#mr. ketch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

haveihitanerve · 2 months ago

Note

Had an idea but I forgor it so here's a different one

Bruce Wayne, concussed and on several strong painkillers, socializing with socialites from outside Gotham. They ask him about his kids and joke about how they all look so similar to him.

His brain, moving at about 3mph, does not register that his kids were ADOPTED (safe for one) and answers their questions as if he gave birth to them, forgetting he also doesn't have the facilities for that (unless you want him to- we love old trans people)

"Master Bruce I really must insist-" Alfred tried for the fourth time in seven minutes, Bruce had counted, reaching to push him back to bed and pull off the suit jacket he had only moments before helped Bruce put on.

"'M going Alf." Bruce grumbled back, rubbing a bleary hand over his eyes. "There's no use in putting it off. Don't have a good excuse and.." He grimaced. "They need to see me. It's been a while."

Alfred opened his mouth to protest again, even going so far as to move in front of the door to block his exit. "You are on far too many medications Mr. Wayne, not to mention a concussion! You simply cannot."

Bruce's lips twitched it amusement. It was a rare day when Alfred's composure was rattled to the point of calling him Mr. Wayne, and while Alfred was admittedly very strong, there was no way his physical blockation of Bruce's path would actually stop him.

"Alf." Bruce began gently, and the butler scoffed, rolling his eyes as he moved out of the way, striding down the long hallway. "Well. I see my advice isn't heeded. As always."

Bruce threw him an apologetic smile, heading for the main door. "Love ya Alfie!!" The butler snorted, but Bruce could tell he was softening.

"Call if you need boy." Alfred murmured. Bruce grinned, offering a wink as he pulled the door open. "I will." He promised, sliding into the backseat of his limousine, heading to the Gala.

He hissed as the needle broke his skin, biting his lip to prevent any further sounds as the anti-biotic worked its way into his system. Alfred would most definitely have protested its use, especially as Bruce tossed back a handful of other added painkillers, but if he was being honest, he needed them to get through the night.

"Thanks Hank. Tell your wife I said hi and grab her a bouquet on your way home. On me." He patted his driver's shoulder as he climbed out. Hank grinned, tipping his black cap.

"You always make me seem like such a good husband Mr. Wayne, I appreciate it. Have a good night." Bruce grinned back, stumbling slightly as he moved towards the doors, using the car to stabilize himself.

"You give me too much credit, send your boys some love and you have tomorrow off, try to actually use that baseball glove I gifted you." Hank chortled, setting the car into drive. "Will do sir. Good night." Bruce nodded the same back, watching until the car pulled away fully to stumble up the steps.

"Maybe those pills weren't such a good idea." He mumbled to himself as he made it to the doors, pulling them open to walk inside, heading straight for the table laid out with food. Of course, one couldn't enter a Gala without greeting the hosts, and he barely made it two steps before he was intercepted.

"Mrs. and Mr. Ketch. How lovely to see you." Bruce offered a bow, bending too low before rocking back upwards. Mrs. Ketch was smiling at him, a lovely, true smile that Bruce noticed tended to happen whenever he greeted the woman first instead of the man. Mr. Ketch was frowning, but more at Bruce's bizarre drunken act than any offense towards being placed after his wife.

"Are you alright, Wayne?" He asked, and Bruce hated that he actually liked the Ketch's, because there was genuine concern in the mans voice. Another reason why he had come.

The Ketch's were new money, self made, and trying to blend in with the old elites, though Bruce had to admit they never would, they were just too good, too kind, too sincere.

He wondered, dimly, in the back of his foggy, drug addled mind, if perhaps they'd finally tire of all the snide comments, rude looks, sneers, and give up on their well meaning charity that they had chosen Gotham for. He hoped they wouldn't. He liked having actual good conversation at these dull events.

"M fine, truly." Bruce answered, a few seconds too late, smiling lazily. "Might've had a few." He tried his best imitation at a drunken smile, wincing as he realized it was dangerously close to how he really felt.. tipsy. Off balance.

Robert, because that was his name, he had told Bruce his first name instead of demanding he call him Mr., frowned a little in concern, and before he knew it they had herded him to one of the seating places, settling down by him.

"How're the kids?" Mrs. Ketch asked, handing him a glass of water that Bruce gratefully accepted. "Amazing." He answered. "Splendid. They're always doing so well. They don't see it though." He frowned at his glass, wondering why that was.

"They're so amazing though. It just doesn't make any sense," He sat up, leaning forward to look at the couple in front of him intensely. They both had their eyebrows raised in surprise, but leaned forward in tandem, intruiged.

"Because see, they're so brilliant, and lovely, and smart, really I think they're the smartest people in the world- like ever. And Dickie, he's so kind and sweet and nice, and he's got a few problems and I'm sorry about it but he's really just amazing and an all around good person, I really oughtta try and be more like him, and oh he's got my eyes, im so glad he got my eyes, but i love his nose too, its nothing like mine- anyway Jason too- whoo he got my height im so happy for him- he also has my eyes! they all have my eyes actually, except cass, and damian, but like he's so brilliant and smart and he was such a good kid, he is now too- oh he doesn't like me calling him kid, but he'll always be my baby, and oh i cried so much when he died, but he better now, oh and Timmy, oh timmy is so smart. Soooo smart like genuis level, and he's wayy smarter than me, wayyyy smarter, and alfie says he has my hair, but i dont see it- i think he got my jaw though- and then Cass oh Cassandra My baby girl she's lovely and sweet and a charmer, beautiful girl, so is Barbara, but she won't let me say that to her, no no, but she is, she's so pretty and smart and quick, she scares me sometimes but I love her, such a good girl yknow? And Stephanie? Oh she and Tim need to make it official so shes mine. mine mine mine. I need another daughter you know? Too many boys. Equality of men and women at home. I need them home. And then Duke. hes so lovely too. Oh and Damian. Damian took some adjusting but they're all so lovely yknow? I remember the day they were born so vividly. I was so happy. I love them so much. It hurt, of course, but what is that to the joy they bring now yknow?"

Bruce took a sip of his drink, nodding thoughtfully as he leaned back. Mrs. and Mr. Ketch blinked a few times, opened their mouths, closed them again, and leaned back as well, exchanging glances.

