before he even had the chance to know what any kind of self-agency felt like. That was something Sam could relate to.

Roberto dies three days later.

The rain had left for the dry season, making way for the sun and birds and scent of earth to return to the otherwise concrete establishment. Sam had watched as they carried his body away on the stretcher, eyes wide and unseeing, stomach turned a disgusting mix of blacks and blues and purples. A fucking kid.

Roberto had had the photo of his mother in one hand and Sam’s in the other, gripping it like a vice as he died.

“I’ll make sure this gets back to your father, make sure he knows—”

“No, mantener la fotografía—keep it. It’s yours.”

Sam had learned after that to keep to himself. He kept conversation limited, never spoke of you or Nathan or Roberto. Never told anyone what happened, or why the kid was no longer attached to his hip.

There is nothing more irritating than the constant chatter of a child, and nothing more somber than the silence they leave after they are gone.

So Sam compartmentalizes. He moves on. He is a different man now, tempered with bitterness and disappointment and distain, wearing different clothes but marred with the same scars. In his youth, he had thought himself strong, had thought himself to be made of iron and wit. The truth is that he is - and he suspects most people are - a shattered, graceless mosaic of experience compacted to display something resembling an assertable face to the world. Inside he makes himself of awkward, delicate things; of memories of dead goddamn children and mothers, of a little brother left alone. When he looks in the mirror, he barely recognises the person staring back. Sam knew a man like him once, but he isn’t him.

And what makes him human was that sometimes the façade splinters. And in that moment he was closer to something tangible, something recognisable, than he might ever know.

“At the time, losing him felt like losing you,” Sam says finally, fiddling with the napkin holder on the kitchen island, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” His voice comes out in a strained whisper, squeezing itself uncomfortably around all the other words he does not say.

“I love you, little brother.”

“I know.”

Sam stays silent after that. His shoulders feel lighter but his chest feels as though someone has filled it with bricks.

“I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Nate says, a tinge of guilt and stubbornness in his voice that only Sam could pick out.

“Yeah.”

Sam takes the phone away from his ear. Then, faintly —

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Sam’s breath hitches. He shakes his head, though Nathan can’t see. Guilt, rage, sorrow, and an inescapable and indefatigable longing for something he can’t quite place skips through him, fizzy like soda pop.

He nods, small but staccatoed movement, “Yeah,” he tries to say, but the pain weighs down the word and it gets caught in his throat. He wants to say thank you, he wants to say, I love you, thank you, thank you, thank you for everything, but he’s not ready. He’s not ready, but for the first time in a long time he feels that maybe one day he will be.

“Goodnight, Sam. Talk soon,” Nate says, voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” Sam says again, but he’s not sure if Nathan hears it as he pulls the phone from his ear and presses the red button to end the call.

Sam flips the phone over and sets in down on the counter. He lifts his hands to run them down his face with a small fatigued groan before resting his elbows on the island, shoving both hands in his hair with his head bowed.

“Sam.”

He almost jumps at the sound of your voice behind him, piercing through the quiet like a bullet through flesh. Hesitantly, you set a hand against his shoulder, rubbing it softly.

“Did I wake you?”

You don’t respond. You’d tried to not eavesdrop, but when Sam had started going on about how he had heard his mother leave the house morning of her death, your feet had planted in the hallway and you couldn’t help the hand that flew to your mouth. Did he really blame himself for that? How many mistakes that weren’t his crowded the empty shadowed corners of his life?

He lifts a hand to cover yours on his shoulder, rubs his thumb over the ring on your finger.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he whispers, lowering his voice to hide the hoarseness in it. You nod and he laces his fingers through yours as he stands and starts back toward the bedroom.

“Sam, wait.”

Sam slows gradually before coming to a stop, his feet scuffing against the wood of the apartment floor.

“Come here.”

He turns wordlessly into your outstretched arms, wraps his arms tightly around your middle, buries his head in the crook of your neck.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” you whisper against his hair, one hand rubbing his back and the other threaded in his hair, “I’m so sorry.”

Sam’s grip loosens as you feel him shudder as he breaths out, dropping one arm entirely to have the other wrapped loosely around you. He sobs quietly into your shoulder and crumples against you, bringing you both to your knees on the floor.

The two of you stay like that for as long as it takes for Sam’s tears to slow.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?” you whisper once he has this breath back, “Get some rest,” you tell him, not being able to help the tears that have formed in your own eyes at the sight of him so distraught. When he lifts his head, his face is red and his eyes are puffy and tired, hair disheveled from having his face buried in your shoulder.

He nods as the two of you stand and crawl back into bed.

Sam lays on his side. He has his back to you.

Tentatively, you shuffle yourself closer to him and press yourself against his back, draping an arm over his middle. He lets out a sigh and his shoulders fall as he lets out a tension he hadn’t known was there.

Sam doesn’t sleep that night, but his mind doesn’t wander much either which he counts as a blessing. He tries to breathe deep, focus on the warmth of you behind him, on the uncomfortable stiffness in his fingers laced in yours.

In the morning he turns to face you and can feel the awe in his expression, can feel how stupid he must look as he stares.

In all his thirteen years in prison he’d only cried once. It was during his twelfth year, when he had begun to think he wasn’t capable of it. He would dream nearly every night, and each time it would be of Nathan, of you. When the people he loved most in this world became no more than figures with no voices or faces even in his dreams, he knew he was lost. Aren’t you scared you’ll forget what she looks like?

The twitch of a smile graces your lips, but you keep your eyes closed, “You know if I didn’t know better that’d be a little creepy,” you whisper, voice scratchy.

“Sorry,” he murmurs in return, the word meaningless and flat. You open you eyes to find you’ve moved a good half foot down the bed and were staring straight at his chest.

“I don’t mind,” you say with a sigh that creeps its way into a smile, and he lets out a small laugh. When you turn your gaze to his, he can’t help but think you have the eyes of everyone who has ever cared.

And this, Sam thinks, is the way it will go. He will trace his fingers over remembered lines, recalling until he catches upon a changed border. He will not run at the sight. He will adapt. And you...his lips curve into a smile and his heart catches in his throat. You and him will grow together around the differences like vines wrapping around tree branches, healing the way bones do.

#my writing #sam drake x reader #sam x reader #elena-fishy #sam drake #uncharted #uncharted 4 #!!!! enjoy #i very very loosely proof read this so sorry if it has errors #this is #SO cheesy and lovely @ the end jskskj holy fuck lmaaaooo bye #i wrote 90% of this 4 years ago so #i #will cut myself #a liTTLE slack #as a snack #CHEESY AND LOVEY*** NOT LOVELY LMAO

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talkingismylifewrites · 5 years ago

Note

Please I was told by a wise and learned being to come here and ask about Crystal’s retirement vineyard do his wines have comedy names or does he become obsessed with terroir and mis en bouteille à la propriété and does Roger write Heaven for Everyone sitting in a deckchair among the grapes barefoot guitar in hand and a glass of Beaujolais nouveau at his side?

our story begins in the 90s

crystal refuses to be roger’s roadie after the mess that was the 80s

hes like babe, we’ve both nearly died like 100 times i’m retiring and i want a vineyard

more for like the ~aesthetic~ not to like actual work??

like the appeal of it is that he can just have hundreds of acres and no fucking neighbors and they can definitely skinny dip without anyone taking pictures

so they buy a shambolic shitty vineyard

its BARELY even a vineyard like maybe??? once??? a hundred years ago???? it could pass

but not now

anyways

crystal is like okay time to start my retirement sleeping in and doing Absolutely Nothing

but roger is like NO

WE MUST TILL THE SOIL

AND CHECK THE PH

WHAT IS THE WEATHER PREDICTION WE DON’T WANT TO RUIN THE HARVEST

and crystal’s like....my dude...we have like three vines

roger: AND I WANT THREE VINES WORTH OF PRODUCTION

crystal literally??? just wanted??? to chill out in the south of france??? on a veranda????

retire in sTyLe

maybe get a reputation for having like a haunted vineyard with the local kids

but noooooooooo

roger doesn’t want a dead vineyard

roger wants a fucking fully productive vineyard

with farm hands

and a cellar for their vintages cuz he’s THAT BITCH

he took a perfectly good retirement vineyard and turned it into a job

he ruined retirement

its like that movie with diane sawyer where she gets a baby and makes applesauce

only roger

anyways

crystal bitches about it to EVERYONE

(but like, when roger’s off swanning around the world being a rockstar while crystals out in the fields at 3am putting a tarp up because an unexpected summer storm is coming)

crystal is FURIOUS

like he was done working!!! DONE!! and then fucking roger had to go and make a fucking vineyard and now they have a meeting with a distributor tomorrow at 9am

also crystal definitely makes SO MANY cutting remarks about roger being an "aging rockstar" in full hearing of the press

like he doesn’t say SHIT about freddie or john

(just sort of looks disdainfully at brian a lot)

but roger? oh

he'll loudly talk about how embarrassing it is for someone AT THE AGE OF 48 to be TOUTING AROUND like he's still TWENTY FIVE

roger: you want me to quit

crystal: god no. then you'd be at home all the time. can't be doing with all that.

roger on day one of coming home after a tour walking around critiquing the work (or lack there of) crystal did on the vineyard while he was touring

crystal: leave

(he has a tour countdown. it’s specially made)

(its an advent calendar but for tour. everymorning he gets a little piece of chocolate for putting up with roger)

(on sundays it’s a shot of alcohol cuz lord knows he needs a drink)

Roger keeps bothering crystal about the design for the label so crystal has to call up Freddie and be like pick up your boyfriend he’s annoying me

it is a mystery to any and every one how the fuck they work

They end up being hella successful but if you ask roger they’re constantly on the edge of the whole thing collapsing into ruin

roger somehow manages to get john to manage the finacial side

no one quite knows how he did it?? not even crystal???

but if you ask john he just looks pissed off and tells you not to mention it

roger just looks smug

(roger has NO IDEA how it work all he knows is one day john showed up with a brief case and was like SHOW ME YOUR FINANCIALS!!!)

Crystal is that cheap bastard who gives people bottles of wine for Christmas or their birthday

And it’s very clear that he just grabbed one and slapped a bow on it

Crystal, handing a bottle of merlot off to 12 year old Robbie: happy birthday

Robbie, confused: I don’t know what to do with this

Crystal: Jesus you are not your fathers son. Go get me the corkscrew and then come back I’ll show you want to do with it

Veronica: do not give my 12 year old wine Christopher we’ve discussed this

BUT YEAH

their biggest fight EVER stems from roger catching crystal in the vineyard eating the grapes

roger leaves

like he LEAVES

it almost breaks up the vineyard over The Incident and crystal’s lack of appreciation for The Wine

and crystal is like fucking morose

like eating his way through his advent calendar

john rocks up with ratty and is like..... jesus christ, man

crystal's just laying in the kitchen covered in chocolate and whiskey in his boxers

(BECAUSE HE CAN’T DRINK THEIR WINE WITHOUT ROGER OKAY HE CAN’T ITS THEIR WINE)

with a little timer set for when it's reticulation time for the grapes

(because roger might be gone but crystal sure as shit ain’t gonna kill the grapes)

roger’s hanging out with veronica and dominique bitching about how crystal doesn’t appreciate him

wearing a face mask drinking rose

roger: and then I caught him eATING THE BORDEAUX GRAPES!!

Ronnie: NO!!

Dominique: oh my god roger I’m so sorry

roger: the vineyard is a METAPHOR for our RELATIONSHIP and he was EATING IT

john, squinting across the table at a very drunk and morose crystal: do...you ate...some grapes?

crystal: ya

john:....did they taste good?

crystal, sobbing: NO

johns like just go to the store and buy more grapes!!

crystal: its a METAPHOR john

john: ......... for what?

crystal: I DONT KNOW

crystal is like he’s always loved the grapes more than me!! Always!!

john on the phone to veronica like "yeah idk he says its a metaphor but idk what???"

veronica like "you're a fucking heathen, john. dont call here again."

crystal totally wins roger back with a bottle of wine

turns out he’s kept their first bottle??

had it tucked away and was gonna save it for something special

slash as a reminder like we did this we made this??

and he sends it to roger and roger is so fucking touched

roger comes back to the vineyard totally expecting the whole place to be ruined and the grapes to be dead (OR EATEN)

instead its running perfectly?? like it used to???

and crystal is there looking like dennis quaid in the parent trap

(its totally raining outside)

and he takes a deep breath and looks into roger’s eyes and is like:

the grapes are a metaphor for our love because we have to tend to them in order to make something great

(roger is like you fucking poet nugget you sappy shit that’s not it at all but you’re TRYING)

and then they fuck in the vineyard

the end

(ps when they open the first bottle to drink it tastes like SHIT like they had no idea what they were doing its straight up fucking vinegar but crystal chokes down a glass because he wants to prove to roger that he VALUES him and their work)

(roger watches him drink it and doesn’t say a word because like, crystal ate the fucking grapes!! he ate them!!! repent for your sins!!!!!!!!!!)

#crystal taylor #roger taylor #john deacon #the vineyard au #taylor squared #caro writes #answered asks

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twodaysintojune · 5 years ago

Text

Sigh No More

Supernatural, Sastiel, Warnings-None

One Shots Masterlist, Long Stories Masterlist

Find me at AO3

Sastiel Creations Challenge | twodaysintojune

↳ Theme: SONG | Prompt: Sigh No More, Mumford and Sons

The confessional was stuffy and dry at the same time and it was hard to stay alert in the silence that enveloped the entire church that Thursday evening. More silent than what Father Wilkins had ever felt before.

Every year, every month, every week the amount of people that went to church decreased; at least on his town. There was no time for theological introspection in today’s society when you could watch a bunch of people doing silly stuff on your phone all day long and the only regular visit of the last years, Mrs. Hopkins, had passed away almost a month ago of old age. The worst was that apparently half of her missing family had appeared out of nowhere and were now fighting all over each other about the inheritance. There were rumours at town that the sudden death of one of her sons was somehow involved with it.

Father Wilkins sighed, it was hard even for himself to stay compassionate sometimes and he only went along with the motions hoping that one day this awful feeling of hollowness these situations gave him would eventually go away.

The loud clank of the entrance door weaving on it’s hinges announced the visit of a person into the church. Father Wilkins heard the long footsteps make way to the confessional and the tiny door opening. He saw the shadow of the incredibly tall man behind the wooden lattice kneel in front of it. After a bit of a struggle in the tiny booth he took a breath, crossed himself with a quick motion and began to talk.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been six years since my last confession and it’s been fifteen days since I last prayed to god."

“What brings you here today?”

The man stood still for a moment like he was assessing something and then gave out a soft laugh.

“To be honest I’m not even sure if this is the right place to be at.”

Another man with wavering faith. Father Wilkins wondered if he was ready to tackle something like this at the moment.

“Well, there must be a reason for you to have decided to come, how is your life?”

“Oh, everything’s peachy” The irony well accented in the man’s words “I’ve been fighting trying to save people’s lives for years now and I thought it was good and then I…” The man stopped for a moment too long and then sighed “I lost my son. God took him away from me.”

Father Wilkins hitched a breath.

“And how does that make you feel right now?”

“I…” soft shaken laughter “I feel so upset. I feel impotent, insignificant and lost and so, so angry! I’m so angry at god for taking him but I’m so much more angry at myself for not being able to do a thing! Because I was there. I WAS there and just with a snap of his fingers Jack was dead!”

“...the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

An ironic rough laugh from behind the latticework.

“He just likes to have fun looking at us drown in despair.”

Father Wilkins turned his gaze down to his crossed hands, he was as much a believer in God and His plans as any good devotee but he perfectly understood why such a situation would drive a man mad enough to make him say these kind of things with such resent. He kept quiet enough to hear the man stifle a sob.

“...It’s just so unfair. Jack was such a good child. He had all this potential to do good, to be good and now he’s gone because of a stupid whim or tantrum or, or whatever… And I’m still here and I… I don’t even feel like getting out of my bed in the morning because I no longer see the point on anything at all when I realize my life has been one strife after another non-stop and that god was right there, watching every single one of my actions and never did a thing to help!”

The man stopped abruptly when he realized his voice had gone a tone louder. He continued after taking in a breath and calming down a bit.

“And you know Dean, my brother, he told me that we had to keep going and fighting. That helping others was still a good thing to do no matter how little power we had to change anything else...” Father Wilkins nodded in silent agreement with this brother the man was talking about “But I still don’t really feel like anything’s worth fighting for anymore. I mean, in the end everyone dies and some will go to hell and some will go to heaven but ultimately it doesn’t matter whether we helped them or not because it’s not our lives and most likely we’re not even free to take decisions for ourselves, heck, I don’t even know if I’ll land in heaven or hell or just disappear into the empty and the worst is that I don’t care. I don’t care anymore because I thought all of our actions meant something because we took them but it turns out that we have just been jumping the obstacles that god placed on our path...”

It was obvious the man had stopped his diatribe, mostly because he had run out of breath and anger, Father Wilkins sighed and silently prayed to God to find the right words to help this man.

“You know Son, I believe that even when you don’t realize it right now, there’s a part deep in your soul that still wants to believe.”

He heard a soft crushed sigh behind the latticework, by the sound of it the man was resting his forehead on it. It was the most defeated action Father Wilkins had seen on all of the people he had helped confess and it broke his heart.

“And it’s likely you’re not going to see it right now, or in a month, or in a year but even if you have not been able to find solace in God, there’s still a lot of good worth fighting for in the world. Take your brother for example, isn’t what’s left of your family worth fighting for?”

Father Wilkins would have included any other family members if he knew this man better but time had taught him that some times mentions of family were not taken nicely by everyone and that he should not make assumptions on other people’s lives. The man let out a soft snicker fondly, it had been the right call this time.

“Yeah, it’s worth fighting for.”

“It’s normal to feel the way you do. And it’s normal to feel betrayed but I believe that what’s most important right now is for you to mourn your son properly so that you’re able to move forward after that.”

“Even when I don’t know where that forward is?”

“Trust me Son, you’ll know when the time comes.”

Another soft huff. Father Wilkins saw the shadow of the man’s head nod softly, most likely pondering on his words.

“Thank you, Father.”

“You’re welcome Son”

The man shifted but he stopped after a moment.

“Uhm, so what is my penance?”

“Penance for what?”

“For… uh, cursing against god?”

“I don’t believe you deserve any kind of penance for grieving the loss of your son.”

He looked at the man’s silhouette move taken aback for a moment and then bend down his head.

“Thank You.”

It was more of a whisper but in the silence of the church Father Wilkins heard the heartfelt relief and gratefulness of the man. He hummed a nod, trying to avoid destroying the moment with unnecessary words. After a brief minute of reflection, the man moved to stand up and step away from the confessional. Leaving the door ajar.

