#preemptively cracking open a beer

[udekai]

gonna fail the shit outta this test

[orange-waterfalls]

Hugs From The Captain!

Captain Magnum x gn!reader

A/N: hi. it's me. i'm not dead! which is an awful surprise considering the amount of people who WROTE MY OBITUARY yesterday, PREEMPTIVELY in case I did die. but i didn't! so suck on that.(yes this is a markiplier quote no I do not remember what video) anyways here's a soft Magnum fic with a lil angst. as a treat. after fucking MONTHS. I have been kind of experimenting? with like more banter or realistic type of dialogue. just like. lemme know if u think it's good. Rated T for cursing. Fluff and sort of angst. Uhhhh tw: self-doubt, tw: guns, tw: alcohol, tw: drugs. Reader doesn't like. Use guns. Or drink. Or do drugs. Uhhhh I think that's it enjoy!!!

Word Count: 2.8k

Hugs From The Captain!

---

“Good job, matey!” Magnum yells out when you drop a large sack of coins on the ground. You breathe heavily and your arms are shaking, but by God you carried that shit onto the ship. In the middle of a gunfight, no less!

You don't respond, preferring to hit the deck as bullets continue to fly. You cover your ears with your hands and squeeze your eyes shut tight. No matter how long you'd be on this ship, you were sure you'd never get used to this part. You don't know how long you were on the floor, but when you looked again, two other crewmates were on the floor as well and it was silent. You scramble to your feet and look around, sighing when you notice the other ship sailing away.

"Good job, Y/N!" One of your mates says loudly, still on their stomach on the floor. Ah, yes. Gunshots. Ringing in the ears. Love it.

“Thank--!” You’re cut off with a squeak as Magnum squeezes you in a giant bear hug.

“Aw, you’re doin’ fantastic! That was wonderful! I never thought I’d have such a great first mate!” He turns to another crewmate. “...no offense”

“Some taken…” he sighs and rests his cheek in his hand.

"Mag-" you can't finish before you wheeze a breath out, and the captain takes that as a sign he should put you down. He does, holding your shoulders as you sway, and brushes you off a bit.

"Apologies… I get a bit excited," he flushes.

"You're-" you clear your throat, "you're fine."

"Anywho, let's all celebrate tonight! I have some o' that fancy whiskey in me cabin!" He suggests.

"Fancy?" You croak.

"Ya know. Fancy! The bottle actually has a label on it!"

"Right… uh, sure. We can do that. Ok."

"Fantastic!" He reaches out for another hug but freezes when you flinch away. He plays it off by grabbing a rope and telling the crew what to do.

You sigh in relief. You love the guy, you do, but goddamn he is strong. Sometimes a hug is a bit too forceful. You were sure he's cracked a rib before.

You stand next to him, waiting for him to let you know what you can do, but he just smiles and sets a hand on your head.

"Ye were wonderful today. Yer arms must be tired. Ye should go rest," He explains.

"What? No, I'm fine!" You put your hands on your hips. He squints at your arms, and you look down and notice they're shaking. You let them drop.

"Mm. Go rest," he instructs and you cross your arms before sulking away to your room.

--

You lay on your bed completely still. You'd been in this position for the past 4 hours. It had gotten dark and you were sure you missed dinner.

Ok, fine, your arms hurt before.

But now you couldn't feel your body at all. Everything was completely numb. Maybe carrying a giant bag of gold coins that was nearly the same size as you wasn't the best idea.

You hear the door creak and your heartbeat speeds up but you literally do not move a single muscle.

"Mate? Y'alright?" Magnum asks. You groan in response. That was supposed to be a "yeah". He walks over to your bed and you manage to move your neck a bit to look up at him.

"I have a feelin' yer bein' dramatic." He chuckles, a deep sound that echoes through your room.

"How dare you," You whisper, your throat hoarse.

"It can't be that bad."

"Not everyone is a seven foot tall mass of muscle."

"There's a bit I'm pudge in here too, don't worry."

"Whatever."

"We're celebratin'. Ye wanna come or are ye gonna lay here for another 6 hours?"

So it was 6, not 4.

"Magnum, boss, cap, mate, I don't think I can fucking move, much less dance with you people." Because whenever there's drinking, there will be dancing. You've been here long enough to know that is a fact.

"Here, I have an idea."

"Wha--" He lifts you up like you weigh nothing and you feel your face heat up a bit. He pulls you into a bone crushing hug. Literally. You hear and feel your back crack in several places. He drops you onto your feet and, again, you sway a bit, and again, he steadies you. You stretch your limbs, sighing.

"Uh… thanks. Still don't think I can dance, though..." You scuff the floor with the toe of your boot.

"Eh, thas alright. Ye can sing, can't ye? Ye know a few shanties?" He asks.

"... a few…" You say with a smile.

"Good! I'm sure they'll love to hear ye," He gently sets a hand on your shoulder. He sets it gently on purpose. You know because he was about to slam it down with a force that would probably dislocate your shoulder, but stopped a few centimeters away and made sure to let it down soft.

"Mm. We going now?" You pat the hand on your shoulder.

"If ye want."

"Bet. Let's go."

--

After an hour or so, you had exhausted your voice and all the shanties you knew. Magnum was right, the other crewmates were very excited to hear you sing. They even chanted beforehand. As soon as they recognized the songs they joined in they joined in. They started dancing after a while, too.

You're sitting by a light in the corner, sipping your drink. They're having a lot of fun, and you can't help but smile. You feel… safety. Comfort. Affection. Love.

You love these people. This is your family. This is a group of people who you might have never known if your life had gone just a bit differently. You thanked whatever being is out there in the universe for giving you this… family. This feeling of pure joy.

You hear loud creaking towards you as Magnum approaches. You tilt your head back to look up at him behind you.

"Oi. Ye alright?" He inquires in a voice much quieter than you're used to.

"Yeah, I'm good," You say, matching his volume.

"Ye were actin' like we were goin' ta haveta saw yer arms off," He teases.

"I thought you were!" You defend jokingly.

"I'da been the one to do it."

"Woulda given me a cup of beer and said 'it's basically an anaesthetic'."

"Well, of ye drink enough…" you both chuckle. You look down at your drink and swish it around in your cup a little. You can feel him staring at you and it starts to make you uncomfortable.

"What is it?" You snap a bit on accident. He frowns. "Sorry…"

"Ye sure yer alright?" You groan loudly in annoyance.

"Yes! I am absolutely sure, 100%--"

"Tell me and I'll buy ye a treat next time we get to shore." You both stare at each other for a moment. Your arms are in midair since you were cut off from your dramatics. He had an eyebrow raised and was looking at you suspiciously. You drop your hands onto the table.

"I feel useless." You say bluntly.

"Wha? Why? Did someone say somethin'? I'll shoot them out o' me cannon right now!" Magnum panics.

"See, this is why I didn't want to tell you!" You sigh and fall back in your chair.

"Wha d' ye mean?" He furrows his eyebrows.

"There's no… nobody said anything, I just… I got a bag. One bag!"

"Aye! An' that was very--"

"Mags, they each got at least two. Some even had three. You got seven. Plus a chest."

"Ok, so we're a little… little stronger than ye, what about it?"

"I'm not… useful to you! I'm not as strong, I'm not good in a gunfight, I can barely talk my way out of anything--"

"Ye talked John out of his potatoes."

"I thought his name was Jack?"

"Eh, he-he never corrects anyone. I called him James the other day and nothin'."

"Huh. But that doesn't count. I know him."

"Ye are useful, and even if ye weren't, yer a valuable… valuable? Yea, valuable member of this crew. I haven't seen 'em dance this much in months. I haven't smiled this much in months. Ye are a very important part of me ship. Crew. Me crew."

"...Mags, are you drunk?"

"Not the point. Wha I'm sayin' is we love ye and now we're attached and ye can never leave."

"Ah, I see. C'mon. Bedtime," You stood up and walked over to Magnum, putting a gentle hand on his arm. He squints at it.

"No," He looks up at you.

"Mags…" You warn.

"No," He crosses his arms and leans back.

"Magnum," You cross your arms. Is he really doing this right now?

"Call me captain," He smiles brightly.

"...I'm not doing that," You can't help but smile back.

"Please?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why do you want me to?"

"I like it."

"Ok, Mr. authority complex."

"Stop psychoal… psychoan… psy--"

"Psychoanalyzing."

"Yeah that."

"Only if you get to bed."

"...bah."

"Bah, yourself. Stand up."

"I'm a lil tipsy, it's fine." He says, swaying a little. You put your hand back on his arm and he stares at it as you lead him to his cabin.

"You'll thank me in the morning when everyone has a pounding hangover and you just have a headache." You pat his arm.

"Mm. Mate?" He asks, still staring at your hand.

"Yeah, Mags?" You open his door and let him walk in. He looks at you standing in the doorway with this… weirdly soft look on his face.

"...I love ye." He whispers. Ok, that was way too quiet and a very uncharacteristic thing to say.

"Love you too. You're drunk." You repeat.

"I know. I still love ye."

"Thank you. Go to sleep."

"Cuddle?"

"No, you smell like whiskey."

"Please?"

"No. Love you. Go to sleep."

"G'night."

"Night."

--

"Morning, everyone." You smile over your cup at the tired and annoyed faces that walk through the door. Some mumble a "good morning" back, some only give you a wave, some straight up ignore you. Magnum walks in, visibly doing better than the others, and makes his way to you.

"Uh…" He scratches his beard.

"Hm. Let me guess…" you tap your chin with a finger and raise your eyebrows.

"...thank you." He sighs.

"Called it," You tilt your seat back and put your feet on the table.

"Yeah, yeah…" He grumbles.

“Sleep well?” You sip your drink.

“Eh… yeah…” He says after a couple seconds.

“That’s a hesitation I hear,” You raise an eyebrow.

“Mm… dream was a… a little bad…” He sits in a chair across from you.

“Bad? Bad how?” You tilt your head, and the look he gives you isn’t a very good one.

“Eh, jus’… jus’… mm…”

“Don’t wanna talk?”

“Not… really…”

“Ok. Coffee?”

"Aye." You stand up and get another cup of coffee with a little bit of sugar and some whiskey and hand it to him.

"... sugar 'n whiskey…" he says, surprised for some reason.

"Yeah. You like it that way, right?" You ask, worried you'd gotten it wrong.

"Aye, aye I do…"

"...is something wrong?"

"...no. Nothin'."

"You… sure?"

"Aye."

"Ok… I'm gonna… go see if the others want anything." He nods as you walk away.

That was. Very weird.

You shake your head and walked up to John. James. Whatever.

"Mornin'... Joseph." You say experimentally.

"Mornin', Y/N." He smiles. So, he just answers to anything. Great.

"Need anything? Coffee? Food? Drugs?"

"Why would we need drugs?" Another mate asks.

"For your hangovers, duh." You clap your hand on Jim's (Jake's?) shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll spike your drinks." They all thank you at different energy levels as you leave to get their individual cups of coffee. You feel someone staring at you and turn to see Magnum gazing at you from his seat. He clears his throat and turns away once you see him. You sigh and distribute the cups among the crewmembers. One of them stares at you as you hand them a cup.

"What?" You ask defensively.

"He's in love with you." She comments.

"Yeah, I know…" you sigh and sit down at her table.

"You know? What do you mean you know?!"

"I mean, I know!"

"Do you like him back?"

"That's a difficult question."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I love him a lot but he's a greedy bastard with an authority complex and he hugs way too hard."

"The hugs are not that bad." You give her a look. "Ok, yeah, they are."

"Uh-huh."

"You could… teach him how to hug and see where that gets you?"

"I think I'd hurt his feelings if I suggested that."

"Then just… hug him!"

"What? No!" You whisper-shout to get your point across but also make sure Magnum doesn't hear you.

"Why not?!" She whisper-shouts back.

"That's… weird! I don't give hugs! Hugs are not a thing I give! I get hugs I do not give them!" You both stare at each other for a minute.

"You're touch starved," she raises an eyebrow.

"No shit, so is he."

"One hug! That's it!"

"I refuse."

"I'm sure it'll make him happy!" You pause, thinking about it. He did seem a little upset when you flinched at him. You glared at the pirate and she gave you a shit-eating grin back. She knew what she was doing. Fuck.

"One hug." You hold up your finger to emphasize the point.

"That's all I ask." You point at her and stand up from your seat. You walk over to Magnum. He looks up at you, eyes widening for a moment.

"First mate." He nods.

"Captain," You nod back, "Can we talk?"

"...uh."

"Just real quick? Somewhere private?"

"Uhhhh."

"Magnum."

"Ok. Yea, we can… do that." You nod and began walking towards his cabin. After a couple steps you realize he's not following you and turn around. There he is, sitting at his table.

"Mags?"

"Hm? Oh! Comin'."

He makes his way over to you and enters his cabin. You enter afterwards, shutting the door behind you. You look at him, this 7-and-a-half foot giant of a man, fidgeting. Nervous. You squint at him. How are you gonna go about this?

"You hug too hard." You state. He frowns and drops his hands to his sides.

"Oh…" He says, sounding disappointed. Fuck hurting his feelings, he was gonna hurt your organs, goddamn.

"You need… you gotta be softer. More-More gentle. Like… like, uh…"

"I'm not sure I can--"

"Here, lemme-just…" you shuffle over to him and wrap your arms around his torso. You feel him tense up under your touch. You lay your cheek on him and just squeeze your arms a little. You can't reach all the way around, but it seems to be working pretty well for what you can do. His arms are just frozen in the air, and he keeps moving them just a little, like he wants to hug you back but can't. You inhale a little and smell gunpowder, wood, and coffee. It's a comforting smell, mostly because it's just his, and you can't help but squeeze a little tighter and nuzzle into him. His breath hitches and his heartbeat speeds up. You grin.