"Yes. Well. Quite." Mr. Ketch cleared his throat. "Bruce, perhaps we should call you someone? To take you home?" Mrs. Ketch nodded her agreement.

"Come on sweetheart, let's get you home. You need to go to bed and.. and sleep this off." Bruce nodded, letting them help him stand and guide him to the door as Mr. Ketch called someone.

"Yeah. I like bed. And sleep. Oh- but I can't. Uh-uh, I promised Dickie I'd call him." Bruce nodded, turning to head back inside as though that would help his quest.

Mrs. Ketch grabbed his arm and gently, but firmly, led him back outside. "Rob just called him sweetheart, he's on his way."

"Oh." Bruce nodded. "Oh. Thas good." Mrs. Ketch nodded her agreement, rubbing his back soothingly. "I like that." Bruce hummed, letting his eyes close. "Its like what my mother used to do." Mrs. Ketch looked at him in surprise, hand stilling for a second before resuming.

"Really?" She asked gently. Bruce hummed in confirmation. "Oh yes. Yeah she did. You do it well. You'd make a good mom. Just like me. Well, I don't make a good mom." At that he frowned at the ground, biting his lip. "But I try."

Mrs. Ketch smiled, turning them as a car pulled up. "Yes. You do. And you do it marvelously Bruce, truly. That's all we can ever do. Try." Bruce nodded his agreement as the door opened and his eldest emerged, rushing to his side.

"Bruce!" Dick looked genuinely worried, grabbing his shoulder. "You alright?" His son's eyes were searching, scanning his body.

"Oh hes fine." Mrs. Ketch waved with a smile. "Just a few drinks. I think it'd be best he go home though, sleep it off." Dick nodded his agreement, smiling at her. "Yes. I think thats best. Thank you." She shrugged, waving it off.

"Of course. It's what he would have done for me." Dick lowered Bruce into the passenger seat, heading for the drivers. "Bruce." Ketch tapped the window, leaning down. "Hm?" Bruce tilted his head, rolling it down.

"I'm pregnant." Bruce waited, jaw dropping slowly as the words connected in his brain. "You are?" She nodded, a small smile crossing her face.

"Yes. You're the first person I've told." She glanced nervously over her shoulder, to where her husband was waiting on the steps. Bruce reached for her hand, clasping it in his own.

"You'll make an excellent mother. And he will make an amazing father." He promised. She smiled, biting her lip anxiously. "You think?" Bruce nodded. "I know." At that her smile softened, and she patted his cheek.

"Thank you. And, for what it's worth Bruce," She glanced past him to Dick, who was kindly pretending not to listen. "I think you make an excellent mother."

#ahhhhh here #i tried #i hope you like #gods my ocs are always like motherly ladies #and i guess drivers??#idk #hope it fulfilled your visions #batfam #batman #bruce wayne #good dad bruce wayne #good mom bruce wayne more like #dick grayson #batkids

116 notes · View notes

supernatural-bias · 6 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭

↳ summary: gabriel finds himself again amongst sweet treats, warded bunker walls, and you

↳ warnings: mentions of past character death and gabriels time with asmodeus, characters getting over trauma, etc

↳ song: heat of the moment—asia

masterlist | commissions | carrd

Gabriel was an angel. There was no denying that fact.

Not in the metaphorical sense, or the hypothetical sense, or any other sort of sense. He was an honest to god, grace wielding, smirk wearing, heaven sent angel. You didn't have to peek his true form to know any of that. If anything, you'd seen the ghostly shadow of his wings enough times for you to eye him with trepidation, only for the moment to be broken with a snarky quip and a wink afterwards.

It wasn't any of those things that made Gabriel angelic in your eyes, though. In fact, the novelty of angels for you had worn off years ago. Ever since Castiel had shown up in that barn, wearing the tannest of tan of trench coats and directing that righteous gaze of his at Dean, you'd found that your capacity for anything biblical had reached its peak. Anything beyond that had been labeled For Later and shoved deep down in a box with everything else disturbing in your life. To say that the box had been full for a while would be an understatement.

When Gabriel had first been outed as Mr. Archangel himself, you'd shrugged. It made enough sense, you'd thought at the time, looking at him from outside the ring of holy fire you and the brothers had set up in that warehouse. He'd made the three of you run around in TV shows all day, and even if he did appear to have penchant for sweets, upon a closer look he defiantly wasn't just a trickster. If Cas could be an angel, all squinted frowns and tilted heads, then why couldn't Gabriel? Not that he really had a reason to lie that day.

It took you a while to forget about golden hair and pink lips. Even more to forget the stench of burned feathers as the owner of them lay dead on a red carpet floor, slain by the hands of his own brother. The years had come and gone since your less than wonderful trip to that hotel, a number of both new and old companions along with them. Some deaths hit harder than the others, and you had more then enough battle scars to prove it. You were still reeling over the death of Crowley when Ketch had showed up in the bunker, Gabriel trailing along after him, all vacant stares and a downturned

Shame was the first emotion you'd seen from him in years. It was almost appropriate that fear came next.

He'd screamed through bloody stitches for the entire first week. And once Sam had calmed him down enough to get them off, he just refused to speak at all, avoiding everyone gaze as he shut himself in the farthest room down the hall. Under any other circumstance you would have asked why it had to be your room in particular he'd taken refuge in, but the longer your door remained locked and bolted, the more your complaints wilted.

Maybe it was time that helped him to heal, or the knowledge that while he was in the bunker he had three of the deadliest hunters watching his back. A small part of you was selfish enough to think that maybe the sandwiches you'd leave outside his door, just to come back and find missing, was a part of it.

It was only when you'd woken up one day to the smell of waffles coming from the kitchen that you knew Gabriel was back, and this time for the better.

The weeks that followed his return were some of the better one's you'd experienced in nearly half a decade. In between stopping Lucifer twice, as well as the rest of his fucked up family tree, you'd quit taking time for yourself. Little tasks and achievements that seemed insignificant in the face of everything else were suddenly brought back into the limelight per request of Gabriel. Movie marathon nights with buckets of candy, and handmade baked goods were among some of the archangels favorite things to do while stuck in the bunker. At times you wondered if your presence for those things really were necessary, or if Gabriel just liked spending time with you. It wasn't until Dean pointed out that Gabriel was all but back to his normal self that you realized just how impactful your midday rendezvous with the angel had been.