Father Wilkins waited until he heard the entrance door once more and he stepped out of the confessional to move his legs a bit. He saw a man that had apparently been leaning over St. Hubertus’ statuette checking it up. He turned his deep blue eyes to meet Father Wilkins’ gaze.

“Oh I’m sorry, I thought I was alone, were you waiting for a confession?”

The man smiled fondly, almost like there was something funny about the Father’s words.

“Not really but thank you.”

Father Wilkins approached the man wondering how he was able to stand the stuffy heat of the church with that thick overcoat.

“Are you interested in religious imagery? Or perhaps you wanted to ask a favor to the Saint.”

The man turned to look at him questioningly before Father Wilkins glanced at the statuette.

“Oh, I was just looking at it. I had never seen a statuette of this particular saint in a church before.”

“It’s not really common but it was a gift and you know what they say about the gifted horse.”

The man hummed amused and stretched his hand towards him.

“Castiel”

Father Wilkins raised his eyebrows, he didn’t recall any Castiel on his angelic lore so either he was getting old or this man’s parents had become pretty inventive. He met the man’s hand.

“Father Wilkins, you can call me Albert though, something tells me you’re not much for names and titles.”

Castiel smiled openly. Since there was nobody else in the church he made small talk with the man about everything and nothing, he found out that he was actually investigating the case of Mrs. Hopkins’ son and gladly gave away what little information he had on them. He also showed him the beautiful image of Jesus on the cross gilded with gold leaf that she had gifted the church not much before her demise.

“She was a very good woman, I am sure she is in heaven right now.”

Castiel hummed in agreeance.

“She certainly is.”

After a brief moment of silence on behalf of the woman, Castiel bid his farewell to the man holding his hand once more.

“Thank you for your time Father.”

“Not at all. It was good to have some company for a while… I hope I don’t mind you but it’s been bothering me all this time. What thing does the angel Castiel stand for?”

Castiel looked at him a bit surprised. No one had ever asked him that before.

“Thursdays. I’m—Castiel is the angel of Thursdays.”

“Then I guess it’s not a coincidence we met today.”

Castiel’s eyes lit up in mirth.

“Apparently not. You’re a good man Albert, I’m glad we met.”

And with that Castiel left the place. Sam was waiting for him at the diner across the square and waited until he was seated and had thanked the waitress for the glass of water in front of him.

“So?”

“I checked all of the statues and imagery at the church but nothing was cursed. We know that Mrs. Hopkins’ son was found impaled on a cross but I honestly don’t think Father Wilkins has anything to do with this case Sam.”

“Yeah, me neither. I hope Dean finds something with the relatives we didn’t see yesterday.”

Castiel hummed, they kept quiet while Sam ate his salad.

“Sam I…” Castiel sighed “I’m sorry.”

Sam looked at him surprised.

“For what?”

“For not being here for you.”

Sam looked at his friend unable to understand what he was talking about. Castiel took in a breath that he definitely needed before talking once more.

“I… I was so upset when Chuck killed Jack that I didn’t even know how to help you at all. When Dean told me to give you both some space I selfishly took the chance to avoid facing the problem but I cannot let things go this way.”

Sam had left his fork on the plate, he tried to drown the lump forming in his throat.

“I was so stupid. I didn’t realize that we were all feeling the same way.”

Castiel was an angel, he had naturally heard everything he told the Father at the church. Sam’s gaze fell down onto his plate, he didn’t feel like holding his eyes against such profound tone of blue right now. He felt Castiel’s warm hand gingerly glide over his before letting it rest hesitantly on top of it.

“...Maybe I’m being selfish but I don’t want to stay apart forever.”

Sam sniffled. In a moment of weakness his hand tangled his fingers between Castiel’s.

“Yeah, me neither.”

He failed to keep the quivering smile he had managed to give to his friend but Castiel didn’t lose the meaning of Sam’s expression. He kept his hold on Sam’s hand also smiling sadly. Castiel turned his gaze down for a moment and then looked upwards nervously. Sam saw Castiel debating something in his mind before his sight resolved. There was something in the way the seraph was looking at him right now that made Sam’s eyes widen and his stomach flutter for a second.

“Sam I—”

“Hey, hands off my little brother! I haven’t properly given you the talk yet.”

Dean arrived pointing a finger and a killing glare at Castiel while motioning the other towards Sam for him to move over. Castiel straightened up startled by Dean’s sudden intromission but tightened his hold on the other man in clear defiance. Sam on his side blushed wildly at the seraph’s actions but still managed to give Dean a well deserved bitchface.

“Shut up jerk.”

#Sastiel #sastielcc #Sam Winchester #Castiel #fanfiction #fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #Supernatural fanfic

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bamby0304 · 5 years ago

Text

The Hart III- Secrets

Chapter Twelve- Or Treat

Series Masterlist

Summary: Three months… Dean was gone for three months and now he’s back. He’s back and he truly has no idea how much things have changed. Life moved on while Dean was in Hell, and now things are complicated. With new faces and troubles right around the corner, will the trio find a way to come back together? Or has all hope been lost?

Warnings: Angst. Violence.

Bamby

EPOV

"Excuse me?" I spoke up for the first time, looking to each angel. "So, what? Just because of this seal, this thing you might not be able to deal with in time... you decided to kill off everyone in the town?"

"We're out of time. This witch has to die, the seal must be saved," Castiel told us simply, as if that justified their plan, justified everything they've ever done.

"There are a thousand people here," Sam argued.

"One thousand, two hundred, fourteen," Uriel corrected, but the number seemed to have no effect on him what so ever.

Looking over at him, Sam frowned, confused- and if I wasn't mistaken... disappointed. "And you're willing to kill them all?"

"This isn't the first time I've… purified a city," Uriel told him matter-of-factly.

"Look, I understand this is regrettable," Castiel started, only to be cut off sharply by Dean.

"Regrettable?"

"We have to hold the line. Too many seals have broken already."

"So, you screw the pooch on some seals and this town has to pay the price?"

"It's the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion," Castiel countered, not seeing how this might upset us. "There's a bigger picture here."

Dean shook his head, looking to both angels. "Right, cause you're 'bigger picture' kind of guys."

Castiel took a step closer to Dean, a sense of power radiating off him as he spoke. "Lucifer cannot rise. He does and hell rises with him. Is that something that you're willing to risk?"

The thing is, it didn't matter what Castiel, Uriel or any angel did or said. Sam, Dean and I... we cared about everyone. Including the one thousand two hundred and fourteen people in this town at this very moment. Their lives were worth just as much as anyone else's.

"We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone. Your seal won't be broken and no one has to die," Sam assured them, trying to convince them that their plan was not the only way to go.

Patience running on long, Uriel turned to Castiel. "We're wasting time with these mud monkeys."

"I'm sorry, but we have our orders," Castiel noted... though I couldn't help but noticed the fact that he'd directed the words to Uriel, and not to us...

Sam shook his head, still adamant about saving the town and its people. "No, you can't do this, you're angels, I mean aren't you supposed to- You're supposed to show mercy."

Uriel scoffed. "Says who?"

"We have no choice," Castiel added. It occurred to me then that he might not want to do this, he just had to. It was his job to do what he was told and not ask questions. He was a solider, not a saviour.

"Of course you have a choice." Dean didn't seem to see what I could. He just saw two emotionless angels who didn't care what happened to any of us humans. "I mean, come on, what? You've never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?"

"Look, even if you can't understand it, have faith. The plan is just."

"How can you even say that?" Sam asked him.

"Because it comes from heaven, that makes it just."

"Oh, it must be nice, to be so sure of yourselves." The look Dean gave Castiel as he spoke, it was on the edge of pure hate and anger. He did not like the angels.

Stepping up at Dean once more, Castiel surprised me with what he said next, "Tell me something, Dean, when your father gave you an order, didn't you obey?"

It took a moment before Dean answered. He stood there, looking at Castiel, trying not to react as he thought it all over. When he finally did speak, there was no changing his mind, "Well sorry boys, looks like the plans have changed."

"You think you can stop us?" Uriel looked both amused and annoyed. As if we were children trying to do things on our own, but messing everything up as we went along.

Dean turned to the other angel, standing his ground. "No." He stepped over to Uriel. "But if you're gonna smite this whole town, then you're gonna have to smite us with it, because we are not leaving. See, you went to the trouble of busting me out of hell. I figure I'm worth something to the man upstairs. So you wanna waste me, go ahead, see how he digs that."

"I will drag you out of here myself," Uriel warned.

"Yeah, but you'll have to kill me, then we're back to the same problem. I mean, come on, you're gonna wipe out a whole town for one little witch. Sounds to me like you're compensating for something." Dean turned back to Castiel. "We can do this. We will find that witch and we will stop the summoning."

Standing there, looking at Dean, Castiel thought it over. That in itself was a big feat

"Castiel! I will not let these-"

Before Uriel could finish, Castiel raised his hand to cut him off. "Enough!" he ordered, stilling looking to Dean. "I suggest you move quickly," was all he had to say.

...

As we left the hotel room- both Uriel and Castiel now gone- Sam, Dean and I walked over to Baby... the hood now covered in smashed eggs.

I shook my head, stepping up to the hood. "You've got to be kidding me."

Sam didn't even stop, simply moved to the passenger seat and got in. But Dean? He was clearly pissed, and I had a feeling the angels weren't helping the situation. The fact it was his baby that had been hit was the worst of it. He loved this car more than anything, it was practically the brothers' home.

Looking around for the culprit, Dean yelled, "Astronaut!"

Sighing, I walked over to rest a hand on his arm in the hopes of calming him a little. "Come on. We don't have much time left, and we need to find this witch."

Taking a deep breath, he gave a short nod and followed me as we got into the car- him in the front and me in the middle of the back seat. Once we were in, he turned to Sam who was looking down at the hex bag that had been meant for us. I couldn't help but noticed the fact the younger Winchester seemed a little upset.

"What?" Dean asked him.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing." He took a breath, smiling lightly even though we all knew he wasn't amused. "I thought they'd be different."

Dean looked at him confused. "Who, the angels?"

"Yeah," Sam answered simply.

It had been the first time Sam had met the angels, but Dean and I had encountered Castiel on more than one occasion now. Each time I met the angel he was as emotionless and robot like as every other time. There was nothing there. Like he was a perfectly made machine that did as it was told and felt nothing. All he saw was the mission. All he thought about was how to please the people- or beings- above him. There was nothing there. Just a soldier ready to be put to work.

I can understand why Sam might be disappointed. I remembered the case we were on a few years back, when we thought we were dealing with an angel when it had really been the spirit of a priest who had been killed and was trying the write the wrongs of his community. Sam had confessed that he prayed, and that he wanted to believe. That he did believe.

As some stage, I had too. Growing up, after my father had died, my mum had turned to religion. She'd practically dived head first into it. Church and prayers were cemented into my upbringing, and there was honestly nothing wrong with that. It didn't do me any harm.

But at some point in my life, I think I just gave up. In believing in the good. Now that I'd met some angels, I didn't regret my decision. Sure, they might be real. But were they good?

"Well, I tried to tell ya," Dean noted. He had tried to tell Sam. But his brother had been hopeful that he was wrong.

"I just..." shaking his head, Sam looked down at the hex bag in his hand, "I mean, I thought they'd be righteous."

"Well," Dean shrugged, "they are righteous. I mean, that's kinda the problem." When Sam looked to him, he explained what he meant, "Of course there's nothing more dangerous than some a-hole who thinks he's on a holy mission."

"But, I mean, this is God? And Heaven? This is what I've been praying to?" Sam sounded utterly disappointed.

"Look man, I know you're into the whole God thing, you know, Jesus on a tortilla and stuff like that. But just because there's a couple of bad apples doesn't mean the whole barrel's rotten. I mean, for all we know, God hates these jerks. Don't give up on this stuff, is all I'm saying. Babe Ruth was a dick but baseball's still a beautiful game."

I reached over and gave Dean a pat on the shoulder. "Such beautiful words."

Dean rolled his eyes, starting the ignition. "Shut up," he mumbled.

Sam chuckled lightly, looking back down at the hex bag to open it up and fiddle with the bone that had sat inside it and was now between his two fingers.

Putting the car in reverse, Dean turned to his brother for a moment. "Well, are you gonna figure out a way to find this witch, or are you just gonna sit there fingering your bone?"

"You know how much heat it would take to char a bone like this, Dean?"

"No."

Something in me clicked at Sam's question. It was like I'd just figured something out, but I just didn't know what that was exactly.

Frowning, I leaned closer to grab the bone from Sam to get a better look. "No oven could do this. The heat would have to be extreme."

"Exactly." Sam nodded.

Dean looked between the two of us. "Okay, Betty Crocker one and two, so what does that mean?"

Sam grabbed the bone from me again as he turned to his brother once more. "It means we make a stop."

DPOV

Back at the high school and in the art room, I walked over to one of the kilns while Liz and Sam headed over to Don's desk. The two seemed to have an idea of what the hell was going on, while I was still wondering why we were here exactly.

"So, Tracy used the kiln to char the bone, what's the big deal?" I asked, looking inside the kiln before moving over to join them at the desk.

The two of them while rifling through the desk drawers, but it was Sam who answered. "Dean, that hex bag turned up in our room, not after we talked to Tracy-"

I cut him off, nodding now that I understood. "After we talked to the teacher."

"Hey." Sam gestured to a locked drawer.

"I got it." Liz only had to look at the lock before it unlocked.

She's getting stronger...

Opening the drawer, Sam paused the moment we all looked down at the bowl of bones sitting there. One of them were charred while the others weren't, but they were all small. Just like the ones from the hex bags.

"My God." Sam stood up. "Those are all from children."

I sighed, looking down at them. "And I'm guessing he's not saving them for the dog."

EPOV

Dean, Sam and I lifted our guns and shot at Don right before he had the chance to stab Tracy. We'd found the two in Don's basement. He was chanting an incantation while Tracy struggled against the binds around the wrist as they kept her on her feet and unable to escape. The gag on her mouth had stopped her from calling out for help. Luckily, we'd made it in time to keep Don from finishing the ritual, and killing her.

I guess we were wrong... Tracy isn't the witch. I thought as I put my gun away.

Dean- his gun now away as well- moved to cut the rope tied around her wrists, setting her free. Sam checked Don to make sure he really was dead, while I moved over to take a look at the ritual table. I didn't touch anything- I wasn't sure what it might do- I simple looked.

Tracy ripped the gag off. "Thank you, he was gonna kill me! Ugh, that sick son of a bitch." She looked down at Don. "I mean, did you see what he was doing? Did you hear him? How sloppy his incantation was?" I froze, turning to her. "My brother-"

Dean, Sam and I all reacted at once. The brothers moving for their guns while I went to throw Tracy across the room.

Unfortunately, she was powerful. With a few quick witchy words and a wave of her hand, she had the brothers flying back and hitting the ground hard. This was all done in the mere seconds it took before I had her shoved to the ground as well.

Looking up at me, stunned, a small smirk played on her lips as she pulled herself back to her feet. "Well, look what we have here."

She must have seen that I was about to do something else to her, because before I could actually do it, I found myself been thrown to the floor by the brothers, face down, the strength of the hold keeping me there almost enough to crush my spine.

The brother's struggled and groaned, both of them watching me with worried and protective eyes.

DPOV

Sam and I couldn't move. Well, we could barely move. We could wriggle and struggle, but that was it. But we both wanted to move. Not only to kill this witch, but to help Liz. I knew she still had a lot of fight in her, but with the hold Tracy had on her... there was nothing Liz could do at this stage. She was as helpless and stuck as both Sam and I.

"Silly girl." Tracy shook her head, looking down at Liz as if she was simply annoying. Sighing, she turned to Don. "Now, you." She glared at his body. "He was gonna make me the final sacrifice," she told us. "His idea. But now, that honour goes to him. Our master's return? The spell-work's a two-man job you understand, so for six hundred years I had to deal with that pompous son of a bitch.

"Planning, preparing, unbearable." She knelt down, grabbing the chalice and knife he'd dropped, while Sam and I continued to groan in pain as she held up down. "The whole time I wanted to rip his face off." Digging into the bullet wound in Don's chest so the blood would pour into the chalice, she chuckled lightly. "And you get him with a gun, uh, love that." Standing, she moved over to the altar table. "You know, back in the day, this was the one day you kept your children inside. Well tonight you'll all see what Halloween really is."

She began to chant something in what I guessed was Latin, but my attention wasn't on her. Instead I watched as Sam fought against her hold enough so that he could reach his hand over to the blood pooling under Don, and then wipe the blood on his face.

"What are you doing?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Just follow my lead," Sam muttered as he reached over to Liz and spread the blood on her face- seeing that the hold on her was stronger and she couldn't reach the blood.

Taking a deep breath, I did as Sam suggested and reached for the blood as well, rubbing it on my face so it was covered just like his and Liz's.

Just then, Tracy finished the incantation.

The ground began to shake and crack as thick black smoke emerged for the damaged concrete. It flew into the air and then dived into Don's mouth as if knowing exactly where it belonged.

As Don- who I guess was now Samhain- rose, I noticed that Sam and Liz had closed their eyes as if they were playing dead. Once again, I followed Sam's lead, hoping that this plan of his was actually gone to keep us alive.

There was a moment before Tracy spoke. "My love."

"You've aged." Don's voice had changed slightly, now that Samhain had taken over his body. It was deeper. Darker.

"This face… I can't fool you."

"Your beauty is beyond time." Once again, there was a silence before I heard the indistinctive sound of something snapping and then a body dropping to the floor. In that instant, the hold on me broke. Samhain had just killed Tracy. "Whore."

Listening, I waited into I heard him go up the stairs and close the door behind him before I opened my eyes to check that he really was gone. Once I was sure he was gone, and wouldn't be back, I reached over to check Liz.

"You okay?" I asked her as I helped sit her up.

Groaning, she rubbed at her head which had hit the ground pretty hard. "Fine."

Looking over at Sam as he moved to sit as well, I asked, "What the hell was that?"

"Halloween lore. People used to wear masks to hide from him." He shrugged. "So I gave it a shot."

"You gave it a shot?!"

EPOV

Dean was being his usual over protective self as we walked to Baby. He was right beside me, a gentle hand on my back as if he thought I was going to fall unconscious right then and there. Sure, I'd hit the ground a lot harder than then, and sure Tracy's hold on my had been stronger than her hold on them. But I was fine...

Just in case, I pulled out my pills and took two, hoping they would help.

"Where the hell are we gonna find this mook?" Dean asked Sam as his hand that wasn't pressed to my back used a rug to clean the blood off his face.

Sam had a rag of his own to clean the blood of his face as he responded. "Where would you go to raise other dark forces of the night?"

"The cemetery," Dean answered as we reached the car. He opened the door for me and made sure I was in before he got into his own seat and started the engine, driving down the street as fast as he could while still being safe so he wouldn't hit any trick-or-treaters.

