#meat sponge

[spiders-rob]

Fucked up and evil that I don't have another person on hand who I can force to watch The Vampire Bat 1933 with me. Screaming crying throwing up. This deserves to be canonized as a camp classic.

*Stefan voice* This movie has everything. A big fucking bottle conspicuously labeled "POISON SLEEPING PILLS", a dramatic old lesbian-coded granny who doesn't snitch, Dwight Frye playing a sympathetic neurodivergent guy, a murderer who has the most relatable hardcore dissociating face when on the verge of being discovered, the MEAT SPONGE, and random unexplained telepathy.

[sailorblaster69]

sponge and pretzel

plus thiz cool doodle i made

[bizzwizzproductions]

Sponge fanart for @vinesauce in hopes that one day, sponge will find happiness.

[asheternal]

duckmeat

[fictional-men-enthusiast]

Uuh-

Ramona and Jared road-trip AU where when Ramona attacks him, he hits his head and something happens with his headgear that reverts him to his old personality, and he and Ramona decide that to save everyone, they have to go find Carl, the only person that knows how to defeat a muse.

But the catch is that Jared forgot almost everything from the IT files, too, so the only thing they know is what state Carl lives in and other than that they’re going in blind.

[eurofox]

Do people not do food hygiene in school anymore, flatmate keeps washing meat and found it gross that I don't....

[mad-world3]

Someone please make me some delicious food

[iinsawdious]

you ever dm somebody and get extremely anxious for no reason

[strawberrysamara]

Why would you put American buttercream on a sponge cake. Why would you do that to her

[shoku-and-awe]

Several years later, I am seeing shkmeruli all over the place! I think I tend to see it sometimes in the winter, but this year, it's really everywhere! The 7-11 had an interesting version that I had to try......

It's a collaboration with (why not) Erick South, an upscale Indian restaurant. Which I thought would mean some interesting flavors (this is a dish I'd *love* to try a Southeast Asian version of) but really it just tasted like milk and garlic. That was sad. Still we find ways to keep ourselves going from day to day.

シュクメルリ鍋定食 // SHKMERULI HOTPOT SET Now that cold weather is here, Matsuya is trying something new: shkmeruli, a Georgian dish of chicken cooked in milk and garlic. The sign outside said, in Japanese, “This dish uses ‘garlic’ and ‘cheese,’” and I thought the scare quotes were coming from a place of fear, but wooow, I could smell this as soon as I opened the door. Extremely garlicky. I’d never tried shkmeruli before (or any Georgian food), but it was a really simple, tasty, warming meal. It seems like the cheese and sweet potato were maybe Japanese additions? I liked the first, but the second felt incongruous. The sauce was good over rice. I wonder if Matsuya will expand its international menu…

[hrrtshape]

Hi Emma, I really need help for a script set in ancient times. I really don’t know where to start! I am not much of an historian but I really wanted to shift in Ancient Rome!

the ultimate guide to surviving ancient rome.

welcome, time traveler!!!!!!!! i'm emma. and i'll be helping you survive ancient rome. if you find yourself navigating the grandeur and grime of ancient rome, you’ll need this comprehensive guide to thrive in an empire of marble, politics, and intrigue. from securing a place to stay to social etiquette, this will cover everything you need to know !!! so you don't die :)

where to start as you're entering rome??

arrival : if you're arriving from another part of the empire, the best entry points are ostia (rome’s main port) or the via appia, a road leading directly to the city. the first thing you might see see will be a chaotic, sprawling metropolis of temples, markets, bathhouses, and crowded tenement buildings (insulae).

where to stay : if you're wealthy, you’ll want to rent or buy a domus (townhouse) in the city. if you’re less affluent (already sorry for you, not in a mean way but you won't last there long), an insula (apartment) in the subura district will suffice. though beware of fires and collapsing buildings ! xx

your hygiene and daily routines.

bathing : rome is famous for its public baths (thermae). visit places like the baths of caracalla or the baths of trajan. bring a small fee for entry and enjoy hot and cold plunges. don’t forget oil and a strigil (a scraping tool) to clean off dirt. they, sadly, didn't have body lotion yet.

toilets and sanitation : rome has public latrines where people sit side by side (awkward but normal). a sponge on a stick (tersorium. yikes) is used instead of toilet paper, make sure to rinse it properly in running water, or you'll become the disgust of the city.

dental care : romans used powdered charcoal, crushed bones, and even urine (yes, really. look. it wasn't modern) to clean their teeth. bring your own mint leaves if you want to keep fresh breath without resorting to ammonia-based methods.

food and dining.

what to eat : the roman diet includes bread, olives, cheese, fruit, and fish. garum (fermented fish sauce) is a staple seasoning. wealthy romans dine on exotic meats like peacock and dormice. yep.

where to eat : If you’re not cooking at home, stop by a thermopolium (a fast-food stand) for warm meals like stews and bread. not a mcdonalds, but it sufficed.

dining etiquette : reclining while eating is a sign of wealth. if invited to a noble’s banquet, expect multiple courses, lively discussions, and perhaps some questionable entertainment (like performing dwarves or poetry recitals).

housing and shelter.

domus : wealthy residents live in lavish homes with atriums, mosaics, and private gardens. if you’re in this category, hire slaves (SORRY. servants) to maintain the household.

insulae : these apartment buildings house most of rome’s population. they’re cheap but prone to fires, so always have an escape plan.

villas : if you want to escape city life, consider acquiring a countryside villa in places like campania or etruria.

personal safety.

crime : rome has a high crime rate, especially at night. avoid dark alleys, and keep a small dagger or hire a bodyguard (mercenarii) if you're wealthy.

fires : the city is prone to fires due to overcrowded wooden buildings. have an evacuation route and be aware of nearby water sources.

legal system : if you get into trouble, hire an orator to defend you in court. bribery is often the fastest solution to legal woes.

money and commerce.

the currency : the roman monetary system includes sestertii, denarii, and aurei (gold coins). always carry small change for daily expenses.

shopping : the forum is rome’s commercial hub. you can buy anything from spices to togas. haggle, but not too aggressively, or you might offend the merchant. most things didn't have a tag, and the merchants would judge the price based on how you looked or talk. so. beware.

banking : rome has early banking institutions where you can store wealth. avoid keeping large sums on your person.

social class and interaction.

patricians vs. plebeians : social mobility is limited, but a well-connected plebeian can rise in status through military service or patronage.

slaves and freedmen : slavery was integral to roman society. freed slaves (liberti) can gain status, though they can remain linked to their former masters.

etiquette : addressing senators as “domine” (sir) and deferring to patricians in public are key social customs.

entertainment and leisure.

gladiatorial games : the colosseum hosts blood sports where slaves and prisoners fight to the death. betting on matches is common. vomiting in the stands..is also common.

chariot races : the circus maximus holds races between four factions: reds, blues, greens, and whites. pick a team and cheer them on.

theatre and oratory : if you have a sensitive stomach, enjoy performances at the theatre of pompey or listen to public speeches at the forum.

religion and temples.

gods and worship : rome’s pantheon includes jupiter, mars, venus, and more. each home has a household shrine (lararium) for daily offerings.

festivals : participate in saturnalia (a wild celebration where roles reverse and slaves feast like masters) or lupercalia (a fertility festival involving ritual sacrifices).

christianity : in early rome, christians were often persecuted. so. be discreet if practicing or associating with followers.

long-term survival...how do you are adapting to rome?

language : learn latin phrases. knowing greek is also helpful among the elite.

fashion : wear a tunic for daily life and a toga for formal occasions. women should drape themselves in stolas.

networking : find a patron for career advancement. political connections open a lot of doors in rome.

and that is this. if you survive, you're a guaranteed a cookie, albeit those didn’t yet exist, i think. with this guide, you’re well-equipped to navigate rome’s splendour and chaos. whether you seek luxury, knowledge, or power, the eternal city awaits! pls don't die!

