#ofc only if they have. like. max 3 years age gap

[sheikahwarriork]

i like many kakairu trophes but teen!iruka x anbu!kakashi got a special spot in my heart

[addictedtojmanga]

Best male characters in shoujo & josei manga - in my opinion, ofc

!!! Might contain spoilers about Love so Life, Faster than a Kiss, Last Game, Love Phantom, Special A, ReRe Hello, Kainushi wa Akuma, Sabaku no Harem, Max Lovely and Kimi ni Todoke. 

So, my criteria for this was:

1. is he toxic?

2. can he communicate properly with the female lead?

3. could I stand to talk with him for more than an hour?

That’s basically it. I used to love a bunch of male characters without realizing how douchey they actually were. Do I still love them? Yeah, but mostly because of nostalgia, I don’t actually consider them good men. 

I’m not saying the men in this list are perfect, cause c’mon we all know how manga characters - and people - are, but I think these are pretty great.  

Without further ado, here’s my - non ranked - fave MLs:

1. Matsunaga Seiji, Love so Life. 

This man is adorable, the best thing ever, I want him to myself. We don’t actually see a lot of romance in Love so Life, HOWEVER, Seiji is a responsible, caring, sweet guy. Once he gets his shit together he talks openly with the female lead about how he feels and how - because of their age difference - he’s willing to wait for her and that she doesn’t have to answer him right then and there or feel guilty if she doesn’t want to be with him in the future. 

Honestly, I really love him. He’s not a creepy older guy preying on a young girl, he respects her age and wants her to live her youth before settling down. Does he rely a bit too much on a 16yo? Yes, but I overlook it ‘cause I love him.

2. Ojiro Kazuma, Faster than a Kiss. 

Again, not a teacher/older man preying on a young girl. He’s her teacher and their relationship starts out with him wanting to protect/help his student out. If I’m not mistaken, he doesn’t even kiss her until she graduates, HOWEVER, he does make her wear sexy costumes, which is problematic. 

Overall, he’s sweet, helps her a lot, really loves her and wants to protect her (and her cute litlle brother). 

3. Yanagi Naoto, Last Game.

Yanagi starts out as a douchey rich kid who thinks he’s superior to everyone else until he’s beaten by the female lead and wants to defeat her. Overtime, he realizes he’s actually in love with her. He’s shy when it comes to her, and very patient. 

Did he follow her to middle school, high school and college? Yes. Would I find that creepy in real life? Absolutely. Can I excuse it because it’s a shoujo manga? Yes again. 

I think he’s a solid male lead for a shoujo manga, and I personally like him, but I definitely see issues with his behavior. 

4. Hase Kei, Love Phantom.

I want him. He’s older than the FL, so he often teases her, but I find it pretty adorable, especially when he’s the one feeling shy. Excluding chapter 01, I can’t remember any obvious flaws in his behavior. To sum up, I love him. 

5. Takishima Kei, Special A. 

Here is an OG male lead that I wouldn’t punch or kick.

Kei is handsome, rich, super smart and he doesn’t give a fuck about anything except the FL. She’s extremely competitive and he always goes along with her whims. He’s protective of her and a tad possessive, but it doesn’t really bother me. He’s pretty solid. 

6. Suou Minato, ReRe Hello.

Minato has his flaws as a person, but as a man/boyfriend, I really love him. I feel like he really cherishes the FL and usually respects her independence. If you haven’t read this manga, I definitely recommend you do!

7. Albrecht Ebel, Kainushi wa Akuma.

He’s super hot and sassy, I love it. Does he sort of sexually harass the FL? Yes, frequently. Does it bother me? Not really, to be honest. And I absolutely despise when male characters are forceful or rapey. I don’t know how to explain it, but at the same time that he teases her, he’s extremely sweet. I know this intro sounds bad, but I want to be upfront about it. Major spoilers ahead: in one of the final chapters, he’s feeling possessive and tries to have sex with her (she didn’t contest it), and when he comes to, she’s trembling and he stops, apologizes, says that there’s no meaning to it if she doesn’t want to and stays distant from her until she approaches him after realizing they love each other.

He is super sweet and she does love him, of course (it’s still a shoujo manga after all). I think everyone should give it a read (and you can delve into the wonderful world of flirting that is Kaji Eiri’s mangas). 

(Real quick, part of the reason I love her work so much is that the main couple flirts consistently throughout the manga, and one thing that bothers me a lot in shoujo manga is when the protagonists only get together in the last chapter.)