You're fucking with him. Not on purpose, but it's happening.

You finally pull away after a few minutes, giving one final squeeze to his midsection before finally stepping back. You look up at him, an innocent smile on your face. He just stares down at you, a blush on his face. His eyes are a little foggy, and you start to get a little worried. Maybe that was… too much, too fast.

"Mags? You okay?" You whispered. He seems to snap out of whatever trance he's in at that because he sucks in a breath and drops his arms.

"Aye! I'm alright! I'm going to uh… go now!" He announces loudly and stomps out of his cabin.

You chuckle as you watch him walk robotically over to the front of the ship, almost tripping over himself and yelling at anyone who laughed. You sigh, shaking your head and sitting on his bed.

You'd wait until he told you about his feelings. You'd wait until he was ready. You could do that... You could do that.

You look out the door again, seeing the crew all working, and him just standing at the wheel. He has a dopey, crooked smile on his face and his hands keep twitching like he can't contain himself. He catches your eye and looks at you. You stick your tongue out and scrunch up your face. He smiles wider and it looks like he chuckles. He looks away, embarrassed. You smile again before standing up and leaving his cabin, planning to ask what you can help with.

Hugs are good enough for now.

[theshopislocal]

corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter five

Baby rumbles against Dean’s back, purring as she idles at the roadside.

He’s been sat here, hands on the wheel in a stiff 10 and 2, languishing in indecision for a good while now. Though the windows are down and the visor out, he’s still sweating a wet spot onto the back of his henley, hair damp at the base of his skull.

He glances at the passenger seat, empty but for his phone lying face down.

The phone was something of a turn up. It had appeared at his bedside sometime during his first night in Heaven. He’d awoken to the sound of it buzzing against the tabletop, a message from Sam - You good? - flashing on the screen. He’d picked it up and fiddled with it, running his fingers over the burnished metal and smooth glass. If he’d never seen any of the crazy shit Charlie’d cobbled together, he would’ve said the thing looked Space Age - all sleek lines and sharp angles, no buttons to speak of.

As it stood, he’d shrugged and tapped on the message from Sam. He’d typed out a brief response - Peachy - and chucked it back onto the nightstand, pulling the covers over his head. He’d slept until the sun went down.

Dean winces as a bead of sweat drips into his eye and cranes his neck to wipe his face on his shoulder. He looks back at the phone and rolls his eyes.

It’s in his hand a moment later, his thumb hovering over the screen. There are no icons, no home screen, just a blank black surface. Like most things in Heaven, it seems to just... operate as expected - to do whatever it is he wants it to.

Trouble is, Dean doesn’t know what he’s expecting. And he certainly doesn’t know what he wants.

He peers through the windshield, eyes squinting against the light, and observes the sparse spring clouds drifting over the pass. If he looks hard enough, he can probably find Sam and Eileen’s place - a little white dot on the mountainside. Instead, his eyes cut to the lowest point between the peaks, though he can see neither hide nor hair of what lies beyond.

His thumb brushes against the phone’s screen, and he glances down when it illuminates.

On first glance, it looks no different from any other satellite map - a blinking blue dot with his name hovering over it, little broccoli trees and crosshatch roads. But as he looks closer, he sees movement: the trees seem to sway, the shadows shift, and there’s a dancing white speck where a bird flies figure eights.

On a whim, Dean double taps his location, zooming in tight. He sticks his other hand out the window, waving skyward. On the screen, he sees himself, flailing his arm like an idiot, crystal clear and moving precisely in time.

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and he snorts. “We have the technology,” he mutters, pinching the screen to zoom out again. “We can make it better, stronger—”

He stops short at the sight of another little dot, this one in a soft, glowing white. It’s across the bridge on the other side of the forest, in what looks like a sprawling botanical garden.

The Library, reads the text.

Dean frowns and lowers the phone, staring blankly at the steering wheel. He’s got that feeling again, like he’s a damn open book - though he’s not sure why anyone would bother to read.

He shakes his head and huffs a dry laugh, chucking the phone onto the dash. He flicks on the radio, Zeppelin IV blaring from the speakers, and throws Baby into gear.

“Over the river and through the woods,” he murmurs, and he pulls onto the road in a cloud of gravel dust.

~*~

Though stately and finely architectured with pillars and white stone, the building that houses the Library is surprisingly small.

He’s driven past it a few times, but never gotten too close; there’s something mildly forbidding in the way it juts out of the earth, its stamped concrete walkways a jarring foil to the surrounding flora. From his perch on the front steps, it looks like any other city library - modern and well-maintained, if a bit oddly placed.

Dean presses his phone closer to his ear, eyes fixed on the tall, imposing doors at the top landing. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Charlie’s voice comes through, clear and a little echoey. “Well, it was your idea, so… No, not at all.”

Dean’s eyes roll skyward at her chipper tone, and he fiddles with the odd little trinket in his other hand. “I mean, is it gonna work,” he grunts out.

Charlie makes an offended noise, and there’s a low thud that sounds like a book snapping shut. “Of course it’s gonna work,” she says, tone sharp with a nerdy bluster that has Dean cracking a smile. “I poured my flesh and blood and a tiny bit of weapons grade plutonium into that amulet.”

Dean feels his smile slip, and he peers down at the little talisman. It’s a rusted iron triquetra with shining gemstones inlaid, the whole thing no bigger than his palm.

He’d called Charlie just as he pulled up to the garden. After a brief back-and-forth, she’d given a disgruntled “you owe me one,” and - through some sort of Heaven-magic that he doubts anyone besides Charlie could pull off - the amulet had appeared in his glovebox.

She definitely hadn’t mentioned any fucking plutonium. “Did you say—”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Winchester.”

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and briefly presses the back of his hand into his eye socket. He nods to no one in particular, pulling his lips through his teeth. Sure, plutonium. Why not.

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “Yeah, okay.” He holds up the amulet, extending his arm as far from his body as possible; he’s pretty sure nothing can kill him now, but he’s not particularly interested in testing the theory. “So how do I use this thing?”

Charlie clears her throat. “Push on the gems - red first, blue last. Plop it on the door, and it’ll automagically—” Dean frowns, automagically? “—open. Badabing...”

“Badaboom, right.” Dean nods around a grimace and casts his eyes about the courtyard. It’s quiet and empty, the last rays of the evening sun glinting on the white stepping stones. “And if someone from the Arch sees me?”

“Well,” she begins, lofty and facetious. Dean gives a preemptive sigh. “They can’t kill you, can they. They’re angels, not juggalos with rusty barn nails.”

Forty years. He’s been dead forty years, and he still hasn’t lived down the juggalo thing. “Alright, first off,” he says, gesturing wildly with the nuclear weapon in his hand, “it was rebar. Not a nail. Rebar. And second,” he ticks two fingers up, “they were vampires,” he complains. “Big, scary vampires.”

Charlie snorts indelicately. “Yeah, well, I got gutted in a motel bathtub by a frickin’ Frankenstein. So, I win.”

“You—” Dean pauses for a moment to consider his argument. But toeing up against Charlie is a bit of a nonstarter, and, well... Frankenstein is pretty badass.

He sighs, resigned, and gives a shrugging nod. “Yeah.”

There’s a crack and hiss in the background - a beer can opening, Dean thinks - and he can hear the snarky smile in Charlie’s voice. “Tell Kevin I say hi.”

Dean blanches. “I—”

“Toodles!” Charlie says, and the line clicks dead.

Dean pulls the phone from his ear, glaring at the black screen. “Toodles,” he sneers, and slips it into his back pocket.

Dean peers around the plaza again, though there’s not a soul (he snorts) in sight. He squares his shoulders and straightens his spine, giving himself a little shake.

The steps are short and shallow; he takes them two at a time until he comes to the landing. Up close, the building looks bigger, the door a huge, imperial thing towering several feet over his head. It’s a smooth, dark wood, its wide panels inlaid.

Dean grasps at the amulet, sucking in a deep breath. “Here goes,” he murmurs.

He ghosts his fingertips over the gemstones. Red first, blue last. He pushes his forefinger against the red stone, face screwing up in a wince. It depresses and clicks into place.

After a tense moment, during which his entire body clenches like a vise, he opens his eyes. He peers down at himself, patting a hand around his chest. He’s still— well, not alive, per se, but at least he’s not a smear on the stone floor. He breathes out a relieved sigh and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

He runs his tongue over his chapped lips and clicks in the green stone, then the blue one.

For a moment, nothing happens. He frowns down at the amulet, turning it between his hands. Then there’s a soft pop and a little sizzle, and the metal begins to glow, warming against his palm.

“Uh...” His eyes go wide as it glows brighter, nearly scalding him now. “Shit, shit—” He approaches the door in two long strides and smacks the amulet against the lacquered wood.

He draws back his hand, blowing out another sigh when the damned thing stays put. It’s glowing almost painfully bright now, the light leaving red spots on his retina. He peers around the landing, wondering belatedly if he should take cover.

There’s a soft click and a groaning creak. Dean turns toward the sound just as the amulet winks out and falls, clinking as it lands. He stoops down to pick it up; it’s cool to the touch now, and Dean shakes his head. As he slides it into his pocket, a musty draft hits his face - the scent of old paper and tanned leather tickling his nose.

The door is open.

~*~

Dean gets the sense, as he steps over the threshold, that he’s walking through several doors - all of which, he presumes, are marked ‘staff only’. Confirmation comes when he steps fully into the room - not a foyer or a lobby, but a sprawling study, densely packed with overstuffed bookshelves.

He turns around to shut the door - quite a different door than the one he opened, knotty pine and regular sized. Dean feels the weight of the amulet in his pocket and gives an involuntary shiver; this magic shit always gives him the willies.

He steps further into the study proper. There are two rows of bookshelves to his left, one directly before him, and several more a little ways down on his right. The books are all bound the same, in a deep beige leather with some sort of gold insignia etched into the spines. He doesn’t recognize the symbols, or any of the books themselves. He doubts any of them are Vonnegut.

He peeks around the nearest shelf and finds a central area with several long oak tables. He glances left, then right, then down at his feet.

It occurs to him, of a sudden, that he’s got no damn idea what he’s doing here.

“You’re late.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and whirls around, hands going for the gun he no longer carries.

The door he came through is gone, and the wall along with it. Instead, there’s a raised platform with short stone steps before it, and what appears to be an exact replica of the Resolute desk at center stage.

Seated behind it, slightly frazzle-haired and scribbling away, is Kevin Tran.

Dean feels his jaw go slack, and his eyes get a little misty. Kevin is in Heaven, and he’s sitting at a giant desk with a frickin’ eagle carved on the front, and he’s running what Dean imagines is the celestial Library of Congress, and Kevin is finally - finally - in Heaven.

Dean gets a sudden, painful urge to hug the kid. He takes a faltering step forward to do just that, and the amulet jostles in his pocket.

Oh, right. This is a B&E.

Dean’s arms flop down to his sides, and he feels his face warm.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and tries for nonchalant. “Heeey, Kevin,” he says, wincing at the slight crack in his voice. “How ya doin’, bud?”

Kevin glances at the little clock on the desk, then turns back to the tome he’s scribbling in. “Your appointment was ten minutes ago.”

Dean frowns and takes a cautious step forward. “I... didn’t make an appointment.”

“I made it for you,” Kevin sniffs. He turns a page, unperturbed.

Dean frowns harder. “How’d you know I was—” He bites down on his tongue, swallowing down the stupid question with a snap of his fingers. “Right,” he nods. “Prophet.”

Kevin gives a hum of confirmation and continues his writing. Dean clenches his jaw against the sudden awkwardness; he feels out of place (which he is, it’s a frickin’ library), like an interloper (which he also is, in an almost too literal sense). He sucks his teeth and saunters over to one of the long tables, running his fingers over the polished surface.

He glances up at Kevin, still scrawling away. He looks different than Dean remembers - broader in the shoulder, stronger around the jaw. There’s a dusting of stubble across his chin and a line etched into his forehead. He’s gone a little grey at the temples.

Dean squints, perplexed. While he himself looks almost exactly as he did when he bit the bullet, nearly everyone else in Heaven looks younger than he remembers them; Charlie looks about the same as when he first met her, and his mom looks almost as she did in his childhood memories. Kevin, on the other hand, looks quite a bit older. Certainly older than he was when—

...when he died.

Dean curls his fingers into a fist, pressing his knuckles into the table until zinging pain shoots up his arm. Dean’s not a complete idiot; he gets Heaven’s schtick. It gives people what they want - what they couldn’t have during their lives. Charlie wanted a 64K TV. Mary wanted a house with a white picket fence. Apparently everybody wanted endless spring days.

And Kevin wanted to grow old.

Dean swallows dryly, and his teeth grind together.

“So,” Kevin says, setting his pen down finally. “You’re here.” He looks up at Dean, and his eyes are dark, lined with crow’s feet. “Did you...” He pauses for a moment, head tilted in mild expectation, “...need something?”

Dean stares for a second, jaw working soundlessly. Then he bites down on the inside of his cheek, giving Kevin a tight, crooked smile. “Oh, just,” he gives a twitchy shrug. “Thought I’d stop by.”

Kevin watches him for a short, taut moment, eyes flicking across Dean’s face. Dean swallows again, shoulders coming up.

Finally, Kevin gives a solemn nod and picks up his pen. He turns back to his notebook and jots something down. Dean thinks he sees a tiny smile around his mouth.

