#sam not being mean enough to fuck dean in the purge is like

[zmediaoutlet]

happy wincest wednesday💖, today i give you the challenge of naming the 3 episodes that would be the hardest to write first time wincest for. and why. if you feel like explaining.

oooooooooooh coming out swinging with a tough one, okay, I see how we're playing this evening:

well the problem with who I am as a person is that I take anything like that as a Writing Challenge and start going, immediately, well but what if you did x y or z. But I will take it in the spirit meant and also not include any episodes where they're not in the same state or whatever bc that's cheating. So!

8.02 What's Up Tiger Mommy

Why? First of all, ooooh boy this episode. I mean, yeesh. Second: while I think you could go for first time wincest in the previous episode even with the immediate fight that ensues, this where we really start to lean into the episodes where we see how Off the boys are. They're getting along (mostly) in a superficial way but there's a real distance. Sam's defensive; Dean's pissed. At the same time, they're not stressed enough -- for real first time when they aren't in a 'liking each other' period, they need some breaking point moment that makes the transgression feasible. This episode doesn't have it. It does have a whole lot of 'arithmetic is the same thing as intelligence,' though!

9.13 The Purge

Why? Sam's cruel but he's not cruel, and even at his nadir of self-loathing there's a place beyond which I don't think Dean can go. Sam says some SHIT in this ep and Dean takes it because Dean's been taking these beatings as his due, but that last argument is a full-on evisceration, and for the characters to be in-character I just... can't see them taking that step, not then. Even if you did it where, idk, Dean got super shithoused drunk and decided Sam can't hate me any more than he does, can he? Let's see if he cares if I break this last boundary, I can't see Sam going for it. He'd be more likely to push Dean off in a sad/vaguely pitying way and tell him he was drunk. Up to you if it counts as first time, but there are some times that penises just shouldn't get involved, imo.

12.06 Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox

Why? It could happen immediately before, with Dean's radiating delight about killing Hitler (he killed Hitler! imagine Sam's eyerolling fondness!), and it could happen immediately after with Dean comforting Sam after Lucifer reveals his whole omnicidal maniac plan via Jesse's Girl Guy, but that weird blah of a funeral episode seems like a weird spot for me. First of all, way too many people around who know who they are, and who really know who they are. Plus, even if you want to be generous to the ep, its mood is (necessarily) elegiac and strange. They're seen as legends, not as people. Then of course their mother unfortunately shows, and in all the confusion of saving each other and her there's just no elbow room. And even in the space afterward once they've finally ditched her, after whatever breakfast of bacon and awkwardness, I feel like that space just isn't available. They've been too reminded of the social aspect of who they are and for good first time I feel like you need the isolation provided by a world of two. Get back to your lonely bunker, boys, and boink there.

[quietwingsinthesky]

prev post samifer version of that curse scenario where lucifer is the one cursed. play with me in this space, yeah? let us take the torture in the cage as the product of the cage itself, lucifer’s actual involvement in it either nonexistent or minimal with no agency — his own torture being made into a tool to inflict so much pain on sam as to make any connection they have forever tainted by it. when sam gets out of the cage, he goes through all of the canon aftermath, including hallucifer, the obvious face of his trauma whether or not lucifer wanted anything to do with it, and lives with it for years until lucifer finally gets out again and they have to go through the slow and horrible process of coming to terms with everything. but crucially: they ARE coming to terms with it.

they’re finding that they can still have a connection, even if the idea of sam being lucifer’s vessel again is enough to make him lock himself in the bathroom and make himself puke again and again like he can purge the memory of being filled with power, demon blood and angel grace both. even if lucifer freezes up whenever sam makes the slightest sound of pain while they’re in the same room, even if all he did was burn his finger on a hot pan while lucifer wasn’t even near him. they’re working on it.

and then lucifer gets cursed. and the curse lowers everyone’s inhibitions around him to zero. (maybe he’s still an angel and that means he ends up getting stabbed seven times before he’s even gotten to the kitchen to make sam coffee because dean will follow him around and attack him. casual and constant violence, you know. or maybe he’s human, and it’s genuinely dangerous for him to even be in the bunker around other hunters or castiel or anyone at all, because they will try to kill him.)

but the worst of it is when it comes to sam. for both of them. because sam “i’m dealing with the devil being the face of my trauma just FINE guys im handling it so well i have no lingering resentments” winchester really thinks that he won’t be a danger to lucifer. that if he is, it actually reflects on him and his failure to Deal With It. because he would never want to hurt lucifer, would never want lucifer to feel as scared and in pain and trapped as he did in the cage, not when he knows that it wasn’t even lucifer’s fault that he did, right?

and then when they’re alone, cooped up in a cabin far away from everyone else for lucifer’s own safety, lucifer has to fight sam off when sam immediately tries to handcuff him down and start torturing him. the curse fucking with sam’s head until all he can think is how, just once, he needs lucifer to understand, he can’t forgive lucifer completely until lucifer understands, if he hurts lucifer enough then it’ll be fair.

even better, imagine the aftermath of the curse being broken (maybe by cas & dean & whoever back home working on it, breaking it at the worst possible moment for sam & lucifer) and sam being flooded with guilt over the fact that he did this, thinking that having the impulse to at all must mean he wants to deep down, what a monster he is for it. (or maybe worse, feeling almost. satisfied. vindicated. even if only for a moment, even if only a little, staring down at lucifer when he’s cuffed and bleeding and curled in on himself trying to get away from sam.) sam having to be the one who takes care of lucifer’s injuries that he caused <3 and who knows how long it took for the curse to be broken, maybe they’ve been at this for hours or days or weeks, maybe sam doesn’t even know because time started blurring just like it did in the cage (or they both forgot that they weren’t in the cage anymore.) and it obviously isn’t anywhere near the length of time that they actually spent in hell, but still.

[the-wednesday-tales]

17th Birthday

When he wakes up on his seventeenth birthday, Dean doesn’t expect much. He can’t even remember the last time he celebrated a birthday- Sammy will usually give him a (terribly) hand-drawn card and whatever little gift he’s managed to scrounge up on the road, but John lets the day pass just like any other. Dean doesn’t even want much, a simple happy birthday and candle to blow out would be more than enough..but he knows better than to ask for even that.

It’s been almost a year  since John dragged him out of the boys home and back on the road. He’s been looking at Dean differently ever since, a subtle change that Dean can’t quite put his finger on, but can feel palpably nevertheless. He wants to know what he did, but he’s even more afraid to find out. For now he keeps his head down and does as he’s asked, like always.

Dean sighs and rolls out of bed, gets dressed. He throws together what could pass as breakfast for him and Sammy, and when they’re finished John walks in and hands Dean a rifle. Dean silently follows him out into the forest, where they waste away the morning shooting at trees and tin cans.

Sam sits on a stump reading the whole time.

When they get back to the room, Dean has barely sat down at the table to clean the guns when a stack of papers lands in front of him with a plop. He looks up to see John looming over the table, a hard glint in his eyes. Dean eyes the papers warily.

John clears his throat, “There’s a couple of ghosts terrorizing the convent just outside of town. Two nuns haunting the place”.

Dean glances up at John. “Should I pack a bag, so we can head out right away?”

John shakes his head, slaps a gruff hand down on Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m going to stay behind with Sammy. It’s time you took on a hunt by yourself. It’s a simple salt and burn, so even you can’t fuck that up.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes hard enough to bruise and Dean bites his tongue and nods, shame burning at the back of his throat. John gives him keys to the Impala then heads over to Sammy without another word.

Dean tucks the papers into a duffel alongside the salt, matches, and shotgun casings then heads out.

**** When Dean gets to St. Stephen’s Indian Mission, he pulls over on the other side of the road and pulls out the papers to read. The stack contains a section from the town’s newspaper and some photocopied files from the church mentioned.

Dean settles back to start reading, and is barely a couple sentences in when his stomach drops.

Two nuns.

Two nuns who were in love with each other and were found out by the townspeople.

They killed themselves shortly after, bled out beside one another in the convent’s cemetery, curled together beneath the statue of St. Stephen.

Dean has to close his eyes and swallow against the bile that rises in his throat.

He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows.

Dean draws in a few shaky breaths and slowly opens his eyes. He finally knows what changed, finally understands why John has been looking at him differently. John knows.

Dean cycles through his memories, tries to pinpoint how John could have figured it out. Dean’s been so careful…so careful. He never looks too long, he never flirts, and he certainly has never brought a boy back to the motel. And yet John still knows.

Maybe he can tell just by looking at Dean.

He spends a few more moments in the car, tamping down the rising panic before he gets out and starts investigating.

*** Night has fallen and Dean has spent the better part of two hours locating the graves of the two nuns- Helen and Adelaide. They were hidden in the forest behind the cemetery, marked by two simple crosses. They weren’t even given the decency of being buried in the cemetery, let alone a headstone.

He spends another couple of hours digging up the two graves. Two graves is so much harder then one, and tiring when you’re the only one digging.

He understands what this hunt is now. He understands why it’s his first one alone.

It’s punishment.

John sent him out here as punishment for what he has done, for who he is.

Dean wonders how many hunts, how many punishments he will have to endure until he is normal, until he is clean.

By the time he uncovered both sets of bones, the moon is high in the sky and lights the graves in an eerie bluish color. The nuns are dressed in plain clothes, their habits no where to be seen. Dean bites his cheek until it bleeds. Of course they aren’t in their habits. They defied God. They defied the natural order. They were sinners…abominations.

And now John knows. He knows Dean is just like them. That he is tainted, wrong, unnatural.

Dean goes to pour the salt into the two graves, but stops.

With tears slipping down his cheeks, he carefully moves one set of bones into the other grave. Places them side by side until they are resting together.

Maybe they couldn’t be together when they were alive, but at least now they will be together forever. They deserve that much.

He pours the salt and lights the match. Drops it in with a shaking hand.

He watches as the flames burn steadily. He contemplates stepping into the flames for just a second, a minute. No one else would have to know if he died. His secret would be safe. And he would be clean, right? The fire would purify him, purge him of sins and cleanse his soul of its stains.

But the thought passes, and he thinks of Sammy. He can’t leave him alone. Sammy deserves a good father and while John damn well will never be one, Dean can try.

Dean watches until the flames burn out, tears silently streaming down his face.

On the drive back he has to pull over on the side of the road to throw up. He retches until there’s nothing left in his stomach and the bile burns his throat. When he’s done his chest is heaving, but he still feels sick. His throat burns and his heart hurts when he thinks of Helen and Adelaide. He wonders if he’ll meet the same fate.

He spends a few minutes kneeling in the dirt panting, then pushes himself to his feet, wipes his mouth clean, and gets back in the car.

When he returns to the motel room, he can’t meet John’s eyes. Dean  knows that look will be written plainly across John’s face, knows now what that look means and why it’s there.

He tells John “It’s done” and goes to bed.

*** The next time John sends him on a solo hunt won’t be for years after that.

Inspired by @halfofmysoull @heller-jensen @bisexualrowena and the gut wrenching thing that is J*hn W*nchester’s journals.

Now on ao3

[autisticandroids]

yknow those episodes where a character's whole personality gets split into 3-5 different distinct separate bodies? what bodies would cas have? I feel like it'd just be a mess tbh, imagine 5 different castiels all of them loving dean to a certain extent but showing it VASTLY differently. one cas would literally want to murder the others lmao

okay so i don’t actually think this trope would be an effective tool for analyzing cas? he’s not conflicted enough in himself. he’s too impulsive, too singleminded, too uninhibited. like, in the end, cas always ends up doing whatever he wants. there aren’t multiple discrete voices vying for control, really, or rather, if there are, one is always significantly stronger than the others. like in the end cas will always end up eating raw meat off the floor, you know? he’ll do what he wants. if i was going to do personality splitting i’d do it to someone intensely internally conflicted, like dean.

however, because i’m in an essay writing mood today, i’ll answer a question slightly to the left of the one you asked. cas may not be internally conflicted, but he is intensely changeable. these two things are related, actually; the same impulsivity and singlemindedness that mean he doesn’t have a ton of internal conflict at any given time mean that different ideas sound good to him at different times, because he isn’t really thinking about, say, what future-him will think of them. and he’s not really trying to maintain an image or identity. he’s just doing what feels right at the time, which is very different at different times and in different situations.

anyway, that in mind, i think a lot about ways to bring together many alternate versions of cas which sort of correspond to different times in the show.

i have a fic in my head about a bunch of cas-es pulled from alternate timelines by some kind of spell. so this would be set during the widower arc because the basic impulse here is to show dean a very bad time. just absolutely put him through hell. also, all the alternate timelines are different because different stuff happened, not because cas made different choices, because if we’re torturing dean it has to be like 5x04, the changes in cas can’t be cas’ fault. they have to be dean’s or just like, the universe’s (which makes them dean’s).

so dean is trying to bring cas back, and he finds some kind of spell that can bring someone “from another world.” and he tries it because hey. can’t hurt to try. anyway i’ve thought a long time about different versions of cas i would put in this and here is what i have. in order of when the timeline split off.

- a cas who never raised dean from hell. think 14x13 “lebanon.” this one i’m not too sure about, like, this could be fun, but i don’t know if it’s different enough from the next one. like this castiel would have lived through the averted apocalypse and subsequent general fuckery that happened as an angelic footsoldier, which would actually be pretty interesting now that i think about it, especially since all that stuff would have gone down soooooooo differently without cas specifically for your average angel footsoldier. like cas has PERSONALLY caused more upheaval in heaven in twelve years of spn than there seems to have been in millennia. so he would be the point of view of a normal footsoldier from a totally other world.

- a cas who died mid season four, and is pulled out of the empty in 2017 by this spell. i’m not sure when this cas died. my thoughts are (1) killed in on the head of a pin by alistair, (2) killed during his torture in the rapture, or (3) simply never resurrected after lucifer rising. (3) makes the most sense, but that cas has already thrown away everything for dean. i prefer the idea of a cas who loves dean, is already on the brink of disobedience for him, but has not yet taken the plunge. both on the head of a pin and the rapture are great places for this, and they both have strengths and weaknesses. if he died in the rapture, he was killed by heaven, which is fundamentally more fun, but he was also really very much over the edge already. if he died in on the head of a pin, he wasn’t killed by heaven, but he is perfectly teetering on the brink of falling for dean. regardless of when he died, the purpose of this cas is to be horrified at all the various and myriad ways he has destroyed and corrupted himself for dean in the other timelines.

- possibly endverse cas, who would have died in 2014, but like s4 cas, would have been pulled from the afterlife by the spell. i’m not so sure on this one. we as a society love endverse cas but i dunno what purpose he would serve. maybe endverse cas didn’t die in 2014, and instead was imprisoned by lucifer, because, you know. he’s the only brother lucifer has left. so he is very excited to see dean alive and well, since his dean is dead, and, not being an angel, cas can’t bring him back. the purpose of this cas would be to horrify dean that cas loves him and needs him so much, and to disgust the other cas-es with his neediness.

- a cas who was in some way on better terms with dean during s6. maybe dean and cas ride off into the sunset together after swan song instead of dean going to live with lisa, maybe dean prayed to cas while he was with lisa because he missed him, who knows. either way, cas has dean’s help with the angel revolution in season six from the start, and never goes to crowley. the plan cas and dean come up with to beat raphael includes breaking into the cage and stealing the grace of michael and lucifer, freeing sam and adam in the process. incidentally, it also involves cas possessing dean, because if cas is gonna eat archangel grace to become more powerful, he’s going to need a stronger vessel. so cas and dean have a whole like. midam situation happening. they’re a double archangel together, and godstiel never happened so none of the other terrible apocalypses that stemmed from that happened, and everything is pretty cool where they’re from, and also they’re obviously uhhhhhh SOME kind of together. the purpose of this cas is to upset dean because this cas shows how much better everything could have been and how much better his and cas’ relationship could have been if dean had simply been more considerate of cas in s6, and also freak dean out with how uh. close. this dean and cas are.