[ladybirdswritings]

SWEET THING, DBF — joel miller x reader.

DESCRIPTION: your life is a storm—an overbearing father, a shitty boyfriend, and the ache of growing up. everything becomes more tangled when you find yourself drawn to your father’s best friend, joel. NOTES - no apocalypse! leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

A03 | masterlist

sweet thing…

Your father did the best he could. You knew that very well. Charlie was a man respected and adored by his humble community. A hard working father turned single parent when your mom fell ill and god— you were his little flower. His sweet thing. His angel.

Flowers are fragile, though. Gentle, moldable petals and stiff, snappable stems.

It is why he kept you so close to him, so prized like painted porcelain just ready to crack.

It is why you were here. Here at Jackson’s golden hued dance with more powdered, jam-filled pastries and red, roasted meats then you could count on one hand. Here. Instead of the alternative option which was the party your boyfriend decided to attend without you.

You got the invite, sure, yet even as a legal adult— what daddy says? Goes. So long as you remain under his roof, at least. It was infuriating, though. The freedom of all your dear friends, the spontaneity. If only that could be you…

Your eyes drifted to the moustached sponge of all fun and joy in the world, wrapped in a flannel with bourbon in hand. Your dad was seated next to Joel, as he often was. His presence was a newfound thing for these recent years and though Joel would never say it, you had an inkling that he wanted to stand by his friend’s side after your mother… well.

You didn’t know Joel well. No, not at all. His visits were always the occasional dinner or drop in for fishing or some awfully manly thing. You knew well that your mother adored him, though— so that was enough to make him alright in your book.

Neighbor Betsy told you once that Joel had lost his wife and daughter too, and that maybe he was trying to keep your father from going through what he went through alone.

You only laughed at that.

Joel Miller was gruff and cold. Could he have such a warm heart beneath his sherpa coat?

You dazed out, the fingers snapping in front of your eyes made you blink back into the golden hues and roasted sausages on pointy little sticks.

“You alright, honeybee?” Your father asked, laying a heavy arm upon your shoulders. Joel was slower in his approach, eyeing you up and down with confusion and something else in his eyes.

“Peachy.” You only muttered, taking a sip of your freshly squeezed lemonade. Jackson’s finest.

“Oh come on now angel… now you know I can’t have you runnin’ off with that boyfriend of yours. I always told you he was trouble. Member’ when he ditched you down by Church Road during mosquito season? Well you were ripe as a red tomater and who had to pick you up?”

You were riper, redder now. Your cheeks an embarrassed hue not even on the color wheel, not even identifiable. You bowed your head, huffing out your frustrations before simply muttering: “you did, dad.”

He nodded proud, squeezing your shoulder. “That’s right, I did… what?”

Your eyes drifted up to see your father’s oldest friend with an odd kind of expression on his face. Brows pinched and raised, wrinkles plaguing his forehead deeper now.

Joel only cleared his throat, shifting on his boots and taking a sip of his bourbon in preparation. Then? He spoke.

“You ain’t lettin’ her be.” He gruffly offered, eyes set and sure. Your father only stilled for a moment, wondering if it was even Joel’s place to have an opinion… maybe it was.

“Why’s that?” He asked Joel, and the rough looking man only took another swig.

“Mm. We were both young once. We both made mistakes, y’gotta let her make her own— can’t hide her from em’. Just ain’t how it works.”

Poppies blossomed like springtime had finally begun in your eyes. Finally— someone understood. You didn’t expect him to be so… wise?

Your father only huffed, taking a long glance your way as he mused.

“Even if I wanted to loosen the leash tonight, Joel, I can’t. Maria needs me here to keep an eye on crazy old Arthur.”

Joel’s brows relaxed at that, a purpled hand running along the zipper of his flannel coat. His eyes were a chocolate kind of brown, dark and quietly encasing his thoughts within them.

He hummed, gaze drifting back to you.

You wanted to shrink. Perhaps it was because you were on the spot, perhaps it was because the way he stared would make anyone feel small.

It seemed like centuries before he cleared his throat again.

“I’ll take her.”

What?

You didn’t understand it, not one bit. Why was he kind enough to offer you an out here? Kind enough to test your father’s words.

Discomfort radiated through your father’s coat, tension molding its way into his already stiff bones. A long sigh, a glance back and forth as he truly considered. His expression was far too plagued with worry, and you knew well that it was now or never.

You had to slam down the last nail in the oak wood coffin.

“Please, daddy? I’ll check in every half hour, I promise.”

Tension eased, slightly but— still. Your eyes were doe-like and sweet, and he gazed into them for a moment far too long before allowing his arm to drop.

“Every fifteen minutes and you’ve got a deal. Miller, you make sure my daughter gets in and out of that bastard’s house safely.”

Joel only nodded once, jaw tense and expression stoic. Your grin was wider than a field of flowers, and you immediately wrapped your father in a hug. Your thank yous seemed endless, and it made him laugh.

When you parted, Joel had keys grasped in his rough hands. You realized for a moment that you had no idea why he was doing this. What did he owe you? Maybe it was pity. You were half an orphan, after all.

With a cautious glance, your eyes met his own. He nodded once as if to urge you closer, and you stumbled his way. Before you knew it? You were out the door, trailing behind him like his shadow.

Of all the people who cared enough to convince your father to let you go to this party tonight? Joel Miller was the last person you expected it to be…

¿to be continued?

[wicked-barbie]

To be alive at all is to have scars

House of the Dragon: Rhaenyra + fem!reader (platonic) 

Rating: Teen 

WC: 1.3 k 

Prompt: Cathartic Venting for @sweetspicybingo (Hurt/Comfort Bingo Collection)

Warnings: Heavy on the angst, mention of death, reader is a Strong, but no physical description is giving, hurt/comfort

Summary: You help your Queen process her emotions after Lucerys’s death

The afternoon's blistering heat had faded into the balmy night, with the moon shining bright behind the swirling mists of fog. You dipped the sponge into the warm water before lifting Rhaenyra’s arm and gently scrubbing her skin. Moments earlier, she reeked of dragon, the pungent scent of smoldering embers, and scorched meat undercut with a faint hint of sulfur. As she marinated in the piping hot water bubbling with jasmine oil, the putrid smell began to disappear slowly. You took care to clean under her nails, scrubbing away the dirt and grime until they sparkled like shimmering glass. While the water could wash away the muck, it did nothing to soothe her melancholy. Nothing could replace the children she had lost.

