#know that it's on purpose with intent. to kill.

[shitpostingsapphic]

"I hate Caitlyn because of the system she represents. I'm so tired of people acting like we can'thate her for that."

Let's have a long, hard talk.

This argument IS made in direct comparison to the oppressive systems we see in real life, so let's first talk about how Caitlyn compares to real world oppressive systems, her faults and the ways she fails the people she serves, and then let's talk about how you're just fucking wrong about her and how you hate the wrong character.

Caitlyn is an enforcer. Stating the obvious. She is a member of a larger system she chose to be a part of, because she wanted to serve the people. She was ignorant of the system's corruption as we see throughout season 1. Her initial intentions with becoming an enforcer are because she wants to fight injustice, defy the stuff politics of Piltover that she was raised under, and have her own identity.

At the end of season 1, several things happen to Caitlyn. She is abducted naked from her home, held hostage for at minimum 24 hours, during which time an array of things could have happened to her but of which we know for certain left her TERRIFIED of the young girl with blue hair she was abducted by. She watches that same girl fire an explosive that kills her mother. Preceding this, she has been witness to the ways Silco has harmed the people of the undercity and how he had the enforcers in his pocket in order to do it. Ekko explicitly tells her this. He tells her how Silco has ruined lives and how the enforcers were the manpower that let it happen.

Caitlyn walks away from season 1 changed in many ways. She is brokenhearted and traumatized, but still holds a strong desire to protect the innocent people of both cities. Because of who she has been up to this point, her belief is that she can rectify the wrongs by using the power of her position to do good instead of aid corruption. Her asking Vi to become an enforcer to do as much is in bad taste, yes. Which she later apologizes for and takes ownership for. That doesn't remove the good intention behind it. And it doesn't negate that Vi can later see the logic behind it. Being able to take control of a bad situation and use that power to do good instead of abusing that power to do bad, is an incredibly shaky but important position to be in. And the whole point of Caitlyn's character is how she navigates that--can she use her position to do good? As per GOOD WRITING, she's not going to get it perfect until she learns and grows.

We can acknowledge the moral ambiguity of using the grey, how it does harm, while also acknowledging the WAY it was used and for what purpose was both smart, economical, and GOOD. Doing bad things for good reasons. That's what the use of the grey was.

I'm not going to get into the memorial much, but all I will say for that, is it's an excellent example of people twisting Caitlyn's words and underselling the pain she's going through. If you can't acknowledge the right Caitlyn has to be upset at the people who just violently disrupted a memorial for mourning the loss of loved ones, I don't think you care to have a conversation about the humane treatment of others. And using Caitlyn's anger and grief as a "see?? She hates Zaunites!!" is so fucking stupid I'm not going to entertain an argument for that.

Caitlyn's setback is her trauma, her ignorance, and her heartbreak. She still isn't a fully realized character throughout most of season 2. She's learning and growing and unfortunately that is at the expense of the people she lords over while enforcing martial law. But if we acknowledge that, we also have to acknowledge the ways she changed the system so that needless suffering and punishment didn't happen. Confronting Ambessa when violence is used unlawfully. Improving the prison food and banning the use of the most inhumane cells in Stillwater. Bare minimum? Yes. But still ways she showed that she saw the Zaunites as humans and not as flesh covered problems the way Salo does. Not as problems to get rid of the way Ambessa does.

If the reason for your ire is because Caitlyn is a figure in a corrupt system, then your hatred is misdirected. The point of Caitlyn is to show the ways the system needs to change, and how the people within it who want to do good can often be misguided, but that doesn't mean they aren't good people or that they can't do good within their position.

If you fundamentally disagree with that, there isn't much of an argument to be had, but I will say that your ire is still misdirected.

I never see you guys discuss Salo or Ambessa.

Salo represents true bigotry in the system. It's a position he maintains all the way up to when his mind is commandeered by Viktor and the hexcore. Salo is the type of person who functions on confirmation bias--he already has a prejudiced view of Zaunites, and will use any opportunity to say "see? Told you so! We should put them down." Compared directly to how Caitlyn talks about them, asks Vi to help fix the system, fights against the system going too far, actively makes adjustments to change the way the system treats Zaunites, the claims that Caitlyn is a bigot don't hold up.

Ambessa IS the system. She IS the oppressive force that indiscriminately will take and take and take and sees violence as a tool and not a consequence to be avoided at all costs the way Caitlyn does. And for some fucking reason, no one who criticizes Caitlyn gives any weight to Ambessa's actions, ever. They don't discuss the way she manufactures the attack on the memorial to manipulate public opinion on Zaunites, as well as manipulate Caitlyn. They don't discuss how she sets Caitlyn up to be pressured to take the position of Commander and uses her grief, promises her justice, in order to warm Caitlyn to her and keep her as an ally, a pawn she can use. They don't discuss how she sent Maddie to be a spy, to be in Caitlyn's bed and to be as intimately close to her as possible, to make sure Caitlyn still was behaving the way she needed in order to see her plan through.

When discussing the manipulative, exploitative, and violent nature of oppressive systems, Caitlyn has become the scapegoat, when it is people like Salo and Ambessa who deserve your blame and your ire.

You wonder why people don't take your complaints about Caitlyn seriously? That's why. Because the show gave you very bold examples of oppressive individuals in control of the systems you hate, and you ignore both of them for the sake of hating on a beloved lesbian character, who is beloved because she is flawed and good natured and whose journey we enjoy because it's all about learning what to do when you're within a system that pulls you at every direction to do evil, and you still find a way to do good.

Do some more think pieces on Salo and Ambessa. Then maybe we can have nuanced discussions on Caitlyn.

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

Sugar, Baby

Chapter Three: Unraveling

Bruce Wayne x Sugar Baby! Reader

| Part 1 | | Part 2 |

I pinky promise there will be smut in the next part🤞 I just felt like making this one a bit of a slow burn

Taglist: @shadowqueen1322 @secretsideofbree @lillyrob

It started with nights at the manor.

At first, it was just a casual thing—Bruce would send a car, and you’d spend an evening talking over expensive whiskey, letting the world outside the Wayne estate fade into irrelevance. You still worked at the bar, still went to class, but somehow, Bruce had become a fixture in your life.

And it wasn’t just the money.

Yes, he still tipped you ridiculous amounts when he showed up at the bar. Yes, the black card he’d given you sat in your wallet, burning a hole you had yet to fill. But more than that, he was there.

The texts started coming more frequently.

B: You still alive?

You: Barely. My professor is trying to kill me with this assignment.

B: Send me the prompt. I’ll have my team handle it.

You: Absolutely not.

B: I don’t like seeing you stressed.

You: And I don’t like billionaire academic fraud.

B: Fair point.

He called, too—not often, but enough that you found yourself waiting for the sound of his voice on the other end of the line.

The nights at the manor got longer.

At first, it was just drinks and conversation, but then there were the quiet dinners Alfred started preparing for two instead of one. The slow walks through the grand halls of the estate, the firelit nights spent sprawled on the couch in the library, his arm slung lazily over the backrest behind you.

And then, of course, there were the kisses.

God, the kisses.

They started slow, teasing, an extension of whatever sharp-witted conversation you’d been having before he inevitably leaned in. Bruce kissed with purpose, with intent, with the kind of control that made you dizzy.

But that’s all it was.

Kissing.

He never pushed, never let things go further than you could handle, and part of you wondered if he knew.

If he had already pieced together that you had never done this before.

Not this—not just the kisses, but the way he made you feel.

Because it wasn’t just physical.

Bruce knew you.

He listened when you ranted about your classes, when you muttered about your deadlines, when you offhandedly mentioned your favorite books or movies. He remembered, too—casually dropping facts about your life into conversation, surprising you with small gestures that proved he had been paying attention.

“Tell me something real,” you murmured one night, curled up next to him on the oversized couch in his study.

Bruce glanced down at you, brow raising slightly. “Something real?”

You nodded. “Something not in the tabloids.”

He was silent for a moment, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your knee.

“I never sleep for more than three hours at a time,” he admitted finally. “It’s been that way since I was a kid.”

You frowned, shifting to get a better look at him. “Why?”

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through his expression. “You know why.”

You did.

Gotham knew the story of Thomas and Martha Wayne—the billionaire philanthropists gunned down in an alley, the grieving son left behind.