- a godstiel who managed to swallow purgatory without swallowing the leviathans and remained god. he’s probably soooomewhat less scary and murdery than canonverse godstiel because no leviathans, so you know, not as many angel purges or massacres on earth. and he probably went and fixed sam’s wall within about three days because cas is prideful but he does NOT like it when dean is mad at him. so they did kiss and make up, and so this cas would have had dean to act as his morality chain. but he’s still very scary and godstiel. and also he refers to dean as “The Beloved” you know. his purpose is to freak everyone out, because he’s scary, but also, for the past cas-es, because he is a terrifying abomination that they could never imagine becoming, for the future cas-es, because he is a reminder of their worst selves, and for dean, because he is a reminder of how dangerous cas is, but also because he uh. obviously has some feelings about his dean. unclear if they are consummated or not.

- a cas who naomi never rescued from purgatory, and who stayed there. hasn't spoken to another being in half a decade, has not recovered from his emotionally destroyed state in purgatory in s8. believes at first that the spell is his dean rescuing him, and is crushed when he realizes he was wrong. like endverse cas, his purpose is to show dean how much cas needs him and depends on him emotionally, and how he (dean) is capable of destroying cas, as well as his guilt for leaving him in purgatory and how lucky he is that his cas got out. this is especially noteworthy since the guilt for leaving cas in purgatory is part of the reason dean is trying to get cas back.

- a cas who stayed human after season nine, and has built himself a small human life over the next four years. he has a job and an apartment and friends outside the winchesters and yes, he still goes hunting after work sometimes, and he's still in contact with dean, but he is also independent in a way no other version of cas has ever been. he exists to freak out dean because dean has never seen cas independent of him. he is also fairly bitter at dean since dean did kind of stop spending time with him when he was no longer useful, and our dean feels guilty for that.

- a cas who showed up twenty minutes later in 10x03, finding sam dead and dean gone, and had to chase down demon dean, and has now spent three years following demon dean around as his tragically adoring stalker, because he hasn't found a way to resurrect sam yet and he doesn't want to put dean through the demon cure until he can save sam because he doesn't want dean to experience that guilt, but he also adores dean and wants to keep an eye on him and keep him safe and also keep him from doing anything too heinous, so he just covertly follows him around the country and watches from a distance as he commits various murders and fucks his way through every local bar scene. and occasionally cas finds dean something to kill, when the mark gets hungry, and drops it in his path. his purpose is to freak dean out with the lengths cas would go for him, and the depths cas would sink to.

anyway. lebanon cas and season four cas are horrified and perhaps disgusted (lebanon cas more than s4 cas) by ALL of the later cas-es, and how far they’re fallen, all of it for dean. godstiel and archangel cas being abominations, endverse cas and s9 cas being fallen, even purgatory cas and demon dean’s cas for their total dependence on dean.

purgatory cas and endverse cas are just happy to see a dean, even if it’s not their dean. demon dean’s cas, too, in a way. he’s happy to see a dean who is still human, who he can still have as a friend.

human cas is pissed to see that he was right, that dean would have stuck by him if he’d still had his powers, that this version of dean is doing spells to try and bring his cas, who is still an angel, back, whereas he and his dean only see each other once every couple months.

everyone is terrified and disgusted by godstiel, as i said before.

they’re mostly kind of thrown by archangel cas. a lot of them are jealous. godstiel is furious because how dare anyone, even an alternate version of himself, take dean as a vessel (even if dean likes it). godstiel isn’t really there, though, he resisted the summoning and just sort of popped his head through to see what was going on, and he goes back to his own reality pretty fast without murdering anyone.

also to be clear dean has not at this point examined or acknowledged any feelings he may have about his cas besides “friendship,” nor has he wondered what feelings his cas may have for him. given how many of the cas-es were clearly in some kind of relationship with their dean (endverse cas, archangel cas) or just openly in love with their dean (godstiel, purgatory cas, demon dean’s cas), dean is forced to reevaluate the nature of his and cas’ relationship.

[winchestersingerautorepair]

A Rift Between

A Brief(-ish) History of Dean, Cas, & Rifts

Let’s talk about rifts for a moment. And when I say rifts, I don’t mean their personal disagreements -- if I were to be discussing that, this post would be less of a brief history and more of a thesis paper. 

No, I’m talking about rift rifts. As in, actual, literal tears in the spacetime continuum. They are littered across the whole run of this show, and we’ve recently had two whole seasons devoted to them. So, the sudden reappearance of rift-adjacent plotlines carries with it a weighty load of textual relevance.

Dean and Castiel’s relationship arc, a fan favorite, began when Leviathans, the notorious fan-unfavorite, came into the picture. 

No, Maeve! Dean and Castiel’s relationship arc began in season 4, not 7! Cas was barely even in season 7! 

Well, let me explain. Season 7, the age of Sera Gamble, was a total show reset. Was it uncomfortable? Yes. Did we all hate it? Yes. But like with muscle, you’ve got to tear through the old before you can develop something new, and Season 7 did this job quite effectively. An identity crisis at that scale means either a massive change of pace or a creative death, and as the show is still on, number one it is. 

So, while we can most reliably chart the beginning of an intentional, substantive romantic undercurrent to Season 8, it is the waiting that allowed it to come to fruition-- Season 7 was a void, an unsustainable period of creative drought, a long cold winter in which seeds fell and laid dormant. And like the winter, it was necessary for rebirth.

This brings me to the first DeanCas rift: 

~~

The Purgatory Spell

Episode: 7x01

This tear in spacetime was the culmination of Castiel’s Season 6 character arc. It was the final, greatest betrayal, the irredeemable course of action which struck his relationship with the Winchesters a fatal blow-- and though his last act was to attempt to right his wrongs, the emergence of this rift meant estrangement and death for the relationship (and for Castiel.)

This incident is established as far more significant for Dean than it is for Sam, so I won’t spend much time justifying my classification of this rift as primarily DeanCas. It’s made pretty damn clear through Dean’s behavior throughout Season 7.

Castiel’s departure catalyzed the emergence of Leviathans. As the lore promised, they brought death and destruction to the whole ecosystem, purging the show and readying it for reincarnation; but I’ve already made this point.

As Destiel 1.0 dies, Destiel 2.0 is born.

~~~

The Purgatory Portal

Episode: 8x07

Let us journey back to "A Little Slice of Kevin"-- the gayest thing to happen to Supernatural up to that point. Suddenly, Dean and Cas’s ambiguity is no longer a joke. It’s no longer flippantly referenced, but Built Into The Narrative In A Noticeable Way. After Season 7, Season 8 shocked the system, earning Purgatory celebrity status as the Destiel fandom exploded back to life. 

But, more important things. The events surrounding this portal not only codified romantic subtext, but reshaped their relationship by putting it in grave peril. Lovers trapped in separate worlds. There’s only like ten thousand examples of this in other fictional, romantic(-ally coded) relationships. Sigh.

As Destiel 2.0 dies, Destiel 3.0 is born.

~~~

Seasons 9, 10, and 11 are filled with near misses. Divisions between worlds/fates test and change their bond -- Heaven and Hell exert tremendous force on both, and the gates of Heaven and the Darkness’s breach of barriers flirt pretty openly with the rift theme -- but there isn’t anything that fits the profile cut and dry, so let us leap to Season 12. Five long years of glacial shifts, five long years of a slow, steady amping up of queer subtext. An argument can be made that it had graduated from subtext in some places, but both fandom and GA were frog-boiled enough in their interpretations for this argument to be an aside.

Destiel 3.0 reaches a transitional stage, and becomes Destiel 3.0+.

Now, It’s season 12. And like goddamned CLOCKWORK, six years after Season 6, another unstable tear in spacetime appears, and terminates Castiel’s character arc.

Rift? Check. Cas dead? Check. We’ve seen this pattern. Time for shit to CHANGE. And boy, did it.

~~~

The Rift

Episode: 12x23

Oh, boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Castiel’s death in the Season 12 finale was a magnum opus of SPN’s romantically coded imagery. I could elaborate, but if you’ve read this far into this post you likely already know what I’m talking about. My point is, a hall of mirrors is the chosen space in which Destiel 3.0+ is killed. 

The relationship death lasts only a short while; their estrangement in separate realms is a five episode-long period of detachment and review. Our characters, as well as the viewers, stride through a hall of mirrors. In solitude, this DeanCas winter becomes a chance to reflect, because there is no better way to get a feel for the importance of something than to eliminate it. The crucial elements of Dean and Cas’s relationship, what they mean to each other, becomes clearer than ever before because, look! This is Dean without Cas! This is the show without Cas! Don’t you hate it?

I mean, guys. Mirrors. Cas spoke to a reflection of himself in the Empty. Literally. He addressed his greatest fears about relationships with himself. He was forced to rewatch his greatest mistakes, and what gets featured? Our first two DeanCas rifts. F*ck this show.

DreamHunter parallel! 13x10 reenacted this scene for us with Claire and Kaia. 

Then, 13x05 changes the whole game once more. You know, the episode titled Thanatology. The study of Death. Fuck this show.

As Destiel 3.0+ dies, Destiel 4.0 is born.

~~~

The intensity of the queer narrative amps up continually. Things are getting harder to write off.

Rifts between worlds, crossover and confinement, and estrangement, and the blurring of lines, and the breaking of old taboos/breach of old barriers dominates the remainder of Season 13 and Season 14. We hold this broad focus for a long time, and Dean and Castiel become the emotional equivalent of the plot arc, always there, brewing, but taking a backseat to the Big Stuff. A wall rises, and solidifies. Silver Pole of Communication Barriers, anyone?

Then? Season 15 kicks us in the Destiel balls.

Full disclosure: I didn’t see this next part coming. I dared not ask season 15 for anything this significant, so the last scene of 15x08 just about took my life. 

~~~

The Purgatory Rift

Episode(s): 15x08, 15x09

Dun dun DUN!!

This twist was my favorite Christmas present, because it communicated to me that the writers have an understanding of Dean and Cas’s history to match our own. Not only are they actively writing them utilizing the Destiel playbook, they obviously care immensely about the destiny of their relationship. I am speaking too soon to say this definitively, but this mission has all the hallmarks of a plot device designed to serve many purposes in respect to Dean and Castiel. They’ve got ALL the ingredients. There are so many things tied in here that it gets pretty damn near fanfiction territory.

Please read my reaction to the purgatory twist if you need context, as I don’t feel much like regurgitating it. This post is long enough, lol. (A bloom that grows only in one place? Fuck you, writers. You’re going to KILL me.)

~~~

So, to recap: In a universe defined by barriers and guidelines, a relationship that refuses to be defined will be under constant siege. Dean and Castiel suffer from the sheer reality of walking lines between two designated states of being-- friends and lovers, angel and human, take your pick. The current order isn’t friendly to beings who don’t fit a category. Until the barriers are stripped away, they cannot exist as they are, and rifts will continue to rip them apart. 

The Purgatory Rift of 15x08 is such a big deal because it fuses themes. The rifts of the Dabb era have merged with the gateways of the Carver era. Not only are our long-standing almost-lovers returning to their relationship’s place of origin, they are doing so by breaching physical barriers designed to keep them apart; and all the while, the most dangerous, important rift is not the one in the fabric of reality, but the one in their relationship. 

I expect this major rift to end no differently than it has in the past. Dean and Cas will be separated, and Cas will be out of reach. And then, they’ll be reunited. But, where will that take us? What will the next reincarnation look like? 

As Destiel 4.0 dies, something will be born.

[jackandthesoulmates]

soaked

Author: jackandthesoulmates / tintentrinkerin

Title: soaked

Created for @winklinebingo , @spnkinkbingo

Squares filled: name calling (spnkinkbingo), free space: Watersports (winklinebingo)

Pairing: Winkline (Samjack)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: smut, bdsm themes

Additional tags: Watersports, Degradation, Humiliation, Misogynistic Slurs, Sub!Jack, Brat!Jack, Dom!Sam

Word count: 2,049

Many things that Jack and Sam do in the sheets are a result of them fooling around. Jokes. Giggles, “have you ever?”s. Sam is the one with the experience of course, but Jack is the one with the imagination going places that even Sam didn’t know so far. 

First, it was Jack who loved gagging on Sam’s cock, crying and gasping while looking up and so endlessly desperate for Sam’s praise. It was tiny little things of Sam humiliating Jack, letting him go out without underwear in a skirt. Dinner in a fancy restaurant and a vibrator egg deep in Jack’s ass, remote control in Sam’s pockets. 

And oh dear, Jack wants so much more. He wants to be spat at, insulted, belittled, being bossed around, cock squeezed in a cage. It’s a lot and sometimes Sam wonders, where all these kinks come from. He’s barely four years on this earth, there was no man or woman before Sam and there’s nothing Jack likes about porn. He doesn’t even read books with overly sexual content. It’s not that Sam is complaining about any of it, no no. He loves it. He loves kinky, submissive, filthy Jack. He loves how pliant Jack becomes after punishment and how hard and loud he comes from just his prostate massaged. Sam is by no means a sadist, he wouldn’t say that. He’s just turned on by Jack, by how much he enjoys himself being beaten and bruised, choked and flogged. There were things even Sam wouldn’t try on Jack even if he begged for it. 

Actually, Sam always thought he wouldn’t be into watersports. He doesn’t get behind the appeal of being pissed on, drinking some other person’s urine. 

But now Jack mentioned it, they’re in the library, Sam has a whiskey, Jack is good with anything soda, as long as it rots his human teeth (which doesn’t bother him at all, he’s half angel, he heals in no time. If he wants to).

Sam looks closely at Jack, eyes narrowed.

“Is that a request?”, he asks sheepishly.

Jack leans forward and gives him an innocent puppy eyes kind of look that means exactly the opposite. 

“Maybe?”, he says, “maybe not…”

It’s his game and Sam knows it. There will be if’s and maybe’s and teasing and pleading in the end. There’s a secret signal. Not a safeword. A safeword use ends a scene. Their secret signal starts it. Sam waits.

There’s a blink, a short drawing of breath. 

“I bet you don’t dare to piss on me, old man.”

“I bet you will regret saying that.”

They stare at each other. Sam is fast, his hunter reflexes are strong, even now when he and Dean have retired. He’s out of his chair and on Jack’s throat in a matter of less than a second. His hand grips in Jack’s hair. He winces but looks up at Sam with his bratty glare now. 

There it is, “I bet you don’t dare”.

Jack lost all of these bets so far and he knows it very well. It’s the signal, the act of consent. He wants Sam to do it and Sam will. He drags Jack on his hair along the library. Jack whines and laughs in an eerie mix that shows the arousal, the thrill, and the triumph even if Sam rips out some hair at the root. The next bathroom is the one that sued to be Castiel’s along the hall. There are still towels, functioning water tabs, and a bathtub. Sam turns around and forces Jack on his knees.

“You want to be pissed on, you filthy little slut? You don’t even deserve my body’s waste!”

Jack looks up, eyes tearing up and red already, one fist pressed against his lips, the other one tries to loosens Sam’s grip on his hair. Sam crouches in front of him, the look on his face is warm and kind, but the fist in Jack’s hair tightens and he tilts Jack’s head back. For a moment they stare at each other again. There it is. Jack’s jubilant smirk. Sam lets go of Jack’s hair, finally and slaps Jack right across his cheek. The slap isn’t that bad, not meant to hurt the boy, but to humiliate him. Sam’s cock jumps in his jeans when he sees more tears in Jack’s eyes, now flowing over and running down his cheek. 