8. Sahara Taki, Max Lovely. 

Honestly, I just really love their relationship. This is a 20 year old manga but it’s really solid. I’ve re-read this a bunch of times and I absolutely love it. It’s not romance exclusively, there’s a pretty dark background story, but I really enjoy it. And Taki is a pretty baby, super sweet with the FL and usually very honesy with her.

9. Prince Kallum, Sabaku no Harem.

Would I be one of many wifes to a handsome and rich prince? No. Do I treat manga as reality? God, no. 

He’s very amusing, loves to tease the FL and is pretty sweet. I really enjoyed reading this, I think it’s a solid shoujo with a great male lead, and should definitely be on your list if you haven’t read it yet. 

10. Kazehaya Shouta, Kimi ni Todoke.

Is he my favorite male character? No. To be perfectly honest, he’s not even on my top 10. But is he a good man/boyfriend? Yes, and that’s why he’s on this list.

Like I said in the beginning of the post, there are toxic male characters that I still love despite them being shitty. 

Kazehaya is a popular type but he’s super nice and charismatic. He treats the FL which is usually dismissed by everyone with a lot of respect and care. I think he’s a bit too shy and indirect, which can sometimes jeopardize his relationship with her, but other than that, he’s a great guy. 

BONUS 01: not actually a boyfriend but I love him

Tsuruga Ren, Skip Beat. 

Now, is Ren perfect? No, he has a lot of flaws. A LOT. But I absolutely love him and I think he’s maturing. 

BONUS 02: I don’t personally love this type of character for myself, but I really like him 

Suoh Tamaki, Ouran High School Host Club. 

Like I said, he’s not my type, but I think he’s pretty cute and adorable and totally deserves to be on the list, so I made this spot just for him. 

BONUS 03: douchey guys I was blindly in love with as a teenager

1. Usui Takumi, Kaichou wa Maid-Sama. 

Do I hate Usui? No, not at all. I actually really like him. 

But he’s possessive, secretive, dismissive and forceful.

2. Irie Naoki, Itazura na Kiss. 

Naoki has always been - in my opinion - a dick. He pissed me of quite a bit even back then. But, since I always make sure to wear my shoujo anime/manga glasses to ignore problematic behavior when I’m reading manga, I don’t hate him.

! Please don’t get me wrong, even with my shoujo anime/manga glasses there are certain things that I can’t ignore and that really drive me crazy (ex. rape, racism, fat shaming, etc) 

It’s simply that I can understand that there’s a huge gap between manga and reality, and as long as I can recognize the problematic behaviors, I feel like I can enjoy them and respect the poetic license behind it. 

 Ok, that’s it, sorry for the long-ass post. 

[whatever-the-fucky-i-writes]

Caught Somewhere in Time - Part 4

Word Count: 6,272 (I’m sorry)

Pairing: None (Maybe a very slight OFC x OMC)

Main Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC - Andi, OMC - Max

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Mentions of death, Swearing

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7   Part 8   Part 9 (Final)

Series Masterlist

Author’s Note: Obviously, this is a longer part. Sorry about that. When I was doing my light editing, I couldn’t find a good spot within here to split it up and I’ve decided to have faith in my initial ruling. None of the other parts are this long, I promise.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Supernatural, only my OFC and OMC. Also, the plot line is basically a mash-up of a couple different episodes so I don’t own those either.

Previously:  “Son of a bitch!” I say under my breath. He’s gone. I walk up to where he was and look around. He’s nowhere to be seen. Just as I’m about to give up hope, I hear a sickening scream. It’s coming from within the alley, I run towards the sound. I can hear Sam and Dean running not too far behind me. I turn the corner of the alley. That’s when I see the poor homeless man lying there.

         I solemnly walk out of the alley. I come out onto a bustling city street. People are walking left and right, cars are driving by. I quickly duck back into the alley, looking down at my attire. I’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb. I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves.

        Come up with a plan, I tell myself, Find a store. Figure out when you are. Get some food. Figure out the rest from there. I hop out of the alley and once more onto the busy sidewalk. I turn and begin to walk with the flow of the traffic quickly. A few people look at me weirdly, but I ignore it the best I can, keeping my cool. “Thank God,” I whisper to myself as I see a gas station up a ways ahead. I pick my pace up a bit. Once I finally step inside, my eyes immediately find a newspaper stand. I pick up a copy and take a look.

