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c-e-d-dreamer · 2 years ago

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Prompt request: nesta breaks her washing machine and Cassian is the hot maintenance guy who comes to fix it 😏😏😏

Nesta using her sharp wits to purposefully break various home appliances totally counts for Day Two: Sharp of @nestaarcheronweek, right? Let's all just squint and pretend it does! Anyways! Thanks to the besties for helping me plot this (and for enabling me, let's be honest.... y'all know what you did), for sending this ask to remind me of, and of course, thanks to everyone who reads. I hope you enjoy :)

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Water.

There’s water, pools of it, covering the floor around her washing machine.

Nesta lets out a string of curses, quickly rushing to grab towels from the linen closet. She drops the towels to the ground, trying desperately to soak up as much of the water as she can before it starts to seep through the floor and into the apartment below her.

This is the last thing she needs this week, but of course, that’s just her luck. She supposes this is what she gets for putting off doing her laundry as long as she did. She hates having to do it, hates having to stop whatever she’s doing to switch loads, else she’ll be waiting for dry sheets until late into the night, hates having to fold everything afterwards. And now that she’s held it off until she’s down to her last pairs of clean underwear, her washing machine has decided to break.

With towels covering her floor and hopefully helping keep the water damage to a minimum, Nesta grabs her phone, searching for handymen near her. She clicks the first place that Google spits out, Illyria Handymen Services. Thankfully, when she calls, they say they can send someone out for a consultation today. She lets out a breath of relief and hangs up, trudging back to her laundry unit and beginning the painstaking task of cleaning up the remaining water as best she can.

She’s not sure how much time has passed when there’s a knock at her apartment door. She clambers up to her feet to answer it, and when she pulls open her front door, she realizes that the Mother, the Cauldron, and every other deity are most definitely laughing at her. Her hair is thrown up in a messy bun atop her head, strands already breaking free from her effort to clean up the water, she’s wearing an old, oversized tee that now has various water patches bleeding through the fabric, and there standing in front of her is probably the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen.

He’s tall, almost a whole head taller than her, and large, all broad shoulders and muscle under the blue work jumpsuit he’s currently sporting. Dark curls fall down to his shoulders, perfectly framing a strong cut jawline and bright hazel eyes. For a moment, Nesta is distracted by the scar cutting through his right eyebrow, but then the man smiles in greeting, a small dimple popping in his left cheek, and she swears her knees almost buckle.

“Hey, there,” the man says easily, glancing down at the clipboard in his hands… his large hands. “I’m Cassian with Illyria Handymen Services. You called about a washing machine?”

“Yeah,” Nesta answers, the breathless quality to her voice finally jarring her back to the present. She clears her throat and steps back, allowing Cassian to enter. “It’s this way.”

With a nod, Cassian steps inside her apartment, quietly closing the door behind him. He follows Nesta to where her laundry unit is, eying the array of towels still placed all around the washer. He steps closer and pulls a flashlight from his belt, shining it down into the washer to look.

“I was running a load, and when I came back to check if it was almost done, there was just water everywhere,” Nesta explains, trying and failing not to trace her eyes along the expanse of Cassian’s back, to follow the line of his spine down to his ass, while he leans over her washing machine. “I’m not really sure where it came from or what happened.”

“And was there any standing water in the washer?” Cassian asks, stepping back and crouching down in front of the machine.

“No. All my clothes were fine. It was like it had run the cycle as normal.”

Cassian hums in understanding, as he continues to examine the space around the washing machine. “There’s a lot of lint and dust back here.”

Nesta can feel a flush of embarrassment at the comment threatening to creep up her neck, and she crosses her arms in indignation even though Cassian can’t see her with his back turned. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to clean back there with the way the unit’s built in.”

Cassian chuckles softly, and Nesta hates the way that small, simple sound has goosebumps skittering up her arms. She hates how warm and welcoming it is, quickly filling the space around them and wrapping around her limbs. She hates that she wants to hear it again, wants to hear him laugh for real.

“It’s a good thing actually,” Cassian explains, standing back to his full height. “If it was an issue with the washer’s drainage, you’d have standing water in the washer. An issue with the plumbing, with the water coming back up, that would have washed away all the lint and dust.”

“So then what’s the issue?”

“Could be the machine itself… is the dryer acting up too?” Cassian pulls open the dryer door to check, and Nesta winces as her clothes start to tumble out the opening. “Oh. Sorry.” Cassian quickly shoves her clothes back and closes the door again. “Was all that in the washer?”

“Yeah, I… I sort of put off doing laundry too long.”

“Well there’s your problem, sweetheart,” Cassian tells her, switching off his flashlight and turning around to face her again. “You can’t overstuff the washer. Otherwise, the water has nowhere to go and it can leak out the top, dripping down and flooding your floor.”

“Oh.”

“The good news is, your machine is fine, so you don’t need to repair or replace it.”

“That’s definitely good news.”

Cassian slides his flashlight back into his belt and pulls out his phone, offering her a sheepish smile. “It is still $45 for the consultation though. Sorry.”

Nesta waves him off with a hand, more than happy to just pay the consultation fee rather than needing to buy a whole new washing machine. She goes to grab her purse and digs out her credit card, handing it over for Cassian to slide through the card reader on his phone. She signs what needs to be signed on his clipboard, accepting her copy of the paperwork, and then she’s leading Cassian back to her front door.

“Thanks again for your help and the quick turnaround,” Nesta tells him, pulling the door open.

“No problem at all. And maybe next time, consider smaller loads.”

“Maybe I like large loads,” Nesta dares to remark, biting her lip suggestively and staring up at him.

The way the hazel of his eyes spark, a smirk tugging up the left side of his lips, has Nesta’s heart flipping over itself in her chest. “Then I guess you better make sure you keep plenty of towels on hand.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta can’t stop thinking about Cassian for the rest of the week. She tries to focus on her work, even goes out for drinks with Emerie and Gwyn Friday night, but every guy in the bar is too short, too small, too blonde, too lacking of hazel eyes and a cheeky grin and that damned dimple. The way he seems to haunt her is both infuriating and intoxicating.

By the time the next week rolls around, Nesta finds herself standing in her kitchen, tapping one of the screwdrivers from the simple toolkit Feyre gifted her when she moved in against her lips. She eyes the different appliances before settling on the microwave. She opens the door and looks inside, noticing the two screws near the door. She gets to work loosening them, and when she tries to close the door again, it doesn’t quite lock correctly. She steps as far back as she can, using her screwdriver to press the start button on the microwave and braces for the worst. It lights up for barely half a second before everything shuts off.

Perfect.

“We meet again,” Cassian greets when Nesta pulls open her door a few hours later. “I hope you’re not overstuffing your washing machine again.”

“Actually, it’s my microwave that’s acting up this time.”

Cassian hums and steps inside her apartment. His eyes sweep over her frame, and Nesta practically preens under the intensity of his gaze. She made sure she was presentable this time. Her hair is braided back and pinned in a crown around her head, two curls pulled free in the front and framing her face. She put on her tight, blue sweater, the v cut of the neckline just teasing enough and the color the perfect shade to bring out her eyes.

“So, where’s the problem then?” Cassian asks, his voice gruffer than she’s heard it and sending a shiver up her spine.

“This way,” Nesta offers, turning and leading him toward the kitchen.

She leans back against her counter while Cassian looks at her microwave. She can’t quite take her eyes off the way his fingers curl around his flashlight, of the peek of tattoos she gets when he pushes the sleeves of his work jumpsuit up to his elbows, of the veins and muscles of his forearms now on full display. And she especially can’t take her eyes off the way his lips curl into a smirk like he can feel her gaze on him.

“It looks like you just have some loose screws,” Cassian says, gesturing toward the screws like Nesta doesn’t know exactly which ones are loose. “When the door can’t close properly, the microwave shuts itself off as a fail safe, so I can just tighten these for you, and you’ll be good to go.”

“Oh, okay. That sounds good.”

“It was probably just wear and tear that caused them to loosen,” Cassian continues, pulling a screwdriver from his belt and turning back to tighten the screws. “Do you use your microwave a lot?”

“Yeah, I use it for most of my dinners unless I’m ordering takeaway. I was actually making dinner when it stopped working.” It’s a half truth at least.

“Didn’t feel like cooking?”

“Oh, I can’t cook.”

Cassian pauses, turning his head toward Nesta again. “At all? I mean everyone can at least make pasta. Boil some water, pour the box pasta in. Can even get those jar sauces.”

“Trust me, I’d burn a boiling pot of water.”

Cassian laughs, that same light and warm sound, and finishes the last screw, sliding his screwdriver back into place along his belt before leaning his hip against the counter and facing Nesta fully. “Well, if you ever want some pointers, not to brag, but I’ve been told I’m a pretty good cook myself.”

“Is that so?” Nesta asks, daring to move closer. “And what’s your specialty dish then?”

“Chili actually. I have my own recipe that I’ve perfected.”

“Perfect? Maybe you should enter it into the annual chili competition that the firehouse sponsors.”

“I’ve already placed every year, sweetheart,” Cassian shoots back, his smirk wide and his eyes turning almost molten with the way they glint under her kitchen lights. “Of course, you have to be able to handle the heat.”

“Don’t worry. I can handle the heat,” Nesta assures him, not even bothering to bite back the sultry, suggestive undertones to her voice, smirking herself.

“Good to know.”

~ * * * ~

It becomes a push and pull between them. Different appliances around Nesta’s apartment surreptitiously have issues or need repair, and each time, she calls Illyria Handymen Services. Her dishwasher not draining has Cassian finding bits of paper towel blocking the filter and drain at the bottom. Her toilet not flushing leads to Cassian rehooking the chain that somehow came loose.

Whenever he’s in her apartment, Cassian smiles and laughs and makes suggestive comments. Nesta gives as good as she gets, and she finds she looks forward to each repair, each interaction she gets with him. She looks forward to seeing those hazel eyes and that dimple. She looks forward to their teasing back and forth. She looks forward to the way his grin grows with each of her barbs, to the way her heart always stutters around him.

But despite their flirting, despite the way Nesta is sure that Cassian is as interested in her as she is in him, he’s yet to make a move any further. They got close with the last repair. Cassian had encouraged Nesta closer so he could show her exactly where the chain was meant to be in the toilet tank. She had to press closer in order to see, which had resulted in her getting a strong whiff of the woodsy, pine scent of him, had resulted in their faces being barely a breaths apart when they turned to make eye contact, had resulted in Cassian’s gaze dropping to Nesta’s lips for a moment.

And yet…

Nesta knows that she might need to up the game. Perhaps if the next repair is in her bedroom, Cassian will finally get the hint. She stands in her bedroom doorway and assesses her options. She doesn’t have much in the way of appliances that she can break. Her eyes land on her bed, tilting her head consideringly. Is it too on the nose? Probably. But sometimes, a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.

Nesta makes sure that her screwdriver is well stashed away before the knock to her apartment door comes. When she pulls it open, Cassian is leaning against the door jamb, a smile pulling slowly across his face.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Nes,” Cassian greets, the twinkle in his eyes betraying the teasing nature of the words.

“Are you going to do the repairs or am I going to have to call another handymen service?”

“Just show me where the problem is, sweetheart.”

Nesta leads Cassian down the hallway and into her bedroom, gesturing toward her broken bed frame. Cassian hesitates in the doorway, his eyes dancing around the space, taking in the overflowing bookshelf, the polaroids on the wall, the navy bed sheets. He clears his throat and finally strides inside, kneeling down in front of the bed to examine the damage. Just that sight alone has Nesta biting her lip, and she knows it will fuel plenty of fantasies to come.

“It looks like there’s some screws missing here,” Cassian explains, gesturing toward the frame. “I have some spares that should fit no problem, so it’ll be an easy fix and your bed will be good as new.”

“That’s good. It’s important to have a fully functioning bed.”

Nesta can just spot his smirk as Cassian pulls out fresh screws and gets to work, knowing her suggestive comment hit its mark. “I have to admit this is the first bed I’ve ever had to repair. How exactly did you break it?”

Nesta is glad that Cassian can’t see her face, can’t see the heat that floods into her cheeks. A lump starts to form in her throat, the words drying up on her tongue. It’s the first time he’s directly asked about her many broken appliances and items around the apartment. What is she meant to say? I broke it myself because you’re hot and I wanted an excuse to get you in my bedroom?

“Well, how else does one break a bed?” Nesta shoots back, hoping her voice sounds sufficiently sultry and not at all panicked.

She expects Cassian to make a suggestive remark right back, hopes that maybe this time the back and forth and flirting will finally lead to them tumbling right onto the newly fixed bed. Maybe, even, they can break it for real. She would definitely not complain about that turn of events. But instead, Cassian’s hands pause where he was working on the new screws, his shoulders tensing.

A moment passes. And then two.

Then, Cassian merely clears his throat and goes back to the task at hand. The silence that settles in the bedroom is uncomfortable, stifling, and Nesta wonders if she should say something more, but she can see the frown Cassian now wears as he finishes up fixing her bed frame in record time.

“All finished,” Cassian declares, sliding his screwdriver back into his belt and standing up. He won’t quite meet Nesta’s eyes as he digs his phone from his pocket, jaw clenched. “It’s $100 for the repair.”

It’s Nesta’s turn to frown. For all her previous repairs, Cassian had only charged the consultation fee. She swallows hard and goes to grab her wallet, replaying the past few minutes over and over in her mind. She tries to figure out what’s changed, what’s gone wrong. It’s as if a switch has been flipped. Gone is the smiling, laughing man that flirted with her, and in his place is this man who looks almost annoyed, some emotion Nesta can’t quite place swimming in his hazel eyes.

“Here,” Nesta offers quietly, holding out her card for him.

Cassian is quick to swipe it through the card reader on his phone and hand it and her copy of the paperwork back. “Have a good day.”

Without a glance backwards, Cassian walks out of her bedroom and her apartment. The snick of the front door closing behind him echoes with finality all the way down to Nesta’s bones, leaving her standing there in her bedroom and still reeling from what just happened.

She lasts all of two days before she’s standing in her kitchen again, anger and determination steeling her spine. She eyes the different appliances before settling on her refrigerator. She tugs it away from the wall enough that she can shine the flashlight of her phone behind it. She spots a line of some kind going from her refrigerator to the wall, so she reaches and unscrews it from the wall. With a satisfied nod at her work, she focuses on her phone again, dialing an all too familiar number.

And now she waits…

Nesta all but sprints to her front door when the knock sounds. She yanks it open, but it’s a different pair of hazel eyes that greet her, a head of short dark hair rather than long, a thinner though still athletic build rather than the large, wide one she was expecting. The disappointment that settles in her gut feels like a stone weighing her down.

“Hello. I’m Azriel with Illyria Handymen Services. You called about a repair?”

“Where’s Cassian?” Nesta asks before she can stop herself.

Azriel starts to smirk, an almost knowing look passing across his face, before he schools his expression again. “On another job. Sorry. But I’m sure I can fix whatever the problem seems to be.”

“Fine,” Nesta clips, turning on her heel and leading the way to the kitchen. “It’s my refrigerator.”

Azriel nods and pulls the refrigerator out from the wall, shining his flashlight behind to examine it. “Your water line came unscrewed from the wall it looks like. I wonder how that could have happened.”

“Yeah, I wonder,” Nesta grumbles, crossing her arms. She can’t believe her plan didn’t work, can’t believe she has to deal with this man instead of Cassian. Annoyance is red hot where it sears through her veins. Now she’ll have to figure out another appliance she can break. Cassian already fixed her washing machine. Maybe she can try for the dryer tomorrow.

“Maybe the mysterious man that lives with you broke it,” Azriel continues, reattaching the water line to the wall.

“Mysterious man…?”

“The one who broke your bed.”

“I broke my bed,” Nesta corrects with a roll of her eyes before she thinks better of it.

Azriel lets out an amused snort, standing up and readjusting her refrigerator back to its original position. “My mistake then. I guess it was two men. Perhaps named Black and Decker?”

“How much for the repair?” Nesta scowls, narrowing her eyes at the blatant smirk Azriel is now shamelessly sporting.

“No charge,” Azriel explains, clicking his pen and scribbling on his clipboard. “We actually have a new deal going. Four fake repairs, get the fifth free.”

Nesta knows that he’s teasing her now, so she snatches the clipboard when he holds it out to her, quickly signing her name and handing it back. She expects him to leave now, but after tearing off her copy of the paperwork, he takes a moment to continue scribbling on the page. Finally, he folds the page in half and hands it over, offering Nesta a final smirk, a knowing glint to his hazel eyes, and heads for her front door.

When the door finally closes behind him, Nesta rolls her eyes at the whole exchange. She goes to crumble up her paperwork of the repair, ready to forget this ever happened, when writing in the bottom corner catches her eyes. Slowly, her heart beginning to stutter in her chest, Nesta unfolds the paper, taking in the ten digits scrawled there.

Next time, put down the screwdriver and just call the idiot personally

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @cassiansbigwingspan @unlikelypersonalknight1 @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #nestaweek2023 #acotar #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #my fic

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communistkenobi · 1 year ago

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re: Trek: I was hit with a lot of the same feelings when I finally went and watched TOS a couple of years ago. There's a brand of Star Trek fan who really believe in what the show wants or at least claims it wants to be--a progressive vision of the future--but are incapable of seeing it for what it was lest they cede ground to the fans on the reactionary end of the spectrum who like it for pew pew guns and sexy green ladies. For what it's worth, the Federation isn't portrayed as a post-scarcity post-money society until TNG but it's not something they do more than pay lip service to

I think this gets into the limitations with individual character representation as a metric for “good” politics in a show. It has a comparatively diverse cast and that is historically significant, I understand that it’s groundbreaking, and I’m not downplaying that or saying those things don’t matter or had no impact culturally. but those individual representations are imbedded within the undergirding logic of the show, which is that the Enterprise is a ship meant to make contact with “new” “undiscovered” civilisations, measure their “development” on a singular scale that is premised on settler colonial ideas of land development & capitalist logics of expansion and growth, and then force those societies to fit into that particularly colonial mould. Multiple times the resolution to the plot of an episode is destroying any unique aspects of a culture that cannot be captured by those development metrics, and this is unambiguously presented as a good thing. This show is deeply invested in the maintenance of racial hierarchy and western hegemony, and its diversity and progressive elements must always be placed within that context. It’s racially progressive in some ways yes, but only narrowly, and in fact the necessity for good racial representation is the fault of those undergirding logics! We wouldn’t need good racial representation in the first place if those systems did not exist. “Good intentions” on the part of the writers do not negate the fact that the final product uncritically reproduces a western vision of culture, one that sees the west as manager, mother, teacher, and policeman to the rest of humanity.