Kevin turns another page. “If you’re looking for Lady Death in Lingerie, it’s been checked out.”

Dean frowns for half a second, then his chin drops to his chest. Right. Cartoon porn.

Dean nods his head, pursing his lips. “Funny,” he murmurs, and Kevin’s eyes flick to his for an instant, squinted and wry.

Kevin goes back to his scribbling, and Dean inches closer, curious, but a low harrumph from Kevin has him taking a step back.

He sits down on the end of the nearest table, twiddling his thumbs. From this distance, he can barely hear the pen scratching over the paper, and the interminable silence grows oppressive.

Dean clears his throat. “So,” he says, and waves a hand in a broad gesture. “What, uh. What all you got in this place?”

Kevin turns another page and doesn’t look up. “Everything ever written, said, or done by everyone in the universe.”

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and his head tips in a bemused nod. “Oh, is that all.”

Kevin sniffs. “And the Ark of the Covenant.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, brow furrowing. “Wh-. Seriously?”

Kevin gives him a flat, baleful look that clarifies precisely zero, then turns back to his giant book.

Dean nods at nothing in particular and chews his lip. “How do you keep it all organized?”

A muscle in Kevin’s jaw twitches. “Automagically.”

Dean blows out a sigh, making a note in his head to inform Charlie that he’ll be cheesing Scorpion for the rest of eternity, thanks. Presuming Kevin doesn’t send him off to Heaven jail.

Dean winces. “So you heard all that, did ya.”

Kevin hums, scribbling away.

Lost for words, Dean casts his eyes about the study. Now that the door through which he entered is gone, there don’t seem to be any doors at all. He sighs and peers around at the walls; maybe there’s a window he can throw himself out of.

His eyes catch on something high up on the far wall - not a window, but a block of text in a language Dean doesn’t recognize. It looks to be handwritten in some sort of deep gold paint. It glows faintly against the eggshell wall.

Once he sees that first scribble, he begins to notice several others. There’s one nearly at the ceiling kitty-corner to Kevin’s desk that looks like it might be in Japanese. Another on the wall opposite him that’s comprised of funny little hieroglyphs in a spiral pattern that he thinks might be Linear A.

Dean points a finger toward the script and glances at Kevin. “These wards?”

Kevin looks up briefly, eyes flicking to the symbols on the wall. He shakes his head, going back to his notebook. “Inspirational quotes.”

Dean gives a rumbling snort of laughter, and Kevin peers up at him, one eyebrow arched. He gestures with his pen towards the far corner of the room. Dean frowns and looks over.

Smooshed up against one wall is a rudimentary drawing of what looks like a fluffy kitten clinging to a tree branch. Underneath, scrawled in plain English: Hang in there!

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and he nearly laughs before wrestling his face into a bland smile. “Oh,” he says, glancing back at Kevin. “Uh. Cool.”

Kevin huffs a dry laugh and leans back in his seat. “It’s not really,” he says, and points a finger toward another quote Dean hadn’t noticed. “That one’s a proto-Germanic joke about a walrus. And that one—” he points towards the circular one done in hieroglyphics, “—is in a pre-Sumerian language. No one has any idea what it says.”

Dean’s lips turn down, and he nods. “Huh.” He cuts his eyes sidelong to Kevin. “Who wrote them?”

Kevin shrugs and hunches forward, eyes settling again on his book. “Senior members of the Arch. Angels mostly.” He breathes out a little sound that might be a laugh. “Pretty sure a couple of them are just graffiti.”

Dean nods and stands up. He spins in a slow circle, looking for any that he’d missed, and finds one directly to his right. It’s one of the only ones written at eye level, but its lettering - Latin, Dean notes - is pale, almost translucent. As he stares at it, it appears to grow darker, bolder against the wall.

Si ego loqui, it reads, lingua angeli, autem ego sine amare, ego modo sum turpi strepitu.

Dean’s face scrunches up in a frown. He wouldn’t have called himself fluent in Latin, even on a good day, but now that he hasn’t read any in forty odd years, he can barely suss out any meaning at all. Lingua angeli, he thinks. Angelic mouth? He smirks a little bit. Kinky.

He stares at it for another few moments. It’s eerily familiar, though he can’t place why. There’s something manifest, nearly recognizable about the handwriting.

“I’ve read this one before,” he surmises, nodding towards the text.

Kevin glances up, following Dean’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says, matter of fact. “Most people have. First Corinthians thirteen.”

Dean frowns for a moment. Corinthians. Corinthians. Corinth—

“The Bible?” he says, incredulous.

Kevin gives him a bland, slit-eyed look. “This is Heaven, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw snaps shut, lips pursing, and... yeah, that tracks. “Right,” Dean murmurs, tipping his head back in a nod.

Kevin���s eyes roll, softened by the tiny smile around his mouth, and he goes back to his writing.

Dismissed, Dean turns back to the latin inscription. He wracks his brain for Corinthians, but comes up empty; generally, everything he remembers from the Bible is out of Revelations, since he’d essentially lived his entire life in a state of on-again-off-again apocalypse.

He eyes the script, following its neat, angled lines. He recognizes a few of the words - ego, loqui - but can’t quite attach them to their meanings. He squints his eyes tight, as if by looking hard enough he might divine a translation.

There’s a deep sigh from behind him, and he turns to see Kevin, weary-eyed and grumpy, peering past him to the inscription.

Kevin taps his pen against his open book. “If I speak,” he recites, “in the tongue of angels, but have not love...” he squints his eyes in a frown, “...I am only a vile noise.”

Dean stares blankly at him for a moment, then turns back to the wall. He remembers the verse now, and the bit that follows: love is patient, love is kind. He recalls seeing it printed on greeting cards, boxes of chocolate, Valentine’s bouquets - the sort of shit normal people busied themselves with.

That first bit, though. If I speak in the tongue of—

Dean sniffs and hunches his shoulders against the swelling pressure in his chest. Kevin said these were written by Arch members - angels. He clenches his jaw, grunting, “Funny sort of thing for an angel to say.”

Kevin hums. “It’s also mistranslated.”

Dean frowns and cranes his neck to glance at Kevin. “Oh?”

Kevin peers up at the verse again. “Amare should be caritate.”

“Caritate,” Dean intones. He rolls the word around in his mouth, and it’s coming back to him now. “Charity?” he guesses.

Kevin tips his head side to side with a little shrug. “Literally, yes. But it’s usually used to connote a—” he frowns, chewing his lip, “—a general kind of love. Caritate would mean love for all humankind.” He tips his head toward the inscription. “Amare is love for one person.”

Kevin holds Dean’s gaze for a split second, face inscrutable, before hunkering back down over his work.

Dean’s face goes hot then cold - the thing growing in his chest reaching some sort of critical mass - and the words resound in his head:

Love for one person.

Love for one person.

Love for—

Dean sucks in a breath like he’s breaking the surface.

Because you cared, I cared.

His hands clench up tight, fingernails digging into his palms. The whispering voice speaks full volume now, coming from somewhere near his heart, echoing through the hollows inside.

I cared about you.

No. Shut up. Just—

I cared about the whole world because of y—

Dean’s fist comes down on the table - harder than he’d intended - with a dull thud and a sharp, throbbing pain.

He looks over at Kevin scribbling away, oblivious. Dean calls his name, but it comes out in a cracked, stammering whisper. He clears his throat and tries again. “Kevin.”

Kevin’s head tilts, but he doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

Dean licks his lips, dry tongue sticking to the skin. “Who wrote this,” he whispers.

It’s a stupid question. He already knows the answer - knew the second he saw the sharp, looping script. The instant he read the word amare.

It’s almost funny, really. Turns out living in the Happiest Place Not on Earth hasn’t changed Dean much; he still divides his time evenly between knowing he’s wrong and hoping he’s wrong.

Trouble is, with the thrum of a headache pulsing at his temples and the ache in his eyes from the overbright sun, he’s not sure he’s even got it in him to hope.

“Couldn’t say,” Kevin says, voice cutting through Dean’s wayward thoughts. “It was there before I got here.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and he nods to himself. Kevin scribbles on for another few seconds, then stops and glances up, face bemused. “Kinda weird though,” he says, squinting, “the mistranslation.” He shrugs mildly and turns back to his book. “Guess even angels make mistakes.”

Dean frowns and curls forward, chin dropping to his chest. The whisper in his head makes a short utterance, and Dean sees himself, greyscale in his memory. Face blank in the aftermath, bones numb from the onslaught, and all he can think, can feel, can say is—

Why does this sound like a goodbye?

“Yeah,” Dean says, and his voice is gruff and too loud. He thinks one of his fingernails might have pierced the skin of his palm. “Yeah, they do.”

Kevin looks up at him - face blank, eyes opaque. He stares at Dean for a long moment, and whatever he sees on Dean’s face has his eyebrows rising.

Dean holds his gaze for barely a second, then looks down at his feet. His boots are scuffed, layered in fine dust. He glances at the floor - pristine white marble shot through with gold rivulets - and wonders if he’s tracked dirt onto it. He figures he must’ve done. It’s sort of his M.O., after all. Messing things up.

“Look, Dean,” Kevin says, sotto voce. “It’s...” he shakes his head, thumping his pen against his palm. “It’s nice to see you and all—”

Dean snorts a bitter laugh, and sucks in his lips. He peers up at Kevin with sharp, squinted eyes.

Kevin sighs, and his face softens, mouth forming a flat line. He gives Dean a look - admonishing, with the barest hint of pity. “It is good to see you, Dean,” he reiterates, and the sincerity in his tone nearly makes Dean believe it. “But...”

Kevin sucks in a breath and gestures to his open book, then to the stack of several more at his elbow.

Dean’s spine stiffens, and he nods. Right. Some people do more in Heaven than just drive around in circles, listening to the same six cassettes on an endless loop.

“Yeah,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, no, I- sorry, I just, uh...”

He just... what? Broke into Heaven’s Library? With a frickin’ plutonium bomb? Drove a hundred miles (or maybe a thousand, he didn’t check the odometer) because, what, his SpacePhone™ told him to? What is he doing here?

What is he doing here?

“There’s a- a place,” Dean blurts, then scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Just past the mountain. A little forest in a field. Apparently there’s rain and lightning, and I. I’m just—” paranoid. Terrified. Losing my goddamn m— “It’s pretty close to Sam’s place,” he posits, which is ostensibly true. “And I—”

Dean’s not sure what more to say - what more he could say without making him sound crazier than he rightfully is. Fortunately, Kevin is already pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. He comes around the desk at a trot and descends the stairs.

He arrives at the head of the table, nearly abreast of Dean, and smoothes a finger over the pale wood surface in an intricate pattern.

Instantly, the tabletop is transformed. From the tight woodgrain rise sweeping swathes of squiggly lines, odd little symbols and soft, muted colors. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and he leans closer.

The whole thing is a sprawling map. Not the sort he’d seen on his phone, but the sort at the beginning of a fantasy novel, with little hand-drawn forests and ink-flowing rivers. Dean stares for a moment, dumbfounded, his eyes running over the fine details and cross-hatching.

A soft harrumph draws his eyes to Kevin, staring at Dean with mild amusement and open expectancy.

Dean frowns, face warming. “Sorry, what?”

Kevin gives a crooked half smile and nods toward the map. “Your little forest,” he says. “Where is it?”

Dean sucks in a short breath and nods. He steps forward, thighs nudging the table edge, his shoulder nearly butting against Kevin’s. He does a quick double-take when he realizes that the kid - that Kevin - is nearly as tall as he is.

He shakes himself and peers down at the map. His eyes follow the mountain range, inked in broad jagged lines, to the river - a flowing swirl in a dull, washed blue. North of the mountain is a colorless expanse, marred only by a cluster of tiny dots.

Dean points. “There. I think.”

Kevin notes the location, tapping the spot with his finger. A tiny block of text appears next to the cluster, its symbols strange and unfamiliar.

Kevin gives a little hum, then extends his other arm, hand outstretched. A book - identical to all the others lining the shelves - materializes on Kevin’s palm, as Dean watches with wide eyes.

Kevin lays the book on the table, rifling through the pages. Dean peeks over his shoulder, but the text is inscrutable, Greek to Dean.

Apparently not to Kevin, though. He stops on a page about halfway through, tapping his finger near the top.

“It’s a domicile,” he murmurs, squinting at the little symbols.

“A—” Dean starts, then shakes his head. “Someone lives there?”

Kevin gives a humming nod, inching his finger across the crinkly page. “An Arch member, it looks like.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, molars grinding together. An Arch member.

That could be any number of people. Eileen, Jo, Ellen. His parents, Bobby. Even Charlie has offered a hand here and there.

But it isn’t any of them.

Dean bites the inside of his lip, pressing his palms - clammy and tense - against his thighs. “Who lives there,” Dean asks, and it’s a stupid question again, barely a question at all. Dean’s heart beats in his ears.

Sine amare.

Kevin shakes his head. “No name listed.”

Sine amare.

Dean’s fingernails scratch against his pants, hangnails catching on the denim. “How would I find out?”

It’s another stupid question, and Kevin clocks it quick. He sighs a dry laugh and snaps the book shut.

“Well,” he begins, making a swift volte face toward his desk. “You could do it in some—” another soft chuckle as he climbs the short stairs, “—convoluted Winchester way.” Dean rolls his eyes, head tipping forward, but he doesn’t offer a counter.

Kevin moves around the desk and settles himself in his chair, grabbing his pen. He clicks it once, twice, three times, and presses it to the page, jotting something down in quick, spare movements.