        The date reads November 16, 1947. Well, this just rocks, I think, the thought covered in a thick layer of sarcasm, I’m stuck in freaking 1947. Ughhhh… I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger. I feel a massive headache coming on. Focus, I internally tell myself, What’s the next part of the plan? Get some food. I browse around for a few minutes. One benefit of going back this far is that all this stuff is much cheaper. I buy myself a small stockpile of food with $10 out of the $20 that I found stashed in one of the inner pockets of my coat. I tuck the newspaper in the bag with my food as I step back outside. I look up and down the street. I see a park about a block and half up the street. I walk over and sit on one of the benches there. I pull out the newspaper as I begin to munch on the first thing I saw in my bag. I flip through the pages absentmindedly until something catches my eye. A report on a recent death... or deaths I should say. It didn’t say how the victims died exactly, just that it was “unusual” and that the police were basically chasing their tails.

        Could be my kind of thing, I think, nodding to myself, Couldn’t hurt to check it out. Might as well get something done here seeing as how I don’t have the slightest idea as to where to start to try and get myself back home. I look down at my attire. But first, I’m going to need a change of clothes. I look up and down the street once more. Damn, this street has everything doesn’t it? I think upon seeing a clothing store. I throw my uneaten food back in the bag and tuck the newspaper in there as well. I cross the street and walk into the building. The walls are lined with clothing as is the rest of the place. I browse up and down the aisles made by the racks of clothing. I end up picking out a pair of black dress pants with a matching black button up shirt, and a pair of killer black heeled boots. I buy these with another $3, leaving me with $7. I walk over to the register to purchase the clothes. Again, another strange look from the lady checking me out, but I brush it off. She hands me my new clothes in a bag and I take them over to one of the changing rooms where I change into them quickly. 

         I exit the store and look back at my newspaper. It seems that the murders fell under the jurisdiction of the 13th precinct. Lucky me, it even lists the address of their building. I stop a random guy on the street and ask politely for some directions. When he’s done, I give him a rare, courteous smile, thank him, and begin my walk. It takes me about half an hour of walking to get there. Just before I enter, I remember my badge. I quickly retrieve it from within a pocket in my trench coat and stick it in one of my pant’s pockets. I look around a bit and find a secluded place to stash my bags. I’d hate to rouse suspicion in a place full of armed people. That probably wouldn’t end well. I walk back over to the doors and take a deep breath before walking in. I enter in a cramped room. It has a high ceiling with marble floors and walls. There are two hallways leading up the sides at the opposite end of the room and in the space between them, on the wall, is a giant sign with the emblem the Chicago PD. Desks line the floor in rows with one big gap going up the middle to a row receptionist’s desk. I make my way up to the receptionist. I hope I don’t look too out of place.

        “Hello,” I say to the nice, middle-aged lady, “I’m Agent Jett with the FBI.” I flash my badge, not long enough for her to read the date of issue, which is some forty years in the future.

        “Oh!” she says, “You must be the partner of the other guy who just got here. I knew it was odd that he was by himself. Don’t you guys usually have partners?”

        Okay, I think to myself, This puts a twist in things. Say no and it looks suspicious. Say yes and we could get caught and thrown in jail for fraud. I make my decision.

        “Yes,” I say cordially, “that’s my partner. Could you please direct me to him?”

        “Sure thing,” she says, smiling and gesturing to her right, “Go down that hallway and up the stairs. Get off at the first landing. From there, there will be directions to the homicide department. He should be talking with Sergeant Barnes. Have a nice day!” I make my way down the hallway and up the stairs, following all her directions. I walk into another room with more desks. I see a man in a grey trench coat that looks like it’s made of wool. He’s got a matching grey fedora on with black leather gloves. I can see the top of a white dress shirt peeking out around the collar with a blue tie. He towers over the short guy he’s talking with, looking like he’s around 6’2”. As I finish sizing him up, I think,

        Now or never. It’s showtime. I plaster on a convincing, if fake, smile, walking over and addressing the guy in the trench coat as I say,

        “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up in some nasty traffic. I’m Agent Jett. I see you’ve met my partner. Nice to meet you Sergeant Barnes,” I say, pulling out my badge once more and then shaking his hand.

        “Agent Jett. It’s nice to see you got here in one piece. I was just talking with the nice Sergeant here and he was telling me about that string of deaths we’ve come to investigate.” He’s playing along. That’s either a really good thing or a really bad thing because he’s either a fellow hunter who doesn’t want his cover blown or a real FBI agent who doesn’t want to make a scene.

        “Sure was. Say, are there many women like you?” The Sergeant asks me bluntly. Some people have no appreciation for tact.

        “No,” I reply, “There’s not that many of us, but we manage to keep up with the men.”

        “Huh,” he says, assessing me.

        “Could you please continue?” my “partner” asks.