For over a sennight, she took to the skies, hoping to find remnants of Luke’s remains. Many worried in her absence, with Prince Daemon itching for vengeance. You did not fault him; it was his nature to take charge and make their enemies pay. You worried for your Queen as she journeyed with only her dragon for company. However, Syrax was a formidable companion.

Apart from Elinda, you were the closest handmaid to the Targaryen Queen. Your long-deceased father, Lyonel Strong, had requested you be placed in her service when you were both on the cusp of womanhood. You long held the secret of her trysts with your older brother, Harwin, for you understood Laenor had extended his blessing in the regard. While it was not an ideal situation, you were pleasantly surprised how the three made such an odd relationship work despite the consequences it bore. Rhaenyra loved those three boys with all of her heart. You supposed part of her heart was ripped away when she heard of Luke’s death.

“May I attend to your hair now, Your Grace?” you asked, raising to your feet.

“Please,” she murmured; her once amethyst eyes that sparkled with life were now dulled. Illustrious gems that had lost their luster, a stark contrast to the vibrant, lively woman she used to be. A broken princess turned into a broken queen. Mayhaps the Targaryens paid a heavy price to sit upon the Iron Throne.

You knelt behind her head, fingers carefully undoing her intricate braid and loosening the strands of matted hair. Then, lifting the ivory brush, you began to untangle her mane, taking care with each stroke of the bristles. Your fingers expertly worked the oil through her hair before lifting a jug filled to the brim with water. She tilted her head back, allowing you to rinse her hair clean. As you continued your work, a glimmer of her former self emerged. But you knew, deep down, that while she may look like herself again, the scars of her loss would never truly fade. Ripped edges that would always remain jagged.

You heard the whisperings of her discovering Arrax’s severed wing and clothing worn by the young Prince Lucerys on his cursed journey to Storm’s End. It was a genuinely wretched thing to have no body to burn. The Gods were cruel, you thought. Rhaenyra continued to simmer in the water until it turned as cold as the weather in the North. You took great care in helping her from the stone tub and drying off her damp skin before draping a crimson robe around her.

Her shoulders slumped as she stared at her reflection in the looking glass. Defeat hung heavy on her sullen face. Gaunt eyes begging for relief, a respite from the tragedy that marred her life. Your heart ached for her, so you gently rested your hand on her shoulder to provide her a modicum of comfort. An ounce of kindness would go a long way. Mayhaps, more should be extended to her and to Aegon; that is where peace might be found. Her hands snaked around yours, holding tightly as if afraid to slip away.

“Do you find me to be a terrible person?” she whispered, her voice cracking and quivering.

Your eyes widened.  “Of course not, Your Grace!”

“Please, speak truthfully and address me as Rhaenyra,” she requested. Her eyes pleaded with yours. She needed a friend.

You let go of her before kneeling in front of her and drawing both her hands into your own. Your thumb stroked gently over the scar left by Alicent Hightower years ago. Undoubtedly, the scars on Rhaenyra’s heart outnumber the ones on her body. “I have never once thought such, Rhaenyra.”

Her lower lip quivered as her strong facade cracked and crumbled to dust. “I had only wished to fulfill my inheritance and serve the realm. I never wished for this. I should have never sent Luke alone.” Tears dribbled down her flushed cheeks. Plump, watery, opaque pearls splattered onto the stone beneath her chair.

“You could not know this would happen.”

She squeezed your hands as the tears poured freely down her face. “I do not want this burden if this is the cost.” Her voice was heavy and thick as she admitted her truth. A truth she dared not speak aloud, but it felt healing to let them fall from her lips. “I would trade my crown for the lives of my children.” A soft wail spilled from her the moment she admitted those sentiments.

Motherhood had petrified her; it had driven her mother into an early, bloody grave, and yet the moment she held Jacerys in her arms, you had watched her slowly embrace it. Jace healed a deep wound inside her, and no soul in the realm could doubt her love for all her children. She would throw herself in the cruel barbs and sharp words hurled in thoughts of their heritage, letting each one slice her deep to protect them from hearing such squander. However, she would not be able to protect them forever but would do everything in her power to continue.

Her hand slipped to her belly as thick, hot tears continued to pour down her ruddy cheeks. A son and a daughter torn from her womb, now left to the mercy of the Gods. Her gasps for air made your belly twist uncomfortably, but you said naught, simply allowed her to weep freely and without judgment. She was only human, after all. Even Targaryens, with their dragons and otherworldly appearances, were still flesh and blood. You lifted her hands, pressing soft kisses to her fingers, free from the rings she usually wore. Admitting such beliefs out loud took courage and strength, and you felt grateful that she trusted you with such feelings.

“I believe you will make a fine queen, Rhaenyra. The realm is long overdue for one. I hold hope that a peaceful resolve might be reached, as foolish as that may sound.”

A small smile turned across her lips. “I do not think you sound foolish.”

“Then I am not foolish, and you are not a terrible person. You were named King Viserys’s heir; fealty was sworn to you,” you reminded her. Her shoulders straightened as the tears began to dry on her face.

“Thank you for allowing me to unburden. You have been by my side for many years. There are times I look upon you, and I see Harwin, I see my boys. You are my family.”

Your heart fluttered.

“I feel the same, Rhaenyra. When the Stranger claimed my father and brother, I made a promise that I would do what I could to protect you and the boys. I would do the same for little Aegon and Viserys. We may not share a drop of blood, yet I feel as if we are bonded in such a way,” you whispered.

Her hand gently cupped your face, thumb stroking across your cheek. “Allow me to hug you, my dearest.”

You melted in her arms, holding her as tightly as she embraced you. Even the strongest of persons were not immune to the tragedies of life. But what does not break one simply makes one stronger. She would rise like a dragon from the embers, ready to burst into fire and claim her birthright. More scars would be wrought, and more tears would be shed. Yet she would be the finest queen Westeros had ever seen.

[cryptotheism]

Ranking Every Large Monster in Monster Hunter Rise by How Tasty I Think They Would Be:

A TIER - Delicious Tier. Monsters that are prized for their delicious meat. The tier reserved for luxury meats like foie gras, or wagyu beef. 

Tetranodon [A+]

Luxurious, fatty, versatile, and convenient. These massive omnivorous amphibians cushion their ponderous weight with layers of marbled fat. Shanks are delicious spit-roasted over an open flame, or breaded and fried in their own drippings. Neck, and breasts are cubed for stew meat and stuffed back into the shell with herbs for pit baking. Butt and sirloin are slow-cooked in clay pots to reduce in their own fat like fine carnitas. 

Jyuratodus [A]

These omnivorous filter-feeders are prized in-universe for their meat. Its bipedal stance but fishlike physiology imply a meat somewhere between salmon, catfish, and chicken. Denser thighs are cut into steaks and smoked. The more muscular sirloin is butterflied and deep-fried like catfish filets. The fatty brisket would be the finest cut, reserved for sushi. 