I think Said’s discussion of Orientalism is once again very instructive: it’s not just that the show might be individually racist or sexist to particular characters or groups of people in a given episode. These things are bad yes, but they are surface level bad, and focusing only on them obscures the larger issue at hand. The deeper problem is that it operates on an orientalist epistemology, a way of knowing and seeing the world, one that necessarily excludes the basic conclusion that, like, the measure of a civilisation does not need to be premised on economic growth or European cultural modes, & in fact the idea that you can “measure” a culture unilaterally is itself a western construction. that scale is a tool of colonial development, one that is backed by a system of racial hierarchy that must be violently enforced to be realised in the world. Star Trek is by no means unique or special in this regard; this is the state of western media in total. I’m just uncomfortable with how uncritically fawning people are about it.

I’m also not privy to the discourse around this show, I’m an outsider encountering Star Trek for the first time as an adult and I’m largely ignorant of the 8-odd decades of discussion about it. But like, you don’t have to allow the reactionary crowd to control your understanding of the show! Saying it’s a fundamentally colonial narrative does not dismiss or diminish claims about racial diversity or representation in other areas, nor does it mean a reactionary interpretation of the show holds more weight. Those people are not worth considering, they have nothing of value to contribute to the discussion of the show’s politics. Like you can accuse me of having high standards or that my demands are ridiculous given the show is old, but I’m being bombarded (and have been bombarded) with claims that Star Trek is socialist, is progressive, is better than Star Wars politically, etc. and I don’t think those claims stand up to basic scrutiny unless you are willing to downplay or dismiss how deeply racist, ableist, misogynist, etc the show is, and further you have to ignore the basic fact that the show does not work if you reject or take umbridge with its imperial framework

#asks #star trek lb #orientalism #< saving this in my book tag

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cutsiewitch · 1 year ago

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You know, I find it funny and interesting that I ended up on the very niche part of tumblr with t4t horny transhumanism mechs. It’s especially funny because I am not anywhere near the actual target audience for that type of content. I enjoy it from an observer’s perspective, watching people go into detail about something very alien to me is entertaining, but I don’t get turned on by any of this at all.

I enjoy mechs and robots a bunch, and I find the idea of robots and mechs to be dope as shit. I am an advocate for the rights of AI and robots even if they are still only fictional, and would gladly help make mechs and robots a reality if I could. I, however, enjoy them from a purely mechanical standpoint.

When I see a robot, I don’t think “God I wish I could fuck her (rearrange her hardware inside her chassis, install harmless bloatware in her to make her overheat)” or “God I wish that I was a robot girl too”, I think “Oh man, her construction is fucking awesome, I wonder what her schematics are like, I bet she could do all kinds of shit. Imagine the modding potential too.”

When I see mechs, I don’t think about the orgasmic experience of jacking into it and becoming something better, pilot and mech fusing into one whole being and experiencing the pleasure of battle. I think of how I could construct one of those for myself, I imagine the parts necessary, I think of how I could improve on the design and further innovate.

I kinda know my place in this fictional world of transhumanist robot lesbians and mecha/pilot symbiosis. I’m essentially an asexual mechanic. I dont tinker with robots for carnal pleasure, I do it because I am simply preforming routine maintenance, please stop moaning you’re making this weird. I don’t see a mech and dream of my consciousness melding with its into a sacred union, I theorize how I could fit as much weaponry as possible onto it’s frame before it overheats from the stress.

I actually hate transhumanism. I am deeply uncomfortable with the idea of replacing parts of myself with machinery. If the world worked like that I’d probably be pretty odd. I service mechs and androids with passion but am adamantly against body modding or mech piloting. I’d be the weird girl that avoids stepping into the cockpit at all costs, the one that stares concernedly at the pilots who seem so out of it when not jacked in, the one who always seems a little squeamish around people with augments. I think it’s ok for others to do it, go crazy, I don’t mind. I just worry that the normalization will lead to it being harder to live without augmenting, like cars making cities unwalkable.

Idk, that was a lot of rambling. TL:DR I find mech and robo stuff interesting from a mechanical standpoint, and I like this kink for the plot. Yall keep wanting to fuck those bots, good for you!

#mechs #mechposting #empty spaces #robot girl

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cryptidsncurios · 4 months ago

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sex+romance headcanons | accepting!

@soldierunderfire sent: 🍬 🎀 🎥

🍬 Is my muse a sub, dom, or switch?

Xigbar is primarily a dom, though tbh he can also switch into other roles if the setting is right, and makes for an EXCEPTIONAL service top. Being a straight-up sub though... pretty sure that time is behind him.

Kuja = Dom, with that capital D. He's the boss bitch, all about putting people in their place, and making them beg for it. ...though i won't lie i've always wanted to explore sweet virgin kuja with someone who's got him right twitterpated........ Also as supplemental info, along with this dominant role, he's a power bottom/pillow princess. He’s sooo high maintenance.

Kimbley is the type that needs control at all times, so he has to be the dominant force during any intimate interactions---unless some horrific entity wants to put him on his back, y/y???

🎀 Who would my muse sleep with if nobody ever had to know?

Okay so the thing is.... all of my muses are basically shameless?? Xig is the sort to shout he banged someone from the rooftops, Kimbley is completely indifference to sexual encounters---but hmm, mayyybe Kuja would have reservations about letting certain people see him certain vulnnnerable situationnns.....

Tbh though, I couldn't pinpoint one character in particular from their canons---SO THIS! COULD! BE YOUUU (with extensive plotting and communication)!!!

🎥 Who is my muse’s celebrity crush?

Just gonna use irl celebrities for this so

Xigbar: He's got a lot buuut, lemme juuust.. *spins the wheel* ...Serena Williams!

Kuja: Edward Saxby.

Kimbley: Cthulhu.

No I will never take criticisms.

#soldierunderfire #prompt: romance headcanons #headcanons: the fatal marksman #headcanons: the reaper most capricious #headcanons: the crimson monster #cw: suggestive

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warsofasoiaf · 5 months ago

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Hey SLAL, I was wondering what your thoughts were with the following take regarding conquering Dorne:

“The issue is this is a fantasy story so the dornish are able to do whatever Martin needs them to do

But by and large in the real world, if the iron throne takes the mountain castles of Skyreach, Yronwood, Starfall as well as sunspear the dornish threat is essentially moot

They won’t be able to launch any problematic attacks anymore and the free lords will eventually wither and collapse to economic starvation allowing easier conquest

The issue is that taking the entire country is too hard. However if they do it peacemeal it makes it much easier similar to how the Welsh were pacified.”

Yes and no.

The first part, that it's a fantasy story and that sometimes the welds are showing in the storytelling of GRRM welding point A to point B, is definitely true. Some elements of the story do seem like GRRM had a start point and an end point and needed to finagle the middle to get to the desired conclusion. Sometimes that works in furtherance of the story and heightens the tragedy (see just how much GRRM has to rig the game so Robb Stark dies tragically), sometimes it feels a bit ham-handed (Daenerys running into an abandoned town whose gardens are somehow still irrigated despite all that time with no maintenance). It's just something that is a natural consequence of all storywriting - sometimes the plot beats make a little less sense than other times.

It's also true that Dorne relies on its central infrastructure in a way that the Seven Kingdoms could take advantage of. The population would require water, and enough food would require centralized agriculture that couldn't exactly be *hidden* even with pre-modern scouting and reconnaissance. Dorne is not the Tuareg lands where such mythical desert resistance can successfully be waged due to a nomadic culture and incredibly de-centralized governance and structures. It's a feudal aristocracy that primarily relies on agricultural crops like the rest of Westeros. A piecemeal conquest that broke off elements of Dorne (and perhaps used Yronwood animosity against the Martells) would probably have had more success had it not been for the Dragon's Wroth.

I think the Dornish resilience is one part GRRM's "history of the world turned up to eleven" and one part service to the greater themes of the book. Aegon's ambition and brutality being crucial to the formation of a proto-Dornish nationalist movement that could sustain its people and undermine Aegon's goals are key elements of GRRM's stance on war. Longshanks's Conquest of Wales and the perennial Welsh Revolts did form a cornerstone of GRRM's worldbuilding, albeit the Welsh never assassinated a king at parlay (and there's no foreign powers meddling as the French did in the 14th and 15th century). Without those elements, GRRM plays up Dornish capability to perform these feats in order to underline the themes and highlight the importance of peace with Daeron's treaty.

In my opinion, the execution was botched (even more so in the earlier drafts where Daeron was literally stabbed with a sharpened white flag which is just cartoonish), but I can see what he was attempting to do.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#dorne

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sneakerguybln · 5 months ago

Text

Jamie is 39 year old, is owning some businesses and 9 slaves. He started as a personal trainer when he was totally broke nearly 20 years ago. Meanwhile he made much money with a brand for fitness clothing and nutrition. In addition he's owning two tattoo parlours and a gym. He's using his businesses for making people dependent on him and formed even nine sex slaves. All these slaves are living with him in a villa. Jamie made them getting a vasectomy as part of their initiation.

The Alpha slaves of Jamie

Ramirez, Donnie and Marco (from left to right) are the alpha slaves. They have more rights than the other six (and potential additional slaves). Alpha slaves have own rooms and a quite easy life. They're doing jobs out of the house and ceding the wages to Jamie.

Ramirez is 22 and studying fashion design while working for Jamie. He's helping Jamie to make Jamie's design ideas becoming reality. As most of Jamie's slaves he met Jamie at gym. Ramirez is a bit upset today as it is his birthday. Jamie abolished the birthdays of his slaves and set their formal enslavement day as their new annual day of celebration.

Donnie is Ramirez's eldest slave with 29 years. He entered slavery seven years ago and is personal trainer like Jamie. He took over the training and nutrition of the other eight slaves.

Marco is 26 and is working together with Jamie on the nutrition packs. Together they're developing them and instruct the beta slaves on production.

The Beta slaves of Jamie

Rick, Hank and Steve are the Beta slaves of Jamie. They're enjoying less freedoms than the Alpha slaves. They're working at the production facility of Jamie's nutrition products. They're all 23 and Jamie picked them up as they did some escort services. They never learned a job and are fully dependent on Jamie. They're living in a four bed dorm room in Jamie's villa.

The 4th Beta slave and the omega slaves of Jamie

Martin (middle) is the fourth beta slave and he oversees the maintenance of Jamie's gym. While the two other guys are Omega1 and Omega2. Jamie disallowed them to use their names. They're living in small cells in the basement of Jamies villa. They're working within Jamie's gym too and are helping Martin in keeping the gym running. They became attractions to (mostly gay) visitors who enjoy their obedience and their appearance with their very short shorts. Omega1 started the service 2 years ago with 18,5 years and Omega2 1,5 years ago at age of 19. Since joining Jamie they never leaved the plot of Jamie as the villa and the gym are on the same site and connected via an underground corridor. The omega slaves are responsible for cleaning the villa and washing the clothes of Jamie and all slaves.

Jamie's slaves gave up all possessions while entering the enslavement. The Alpha slaves got some clothes (all in orange, except some formal clothes for business events). They're accompany Jamie sometimes to business events and can leave the house freely on daytime. They have a curfew from 10pm to 6am. Beta slaves are less free, can go to their work places and are allowed to leave the house after asking for Jamie's permission. They have a curfew from 7pm to 7am. The omega slaves are unfree and totally owned. They aren't allowed to leave the property at all. They can ask for permission to attend important family events but both didn't ask for permission yet.

Jamie is paying money on pension for all of them. He made a last will bequeathing everything to his Alpha slave Donnie including all the other slaves if Donnie want to own them.

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 8 months ago

Text

Wash. RINSE. Repeat. - Dean x Reader/OFC

"Rinse" is Part 3 of the Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Series

Rating Mature

Dean x Reader/OFC

Tags: Canon-compliant (or trying to be), Season 3, Lots of Angst, Demon Assault/Attempted Sexual Assault (trigger), Show Level Gore/Violence, Language, Pining, Dean is infuriating at times, Sam is the sweetest, Main character death (offscreen; but, it's Supernatural, so you know, it's probably not sticking)

Word Count: 15,000

Summary: The boys stink. Something needs to be done about it.

The above summary was something I came up with when I thought this was going to be a fun little one shot. (hah! stupid writer and her stupid assumptions. how dare she think she can make plans and have Sam and Dean adhere to them.) It still applies to the beginning (and this sniff, sniff theme may come up again) but I'm going to add that this story is a first person reader insert that weaves in and out of show canon.

"Rinse" won't make a lick of sense if you haven't read the other parts. If you want to read the previous installments, you can find them on AO3 -- WASH -- PRE-RINSE

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Friends Becoming Strangers" square.

A huge thanks to @jacklesversebingo for allowing me to use one of my bingo squares in a part of a story I was currently working on. These bingo prompts have genuinely tested my creativity and provided some meaty plot twists. Thank you, thank you!

Rinse

~ Six Months Later ~

I bolt upright in bed, mid-gasp.

My heart pounds. Flashes of what caused my pulse to race appear in the curtain call of each blink.

Bobby. In the dark with a flashlight. In his house? Sneaking around, like he’s investigating an unfamiliar place. Then, he was attacked by something. Thrown to the floor in his kitchen. A blur of arms clawing. A screeching sound that wasn’t human.

What the hell? I shake the shiver out of my spine and glance over at the alarm clock. Fifteen minutes before it goes off. There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep. I resign myself to get out of bed and start the day.

It’s gonna be a busy one at Hoyt and Hagan. There are two client appointments on the calendar. I’ve got some note taking during and transcribing to do after each of them.

I debate with myself in the shower as to when I should check on Bobby. It’s still too early and he’ll only scoff in my ear at the unnecessary concern.

I decide I’ll call him during my lunch break, all nonchalant like. Hey Bobby, it’s your favorite psychic nut job, poking out of hunter hibernation for some updates.

Just to be sure he’s okay.

I grab a slice and a soda at Tony’s Pizza Parlor for lunch. The four block walk gives me a chance to stretch my legs and see if they’ll be short staffed over the next week. I need to bulk up my car maintenance fund. According to Nate at Carl’s Auto Shop, I will probably need to replace the brake pads in a few months. Before the squeaks turn into screeches at every stop.

Gary’s working the counter. I try not to fuss with my hair too much in his presence. His dimples drill into his cheeks with a bright smile. My stomach spins like it’s in a washing machine. I ask him how his Aunt Cheryl is doing. The swoony, sensitive six footer moved back to Matamoras when his only living relative, Cheryl Somers, fell ill and couldn’t take care of herself anymore.

It’s been five months since Gary arrived and became ubiquitous around this tiny town where you only have to breathe heavily to become the subject of juicy gossip. He works a variety of service jobs. I’m blessed that one of them is at Tony’s. My random shifts have intersected with his on occasion. I am also cursed because I still haven’t gotten the nerve to get past simple pleasantries. Mainly I worry I’ll slip about my personal details or he’ll ask me a question about my family. And, I’ll have to lie. Because he’d never believe the truth. The people that would understand are just as damaged as I am.

Playing at normal is tough.

I scoot into a booth that has a nice vantage of the counter so I can spy on Gary. I pry the greasy pepperoni one by one from the stringy mozzarella. The deconstruction exercise prolongs my excuse to hang around with my solitary slice. I mindfully chew. Taste buds light up with oregano, tomato sauce, processed toppings, and velvety cheese.

The one brain cell not focused on Gary reminds me about Bobby. I dab at my face with a one-ply scratchy napkin, then tap in the start of a phone number I know by heart on my cell. Bobby’s name appears from my contacts after the fifth digit.

I’m still miffed about Garth accidently dropping my old phone in the depths of the Delaware when he visited six months back. He felt so bad he drove me to the nearest cell phone store and bought me a new one right on the spot. He got me a newer and nicer model. It didn’t make up for all the contacts and messages I lost, though. It took me weeks to connect with almost everyone I could remember.

I wait for Bobby to pick up. It rings. And rings. And rings. The voicemail answers. “You’ve reached Bobby. You know what to do.”

I know what to do, but I hang up instead. I’m that person that hits redial and gives it another try. Bobby is prone to leaving his cell phone atop a stack of books or on the kitchen counter as he hops from room to room. So, there’s a chance he might…

“You’ve reached Bobby. You know what to do.”

I sigh and collect my words. “Hey, Bobby. It’s been a bit. Wanted to see how you’re doing. Nothing much new on this end. Give me a call, though, soon. Yeah? Been told my car’s gonna need new brake pads. Wanna make sure I’m not getting hosed on the cost to replace them. Okay? Thanks. Bye.”

“Who’s Bobby?” The voice drifts over my shoulder from behind me.

Oh God. Gary’s asking that question. I’m gonna have to turn and actually make eye contact and answer. I swallow and rotate in the booth a bit. He’s wiping down the table, tray filled with trash in his grasp. Wavy jet black bangs obscure his eyes for a brief second. It’s not enough time before his onyx irises gaze with interest in my direction.

“Huh?” I pretend I didn’t hear him.