        “Sure. I’m not really sure what to make of this. The people at the brewery really want some closure, but I’m afraid I can’t give them any. Do you want to examine the bodies?”

        “Yes,” I say, “That’d be really helpful. Could you instruct us the ME’s office?”

        “Sure thing,” he says. He gives us detailed instructions and even goes so far as to write them down for us.

        “Thanks,” the guy and me say at the same time. Weird.

        “Oh,” he says quickly, seeming to have remembered something, “If any new information should be brought to light on the case, contact me here.” He hands him a card with an address on it. The Sergeant nods and we turn around and start to head out. Just as we enter the hallway, he looks around quickly. Seeing nobody, he tries to slam me into the wall. I duck and pin him up against the wall, holding a knife that I’d been smart enough to strap on my leg earlier against his throat.

        “Who are you?” he spits at me.

        “Agent Jett,” I reply, the lie coming out easily, “I should be asking you the same question. You’ve got sideburns that extend below your ear, which is against real FBI policy. You’d have to have them trimmed before you were even let out in the field so you’re not real FBI. And if you’re not FBI, then who are you?”

        “I’m a specialist who knows a few things about some things. I’m here to help,” he says after a few seconds of consideration, raising his hands in surrender.

        Great, I groan internally. I’ve heard Dean and Sam give that line plenty of times. Another hunter. Whatever, I suppose. “Sorry about this,” I say. I don’t really mean it.

        “About what?” he asks right as a press the knife into his throat a little. I’d had that knife custom made to meet all my hunting needs. Forged from silver and iron with some salt and holy water mixed in. A little blood begins to leak out of the small cut. No reaction. I lower my knife. “You’re not a monster so I guess that’s good. My name’s Cassandra Singer. What’s yours?”

        “How do I know you’re not a monster?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. I roll my eyes saying,

        “This is made of silver and iron forged in salt and holy water.” I slice the palm of my hand, proving my humanity. He nods before saying,

        “Max Harvelle. Even though this is my case, you’re already here so why don’t you stick around and we’ll work this one together?” he replies.

        “Works for me,” I say nonchalantly, “Let’s get going to the ME’s.” As we exit the building together, I turn and say to him, “Do you mind if I grab my stuff first?”

        “Not at all,” he replies in a businesslike manner, “Lead the way.” If this guy was going to be so formal about this, it was going to be one long hunt. I duck into the alley and retrieve my bags. “Here,” he says, “You can place these in my car.”

        “And where might that be?” I ask.

        “Follow me, m’lady,” he says with a comical bow. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. “I parked it right over here,” he says, gesturing to a car that’s parked right in front of the precinct. I’m met with a  black and dark blue ‘35 Triumph Gloria Vitesse. “Bought her for a steal,” he says proudly, “Reinforced her until now she’s like a tank. Your bags’ll be safe in here.” He opens up one of the doors and steps aside. I place my bags in the back and step back. He closes the door and locks it. We head one building to the left of the precinct and walk through the glass doors. The inside walls are white tiles and the floor is a dull gray. The front room is small. It has a few chairs lining the walls, a door on the back wall, and a few feet to the left of it is a desk with  young man sitting at it. He looks up from the newspaper he was reading and asks us,

        “Who are you?” We pull out our badges simultaneously.

        “I’m Agent Smith and this is my partner Agent Jett. We’re with the FBI,” Max lies smoothly. I wonder how long he’s been at this. He doesn’t look a day over 30, if that.

        “Okay. How can I help you fine officers of the law today?” the attendant replies.

        “Is the medical examiner in?” I ask, “We’d like to take a look at a few bodies.”

        “Let me check,” he says, his boredom dripping from every word. “HEY DOC!” he bellows over his shoulder, the extreme loudness of his voice seeming out of place in the quiet building.

        “WHAT IS IT NOW ARTHUR!” echoes from behind the door.

        “He’s here,” Arthur tells us calmly, “Would you like to speak with him?”

        “Yes, that would be really helpful,” Max says with a forced smile.

        “THERE’S SOME PEOPLE FROM THE FBI HERE TO SPEAK YOU!” Arthur shouts over his shoulder once more.

        “WELL WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR YOU FAT-HEAD! SEND THEM BACK HERE ALREADY!”

        “The Doc will see you now,” Arthur says, getting up from his chair, “If you’ll please follow me.” He opens the door and walks us down a hallway and past a few doors to the last door on the right. “He should be in here,” he says, promptly leaving. We step inside to a pristine, but sparse office. There are no windows and only a few pictures on metal desk to the right of us. Behind the desk are a few filing cabinets and a very small bookshelf that has few medical-looking books on it. A middle-aged man sits at this desk. He has red hair with gray around his temples and ears and glasses pushed down his slender nose. His cheeks are slightly sunk in, making him look older than he probably is. He’s wearing a suit underneath a buttoned up white lab coat. He looks up from the book he was reading, closing it and setting it down.