“I dream about them,” Bruce continued, voice quieter now. “Not always in the way you’d think. Sometimes it’s just… glimpses. My mother’s perfume. My father’s laugh. I wake up before I can hold onto any of it.”

Your chest tightened.

You reached for his hand without thinking, threading your fingers through his. Bruce blinked, as if surprised, before his grip tightened around yours.

He didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, rubbing a slow, deliberate pattern over your knuckles. “I just—”

“I’m glad you told me,” you interrupted softly.

He exhaled, eyes flickering toward your lips.

That night, the kisses were softer.

Not urgent. Not desperate. Just there.

Something real.

—

It was a few weeks later when you finally asked.

You were sitting in Bruce’s bedroom—an indulgently large space that still somehow felt distinctly him. There was a fireplace crackling in the corner, the low golden light casting shadows across the room.

Bruce was on the bed beside you, leaning against the headboard, sleeves rolled up as he scrolled through something on his phone. You had a book open in your lap, though you weren’t really reading it.

Instead, you were watching him.

“Bruce.”

He glanced up at the sound of your voice. “Mm?”

You hesitated. “Are you… waiting for something?”

He set his phone down, eyes scanning your face. “What do you mean?”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the book. “I mean, we’ve been… this for a while now.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “This?”

You rolled your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he admitted.

You exhaled. “So, are you waiting? For me?”

His expression shifted, something fond passing through his features.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Your stomach flipped. “Why?”

Bruce sat up, moving closer. One of his hands found your knee, fingers brushing against the fabric of your leggings.

“Because I know you,” he said, voice low. “I know you wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t real for you.”

You swallowed hard. “And?”

His thumb traced slow circles against your leg.

“And I want to take my time with you.”

You felt yourself flush, warmth spreading through your body at the implication.

Bruce smirked slightly, tilting your chin up with the crook of his finger.

“You deserve more than rushed decisions,” he murmured. “I don’t need more. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.”

You inhaled sharply. “I—”

His lips brushed against yours, soft and coaxing.

“Don’t overthink it,” he whispered against your mouth.

And for once, you didn’t.

—

It didn’t happen that night.

Or the next.

Or the one after that.

But somehow, the waiting didn’t feel like waiting.

Masterlist

[wellofdean]

I still remember what Jensen said years ago, I think he would disagree with Rob and Rich https://pbs.twimg.com/media/GjTN6m5WUAAxsWG?format=jpg&name=small

Here's the content of that link. Many apologies for reposting, but:

So, my first answer to this is, as I've said before, I am infinitely more interested in the text itself than I am in what any of them say about it, and the text is what it is (GAY). What's nice about these episodes of Rich & Rob's podcast is that they are actually responding to the thing we all saw in our TV box, and saying "Dial it down to 11 guys, geez," which: Yes. Good to know y'all can see a church by daylight.

But also, in the Q&A format at a con, there are loads of different reasons Jensen might say this or that. What's the context here? Who is he onstage with? What's the crowd like? What exactly was the question? Also, this answer rightly acknowledges that the "whole Dean and Cas thing" was poppin' off in season 8. Well spotted. Perhaps he is thinking that the show needed to separate them for awhile so they wouldn't have to just fucking make out already? In fact, perhaps that was exactly the thinking, because honestly, season 9 goes off on the star-crossed Destiel, complete with parallel cross-species romances to interrogate proof of concept and some serious Romeo and Juliet-ass shit:

Dean praying to Cas and saying "I need you here" while he agonises about what to do about Sam; the whole painful kicking Cas out of the bunker storyline with the yearning date prep and the fanfic gap (plus LOADS of other shit in that episode); Cas gets killed by April and Dean tenderly cradles his face and then is jealous about the sex; they have a big vulnerable heart-to-heart about the Sam situation and why Dean kept Cas away and Cas forgives him immediately and helps Dean; Dean takes the mark of Cain and the Crowley/Dean/Cas love triangle start revving up; Collette is invented for the sole purpose of paralleling Cas; the Garth is a werewolf episode is here about finding love in unexpected places! love Is love, yo!; the fitness centre episode with its many implications that Dean is into dudes; Metatron's speech about what gives a story meaning; Gabriel calls Cas Dean's boytoy; Metatron tells Cas "I left you human because I hoped you would live happily ever after" because HE KNOWS; the whole Romeo and Juliet thing in episode 20 with the werewolf/shapeshifter romance that pointedly mirrors Dean and Cas; Dean drops everything to go help Cas, leading to Cas giving up his army for one man; Hannah is invented to throw another triangle into the works; Metatron says Cas is in love..............with humanity; Dean dies (Juliet much?) and comes back a demon.

Like, I am leaving LOADS out.

Firstly? They were 💯 writing it like that. They leaned the fuck in every chance they got. And secondly, y'all get that Jensen pointedly does not talk about subtext, or things that the story is doing on the DL, or about things that haven't happened yet, and he doesn't talk about any of Dean's feelings that Dean would not openly talk about himself? Jensen is actually admirably disciplined and principled about it? And, you know that he could also just be disingenuous on purpose to avoid doing so, and to allow unspoken things to remain unspoken? If he just tells us, where's our joy in figuring it out going to come from? Y'all should THANK HIM for not stealing our joy.

I personally think? Jensen is clever. He is very intentional and I think he knows what he's doing. If you consider that Jensen talks AS DEAN in cons and never goes beyond something Dean would say, well...then it makes sense he would say that in light of the fact that anyone who understands narrative can see that the text itself is WALL TO WALL star-crossed Destiel, because that's what happens when you separate them and then write them as you have been all along. I'm glad he enjoyed it! Me too!

Like, either you think Jensen is a full idiot, or you have to admit that there might be layers to the things he says.

[deerlysacred]

ཀ while you were torn apart, i would still wait with you there . . . widow's hill 🕷️

𐂂 𝄢 { s1 dean winchester x nymph fem!reader } {with sammy}

𖣂 𝄢 plot : original case storyline, some angst, eventually fluffy.

♫ 𝄢 concept song : strangers - ethel cain

‼️ 𝄢 i do not own supernatural or any of its characters; all rights belong to their respective creators. this is purely a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, with no intention of profit.

🦌 — the last draft rip 😔

The Impala hummed softly under Dean's hand as it rumbled down the empty road leading to Widow's Hill. The morning sky was heavy with clouds, casting a gray pall over the dead trees that lined the way. You sat in the backseat, your journal open on your lap, twirling your pen as your eyes flickered between the pages and the passing scenery. Sam, riding shotgun, was scrolling through notes on his laptop, his brow furrowed with concentration.

"Okay," Sam began, breaking the silence, "the legend says the villagers were slaughtered right after the sacrifices— rumor is, the girls' spirits went rogue and wiped them out."

Dean scoffed, one hand resting casually on the wheel. "Good. Sounds like they got what was coming to 'em. But if those ghosts are snatching up innocent women now, they're not exactly innocent anymore." The tension in his jaw hadn't eased all morning. It wasn't hard to guess why — his dad was still missing, and every passing day was a reminder that they weren't any closer to finding him.

He flicked his gaze at you through the rearview mirror —just for a second— but it was enough to make your insides tingle. You pretended to be very, very interested in the half-doodled sigil on your journal page. Dean didn’t make a habit of trusting supernatural creatures, and you didn’t make a habit of being trusted as a nymph. Yet somehow, here you were, you carved out an exception. Not that he'd admit it outright, but you still knew he was starting to trust you.

"Alright," Dean grumbled, pulling to a park near the broken iron gates of the churchyard. The building stood crookedly against the gray sky, its windows shattered and vines crawling like veins up the crumbling walls. "We start with the records inside. Find those girls' names —Georgia, Clara, and Mae. Burn their bones, and we're outta here."

"Easy enough," Sam muttered as he swung the door open. "Except for the part where they'll probably try to kill us."

The cold february air hit your face as you stepped out of Baby, boots crunching on the frosty gravel. You instinctively tightened your coat around you, eyeing the eerie church in front of you like a bad omen. It was straight out of one of those haunted house movies Dean loved quoting.