SPOV

"So, this demon's pretty powerful," I noted as Dean continued down the road and towards the cemetery.

He gave a short now. "Yeah."

"Might take more than the usual weapons." I glanced over at him, wondering if he understood what I was hinting at... he did.

"Sam, no, you're not using your psychic whatever. Don't even think about it. Ruby's knife is enough."

"Why?"

"Well because the angels said so for one-"

I cut him off, "I thought you said they were a bunch of fanatics."

"Well they happen to be right about this one," he argued, sounding like a complete hypocrite.

"Dean," Lizzie sighed from the back seat. "Sam may have a point. If things get bad... we might need-"

"No," Dean cut her off sharply as he turned to me. "You said yourself, these powers, it's like playing with fire." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the demon knife. "Please."

Without a word, I took the knife, knowing there was no way I could change his mind.

DPOV

We heard the screams and what sounded like a metal door rattling, before we'd even entered the crypt. Rushing down the stairs, we found a bunch of teenaged kids dressed up for Halloween, completely freaked and locked on the other side of some locked metal doors.

As we reached the bottom stair, Sam turned to me. "Help them."

I could see it in his eyes, he was going to go find Samhain. "Dude, you're not going off alone."

But there was nothing I could do to stop him. "Do it!" he yelled before he ran off.

I watched him for a moment until Liz pulled my attention back to the kids as they continued to freak out.

"Dean! Come on!"

Hating the fact that my brother was on his own, dealing with one of the strongest demons we'd ever come across, I took a deep breath and turned my attention to the task at hand knowing it was the right thing to do.

"Stand back!" I warned, pulling out my gun. "Stand back!" The kids did as I said, allowing me to shoot at the locks.

The moment the doors flung open, Liz ushered the kids out, making sure they got to safety as I entered the space they were in, seeing the graves in the walls shake as the fronts of them dropped off, opening them.

Liz rushed back in, only to come to a halt as a zombie crawled out of one of the graves. Suddenly a grave on the other side of the room cracked and crumbled, opening up for another zombie to crawl out.

"Dean..."

Dropping my bag on the ground, I looked over at my shoulder to Liz for the briefest moment. "Back to back."

Nodding, she came over to stand behind me, reaching into my bag to pull out two silver stakes quickly. Once she handed one to me, we both turned to a wall each, getting ready as a few more zombies crawled out.

I tightened my grip on the stake. "Bring it on, stinky."

SPOV

I was deeper in the crypt now, looking for Samhain. I was sure Dean and Lizzie had everything sorted back there. I knew they didn't need me right now, not when there were more pressing things to deal with. Like the demon bring Hell to this town.

Walking down the corridor a little more, I found him tucked away in a room, facing the far wall. I tried sneaking up to him, but he suddenly turned around, lifting his hand to shoot me with the same bright white light Lilith tried on Lizzie and I.

Now in the room, I came to a stop. "Yeah, that demon ray gun stuff? It doesn't work on me."

Pissed, Samhain ran towards me. Before he could do anything, I managed to get the upper hand by making the first move by punching his right in the face. That's all it took before a fight broke out, the two of us throwing hits at each other... until he managed to push me to the wall and wrap his hand around my throat.

EPOV

Dean and I had managed to take down a few zombies now. But right when we thought we could take a breather, a ghost showed up... and boy was she strong. She'd managed to throw both of us across the room before we'd barely had a chance to register her presence. Then, she was gone again.

"Zombie-ghost orgy huh? Well, that's it, I'm torching everybody," Dean muttered as he got to his feet.

But see, the fact ghosts were showing up now told me one thing. Samhain was still alive. That was not good. That meant Sam hadn't dealt with him yet. It wasn't that I didn't have faith in him, but I was beginning to worry.

"You take care of these guys. I'm gonna go help Sam." Without giving Dean the chance to argue or stop me, I rushed out of the room.

SPOV

I'd managed to pull the demon knife out of my jacket. As I went to stab him though, Samhain blocked me with his arm. The blade was pretty close to touching his skin, which then glowed as if sensing the danger.

Snarling, Samhain shoved at my arm roughly, in order to knock the weapon from my grasp. I was now helpless.

There was still some hope, but the chances of me getting out of this on my own, without my powers... with those chances were pretty much non-existent now. I knew Dean and the angels didn't want me to use them, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and seeing as there was no other way for me to get out of this...

"Sam!"

Lizzie caught both Samhain and I off guard as she lifted her hand and tossed him away from me.

I fell back to my feet, taking a deep breath, taking a small moment to recover as Lizzie came to stand beside me. The second I stood straight again and saw Samhain standing in the corner a few feet from us, ready to attack, I knew what I had to do. Not only to save the town, but to save myself and Lizzie.

Lifting my hand, I began to concentrate on him, on pulling the demon out of the body.

He resisted. He struggled and fought, and actually started to slowly and eventually move towards us, still desperately wanting to rip both Lizzie and I apart. Try as I might, I couldn't seem to hold him back and draw him out.

My head began to feel like it was ready to explode. I felt the familiar dripping of blood coming out of my nose as I struggled and fought as best as I could to destroy this demon.

That's when I felt her hand slide into mine.

In that moment, I hadn't had the chance to be surprised or grateful, but for a second I was both, seeing Lizzie raise her own hand as she helped me pull Samhain from Don's body.

It still took a moment, seeing as he was strong and this was the first time she'd done this- that i knew of at least. But sure enough, we managed to pull him out of the vessel, before we finished the job and sent him straight back to hell.

The moment the smoke disappeared into the ground, and we relax, Lizzie goes slack beside me, almost falling to the ground in a pile. I reacted quickly, wrapping an arm around her to make sure she stayed on her feet.

She'd been about to say something when she froze, her eyes on her left, focussing on the entrance to the room... right where Dean stood watching us.

...

After dealing with Samhain last night, none of us had said a single word. None of us even looked at each other. We'd simply come back to the hotel. I guess it had all been too much, because Lizzie had left early this morning. While Dean had been out at a bar or something, and I'd been in the bathroom, she'd packed her things and left... without writing a note this time.

Dean had asked where she was, clearly worried about her even after what he'd watched both her and I do. But I had no answer, and she wasn't responding to any of our calls or messages. I was actually beginning to wonder if she'd come back this time...

Standing by my bed, I packed up my things, ready to get out of here. There was tension between Dean and me, but not enough to change things. The job was done and it was time for us to move on to the next.

"Tomorrow."

I jumped at the sound of a voice. Turning around, I found Uriel sitting on the couch.

"November second, it's an anniversary for you, right?"

"What are you doing here?"

Instead of answering my question, he went on. "It's the day Azazel killed your mother, and twenty-two years later your girlfriend too. It must be difficult to bear, yet you so brazenly use the power he gave you. His profane blood pumping through your veins."

"Excuse me?"

"You were told not to use your abilities."

"And what was I supposed to do? That demon would have killed me, and Lizzie, and my brother and everyone."

"You were told not to."

"If Samhain had gotten loose in this town-"

He cut me off, clearly not caring what I had to say, "You've been warned. Twice now."

"If Lizzie and I-"

"Let me make one thing clear. You were told not to use your powers. Next time we while make you. And that whore you and your brother cart around, she means nothing to us. So, I suggest she stop using her abilities as well. Or you'll both suffer the consequences."

I shook my head at him, wanting nothing more than to hurt him after what he'd just called Lizzie. "You know… my brother was right about you. You are dicks."

Looking to me again, he got up and was suddenly right in front of me. "The only reason you're still alive, Sam Winchester, is because you've been useful. But the moment that ceases to be true, the second you become more trouble than you're worth, one word. One, and I will turn you to dust." Backing off, he went on, "As for your brother, tell him that maybe he should climb off that high horse of his. Ask Dean what he remembers from hell."

Just as quickly as he'd appeared in front of me, he was gone with the sound of heavy wings fluttering behind him. I was left on my own again, left to think about what he'd just told me and what it meant.

DPOV

I sat on a park bench, looking out at some kids and their parents as they played on the swings and ran around. I didn't even have to look over to know Castiel was sitting next to me. I'd heard his wings. I knew he was there.

"Let me guess you're here for the 'I told you so'?" I asked, though had a feeling I knew the answer.

"No."

Or maybe I didn't have the answer. "Well, good, cause I'm really not that interested."

"I am not here to judge you, Dean."

"Then why are you here?"

"Our orders-"

I cut him off, not really in the mood to hear this speech for the millionth time. "Yeah, you know, I've had about enough of these orders of yours-"

It was his turn to cut me off. "Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain, they were to do whatever you told us to do."

I frowned, confused. "Your orders were to follow my orders?"

"It was a test, to see how you would perform under... battlefield conditions, you might say."

"It was a witch, not the Tet Offensive," I noted. "So I, uh, failed your test, huh? I get it. But you know what? If you would have waved that magic time-traveling wand of yours and we had to do it all over again, I'd make the same call. 'Cause see, I don't know what's gonna happen when these seals are broken. Hell, I don't even know what's gonna happen tomorrow. But what I do know is, that this, here?" I gestured around us. "These kids, the swings, the trees, all of it is still here because of Liz, my brother and me."

"You misunderstand me, Dean, I'm not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town."

That was a surprise. "You were?"

"These people," he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "they're all my father's creations. They're works of art, and yet, even though you stopped Samhain, the seal was broken and we are one step closer to hell on earth, for all creation. Now that's not an expression, Dean, it's literal. You of all people should appreciate what that means."

He was right. I did appreciate what that meant. Which is why I'd wanted to save this people last night. Saving the world was great, sure, but not if the wrong choices had been made along the way. If I listened to the angels last night, then I'd deserve to be sent back to hell.

Speaking up again, Castiel pulled my attention to him. "Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?"

"Okay."

"I'm not a... hammer as you say. I have questions. I... I have doubts." He sighed. "I don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don't envy the weight that's on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don't."

We shared a look for a moment and I could see he meant it. Turning away, I wondered what that might mean for me. What it might mean for Sam and Liz... for everyone else. But before I could ask, I looked over to see he was gone, and once again, I was alone.

Bamby

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x oc #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fic #elizabeth rose hart #the hart #the hart iii: secrets

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samcro-saint99 · 6 years ago

Text

Familia

Hey, Dolls! I’m back! I am so sorry I have been gone for so long, but I'm hoping that this will make up for that! This was a request from the lovely @head-in-the-clouds-bx , I really hope you enjoy it, Doll! Welcome to all the new dolls, and as always I am so thankful for all of you!

All my Love,

Saint xxx

P.S - I would apologize in advance for any way I may have butchered the Italian language! I am an uncultured Aussie, who relied heavily on google translate for this!

P.P.S - As always a big thank you to the amazing @thirstygirlclub for motivating my lazy self and assisting in the final read!

“WHAT are you up to, little man!” You laughed as you jumped around the corner and into the kitchen, wrapping your arms around him while he giggled (as though you hadn’t caught him trying to climb up to the lolly cupboard).

“Nothing mommy”

“Are you sure you weren’t breaking into the cupboard?”

“No!” He laughed innocently as you tickled him.

“Well, I guess you don’t want a....‘Mommy Special’ then….” You teased looking to the roof when his little head snapped up to look at you excitedly, “at the table” you whispered with a smiling wink.

Five minutes later the table was covered in artificial colors, flavors, and all things sweet and sticky, and his face was covered in chocolate and ice cream. You knew it wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world, but the smile on his little face was worth sleepless night with an overactive toddler.

“Daddy!” Abel screamed from the table, running to the front door at the sound of Jax’s Harley in the driveway.

Jax came through the doors carrying Abel on his hip, a charming smile on his face as he looked at you.

“Hey Darlin’” he greeted before his eyes landed on the table covered in treats, his eyebrows raised as he looked between the two of you.

“Mommy's naughty”Able mumbled with a cheeky giggle.

“Hey!” You gasped, placing your hand to your chest in feigned insult.

“She sure is, Little Dude” he smirked, leaning down to kiss your head before eating a gumdrop from the table.

Before you could find a witty comeback, Thomas’ cries broke through the house. “Someones awake - Mommy’ COMING, BABY!”s

———————————————————————————————————

You sat quietly on the couch, enjoying a moment of silence. Jax was at the club, and the boys were out for the count. With a glass of wine beside you, you stared at a framed family photo in your hands trying to think how you could be so lucky to have your boys. Your family. And although you shouldn’t have been, you were thankful everyday that Tara had given up and left Charming. You and Jax had been together for a little over two years. You loved them, and they loved you.

Your mind wandering was interrupted as your phone began to buzz, an image of your parents came on to the screen with a Skype request.

“Ciao Mammi!” You smiled, waving at the phone as your mothers face appeared on the screen.

“Il mio bambino” she sang, a bright smile stretched across her face “[Y/F/N] mettiti dieter il too pigro, é cosi [Y/N]!” She yelled through the house to your father, before he walked into the room to stand beside your mother. You had to admit, seeing them both together did make you quite homesick.

“Ciao Papá, come ti senti-”

“No, no, no you must use American, it is good we learn” he encouraged in broken English.

“Yes, one day we come visit you, and we can speak to Jackson and our sweet little grand-bambinos!” Your mother cheered with a warm heart, clasping her hands together.

Although your parents had never met Jax or your children, they were thrilled that you had finally settled down, and even more thrilled to finally be grandparents.

The three of you talked for almost an hour before Jax came home.

“Baby come say hi!” Jax leant over the couch behind you, smiling at your parents.

“Hey Mr and Mrs [Y/L/N]”

“Hello Jackson, how are you? How is work?” They continued to bombard him with questions which he answered flawlessly. Your parents adored Jax, and with every word, he spoke he charmed them more and more.

When you had finally said goodbye to your parents, you just turned to smile quietly at Jax.

“What?” He asked with a chuckle.

“I love you so much.”

———————————————————————————————————

The next morning, you sat up in bed as you heard the door to your bedroom open.

“Good morning Mommy” Jax whispered as he carried Thomas in on his hip with Abel by his side. Your heart warmed at the sight.

They all climbed onto the bed, Jax placing Thomas in your arms, as Abel hopped onto your lap.

“Boys don’t you have something to ask Mommy?” Jax encouraged.

“Mommy, will you marry Daddy?” Abel asked with a big grin as he opened Thomas’ closed fist to reveal a diamond ring, taking it to hand to you.

You smiled at Jax, tears brimming in your eyes, before turning back to Abel.

“What do you think, Little Man? Should I?”

He nodded his head vigorously, before you grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Then I guess I better” you said, planting a kiss on his squishy little cheek as he giggled, before leaning over and pressing a kiss firmly to Jax’s lips. “I love you, Darlin’”

———————————————————————————————————

While Jax was at work that day you decided it was time for a little alone time, sending the boys off to Grandma’s. When Jax arrived home and caught sight of the look in your eyes he grew curious.

“Where are the boys?” He asked, a lustful glint in his eyes as you curled yourself around him.

“With Gem. We’re all…a….lone” you purred, nuzzling into his neck.

With a growl, he grabbed you from behind and carried you off to your bedroom. What followed was pure ecstasy. To put it as simply as possible - it was a good old fashioned fuck.

Jaxs hands gripped tightly into your hips, as the sound of your passionate moans and groans filled the room. They say all good boys go to heaven, but fuck that. Bad boys bring heaven to you.

You were on the brink, your core tightening, your heart racing, when….

“Ah, Mio Dio!” You heard a gasp from the doorway behind you. Jax climbed off of you allowing you to turn in time to see your parents horrified faces in the doorway.

“Um…I…Oh God…” was all you could muster as you pulled the sheets up to cover Jax and yourself.

Your parents stared aghast for a moment before embarrassingly excusing themselves to the living room. You sat there, eyes wide in shock, your mouth hanging open, as Jax started to chuckled. You turned to him with a look that would scare even Happy.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!!! My parents just saw us fucking like a pair of fucking dogs!”

“Darl’, you’re overreacting, Gems walked in on us before, and she was chill” he reasoned, attempting to pull you into a hug before you started to slap him furiously.

“Yeah but that's YOUR Mother! The fucking Biker Queen herself! My parents are more Catholic than the fucking POPE! Jesus Fucking Christ” you squealed uncontrollably, pulling your legs up to bury your face in them.

“You do know that we’re big kids, right?” He asked sarcastically.

“I can't ever look at my parents…ever again” you mumbled, flopping back onto the bed. ———————————————————————————————————

“Mammi….Papá” You said tentatively, as you walked into the living room, Jax following close behind.

“Oh..uh hello Bambino” your father smiled awkwardly, his cheeks still red.

“I-um thought you weren’t arriving until next week?”

“We decided to come early and surprise you…” your mother explained

“You certainly did” Jax snickered, earning him a jab in the ribs.

You crossed the room and pulled both your parents into a tight hug, despite the awkwardness it was still terrific to see them.

The next few hours passed more or less in the same mood, small talk and uncomfortable attempts to avoid eye contact. But it was sitting over afternoon tea that things got bad.

Fiddling with your teacup, you decided that the situation needed a little brightening.

“Mammi, Papá - Jax and I have something to tell you…” you looked to Jax for reassurance, and with a small nod from him, you continued.

“We’re getting married...”

The looks on your parents faces started as excitement, before returning to the brooding look of despair.

“Whats the point…you've already done it all” your mother muttered, as you gasped.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing! Your mother and father began to lecture you on the sin of premarital sex, while your mouth hung open in disbelief, and Jax tried to contain his laughter. You almost thanked God when Abel ran into the room, pausing at the sight of strangers, before telling you that Thomas was crying, which had been drowned out by the argument. Taking Abel by the hand you stormed out, thankful for the distraction.

Picking Thomas up you sat down on the couch and pulled Abel up to sit on your lap, and before long Jax came to sit beside you, wrapping his arm around you.

“Hey..don’t worry about your parents - they’ll come around”

“I just didn’t expect them to behave like that.” You said with a sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder, as he pressed a gentle kiss to your head.

Once again you opened your eyes to the sight of your parents standing in the doorway, but the looks on their faces were not ones of shock this time, they were ones of realisation. Realisation that they had overreacted. That you were a wonderful mother. And that you had a beautiful family.

You just stared at your parents, anticipating more argument. Silently your mother made her way over to stand in front of you. Reaching out she gently stroked Abels hair, and after he had looked to you for reassurance, the look of panic on his face turned to a smile as he looked up to your mother.

Your father padded over the soft carpet to join you and stood soundlessly, hazing fixedly at Jax, before reaching his hand out for Jax to take. As the pair shook hands, your father rasped in a hushed tone.

“Prenditi cura di nostra figlia, figlio.”

Your lips curled into a heart warmed smile. Your family was whole.

#jax teller #samcro #sons of anarchy #family #awkward #in laws #one shot #imagine #request

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jchichibu · 6 years ago

Text

Things that God told me.