        “I’m sorry about my assistant,” he apologizes, “I would have thought it would have gotten through that thick skull of his that the FBI get sent straight back. Oh well. No use wining about it now. What’re your names?”

        “I’m Agent Smith and this is my partner Agent Jett,” Max says, repeating his line from before.

        “Okay Agents Smith and Jett. Welcome to the Chicago PD’s 13th Precinct Morgue. What can I do ya for?”

        “We understand that the bodies related to the brewery case are being held here?” Max says, “We would like to examine them.”

        “I’ve already completed my reports. Wouldn’t you rather look at those?” he asks back.

        “No offense, but we’d like to conduct our own investigation of the bodies. But if you don’t mind giving us your reports, that would be helpful too,” I say.

        “No, I don’t mind,” he says, turning around. Muttering names under his breath, he searches around through his filing cabinets and pulls out four manilla folders. He hands them to me, saying, “I’ll show you to the bodies.” We walk out of his office and enter the room directly across his hallway. The floor is the same gray color as the rest of the place, but the walls are no longer white. Instead, the walls are stainless steel with rectangular doors of varying sizes. There are a few autopsy tables going down the center of the room as well. There are lights hanging from the ceiling, bathing the room in a pale white light. “Let me see…” he trails off, “C4, D10, M3, and Z9…” He pulls open various doors around the room. These should be the corpses you’re looking for. I suppose I’ll leave you to it. If you should need anything, don’t be afraid to holler. Have a lovely day.” Once he’s left the room, Max turns to me and says,

        “He seems oddly perky for a guy who’s surrounded by death.”

        “No, he’s not,” I mutter kind of under my breath. Seeing the quizzical look I’m getting from Max, I elaborate, “I saw the extensive collection of empty and full bottles of Jack in his trash and where he thought people can’t see them. He’s not ‘oddly perky’. He’s hammered.”

        “Hammered?” Max asks.

        “Umm…” I say, searching for an equivalent, “Sauced?”

        “Oh,” Max replies, realization dawning on his face.

        “Yep, Doc over there’s got a bit of a booze issue. Anyway, you take those two over there and I’ll take these two?”

        “Sure,” Max says, “Mind giving me their files?”

        “Catch,” I say, tossing the files in rapid succession at him. He catches one in each hand. He’s got good reflexes. He walks over to the bodies and pulls out an EMF meter. Nothing.

        “Mind if I use that?’ I ask.

        “No problem,” he replies, “Here.” He sets in on one of the tables. I pick it up and run it by my bodies. Still nothing. “No EMF so it’s not a ghost,” I say, setting it back on the table.

        “Their hearts are still intact and it’s not the correct lunar phase either so it’s probably not a werewolf,” Max adds, moving on to his second body.

        “No bite marks and plenty of blood left in them so not a vampire either,” I say back.

        “Wait, did I hear you right?” Max asks, not looking up from the body he’s examining, “You said vampire, right? Aren’t those extinct?”

        “Nope,” I say impassionately, popping the p, “Just laying low is all.”

        “No hole by the base of the skull so also not a wraith,” Max chimes in, “Besides, those tend to stick to looney bins and psych wards. Doesn’t seem to be any of the usual suspects.”

        “No, it does not,” I say, accenting each word. “Nothing seems too out of place besides one gaping hole right clean through their midsection. Have you talked to many people yet?”

        “I really don’t think this is the best place to discuss this,” Max says, eyes darting over to where the doc’s office is. “He might hear. Speak of the Devil.” The Doc peaks his head through the door and says,

        “I don’t mean to be impolite, but you guys came in kinda late and it’s basically time to call it a night. Are you done with the bodies?”

        “Yes, I believe we are,” Max says.

        “Thank you for your cooperation,” I say as we walk out. Once we’re standing by his car, he says, “Where are you staying? I could drop you off there if you want. I’ve got to get a few things and then I’ll swing around.”

        “Ummm…” I trail off. It now occurs to me that I don’t have a place to stay. The look on my face seems to give me away.

        “You don’t have a place to stay?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

        “No, I guess not,” I say, looking down and to the side as if the smudge on the sidewalk has all of sudden become very interesting.