Coming out of the shell Asmodeus had placed him in was hard for him to do, and even harder for you all to watch. He refused to share anything about his time in captivity unless it was of the utmost importance in stopping Lucifer; not that any of you were pushing him to share. If there was anyone out there that could understand the lasting effects that fire and brimstone could leave on someone, it was you three.

You hadn't been foolish enough to think for a moment that he wasn't still broken, even after he shuffled out of your room all those weeks ago. Gabriel still had his moments, and plenty of them. Moments where he wouldn't speak to anyone, or where his playful energy would dissipate at the first signs of anything demonic. He would often pause in his speaking, like a car radio that had lost it's signal, a set of endless whiskey eyes replaying the worst of the worst for an audience of one while you did your best to pull him out of it.

And while you had seen him get lost in himself enough times to practically write a book on trauma victims, Dean was right. He had been getting better. He'd let himself laugh at jokes more often— your jokes —with that boisterous yelp of his. It was always rushed at first, as if he was going to explode if he didn't get the sound out fast enough, before tampering off into a slow round of chuckles that never failed to bring the corners of your lips up into a smile of their own.

Once you discovered how much you loved his laughter, you started noticing all the other little things about him that filled you with warmth. It was only once you realized that you had begun to seek his company out in the dead of night, your own nightmares from hunts passed plaguing you, that you knew, truly, just how deep in you were.

He cornered you one day while you were putting groceries away, a frantic mess of jumbled nerves and unsure fingers twisting around each other. He said that he'd never had to do this before. That he'd never had trouble getting a read on someone else, on their feelings, like he did with you. His worries could always be solved with a snap of his fingers and a flirty wiggle of his eyebrows; or at least they used to be able to. But you weren't just someone else to him anymore. You hadn't been for a long time, and this time, Gabriel wanted to do things properly.

Sam and Dean would be pissed the next morning when they realized that you'd left the beer sitting out all night. But when you were crossing the kitchen in long strides to reach your angel, hands reaching out to tangle themself in Gabriel's hair for purchase, kissing him like the world really was about to end— you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

#supernatural #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #supernatural x y/n #spn #spn x reader #spn x you #spn x y/n #gabriel spn #gabriel x reader #gabriel x you #gabriel x y/n #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #one shot #x reader

119 notes · View notes

aylacavebear · 1 month ago

Text

Soulmates? Yeah, right, pft. - Ch. 31

When you turn sixteen, and your soulmate's name doesn’t appear anywhere on your body that you can find, you figure you had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t have one. Most of the town shuns you, so you stick close to family. Your Aunt Ellen raised you after your parents died in a car crash when you were two, but what happens when the Winchesters return to town and buried secrets begin to come to light?

Pairing: Mechanic Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You

Word Count: 3380

A/N: This chapter is from several different perspectives.

Warnings: The Angst is back, Dean being Dean, navigating being an empath, suggestive thoughts, longing, Fluff, Premonition, Talk of Bonding (This is something specifically for this AU. I do not see this as a "requirement" to fully connect to someone, but for this story, it is needed).

A/N: This is my non-Supernatural fic I'm attempting. Please let me know what you think, as I always love hearing from my readers.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 31

Even though it had happened near four in the morning, neither of you could go back to sleep. The images that bombarded Dean’s mind had his nerves on edge just as badly as if he had had the nightmare himself. He must have held you for an hour before the both of you finally made your way to the kitchen for coffee, then lots of cuddles on the couch. Calling Crowley had gone far easier than you had pictured it.

You explained the first nightmare, then the second one, adding what Pamela had told you. At first, you weren’t sure if Crowley was going to be of any help with as silent as he got on the other end of the line. Then, he said something that brought both hope and fear. “You’ve had two, both involving Cole. I’ll take care of it.” He didn’t give you more than that before he hung up.

With a sigh and a frown, you looked up at Dean, who placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “It’ll be alright,” he tried to reassure you, even with the knot in his stomach.

“It’s not fair. Why can’t they just leave me alone?” it was a question you both already knew the answer to, but neither of you wanted to speak it out loud. You were partially relieved that you didn’t know more of what was going on with Cole, but only partially.

Dean set your cup and his on the coffee table before he pulled you into full-on cuddles on the couch, something you both needed. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of the words that went through his head seemed right. The last thing he wanted to do was brush off what you were going through. —------------------------------

Crowley had spoken to Pamela the day you had visited her. Now, he was sitting in one of his studies, leaning back in the chair and sipping his drink. The computer in front of him was on, but his gaze was elsewhere. Cole had been released only a day ago. There wasn’t enough against him to hold or charge him with anything. Abaddon had made sure of that.

He was currently debating how he wanted to deal with this. It wasn’t like the authorities did anything in a timely manner, and Crowley hated red tape. “Sir, Mr. Winchester is here,” the butler stated, standing in the doorway.

“Show him in,” Crowley sighed. With Meg staying in Sioux Falls, he was down one of his best helpers. He knew Ketch could easily handle this job, but that was far riskier. Ketch had a tendency to enjoy his work far too… deeply.

After Dean’s phone call almost a week ago, Sam had been trying to help Crowley find a way to keep Cole locked up. That had led from one dead end to another. Since Cole hadn’t left any sort of paper trail, there was literally no evidence that he was anything more than a victim of what his father had started over twenty years ago.

“Alright, Crowley. What the hell is going on?” Sam demanded as he burst into the study past the butler, who hadn’t even had the opportunity to announce him.

“Nice to see you too, Moose,” Crowley muttered before sitting up. “She’s had another premonition, and Pamela confirmed it.” The bombshell hit Sam hard, causing him to sit in one of the chairs as his mind began racing. “Where’s Cole now?”

“According to my informants, he’s in Madison. His jeep is parked outside a Super Eight motel off Second Street. I’ve already confirmed that he’s there, room seven,” Crowley replied, still figuring out how he wanted to proceed and the repercussions of his options.