“Who’s Bobby? He’s not the only guy that knows a thing or two about cars.” His smile is bright. “I could probably help you out. Take a look.”

“Oh.” I want to bang my head into the table to shake out any words that are longer than one syllable. “That’s… that’s…”

“He family? Bobby?” Gary stands beside my booth now.

“Yeah.”

Gary nods. “Well, offer’s available if you need it.” Someone, maybe Maribel, shouts his name across the restaurant. “Good luck.” He darts away.

“Thanks.” I groan at my suave communication skills.

~~~~

(Italicized Dialogue from S3, Episode 10, “Dream a Little Dream of Me” - Teleplay by Cathryn Humphris; Story by Sera Gamble & Cathryn Humphris)

Dean sat at Bobby’s hospital bedside.

It’d only been a couple days since he got the call. A doctor had been looking for a Mr. Snyderson.

Bobby enjoyed informing Dean years ago of the name he would have to answer to if he received a call from someone in search of Bobby Singer’s emergency contact.

“How the hell’d you get yourself into this mess, Bobby?” he asked aloud.

Dean wondered if Bobby had picked the name Edgar Snyderson so that would be all John’s eldest son would focus on. Not the fact that if he ever heard it uttered by anyone else, it would be because Bobby wouldn’t be able to call him a numbnut or an idjit.

Sam was due back any minute. Dean’d tasked Sam with the research part of this mystery, which included combing through the collage of pictures and news clippings hidden on the back closet wall in Bobby’s hotel room.

The room where his comatose body had been found.

Dean had gone to the university to dig up any information on a Dr. Walter Gregg, whose obit had graced Bobby’s case board. Finding out about unapproved dream studies led to the name of a test subject, Jeremy Frost. The college kid made it clear the doctor had been playing fast and loose with his research and the people involved. That equalled a whole lot of potential enemies and nefarious insinuators. Bobby was probably close to figuring out who the murderer was.

The machines whirred and beeped around the man he’d bet his life on, if he had much left of it to wager.

Dean was shy of six months before his demon bill came due.

“I don’t need you rolling out the red carpet for me in the hereafter. Pretty sure you ain’t gonna be taking a sauna or walking over raked coals. But we don’t need you practicing your harp skills anytime soon, either.” He bit his tongue at the name that almost slipped out. He tried not to mention her if he could help it. The more time went on, the more he hoped it would stick; his nonexistence for her. “It’d kill her if something happened to you.” He nodded to no one. “We’ll figure this out.”

As if on cue, his studious brother entered the room. “How is he?”

“No change.” Dean wiped a hand over his face and stood to meet Sam by the tray table at the edge of the bed. “What you got?”

“Well, considering what you told me about the Doc’s experiments, Bobby’s wall is starting to make a hell of a lot more sense.”

“How so?”

“This plant, Silene Capensis, also known as African Dream Root, it’s been used by shamans and medicine men for centuries.”

“Let me guess – they dose up, bust out the didgeridoos, and start kicking around the hacky.”

Sam scoffed. “Not quite. If you believe the legends, it’s used for dream walking. I mean entering another person’s dreams, poking around in their heads.”

“I take it we believe the legends.”

“When don’t we? But dream-walking is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this dream root is some serious mojo. You take enough of it, with enough practice, you can become a regular Freddy Krueger. You can control anything. You could turn bad dreams good. You could turn good dreams bad.”

“And killing people in their sleep.” Dean added the obvious.

“For example. So, let’s say this doc was testing the stuff on his patients Tim Leary-Style.”

“Somebody gets pissed at him, decides to give him a little dream visit, he goes nighty-night.”

“But what about Bobby? I mean if the killer came after him, how come he’s still alive?”

They both stared at Bobby.

“I don’t know.” Dean tapped Sam in the middle of his chest. “Come on. Man needs as much beauty rest as he can get before we wake him. And a kiss on the lips better not end up being the cure.” He strolled to the doorway and turned back in time to see Sam making his way to Bobby’s side.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing we’ve ever had to do to save someone.” Sam chided in a soft whisper over his shoulder towards Dean. “Stay strong until we can figure this out, Bobby.” His gigantor hand gripped Bobby’s pale one.

Dean marched out into the hallway in wait. Something heavy lodged in the base of Dean’s throat. He swallowed but the fear wouldn’t loosen. The possibility of losing Bobby. The memories of his father in the hospital right before he died kept rising to the surface. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Sam finally joined him. They walked down the hall towards the nurse’s station and the elevators. Their steps got into that synced soldier rhythm they easily fell into often. Dean wished it would continue in silence. But out of the corner of his eye he spotted Sam’s mouth open and close. Trying out the lines in his head before he’d have to share what he was thinking.

With that much thought, Dean knew it wasn’t going to be anything good.

When it was only the two of them in the elevator going down, Sam spoke. “Am I gonna have to be the one that mentions the elephant in the room?”

Dean’s gaze lifted to the ceiling. He sighed.

“We gotta call her, Dean.”

“No. We don’t. We’re gonna handle it so she doesn’t have to ever know what kind of danger Bobby was in.”

“She deserves to know,” Sam mumbled. “Bobby’s important to her. Plus, all of this dream stuff…”

“Sam,” Dean started.

Sam got his hands and arms in the conversation now, waving them about. “She should be here!”

“No!” Dean huffed, raising his voice back at Sam. He glanced at the number display. “I still need to work this case with you. I shouldn’t even be in the same state as her, let alone the same room. We can’t risk that, Sam. Not again.”

“You of all people know what she’s capable of. She could get into Bobby’s head.”

“Yeah. You know it. I know it. Bobby knows it. But, as far as we know, Elena doesn’t. As long as she doesn’t remember me, she won’t be doing any ‘Wonder Twins, Activate’ shit. And we’re gonna keep it that way.”

“Dean!”

“No. Bobby’s been onboard with the plan, all of it, for the past six months. Last I checked, you were, too.”

“Not like you gave any of us a choice.” Sam snarked.

Dean ignored the jab. “Bobby’d want us to exhaust every other option before we pull her into something like this. Again.” He pointed at the floor as the door’s slid open. “We find another way.” He waved a hand for Sam to exit first. “Let’s go, Sherlock.” They covered the distance quickly to another set of double doors. “So, how do we find our homicidal little sandman?”

“It could be anyone.” Sam stated, looking thoroughly exasperated.

“Yeah?”

Yeah.

Dean rattled off possible suspects. “Anyone who knew the doctor, had access to his dream shrooms.”

“Maybe one of his test subjects or something?”

“Possible, but his research is pretty sketchy. I mean, we don’t know how many subjects he had or who all of them were.”

Sam scoffed.

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam sighed, long and deep. “In any other case, we’d be calling Bobby and asking him for help right now.”

Dean halted, pulled at Sam’s forearm to stop his brother’s stride. “Know what? You’re right.”

“What?”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

“Sure. I think we might find the conversation a bit one-sided.”

“Not if we’re tripping on some Dream Root.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

~~~~

There’s been no response from Bobby by the end of my work day.

Something was up. A car question always ensured Bobby would return a call within hours.

I call the other hunter who knows almost everyone’s business as much as Bobby does.

“Elle Woods.” Garth coos his nickname for me. I still don’t get how he made the connection between me and the fictional main character in Legally Blonde. “How’re you doin? To what do I owe this honor?”

“Hey, Garth. I’m trying to get a hold of Bobby. He’s not answering my calls.”

“Oh?” The one syllable expresses confusion.

“Yeah.”

“When’d you last talk to him?”

“It’s been about a month.” My face warms at the confession.

“Oh.” The one syllable is laced with judgment.

I let the guilt was over me as I wait.

“Hm. Well, I had to call him about a case I worked in Baton Rouge, Louisiana last week. There was this circus in town and a murder pinned on one of the performers. Killer clowns couldn’t turn their victims into a pile of green goo last I checked.” Garth chuckles.

I veer the conversation back. “Was he okay? Everything good at the salvage yard?”

“Oh, well, he wasn’t home. Was working his own case.”

My skin tingles at the news. It’s not surprising to hear. Bobby hunts on occasion. It’s more the reminder of the dream I had of him that morning that puts me on edge. “Where was he?”

Garth sighs. “If memory serves right, he was investigating something that happened at a university in, I think, Pittsburgh.”

“Okay, thanks Garth.”

“Sure thing, sweets. Want me to try and check in on him, too?”

I smile. “Appreciate it.”

“I’ll tell him to call you ASAP if I make contact.”

“Thanks.”

“No problemo.”

“Talk soon.”

I hang up. Pittsburgh. It’s clear across in western Pennsylvania. A good six-hour drive from me. Couldn’t be any farther from Matamoras and in the same state. It makes sense he wouldn’t bother to call me. Not like he could do a quick pop in.

Still.

I click my teeth. Moments later, I’m clicking away at the keyboard, searching anything weird over the wire that matches what Garth told me. Only one news headline has me screaming Yahtzee in my head. There’s mention of a university neurologist dying in his sleep. Cause: Unknown.

It’s not much. But, it would catch Bobby’s eye. And he’d do some digging. So, I do the same. The neurologist was the research head of a large, ongoing sleep study. And, another article hints that his death may have been the result of foul play.

I then do what Bobby always suggests I do when I can’t get a hold of him and he’s off on a case somewhere. I contact hospitals in the area.

By the third phone call, I’ve found him. All I can get out of the medical staff is that he’s unresponsive and been in their care for a few days.

An hour later, I’m on I-80, headed to Pittsburgh.

My brakes are squeaking big time.

~~~~

(Italicized Dialogue from S3, Episode 10, “Dream a Little Dream of Me” - Teleplay by Cathryn Humphris; Story by Sera Gamble & Cathryn Humphris)

My driver’s license (fake) gets me the information I need at the hospital. Next of kin and all that. A doctor runs through the updates on Bobby’s current medical state while we stand at the nurse’s station. It's good news. Bobby woke up a few hours ago.

The doc questions why I wasn’t listed as an emergency contact. He mentions that they had to call a Mr. Snyderson instead. I shrug, rattling off that my Dad probably doesn’t think I know how to manage an emergency.

I wonder who the hell Mr. Snyderson is as I get Bobby’s room number and am pointed in the direction to find it. Mainly I’m relieved that the closest thing I have to family - that hasn’t disowned me - is conscious and doing fine by all accounts.

I don’t even need to check the number, hearing Bobby’s voice drift out into the hall from a room just up ahead on the right. “We better work fast… and coffee up. ‘Cause the one thing we cannot do is fall asleep.”

I take a cautious step in and prepare to meet “Mr. Snyderson.” A very tall figure with expansive shoulders stands at the side of Bobby’s bed. His broad back is to the doorway. It’s the moppy head of hair that I recognize first. My brain swims with sudden knowledge and memory. I feel overwhelmed and a bit lightheaded.

Sam. Sam Winchester. A hunt. We worked a hunt together a couple years ago. Road tripped from Maine to California. I even remember spending some time with him at Bobby’s after a car accident he’d been in with his dad. I’m also struck with the fact that he lost his dad. The scattered moments don’t have any connective tissue that I can discern. They catch my attention like twinkling ornaments atop a Christmas tree. Each represents some commemorative event I need to be reminded of.

Bobby sees me in the doorway. His face runs a litany of emotions. Serious to surprised. Welcoming to worried. “L.” He whispers.

I smile. Sam spins. His rotation hints at the shape of someone sitting on the other side of Bobby’s bed. Sam settles with a stare at me and walls off the stranger for the time being.

Sam’s as cute as I remember. There’s a bit more mass to him. And then, I remember us bonding over his psychic abilities. It’s disorienting, the flashes and pops of life bursting out of hibernation.

“L?” Bobby asks. “You doin’ alright there, kid?”

I shake my head and manage a smile again. “Considering I’m visiting you in the hospital, don’t you think I should be the one asking that question?” I hesitate at the awkward glances Sam and Bobby shoot each other. I flap my hands at my sides. “Hey, Sam. How are you doing? Been a while.”

His eyes bug. “H-Hey Elina. Yeah. I’m, I’m doin’ pretty well.” A hand scratches the side of his neck. “How’s things in Matamoras?”

“Good. Doing my best to stay out of trouble.” I point a finger at him. “Are you Mr. Snyderson, who got the call about Bobby instead of me?”

“That’d be me.” There’s a terse answer from the other side of the room. The figure is still hidden by Sam. A scrape of chair legs follows.

Sam swallows. Hard. He steps to the side.

My gaze lands on a pair of bright green eyes staring back. The guy is male model attractive. My skin warms up in a reflexive response to all that pretty. “You can call me Dean, though.” He smirks.

“Dean?” The name registers instantly. “Sam’s brother?”

He nods and puffs his chest out. I can’t quite tell if it’s a smug posture or if he’s donning some invisible protective armor.

“He-” I start to fill the gaps in my mind as my mouth reveals the facts. “Sam’s mentioned you.” Older brother. Cocky. Pain in the ass. Overbearing.

I don’t get a response in return. Instead, Dean turns to Bobby. “We’ll touch base if we hear anything else.” He rounds the edge of the hospital bed and taps Sam on the arm. All I get is a quick nod from Dean before he disappears.

“See ya.” Sam smiles, lips scrunched tight. He stumbles past me out of the room, following his older, shorter brother.

Yeah, I’ve met my share of guys like that before. Bad boys have never done me any favors. Way more trouble than they’re worth. I keep reminding myself of that as I catch one last glimpse of Dean Winchester in the hallway before Sam shuts the door behind him.

When it’s only the two of us, I hurry over and give the old man a careful embrace. He taps my back in assurance. “I’m fine.”

I peel away and stand to squint at him. “Let me guess? Fine enough to hop back into solving whatever caused this.” I plant my hands on my hips. “Why can’t you fall back asleep? And why does that Dean dude rank as your emergency contact?”

He squints back at me. “The Winchester boys are family, too, L.”

“Sam’s what you’d call an absolute peach, Bobby, I’ll give you that. But, I don’t have any firsthand experience with Dean to make a judgment call.”

“Hm.” Bobby nods slowly. “Could’ve sworn you’ve met both of them.”

“Nope.” I definitely would have remembered Dean Winchester.

~~~~

I knock on the door to Bobby’s room at The Aviary Hotel.

There’s a delay. I can hear some cursing and arguing as I wait. The taller squatter opens the door part way in greeting. “El.” Sam smiles.

“Hi.”

“Everything alright?” A hand stuffs into a pocket and he leans against the door, filling up the space.

“Bobby’s probably getting released tomorrow morning.”

“That’s great news.”

“It is. I figured I’d grab him some clean clothes for his discharge.” I sweep a hand towards him. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, uh…” Sam stammers.

“For chrissakes.” Dean’s voice interrupts. An arm pushes Sam back into the room and out of the way. Dean grimaces at Sam before giving me a dose of all that attitude. “Listen, Elena, it’s great that you’ve decided to come all this way and play nursemaid. But, we’ve got actual case work to do. So, would you make it quick?”

I blink at the condescending tone. Bobby filled me in on the details back at the hospital. I had felt a little sympathy at the predicament Dean has found himself in. HAD. “Oh, of course. Certainly don’t want to interfere with all your great case work. Is there another suspect you need to give a DNA sample to?”

Dean’s irritation crumbles. He looks like a shamed puppy that’s peed on the carpet.

“Don’t mind him, El.” Sam pulls the door all the way open. “We’re all a little high strung at the moment.”

I scoot in between the brothers. The room’s wallpaper is a feathery explosion in blues, greens and yellows. “Well, the decor isn’t going to help calm anyone down,” I critique.

Dean flops in a sad looking armchair and grabs sheets of paper on a nearby side table to study with intense interest.

Hospitality must be Dean Winchester’s middle name.

“Get you something to drink?” Sam strolls by Dean, backhanding Dean’s bicep along the way. Dean pays him no mind.

I wave a hand. “Nope. Just point me in the direction of Bobby’s stuff and I’ll be out of here.”

Sam offers a soft smile in apology and gestures to a set of louvered bifold doors. The room is crazy huge. A full kitchen and another door that must lead to the bathroom make up the other half. There’s a desk on this side of the living area. More papers litter its surface, along with a laptop that I recognize as Sam’s (various stickers are slapped on top).

Yep, the brothers have made themselves at home. The double beds have been slept in by the state of the sheets. I smell greasy fast food.

When I open the closet, Bobby’s entire wardrobe is hung up. I grab the empty duffle from the closet floor. “Was he planning on moving here?” I frown to myself. When I remove the first plaid ensemble from a hanger I spot the case board on the back closet wall. “Ah, of course.” I take my time and fold one shirt with care before packing it. Then another. Taking my sweet time as I take in all the information.

I decide to inquire with the friendlier Winchester. “So, Sam. Bobby told me what happened to him.” I turn to see him sitting at the desk. Dean’s in my field of view in the background as well, still reading. I attempt a poke. “That he was stupid enough to make himself a prime lullaby target of this Frost kid.” Dean’s mouth purses but he doesn’t look over. “Got any ideas yet on how he gets some shut eye without being murdered?”

Sam sighs. “No.”

I want to ask if he’s thought about using his powers while he’s asleep and under the influence of the African Dream Root again. But I don’t know how Dean feels about his brother’s powers. Or, if he even knows for certain. My memory is still hazy and I don’t want to risk outing him or stirring up a touchy subject. Something tells me Dean wouldn’t handle Sam’s powers well if he did know.

“Well, if you need me to try and make contact with someone on the other side, let me know. I mean I haven’t done it in a while, but I can always give Bobby’s friend Pam a call if I need some guid-”

Dean bolts out of his chair. Papers crumple in his tight fist. “We don’t need you to do anything.” The dismissive tone matches the inconsequential way he stares at me. “We don’t need anyone else fucking things up.”

Sam rotates in the seat, arm resting along the chair back. His bewildered and angry expression towards Dean is all I focus on. My cheeks warm at the berating from this stranger with a chip on his shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon.

