#past!Hunter is NOT happy and he will NOT be cooperating with his captors

[quadrantadvisor]

My TOH time travel au is like. The Collector never stopped the draining spell. Hunter escaped its influence by going to the Human Realm, but when they finally return, everyone else is gone. Goop Belos is at large, King never learned to get along with the Collector because he was busy grieving, The Boiling Isles are in chaos.

Some shit goes down, the group gets separated, and King ends up with Luz and Hunter. In a moment of final desperation, he connects with his dad, and they use their titan magic to send Hunter and Luz back in time, not in a predetermined time loop, like the time pools, but basically creating a new universe where they have the power to change things. It takes so much energy that to accomplish it, both titans have to give up their life force (a la Rise!TMNT movie).

Hunter and Luz are now a few months in the past. In their timeline, practically everyone they know died, and their little brother just gave his life to give them a second chance. They are traumatized and codependant and DESPERATE to stop the day of unity.

From everyone else's perspective, two masked criminals suddenly appeared in The Boiling Isles. They strike hard and fast, and no one knows what they look like or what they're trying to accomplish. They use stange magic no one's ever seen before, and the Emperor's Coven can't keep up with them.

One of their first criminal acts? Kidnapping the Golden Guard.

(They couldn't just leave him there.)

[hoboal87]

The Fear

Title: The Fear

Pairing: Dean x pregnant!Reader, minor Sam x Eileen

Characters: Dean, Sam, Reader

Summary: Dean comes home to find Y/N missing.

Word Count: 2300+

Warnings: angst with a happy ending, kidnapping, violence, fluff, pregnancy, non-graphic descriptions of childbirth, 15 x 20 adjacent.

A/N: my entry for @princessmisery666's #daily mix challenge combined with a Nonnie request.

Edit: I forgot to thank the lovely @lovealways-j​ for beta-reading this for me. Thanks, Sabrina!

My song is "The Fear" by The Score

My Full Masterlist

Something’s wrong.

Dean can sense it the moment he steps into his shared room with Y/N. He looks carefully around the room, trying to find a clue as to what’s got his hunter instincts in high gear. It looks no different then when he and Sam left three days ago, and yet, every bone in his body is telling him something is off.

“Y/N?” He calls out hesitantly as he makes his way towards her old room down the hall. She’d been in the process of turning it into a nursery for the last month and had a tendency to get lost in paint samples and baby supplies. As he closes in on the room, he can feel himself becoming more on edge and instinctively reaches for his gun. “Sweetheart? You in there?”

Dean’s heart sinks further into his stomach as he reaches the newly-converted nursery. The usually meticulously organized room was in a state of disarray as if there had been some sort of struggle. Dean calls out for Y/N again, willing her to give him some kind of sign that he was overreacting to what he was seeing.

He quickly pulls out his phone dialing Y/N’s number, he and Sam should have never gone on that hunt, Y/N was due in less than a month, but she insisted that they go.

This is Y/N, sorry I can’t come to the phone, if it’s an emergency please contact Sam or Dean…

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, waiting for her message to end. “Hey sweetheart,” he does his best to keep his voice steady. “Me and Sammy just got back and I just got a feeling…” he takes a deep breath. “Call me back. Love you.”

Dean pockets his phone, before taking in the room again, trying to convince himself that it’s his new-father instincts and not his hunter instincts that have him so on edge. That’s when he sees it: under a discarded bag, a small pool of blood. Dean’s breathing grows heavier, and he scans the room again, looking for any kind of sign of what may have happened in the room.

“Sam!” Dean yells out, his breath quickening. “Sammy!”

Sam’s behind him, skidding to a stop before taking in the sight of the room before him. Even with only a cursory glance Dean knows that Sam’s thinking the same thing as him, something’s happened to Y/N.

Dean hurries down to the infirmary, Y/N had insisted that they have everything to monitor her in the final months and in the worst-case scenario anything needed to help her deliver. The simple fetal monitor is right where they’d left it three days prior, Dean insists on listening to the heartbeat of his unborn child on an almost daily basis, letting the rapid thump thump thump put him at ease.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he breathes out a sigh of relief when Y/N’s picture fills the screen. He takes a minute, calming himself, she doesn’t need to know that up until this moment he was on the verge of a panic attack.

“Sweetheart,” he smiles, “y’know you had us worried for a minute.”

There’s silence on the other end of the call, save for heavy, scratchy breathing.

“Y/N?”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Y/N whispers, choking back a sob. “I shouldn’t’ve trusted her. Now–”

“Baby, listen to me,” Dean finds Sam in the hall and mouths trace the call, Sam nods and bolts towards the library. “Are you okay? The baby?”

“That depends on you, Dean,” an unfamiliar voice replaces Y/N’s. “Now, be a good little soldier and do as I say. Only then will your precious wife and child have a chance to make it through this unharmed.” Dean can feel his blood boiling, this is why he could never not be a hunter. He and Sam have made too many enemies over the years, and now Y/N and their baby may be paying the price.

All the fear that he felt when Y/N first told him she was pregnant comes rushing back to the surface. Dean never thought he’d get married, let alone be a father, but with Rowena keeping the demons in check, and Jack limiting the angels' interaction on Earth, with the exception of Cas, life became some version of safe for the brothers.

That’s why Y/N insisted that they take the simple salt n’ burn just one state over. She knew that they were going a little stir crazy, Bobby, Jody and Donna, had started training the next generation of hunters so that boys could retire. Dean was hesitant to leave, Y/N was only a month away from her due date, but she shooed them out the door, claiming to need her own space from her overprotective husband and brother-in-law.

“Are you listening, Dean?” The voice tuts and Dean tries to clear his head of ‘if’s’ and ‘could’ve’s’ all it’s doing is driving him crazy.

“I’m listening,” Dean repeats through gritted teeth. The voice gives coordinates to a location a few hours away and before he realizes it he’s in the Impala, ready to do whatever it takes to save his wife and baby. Sam tells Dean what he’s already sure of: this is a trap and Y/N is being used as bait. He doesn’t care, he can’t lose her, lose their baby, not when she’s done nothing more than love him.

The sun is setting when they pull up to the abandoned farmhouse, original, Dean thinks. Dean wants to go bursting in, guns ablaze, but Sam stops him, reminding him that they don’t know who or what has got Y/N, and they have to be smart. He wants nothing more than to punch his brother for suggesting that they wait even a second longer to rescue Y/N, but he lets the words sink in and reluctantly agrees.

Silver bullets, holy water, dead man’s blood, witch-killing bullets and machete’s are divided between each brother, knowing that whatever has Y/N, one of these things will most likely kill it. When they enter the farmhouse Dean’s eyes lock on Y/N, who’s against a wall, two chains around her wrists.

Dean rushes towards her, the only thing on his mind is getting her and the baby out of this place and back home. Her breathing is shallow when he reaches her, and he gently inspects her body. Gingerly, he touches her face, allowing her Y/E/C eyes to meet his and she smiles lazily at him. Knew you’d come, she whispers, and Dean leans forward to place a kiss on her forehead. His free hand lands on the swell of her belly, where he can feel a slight kick against his palm.

“I love you,” Dean says softly so that only Y/N can hear him. “I’m gonna get you outta here, sweetheart, okay?” Y/N nods slightly as Dean focuses his attention on freeing her from her bonds.

There’s a grunt behind Dean, and when he turns around, Sam’s on the ground, and there’s a somewhat familiar woman standing behind him.

“Dean Winchester,” she exclaims as two large men appear and pull him to his feet. “Been too long.”

“Jenny,” he utters, remembering one of the first cases he worked with Sam. “You look good, a little dead, but, good.”

“Always the charmer, weren’t you Dean?” She takes a step towards Y/N. “I could smell you on her the second she walked past me. Women always trust other women, made her think I was a hunter; a tragic backstory here, a name drop there, and bingo, the dumb bitch is leading me into your home.”

Dean feels his anger rising as he tugs against the two men, his eyes flicker to Sam, who slowly starts reaching for the blade next to him.

“Up,” Jenny orders and when Y/N doesn’t comply she produces a blade, and presses it against her stomach. Dean’s heart stops at the threat to Y/N and their baby. “If you want to give your baby a chance to ever see the light of day, I suggest you cooperate.”

Y/N’s legs are wobbly as she stands, tears glistening in her eyes as Jenny slowly runs the blade against her. Dean’s gaze doesn’t leave her, watching as Jenny uncuffs her, and leads her slowly over to him.

Adrenaline pumps through Dean’s veins and he frees himself from his two captors; headbutting one and throwing a punch at the other as Y/N is pushed out of the way. Sam is up on his feet and in a swift move, swings the blade through Jenny’s neck, her body falling limp to the ground. For the briefest of moments, Dean relaxes, only for a vamp to be coming at him again.

Dean can barely keep track of anything, his eyes tunneling in on the large vamp in front of him. He can hear the grunts of Sam, and the familiar sound of another vamp going down. Y/N isn’t in his line of sight, and through the blood pounding in his ears, he hears Sam call his name.

It was just the distraction that the vamp needed and he barrels towards Dean, slamming him against a wooden post. He feels something pierce his side but he keeps fighting against the vamp. As the vamp is about to take his final shot, his head is gone, and Sam is quickly resheething his blade.