Lagombi [A-]

The already-delicious rabbit, evolved for long-pursuit sub-arctic grazing. Powerful hip joints cushioned by layers of cold-resistant fat. The lagombi would produce a brisket fit for the pinnacles of sephardic cuisine, basted in honey, orange juice, prunes, and apricots. Shoulder and rump should be sliced thin, basted with herbs and oil, and used for gyros. 

(Long Post Ahead)

B TIER - Ordinary Tier. Monsters that can be eaten, and eaten well. The tier of humble, everyday meats like chicken, pork, and beef. 

Great Izuchi / Great Wroggi / Great Baggi [B+]

The chicken of monster hunter ecology. When butchered and clipped of their poison sacs, claws and feet, I can imagine these beasts whole roasted like a holiday turkey, or spit roasted like rotisserie chicken. Given their tails and posture, I imagine they taste slightly oily and gamey, closer to pheasant or game hen than chicken, but still wholly within the realm of chicken. 

Kulu-Ya-Ku [B+] 

A leaner, more agile cousin of the great Izuchi. Similar to Cornish game hen, their limbs produce less meat, but their bodies are traditionally eaten stuffed with herbs, and basted with fat during baking. Flesh is similar to waterfowl, oily, slightly dense, but a sponge for flavor. Not fatty enough to fire-roast, but careful baking can produce a delicious Kulu-Ya-Ku a l'orange. 

Aknosom [B]

Would be placed higher on this list were it not for the complication of having to butcher and remove the flame sac. Specialty cuisines would be developed for cooking a butchered aknosom in its own fluids. Slightly more fat than the Kulu-Ya-Ku, but I would prefer stewing, perhaps an aknosom vindaloo. 

Anjanath [B]

A large monster, armored with dense fat rather than scales. Two caveats: Anjanath eat just about anything, so the taste of their meat would heavily depend on the anjanath's diet, and their flame sac is notably more complex than many other fire-breathing monsters. If properly grazed on offal and vegetables scrap, their meat has a texture somewhere between beef and pork. The top sirloin is especially prized, but notably difficult to acquire. 

Diabolos  [B-]

Most of the meat on these massive, armored predators is far too dense to be worth eating. However, their fatty brisket and thighs are delicious after significant, significant slow-roasting. A favorite for BBQ. 

Rathalos / Rathain [B-]

These large, agile predators are eaten more for their abundance than their taste. Rath meat is similar to horse in texture; stringy, sparse, and of variable taste depending on their hosts diet. Most chefs get around the unpleasant texture by grinding cuts into hamburger or sausage filling, and spicing heavily. 

C TIER - Uncommon Tier. Monsters who can be eaten, but are likely not one’s first choice. The tier of uncommon meats such as rabbit, crocodile, and venison. 

Royal Ludroth [C+]

The neck sacs are unpleasantly spongy, and taste of pus if butchered incorrectly. The meat itself is passable, but similar to gator, dense, fishy, chewy if improperly cooked. The choicest cuts are the tail and sirloin, ideal for gumbo. Skillful chefs can produce a wonderful griddle-cooked Ludroth-mac-n-cheese. 

Somnacanth [C+]

Surprisingly difficult to butcher. These creatures feature a complex endocrine system that constantly threatens to ruin their frankly sparse and oily meat. Skilled chefs marinate tail and belly cuts in a sweet and savory sauce, to produce a result strangely similar to pineapple marinated fish, or somnacanth al-pastor. 

Almurdron [C]

Nearly inedible, but can produce delicacies when butchered properly. Their serpentine bodies are extremely muscular, and feature a weaponized excretory tract that can make the meat foul and actively dangerous to consume if butchered improperly. When prepared correctly, most of the animal is discarded, save for the sheathe of subcutaneous fat and tissue which can be used as a sausage casing. Ground almurdron offal sausage is a common feed for domesticated carnivores, but is occasionally enjoyed by humans. The discerning chef may long-cure the meat, producing a rare and exotic cold-cut enjoyed similarly to a rattlesnake sausage. 

Basarios [C]

Tough, dense, extraordinarily difficult to butcher. The sheer amount of effort involved in butchering these creatures for consumption often outstrips their culinary benefits. When they are eaten, they are drained by the neck and packed in clay for pit baking. Even then, the meat is spongy and gamey, not unlike raw calamari or rocky mountain oysters. 

Barroth [C]

Similar to a great Izuchi, but tougher, chewier, less available, and far more difficult to butcher. Even skilled butchers and captive ranchers have been unable to remove the faint muddy taste from the meat. A tragedy, in that they are almost tasty in so many ways.  

Bishaten [C-]

Of questionable ethicality. Meat has a taste smack dab between pork and chicken, but very lean and slightly gamey. Generally does not have enough meat to be considered worth hunting for consumption, and their diet is varied enough to make the taste a gamble. Occasionally, the fruits they collect may ferment in their pouches. A bishaten persimmon wine reduction is considered a rare delicacy, but generally requires cultivation in captivity. 

Rajang [C-]

Skirting the lower end of edibility is the rajang. Meat is leathery, gamey, and chewy, like a steak that worked out before the slaughter. The organ systems that maintain their extraordinary muscle strength may even continue to hold a charge after death, and butchers must be careful to ground the beast before applying any metal tools. Requires cooking so slow that one generally has time to hunt two more beasts in the meantime. 

D TIER - Delicacy Tier. Monsters that probably should not be eaten, are only partially edible, or require special preparation. The tier of snake, fish eyes, chicken feet, and most edible insects. 

Pukei-Pukei [D+]

Proper butchery of these animals requires extreme skill. Well made Pukei-Pukei pate is treated as a rite-of-passage for aspiring master chefs. A single Pukei-Pukei will only produce 2lbs of fatty cheek, and a single mistake could flood the meat with its deadly toxins. The meat itself is delicate, fatty, and flavorful, akin to a lovechild of white fish and high-quality chicken. 

Tobi-Kadachi [D+]

A Tobi-Kadachi’s spines are actually articulated electrosensory organs, akin to insect mandibles. Each follicle is surrounded by a powerful muscle sphincter, and loops into the creature’s endocrine system. Butchery is an exhausting process of plucking and deveining, all for subcutaneous back tissue that is underwhelming and stringy. Ideal serving would be finely ground and baked into a pie. 

Goss Harag [D+]

These creatures are not hunted for their meat. Due to a unique quirk of the goss-harag’s sebaceous glands, the creature’s adipose deposits gain a unique flavor. Sufficiently mature Goss Harag lard has an herbal, almost minty, flavor. Its culinary use is divisive, a favorite to some, and reviled by others. Their meat is leathery, foul, and dense. Their livers are sweet, and excellent source of vitamin C when eaten raw, but few culinarians are so adventurous. 