“From what I hear,” Dean continues, “you are giving the normal life the good ole college try back in Montezuma. I suggest you keep it that way. And get as far away from all this as you can.” His voice cracks at the end. That sound makes me dare to lift my gaze back to him.

He’s trying his best to be an all-knowing asshole. But something’s cracking the veneer. I don’t think he’ll be able to keep it up for much longer. For a moment, I want to march right into this guy’s personal space and slap him. Right before I hug him. But it’s a fleeting inkling. I nod at him. “I’ll get this stuff to Bobby. Sounds like the both of you can handle picking him up at the hospital in the morning.” I inhale and prop up a smile as I turn to Sam. It’s the only way I’ll keep my lips from quivering.

Sam’s brows angle down. “I’m sorry, El.” He whispers.

I shake my head. I can’t speak. If I do, I’ll cry. And I don’t fucking know why my body is reacting like this to the things Dean Winchester said to me.

My heart is racing. I walk with lightning speed to the door.

My brakes are squeaking big time back to Matamoras.

~~~~

Sam’s tired. He should be the one sleeping in the back seat.

He’s the one that’s lived through and remembered hundreds of Tuesdays where Dean died. He didn’t have the blessing(?) of a memory wipe with every morning reset. Now, he panics when he stumbles upon a radio station playing the chorus of Asia’s most well known song. He woke up on so many Tuesdays to “the heat of the moment.” Those words grate like fingernails across a chalkboard every time he hears it. Hearing that music always makes him question for a couple seconds if he’s been dropped back into Groundhog Day Hell.

One Tuesday did have a Wednesday after it. Without Dean.

Sam’s lived six months without Dean already. The Trickster showed him what life would be like without his brother. Sam spent those six months obsessed, determined to find a way to bring Dean back from the dead. He’d convinced the Trickster to snap his fingers and take him back to a Wednesday where Dean lived. Honestly, the Trickster probably got bored of Sam’s sulking and found another puppet’s strings to pull. But, regardless, Sam got his brother back.

He hasn’t bothered to share any of what happened during those six months with Dean (or that one of his deaths actually stuck). Not when they’re trying to prevent Dean from going to hell.

Sam’s need to fix messes could be considered heroic –maybe even to him– if he wasn’t the reason the messes were created.

Sam’s not sure how much one person is expected to withstand. If he and Dean are in some kind of tragedy endurance contest, he’d like to tap out, please, and wave the white flag in surrender. But, then, he thinks about Dean going it alone. When he decides that’s not an option, he straightens up, plants his feet, and braces for the next wave of sorrow to pummel him.

So, yeah, Sam’s tired. But still determined that his brother’s not gonna die. Not anytime soon. Not if he has a say in the matter. Especially when Dean’s no longer resigned to the inevitable of his demon deal coming to fruition.

Sam can push through the exhaustion and fight for Dean’s future because even Dean wants a chance at what’s possible for himself.

Sam saw it with his very own eyes in Dean’s dream. Not the dream Dean’s currently having in the backseat. In between snuffles and snores he’s mumbling nonsense (something about wrenches and spanners). No, what Sam witnessed in Dean’s dream months back proved Dean thinks about a future of what ifs.

The dream had occurred days after he and Dean had managed to wake Bobby from the nightmare coma courtesy of Jeremy Frost. Days after Dean found himself in grave danger of becoming Jeremy’s next victim.

Dean hadn’t slept for days. The threat of never waking up again meant classic rock on full blast in Baby. Gallons of coffee. A concerning amount of No-Doze pills that Dean most definitely wasn’t taking to cram for a college exam.

Bobby had kept himself awake researching with Bela. In between, he spent a lot of time fuming at Dean for the way he’d sent Elina packing. Dean brushed off Bobby's grumpy attitude and reminded him it was best for Elina.

Dean had eventually reached a breaking point, gave his safety a big ole’ “fuck you,” and decided sleep was worth the risk. He’d driven Baby to a clearing off the road, parked her, and leaned back to close his eyes.

Sam harvested some of Dean’s hair right off the scalp, insisting that if Dean was going under he’d need someone to watch his back in the dreamworld.

When they’d both roused from sleep in the Impala nothing had seemed off.

Until Elina popped up in the backseat.

“Finally!” Elina exclaimed.

Sam almost pogoed off the bench at the sound made by a person that most definitely could not be there.

She bopped first Dean’s, then Sam’s, shoulder with a folded up newspaper. “Geez, you two were really knocked out.” Her elbows and arms draped atop the front bench’s backrest. “I was gonna give you five more minutes of beauty sleep. I know you both need it.”

Dean’s eyes widened, staring at her. His lips parted.

Sam dared to interact with the apparition. “El, what are you doing here?”

Her brows furrowed. She nodded in pensive thought. “I ask myself that question every day, Sam. What the hell am I doing with my life, hunting with the likes of you two?” She nudged Dean’s shoulder with an elbow and grinned at him. “Saving people: an absolutely non-existent way to earn a living, am I right?”

Dean nodded back and offered a confused smile. “R-right.”

Elina looked from Dean to Sam then back to Dean. “You okay?”

Dean nodded with increased fervor and turned in his seat to give her his full attention. “Yeah.”

“Better be. I think I found us a case.” She presented the paper to Sam. “Take a look.”

Sam took the offering and gazed at the front page. A jumble of letters littered the paper like a word search puzzle. “What are we looking at?” Sam bluffed.

“A man was found dead in the famous confectionery amusement park in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Police hadn’t released details of the death to the public.” She tapped the spot that appeared to be a headline. “An anonymous source talked to this reporter and said the guy that died had been literally encased in a chocolate mold. You know, like those chocolate bunnies? Only this was a gigantic chocolate dude. Impossible to create anything like that in the on-site factory.”

“Solid Milk Murder,” Dean mumbled. Sam watched his older brother fixate his gaze away on Elina’s face.

“Get this,” Elina continued. “This reporter did more digging into the victim’s life. Six months prior his father had died. Dad had been a supervisor at a candy factory in a Delaware beach town. He’d been pulled to pieces in a taffy stretching machine.” She scooted behind Dean and wrapped her arms around him. Dean stiffened in shock. “Sticky situation,” she mumbled into Dean’s ear and then pecked him on the cheek. Dean closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A small smile lined his lips. When his eyes blinked open and Adam's apple twitched with a swallow, he appeared to relax into the embrace. “I say the Three Amigos see if this is our kind of thing.”

Before Sam or Dean could respond a noise rattled outside of the car. Elina flickered out, gone in an instant. There’d been no time for either of them to discuss what had happened. They quickly exited the car to investigate.

Dean manifested Lisa next. The scene was the perfect slice of Apple Pie Life. A picnic in the park. Lisa had even told Dean she loved him before disappearing.

Things went downhill from there. But, they’d made it out of the dream alive. Jeremy hadn’t, thanks to Sam turning the tables.

Unfortunately, Bela had broken into the safe in the hotel room and stolen the Colt. Bobby left them with a promise to be in touch if he got a lead on her or the gun’s whereabouts. That was the only thing they thought could kill Lilith.

Sam finished packing back at the hotel. A heavy mix of anger and defeat hung in the air. Quietly writing, Dean hunched over the desk in an attempt at privacy while Sam bounced around the room grabbing all their items. Sam spotted names on the envelopes Dean stuffed into his bag when he was done. One read Lisa. The other, Elina.

It wasn’t until they headed out to the car and tossed the bags in the trunk that Dean spoke.

“Hey Sam, I was wondering, when you were in my head what did you see?”

“Uh, just Jeremy, he kept me separated from you. Easier to beat my brains out I guess. What about you? You never said.”

“Nothing. I was looking for you the whole time.”

As easy as it was for Sam to withhold all the dream details, he was pretty certain Dean was doing the same.

The car doors creaked and squeaked. When they settled in the driver and passenger seat, Dean said, “Sam…”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been doing some thinking. And… well, the thing is… I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go to hell.”

“All right, yeah. We’ll find a way to save you.”

“Okay, good.”

Sam’s lived through his own hell since Dean confessed wanting salvation from an eternity of torture. With everything they have been through, they’ve got nothing to show for it. They still aren’t any closer to finding Bela and the Colt and the magic bullet that will put an end to Dean’s demon deal.

The last case in Milan, Ohio and the monster they encountered fed off Dean’s fear of dying. The crocotta had used its powers to mimic their dad’s voice and contact Dean through the phone. The monster, claiming to be John, told Dean he could help him locate the demon that held his contract.

Dean had opened up to Sam after they’d defeated the crocotta back at the motel room.

(Dialogue - in italics - from Ep. Long Distance Call; written by Jeremy Carver)

“I wanted to believe so badly there was a way out of this. I mean, I’m staring down the barrel at this thing. You know, Hell… for real, forever, and I’m just…”

“Yeah.”

“I’m scared, Sam. I’m really scared.”

“I know.”

“I guess I was willing to believe anything – you know, last act of a desperate man.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having hope, you know.”

“Hope doesn’t get you Jack Squat. I can’t expect Dad to show up with some miracle at the last minute. I can’t expect anybody to, you know? And the only person that can get me out of this thing is me.”

“And me.”

“‘And me’?”

“What?”

“Deep revelation, having a real moment here, that’s what you come back with – ‘And me’?”

“Do you want a poem?”

“Moments gone.” Dean turned on the television. “Unbelievable.” He passed Sam a beer and they drank in silence.

They’ve shaked and baked their way through a handful of demons since that case; trying to get any information on the real demon that holds Dean’s contract. But they keep hitting a brick wall. Whatever owns the agreement to Dean’s demise scares the holy hell out of every demon they’ve encountered.

Sam might have a lead on a novel way out of Dean’s contract. It doesn’t involve facing off with the Demon that makes every underling willingly choose an exorcism over betrayal. The solution may be wrapped up in the potential case they’re heading to in Erie, Pennsylvania. Sam knows it will be a hard sell if his hunch is right. But he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

For now, anyway, Sam’s got another trick up his sleeve. He offered to drive from Ohio into Pennsylvania so Dean could get some shut eye. The trek had taken longer because he passed right on by Erie. On purpose.

Sam’s luck ran out about an hour from the destination when Dean stretched and sat up in the backseat.

Sam clocked Dean in the rearview mirror. He checked his watch. Eyes widened. “What the hell? Did you drug me? I’ve been out for like seven hours.”

Sam had thought about knocking his brother out. Thankfully, he didn’t need to resort to that. Yet.

Sam shrugged. “My smooth driving lulled you to sleep.”

“Yeah, right.” Dean chuckled.

Sam’s jaw clenched as he passed a highway distance sign that displayed the city where they were headed.

“Sam.” The mirth in Dean’s voice disappeared. “Sam,” he repeated. “Are you lost? You better be lost.”

Dean has always looked out for Sam. Sam knows, deep down, Dean’s always wanted happiness for him. Sam wants that for Dean, too. If Sam can unload Dean off to someone that might be able to help him get happiness in whatever form - whether it’s the hunting life with Elina or the suburban life with Lisa - why shouldn’t Dean get the chance to try?

“Pull over,” Dean ordered.

Sam shook his head. “Nope.”

“Bitch, what the fuck?”

“Consider this a proactive discussion prior to the demon deal dissolution.”

Dean groaned. His head flopped onto the backrest. “I’m so kicking your ass when you stop this car. And, you’ve gotta stop eventually.”

“It’ll be worth it.” The hesitance in Sam’s voice contradicted the certainty of his words.

Dean was directly behind him now. Sam could feel Dean’s warm breath on the back of his neck as he huffed, “Really?”

Sam swallowed hard. “Yep. We’re gonna find a way to save you, Dean. And, when we do, Elena’s gonna remember all of it.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean murmured.

“Well, if she doesn’t, then Bobby and I will tell her everything that happened.”

Dean slapped him upside the head.

“Jerk! I’m driving!” Sam exclaimed.

“It won’t change anything.” Dean slid to the middle of the back seat. “It won’t change how I feel. She’s better off without me, Sam, and you know it.”

“No, I don’t. And how would she know it when she doesn’t even remember you? You got a shit deal and Elena got dragged in as a free gift with your order.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I know you didn’t. But, Dean,” –Sam glanced at his brother– “Elena didn’t ask for it either.”

“She’s trying the normal life thing. That’s good. I’d just complicate it all again.”

“You could give the normal life thing a try, too, you know.”

“You aren’t gonna shut up about this are ya?”

“Nope. Come on, no time like the present.” Because there’s literally no time, Sam thought.

~~~~

Ugh. No time!

I rummage through the jewelry box. Again. My gaze darts to the alarm clock on the nightstand. I should have left the apartment five minutes ago if I wanted to appear fashionably late.

The attempt at nonchalance is no longer an option. I will now have to text Gary.

Running later than expected. Wait for me?

Thoughts claw their way up the curtains in my head when I rush like this. I can’t find my grandmother’s rose gold necklace. I know I didn’t lose it. At least I hope not.

Are the blouse and skirt not dressy enough for Bella Notte? I forgot to ask Gary if it’s a formal restaurant. If I send another text it will be obvious I’m obsessing way more than I should. Maybe the outfit is too much? If it is, I probably don’t need the necklace, too. But now that I went searching for it and it’s not where I expected it to be, I have to find it.

My fingers thread through my hair and grip my skull. I’ve gotta calm my ass down.

The phone chirps with news of a Gary response.

Nowhere I gotta be but waiting for a beautiful woman. Just don’t stand me up, alright?

Gary’s flirting. And even through the technical distance of texting this attention increases the beating of my racing heart. I steady my fingers to type.

Of course not.

Screw it. It’s taken almost a year for this first date to happen. I can tear the apartment upside down for the necklace I was going to wear when I return.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the jewelry box mirror. I touch the soft leather cord around my neck. It doesn’t go with the blouse. But I promised Bobby I wouldn’t take the thing off when he gave it to me months ago.

I sigh, thinking about the grouch in the hospital bed. Back then, he asked where the fire was that I needed to get to in such a goddamn hurry. I wasn’t about to tell him I was running away from an avalanche of attitude by the name of Dean Winchester. The passing thought of that guy still bristles my fur. What the hell was his problem?

Bobby ordered me to hand over his duffle I’d brought from the hotel room. It took him a couple minutes to sift through it as he grumbled about my packing job. Eventually, he pulled out a cord with a charm.

“Should have given you one of these years ago, L. They only gotta find a chink in your armor when you’re the most vulnerable. Lost. Without hope.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Demons, knucklehead.” He rubbed the scrap of hair atop his balding skull.

I frowned. “My place is warded to ‘Singer Specifications.’” I air-quoted. “Salt lines get redone on the windows and doors weekly with double-sided tape. I’ve got a spray bottle of holy water on the kitchen counter. You even told me you peeled the upholstery off the roof of my car to paint a Devil’s Trap under it.”

He cleared his throat. “Right, I forgot I did that.” He waves the cord at me. “Overkill? Maybe? But a lot of shit’s been stirred up lately. And there’s an increase in demon activity because of it. Humor an old man. Put it on and promise me you won’t take it off. Ever.”

“Ever?”

He nodded. “Shower with it. Sleep with it. The whole nine yards.”

I’d kept my promise.

But, tonight. Well, tonight, fashion sense beats common as I pull the cord over my head. Before I can drop it into my jewelry box, there’s a knock at my door.

I frown, stuff the cord and charm in my grip, and wonder who’s paying me a visit and how fast I can get rid of them. “Who is it?” I call out.

“Uh, it’s Dean Winchester.” The voice rumbles. “You probably don’t remember me.”

“Oh no,” I mumble and rush to the door. I’m face to face with him after a quick unlock and pull. “What happened?” The question spews out. I hear how frantic I sound.

His eyes widen and punctuate his already shocked expression. “What?”

“Bobby! What happened?”

“Nothing. Bobby’s fine. Back in Sioux Falls, far as I know. Talked to him just yesterday.” He raises a hand to apparently calm me.

The gesture has the opposite effect. From my limited encounters, any reaction from this man reeks of condescension. I lash out with what I think is biting sarcasm. “Good. Hopefully Bobby put me down as his emergency contact like I asked, Mr. Snyderson.”

He confuses me further with a smile.

I shake my head and try not to focus on how cute his smile is. Or how long his lashes are and how that only adds to the flirtatious vibes when his lids flutter over those green eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Sam and I were in the area. On the way to a case.” He rocks back and forth from heel to sole.

I peek past him to the staircase landing. No Sam.

“He’s waiting in the car, outside.” Dean clears his throat. “He figured it was better I do this alone.”

My hand lands on my hip as I try my best cool-and-could-care-less stance. “Do what?”

He sighs. “Apologize.”

I’m staring up at this guy. Not as tall and eclipsing as his brother, but still much taller than me. He’s wearing a leather jacket that’s a little too big for his frame. A fleeting thought has me wondering if it’s Sam’s. But that can’t be right. An older brother doesn’t get his younger brother’s hand-me-downs. There’s hesitation and uncertainty in his eyes. Their gaze flits from side to side. For a moment, he seems smaller.

And sincere.

“I’m on my way out,” I state. Then add, “but you can come in for a minute.”

He tugs a smile up the corner of his mouth and hurries inside. My nose twitches at the odor of stale sweat and something metallic.

“This is a nice little place you got here. Just like I imagined it would be.”

Why the hell had he been imagining what my place looks like?

His hands disappear into his jacket pockets. He strolls into the middle of my apartment.

I close the door. “You mentioned apologizing.” I’ve got places to be, buddy.

Dean turns to stare back at me. He lifts a brow, then steels his jaw. “Yeah.” He rotates on his heels to face me full on. “I was a dick and you didn’t deserve any of my bullshit. I’ve been going through some shit for about a year… not an excuse, I know that. But, I figured an explanation to go along with the apology was in order. Trying to make amends to the people I wronged before I hang up my hunting license.”