All Sam could do was stare at Crowley in utter disbelief. Cole’s location was only an hour from Sioux Falls. The silence stretched between the two, neither ready to speak the things circling their thoughts. “Coffee, Mr. Winchester?” the butler asked from the doorway, pulling Sam from his thoughts.

“Uh, yeah,” he answered absentmindedly, then turned back to Crowley. “So, what are you doing to stop him?”

Crowley looked over at Sam, debating just what information to share and what to keep to himself, then leaned back in his chair. “I’ve already alerted the main office here. They said they would take care of it, but I don’t trust them.” He paused, taking a sip of his drink, studying Sam. “I contacted a few other places, to speed things up. Ketch will be flying out in a few hours.” Sam didn’t have to ask who Crowley contacted. There was an intricate system in place for those who had premonitions, and Pamela was well-known within that system. Ketch had already packed, and he was waiting to board his flight. His assignment was simple: follow Cole and keep Y/N and Dean safe.

“Then why am I here? You could have told me all this over the phone,” Sam finally asked Crowley, quite bluntly as the butler returned with his coffee.

For a moment, Crowley let the silence stretch between them as the tension built in the small room. It was cases like this that got to him, even if he never let it show. He had a reputation to uphold. “Pamela wanted me to pass on a message. Don’t go to Sioux Falls till after your brother’s birthday.” With a sigh, Sam leaned back in the chair. He knew what that meant. Pamela had seen something, and had been cryptic on purpose. Running a hand down his face, he sighed, lost in thought. This was supposed to have been easy. Cole was supposed to go down with his father and grandfather, but Abaddon had found enough of a loophole and gotten him released. Now, you and Dean were in danger, again. “I’ll reschedule my flight,” Sam finally mumbled out before heading for the door. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“It’ll be taken care of, one way or another,” Crowley muttered, causing Sam to pause for a brief moment before leaving.

—-----------------------------------

When the plane touched down at the Sioux Falls airport, Ketch was attempting to stay patient. Flights always took far too long, but they were faster than driving, and right now, time was of the essence. He had wanted to follow Cole the moment he’d been released, but Crowley had forbidden it.

Going through the airport, he paid no attention to the people passing by, living their lives in their own bubbles. Ketch was focused on his current assignment, bag slung over his shoulder. It was already early afternoon, and he still had driving to do. At least his contact was parked outside in a relatively inconspicuous black car. Ketch didn’t even bother noting its make or model as he placed his bag in the trunk and then slid into the passenger seat.

“Your rental is already at the motel, waiting,” Mick began before popping the glovebox and handing him several items. “That’s your new ID-” but Ketch cut him off.

“Just drive, Mick. I don’t have time for this. I know the drill,” Ketch’s words were pointed, taking the papers and giving them a quick once over before slipping them into the inner pocket of his suit.

Mick was more talkative than Ketch preferred, wanting to make small talk. Ketch’s focus was on his next ten moves, like in chess, letting his thoughts drown out Mick’s voice on the nearly forty-five-minute drive to his motel. He didn’t need anything fancy. He was there for an assignment, and the less conspicuous his accommodations were, the better.

A slight smirk formed when he saw the motorcycle parked in the lot outside the motel. It would serve his purpose perfectly, allowing him to go off-road if he needed to in order to follow Cole. Even as Ketch got out of the car, Mick was still talking, something about a tracking device on Cole’s Jeep. “I’m aware,” was all the reply he gave, closing the door and grabbing his bag out of the trunk. Mick sighed, then held out the key to Ketch’s room. “I think you’ll need this.”

Ketch gave him an annoyed look, grabbed the key from Mick’s hand, and went to his motel room, ignoring Mick’s amusement. The motel room was basic, but Ketch wasn’t concerned with creature comforts. He had a job to do.

The sounds of engines came and went outside with the traffic, but his focus was on his laptop, now watching as the tracker made its way along a backroad toward Sioux Falls. With the roads Cole was choosing, Ketch made a projected route to your house. About two more hours. He glanced over at his bag as he leaned back in his chair. Time to go.

His focus was on his assignment as he made his way through town. The chill of January not bothering him through the layers of clothing he had adorned before heading out. Ketch didn’t go directly to your home. He pulled off the side of the road, heading into the forested area. This was a stealth mission. Once his bike was hidden well, he went back, covering his tracks, his tactical bag slung over his shoulder. It was well past noon, nearly evening, and the sun would be setting soon. Good. The night would be his friend. Ketch weaved through the forest toward your home, the only sound was the crunching of the leaves under his feet and the occasional bird. The trees had already lost their leaves, making the area look desolate.

Ketch stopped just inside the treeline and pulled out his phone. Cole wasn’t far now. He turned off his phone after setting it to silent, then slipped it into one of his pockets and zipped it shut. This way, even a simple notification wouldn’t give him away. Ketch took in the area, needing to find not only a decent location to keep an eye on Cole but also a place he could easily slip inside your home if need be.

The shed in the back was a no-go, as it was too far away from the front, and he wouldn’t have a clear line of site. The tree line was too far away, and it would take too long to get to one of the doors if Cole went inside. Ketch let his gaze fall on your home. The roof was typical for places with snow, and it clearly had an attic. Crossing the distance in quick strides, he listened carefully to the sounds that seemed to echo in the area. So far, though, no indication that Cole’s Jeep was nearby. Using your porch, he climbed up on the roof with ease, using skills he’d perfected over the years. Ketch carefully inspected the roof, finding two different ways inside if he needed to. One of those was your bedroom window, which he could easily slip down to.

Ketch crouched down, watching your driveway as the early moments of twilight set in. With you living outside the city, he could hear things for what felt like miles as they echoed off the sleeping forest. It wasn’t long after that when an engine rumbled in the distance. Ketch lifted his head slowly in the direction of the sound. It was coming from the opposite direction he had taken. Clever.

Setting his tactical bag down in front of him, he opened it, then went through the motions he’d done hundreds of times as he assembled the sniper rifle. It was only a precaution. His sidearm was what he knew he’d probably end up using. Ketch stowed the empty bag near the chimney before nestling himself behind it, watching the driveway that weaved through the forest.