“You think you deserve a single drop of it, huh? Tell me.”

Jack bites his lip.

“I do.”

Another slap across his face. 

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

Jack stays silent. Sam knows it’s Jack testing him, Jack wants to be broken. Every single time Sam needs to break his will and his dignity, it needs to be humiliating and cruel for Jack to get off. This is no light spanking and “harder, daddy” scene. It’s not what he needs. 

Sam’s slaps now turn harder. He is strong, Jack knows it. Sam bruises him up easily, Jack’s skin uses to be all bright black and blue with yellow blow outs in sharp contrast to his pale, milkwhite skin.

The boy is sobbing now.

“You’re already my convenient little cum dumpster, it’s an honor I use your holes for that. Given the fact you’re still lousy at taking my cock.”

Jack nods with trembling lips. 

“I’m getting better”, he says, a little weak now. “It’s so big.”

“You’re damn right it is.”

Sam grants Jack a little relief, cups the angel’s face with his big hands, and brushes away the tears with his thumbs. 

“And I’m still so nice with you, right? I give you all of this in my generosity. All I ask for is an obedient little slut, with his holes ready at any time. Are you ready anytime? Are you obedient?”

Jack shakes his hand softly, sniffling and breathing soundly through his parted lips.

“No, I’m not. I’m not ready, your cock tears me apart, sir. And I’m a brat, sir. I don’t obey.”

The smile on Sam’s face is genuine. He likes it when Jack gives in. It’s fulfilling, satisfying. 

“That’s right, pet. That’s right. And now you even want my piss. What should I think of you now? You can’t take it. You will fail as you fail with everything. You gulp my precious cum, like you have to. It’s a gift, others would die to get a drop of it. I don’t think I should waste anything on you.”

His boy is crying for real now, sobbing and shaking. It’s always a sight, it’s like watching someone getting purged of all hope. Damn, it’s utter surrender. Sam attempts to get up and turn around, leave crying Jack here on the cold tiles. He could go, have another drink and wait for Jack to return to him like a beaten dog. Sometimes he likes that. Not giving in to Jack’s kinks. Deny him. Only to fuck him into oblivion afterwards. 

“Please, sir, please give me your piss… I’m begging you… please I will be good! I will take it like a good boy.”

His pleas make Sam’s heart jump and he turns around, looks down at the crying mess he created, and smirks. 

“Didn’t we agree that you’re a pathetic little shit? That you’re bratty and unable to handle me?” 

His voice is soft and wooing, laced in pity for Jack. 

“Yes, but I want to prove I can do better. Please please please, I need it!”

Sam gives in now.

“Get in the tub. Naked”, he orders. 

Jack obeys, undresses first, and climbs in, his legs are shaking and he needs to get a grip on the brink of the bathtub to not fall over. He’s clearly aroused too. Jack kneels down, his hands on his legs, palms open and ready to receive. Sam also doesn’t undress at all. It shows who’s in control. He unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. He’s somehow hard already, but not enough to prevent Sam from being able to pee. Jack gasps at the sight. It’s cute somehow because he never seems to get used to the sight. 

“Look me in the eyes, pet.”

His blue dazzling eyes look up at Sam, big and glassy. 

“Good. You really can’t wait to get pissed on, hmmm?”

“N-no, I can’t … I want it, sir.”

“Open your mouth.”

Jack first looks shocked but then parts his lips for Sam. 

“I said ‘open your mouth’. Wider.”

Oh, how sweet he trembles. He obeys again, mouth wide open and his tongue sticking out. Like he has to do when Sam cums in his face. What a beautiful sight he is. So innocent and yet so depraved. Sam rubs his cock a little, he’s nervous about it, it’s new. It’s unexplored. Completely foreign territory. Something he can’t show to Jack now. Jack trusts him and that’s what matters now. It takes him some effort to relax. Truly relax. Release the tension from his muscles, from his jaw, his arms, and let go. The first spurt of piss hits Jack’s chest. He moans in surprise, but doesn’t look away from Sam’s face, keeps his mouth open. 

“How does it feel? Being pissed on? Tell me, pet.”

Jack does his best to keep eye contact, even when Sam’s piss is running down his chest now, leaving glistening trails on his white skin. Some drops make it down to his belly button and even his cock. Jack’s erection is massive, twitching and leaking precum. 

“It’s humiliating, sir”, he says in a thin voice, “I feel dirty.”

“Good. Very good. You deserve to feel dirty.”

Sam bites his lip while another spurt hits Jack’s throat and gets caught in the strands of his blonde hair. 

“Open your mouth.”

Jack obeys. Sam’s piss now splashes against Jack’s chin and his mouth. He comes closer to aim better at Jack’s mouth and tongue. It visible Jack wants to retch, the smell and taste must be a lot, but he stays focused, receiving Sam’s piss.

“Touch yourself.”

Jack moans quietly and squeezes his eyes shut, but he starts jerking while urine is flowing all over his chest and stomach. Even his hand and cock get covered and soaked in piss. It really turns him on, because he starts squirming and moaning in a manner Sam never heard before. He doesn’t have much left, Sam needs to hurry. He covers Jack’s forehead in piss, wets his hair. Then the flow stops and Jack whines.

“Can I cum?”, he asks, gulping down a bit of Sam’s gift.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir…”, Jack cries. 

His movements get frantic almost, he thrusts in his fist, eyes still shut and his whole body trembling. 

“Say ‘thank you, sir, for giving me your piss’.”

“Oh, God… Thank you, sir, for giving me your piss…”

A few more powerful thrusts and Jack spills his cum over his legs. He moans in pleasure, his eyes shine in a slight golden light as it happens sometimes when he loses control. The sight makes Sam hard as a rock. When Jack slowly calms down, he breathes deeply and his head falls back. The smile is back. 

“Good boy”, Sam praises. 

He gets out of his clothes now. Needs relief. 

Jack is used to it being fucked raw, he loves it, as he assures Sam over and over. It’s the stretch, the pain and the feeling of Sam’s cum filling him up. And as a reward for being so obedient, Sam even grants him to rinse off the piss first. 

It’s their ritual to take a bath afterwards. Jack loves bubbles. Jack always gets bubbles. 

In Sam’s arms he relaxes and raves of the experience. Sam kisses Jack’s neck.

“I’m glad you liked it. For a second I thought you wouldn’t want it to get that far.”

Jack laughs and turns around to kiss Sam’s lips. He doesn’t taste of urine, something Sam is secretly happy about. He loves humiliating and degrading Jack, but he would never like it done to himself.

“Don’t be silly, Sam. I loved it. It was perfect.”

Jack looks at Sam in pure adoration and Sam leans in another kiss, happy to have given his boyfriend something that satisfied him deeply. 

Sam would shower Jack in all the love he could give.

[thecleverdame]

Gods of Twilight - 21

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Human!Reader

Master List (posting schedule is there as well)

Summary: You marry Sam, The King of Lebanon, as part of an alliance between two lands. You soon discover that nothing is as it appears and that your husband is hiding a secret that may end your relationship before it can begin.

Warnings: smut, dub-con, canon-level violence, domestic discipline, spanking.  This chapter does contain some non-con elements.

Beta:  @ilikaicalie​

*This story is complete. All 27 chapters are available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

-

He’s clearly lost his mind, they all have.

You stare at this man who insists he’s your husband, two women, one on either side of him. He must be insane but no one is reacting to these wild tales. You examine him cautiously, trying to determine if this is indeed reality.

They’ve explained this again and again over the last few weeks, carefully laid out the details of who and what you are.

“To be completely honest,” you begin, looking at Sam. “I’m not sure what part is more difficult to accept. That I am a queen or that I’m a shape-shifting wolf. You will have to forgive my disbelief.”

“I understand.” Sam nods agreeably. He’s always quick to assure you, he wants you to feel comfortable.  

He cares about you a great deal, that much is clear. The way he looks at you alone is enough to know there’s a long history, many twists and turns in your relationship that you wish you could remember. There are moments like this that you can practically feel his love for you, it’s radiating off him. He’d move heaven and earth to heal your fractured mind.

This man is a king, he should spend his time attending to the many needs of his people, but instead, he remains by your bedside for hours each morning and night.

There a rush, a heat that spreads quickly from your head to your toes making your body tingle and you fall back onto the pillow as it overtakes you. This happens several times an hour, increasing in both frequency and intensity. Ellen has explained that it’s a natural part of the transition and that it’s only going to become more intense as time goes by.

“Are you alright?” Sam’s immediate concern only serves to stoke the guilt you feel every time your thoughts wander to his brother. Dean. You wish Dean would come back to visit you. You want to smell him, look at him….get up close and….no. You don’t let yourself think about that.

This man gripping your hand for dear life is your husband and an impressive specimen of a man at that. What sort of woman are you that you’re unsatisfied with a life most people could scarcely dream of.

“I’m fine. It comes and goes.” You force a weak smile as sweat beads at your hairline. Ellen dips a cloth into the water basin, rings it out and begins to carefully pat along your forehead, then your down your neck and chest.  “When can I meet my daughter?”

Your husband’s jaw tightens, his eyes ticking to the side. Martha, the midwife looks displeased, adjusting her stance. You know you shouldn’t continue to push the issue, but you simply can’t contain yourself. It’s a desire that increases with each passing day.

“We’ve talked and we’ve decided you should wait,” Sam explains softly.

“Why?” You look at each of them, unable to hide the sting of betrayal. They have these little meetings where they decide what’s best for you without asking for any of your input. “I want to see my child.”

“And you will,” Sam reaches out, taking your hand again. There’s a low tingle the moment his skin touches yours. A whiz that feels almost like a spark from a dying fire burning your skin. “We think you should wait until you display more control-”

“I have control now!” you hiss, feeling the anger bubbling to the surface. This is exactly what he’s referring to. It’s getting worse. The rage comes on quickly, a deluge of emotion you can’t stop from overtaking you.

“No,” Martha shakes her head, “you don’t have control. But you will, you just need time.”

“Please,” you change your approach, begging Sam. He wants to give you everything and anything you want and you’re not ashamed to use it against him. His face softens, brows coming together.

“We don’t know what kind of reaction the child will elicit,” Ellen speaks up, her tone makes it clear. This is not up for debate. “She could soothe you, or she could trigger a more violent response.”

“I would never hurt my baby.” You want to strangle her.

“I know, but you are not always yourself. Not right now.” Sam tries to explain. He’s gutted as you yank your arm away from him.  

“I still have milk,” you grab at your own breasts. “That must mean something! She needs me! We need each other. She’s four months old and doesn’t even have a name. Let me be a mother to her.”

“I’m sorry.” Martha nods with a finality that sets you off.

“I want to see my child! Damn you!” The rage erupts as you lunge forward, arms outstretched to grab at her. You want to tear her limb from limb. Eviscerate her on the floor next to your bed. Sam catches you, wrapping his arms tight around your shoulders, effectively pinning you in place as Martha retreats out of the room. “Let me go!” You scream at the top of your lungs, struggling against him. “I hate you for this. I hate you! Let me go!”

You snarl and growl and wrestle against your husband, trying to kick and bite and scratch your way from his hold but he’s stronger than you are, at least right now. Ellen disappears once she’s sure Sam has you under control. Then it’s just the two of you as you fight in vain.

When he’s not here you’re tied to the bed. These outbursts are becoming a more regular occurrence and he’s not around to restrain you most of the time. Sam visits as often as he can, allowing you time to be free from your bonds.  

By the time your rage passes you’re laying under the weight of him, breathing heavy as tears sting the corners of your eyes. You shake with anger, sweating and vibrating as your body purges the surge of fury and you finally give up and fall limp against the bedding.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” you whimper with eyes closed tight in a weak attempt to keep the humiliation from swallowing you whole. You’re a queen but you behave like a spoiled child. There’s less and less self-control as the days go by. Sam was right, you are slowly becoming a monster.

“No,” he confirms, lifting his weight off you, but careful to hold you in place, belly down on the mattress. “Are you in control?”

“I’m sorry,” you cry, burying your head. “I can't think when I’m like that. Ellen was right. There is no controlling it.”

“I know,” he whispers, nuzzling his mouth at the shell of your ear. “It’s alright. Don’t cry, my love. This is torture, but it will pass.”

His nose brushes up and down the edge of your ear, hot breath lingering longer than it should. He wants you, you can feel the lust coming off him. The more outraged you become the more the scent of desire wafts out of his very bones.

“I hope you’re right.” You roll onto your back and Sam helps you, hovering above you with a hand on your belly. His pupils are blown wide, betraying his hunger for you. “I’m so sorry I don’t remember you. You’ve been more patient than any man should be.”

“It’s nothing. I would do anything for you,” he picks at the wet hair plastered along the side of your face. “But this will get worse before it gets better. I want you to be ready, prepared for the days ahead.”

He could fuck you if he wanted, take you by force. He’s your husband and king, not to mention a wolf. He could take anything he wants from you here and now. And yet he doesn’t. You’re always surprised by that. While you don’t have specific memories of other powerful men, you do know that men of his stature rarely suppress their own appetites. He is a good man.

“Will you be with me?” you ask.

“As much as I’m able.” He nods as the hand on your stomach fists into the material of your dress. “The rage will consume you, it’s a bloodlust that will take over and for a time you’ll become feral. There’s no way around it. But you’re strong, I know you well. You’ll come out on the other side.”

“You have more faith in me than I have in myself.”

“I’ll have faith for both of us then.” He smiles softly, looking thoughtfully over your face, it seems as if he wants to say something but he remains silent.

“You say I'll become feral.” Your cheeks blush hot fire. “How is it possible you’ll want to see me like that? Like a wild animal.”

“You forget I am a wild animal as well.” He searches your face, his eyes glancing at your heaving bosom for a split second but you catch him. The truth is that being close to him like this makes your heart speed up too. It leaves a neediness between your legs that aches long after he’s gone.

“I feel a strange sensitivity when you touch me,” you confess, watching his eyes go dark.

“You are an Omega and you’re meant to be mine.” His voice is low, eye roaming over your face. “My touch will elicit certain...sensations.”

“Because you’re an Alpha,” you finish and he nods in confirmation.

For a moment you lose yourself in the fantasy of what Dean’s touch would feel like. The weight of him between your legs, the scent of his skin and the feeling of his teeth sinking into your neck.

“Where did you go just now?” Sam asks. He’s looking at you like he knows, knows all about your adulterous fantasies. “What were you thinking of?”

“You.” You lie, breathing in his scent and allowing yourself to focus solely on your husband. The more you breathe in his scent, the easier that becomes. You wonder if you’ve always been this much of a wanton woman before, or if it’s the bite that brought it out of you. “May I make a confession?” you whisper.

“Of course,” he murmurs, settling in as his hip presses against your thigh.

“Would you think me a whore if I told you I dream about you touching me?” It’s partially true, you do think of him, but you leave out the part about his brother. “I imagine what it would feel like.”

“Of course not,” he licks his lips, eyes fixed and focused on yours with a burning intensity. “You are my wife. I could never think of you that way.”

“Yes, but to me you’re a stranger and yet I find myself wondering about the feel of your hands on my skin.” He ruts his hips forward, unable to control himself. “What sort of proper woman would entertain such thoughts?”

“It’s perfectly natural.” His eyes drop to watch your mouth. “You’ll go through a heat soon and my rut will come not long after.”

“Ellen explained both to me.” You bite your lip, thinking back to the conversation. “You’ll knot me?”

He swallows hand, grunting in response. “Yes.”

“And you’ll claim me?”

“Yes,” he answers. His large hand spreads out wide over your stomach, sliding upward until his fingers are fanned out under your breasts, pressing lightly over your ribcage.

“And we did all this before?” You blink as a drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face. “When I was human?”