Y/N cries out, cradling her stomach and even from a distance he can see the pool blood between her legs. Go, Dean orders Sam who quickly obeys.

“I think she’s in labor,” Sam mutters. “I don’t think we can get her to a hospital in time.”

Dean rushes to Y/N’s side as best he can, telling her everything will be alright. Dean returns to Baby, grabbing the first aid kit, hastily patching up the wound, and retrieving a blanket from the trunk. The pain hits him all at once, but he pushes through it, his pain doesn’t matter, all that matters is that Y/N and the baby are safe.

Y/N’s screaming out in pain, begging for someone to make it stop as Sam does his best to calm her. Dean closes the distance in only a few steps, positioning himself behind her. He takes her hands in his, whispering praises in her ear as Sam orders her to push.

Within only a few minutes, Evelyn Marie Winchester is brought into the world, wailing loudly as Sam wraps her in his flannel and hands her over to Y/N. Dean offers Sam a silent thank you as he takes in the appearance of his daughter. Evie’s the perfect combination of him and Y/N.

The moment of bliss doesn’t last long, as Sam reminds them that they still need to get Y/N and Evie to a hospital. Dean moves from his place behind Y/N and winces at the pain now radiating through his body. Sam gives him a curious look, and Dean shrugs, trying to convince his brother that he’s fine.

Dean takes Evie out of Y/N’s arms, and cradles her against him as Sam helps Y/N to her feet. Dean takes a few steps before legs start to give and his vision starts to blur. The last thing Dean hears before everything going black is Y/N and Sam calling out his name.

Five Years Later

Dean watches as Evie runs around the backyard of their new home, chasing Miracle and laughing hysterically. Y/N was right, the Bunker was no place to raise a little girl, she deserves everything that he and Sam never had, and he is determined to give it all to her. Evie will never know what it’s like to go to bed hungry or cold, or wonder when she’ll see her parents again.

The opening of the front door tears Dean’s attention away from his daughter, Sam’s voice filling the otherwise silent house. He turns to see his brother carrying a ridiculous amount of gifts followed by a very pregnant Eileen with a shaggy haired toddler attached to her hip.

“Unca De!” Little Bobby tries to squirm out of Eileen’s hold and she carefully lets him down. The toddler bolts for Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean’s leg. “S’Evie’s birfday!”

“I know, buddy!” Dean laughs at his nephew, “how ‘bout you go tell her ‘happy birthday’?” Dean opens the side door and lets Bobby out.

“You are going to spoil my daughter rotten, Sam Winchester,” Y/N appears from the back of the house. Dean’s still amazed that even after years together, Y/N can take his breath away.

“Well, if I had another niece or nephew, I could spread the love.”

“I think you’ve spread enough love, Sammy,” Dean jokes as he heads into the kitchen, Sam following behind him. “I mean, you’re basically having your kids back-to-back.”

“Three years is hardly back-to-back,” Sam reaches out to grab a beer. “You’re just mad ‘cause I one-upped you.”

“Actually,” Dean peeks into the living room. “We’ll be even. Y/N’s pregnant.”

The words have hardly left Dean’s mouth before Sam’s engulfed him in a hug. Dean’s positive that Eileen and Y/N are having a similar conversation at this very same moment, but what neither Sam or Eileen know is that they have a bet on who will crack first.

“Just found out a couple of weeks ago,” Dean continues with the ruse. “She wanted to wait until after yours was born, didn’t want to take Eileen’s thunder or something.” Sam nods, seemingly understanding.

Hours later, after the last present has been opened, and the final piece of cake has been eaten, Sam and Eileen take a very sleepy Bobby home. Evie sits at the kitchen table, listening carefully and a smile growing on her face as Dean and Y/N tell her that in six months she’ll have a little brother or sister.

“Or both,” Y/N corrects with a knowing smirk.

“Both?”

Please reblog or send me an ask with your feedback!

This one-shot was requested by a nonnie, my requests are currently open, you can send me an ask or DM me if you’d like to request something. 

Buy Me a Coffee?

[abduloki]

Star Wars Visions *spoilers*

Just watched all 10 episodes and I got to say they’re pretty awesome, except for 2 episodes which I feel is a bit slow and dull. Even so, they’re still watchable.

So here are my personal 5 favorites!

The Duel

Set in an alternate history, 20 years after the fall of the Feudal-Jedi Empire, a lone wanderer known only as "Ronin" witnesses a legion of former stormtroopers attempt to besiege a small village.

Ronin fights the leader of the bandits, a self-declared Dark Lord of the Sith armed with a heavily-modified lightsaber while his droid saves the villagers; Ronin eventually lures her into a trap and kills her.

Fans of Japanese Classic Samurai films like Akira Kurosawa’s Yojimbo, Lone Wolf and Cub, Zatoichi and the likes can instantly tell the strong influence in terms of it’s setting, cinematography, story and characters.

It’s interesting that the savior turns out not to be a Jedi but a mysterious character with a red lightsaber. He seems to collect red kyber crystals from every Sith he had slayed and gave one to a villager, to ward off evil.

I’m really curious to know more of this character as he is neither Jedi nor Sith. So who is he exactly? If he is a Sith, he does not seemed to be consumed with anger and power, and still have a good conscious of a Jedi.

But seems that there is an upcoming novel exploring this character’s history, called “ Star Wars Visions: Ronin “.

The Village Bride

Years after the Great Jedi Purge, a fallen Jedi named F is drawn to a remote planet by an explorer named Valco. Valco explains that bandit raiders have reprogrammed old Separatist battle droids and are holding a village hostage.

The village chief's daughter Haru and her fiancé Asu intend to surrender to the bandits as collateral the following morning, while Haru's sister Saku wants to fight the bandits.

A fallen Jedi with a tragic past. I don’t know what exactly but those brief flashbacks were full of pain which caused her to finally step out of hiding in order to save the village and the girl who reminded her of her younger self.

I love how this episode has a mix of Japanese Shinto influence where the villagers are deep believers in protecting nature that the chief’s daughter was willing to sacrifice herself to prevent war which will destroy the planet.

And I love how the Jedi’s attire has a traditional Korean Hanbok’s influence. Anyway, I would love to know more about her history of what happened to her.

The Ninth Jedi

Many generations after the Jedi Order became mostly extinct, Margrave Juro, the Jedi ruler of the planet Hy Izlan, invites seven Jedi to his aerial temple in order to receive lightsabers, whose design has been lost to time. 

On the planet's surface, the blacksmith Zhima finishes constructing the other seven lightsabers, including one for his teenage Jedi daughter Kara. Kara departs to meet Juro with the lightsabers when her father was captured.

To be honest, I really did not see that coming as I seriously thought Juro to be the Sith who lures the surviving Jedi into a trap but it turns out the “survivors” are actually Jedi Hunters who wants to kill Juro and any Jedi returning.

The concept of a sabersmith is interesting as it follows a different approach of the Medieval period of Japan and Europe where the blacksmiths are the ones that created the swords to be used by the Samurai and Knights.

I really want to see their adventures continue with Juro, Kara and the young Jedi apprentice, Ethan I think? Would be interesting to see a Jedi Master Juro with two apprentices, Kara and Ethan as they attempt to re-establish the Jedi Order.

The Elder

Centuries after the death of Darth Bane and the initial extinction of the Sith, Tajin and his Padawan Dan are sent to explore the Outer Rim when Tajin senses a disturbance in the force. 

They land on an isolated planet and arrive at a remote village, where they learn of a mysterious elder man who hiked onto the mountaintop and concealed his presence from the Jedi.

Their relationship reminds me of Qui Gon Jinn and Obi Wan Kenobi. I love them so much that I got shocked when Dan appeared to be dead but was relieved to see him alive in the end as I want to see more of these two in the future.

The setting, cinematography, story and characters are a bit like The Duel, with heavy Japanese Classic Samurai Film influence where the antagonist enjoys dueling with a skillful swordsman worthy of his time and skill.

In The Duel, the protagonist is a former Sith while here, the antagonist is a former Sith who apparently left the Order before it fell apart. Unfortunately, Tajin and Dan are unable to investigate further after the Elder blew up his ship.

Lop and Ocho

During the reign of the Empire, a rabbit-like alien slave named Lop escapes her captors on the planet Tau and is discovered by the planet's clan leader Yasaburo and his daughter Ochō, who adopted Lop into their family.

Seven years later, the Empire has occupied their planet and is exploiting it for its natural resources; Yasaburo wants to drive the Empire off their planet, while Ochō wants to cooperate with the Empire. 

Honestly, I can’t decide between this and the Village Bride as I love these two the most equally. The story started off nice and happy with Lop being freed of slavery and running into the arms of those she would call her family.

But tragically, the arrival of the Empire drove Lop and her father away from each other due to their differences in their beliefs in protecting the planet. It’s heartbreaking to see how the sisters became “enemies”.

Given a choice to choose just one episode to make a sequel series of, I would choose this as I really want to see how things will end with Ocho and Lop. Seeing the looks on Lop realizing she had lost Ocho to the dark side is just... 😭

Overall

All in all, I can say that Star Wars Visions left me feeling like Kylo Ren. I mean, seriously, they deserve their own mini-series! This is how you explore the vast universe of Star Wars without making everything about Skywalker, the right way.