—---------------------------------

Dean had heard the alarm go off, quickly making his way to the security room before you and sliding into the seat. Just as you were about to join him, having only made it to the doorway, he got right back up and blocked you from going further. “Let’s just go watch another movie,” he suggested, wanting to shield you from what was taking place outside.

You could feel that he was hiding something, his worry trickling through the connection between you. “What are you hiding from me?” It was a simple question, but your fears were creeping in again.

He sighed and pulled you into his arms. “Please, Sweetheart. Can we just go watch a movie and cuddle?” Dean asked again, and even though his tone was soft, you felt the plea within his words.

Reluctantly, you gave in, even with that nagging fear, and let him guide you back into the living room. It had already been a long day after the nightmare you’d had, and now Ketch was here, on the roof. Dean knew that could only mean one thing- Cole was on his way. Trying to push his thoughts away, he focused on the movies, needing one that would completely distract you and him from everything. Batteries Not Included it is.

Dean steadied his emotions as he slipped the VHS into the player and joined you on the couch. You kept trying to feel what he was trying to hide, but he was doing a far better job of it than you cared to admit. Something was going on, and whatever it was, he knew. Even as the movie began playing and you snuggled against him with him holding you close, he felt… off.

I wish you’d just tell me.

Please. Just be here with me, in this moment.

As those words whispered through your mind, that knot returned to your stomach, the fear that never seemed to truly leave you. Dean felt it, twisting his insides. Relax. We’re safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It took everything in him to calm his stomach, letting out several shaky breaths. You wanted to apologize but didn’t, remembering what he’d asked of you in the beginning. So, instead, you focused on the movie, on being in his arms, and how his heartbeat finally evened out in a steady rhythm. That finally allowed Dean to relax, just not all the way. He didn’t need to be in the loop to know what was going on. Cole was on his way there, for you, and Ketch had been sent to stop him. Which also meant that the authorities that were supposed to take care of this, hadn’t moved fast enough. Or, they simply hadn’t thought it was a high priority.

You allowed the movie to completely distract you, remembering how Pamela had told you that you let fear run your life. Even if it was hard, you’d been trying to push past it, to truly hope for a normal life with Dean. His presence steadied you. His embrace comforted you. And halfway through the movie, you were finally able to let go of the fear that had gripped you earlier.

—--------------------------

Ketch watched as Cole parked twenty feet from your porch, then sat in his Jeep after turning everything off. Cole’s movements inside the Jeep were easy to watch with the overhead light on inside. He has a handgun. Ketch cocked the sniper rifle but knew he would need a damn good reason to use it. For now, neither of you were in direct harm. He watched Cole slip on a bulletproof vest, then a heavy jacket, and double-checked his gun, keeping it in hand.

Just as Cole stepped out of his Jeep, Ketch heard the sound of several vehicles in the near distance, pulling his attention to the darkness beyond the Jeep. Six sets of lights were rabidly approaching down your winding driveway. He quickly looked through the scope, keeping it trained on Cole. The moment Cole went to move back to his Jeep, Ketch fired a warning shot at the ground, effectively keeping him from going further.

Cole glared up toward the roof of your home, making Ketch smirk. He would have happily shot him, but now he wouldn’t have to. The six vehicles surrounded the Jeep and Cole before over a dozen people quickly got out with weapons drawn.

“Cole Vaught, put the gun down and put your hands behind your head,” one of the men barked the order at him.

He did as they told him, knowing they’d shoot him without a second's hesitation. Ketch just smirked at Cole’s predicament but kept the sniper rifle trained over the man’s face. Four men rushed Cole while another retrieved his gun. With Cole in handcuffs, they hauled him toward one of the vehicles, and Ketch watched as he disappeared into the back seat.

Ketch stayed there on your roof, even after they had driven away, one of them driving Cole’s Jeep. Silence had fallen on the area again before he disassembled his rifle and placed it back into his bag. With a disappointed sigh, he pulled out his phone, “Looks like they weren’t completely incompetent. Cole has been taken into custody.”

“Stay there for a few days, just in case. I don’t trust those people,” the voice on the other end replied before hanging up.

He had no plans of staying on your roof all night, so he made his way back to his bike and then back to the motel, already planning his next moves off of numerous possibilities. He had one job, to keep you and Dean safe.

—----------------------------

The following day, you woke to those beautiful green orbs watching you, pulling a smile to your lips. “Morning, beautiful,” he said softly, leaning down, placing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Mmmm…” you hummed, snuggling a little closer to him. “How long have you been awake?” you asked sleepily, enjoying the warmth of his body and the comfort of his embrace.

“Not long,” he murmured, letting his hand slide down your back before finding your hip.

You tried not to let your mind wander, but his hands always felt so inviting, and he had always been so considerate that it was getting harder and harder not to let go. “Tease,” you mumbled, a bit playfully.

Dean loved mornings like this, when you were completely relaxed, and the weight of everything was far from your thoughts. You were playful, receptive, and the love in your eyes when they met his had his heart racing. That smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, tightening his grip on your hip just a little before he pulled you flush against him.

“And that’s all I’ll be, till you’re ready,” he teased before kissing you.

When his lips met yours, you closed your eyes, getting lost in the way your emotions danced with his. You set your hand on his side, taking a deep breath through your nose, but allowed yourself to let go of everything but what you felt at that moment. His lips teased yours, occasionally letting his tongue taste you, and you didn’t pull away. He stifled a groan when you reciprocated his movements, and he shifted his body so he was lying more on his side as you let him lie you more on your back. The feeling of safety enveloped you like a warm blanket. These were the moments you wanted just to let go in, but the outside world always seemed to interfere as your phone began ringing on the nightstand.

You groaned, loudly at the interruption while Dean just sighed, lying back and staring at the ceiling, attempting to hide his frustration. It was a number you didn’t recognize but answered it anyway; it could be important.

“Hello?” you asked, sitting up in bed.

“Y/N, I know you’ve been told not to leave your home for at least four more days. Cole is in our holding facility. He’ll be transferred to the main security hold this afternoon. I’d like to meet with you today. Would it be okay if I came by?” the woman with a southern accent explained as your anxiety spiked.