“Yes,” he nods slowly. “You were so beautiful that first time. You’re always magnificent, but it was a moment I’ll never forget.”

“Would you like to touch me now?” You’re nothing more than instincts at this point.

“Do you want me to?” He’s shaking with restraint, his hand trembling against your ribs.

“Very much,” you stare into his eyes and spread your thighs as wide as possible, the overwhelming lust overtaking any sense of propriety. “If you want me, you can have me.”

Sam stares at you as his hand disappears under the hem of your nightdress. He doesn’t respond, instead strokes the rough pads of his fingers up your inner thigh, wandering closer and closer to your sex.

The tips of his fingers ghost over your cunt, hardly a touch but it’s enough to bring your hips off the bed in search of more. He was right. Your body is responding to his, excitement sputtering to life inside you in the form of sexual desperation.

“Please,” you whisper, feeling sweat sliding down your temple.

“Shhh,” he hushes, his mouth nipping at your jaw as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs up and down over your bud, at the same time sinking two fingers into your pussy, sinking into wet and slick up to his knuckles. The fingers inside you feel good, but it’s the attention to your swollen nub that controls every inch of your body. He works you with an expert touch, he must know your body well because each pass of his finger manages to combine perfect timing and pressure as your orgasm builds.

The world fades away. There’s no anger or sadness, only the two of you in this moment.

“Sam,” you pant, eyes locked on each other.

“Alpha,” he corrects you. “Call me Alpha, Omega.”

“Alpha,” you breathe, the title ending in a moan as his fingers twist deeper, thumb moving faster, sliding easily again and again.

A few more strokes and you cum around his knuckles, shoving your cunt toward his hand to try and take him deeper. Pleasure spills out in every direction, back arching, toes curling as the wash of satisfaction consumes you.

And yet you want more, it doesn’t feel like enough. Blinking up at him you reach for his trousers, but he pulls your hand away. Wet fingers curling around your wrist to keep you from getting to his massive erection straining through his pants

“You don’t want me?” you hiss.

“I do,” he nods. “But it’s not time. You need to complete the change first.”

“Why?” you protest, struggling against him once again.

“Because we’re going to do this the right way.” He kisses your forehead, a simple distraction as you feel him wrap the restraint around your wrist.

“Please, don’t tie me up,” you plead, yanking at the rope. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Don’t struggle.” He’s always crestfallen when he has to leave. He hates this part as much as you do. “You’ll hurt yourself. Just try to be patient. I’ll come back in the morning.”

“You always leave me.” You go limp, looking away from him, knowing full well it breaks his heart to do this. He’d stay with you day and night if other responsibilities didn’t call him from your bedside.

“I am sorry.” He brushes a finger at your hairline and then he’s gone.

-

“Hello?”

A timid voice wakes you from your dreams. You blink awake, the early morning sunlight streaming through the window.

“Y/N?” The voice calls again.

There’s someone at the chamber door.

“Yes,” you call out. “I'm here.”

You can hear her heartbeat before you see her. The thump, thump, thump echoing in your ears.

A woman slips inside, looking around. Her eyes bulge at the sight of you, apparently horrified at your appearance.

“My God,” she clutches her hands over her chest. “They have you tied up.”

While you have no memory of her, she does feel familiar and apparently doesn’t understand why you’ve been tied up. You’re not stupid, you’re aware that they have you tucked away like a dirty secret in the far tower of the castle.

Your senses are stronger this morning. You can practically feel the warmth coming off her skin and smell the milk and eggs on her breath from her breakfast.

And her heart, that wonderful, arousing sound beating faster and faster.

This could be your chance.

“Will you help me?” You look from her to the rope secured to the heavy bed frame. “I’m a prisoner.”

“I knew something was amiss, my lady. Forgive me for not finding you sooner.” She rushes to the bed, working at the ropes. “Once I discovered where you were kept, I had to sneak past the guards.”

“You’re here now,” you mutter, staring at her neck. You swear you can see the blood rushing under the surface of her skin. And that thump, thump, thump is loud enough that you’re surprised she can’t hear it too. “Please hurry!”

“I’m trying!” She finally manages to untie one arm and moves on to the next. “I was so worried about you, my lady.”

“You know me well?”

She stops what she’s doing to stare at you.

“I’m sorry,” you try to look apologetic while fixating at the pulse point at her neck. “I seem to have some holes in my memory.”

She looks as if she’s about to cry and takes your hand between hers. “I’m Golda. I came with you to Lebanon when you married the king. We’ve known each other our whole lives.”

“God bless you,” you grip her wrist, pulling her even closer. “My husband is keeping me here. He refuses to let me see my child.”

“I’d heard the rumors, but I never imagined this.” Golda throws herself at you, hugging you tight. The flowery smell of her skin wafts upward, filling your senses and you yank your other arm free from the rope, holding her close in return. “I thought perhaps he had killed you.”

“I’m alive,” you murmur into her hair, rubbing your nose over her neck. You arms squeeze around her, tighter and tighter.

“Please stop,” she squeaks and you realize how hard you're embracing her. She pulls back, gulping at the sight of your face. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“Nothing,” you feel the sudden urge to sink your teeth into her shoulder.

“Please let me go,” she tries to pull away but you have a grip on your arm. “You’re hurting me.

-

“She calmed down after I left?” Ellen walks beside Sam as they make their way toward your room.

“For the most part,” he looks forward, afraid that if she sees his face she’ll know about his little tryst with his hand up your skirt. He couldn’t help himself. He desired you before the change but now that you’re an Omega his self-restraint is failing. “She begs me not to tie her up. I can hardly stand it.”

“It’s for her own good,” Ellen assures him. “You remember what Dean was like when he got free? A holy terror. We can’t have her running the countryside, killing farmers and gutting townspeople.”

“I know.” Sam bristles at the thought of you nothing more than a savage animal. “When she pleads to see the child I-”

He stops, Ellen slows beside him, both of them looking at the open door to your bedchambers.

“Did the midwife check on her this morning?” he asks, afraid of the answer.

“No, I spoke with Martha this morning. She’s planning to come this afternoon.”

They both hesitate, Sam takes a breath before pulling the door open.

“Oh my God!” he yelps.

You’re in the middle of the bed on your hands and knees, bent over a dead Golda who’s chest has been cracked open. You look up, eyes burning orange. Your mouth and body are covered in her blood and what’s left of her raw heart is in your hands as you take another bite, staring at Sam in pure mania. You flash a smile, looking proudly from the body to him, and pulling the heart into your chest as if he might try to take it from you.

“What have you done…” he whispers, eyes fluttering closed.

“Alpha,” you grin, kneeing you way around Golda’s body and toward him. You tip your head from side to side, appraising him before extending your arm and offering him Golda’s half-eaten heart.

[lifblogs]

Whumptober 2020 No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? Branding | Heat Exhaustion | Fire

Of Grace and Holy Fire

Castiel was alone, trying to find someone who could possibly save Jack, when the angels got him.

Fighting had almost helped him escape, seeing as he’d killed one of the two angels. But the other one stabbed him through the thigh, bringing him to his knees, and then held the blade to his throat.

“You’re going to cooperate.” An order.

If he himself was the only one who would be put in danger from his actions, Castiel would’ve slammed his head back while reaching for the wrist and twisting it. His attacker would fall back, and Castiel would end up with the blade. But that would risk his life. And he couldn’t do that to his family, couldn’t do that to Jack.

“If I take the blade away, will you run?” the angel questioned.

“What do you think, Azriael?” Castiel asked, tone dry, but laced with pain.

Blood had soaked into his pants, and was now running into the dry grass. The practically-dehydrated  soil drank it up eagerly. Castiel hated that soil. He wanted to tell it to — in the eternal words of Dean Winchester — fuck off. Why was it that one small patch of ground that angered him? Where was his fury at Azriael?

Maybe it was bleeding out through the deep wound in his thigh. Maybe it was drowned in the worry for Jack. Would his son even be alive when — if — he made it back?

“There’s no winning here,” Azriael stated.

“Doesn’t mean I’ll just let you take me.”

Azriael muttered quite a few words that would certainly keep a human out of Heaven, and stabbed down into his other thigh like it was a sheathe. His body easily held it in place. Castiel’s hands were grabbed as he let out a cry, and a knee smacked into his back, making him fall forward. The force of the fall pushed the blade deeper, leaving him screaming. It wasn’t long before angelic handcuffs were placed around his wrists.

Castiel tried to grit his teeth against yet another scream as the blade was drawn out of him, but it was no use. Azriael hauled him up. And Castiel found that his legs wouldn’t support him. This left him being unceremoniously dragged across the ground, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