Barioth [D+]

Meat is overwhelmingly dense, stringy, and run through with the creature’s jellylike blubber. Some cultures do consume the liver, heart, and testicles, as a source of essential vitamins in sub-arctic environments, but these require skillful butchery and unorthodox techniques to prepare. Offal is sometimes ground and compacted into a baloney-like loaf that is surprisingly good on sandwiches, or stir-fried with eggs.

Tigrex [D]

Tigrex meat is so dense that it cannot be butchered along traditional lines. Ordinarily fatty cuts like breasts and thighs are akin to eating grilled steel wire. However, the lungs, diaphragm, and pelvic muscles are edible after a few days of slow-cooking. Even then, they are quite dense. It is meat that demands a 24 hour pit bake, the realm of BBQ chefs with an experimental streak, or more patience than sense.

Ibushi / Narwa [D]

Bizarre biology and sheer rarity make these creatures a true challenge for the aspiring game chef. Those privileged enough to dine on Narwa meat have described it as fishy and gritty, similar to crab with notes of ozone. Efforts have been made into the production of Ibushi caviar, but none have since been successful. 

Bazelgeuse [D]

Inedible. Even attempting butchery can cost an overconfident chef their hand. However, their unfertilized eggs are delicious, a bomb of umami and natural capcasin. Ideal for Huevos Rancheros or about ten savory omelets. 

Arzuros [D-]

When raised in captivity, on a purely vegetarian diet of herbs, honey, and berries, their meat can be edible. Given that Arzuros are an omnivorous predator, the ethicality of this is contested. Even when properly farmed, arzuros meat is lumpy, unpleasantly textured, and lacking in any distinct flavor. All of the time, controversy, and resources required to produce a single Arzuros steak would be better spent on Tetranodon. 

Nargacuga [D-]

Only edible in that it can be physically consumed. Nargacuga meat is relegated to fringe cuisine, the purview of dubious half-magical medicinal stews and rumors during famine years. The meat is unpleasant, somehow bland, foul, dry, and oily at the same time. Only theoretically edible when mixed with other meats, and heavily spiced. Additionally, the creature’s adrenal secretions can be actively dangerous in more than trace amounts. Improper butchery can make the meat hazardous to consume. 

Chameleos [D-]

Most of these creatures are inedible. The biological mechanisms that facilitate their light-bending abilities are not understood by zoologists, much less chefs. Their meat is sparse and leathery, similar to ludroth, but is also to cause a dangerous allergic reaction in more than 50% of consumers. The only part of the Chameleos known to be safe is their eyes, which are candied and served with sweet rice as a dessert delicacy. 

Mizutsune [D-]

Tastes of soap. Only reached D rank because roughly 10% of the population bears a genetic quirk that makes Mizutsune meat taste like cilantro. 

F TIER - Inedible. Monsters that should not be eaten, cannot be eaten, or are actively dangerous to eat. 

Kushala Daora  [F+]

With a skin of iron-laced keratin, the Kushala Daora is more fit to be used as a grill than placed upon it. The meat is dense, overwhelmingly bloody, and riven with grits of iron oxide. Tastes like iron shavings kneaded into leather. 

Khezu [F+]

It is said in-lore that many hunters have tried, and failed, to make the Khezu palatable. These giant leeches feature a complex digestive and endocrine system more useful for medical applications than cuisine. Escargot is already unpleasant. Even stir fried like chinese periwinkle snails, Khezu meat is far too muscular to eat. Tastes like an art eraser soaked in cough syrup. 

Rakna-Kadaki [F+]

Edible only in the sense that it can be physically consumed. Where the fire-breathing organs of other organisms can be removed during butchery, insect respiration is done through spiracles in the carapace. Spider meat already tastes of pus and rot, but the rakna-kadaki features overtones of sulphur and gasoline. 

Zingore [F]

A large, muscular, agile pursuit predator with biological mechanisms for electroconductivity. Wolflike predators already taste of gristle and death, but the Zingore’s electrochemical organ system taints its meat with an overwhelming flavor of bleach and battery acid. Meat is highly toxic to humans. 

Teostra [F]

A large, muscular pursuit predator known for attacking caravans to eat gunpowder. The meat is stringy, gristly, sulfurous, and smells of rotting eggs. Impossible to cook, as applying any sort of heat will cause the meat to rapidly combust. Tastes of old rope bathed in a sulfur vent. 

Valstrax [F-]

A heavily armored, extraordinarily agile aerial pursuit predator with a secondary respiration system to facilitate jet propulsion. Meat is stringy, rubbery, chemically astringent with overwhelming notes of crude oil and smog. Biological fluids are a chemical accelerant, and risk exploding if ignited. 

Magnamalo [F-]

The only thing that could make this monster edible would be slow-roasting in the whole shell. This should never be attempted. Given its purple coloration, the Magnamalo’s secondary respiration system exhales what is likely a complex and highly volatile lithium phosphate. Meat is dense, gristly, tastes of battery acid and spoiled wine. Risks exploding if ignited, oxygenated, or introduced to an electrical charge. 

Volvidon [F-]

Indescribably foul. The volvidon’s digestive tract produces both a paralytic venom, and a predator deterrent in the form of toxic flatulence. Consumption will risk paralysis and uncontrollable vomiting, risking a horrific death by asphyxiation. 

[ilgr-official]

Do LBM's handle baths well? Sometimes they dig around in my garbage and become quite stinky. I have one that prefers to sniff burger wrappers. Speaking of wrappers, are towel burritos a good containment system?

LBMs handle baths surprisingly well - as long as you don't scare them with one!

First and foremost, be sure to wear thick gloves, long sleeves, and safety goggles when attempting to wrangle a feral LBM. If they show any signs of hostility, immediately back away and call our LBM Control & Rescue line for further help.

To bathe an LBM, you will need: a small tub filled with lukewarm water, some puppy or kitten shampoo (or nontoxic dish soap), a soft sponge or brush, and a towel or fluffy sock.

We have found that most LBMs do prefer to be clean. If you bring out the above supplies and set them near where the LBMs are congregating (such as a trash can), they will usually be docile enough to handle and bathe.

You have the right idea when it comes to drying an LBM - leaving one wet and cold is an easy recipe for disaster. We recommend using a fluffy slipper sock rather than a towel. Socks seem to trigger some sort of comfort mechanism, and often times, they will simply fall asleep in one. You could also try a towel, but this is usually seen as playtime, rather than dry time!

Here's an example of the Tube Sock Method (used by our researchers to weigh LBMs):

Additionally - could you provide more information about the specific trash items your LBMs are getting into? We've established that LBMs do not eat flesh, but we've also had many reports of LBMs being attracted to "Nasty Burger" food wrappers. We assume the food items are made of something other than meat, but the restaurant unfortunately refuses to answer our questions.

Thank you for the inquiry!

Ad astra per parvum!

[deerlysacred]

↬ cedar closets ⧼ young!dean winchester x witch fem!reader ⧽

𐂂 𝄢 { the day after your dad's funeral, someone knocks at your door... }

𖣂 𝄢 angsty, reader's dad was emotionally absent, reader has daddy issues, some insensitive dark jokes between dean and reader with the shock and the awkwardness of the situation. dean and reader are at least 18 years old.