"This is gonna be fun." Dean said sarcastically, slamming the car door. He grabbed the salt rounds and shotgun from the trunk. "Stay close," he muttered, not looking at you. "I'm not in the mood to scrape you off the ceiling if one of these lady spooks decides to make you her new doll."

"Wow, Dean," you said dryly, falling into step beside him. "Thanks for the visual. That's comforting."

He smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I aim to please."

You hesitated, glancing up at him. He looked… tired, more than usual. You could clearly see the eyebags under his slightly bloodshot emerald eyes, like he hadn't slept in a while. "Hey, uh…" You fiddled with the buttons of your coat, your voice dropping slightly. "You okay? I mean… you seem kinda…" Gruff? Angry? Sad? Words failed you again, so you gestured vaguely in his direction like that explained everything.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Kinda…?"

Oh, good, now he's making me finish the sentence. Fantastic. "I don't know… just… are you okay?" you asked, your voice barely above a mumble by the end.

His smirk softened into something closer to a smile. "I'm fine," he said, a little too quickly. Then, after a pause, he sighed and added, "Let's just get this over with."

The interior of the church was worse than you expected. Pews were overturned, their wood rotting and splintered. Shattered stained-glass windows let in weak gray light, casting patterns on the dust-covered floor. The broken stained-glass windows painted jagged, ghostly reflections across the walls— saints and angels distorted by time. It was the kind of place that made you shiver before anything abnormal even happened.

Dean clicked on his flashlight, the beam cutting through the dimness. "Alright, let's find the records and get the hell out of here before one of our new ghost girlfriends decides to play tag."

"Not it." you muttered under your breath.

Sam made his way towards the back of the church, where a set of double doors hung slightly ajar. "If there are any old records, they'll probably be in an office or storage room." He pushed open the doors with a creak, revealing a hallway lined with more doors. The air back here was even colder. You rubbed your arms, trying to shake the growing unease settling in your stomach.

Dean must've noticed, because he nudged your arm as he passed. "Relax, Bambi. It's just a creepy, abandoned church full of vengeful spirits. What's the worst that could happen?"

You shot him a glare. "You want the full list, or just the highlights?"

"Smartass." he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched up.

The three of you split up, searching through the various offices and storage spaces. You found a cabinet stuffed with crumbling papers and old books, flipping carefully. Your breath caught when you finally landed on something useful.

"Hey…" you called out, pulling out a thick, yellowed ledger. Sam and Dean were at your side in seconds, looking over your shoulder as you flipped through the names.

"Georgia Lindsay, Clara Dalton, and Mae Treece." Sam read aloud, pointing to the neatly penned names under a list of burials. "Looks like they were buried under the weeping tree in the village cemetery. Georgia and Clara at least… Mae's got a question mark next to her name."

Dean frowned. "What does that mean? They lost her body?"

You stared at the eerie little mark on the page, a sense of dread curling in your gut with the sudden possibility that crept inside your mind. "Or they never buried her at all."

"Not… necessarily," Sam murmured, his eyes scanning the page. "The question mark could mean a number of things— maybe they had trouble identifying her body, or maybe—"

Dean cut in.

"Or maybe they just chucked her in a ditch and called it a day. Either way, we gotta find out where she ended up. If we don't, burning her friends ain't gonna do squat."

You exhaled, rubbing your arms against the chill seeping into your bones. There was something about Mae that unsettled you more than the others. But you didn't know why.

"So," you said. "Graveyard first, then we play hide-and-seek with Mae?"

Dean shot you a look. "Yeah, except if Mae finds us first, the game ends with us getting turned into human confetti."

Sam ignored him, flipping through another set of records. "Georgia and Clara's graves should be towards the back of the cemetery. There's a map here— looks like the cemetery is split into sections."

Dean rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shake off a bad feeling. "Alright, let's go dig up some bones."

You three went out of the building, the broken church doors groaning behind you like something reluctant to let you go. The sky was still heavy with clouds, the air was chilly. You walked beside Dean, hands tucked into the sleeves of your coat, while Sam studied the graveyard map like it was a damn treasure hunt.

Dean glanced over at you, then down at your boots with a small smirk. "You know, for someone who's half-forest fairy, you sure aren't great at walking on actual earth."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Yesterday, you tripped over a completely flat sidewalk."

"That was one time—"

Dean huffed, his breath misting inthe air, he nudged you lightly with his elbow. "Oh yeah? What about last week? When you tripped over air and took me down with you?"

Your face warmed at the memory. "That was… a coordinated fall."

"Coordinated my ass. I had a bruise the size of Kansas on my back."

You bit your bottom lip, crossing your arms. "Oh, sure, let's all pick on the clumsy person."

"Hey, I think it's adorable," Dean teased, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly tone that always made your heart flutter. "Real cute when you get all flustered, too."

You opened your mouth to throw out some witty retort but the universe had other plans. The ground shifted beneath your foot, your boot catching on a hidden tree root, and before you could even process what was happening, you were weightless— then not.

A strong hand shot out, catching your arm before you could fully faceplant into the frozen ground. Dean's grip was firm and way too warm compared to the chilly Widow's Hill air seeping into your skin, his laugh was immediate. "See? Case in point."

Your face was approximately the temperature of a furnace. "I hate you."

"Nah, sweetheart," he drawled, still holding onto you, his grip firm and warm. "You love me."

Sam sighed. "Can we focus?"

You pushed away from Dean, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. "Yes, please." You three kept walking, and you finally thought that you were finally from Dean's teasing. But of course, while Sam had his nose buried in the map trying to make sense of the disorganized burial plots, Dean seemed more interested in smirking at you.

Maybe if I stay really quiet, he'd just let it go.

Nope.

"So, Bambi," he drawled, nudging you lightly with his elbow again. "What's your over-under on falling again before we torch these bones?"

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your coat around you. "Oh, ha ha. Very funny."

"Hey, I'm just sayin', if you wipe out again, I might start carrying a leash."

A leash? Oh my God. Nope. Not acknowledging that. Not picturing that. Absolutely not thinking about Dean Winchester, holding a—

NOPE.

Sam snorted, and you shot him a betrayed look. "Et tu, Sam?"

"He's got a point," Sam muttered, not even glancing up from the map. "You do fall a lot."

"That's it," you huffed, stepping ahead of them. "I'm leaving you two to the ghosts."

Dean chuckled, the warmth of it curling around your ears. "Oh, sweetheart, you wouldn't last ten minutes without us."

You ignored him, focusing on the graveyard ahead. The further you walked, the quieter the world became. The usual forest sounds —chirping birds, rustling leaves— had disappeared, swallowed by an unnatural stillness. Even the wind seemed hesitant, whispering through the trees instead of howling.

You shivered. Something felt… off.

But you weren't about to give Dean the satisfaction of freaking out over nothing.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

One moment, you were walking. The next, the world tilted. Your stomach lurched as your foot caught on something unseen, and you were falling— again.

Oh, for the love of—

The impact never came. Instead, a cold, unseen force yanked you backwards, your breath vanishing from your lungs as you were dragged through the dirt.

For a split second, your brain tried to rationalize it. Maybe you had tripped, maybe you just—

No. No, something had grabbed you.

Panic flared in your chest, raw and instinctive. Your hands clawed at the ground, boots digging into the dirt as you struggled. "DEAN—!"

Dean's laughter died in an instant. "Y/N?"

You barely had time to hear the confusion in his voice before you were pulled even harder, your body sliding through the grass like you weighed nothing. Your fingers scraped at the frozen earth, desperate for something —anything— to hold onto. The grip was cold. So cold.

It felt like icy hands wrapped around your ankles.

Something unseen —someone unseen— was dragging you.

Dean's voice snapped from playful to deadly serious in half a heartbeat. "What the hell— SAM!"

You caught a glimpse of their figures rushing toward you before the force jerked you violently to the left. The world blurred around you as you were yanked between trees, your scream lost in the wind.

Your back hit something solid suddenly, breath whooshing from your lungs. A rotten, collapsed wooden structure surrounded you —the remnants of an old wood— cutting shed. Rusted tools littered the ground and hanging down the walls. A collection of knives and axes gleamed dully, their edges wickedly sharp. Your breath fogged in the cold as you turned your head, the shadows between the ruined wooden beams thickening. The air shifted. Like someone had just stepped forward.

Then, she appeared.

Clara Dalton.