“Who is this?” was all you could get out while Dean quickly shifted in the bed so he was now sitting up and as close to you as he could get.

The woman let out a sigh, “I’m Missouri. We need to meet. Pamela gave me your number.”

----------------------------------------- Chapter 32

Story Master List Main Master List

Tag List: @deans-spinster-witch @jamerlynn @jackles010378 @bruhidkjustwannaread @onthehuntforshinies

@chriszgirl92 @angzls @xolivvies-cornerxo @certainsaladstarfish @onlyangel-444

@nancymcl @muhahaha303 @suckitands33 @kr804573 @justrandomthougt

@suckitands33 @mxtansy @scarletqueenx @krazykelly @roseblue373

@whimsyfinny @ladysparkles78 @aaathazagoraphobiaaa @hobby27 @perpetualabsurdity

@cicibunbuns @n-o-p-e-never @vanessa-boo @foxyjwls007 @uoberpmollah

@xolivvies-cornerxo @certainsaladstarfish @kdadss @bitchykittenconnoisseur @reignsboy19

@bonbonnie88 @ghostieghoul711 @flamencodiva @kayleezee @stillhere197

@lexasaurs634 @enamoredwithbella @winchester-whiskey @brandinicole911

@megs-gadom @dianawinchester03 @nikimisery @cheekygirl2309 @ashleybutler

@deans-baby-momma @bobbdylan @tommysaxes @likedbygaslyy

If I missed tagging, please let me know. I had a lot of requests for tags for this one. If you'd like to be tagged, drop me a comment.

34 notes · View notes

holylulusworld · 10 months ago

Text

Summary: Broken hearts are hard to put back together. 8 years ago, Dean lost something he didn’t even know he had in the first place. Will he get a second chance?

Pairing: former AU!Dean Winchester x fem!Reader; Arthur Ketch x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, implied break-up, time jumps, strong reader

A/N: This was an alternative idea for the first chapter of my Bucky story: Monster-in-law masterlist. I decided to use it for a story with Dean.

Time is a funny thing. One moment you look at old pictures of the love you lost to reminisce, and the next moment, the life you knew is long gone.

A heartbeat later eight years are gone, and you are sitting in an airplane leading back to your old life.

You take a deep breath, and exhale sharply, feeling Ketch’s eyes on you.

“Y/N, if only you told me about this earlier. I would’ve asked someone else to come with me. I should’ve known better than to ask you to face the man breaking your heart.” Ketch became our closest friend over the amount of eight years. He’s your son’s godfather and the big brother you never had. “Are you sure this is okay?”

“I’ve got this, Arthur,” you glance at your laptop to check on the timetable for the meeting with Winchester & Singer Inc. once again. “I’m not the girl he left.”

Arthur sighs deeply but ignores the anxiety clawing at his chest. The last thing he wanted was to force you to face your past. “If you want to stay at the hotel, I can go to the meeting and tell them you got sick.”

“Your designer didn’t get sick. This is my project and won’t stay away from the meeting only because there is a slight possibility that I will run into that man!”

He gives up but worriedly watches you squirm in your seat. You still hate flying but try to put a brave face on. You’re fierce and strong-headed. Only one of the many things he likes about you.

“If you want me to, I’ll break his face after we sealed the deal,” Ketch casually says. “I’m not scared of getting my hands dirty.”

“No,” you grab his hand and squeeze it. “He’s not worth it, Arthur. After all these years I know Dean never felt anything for me. Even his brother tried to contact me years ago. I wasn’t very nice to Sam, but it had to be done.”

A split second can change your life. Dean never believed in fate or karma. But when you step inside the conference room, another man by your side, he’s suddenly a believer.

You take his breath away. Even if you aged, you did it with grace and grew even more beautiful. You carry yourself like no other woman, and he can barely keep himself from pouncing on you.

“Y/N?” Sam is the one rising from his seat first. He does what Dean wants to do. Sam wraps you in a hug, ignoring the man next to you. “It’s really you, Y/N. How have you been?”

“I’m good,” you pat his back, unsure how to react to Sam’s friendliness. “I hope you have been good too.”

Sam finally releases you. He apologizes for not greeting Ketch and shakes your boss’s hand. “Welcome, Mr. Ketch. We are glad you are willing to meet up with us.”

“My pleasure,” Ketch curtly replies. He shakes Sam’s hand while you look around the room. Dean’s eyes meet yours, but you act like he’s one of the people in the room you do not know. He’s only someone you used to know now.

“Daddy, daddy," you freeze when a little boy storms into the conference room. For a moment you watch Dean's reaction. His eyes are trained on you as his brother picks the boy up.

“And who is this young man,” your features soften for a moment, and you look at the boy in Sam’s arms. You blink and put a straight face on. Showing weakness is not in your plans. If this gets too intense you can cry in your hotel room, but not in front of Dean. Never in front of him.

"Y/N, this is Samuel, my son," you nod, turning your attention back toward Ketch, and the papers on the conference table.

Dean took the chance and stepped toward you and Ketch. He greeted your boss, and now he’s staring at you, eyes sparkling as you try to ignore his existence.

"Don't you want to greet Sam's son," Dean wonders but you remain stoic. "Y/N?” He questions. You loved kids, and always played with the children of your friends. Now you ignore the cute boy right in front of you. “What’s wrong with you?”

"I'm not into kids, Dean. What shall I do? Faint?" you huff and sit down, claiming the next best seat at the conference table. You unlock your phone and try to ignore Dean is standing right next to you.

"This isn't you, Y/N," you whip your head toward Dean, face still stoic. “Where is the quirky and lovely girl? Where is the girl who wanted kids and love?"

"Well," you slowly get back up to glare at Dean, a cold smile on your lips, "this is me after you." He inhales sharply, taken aback by your words. "Designed by pain, betrayal, and broken trust. Don't you like your creation?"

His jaw goes slack, and he flinches at your words. Dean doesn’t find his voice, and he swallows thickly.

You don’t wait for his reply. Instead of waiting for him to tell you that you are in the wrong, you sit back down and focus on your job. You’re here to sign the deal of the century, not to entertain Dean Winchester.

Dean can’t believe you have changed so much. Yes, eight years have passed, and he didn’t see you since he fucked things up. Still, you are so different from the girl he loved.