“Personally,” he murmurs, as he inks a full stop, “I’d just knock on their door.”

chapter four | chapter six

table of contents

[cherry3point14]

I am Sam, Sam I am

Pairing: Sam x Reader, Sam!Dean x Reader (brief) Warnings:Crack, crack, crackity crack. Also kinda sweet in the beginning. Imagine dipping your crack in sugar? Word Count:2,773. Prompt/Summary:You and Sam are secretly dating behind Dean's back. And that’s all fine until one day you see who you think is Sam, alone. (Prompted by @hoeofnjadaka on Ao3 - I mean I’m just assuming your username is the same here. If not, sorry friend!) A/N: ANOTHER BODY SWAP?!? Yeah, yeah. I know. Played out much? Get off my case guys it’s Sam x Reader this time and also kinda different. Don’t look at me like that, just appreciate this pure, uncut crack for what it is. 

Ao3 if you prefer

You’d just finished killing a pack of werewolves. It’s never an easy task and even with the three of you, it had been an evening full of close calls. You’re surprised none of you are injured beyond some minor cuts and grazes. But since no one is injured Dean goes into town to pick up some food, read: a woman, and that leaves you and Sam alone. The lights are low and the beers are cold. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders and you’re curled into his body, only a little. It’s just comfortable, that’s all. He’s so long anyway, perfect for you to hide away inside his tall frame while you watch movies. Friends definitely do that. Friends sit this close and breathe deeply enough to taste the smell of him in the back of your throat. Being attracted to him had been an accident. You’d just always been close, a leaning post for each other. When he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, talk to Dean you were there. And when you had trouble opening up, or were afraid of losing another friend, he was patient. Over weeks, months and years you’d kind of become each other’s everything. Or at least, he’d become yours. There’s nothing remarkable about tonight. There’s no big conversation or argument that sparks action. It's not a straw that breaks the camel's back. It’s the normal quiet you have during movies. Comfortable and calm. The Zodiac Killer, the film from the seventies, is playing on some late night horror channel and Dean isn’t around to tease Sam about his 'serial killer thing'. So, Sam is safe to lean in and tell you facts about the real case. Parts that the movie got wrong and parts that he’s surprised they got right. Every time he does you’re watching his lips, how carefully they sound out his words. He always speaks precisely when he cares about a topic, never wastes a syllable. “Sam?” He stops mid-sentence and turns to you more fully. Where before he’d been whispering facts while still looking at the screen now he’s looking right at you. Even in the dark, you can see the intensity of his eyes as the light from the TV continues to flicker in them. He has no idea what you’re going to say, you have no idea what you’re going to say, and yet he’s looking at you with the same concentration he does an important book. As if whatever you might say is gospel. “Yeah Y/N?” You don’t know what pushes you except you’re wondering if he’ll kiss you as carefully as he speaks. It’s not the first time you’ve thought it but it is the first time the question has consumed you so completely. It’s a risk. It could ruin your friendship. It could ruin your entire life. That’s if he rejects you and things become awkward. For some reason tonight confidence outweighs doubt. Maybe he’ll kiss you back is louder in your head than you’re just his friend. You slide an arm around his neck, pulling him into you and once you make contact with his skin everything speeds up because there’s no going back now, even if you saw disgust on his face you’d have to go through with it. How would you write this off as anything but trying to smash your face to his? Then your lips touch and that’s the call to action Sam apparently needed. In the blink of an eye, he’s kissing you back with a depth you hadn’t expected. There’s nothing slow or patient about this kiss. It’s fast and dirty. It’s bruising and when his tongue swipes over your lips you imagine it’s as much to soothe them as it is to ask for entry. He rolls you both as his tongue slides into your mouth, he has a hand on your hip and he’s leaning on his other arm, the perfect amount of Sam weight pressing you into the bed. You’re not sure if you kiss him for a second or a lifetime but eventually, he pulls back, keeping his forehead on yours, both of you panting and this smile on his face. It’s wide and happy and utterly heartstopping. You quickly accept that you’ll do anything for this smile as if you wouldn’t have done anything for Sam already. “So, um, you agree?” You ask with your own grin that you’re sure is breaking your face. He laughs down at you, “completely.” And then he’s on you again, kissing the little air you managed to capture straight back out of your lungs. There’s a scream as the zodiac killer begins to kill a woman. It’s a stark enough contrast against the muddling, quiet dialogue of the film that you break apart like it’s a case. Laughing some more when you realize it isn’t and ultimately breaking apart completely when you hear a key in the door. Dean had to have been drunk. It’s the only explanation for why he doesn’t see how red and swollen your lips are, or how tousled and messy your hair is. He confirms his state when he falls messily onto the other bed. You’re somewhat frozen in shock, luckily Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “Dude, where’s the food?” Sam’s voice is convincing enough that even you believe he’s hungry. Dean waves a hand in the air like he’s batting a fly, “her name was Gina.” “Considerate of you,” you finally catch up enough to chastise him. Not that it makes a lick of difference considering quiet snores that start coming from the Dean shaped mass on the bed.

Four Weeks Later  

There’s something nice about having the place to yourself, although you’ll never admit that to Sam and Dean. You may just break their little hearts. There’s a peace in it though. You can cook whatever you want without Dean barking at you to make sure you clean up properly this time. You can read any of the books in the library without Sam reminding you to put it back in the right place. Wait, were you a nightmare to live with? Whatever. The boys are gone and life is good. You know Dean is going to find some mess when he gets back, there was an incident with the blender that you’d rather not talk about and you know he’ll sniff out a stray drop you’ve missed like the bloodhound that he is. So, you’ve preemptively baked him an apology pie. It’s only Pillsbury pie crust, you’re not that good a baker, but you made a pretty great apple filling all by yourself, which should earn you some pretty sweet brownie points. And Sam? Well, he may or may not find some books missing from his room and you may or may not have lost his place in every single one. Although you had some very different ideas on how to make that up to him. Ideas that may require sending Dean away somewhere. Especially since he doesn’t know what you do with his brother at night. Gun to your head, you probably couldn’t coherently explain why you’re still keeping it a secret. That first night everything had happened so quickly and then Dean came back before you could really talk to each other. The day after you’d both gone on a food run first thing in the morning if only to share a lot of sheepish smiles and blushing cheeks. It was all ten tons of adorable considering all you had to do was close your eyes to be reminded of his weight on top of you. At first, you agreed to the secrecy because he’s your best friend and if whatever you were doing didn’t work out it would surely be easier to recover in private. At least that sounded reasonable. Now it’s fairly obvious that you have something. Maybe not wedding bells and Christmas cards but it’s lasting at least. It’s just, well, now the secret thing is freaking hot. We’re not just talking a quick roleplay and move on with your lives hot. It’s all you can do not to jump him at breakfast. It’s every forbidden relationship you’ve never had rolled into one. And it’s not even forbidden. You’re fairly sure Dean would be happy for you both, you hope anyway. But now the longer you keep it a secret the more wrong it feels. The time apart has only made it worse. They’ve only been gone two days. Two days! You’ve taken longer naps. And yet here you are sitting at the map table on your laptop and looking up an excuse for you to leave with Sam immediately upon their return. Turns out, you needn’t have bothered. The door to the bunker is heavy and booming so even if you hadn’t have been right there you’d have heard it pretty quickly. However, you are there with a perfect view of the entryway, just as Sam ducks down to come in. The problem occurs when he doesn’t duck his head quite enough and slams his forehead into the thick metal door frame. “Son of a bitch!” He shouts with a strange inflection at the end. It’s familiar just, not from Sam. You're distracted by his injury and you jump up from your seat to meet him at the bottom of the stairs, “show me, you big baby.” Not once does it occur to you that Sam has walked through that door a thousand times without injury. Not when he leans down to show you his slightly red forehead and you ghost your fingers over it, gently feeling for a lump and at the same time running your fingers through his hair. “You’ll live. Where’s Dean?” “Dean? He jumps back from your touch and creases his brow, apparently shocked and offended by your innocent line of questioning. “He’s, erm, at the library! Yeah, I- I just dropped him off.” You have a library. It’s quite literally right behind you and has more lore books than the local one. That’s not taking into account that Dean is the one at the library and not Sam. None of that matters because that’s not what you decide to focus on, “um, are telling me that he’s not here?” “That’s what I said.” “We have the place to ourselves?” “That’s what Dean is at the library means.” Your voice drops into something akin to the verbal equivalent of velvet and you lean into him, looking up through your lashes. “Then why am I not already naked?”

Before he can react you slide your arms around his neck and bring him crashing you meet your lips. The kiss is different, softer, for all of the second it lasts before Sam has his hands on your shoulders pushing you back. He keeps you at arm's length as he splutters, “Y/N, what the hell?” “Oh come on, you said yourself you just dropped him off which means we have some time.” You slip past his hands, fingers nimbly unbuttoning his shirt and lips pressing kisses against the taut skin of his chest as it’s revealed. “Wanna see how many times you can make me...?” “Woah, woah, woah!” He pushes you back again, shirt half unbuttoned and your ego significantly more bruised than his forehead. “Are you and Sam…?” He raises his brows questioningly and makes a hand motion involving one finger sliding into a circle made with his other hand. You don’t know what's worse, the rejection or the anxiety suddenly eating at your stomach. “Sam, what’s going on?” His face pales of color and he scratches the back of his neck while he avoids looking directly into your eyes, “see, funny thing about that. I’m kinda not Sam.” “What?” The sickly feeling is climbing from your belly to your throat but you still need to hear more words. “Well, me and Sam kind of switched bodies. Accidently and it was no ones fault so let’s not go pointing fingers at anyone, and he is really at the library, my body anyway…” “Dean!?” The guilty look on his face is all the confirmation you need. “Oh my god!” You take a step back with a scandalized look on your face as you clutch your shirt to your chest as if it’s your buttons that are half undone. “Don’t give me that! You’re the one who’s- who’s…” he wags a finger through the air between you and him, or Sam’s body anyway. “You’re the one who jumped me like a damn spider monkey. And since when are you and Sam? You know!” It’s as clear as day now that this is, very much, not your Sam. In fact, it’s so obviously Dean that you almost want to slap yourself for being so blind. You’re far more tempted to slap Sam though. Or Dean anyway. “That is frankly none of your business. Why the hell didn’t you say something sooner? You’re the one who said you dropped Dean off!” “Technically I did. He’s got my good looks and my ID anyway, that makes him Dean Winchester!” An epiphany hits you sideways and you finally ask the most obvious question, not knowing it answers everything else, “wait a second, how did you get like this? You weren’t even hunting a witch or anything.” Suddenly he’s defensive. You’ve finally asked the right question, “we may have been doing a spell to track the pair of vetala and I might have, maybe, got some of the wording wrong. And two of the ingredients. And we might not know exactly how to put ourselves back.” You rub your forehead in frustration and let out the angriest sigh you can muster. “I guess I better start doing some research.” You turn on your heel an stomp into the library. Dean calling after you with Sam’s voice, “don’t think we’re not gonna talk about the fact that I can still taste your tongue down my throat!” “It’s Sam’s throat genius!”

Sam, in Dean’s body, sits down next to you with a large book in his hands. “I heard someone isn’t talking to Dean.” “He’s an idiot.” You grumble, not taking your eyes off the page. “Yeah, but we should probably cut him some slack since we didn’t tell him about us for, like a month.” Your shoulders roll back involuntarily but still tense. It doesn’t make him any less right, “I get that. But I kissed him! And I tried to- let’s just say I was happy to see you.” He opens his book not really looking at the page and for the first time, you turn your head to look at him. It’s Sam and you know it is. Not just because he told you so but his facial expressions are still his and he shakes his head like he’s expecting to have more hair. Hell, when you saw him walk over out the corner of your eye he walked across the room like he’s four inches taller. “You technically kissed me you know.” This time he’s pretending to read and not looking at you. “It’s unbelievably weird to hear Dean say that you know?” “Yeah,” he chuckles and it’s a little too Dean, “it’s weird for me too. Did you know he’s got this backache that just doesn’t go away?” You let out a laugh at that since you know how sensitive Dean is about his age. “Ok, noted. I’m so saving that information for when you two are back in the right bodies.” “Glad I could help make you smile again,” except as he says it he reaches out for your hand. It’s not unusual since he would sometimes squeeze your hand under the table or when you’re out sight. But now it’s Dean and even though you know it’s Sam you still recoil from his touch, “no offense but that’s super weird.” He's in Dean's body and yet he retained those damn puppy dog eyes in the switch. “Dean gets to kiss my girl and she won’t even hold my hand?” You sigh. He’s right, obviously. It’s a fairly innocuous thing and it’s not like Dean is repulsive, it’s just weird. It’s weird and messy and an extra slice of more weird. “First of all, I didn't know it was Dean when I... anyway how about this? Instead of holding your hand there’s a pie in the kitchen that we can tease him with?” He allows you to distract him and his face falls with a sudden horrific realization. If you didn’t know any better you might think it was another apocalypse, “do not let him near pie while he's in my body!”

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters  @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23

[seenashwrite]

Hunters Roasting On An Open Fire

Status: Complete Word Count: 1.1K Category: One-shot, Holidays, Christmas, Behind-the-scenes canon-compliant, Humor, On-the-hunt Characters: Dean, Sam, special holiday guest star Warnings: None Author’s Note: Pseudo-entry for @atc74 ‘s Cards Against Christmas with the song title prompt "__ Roasting On An Open Fire", and yes, we're aware the actual title is "The Christmas Song" but I wanted to light things up, so here we are; “pseudo” because I went over word count allowed and I edited like a sweaty bitch, I swear; but hey, you got some, ah, charming gifs, too.😈  Overall Summary: They come at night... by the dozen.