It wasn’t long before they reached the road, and Cas was thrown into the trunk of a car.

~~~

After an hour of that ride that was so dull there was nothing to distract him from the pain or the catastrophizing thoughts in his head, Castiel began to wish that angels could pass out. They could, if hurt badly enough, or if made to by another angel. But Azriael seemed to enjoy going over every possible bump along the road, and he wouldn’t have nearly as much fun with that with him asleep.

Castiel’s phone started ringing, and he did his best to lay down on it to muffle the sound. Reminding Azriael that he’d left his phone on him would be plain stupid.

But maybe it was Dean. Castiel twisted, breathing hard and whimpering from the pressure this put on his stabbed thighs, and he managed to get his cellphone. He’d almost dislocated an arm while getting it, but it was in his hand now. He could tap to answer, but holding it to his ear would be impossible. A voice that would’ve sounded tinny, and muffled to a human, but was loud to Cas came out the end of the phone.

“Cas, hey, you find anything yet? The kid’s getting worse.”

Castiel’s heart fell at this, and he had to take a moment to close his eyes, to tell himself to breathe deeply.

What if Jack was dead by the time he’d made it out of this mess?

With that pressing hard on Castiel’s mind, he said to Dean, hoping he could hear okay without Castiel’s phone on speaker, “Track my phone. Get Sam, and follow me.”

“What?”

“Find me,” Castiel growled. The car shook, and he was jostled in the trunk, pain radiating down his legs. His phone skidded up near his mouth, and Cas felt a pang of guilt as he cried out, worrying about Dean’s eardrums.

“Cas?” Dean was panicked. “Cas, me and Sam, we’re gonna get to you. Just hold on.”

The car went still.

Either they were there, or Azriael had heard the phone.

“Hold on! Are you—are you hurt?”

Shoes on gravel. The trunk opened, and light bombarded Cas’ eyes. A grinning Azriael picked up the phone and said into it, “Not yet. But he will be soon,” before dropping it on the ground and grinding it underneath his heel. Azriael then grabbed him, dragging him out. “Come on. We’re here.”

Maybe in a different situation Castiel would ask where here was, but all he could do was think of his ruined phone. Had Dean been given sufficient time to track it? Probably not. He could try GPS, but was that even still intact?

Castiel was hauled up the drive into a house that looked newly abandoned. Before he could get his bearings he was shoved down into the basement, toppling down the stairs, shoulder dislocating from the fall. Castiel groaned, and tried to get up, but Azriael descended the stairs, grabbing him. He yanked his arms back in a gruesome pull, leaving him crying out, and whimpering. The cuffs on Castiel’s wrists were then attached to a hook hanging from the ceiling.

Nearly blinded with pain, he couldn’t see what was going on, but Azriael was walking around him.

“So…”

“Eloquent start,” Castiel said, putting as much snark into his voice as possible, which meant his tone wasn’t even enough to threaten a small cat.

“What’s left of the angels — well, we aren’t very happy with you.”

Struggling, Castiel moaned, voice gravelly. “I kind of... figured.”

“So we want to keep tabs on you.”

Castiel’s vision had cleared somewhat, and he glared at Azriael.

“How?”

With a snap of his fingers, an oven behind Azriael burst forth with flame, and metal was grabbed. He shaped it into a complicated sigil. Castiel knew what it meant. He knew what was going to happen.

“No! No!”

Azriael heated the metal in the flame. With a wave of his hand, Castiel’s clothes ripped at the seams, and fell off, littering the stone floor in tatters.

He breathed hard, crying as he struggled, as pain twanged through his whole body.

“Stop!” he begged. “You don’t have to do this!”

Azriael said nothing.

He just pressed the metal to his skin.

Castiel let out an ear-splitting scream that would’ve caused human eardrums to burst were there any nearby. Skin sizzled, bubbled, and burned. Even were this regular fire, healing from such a thing would’ve been difficult. But this was a holy fire brand. It would never go away.

The smoke swirling up into Castiel’s nostrils was just about enough to make him sick. A human would’ve been throwing up. Cas wanted to, if only to purge his system of it. And a human would smell the burning flesh and know something was wrong, but Castiel could smell the heat sizzling along the iron, could smell as each cell was obliterated beneath it. They burned away before it, the scent of his destruction filling him up.

Only seconds passed before Azriael took the branding iron away, and Castiel was old, ancient, but each second had lasted as long as a life age. The smoke stung his eyes, leaving them tear-filled. They would have been tear-filled anyway.

Azriael let out a disgusted sound as if he had just caught his adorable dog humping something. The reaction didn’t measure up at all to what had been done, or with the obliterating pain Castiel was in.

“Enough of that unpleasantness.”

Unpleasantness. Castiel tried to laugh, but it came out a sob.

Azriael grabbed his face, grip hurting. Castiel was forced to look at him. He studied him, look one of hatred, and then flicked his hand. The cuffs released. Castiel collapsed to the floor, grunting as he had to catch himself before the burn on his chest could hit the stone. His arms trembled, not wanting to work properly with his shoulders dislocated. And his thighs bled.

They were nothing compared to the brand. Its power reached his very Grace.

Azriael dropped a phone onto his ripped clothes.

“Call your boyfriend. I’m done with you. And Castiel… we’ll know where to find you.” He patted his chest, and then left.

Castiel stared at the phone for a few long seconds, but then picked it up, and he dialed that oh so familiar number.

It was answered.

“Dean.”

[dothwrites]

drowning

because i have many thoughts over the latest promo and @screamatthescreen said that i wouldn’t do it---i DID IT

this one’s extra angsty kids. here there be hints of mcd

---

He makes it back to the bunker. 

The portal is just a slender thread of rippling gold by the time that he stumbles through. Dean lunges through it and falls onto his knees, hard. The floor is unforgiving and pain ripples through his body. 

He barely feels it. 

Once he lands he barely has a chance to breathe before his stomach roils. Hot, sour acid fills his throat and he scrambles towards the toilet, retching all the while. Vomit bubbles out of his mouth the moment that his head crosses the threshold of the toilet and Dean lets it come. His stomach clenches as his system works in reverse and Dean purges it all out. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can purge out the memories, the sensations...

After a short eternity, his stomach has nothing more to give. Dean rests his forehead against the cool porcelain and shivers so hard that his teeth clack together. He can’t...He didn’t...

The stench of Purgatory still clings to him, all damp moss and decaying wood. Purgatory smells rotten, like something dead for too long and it’s still in Dean’s nose. He tries to rub away the bitter taste of bile from his mouth but the smell hits him again, just in time for Dean’s stomach to lurch. He leans over the toilet again, but nothing comes out as his stomach twists against itself. 

Purgatory was...The world’s turned upside down and twisted in on itself and Purgatory isn’t what he remembered. In the years that he was gone, Purgatory turned meaner. Its teeth gained razor edges, serrated and barbed, as it focused its claws and fangs on the two of them. This time there was no Benny to help them and in the subsequent storm...

He still remembers how easily his finger squeezed the trigger, how simple it had been to shoot--There were monsters everywhere, crazed beyond self-preservation, crazed into a frenzy. No matter how many he shot, no matter how many Cas stabbed, they kept coming and they kept coming and they kept coming...

It was pure, Dean had said once, and it was true again. Caught in the desperate battle for survival, he’d become nothing more than a machine. Take the gun, point, and squeeze. Point and squeeze. Point and squeeze. Until it was nothing more than muscle memory. 

In the mad craze, with blood spattering his face and gore caked onto his clothes, he had...He’d turned into nothing more than a monster himself, focused on the kill, focused on the pain, the bloodlust thrumming through his veins, the thought of destroy destroy destroy repeated endlessly in his head--Point and squeeze. Point and squeeze. And it had been enough, until suddenly, it was too much. 

Until suddenly it was Cas’ body in his sights and Dean...

Point and squeeze. 

And it should have been fine, it should have been fine, except it wasn’t, except this time when he was shot, Cas staggered backward, hand clutching at his chest. Except this time, instead of moving forward as relentless as time, Cas fell. Except instead of a mere hole left behind in Cas’ coat, now there was...There was...

You’re going to be fine, you’re going to be fine, you hear me you son of a bitch, you’re going to be fine, Dean said, the red faded from his vision. The only red now was the vivid crimson of Cas’ blood spreading across the white of his shirt. What the fuck Cas, you’re going to be fine, can’t you heal yourself, Cas, Cas, heal yourself Cas, Cas baby you need to get it together, come on Cas, come on, don’t leave me here alone, come on sweetheart, Cas, please--

The whorls of his palms and his fingernails are still stained a rusty red. The sight makes his empty stomach clench but he’s wasted enough time already. 

He needs to get back to Purgatory. He needs...

He just left Cas there. He needs to get him back. 

Failure tastes just as bitter as bile. Cas would never leave him behind. How many times has Cas put himself on the line, how many times has Cas thrown himself into the fire, just so Dean and Sam wouldn’t have to? 

Cas would never leave him behind. 

The bunker is still empty when Dean stumbles out into the library. He has no idea where Sam and Eileen have wandered off to, but it might be better that they’re not there. He’s about to do a very, very stupid thing and those things usually go off better when Sam isn’t in the picture. 

He eases his shaking body into one of the chairs. It’s been forever since he’s done this but his body remembers how its done. Slowly, he laces his fingers together and presses his knuckles into his forehead. 

He’ll pray later to Michael and ask him for one more favor, make whatever deal he needs to make in order to get another portal. He’ll dig up whatever Rowena needs for a spell, he’ll cut and threaten his way into Purgatory if he has to, but he can’t...He can’t leave Cas behind. Not again. Not now. 

Right now, however, there’s another prayer that he needs to make. 

It’s too little, too late, especially now, with Cas’ blood still ground into his hands, with the memory of Cas’ chest stilling underneath him. Too little, too late, but he needs to say it, needs to put this weight off his chest and put the words out into the universe. 

“Cas?” he murmurs. He clenches his fingers so tightly that the webbing between them hurts, that his knuckles hurt. “Cas, I don’t know if you can hear me or not. I don’t...” His voice catches in his throat and he forces the next words out through a rapidly closing airway. “I don’t know how we’re ever going to be able to get you back. But...”

Regret crashes into him, strong and unrelenting as a tsunami. All the times that he yelled at Cas, the times that he snapped at him, standing in an abandoned house and spitting out You’re dead to me, watching as Cas walked away, all the thousands of times that he could have said I’m sorry, eleven years when he could have told Cas I need you, I can’t do this without you, please don’t leave me--

“I can’t do this without you. I can’t...I need you. I want you. And I’ve tried and I can’t stop. So wherever you are, whatever it takes...I’m going to get you. I’m coming for you.” He swallows down the lump that rises every time he gets too close to the truth, every time he brushes too close to the always open wound that Cas causes in him. “I need you with me Cas. And I’m not going to stop until I find you and get you back.” 

There’s more that he wants to say. Three words crowd at the back of his teeth, but Dean closes his jaw on them. He’s waited this long to say those words. He can wait a little bit longer. Cas deserves to hear those words from his lips and not delivered via an angelic dropbox. He wants to watch how Cas’ face changes when he says those words. He wants to whisper them into Cas’ skin, watch how they shape themselves against the angel. He wants to say them every day, wants to open and close his days with those words. 

And he’s going to. 

He’s going to get Cas back, so he can show Cas, for the rest of his life, how much he’s wanted and needed. 

Dean turns around, ready to start, only to stumble backwards. His startled yelp echoes through the bunker and he’s viscerally glad that Sam isn’t here to hear him. 

Scythe in hand, Billie stands nonchalantly at around the same place that he takes his breakfast every day. “Howdy,” she says, blinking slowly at him. Pinned by her gaze, helpless as a butterfly on a corkboard, Dean freezes. Billie flexes her fingers on the handle of the scythe as she looks around, calm as if she’s sizing the place up for a new living room set. “Forgot what a nice place you had.” 

“Yeah.” Dean swallows down the acrid taste of adrenaline. “It’s all right I guess. Haven’t found it popular with the ladies lately.” 

The joke comes as a reflex, a knee-jerk reaction to finding the unfamiliar and terrifying in his living space. From the look Billie turns on him, Dean can guess that she didn’t appreciate the jest. 

“Is that what you care about? Being popular with the ladies?” There’s something coy in Billie’s voice that’s extra disturbing when he considers that she’s possibly the most powerful creature in the universe. Before Dean can answer that question, she throws him another curve ball; one that he’s so unprepared to catch, it slams into his chest with the force of a meteor. 

“Couldn’t help but overhear your prayer. If you’re going to pray like that, then you might want to try doing it to someone who’s alive to hear you.” 

Though Dean remains in one piece, he shatters. He’s gone, dispersed, and nothing on this earth could ever hope to gather the remains. 

Nothing that is, except for what Billie says next. 

“You mean it? You’re willing to do anything, make any deal in order to get your angel back?” 

There’s a trap here. Dean’s familiar enough with the life now to see it, not that Billie’s trying to hide it. But he’s also desperate enough not to care. 

Such a good thing that Sam’s not here right now.

“I meant it,” Dean says, through a suddenly dry throat. “Whatever it takes.” He lifts his chin and plants his feet. “I need him back.” 

“Well, lucky for you, I find myself in the same situation. Much as it pains me to say, there are bigger things afoot here, and pride doesn’t hold a place anymore.” Billie fixes him with a gaze as sharp as an angel blade. “So what do you say Winchester?” Her thumb strokes over the white ring predominantly placed on her finger. “You ready?”

I’m coming for you Cas. I’m coming.

Dean bares his teeth in a feral grin. His hand finds the ever-present Colt tucked into his waistband and the angel blade pressed against his thigh. “Say when.” 

Billie snaps her fingers.

---

tags! message/ask/reply to be added or removed~~

@screamatthescreen @queenvee08 @dizzypinwheel @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @stay-inside-the-salt-ring @deansbff @spaceshipkat @rogerslouis @mishtho

[mattzerella-sticks]

Four of Swords

Destiel, 7.1k, M, Ao3 link

Super happy I can finally share what me and my amazing partner, @maleyah-givemetomorrow, cooked up for the @supernaturaltropecelebration

Hope you all enjoy! (story below, but if you go to ao3 there’ll be pretty pictures - I definintely recommend viewing them and showing love to the artist!)

The Four of Swords, in the present position, means you don't want to interact with the rest of the world. Because of stress, you need to spend some time with yourself - unhealthy always being 'on'. That the healthiest thing to do is to escape.

Dean might crave escape, but it's not something he thinks he can have. Something he deserves, even. After his and Sam's most recent hunt, this cancerous feeling has grown heavy and weighs him down. He cannot escape on his own, as best he tries.

Luckily a guardian 'former angel' angel swoops in at his lowest. Helps pick up the pieces as best he can and lovingly put them back together. But he can only do so much. The rest is up to Dean.

Can Dean take those final steps, say those final words, and finally free himself?

        His leg bounces, foot playing with the pedal while forcing the speedometer past its limits. Fingers squeeze the wheel tight enough he knows will leave permanent indents in the leather. Dean feels, more acutely than ever, how small his car’s interior is. Her cabin walls closing in around like the Death Star’s trash compacter. Aided by Sam’s ever-present stare, weighted by all the questions Dean will not let him ask. Forbade with a shake of his head and a rough flick of the ignition.

        The sun creeps past the horizon, morning rudely greeting them. Beams of light pierce the glass, its glare interfering with his driving. Dean swings a heavy paw up towards the visor and pulls down, hard. It blocks most of the sun but gives Dean a worse distraction.

        His gaze strays from the road to the tiny mirror embedded within the visor. Bounces around the borders of his face, studying the features and additions. Green eyes burdened with purplish bags. Dirt smudged around his hairline, disappearing into his short, mussed locks. Scratches peppered his cheeks like freckles, and the dried blood around his lips looks almost comical. Like he overlined them with an ugly shade of lipstick, clownlike and surreal.

        “You’re drifting.”

        Sam tugs the wheel closer, straightening their car. Dean wills back the discomfort of having Sam’s hand covering his. Of the memory, hours ago, where their layered hands held different context. Pushing. Praying. Reaching for a spark of Dean that nearly drowned and was lost forever. He shakes his head, focusing on the road again. “Thanks,” he says once his brother’s hand drifted away.

        They reach the Bunker minutes later, Dean parking between the green Hudson and silver Chrysler. Both collecting dust. Dean checks his phone – 8:34 a.m. 3 missed calls, 8 unanswered texts. He swipes for the message thread, not reading any of the grey bubbles and typing a simple message. Back. Then Dean drops it in an empty cupholder and lays his head on the wheel.

        Exhaustion drips along his bones like slime, filling the spaces between joints. His muscles broadcast their pain in full stereo, working in tandem with his brain. Each twinge a reminder of what happened. What he did and what he almost became.

        Someone howls. It is far, but familiar. It sounds like – home? Belonging? Right? More noise, this time closer. Snarling. Snarling and growling. His jaw shudders and bends, reforming. A fire crackles under his skin, urging him forward. Follow the call. Follow the scent. Smell that, hear that, it is all so… pure. Free. You are free. Trust your instincts.

        “Fuck,” he hisses. Dean presses his dirty nails into his palms, a reminder of their usual bluntness. Definitely not sharp enough to pierce the skin. He can’t hurt anyone else with them. “Fuck…”

        Sam shifts at his side, hovering. Worrying. “Dean –“

        “Not now, Sammy,” he says. Dean sucks in a large breath, fixing his armor. Raises his head off the steering wheel, staring out the window. “I’m not ready, not yet.” He wasn’t ready when they watched the barn disappear behind them, burning, smoke drifting into the starless night. When they stopped at the motel so Sam could collect their stuff while Dean idled in the parking lot. When Sam exploded halfway between Denver and Cheyenne, drool wet on his chin, and still unprepared when he apologized minutes later.