Hi, this took me a little long to pen down. It’s not because I’m too busy or I’m procrastinating – but simply because I am someone who tends to rank priorities wrongly. Penning down my thoughts about my 7-month journey in SOT (School of Theology) was something I was tasked by Lester, but something I really wanted to do even before he asked for it. Take it as a reminder for me, and take it as a 17-minute read of my 7-month endeavour for anyone who is interested.

My name is Jasmine, better known as Chichibu or CCB (Titus 1:15 lol) and I am 24 this year (it’s still 2018 as of 6:43 PM 31 December 2018 as I pen this on my way home from Malacca on the coach :P). I graduated from City Harvest Church’s School of Theology Class of 2018, and the course began from 26 Feb and I graduated on 30 Sep. As quoted by one of my favourite persons in my life Claria, I am certainly the “last person ever you will think of going SOT”. True, SOT never once crossed my mind even being in church since I was 16 and every year they ask you to tell your neighbours “Join SOT!”, but I never wanted to, or never thought I needed to. Throughout my Christian walk, the OG and most tangible thing was the love of God. I was never the most holy, most spiritual, most caring, most enthusiastic person for Christ and I might feel somewhat stagnant in my walk (but I was contented honestly). I was becoming lukewarm. I forget to read the Bible, spurt vulgarities or flash finger signals I probably should never ever have, think or covet for things I should not and did things I’m not proud of. I sometimes would not want to show I am a Christian because I don’t want people to think badly of Christianity. I am just not a standard girl you would expect to want to go SOT.

However, a week before the closing of registration of SOT I had a push from God to join SOT. I went for a jog and I remembered clearly at the uphill of Toh Tuck Rise I made a decision to register for SOT. Yea, people who are not from my church will think I really sot, I just got lifted my burdens of having 4 private tutees out of my full time job, and now am I really doing this to myself? To burden myself with SOT, full time job and attempting have a social life? I was also motivated to have my routine of working out every morning and even had plans to sign up something with Ling Hui at the gym. SOT is a commitment and yes, I have to wake up at 7 AM everyday for SOT at 8.45 AM and end work generally when the sky is dark. Ok la obviously I just yolo-ed and ‘took a leap of faith’, said goodbye to chill 2018 and registered for SOT!!! Through it all I know that God will carry me through and nothing is too hard for Him. Though at that moment I really can’t believe I’m doing this to myself.

I am not going write about what SOT is about, but I am going to pen my revelations. I did keep a dated record of things that spoke to me throughout my journey and I hope some of these will relate to some of you and serve as a reminder for me as the year closes. Hopefully the (long) introduction above gave you some sort of context as to who I am, and now I begin: Things that God told me.

1. It is not by my might that I am saved, or that God loves me. You can rely on Jesus to forgive you, but do not take it for granted. Cheap grace is not what we are looking for here. When God forgives, remember to learn something from it and avoid the mistake again.

2. Since 16, I recalled every moment that I prayed for something, gets it eventually and forget that it was God. Countless times with my knees bent worshipping God in SOT, I was reminded of how smooth my life has been. I remember when I was 18, I was praying to get into a local university because my results were not fantastic. I was scared. But look, I got accepted into my first choices for the 3 local unis. I remember when I was 21, I got into exchange programme without even meeting the critieria of cGPA 3.5 (lol). I remember when I was 22, I was so anxious after my paper because I felt I would fail the paper and that means I will retain and not graduate with my peers (Ely do you remember us drinking Tiger at ahlian? Haha). Look, I scored a D or something in the end but I graduated as planned.

3. I’ve disappointed God several times, I am in church but I feel like shit, you know. I have had bad days, where I feel freaking unworthy of God to love me and I want to run away. Having the revelation that God has not disappointed me a single time makes me more mindful how mighty He is, and how weak I am, and how much I needed to stop disappointing God. We cannot not sin, truth is, we all have. But we can make a decision everyday to rely on God. The authority to defeat Satan is in me. God loves me so much. So so so so sosoososososososoooooo much what is my next move?

The woman was left alone. Jesus stood up and spoke to her. “Woman, where are they? Does no one condemn you?” “No one, Master.” “Neither do I,” said Jesus. “Go on your way. From now on, don’t sin.” (John 8:9-11)

4. Learn to wait upon the Lord. Those who know me personally know I am a relatively fast paced person. I do not really like to wait or queue up for things and I speak super quickly.. I know Jeremiah 29:11 very well but I still plan things for myself anyway. Is this lack of faith/disbelief in God that I am experiencing? But I know God has a plan for me. You see, it gets very conflicting, for fear that my impatience will ‘spoil’ God’s good plans for me. As 2019 becomes less fast paced and I become older, may I calm my tits down and tarry in the Lord. It means to stay longer than expected and be patient in hope. Because for the record, God’s plans has always been good to me – when I see the big picture now for the uncertainties I felt in the past, everything makes sense. I need to truly believe that God will provide, God is truly the overseer of my life, God’s timing will come.

But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. (Matthew 6:33)

5. Be thankful to God and always be. If you are thankful, you will always find your way back to Jesus. Take thanksgiving to God more seriously, EVERYDAY. And I thank God that every night before I sleep I always have something to be thankful about up.

6. Right values and right spirit translates to right actions. I’ve learnt to set boundaries for my value system, not everything is okay, even if my free-spirited soul tells me “aiya yolo” countless times. Spirit wise, I need to talk to God more consistently. The Holy Spirit is something I learnt to engage more in SOT, and I need to remember to communicate with it more (considering how slack I was in the past and it has yet become a habit). I am a reflection of my own routine.

7. To not find ways to see how close I can go without stepping over the line. Instead, think how far I can be from that line. This was mentioned during one of Pastor Ed’s session, struck a chord in me since then. People like me, free-spirited, come-what-may kind of personality, running away from things I deem as fun (but not exactly morally upright) is hard. I crave excitement and adventure. I need to learn, not everything that makes me happy is beneficial for me. I am responsible for my own freedom. Deliberate habitual sinning makes us okay to cross this line and it’s scary. I forget that it is actually not pleasing to God, I forget that it will hurt me, because I’ve gotten used to it, I’ve gotten immune to it. I do not feel bad anymore. And that itself, is toxic.

8. Repentance, I need to repent from things in my life. Inward change + outward action = repentance. I feel constantly that I’m doing both half-heartedly. It’s hard to truly 100% repent if I continue this way. Deal with the heart problem.

9. Life is worth living for the Lord. Quit thinking that life without acknowledging is my Saviour is better. I used to have thoughts that life would be better without being a Christian – I don’t have to feel shitty about having done something bad, I can sleep till super late on a Sunday, look my friends who are unchurched are living alright too… I envy them sometimes. Then I realised I need to be secured in my identity in Christ. I am a child of God, and knowing Jesus should be one of the best decisions of my life. Yes, people who do not know God can lead a good life too. But I should not think that knowing God has compromised my happiness and freedom in life. God gave us free-will and there is freedom in Him. Quitting Jesus will likely mean I am not returning.

You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh ; rather, serve one another humbly in love. (Galatians 5:13)

10. If we think closely about most of the things in our lives, there must be an exchange. I gave the auntie my 3 dollars in exchange for a plate of chicken rice this afternoon. The handicapped uncle busked in the streets in hope that someone could give him some money in exchange for his time. Jesus died in exchange for the forgiveness of our sins. I cannot keep taking for granted that I will go to heaven if I keep doing things not according to the will of God; I need to exchange something. Is it my lack of discipline, is it a person, is it a hobby? Surrender.

11. My life should not be a paradox. Make my words precious. From my heart, motives and mind, I need to understand why things cannot be done. Does my verbal profession translate to moral obedience? My life is the most powerful message for people. No one has seen Jesus but they have seen me. Live my life for Christ. Be mindful of what I speak about, don’t say or do things I don’t mean. Treat people genuinely. I should learn to not just receive God’s love, learn to give God some love too by loving His people. He deserves it. When people say my name, what do they say about?

Don’t fool yourself into thinking that you are a listener when you are anything but, letting the Word go in one ear and out the other. Act on what you hear! Those who hear and don’t act are like those who glance in the mirror, walk away, and two minutes later have no idea who they are, what they look like. But whoever catches a glimpse of the revealed counsel of God—the free life!—even out of the corner of his eye, and sticks with it, is no distracted scatterbrain but a man or woman of action. That person will ﬁnd delight and afﬁrmation in the action. (James 1:22-25)

12. I can live at my own level of faith. I always categorise my friends as upz and never felt equivalent to them. You see, I don’t speak or edify people so much, I don’t lead people, I speak whatever comes my mind (#uncensored) and I am not a standard example of a holy person. Then I talked to some people I deemed as upz and I realised we are all human beings with real temptations and fears; whatever I face they face too, just differently but we have inadequencies. Maybe I’m just more vocal about these things, but everyone’s fighting their own battles even if they looked perfect on the exterior. I learnt that God did not create robots, but created us in His image… and we can be comfortable with who we are. I do not need to be whoever for God to love me more, God is happy with who I am, as long as I live my life with integrity, offline and online, real life or secret life. I can just stay rooted in Him based on my own pace. God isn’t impressed by human strength. If I want real and divine strength and power, first I have to be weak by the standards of this world. When I’m weak by the standards by the world, then I can get the grace to become strong in God. I need God.

For I say, through the grace given to me, to everyone who is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think soberly, as God has dealt to each one a measure of faith. (Romans 12:3)

13. Leadership is not about title, leadership is about influence. Note to self about my life as a teacher or colleague or friend. I want to influence positively, I want to be someone who honours my word, that what I believe in is in sync with how I act out and live out.

14. God does not waste every experience I face in my life. No one knows the full shit I’ve experienced, the real training that I’ve been through but when the situation calls for it, I can be useful to people around me. Don’t come out of experiences empty-handed, instead bring treasures of darkness.

15. Read the Bible more, spend time with the Holy Spirit more, pray more. I was forced (ok, at the last feel moments of SOT I was truly forced due to time constraints) to complete the Bible and I realised how much wisdom the Bible has and how little I’ve read it through my years. Contradicting isn’t it? I fail to read the sole thing that was given to me to know God better. As I said earlier, my relationship with God is based on experience – experiencing His love. What if one day I stopped experiencing God’s love during sessions, will I still follow Jesus? The word is indeed important, in times of need I can become a blessing. I beat myself up for the fact that I lost time in my years as a Christian not reading the Bible as much as I should have, but may 2019 be a year where I find time on my own to look deeper into His word and know His word.

Preach the word! Be ready in season and out of season. Convince, rebuke, exhort, with all longsuffering and teaching. (II Timothy 4:2 NKJV)

Pray until inadequacy leaves me. Pray until my prayer is answered. Pray until my burden is lifted. Be close to the Holy Spirit and ensure that when God knocks at my door, I am available and present to answer it. My thought pattern is developed through years and I need to undo this thought pattern by the Holy Spirit, prayers and word of God.

But you, when you pray, go into your room, and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in the secret place; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you openly. (Matthew 6:6)

16. Make decisions when you are not emotionally unstable. Decisions is rooted in your character. Learn to stop acting on impulse. Learn to say no at times. Align my decisions with the will of God.

17. Whatever I focus on grows. Become wiser this year about the people, the finances, the health, the things i spend my time on...

Get wisdom—it’s worth more than money; choose insight over income every time. (Proverbs 16:16)

18. God loves me so much… through SOT, I am certain of the love of God. Now remember this and know that nothing I do or not do can make God love me lesser or more.

19. I can decide what comes into my heart. Let what is worth it come into your heart.

Keep vigilant watch over your heart; that’s where life starts. (Proverbs 4:23 – 27)

20. Be secure in myself, no need to strive to prove myself. If I’m good people can see.

21. If God speaks, will I be willing to listen?

Sooooo, is SOT necessary? To be honest, no. I was so tired at that time, thankful that my dad was able to send me to work straight after SOT at 1 PM. I had no time for myself at all, there was something to do that I cannot cancel everyday. SOT was more of a routine that I learnt to follow, a controlled environment for me to know God more. I had to praise and worship every morning, pray with my peers, read the Bible, complete assignments to graduate. It gave my life some sort of order because everyday I am put in an atmosphere that allows me to meet God. However life after SOT is what really mattered the most. Certainly I got distracted and travelling a lot during my holiday did not help. However, the experiences and revelations in SOT, those are things that cannot be taken away from me... that I just need to regularly be reinforced in my head and heart. My biggest takeaway for me is that nothing will make me leave God and nothing will make God leave me.

May life after this see me becoming more matured, where I have self-realisation as to what is good and bad for me, having a mature love for God that knows no fear because I’m fully convinced that God loves me sooooo super much. Live life with integrity!

This is by no means a 2019 New Year Resolution post because I don’t want that shit anymore (typing this on 31 Dec simply ‘cuz yo girl kept forgetting to do it since 30 Sep after graduation). I’m sure I am bound to make mistakes and bound to screw up and get lost again in my life time but I just want to live my life to my best. Life never really turn out the way it is planned – some parts better than you planned, some parts worse than you planned. A general word for 2019 though, Gr. Apokaradokia: To wait with expectation with head raised and eyes ﬁxed over the horizon –

+ Apo: Means to turn away with concentration. Ignoring other interests.

+ Kara: Means head.

+ Dokia: Means to stretch forward.

Two of my favourite verses throughout my SOT times and have a blessed year ahead.

But he’s already made it plain how to live, what to do, what God is looking for in men and women. It’s quite simple: Do what is fair and just to your neighbor, be compassionate and loyal in your love, And don’t take yourself too seriously— take God seriously. (Micah 6:8 MSG)

God , your God, has blessed you in everything you have done. He has guarded you in your travels through this immense wilderness. For forty years now, God , your God, has been right here with you. You haven’t lacked one thing. (Deuteronomy 2:7 MSG)

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deathishauntedbyhumans · 6 years ago

Text

New In Town

Stranger: [HS AU] Hey, I hope this isn't weird or anything, but my name is Alexander Hamilton, and I'm new in town. The Washingtons just adopted me. They said you live down the street from here and that I should introduce myself, so. Hi. -AH

You: I'm Aaron Burr. You probably already knew that, though. AB

Stranger: Yeah, they told me. They've got, like, a list of everyone? On the fridge? I didn't know people actually did that. -AH But apparently it's useful when they need someone to mow the lawn or whatever. I don't know. -AH Anyway. Hi. -AH

You: The Washingtons are nice. I used to watch their cat when they went out of town. AB Are you going to be going to school around here, now? AB

Stranger: I will be, starting Monday! I'm excited. -AH

You: We can walk together, if you'd like. It isn't that far, and I usually walk by myself. AB

Stranger: That would be nice. Thank you. They've already bought me a bunch of nice supplies. It probably says something about me that nice pens are one of my favorite things I have right now. -AH

You: It's good to be prepared. AB Where are you from? AB

Stranger: Ah. -AH Nevis. -AH

You: I... don't know where that is. AB

Stranger: Yeah, that's fair. -AH It's an island in the Caribbean. -AH

You: Oh. That's pretty cool. AB Do you like it here so far? AB

Stranger: It's definitely an adjustment. I've never been off the island before. There's so much more /happening/ here, though. Nevis is- tiny. And quiet. -AH

You: I've never been out of the country before. I can't imagine a place that's tiny and quiet. It sounds nice. AB How long have you been here, so far? AB

Stranger: It takes less than a day to make a trip all the way around the island, and that's not even in a car. -AH About four days? -AH

You: Wow. To... all of that. AB Well. Welcome to crowded and loud. No wonder you're still adjusting. AB [...] I'm sorry if that came out wrong. I'm not always very good at texting the right things. AB

Stranger: Ha, you're fine. I get what you're saying. It's an adventure. I'm excited, though. I mean, I've wanted to come to America for a while now, so. Now I'm here. -AH

You: There's definitely a lot to take in. AB Would you like to... come over? I'm better at introducing myself in person, and I'd like to make a better first impression. AB Only if you aren't busy, of course. I'm sure you have a lot to do, since you're still fairly new here. AB

Stranger: I appreciate the offer, but I'm actually enjoying what has to be the nicest bathtub in the history of mankind at the moment. Not even the hand of god could move me right now. -AH How about tomorrow? -AH

You: That would be nice. AB

Stranger: Great! -AH I'll bring some of the leftover cookies Mrs. Martha made today. If there are any leftovers, anyway. They're soooo good. -AH

You: Thank you, Alexander. That's really nice of you. AB Mrs. Washington bakes a lot. She's very good at it. AB

Stranger: No shit, yeah. I didn't know what a blondie was? And now I don't know how I've gone this long without them? -AH

You: Wait until she starts baking pies. AB

Stranger: Oh god, I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die of happiness. -AH I can't cook, like, at all, so just these past few days have been kind of a miracle for me. -AH

You: You can't die before you taste her pies. Those are definitely miracle-worthy. AB

Stranger: No, no, I'm pretty sure that the pie is gonna be what kills me. -AH It's okay. There are worse ways to go. -AH

You: She bakes bread, too. From scratch. AB

Stranger: Hooolyyyy shit. -AH Clearly, I've already died, because this must be heaven. -AH

You: She made this pumpkin bread last October for a bake sale at school... It was probably the best thing I've ever eaten. AB

Stranger: God... -AH I'm not even hungry but now I really want to eat. -AH

You: You don't have to be hungry to eat Mrs. Washington's food. You just... eat it. AB

Stranger: Not being hungry is still kind of a new feeling for me, honestly. -AH

You: What do you mean? AB

Stranger: Nothing. Just- it's nice. -AH

You: [...] Okay. That makes sense. AB Like I said, the Washingtons are really nice. They'll make sure you've always got plenty of food. AB

Stranger: Yeah. Their kitchen is huuuuuuge. -AH I kind of. Have a secret hoard of crackers under my bed. Mostly out of habit. -AH

You: Make sure you keep them closed up. Otherwise you'll get ants. AB

Stranger: Trust me, I know how to handle my food stashes. -AH

You: It's just a warning from experience. AB

Stranger: Fair enough. Thanks. -AH I just like knowing they're there. -AH

You: Just in case. I get it. AB

Stranger: Yeah. -AH This all still feels like a dream, you know? Like I'm gonna wake up any second. -AH

You: It's real. I mean, you're talking to me and I'm real. AB Those blondies were definitely real. AB

Stranger: I have an active imagination. -AH Oooooh, /true/. Yeah, I couldn't have imagined those. -AH

You: See? Even an active imagination couldn't have come up with that. AB

Stranger: You make an excellent point. -AH I kinda want to ask if she can make anything with coconut, but I also feel kind of bad asking for anything after how much they've already done for me. -AH

You: I'm sure she would be happy to do it. She likes baking, and she likes making people happy. AB I don't know if it's weird to say, but I'm really happy they adopted you? I've heard them talking to my grandparents before about how much they miss having kids around. AB