♪ inspired by the song 'peter' by taylor swift.

‼️ 𝄢 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 warm water ran scalding hot, but you didn't flinch. It poured over your hands like punishment, reddening skin already raw from too much scrubbing, too much soap, too much cold in the middle of the freezing February, too much time spent trying to wash away thoughts that wouldn't rinse clean, now stuck to you like a birth mark. The sink was filled with cloudy water and bubbles, tiny remains of vegetables and meat flushing away, some of them sticking to your fingers, finishing the last of the dishes from the funeral luncheon yesterday. The gray daylight were lightening your palms where you were gripping the sponge too tightly. If you pressed any harder, you could have break the plate between your fingers.

You wished you would. At least that would break the sickening silence.

The funeral ended yesterday, but the house still smelled like wilted flowers and too-sweet perfume scent lingering from the guests. The whole place smelled and looked like a hospital basically, soulless and unsettling. It felt like a hospital room too. You looked at the pale white lilies that sat on the kitchen counter, their scent thick enough to choke on. You didn't remember who brought them. You didn't remember much about the service, actually— just the tightness in your throat, the ache in your chest (that still lingered), the weight of eyes on you, and the priest's hollow words, the words you were pretty sure he recycled from the last funeral he went to.

"Good man. Brave. Family meant everything to him."

Family.

Your grip tightened around the chipped plate in your hands, and for a moment, you thought about hurling it against the wall just to hear something shatter. But you didn't. You never do, actually. Instead, you scrubbed harder, scraping at the dried remnants of some casserole an aunt or cousin left behind, making the cracks on your knuckles bleed ever so slightly.

He was a good man. And that was the worst part, right? He meant well. Loved you, in his own way. But love doesn't hold much meaning when it mostly involves never-kept-promises and just a kiss on the forehead, does it?

"We'll go fishing this summer, kid. Just you and me." Never happened. "I'll be there for your graduation this time." Missed it again. "I love you more than anything, sweetheart." Maybe true, but love was a quiet thing with him, stretched thin like old elastic— ready to snap if you pulled too hard.

The plate slipped from your numb fingers and hit the floor with a sharp crack. You flinched, your heart thudding like you've been caught doing something wrong. But there was no one here to notice. No one ever really was, was there?

Well, Dad. Guess I learned how to clean up the messes all by myself.

You dropped the shards into the trash and turned back to the sink. There was still a little more dishes.

You were just about to open the faucet back when the sudden knock knock knock at the door made you jump. Your heart stuttered, you weren't expecting anyone. Your family knew you'd come by later, it couldn't be any of the relatives since they were all at your aunt's house right now. Your mom had nearly collapsed this morning, grief catching up to her all at once, and all of the relatives took her with them to your aunt's house. You had stayed there too until your mother was stable, then slipped back home with the excuse of tidying up. But really, you just needed the quiet.

You eventually moved towards the front door, Dear God, please— don't let it be another person coming to say how sorry they are. You hesitated just long enough for another knock to come, firmer this time. You pulled it open, and the first thing you saw was a brown leather jacket.

Then green eyes.

Then flowers?

Your brain took an extra second to catch up, cataloging the details— the boy in front of you had a little dishevelled yet charmingly styled dirty blond hair, his jawline was sharp, the brown leather jacket on him (though it looked a little oversized) suited him, there were freckles dusting under his eyes and on his nose, he held himself there like he wasn't used to standing still for too long. He was around your age, maybe a little older, and something about his face was… guarded. Like he wasn't sure how to do this either.

"Uh, hey. Y/N, I suppose?" His voice came rough, then he cleared his throat, shifting on his boots. "I'm Dean. My dad —John Winchester— he, uh, couldn't make it. Sent me instead. Hope that's alright."

Your fingers curled into the doorframe, grounding yourself against the swirl of emotions in your chest. Winchester. John Winchester. You knew the name. You'd heard your father say it before, in passing, in stories about hunts and after-hunt celebrations they drank and hung out. You knew about his sons, how John basically drags them all over the country trying to find the demon that killed his wife and the mother of Dean and Sam.

Your gaze flickered to the white roses he held, then back to him.

He was fidgeting now a little, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, like the silence between you was stretching a little too long for his liking, where it just became awkward at some point. His expression shifted to something more shy, something uncertain pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Oh God, say something.

Your throat felt tight when you finally spoke quietly. "I… um. Yeah. That's fine."

You cleared your throat, stepping back just enough to let him in. "You —uh, you can come in, if you want." Your voice was still quieter than you wanted it to be. You should sound normal. Like a person who knows how to talk to other people.

Dean hesitated, then stepped inside. He glanced around, taking in the neatness, the dim yellow glow of the lamps against the cold gray light from the window. He didn't say anything about the smell of lemon cleaner or the way everything looked like someone had been moving just to keep from thinking. But it was the nose thing you notice. He barely crossed the threshold before his face pinched, and he wiped at his nose with the side of his hand, trying to be subtle about it.

Oh my God. Did I actually clean so hard I fumigated the house?

Your cheeks heated up. You'd been too focused on cleaning non-stop to not think about your dad to realize the lemon cleaner was practically radiating off the walls. It was not just 'clean' in here; it was chemical warfare.

He held out the bouquet, a little stiffly. "Uh, these are for you. Or your mom. Or— y'know. Whoever needs 'em."

You blinked at the flowers, then up at him.

For a guy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, he was trying. Really trying.

Your fingers brushed against his when you took them, the touch brief, but enough to send a tiny jolt of awareness through you. You ignored it. Not the time, brain. Not the time.

"Thanks," you murmured, voice softer now. The weight of the moment pressed in again, the reminder of why he was here, why any of this was happening at all. You swallowed, hugging the bouquet against your chest for a second before nodding towards the living room. "You can, um. Sit in there. If you want. My mom's not home."

Dean hesitated again, then followed your lead, stepping carefully into the quiet space you had just been cleaning. And there it was again— that almost imperceptible twitch of his nose. He rubbed at it with the side of his hand, trying to be cool about it.

You bit your bottom lip, fighting the urge to shrink into yourself, embarassed. "Uh," you blurted, shifting the bouquet awkwardly in your arms. "Sorry if it smells like a citrus crime scene in here. Got a little… carried away earlier."

Dean snorted, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he hadn't meant to find that funny. "Yeah, I was startin' to wonder if someone died from lemon poisoning."

You blinked when you heard that. He froze, looking like he mentally slapped himself.

"Shit, I didn't mean—" he muttered, eyes widening like he wanted to take the words back and swallow them whole.

"No, no, it's fine." You cut him off quickly, you laughed weakly to not make it weird (which made it even weirder now that you actually laughed at his kinda dark joke), your voice cracking a little. "Accidentally making insensitive jokes at wrong times, happens to best of us. I actually even came to the brink of laughing during the funeral — not that any of it was funny… It just feels annoying and absurd when you see your cousins fighting for the last meatball on the plate while you try not to throw up thinking about your dad's death."

Well, that definitely didn't make it any weirder. Good job.