Like every one of my review post, this is just my own thoughts and preferences as everyone have their own depending on their expectations and tastes, and what they look for when watching this series.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @suburbanmotel!

Read on AO3

*****

Stay With Me

"Filthy dog!"

Derek landed heavily on the concrete floor, and even though his captors' unceremonious push had jostled his already fuzzy head and knocked the wind right out of him, he refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing his pain grunt. He looked up at the three men outside his small cell from beneath hooded eyes, schooling his features into complete blankness. Out of sheer pride and stubbornness, he would not reveal any of the weakness he felt throughout his whole body.

These men were Hunters. He'd noticed that easily. It was in the tone of their voices, the arrogance of their postures ... the hatred on their faces. But why? Why him, and why after all these years? He'd thought rogue factions like these had been dealt with long ago.

He clenched his jaw and briefly squeezed his eyes shut, partly to ease the wave of dizziness that washed through him, but mainly to contain that anger at himself for being such a wide open target. Stiles was definitely going to mock how he'd gotten soft with old age once he got out of here. He blinked several times, trying to keep his mind and vision clear. It didn't work.

"How long before he's out?" a Hunter – the one with dark eyes and a deep scar along his left cheek – asked.

"He should be out already. Mutt's stronger than I thought. Just leave him until the elixir does its thing." The cell door – thick bars of reinforced metal – slammed shut. The ensuing click of the lock was abnormally loud.

Shit. He slumped tiredly against the nearby wall once the Hunters began to walk away. As much as he wanted to overpower his captors and make some daring escape, his body was not in the mood to cooperate. Whatever they'd shot him up with earlier must've contained wolfsbane or some derivative thereof because he couldn't muster the strength to stand, much less break open the door. He blinked again, his eyelids suddenly weighing more than he was willing to support. He wanted to rub the grogginess away, but his arms might as well have been tied down with ten ton weights.

Once the distant footsteps of the Hunters faded, silence settled eerily around him. There was nothing – no one. And given the losing battle he was fighting with consciousness, he begrudgingly gave in and closed his eyes.

(***)

He struggled – and failed – to wake up multiple times. The brief recollections of the light fading from his cell flittered at the edges of his memory like phantom fingers, impermanent and ephemeral. Then, at an indeterminate hour, he jolted awake, spine ramrod straight and eyes wide open. He looked around, and saw nothing but the stark, flat surface of his cell's walls, and the dark outline of the bars.

Suddenly, he heard it. He stilled, and realized what had woken him. The faint, rapid staccato tapping away nearby was unmistakable.

"Stiles?" His voice sounded raspy from the dryness.

There was the muted shuffle of limbs against concrete, and he could practically picture the other man's scrambling movements.

"Derek?" The familiar voice eased the tension in his muscles. "Fuck, I was waiting for you at the café but you never showed. Now I know why."

He grunted an affirmative response. "Was on my way to meet you for lunch when they got me. I didn't see them until it was too late." He moved over to the bars of the door, and tried to determine which cell they'd put Stiles in. He pushed at the metal – hard. The last thing he'd wanted was for the other man to be put in danger, and if he could pick out Stiles' heartbeat, then perhaps his strength had returned too.

But the bars didn't budge. He gave them a frustrated punch, and was only rewarded with stinging knuckles. He cursed silently. Whatever drug they'd used was still in his system.

"What's wrong?" Worry seeped into Stiles' tone. "You okay?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. They just gave me something, and I'm not at full strength. I can't get us out."

A mirthless chuckle escaped the other man. "Just my luck, isn't it? I finally have time for a real, legitimate date – our first one in months, might I add – and it gets sidetracked by rogue Hunters. I mean, don't they realize that going rogue is so 2011? You can bet that Chris will be getting an earful from us about this!"

A corner of Derek's mouth lifted up fondly at the righteous indignation in the younger man's words. Still, Stiles was right: they hadn't had time for each other in months, and to say he was disappointed that their lunch plans had been derailed was an understatement. Stiles had wanted to pursue his career with the FBI, and seeing as Derek could do his freelance writing anywhere, he had followed the younger man to D.C. For five years, they'd made it work – together, both professionally and personally – so much so that Derek had gone out, bought a ring, and hidden it away in their apartment while waiting for the right moment. He had thought that two days from now would've been it. After all, Stiles had finally closed the big case that had consumed his life these past four months, and clichéd as it was, a Christmas proposal, surrounded by family and friends, felt like the ideal counterpoint to their tumultuous beginning.

"Well, at least Scott and the pack should be coming in tonight. When we're not there to pick them up, I'm sure they'll figure out something's wrong. They'll track us down, and we'll have a jolly, holly Christmas, just like we planned."

Derek raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend's optimism, a small smile playing on his lips despite their dire circumstances. Not surprisingly, things didn't seem so bleak when he was with Stiles. God, how he wanted to hold the other man right now, and give him a grateful kiss. Through everything they'd been through – from supernatural possessions to near-death experiences – they'd somehow managed to find each other, and remain relatively sane. Derek knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn't be where he was today – healthy and admittedly happy – without Stiles anchoring him. "So much faith," he deadpanned jokingly.

Stiles harrumphed, and Derek could picture the side-eye that likely accompanied it. "I'm trying to determine whether you're being sarcastic or not. You know, despite evidence to the contrary, Scott's a good friend. He's grown as a person. And as an alpha. He'll find us."

Derek shifted over to the nearby wall, and leaned back against it. "I'm sure he will," he breathed out. And he believed it. The years had served Scott and his pack well.

"Besides," Stiles added after a beat. "I want my date, so we're getting out of here, come hell or high water. Though preferably not hell, since I think we've probably seen that enough times already. Figuratively speaking. Don't think the literal place would – "

Loud voices and heavy footsteps cut Stiles off, and almost instantly, Derek moved to the bars, pressing his face against them to get a glimpse of what was happening. He prayed their captors were after him, and Stiles was just there as leverage. He could take a lot, and with Stiles by his side, he could heal from almost anything. But Stiles ... as strong and as smart as he was, Stiles couldn't.

Sounds of a struggle filtered over, and he growled loudly when he realized they'd come from Stiles' cell. "Hey!" he shouted angrily. Panic and fury were a potent mix. "Leave him alone! You want me, don't you?" He hit the bars repeatedly, cursing his diminished strength, but dead set on making enough of a disturbance so they'd leave Stiles alone. "Hey, assholes, over here! You want a fight? You've got one right here, ready and willing! Or are you too chicken shit to pick on someone who can really fight back?"

They didn't react to him, didn't even acknowledge him, and before long, they'd dragged Stiles away. And even through the resistance the younger man had put up, Derek noticed that Stiles purposely ignored him, refusing to bring any attention to him. Stupid, foolish, brave Stiles, who probably didn't want to make Derek a target.

"Hey, over here!" Derek continued to shout, regardless of the futility of it now. He hated feeling so powerless, so helpless, but he needed to do something. He didn't want to even consider what they would do to Stiles, and indirectly, what they would do to him.

Then, after what felt like an eternity of constant noise on his part, the scarred hunter from earlier came into his line of sight, dark eyes gleaming with hate, and mouth slanted up in distaste. Derek quieted, and settled for a low, threatening growl that reverberated in the back of his throat.

"Shut the fuck up, you mangy mongrel."

Before Derek could register what was happening, his captor raised an arm, and pulled the trigger of the gun in his hands. Derek froze at the pinprick sensation on his neck, and within seconds, his body dropped, his head meeting the ground with a crack before he fell into complete darkness.

(***)

He woke next to loud shouts and gunfire. He tried to move, but the grogginess in his head and the lethargy of his limbs defied that intention. It took him a few moments before he remembered where he was, but when he did, he forced his body to move.

Stiles! He rolled over with the speed of a ninety year old man, and practically crawled to the cell door. He listened carefully for his boyfriend's distinctive heartbeat, and heard nothing. The Hunters hadn't brought him back. Worry clawed at his chest, ravaging his thoughts and tainting his rationality.

He started to call out to his captors, to curse them out, and condemn everything they were and everything they'd done, but he stopped when the shouts of a familiar voice made its way into his cell. He listened carefully for a few more seconds to be sure, but that was definitely Scott's voice intermingled between the sounds of fighting. Relief flooded through him. Not surprisingly, Stiles had been right in placing his faith with his best friend, and he looked forward to the younger man rubbing in that fact. With any luck, the alpha had already rescued Stiles, and Derek just had to wait for his turn.

Patience had never been one of his strong suits, and it certainly wasn't his friend now as he waited for the sounds to die down. The gunshots became fewer and further apart, which was a good indication that the Hunters were losing the battle, and Derek indulged himself by imagining their long, painful deaths. Of course, knowing Scott, that was likely not even close to the truth, but he could dream, especially given that those assholes had hurt Stiles.

Soon, he sensed the arrival of Scott and managed to pull himself up to stand on wobbling legs, just as the man in question appeared outside his cell, eyes still red and chest heaving as if expecting more enemies. The younger werewolf calmed when he noticed none forthcoming.

"Scott," Derek said lowly in greeting. "Nice of you to drop by."