Dean and Sam edged toward the door of the old, stately home. The crunches called out from under the hunters' boots with every step, sharp like screams. It felt as loud to their ears as the crack of the shotgun had been moments earlier.

"Creepy little suckers," Dean muttered.

Sam eyed a misshapen snowman just off the porch, and he shivered in the frosty, sleet-packed gusts, though it wasn't for long - as the door opened on its own with an ominous creak, the furnace-like air in the house practically slapped them in the face. 

The brothers shared a look, then continued on.

As they crossed the worn welcome mat, the door slammed itself shut, the heavy bolt lock clicking into place, causing both men to whip around, Sam's blade at the ready, Dean giving the shotgun a preemptive pump.

The house moaned a greeting. The enormous fireplace roared, popped off sparks for good measure. Giggles ricocheted off the walls. And then, the whispered singing began.

Run, run, fast as you can...

"Where is that coming from?" asked Sam.

Dean pointed with the barrel of the shotgun to the entirety of their surroundings, implying everywhere; the uptick of skittering - in the walls, across the ceiling, up the stairs, and under the furniture - confirmed it.

"Guess the ones outside had a lot of friends," Sam noted.

"What, a baker's dozen?" Dean asked with a crooked grin; Sam's raised eyebrow ushered it away.

Down the darkened hall, a tiny house rested near the wall, perfect from graham eaves to gumdrop trim, barely illuminated by the moonlight pushing through a snow-caked window. Dean didn't hesitate to fire into it, shells filled with a rock salt-rock candy combo, turning the structure to chunky bits. Sam tossed a vial of blessed pine oil, followed by a lighter, onto the pile. 

No sooner had it gone ablaze, five of the creatures came out shrieking, running, lighting up the shadows. Dean nailed three in one shot. Sam's blade, coated in a poinsettia tincture, pinned another to the wall. And the mostly-scorched fifth scrambled away.

The next part happened quickly. Blade retrieved, Sam was right behind Dean when he burst into the huge dining room. A glow, not unlike that coming from the candles atop the table, flickered from an unlit corner. The song had turned chant.

RUN! RUN! FAST AS YOU CAN!

And there it was, the escapee, coming right at them, head flaming, raisin eyes melting, determined expression in check, but it went to shock in a hot second.

Blast hit target. Crumbs flew. The night went silent, and the brothers took the moment to note what was on the table. Laid neatly were innumerable tiny carving knives, and in the center a giant silver platter, all glinting in the candlelight.

"So they're cannibals?" Dean asked.

"Technically not cannibals, or they'd be eating each other---"

"Fine. They're frikkin' carnivore gingerbread men!"

A crash from the next room, another shared look, and through the open pocket door they went. In the kitchen, gingerbread men spilled from the flaming oven, all of them crispy, blackening in the fire, perhaps in some sort of solidarity with their fallen brethren, and they quickly met the same fate, those not succumbing to the burn meeting their end by shot and stab. The last, a quite bold one, sharpened candy cane shiv in hand, leapt into the air right at Sam when his back was turned, and Dean had none of it, pulverizing the creature mid-flight.

They did the same to the houses, some mansion-sized, that lined every counter, every surface, until there was no sign of more, no skitters, no giggles, no songs. But now, rooms checked, back in the den, ready to leave, they hesitated. Breaths of iced crystals floated from their lips, stifling heat be damned. The cavernous fireplace seemed to widen its maw, enough to where they saw the broiled skeletons with their picked-clean bones.

"The owners?" Sam whispered, and Dean answered with a nod.

An old woman in an apron sticky with dough and sprinkles appeared, more of her cookie army sneaking through vents, crawling out of drawers, slinking from under cushions, herding their enemies to the fire, ready to roast their meal. 

The ghost witch cackled, her transparent form glitching, then turning solid. "Fools!" she cried. "You think you've beaten me! My plan has worked for centuries, luring hunters to a remote home each year when the solstice is---"

Sam's blade sailed right into her forehead, a touch of a cranberry scent wafting from the wound, and the wee men fell to sugared dust.

"Man, I hate exposition," Dean commented, then added, "Heh. I guess that's how the cookie crumbles."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Quick work was made of the house, a little Latin said as they watched the flames grow tall, and they left, satisfied. Back at their motel, the typical post-hunt celebratory beers were eschewed, instead falling into bed for their much-earned long winter's nap. But at precisely midnight, when it was officially Christmas Eve, tinkling bells and a familiar melody filled the air. 

They each turned in their respective beds, facing one another, frowning. Sam slammed his hand atop the clock radio on the bedside table a few times. The carol stopped. Shrugs were exchanged. Eyes were closed. Blankets were pulled tighter. Pillows were hugged. The hum of the heater was the only sound.

Until.

....nipping at your nose, Yuletide carols being sung by a choir....

"Nope," Dean announced, sitting up and turning, banging a fist against the wall. "Pipe down!" he yelled.

"Dean, nobody's in the next room - we're on the end," Sam reminded him.

Dean began to get out of bed to bang on the opposite wall, but stopped - it was quiet once again. But this time when he laid down, he stayed on his back, didn't burrow, didn't get comfortable. He was prepped to pounce, merely resting his eyes.

It was the smell of smoke and drips of frosting glopping onto their faces that caused them to stir, the return of the chant which woke them all the way.

Run, run, fast as you can...

Dean and Sam gasped in sync at the sight of the human-sized gingerbread on the ceiling, flames surrounding it, glaring down at them, baring its glittering teeth as it hissed.

...you can't catch me - I'm the gingerbread man!

Scrambling for their weapons, Dean suddenly just knew, and he shouted, "Nice touch, you sonnuvabitch!"

As the shots and groans and punches rang out, the horned, cloaked figure leaning against the Impala finished off his cookie. "Hot damn, I love these guys," Krampus said to himself with a laugh; and then, louder:

"See you next year!"

A/N #2 - The top gif’s an edit coupled with a bit from the same movie the bottom one is from, which is “Krampus”. Watch it, it’s a hoot.

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

🏷️🏷️Wanna be tagged? Hit me up! 🏷️🏷️

 @butiaintgonnaloveem   @impandagrl    @waywardjoy  @jalove-wecallhimdean  @jame-sbarnes  @just-another-busy-fangirl  @amanda-teaches  @fanforfanatic  @salt-n-burn-em-all  @idreamofhazel  @cyrilconnelly  @rozadolphin  @theblackharrystyles   @carryonmycobaltangel  @ilsawasanacrobat  @klaineaholic  @helvonasche   @ericaprice2008  @amionthetumbler  @tankcupcakes  @littlegreenplasticsoldier  @emlostinwonderland  @michellethetvaddict  @theoriginalvicki  @ellen-reincarnated1967  @copperseraphim  @mrswhozeewhatsis  @crowleylovesyou  @bumbleball13  @anticipate1003  @sixtysevenandwhiskey @raspberrymama  @lastactiontricia  @babypieandwhiskey  @winchesterprincessbride   @gripmetight-raisemefromperdition   @roseblue373   @waterfeenix137  @thisismysecrethappyplace    @fandomismyspirit    @thedevilinthedetails      

[theliterateape]

I Like to Watch | Worth (Netflix)

by Don Hall

Making a Movie About a Tragic Event

WTF? The attacks on NYC that resulted in the World Trade Center collapsing and spawning the longest American war in history was twenty years ago?

I mean, how could it have slipped my mind? Zero Dark Thirty (2012), United 93 (2006), 12 Strong (2018), The Hurt Locker (2008), Patriots Day (2016), The Report (2019), Act of Valor (2012), WTC View (2005), Ladder 49 (2004), World Trade Center (2006), and, of course, 9/11 (2017).

I'll confess. I've never shed a single tear over the attacks on September 11, 2001. 

I didn't feel any overt remorse during the televised coverage although I was shocked (but, c'mon, not thatshocked—The United States has been mucking around in every country on the planet for the duration of my lifetime so it was bound to happen sooner or later). I'm not a patriot in the same way as most. I love my country and I wept during the January 6th insurrection but the deaths at the hands of Saudi Arabian terrorists back when I was 35 years old appeared too abstract to have any emotional context.

It was like watching a scene from a movie rather than a legit tragedy.

With the ensuing preemptive invasion by the US on countries having nothing to do with those planes and the deluge of films focusing on the rescues of the day, the military consequences, and some ham-fisted attempts at providing some emotional toll, I never truly saw the deaths in those buildings as anything but disassociated from the concrete reality.

More like the attack on Pearl Harbor in my perspective, it was a thing that happened that caused more things to happen and, as I was powerless to do anything about it, became an immutable but sterile fact of history.

Those Left Behind

I saw the screenshot on my Netflix. Michael Keaton? I love Michael Keaton. I looked into it and it also featured Amy Ryan and Stanley Tucci. I had never heard of the director. It was, however, another movie about 9/11 and I put it in My List and promptly moved on.

My mom and I like recommending things to watch when bwe get on our weekly Facetime call and this past weekend, she recommended Worth. I sat down, cracked a beer, and settled in.

The story follows an impossible task taken on by a lawyer, Ken Feinberg (Keaton with a New York accent), who must find a way to allocate a compensation fund to the loved ones of the victims of 9/11. 

Feinberg is the kind of lawyer who deals in the number-crunching of tragedy. The opening scene has Keaton doing an exercise with a room full of law students asking the question "How Much is a Life Worth?" He explains that, according to the law, there is a specific dollar amount calculated with income, insurance, and the bloodless act of tabulating the answer for each of us.

In approaching such a harsh question, director Sara Colangelo and writer Max Borenstein find themselves in the same predicament as Feinberg; trying to balance the need for humanity with the practicalities and legalities of the situation. 

They decide to focus on Feinberg, cold and calculating as a matter of profession. He is built to see the legal necessity of compartmentalizing the horror into monetary terms. It is his job but not one assigned to him. The real Feinberg lobbied for this gig, an assignment no one wanted, because he wanted to help in a tragic circumstance and this task was what he was skilled to do.

He sees the people who died that day as abstract and he approaches the grieving families as someone simply trying to give them cash to supplement their loss. "It's tax free." he tells them.

Worth deals with grief through Feinberg's lens. It also allows us into the perspective of his staff (headed by the always remarkable Amy Ryan) as they actually listen to those left behind. Colangelo allows ample room for a string of one-scene characters to tell their stories of the last calls and last memories. They share their darkest moments rather than feeling far removed, each one modeled on a real-life grieving family member.

As Feinberg feels the squeeze from the wealthiest families of the 9/11 dead—of course they want more money than the cooks and junior staffers who died—his sense of decency is challenged. These are no longer abstract numbers but people leaving behind awkward and often devastating circumstances following their demise.

The gay partner of a man, whom the law refuses to recognize as his significant other, being blocked from recognition by the parents who insist their son had plenty of girlfriends.

The widow of the firefighter with three children coming to grips with his other family and struggling with how to share the payout once it comes.

As the stories pile up, Feinberg is forced to lose his insistence that any number is sufficient and instead interview everyone, listening to their stories and sharing their grief. Turns out that was what most needed in the first place—to be seen, to be heard, to be understood.

Watching Keaton's character lose the stiff veneer and immerse himself into these stories had the same effect on me. I suddenly found myself weeping—hard—every few minutes. 

Worth hit me hard. I felt a kinship with Feinberg in that I tend to see the victims of 9/11 in more antiseptic terms and this one simple film brought home a harsh reality: it's about those left behind. It's about those left to pick up the pieces when a tsunami or wildfire snuffs short a life. It's those still sitting in the rubble, confused and angry, following a protest gone violent. It's about those who didn't see it coming and are left holding the fragments of lives lost to tragedy.

[delkios]

Best Served Cold (DC TV)

Title: Best Served Cold Fandom: DC TV Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 4483 Characters: Mark, Clyde, Lisa, Len, a couple cameos Summary: The ice cream factory is pretty chill work. At least until the Mardon brothers realize their boss is keeping a secret... Working at an ice cream factory was hardly glamorous but it paid rent and, right now, that's what Mark and Clyde desperately needed. It wasn't technically a factory, the place used to be a bakery back in the day but now all the counters and stoves had been cleared out so they could do mixing and packaging with some flimsy partitions put up to designate an office. Best Served Cold was a local, small business, run and owned by the equally chilly Leonard Snart with his sister Lisa handling the orders- and employees -so he could focus on the logistics. It didn't have a store front. All its business was in distribution to local ice cream parlors, grocery and corner stores and a handful of restaurants. Mark didn't really know how any of that stuff worked, he and Clyde just kept the machines churning out ice cream by the quart or gallon depending on the orders Lisa gave them. It was kind of boring, honestly- tedious and monotonous as they switched out ingredients and punched in different quantities and scoured the equipment multiple times a day. But it was still better than almost every other job Mark ever had- less backbreaking even with loading up the delivery truck. It was also one of the only places not to immediately dismiss the brothers for the felony check mark on their applications. At least the Snart siblings were interesting. Lisa was the more sociable of the two, simultaneously bright and sharp, reminding Mark of a knife. The decorative kind secretly honed to a razor edge. Len was charming in his own way- talkative while keeping everyone at a measured distance, always thinking of ten different things at once. Most of the time Mark saw him, Len was on the phone talking to someone about something- it wasn't his business so Mark never paid much attention. Even with the thin partitions, Len never raised his voice even when he snapped at someone, just got quiet and intense. Mark wondered if the people on the other end of the phone realized how lucky they were not having to go through that in person. Not three days after they started working, a couple men in suits carrying a briefcase came to talk to Len. Whatever they told him evidently pissed Len off and, though his words were too quiet to hear, Mark could tell from the sneer on his face and rigid set of his shoulders that Len was verbally savaging them. Mark made a mental note to not get on Len's bad side after that. Which wasn't all that difficult to do. The Snarts were sticklers for quality but Mark and Clyde figured out which parts of the job they suited best and, after a week, were working like a well oiled machine. Even Lisa admitted to being impressed. Then, about a month being on the job, getting back to their crappy apartment that was listing to one side and settling onto the couch that listed the other way, Clyde said, "I think Snart's secretly a mob boss."