Stranger: I just really like coconut. One of the nice things from home. -AH I'm happy too, I'm pretty sure. It's kind of overwhelming how nice they are? I have no idea what to do with it, honestly. I've been on my own for- a while. -AH

You: On your own? AB

Stranger: Yeah. Pretty much. -AH

You: Wow. AB How old are you? AB

Stranger: Seventeen. -AH

You: That's a lot to deal with. AB

Stranger: It's been a lot, yeah. Yeah. -AH I've been going non-stop since I was thirteen, so now that I'm here and I don't have to, I'm just kinda- lost. -AH

You: You'll figure things out here. If you managed on your own for so long, you'll be able to adapt to this. AB [...] I'm not trying to pry, and you don't have to answer, but... I can't lie and say I'm not a little curious. What happened? AB

Stranger: It's fine, you can ask. -AH My dad walked out when I was a kid. I was- ten? My mom did her best for a while to provide for me and my brother, but then she and I got sick. I got better. She didn't. -AH We moved in with my cousin, cousin committed suicide. My brother left to go make it out on his own, and it's just been me since then. -AH

You: Jesus. That's... too much. AB You made it, though. AB

Stranger: I grew up quick. I've been working since then. A lot of writing, a lot of math. That's how the Washingtons found out about me. A hurricane hit my town last season, and it just- it destroyed everything. It was awful. So I wrote to every newspaper I could trying to get people to pay /attention/ and /help/ and people noticed. -AH

You: And they helped. AB That's amazing. AB

Stranger: Yeah. So. -AH That's my story. -AH

You: It's one hell of a story. AB

Stranger: Honestly, I was pretty sure I'd be dead by now, so I'm pleasantly surprised at this point. -AH

You: For what it's worth, I'm glad I got the chance to meet you and that you're not dead. AB

Stranger: Well, thanks. I appreciate it. -AH So, what about you? -AH

You: What about me? AB

Stranger: What's your story? -AH

You: Oh. AB I haven't done nearly as much as you have. AB My parents died in a car accident when I was just a kid. My sister and I lived with our grandparents until she moved out a few years ago. Now it's just me and them. I'll be seventeen in a few months. My grandfather is a preacher? That's... pretty much it. AB

Stranger: What do you like to do? -AH

You: I like to read? I was a in a play at school once, but I don't think I was very good. AB

Stranger: Ohhhh my god there are so many books here, I love it. Basically my whole little library I'd accumulated got destroyed in the floods. Broke my heart. But I'm allowed to read whatever I want off the shelves here. -AH You did a play at school? Huh. All kinds of stuff goes on there, then? -AH

You: I'm sorry about your library. I've got quite a few books, too, if you ever want to borrow any of them. AB Yes. There are all sorts of clubs and things. A friend of mine convinced me to act with her in a play because they were short on people. I like to sit in on the Speech and Debate meetings and listen to the debates. AB

Stranger: Ooooh, definitely! -AH THERE ARE DEBATES??? -AH I mean. Um. There are debates? Cool. Cool. -AH

You: There are definitely debates. AB Would you... like to come with me to the next meeting? AB

Stranger: /Y e s./ -AH

You: I don't usually join in, but they're always open for more people to debate if you're interested. AB Just... going out on a limb and guessing that you're interested? AB

Stranger: Yes absolutely please and thank you. -AH

You: They'll be happy about it. Maybe if I bring you, they'll stop bothering me about actually debating. AB

Stranger: Or I'll harass you into joining too. -AH :) -AH

You: I'll hide in the back of the room. You won't even know I'm there. AB

Stranger: I'm good at calling people out. It's what I /do/. -AH

You: The club's either going to love you or hate you. Either way, it'll be fun to watch. AB

Stranger: I have that effect. -AH I didn't know there was a debate club. I'm even /more/ excited about going to school now, shit. -AH

You: You'll have a good time. If either of us talks to any admin, they would probably be able to put us together in a few classes, too, if you wanted. They usually do, to try and make the transition for new students easier if they already know someone. That'd be up to you. AB

Stranger: That would be great! I'll ask. I had to go up there once already, but George made me wait in the hall because apparently I was "getting agitated" with the person. -AH It's not my fault he was stupid and bad at his job. -AH

You: I'm almost afraid to ask what happened. AB

Stranger: I want to do the accelerated courses, but they kept telling me no because they didn't have anything on my transcripts saying I could, because I don't /have/ transcripts because I've never actually /been/ to a formal school before and they couldn't seem to understand that so instead of just saying they'd give me a placement test, which is what they were supposed to do, he looked at me like I was stupid. -AH I'm not stupid. -AH

You: Of course you're not stupid. You wrote a letter to a newspaper and ended up here. Not many people could just... do that. AB Did you end up getting to take a placement test for it? AB

Stranger: Yeah. I did. And they're letting me do the classes. But it was just- frustrating. I was halfway out of my seat with my fist clenched before I knew I was moving. -AH

You: You have to be careful. Some of the admin is... slow, but they're even worse when they think they're not in control of the situation. AB That's good, that you're in the right classes, though. I'm also in some of the advanced courses. AB

Stranger: I get a little testy sometimes. So George made me wait outside. -AH Yeah? Great! -AH

You: Probably a good decision. AB Even if we don't end up in the same classes at the same times, I can help you with any catching up if you need it. AB

You: ((brb))

Stranger: ...maybe. Probably. Yeah. -AH That would be nice. I can get a lot from books, I just need to know where I should be focusing. I'll read anything I can get my hands on, honestly. -AH

You: I'll point you in the right direction once you get your first few assignments. AB A lot of it's just reading and retaining the information, so you shouldn't have much of a problem with it. AB

Stranger: I'm gonna like this, I can already tell. -AH God, I'm excited. -AH

You: You /will/ have to refrain from punching anyone while you're debating, though. AB

Stranger: ...damn. -AH

You: Not easy, but necessary. AB

Stranger: Is it, though? -AH

You: The admin won't look kindly on it if you deck someone at the stand. AB

Stranger: Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh -AH

You: Look at it this way: if you debate well enough, you won't need to hit them. AB

Stranger: Touche. -AH But it's /so/ satisfying. -AH

You: So is staying out of the dean's office.

You: AB**

Stranger: What's the worst that could happen? -AH

You: Suspension, expulsion. AB

Stranger: Well that seems excessive. -AH

You: Welcome to the American school system. AB

Stranger: A little fighting is good for the soul. -AH

You: Most people don't exactly share that sentiment, here. AB

Stranger: Boring. -AH Hell, that's how I made rent sometimes. I'd cause a little trouble, get some folks to bet I couldn't win, and then I'd get paid when I just wouldn't quit. -AH

You: That sounds... dangerous, Alexander. AB

Stranger: So is going hungry. -AH

Stranger: I'm scrappy. I managed alright. -AH Besides, half of the time, it was a scam anyway. I'd pay someone else to be in on it, and we'd split it. -AH

You: Being scrappy doesn't mean you were safe. AB You did what you had to do. I'm not going to judge you for that. But you don't have to do it anymore. AB You've got Mrs. Washington's pies to look forward to. AB

Stranger: It's just- weird. Not having to work at all. -AH

You: If it really bothers you, you could get a job? It wouldn't be fighting, obviously, but once you get into the swing of things with school, there are plenty of minimum wage places around here that hire high schoolers. AB

Stranger: I did other stuff too, relax. Mostly stuff for a local shipping company. I handled a lot of their inventory and accounting business. And writing angry letters to people who sent us shitty product. That was my main gig, and then I'd pick up other stuff when I could at some of the hotels or things like that. Anything I could manage, y'know? -AH Maybe I'll look into it. It's mostly just being idle that's getting to me right now. -AH

You: You've got enough experience that you could probably get hired anywhere. I'd focus on one thing at a time for now if I were you, but once you figure out school a job might be a good distraction from being idle. AB

Stranger: For now, I mostly just have to keep myself busy getting familiar with things around the house. And writing. I never stop writing. -AH

You: I can see why you got excited about having nice pens. AB

Stranger: They're soooo good. A little smeary until they dry, but they don't bleed onto the next page at all, and the lines are really crisp and it's just- yeah. -AH Good pens and a stack of empty journals. It's a dream come true. -AH

You: Get too many empty journals and you'll end up never leaving your house. AB

Stranger: Come winter time, I'll probably be okay with that. -AH

You: What do you write about? I mean, I know you wrote letters before, but what do you write in the journals? AB

Stranger: Anything. Everything. -AH A lot of political and economic stuff. Some of it's more like personal philosophical treatises. Really detailed pro-and-con charts. Books I want to pick apart. -AH

You: Wow. You really meant it when you said everything, huh. AB

Stranger: Yeah. -AH Some of it's just dumb stuff, though. Like, rolling over in the middle of the night and scribbling out "if I was an animal what would i be" barely legibly and then falling back asleep. -AH I have no memory of doing that, but it's in my journal. Which means I spent three days really intensely trying to work it out. -AH

You: Did you ever figure it out? AB

Stranger: Not to the point of being satisfied with it. -AH

Stranger: But then, I've never been satisfied. -AH

You: Maybe the debate club can figure it out. From what you've told me about yourself so far, you sound like you'd be some sort of cat. AB

Stranger: That's where I landed too, yeah. But see, with cats, the solitary/social split is an important one, and I was never able to settle that because I've never really... had a group of friends before. -AH

You: Maybe that will change. AB

Stranger: Maybe so. I kinda hope so. I've never had a chance before. -AH

You: You will now. AB There are lots of people to meet at school. Groups of every sort of people. You'll find somewhere to fit in. AB

Stranger: Yeah. One more thing to add to the list of reasons I'm excited. -AH

You: People will see that you're excited, too. They'll be drawn to it. That's how these things go. AB

Stranger: Woo! -AH That woo was vaguely sarcastic because I do not have exclamation points in me right now. I am flopped out face-first on this bed right now because /wow/ moving to a new country is exhausting. -AH

You: I can't even imagine. Moving from one house to another was bad enough as a little kid. AB You should get some sleep. You'll need as much rest as you can get before school starts. AB Is there a time difference from Nevis? Probably, right? AB

Stranger: No, actually. No time difference. Just- mental and physical exhaustion. Which I can usually power through. -AH

You: Even without a time difference, it makes sense you'd be tired. You've done a lot already and you've been here less than a week. AB You don't have to power through it. Go to bed, Alexander. AB

Stranger: Mm. Nah. I'm good. -AH Technically in bed. -AH

You: I meant sleep, and you know it. AB Besides, I'll see you tomorrow. We can actually talk in person, and you can be well-rested for it. AB

Stranger: [Slightly delayed] I don't wanna sleep, okay? -AH

You: Why not? You said you were tired. AB

Stranger: I'm always tired. That doesn't mean sleep feels better. -AH

You: [...] Oh. AB

Stranger: I'll pass out eventually. If I suddenly stop responding, that's probably why. -AH

You: That makes sense. AB You know, if you have trouble sleeping, there are things you can do to try and counteract it. AB

Stranger: Swipe some rum from the store before leaving work, usually. But /that's/ not an option now. -AH

You: Well, no. But there are medications for sleeping, and things that aren't medications but that do the same things. AB I usually try to meditate before I sleep. It sounds crazy, but it actually helps. AB

Stranger: Yeah, I can't slow my thoughts down for that sort of thing. I only have the one gear, and it's always running. And if I'm alone with my thoughts, it's either soooo much worse, or something I need to stop and write down anyway. -AH

You: It takes some practice, I'll give you that. AB Still. There has to be something. I would mention it to Mr. or Mrs. Washington. I'm sure they would help find something. AB

Stranger: Yeah. I guess I could do that. -AH It's just- not a great time. -AH

You: What do you mean? AB

Stranger: Sleeping. Sorry, shoulda been more clear. -AH

You: Ah. That makes sense, right. AB There's a lot to get used to, too. It might get easier as time goes on. There's probably a lot more noise here than you're used to, for one thing. AB

Stranger: Ohhhh, yeah. Different noise, too. I lived on a hill just over a beach on the far end of town. -AH

You: More cars, less waves? AB

Stranger: Less screeching monkeys, too. Which isn't a bad thing. -AH

You: Sounds... loud. AB Monkeys don't strike me as quiet animals. AB Maybe you'd be a monkey, if you were an animal. AB

Stranger: Please no. Maurice was Satan in the flesh. -AH

You: Maurice?? AB Did you name a monkey Maurice? AB

Stranger: I did not name him. I hated him with every fiber of my being. -AH My boss named him after we couldn't get him to stop coming in the store. -AH

You: What did he do in your store? AB Besides screech? AB

Stranger: One time he ripped all of the plastic bags out of their box, chewed a hole in the corner of every single one, and then stuffed them back in. -AH

You: That sounds like a monkey with a vendetta against plastic bags. AB Or people. Or both. AB

Stranger: They're fast babies with sharp teeth and they're /evil/. -AH He would run up on my shoulders while I was working, yank the tie out of my hair- usually with several strands in the process- and then either break it or fling it at me. -AH

You: Scrappy little troublemaker. AB Sounds like someone else I know. AB

Stranger: No. /Evil/. -AH Also, look up green vervet monkeys and tell me if there isn't something /strikingly/ uncomfortable about them. -AH

You: [...] They're actually rather cute. AB

Stranger: Blue. Balls. -AH They have /vibrantly/ blue balls, and they like to make them as impossible to ignore as they can. -AH It's not fun. -AH

You: /Oh./ AB I didn't see that at first, but that's... pretty unsettling, you're right. AB

Stranger: Yupp. -AH Now imagine dealing with that. All day. Every day. Screeching at you and scratching itself. -AH

You: No wonder you don't sleep at night. AB

Stranger: That's for sure the cause. Definitely. -AH

You: Close your eyes and all you can see is blue monkey balls. AB I... can't believe that I just typed that phrase out of my own free will. AB

Stranger: I'm making the /worst/ sound right now. Muffled wheeze-laughing. It's terrible. -AH

You: I'm glad that I can amuse. AB

Stranger: :) -AH I just realized you have no idea what I look like. Huh. -AH

You: My current mental image of you is a faceless person with long hair and a monkey on your shoulder. AB So, no. I don't really have any idea. AB

Stranger: ((brb))

Stranger: [Image attached: Alexander laying in bed, smiling tiredly and a too-big shirt drooping off to the side, hair falling around his face] -AH

You: [...] [image attached: Aaron sitting at his desk, smiling --albeit awkwardly-- with his face illuminated by a desk lamp] AB Figured I would return the favour? AB

Stranger: Mmmm. Much appreciated. -AH

You: You hair really is long. It looks nice. AB

Stranger: Yeah. I like it this way. More to grab. -AH Thanks. -AH

You: More for the monkeys to grab, you mean. AB

Stranger: I meant for me to grab in frustration. Or for someone else to grab in not-frustration. -AH

You: Oh. AB That makes... sense. AB

Stranger: Problem? -AH

You: Not at all. Just... got your drift, that's all. AB

Stranger: Another thing to add to the moving-frustrations, ugh. -AH

You: At least you'll be able to meet people soon, through school and everything. AB

Stranger: Yeah. Pretty different from what I'm used to. -AH

You: You're not used to meeting people? AB

Stranger: I'm not used to them being... permanent. -AH

You: Ah. AB It's not a bad thing. At least, not usually. AB

Stranger: No one sticks around on Nevis. They come for a week, maybe two. Maybe even a month or so. But everyone leaves. -AH

You: That's what you meant before, when you said you'd never had a group of friends? AB

Stranger: Yeah. -AH There aren't a lot of people on the island, and even fewer who actually like me. To the rest of the world, it doesn't even exist. Or if it does, it's just a pretty little place for them to ride ponies and go snorkeling for a week, and then it just vanishes. -AH

You: That's... awful. AB Your letters, though? People at least know it exists, now? Maybe someone will do something to help. AB

Stranger: That's life on the smaller part of the tenth smallest country in the world. -AH A little. People noticed for a while, donated some money to help with the cleanup. It burned out, though. -AH

You: Stuff like that goes in waves. Maybe it will pick up again. AB

Stranger: Maybe. -AH My point is, I'm not really used to people sticking around. -AH

You: Well, you're here now. People... tend to stick around. I've gone to school with some of the same people since I was five. AB

Stranger: That's- bizarre. -AH

You: I guess. AB That isn't to say we all like each other, but we've all had ten years to formulate hatred for one another if we feel so inclined. AB

Stranger: I'm not sure I've known anyone since I was five. -AH

You: It makes sense, but that's crazy to me. AB

Stranger: I guess my boss is the person I've known longest at this point? He was my mom's landlord, so I sort of vaguely knew him growing up. -AH

You: At least that's someone? AB

Stranger: Yeah, it kind of is. -AH He mostly just told me to stop sassing him all the time. -AH

You: Delightful. AB Although... it might've been warranted. You seem like the kind of person who would sass their boss. AB

Stranger: ...yeaaaaaaaaah. -AH We got some horses in one time that were just the scrawniest things when they got there, the poor things. I got them settled out to pasture to take care of them and all, but bossman didn't exactly like me saying that we'd gotten a shipment full of skeletons. I called them my skeletons all the time. -AH

You: I'm not sure the horses appreciated being called skeletons, either. Ab

You: AB**

Stranger: I named them all after bones. -AH

You: Charming. AB

Stranger: I mean, this is what happens when you let a fifteen year old asshole all but run your business for you. -AH

You: Yeah, that'll do it. AB You really ran the business? AB

Stranger: In everything but name, pretty much. -AH

You: That's incredible. AB I can't believe you're barely a year older than I am. AB

Stranger: It's not really that hard. You balance a few books, you don't communicate over the phone so no one knows you're a kid, you're golden. -AH

You: I've never run a business before. I've never even thought about it.