        He didn’t deserve his damned forgiveness.

        “Just…” Dean breathes, shivering, “go.”

        The car door opens and shuts with soft clicks. Dean watches his brother stumble over half-asleep legs to the exit, Sam’s gait heavy and awkward. He pauses under the archway. His head tilts slowly right, and Dean tears his eyes from the rearview mirror. Dean counts the beats of his heart, waiting. After thirty he checks the rearview and Sam is gone.

        Flinging himself out the car, Dean falls on hands and knees while his stomach revolts. He coughs, splutters, and heaves with all the force he can muster. There’s not a lot in his stomach but it surges up, splattering against the floor. Mixes with the blood and dirty already staining his fingers. His nausea passes the crest and recedes, body nearly purged. He spits into the bile, running his tongue over the waxy film coating his teeth. Gross, but not enough. The taste lingers.

        Right there. Follow the fear, the rapid breathing – babumbabumbabumbabum. There is sweetness in victory, in the thrill of chasing. No escape, only death. Screams cut short when you tear through the throat. Chestnut fur matted with blood, goes down smooth. Delicious. Filling.

        Dean winces at the mess. “Not cleaning that up,” he says, “at least not now.” With his remaining strength, Dean drags his body up. Leans on his car for a moment, then walks away with the door still open and with bags in the trunk. He cannot remember if he left the key in the ignition, nor does he care if he did.

        There are more pressing matters that need attending.

        He wanders with intention, drifting past rows of doors until he reaches the shower room. Dean turns, slowing to a shuffle and then a full stop once halfway inside. Head bowed, he focuses on the contrast between his mud-caked boots and the pristine tiles ruined by his intrusion. Squints and sees a twig lodged in the loop of his lace. Looks closer and sees a small pawprint left immortalized on the material.

        In one bite the head tears completely off, blood spurting up from the severed neck. Sprays his face while he chews. Dean smiles, teeth catching the droplets and licking them clean off. He greedily stuffs the rest of its small body into his mouth, then licks his hands. Uncurling from the forest floor, he continues on. There is a call he needs to answer.

        Dean hears the twig snap while clawing at the laces. He throws his left boot to the side, followed by his right. Peels his socks off and does the same. The second round of dizziness descends as the cool floor coaxes a more measured response from him. Sighing, Dean closes his eyes and continues stripping.

        Even blind, Dean knows what he throws away. A yellow plaid button-down ripped across the back. Brown t-shirt crusty with dried blood all over the front. Jeans camouflaged in various stains, held up by a belt that worked in saving him from succumbing. And underwear that, while clean, were rather unwanted in the moment.

        Goosepimples rise along the blades of his shoulders, rushing up his neck and over his back. Dean shakes, crosses his arms and tucks his chin against his chest. “Come on,” he says, bouncing on his feet, “In and out… you’ll feel much better.” He steps forward and then returns to where he was. “You’ll feel better and clean and – and like yourself again.”

        “This is who you were truly meant to be…” His voice purrs, sparks firing off pleasurably in his brain. A rough tongue licks up his neck, and Dean nuzzles the hand petting his cheek. “Who we were always meant to be… give into your instincts, my pet. Give into yourself…”

        “Dean what are – oh! I’m sorry!” He whips around and finds Cas standing in the doorway. Hands squeezing the towel, eyes trained upwards and not ahead like they must have been moments ago. The blush on his cheeks clueing him in. “I thought, when you said you were home, you’d be in bed…”

        Dean rakes his gaze over the other man’s body. At the scruff in serious need of shaving, unkempt along his jaw and overrunning his neck. The oversized t-shirt, tie-dyed in various shades of oranges, reds, and yellows. A graphic from a Led Zeppelin album ironed on from a collection Dean found at a garage sale, given over because the angel reminded him of Cas. His shirt’s hem overhangs and covers half of the shorts he wears, hairy calves fully on display.

        A year into humanity and Dean marvels at how he stays so heavenly.

        “No,” he says, “don’t feel much like sleeping…” Then Dean drifts his focus away from the other man and back to the shower stalls. Empty and waiting. In a few seconds he could wash the entirety of yesterday into the drains, dirtied water swirling at his feet. Scrape any trace of the wildness with soap and scalding, hot water. Keep at it, until the knot in his chest unraveled finally.

        Dean stiffens. Someone brushed his arm. Cas squeezes, whispering, “Are you going to shower?”

        He nods. Steps forward, and again. And collapses at the mouth of the shower, scrabbling for the curtain and ripping it from the rod. Dean gasps, the harsh sound echoing in the room, and curls in on himself. The cheap plastic crinkles and sticks to his skin, blanketing his thighs. One of the metal rings completely tore and now digs into his stomach. Cas calls for him, but his voice is distant.

        “We can start anew once your transformation is complete. I can hear it inside you, Dean. There’s a killer in there waiting to be unchained. Let me free you from the prison society forced you in, allow your true self to roam, empowered in its glory and righteousness. You’ll be my right hand in my new pack. All that’s left, is for you to break the final lock…”

        “Dean, Dean I need you to say something,” Cas presses a warm hand into his back, kneading the clammy skin. “Please… I know not to hope for anything good but at least tell me you’re here, with me.”

        “I’m here,” he murmurs, “I’m… I’m here.” More of a reminder than an answer. Dean blinks, leaving the acrid stench of death for faint, lemon cleanser. Shadows and dim lighting for humming fluorescents. False promises for strong foundations. “I’m here,” Dean says again, sliding his hand from the curtains to Cas’s, the other hanging at his side. Squeezes at his wrist. “Thanks.”

        “It’s no problem,” Cas huffs, sizing Dean up. He shrinks under his gaze, conscious of how he must look. “Do you want to –“

        “No.”

        Cas nods, as if expecting it. “You want to clean yourself up?” Dean shrugs. He clucks, fingers skimming his hairline on a wide rub. “Look as if you’ve glued yourself to the underside of your car and had Sam drive across any backroads he found.” The joke inspires Dean’s dimples to appear, and Cas’s overly proud smile forces a small chuckle. “Are you able to stand?”

        “I think I can manage…” Dean winces, the plastic shower curtain peeling off him. Cas keeps his face steady, not even a flicker of interest in peeking as it falls, when Dean exposes himself. A superficial wound. Fortunately Cas’s hand on his back and the other, now holding his, stay and help him up. He wobbles on shaky legs but won’t fail. “Thanks.”

        “No problem,” Cas tells him, thumb tickling his pulse point, “do you want me to give you privacy?”

        He swallows his tongue. Or rather, something living inside his throat snatches it and prevents him from speaking. Dean glances at the shower, dread crawling forth once more. The scant space between him and the handle stretches, vision tunneling. He wants nothing more, if only the thought of it didn’t paralyze him. Cas murmurs at his side. “What?” he chokes out.

        “I might have an idea,” Cas says, “that is… if you’re okay with me seeing you like… like this?”

        Dean raises a wry brow. “Does it matter?” he asks, “You already have.”

        “Just being polite…” Cas moves away from him, Dean following for a beat until he stops himself. The other man looks to the door, than at him. He scoops his forgotten towel, dumped on the floor at some point in the past few minutes, and offers it to him. “Here.”

        “Like I said, Cas –“

        “I know,” he interrupts, “but I doubt you want to walk the halls like that, where at any point Sam could stumble on you and… assume.” A hell of an assumption. Favorable too, he thinks. Dean blushes and bites his lip. He accepts the towel, lazily wrapping it around his waist. Not bothering to tuck it, holding it with his hands so they wouldn’t hang without purpose. Cas finally dips his gaze towards his crotch and relaxes. “Okay,” he says, “follow me.”

        They leave the shower room, Dean practically hitting Cas’s heels with how closely he trails the other man. Enough that he could swing his arm and accidentally brush his hip. He won’t, though the possibility is tempting.

        It’s not a far enough walk for that.

        Cas turns the corner and leads Dean to the second door on the right. “I found this awhile back, early on in our stay here and carried it to this room one day when you were out.” He opens it for him, gesturing inside with a lackluster flourish. “Glad I did, don’t know how I would have managed without my angel strength.”

        Dean steps inside, searching. There is not much waiting for him. Smaller than most rooms, he can imagine it being a closet with ease. Spots the tiny holes where screws must have been. Hidden in the outlines of where shelves once were. “Didn’t know you were handy.”

        “I learn fast.”

        “I’ll say,” Dean says, “plumbing’s a bitch to do.” He smirks at the large, stainless steel faucet. There’s another outline underneath against the wall that marks where a sink used to be. Removed so the porcelain, clawfoot tub can rest. “You take baths?”

        “When I can,” Cas tells him, “I find it very healing. Even when I could mend broken bones and turn jagged cuts into flawless, smooth skin with my grace, I found myself drifting here every now and then, sitting for a soak.”

        Dean taps at the rim of the bathtub, pouting. “And you brought me here, thinking I want to…” He doesn’t finish, instead studying the other man. Watches how the innocent question rocks the boat of his good intentions. Cas pouts, folds his arms and scuffs his toe on the floor. Dean softens, “Thank you.”

        “…You’re welcome,” he shifts, turning his back, “Now, do you want to get in? I find that when you twist the handle on the right, the water is warmer.”

        He waits. Panic rises, thinking Cas might leave. Worse that he can’t find it in him to ask that he stay. But then Cas settles, staring at the closed door. Dean smiles and starts the faucet.

        When the bathtub is halfway full Dean climbs in. His knees poke from up out of the water, too tall to stretch his legs. He slides in further, so the water laps at his chin and more leg is on display. Already it fogs over, a filmy layer swirling on the surface. Dean cups some of the water and splashes it on his face, all too aware of much red drips. “I’m as decent as I can be,” he calls, splashing.

        Cas sighs. “How does it feel?”

        “S’nice,” he shrugs, “Not that I get to do this often but…” Dean sees Cas walk over, grabbing at a nearby bucket. “What are you doing?”

        “Helping,” Cas says, dropping the bucket. He kneels, presenting a washcloth and a soap bar he must have pulled from below.

        “Aw, no Cas,” Dean starts, sliding into a low crouch. Braced on the edges of the bathtub. “You don’t have to –“

        “Please, Dean,” Cas whispers. Two fingers rest over his knuckles, feather light and barely there. “Let me do this for you… after what you must have gone through…”

        Dean will not break his staring contest with his navel, sure that if he glanced in Cas’s direction another episode like the one in the shower room will happen. “Fine,” he mutters, plopping back into the tub and spraying Cas with a few errant drops. “If you want, go right ahead.” His arms encircle his knees, stricken expression hidden. Sitting in the center of the bathtub, Dean never felt so small.

        Cas carries on wordlessly. Runs the soap under the faucet before turning it off. It’s filled to about a few inches from the rim, any sudden movement able to cause a good spill. Which is why Cas talks him through the steps. Like a skittish animal, provoked at the tiniest snap of a twig or rustling leaves.

        Defenseless. Unaware. Fattening itself for the lucky prey that happens across it. His lips peel back for his teeth to appear, spit dripping from them. His fingers lead him forward, nails glinting when the moonlight breaks through the foliage and hits them. One clumsy step and what sounds like a gunshot echoes in his ears. It stops. Then it sprints off. So does he, a fraction of a second later. The chase begun. He huffs, he smiles, he growls. Hungry.

        Dean hisses when the cloth rubs over a badly healed wound, reopening it. “Sorry,” Cas says, dabbing the spot again and pouring some water from a cupped hand over the skin. “I didn’t see – I’m so sorry.”

        “It’s okay, Cas.” He offers a wobbly smile, shrugging. “It’s okay.”

        Cas grimaces, Dean staring on the thin, chapped line. Better than blue spotlights running across his face. Soon his lips smooth into something more neutral, and Cas resets.

        He focuses on how the washcloth feels, Cas lathering soap across him. Doesn’t fight when he grabs Dean’s arm and holds it up, running the fabric over and leaving soap bubbles in its track. There’s a jagged cut slashed across his knuckles from a misplaced lunge. Cas, prepared, gently dabs at it. His hold is firm and touch careful.

        Too careful. Too caring. The special treatment makes his skin crawl. Dean winces again as Cas drags the washcloth along his shoulder blades and onto his other arm. “Sensitive?” Cas asks, because he notices. Add too observant, too. “Days like these make me miss my powers.”

        Dean snorts, “So you could fly on out of here without any problems?” That escapes easier than he would like. He curses under breath, sneaking a peek at Cas. Like Dean expected, Cas’s expression makes his heart sink into his stomach. “Shit, sorry…”

        “I don’t need wings to ‘fly on out of here’,” he says, “if I wanted, I could get on a plane tomorrow.” Cas finishes lathering his arm and soaps his chest. Rubs the washcloth over and over his tattoo. Its ink vibrating erratically because of his words, the possibility, and Cas’s closeness “The operative term being wanted. What I want right now is… well, I want you to not feel any pain.”

        But he should. It’s all he should feel. Dean deserves the pain. For yesterday, what he almost did. For now, what he callously said to Cas. For years and years of causing so much hurt and enjoying it and taking pride in it. He should drown in all this pain. Instead he has an angel bathing him in kindness.

        He tries every day to be better than his darkest moment. When he and Cas stared across at each other, fully ruptured. Dean throwing more dynamite into the divide until the ground crumbled beneath their feet and the landscape of their relationship was unrecognizable. After Purgatory he made a promise. His pain should remain with him, not forced into the hands of others.

        Some days they wriggle, others they slip. Dean tries every day. If only every day, he succeeded.

        Cas washes his face, leaning half over the tub so there’s barely a breath of space between them. A simple turn and their noses brush together. He cannot do more than breath, sharp puffs out his mouth. Sometimes muffled when Cas wipes at the dried blood marking the skin around it.

        It’s too much.

        “I almost killed Sam.” Cas pauses, frozen at the corner of Dean’s lips. Some of the soap drips into his mouth, and he can taste it. “Yesterday, on the hunt I… I almost killed him.”

        His brain steams ahead, thinking how Cas might wish for the plane ticket now that he knows. Imagines him dropping the washcloth into his hands and leaving without a word. Again, wiping his hands of Dean’s garbage and climbing out the hole before any more shovels in to bury him.

        Instead Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, smiling. “Tell me what happened.”

        His walls crumble immediately. Dean savors the touch while he begins his story. Cas already knew the beginning – driving into a town beset by murders, where killers left heartless bodies for the police. Rolled in with the script memorized, asking all the right questions. Found the pack’s den and attacked. “We said we got all of them,” Dean sighs, ducking his head, “but that wasn’t the whole truth.”

        The leader escaped. They only realized it when counting the bodies, battle too confusing that losing track of one werewolf in a dozen was unavoidable. Risky in their line of work, but a quick perimeter search kicked up no trace of him. Dean and Sam closed the case, driving off to the motel and licking their wounds.

        “I was careless, or… or I don’t know, didn’t think much of it but…” Dean holds his arm up and looks at it. There’s no mark on the skin, but he traces the bite from memory. “Got me when I wasn’t looking. By the time I knew what was happening it was like I… like something had come over me. I heard howling and I tore off after it. Sam coming back to an empty motel room with a broken lock.”

        If he stays too long in his memories, he will lose himself in them again. Racing through the woods with newfound agility and grace. Jumping, launching himself over fallen trees and boulders. What it felt like ripping apart the first woodland creature he crossed paths with. The soapy taste in his mouth turns sour.

        “The leader was crazy… had this whole philosophy that I believed because he said it and all I could think was how much I trusted him. Thinking was too difficult while all fanged out and slobbering and – and so when he said to trust my ‘instincts’ I… I bared my neck. His instincts were my instincts. By that point Sammy snuck in, and – well protect is a pretty strong instinct.”

        Sam plead, rallying all his strength so Dean’s claws wouldn’t eviscerate him. Dean straddled his brother, raging. Spat on him while gnawing for his neck. The last werewolf cheering Dean on. “Free yourself of your human burdens and join me in total freedom!” he sang, “Eat of his heart and you will be mine forever!”

        “You don’t want this Dean,” Sam said, struggling. The syringe nearby looking damaged but not completely broken. “I know you. Fight him!”

        Dean growled, “Want… want free… want blood!”

        Sam sneered, tightening his grip on Dean’s wrists. He shifted and kicked Dean off. Dean flipped, landing on his back. They both scrambled upright, not wasting any time. With misguided fury Dean pounced for Sam, his brother twisting at the right second. Their fight continued in that fashion. Sam dodging Dean’s attacks, the latter growing more frustrated and sloppier.

        Exactly what Sam planned.

        Dean dove and smacked into a wall, knocking the breath from him. Stunned, Sam dove for his belt and slipped it over some exposed pipe. Not knowing any better, lost within the wolf, Dean struggled helplessly until brute strength won.

        By the time Dean ripped the pipe from the wall Sam killed his sire. Injected Dean with the cure when he scurried towards the corpse and mourned. When all traces of his bite left Dean’s system, he mourned again. Sam standing overhead, watching, unable to lay a hand on his shoulder lest Dean bite at it in his familiar defensiveness.

        “So Sam is fine?”

        He bristles at the placid tone. Unbothered. Like Dean mentioned some off-hand piece of gossip that he happened across while scrolling through his phone. “Yeah,” Dean says harshly, “but I… I almost did him in. Nearly ate his heart before skipping off with some werewolf Charles Manson to start another werewolf cult and...”