A lopsided grin changed the other man's demeanor. He assessed the bars of the cell door. "Well, you know, I was in the neighborhood anyways," he replied with a nonchalant shrug. Then, he grabbed the metal bars, and yanked – hard. The hinges and lock buckled with a shrill, prolonged squeak, and within seconds, Derek was free.

He nodded his thanks to the younger werewolf as the broken door was tossed aside. "Did you get Stiles already?" he asked as he stepped out of the confined space. Already, he felt stronger, steadier.

"Stiles?" Scott narrowed his eyes in confusion. "No, I thought he would be here with you. His scent – "

"Scott!" A panicked voice that sounded distinctly like Malia's came from a nearby cell, startling Derek as he hadn't noticed his cousin slip by them.

Without a thought, Scott ran over to the other open cell, Derek following closely behind. But then, the younger werewolf stopped abruptly at the entrance, causing Derek to almost bowl him over.

"Scott, wha—"

There were moments in Derek's life when reality had felt suspended, where he'd watched the events unfold around him like he was watching it from afar. His family's deaths had been one of those moments. Losing his small pack had been another. But this ... this reality, where Malia was crouched down – open-mouthed and wide-eyed – over Stiles' unmoving form, was as far from being real as he could possibly fathom. There was no heartbeat. Why wasn't there a heartbeat? No one moved, as if everyone was afraid that any further progression beyond this point in time would make the situation permanent.

In the distance, Derek barely made out the thumping of additional footsteps, and absently registered that the rest of the pack was making their way here. He took a step forward. And then, he took another. He moved toward Stiles, unconsciously edging Malia out of the way, and knelt down. Stiles would be embarrassed if the others saw him like this – hot shot FBI analyst, sprawled so inelegantly on the dirty cell floor. He pulled the familiar weight of the younger man against him. Maybe he could protect Stiles' reputation if he held him close enough. He lowered his head, and nuzzled his boyfriend's temple, trying to soak up that faint, comforting scent. "I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you. Please, stay with me ... please."

His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. Stiles was in his arms, where he should be ... where he should always be.

"Derek," Scott said softly. "We should –"

"No." Derek spared the other werewolf a brief glance before focusing back on the precious weight in his arms. He tried to block out those tear-filled eyes and that grief-stricken face. "Just let me ..." He tightened his hold, at a loss for words. "Please," he said brokenly. "Just ... please ..."

(***)

Derek kicked the door closed with his heel, dropped his overnight bag where he stood, and tossed his keys onto the side table by the entrance. His shoulders slumped as he took in the darkened apartment around him, the shadowed shapes of the furniture and appliances standing as sentinels in the lifeless space. Even the little, decorated Christmas tree watched him from the corner.

The quiet was almost oppressive, a heavy weight that threatened to suffocate him. It was a marked contrast to the non-stop activity since his flight to Beacon Hills for the funeral. For the last week and a half, he'd felt as if he'd lived another man's life, being pulled like a mindless zombie from the Hunters' compound to Beacon Hills for funeral arrangements, and then returning back to D.C. to pick up the pieces of what remained of his soul. Then again, maybe it was the last five years that had been another man's life, and this was just him getting back in touch with his reality. Because, really, since when and in what fantasy world did Derek Hale ever get a happy ending?

He walked sluggishly over to the table of their – no, his – open-concept kitchen, and fell, boneless, onto a chair. He stared sightlessly down at the deep scratch in the wood grain of the table's surface, and remembered when he'd lifted Stiles onto it, body half-naked and lips kiss-swollen. They'd belatedly realized that Stiles' keys had been pinned underneath, and the gouge had been a result of that small oversight.

Derek closed his eyes, and breathed out a slow breath. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything at the memory. Perhaps he was still in shock, or perhaps that part of him had died back there in that cell as well. Either way, he didn't really care.

(***)

"You okay, Derek?"

He turned to watch the Sheriff approach, his dark suit looking out of place under the bright Californian sun. He gave the older man a curt nod, and returned to staring at the overturned dirt and new gravestone. His lips thinned and he clenched his fists involuntarily. Stiles had gone somewhere Derek couldn't follow, and that knowing smile, that boundless energy, and that addictive light had gone with him. And for Derek, it felt like part of him was buried down there too, withered and dead.

"I just need a moment," he said after a pause. The rest of the funeral procession had already left the site, and he did honestly want some time alone.

The Sheriff clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, and bowed his head. "I understand," the older man supplied softly. And if there ever was someone who did understand, it would be Stiles' father, a man who'd lost his wife, and now, his only son. Derek noticed the extra lines on the older man's face, the stoop in his posture. But he also knew that the Sheriff would recover. Stilinski men were resilient. And, he had a new lady in his life now, according to Stiles' eager gossiping last year, the new town librarian.

"We'll be at the house for the wake when you're ready to join us," the older man offered.

Derek nodded again, and the Sheriff started to walk away. Then, he remembered a question that had been hovering on the fringes of his mind since he'd landed in Beacon Hills a couple of days ago. "Noah," he called out, causing the other man to stop and turn around. "Are you happy?"

"Der –"

"Not right now, but in general. Will you ever be happy again?"

The older man's expression softened at the words. "It doesn't feel like it right now, Derek, but maybe one day, I will be. Happy, that is. I'll try. For Stiles. It's what he would've wanted."

(***)

The ring was exactly where he'd left it. He grabbed it from the back of the broom closet shelf, opened the velvet box, and pulled the simple, circular piece of metal out. The titanium sat innocently in his palm – strong, simple, and perfect – just like its intended owner had been. He wrapped his fingers around it, his throat constricting at the things that could've been. And with a quick, impulsive motion, he whipped it across the room. It clattered multiple times, once against the exposed brick wall, and several against the polished hardwood before coming to rest somewhere behind the sofa. It didn't matter where it was now. In fact, he would've preferred it fall into a vent, never to be found again.

(***)

"We're here," Scott stated as he pulled into the drop-off zone outside the Beacon Hills airport. Christmas decorations still adorned the multiple stanchions and entrances as rushed holiday travellers buzzed by, evidence that the world still went on in spite of everything that had happened.

Derek nodded, and grabbed the car's door handle. "Thanks for the ride."

"Hey, wait, Derek."

He stopped, waiting for the younger werewolf to continue.

"You going to be okay? I mean, back in D.C. Alone. You could always move – "

"I don't know, Scott." Derek watched the car in front of them drop off a passenger: a husband and a dad, if the hugs he was receiving from the woman and the little girl were any indication. Frankly, he was too numb to be moved by the heartwarming sight. "I'll figure something out."

"Alright, but you know we're here if you need anything. Me and the pack."

There was such sincerity and earnestness on Scott's face that Derek couldn't outright refuse him. "Sure, thanks." He made to get out of the car then, but paused one more time. "Hey, Scott," he said, tone neutral. "Will you be okay?"

There was sadness in the younger werewolf's eyes, a deep-seeded grief that could only be from losing someone close. "Not right now, but I will be. I've got the pack," the man noted resolutely. "And they've got me. We'll get through this, and we'll be stronger when we come out on the other side."

Derek watched his companion closely. He took in the set jaw, the determined gleam in his eyes, and he knew, without a doubt, that Scott had spoken the truth.

(***)

The apartment was a mess. What had started as a thrown ring had become an overturned table, several toppled chairs, and numerous tossed pillows. And distantly, Derek realized now that the anger had worked its course, it had sapped his energy, and left him feeling like a hollow shell.

At least everyone else would eventually be in a good place. Stiles would've made sure of it. The Sheriff had someone by his side to look after him. Scott had the pack, just as the pack had Scott. But where did that leave him? What was he supposed to do now with the empty shadow of his former life?

He froze when his eyes caught the unmistakable outline of his laptop through the open bedroom door, sitting on his nightstand. He walked toward it. Perhaps there was something still left for him.

(***)

He slipped the storage facility's business card into the envelope along with the key to the large space he'd rented two days ago. Stiles, with all his attachment issues, hadn't wanted to leave his beloved jeep behind in Beacon Hills, and had driven the thing out here years ago. It was a miracle the old car hadn't broken down on the way, but now, it sat in the storage facility, right alongside the Camaro he'd bought three years ago for nostalgia's sake. He'd tossed the car keys onto the respective drivers' seats, on top of his personal papers, right before he'd locked up the rental space a day earlier. Now, he sealed the envelope, and dropped it into the mailbox. He hoped it would make it safely to Scott.

The cab was still waiting for him when he was done, and without any further delay, he hopped in and directed the driver to the nearest regional park – Fountainhead, as the case turned out to be. It would do.

The drive took over forty minutes, but in the end, he had the driver drop him off on a secluded back road, and paid the man handsomely for it. Once he was alone, he took a deep breath, and let the forest air permeate his lungs and saturate his bloodstream. He walked off the road and into the trees. When the foliage was dense enough, he started to strip, and when he was naked, he started to run. He ran, and then he shifted, his stride never breaking. As a wolf, things were simpler, free and unconfined. And when he ran like this, his mind was empty, save for the call of the wild - no emotions, no pain or hurt. And so he did. He ran, and through the forest, he could connect to an endless number of interconnected trails, which meant that he could run forever.