You: AB**

Stranger: I hadn't thought about it, but then an opportunity presented itself and I wasn't gonna throw it away. -AH Turns out spreadsheets are my soulmates. -AH

You: I've never even made a spreadsheet in my life. AB

Stranger: Oh, Burr, buddy. You don't know what you're missing out on. -AH

You: You'll have to show me how they work, I guess. AB

Stranger: :D -AH

You: You any closer to sleep, yet? AB

Stranger: Yeah. I think so. Thanks. -AH

You: No problem. I've been there. AB

Stranger: I'll see you tomorrow? -AH

You: I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be home all day; whenever you're ready, feel free to come over. AB

Stranger: Super. -AH

You: Sleep well, Alexander. AB

Stranger: You too, eventually. -AH

You: I'll do my best. AB

Stranger: And- thanks. Just thanks. -AH

#hamburr rp #hamburr #hamburr roleplay #THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH JOHN MULANEY I PROMISE #new in town #hamilton rp #hamilton roleplay #fandom rp #fandom roleplay #omegling #omegle rp #kris roleplays #my rp

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missrkl · 4 years ago

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Descendants of acts 2

Chapter Six

Rachel’s monthly had come and she wasn’t really in the mood for anything. Not only was she in severe pain that seemed to be constant, but she was also noticing things that she would not usually notice when her monthly wasn’t around. Like right now, Pastor Gabriel was here in class, teaching, and he couldn’t help but be good looking. He had this caramel brown hair and he styled it quite well, and he wasn’t skinny and he wasn’t pudgy looking neither, he was just right. Chunky looking in his T-shirt and jeans. It was a Saturday after all, and the usual man power outfits of these pastors on weekends was either chequered shirts or T-shirt’s. His arms exuded tanned muscles and he was a wearing jeans. Rachel really wanted to cover her eyes with her hands and not look at him. She never noticed these things about him when she wasn’t on her monthly. She could notice the outlines of every piece of muscle. It’s not like he could tell what she was thinking or feeling, but she always felt that he could read her mind, or see her life from afar because at every chance he got, it seemed, every teaching or sermon, he was talking about her and she always wanted to hide but had to act like she was nothing like what he was talking about. He creeped her out usually whenever he did that, but during these moon cycles she was vulnerable to the hormonal changes in her body and she couldn’t help but feel and see things and think things she didn’t want to. Like how tight his jeans were. Rachel looked to the floor. Only 10 students allowed for seating during this pandemic, others were online in zoom at the back wall, clearly she didn’t have to be here, but since Pastor Gabriel was the one teaching she knew it would be worth it. Plus the biscuits and tea was always fun. Always the food. Rachel sighed. She should have just stayed home, at least from behind the screen he wouldn’t notice her so much.

Pastor Gabriel then called for a guest speaker to come and share something online zoom room, it was Matt! Rachel tried to hide her surprise and her ‘happy face’ at seeing his smiling face. For some reason Matt always had a way of making her laugh. He was either a really funny person, or extremely talented at performing, hosting, speaking. He was an actor and performer after all. Matt was there to talk a little about ‘true worship’ and pastor Gabriel was to finish it with ‘biblical worship’. Rachel loved worship and that trumped the hormonal challenges her body was creating in her. She needed, wanted and desired to know about this more than knowing them and soon both the men faded into the background. Except for the few moments Pastor Gabriel would run his hand through his caramel brown hair, Rachel wished he would stop doing that. He must know what that does to a female, he must know he’s good looking. Such a distraction! Soon class ended and she got a ping on her phone, it was David, he said he knew she was in school and that it would be ending soon, that he was ready and was in the market to change his outfit. Rachel smiled, David, just as good looking as Pastor Gabriel, and he liked hanging out with her! Rachel smiled as she picked up her books and made her way to the tea machine. Clearly she was taking tea home with her, and a biscuit, or two. Even if pastor Gabriel was eyeing her, probably thinking how she eats too much no wonder she isn’t super slim and beautiful. Rachel did wonder what Pastor Gabriel really thought of her. Maybe he thought she was a freak. Good looking men never liked girls like her, even as friends. Men liked to have good looking females around them, Rachel was sure of that. Plus she felt ugly beside him anyways, he was prettier than she was. Total mismatch. It’s not like she wanted to do anything or be anything with him. Normally she was turned off by him and all his manliness because of her past..but during her monthly it seems he turned into what seemed like a pop-up book and became more apparent or appealing to her. Rachel smiled at him as she took her tea and biscuits in her hand and smiled at pastor gabriel as she sipped her tea walking out. Who cares if he thought she was an eating pig because she was the only one to grab it before leaving and the only fat girl in class. He wasn’t interested in her, so it didn’t matter. If he was interested in her then maybe it would mean something. Being healthy for just being healthy never crossed Rachel’s mind. All she cared about was comfort and pleasure to alleviate pain, stress and so much more.

On the bus Rachel logged in the holy Bible game and met David in the market. She looked around the market and found this floating light that would rest on top of her head. It was called Tongues. Apparantly it gave you abilities to talk and understand different languages. Handy. Rachel told David she was on the bus, she would battle with him when she got home. So Rachel basically downloaded everything pastor Gabriel had said about worship and the testimonies and experiences of Matt regarding worship to David during the ride home. As Rachel entered the house she greeted her family, had her dinner and decided to shower and everything before fully getting into this game on the computer.

Rachel logged out on the phone and logged in on the computer and VR. The tongues was still there on top of her head. It felt like a fire. David and Rachel had been invited to the international tournament for gaming on this, but they had to practice and all of that. They decided to test this tongues thing by going to the Italy side of the game, a totally different district. As their characters flashed from UK to Italy, Rachel felt that fire on her head get stronger. As they approached these two citizens by the Trevi Fountain to explain the gospel of Jesus, Rachel found her character speak perfect Italian and she was also able to interpret the Italian language in their response. This tongues was super impressive. The demon she had to fight for them was the easy kind. They weren’t fighting for points anymore, they were practicing for bigger things.

David and Rachel soon entered the colosseum and found it was filled with unsaved citizens, all of them were specials! David and Rachel looked at each other. How were they going to fight all the manifesting demons at the same time? There’s over a thousand! Rachel remembered in bible school learning that worship was also a weapon, and how tongues was also a form of worship. Would it work like that in the game as well? Rachel mentioned this to David as the citizens stared at them, Zombified as their demons began manifesting and the place becoming dark. David and Rachel soon felt overpowered by these manifesting demons as the spirits began rushing around like a cold gale force around them. They held hands and used their tongues, and soon the tongues began singing, they were singing in Italian a worship song to Jesus:

Dio ti guardi, ti benedicca

Che estenda il suo amore

E ti mostri favore

Dio te guidi con amore

La pace ti di

Dios te guarde y bendiga

Que extienda su amor

Y te muestre favor

Dios te mire con agrado

Y te de paz

Amen, amén, amen

Che ti copre la sua grazia

In mille generazioni

Ai tua famiglia ai tuo figli

E i figli dei tuoi figli

La tua presenza ti accompagne

Dove vuoi che tu vada

Ti riempia, ti circondi

Va con te, con te

Di giorno e di notte

Nell'entrare e nell'uscita

In tuo pianto e alegria

Il ti ama, il ti ama

Tu presencia te acompañe

Donde quieras que tu vayas

Que te llene, te rodeé

Él te ama, Él te ama

Il ti ama, il ti ama

Amén, amen, amén

(La Benedizione/La Bendición [The Blessing])

Soon Rachel and David saw a host of holy angels filling the sky and joining in their worship, trees began clapping their hands and the holy light of the kingdom of God came down from heaven and rested on earth and all the demons were conquered by Jesus. So Rachel got up in the middle of the crowds of people with David and between them they shared the gospel:

Amico, sto per farti la domanda più importante della vita. La tua gioia o la tua sofferenza per tutta l’eternità dipendono dalla tua risposta. E la domanda è: sei salvato? Non si tratta di sapere se sei buono o se sei membro di una chiesa. No, ma sei salvato? Sei sicuro di andare in Paradiso, quando morirai?

Dio dice che per andare in Paradiso, tu devi nascere di nuovo. Infatti, secondo il Vangelo di Giovanni 3:7, Gesù disse a Nicodemo: “Dovete nascere di nuovo”.

Nella Bibbia Dio ci rivela il Suo piano per far sì che nasciamo di nuovo, il che significa essere salvati. E il Suo piano è semplice! Tu puoi essere salvato oggi stesso. Come?

Prima di tutto, devi ammettere di essere un peccatore. Infatti, “. . . tutti hanno peccato e sono privi della gloria di Dio” (Romani 3:23).

E siccome sei un peccatore, sei condannato a morte: “. . . il salario del peccato è la morte . . .” (Romani 6:23). Questo comporta una separazione eterna da Dio nell’Inferno: “E come è stabilito che gli uomini muoiano una sola volta, e dopo ciò viene il giudizio” (Ebrei 9:27).

Dio però ti ha tanto amato che ha dato il Suo unico Figlio, Gesù, affinché il tuo peccato fosse imputato a Lui e morisse al tuo posto: “. . . Egli (Dio Padre) ha fatto essere peccato per noi Colui (Gesù) che non ha conosciuto peccato, affinché noi potessimo diventare giustizia di Dio in Lui” (2 Corinzi 5:21).

Gesù quindi dovette versare il Suo sangue e morire. Infatti, “. . . la vita della carne è nel sangue. ” (Levitico 17:11) e “. . . senza spargimento di sangue non c’è perdono dei peccati” (Ebrei 9:22). “Ma Dio manifesta il suo amore verso di noi in questo che, mentre eravamo ancora peccatori, Cristo è morto per noi” (Romani 5:8).

Sebbene non possiamo capire come, Dio ha detto che i miei peccati ed i tuoi peccati sono stati imputati a Gesù, e che Egli è morto al posto nostro. Egli è diventato il nostro sostituto e questo è vero, perché Dio non può mentire.

Amico mio, “. . . Dio comanda a tutti gli uomini e dappertutto che si ravvedano”. (Atti 17:30). Questo ravvedimento o pentimento comporta un cambiamento di mentalità per cui si concorda con Dio sul fatto che ogni essere umano è un peccatore, ed anche si riconosce quanto Gesù ha fatto per noi sulla Croce.

Negli Atti degli Apostoli 16:30-31, il carceriere di Filippi chiese a Paolo e a Sila: “Signori, cosa devo fare per essere salvato?” Ed essi risposero: “Credi nel Signore Gesù Cristo, e sarai salvato . . .”

Credi, dunque, semplicemente in Gesù come Colui al quale è stato imputato il tuo peccato, come Colui che è morto al posto tuo, fu sepolto e che Dio ha risuscitato. E la sua risurrezione ci assicura in maniera assoluta che il credente ha diritto alla vita eterna quando Gesù viene accettato come Salvatore: “ma a tutti coloro che lo hanno ricevuto, egli ha dato l’autorità di diventare figli di Dio, a quelli che credono nel suo nome” (Giovanni 1:12). “Infatti: <<Chiunque avrà invocato il nome del Signore sarà salvato>>” (Romani 10:13). Quel “chiunque” comprende anche te. E quel “sarà salvato” non significa “può essere salvato”, ma sarà effettivamente salvato.

TRANSLATION

My Friend: I am asking you the most important question of life. Your joy or your sorrow for all eternity depends upon your answer. The question is: Are you saved? It is not a question of how good you are, nor if you are a church member, but are you saved? Are you sure you will go to Heaven when you die?

God says in order to go to Heaven, you must be born again. In John 3:7, Jesus said to Nicodemus, “Ye must be born again.”

In the Bible God gives us the plan of how to be born again which means to be saved. His plan is simple! You can be saved today. How?

First, my friend, you must realize you are a sinner. “For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23).

Because you are a sinner, you are condemned to death. “For the wages [payment] of sin is death” (Romans 6:23). This includes eternal separation from God in Hell.

“ . . . it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment” (Hebrews 9:27).

But God loved you so much He gave His only begotten Son, Jesus, to bear your sin and die in your place.

“ . . . He hath made Him [Jesus, Who knew no sin] to be sin for us . . . that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21).

Jesus had to shed His blood and die. “For the life of the flesh is in the blood” (Lev. 17:11). “ . . . without shedding of blood is no remission [pardon]” (Hebrews 9:22).

“ . . . God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8).

Although we cannot understand how, God said my sins and your sins were laid upon Jesus and He died in our place. He became our substitute. It is true. God cannot lie.

My friend, “God . . . commandeth all men everywhere to repent” (Acts 17:30). This repentance is a change of mind that agrees with God that one is a sinner, and also agrees with what Jesus did for us on the Cross.

In Acts 16:30-31, the Philippian jailer asked Paul and Silas: “ . . . ‘Sirs, what must I do to be saved?’ And they said, ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved . . . .’ ”

Simply believe on Him as the one who bore your sin, died in your place, was buried, and whom God resurrected. His resurrection powerfully assures that the believer can claim everlasting life when Jesus is received as Savior.

“But as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on His name” (John 1:12).

“For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” (Romans 10:13). Whosoever includes you. Shall be saved means not maybe, nor can, but shall be saved.

87,000 were saved this day, not an empty seat at the colosseum this day. Wow, they must really be ready for this national tournament. Bible school was definitely helping in this. Exhausted Rachel and David parted ways and Rachel prepared for bed. These painkillers were very helpful, otherwise she wouldn’t have made it through bible school or that game. Usually in her monthly all she could muster was vegging out in front of the tv with her blanket and hot chocolate. If that didn’t help, painkillers had to be the answer and she was glad to have done just that. Maybe after the pandemic, Rachel thought to herself as she lay in her bed, that she would know more about God than she had ever known before, be more wise and maybe, she could actually do this for real.

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amadeakevala · 4 years ago

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The Most Important Choice of Your Life

What should my job be?

How will my career look like?

How can I secure my financial situation?

How to make my dreams come true?

How to do what I love?

How can I enlarge my territory?

Maybe you're filled with ambitions and dreams on how to make the most out of life, just like what the magazine and social media tell you. You have to have this and that in order to be happy. Get busy. Work hard. Secure this and that. And yet, none of these things ever gives us eternal joy and peace. And not only those “bad-looking” things. Talk about “angelic-looking” things such as holiday, meditation, working out etc. They look like they're good enough yet no they're not enough to fill the hole in your heart. They only offer temporary sensational peace and happiness, not eternal one.

Take a look at the Hollywood celebrities - how they get every bit of power, influence, fame, fortune, wealth and connections. Then you wonder why many of them died in suicide, drugs and battle with depression.

They had EVERYTHING. What else do they lack? Mansions after mansions, fame, women, power, everything. They even have the "right and freedom" to do whatever they want. Man can be with man and women with women. Man can be "woman" and woman can be "man". Some even practice physical sexual relationship with animals. I mean literally, you live in a world where NOTHING can be wrong. And it seems right and good but if it is right and good, then shouldn't we all be more joyful and less depressed and anxious and worried?

But no, we're not. We are still left in complete hopelessness. In a very dark pit.

You probably always have this in mind: If I have "this", I would be complete.

If I have my cosmetic surgery, I'd be complete.

If I have my cool car, I'd be complete.

If I get this job, I'd be complete.

If I get into this relationship with this man or woman, I'd be complete.

Whatever is your "this", I'm guessing it is not enough to fill the deepest longing in your heart.

The self-help bookshelves are getting wider and wider and yet more and more people get depressed, anxious and suicidal. Such an irony.

Life is always about choices. Everyday you wake up, you have to make a choice. You have to choose to wear this tie or that tie, this shoes or that shoes, this college or that college, belief in this or unbelief in that.

But if I can tell you the most important choice in your life, it would be "Have I accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior?"

It is not about what car should I choose, not even which job should I take, not even what treatment should I pick when I am sick. Those things are important but not as important as this ONE choice.

It is so vital that you have to ensure you make the right decision for it. This is not just a temporary decision, not even life & death decision. This is an ETERNAL LIFE & ETERNAL DEATH decision. You wanna make sure you don't miss this one and that you get it RIGHT.

You can make all the wrong answers and decisions for anything else in life but please don't make the wrong answer for this one. It's gonna cost you an eternal consequence.

And no, you don't wanna be that foolish skeptic that thinks that it is a dumb thing to believe in Jesus. It is dumb if you don't because if this is true and everything the Bible says come to pass, what will you do then? When you die, you don't get a second chance anymore. It's either heaven or hell.

Today is the day. No one knows when they die. It can be next month, next day, next hour and even next minute. I don't care how young or old you are, how healthy or sick you feel. Don't wait another day to make this decision.

Life on earth is precious but it is nothing but a drop in a bucket compared to the eternal life we are going to face.

Do you remember in the previous writing, I mentioned that one of the main characteristics of truth is consistency. Well, the Bible is very consistent in fulfilling its prophecies.

There are over 400 prophecies of the Bible consistently fulfilled all throughout the years since ages ago up until today and it will continue to do so. Every word of the Bible has proven to be true.

“Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away.” - Matthew 24:35

Jesus doesn't come to condemn you but to SAVE you. But if you decide to refuse Him, then don't tell yourself or others or God that He is mean. Why? Cause He already told you the way to be saved, but if you harden your heart, it's all on you now.

Just like He can't force you to love Him. He can't force you to believe in Him and therefore be saved. He can't force you to be saved even when He has put His life on the line so that you in the most accessible way can be saved. He already chooses you. Now it's time for you to choose Him.

Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. - John 14:6

For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. - Philippians 1:21

At the end of the day, what are you losing if you gain Christ?

Yeah you might lose your pride, your "I-know-it-all" attitude, your selfishness, your apathy, your sinful habits and so forth.

So what? Those things aren't good in the first place anyway. They're so worth losing for.

In return you gain Christ, the one and only eternal hope of salvation, the prince of peace, the miracle worker, way maker, joy giver, and the good shepherd. You gain eternal security in heaven.

And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. - Matthew 18:3-4

You see the way the heavenly kingdom works is always the complete opposite of the way the world works. The Bible says He uses the foolish things of the world to shame the wise. God chooses the weak things of the world to shame the strong (1 Cor 1:27).

So from these two verses, you can conclude that the way to enter the Kingdom of Heaven is not through pride and cleverness. It's through humility and child-like faith.

What is child-like faith? A child isn't going to interview and question his mom or dad on how they can provide for him, how he can eat or sleep comfortably, and ask them to lay out the plans they have for the child's future. He simply trusts that wherever his parents lead him, whatever they ask them to do, it is somewhere and somewhat good and safe. That no matter what, he's being taken care of.

Well it's the same thing with our Father in heaven. Faith isn't about knowing and understanding everything. If you know and understand everything, then you don't need faith. Faith is about trusting the One that guides you even when you can't see the whole staircase.

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast. - Ephesians 2:8-9

“Love is the supreme ethic. Where there is the possibility of love, there must be the reality of free will. Where there is the reality of free will, there will inevitably be the possibility of sin. Where there is sin, there is the need for a Savior. Where there is a Savior, there is the hope for redemption. Only in the Judeo-Christian worldview does this sequence find its total expression and answer.”

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A post shared by Judah Smith (@judahsmith) on May 11, 2020 at 6:00pm PDT

I hope that you make the most important choice of your life and I hope that you make it right. If you do, welcome to the family! :)

Song for you:

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monawriter2020-blog · 5 years ago

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Triple A Marriage: A Biblical Perspective

There is no more important relationship than the one you have with God. However, if you are married, your most important human relationship, your closest neighbor, is your spouse.

Wedlock has the potential of not only being the most joyful and fulfilling relationship, but also the most difficult. What a person imagines marriage will be like and what marriage is actually like can be two different things. Even the best marriages have trials and tribulations own marriage leave application.