        Cas raises a brow. “And?”

        Processing the events aloud help him realize how wildly he overreacted. How Sam clearly held no anger towards him for being on the menu. How there’s no reason for the inky sadness clinging to his heart and soul that makes him feel bad.

        Except it’s there, and having no reason makes it even worse.

        “And…” he fumbles, “And I think I’m getting too old for this.” Dean huffs, sinking against the bathtub while Cas continues petting him. “I’ve been doing this for what? Nearly forty years? That was how it’s going to end… Because I let that werewolf creep bite me and nearly turn me into his slave? Kind of makes everything I said about free will look like I pulled it from my ass.”

        Cas chuckles, laying the washcloth on the porcelain rim. He pulls back, laying both arms along the edge and resting on it. Smirking, “No one will call you a hypocrite because you were under the influence of a werewolf bite.”

        “Yeah, but…” Dean sighs, “I’m supposed to be better than this.”

        “If I’ve learned anything from my time on Earth – from you – is that sometimes we have our off days,” Cas says, “We have to forgive ourselves for them.”

        “Maybe if I tripped and scratched Baby’s paint or-or took a risk on some leftovers I don’t remember, sure,” he scoffs, “but when it comes to hunts… an off day can easily become my last day. Hunters don’t get off days. Heroes don’t… don’t…” He digs his nails into his knee, willing away the waterfall hovering around the edges of his eyes.

        “Well, as true as that is, the fact you were able to see the sun rise means yesterday definitely wasn’t your last day.” The faint traces of humor in his tone barely lifts the corners of Dean’s mouth. Cas sighs. A few droplets splashing at Dean’s exposed leg, his hand now gently splashing the water. “I stand by what I said. Yes, you could’ve been more observant during your battle. And more conscious of your injuries. Then neither you nor Sam would still carry what should have been a simple hunt on your shoulders.” Mentioning it makes his shoulders sag further. “But then again, I could be beating myself for staying here watching Netflix while you and Sam got your hands dirty –“

        “You kidding, Cas?” Dean bursts in, brows furrowed, “The Hell should you feel bad for?”

        “A third set of eyes could’ve seen the werewolf escape – or stop him before he did… make sure you were checked over for serious injuries…” His fingers circle lazily, Cas’s mouth tugged down in a way that unsettles Dean’s stomach.

        Dean sits straighter, glaring at the other man. “You needed the rest, Cas. After that ghoul tore your back up something fierce in Missoula? Even if you knew you could do something, I’d still have kept you –“ The tirade cuts short, Cas’s prideful smirk stealing the words from him. He sinks into the water, so low that water hides his burning cheeks. Adjusts by fully removing his legs from the bathtub, bracing his feet on the wall. Faucet between them.

        Cas chuckles, rustling Dean’s hair. “See. Hindsight is only good for the future, to learn from our mistakes. Time is better spent in the present. Accepting that you did the best you could and… glad there are people who care about you, who will do anything to see you feel better.”

        Dean looks up at Cas, the overhead bulb shining. Mimicking the effect of a halo. He lifts his chin enough to free his mouth. “I don’t know how you can put up with my stubborn ass.” I don’t know why I deserve you.

        “I recall you calling my ass stubborn many times.” I don’t deserve you.

        They always end up circling the drain. Never quite going in, a piece of hair clogging the passage. Right now, with Cas petting Dean’s hair and gazing into his eyes, Dean exposed under him in more ways than one, it cannot get any more tender. It’s still not enough.

        At the top of the peak, you can only go off. They never jump.

        Dean knew his reasons. When it felt like they could, there was never enough time. Something more pressing to deal with, a battle to fight. Always promising that when the moment was right, Dean would do something. But then when those moments came Dean and Cas were never there for them. Kept apart by circumstance, by death, by each other. Compelling. Dramatic. Completely frustrating.

        But then Chuck vanished, he and Amara – light and darkness, creation and destruction – becoming one. Becoming entirely new. Blinked off into somewhere that Dean doesn’t care knowing about. As long as, on their way out, they cut the strings hanging over their heads.

        It seemed like it. Life went on, as normal. Monsters needed hunting and beer needed drinking. Except there wasn’t anything more.

        Hell stayed relatively calm with Rowena reorganizing it. Jack, seated on the throne of Heaven, brought a righteous humanity in his leadership. Even Billie took a holiday.

        When the dust settled, Dean was ready for Cas to be on his way, too. One was offered.

        “Are you sure?” Jack asked, eyes still aglow. Hand raised inches from Cas’s bloodied head. “I can give it all back to you. Give you more… you’d be the most powerful angel in my new Heaven. You can help me make it even better than it was.”

        “Thank you, but… I think it’s time you left the nest, Jack,” Cas smiled, stepping back from him. “Heaven is in capable hands because they’re yours… I… we trust that you can do this without us.”

        Jack nodded, light snuffed. He dove into Cas’s arms, then, hugging him. Then Sam, and finally Dean. “I’ll visit when I can,” he promised, trying not to cry.

        Dean coughed, swiping a finger under his eye. “Soon!” he barked, “I don’t want to see you when I’m eighty!” Their laughter was bittersweet. Fully bitter when Jack disappeared with a flap.

        Sam scuffed the ground, turning. “So,” he said, “what do we do now?” He scanned the area, Dean tracking the same space alongside him. At the scorched earth, barely recognizable from when they arrived. Green drained away and left lifeless, with a few serious scorch marks in certain areas. Like the one near a cracked mausoleum, where Chuck threw Cas. Where he held him by the neck and spit serious venom. Where he drained the little angel grace he had left and made him human again.

        Cas clears his throat, drawing their attention. “After a shower and a change of clothes,” he said, “I think some sort of celebration. At home.”

        Dean’s heart skipped over itself. “Home,” he repeated, “Yeah, I like that.”

        Cas chose and chose again, and his choice never wavered. It was Earth. It was humanity. It was him, and it was home.

        “Why are you staring at me like that?” Cas asks, frowning, “what are you thinking?”

        Dean rises somewhat. “I love you.” He would rather he weren’t naked, nor shaken from a hunt. And a forgotten supply closet with a dirty bathtub in it is hardly the number one place for a confession. But waiting for perfection screwed him over so many times.

        “Oh,” Cas relaxes against the bathtub, sinking his hand back into the water, “is that all?”

        Or maybe he should have kept waiting. Dean pouts, “I love you.”

        “I know. You’re repeating yourself.”

        “No, like…” he drags a wet hand over his face, “I love you. Like, I love you love you.”

        Cas chuckles, light and carefree. Lines around his eyes crinkling in delight. “I know, Dean. I know.”

        Dean gapes, chin slapping the surface of his bath. “You have?” Spurred into action by Cas’s growing laughter, Dean sinks his legs into the tub and sits up again. “For real?” The other man nods. “How long?”

        Cas shrugs, “Awhile.”

        “Why didn’t you say anything?”

        Joy retreats from Cas’s expression, leaving him somewhat guarded. He breaks with Dean’s stare. His hand glides through water and finds Dean’s leg. Strokes it. “I thought nothing needed to be said.”

        Dean raises a brow, clicking his tongue. “So you were happy with…”

        “I was content.”

        He frowns, courage leaping up inside his chest and banishing the lingering traces of sadness and self-pity clinging inside his chest. “Well, I wasn’t,” Dean says. Waits for Cas to look at him again. “Do you know how many times we sat together and I wanted to hold your hand, but didn’t? Roll over on my bed and wake up next to you only to remember that you were down the hall? Sit in a diner and-and when the waitress came by I could say, ‘I’ll have this and my boyfriend will have that’ but was only able to order for myself? I won’t even mention the amount of times I wanted to kiss you because at this point I’ve lost count…”

        Cas squeezes Dean’s thigh, lips stretched wide in a tight grin. “You want all of that?”

        “And more. A hell of a lot more.”

        “Then… late is better than never, I suppose.”

        Dean blinks, “What?”

        He resumes stroking his leg, smiling so openly all his teeth are on display. “I’m saying,” he continues, “that if you want to do all that, I find myself being… amenable. We can even start now.”

        “Are you sure?” Dean asks, too experienced with his luck that he knows he needs more. “Is this what you want? You said you were –“

        “Content,” he says, “But not happy. Doing all of what you described – and more – will make me very happy.”

        Dean smiles, “Really?”

        “Ecstatic.” It’s so deadpan, so blasé, and completely incongruent with the mood of the room that Dean cannot stop the snort escaping from his lips. Followed by hiccupped giggles and, finally, laughter that echoes in the tiny space. Joined by Cas, their voices swell to fill the room. Until Dean snatches Cas’s collar with his wet fist and drags him in for a kiss. Closes his eyes and savors the taste of the other man, taking note of every sensation he guessed right and scribbling over what he got wrong with the parts he never could have imagined.

        In the midst of their makeout session, when Cas presses their foreheads together and laughs about not needing a shower after all. Because Dean hauled him into the bathtub with him despite protests, water leaking onto the floor. When he can, without guilt, lose himself in Cas’s eyes, Dean remembers the werewolf from yesterday. Remembers what he thought freedom meant, and how the monster hadn’t the first clue what it actually was.

        Freedom is not power. Freedom is being yourself. Freedom is the ability to show others the deepest parts of yourself and have them stay and love you for it. Freedom is acceptance.

        Freedom is the way Cas’s fingers scratch at the nape of his neck. Freedom is Cas pressing lazy kisses against his cheek. Freedom is the way their feet knock into each other on the edge of the porcelain bathtub.

        Dean, for the first time in his life, feels free.

Epilogue:

        Midnight is a terrible hour to crave bacon. Time cannot stop Dean’s watering mouth or his growling stomach. He disentangled himself from Cas and blindly pieced together an outfit that, in the hallway’s clinical lighting, included his cowboy pajama bottoms, Cas’s dried shirt, and his robe. Dean shrugs and carries on his way towards the kitchen, hoping for a quick trip.

        Seeing Sam hunched over at the table crushes that idea. He perks up at Dean’s entrance, faltering. Rises for a second before thinking better, instead fiddling with his coffee mug. “Dean.”

        “…Sam.” Unsure, Dean’s own hands run rampant. Closes the robe and hides Cas’s shirt, tying a neat, little bow and securing it tighter. Then he unravels it and lets the robe swing open like curtains. “What’re you doing up?”

        He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep anymore. You?”

        “Hungry.” Dean winces, the image of Sam struggling underneath him flashing into view. It fades almost as instantly as it arrived, replaced with a more annoyed looking brother. Mouth pulled taut like a bowstring, aimed and ready. Dean glances at the mug for safety. “You make enough for the class?”

        “Check the pot.”

        Shuffling over he sees more than enough coffee inside for him. So, he pulls out two mugs and prepares them. Three teaspoons of sugar in one, four tablespoons in the other. A dash of milk on the left, because Cas thinks it muddies the taste of the coffee. “Thanks.”

        “Dean…”

        His tone draws a quiet sigh from Dean. Settles the hunger that dominated his stomach and replaces it with a slight nausea. “Sam,” he says, “can you not…”

        “We need to talk about it,” Sam continues, “Please, Dean, I –“

        “We will.”

        Sam pauses, stunned. Dean turns around and tamps down the laugh bubbling up. Hard given how rare Sam’s jaw drops so far. In the blink of an eye Sam shakes his surprise off. “What?”

        “We will,” Dean repeats, leaning on the counter, “I promise. I just… I’m not ready, yet.”

        It’s not the best answer. Sam doubts him, evident by the gleam in his eye. And the follow up, “Are you ever gonna be ready?”

        His eyes never strayed from Dean’s face. If he dropped his gaze a few inches Sam would see Cas’s shirt. But he didn’t. Dean can rewrap the robe and pretend it’s not on him.

        Except Dean hadn’t the urge. Instead he draws attention to it, rubbing the hem between his fingers. “Hopefully soon… Cas and I had a good talk and – and well, maybe in the morning I might be okay enough that we can sit and talk about it, or whatever…”

        Sam finally looks at his shirt. Then at Dean with a subtle awe. He braces for an onslaught of feelings, exactly what Dean tried avoiding. Why he thought using Cas as a distraction from talking about those was a moment of delirium. Dean sips at his mug, hiding ruddy cheeks behind the rim.

        Thankfully Sam says nothing. Instead mirroring his sip. “Okay.”

        “Okay?”

        “Okay.”

        Dean nods, drumming his fingers on the counter. There’s kindness in how Sam offers the escape tunnel, even though so much is brewing under the surface. A rarity that Dean never expected. He should take it.

        But there’s more. Dean figures ripping the band-aid off all at once is better than peeling it and feeling every single hair torn from his arm.

        “I think I’m gonna stop hunting,” he says. Sam spits a mouthful of coffee into his mug, choking. “For a while,” Dean quickly explains, “Like, maybe a few months?”

        Coughing, Sam wipes at his lips. “Is this because of the werewolf hunt?”

        “Yes?” Dean says, “No – I mean… Look, it’s not because I’m too scared to get back into the game because of what happened but I am kind of… skittish?” He frowns, staring at the light brown pool in his hands. “Like I’m running on empty and… and I don’t think I have enough in the tank. That’s what happened yesterday, but thank God there was a little more in yours to get me to the next rest stop! Who knows what might happen on the next one so I… I’m making the adult decision and taking myself out of the game before the big loss.” Dean gulps at his coffee, throat suddenly dry. “But not forever,” he adds, “Long enough to sort things out… do the stuff we said we were gonna do when the Chuck mess ended. Maybe go on a road trip or, ah… give Cas a proper first date –“

        “First date?” Sam croaks, a tiny snort escaping, “Think you two’ve past that by a few years. Third honeymoon, maybe.”

        Dean rolls his eyes. “Yuck it up… but I’m not the only one who can use this opportunity to focus on important things… things that you’ve been neglecting… when’s the last time you and Eileen had any quality time together?” Sam answers with a blush. “Thought so… at least I’ve had two honeymoons, or so you think.”

        “Shut up,” Sam huffs, drinking his coffee again. His gaze drifts from Dean over to the door, and the fluster drains off his face. Replaced with a more gleeful expression, lips curling. “Hey Cas,” he sings, “how’s it going?”

        Dean accepts all the awkward energy Sam shed. His grip on the coffee mug falters when he sees Cas. Dressed in a stolen pair of sweatpants and nothing else. “Sam, Dean,” he yawns, shuffling closer. Cas squints at the untouched mug on the counter, “Is this for me?”

        “Yeah,” Dean says, handing it over, “just the way you like.” Cas purrs, kissing Dean’s cheek before sipping. Sam's chuckles accompany his approval. “It wasn’t too much of a problem…”

        “So, Cas,” Sam starts, “what got you out of bed?”

        Cas scratches his head and presses against Dean. Slides an arm around Dean’s waist. “Pee,” he says, “and then I noticed Dean wasn’t there so…” If Cas didn’t drive the point home clear enough Dean would worry after his brother’s intelligence. He feels Cas’s chin rest on his shoulder. “Why did you get up?”

      �� Dean gestures at the stove. “Hungry.”

        “Hmm… I can eat.” Cas taps on Dean’s stomach, pushing off. He moves and joins Sam at the table. “Whatever you were going to make yourself, make double?”

        “Triple?” Sam adds, “All this talk of food is making me hungry.”

        “Yeah, yeah…” Dean flicks the stove on, dropping the pan on the active burner. His hunger returned, aided by the easy conversation flowing between the three. Cas settles across from Sam asking a question about something he read. The conversation quickly devolves into nerd speak, Dean throwing quips in every few seconds.

        He lays a strip of bacon down, and then another one. And another one. Greases a second pan and cracks an egg on the surface, tossing one half of the shell at Sam and the next half at Cas. They retaliate by pelting him when he retreats to the refrigerator for more bacon. Dean doesn’t care that they hit, nor that he steps on one and has to spend time between the eggs frying and the bacon cooking to pick pieces of eggshell off his heel. What he cares about sits giggling at the table, watching while he cleans.

        Dean is happy.

[saxxxology]

For Everyone to See

Sam’s bored, and you’re his only source of entertainment.

PAIRING: Soulless!Sam x Reader

WORD COUNT: 3,300

WARNINGS: smut, rough sex, public sex, creampie, dom/sub themes

NOTE: Edited by me - please heed the warnings and enjoy! This is a rewrite of an old fic that was deleted after the Tumblr purge, just in case any of you think it looks familiar. 

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It’s late on a Saturday night, and so far all you’ve done is lie in bed and read the same book for the third time that month. Dean’s abandoned you in search of someone to spend the Memorial Day weekend with, leaving you alone. 

You don’t really care about where Sam is at this point. The soulless beast—yes, you call him a beast—is nowhere to be found, and you don’t really feel like texting or calling to find out where he is. He doesn’t answer anyway, or if he does, he’s rude and snarky to the point where you wanna just punch him in the face. There’s already enough negativity in your life, you don’t need the man you love being rough with you like that.

You’re halfway through the second chapter when a shadow crosses the long window across from the bed, and you freeze automatically when three sharp bangs on the door (evidently whoever it is likes to use their fist instead of their knuckles).

Rising silently from the bed, you grab your knife from where it rests on the small nightstand and pace towards the door. Adrenaline heightens your senses, and the previously soft carpet feels razor-sharp under your bare feet. You lean in, knife at the ready, and glance through the peephole.

Goddamn it.

Sam’s standing on the other side, eyes fixed on the peephole. It’s creepy, almost like he knows you’re on the other side watching him. Like he knows you’re going to open the door because it’s him, and it’s very rare that you say no to letting him in.

But there’s a safer approach.

“What do you want?” You ask, lowering your knife. Your tone is almost bored, but you do that on purpose. Sam likes to find every little thing a person does and use it against them and you’re not going to let him do it to you.