Her figure flickered, a torn white dress clinging to her like wet paper. She had rain boots on, cracked and faded yellow, squelched with every slow step, leaving faint, wet prints. The edges of her face blurred in and out, shifting between the hollow-eyed corpse she'd become and the girl she had once been. Her long blonde hair hung in limp, lifeless pigtails, the strands dull and stringy, as if they'd never known the warmth of the sun. Her eyes, black as the deepest parts of the ocean, locked onto yours. A small smile stretched across her pale lips.

"You fall a lot," she whispered, tilting her head like she found that funny. "Just like I did."

You didn't want to ask. You really didn't. But your mouth moved anyway. "You fell?"

A giggle, breathy and sharp. Her body jerked, her head snapping at an unnatural angle. Like a puppet with its strings tangled.

"Down the well," she cooed. "Down, down, down— so dark. So cold. I screamed, but no one came."

A chill prickled your skin, nausea twisting in your gut. "I'm… I'm sorry."

Clara's smile faltered, her black eyes flickering, something fragile breaking beneath the surface. "Are you?" she whispered, her voice soft now. Childlike. "Would you have come for me?"

Your breath felt tight in your throat. You didn't know how to answer that.

Clara swayed forward, her fingers twitching like she was resisting the urge to reach out and touch you. Her presence brought the smell of damp earth, something old. "I used to braid my hair every morning." Her voice wobbled. "Mama said I had the prettiest hair in the village."

Your stomach twisted, knowing exactly where this was going.

"But the water—" Clara's breath hitched, her voice taking on a wet, gurgling edge. Her fingers suddenly curled into the ends of her stringy, tangled locks, frustration and grief flickering across her half-decayed face. "It ruined it. Stole all the shine. Now it's just—just…" Her voice trembled towards the end, jaw clenching. Then suddenly, her dark gaze snapped up, landing on you with something desperate. "Braid it." she commanded.

Your blood ran cold.

"W-What?" you stammered, glancing wildly towards the trees, Dean and Sam were still not in sight, probably still searching for you. "I don't think—"

"Braid my hair," she repeated, stepping closer. Her body flickered between solid and mist, her bottom lip quivered. "Please." Her voice wobbled as she turned her back to you and sat on the ground. "Please, please, please."

The way she said it made your stomach knot. It wasn't just a request. It was an echo of something she used to say in her past, something she must've begged for when she was still just a girl and not this… vengeful thing.

You cursed everything as you sat down too, your fingers shook as you reached out.

Clara let out a sharp, shuddering breath as you gently took a handful of her damp, brittle hair. The sensation sent a ripple of unease down your spine— it wasn't the worst thing you'd ever touched, but it was close. Cold, stringy, weak, almost like old river weeds. But Clara sighed like you had just given her something she hadn't had in decades.

"I liked French braids best," she murmured, swaying slightly. "Mama used to do them so tight it made my eyes pull."

Your fingers worked automatically, twisting the strands as carefully as you could. "That sounds… painful."

Clara giggled. "Maybe a little. But it meant she cared, you silly goose." Her voice softened. "That she saw me."

You swallowed. Something about this brief moment of calmfelt like holding your breath before a storm. "What happened to your mother?"

Clara's fingers clenched into the folds of her lacey dress. "She left."

You froze. "Left?"

Clara's thin body tensed up for a second, you couldn't see her eyes but you guessed that her gaze zoned out.

"She thought I ran away," she murmured, her voice distant. "The town told her I ran away." Her lip trembled. "She didn't come looking."

Your hands stilled.

Oh.

Oh, Clara.

"You remind me of her." she whispered.

Your throat closed up, feeling your breath hitch.

She turned her head just enough for you to catch the pale curve of her cheek, the dull gleam of her lifeless eyes. "Not my mother," she added. "My sister."

Your hands, still caught in the strands of her hair, trembled. "You had a sister?"

Clara gave a slow, almost dreamy nod. "She used to braid my hair, too. Just like this. She was more patient and gentle with it though. That's why I'd always asked from her first." Her fingers twitched in her lap. "She was older than me, by six years. Always said I'd grow up to be beautiful and strong."

You swallowed against the ache growing in your throat. "She sounds like she loved you."

Clara didn't respond right away. When she finally did, her voice had turned raw. "She left first. Married a man from another town. She wanted to take me with her, but—" A soft, shuddering breath left her lips. "Mama wouldn't let her."

Your fingers curled around her hair instinctively, you blinked away the tears that filled your eyes.

"She never knew what happened to me," Clara murmured. "I wonder… if she ever thinks about me. If she misses me."

Your heart clenched. "I'm sure she does." you whispered.

For a long moment, Clara said nothing. Just sat there, letting you finish the braid in silence. You were careful, treating her fragile hair gentle, even though you knew it was too late. The moment you tied off the end with a loose scrap of lace from your sleeve, she lifted a shaking hand to touch the plait. Her fingers ran over the neat pattern, hesitant, almost happy.

"It feels nice," she whispered, reaching up to touch it with delicate, ghostly fingers. "Like when… my hair was still warm."

You swallowed thickly. "Clara, I—"

Her head jerked suddenly, snapping towards the trees outside the cabin. Her black eyes widened, her hands clenching into fists. A heartbeat later, you heard it, too— Dean, calling your name with urgency.

Clara twisted back around, gaze boring into you, filled with something raw. "They're coming," she said, but there was no malice in her voice. Just… melancholy? Acceptance? She reached out, the tips of her cold fingers skimming over your wrist. "You're not like the others, you listen."

Your breath hitched.

Then before you could say another word, she disappeared like a candle in the wind.

A shudder wracked through your body. You exhaled sharply, dragging a shaky hand down your face. That was— well. That was something.

Leaves crunched behind you. "Y/N!"

You turned just as Dean and Sam burst through the trees, Dean's shotgun was raised, Sam's expression knitted with worry. The moment Dean saw you, his green eyes darkened. "Jesus, sweetheart, you okay? What the hell happened?"

He pulled you up to your feet, his calloused thumbs caressed your cheeks as he checked if you were all right. "I—I'm okay, I guess…" you stammered. "She—She asked me to braid her hair, and if I said no, I think she would've—"

"What? You braided her hair?" Dean repeated, incredulous. His hands shot through his already-messy hair, like he was trying to physically restrain himself from yelling. "Jesus, Y/N! You didn't think maybe, I dunno, running the hell away was the better option?!"

Your stomach twisted. "I was buying time!" you argued, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. "She wasn't attacking me, and I—I thought if I kept her calm she—"

Dean let out a humorless laugh and took a step back, licking his lips. "Oh yeah? And what was the plan if she didn't stay calm? Huh?" His eyes were wild with frustration. "What if we hadn't gotten to you in time? What if she'd—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Damn it, Y/N, you can't just—"

"Alright, enough." Sam interrupted, stepping between you both with a firm look. "We're all in one piece. Let's focus on getting those bones burned before she decides to come back for round two."

Dean clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring. For a second, it looked like he might keep arguing. But then he just ran a hand down his face, exhaling hard. "Fine…" he muttered. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

He turned sharply and stalked ahead, his shoulders tense. You stayed back for a moment, watching him go, your heart tight in your chest, feeling guilty. You understood why he was upset. Hell, you would've been just as mad if the roles were reversed. But it still hurt. Sam sighed, giving you a knowing yet soft look. "You okay?"

You nodded, even though you didn't even believe it yourself. "Yeah."

Sam gave you a small, reassuring pat on the back before the two of you followed Dean towards the weeping tree in the graveyard. The branches curled above like skeletal fingers, the air thick with an unnatural stillness around the tombs. Even the bugs had gone quiet.

Dean was already digging, the shovel cutting into the damp earth with angry thrusts into Georgia's grave. His jaw was set, his face unreadable. Sam grabbed the other shovel and started digging Clara's grave.

You shifted uncomfortably, wrapping your arms around yourself as the tension between the brothers thickened with every scrape of metal against dirt.

After a few minutes, Sam let out a long breath, pausing to rest his weight on the handle of his shovel. "You know, we shouldn't even be wasting time on this." His voice was tight, restrained. "We should be looking for Dad."

Dean's shoulders stiffened, but he didn't look up. "Oh, here we go again." he muttered under his breath.