(***)

"Do you need anything else?"

Scott's tinny voice echoed loudly from his phone's speaker as Stiles poured the herbal mix from the mortar onto the ritual mat. "I should be good to try again. Thanks, buddy."

"Okay, we're heading back to the hotel right now, but I'll give Deaton a call then to see if he has any other ideas, in case this doesn't work."

Stiles smiled gratefully at his best friend's offer, even though the other man couldn't see it. "Sounds good. And hey, sorry our Christmas plans got messed up. I know this wasn't what you expected when you decided to visit," he said. "But this is going to work. It has to. I'm not losing him."

"It's alright, and I know, Stiles. Call me, whatever happens, okay?"

"You got it." He partitioned the herbs into five even piles, and nodded in satisfaction with the setup. "Okay, gotta go. Doing magic I haven't done in years, and my appendages need to stay in the vehicle at all times."

" 'kay, later!"

Stiles ended the call, and looked over at the unnaturally still figure sitting upright on the edge of the bed. Unblinking hazel eyes stared blankly at him, as if there was no one home on the other side. "Just you and me now, big guy," he said softly.

When Derek hadn't shown up for lunch three days ago, Stiles hadn't thought much of it. He'd assumed that something must've come up. But when Derek hadn't called, texted, or come home in time to pick up Scott and the others from the airport, he'd known something was wrong. Between himself and the pack, they'd managed to track Derek's whereabouts to just outside D.C., but by the time they'd stormed the compound, overtaken the Hunters, and found Derek, he was already in a catatonic state. Stiles blamed himself for not finding his werewolf sooner, but he'd be damned if he didn't try everything to bring him back now.

The compound had reeked of magic – or so Scott had pointed out – and after a full day of research, Stiles was pretty sure those Hunters had somehow locked his boyfriend in his own mind. He supposed that as far as loopholes in the Code went, this was a pretty good one. They technically hadn't killed Derek, but his mind was far gone enough to be close.

"You're coming back to me, Derek." If it took years, decades even, he would get the werewolf back. Derek deserved to be happy, and he would make sure of it, even if it took him the rest of his life. With that thought in mind, he stepped around the mat, and started the memorized Latin chant.

(***)

The forest seemed very much like the Beacon Hills Preserve. Stiles did a slow three-sixty to get his bearings. The clearing in which he stood was small, but as with most dreams, the possibilities of what lay beyond the trees were endless. For what Derek's mind could've constructed as a possible prison, Stiles had expected worse.

"Now, to find you," he muttered as he tried to find the best place to start.

Then, he froze. Something – or someone – was watching him, stalking him, and he had a pretty good idea who that was.

"Derek," he called out, his voice carrying loudly through the still air. "It's me, Stiles. I'm here to bring you home."

Two points of iridescent blue shone brightly to his right, and he turned to meet the emerging form with a smile. "Hello, Sourwolf," he said fondly.

The black shape moved toward him slowly, growling lowly with teeth bared. Those blue eyes, deadly and sharp, never left him, and a frisson of apprehension ran down Stile's spine at their intensity. He reminded himself that this was Derek, his werewolf boyfriend who may have a scowling, intimidating exterior, but was honestly tender and loyal and protective on the inside.

"Derek, it's – "

Before he could get another word out, the wolf leapt at him, catching him unprepared and toppling him to the forest floor. Instinctively, he moved to protect his head, and felt the burn of sharp teeth puncturing the skin of his forearm as the heavy beast on top of him bit down.

"Derek," he breathed out through gritted teeth. He knew this was all in his head – or rather, Derek's head – but the bite still fucking hurt! Instead of trying to push his attacker away though, he pulled the mass of muscle toward him, hugging the wolf close and ignoring the searing pain that radiated from his arm. He buried his face in the wolf's fur, choosing to believe that his boyfriend, the man he'd come to love beyond all reason, was listening. "Hey, Derek, it's Stiles. Stay with me, okay? We're going home..."

(***)

Stiles woke up staring at the apartment ceiling with a heavy weight atop him – a heavy, moving, groaning weight. He shifted slightly to get a better idea of where he was. In the time he'd been travelling in Derek's mind, he must've fallen over onto the ritual mat. He sighed. The finely crushed herbs were going to be a bitch to clean.

His arm moved, and his fingers comfortingly worked their way through Derek's hair. "You with me, big guy?"

The body on him tensed, and then, just as suddenly, fell gracelessly onto him again. "Stiles?"

The mix of desperation, vulnerability, hope, and pain in that one word broke Stiles' heart. He continued to run his fingers soothingly through the other man's dark hair. "Yeah, it's me. The one and only," he confirmed quietly.

And just like that, he was enclosed in a bone-crushing hug. He let it be, and only responded by holding Derek close, even as the werewolf started to shake from frantic breaths and silent sobs.

(***)

The enticing smell of bacon and eggs greeted Derek when he opened his eyes. He stretched against the softness of his comforter, and easily picked up the sound of a familiar heartbeat in the next room. Three days, Stiles had said last night when he'd finally calmed down enough to talk. Even though it had seemed like so much longer, he'd been stuck in his head for three days, thinking his world had ended. He remembered the utter loss and devastation he'd felt with vivid clarity, and he wasn't sure how he'd survived such an experience. No, scratch that, he knew exactly how, and the answer was in the next room. He sat up, overtaken by the sudden need to simply be with Stiles.

Quickly and quietly, he padded his way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He hugged the startled man dancing to Christmas carols in front of the stove from behind, and bent his head to place a kiss on that freckled neck. He breathed in the comforting scent, and prayed to every deity listening that he would be able to bask in this warmth for another seventy or eighty years, at least.

"Well, good morning to you too," Stiles said as he shut off the stove burner and leaned back into the embrace, spatula flailing. "How are you feeling?"

Derek took one more fortifying lungful of his companion's warm, spicy scent before answering. "Better now."

"Good." Stiles turned around in his arms, and something in Derek's chest constricted at the sight of the other man, smiling and alive – so, so very much alive.

"I thought we could celebrate Christmas a day late since we missed it yesterday. You know, spend the day together, and then hang out with Scott and the pack tomorrow before they leave."

Derek leaned forward and gave the other man a long, lingering kiss before making a sound of agreement.

Stiles eventually pulled away, looking thoroughly debauched with his eyes glazed and his lips swollen. "Yup, good decision to spend the day together."

Then, he straightened, a wicked glint overtaking that bright, brown gaze. "So, when Scott and I were trying to track you down, I may have used some agency resources to re-trace your steps," he started. He looked away guiltily. "I may have seen some transactions on your credit card that I shouldn't have ..."

Derek furrowed his brow, not immediately processing what the younger man was getting at. And then, realization set in. "Oh," he said simply.

"The answer is 'yes', by the way."

"Stiles." His exasperation sounded forced, even to his own ears. Trust Stiles to throw a wrench in his carefully laid plans. Who else but Stiles would do things in reverse, and answer the question before the question was even asked? Then again, he couldn't imagine it happening any other way.

With a resigned sigh, he gave the younger man a quick kiss on his forehead before walking over to retrieve the ring.

"Really?" Stiles asked as he followed Derek's progress. "The broom closet? Is that your passive aggressive way of asking me to pull my own weight with the cleaning around here?"

Derek smiled at Stiles' spot-on observation. "No comment," he threw back stoically, even though he was seconds away from a full-on grin. He returned to Stiles, ring in hand. He had to remind himself that the last time he'd held the thing, nothing had been real, that everything had just been a manifestation of his own fears.

And the reminder worked to a certain extent. The very solid piece of metal in his hand now represented the very real hopes and dreams he had for them. Stiles belonged to him, just as much as he belonged to Stiles, and nothing or no one would ever take that from him. Resolved by the promise, and warmed by the love reflected in the man before him, he held out the ring with a steady hand. "Stiles Stilinski, will you marry me?"

[mundieoriley]

The Road So Far | Castiel x Oc

Author's Note: Hey guys, how's it going? This particular one shot takes place during the season twelve premiere.  This is more of a soulmate AU, where an angel's soulmate can see their wings. So, for my purposes, Cas has his wings and my Oc is a Nephilim(I've tweaked a bit of the canon in regards to that too)

Also, just in warning, I wrote this several years ago and it's not up to the same level as my writing is presently anymore.

Thanks a bunch for reading!

Mundie

With the Darkness, Amara, at peace and the world yet again saved, one would think everyone involved would be happy. Is it wrong and selfish for three people to be unhappy, in light of the fact the world isn’t in immediate danger of annihilation? As an old stolen Ford rolls up the drive to a looming and dilapidated factory building, thoughts of that nature whirl around in Grace’s head. Instead of Dean, Sam occupies the driver’s seat on her left. Castiel sits quietly on her right, his glossy ebony wings folded awkwardly against his back. Dean’s absence reminds Grace yet again, with no other choice remaining, a Winchester sacrificed themselves for the greater good. But this time around, Dean isn’t coming back. Sam stops the truck with a quiet sigh just as, most likely hearing Grace’s thoughts, Cas wraps an arm more tightly around her shoulders, drawing her closer to his side in a sweet and comforting gesture. She leans into him gratefully, while taking Sam’s large hand into her own, hoping her gesture would ease even a little of Sam’s apparent sorrow.