You’re not quirky and bubbly any longer. Maybe you told him the truth. Your new you got designed by pain. The pain he caused so many years ago.

“Did you listen,” John hisses at his eldest son. He clears his throat and tries to pull Dean’s attention toward business and away from you. “I know she’s still a hot piece of ass but get your shit together. You can dick down some bitch later.”

You wrinkle your nose. John is not very subtle. He whispered his insults, but you heard every word. Some things never change. John Winchester is still disgusting and sleazy.

“Shall we come to an end then,” Bobby Singer raises his voice. “I think we are all tired of talking about details. We should sign the papers and have a drink.”

You smirk. Bobby Singer owns a special place in your heart. Not only because he was the one getting you the job in London, but for having your back for years.

He covered your traces and made sure no one was able to find you. Not even Sam Winchester who tried anything to get in touch with you.

A single phone call was all it took to make him stop. You told him that you were about to marry and that you never loved his brother.

“Y/N, wait,” Dean puts his hand on your shoulder before you get the chance to follow Ketch out of the conference room. Your boss is engrossed in a conversation with Bobby and doesn’t see your face fall. “Can we at least talk? It’s good to see you.”

“Why?” You swat his hand off your shoulder but turn around to face him. “You didn’t want to talk after you embarrassed me in front of your family. I gave you a choice Dean. I left a note, almost begging you to not let me down.”

“You didn’t leave a note. All I found was the engagement ring!” He gets louder. “After all these years you lie to me?”

“I left a note on the bed and placed the ring on top of the note. You didn’t call or come around. That’s all I needed to know. You wanted your ex, and I had to take care of…whatever.” You shrug and turn back around. “Who cares about the past? You had your reasons for not trying to fix things between us.”

“There was no note,” Dean says, a little confused about your behavior. “I swear there was no note. You must remember wrong.”

“I remember every single word I wrote, with tears in my eyes and trembling fingers,” you bitterly reply. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Don’t you think?”

And just like that, you grab your bag and leave the room. Dean watches you leave, just like that night.

“She didn’t leave a note,” he crosses his arms over his chest. Dean tries to recall that night. He remembers brushing Lisa’s advances off. He walked upstairs to apologize, and for make-up sex, only to find the room empty. “There was no note.” He shakes his head, remembering that the ring was lying on the bed, but no note.

“What’s wrong? Why did you let her go again?” Sam asks. “Dean?” He places his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Y/N said she left a note, but there was none, Sammy. I swear there was no note, only the ring,” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know why she’s lying.”

“What if she doesn’t lie, Dean,” Sam wonders. “Why should she lie about leaving a note? It’s been eight years, and she won’t get anything out of it if she lies.”

“You’re right.”

“So, who had the chance to sneak inside your shared room? Why would anyone take the note and leave the ring on the bed?” Sam wrinkles his forehead. “Let’s recall that night, Dean. What do you remember? Who went upstairs before you? Did you see anyone?”

Dean huffs. ”Mom went upstairs because Dad spilled his drink over her dress. I can’t remember seeing anyone else walking upstairs. I wasn’t sober that night, though.”

“Mother went upstairs,” Sam frowns deeply. He knows that Mary invited Lisa to the party. “That makes sense.”

“What?” Dean grunts. “Nothing makes sense anymore, Sammy. What was right is wrong and…” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s been eight years.”

“I didn’t take you for a quitter,” Sam taunts. “Why did you never marry, or have a relationship lasting longer than a week since Y/N is gone? You have been waiting for her all those years, and now you want to let her slip through your fingers again?”

“No…but…no…” Dean sighs deeply. “Y/N hates me, and I can’t blame her for it, Sammy.”

“Well then, let’s talk to mother. She has a lot to explain...”

Tags in reblog.

#dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #business au #Designed by pain (2)

112 notes · View notes

justdealingwithsomeissues · 2 years ago

Photo

That is pretty hardcore... just busting up GR, his jaw hanging odd, and he does not care... he is coming for your ass with his penance stare...

#Marvel #Ghost Rider #Daniel Ketch ~ Ghost Rider #Calvin Zabo ~ Mr. Hyde

32 notes · View notes

burningvelvet · 2 years ago

Text

Every Instance of Lord Byron Hating On John Keats, Listed in Chronological Order.

“No more Keats I entreat — flay him alive. If some of you don’t I must skin him myself.”

To his publisher John Murray, 12 October 1820:

“‘I’m thankful for your books dear Murray / But why not send Scott’s Monastery?’ the only book in four living volumes I would give a baioccho to see, abating the rest of the same author, and an occasional Edinburgh & Quarterly – as brief Chroniclers of the times. — Instead of this – here are John Keats’s piss a bed poetry – and three novels by God knows whom [..] Pray send me no more poetry but what is rare and decidedly good. — There is such a trash of Keats and the like upon my tables – that I am ashamed to look at them. [..] – I am in a very fierce humour at not having Scott’s Monastery. – You are too liberal in quantity and somewhat careless of the quality of your missives. – [..] No more Keats I entreat – – – flay him alive – if some of you don’t I must skin him myself. There is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin. – – – – – [editor’s note: ‘dashes degenerate into scrawl’]”

To his publisher John Murray, 4 November 1820:

“They Support Pope I see in the Quarterly. [Let them] Continue to do so – it is a Sin & a Shame and a damnation – to think that Pope!! should require it – but he does. – – – Those miserable mountebanks of the day – the poets – disgrace themselves – and deny God – in running down Pope – the most faultless of Poets, and almost of men – – the Edinburgh praises Jack Keats or Ketch or whatever his names are; – why his is the Onanism of Poetry — something like the Pleasure an Italian fiddler extracted out of being suspended daily by a Street Walker in Drury Lane – this went on for some weeks – at last the Girl – went to get a pint of Gin – met another, chatted too long – and Cornelli was hanged outright before she returned. Such like is the trash they praise – and such will be the end of the outstretched poesy of this miserable Self-polluter of the human Mind [editor’s note: ‘untranscribable scrawl’]. W. Scott’s Monastery just arrived — many thanks for that Grand Desideratun of the last Six Months.”