"I'm serious, Dean." Sam's voice grew more heated. "Every case we take is just another distraction. We're running in circles when we should be tracking Dad down. You know he's out there looking for that demon—"

Dean threw his shovel aside with a loud clank when it finally hit something hard, probably the coffin. "And what the hell do you think we're doing, Sam?" He turned to face his brother, his green eyes flashing. "We're following his damn trail, same as always. But we can't just ignore people who need help along the way!"

Sam scoffed, shaking his head. "That's the excuse you keep using. But you and I both know that we're no closer to finding him than we were months ago! Meanwhile, the thing that killed Jess is still out there, and we're just— what? Digging up old graves? Burning bones?" His voice cracked slightly when he mentioned Jessica. "I don't care about this hunt, Dean. I care about finding Dad so we can finally take that son of a bitch down."

Dean took a step closer, his face twisting with barely restrained anger. "Yeah? And what if we do find him, Sam? What then? You think he's just gonna tell us everything, hand us the demon on a silver platter?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Dad's been doing this for a hell of a long time. If he's not answering our calls, there's a damn good reason for it."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but you quickly stepped between them, standing in the middle of two graves as your hands raised in an attempt to de-escalate the situation. "Guys, come on," you pleaded, your voice soft and urgent. "It'not the time for this, you can talk about it when we go back to—"

Dean's eyes found you you so sharp it made your breath catch. "This isn't your damn business, Y/N! Know your place." he snapped, his voice raising. The words hit you like a slap. You flinched, your heart plummeting into your stomach.

Dean's face was still set in anger, but the moment the words left his mouth, something flickered in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Not enough to take it back, though.

Your throat felt tight. "I was just trying to help." you murmured, barely above a whisper.

Dean exhaled harshly, dragging a hand down his face. But he didn't apologize. He just turned away, crouching down to push the last remaining dirt on the coffin away with his hands.

Sam shot you a guilty look, his expression softening. "Y/N…"

But you shook your head quickly, blinking back the sting in your eyes. "Whatever."

You swallowed the lump in your throat and focused on the task at hand. You'd deal with the ache later. Right now, you needed to burn these bones before the girls come to get you.

Dean finally wrenched open Georgia's coffin with a grunt, the old wood splintering under his force. The smell hit first— stale earth and something worse, something rotting beneath the years. What remained of her body was the brittle bones wrapped in the tattered shreds of her burial dress, strands of lifeless hair still clinging to her skull. Muggets and worms everywhere.

You wasted no time, grabbing the salt and pouring it over her remains. Sam followed, dousing her in gasoline. Dean flicked open his lighter—

A giggle, chillingly sweet, curled through the noon air.

"Oh, boys… burning a girl without even saying goodbye?"

Before you could react, something slammed into you with force. The ground met you hard, damp earth seeping through your coat as the breath tore from your lungs. You gasped, dizzy, as the lighter skidded from Dean's fingers, landing uselessly in the dirt, his eyes widened with worry. "Y/N!"

Georgia's form shimmered into existence a few feet away. Even in death, she was striking— long, raven dark curls framing porcelain skin, her deep red lips twisted into a smirk. But it was her eyes that unsettled you most— hollow but hungry.

And right now, they were locked onto Dean.

"My, my," she purred, stepping towards him, her gaze sweeping over him like a predator sizing up its next meal. "You're even more handsome up close. I've been watching you, you know…"

Dean's jaw tightened, his fingers flexing around his shotgun. "Yeah? You should've taken a picture then." He cocked the gun, smirking. "What's the term? Necrophilia? Yeah, sweetheart, I don't swing that way."

Georgia laughed, a sound that slithered under your skin like a slow-moving poison. "Oh, that sharp tongue of yours— it's delicious." She reached out, fingers barely grazing his jaw, but it was enough. A thin layer of frost crackled over his skin, the cold spreading like veins of ice down his throat. Dean's body stiffened, his breath coming in short, visible bursts.

Your stomach lurched. She was freezing him.

"Let him go!" You scrambled to your feet, your fingers finding the iron crowbar strapped to your belt.

Georgia barely spared you a glance after she threw Sam, who tried to get to her too, away, her lips curving into something almost affectionate. "Oh, but he likes it," she murmured, her touch trailing down Dean's chest, the ice following in its wake. "Don't you, Dean?"

Dean's face twisted in pain, but he couldn't move.

Enough.

You didn't think— you just moved, swinging the crowbar with everything you had. It cut through Georgia's form like mist, but the effect was immediate. She shrieked, her body flickering, stumbling backwards as her grip on Dean broke. She threw Dean away against a tombstone harshly lastly.

Dean staggered, sucking in a sharp breath, his hands shaking as feeling returned to his limbs. "Jesus Christ." he rasped, shaking out the lingering cold.

No time to check if he was okay.

Sam was already raising his shotgun, he fired— the rock salt blast slammed into Georgia, sending her sprawling back with a cry, her form shattering.

"That won't hold her for long!" Sam yelled.

You didn't hesitate. Heart pounding, you dove for the lighter, fumbling as you flipped it open. The small flame flickered, and then you tossed it.

The moment it hit the gasoline- soaked bones, fire erupted in a furious blaze. Her scream tore through the graveyard.

She materialized one last time, writhing in agony, her hands clawing at the air as if she could undo what had already begun. Her face twisted with fear. Then, just like that, she was gone.

But you weren't done yet.

You turned, glancing at Clara's grave. The coffin was opened by Sam, the skeletal remains waiting for their turn in the fire. Your stomach churned, swallowing hard as you knelt by the grave. You repeated the process— salt, lighter fluid, the flick of the flame. But this time, your hands shook more. You couldn't explain it. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was Clara's childlike presence lingering in the back of your mind. The lighter fell from your trembling fingers, landing atop Clara's remains. Fire bloomed instantly, swallowing her bones in a hungry, orange glow. And just like that, Clara was gone too.

A groan pulled you to stand on your feet. You turned, your heart lurching as you spotted Dean still slumped against the headstone where Georgia had thrown him. His face was twisted in pain, one arm wrapped tightly around his ribs.

"Dean!"

You rushed to his side, dropping to your knees. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for a second, you thought he was about to make a snarky comment. But then he winced as he tried to shift upright, and the smartass remark died in his throat.

"Shit," he muttered. "ghost bitch had some strength."

"Yeah, no kidding." You bit your lip, scanning him for injuries. His breathing was shallow, his jaw clenched like he was trying to play it off. "You hit the headstone hard. You could've broken something."

Dean scoffed. "Please. Takes more than that to— ah, damn it." He hissed when he tried to move again.

Your heart squeezed. You hesitated for only a second before your instincts kicked in. "Hold still." you murmured, shifting closer.

Dean blinked, watching as you reached out, your palms hovering just over his chest. "What are you—"

A soft, golden glow radiated from your hands, illuminating the deep bruising forming under his shirt. The moment your fingers brushed over his ribs, warmth spread through him, sinking into his bones.

Dean's breath hitched. "Whoa."

The pain in his expression slowly melted away, his body relaxing beneath your touch. His green eyes widened slightly, filled with something unreadable as he stared at you. You swallowed, keeping your focus. The bruises faded, the ache dissipating until all that remained was a lingering warmth. You exhaled softly, finally letting your hands drop.

"Better?" you asked, voice quiet.

Dean flexed his fingers, shifting his weight cautiously. His brows furrowed when he didn't feel pain anymore. "Yeah," he admitted, sounding almost surprised. "Better."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you hung thick, charged with something tense. Then Dean cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I owe you one, huh?" His voice was teasing, but there was something else beneath it too— something softer.

You smiled faintly. "I'll add it to your tab."

Dean huffed a small laugh. His eyes lingered on you for a second before Sam's voice cut through the moment. "I found something." You both turned to see him kneeling near the backpack, flipping through the notes you'd gathered from the library and church records earlier. His brows were furrowed, his expression focused.

"What is it?" Dean pushed himself to his feet, extending a hand to help you up. You took it, your fingers brushing against his for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Sam sighed, holding up a page. "Mae Treece. We know there's no record of her burial. But I cross-checked the village's old property records, and guess what? Her family home is still standing, just outside the village limits."

"So, what?" Dean crossed his arms. "You think the bones might still be there?"