“You’re quitting?” For some reason, the confession utterly surprises me. I know nothing about this guy. But, none of that lines up in my brain about him. “Getting out of the life?”

“Something like that, yeah.” He smiles. It’s forced and pinned high on his cheeks. “Got any tips?”

“Tips?”

“Yeah, how’d you do it?”

I shake my head. “Tips should come from someone who’s done it successfully. I can’t say I’ll never get wrapped up in a case again. It’s a work in progress.”

He shrugs. The long jacket sleeve almost swallows his clenched fist at the action. “I don’t know. You’ve got a job. Your own place. Sounds pretty successful to me.” He spins, slow and deliberate, taking in the details of my apartment.

It should feel intrusive. Privacy invading. But, I find myself taking advantage of the opportunity to study his mannerisms. His lids squint, then relax. He licks his top lip. There’s a slight nod to some steady bopping tune that might be playing in his head.

Dean halts and stares at something. He bends over and leans to the side. On his way to the dresser, he crouches with creeping steps. Investigation mode appears to be activated with a graceful squat. A hand sweeps along the wood floor out of my view. He hops up to standing. Something shiny dangles between his fingers.

I float over in adulation at the sight. “Oh wow, you found it!”

He grins and drops it into my open, waiting palm. “Pretty important?”

“A gift from my grandmother.” My gaze darts to the corner behind the dresser where it had been hiding. I connect the dots. “It must have slipped over the side.” I inhale and beam at Dean. “Thank you.”

“Glad I could help.”

I drop the anti-possession charm on the dresser and use both hands to put on Grandma’s rose gold necklace.

Dean points to the leather cord. “Don’t forget that.”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t go.”

The judgment in his eyes wipes away any mirth on his face. “Bobby gave you that, didn’t he? He’d be awfully disappointed to know you weren’t taking precautions. ‘Out of the life’ doesn’t mean you slack off on being careful.” He scoops up the cord and unties the knot. A nod precedes his order. “Hold your arm out.”

I’ve obeyed before I realize it. He wraps the cord around my wrist a few times, turning it into a bracelet. Warm fingers fumble against my skin to fasten the leather. They slide up my forearm just enough to tuck the charm under my cuffed sleeve. “There,” he states. “Don’t have to worry about clashing or demons tonight.”

I’m about to thank him again when his eyes do a double-take in the direction of my dresser. He stares in surprise. “You-uh-you collect a lot of cat figurines, huh?”

I huff out a laugh and joke, “Yeah, I’m easing into the crazy cat lady role.”

He picks one up from the dozen miniature cats without asking.

I smile at the little angel in his hand. “That’s my favorite one.”

Dean raises a brow. “Another gift?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Best guess is the people that rented the apartment before me forgot it in the dresser they left behind. I found it in the bottom of a drawer under my clothes one day.”

“Oh.” He nods. “Why’s it your favorite?”

“I don’t know. Just makes me smile.”

“Hmm.” There’s a far away expression on his face.

I suddenly remember I am now very, very late for a date. “Well, Dean, I appreciate you coming by to apologize. No hard feelings. I hope things work out for you. Really.”

Dean relocates the angel with care. He straightens and gains a couple of inches. “I can use all the hope I can get.”

I nod along with him for what seems like forever.

“Riiight.” He stretches the word. “Have a nice night.”

I trail him to the door. “Tell Sam I said hi?”

He turns and looks at me. “Will do.” A hitch of breath follows. I wait for him to say whatever it is he seems to be mulling over. He offers me a soft smile. “Goodbye, Elina.”

The door opens and closes in a second and he’s gone. I’ve been surprisingly affected again by one Dean Winchester. And even though the apology should make me feel better, I somehow find myself worrying about the mysterious and aloof hunter.

I sigh and choose not to dwell on it if I can help it. After all, I’ve got a date!

I rush to the bathroom one more time.

~~~~

Gary’s lips are insistent. Not super rough. His hands curl about my waist. The door handle by the passenger seat presses into my lower back.

The front seat of my VW bug isn’t very roomy. But, here we are, parked at the Staircase Rapids Canoe and Kayak Launch along the Delaware River. The deserted pull off and the moonlight dancing over the water make for a decent and impromptu makeout location.

Dinner was nice enough. I thought my Fettuccine Alfredo was a little runny. But I kept those thoughts to myself.

Gary was a nice enough dinner companion – from the crusty Italian bread with the dipping oil to the Tiramisu we shared. After months of building Gary up in my head, I thought I’d only find more of him to be starry eyed about. Once we could finally talk uninterrupted, the only new thing I’ve found out is he’s very good at deflecting. He offered up short and stubby answers to most of my questions.

I assumed a cool disinterest had crept up in him by the end of the night. He didn’t ask anything very personal. There was nothing deep and probing. Well, except for his tongue currently in my mouth.

As I rate his kissing technique (there’s too much swirl and suction for my liking) I’m also wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Why am I not able to let go and enjoy the closeness and warmth of this other person? It’s been way too long since I’ve experienced this kind of touch. I don’t need to calculate how long. My inner scorekeeper quickly reminds me. It’s been almost two years since my one night stand in Wildwood, New Jersey.

I’m swimming in a haze of too much wine mixed with indecisiveness. His fingers skirt under the hem of my blouse and test the waters. When do I tell him that’s enough? Do I let him cop a feel over my bra? Despite his insistence to pay for my dinner, I slipped my credit card to the waitress so we could split the cost. I didn’t want to owe him anything.

I’ve done more for less attention and regretted it later. I shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t beat myself up for craving touch and fulfilling a basic human need.

It would be easy if I didn’t want more. And I’m realizing with every slip and slurp of Gary’s mouth that there isn’t going to be anything more than this. Whatever happens.

He whispers in my ear that I look incredibly hot tonight. I should gasp a thank you or toss him a complementary compliment. Instead, I’m reminding myself how expendable and forgettable I am. I’m tallying up how many people I expected to stick around –who displayed a modicum of care and interest– actually did.

Gary has been, well, nice enough. I recall how he offered to look at my brakes months back. Fixed them for me at cost at the garage where he moonlights.

All the chance encounters with this man have been thrilling and invigorating. After tonight, they could be embarrassing and stomach upsetting.

Cause this doesn’t feel right.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I finally get what I think I want… and… it’s not.

“Whatsa matter, baby?” he mumbles the question into my mouth.

I snatch at the opportunity presented. My hand rests atop his chest to push him away. I am done inhaling the red wine and cocoa on his breath. “I-I think it’s getting late.” His offer to drive me home in my car, after I had too much wine, is now an obvious problem. I scramble to sound invested in his well being. “You don’t want to call Jason too late for that drive back to the restaurant to pick up your truck, do you?”

“Sweet of you to worry, but I’m a big boy.” He combs some of my hair behind my ear. “You aren’t having a good time?”

“No,” I hurry out my answer. Gary’s figure is awash in the ashy gray of evening. His face, half in pitch black shadow, gives me little to read. The whites of his eyes are the only thing I can make out well. He blinks in wait. I continue. “I had a great time. But, it’s getting late.”

“We could have an even better time if you’d relax.” His thin lips curl up high into a smirk. Hands overpower with ease and clamp over my wrists. A push and I’m smothered between his chest and the door. He grapples my arms tight against my sides. His mouth latches onto my neck. “Isn’t this what you’ve been wanting?” His question vibrates under my skin.

My heart beats for release. “Gary, please…”

“Hm, begging for it already.” He chuckles.

“No.” I squirm. I shake my head, lift my shoulder in vain to detach his lips from me. “Take me home, please.”

He groans out an exasperated sigh. His bangs sweep over my lips. “For fuck’s sake. We could’ve had a good time tonight, El.” His teeth click. He launches backward into the driver’s seat.

I sit up and wedge farther into the little corner between the door and the seat. Where the hell can I run where he won’t catch me right away? There isn’t anything for five miles in either direction on this stretch of road heading back to Matamoras from Pond Eddy. I massage the skin of one wrist. Maybe I can convince him to drive me home? Promise to continue the fun at my apartment? I could hop out of the car and run to the 24-hour Smoke Shop a block away.

When I switch to the other wrist I notice something’s missing.

Gary starts the engine. The dashboard illuminates and winks to life. He taps on the overhead light. My leather cord dangles from the tips of his fingers. He eyes the charm swaying back and forth. His lips peel back and display pearly whites. “Fuckin’ piece of shit,” he hisses. Under the engine hum a whirr accompanies the opening of the driver’s side window. With a quick slingshot, my necklace disappears into the darkness outside.

“What the hell are you doing?” I’m surprised at my ability to sound angry.

“What did Dean have to say when he stopped by earlier?” Gary asks and turns to look at me. I can see every inch of his face now but he’s not any easier to read.

Oh. Shit.

I grab the door handle.

But I’m not faster than Gary.

He cups the back of my head and slams my forehead into the curved outcrop of the dash. A shock of whiplash shuffles the contents of my skull. It’s followed by a ringing in my ears. Fingers weave into my hair and tug me to sit upright, tipping my head back like a Pez dispenser. I scream at the corkscrew twisting of his hand. Hundreds of strands yank out of my scalp.

“The Winchesters.” Gary is calm and stone faced. He’s in my personal space, staring down at me. “Where are they headed?”

“I-I don’t know.” Balance upended, I’m woozy and confused. “How-, why-”

“Those two are stupid enough to get themselves killed if they aren’t careful, El. Help ‘em out. Tell me where they are going.”

“I t-t-told you. I don’t kn-”

I hear a crack, then realize it was the side of my head getting slammed into the car window. A dull, heavy pulse bangs against the kettle drum that is my brain.

“We gotta do it the hard way, huh?”

I slump against the glass and close my eyes. The surface is cool, slippery. Despite the pain radiating throughout my body, I could fall asleep.

Gears shift. The car judders forward in that familiar way when I give it a little too much gas. Then, it slows to a crawl.

“We’ve got a pool going, seeing how boring as hell it’s been topside lately. Pun intended, by the way.” Gary hums a little to the pop tune blaring from the radio. “Who’s Dean gonna run to before his deal comes due?” He announces the question like a game show host. “I had my money on you. Always thought you had an advantage over Lisa. I mean, yeah, there’s Ben. That meat stick has a soft spot for kids. But, you, I mean come on, you were in the life. You know what it’s like. You get him. Well, when you remember him.” Gary snorts. “You saved him for fuck’s sake!”

I force my lids open. Something sticky’s blurring the vision of my right eye. The headlights are creeping over a dirt path. Gary taps the steering wheel to the song’s beat.

“Wha- talkin’ ‘bout?” I murmur.

“You pulled out in the lead at the last minute. Spray a little scrubbing bubbles in there” – he presses a finger to my temple – “and I’ll get what I need, get out of this ass backwards town and onto bigger and better things. A promotion from Lilith. Maybe visit New York City. Get up to some trouble.” Gary turns to grin at me. I’m seeing double, his figure swimming in and out of focus.

His eyes turn totally black.

I shake my head. The pounding only increases.

A demon. There’s a fucking demon driving my car.

“Gotta say I’m a little disappointed.” Gary slams the brake pedal hard. My body flails back into the seat. I groan as Gary continues talking, shifting into park while the engine runs. “Thought we could have some real fun before getting down to the doldrums of business. This wasn’t the way Gary wanted to end up inside you, either.”

I gotta get out of here. I reach for one of the door handles but I only fist at air. Beyond the car hood, I can only make out a sliver of the dirt path awash in high beams. Ripples of water, the color of black volcanic glass, sway and meet the edge of the earth.

Sudden and abrupt, Gary’s palms cradle my head. A kaleidoscope of black-eyed masks circle in my vision. “Open wide so I can have a peek, baby.” His jaw unhinges. Smoke expels from between his lips. Onyx clouds hang in the air. Terror bubbles up and a pitiful yelp leaves me. His gaping hole of a mouth turns up at the corners in a sinister cheshire cat grin.

The smoke appears sentient, swirling its form into a thread with a needle-like point heading right toward my mouth. Then, I feel the invasion. The alien gas slides down my throat. It violates and expands throughout my lungs and inflates in dominance. It’s rough, uncaring, pawing under my skin for control. My vision is gone, a complete blackout. I can’t stop blinking in hopes I will see something, anything. I gasp somewhere, far away, for breath.

“There we go, baby.” It’s my voice, but I’m not saying the words. I’ve been amputated from the body I’m stuck inside. The prisoner part of me rattles around in my brain, beating against my skull. “It’ll be better if you don’t fight.”

My sight returns but it’s distorted. I’m peeking through a fisheye lens. My hand adjusts the rear view mirror - without any directive that’s mine - so I can stare at my reflection. Half of my face is smeared in blood. My blood. My fingers push matted hair off my forehead and cheek. My eyes leer at my own visage, lascivious and coveting. My tongue peeks out to lick the blood dripping from my nose.

“Oh, we’re gonna be able to get so much more done with this body.” Incorporeal fingers flip through my memory. “Hm. You weren’t lying. You don’t know where they went.”

“Elina?” A hoarse voice mumbles out of Gary’s body slumped in the driver’s seat.

“All those naughty thoughts.” My voice holds a condescending, judgy tone, as I stare at Gary. “Maybe if you’d paid more attention to taking care of that sickly aunt you wouldn’t be in this mess, Gar.” One of my hands feels its way up Gary’s shirt and under his suit jacket. It finds something cool and hard inside the breast pocket. My other hand unceremoniously pulls the clear bud vase from the mount it resides in near the steering wheel. “Lilith appreciates your service.”

Gary stares at the folded hunting knife in my hand. A firm wrist whip releases the blade from the confines. He scrambles to sit up in the seat. “What-what are you-”

Gary doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I’m screaming in the cage of my brain. My hand slashes at his throat, plunging deep into the flesh and meeting the resistance of bone. My wrist twists. My other hand places the bud vase near the gaping wound. Blood gurgles and spurts into the receptacle as Gary’s head flops to the side.

I can’t stop screaming.

“Hopefully that’s enough.”

My voice quips out some lines of Latin as my eyes stare hard at the tiny vase.

“Fuck. Well, guess that killing two birds with one stone saying doesn’t apply here. Not enough juice.” My hand tosses the vase into the back of the car. “We’ll just give Sam a ring and find out where he and Dean are. Find another warm body to make another call. Then we’ll update Lilith on our progress.” I see my lips scrunch up in the mirror’s reflection. “Gary’s gonna have to go for a swim.” My body expels an exasperated sigh.

I can’t stop screaming.

“Shut the fuck up. Or when we track Dean and Sam down, I’ll cut their tongues out and feed them to you.”

I gasp, stunned and muted by the threat.

“That’s better. Now where’s that cell phone of yours.”

Dropping the knife, my hand searches the footwell by my heels. The demon will secure my purse in moments.

Dean’s face flashes in my memory. I can use all the hope I can get.

“You get him. Well, when you remember him. You saved him for fuck’s sake!” Gary’s voice - the demon’s words - replay in my head.

Demons lie.

But I remember Sam. Sam doesn’t deserve whatever this demon has in store for him. And, deep down, I’m pretty sure Dean doesn’t deserve it either.

From the periphery of my sight, I see blood seeping out of Gary’s fatal wound. The wound my hands created.

Demons kill.

The demon won’t hesitate to do this again to someone else.

Unless I fight back.

“You can’t fight me.” My voice sing songs. “You don’t get out of this until I say.”

I remember Sam. Sam was able to do things he hadn’t thought possible when something was important enough to try and save.

“I told you to shut up.”

I realize how similar my voice sounds to my sister’s when she used to tease and scold me.

I hated that.

The engine idles, a background hum to all of the crazy.

My hand flips my phone open and begins to tap through my contacts.

I won’t be used to hurt another person. Anger boils and the body I’m in heats up around me. My thoughts zone in on how the gear shift would feel in my hand. How I’d press on the brake while I switch from Park to Drive.

The pedal bears down and the gear shift clicks to R, N, then D.

“What the–?”

I imagine my foot lifting off the brake and slamming the gas.

The car hiccups forward, almost rearing up on its wheels like a horse being whipped. It’s only a few seconds and then it’s bobbing as if it’s been fitted with hydraulics. Gary’s lifeless body bounces in the driver’s seat.

“You psycho bitch!” My voice screams. “Your funeral, not mine!” I feel my jaw open wide, stretching muscles and tendons to their limits.

The lights flicker out in the car. I focus on the sound of water lapping against the exterior. Whatever is going to happen next, I hope it’s quick.

“What the hell?!?” My voice roars in the dark. “What did you do?!? Why am I stuck?!?” My head whips side to side with a feral intensity.

I imagine chuckling like a victorious villain. The Devil’s Trap on the ceiling. Bobby came through for me. Again. Even as my body shivers at the cold water surrounding my feet, I know I can do one last thing to make the man proud. After all, I aced my Latin class in college.

I thread the words of the exorcism together, echoing in my brain.

“No! Stop!”

My body is betraying me again, either because of the demon or because I might be weakening its hold and control over my flesh. I’m fading. Lids too heavy to keep open.

Glass breaks behind me and water rushes in. The ice cold shocks my heart. Hands wrap around my waist and tug. I’m pulled through the water. This must be what dying feels like.

I break through the water’s surface. “El!” A hand wraps around my waist. A body tangles around mine in the river and drags me somewhere.

Pairs of hands hold me down on hard ground.

“Fuck! Sam!”

The Latin chant spills from a familiar voice, fast and furious.

Sam.

The force of water and smoke expelling from my throat jolts me awake. My eyes flicker open.

I see them.

Sam and Dean stare down at me. A heavy full moon hangs in the sky behind them.

“Hold on, El!”

Dean.

I can’t, though.

~~~~

I wake up screaming.

Sam and Dean are gone.

No moon. No night.