Mark paused in the middle of popping off the cap of his beer bottle. "What?" "I'm serious! I know you get that shady vibe off him!" "Because he's got a record." Sure, it was only juvie, but he'd been caught with a pocket full of diamonds inside a jewelry store. He'd been forced to take the fall for his dad, Len had explained, because that wasn’t the kind of information he wanted the Mardons coming across just any which way. When he'd gotten out, his grandfather had basically taken Len in. Len helped his grandfather selling ice cream out of a truck and, when he died, his grandfather had a secret bank account for Len to inherit when he was old enough. Len decided to use that money in his grandfather's honor, learning to make ice cream and opened a small but successful business. Mark was secretly certain that Len had to have dipped into a little thievery before then, however. There was no way a guy working out of an ice cream truck had enough savings for a start-up. “Think about it!” Clyde said, obviously excited about this revelation. “Who would think an ice cream place would be used for money laundering?” Mark shook his head. “Whatever, man.” Clyde had always been easily swayed, it made him an easy target for peer pressure and drugs if Mark wasn’t around. Once, at some college frat party he crashed, Clyde had gotten hopped up on something, declared himself a god before jumping off a balcony. It was only through blind luck that he got away with just breaking a leg in the shallow end of a pool rather than his whole body on cement. “I’m serious! This isn’t some conspiracy theory!” Clyde put his knees on the couch so he could lean into Mark’s space. “You’ve seen those suits with the briefcase.” “Yeah, so?” “They show up every Monday and Friday! Don’t you think that’s weird?” ...Okay, sort of. Especially given the fact that Len clearly didn’t like them and Mark hadn’t actually noticed that. “Also he’s constantly out or on the phone even though this is supposed to be his only business.” “He’s doing sales work and talking to advertisers.” That much Mark could say with certainty given the amount of times he accidentally eavesdropped on those conversations. Which, “If he’s a secret mob boss, wouldn’t Snart have put in walls people can’t hear through?” “He’s probably speaking in code or has it for the times he needs to establish an alibi, I don’t know how mob bosses think!” “You seem to be doing an awful lot of leaps of logic on his behalf.” Clyde rolled his eyes. “What about the delivery guy?” “Roy? What about him?” “He wears sunglasses all the damn time. Even when we’re loading up the truck.” Mark had noticed that but assumed it as a random quirk. It was harmless so it wasn’t his business. “So?” “And he’s always wearing black turtlenecks. When have you ever seen a delivery guy wear nothing but black turtlenecks? And they’ve got stains!” Mark had also noticed that but thought nothing of it. Now that it was brought up, he realized he’d never been able to identify what those stains were on account of the turtlenecks being black. “Plus his name.” That derailed his thoughts. “What about his name?” Clyde gave him a look. “C’mon. Roy G. Bivolo can’t possibly be his actual name.” “Maybe his parents are assholes. Not like we haven’t known people with shitty names before. Remember Eddy Nigma?” Clyde clicked his tongue the way he did when he thought Mark was treating him like a little kid. “Okay, what about that one guy that shows up sometimes? Big, bald, all the gnarly scars?” Oh yeah, Mark knew the guy. Not much taller than Len or Mark but with shoulders like a truck, scowling more often than not. He looked like a quintessential Hollywood thug or mob muscle. And Mark was pretty sure he heard the man call Len ‘boss’ a couple times. “We don’t actually know who he is,” Mark defended weakly. “Because we’d be dead if they knew we figured it out.” Clyde nodded as if he’d solved a mystery. “So we gotta pretend we don’t know Len’s secret.” Mark shook his head and finally opened his beer. “You’re fucking high.” --- The next day the guys in suits were back only this time they didn't go to the front of the building but went around the back where Mark and Clyde were taking a break after loading up Roy’s truck. Something about them made Mark’s neck itch, like he really needed to wash his hands before the men’s presence permanently stained them. “Snart’s out,” he said preemptively, wanting them away from him and his brother. “We're aware,” said one, visibly older than his compatriot. “Our business is not with Mr. Snart today.” “We're hoping to have a moment of your time, gentlemen.” Said the other. Beside him, Clyde tensed. “For what?” Mark asked. “It's hardly anything salacious or untoward.” The older man said like he was sharing an inside joke. “We're hoping you could answer a simple question for us. One your employer has been reluctant to answer.” “You'll be paid for your time.” The other added, hoisting up his briefcase and cracking it open. Just enough so the brothers could see it was layered in bundles of bills. Mark sucked in a breath- he'd never seen that much money, even in the robbery he’d been arrested for. “You will remain completely anonymous as well.” He saw Clyde open his mouth out of the corner of his eye but Mark beat him to the punch. “What's so important you're willing to go behind Snart’s back?” The older man’s smile grew, voice full of private laughter. “Why, just the secret to his empire.” Clyde’s mouth clicked shut. “Feel free to consider your options. We'll be back later this week to try to reach an agreement with Mr. Snart again. If you agree, you will be doing us a great service.” The men gave them abrupt, tight smiles. “Have a good day.” Baffled at the sudden retreat, Mark almost didn't hear the purposeful clicking of Lisa’s heels. They turned at her approach and Mark was momentarily thrown by the dark look on her face. She came to a halt next to the brothers, still glaring at the shrinking backs of the suited men. “What did they want?” She all but demanded. “Some kind of secret.” Lisa snorted. “Like either of you would know.” The line of her shoulders eased but she still looked tense. “If you two want to stick around,” she said, “next time they approach you, tell them to go fuck themselves.” Lisa led them back into the warehouse and as the brothers went back to work, Clyde asked quietly, “That was weird, right? It's not just me?” “That was weird,“ Mark agreed. “Weird enough it would make sense that he’s a secret mob boss?” Mark glared. “Just get to work.” Of course now that the thought was at the forefront of his head, Mark couldn’t help seeing possible evidence. Nothing damning, at least not at first though Mark had noticed, a couple times while Len was on the phone, Len switching topics once he noticed someone was around. And, on the following payday- the day they were receiving payments from clients -Mark accidentally spotted Len and Roy in an out of the way corner and Roy had passed over several thick envelops. They could have very well been something other than cash but, given the shape, Mark was hard pressed to think of something else. Then the guy with the scars showed up again. Mark was on break at the time, hanging around outside for a smoke. That was the only reason he was able to witness it. The man didn’t even manage to make it to the door before Len was storming out, expression dark enough that Mark nearly swallowed his cigarette. Instinctively he ducked around the corner to avoid being seen. But was still close enough to hear. “What the hell are you doing here?” Len snapped. “Hi, Boss.” The man drawled, clearly not intimidated. Mark’s brain kind of stalled on ‘boss’. “Shipment arrived.” “And you decided you couldn’t tell me that over the phone?” “Had to pick up other shit for the job, since I was passing by I thought I’d stop by instead of wasting time calling you up.” He scowled. “Didn’t think I’d need your permission for that.” “Have you considered I don’t want certain people seeing you here, making connections I don’t want them to make?” “I can keep a fucking secret, Snart. No one’s going to find out and no one’s gonna be able to trace anything to me.” Len’s mouth twisted like he was debating if he was mollified by this or not and if he should admit it if he was. Instead he went to the van the man had driven in, nondescript asides from being old and dented. Len opened the doors in the back. There were no windows in the rear for Mark to peek in. “This it?” “That’s the last of it.” “22K?” The man snorted. “Like I’d get less.” Len stood there, staring at whatever it was before stepping back. He tucked something small into his jacket- an interior pocket, Mark assumed. He closed the door before turning to the man. “No one hears about this.” “Yeah, Boss, I got it.” They parted ways and Mark realized he was well overdue to return from break, getting an earful from Lisa when he finally made it back. Clyde pestered him on why he was so distracted for the rest of the shift but it wasn’t until they were driving back home that Mark told him. Clyde beamed like he won the lottery. “I knew it!” A couple days later, Mark was still so distracted by all this that he dropped part of a mixer on his foot. It wasn’t bad given his steel-toed boots, but it hit his ankle at an angle, making the joint buckle. Clyde helped him to a chair and Mark told the Snarts he didn’t need a hospital. Len took one look at the ankle, eased out of the boot, and told Lisa to call someone called ‘Boo’. ‘Boo’ turned out to be a young woman, probably not much older than Clyde, who examined the ankle cheerfully but clinically, declaring it nothing more than a sprain and wrapped it expertly. Mark wouldn’t have thought it anything special, that maybe she was from a local clinic, except when she went to talk to Len, he handed her a money envelope and a loaded-up brown paper bag. “For your trouble,” he added with a smirk. Boo peeked inside and grinned wickedly. “Always my favorite customer,” she said before leaving. It was mostly small, subtle moments like that but as those moments mounted, Mark had to admit the evidence was starting to become all the more likely. Especially when Clyde got back with information from Trixie. Technically, as part of their parole, the Mardons weren’t supposed to interact with her anymore, but given all her police records stubbornly kept the wrong name and gender on them, they decided the police obviously meant a completely different person. “Get this,” Clyde said, holding up a xerox from an aged newspaper article. It was about a cop being killed by a mob hit, dated almost twenty years ago. “The Snarts’ dad was killed by the Santinis!” “Sucks, but so?” Mark eyed the article- he hadn’t known their dad was a cop. “So, don’t you know the saying? Revenge is a dish best served cold?” Clyde threw his hands in the air. “C’mon, you’re the book nerd, you should know this!” “First, that’s from Star Trek. Second, what? You think Len became a secret mob boss to avenge his dad? Wouldn’t that be a little on the nose?” “Are you saying that wouldn’t make sense?” Mark sighed, pushing the copy from his face. “I’m still not convinced he is a secret mob boss.” Clyde gave him a dark look, obviously disappointed in his brother. “What more do you need?” “Actual proof,” he shot back before pointedly ignoring Clyde. So of course the next day it happened: The Conversation. It was the first time Mark had ever heard Len raise his voice and the question was enough to grab the brothers’s undivided attention. “What do you mean the body won’t fit!” They exchanged looks before quietly making their way toward the office to eavesdrop. “Mick, need I remind you how important this is? This will ruin everything if you don’t- well if you did your job properly, I wouldn’t be telling you how to do it!” On the other side of the wall, Len made a frustrated noise. “I don’t care how you do it- lop off a foot or take the whole damn thing apart, but you better unfuck this mess, Mick. In this situation, I’d argue you should be owing me. I’d rather not call in my solid with Assassin on a distraction run.” There was a long pause and when Len spoke again, his voice wasn’t as hard or demanding. “Mick, I wouldn’t have given you this job if I didn’t think you could handle it. Fine.” Another pause. “Yes, payment is still on the table. Of course it’ll be worth your while. When have I ever left you unsatisfied? Provided, of course, that we pull this off. I’ll swing by tonight to take stock of the situation. Five hours, Mick. Don’t disappoint me.” They scuttled back to their workstations. They filled orders, Lisa left, then Len closed shop for the day, telling the Mardons to leave while he locked up and went his own way. Clyde showed remarkable restraint waiting until Len’s motorcycle disappeared from view before he damn near throttled Mark. “Holy shit!” Contrary to his brother’s excitement, Mark was wondering how likely they were to die if he started looking for another job for the two of them. --- A week passed. As they went into work, Lisa called to them from the office and waved them over. Clyde was still a little fuzzy with sleep but Mark took one look at Len, poised at his desk, and tensed. Lisa shut the door and stood next to it and Mark realized he had no idea if she was part of this or not. “Mark. Clyde.” Len said with a deliberate congeniality. “There isn’t some kind of trouble, is there?” “No, sir.” Mark hoped he hadn’t sounded as meek as he felt saying that. “Then the reason why your productivity and attention to detail has gone down,” he drawled, “is because you just stopped caring?” Something in Len’s tone of voice seemed to filter through Clyde’s head and he sat up properly. Mark’s blood went cold. “No- nothing like that!” “Then…” Len drew out the word, an obvious invite for one of the two to elaborate. Neither did, exchanging uncomfortable glances instead. Len scowled, hands dropping from the desk and out of view. Mark flinched instinctively. “Not even going to attempt to justify yourselves?” Mark bit his lip, looking away from Len. Behind him, he could hear Lisa’s foot tapping irritably. Clyde blurted out, “We figured out you’re a mob boss!” “Clyde!” “What? If he’s gonna kill us anyway, I don’t want him torturing the information out of us!” The footing tapping abruptly cut off as Lisa burst into hysterical laughter. Len just sat there, staring at the Mardons blankly. “How, exactly,” he said slowly, “did you come to that conclusion?” Clyde seemed to suddenly re-think his strategy in blurting out the truth. “If we tell you, will you still kill us?” “I wasn’t planning on killing you to begin with, just fire you.” “Like… permanently fire us?” “In the sense that I wasn’t going to hire either of you again, yes. Lisa, would you stop laughing?” “This… is… hilarious!” She gasped out, stumbling to lean against the desk. Lisa burst out into fresh laughter at the brothers’ terrified and wary expression. “Holy crap, you actually believe that! This is the best thing I’ve heard in years!” Len rolled his eyes and deigned to ignore his sister. “Again, why do you think I’m a mob boss?” Mark and Clyde exchanged glances, waving their hands vaguely. “The guys with the suits and briefcase full of money.” Mark eventually said, “They wanted us to spill the ‘secret to your empire’.” Len scowled. “They’re lawyers. An especially shady kind, but that’s all. A few months before I hired you two, I found out one of my clients was modifying my ice cream and re-labeling it as his own. So I sued him and banned him from purchasing my brand ever again.” The scowl smoothed out into a disgusted sneer. “Shortly after, Scudder started sending his lawyers to me, trying to get me to sell my recipe. They tried bribing Lisa, Roy, and you two into stealing the recipe for them.” Clyde leaned over towards, whispering despite the fact both Snarts were close enough to hear regardless, “Do we believe that?” “I guess?” Mark shrugged. “I can’t think of a reason not to.” “Hey- what about Roy?” Clyde asked, sitting upright again. “What about him?” Len replied, an eyebrow raised. “What’s his deal? With the sunglasses and turtlenecks and all?” “He’s colorblind, those are color corrective lenses.” “And he’s an aspiring starving artist,” Lisa added with a smirk. “His whole look is intentional, he just works for us because he doesn’t actually want to experience the ‘starving’ part.” “And his name?” “Roy G. Bivolo is his actual, legal name,” Len said dryly. "I checked when I hired him." “And the lady you called when I hurt my foot,” Mark started, only to be quickly cut off. “Shawna- med student. I called her to see if the damage was actually serious because, one- hospital bills are ridiculous, and two- I’m not risking OSHA getting on my ass by making you work on a broken foot. Paying her in cash means it’s not taxable income for her.” “And the bag?” Lisa laughed brightly. “Ice cream. She’ll be hitting exams soon, she’ll need the morale boost.” Mark was starting to feel foolish. “And the guy with the scars?” “My husband,” Len said flatly, realizing how ridiculous this entire thing had gotten. “Mick Rory.” He lifted his hand and waggled his pinky finger, the only one that had a ring on it. “He wears that ring because Mick got it for him for Lenny’s first birthday they spent together and they’re both secretly massive saps,” Lisa supplied. Expression stoney, Len pushed her from the desk. Lisa just grinned and leaned up against the wall. “But… he calls you ‘Boss’!” “They met in juvie,” Lisa very pointedly ignored the glare Len sent her, “and Len was just as bossy back then as he is now. Good thing Mick seems to like that sort of thing.” She ignored the pencil Len threw in her direction. “And the thing in the van?” Mark snapped his fingers. “He was the one you were talking to on the phone! About the body!” Lisa’s eyebrows jump and Len glared. “You’re lucky we aren’t having this conversation eight days earlier,” he very nearly growled. “They were Lisa’s birthday presents, gold jewelry-” “I love gold,” she said with a dreamy sigh, “I’m very particular about it.” “She won’t accept less than 22 karats. And a motorcycle Mick built from scratch. He works at a custom autoshop- not a chop shop,” Len cut in when Clyde opened his mouth. “It’s owned by a disabled veteran,” Lisa added, “who just had a kid- that’s the last place anyone will be doing anything illegal.” Digesting the information, Mark said slowly, “So the body was… for the bike?” “The place he ordered it from got the specs wrong. Poor Mickey was pulling all-nighters for days getting it to fit.” “So the payment I overheard you talking about?” Mark asked, turning to Len who scowled. “I told him we would do whatever he wanted for a second honeymoon. He picked Aruba.” He made a face, like a Caribbean beach vacation was somehow a chore. “Is that why you’ve been getting so much of your payments in cash?” “Of course! I’m not using a credit card in another country, the fees are ridiculous!” “What about the assassin?” Clyde asked, narrow-eyed. “You mean Assassin Out Crashin’?” Len raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever heard of roller derby? Lisa’s on a team.” “I’m Golden Glider,” she said with pride. “Assassin is a friend of mine, Sara Lance. Shawna’s also on it.” “She’s Peek-a-Boo.” Lisa started ticking off names on her finger. “There’s also Wild Wild West, Quick And The Dead, Big Top, Mixin’ With Vixen, Light ‘Em Up, Hawk And Awe, Stay Frosty-” “Sara’s Lisa’s drinking buddy, I would’ve asked her to play distraction if Mick needed more time.” The Mardons fell quiet and, after a moment, Len asked, “Anything you need me to clear up?” “You named the place Best Served Cold,” Clyde said weakly. “Like the thing with revenge.” Lisa gave him a flat look. “Did you not read any of the flavors? Pony Espresso, I Don’t Caramel, Berry The Hatchet- I’m pretty Len would suffer an aneurysm if he passed up a pun.” “What can I say,” he shrugged, “I can't always be pun-predictable.” He smirked as everyone else groaned. “So it really had nothing to do with the Santinis and your dad, huh?” Len and Lisa froze and glared. They may not be secret mob, but they were still frightening in their own way. Mark felt for Clyde, getting the brunt of it. “Our father,” Len said slowly, “was a piece of shit who deserved what he got.” “I… read he was a cop,” Clyde said haltingly, in a tiny voice. “Didn’t I say he was the reason I went to juvie?” Len’s voice was cold. “He made me take the fall for his job. He was as corrupt as they came. The reason the Santinis killed him is because he was dumb enough to try to blackmail them for more money.” “Right. Sorry. Never mentioning it again.” “Good.” Len’s glare lessened, but his expression was still stern. “Any other lingering issues? Or can we all get back to work?” Mark and Clyde nodded like bobble-heads. “Please!” Len waved a hand dismissively and Lisa laughed as the brothers all but ran out. Getting to the machines, Mark said, “Clyde?” “Yeah?” “Next time you have a conspiracy theory, shut the fuck up.”