"It's possible." Sam stood, tucking the papers back into the bag. "From what I read here, her mother refused to accept her death. If she never gave Mae a proper burial, she might've kept her remains in the house."

A chill ran down your spine at the thought.

Dean huffed. "Great. So we get to break into a creepy abandoned house on a 'casual' Monday. Awesome."

Sam ignored him, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. "It's our only lead. If the bones are there, we finish the job."

You nodded, shaking off the lingering unease. "Then let's go."

The road leading to the Treece house was cracked and overgrown, weeds poking through the sidewalk as the afternoon sun cast long shadows over you three. The old house loomed in the distance, its windows dark and boarded, its paint peeling from years of neglect. It was the kind of house kids dared each other to approach on a Halloween night.

You and Dean walked side by side, trailing slightly behind Sam as he checked the map.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of birds and the occasional rustling of wind. Then, Dean glanced at you. "So…" he started, his voice lighter than before. "Are we gonna talk about the whole magical healing hands thing?"

You sighed, rubbing your arm. "I—It's just part of my nymph abilities… It's complicated.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Complicated how?"

You hesitated, chewing your lip. "It… drains me. A little. And I can't heal major wounds. Just small injuries. I don't use it much because, well…" You exhaled. "It makes me feel too much. I don't know how to explain it. Like… I feel the pain I take away, even if just for a second."

Dean frowned. "Wait— you felt that?"

"A little," you admitted, looking down at your hands. "Not as bad as you did probably, but… yeah."

Dean's jaw tightened. "That's not fair."

You blinked, caught off guard.

He shook his head. "I mean, you already put yourself in danger, and now you're taking on pain that's not even yours?" His lips pressed into a thin line. "That's bullshit, Y/N."

Then he cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Anyway. Next time, just let me suffer. I can take it."

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, sure, because suffering in silence has worked so well for you in the past."

Dean opened his mouth to argue— then paused, giving you a half-smile instead. "Touché."

Up ahead, Sam stopped, looking up at the looming house.

"We're here."

The Treece house stood before you like a silent, waiting thin. And whatever or whoever in it, was waiting for you too.

The front porch creaked as the three of you stepped onto it, dust curling up from the floorboards like the house was exhaling its own breath.

Dean tested the front door, rattling the handle. Locked. He sighed, then threw his shoulder against it, but the wood barely budged. "Figures. Feels like something's blocking it from the inside.”

Sam tried one of the ground-floor windows, but as expected, most were boarded up with thick, splintered wood, nailed in. "Whoever did this really didn't want anyone getting in,” Sam said, peering through a tiny gap between the planks. "Can't see much, but this place looks trashed."

You glanced around, scanning the perimeter of the house. The old iron gate surrounding the yard was rusted, nearly swallowed by overgrown weeds. A broken stone angel statue leaned against the side of the house, half its face missing, moss growing in the cracks of its wings.

Then you spotted it.

A small, dirty bathroom window near the back of the house. It wasn't boarded up like the others, just slightly out of reach. Big enough for you, but too small for Sam or Dean.

You pointed. "I can go in through there."

Dean's head snapped towards you. "What?"

You pointed up again. "That window. I can squeeze through and unlock the door from the inside."

Dean's brows furrowed, and his jaw immediately clenched. "Hell. No."

"Dean—"

"Nope." He turned back towards the door, rolling his shoulders. "I'll break this damn thing down if I have to."

You sighed. "You just said there's furniture blocking it. Even if you bust it open, you'll probably just make more of a mess."

"Yeah, well, maybe we move the furniture when we get inside, genius."

You crossed your arms. "Or, maybe I just go in through the window, and we avoid making a bunch of noise that'll gather possible ghost guests?"

Dean opened his mouth to argue back, but Sam cut in, glancing between you both. "She's not wrong, Dean. It's the safest way in."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Dude. What if she gets stuck? Or worse— what if something in there grabs her before she gets the damn door open?"

You sighed. "Then I'll scream really loud, and you can break the door down then."

Dean still looked reluctant, but Sam was already crouching near the wall, interlacing his fingers. "Come on, I'll boost you up."

Dean clenched his jaw, looking between you and the window. His hands were on his hips, his fingers tapping anxiously against his belt.

"Fine," he muttered. "but if anything happens—"

"I know, I know," you said, holding onto Sam's broad shoulders as he lifted you higher. You grasped the windowsill, your fingers curling around the dusty wood.

Dean exhaled sharply. "Just— be careful, okay?"

You glanced down at him and smiled. "I will."

Then, with a small push, you hoisted yourself through the window.

The moment you landed inside, the air changed. The air smelled of mildew and something sickly sweet, like rotting flowers left too long in a vase. The house wasn't just abandoned; it was preserved in decay, like time had stopped inside its walls.

You stood in what must've been a bathroom, but the sink was cracked. The mirror above it was shattered. A rusted claw-foot bathtub sat in the corner, its curtain half-ripped, revealing something inside— a rotting bouquet of dead lilies. Your breath misted in the air as you gasped. It was too cold for noon, even colder than outside.

Slowly, you stepped out of the bathroom and into the main hallway.

The wallpaper was faded damask, peeling at the edges, revealing black mold creeping up the walls like veins. The wooden floorboards groaned under your weight, each step disturbing a layer of dust.

Framed portraits lined the walls, their gilded edges tarnished, their subjects watching you with blank, hollow eyes. A young girl you supposed was Mae was there in a family portrait, she had short brown hair and big blue eyes full of life. Smiling widely with her dimples. The moment you looked at the girl's figure, you heard it.

Soft whispering.

Your breath hitched. It was distant, just at the edge of your hearing, slithering through air like a lullaby sung through broken teeth.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

You swallowed hard and moved towards the door, stepping carefully around a puddle of something that looked suspiciously like dried blood. The thing that was blocking the door was a big old grandfather clock, its face cracked, its hands stuck at 3:17. You pushed it aside carefully, trying not to make much noise. The door lock was rusted, but after a few sharp turns, it finally clicked open. Without hesitation, you yanked the door open.

Dean and Sam were already waiting, both of them looking tense. Dean's eyes scanned you from head to toe, his hand immediately resting on your shoulder. "You good?"

You nodded, swallowing. "Yeah."

The three of you moved cautiously through the decaying halls of the house, it felt wrong and unsettling. Dean led the way, shotgun raised, his sharp gaze flicking to every shadowed corner. Sam followed behind, his flashlight sweeping over old furniture covered in white sheets, their shapes looming like silent ghosts. You stayed in the middle. The moment you stepped into a bedroom at the end of the hall, your stomach clenched.

The room was eerily preserved. Faded floral wallpaper of lilies, a vanity covered in dust, and an old wooden rocking chair sitting beside the canopied bed. A dollhouse rested on a small table, the tiny figurines inside still standing upright. But their faces… Their eyes had been scratched out.

Dean approached the dresser, pulling open a drawer with a loud creak. "Nothing but old clothes."

Sam crouched by the vanity, shifting through moth-eaten papers and dried-out ink bottles. "There has to be something here, some kind of clue."

Your gaze flickered to the bedside table, where a small wooden box sat, its lid slightly ajar.

Carefully, you reached out and lifted the top.

Inside, beneath layers of old lace and dried flowers, was a letter. The paper was yellowed and fragile, the ink slightly faded but still readable.

"Guys, I think I found something."

Sam stood and peered over your shoulder as you unfolded the letter with delicate fingers.

My sweet Mae, I can still hear you crying at night. I can still feel your little hands clinging to my dress, begging me to take you away. I should have. I should have run far, far away and never looked back. But I was too weak. I let them take you. I let them hurt you. I let them kill you. And for that, I will never forgive myself. I kept you here because I thought, somehow, if I held on long enough, you wouldn't be gone. But I know now that I was wrong. I see the shadows moving at night, I hear you whispering in the walls, clawing them. My baby, my poor darling, I trapped you here. I hope one day, someone finds you. I hope one day, someone sets you free. Because I can't, I won't. I am so sorry. - Mother

The room was silent as you finished reading.

Sam exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "She must've kept Mae's body after the sacrifice. That's why there were no burial records."

You looked at him. "But if she didn't bury her, then…"

Dean's expression darkened. "Then Mae's still here."