The (even darker) joke hung awkwardly for a second, both of you standing there like badly programmed NPCs who glitched mid-conversation. Dean nodded and tried to smile, shifting his weight.

"Right, still. Sorry."

You nodded, looking down at the roses— too perfect, too bright against the dull ache of the house. You moved towards the side table near the hallway, where an old ceramic pitcher sat empty, setting the bouquet down. "Umm… I'll just… put these here." you mumbled.

The silence crept back in, thick and suffocating. Dean settled awkwardly onto the couch, his fingers tapping against his knee. You could tell he wasn't sure what to do with himself, just sitting there with all the heavy silence pressing in, eyes flicking from the flowers to you and back again. The awkwardness made you fidget and stall a little.

"Okay," you said, this time too loud, too sudden. "Window. Gonna open a window. Before you suffocate and add another funeral to the roster."

Dean huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Appreciate that. Didn't really plan on goin' out via lemon-scented asphyxiation."

God, it's a contest for who makes more insensitive and unfunny jokes at this point.

You darted towards the nearest window, flipping the latch with more force than necessary. The cold air hit you like a sharp slap, slowly clearing out the smell. You cleared your throat as you turned to him, glancing down at your hands, then back at him. "Uh, do you want something? To drink, I mean. Water? Tea? Coffee?"

Dean perked up a little, nodding, he spoke with a gentle tpne. "Coffee'd be great, actually."

You nodded back and turned towards the near kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move. The whole situation felt surreal— this random boy sitting on your couch, his presence both unfamiliar yet strangely comforting in a way you couldn't quite place. Handling grown adults were fine, there was supposed to be a respectful and distant dynamic naturally. But people your age? And to top it all, a boy? That was a whole other deal, you hated this. You absolutely hated having to keep conversation while there was no one else, especially when you were grieving like now.

As you poured the coffee, you could hear him shifting on the couch, clearing his throat like he was gearing up to say something. "So, uh… you're a witch, huh?"

Your hands paused over the cups for half a second before you forced yourself to keep moving. Of course, he'd bring that up.

"Yeah," glancing at him over your shoulder. "My mom's the witch, my mom's bloodline. My dad wasn't."

Dean nodded slowly, like he was treading carefully. "Right. Gotcha." He hesitated, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Not gonna lie, that's… kinda new for me. Usually, when I hear 'witch,' it's not in a good way."

You smirked a little, walking back to the living room and setting his cup down on the coffe table in front of him. "Well, I promise I didn't put any weird potions in it."

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, and the tension in the room lightened just a little. He took the coffee with a murmured thanks, blowing on it before taking a sip. Then, after a moment, he set it back down and cleared his throat again.

"You need help with anything?" he asked, glancing around the too-clean house.

You shook your head quickly, you said "No." quickly. Too quickly. Too defensive. Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. His green eyes sizing you up as he tilted his head like a confused puppy.

"C'mon, there’s gotta be something. I mean, you've been running around cleaning for so long, obviously. I'm sure there's lots of work to be done, I can't just sit here."

You hesitated, gripping your own cup a little tighter as you spoke quietly, admitting. "I… I was gonna sort through some of my dad's stuff. In the attic. But I can do it later."

Dean nodded, thoughtful. "Or, we could do it now. Y'know… together."

You bit your lip, looking down at the steam curling from your cup. You wanted to say no. You should've said no. But the idea of going up there alone, of shifting through your dad's things with nothing but silence around— it felt unbearable.

"…Okay," you finally said, barely above a whisper. "Yeah. Alright."

Dean stood up with a small, relaxed smile. "Lead the way."

You two climbed up carefully, the attic ladder creaked under your weight as you climbed up first, carefully pulling yourself onto the wooden floorboards. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of aged wood, the gray light was shining through a small window. Dean followed close behind, his boots thudding against the rickety steps.

"Woah, there's a lot of stuff here.” he muttered, brushing cobwebs off his sleeve as he straightened up. His eyes flicked around the attic, taking in the assortment of stacked boxes, old furniture covered in sheets, some closets and a few worn-out hunting tools shoved in the corners.

You hugged your arms around yourself, exhaling. "Yeah… My dad never threw anything away. Said everything had a memory attached to it. My mom hated this habit of his, lots of stuff and junk led to a mess naturally."

Dean laughed quietly. "Sounds like my dad, except replace 'memories' with 'potentially useful crap'. Old man still keeps a damn broken tape and unnecessary maps of the forests located at the other side of the world."

That pulled a small smile from you. Dean kicked at the dust on the floor, then turned his attention to the boxes. "So, what are we lookin' for? Just… anything?"

You nodded, kneeling beside one of the boxes. "My mom will eventually donate some of these stuff, I'm sure of it. I just want to go through around here, see what's worth keeping. At least, for me to keep for myself."

Dean crouched down beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. "Yeah. I get that."

You glanced at him, hesitating. "Did you ever keep anything of your mom's?"

Dean was quiet for a second before he shifted, lifting his right hand. You saw a silver ring on his ring finger, he rubbed the ring with his thumb.

"This was hers," he said, voice softer than usual. "My dad said she'd used to wear it all the time. When she… y'know… my dad kept it. Didn't let me have it for years. Guess he thought I was too young or somethin'. But I wanted it. Needed it. It was all I had of her."

You watched the way his thumb brushed over the ring's surface, like it was instinct— like it was second nature to hold onto it, to make sure it was still there.

You spoke softly. "That's nice, having something to keep with you."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. It helps."

You swallowed hard, turning back to the boxes. You opened one, sifting through old books, worn-out leather wallets, and a few faded polaroids. But it wasn't until you reached into the bottom of another box that you felt something cool and metallic against your fingertips.

You pulled it out slowly, dusting off the grime to reveal an old, bronze necklace. The chain was simple, but the pendant—a small, circular sun shape with an engraved design— felt significant.

Dean leaned in, eyes narrowing. "That your dad's?"

You nodded, running your thumb over the pendant. "I think so. He never really wore jewelry, but I remember seeing this in old pictures. Probably from when he was younger."

Dean studied it for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You should keep it."

You hesitated, gripping the necklace a little tighter. "I don't know… it feels weird. Like it's not really mine."

Dean huffed, reaching out and plucking it from your hands before you could protest. "Well, it is yours now," he said simply, unclasping the chain. "C'mon, turn around."

You blinked up at him, your cheeks warming up. "What?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Turn around."

You hesitated before turning your back to him. The air felt heavier, your skin prickling as his fingers brushed against the nape of your neck. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as he fastened the clasp. The cool weight of the pendant settled against your collarbone.

"There," he murmured, his voice close— too close that you could feel the warmth of his breath, it tingled your insides. "Looks good on you."

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm the attic felt. You turned back around, fingers instinctively tracing over the necklace.

"Thanks." you said quietly, smiling.

Dean shrugged like it was nothing, but there was a softness in his expression, something almost shy. "Yeah. Anytime. Uh… Shall we?" He pointed to a nearby closet. You nodded, keep searching without really knowing what you were looking for. You focused on the closet, pulling out an old leather jacket that still smelled faintly of your dad's cologne. The scent hit you like an old memory, catching you off guard, but you swallowed it down and carefully wore the jacket, deciding to keep it for yourself.