[ecotone99]

[RF] - HOT LOUD BLACK NIGHT

HOT LOUD BLACK NIGHT

It was around 2:30 AM when a black limo pulled up to the curb and deposited Jerry Mallard in front of his eponymous nightclub. The first thing that he thought as he flew (rather unceremoniously) out of the moving vehicle must have been something along the lines of “no, no please no. Oh god, etc.” Of course, one can never really know with these things. As a sort of general fact: being tossed face first onto a hard concrete slab is not very pleasant.

In Jerry’s context however, it must have been one hell of a cherry on top of one hell of a terrible night. The impact did not knock him out, as he must have expected/prayed for. Instead he landed on the ground with a fumbling thud, a small crack of his forehead hitting the pavement, and a little man-whimper that might have garnered some sympathy if someone was around to hear it. As the limo sped down out of the parking lot, down the street and up on to the highway, Jerry flipped himself over on to his back and faced a clear and starless sky. One can imagine that he tried to pray.

As you might have guessed, 2:30 AM was also last call. And as Jerry lay there, people began filing out of the club. It was the Sunday crowd: Jittery, spark-lit grunge scum, all bumming off each other and waiting for someone (anyone) to come up with what to do next. They were crowded in little flannel circles, angling their smoke and spit towards Jerry’s aluminum-fronted nightclub. They visibly laughed and spread their arms wide. Their conversations, however, would have been hard to hear over the cicadas that had just hatched and begun to breed.

Still on his back, Jerry would have watched this entire scene upside down. These kids would be anchored to the sky. His club, with its unbelievable frontface reflecting dirty neon signage off of every lateral surface, must have appeared like an alien spaceship descending (at last) to summon Jerry towards some higher and not-so-human destiny. Perhaps he would be the Hero of some story, one that might have been entertaining, but that would, of course, not have been true. It certainly would not be this story. This story has no heroes. That’s probably what makes it true.

By the time Jerry pulled himself off of the concrete and dusted off his bloodied suit jacket, these folks had mostly hobbled to their cars and swerved off towards the highway. Jerry experienced, for the first time that night, a moment of true quiet. He stood there for a moment, leaning more on his left leg than on his right, and closed his eyes. He probably did not feel any sense of relief. He was certainly in no position to feel it. But he might have felt something like peace. As per the theme of the night, however, this proved to be short-lasting. He opened his eyes to a small, round man in a white sweat-through button down, wagging one of his many ringed fingers at Jerry. Jerry spoke first.

“Hi Lloyd.”

“Hey, hi, howdy. We having a good night?” Lloyd slapped his huge hands together.

“Listen Lloyd-”

“Jesus Christ, why not just up and fuck off for a night, right? Right? It’s not like I need your, uh, I don’t know, your help around here or anything. You know how many kids I had to pull out of the stall-”

“You gotta stop letting ‘em do that stuff in there Lloyd.”

“Christ what am I telling you? What am I telling you Jerry? That’s what I’m trying to do, but they like our bathrooms Jerry. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you these past couple-a weeks. They’re not coming for the fucking music Jerry. You haven’t been listening to me. They’re going out of their minds in there. They’re going out of their goddamn minds in there. You shoulda seen this one kid. He was all blue, coldest guy I ever touched since the Gulf, you know? Friends carried him out of the place, said they were gonna take him to the hospital but god really knows with these things. And…what the hell happened to you?”

Jerry walked past him and up the path to the building. Lloyd stared at him for a few shocked seconds and rushed up to follow.

“Was it-” Lloyd whispered in his ear.

Jerry opened the door and walked into the bar, while Lloyd stood at the entrance, his hands over his mouth in an absolute, totalizing kind of terror. The rumors were true. A carnival wheel of expressions passed over Lloyd’s face then, coming to stop somewhere between anger and panic. His skin turned red and he somehow began to sweat even more than he had been (and he was a notorious sprinkler.) He brought a hand to his bulging forehead with a groan. He probably had a headache, what for the heat and the insectoid racket. Like almost all of the pain he had ever experienced, he would treat it with drink. In this regard, it must have been nice to manage a bar. He followed Jerry inside.

Jerry’s custodial staff essentially consisted of a mother and a daughter, aged 51 and 29 respectively, neither of whom really liked Jerry and who thought he was a drunk schlockmeister who benefited from the failings of others. They were, of course, not wrong. When Jerry entered the “ballroom”, the mother had just finished calling Shelly (the bartender/assistant manager) every Polish synonym for “asshole” that there is. It should not come as a surprise that the mother, upon opening the bathroom stall to three bloody syringes on the TP dispenser, a pool of vomit sprinkled with dutch guts, and an unconscious scumkid embracing (Madonna-like) the toilet he had broken his bloody nose on, that she would begin to reevaluate the future of her employment at Mallard’s. Her daughter stood at her side, meekly looking down at her shoes, lifting them on and off the sticky beer-soaked floor. When Jerry clattered through the front door, kicking a few light wooden chairs out of his way, the mother finally let off of Shelly and turned her attention to her employer, who embraced the woman in a warm hug.

This was met (for what must have been the seventh or eighth time that night) with a swift and impassioned strike to Jerry’s groin. He fell to his knees with a groan as the mother grabbed her daughter’s hand and marched her out of the club. Shelly hopped over the bar to help him up.

“Looking good. Jer.” she said.

He emitted another pathetic groan, while she helped him over to a stool and leaned him up against the bar. After locking the front door behind him, and casting a manic paranoid look out the front window, Lloyd crossed over to them, waving his hands in the air.

“These goddamn bugs…Shelly-” He began.

She waved a towel at him.

“Absolutely not. You’re falling over for goddsakes.”

Lloyd put one hand on Jerry’s back, covering up a bloodstain.

“Shelly might I remind you that I’m your, uh, your boss.”

“Lloyd might I remind you of what I believe to be your lack of fucking foresight on the matter, seeing as I’m gonna have to be the one who picks you up off the fucking floor and drives you home once you’re done. You miserable bastard.”

“Jeez Shelly tell him how you really feel.” Jerry said before laughing extremely.

He doubled over in laughter, sweat dripping off his scalp and wetting the dry blood on his forehead. By the looks of it, he was still bleeding. Shelly and Lloyd watched their boss’s spasms, his neck snapping back and forth, laughter spewing like a missed vein. Jerry did not laugh often, and given the circumstances this was probably rather shocking to Shelly and Lloyd. Jerry let his head fall on to the table with a clunk, before lifting it up and aiming it towards no one in particular.

“They’re gonna kill me. Oh God. They’re going to kill me.” His head fell on to the bar again and stayed there. Over the dim sound of exit music, one would have heard him sob. Between these sobs he would manage to mutter some variation on what he had already said, sometimes a prayer to a God who clearly did not care very much, and he went on like this for several minutes while Shelly poured Lloyd a drink.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, I know.”

​

After waking up an hour later, and calling his distant mother several times before giving up, Jerry arrived at the conclusion that if he was ever going to get enough money to pay these people off, he was not going to get it through honest means. When most people reach this conclusion, they usually reach towards what they have already done, in order to internally justify what it is that they plan to go ahead and do. Jerry had no criminal record, certainly nothing to indicate he was capable of what he ended up doing. It is entirely possible that Jerry had no experience in the matter, which is quite remarkable. Then again, crazier things have happened and it helps to not be too impressed when men do horrible things to each other.

He waited for Lloyd to conk out, and once Shelly was busy carrying the large man off of the cup-littered dance floor, Jerry snuck to his office behind the bar. Cheap metal walls all rusted through, a leaky ceiling (if it ever rained), crummy radio on a leaning filing cabinet side-plastered with smutty stickers advertising scumbands long broken up, every wall covered in women, crumpled pharmacy receipts spilling out of a kicked-over rusted mesh trash can, this office was Jerry’s little happy place, which really says a lot more about Jerry than any police report can. It must have been hot. He had a small electric fan on his desk, but it had broken several days before. One can imagine him sweating as he tried to recall the combination for the floor safe.