A sudden thud echoed from somewhere below. All three of you whipped toward the sound. Dean's fingers flexed around his shotgun. "Basement."

You swallowed. Of course it was the basement.

The three of you moved as one, pushing through the decayed house until you reached the basement door. It was ajar, revealing a staircase that disappeared into darkness. The air that seeped from below was cold, thick, suffocating— like walking into an open grave.

Dean flicked on his flashlight, casting long shadows across the crumbling walls. "Stay close."

Step by step, you descended, each footfall groaning against the ancient wood. The basement was worse than you imagined.

Old wooden beams sagged under years of decay. The walls were cracked and damp, the floor covered in a thin layer of dirt. Rusted tools hung from the walls, their shapes twisted and jagged in the dim light.

But it was the far corner of the room that made your breath hitch.

A makeshift bed —little more than a rotting mattress— was pushed against the wall, surrounded by candles long since melted into waxy puddles. At its center, barely visible beneath a tattered blanket, were the remains of a young girl.

Mae.

Her bones were frail, her skull still tangled in remnants of dark, brittle hair. The scent of old death and sorrow lingered in the air.

SLAM!

The basement door slammed shut, throwing the room into utter darkness except for the trembling glow of flashlights.

And then, she appeared.

Mae's ghost manifested at the far side of the room, standing in front of her remains with her head tilted at an unnatural angle. Her face was frozen in a twisted snarl, her mouth stretched too wide, her eyes hollow black pits leaking streams of dark, inky tears.

She lunged.

A blast of cold wind knocked Dean's shotgun from his hands. Sam barely had time to react before Mae clawed into him, her bony fingers like rusted hooks as she slammed him against the wall with inhuman force.

"Sam!" you cried, stumbling back.

Sam gasped, his feet kicking helplessly as he was lifted into the air, Mae's grip tightening around his throat. His face twisted in pain, his hands clawing at invisible fingers.

"Salt!" Dean barked, reaching for his rock salt rounds.

But Mae was too fast.

She turned sharply, her banshee-like scream tearing through the basement. The force of it sent Dean flying back, slamming into the wooden beams with a pained grunt.

That left only you.

Your pulse hammered as Mae whipped towards you, her mouth parting to unleash another ear-splitting shriek.

But this time, you were ready.

You threw up your hands, summoning a burst of nymph energy. The air around you rippled, dust swirling as a sharp gust of wind knocked Mae back thanks to your element control power.

She hissed, her head twitching unnaturally, before she came at you again— fast.

You barely had time to dodge, throwing yourself to the side as her clawed fingers swiped inches from your throat. Your foot caught on a rotting floorboard, sending you crashing hard to the ground. A sharp, searing pain shot up your ankle. You bit back a scream, your vision blurring.

You tried to push yourself up, but your ankle throbbed viciously, refusing to hold your weight.

Mae's shadow loomed over you, her jaw unhinging grotesquely, ready to tear into you —

BAM!

A gunshot rang out, salt and iron tearing through Mae's form. She shrieked, her body flickering violently like a illusion. Dean stood behind you, shotgun still raised. His eyes burned with fury.

"Get away from her, you bitch."

Mae whipped toward him, but it was too late. Dean had already grabbed the lighter and threw it. The moment the flame touched Mae's bones, they ignited, the fire consuming them with unnatural speed.

Mae let out a bloodcurdling scream, her form twisted and thrashed, her face contorting between rage, sorrow, and something almost human.

Then—

She was gone.

Dean exhaled, shoving the lighter back into his pocket. "Jesus. I hate ghosts."

Sam was coughing, rubbing his throat where Mae had grabbed him, but he gave a weak thumbs-up. "I'm… I'm good." he rasped.

Dean turned to you— and froze.

"Sweetheart." His voice dropped, eyes flicking to where you sat, clutching your ankle with a pained expression. He was beside you in an instant. "What happened?"

You winced. "I—uh… might've messed up my ankle when she threw me."

Dean knelt down, hands hovering near your leg like he wanted to touch but was afraid of hurting you.

"Dammit..."

Sam crouched beside you. "It looks swollen. Probably twisted it bad."

Dean shook his head. "Screw this. You're not walking."

Before you could argue, he scooped you up like a bride, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back.

"Dean—"

"Shut up. You're injured."

You huffed but didn't fight it. His body was warm and solid, you felt safe in his arms.

Not exactly complaining... You held the urge to blurt out; Wow your shoulders are huge and I think I might be in love with you.

Sam sighed. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Yes, Sam. Please. Before I self-combust.

As Dean carried you up the stairs, you let your head rest lightly against his shoulder, the exhaustion finally setting in as you rested your eyelids... Just for a sec.

A dull throbbing in your ankle was the first thing you felt as you stirred awake later. The second was the cool press of an ice pack against it.

Blinking, you slowly adjusted to the dim lighting of the motel room. You were on the motel bed, your foot propped up on a pillow, an ice pack resting gently against the swollen skin. The soft weight against your leg made you glance down—

Dean was sitting at the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"You're finally awake, Sleeping Beauty." he muttered, his lips twitching.

You stretched slightly, wincing when your ankle throbbed in protest. Dean immediately reached over to adjust the ice pack, his fingers brushing your skin gently. "Careful, it’s still swollen."

You sighed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "How long was I out?"

Dean checked his watch. "About two hours. Sam took Baby out for a wash, so it's just you and me, sweetheart."

Your lips curled into a sleepy smile. "Didn't peg you as the caretaker type, Winchester."

He scoffed. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it." But despite his words, he didn't pull away, his thumb absently rubbing small circles against your shin.

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment.

Then, you realized John's Journal settled beside him on the bed that you guessed he was probably reading for the billion time before you woke up, you muttered. "You okay?"

Dean let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You're the one who got tossed like a ragdoll, and you're askin' if I'm okay?"

You didn't laugh. Instead, you just kept looking at him.

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning his head back against the wall. His jaw tightened, something unreadable flickering across his expression.

"John. You're worried about him, aren't you?"

His silence was your answer. Dean exhaled sharply. "Sam's right. We should be looking for him. But I… I dunno. The bastard left us behind again. What if we're chasing someone who doesn't wanna be found?”

Your heart clenched. He never admitted things like this.

Carefully, you reached for his hand, your fingers tracing his knuckles gently. "You know that's not true. He loves you."

Dean's jaw ticked. "Yeah? Has a funny way of showing it." He shook his head, a bitter chuckle escaping. "Whole damn life, it was always about the job. Hunt first, everything else second. Even us."

You squeezed his hand. "That's not fair to you."

Dean let out a slow breath, staring at where your fingers rested against his. "Yeah, well. Life's not fair, sweetheart."

You wanted to say more, to tell him that he deserved more than scraps of affection from a father who had made him a soldier before he even had a childhood.

But before you could, Dean's fingers suddenly tightened around yours. When you looked up, his green eyes burned into you. A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with something electric, something undeniable.

Then—

Dean moved fast.

One second, you were breathing; the next, his mouth crashed against yours, hot and desperate.

His fingers buried in your hair, pulling you closer, his body pressing into yours, as if he couldn't get enough. He tasted like whiskey and well... Dean. And it made your head spin.

You gasped against his lips, but he only deepened the kiss, his other hand gripping your thigh, careful of your injury but still possessive, wanting. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven, his forehead pressed against yours.

"Damn it," he murmured, voice rough. "I've wanted to do that for way too long."

Your lips were swollen, tingling, and you found yourself smiling. "Took you long enough."

Dean let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head before leaning in again— slower this time, like he wanted to memorize the way you two fit together.

And yeah. Yeah, I was definitely not complaining.

[moe-broey]

First order of business.

Divorce Timeline.

[dykedvonte]

My post about Anya is making like a little ruckus on Twitter and I think it’s crazy how many people like have a problem with it.

Like you don’t have to agree with how I characterize Anya and her actions but it’s more like, why are you focused on only one aspect of her character? Why are you removing nuance from the situation? I don’t see it as giving Curly the benefit of the doubt when it comes to doing better for Anya, but as exploring his character and hers relationship with a the very little authentic facts we get about them. In truth, there’s a lot more I wish Curly did, even if it wasn’t pragmatic but I realize the issue there.