The three sit like that for a few minutes, drawing comfort from each other’s presence.

Sam silently looks over at his little sister, his expressive hazel eyes gleaming with a bone deep sadness and understanding. Sammy understands Dean is not going to miraculously come back from the dead this time, but, even though it’s going to be harder than it already was from this point on, Grace’s (adopted) big brother isn’t giving up. He’s not giving up on life, he’s not giving up on her, and he sure as hell is going to give every evil thing in this world a run for its money.

And she is going to stand with him and do the same.

“Let’s get inside,” Sammy says as he gently pulls his hand away from Grace.

He opens the heavy vehicle door, slides out and closes it behind him.

Grace and Cas remain seated for several more moments in silence.

“Are you alright?” Cas’ deep blue eyes search her forest green ones.

“Honestly, not really,” Grace says, her voice sad, but even. “I’m just going to miss Dean… We all are.”

There’s another slight pause.

“Let’s get inside.” Castiel opens his own door, exits the vehicle, and extends a hand toward Grace; the beautiful midnight black wings only she can see fold delicately against his back. Slightly distracted by his wings and the memories of the day Cas told her she was his soulmate, she slides her hand into his and lets him help her out of the truck. As Cas wraps his arm around her shoulders again and the two join Sam, who was patiently waiting for them a few feet away, the nephilim remembers how happy and awestruck she was to realize that, she, Grace Winchester, despite the fact she is a half human half angel freak and considered an abomination by angels, demons and other supernatural monsters alike, was born to be with, love, and be loved in return by someone like him, an angel of the Lord.

Someone she considers far too good for the likes of her.

As Sam leads the two to the Bunker’s entrance and pulls open the heavy metal door, one of Cas’ magnificent wings partially extends, swathing Grace’s back and shoulders with warm and loving feathers.

“Do not think that, Grace,” he murmurs to her, his voice low and the smallest bit stern.

I love you.

The words surface in her mind as suddenly as thoughts tend to do and, although slightly embarrassed, she means it.

“And I you,” the angel says with a gentle squeeze of her shoulders.

By this time, Sam, Cas, and Grace have made it all the way down the staircase, all three ready for some time to come to terms with what happened that day.

Suddenly, a female and british voice breaks the silence.

“Hello, hello!”

Grace has a chance to catch sight of a sharply dressed blonde woman standing several feet away from the trio before the woman smacks her bleeding hand against one of the mortar pillars to her left. There’s a blinding flash of white light.

And everything goes black.

***

Consciousness drifts back slowly, as slowly, but less pleasantly, as waking from a deep slumber. As Grace’s senses slowly filter back, she immediately notices an aching and protesting pain in her wrists, a pain that radiates down the entirety of her arms and shoulders; accompanied by her muscles protesting and an annoying and just as painful chafing of rope tied too tightly against the thin skin of her wrists. Any movements she makes causes her arms stretched awkwardly above her head to throb in irritation. She has to stand on her tiptoes to relieve some pressure being inflicted on her wrists and arms.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp and electrical stab of pain against her ribs, causing her to immediately jerk from her semi-conscious state into one of total alertness with a cry of equal parts pain and shock.

“Was that really necessary,” she snaps at her rude awakener after a few seconds in which she caught her breath,

The women who shocked Grace with a long cattle prod, dressed smartly and brown hair pulled back into a bun, merely smirks at the other women and steps away.

“Grace, are you alright?”

The youngest Winchester jerks her head to the right, startled by the sound of Sam’s voice. The moose of a man is sat, handcuffed and chained to a chair that is almost too small for him in the middle of the dilapidated and dusty basement the two are held captive in. He has to crane his neck at an awkward angle to be able to look at his adopted sister, who stands several feet away from him.

She nods, suddenly feeling exhausted. The place must be angel awarded to Hell and back.

The door directly ahead of Sam slams open loudly, heralding the arrival of the blonde women who blasted away Cas and knocked out Grace with an angel banishing sigil back at the Bunker.

“You,” Sam and Grace growl at the same time as the women casually takes a seat in an old chair several feet away from the captives.

She clicks a pen and flips open a notebook.

“Now,” the women says as she gets settled in her seat. “Let’s begin.”

***

After about ten minutes of questioning and passive aggressive remarks, Bevell shakes her head and stands. Grace watches her carefully, ignoring the tingling in her hands and arms signaling lack of blood flow, ignoring the feeling of the angel warding slowly sapping her strength.

“I knew you and Grace were always a lost cause, Sam,” Toni Bevell says with a glance in Grace’s direction. “But I’m hoping other hunters are willing to cooperate, to learn. Because maybe with all of us working together, we can make America safe again.”

“Maybe you can all go to Hell,” Grace snaps at her.

“Have it your way,” Bevell says with a shrug as she turns and leaves the room, the heavy door slamming behind her.

The brunette turns and regards the two of them with calculating eyes. “Don’t make me do this,” she says as she pulls a gleaming angel blade.

The Nephilim’s adrenaline kicks in as the woman approaches her. She hears Sam grunting and pulling at his restraints, the chair scraping harshly on the cement floor. Grace spits on the ground at the other woman’s feet and glares at her venomously.

“Bite me,” she says in a tone matching her glare.

The brunette raises the angel blade and makes the first burning and extremely painful line across Grace’s arm. She squeezes her eyes shut and locks her jaw, holding back cries of pain. Because she is half angel, angel blades burn her skin much like silver burns the skin of a shape shifter, making the deep cuts even more painful and longer lasting than they would have been for a human. Grace’s fingers tightly grip the rope attached to the ceiling as the British woman cuts more agonizing slashes into Grace’s flesh. She refuses to let herself vocalize and silently takes the agony. All the while, Sam yanks at his restraints, fury and protectiveness building up in him every second the brunette continues to hurt his little sister. But Sam’s struggle bears no fruit other than tearing up his wrists, causing his blood to leak out around the handcuffs and drip onto the dusty cement floor.

The brunette periodically pauses in her ‘ministrations’. “Ready to start talking?”

Grace, blood leaking down her arms and torso, her chest heaving from exertion and pain, answers, despite becoming weaker every time. “Bite me.”

Then the cutting and occasional blow to the ribs or face continues until the British woman asks her the same question, only to be answered with the same response.

Finally, Grace, exhausted and drained from the angel wards and pain, after a particularly hard blow to side of the head, passes out.

“Grace!” Sam calls out, desperately hoping she will be able to hold on long enough for him to get the two of them out of there.

Bevell’s lacky wipes the blood from the angel blade with an old rag and tosses the cloth and blade onto a nearby table and picks up something cylindrical. Sam feels the blood drain from his face as he realizes what his captor carries is a blowtorch.

“You son of a bitch,” he snarls at her.

“Tut, tut.” The woman flicks on the blowtorch. “Play nice now, Winchester.”

Then, the British Men of Letters crony approaches Sam with the blowtorch raised.

***

Sam becomes conscious again, his memories of the past few hours nothing but a blur. He remembers watching Grace get cut to ribbons, the blowtorch burn left in his foot and vaguely receiving an injection. He can’t quite remember what happened after that, but if this headache is any indication, nothing good must have come of it. Sam shakes his head and lets out a small grunt, willing his mind and vision to clear. Once he can see and think clearly again, and ignoring the terrible pain in the side of his foot caused by the severe burn the brunette gave him with the blowtorch, he immediately cranes his neck, dread filling the pit of his stomach as he takes in the sight of Grace. Her dark brown hair has come out of its low ponytail, sticking to her face and neck with sweat and dried blood. She is streaked with crusty crimson, the cuts left behind red and angry. Her head droops forward, hiding some of her features and the only indication she is still alive is the sound of her uneven and ragged breathing.

“Grace! Grace, can you hear me?”

Sam curses under his breath and futility yanks at the chains binding him to the chair. If only he was free, then he’d make these bastards pay for what they’ve done. Don’t they understand Nephilim can’t stay within warding for too long, especially as injured as Grace is? She could very well die if she doesn’t get out of here soon.

Suddenly, the door directly in front of Sam swings open, and someone he never thought he would see again is roughly shoved through the doorway by Bevell.

“Dean?”

The eldest Winchester shoots Bevell a dirty look over his shoulder as she deftly chains him to the ceiling on Sam’s other side as she asks Sam if he can stand to watch her hurt Dean.

“Don’t tell her anything, Sammy.” Dean looks around the room as Bevell moves over to the small table laid out with torture tools.

His whole body stiffens when he spots Grace across the room, passed out and weak. Dean calls her name, hoping she’d respond.

When she didn’t stir Dean speaks. “Damnit, Gracie, you better hold on.”

Just then, Bevell cracks Dean across the face, brass knuckles opening up a new and bruised wound.

“Don’t worry about her, Dean,” Bevell says as she glances at Grace. “Passcodes, Sam.”

Silence.

“Not yet.” Bevell moves back over to the table as Dean grunts and spits on the ground. “Anything to add?”

“No, just came by for some tea and a beating.”

“Really?” Bevell approaches Dean again, brass knuckles in hand.

About twenty minutes of the english women landing blows on Dean and questioning Sam, who does not answer her, passes. Finally, she switches to a different topic.