I’m in a room. Yellow fluorescent light.

My heart races. Something beeps.

I stare at a drop ceiling.

“El!”

Pamela. Pamela’s here. I gasp for air.

“It’s alright, darlin’.” Her hand soothes a warm trail up and down my arm.

I slowly realize “here” is a hospital room. I am in a bed, sensors taped to skin and needles tapped into veins.

“Aw, sweetie. Everyone’s gonna be so happy to know you’re awake. Doctor’s gonna want to check you out and talk to you.” She sighs. “Unfortunately, so are the police.”

My mind swims with newfound knowledge. “Dean.” I croak out. “Where’s Dean?” I turn to see her watercolor blue eyes inspect me. The usual troublemaker grin is nowhere to be found.

She pats my hand. “Later, sweetie. Listen to me now.”

“Pamela…”

“Do you remember what happened to you? In the car?” She strokes the hair atop my head. “Do you remember what that thing did to you? Do you remember what it made you do to Gary?”

The knife in Gary’s throat. The blood. I nod. The tears flow.

Pamela nods back. “That’s what the police want to talk to you about,” she whispers. “But, if you claim it was self-defense-that he was gonna hurt you-trust me, it’ll be an easy sell. Those two lawyers you work for, Mitch and Ryan?” I nod as she continues. “They’ve been by to check on you and keep me informed of the investigation. Gary’s Aunt Cheryl’s been rotting away in the basement of her house for months. Gary” –her voice even lower– “that thing joyriding him, it had you in its sights all that time, just waiting for the right moment, like a goddamn serial killer. Cops found photos of you all over the house and satanic” –she air quotes– “stuff in his room.”

My head spins. “Why? Why was it after Sam and Dean?”

A nurse pops in. Her face lights up. “Oh. How’s the patient?”

Pamela smiles and grips my wrist. “Sis just woke up.”

The nurse beelines to the side of my bed and checks the IV drip. Her gaze skirts over me and then at the monitor. “Dr. Wallace is making the rounds.” She clears her throat. “We’ve been given specific instructions to notify the police department as soon as…”

Pamela waves a hand, “Just do whatever you gotta do so we can get her out of here as soon as she’s able. Please.”

The nurse nods and zips out of the room.

“Sis?” I notice a dull throb from my forehead extends to the right side of my head. Oh, yeah, my skull met the dashboard and a window. The painkillers are obviously holding back a torrent of pain.

“Bobby needed one of your relatives to watch over you while he…” Pamela trails off.

“He’s with them, isn’t he? Sam and Dean?”

“What do you remember?”

It’s all a jumble. Memories and thoughts can’t reconcile themselves. “I remember knowing Dean, and then… not. And then, knowing him again.”

Her fingers rub circles atop my hand. “I don’t know all the details. Bobby’s a vault when he swears to secrecy. But, the long and short of it… this Dean Winchester made some kind of demon deal almost a year ago.”

I close my eyes. All I hear in my head is Dean.

I don’t like any of this, though, not one bit. I can’t keep literally dragging you into my shit.

Whatever this connection is, it’s obvious we don’t have any control over it. And that can go real bad, real quick.

You’re special. And I want you to stay that way.

“Oh, Dean,” I whisper. “What did you do?”

“Hey.” Pamela gives me a soft nudge. “This Dean sounds like a ton more trouble than he’s worth. You need to worry more about yourself right now, those police that are going to be by, and getting better. Bobby’s orders.”

~~~~

I was in the hospital for two more days under observation because of the head trauma I sustained. Once they ran me back and forth for numerous tests I finally got discharged with orders to rest.

I’ve been on lockdown for three weeks. I’ve also got security detail.

Not from the cops, mind you. I was convincing enough with my story. They bought that what I did to Gary was in self-defense. It wasn’t like I had to embellish much, just selectively omit some details. The demon had left a trail of crazy and murder that only supported my innocence.

No, I’m on lockdown with Pamela. And Garth, my security detail, has been ordered by Bobby to act as a sentinel outside my building. When he’s not in his car by the entrance during the day, he’s tucked into a sleeping bag by the threshold of my door at night. Pamela sleeps on the couch. I am within eyesight of either one of them in my twin bed. No one could ever claim this studio apartment is spacious.

It’s not so much about who might be coming after me, I suspect, as much as where I might run off to. Bobby called Pamela often. There’d been discussions, of which I’d not been allowed input, that maybe I should be moved. But the logistics and the where couldn’t be agreed. I couldn’t be taken to Sioux Falls. That meant Sam and Dean were there.

Garth had to get on the phone one night and offer, “Geez, Bobby. Law enforcement here is so on edge even the wind changing direction gets the third degree. No way anyone new or somethin’ out of the ordinary gets by them for quite a while. This is probably the safest place for El to be right now.”

That seemed to be good enough for Bobby, finally. Not for me. All I want are answers from Dean about why he thought wiping my memory of him was a great idea. More importantly, all I want to do is help him. Nothing involving a demon is good, I’m living proof. And anything involving a deal with a demon is a thousand times worse.

Pamela went out for food and supplies one morning while “cousin” Garth and I had a late Saturday breakfast. It was the first time we’d been by ourselves.

“You never met Sam and Dean Winchester?” I ask and slurp the sweet sugared milk from my cereal bowl.

“Nope.” Garth helps himself to another serving of the copycat Froot Loops.

I sit up and eye him as he digs in. “So, it was Bobby, then, that had you destroy my phone?”

He gasps, then coughs, mouth full of cereal. A little milk dribbles out of his nose. The features on his cue ball of a head scrunch in towards the center at his discomfort. “What?”

“Come on, Garth. Be honest with me.”

He wipes the mess off his face. “Alright, fine. Yes, Bobby had me do it.” He raises a hand. “And before you ask, I swear I don’t know why. He just told me you needed to be kept out of harm’s way and getting rid of your phone would help with that. So, I did.”

“I know why,” I mumble. “Erase any trace of Dean. It was probably Dean’s idea and Bobby just had you execute it.” I stand, itchy with irritation, and head over to the sink to deposit my cereal bowl. “Doesn’t it piss you off? The way Bobby doles out orders and we’re supposed to follow them without question?”

Garth blows his nose, I’m guessing to clear it of any residual milk. He flares his nostrils and does a little head shake. “Way I see it, Bobby’s survived this long on more than a little luck and a lot of praying. Like it or not, he’s usually right.” Garth looks up at me from his seat. His face wrinkles up into a thoughtful expression. “Bobby did tell me you got pretty close to those Winchesters. The Dean fella, in particular.”

I cross my arms, lean against the tiny bit of counter space that makes up my kitchenette. “I thought so.” I sweep my socked foot along the linoleum floor. My gaze lands on the cat figurine collection across the room on the dresser.

“Thought?”

I zone in on the cat angel. The one Dean got me. The one he picked up when he was here and trying to apologize when I didn’t remember everything. “Being close to someone means having faith in them. That’s how it goes for me anyway.”

“Faith is hard to come by for some people.” Garth shrugs. “You and I are close but it wasn’t always like that. I had to earn it. Look me in the eyes and say you have faith in everything I do with a straight face.” He raises his eyebrows.

I feel my mouth quirk up into a grin. “Fair enough,” I chuckle.

There’s a tell tale knock at the door. It’s the secret knock and I start for the door. But Garth raises a finger and sprints over before me.

Pamela breezes in with a couple bags. “Alright, I think I got everything on the list.” She drops them on the table and pulls out a newspaper for Garth.

“Thanks, Pammy. Gotta catch up on what Marmaduke’s up to.”

She smiles softly at him, then hands me a pile of envelopes. “Grabbed your mail.”

“Thanks, Pammy.” I parrot Garth.

I don’t get the same sweet smile at the use of the nickname. “I’m makin’ rice and beans tonight. Not up for discussion.”

“Hmmm.” Garth rubs his non-existent tummy and wades through the newspaper.

The two of them chatter. I walk to the couch and flop on it, flipping through the mail. Bill. Bill. Junk. But then there’s an envelope with my name and address handwritten on it. The print is haphazard and hurried. It’s postmarked from Sioux Falls from about a week ago. And in the top left corner are two letters.

D.W.

I purse my lips to hold in a gasp. Once I compose myself I announce, “Anyone gotta use the bathroom before I take a shower?”

“Nope,” Pamela states.

“I am A OK,” Garth replies. “Pammy, you like Garfield?”

I pull some clean clothes out of the dresser and dash into the bathroom while they discuss the merits of Odie.

It’s the only place I can get any privacy. I sit on the toilet, my change of clothes a heap in my lap, and Dean’s letter in my hands.

My entire body shivers. I inhale deep and slow to try and calm down, but it’s not helping. A finger inches under the flap and rips open the envelope. I unfold three pieces of paper that were inside. The first one is on stationery from The Aviary Hotel.There’s a crease etched in the middle, top to bottom, and a few left to right; it’s been folded into a smaller square at some point in the past.

The writing is tight and neat. Different from the one on the envelope.

I’m not gonna apologize for how I acted today, El. What would be the point, anyway? You wouldn’t understand why I had to. Take my advice and stay as far away from Sam and me as possible. –Dean

Short and not very sweet. But, I think back to the altercation I had with Dean in the hotel room with the loudest wallpaper I’d ever seen. It was when I didn’t remember, months back. Bobby had been in the hospital. I shake my head, even now, at how obnoxious Dean had been.

The fucker was doing everything in his power to make sure I wasn’t gonna give a shit about him. But why? Why the memory wipe? I tuck the page behind the others.

The next page is on very familiar stationery. I gave it to Bobby as a cheeky little gift one Christmas. He never uses it, but I know where he stashes it - in the right side drawer of the desk in his library.

Dean found that stationery and probably sat at that very desk to write what I’m now reading. The page has crinkles in it, like it was balled up and thrown out.

I let out a chuckle in nervous hiccups at Dean’s scribble right under the fancy font.

A bunch of BS from the desk of B.S. Ain’t that the truth!!! El, Bobby told me you remember everything. His friend Pamela told him that you’ve been asking about me. I don’t know why your memories came back. The deal’s not up yet. I’m glad you’re gonna get to go home soon. I’m so sorry you got caught in the middle of all of this ,. princess I always just wanted you safe. As much as I wish things could be different, nothing good comes from being around me. It kills me you had to find out the hard way with the demon riding that guy. All those times you saved me and didn’t give up on me, it kills me I’ll never be able to repay you proper. I’m glad you remember me now. Truth is, I didn’t think you ever would again. It hurt to have to push you away all this time. To not reach out and tell you about the stupid thing I did when I was crazy in my head over losing Sam. He died, El. About a year ago.

I stop reading. Drop the papers in my lap. I recall the very healthy looking Sam I saw months back. And the one who helped rescue me only weeks ago.

I traded my soul to bring him back. But the crossroads demon only gave me a year before my bill came due.

My heart beat increases, pounds in my head. Dean’s words trigger the pain from the assault, a deep ache in my bones. My skin prickles with anger.

Sam died a year ago and Dean’s deal was for a year.

No, Dean. No.

The bitch thought it’d be cute to wipe your memory of every little bit of me as part of the agreement. You gotta believe me, El, that’s not what I wanted. I may have thought it was better you’d never met me. But I never would have traded losing you for Sam. Me, that’s a no-brainer.

I turn the page over and continue to read Dean’s words through my blurry vision. The other pages scatter onto the tile floor.

I want It just twisted the knife, having you look at me like I was a stranger. Having to tear into you hurt so fucking much. But it was all I could do to drive that urge to help out of you. You were a great hunting partner. One of the best. It’s selfish of me and dangerous for you, but I’ve thought about what it would be like having you hunt with Sam and me again. Like a team. And it feels right. I think that life, if the apple pie life was never in the cards for me, that would have been nice.

But my time is almost up, so I’m gonna try to hold on to what might have been, wherever I’m going. I just want to tell you that I love need you to stay safe, alright. I need you to be okay when all this is over. And, I need you to be there for Sam. And maybe, maybe he can be there for you, when you want to remember me. Cause I’ll never forget you, Suds. -Dean

Both hands cover my mouth. I stifle the sobs. It’s not helping and I’m only getting louder. Pamela or Garth will knock on the door soon. I lean to the left and twist the faucet knob. A spurt of water shoots out. A steady stream soon follows.

I wish he’d tried to tell me. That night when he was here. I would have thought he was crazy. But, still, I might have told him to have Sam come up and confirm. I might have called Bobby. I might never have gone to meet Gary.

I could have been with them all this time. Trying anything and everything to help. I grab the page again and look at that word he’s crossed out. Love. He could have written anything after that. He could have just wanted to remind me that he loves pie.

But somehow, I think not.

More tears come.

I flip the lever so water cascades out of the showerhead. I wipe my soggy eyes with the back of my hand and gather up the other dropped pages.

The last page wasn’t written by Dean. The print is large and loopy. Sam.

Dean tossed both these letters out today. The first one he’d been carrying around in his bag for months in an envelope with your name on it. I saw him dump it in Bobby’s office along with the second note. I wanted to give you the chance to read them now, in case there’s time for you to reach out before we track down Lilith. Maybe give him a reason to keep fighting, El. Cause he’s tired of hearing me. He’s trying to hold on but the closer he gets to the clock running out… I can’t lose him, either. Sam.

I leave all the pages atop the sink. My gaze lingers on the phone number Sam wrote at the bottom of the note. It’s gotta be Dean’s. My brain and body go on autopilot. I cry as I shower, towel off, and then dress into my second set of pajamas for the day.

By the time I exit the bathroom, Garth is gone, and Pamela waits for me on the couch. She’s the best big sister I could ask for in that moment, opening her arms for me to collapse into and cry some more. She waits until I’m ready to tell her everything. When I’m done, she tucks my damp hair behind my ears and gives me a nod for courage.

“You do what you got to do, sweetie. I’ll be out in the hall. When you need me, that’s where I’ll be.”

I know he won’t pick up. And, I don’t know what I’m gonna leave on his voicemail. I stand up and walk over to the dresser. I place Sam’s note on top of it, by my cat figurine collection, and punch in the numbers. The ringing begins and I stare at the little cat angel, readying to say anything after Dean’s greeting.

“This is Dean’s other, other cell so you must know what to do.”

“Hi.” My voice eeks out, a whispery rasp. I clear my throat. “Dean. It’s me. El. I-I just wanted to tell you that I’m-I’m pissed. I’m pissed that you didn’t hang around at the hospital and wait for me to wake up. Cause, ah, I-I did think of a tip for you.” The lump in my throat makes my breath hitch. “Don’t quit the life. Not yet. And don’t wait so damn long to kiss me the next time you see me, Winchester. I’ll, I’ll be waiting.”

I circle my finger along the halo of the little kitty.

~~~~

I don’t sleep that night. I wait for his call. When my phone finally rings, it’s a little after two in the morning.

But the name on the screen is Bobby. He hasn’t called me direct since I’ve been out of the hospital.

I answer but don’t say anything. Just wait for the old man’s voice.

“I’m sorry, L. He’s-he’s gone.”

#jacklesversebingo23 #dean x ofc #angst #whump #dean winchester x ofc #dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural #spn #dean winchester fanfic #spn fanfic

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rinwritesfics · 2 years ago

Text

How (Not) to Heal - Chapter 4

Plot: After being rescued from Mount Tantiss, Crosshair has to figure out how to work with the Batch again - and their new medic. It would be fine if he didn’t start to fall in love with her.

Warnings: mild discussion of trauma

Word Count: 1175

Author’s Note: Yes, I know what they said about his chip.

Previously

Chapter 4

It was the dead of night when they met Rex. They all made their way to a civvie hospital as Rex explained that this was the safest place for the operation to take place in such a short amount of time. The hospital itself was in the middle of an upper part of the main city, which was almost silent aside from a buzzing light fixture here and there.

Rex’s assurances didn’t make Crosshair feel at ease. How many procedures had the Batch gone through after they had been decanted from their growth pods? How much pain, agony, had they all been subjected to day in and day out, where they still had the physical scars?

The mental scars?

Even the Empire hadn’t been without their experiments, but the first one they made him undergo had brought on the chip enhancement. The rest, the more recent ones, well….

He told himself not to think about that.

But how was he supposed to accept that this procedure was going to be any better than the experiments?

Hunter said what Crosshair was thinking, “Rex, can we trust this person?”

“I trust them with my life,” Rex said, opening the service door to the hospital and ushering the group in. They began climbing the stairs, their boots echoing loudly against the grey stairs and cream walls.

“I hope so.”

Rex took a breath before speaking. “It’s Senator Chuchi’s sister who’s giving us this access. She’s in on the cause.”

“Chuchi, the clone sympathizer?” Crosshair asked.

“The very same.” Rex opened the door to a dark hallway and ushered the group further.

Crosshair felt claustrophobic at the size of the hall while being surrounded by so many people, and he knew Hunter could sense it, so he forced himself to calm down. The glance Hunter gave him confirmed he was out of practice at keeping his emotions completely on lockdown.

“Where is everyone?” asked Omega. “I’ve never seen a perfectly working hospital so empty.”

“This section has been shut down for us,” said Rex. “The doctor put it under maintenance for ‘health and safety.’”

“Sounds awfully convenient,” Echo said. “The staff bought it?”

“She may have fudged some air quality results that may or may not need to be retested and will come back completely clean.”

“But she could lose her job!” exclaimed Omega.

The group fell silent, pondering the risk the doctor was taking for them. For Rex’s request.

For Crosshair.

Rex led them to a room and let them in. Inside was a surgical biobed. The cylindrical unit surrounding the bed glowed a bluish white, the whole thing reminding him of his time, however brief, as a child on Kamino. His fists twitched in a reflex from the memory of the pain and he tore his gaze away. He flinched when a hand met his and he turned to the source.