        “Well,” he says, his face looking as if he’s thinking something over. “I suppose you could stay with me for tonight.” I consider his proposition for a moment. I don’t really have any other options. The nights are usually too cold to spend outside this time of year. But on the other hand, I just met this guy and I don’t exactly trust him that much. It’d be very awkward, at least for me. Just for tonight.

        “Sure,” I say, looking up at his face, “I suppose I could do that.”

        “Now that that’s settled,” he says, opening the passenger door, “Your chariot awaits you.” I internally smile at his attempt at lightheartedness. I hop inside. He closes the door and walks back around to the driver side. We take off and start winding down an impossible number of turns and streets until we stop at an older looking apartment building on the edge the industrial district. The faded red bricks are cracked, the rough wooden window sills are rotting, and the windows themselves are smudged with soot and dirt. The cement steps that lead up to a front door that looks like it’s barely hanging on to its hinges are ridden with cracks and have whole chunks missing from them. The sad thing, I realize, is that I’ve lived in worse places on hunts. “I’ve got to pull ‘er ‘round back,” Max says, “This is a bit of a sketchy neighborhood and I prefer to keep this car in good condition. Can you just wait for me out front here?”

        “No prob, Bob,” I say, grabbing my bags from the back and stepping out of the car. Max pulls away and turns around into the alley next to the building. I stand there, in the light of a single lamp post casting a soft orange light on the street and sidewalk around me. I hadn’t noticed how dark it had gotten; I could see the Sun setting behind of a few buildings, the most vibrant reds and oranges light up the horizon with hints of pink. After a few chilly minutes of waiting, Max emerges from around the corner with a rucksack slung over his shoulder and begins to ascend the stairs to the door. I follow suit and am greeted by an entryway that seems to be in a slightly better condition than the exterior of the building. It’s a narrow hallway, barely enough room for one to walk down, old, dark, wooden doors with faded bronze numbers line the walls. At the end is a spiral staircase that leads upwards. 

         We begin our ascent up the stairs. We pass by twelve floors before we finally reach the top floor. We trudge all the way down to the end of the hallway. Max pulls out a key from his coat pocket and shoves it into the lock, turning it. We step inside, into a small room that was probably meant as a place to hang coats and place shoes. Instead, there’s a reaper trap on the floor and a devil’s trap on the ceiling. I see some other sigils and wardings painted on the walls. Most people wouldn’t see them because the paint’s the same color as the walls and floors, but I can see it in the right light because the new paint of the wardings is oh-so-slightly lighter than the aged off-white of the walls. In front of me is a door that is made of what looks like solid iron. I can see small granules coating it, salt I presume. Max pulls out a huge key and shoves it a hole in the door. He turns it slowly and with a groan, the door unlocks. He stuffs the key pack in a pocket and shoves the door open with his shoulder. “Nice job you did on the place,” I say as we step through the doorway.

        “Thanks,” Max grunts back as he pushes the massive door back into place and slides the humongous deadbolt back into place after turning on the lights. We stand there awkwardly for a few seconds and I take the time to check out his apartment. We’re in the main room. I’m facing the way we just came in and in the corner behind me and to my right is a counter, an oven, a refrigerator, and a sink. There are some dirty dishes sitting in the sink with some clean ones on the side and a few empty beer bottles laying around as well. On the wall to my right, about ten feet over from the kitchen, is a door. I don’t know where it leads, but judging from the lack of bed and bathroom in the room I’m in, that’s probably where it leads. The whole half of the room to my left is a living space with a couch, a recliner, and a few bookshelves stacked to the brim with books of all shapes, sizes, ages, and language. There’s also a table over there with a few chairs around it and a lamp sitting in the center. The furniture all looks a bit rundown, which seems to fit the apartment. There are cracks in the wall and the walls are stained and dirty. Max clears his throat, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck while gesturing around with the other and says, “Well...Umm… Yeah. I apologize for the state of the place. It’s not everyday I entertain guests.”

        “It’s fine,” I say, brushing off the apology, “I’ve stayed in motels and houses much worse than this. This is like a five-star hotel compared to the place I was just staying in.” I set down my gas station bag and ask, “Do you have any place I can change? This whole FBI get-up thing is kind of uncomfortable.”

        “Sure,” he says, still rubbing the back of his neck. He gestures to his left, my right, and says, “The bathroom’s through that door on your left.”