"Hey." Dean muttered, catching your attention.

You turned your head to see him pull a slightly crumpled piece of paper from a folder. The edges were yellowed with time, and there was a faint smudge of ink where someone —probably you— had pressed too hard with a pen. That was a child's drawing— your drawing.

It was shaky, the proportions all wrong in the way kids never quite get right. A stick-figure version of your dad stood tall, with big hands and a lopsided smile. Next to him, a smaller figure —your younger self— clutched onto his hand. Above, a huge sun and some cloud figures, a couple of trees and flowers were there too. Above the drawing, in messy, unsteady handwriting, were the words: 'Me and Daddy!!!' with some heart drawings.

Dean chuckled softly, looking at you. "This yours?"

Your heart ached. Your fingers moved before you could stop them, reaching out and taking the paper from his hands. Not in an unkind manner but sudden, instinctive.

Dean blinked, clearly catching the movement, but he didn't say anything at first. He just watched as you stared at the drawing, your grip careful but firm, like you weren't sure whether you wanted to protect it or crumple it up entirely. After a short minute, Dean spoke, voice softer than before. "Your dad must've been a real good father."

A sharp exhale left your lips. You swallowed, blinking a few times, but your throat still felt tight.

The words should've been easy to agree with. He was your dad. You should be able to nod and say yeah, he was great, and let the conversation move on.

"He tried," you murmured, voice unsteady. "He wasn't… bad or anything. He just— he was never really there. Not in the way that mattered."

You wet your lips, fingers tightening around the drawing as you kept speaking. "He loved me, I know that. But he was always… distant. Like, he'd be in the same room, but it was like he wasn't really there. Always thinking about something else. Work, hunts, whatever it was that kept him busy." Your voice wavered, but you pushed forward. "He sometimes showed up for things —birthdays, school stuff— but never in the way I needed him to. I could feel him not really wanting to be there, he would just want to get over with it and move on as soon as that event passed. He never showed effort in a way that felt… enough."

Dean's jaw tensed, his gaze flickering over your face. He nodded, almost to himself, like he understood that very well. "Yeah, I get that."

You looked up at him, your chest feeling tight. "You do?"

Dean let out a small breath, running a hand through his hair. "My dad, he… he was there, technically. Raised me and Sam. Taught me everything I know. But mostly, it was about hunting. Orders. What we had to do. Didn't get a whole lot of time for… y'know. Other stuff." He glanced at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. "Guess I always told myself that's just the way things had to be after mom's death. We could never have a normal life, I accepted that since I was a kid. That's just… how my dad was supposed to be. He was a man grieving. He was a guy who was angry all the time. A guy who didn't really see me unless it had somethin' to do with a hunt. I used to think if I did everything right— like listened to him, followed orders, never messed up, hunted a freakin' werewolf on my own— he'd actually look at me, y'know?"

You nodded, your grip on the drawing tightening. "Yeah, I know. I used to leave drawings on the fridge. Every time he came home, I thought —maybe this time, he'd look at them. Maybe this time, he'd say something about them. But he never did. Same thing with gifts, I never actually saw him use the cups I bought for him, or wear the clothes I chose for him. Hell, I even ditched school and didn't study for my grades just so he could scold me, even if that was a bad light he saw me in. He would say something, do something that would show he actually cared for me. "

You swallowed hard, staring down at the drawing, the drawing that the child in you reflecting and cheering the perfect dad she had. "At some point… I just stopped fighting for his attention, I stopped believing him."

Dean's brows furrowed slightly, his gaze sharpening. He didn't say anything, just let you keep talking.

"He always had these big promises," you murmured, voice cracking even more. "He'd say we'd go on a trip, or that he'd teach me how to do something— fix a car, go fishing, just… normal things. Things dads are supposed to do. And I believed him. Every time. Even when he forgot. Even when he didn't show up. But after a while, I just… stopped." you admitted, feeling something in your chest twist painfully, you were full of anger for that naive child in you, full of grief for her too. "Stopped believing it. Stopped waiting for him to keep his word. I didn't even ask anymore. I just knew— whatever he was doing was always going to be more important than me. There was always going to be a last-minute excuse, another 'I'll make up for it later' thrown into the broken promises jar. And now there's no way or time to make up for it, he's fucking dead. And I feel absolutely horrible complaining about this right now, I hate how I feel like I'm being a brat about his memory. Because at least he was there, I had my dad, showing me his effort or not. I had him, fuck, I miss him… Now it's too late, I can't even stay mad at him for not keeping his promises or not remembering things."

Dean's jaw ticked, and his hands flexed on his sides like he wanted to say something but was holding back.

You inhaled, pushing past the lump in your throat. "And when he did remember? When he actually showed up and acted like he cared?" You let out a small, humorless laugh. "I didn't even know how to react. It felt weird. Uncomfortable. Like— like he wasn't supposed to do that, y'know? I'd spent so long without it that when he actually tried to be affectionate, it just felt… wrong."

Dean finally spoke, his voice quiet. "Like a stranger tryin' to play house for a day."

You nodded slowly, putting the drawing away. "Yeah. Exactly like that."

A heavy silence stretched between you two, but it wasn't awkward this time. It was something else. Something real, something common you both felt.

Dean exhaled through his nose, looking down at his hands. "I, uh… I know the feeling. My dad, he—" He hesitated, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Man, I used to fight so hard for his attention. Always did what he wanted. Always tried to be what he needed me to be. Thought maybe if I did everything right, he'd—" Dean's jaw clenched for a second before he shook his head, clearly struggling to talk about his emotions. "Didn't work. Nothin' did. I stopped fighting for it too. Didn't mean I stopped wanting it, though."

Your chest ached at that.

Dean sighed, leaning back against one of the old trunks. "Guess we both know what it’s like to be second place."

You swallowed thickly, looking back down at the unstable lines, the little girl with the lopsided smile. You whispered, wiping the tears that you didn't realize have fallen. "Yeah, guess we do."

You weren't used to crying in front of people. You weren't used to people seeing you like this. And Dean— he was still sitting there, watching you with a worried expression, his brows slightly furrowed, his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. His hands clenching like was turning something over in his head.

Then he seemed determined, like he finally decided. He took a step forward, slow and careful. He hesitated for a second— just a second, like he wasn't sure if he should, then he reached for you. Before you could even think, his arms were around you. The scent of leather and faded cologne curled around you as he pulled you in, his grip strong but not suffocating. One arm around your back, caressing your hair; the other around your shoulders, anchoring you to him. His chin rested lightly on top of your head, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

He pulled you even closer if that was possible, like he could feel the way you slowly, finally let yourself melt into it. Relax in his hold, his arms.

"You're good," he muttered against your hair. "Just breathe."

You did. You didn't even realize you'd been holding it.

Your nose ached with the sudden sob you barely held back. "Promise?"

Dean patted your back, that gesture alone was enough to make you free that sob, letting him in. "Promise."