Omega. She was looking up at him with those innocent eyes. He wanted to hate her. He wanted to yell at her for touching him, but deep down this was comforting to him, like it had happened before, despite not being able to remember it.

“It’ll be okay, Crosshair. You won’t be left alone while it happens.”

Hunter nodded. “We’ll all be here. I promise.”

But Crosshair wasn’t afraid of them being here. He was afraid of them not being there when he woke up. He was afraid that he would wake up back at Tantiss like in one of his nightmares.

Still, he let his sister guide him to the biobed and he sat. There was a little pressure in his right temple and he rubbed at it, which didn’t go missed by anyone. Ka’li ushered everyone back to give him some space, and some of the stress that was knotting up his stomach lessened. Everyone’s eyes on him certainly didn’t make him feel comfortable.

Tech did approach, and offered to begin the process as Omega stood at his side. Crosshair laid back in the bed and closed his eyes, trying to practice a counting exercise in his head to distract him and calm him. It usually worked.

Before he got halfway, he lost consciousness.

* * *

He blinked a few times, gaze coming to rest on his brother Tech, and then Ka’li who was beside Omega. The bed had pulled all the way out of the surgical unit, and the procedure was complete. His hand flew to his healing cut, and it was clean and stitched. It was over.

He was free. For real, this time.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Omega shake Ka’li’s arm and Ka’li startled awake in her chair, small smiles on both of their faces.

Tech spoke, slightly startling him and making him look back at his brother as he sat up. “Ah, good, you’re awake. We must leave soon, but it is acceptable for you to take a moment to wake up properly.”

Omega almost pushed Tech out of the way in her excitement and gave Crosshair a hug from his side. “You’re okay!”

The show of affection felt foreign to him, but this was his sister. He considered pushing her away, but he knew she loved him despite everything he had done. Her hug did fill a little bit of the void in him, so he resisted shoving her. He scowled a little to show he wasn’t going soft, but it wasn’t at its usual intensity.

When she let go, Tech didn’t step back to examine him. Instead, Wrecker came up to him from the other side of the room and offered to help him up. This time, Crosshair did scoff. He wasn’t fragile. He could do things himself, like stand up, but seeing the look on Wrecker’s face made him reconsider. Wrecker’s face held indescribable glee when he agreed.

Crosshair looked around and noticed Hunter was missing, as was Echo. Seeing as Rex wasn’t there, all three had to be discussing something without him.

Again, he thought bitterly.

He didn’t realize he had a scowl on his face until Ka’li approached him and his eyebrows softened.

“Hey. How’s the head?”

He took a measured breath and assessed. Then he realized –

“The pain is gone.”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “Glad to hear it.”

A feeling blossomed in his chest and it struck him that he had been waiting to hear she had been concerned, and not just because of the team. Maybe it was the smile. Not carefully curated for a bedside manner. No, it was real. And it made him happy.

He knew shortly thereafter the moment would be over, but here it was. His batch – no, his family – was here for him, and so was someone he was falling for.

“We need to start moving. More staff will arrive soon, and we need to clean up and be out of here before they do.” Rex stepped in. He then turned directly to Crosshair. “We also have a mission to accomplish. You up for it?”

Crosshair straightened. “It’s payback time.”

Chapter 5 Tags: @crosshairsbabygurl, @starrylothcat, @thecoffeelorian, @idoubleswearimawriter, @heylosers06, @totesnothere04, @dangraccoon

#tbb crosshair #tbb crosshair x reader #the bad batch crosshair

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glasskey · 1 year ago

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THT : A Gothic Fairy tale Pt 2

THT is a bloodthirsty gothic fairy tale made flesh. Last time we discussed our classic fairy tale opener and the cursed kingdom that is Gilead, today it’s our villains.

We last left our protagonist languishing in her tower alone, no books, no music, no 5G…..nothing. Her jailers: Fred and Serena, are for all intents and purposes your basic Evil King and Queen. The character of the Evil King is generally cold, distant, selfish and greedy…..everyone please say hello to Fred Waterford. Our resident Evil King is kept busy, for the most part, with day to day Kingly duties such as paperwork, meetings, diplomacy and general maintenance of the iron fist that governs his kingdom. He’s not overly concerned with the various maneuverings that occur under his own roof, so long as they don’t cause a scandal or endanger the throne. Fred allows Serena to run the household, but takes her finger the second she oversteps outside the family “castle” and causes a ruckus.

He’s the one who carries the keys, he determines who gets to taste freedom in however many increments, as demonstrated by his nightly scrabble tournaments and jaunts to Jezebels. These dominant evil characters always have an achilles heel, a weakness that serves as a kind of karmic retribution in the end, and for Fred it’s June. By S3 he’s lost all control, his obsession has made him reckless and blind, consequently the forbidden lovers have now made off with the keys and gone full Prison Break.

Serena is our Evil Queen, this job description entails kidnapping, imprisonment, torture and general plotting. All of this is usually as a result of insecurity, vanity or just your run of the mill greed, and as season 1 - 4 clearly demonstrates, Serena is an absolute rockstar at it.

The very first thing Serena does is assert her dominance and threaten severe repercussions if she’s not entirely satisfied with every little thing. Our Serena may not have had a magic mirror to cackle madly into, but she does spend a good deal of time playing “who’s the fairest?”, only to be bitterly disappointed when Fred’s male gaze repeatedly tells her it is June. To add insult to injury by the end of season 1, the fair maiden has stolen her loyal knights fealty and try as she might, it seems there is absolutely NOTHING she can do to get it back.

There’s a tradition of these villainous characters wanting to deceitfully acquire something that the innocent protagonist rightfully possesses. Kiddy napping sits comfortably in the top five evil acts of any plot line playbook and lo and behold here we have Serena’s endless battle to wrestle Nicole from June’s vice like grip. This is where Serena enlists the assistance of our resident “witch in the woods”, Aunt Lydia and her dubious coven. It was interesting to note that Serena’s endeavours to acquire Nicole for herself ceased in S5 just as the writers sought to gradually redeem her character. Unfortunately I can’t forget that this is the same woman who used our protagonist as a breeding mare, held her down to be violently raped while heavily pregnant and threatened to put a ring in her mouth.

Things don’t generally end well for these power drunk machiavellian characters, they’re usually killed or suffer great misfortune. In some tales we see them serving out a life of servitude to the ones they have mistreated, so while Fred was rightfully murdered, Serena may be spared to live a life of sacrifice and service to June.

Next time I’ll be discussing the “hero” and the quest.

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blasphemecel · 2 years ago

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Oikawa Tooru — Jersey #2

PAIRING: Oikawa Tooru/Reader WORD COUNT: 6k TYPE: Angst, Fluff, Humor, Rivalry, Emotional Constipation (we laffed and we smiled and we crode) WARNING(S): Injury, There are no specified pronouns or identity for reader, but they are on the shiratorizawa boys volleyball team for plot reasons.

There are several truths in life.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The Earth orbits around it by spinning on its axis. Oikawa Tooru hates geniuses.

He hates Shiratorizawa, hates all natural talent, hates Ushijima Wakatoshi, and hates everything he represents. It's kind of his drive, the loathing, but really, he just wants to be something. And people like Ushijima and Tobio just seem to wall him.

His time as a first year student in Aobajousai is fine. He has his admirers, and Iwaizumi still slaps him on the neck when he pisses him off, and that guy Hanamaki punches him on the shoulder and calls him a heartthrob in a sarcastic tone when girls come around to watch them practice after school.

Sure, his upperclassman is still the regular setter, but that's normal. Maybe if he puts in some extra thirty minutes every afternoon, things will be different.

When it comes to sports, Shiratorizawa is inevitable. They're always going places, be it the junior teams or the high schoolers. Like when Ushijima washed them when they were in Kitagawa Daiichi. It's a school that upholds individual talent and prestige, so Oikawa goes to Aobajousai and it's fine.

They arrange a practice match against them two weeks after the season starts. None of the first years from Aobajousai make it on the line-up, and Oikawa's sitting on the bench next to Iwaizumi, and he heaves a theatrical sigh. "Only watching is so boring. I hate this."

"Quit whining," says Iwaizumi.

"But it's not fair, Iwa-chan! Look, they're all first years on the other side. Is Shiratorizawa bragging or something?"

Ushijima looks like a big lumbering idiot as usual, Oikawa thinks, but he's not even going to acknowledge his presence. Yeah, that'll show him.

"I've heard most of their players don't even get to, well, play," Iwaizumi says. "Maybe they're trying to scout 'em out." Coach Washijo does have a reputation for being high maintenance.

"So they are flexing," Oikawa cries.

Iwaizumi punches him on the shoulder. "I said stop whining."

It is not Ushijima who gets the first serve. Instead you stand there, and you look like you don't know what the hell is going on, but when the whistle blows, you jump high and smack the ball straight to the nationals. Their libero doesn't even twitch to touch it — hadn't expected it — and you score the first point, even though someone receives your second one.

Oikawa's immediate thought is to wonder if his serve is this powerful. And if it isn't, how much practice he needed to make it so.

His gaze stays on you after that, and it comes to his attention that you barely know the rules of the game. You're all sharp reflexes and raw power and high jumps, but the only time you make correct plays outside of serving is when the guy with the weird hair tells you where to block.

It has become apparent to everyone else, too, and most of the wing spikers target you since you're bad at receiving. Float services fuck people over all the time, too, and the guy in front of you fumbles when the ball changes trajectory at the last second. You extend your leg and kick it to the other side of the court with something like amusement in your eyes and that's another point.

Aobajousai takes the game, but it doesn't matter because Oikawa is wondering what that was. All of it. So he stays up late that night searching up Tendou Satori and Semi Eita and [L/n] [Y/n] on Facebook like a man starved for attention, looking for a victim to torment with the poke function.

He doesn't infer much about this Tendou fellow except that he had a bowl cut until not long ago. And Semi Eita seems to think being mysterious is cool because his wall is empty except for the strange messages Tendou has written on his board and occasional birthday wishes.

You're not discrete like them, but maybe you have no reason to be. Photo after photo after photo of you posing with trophies — first place, almost always — with this stupid, guileless smile on your face, but it's all for soccer.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you in the volleyball club now?

It's not like Oikawa's never won an award. He just acts like it.

Then... Then, he realizes, ah. You're one of those people he hates.

___

This is their first time at the Inter High as high schoolers. It's prime time to get bullied by Shiratorizawa for anyone unfortunate enough to play against their team. In the corridors, after Aobajosai's first win, Oikawa doesn't mean to eavesdrop, not really.

"Man, we got our asses handed to us," whines some guy to another teammate of his and a boy who's probably the manager, judging by his attire. "Shiratorizawa's totally unfair."

"I thought we'd have an easier time if we targeted number twelve because Ushiwaka is too overpowered-"

"Overpowered?"

"-but that kid's got demonic spikes, too."

"Number twelve is a meathead and if you guys worked harder, we wouldn't have been humiliated like this," says the manager before he lets out a yawn.

"Oh, shut it!"

"That asshole's asking for a shattered wrist hitting the ball that hard every time."

"Oh, so your spikes suck 'cause you're concerned for your safety? How convenient."

Number twelve, the other wing spiker. So you're a regular, huh?

It's stupid, anyway. No one can win against Ushijima by ignoring him.

No one can win against Ushijima, but that kind of goes unspoken.

___

He bumps into you and deems it rational to assert himself. "We're gonna win, you know?"

You turn around to face him and you appear confused. "Who are you?"

Oikawa's eye twitches but his lips curl up in a phony smile, anyway. "Oikawa Tooru," he says. "From Aobajousai."

He watches the way you squint at him until recognition flashes across your face. "Oh, you're that guy."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ushiwaka has his eyes on you."

He fakes a shudder. "And that's totally not a creepy thing to say."

You shrug and pivot on your heel to leave since your teammates are probably waiting for you inside the bus already, but for some reason he can't quite explain, Oikawa blurts out,

"You play soccer."

"Used to, yeah," you say. "You a fan? I'm planning on starting tennis in university." Then you rummage through your pockets until you pull out a marker and aim it threateningly at his forehead like you're about to autograph him.

"What? No! Not my beautiful face!" Oikawa shields himself with his forearms and once you appear to have stopped moving, he deems it safe enough to expose himself again. He thinks about how every word you said during the last minute pissed him off. Who the hell switches sports for every academic establishment they enter? "Tell Ushiwaka to mind his business."

You smile. "Sure, I'll let him know."

"... Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be serious?" You pull out your phone and dial someone, and he flails his hands around as he wonders once again what the fuck is wrong with you, but you're adept at ignoring his urgent gestures. "Hi, Ushijima. No, I didn't get lost, it was just a tough shit to squeeze out. Yeah, yeah, tell Coach I'm coming in a bit. Listen, some Oikawa Tooru said you should mind your business. Ah, okay, I'll let him know."

When the call is over, you tell him,

"He said you should've come to Shiratorizawa."

Oikawa clenches his fist and chokes, "Ack." Then he sticks his tongue out at you. "Whatever. Hmph."

You seem to find some amusement in his theatrics.

___

Before the match when everyone's doing their warm-ups, a hard smack echoes across the gym when a stray ball whizzes past Oikawa's head while he's setting before it bounces off. For a second he thinks Iwaizumi has finally decided to assassinate him, but then he glances towards Shiratorizawa's side only to see you panicking with wide eyes and frantic waves of your hands. You rub your head, still grimacing. "I'm so sorry!"

"You blockhead! What's the point if the ball makes it out of bounds?! That's ten extra laps next practice," Coach Washijo reprimands, shaking his fist in the air while you shriek and duck away from him before you skid to the other corner of the room.

Oikawa stares while Tendou points and laughs at you. Did you do that on purpose? Are you picking a fight? It didn't seem that way, but the thought of a Shiratorizawa member being endearing to him makes Oikawa sick.

___

He can't help it; Oikawa is always looking at different spikers and thinking about how he'd utilize them. Even on opposing teams and even about Ushijima once or twice, but it's more of an ego thing. He likes the idea of everyone reaching their full potential when he's pulling the strings.

Unlike Semi Eita during the practice match, Shiratorizawa's regular third-year setter doesn't toss to you or anyone else much at all. Not that it stops Ushijima from stomping all over them throughout the first set — like usual, really, since Oikawa and Iwaizumi are the only ones who can even attempt receiving those left-handed spikes — but Shiratorizawa has all these tall heavy-hitters, and only one of them gets to shine.

You're the kind of useful idiot who's running all across the court to make sure Ushijima has enough energy to spare for all five potential sets. And you don't stop or think because with people like you, of natural talent and ability, flinging yourself at the ball wherever it goes is about enough.

Up front, he gets to face you head-on and it's better because it doesn't seem as impossible. Again, taking notes is something he does almost unconsciously, even if only to help him read the game better. He likes to think he knows he's good enough of a setter to hone a sense for these things. The two third-years rush to attempt to wall Ushijima, but from the toss, the only person who spikes that high, from that position, is...

When Oikawa blocks you, it feels like you're trying to break his arms. His hands sting, but it doesn't matter because the ball makes it back to your side of the court, and the pain doesn't matter either because he's endured worse just to make this happen.

He lets out a dramatic ouch before he flicks his fingers and your mouth parts open in surprise. Do you have to be so shocked that he managed to stop you. How conceited-

"Woah, that's awesome," you say, looking at him through the net.

"Eh?"

You point at your teammate. "You read his ass!"

He blinks. Once more, "Eh?!"

Begrudgingly, days after that stupid, familiar, devastating feeling of losing a match right at the finals, Oikawa admits to himself he finds it a shame that someone like you has to play second fiddle to Ushijima. But maybe he just hates him and hates you a little less.

___

"Could you stop staring at their number twelve like a pervert all the time?" asks Iwaizumi. Casually.

It's another practice match. Tendou Satori tells you something while you're holding your water bottle, then you squeeze it and water squirts straight into your eye. Tendou all but dies laughing until Semi Eita smacks him on the neck and scolds him, though it hardly seems to phase him.

He's not ogling you or anything. You look stupid, is all.

"Wh- I never did such a thing! Stop being trashy."

"Says Trashykawa."

Oikawa pretends to flip his fringe. "You don't have to be jealous."

With his usual pout on his face, Iwaizumi looks a touch more incredulous than usual when he raises his eyebrows. "Jealous?"

"I understand you want my attention all the time." He grabs Iwaizumi by the shoulder and sighs like this is some kind of Shakespearean play. "But you don't need to act out-"

Just before Iwaizumi is about to call him a dumbass, which is his usual repertoire when it comes to insulting him, Mattsun and Makki join the conversation with intentions of ruining Oikawa's day. Apparently they'd overheard all that. Hanamaki whistles and says, "Fraternizing with the enemy, aren't we?"

"No fraternizing is going on," Matsukawa says with a shit-eating grin. "I think that's the kinda thing that's supposed to go both ways."

"Ooh, savage," supplies Makki with a snicker. Jerk. It's not funny.

"Like I'd want [L/n]'s Shiratorizawa cooties." Oikawa crosses his arms, and he means it in full seriousness when he says this.

"Shiratorizawa cooties," repeats Iwaizumi, like he's trying to get him to understand how ridiculous he sounds. "Why are you an overgrown baby?"

"Besides, I didn't even know that person's name, but you do," Matsukawa adds.

"Wah! Stop ganging up on me!" Oikawa covers his ears and Iwaizumi gestures towards him with a shake of his head as if to say, 'See, an overgrown baby,' and Matsukawa and Hanamaki nod as if to answer, 'Yeah, an overgrown baby.' "You big bullies, I'm telling!"

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes.

"Telling?" Hanamaki asks. "Are you twelve?"

___

Oikawa never had any expectations to see you outside of a court, much less at this time of night. He's a few steps away from school when you appear into view, running, and then you halt when you notice him. At least you're as quick to recognize him as he is to you, so Matsukawa could eat that.