He must have felt the weight of Lloyd’s gun as he brought it up to his eyes, to look at it and confirm (yes) that he was really holding this. He might then have taken a few moments to aim it at one of his many lewd indecorous posters, maybe imagining himself (again) as some sort of Hero. It is usually around this time that criminals begin to preemptively justify their crimes, usually blaming others for getting what’s coming to them, or raising their categorical lack of foresight to something akin to, say, Fate or Destiny. It is all very sad and pathetic, but this is not an editorial. These are the facts, the best that they can be presented. Of course, there will be gaps.

It was around 4:15, 4:30 that Jerry snuck out the backdoor and into the hot loud black night. As some people know, this is actually the opportune time to commit a robbery. There are usually very few people around, the dark makes it easy to make a break for it and stand a chance of getting away. There is also something to be said about that atmosphere. Coming out of the dark, his face all fucked, pointing a loaded Ruger straight at your chest, Jerry would have been quite a terrifying sight. He was betting on it. Of course, the biggest problem of committing robberies at this time is, of course, finding anyone to actually rob. Most businesses are closed and most people are home, and half the people shambling around at that hour are so spun off the planet they wouldn’t understand the protocol. So this kind of difficulty probably accounts for the gap in time between 4:30 and 5 AM, when Jerry finally found his target. In that time, he couldn’t find any people, just insects.

The Rusty Donut is just off the highway, and one of the few places in that part of town to stay open 24 hours, mostly because it was a known scumspot. There were a lot of kids there usually. Donuts are across-the-board pretty popular among the drunken. However there was always a lull around 4, and it was a Sunday, so it should not be unbelievable that the place was empty. Jerry watched the only one there, a young skinny kid in a white uniform and paper cap, through a windowpane advertising BOGO free donuts. This boy, who was sixteen, usually spent his downtime polishing the glass front of the confectionary display. So his back was turned when Jerry came in, pointed a gun to his head and demanded “everything in the register and everything in the safe, please.”

The boy, who had heard about this kind of scenario but had yet to experience it, immediately began to cry in these infantile little sobs. He started to turn around, but Jerry pushed the cold barrel of the gun against his warm neck.

“Don’t fucking look at me.” He said. Listening to the tapes of the incident, one could roughly approximate Jerry’s adopted voice as something like Mickey Mouse with a dash of terminal emphysemam09. It was (in the opinion of this author) kind of silly, and certainly incongruous with the situation, and assumingly very odd and disturbing for Jerry’s victim, who must have imagined something quite grotesque while he kept his eyes down and counted the money he drew out of the register. He placed a wad of bills on the counter. Jerry did not take the money. He kept the gun aimed directly at the child’s head, and asked him (again we must imagine the voice) to “open the goddamn motherfucking safe or else your head’ll be all like a fucking…jelly donut man.” This was, assumingly, the best threat he could come up with. The boy complied.

Unbeknownst to Jerry, as the boy bent down beneath the counter to unlock the floor safe, he managed to surreptitiously draw his cell phone out of his back pocket, and toss it on the floor in a spot between himself and the counter that was out of Jerry’s line of sight. So while Jerry had an obscured view of the boy’s back, and could roughly confirm that he was following directions, he had no idea that the boy had managed to call the police, mute his phone and keep the responder on the line. The fact that it had never occurred to Jerry to confiscate the boy’s phone, can be chalked up to a simple generation gap. It was sort of out of his realm. This would, of course, prove to be his undoing.

​

At exactly 5:06, Officers Chuck McDale and Nancy Mallahoo, both decorated ten year veterans of the local police department (and the best of friends) received the call about an armed subject at the Rusty Donut. This was not, as Officer Mallahoo stressed later in her deposition, “their first rodeo.” Still they were nervous. And as they left their radar gun post on the highway, they drove towards the exit in silence, both of them considering the worst case scenario. Both officers were parents with young children. Both had a lot to lose. Both would much rather not be in this situation.

Officer McDale, who was driving, cut the lights as they entered the parking lot, banking on the element of surprise to work in their favor. It did. Jerry did not notice them pull up. Through the glass front, the officers had an unobstructed view of the scene. The boy had his hands up and his head down. With his back to the officers, Jerry held the gun, but his hands were shaking. Before leaving the car, McDale agreed to enter through the back door, if it were unlocked, and to buzz Mallahoo’s walkie once he was in position. Mallahoo would then enter the restaurant through the front, aim her service weapon, and demand that Jerry put down his gun. Whether Jerry complied, or turned around to aim at Mallahoo, McDale would jump out from behind the counter, putting himself between Jerry and the boy, and aim his service weapon. The plan depended on timing. If McDale hopped out too soon he would be in Jerry’s direct line of fire. If Mallahoo rushed the plan before McDale got in position, she could easily have taken a bullet. McDale said a brief prayer, before the officers exited the car and slowly moved to their positions, their steps muffled by the unbelievable swarm around them.

Mallahoo ducked beneath the front door, keeping her eyes on Jerry in case he turned around. Meanwhile, McDale proceeded to the back where he did in fact find the door unlocked. He drew his pistol and entered the restaurant, quietly closing the door behind him.

McDale found himself in a dark storage room, and could make out the light of the donut shop behind a metal door. As he pushed himself beside it, he was able to overhear what Randy said to the boy, which was as follows,

“Don’t fucking look at me. Don’t you fucking look at me. Jesus. Christ. God. God. God. Fuck. Don’t…hey I bet you think you’re all special, fucking scumkid. How’s your friend, huh? You get him to the hospital alright? Don’t act like you don’t know him, I know how all you scumfucks talk to each other. You should get a real job you know that. Lazy scumfuck. I worked hard for what I’ve got. You know that? You know what hard work is you lazy fucking scumfuck. You know what the word even means, man. Jesus. Jesus, God. God. I worked hard for what I’ve got. Okay? I’m not gonna let anyone take away what I worked so hard…how the hell old are you anyway?”

The boy did not say anything. In the silence, McDale gripped his pistol, and took a deep breath, before pressing the PTT on his walkie. He heard the bell above the front door tinkle as Mallahoo entered the restaurant.

“Drop your weapon.” She ordered.

McDale reached for the door and pulled, but it did not budge. He had, in his faulty human way, forgotten to check if the door was locked. He suddenly became acutely aware of his own heartbeat. He tried pulling on it a few times, as if the facts would suddenly change. They did not. He considered shooting through the lock, but stopped himself. There were three people on the other side. He took a step back and made a break for the back door.

Mallahoo, on the other hand, kept her gun trained on the back of Jerry’s head. Jerry kept his gun trained upon its original target, who had begun to cry again. Mallahoo repeated her directive, but Jerry did not budge. He instead looked down at the pile of money lying on the counter between himself and the boy. Yet again, he might have felt that sudden inrush of peace. Here was what he needed, and he had gone out and gotten it himself. He was a man. It did not matter if his prayers were answered or not, because he was the master of his world.

He looked up, and to his shock, the boy was looking right at him. The boy had blue eyes. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of electric light and the singing of the natural world outside, which was just beginning to brighten.

submitted by /u/Mcturkey [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3f0i87g

[fathersonholygore]

AT&T’s Mr. Mercedes Season 1, Episode 10: “Jibber-Jibber Chicken Dinner” Directed by Jack Bender Written by Dennis Lehane & Sophie Owens-Bender

* For a recap & review of the previous episode, “Ice Cream, You Scream, We All Scream” – click here * Recap-reviews of Season 2 to come on release, as it’s been confirmed the show’s renewed!

A different opener for the finale. Suddenly, in the dark, former Dt. Bill Hodges (Brendan Gleeson) wakes to “Danny Boy” playing. Nearby is a trail of blood smeared through the hallway, out into the kitchen, everywhere. The side of the house is covered in a streak of crimson. Outside is a wheelbarrow with an eviscerated corpse in it. In the trees, a bloody leg. The Mr. Friendly jingle plays. In the driveway, Bill sees his daughter as a girl, Holly (Justine Lupe), and Jerome (Jharrel Jerome) all eating ice cream with the ice cream man himself, Brady Hartsfield (Harry Treadaway) who greets him with a pleasant, sinister smile. Then there’s Ida Silver (Holland Taylor), she takes his gun, tells him to go “have some fun” while Mr. Mercedes serves him up his favourite fudge treat. But then his daughter’s taken by Brady. When he goes back inside, everybody in his life is dead, murdered brutally. He’s quickly attacked by a rabid, beast-like Brady who tears him apart, ripping his flesh, eating him. Terrifying fucking nightmare. Such a great contrast to the other episodes, all of those so similar, the same song, the record player, the breakfast. Now, we’ve come to the end of Season 1, and Bill’s in a vastly different, scarier headspace than he was before, worried for the safety of everyone near him. At the police station, Dt. Pete Dixon (Scott Lawrence), Dt. Izzy Torres (Nicole Barré), Captain Brooke Hockney (Debra Monk), and Bill watch the confessional tape Brady recorded before the supposed end. As he rants about his delusions of grandeur, his mom, the “lead boots” of conscience against which his life raged, the lie that his mom died because she wanted to turn him in – he can’t even admit HE was the one who accidentally killed her, a pathetic human. He goes on about history as “scar tissue” and gobbles up a bottle of pills at the same time. Until it looks like he passes out, falling into the lens. Bill’s thanked afterwards by Capt. Hockney for his involvement, as well as tasked with helping out more while they check for bombs at his place, other places Brady might’ve left a bomb behind. They also get a bit of help from Lou Linklatter (Breeda Wool) concerning where Robi might be. At the electronics shop, corporate douche Josh (David Furr) realises the killer is the one who setup a display recently, to attract kids and their parents. Nothing’s found. However, better safe than sorry, right? Bill’s house is safe, too. He and Pete have a beer on the front step, chatting, the latter admitting they found an escape tunnel down in Brady’s lair. Quite possible he’s out, alive, plotting. And yes, he is, of course. Like we all knew. So sinister. He’s got another bomb, he’s putting the finishing touches on it. He has a wheelchair, as well. Underneath which is where the explosives are neatly hidden, nobody any the wiser about its capabilities. Oh, shit. Josh goes looking for Robi. When he notices his car’s there and nobody answering at home, he calls the cops again. Pete, Izzy, and Bill come to check the place. In the apartment they find no one, nothing. Although Josh notices after a moment there’s no rug near the kitchen like before. So Izzy begins doing minor forensics, spraying luminol around a few areas, locating the presence of some interesting fluids – a large splash on the wall, the floor, some reaching out to the kitchen cabinets. A macabre, fluorescent crime scene. This is when they call the morgue, to confirm the corpses, and discovering that most likely it was, indeed, Robi left in bed with Mama Hartsfield. So Cpt. Hockney and the rest try determining what Brady’s next move is, what to do in the preemptive hope they can combat the killer. Speaking of, Brady’s shaving his head, going with a new look. Is he planning on a suicide bombing mission in that wheelchair? Simultaneously, the cops are wondering which events might be targets, a gala, another career fair event, so on. Without a specific threat, they can’t cancel anything. So they add security, they’ll keep their eyes open. Problem is even the shaved head could throw them off his trail, for just enough time to detonate those explosives. Poor Bill’s haunted, seeing the images of his nightmare over and over. He also believes there’s no way Brady is going for another career fair, just as WE see the killer in his wheelchair, wearing glasses, bald head and a suit to boot. Brady’s at the gala, same place as Holly. Dear lord, no. Bill knows something bad will happen, he rushes for the gala, calls Ida and tells her to get someplace safe; our former detective knows the killer’s going for people he cares about. In a portable outhouse, Brady opens the wheelchair and produces the bomb. Out on a stage, a speech, a look at the Edmund Mills Art Center opening in the community. In the crowd Bill looks hard for his man, he stumbles onto Holly and asks her to get out of there fast. And Jerome, he’s there with his family. So many in peril. Lou’s also kicking around, having a drink. Near the bathrooms, she runs into none other than Brady in his disguise: “Should‘ve worn sunglasses,” he quips. He stabs her in the stomach before hopping back in his wheelchair. Right at the same time Jerome takes the stage, introduced for his achievements, his getting into an Ivy League college, as he himself introduces a young choir. THE TENSION IS KILLING ME! The killer doesn’t finish Lou off, so she shouts for help. Bill hears her calls, finding her, and getting somebody to call for an ambulance. She tells him about the disguise. And wheeling into the middle of the crowd Brady readies himself to detonate. Onstage, Jerome starts clearing people out after Holly alerts him. Bill points his gun into the crowd as they run, Brady holds the detonator ready. But before anything can happen, Holly cracks the killer in the face, beating him relentlessly, and Jerome grabs the device. All to “This Little Light of Mine” in the background. Amazing sequence.

In the aftermath, Holly and Jerome are heroes. Bill’s been vindicated already, as his hunches over the Mercedes Killer case turned out to be entirely warranted. Meanwhile, Brady’s a vegetable in the hospital, our former detectives goes to see him every day: “If he ever flatlines, I‘ll show up and cremate him myself.” He leaves the hospital after whispering into Brady’s ear, making clear he isn’t going anywhere no matter if the killer’s brain dead or what. There’s still a flicker. We can hear The Pixies “Here Comes Your Man” playing, the radio in his brain hanging on and on. I wonder… Loved this finale! Wow, just filled with atmosphere and suspense, tension to fill your boots. Season 2’s been announced already, so I’m very interested if they’ll take into account Finders Keepers, or if they’re going for a whole angle of their own. Exciting stuff to consider in the interim.

Mr. Mercedes – Season 1, Episode 10: “Jibber-Jibber Chicken Dinner” AT&T's Mr. Mercedes Season 1, Episode 10: "Jibber-Jibber Chicken Dinner" Directed by Jack Bender…