The difficulty of the relationship is evident by the divorce rate. Statistics indicate the divorce rate among second and third marriages is even higher than first marriages. So, swapping spouse number one for spouse number two or three has not proven to be the solution to the problem.

Marriage counselors make a living trying to keep marriages together. Priests, preachers and church leaders are often called upon to comfort and guide husbands and wives. Many spouses have given it everything they had, but because their partners did not, the marriages did not make it. It is possible to bounce back from a damaged marriage with God's help, but few have entered marriage with the idea that it would not work out.

Christian men and women who are striving to glorify God in their marriages realize spiritual standards apply to them. What are those standards and how can a Christian couple apply them to daily living?

In school, teachers have a standard: a letter grade that is evidence of the student's achievements. Top students earn an A, while students who have perfect scores rate an A+. Superior businesses are given a triple A rating. With few exceptions, students who achieve an A or A+ and businesses that have a triple A rating do so with a great deal of work, dedication and sacrifice. They believe excellence is worth the effort.

Being willing to apply biblical principles and put the other person first, Christians should be dedicated to the personal sacrifice that makes their marriage work - Accept, Adapt and Aim.

It is true that opposites attract. Very few couples are like in temperaments. Complications come with that attraction, however, because different ways of doing things and opposite views can result in friction. In the courting stage, couples often see the other person as completing him/her. That sometimes means the strengths of one person are contrary to the strengths of the other. It actually may be a weakness of the other person.

A good example is neatness or orderliness. One spouse is often a very organized person while the other is a bit sloppy. You get the picture. That can lead to some interesting situations.

Some people erroneously believe they can change their spouse after marriage. People do change as they grow older, but expecting a certain change in someone leads to inevitable disappointment. Even as we grow, our temperaments remain the same. An introverted child remains introverted as an adult and an extroverted child remains extroverted as an adult. Growth comes in learning to harness the strengths of a temperament and control the weaknesses. However, only an individual can do this for himself. No one else can do it for him.

Men and women think differently and react differently to circumstances. This results in a gender culture shock after marriage. Other cultural differences such as race, nationality, age and faith can further complicate the relationship. Differences that are so attractive before marriage often become conflict after marriage.

Once a person plans to marry or is married, the first "A" is to accept his partner just the way she is. Different is not necessarily wrong - it is often just another point of view - distinct from the other person's. Different is often just - different.

Accepting another person is only possible if one has a proper view of oneself. In order to accept someone else, you must accept yourself. Sometime that takes more work than accepting your spouse. "And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength." This is the first commandment. And the second, like it, is this: "You shall love your neighbor as yourself"(Mark 12:28-31 NKJV).

ADAPT

Adjustments are necessary in the marriage relationship. You must adapt to the differences you have accepted in the other person. The primary adjustment is the relationship itself. In the very beginning, God told couples to leave father and mother and become one: a single unit with a common purpose.

The apostle Paul addresses marriage in the fifth chapter of his letter to the Ephesians. After he instructs all believers to walk in love and submit to one another in the fear of God, he turns his attention to marriage partners. What he said has often been misinterpreted, misunderstood and avoided because Paul tells wives to submit to their own husbands. That statement has brought controversy not only in the secular world, but religious circles as well. The biblical principles of looking at a verse in context, however, needs to be applied carefully here as there is no indication here or elsewhere that women are to submit to all men.

In the business world, a necessary hierarchy exists with the president being followed by a vice president, etc. Opinions of other leadership figures are often consulted, but the responsibility for a decision lies with the president. There cannot be two presidents. Nothing would ever be decided on.

Paul is saying that a wife's submission to her husband is similar to their joint submission to the Lord Jesus Christ. It has been said that where there is no responsibility, there is no accountability. The husband is accountable in God's eyes for being the leader in his home.

Paul goes on further to say that husbands should love their wives as Christ loves the church. A husband is accountable to God for sacrificial love and God ordained leadership. As Christ died for the church, his bride, that is the standard set for the Christian husband.

The apostle Peter adds that husbands should honor their wives and understand them because both husband and wife are heirs together of God's grace. He tells the husbands that their prayers could be hindered if they do not do this. Men who say, "I just don't understand women," need to remember that God has told them they need to understand their own wives.

A primary need for a woman is to know that she is loved. Respect is vitally important to a man. Paul concludes this teaching with this principle. This is a great mystery, but I speak concerning Christ and the church. Nevertheless let each one of you in particular so love his own wife as himself, and let the wife see that she respects her husband (Ephesians 5:32-33 NKJV).

Often it is the little things of life that cause constant irritation in a couple's relationship. Have you ever known a spouse who kept a record of wrongs and was ready to relate it at any moment? Instead of confronting a specific issue, sometimes a spouse will drag out all the irritations of the past hoping to justify his point. In what is often called the love chapter, 1 Corinthians 13, there are sound principles for accepting each other's differences and adapting to them.

AIM

The aim of a Christian marriage should be to put Christ first and bring him glory. If a Christian understands and accepts God's love for her in her own life, she will be able to love her spouse with a greater love than a non-believer. The Bible has a lot to say about marriage on earth and in heaven. From Genesis to Revelation, marriage is mentioned, sometimes in context of an earthly marriage, but many times with a future spiritual application.

Revelation, the last book in the Bible, speaks of the marriage of the Lamb. The bride, the church of God, will have been made ready for the marriage of the Lamb. The Lamb of God, Jesus, will have done all the preparation himself, though, as the fine linen that will adorn his bride was the righteousness that he bought on her behalf when he died on the cross. When Jesus told a story about a wedding feast, he said that the one person who came to the feast without the proper garment would be cast out. The acceptable wedding garment is white. White represents purity. Since we have all sinned, we cannot get to heaven wearing our own dirty, dark filthy rags. Those who trust in Christ, however, have been washed clean and given the proper garment. Jesus, the bridegroom, has done all the work and preparation for his own marriage ceremony.

#sampleforownmarriageleaveapplication

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t0ngue-tech · 7 years ago

Text

All Yours

“You could’ve had feelings for anyone else, but nope. You heart was stuck on the sleeping boy in your lap.

Min-fucking-Yoongi.”

↠fluffy angst (if you will ;--;)↞

word count: 4.2k

↠series: 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | ↞

The cool surface of the granite countertop rested against your elbow. You watched the hands of your wristwatch tick slower and slower as each second passed. You blew a breath of air upward, moving strands of hair out of your eyes. This felt like the longest shift of your life.

There was something about Thursdays at your university coffee shop that made it seem like barren land; except for maybe a couple of students and other adults who sat quietly, tapping away at their laptop keyboards. Maybe it was because other students were out in the town buying snacks and drinks to prepare for their usual Friday nights in the dormitories.

“Ugh, Jin! I’m dying here.” You spun around calling out for your co-worker who was cleaning a few of the ceramic cups.

A squeaky laugh left his full lips. “I know, me too. It’s almost closing anyways, go wipe down the tables and I’ll sweep back here.”

You sounded off with a quick aye-aye captain and walked around the counter with a damp rag in your hands.

Some of the students noticed the both of you doing your usual cleanups before closing, so they packed up their belongings and left the shop bidding their farewells. It was always bittersweet doing the closing shift because it got quieter and a bit more peaceful during the night. But what you hated the most was how long it took for the clock to strike 10:30 pm.

Little by little, the rest of the students got their refill in their to-go cups and left the coffee shop in drained yet high spirits. You began to stack up the first couple of chairs onto the glossed wooden table tops. You noticed, in your peripherals, Jin scooping matcha green tea powder into a plastic cup of milk.

“Meeting with Hani tonight?” Jin attempted to bite back his smile as he swirled the matcha around turning the milk into a pistachio green color. “How are things going with her anyways? She hasn’t come around in a while and it’s hard for me to see her too.”

Jin clicked his tongue and tilted his head to the side. “Slow and steady, my sweet. And well, you know how it is for the microbiology majors nowadays.”

“Ah, yes. It must be heaven and hell for the bio lab floor to be open until 11 pm.”

Jin hummed and proceeded to stripping himself of the corduroy brown apron. He reached into his pocket to take a glimpse at the time. “Just ten more minutes—hey, look who arrived just in time.”

At first you groaned thinking dude, we just started to close up, but when you turned around to the entrance you found yourself staring at a familiar shade of blond hair messily tucked underneath a black beanie. He had a thick gray coat draped over him with his hands shoved in the pockets. “It’s fucking cold outside.”

“Welcome aboard, Min Yoongi. Late to the party as usual.” You sang putting up another chair.

“Ah well, it looks like the party died a while ago—you didn’t lock up the bathroom did you? Because I swear to god, I’m going to piss my pants.” The sound of his voice faded as we walked down the small hallway leading to the singular restroom.

Jin called out to you, tossing the keys to the coffee shop in your direction. “Looks like I’m leaving him to you. You could dim the lights, let the moonlight shine through and heat up some paninis.”

You scoffed at him threatening to whip him with the rag you had dangling from your apron. “You’re the worst, Jin. I hate working with you.”

He walked up to you and ruffled your hair before leaving. “Love you too, babe. Don’t forget to lock up!” You playfully swatted Jin’s away and watched him disappear into the October air.

“Geez.” You muttered with a soft chuckle. With whatever strength you had left you put up the last couple of chairs. Despite the study guide you wanted to get a head start on, you thought you deserved a piping hot bowl of spicy ramen back at your room. The vivid images of the delectable bowl of ramen that filtered your mind disappeared at the call of your name.

“Seokjin left?” Yoongi questioned taking a seat at the bar.

“Yeah. I think about a minute ago?” You made your way back behind the counter. “So what? Large iced americano, the usual?” You ask already grabbing one of the large plastic cups.

“No, it’s okay. Can I just get some water or something?” He simply declined, eyes not meeting yours.

Setting the plastic cup down, you leaned against the countertop to get a clearer view of Yoongi’s face.

“Okay. Spill it. What happened now?”

Yoongi’s eyes finally met your own. His eyebrows knitted together and he rested his cheek on his palm. He sometimes hated the fact that you knew him so well.

“Same shit, different day.”

Every other day for the past month, Yoongi had called you, showed up to your dorm room, or even stayed at the coffee shop until you were done with your shift. It took awhile to get information out of him because of how closed off he was, but you were eventually granted with his usual I’m-sorry-I-bottled-everything-up vent sessions.

You learned that he and his girlfriend of one year, Seolhyun, had been constantly arguing over everything that’s anything. At first, Yoongi tried to brush off the nights where Seolhyun would say she would be coming over but not show up. He attempted to ignore the time she spent on her phone instead of having a small conversation during dinner. Yoongi wasn’t the type to explode easily. He had always been laid back and at ease, but he was still a human being with many nerves and Seolhyun just happened to strike the last one. After confronting her about all of the shit she was doing, she had promised to do better and to communicate.

The promise was, of course, broken more than once and instead of getting angry with her, Yoongi just walked away.

“You know, there used to some sort of underlying reason as to why we would fight. But it’s like I can’t even breathe in the same room as her.”

You stood there for the brief moment of him ranting.

“I went to see her at her dorm and all I asked was ‘what did you do today?’ And she didn’t even look up from her phone when she answered me saying ‘nothing much.’” Yoongi exaggerated his tone voice at the end of his sentence. He brought his hands to his face and stretched his face muscles downward. “I didn’t even say anything when I left her dorm.”

The atmosphere was thick and silent. You had so much you wanted to say to him but now was not the time. Instead, you settled with a barely audible whisper of I’m sorry, Yoongi.

He shrugged his shoulders and hopped off the bar chair. He already knew what you thought of Seolhyun: a fucking stubborn bitch who doesn’t know the first thing about communication; your words, definitely not his.

“Could I stay at your dorm? I just—I really don’t want to go to mine.” Yoongi released himself of his coat to fix the thin sweater underneath. “Jungkook is probably playing Overwatch and my walls become paper thin the moment he starts gaming. Plus, you have a solo dorm. It’s ten times better than having a roommate, especially one who games every Monday and Thursday.”

How could you decline? Jungkook was a dear friend, but you knew exactly how competitive he was after staying late at their dorm one night. There was nothing but loud talking and curse words coming from behind his bedroom door.

“Fine with me, Yoongs. Just let me lock up first.”

You walked into the back room to retrieve your belongings. You did a final check of the espresso machines, the shelves of assorted coffee beans, and you made sure you locked up the bathroom.

Yoongi stood at the entrance patiently waiting for you to be done with whatever it was you were doing. He caught you approaching him whilst slipping on a cream cardigan. He clicked his tongue and reached for your school bag.

“Yoongi, hey, I can carry it you know.” He stayed quiet as he slipped his arms through the straps. You opened your mouth to protest, but he was now closer and trying to get you to wear his coat. “Yoongi. I’m okay! You said it’s freezing out there. Just wear your coat.”

You tried to move away from him, but he pouted and gently pulled a few strands of your hair. A quiet yelp left your lips as you mimicked his pout.

“Please just—” Yoongi opened up his coat for you to put you arms through. “I don’t want to argue, please. I’m so tired of arguing.”

The sound of his voice practically broke your heart. It was the sound of a month’s worth of petty arguing and possible sleepless nights. Without a word, you reached back to fit your arms into the sleeves of the coat.

The both of you walked out and a gust of wind whirled through right on cue. You were busy turning the key in the lock, but you swore you heard the sound of Yoongi’s teeth chattering. The soft click of the lock sounded and you immediately turned around to squint your eyes at Yoongi. He tried to play it off by biting down on his bottom lip, but it was obvious and he knew you weren’t that stupid.

“Here.” You stood as close as possible and hooked both of your arms around one of his. “Hopefully this helps a little.”

Yoongi let out a chuckle and broke free of your hold to drape his arm over your shoulders. He pulled you closer into in his side and on impulse, your around crept up beneath your backpack to capture his waist.

“I think this a little better.” He chuckled and took the first steps, guiding you down the path toward you dorm.

There was a god awful emptiness in your chest. You physically could feel the oxygen leaving every particle of your body. The hollowness sucked your throat dry, but you tried your best to keep a conversation with him without wavering.

↠↞

It almost seemed too natural the way Yoongi stole your dorm keys away from you in the elevator heading up to the eighth floor. Even more natural when he unlocked your door, kicking his shoes off near the entrance and making his way to your bedroom to drop your bag.

“Jesus, Yoongi. You could’ve at least neatly aligned your shoes with my other ones.” You shuffled his shoes with you sock covered feet. “Yoongi?”

“You got any water bottles left?” He nonchalantly asked, now in your small kitchen rummaging through your fridge.

“My god…” You muttered hanging his coat over one of your kitchen chairs. “Yoongi at least close my fridge, please?”

He stood in front of your opened refrigerator drinking half of his water bottle. A small laugh followed as he finally closed the door.

“I should’ve have signed up for a solo dorm instead.” Yoongi left the kitchen to drop your keys onto your kitchen table as well as his own lanyard filled with keys. “You’re practically living in an apartment.”

“But you love Jungkook.”

Yoongi scrunched his face, scanning his surroundings. “I guess.”

“You’re not hungry, Yoongs?”

“No. Just really, really, really exhausted.” You watched him disappear again into your bedroom like it was his own.

You also scanned your surroundings, eyes falling onto the black coffee table in your living room. The smooth surface looked almost like the perfect space to repeatedly slam your forehead into. Suddenly, the idea of spicy ramen didn’t sound as delicious as it did back at the coffee shop.

You turned off your kitchen light and strided into your bedroom. Five minutes didn’t pass since Yoongi walked in your room and he was already knocked out cold. You closed the door behind you and rolled your eyes.

Yoongi took the farthest side of your bed and was facing the wall. You took this opportunity to quietly change out of your clothes into something more home-friendly. You settled with a random crewneck sweatshirt that sat on your desk and the drawstring gray shorts you usually wore to bed.

It took you a while to actually get under the blanket with Yoongi sleeping soundly underneath it as well. But you realized that you had the opening shift the next morning, so after setting an early alarm on your phone, you slipped in next to him.

The feeling of Yoongi beside you wasn’t foreign, but no matter how many times it had happened, your heart never learned to calm down. You turned to your side to stare at the back of Yoongi’s head. His beanie was discarded somewhere in your room and you watched the rise and fall of his shoulders. It was in this silence of your bedroom where you recalled your first meeting with Yoongi.

↠↞

“Look, Hani, I appreciate what you’re doing for me but I could’ve found an on campus job on my own.” You spoke into your phone, walking down a path scattered with autumn leaves.

“You worked at a coffee shop at the community college, so you might as well stick to what you know.”

“Yeah, but—” You saw the lettering of the university coffee shop coming into view. “I didn’t even properly meet Seokjin!”

“Oh, hush! I already told you he’s great. Plus isn’t even better working at the coffee shop nearest to your dorm?”

“Ugh, I guess.” You fingers curled around the door handle and pushed it opened. The smell of brewing coffee and toasted bread naturally welcomed you. “Okay, I’ll text you later.”

Hani sang a quick love you before hanging up the call. The sighting of what Hani described as a tall man sculpted by angels themselves. Seokjin had raven hair that covered his forehead when you first met him. He greeted you with the call of your name and a gentle smile behind the glass container of pastries and ready to heat food.

“Good afternoon! I’m so sorry we couldn’t meet sooner.” He walked out from behind the counter and it shocked you to see how tall and broad his shoulders were. He stuck out his hand. “Seokjin, you can call me Jin, pleased to meet you.”

You repeated your name with a laugh as if he didn’t already say your name. Your hand made contact with his and you squeezed. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Seokjin guided you behind the counter to officially hand you your name tag and apron. “Hani told me you have barista experience.”

“Yeah, I worked at the one at the community college I was enrolled at.” You say trying to tie the strings behind you.

Seokjin smiled and gently brushed away your fumbling fingers to help you. “How long did you work as a barista?”

“Hm, since I enrolled so, about two years?” You felt the tap of Seokjin’s hand on your shoulder. “Thanks by the way, for tying my apron and for hiring me right away.” You gave him a smile filled with so much gratitude.

“It’s my pleasure, really. I hope you didn’t mind skipping any introductions and starting your first shift.” He said apologetically walking towards the register.

“It’s no problem, Jin. I make a mean cinnamon cream latte.” The biggest grin tugged at your lips as Seokjin let out a squeaky laugh and greeted a customer.

“Cinnamon cream latte? Dude, that sounds bomb.”

You turned to face the bar counter to find a boy with deep red hair. He had an opened textbook and a blank page of what you assumed was supposed to notes.

“Uh yeah, I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but it is pretty bomb.” You laughed.

“You had enough sugar, Jungkook.” The boy next to him, his friend you assumed, interjected taking his earbuds out. “This kid refilled his iced blended mocha about three times this afternoon.”

Your mouth turned into a small “o” shape as you worked at the espresso machine. “Aw, you’re right then. I was gonna make one for you too.” You glanced at Jungkook who shoved the latter’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Yoongi.” He drew out sarcastically.