He's not sure if greeting you would be appropriate. It'd be cordial, yes, but you're on opposing teams and he's kind of notorious for being unable to stand your ace. Not like you leave him any time to think about his decision because you make your way in front of him. "Why are you out so late?"

"You are, too!" he says, though he doesn't have much reason to sound annoyed.

"I was out on a jog."

"All the way out here? Are you stalking me? Are you a fan?" he taunts, even though it's obvious you've crossed paths with him by accident.

The cleverness of him throwing back your words at you seems to escape you, and if it doesn't you don't care enough to acknowledge it or be impressed. "You're still wearing your uniform," you say. "Were you practicing 'till now?"

Oikawa doesn't see how that's any of your business. "Observant, aren't we?"

"Not really," you say with an impish grin. "I'm pretty dull."

You seem like such a happy person, but he figures it must be easy when you're on the side that wins all the time and when you've made it onto the list of most promising rookies despite playing for less than a year. Not that Oikawa's name isn't there, but this is different.

"What do you want?"

"I'm curious about you."

He's a bit dumbfounded by that.

"You talked to me at the Inter Highs before."

"So?"

"So," you say. "That means you're curious about me too, right?"

"No, I'm not. You're projecting," he whines and his tone is all defensive. "I'm going now," he finishes lamely.

"Bye-bye. Take it easy, alright?"

Like you're one to talk. You make some of the most exaggerated movements he's ever seen and put too much force in both your spikes and your serves and it's probably not even a big deal. Your concern pisses him off.

___

Oikawa makes it to second year without ever going to nationals. But it's fine, they'll get two more chances to try, or at least that's what he settles on telling himself. Another year means another practice match, and another, and another, and what that means is more chances to see Ushijima's annoying mug. He scoffs when Iwaizumi tells him to behave.

"I'm not your dog, Iwa-chan, you brute," he pretends to cry.

"Please spare me the embarrassment."

There are some changes, of course. High school teams rarely resemble what they used to be by the time another season rolls around. He watches you hound some newbie along with Tendou during break. The number on the back of your shirt now reads seven instead of twelve. You push yourself up and down the bench with your leg while Tendou is having the time of his life bothering whoever this guy is.

"You can't seriously be doing homework right now, Shirabu," you say.

"Not all of us can stay in this school with a sports scholarship," he says as his pen flits across whatever exercise sheet he's filling out even faster than before, maybe just to spite you.

"You're such a nerd." Tendou covers his mouth to laugh.

"You're a smartypants," you add, and then you high five each other, much to Shirabu's chagrin.

"Oh, you thought you did something," he says before he throws his pen at you, or at least he tries to, but you catch it before it can poke you in the eye. That's some killer aim, you think.

"A souvenir! From our precious underclassman!" Tendou exclaims before he comes closer to examine it like it's a mystical artifact. "Lucky."

"Hey, actually, can you give it back?" asks Shirabu, flustered, and it doesn't suit the stern expression he's trying to pull off at all. "I don't have anything else to write with."

This isn't at all riveting. Oikawa doesn't know why he's always observing.

___

Oikawa hatefully watches Semi set for Ushijima across the field even though what they're doing is innocuous. Everyone else went back already, but he finds himself sitting on his ass in the middle of Shiratorizawa's open yard, taking dramatic sips of water here and there, maybe waiting for someone to notice his sulking. What his reasons for staying are, even he doesn't know. Perhaps he's waiting to discover Ushijima's secret weakness.

He was tossing to you before this, actually, just to see what it was like, but then you started kicking the ball around, not letting it touch the ground. His gaze flickers back to you, and he thinks you're an asshole because you've been at this for longer than ten minutes.

"Do you like my moves?" you ask, once you notice his attention is back on you.

Oikawa considers it. "No," he says, then drinks some more water for emphasis. "Why'd you quit soccer?"

"Wanted to try something new," you say. "Why do you care so much about me playing soccer?"

"Doesn't it piss you off being in Ushijima's shadow? You seem like such an attention hog on the court."

He bursts out laughing when your legs tangle and you almost lose your balance and trip over nothing. Though you're still on your feet, somehow, the ball falls down and rolls away. "Ushijima is," you start, like nothing happened, and Oikawa laughs at you some more, "the best." And then he stops laughing.

"I'm sure he is," he settles on, but makes sure his tone is sarcastic enough so that you know he disagrees.

"I love it."

He pouts. "You love it?"

"Yeah," you say. "I like to compete with him. He doesn't take me seriously, though. It was so boring in soccer. I was the best player in the prefecture junior leagues."

Oikawa's eye twitches.

"I know you hate Ushijima."

"And? Everyone knows that," he says, not unlike a petulant child.

"You don't need to get so wrung up over some losses."

Oh yeah? That's easy for you to say, he thinks with a scowl, before he figures it must be a good time to leave.

___

Semi is a much more competent setter than the old one, but Oikawa can't say that brings him any comfort, exactly. When they lose finals again, he can only see Ushijima staring at him with the same distanced look on his face. Like it's natural, like it's not a big deal.

You got six service ace points overall and goaded about it until Ushijima outdid you. Tendou told you to take your sausage party to the locker rooms before going out to celebrate later, and Oikawa had to listen to you argue with him about whether he's a twink or not on the way out of the gymnasium.

You're... competing with Ushijima in your own way, just like he is, aren't you?

___

Oikawa can't say Iwaizumi didn't warn him. Even wrestled and dragged him out of the gym a few times, but that's beside the point. He trained harder because it was obvious there was something he was lacking. Overcompensating. Still, he has an injured knee now, and he's going to be out of commission for a few weeks.

There is nothing he hates more than sitting back on the bench and watching a practice match. Too lost in thought, he almost bumps into you on the way up the stairs, and when he snaps out of his trance, he sees your hand is hovering in front of him. Then his focus adjusts completely and he sees the seven on your shirt is now a two.

He looks at you like you're an alien.

"Heard your leg got fucked up," you elaborate, though you don't see why offering help is something that needs an explanation.

For a second his face seems blank, until he reaches out to wrap his fingers around yours and announces, "Sure. I love getting treated like a prince."

You tilt your head because you really do not understand his character sometimes, but then you smile as usual. "Like a prince? Just for this? You're so silly."

"Hey! Are you laughing at me right now? I dare you to tell me you're laughing at me."

You help him up nonetheless, and Mattsun and Makki make scandalized expressions at him in the background just to be annoying.

___

"What are you doing here?" asks Oikawa in an accusatory voice like he just exposed you for doing something incriminating.

Like it isn't obvious what you're doing.

"Uh," you gesture at Minako, who's holding onto your sleeve and who Oikawa knows because she's friends with Takeru, mind you, "walking my cousin to volleyball practice?"

Minako cranes her neck to look up at you and asks, "So you know the creepy man?" while pointing at Oikawa.

"Hey!" Oikawa protests.

At the same time, Takeru snickers and says, "Is this your dumb older cousin, Minako?"

"Hey," you protest, too, looking the tiniest bit embarrassed for what feels like the first time.

"Yeah!" She beams at him in confirmation, which isn't really helping your case. "I'm gonna be even better than [Y/n] at volleyball, believe it."

"Sure, Naruto," you say with a roll of your eyes.

Oikawa is pretty eager to pretend the toddlers didn't just have a roast session on both of your asses, so moving swiftly on, he squints and asks, "How come I've never seen you around?"

Minako and Takeru rush to greet Coach Ukai, who they find cooler than you and him combined.

"I don't really hang around."

He rubs his chin as if you're suspicious. "Then what do you do?"

"Go to the gym or go for a jog. Come back. Pick her up." Then you raise your eyebrows, wondering why he's acting like you just committed a crime. "What do you do?"

"Take photos, duh," he says in his usual snotty tone.

For some reason, you struggle when trying to picture him doing that, but you lower your eyelids before your lips quirk up in something more teasing than usual. "Well, aren't you sentimental," you say and adjust the strap of your gym bag around your shoulder. "Sure, you know what? I can watch, too."

Your thigh is pressing against his on the bench. Affection feels bitter in Oikawa's stomach, and so, he asks, "How were nationals last year?" even though he knows full well Shiratorizawa didn't win. Not that you'd care, anyhow.

"Not bad," you say, then you smirk and glance at him from the corner of your eye. "Same old, same old."

He frowns and huffs.

"You took a dig at me first."

"Yeah, but gallows humor is only funny when you're in the gallows, you know?" Oikawa punches you on the shoulder with a cry.

"Maybe," you allow. "Your team's good. I think we played worse guys there once or twice."

"That doesn't make me feel any better, in case you're wondering."

"Sometimes," you fiddle with the drawstrings on your shorts, "when Coach puts me out, and I'm looking at the game from the sidelines, I kinda root for you instead."

At this, Oikawa punches you on the shoulder even harder, then whines some more. "I don't need your dumb pity either."

You've got a charming smile and he really, really hates that about you. Among other things.

___

It doesn't stop Shiratorizawa from winning Inter Highs again, but Oikawa thinks they were in their prime last year, with Semi as the setter. Not that Shirabu is bad — he's not — but it's like he's always shielding himself behind Ushijima. So it makes their loss feel all the more despairing.

Oikawa really doesn't need your dumb pity. You talk with him every week when Minako and Takeru go to Lil' Tykes, so what? That doesn't mean he hates you any less for always winning, or for jumping higher than him, or for being more flexible, or for hitting harder serves, or for having a stronger block.

So why you're trying to hug him right now is beyond him.

"Away with you." He waves his hand to shoo you and backs away with this grimace on his face that almost convinces you you're diseased. "You're all sweaty and gross."

"Be nice," chides Iwaizumi before he slaps him on the back of his head with a towel and disappears down the hall. He's probably hurrying to cry in the locker rooms. Not that Oikawa doesn't do it, too.

"A girl from cheer told me she likes it when I get all sweaty after a game."

Oikawa covers his mouth in abject horror and disgust. "Ew?"

"What? I'm sure someone thinks that about you too."

"You're appalling," he says in the most distressed voice he can muster, ducking out of the way again once you attempt to go for a second embrace.

___

There are several ways something can go wrong. Actually, Oikawa isn't ready for things to go so wrong this soon.

You're going down the stairs to leave the building after your win, Tendou and Semi trailing behind you. Oikawa is going up the stairs to look for Hanamaki, who had disappeared to god knows where. He didn't cry in the locker rooms, so it was possible he chose the toilet as his brooding spot. Or maybe if he's feeling cinematic, he could be on the rooftop. Though that isn't really his style.

You reach out to give him a high-five in passing and he's reluctant to return the gesture.

Oikawa doesn't quite see how it happens.

Maybe you slipped? All he knows is that you lose your footing and barrel down seven sets of stairs mid-step, landing straight on your left leg, and then stumble onto the other one. Oikawa and Tendou both reach out their hands like they're trying to catch you, but you already fell.

You jostle a little where you stand, but it doesn't occur to you that something might be wrong after the initial flinch. If any noise came out, the impact must've drowned it out.

"Shit, are you okay?" Semi asks, hurrying down.

"I'm cool," you say, then you take a step forward, and sharp, searing pain shoots up your leg. Immediately, you fall down to your knees and start sobbing like you can't bear it.

Tendou joins to help you up and they support you with their shoulders on the way to the nurse. Not that she could do much to help with that, probably. Oikawa gawps at the spot long after everything has passed like he's in a stupor.

But it's going to be fine, right? You're one of the most physically resilient people he has ever met. Surely he's overreacting.

___

You feel kind of stupid laying down in a hospital room with a cast on your leg. Like when something of exaggerated destructive force happens in a cartoon and then two characters who hate each other have to occupy adjacent beds. Actually, you feel kind of stupid all the time, so maybe this isn't that different.

Tendou visits you a day after your surgery. Almost like he's mad at you, he throws something and you catch it before it can smack you in the face. "You've got an admirer. Which, fuck you, by the way."

"Oh, is it from Yui?" You wiggle your eyebrows since you know this will piss him off. The two of you have been having this debate for half a year.

"No!" Tendou says, giving you the stink-eye. "And you keep your grubby paws away from her. If you scare her away like Saeko-chan, we'll never get a cute manager to pass us bottles before we graduate."

Yui is the latest candidate for the manager position. The last one, Saeko, tucked in tail after the first half of her trial week, though you think it was unlikely Coach Washijo would approve her application. He's always nit-picking.

"You freaked her out by showing her your Goku voodoo doll. I didn't do anything."

"No, you scared her away by showing her the rotten sandwich in your locker," Tendou argues before he pulls the chair backwards and sits on it with his arms crossed. You laugh when you remember the incident. She looked kind of confused when you first told her to 'come smell the sandwich,' but you're pretty sure she ended up thinking it was funny. Maybe. "Anyway, that's from Oikawa."

"Yeah, I can... tell," you say, examining the envelope. Not that you're the guess monster between the two of you, but it's pretty obvious since it's labeled 'From: Oikawa Tooru ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭*' on the front.

He sighs and slouches almost all the way down his chair. "I wish Iwaizumi would dote on me."

"You've got a thing for aces?"

"What'd he get you?"

"Chocolates," you say. You're not sure if you're allowed to eat that. You certainly didn't when you were on an eating regime for sports, but that's not relevant right now. 'Get better soon (╯3╰)' was written on the inside, so he hadn't even bothered to get a piece of paper. It's pretty shoddy, all things considered.

But you appreciate the gesture... Kinda.

"He came during practice looking for you and I was on the way, so." He shrugs. "Anyway, how's it lookin'? When are you coming back? The old man was bugging me about it."

"Oh," you say with a wry smile. "I'm finished, I'm afraid."

Seeing genuine surprise on Tendou's face, of all people, is rather rare. Maybe you would've eviscerated your ankle earlier if you knew. He sits straight up again to stare at you. "Wait, huh?"

You stare back at him.

"That's really not funny," he says with a forced laugh before he pats you on the shoulder. "You're always such a jokester. Now tell me, really, when's it gonna heal?"

"They said 'cause I was already under a lot of strain before it happened, it probably won't go back to the way it used to be. So."

Tendou isn't really sure what to do. He's not good at these kinds of things.

"Would it make you feel better if I drew a dick on your cast?"

"I mean, shit. Maybe you should write me a Hail Mary, too."

With a salute, he promises, "On it."

___

Oikawa sees you for the first time again after a little over a month following what happened. You're about to leave with Minako and he hadn't noticed before because you were sitting next to him on the bench, but he can see it in the way you walk.

It's not like it's hard for him to make observations. You're easily the most dynamic person in Shiratorizawa alongside maybe Tendou, while the rest of them are stiff. Quick on your feet, what-have-you.

Your limping isn't as bad as he expected it to be considering apparently they took off your cast not too long ago, but his gaze lingers on the way you're slightly dragging your foot across the pavement.

Minako pulls on your fingers and yells out your name.

"Hm?"

"Can you carry me?"

"Sorry," you say. They told you to lay off the weights, and you're already carrying both of your bags. "Can't."

"You suck!"

You laugh at her and flick her forehead.

"Uh," Oikawa starts. He thinks about the time he had a sprain and you helped him up the stairs, and he wants to offer to do the same, but the words don't wretch their way out of his throat. Besides, he has to get Takeru home, and... "See you around."

At finals, preferably.

"See ya." You give him a peace sign.

"What was that?" asks Takeru in a judgemental tone. "Lame."

___

There are several ways something can go wrong in life. It always has to be all ironic and shit.

This isn't how this was supposed to go.

You're sitting on the steps outside, hunched over with a fizzy drink in hand. Oikawa plops down next to you and he can recognize the Shiratorizawa uniform shorts anywhere, but you're wearing a random shirt and some tracksuit along with it. "Isn't it a bit cold to be sitting out here like this?"

"Whatever," you say, eyes flitting over to him. "The fuck are you dressed like a journalist for?"

"Gah! Don't be mean, I couldn't find my contacts in the morning," Oikawa cries before he adjusts his glasses.

You always seemed like such a happy person, smiley and cheery and air-headed.

"Why weren't you on the bench?" he asks when you don't follow up with anything.

"I guess you wouldn't know," you say. "I got kicked out of the team a few weeks ago."

This isn't how the finals were supposed to go — it should've been you and him playing inside, and then Shiratorizawa would've lost, and Ushijima would've bowed down to him, and you would've put your head in your hands and said, 'Oh, damn!' or something.

He traces your leg with his eyes and stops when he sees the way your knee cap juts out way more than it did before. "I'm sorry about your... injury," he says, because there really isn't much else to make of this.

You purse your lips and shrug. It goes without saying that you've lost, well, everything. Your biggest hope of getting into university was the stupid sports scholarship, and Oikawa has overheard those morons Tendou and Semi tease you for your abysmal grades more than enough.

"I think I'll try chess next," you joke and your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"You'd probably be good at it. Maybe Shiratorizawa would have won if you were there," he concedes. He doesn't have any preferences on who wins between the two pains in his ass, so speculating isn't any more miserable than the current reality.

"Probably not." You pick your ear. "I really hate how Shirabu sets."

"Semi's better than him," agrees Oikawa in a mild tone, and you take another sip of whatever crap you're drinking.

Oikawa isn't half as cruel as he likes to believe he is. He thought — had really, really hoped in a way that's selfish and naive — if this were to happen, he would've felt vindicated. To see someone with an advantage over him get punished for it. But it did and he doesn't, and he thinks if it was Ushiwaka instead of you, he wouldn't have been content with it either.

You're just some dumb kids with dreams, after all. Be it your stupid desire to conquer every sport you can get your hands on or his desperation to make it to nationals at least once, to prove himself.

And really, Oikawa isn't as wronged by fate as he makes it out to be, either. He can still go for it.

You can't.

___

I got my leg fucked the same way reader does in this fic, broke both of them actually, and while one of them is fine, the other one that took the brunt of the it never healed properly lmao

#oikawa x reader #oikawa imagine #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa tooru x you #one shot

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