The first psychological horror game in a while that’s real intricate in its storytelling and makes you need to really need to address the morality of intentions and its already getting torn asunder smh 😔

[dreadeves]

yknow. vanitas’ mark from luna is in a rather weird position for drinking blood. it’s almost as if he had his arms raised in self defense, for the star mark to be on the outside of his forearm.

and also, the two books of the blue moon just lean even further into vnc’s twins aspect

[kaurwreck]

Literary criticism of Ryuunosuke Akutagawa wants so badly for him to have been spiritually fragile. He was wrought with doubt and skepticism, and he felt crushed beneath the pressures stacked on his thin frame by others' demands of him. He was certain there was prophecy written in his mother's insanity and her ghost was a fixture haunting the edges of his vision.

But, he was also overprescribed barbituates. Like, really, really overprescribed. High doses of barbituates are now known to cause irritability, paranoia, depression, and, sometimes, suicidal ideation. His spirit was fine; it was his pharmacologist who should have been scrutinized.

This is especially agitating to me when Ryuunosuke Akutagawa's malaise is contrasted against Nakajima's mettle. Nakajima was administered ephedrine for his chronic, debilitating asthma. Ephedrine weakened his heart, but has a dopamine transporter inhibitory effect similar to amphetamine and other stimulants. (Then, stimulants were gaining popularity as antidepressants and were supplied by the US, British, Japanese, and German militaries to servicemen during World War II.) In other words, there were confounding variables which might have attributed to one's sensitive nerves and the other's spirited focus.

Both men were brilliant writers who stylized their pediatric onset anxiety; profound insight; excessive cleverness; stubborn resistance to literary trends; and existential terror. Both men suffered from chronic mental and physical illnesses and overrelied on treatments widely prescribed but poorly suited for their conditions. Both men were killed in no small part by excessive administration of medication: the former by depressants meant to settle his disordered mind enough to sleep, and the latter by the stimulant meant to settle his disordered body enough to write. But, way too much ink has been spilled on insisting fragile nerves and spiritual weakness killed Akutagawa, while the cruelty of fate struck down Nakajima.

That is the problem with treating authors as if they're literary devices or signs of the times, rather than people who lived to save themselves.

[edwinisms]

I know how it sounds at first, but I really gotta feel bad for the boys that sacrificed edwin; I mean even the term “sacrificed edwin” paints them in a more sinister light than they really deserve– considering that wasn’t really, actually their intention.

they were bullies, they were homophobic (and/or were self loathing gay boys themselves taking it out on edwin, or were equally likely peer pressured into acting a certain way), they planned something stupid and mean to do to an innocent, anxious boy with the goal of scaring the shit out of him, all because he was effeminate and an easy target. but they didn’t know or expect any of the ritual stuff to be real. they were all laughing and joking during the ritual because it was just that to them– a joke. a cruel joke, but a joke.

teenagers can be mean and stupid and they usually regret it as adults and grow out of it / grow from it. they were stifled the chance to grow out of it, at least while alive. none of those boys deserved to be instakilled and sent to hell; they’re really not that much less deserving than edwin himself. they were all just kids, after all.

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

Very pleased to inform all my fellow Artham Wingfeather fans that Peet is indeed in episode 4!

Less pleased to inform you that he is not at all having a good time. (but this is covering the events of book 2 so that's to be expected)

Also The Florid Sword's theme music is hilarious. And to my utter delight he quoted the disney fox Robin Hood!

[bloodbathfortwo]

What does everyone think of Nigel Forbes-Colbie ever getting pregnant? It doesn't matter how you interpret it: Omegaverse, males can get pregnant Au, Trans! Nigel. Just tell me your guys' headcanons of Nigel's pregnancy: The changes, the hardships, the softness, and the vulnerabilities.

[dreamedfyre-a]

thinking about aemond killing luke on purpose and alicent and otto being livid and aegon throwing him a feast and siding with his brother publicly even though it is effectively ending the tense cold war sort of stage to outright open military conflict

and thinking about how helaena fits in this. she's not ignorant of what this means, and she definitely doesn't see it as something to be celebrated. maybe death couldn't be avoided, but celebrating it with a feast is distasteful in her opinion, and it'd certainly be seen as offensive, as well as deliberate provocation. if aemond's actions started it, aegon's ensure there's no way back.

at the same time i think she understands both why aemond would do it and why aegon would make a grand gesture to support him, and she wouldn't fault either. her loyalty to her family is unbreakable (one of her greatest flaws; she's more than willing to overlook any wrongdoing by their hands), and when her family is split on their stance, she leans towards her brothers more so than her mother. and if otto is on one side more often than not she'd rather be on the opposite side ngl

all of this to say that whether aemond regrets it or not doesn't make a difference, because she'll stand with him even if there's blood on his hands. and that even if aegon's celebration is distasteful, it is a display of loyalty too, and uncomfortable as she personally may be, none of it would be voiced or manifested, and she would stand with him too.

the idea they can only rely on each other might be a little too ingrained in all of them (especially after the night aemond lost his eye), and i think it certainly plays a part to some extent. there is no one else. they stand for each other no matter what or no one will. but i think there's a willing joining of hands too. she accepts and wants them as they are, even when that means flawed and violent and uncaring.

she may not raise her voice to condone what they do, but she won't shun them either - and any grievances that need be spoken (because i don't mean she isn't critical; only that ultimately she stands with them even when she disagrees) would be discussed in private. helaena might be snappy or passive-aggressive at times, but when it comes to serious matters like this, there would only be unity in the public eye. i'm sure aegon heard criticism for his feast, but she nevertheless attended and did her best to present herself as she ought to.

[quietwingsinthesky]

sometimes i think about my spn oc and how i rewrote everything about amara to interact with the story i was trying to tell about her. there were some really neat ideas in that i need to recycle for something one day. like, in the show proper, they just let amara take over a human baby and that’s fine, but amara’s not Meant To Be Here. this entire universe is one constructed in her absence. saying she can possess a human body should be like saying if you took a person and sent them to a universe where 1+1=3, they could just figure out how to function within that.

which in story took the form of Amara being something that could not be Understood, only Rationalized. a force locked outside the narrative who could only get inside and destroy things if given a role within it. by the Winchesters as A Monster To Face. by Chuck as Wayward, Unreachable Sister. and by miss oc as. simultaneously a projected creature to be saved, an amalgamation of injustices done to herself (and others) that would never be righted but could be made up for by being a part of this. and as something impossibly powerful that could be both protection and purpose.

and the Darkness wasn’t any of those things, really, but to have agency in her own story required new shackles, but ones she was always straining against. she wouldn’t fit inside the confines of a human mind, let alone a body, at least not well enough to leave it Intact. like lucifer burning through nick, but Worse. because the burns were an expected outcome of skin not strong enough to hold him. humans were built for angels, some were built better and some worse, but they’re meant to work. putting amara in human skin should disconnect the skin and mind and soul from the reality her brother built itself, i think. slowly. bit by bit.

and at the same time, i’d gone and written the kind of wild scenario you really can only write for your thirteen year old mary sue, given that spn oc the part of herald/high priestess/failed vessel. which she pursued with wild abandon like that would fix anything wrong with her <3

in the end, running alongside the borrowed family theming of the original show was my own theme of “how much self-annihilation will you accept to make your point. are you accepting it, really. or are you seeking it.” not just physically, in letting something unmake the base components of what you are as it tries to fit inside you or in it constricting and suffocating itself beyond self-recognition to get inside in the first place, but, obviously, it’s supernatural, how much selfhood do you cede to your family. is it worth it.

it was interesting, if nothing else. let thirteen year old me cook. she had ideas.

[t-u-i-t-c]

finally time for keiwa's dark arc that they've been foreshadowing forever

[everysongineverykey]

some guy commented on my narrator + toriel fic saying "well the narrator's done some questionable stuff once or twice but he's not the one who let SIX children DIE just to SPITE her ex-husband" lmaoooo bro did you even play undertale? you can just say you have no reading comprehension it's okay

[pantestudines]

ultimately I think the worst thing is that all of my issues just seem to be, at the root of it, just kind of having a weird and somewhat bad personality? Like, I don't really have, to my knowledge, any specific trauma, illness, difference in ability, or deviation away from society's standards that explains why I struggle so much. I kinda just suck in a normal way.