        “Thanks,” I say. I open the door and step through. I was right. That door did lead to the bedroom. While the floor of the main room was a dark oak, this had short carpeting on its floors. The walls are a light gray, and there’s a small bed on my right side, the long side of it flush against the wall. A window is over it, letting in the pale moonlight. The room is sparse. Aside from a photo of Max with an older man and a man about his same age, there are no personal effects. There aren’t many clothes hung in the closet on the wall opposite the entry door. I think I see a false wall panel in the center, but I’ll leave Max’s privacy as intact as possible. I am his guest after all. I turn into the bathroom quickly. It’s better than some I’ve seen, but not by much though. The whole ambiance of the place is that it needs to be cleaned. I’m sure if he cleaned this it wouldn’t be so bad. I pull out my clothes from my bag and look over my options. I don’t think wearing the tank top would be appropriate. Besides, I’m not that comfortable with him anyway. I settle on just wearing my Henley with the jeans. I look at myself in the mirror. I frown. I’m not exactly sure if I’m right, but I’m pretty certain most women these days didn’t have tattoos winding up their arms. There’s also a few buttons undone at the top. I really wish I knew more about the standards of this era. 

         Ultimately, I decide I’m too lazy to fix anything so I just leave the sleeves rolled up so they’re more like ¾ length and leave the top few buttons undone. I fold up my new FBI outfit and place it inside the bag with the rest of my clothes from my time. God, my time. How I was really missing that. I redo my ponytail that I’d taken out earlier and head back out. Max is sitting at table. I think I see him raise an eyebrow slightly at seeing my apparel, but he says nothing aside from, “You done?” I nod. “Swell,” he says, “I’m going to take a shower. Make yourself at home, I guess. Mi casa es su casa.” He heads off through the door and I sit down on the couch. I sigh, looking over at his bookcase. In the back of my mind, I register the sound of the shower turning on. I wander over, running my fingertips along the dusty backs of the aged books. I stop when I reach one in Greek. I hadn’t really stopped to think much about how I got here. I figured Chronos had something to with it because, besides angels, who, by the way, don’t emit a red light when time traveling, he’s the only thing out there with enough mojo to swing this. I think again to myself,

        I hate gods. I grab the book open and flip through until I find a page with the top labeled χρόνος, which I roughly translated to Time, aka Chronos. I skim through, thankful that years of hunting and research have given me a basic understanding for the classic languages. I find nothing of particular use so I put the book back. Maybe I’m not looking in the right book, I think. That seemed like more of a reference book; I needed an encyclopedia. I skim through the rest of the bookshelves and find a stack of Greek books from throughout the ages. I lay them out on the table and start reading. I’ve got multiple open books laying out across the table. I’m so engrossed I don’t hear Max reenter the room. I don’t realize his presence until I hear his voice come from behind me, asking,

        “Why’re you so interested in Chronos? You don’t think he’s causing the deaths, do you?” I sigh, rubbing my hands on my temples.

        Damn it, I think. I’d really hoped to avoid this conversation. But it’s better to come clean I suppose. “This is going to sound really crazy. At very least, pretty messed up,” I say to him, only slightly turning my head towards him over my left shoulder.

        “We’re hunters,” he states, “If you haven’t noticed, our lives are pretty much ground zero for crazy and pretty messed up.”

        Here goes nothing, I sigh to myself internally, No use in going soft, I suppose. Turning around to fully face him, I look him in the eyes and say, “I’m from the future. 2016 to be specific. My friends and I were tracking a string of deaths where all the victims were mummified. Long story short, it was Chronos, I tackled him as he was glowing with his red time energy, which apparently means he’s traveling, so I inadvertently hitched a ride to 19-freakin’-47 and I’m stuck here for who-knows-how-long now. I’m so interested in him because I’m seeing if there’s anyway to hitch a ride back or reverse this or something. I’m so interested because I just want to go home.” That last sentence comes out more as a softly spoken afternote that I actually hadn’t meant to say aloud.

        “Oh,” he says, at a loss for words, “Where- I mean- When you come from, is there a lot of this… time… travel… stuff?”

        “No,” I reply with a light laugh, “There’s only about 3 things that can do this without a blood spell.”

        “If there’s a spell that does this,” he asks, “then why don’t you use that to go back?”

        “Because when I said blood spell, it’s not just what you have to write it in. It’s the destination. It takes you to your nearest living blood relative, which I’m all fresh out of. Long line of only children plus people who didn’t have kids equals me, literally the only member of my entire bloodline left alive on the face of planet Earth,” I say with a bitter undertone.

        “Oh,” he says again. Something flashes behind his eyes and he’s striding over to the bookcase. He runs his finger back and forth, pulling out a few books here and there until he’s at one of the thickest. “Here,” he says, setting the stack on the table, “These are some of the grimoires I’ve collected over the years from various witches. I know some of them could pack a real punch so maybe there’s something in these potent enough to get you back.”