Note: “onanism” refers to masturbation.

To his publisher John Murray, 9 November 1820:

“Mr. Keats whose poetry you enquire after — appears to me what I have already said; such writing is a sort of mental masturbation — he is always frigging his Imagination. I don’t mean that he is indecent, but viciously soliciting his own ideas into a state which is neither poetry nor any thing else but a Bedlam vision produced by raw pork and opium.”

Note: “frigging” was slang for masturbation.

To his publisher John Murray, 18 November 1820:

“P.S. — Of the praises of that little dirty blackguard Keates in the Edinburgh — I shall observe as Johnson did when Sheridan the actor got a pension. ‘What has he got a pension? then it is time that I should give up mine!’ — Nobody could be prouder of the praises of the Edinburgh than I was — or more alive to their censure — as I showed in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers — at present all the men they have ever praised are degraded by that insane article. — Why don't they review & praise ‘Solomon's Guide to Health’ it is better sense — and as much poetry as Johnny Keates.”

To his publisher John Murray 26 April 1821:

“Is it true – what Shelley writes me that poor John Keats died at Rome of the Quarterly Review? I am very sorry for it – though I think he took the wrong line as a poet – and was spoilt by Cockneyfying and Surburbing – and versifying Tooke’s Pantheon and Lempriere’s Dictionary. I know by experience that a savage review is Hemlock to a sucking author – and the one on me – (which produced the English Bards &c.) knocked me down – but I got up again. Instead of bursting a blood-vessel – I drank three bottles of Claret – and began an answer – finding that there was nothing in the Article for which I could lawfully knock Jeffrey on the head in an honourable way. However I would not be the person who wrote the homicidal article – for all the honour & glory in the World, – though I by no means approve of that School of Scribbling – which it treats upon.”

To Percy Shelley, 26 April 1821:

“I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats — is it actually true? I did not think criticism had been so killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unnecessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such a manner. Poor fellow! though with such inordinate self-love he would probably have not been very happy. I read the review of ‘Endymion’ in the Quarterly. It was severe, — but surely not so severe as many reviews in that and other journals upon others.

I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my first poem; it was rage, and resistance, and redress — but not despondency nor despair. I grant that those are not amiable feelings; but, in this world of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing, a man should calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes into the arena. ‘Expect not life from pain nor danger free, Nor deem the doom of man reversed for thee.’

You know my opinion of that second-hand school of poetry. You also know my high opinion of your own poetry, — because it is of no school. [..] I have published a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will not like. Had I known that Keats was dead — or that he was alive and so sensitive — I should have omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which I was provoked by his attack upon Pope, and my disapprobation of his own style of writing.”

To Percy Shelley, 30 July 1821:

[First page missing] “The impression of Hyperion upon my mind was – that it was the best of his works. Who is to be his editor? It is strange that Southey who attacks the reviewers so sharply in his Kirk White – calling theirs ‘the ungentle craft’ – should be perhaps the killer of Keats. Kirke White was nearly extinguished in the same way – by a paragraph or two in ‘the Monthly’ – Such inordinate sense of censure is surely incompatible with great exertion – have not all known writers been the subject thereof?”

To his publisher John Murray 30 July 1821:

“Are you aware that Shelley has written an Elegy on Keats, and accuses the Quarterly of killing him?

‘Who killed John Keats? / ‘I,’ says the Quarterly, / So savage and Tartarly; / ‘Twas one of my feats.’ / Who shot the arrow? / ‘The poet-priest Milman / (So ready to kill man), / Or Southey or Barrow.’’

You know very well that I did not approve of Keats’s poetry, or principles of poetry, or of his abuse of Pope; but, as he is dead, omit all that is said about him in any M.S.S. of mine, or publication. His Hyperion is a fine monument, and will keep his name. I do not envy the man who wrote the article; — you Review people have no more right to kill than any other footpads. However, he who would die of an article in a Review would probably have died of something else equally trivial. The same thing nearly happened to Kirke White, who died afterwards of a consumption.”

4 August 1821, to his publisher John Murray:

“You must however omit the whole of the observations against the Suburban School – they are meant against Keats and I cannot war with the dead – particularly those already killed by Criticism. Recollect to omit all that portion in any case.”

To his publisher John Murray, 7 August 1821:

“All the part about the Suburb School must be omitted – as it referred to poor Keats now slain by the Quarterly Review — [..] I have just been turning over the homicide review of J. Keats. – It is harsh certainly and contemptuous but not more so than what I recollect of the Edinburgh R. of ‘the Hours of Idleness’ in 1808. The Reviewer allows him ‘a degree of talent which deserves to be put in the right way’ ‘rays of fancy’ ‘gleams of Genius’ and ‘powers of language’. – It is harder on L. Hunt than upon Keats & professes fairly to review only one book of his poem. – Altogether – though very provoking it was hardly so bitter as to kill unless there was a morbid feeling previously in his system.”

To Thomas Moore, August 27th 1822:

“It was not a Bible that was found in Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems.”

From his poem Don Juan Canto Eleventh written October 1822 and published August 1823. He was going off the popular gossip shared to him by Shelley (who believed it), which was that Keats health had sharply declined due to receiving bad reviews:

“John Keats, who was killed off by one critique, / Just as he really promised something great, / If not intelligible, without Greek / Contrived to talk about the Gods of late, / Much as they might have been supposed to speak. / Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate; / ‘Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, / Should let itself be snuffed out by an article.”

To his publisher John Murray, 25 December 1822:

“As to any community of feeling, thought, or opinion, between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little or none. We meet rarely, hardly ever; but I think him a good-principled and able man, and must do as I would be done by. I do not know what world he has lived in – but I have lived in three or four – and none of them like his Keats and Kangaroo terra incognita – Alas! poor Shelley! – how he would have laughed – had he lived, and how we used to laugh now & then – at various things – which are grave in the Suburbs. You are all mistaken about Shelley – – you do not know – how mild – how tolerant – how good he was in Society – and as perfect a Gentleman as ever crossed a drawing room; – when he liked – & where he liked. – – – – –“

The excerpts above are taken primarily from Peter Cochran’s transcriptions.

122 notes · View notes