“Well, seeing how asking Dean isn’t working,” Bevell picks up an angel blade and approaches Grace, who is still passed out. Her breathing is even more uneven and becoming shallow. “Shall I see how resilient Nephilim really are?”

Sam and Dean both simultaneously react by yanking on their restraints, their tempers rising.

Suddenly, a familiar voice speaks up.

“Get away from my boys.”

Bevell turns toward the sound of the voice, shock registering on her features.

There Mary Winchester stands, her gun trained steadily on the women standing a few feet away.

“Mom?” Sam chokes on his disbelief.

“Yeah,” Dean says with one of his smug grins.

Mary picks up some keys laying nearby and orders Bevell to drop the blade.

Bevell drops the blade.

“Ground.”

Bevell kneels on the ground as Mary passes Dean the keys. Suddenly, the blonde women lashes out at Mary, knocking the pistol from her hand. Before either of them can react, Bevell elbows Sam harshly in the face and punches Dean, stunning them both. As Dean recovers and struggles to unlock the handcuffs, Bevell and Mary remain locked in a bitter fight, both women equally matched. Just as Dean frees himself from his restraints, Mary and the pistol are thrown in his direction, his mother quickly getting back to her feet beside her son and Dean fires a shot into the ceiling. Just then, Bevel cuts her palm with a piece of broken glass and directs her cut hand at Grace. She begins to choke, her already ragged breathing becoming cut off by the spell.

“Kill the spell,” Dean snaps as he aims the weapon at Bevel, the sound of Dean’s baby sister suffocating grating to his ears.

Mary stands frozen beside him.

“Shoot me and your sister doesn’t stand a chance.”

There’s a tense pause.

Bevel holds out her uninjured hand. “Gun.”

After a few tense moments, Dean hands the gun over.

Then decks Bevel in the face, knocking her out cold. He lets her body crash to the ground.

Dean lets out a sigh of relief as Grace sucks in a large breath of air, however unconscious she is.

“Chinese mind trick,” Dean goes over to Sam first and works at unlocking the large man’s restraints. “Kinda hard to do unconscious.”

***

Grace drifts in a black sea of unconsciousness, feeling and seeing nothing. She can’t remember anything when she tries to. Just then, a light suddenly appears before her, a beautiful blue light that emits concern and love. Recognition stirs within her and she reaches out for the light, wanting to let it envelop her and comfort her. When her fingers just brush against the lovely light, a name escapes her lips, no more than a hoarse whisper.

“Cas.”

The very first thing she feels as consciousness is restored to her is the familiar and simultaneous touch of warm fingers gently lifting her chin, the sound of that deep and soothing voice asking her to open her eyes, and the feeling of the grace that belongs to the one she so dearly loves gently brushing against her soul. Her eyes open weakly, peering up at her soulmate with bleary relief. Her vision is fuzzy around the edges and the world sways like the desk of a ship at sea as she forces herself to keep her heavy eyes open.

“Cas,” she whispers again as he wraps a protective arm around her shoulders, the ropes suddenly disappearing from her skin.

“I’m here, Honeybee,” Cas murmurs to her as he easily lifts her into his arms, cradling her gently against his chest. “Go back to sleep.”

Even in her half delirious state, she can hear the tightness in his voice and see the tautness of his jaw, characteristics that always appear when Grace gets herself hurt or into trouble. She is distantly aware of the sound of voices a few feet away, but she can’t bring her fuzzy mind to concentrate on anything but her angel. Cas’ deep blue eyes are carefully looking away from her, obviously paying close attention to what is being said, unlike the battered women in his arms. Cas never likes seeing her hurt and she understands looking at her in such a state must be painful for him, as it would be for her if the roles were reversed.

Grace reaches up with a quivering hand and gently touches the side of Castiel’s face, immediately getting his full and unwavering attention. As blackness encroaches on the edges of her vision, she gives him a small and, if she’s being honest with herself, slightly loopy smile.

Don’t worry, My angel is with me now.

As her grip on reality slips away and her eyes close, she catches Cas’ murmured response.

“I am always with you.”

Earlier That Day

Castiel stands beside the Impala, his arms crossed and his jaw becoming tighter every second as he slowly reaches his limit. The uncertainty is killing him, as is his newfound inability to sense his soulmate because of the powerful warding surrounding this place. He knows first hand how draining it is to be trapped inside angel warding of the normal caliber, let alone warding as powerful as this. Even if his soulmate’s captors were not hurting her, as he fears they are, warding this strong is surely capable of taking Grace’s life. His jaw clenches tighter, if possible, as his treacherous mind continues with this unwanted train of thought, haunting him with thoughts of what could be happening to Sam and Grace, and now Dean and Mary as their absence lengthens.

The angel smothers the urge to scream in pure frustration.

Very rarely has he ever felt so useless in his entire life. Thanks to that blasted warding, there is nothing he can do to help his friends and the love of his existence. When he gets his hands on whoever kidnapped Sam and Grace…. His dark thought trails off as a sleek car rolls down the road toward Castiel, the windows tinted, preventing him from seeing inside the cab. The angel immediately goes on the defensive, only the simple flex of his arm needed to slide his angel blade into his hand. The car stops a few feet away from the lone angel, the engine smoothly turning off. From what Castiel can sense from the occupant of the vehicle, the driver is a human man with an air of confidence about him that grates on Cas’ already fried nerves. However, the man does not appear to have any violent or ill intent. The man steps out of the car, impeccably dressed and dark hair carefully styled, and approaches Castiel casually, as if he was expected.

“You are Castiel, I presume.” The man’s voice is most definitely british and easy going.

“Who are you?” The angel’s voice contains partially bridled hostility, the opposite of the british man’s tone.

The man raises his hands in a placating gesture, his dark eyebrows raised. “My name is Mick and I’m here to help.”

Castiel stares Mick down, carefully looking the other man over as he extends his grace to get a look at this man’s thoughts. Cas ignores irrelevant information and passing thoughts and instead concentrates on thoughts that matter. Apparently, this man had been sent to retrieve Toni Bevell, the blonde woman that blasted Cas away back at the bunker, and her associates. This man, along with Bevell and the people she brought with her, are British Men of Letters, the sister branch of the extinct American Men of Letters. There had been a miscommunication in orders from the higher ups, resulting in Bevell’s departure and eventual kidnapping of Sam and Grace. Mick is here to bring Bevell and her associates she brought with her back to London to face repercussions.

Cas pulls his grace back from Mick’s mind, the british man waiting patiently for the angel’s response.

“You…. are truthful,” the angel says, his defensive stance slowly relaxing.

“Yes and I am unarmed,” Mick says with a nod as he pulls back his black jacket, showing Cas the truthfulness of his words. “I can also destroy the warding keeping you out, if you’ll let me.”

The thought of finally getting to those he cares about most causes Cas’ heart to leap in his chest. However, he does not let his hope show on his face and instead gives Mick a short nod. The shorter man reaches into his jacket pocket, causing the angel to stiffen, his angel blade slipping easily into his hand.

“Easy there,” Mick says as he slowly draws out an ooblong object Castiel has never seen before. “It’ll take out the warding.”

A million different reasons not to trust this man runs through Cas’ mind as the angel pins Mick with a suspicious look. The object could be some sort of device designed to blast the angel away, or even kill him, it could call more Men of Letters personnel. It could-

It could allow Castiel to save those that mean more to him than anything.

Having come to a decision, the angel slides his weapon away.

Without a second look at Cas, Mick presses something on the device and hurls it at the house. Castiel holds his breath, praying he didn’t just make a horrible decision that would cost his family their lives. Just then, there’s a bright flash of light, momentarily blinding him.

Then he feels it.

Grace’s soul, her consciousness, everything she is.

He’s inside the building almost before he comprehends it, dread filling his heart, fearing he’s already too late and his soulmate and friends are beyond his ability to save.

The first thing he sees are the Winchesters gathered around something he can’t see and the angel’s heart drops to his knees as he realizes who they are gathered around. He crosses the room in a split second, practically shoving Dean aside in his haste. Castiel barely registers the Winchester’s exclamations of startlement over the feeling of Grace’s soul reaching and crying out for him. The sight of her dangling there by her restrained hands knocks the breath out of him as he reaches out for her with slightly shaking fingers. Memories of similar situations from what feels like long ago flashes before Castiel’s eyes. Memories of the time God brought him back after Sam and Michael fell into Hell, the look of shock and grief on Grace’s battered face when she saw him standing there. Memories of the time Grace fought beside him against Naomi and her angels and the look of triumph on her bruised and bleeding face as she turned to share her relief of Naomi’s defeat with him. Memories of the time Cas was human and April attacked the two of them, the sight of his soulmate kneeling before him after she saved his life.

“Grace,” he whispers hoarsely, the memories forming a hard lump in his throat as he smooths soft dark strands of hair away from her battered and bloody face.

He feels his heart clench painfully in his chest as a choked sound escapes her and it takes him a moment to realize she said his name.

Love and tenderness rises up in him full force. “I’m here, Honeybee,” Castiel murmurs as he frees her from her restraints, catching her, and, sliding an arm beneath her knees, gently cradling her against his chest.

Dean’s fists are clenched and shaking at his sides, the man obviously angry and high strung.