        “Thanks,” I say, giving him a grateful smile, “I think, though, that I’ll leave this research for a little later. There are people dying and we’re on the case… So, what do you know?” I listen attentively while quickly bookmarking all my pages and setting the grimoires as well as the Greek books in a stack over by the couch.

        “Well, for starters, the people that are getting bumped off are all someway connected to the founders of this local brewery called DeWinter’s Brews. One of the co-founders, a Mr. Jonathan DeWinter, who also happened to be the brew master, died recently. Some sort of stress induced heart attack. I talked to his widow. She said he traveled a lot for work; that the company was like his baby, his most prized possession, second only to her so he’d said. She says he was the one of the kindest individuals you could ever hope to meet. The company’s going the through the process of selling out and, since he was apparently unwilling to let it go, the other three voted him out of his own company. His wife said that there wasn’t any bad blood, though. According to her, he even bought them a gift, a bottle of saké if I remember correctly, on one of his last trips to Japan to show them his forgiveness. I was going to go talk with the other owners tomorrow. The victim’s are Miss Florence Creighton, girlfriend to Mr. Ryan O’Doherty, Mrs. Thelma O’Doherty, Mr. Ryan’s mother, and Mr. and Mrs. Schmitz, the parents of Mrs. Francis Pond. In related news, Mr. Pond’s parents also recently died, although they check out as normal deaths. Like I said, the victim’s connections to each other is their affiliation with someone who’s a founding member of the brewery. Their causes of death are all the same, massive trauma to the abdomen. The sciency way of sayin’ that they got their guts punched out. There is one other strange similarity, though it’s above my pay grade. They smelled like alcohol, like they’d been buzzed when they died or something. That’s pretty much everything I got at this point.” I sit in silence for a few more moments, mulling the new information over.

        “I’m at a loss,” I say at last, “I don’t think I’ve ever taken on anything like this. I suppose going to see the other co-founders is our best move at this point. I’ll go with you tomorrow to interview them. That okay?”

        “Yeah,” he says, standing up, starting over to the bedroom door, “sounds swell. I think I’ll call it a night. Good night, Cassandra.” He’s halfway through the door when he finishes. He turns around and gives me a little smile before stepping through and closing the door behind himself. I sigh and turn back to the stack of books. I skim through the Greek ones, though they yield no new information. I put them back where I found them on the bookshelves and start going through the grimoires. This turns out to be more time consuming than I expected. I only make it through a few before I look at the clock sitting on the counter in the kitchen. It reads twenty-two hundred hours. It’s not like I haven’t stayed up longer, but I’d need my energy tomorrow so I needed some good rest. I lay down on the couch, getting mildly not uncomfortable. I close my eyes, but after a while, it becomes clear that this is bound to be another insomnia-fraught night. I roll over and grab my phone and earbuds out of my bag. I put the earbuds in just as a light rain starts; a November rain. I start a random song up and lo’ and behold, none other than my favorite Guns n’ Roses song comes on. I laugh a little at the coincidence. The rain plus the soothing beginning of the song are lulling me into sleep in record time as I’m fading into sleep.

        I awake to darkness. I groggily sit up and quietly trudge over to the clock. I can barely read it, but I can still see it says 0500 sharp.

        Right on time, I think sarcastically to myself. I really wish I’d been able to shake that habit after these years, but no dice. I wander over to the table and turn on the small lamp sitting on it. I pull up a few of the remaining grimoire’s and begin my search once more. Thank God this one’s in Latin. The other one was Romanian and that was really starting to get taxing to translate. After sifting through about half of one, I see a spell that catches my attention. I read it closer. This could definitely be of use. The name of the spell alludes to something in the neighborhood of “The Spell of the Traveler”. I nod, thinking, This could work. But there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. It’s a two party spell. One group is the person or persons traveling and the other group acts as an anchor for the first group. A traveler and a summoner.

        I need to get a message to Sam and Dean, I think, But how? I think it over for a few minutes before an idea dawns on me. I know where they should be in the future, so I’ll just leave them a message from here in the past! I can write them a letter and leave a marker there for them to see in the future! Although how I’ll get their attention is another matter. I look up for inspiration. Nothing. Down in desperation. Something. I look next to the spell, there’s another spell for illuminating writing when exposed to moonlight on specific days, handy for witches trying to be secretive. And their secretiveness is my fortune today. But I’m halfway across Chicago from where they are. I’ll need a ride. Max picks that moment to wake up; I can hear him through the door.

        “Hey Max!” I call.

        “What?” he calls back groggily.

        “Know any good places to score some wheels?”

To Be Continued...