“What? It’s for your own good dude.”

It was entertaining watching the way the two boys argued small things. You handed the customer his triple shot latte with a smile. With the way Jin was paying no attention to the commotion in front of you, it seemed like it was something he was used to.

“Geez, Jungkook—anyways, I’m Yoongi; future music producer.” He greeted you with the most adorable gummy smile whilst taking away Jungkook’s mocha drink.

Yoongi had dark brown hair that fell just above his eyes. He wore a thick sweater with the university’s initial stretched across the front. In front of him was his laptop and multiple sheets of paper. He looked gentle and friendly like someone who deeply cared about people.

“And I’m Jungkook; future marine biologist! We’re roommates.”

Once again, you greeted yourself adding “future criminal profiler” at the end of your name. Their eyes grew big and even Jin, who happened to stumble on the conversation, looked just as shocked.

“Wow. I didn’t think you would take up criminal justice. You seem like the type to be in the medical or business field.” Yoongi said.

You laughed and added “I honestly get that a lot.”

Some time went by and you found yourself growing more and more comfortable as you talked with Yoongi, Jungkook, and even Jin. It was your first semester at the university, so making friends wasn’t really your first priority being the awkward person you were.

“Five already?” Yoongi sighed. “Well, I’ll catch you guys later. Seolhyun finishes class soon.” He stood up to gather his things into his backpack. He hopped off the bar chair and bid you a personal farewell.

You watched him leave with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his keys dangling off a lanyard around his neck. He’s cute.

“Seolhyun’s his girlfriend by the way.” Jungkook said finishing his drink. In your mind, you already put the pieces together hoping it wasn’t entirely true, but you always can’t get what you want. “And since Yoongi left, I think I’d love to try that cinnamon cream latte you mentioned.”

Tossing away whatever emotions you were feeling at the moment and chuckled at Jungkook who eagerly awaited your answer. You simply nodded starting up the espresso machine.

↠↞

A year later, it was now your second semester and here you were; lying next to him underneath a blanket. It occurred to you that your so-called feelings for Yoongi weren’t going to go away because of how much time you spent with him, and other friends as well. You hated yourself for feeling this way about him especially because you knew how much he loved Seolhyun; the way he spoke about her, the look in his eyes when he watched her while she spoke. It was all too clear for you and god, you hated it.

“I fucking hate you, Min Yoongi.” You whispered at the back of his head. On cue, a soft whine escaped from him and he turned onto his back. You panicked and laid out on your back as well shutting your eyes. You felt the bed shift and the weight of his legs were on top of yours. Opening your eyes, you glanced at Yoongi whose body was now at an angle and his lips were slightly parted. You reached for your phone which was on the wooden drawer next to your bed. The brightness of your screen agitated your eyes as you struggled to make out the time.

10:47 pm

“You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled quietly, you swore it was almost midnight.

Carefully and quietly, you released yourself of his clutches inch by inch. The exhaustion of your body screamed at you to go to bed, but the rapid beating of your heart wouldn’t let you.

You escaped the stuffy atmosphere of your room to watch tv in your living room.

The never ending episodes of Forensic Files never failed you. You sat on your sofa with your knees tucked to your chest, the quiet sound of the show host filled the room hoping to not wake Yoongi.

“No one knew where Sheryl went after her shift at the Crestview Bar. The only working surveillance camera was pointed at the entrance—”

You mindlessly scrolled through your emails on your phone as the episode played. All you really wanted was to go to drift into a deep sleep so your solution to that was to tire out your eyes first and possibly sleep on the sofa.

“Why did you leave me?”

Yoongi stood at your door frame running a hand through his hair and clutching your blanket in the other. Without another word, he joined you on the sofa and squinted at the tv.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You shook your head keeping your eyes focused on the tv, but you had this feeling he was staring at you waiting for you to look at him.

“Well, I’m still tired, so—” Yoongi unfolded your legs so he could lay his head down on your thighs. He moved around to find a comfortable position and each time he moved the strands of his hair tickled your thighs.

“H-Hey, what if I need to get up?” He chose to lie flat on his back facing the ceiling. His hands rested on underneath the blanket and on top of his stomach.

“Then just wake me up and I’ll move.” Yoongi kept his eyes closed and you just stared at him hoping he could feel the daggers you were shooting from your eyes. “Do you work tomorrow?”

“Y-Yeah. I’m gonna be leaving my dorm around 7:45. Are you still gonna be here?” There was an urge inside of you that wanted to rest your hand in his soft locks of hair. As you lifted your hand, the sound of his voice caught you off guard and you placed your hand back to your side.

“Maybe.”

The tv show was long forgotten at this point. You couldn’t help but gaze at the features of his face. He had the prettiest eyelashes and his skin was the epitome of perfection; for the amount of time you know him, you swore you never saw a pimple on his face. You couldn’t help but stare at his lips; flushed pink and slightly chapped because of the autumn air.

The urge to caress his hair came back and you gave in instantly. Your fingers grazed the plain of his forehead and rested in the sea of his blond hair. Yoongi stirred a bit and you reeled your hand back.

“Why’d you stop?” He asked with his eyes still closed.

“O-Oh. Sorry.” Heat crept up to your cheeks as you went back to your previous position. You lightly massaged his scalp with your fingers earning a low hum from his lips.

“Your thighs are warm.”

“Really? Sorry, you can get up if it’s uncomfortable.”

“No. It’s fine. I like it.”

In that moment, you almost stopped your movements. You prayed that Yoongi wouldn’t open his eyes anytime soon because you already knew your cheeks had turned crimson. At this point,the tv became an unknown noise because the sound of your rapid heartbeat took over.

“Do you have plans after work?” Yoongi’s questioned made you jump in your seat. He felt slight bounce your body did and he bit back a smile.

“I planned on going into town to buy some food for my dorm. I was going to ask Hani to join me, but I think her and Seokjin are going out on a date.”

“Good. I’ll go with you instead.”

Yoongi opened his eyes a little and caught you gazing down on him. The smile he bit back broke through and he readjusted himself, pushing his head higher on your lap.

“You might as well give me a key to your dorm. I feel at home here.” You watched his eyes close and he brought the blanket closer to his neck.

“Maybe.” Your answer was nothing but the truth. You wouldn’t have minded it Yoongi came by whenever he wanted because that meant you could see him and hung out with him. But this would only deepen your unwanted feelings for him.

“If you do, I’ll probably replace Seolhyun’s key with yours. It doesn’t seem like she’s excited to see me there nowadays.” Yoongi dragged out his words with a hint of annoyance. His facial expression hardened and you could see his eyebrows furrow together.

Your hand movements continued in a more delicate manner in hopes of calming Yoongi down. It took a while, but you watched his face soften and soft snores escaped his mouth. The corners of your mouth tugged upward at the image of Yoongi soundly sleeping.

You should have been used to the feeling of Yoongi lying in your lap. But each time he did it, time would stop and you grew nervous. He constantly had this effect on you and it drove you crazy.

You could’ve had feelings for anyone else, but nope. You heart was stuck on the sleeping boy in your lap.

Min-fucking-Yoongi.

hellooooo i know it’s long i’m sorry T__T i decided to write something for each member before continuing with any series if that’s okay. i’m a bit excited for this series tbh. ive been putting off this plot for a loooong time because of my writer’s block, but aldkjfalkfjk here it is my friends. i hope you like it ^-^

♡ rae jagi

#bangtan boys #bangtan scenarios #bts scenarios #yoongi #suga #suga scenarios #bts fluff #bts angst #bts #what even rae #i love yoongi so much #all yours #yoongz #rae writes

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rogeramir · 5 years ago

Text

Kill The Buddha

I was in the metro (underground train) once in Milan, Italy. And I was in the first car, standing with my face towards the last car. As the metro was going through the streets towards downtown Milan, suddenly, for a second, all the cars lined up straight and I saw the people sitting and standing in the last car, which was probably the 7th or 8th car from me. I am sure it has happened to many people at many times, but it was the first and probably the last time for me. That's why it was so interesting. I said to myself, "Wow... tunnel vision".

At another level, I think that that is what happens to people branded as geniuses. Through hard work, perseverance and a bit of luck (in different proportions for different people), all the dots in their particular discipline suddenly line up for them and they see something maybe no one has seen before. They make sense of things which could have been non-sensical before.

I think Gautam Buddh, if he existed, was one such genius. He was able to connect the most critical dots about the human psychological and spiritual condition thousands of years before others did. He especially came to understand the effects of attachment like very very few others have before and after him. His words astonish and enlighten us to this day.

His basic saying on attachment is: "Attachment is the source of all suffering."

Another one is, "You only lose what you cling to."

There are many others.

Twenty five hundred years or so after his death, we still don't get it. We still continue to be attached to innumerable things, people, ideas, concepts, thoughts, desires, goals, images, etc.

Gautum inspired thousands of others to start exploring themselves. When Buddhism reached China, one of these inspired ones was Zen Master Linji, who gave one of the most shocking yet illuminating pieces of advice to the disciples, also about attachment, i.e., spiritual attachment in this case. It goes like this:

If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him immediately.

What? Kill the Buddha? Isn't he like the originator of the Buddhist tradition? How can a seeker / a disciple kill the Buddha?

Lets break up the sentence and go deeper into it.

The sentences has two parts:

- "If you meet the Buddha on the road"

Lets remember that Linji is advising the disciple. Not all disciples are going to have the same path or the same experiences on the path. Hence he used the word, "if".

What is the experience Linji is talking about? "Meet the Buddha". It can have many meanings. One meaning is that when you are on the path, you have to leave all images behind. 'Buddha' is also an image. (And I am not talking about the statues of Buddha, which Gautum Buddh would be shocked and disappointed to find, since he was so much against statues and worship.) When we read about Buddhism or we listen to Buddhist sermons or we see Buddhist quotes or we see the statues, we develop an image in our minds as something good or bad or useless or something to be pursued or something to be converted to. We develop goals, i.e., to be a 'buddhist', to attain enlightenment, etc.

Another meaning could be that, when you are on the path you might come to a point when you start feeling that you are progressing towards enlightenment and that you are becoming a buddha yourself. Again, that is an image you hold in your mind. And Linji is warning that if you start thinking in terms of what you are 'achieving' or 'gaining' on the path, then you have actually left the path. You have lost your way. Thus, he says, if you see the buddha on the road, kill him immediately.

The moment we have developed goals and images and the moment we start thinking of ourselves as 'special' or as a 'buddhist' or as coming close to enlightenment, we are finished. We are no longer going in the right direction. Then the real teachings of Buddha will remain out of our reach and we will be stuck to those goals and images and thoughts.

The moment we we start getting attached to or holding on to a 'scripture' or a 'book of God' or when we start worshipping a prophet or 'son of God' or 'the mother of the son of God' or the Buddha or a 'guru' or 'tirthankara', the spirituality in us dies.

The difference between a living spirituality and a dead spirituality is the difference between a beautiful living flower on a stem and a dead flower someone has saved in a book. If you like to save dead flowers in books, of course there's nothing 'wrong' with it. Its just that it will not have the fragrance and the colors of a living flower. But if you don't want the fragrance or the colors, then it's not a big deal.

Buddha and Linji were talking to people who like living flowers on stem rather than dead flowers. They wanted us to stay alive, not become spiritually dead.

So, as we saw above, the words, "meet the Buddha" can have different meanings. It could mean having images or thoughts of the Buddha in your mind. Or, it could also mean having images about your own buddhahood. Yes, you are a buddha. Its just that you have forgotten that you're a buddha. And you have started thinking of yourself as a much smaller 'I', i.e., the ego

And what is a buddha? Someone who is unattached, silent, observant and unshakeably present in the herenow.

What is the road?

There is only one road, one path. On this path, one direction goes towards the inside, towards God. It is the direction of silence, stillness, quiet observation, simple and content living, a blissfulness without any goals. A world without time. Time is a utility which can be put aside and one can be timeless, without the attachment to the past or the future. Just being in the present. The forever flowing stillness of now. The pendulum stops. The polarities disappear. If someone throws a stone in the lake, it disappears in the lake without creating any ripples. No ripples at all. Someone hits me, I don't respond. Someone abuses me, I don't respond. Someone praises me or says they love me, I don't respond. Someone takes away all of my possessions, I don't respond. There is no response to the 'good' and no response to the 'bad'. There is just silence, stillness and observation. Images are flashing on the inner screen and passing away, then more images and more. And none of the images elicits a response.

The other direction is towards the outside, towards money, towards material possessions, images, goals, desires, discontentment, mental stress, anxiety and fear. 'Time is of the essence'. Goals need to be met. Net worth needs to keep growing. Images need to be maintained. The 'circle of control' needs to be expanded all the time and power needs to be exercised over as many people as possible. The past defines the present and the present must lead to a certain well thought out future. Everything must conform to our own plans. Otherwise, there is discontentment. Stillness is death. Silence is weakness. This direction also includes religious or spiritual goals, dreams and aspirations. Trying to be a good person to win the ticket to heaven, where there are all kinds of pleasures and comforts.

There is a beautiful Native Indian Cherokee story, in which a father teaches his son about good and evil through a parable involving two wolves. He tells his son that there is a terrible fight going on inside him between two wolves. One is good and the other is evil. The evil wolf has anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The good wolf has joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, kindness and compassion. This fight, he told the young boy, is going on inside every one, including the little boy.

The boy is listening attentively. He asks, "Which wolf is going to win?"

The father says, "The one you are going to feed."

(see firstpeople.us/CherokeeLegends/TwoWolves)

It is is a beautiful parable. The two wolves are the two directions on the path we are talking about. You can choose which wolf to feed, which direction to start walking in.

Attachment, including attachment to spiritual or religious goals and aspirations, lies on the path of the ego.

Again, there is absolutely nothing 'wrong' with the path of attachment and ego. If that is what you need right now, then that is what you will get.

Whether you know it or not, consciously or sub-consciously, there is one thing you are seeking in life (see my other Post titled, 'The Big Fish'). That is the thing you will give anything to get. That is what you are after. It could be money or power or prestige or spiritual status or any other thing. That one thing, the 'Big Fish' in your life, determines which wolf you are going to feed, which side of the path you are going to choose.

Next, what does it mean to kill the Buddha?

It means, be silent, watchful and still. When the seeker is on the path, he / she has to stay silent,watchful and still.

Linji is warning that on the path, the seeker has to be absolutely naked. There must not be any attachments or images when you start the journey and also during the journey. There will, of course, be moments when the seeker is weak or discouraged or harbouring doubts and tries to get encouragement from the image of the Buddha or the goal of attaining nirvana. And there will be moments when, for example, the seeker has mastered the art of meditation or has attained an insight into some sutra or saying of the Buddha or has achieved something else which he considers as a substantial step on the journey and is ecstatic over it. Linji is saying that all these will pull the seeker back on the path.

If we see the teachings of the great wisdom teachers in parallel, we will find many consistencies / similarities. Why? Because their paths were identical and their destination was the same. Jesus, in one of his parables, has also warned that the seeker can be set back on the path if he is not watchful. This is the parable of the woman with the jar full of wheat grains (Thomas 97). It goes like this: There was a woman who was carrying a jar of wheat grains. As she was walking along, the handle of the jar broke and the grains started dropping out. The woman, not being very mindful and perhaps busy with her thoughts, did not realize what had happened. By the time she reached home and looked inside the jar, it was empty. All the grain was gone.

This is probably what Linji is warning about. We have to be watchful on the path. Otherwise, we will lose whatever understanding we have gained, whatever progress we have made. If there are any images arising in our minds, these need to be discarded. The mind has to be like a mirror. Any dust on the mirror has to be removed, otherwise we will not be able to see ourselves in the mirror. Whatever thoughts, ideas, images, experiences arise, we observe them and let them go. There is no holding on to anything, any thought, any image. If there is a reaction to these thoughts, ideas, images, we observe that reaction too. The more we observe, the more these thoughts, ideas and images will become like clouds passing by in the unchanging sky. There will emerge a silence and a stillness. That silence and that stillness is the path and it is also the destination. In that silence and stillness is the divine / the eternal / the universal, i.e., our true self.

So, "kill the Buddha" means letting go. Osho used to say it brilliantly: spirituality is not about finding God, its about letting go of yourself. The 'I' is the only thing separating God and us. If we let go of the 'I', there is no separation. All is one.

The 'I' / the ego is like a robe we are wearing and this robe is made of images. If we are not watchful, the Buddha or the idea of nirvana or moksha or enlightenment also becomes one of the images that the ego is made up of.

Linji is telling us to remain utterly naked. To maintain the oneness by not letting anything come between ourselves and God, not even the Buddha.

The events in Jesus' life, especially towards the end of his life, are also relevant here. Just before his arrest and trial for blasphemy and sedition, he is at a place called Gethsemane. Judas Iscariot (his disciple who turned traitor) has already told his enemies where Jesus is, so that they could come and arrest him. Jesus knows that he is about to be arrested. He is saying his final prayers, asking to be saved: "---Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet, not as I will, but as You will"

Jesus knows that he will be tried and crucified. However, as the time is approaching, Jesus is feeling afraid of losing his life. He is fearful of death and is requesting God / Father to help him avoid death, if possible. At the same time, he is also submitting himself to God's will by saying, "not as I will, but as You will"

This is a moment of weakness which Jesus had just before the crucifixion. He has fallen prey to the fear of death. He is an enlightened being, he has felt oneness with God, he has transcended the boundaries ordinary individuals have and has experienced the eternal / universal self, he calls God his 'Father' and himself God's son, he has already become a great teacher, his vision is clear. And, yet, here he is, telling God that he does not want to die. He has lost his Buddha-nature. Or, to be more precise, he has lost his Christ-nature. Here he is just the man Jesus.

In the version given in the Book of Matthew, he says, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

He is complaining. It is as if he had some image of God and some expectation of what God was going to do if he (Jesus) was about to be hanged and that expectation is not being fulfilled.

But, Jesus is no ordinary being. He does fall, but he bounces back very quickly. When he is being crucified, he says from the cross, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."

For someone beaten mercilessly, hanging on the cross, with nails in his hands and feet, about to die, these are not the words of an ordinary man. No, he is back as the enlightened master and is setting yet another example of love by praying for people who are killing him.

This event from Jesus' life shows vividly what Master Linji was trying to teach. If you fall on the path, you've got to pick yourself up. You've got to kill the Buddha. Jesus killed his buddha, to speak metaphorically. He conquered his weaknesses and doubts. He regained his mindfulness. He let go of the final attachment, i.e., to his own life.

So, in a nutshell, meeting the Buddha on the road means falling down, falling prey to your own attachments... killing the Buddha means getting back up and letting go.

(Image by Charles Rondeau from Pixabay )

#buddha #spiritual #mystic #oneness

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