Sam’s face is ashy and drawn, the sight of his little sister in such awful shape clearly as painful for him as it is for Cas and his brother.

Mary watches from behind her boys, wondering if Dean’s description of his adopted sister is accurate…. but seeing the way her boys look at Grace and treat her, Mary believes it is.

***

The first thing Grace becomes aware of as consciousness slowly filters back is the feeling of familiar warm fingers wrapped around her hand and the comforting sensation of Castiel’s grace swirling around her, his presence making her feel warm and safe. She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, basking in his nearness and holding off full consciousness for just a little longer. But the memories of all that has happened in the past few days rises to the forefront of her mind, causing her to become fully awake, aware of the aches and pains in her body, and the realization that she has no idea what shape Sam is in.

The thought that her only remaining brother could be dead sends a jolt through her that makes her eyes fly open and to sit up and try to swing her sweatpant covered legs over the side of the bed, her injuries be damned. Sam is one of her highest priorities. She herself is the lowest on her list.

But Cas is there, standing from his seat by her bedside. “Grace, you must lay back down,” he says as he takes her shoulders and gently eases her back onto the mattress, one of her loose bed shirts rubbing against cuts she didn’t feel before. “You may be the lowest of your priorities, but you are my highest priority. I will not allow you to harm yourself.”

Grace grudgingly lets her soulmate settle her back in the bed, but she does not allow his wonderfully soothing voice, the brush of his beautiful grace against her soul, or his deep blue eyes filled with love and concern calm her down and take her mind off her brother. “I know and I'm not trying to hurt myself. I just want to know where my brother is.”

Cas sits down again, never taking his eyes off hers, as he retakes her hand in his. “Sam is here and he’s alright,” the angel says. “He did not sustain as many injuries as you.”

She notices the tightness in his shoulders and jaw, the rigidity in which he holds his wings against his back and the way his voice darkens when he mentions her injuries. “Come here,” she says as she tugs on his hand.

Her angel does as she asks and leans closer to her, allowing her to wrap her arms around him. She holds him as close as she can, rubbing gently between his wings with one hand and carding her fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck like she knows he likes with the other. She feels Cas hold her around her waist and rub smooth circles there. He doesn't seem to care she has him half crouching out of his seat, if the tension leaving him is any indication.

She doesn't pull away or stop what she’s doing. “I’m alright, Cas. Everything is okay.”

He pulls back just enough to see her face through the dimness in the room, one warm hand coming up and cupping her cheek. He looks deeply into her eyes and Grace immediately becomes lost in their blue depths.

“I cannot lose you,” Castiel says, his voice pitched low as he leans his forehead against hers. “I love you far too much.”

Before she can respond verbally, her soulmate closes the distance between them and kisses her, his other hand sliding into her hair and causing a shiver to travel down her spine. She feels the mattress sink as Cas places a knee on the bed beside her and his feathers brushing her skin as he brings his wings forward and protectively embraces her with them. Her own grip on him tightens a little, the only thought running through her head ‘I love you,’ repeating like a mantra.

And too soon, Castiel breaks the kiss and holds her tightly against him, the promise to never let anything like that happen to her again and to never let her go spoken silently between them. Grace exhales shakily, remembering a time in her life where the only thing that mattered was killing her father’s murderer and the only things she felt was anger and sorrow. A time where she believed she was loved by no one and deserved no one’s love. She was a Nephilim, a freak destined to be hunted down and shunned by all. A being that belongs with no one and nowhere. Then Sam and Dean found her again, her brothers not by blood, but brothers all the same and, thanks to them, she met Castiel, the angel of the Lord, her soulmate.

There is nothing she is more thankful for then her motley crew of a family; without them, she would have fallen deep into darkness long ago, a darkness she never would have been able to escape from…. But the fear of still teetering into that darkness always hovers at the back of her mind.

Castiel pulls away just enough to look into her eyes. “I will never allow that to happen,” he says as she feels the ebony feathers brush against her skin.

Grace smiles tightly, trying with all her heart to believe that. “If anyone can keep me from falling, it’s you.” She reaches up and touches his jaw with her fingertips.

Cas’ eyes flutter a little and he leans into her touch. “My Honeybee,” he murmurs.

They stay like that for a moment, silent and warm with love and angelic feathers.

After several moments, Grace pulls out of Cas’ embrace. “I need to see Sam,”

A doubtful look crosses the angel’s face, his lips tightening a fraction. “Listen, Grace-,”

The Nephilim pushes the comforter down and she gently presses the reluctant angel back a few paces. “Cas-” she eases her legs over the edge of the bed, hiding a wince behind her hair. “I can still walk.”

Castiel lets out a sigh and shakes his head, then offers her an arm. “At least let me assist you.”

Grace remains where she is for a moment, eyeing his offered arm. Finally, she reaches out to him and takes it, standing slowly to her feet. The movement tugs painfully on healing cuts and stiff muscles, but she grits her teeth and allows Cas to slowly lead her out of her room and down the long hallway. The walk is slow and painful, but she is determined to see Sam and make sure he is okay with her own eyes.

Soon, Grace and Cas are approaching the bunker’s library and agitated voices reach Grace’s ears.

No one else but Grace, her soulmate and Sam should be inside the Bunker.

She freezes in her tracks, shooting Cas an alarmed look. The angel stands beside her, thin lipped, but avoiding her eyes. She moves to round the corner, her injuries be damned, but her soulmate’s hand wrapping around the top of her arm stops her. The angel gently tugs her back, but Grace, pulling her arm out of his grip, turns to face him, incredulous.

“Cas, what’s going on?”

The angel’s voice is low, but just loud enough to mask anything being said in the library. “I wanted you to rest, Grace. Your body can’t afford any more strain, not after what happened.”

She shakes her head, feeling her agitation soften against her will. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but I’m fine, really.”

Cas opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of the Bunker door creaking open and falling heavily shut cuts through their almost silent conversation. This time when Grace turns and moves toward the corner, Cas doesn’t stop her, but remains silently by her side, knowing her too well to think he can stop her.

Grace rounds the corner and stops dead in her tracks, shock coursing through her. There, standing across the room beside Sam is someone she never thought she’d see again.

Dean.

His name passes her lips on a breath and before she realizes it, she is moving across the room as fast as her aching body will allow. Her big brother looks up, as if he actually heard her say his name, and the tension there disappears, replaced by a smile that lights up his whole demeanor. Without stopping, Grace reaches him and throws her arms around him, squeezing him as tightly as she can.

Dean gently hugs her back. “Heya, baby sis. Did you miss me?”

She lets him go and takes half a step back, her hand still on his chest, just to make sure he’s actually real. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Dean says as he leans a hip against the table. “Turns out the whole Soul bomb thing was unnecessary. Managed to talk Amara and Chuck into making up.”

Grace lets her hand drop and feels Cas come up behind her, one of his wings half extended to cradle her gently. She leans back into it gratefully, glad Cas is there to offer her his silent support.

“Grace-” Sam steps up beside his brother, placing a large hand on her shoulder- “Not that I’m not happy to see you awake, but are you sure you should be up?”

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Grace says. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright. You were kidnapped too, remember?”

Sam nods his shaggy head. “Hey, I get it and I’m fine too. Cas patched me up the best he could.”

Dean slings an arm around his little brother’s shoulders, shooting Grace one of his smug smiles. “And don’t forget your gallant rescuers.”

Grace feels Cas stiffen beside her and sharp looks pass between Sam and Dean. Grace’s eyebrows furrow as apprehension settles heavily in her stomach.

“Guys, what aren’t you telling me?”

Cas pulls out a chair and half eases-half presses Grace into it. The angel steps back, standing between the two brothers, all of who are looking down at her with the same drawn faces.

Dean's face is tight. "Amara, she- she brought Mom back." Grace's mouth falls open, but Dean keeps going. "Mom helped me and Cas get you and Sam back, but-" He stops, turning away suddenly, his hands behind his head.

Cas moves closer to Dean, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"She left, didn't she," Grace whispers.

Sam looks down and nods his head once.

Grace stands to her feet, the chair scraping loudly on the ground. "What the hell? Are you freaking kidding me? What kind of mother leaves her children behind like that? She-"

Dean whips around, dislodging Cas, his voice rising to a shout. "Don't talk about her like that!"

Grace can't help the flinch.

Then Cas is there standing protectively beside her. "Dean." His voice is pitched low in warning.

The Winchester deflates a little, some of the red leaving his face. "I'm going out."

Sam tries to stop Dean, but he simply pushes past his little brother and slams the heavy iron door in his face.  There's dead silence for several long moments. Grace, suddenly exhausted, leans against Cas. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her temple. Sam comes back down the stairs and sits heavily in a chair.

"I'm-I'm sorry." Grace says.  "I didn't mean-"

"It's not your fault, Gracie," Sam says as he wipes a hand over his face. "I'm angry too and so is Dean. You know how he is."

"This is different," Cas says, voicing Grace's thoughts. "It is your mother and she left."

Sam doesn't comment, just gets up, mumbling something about sleep, and leaves the room.

Grace turns into Cas, wrapping her arms around him.

I wish I hadn't said anything.

Her angel holds her tighter. "It is going to be okay, Honeybee."