“I’m bored.” Sam’s voice echoes through the door and the coldness in it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Then…” Your words get all caught up in your throat and you swallow to clear the way, “find a way to entertain yourself.” 

He exhales impatiently on the other side of the door, and you try not to let your heart take over your head. “Come out for a drink with me.” He sounds like he’s begging you, trying to make you feel bad.

Asshole.

“I’m…” you look down at your black panties and cutoff shirt, “I’m not dressed for going out. And it’s late.”

“So?” Sam scoffs. “C’mon, get dressed and come out of that room for a couple hours. You’ve been in there all day. I promise drinks are on me.”

You sigh and, kicking yourself for it, you give in. “All right…just wait, I’ll be out in a second.”

Sam leans against the post outside on the door, a triumphant smirk on his face. You scoff and go to your luggage bag, careful to select a good skater skirt and a low-cut tank top. It’s warm and humid outside—jeans are only going to be uncomfortable, plus you figure since Sam’s dragging you outside, he’s going to have to make up for it.

Sam straightens up and eyes you as you close the door and slip the room key into the zipper pocket of your skirt. “Nice.”

“Shut up, it’s warm out here.” You start walking down the pathway, and within seconds, he’s right beside you, almost too close. “Where is this place?”

“Just down the block.” Sam reaches down to take your hand, and you pull yours away.

“Don’t hold my hand.” You look up at him as you start crossing the parking lot. Sam looks back, and his cold, dark eyes are almost sad. “What? Don’t look at me like that.”

Sam doesn’t respond, but instead tightens his jaw and leads you across the street. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and remains silent the rest of the way. When you reach the bar, he opens the door for you to walk past, and you make a point of not looking at him as you pass.

At the bar, Sam orders you both whiskey shots. You don’t object because Sam always manages to order you exactly what you need. As soon as the bartender clinks the glasses down on the bar, you promptly lift yours to your lips and down it in one go. The liquid burns the back of your throat, but you don’t care.

Next to you, Sam tips his own drink back before turning on the barstool to look at you. His eyes are empty again, no hint of emotion behind the darkened iris. “So.”

“So, what?” You don’t turn to look at him as you raise your hand, calling the bartender for another.

“You’re upset.” Sam holds up two fingers as the bartender approaches, not tearing his attention away from you.  

You drag your tongue over your teeth and shake your head. “I’m not upset.”

“Then what’s goin’ on?” Sam asks, and you swirl the two cubes of ice in the glass and raise it to your mouth. Sam catches your wrist before the liquid touches your lips, and you tighten your jaw in annoyance. The contact of skin-on-skin is what you’ve been trying to avoid because right now all you want is Sam to push you against the bar and fuck the hell out of you in front of everyone.

“Sam, I swear­—”

“What?” Sam doesn’t release your wrist, but he leaves his fingers on the inside of your wrist, as if he’s feeling your pulse. “You have to tell me.”

You pull your arm away from his fingers and down the whiskey. This time, he doesn’t stop you. “Leave me alone. Go find a girl or something.”

“That’s the thing.” Sam’s lips twitches into a cocky smile and he tilts his head back, allowing his drink to slide down his throat. You watch his Adam’s apple bob out of the corner of your eye and hold back a breath of arousal. “I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m with you.” Sam sets his glass on the bar. “You’re better.”

“How would you know?” You scoff and order a third drink. “You don’t even remember fucking me.”

This was true. You and Sam had been more than friends when he’d jumped into the Cage with Lucifer, and it had taken you a long time to recuperate. You haven’t been with anyone since because you loved him so much, and now… now it’s just hard to imagine ever being with him again. When he had ‘died’ a part of you had died too. Sam’s body might be back, but as long as he isn’t your Sam, that part of you will never come back. 

He scares the crap out of you, though. Every time you consider asking him for sex, multiple questions run through your mind. Will he hear consent? Will he be gentle? Will he stay after or just get up and leave? Will he brag about it to Dean and embarrass you?

“Oh, that’s not really true.” Sam smirks at you and hold out his hand just as a new song comes on. “Come on. Dance with me.”

“I’ll pass.”

Sam stands and moves to stand behind you. His hands run down your back and you’re torn between stiffening up and relaxing into him. “Come and dance with me. I’m gonna show you what I remember about bein’ with you.”

You sigh and stand up, only because you know Sam won’t let up until you give in. He follows you to the dance floor and sweeps his hands over your hips. The two of you settle into a steady, grinding rhythm that follows the music almost perfectly. Sam’s body is hot and hard against yours, and one hand trails over your hipbone as the other grips your upper arm. Both hands work together to hold you tight against him, and you’ll be lying if you say the grind of his body against yours isn’t turning you on…

“I remember doin’ this with you,” Sam’s words are low whispers in your ear, but somehow you manage to block out the heavy dance music and focus on the low, husky timbre of his voice. “I think it was… two years ago? Yeah, two years ago, in November. You wore these tight jeans and a black top… hot as hell.” His hands travel up your body, and you close your eyes at the feeling of those long, beautiful fingers creeping over the fabric of your top.

“Anything else you remember?”

Sam chuckles into the crook of your neck and nips at your earlobe. “Yeah, you had these high heels that made you a little taller. Made it easier for me to kiss you… and fuck you.”

You remember too. It’s one of the better memories from a time when Sam genuinely, fully, loved you… would die for you…

Maybe being with him while he’s like this won’t be so bad. His body’s still the same, it’s just the part of him that makes him your Sam that’s gone and it doesn’t have to mean anything, right? You’re working to get his soul back, and until you do… maybe he won’t remember anything you do together. No point in making it special. No candles or roses or your favorite perfume. Just a simple, short fuck, and if you can come up with a good excuse after, you can slip away.

“Sam.” You tilt your head to the side, and your lips brush against Sam’s freshly shaven jaw. You’re going to explode if you don’t have him.

“Hmm?” He breathes in, and you can feel his chest expanding against your back as his fingers press into your skin.

“Let’s get out of here.” You grip the hand that is pressed against your hip and hear him growl against your back. Then he’s pulling you off the dance floor and you’re outside before you know it. You’re almost running after Sam as he grips your hand tightly in his. He turns down an alleyway and has you behind an overflowing dumpster before you know it, and almost immediately his lips are on yours. The kiss is hot and wet and almost too hard, but you let Sam take the lead, opening your mouth for him so he can kiss you even deeper.

“Good choice.” Sam whispers against your jaw. He traces his hands from your shoulders all the way to the curve of your ass, and he groans when your hands fly to his belt buckle.

“Sam…” you can barely say his name before his mouth is on yours again.

“I know, baby, I know.” He grinds his hips against yours. “Want me?”

“S-so bad.”

Then it hits you. You’re out in public, where anyone can see you.

Sam feels you tense and grins against your lips. “You like this? Bein’ out where anyone can walk by and see us?”

You feel adrenaline sweep through your entire body and before you can speak, you nod. It is kinda hot…

“I like it too.” Sam cups your ass through your skirt and reaches down between your shaking thighs, feeling the soaked cotton between them. His breath hitches and he groans against your mouth. “Shit, is this all for me?”

You nod and he increases the pressure of his fingers, holds you hard against the wall with his body as he rubs you through the thin cloth. His other hand yanks your tank top up over your breasts and palms a swell of soft, warm flesh. “I remember how much you like havin’ these sucked on. Makes you so damn wet.”

With that, he bends down slightly and you’re glad you decided to not wear a padded bra because Sam’s tongue feels… oh, so good. You push your hips further into his hands and Sam gladly rubs his fingers against you harder as waves of wet heat swirl between your thighs.

But it isn’t enough. You need more, so much more.

Sam seems to pick up on your desperation and without warning; he kneels and lifts your skirt up over your thighs. He doesn’t bother pulling your panties aside; instead, he just buries his mouth between your thighs and groans at the taste of you. He pulls one leg over his shoulder and nudges the fabric of your panties to the side with his nose before setting his tongue on you.

He’s always been good at eating pussy. You know that for sure, and this time is no different. He licks a broad stripe through your folds and wraps both his arms around your hips as he shakes his head from side to side.

Pleasure rockets through you and you bite back a moan when Sam swirls his tongue over your clit. One of your hands finds his hair and tangles in the thick, silky locks. He sighs deeply, the sound turning into a low growl of desperation.

White hot, prickling heat boils in your lower belly, and Sam tilts the angel of your hips to shove his tongue up into your pussy. You gasp loudly as he starts tonguing you, licking in and out with your clit pressed under his nose. He’s not hesitating on trying to get you to cum as fast and hard as he can make you. 

You tangle your fingers tighter in his hair and open your mouth as you cum on his tongue. Sam eases you through it, sucking your clit between his lips. He stares up at you, those empty, terrifying eyes fixed on your face as you try—and fail, almost horribly—to roll your hips and pull away from him. He refuses to let you go until you’ve come down from your high, and when he finally releases you and stands, he doesn’t hesitate to rub himself between your spread legs.

“I’ve missed you cumming on my tongue like that,” he whispers, and his chest heaves as your wet heat reaches him through the thick cloth.

You can’t even think of a reply as you tug the thick leather strap of his belt open. Sam doesn’t stop you as you tug the denim down and gather his erection in one hand, and he stiffens as you wrap your hand around him. 

Without warning, he cages you in against the wall, lifts one of your legs up, and angles his cock at your entrance. “Think you can take me here, baby? Out here, in the alleyway where everyone and anyone can see? Wanna put on a little show?”

You bite your lip and nod obediently. Sam grins down at you as he grips your hips tightly with both hands. He doesn’t even bother looking around as he pulls his hips back, lifts you up until your right foot is barely touching the ground, and then moves up, entering you halfway in one long, single roll of those glorious hips.

“Fuck, baby,” He breathes into the crook of your neck and pulls back, thrusting back up inside you with a choked groan.

“Sam,” You gasp his name as the head of his length rolls over your sweet spot. “Stop talking… just fuck me.”

In response, Sam hooks his arms under your legs and lifts you right up off the ground. Your back scratches roughly against the cold brick wall of the alley, but you lose the will to care as Sam starts pounding into you. He emits short grunts and moans of pleasure against the crook of your neck, and you have no choice but to wrap your arms around his neck and hold on for dear life. 

“Ah…yes, yes, Sam…!” You have to bite your lip to keep from screaming his name for the whole block to hear. Sam responds by nipping roughly at your jawline and holding you completely still—well, as still as he can when he’s fucking so hard into you that you think he might just take the wall of the alley down. With a gasping cry, you tip your head forward and sob into his jacket as another explosive orgasm comes out of nowhere.

Sam groans louder as your release streams down his cock, soaking the fabric of his jeans and his boxers. He waits until you’ve gone limp before pulling out, setting you down, and spinning you around. Your cheek meets the cold brick wall, and Sam roughly kicks your legs apart as he lines up and thrusts back in.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby,” Sam grunts as his cock twitches. “Gonna cum inside you.”

You gasp as he coaxes more slick from your wrecked pussy. It streams down your thighs, and you almost want to burst into tears from the burning pleasure between your legs. He hasn’t even touched your clit and you’re already a dripping mess. “Please, Sam…”

Sam rocks his hips slowly and slides one hand up your bank until he’s gripping the hair at the base of your neck. “Want me to cum inside you?” he asks, his voice a breathy husk against the shell of your ear. “Out here in public? Gonna show everyone how you look with cum dripping outta your cunt?”

“Yes!” You choke on a sob as he grips you tighter, thrusts just a little harder. You don’t know if you’ve had orgasms one after another or if he’s just kept you cumming this entire time—you’re still dripping off his balls and onto the pavement below. 

Sam’s hips stutter, and then he’s cumming, pumping hot and wet inside you. His teeth scrape your shoulder, and then it’s over, hard and fast enough to leave his head spinning just a little. 

“Holy shit.” He pulls out, wincing, and watches as you press your thighs together, trying to rearrange your ruined panties before his load drips down your wet thighs. Quickly, he tucks himself back in his jeans and fixes his clothing. “C’mon. let’s get back to the motel.”

The two of you start walking back, Sam with his usual long, purposeful stride, you with some difficulty, but you are surprisingly able to keep up with him. He chuckles when you stumble in the parking lot, a look of mixed arousal and dread on your face as a small stream of cum escapes past the barrier of your panties and creates a white line on your skin. 

“How does it feel?” he asks when you’re safely back in the motel room. 

You take a few seconds before responding. “Hot… wet… I can feel it dripping from my pussy.”

His eyes darken. “Strip. Bend over the bed.”

You obediently take off your clothes, leaving your sneakers on as you drop your panties to the ground. Turning away from him, you lean over, arching your back and spreading your legs slightly. Sam hums with approval as he steps over, using his thumb and forefinger to spread the sticky lips of your pussy. A white swell blurts from your hole and drips down over your folds, sliding down to join the rest in the stream on your thigh, and he feels his cock twitch with interest. 

“That’s beautiful,” he says, pulling his hand away and allowing you to straighten up. “Mind if I keep you this way for the next few days?”

You shiver at the idea of being filled with him over and over again. If he keeps fucking like he just has, you know you’re in for an extra fun weekend. “Yes,” you murmur, “keep me filled up with your cum, Sam.”

He chuckles, running his palm up over your ass before landing a sharp THWACK! on your tender skin. “Thatta girl,” he praises. “Let’s clean up and get you something to eat. You’re gonna need your strength.”

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[zztophat]

｢ The Purge ｣

SUMMARY: Dean find Zatanna at the Masquerade after all hell breaks loose and asks her to perform a spell that casts a protective, no ghosts barrier around Lux. TRIGGERS: Gore, Violence Mentions, Death Mentions WRITTEN WITH: @ofwaywardsons

ZATANNA: She swung one of the emergency fire axes at a ghost. It was wrought iron and made the ghost in front of Zatanna disappear on contact. Unfortunately, she swung it too hard and it stuck to the wood pole of the photo booth. "Honestly," she muttered angrily to herself as she tried to pull the axe out. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned sharply, a defensive blast spell already dancing on her tongue, but then she saw it was Dean. "Jesus Christ," she lowered her defenses and took a moment to run a visual check on him. He was covered in blood and carrying around a mound of salt and a human heart. "Did you...get roped into a satanic ritual or something? Where is all of this blood coming from?”

DEAN: It was pretty easy to find Zatanna. Tiny as she was, she was fucking fierce. He caught sight of her down by the photo booth just as she swung an axe into a ghost like a fucking viking. It reminded him of why he tried to avoid getting on her bad side. To her misfortune, the axe stuck to a wooden post. He approached her as she tried to pull it out; Dean imagined he probably looked like shit. "Sorry, sweetheart." He pulled the axe out of the wooden post with his freehand. "Surprisingly the dumbass rituals weren't my doing this time. Imagine that." He saw a ghost approaching them from behind Zatanna. "On my count, you're gonna wanna duck." He handed her the heart and took the axe with both hands. "Now!" as she ducked out of the way, he took a swing at the ghost. The axe sliced right through it and it disappeared like mist. He turned to look at the magician. "If we're keeping score, that was like my tenth tonight."

ZATANNA: She made a face when he handed her the heart. Gross. "Aw, you really shouldn't have. Valentines day is still so far away," she replied weakly. This was the worst game of hot potato. She ducked when he ordered her to, watching as he swung the axe and cut through one of the ghosts. "Ah, ten, that's nice," she grinned. "I lost count somewhere at 30. Magic and all that." She was reserving her chaos for now in case a higher level magic was needed to resolve this. That's why she picked up the axe to begin with. "Trade you." Before he could protest, she took the axe from him and gave him the heart. "You got any idea what's going on?" she asked. She could make some educated guesses, but given the fact that hearts were required for a variety of magical spells and Dean had sought her out specifically, she gathered that he knew what happened. "Who's blood are you wearing?" she asked. "Don't tell me it belongs to the guy who owns the heart."

DEAN: "What can I say? A gentleman always plans ahead," he chuckled before frowning. Thirty. Of course she had 30. She had magic on her side. The playing ground was just unfair and the game was rigged. "Show off." He was just about to open his mouth to protest but she handed him the heart anyway. "Someone stole Death's Scythe," he explained. "Without it, the veil is falling apart and ghosts are leaking into this world." He said it as if this was par for the course in his life because it was. He'd gone through something like this before in his universe. "No, the blood is Charlie's. Reapers are tied to the veil and with it falling, she's dying again." Not just dying, she was relieving the exact way she died the first time. "She and Sam took Cupid and Belphegor to get the scythe. In the mean time, you and I have a spell to perform." He handed the heart back to her as he took the axe. "You're gonna need that," he grinned. Was he enjoying this? Okay, maybe a little. "When we went through something similar my universe, Belphegor - not this Belphegor but another - gave us a spell that created a parameter around the city the ghosts couldn't break through. Kind of like a massive salt circle. New York City's too big for the spell to encompass the whole city, but we can at least create a safe parameter around this club. You up for it, spirit fingers?"

ZATANNA: She rolled her eyes at him, but the grin remained. "Death's Scythe, now that's ballsy." Zatanna generally didn't play with necromancy. That kind of magic had serious consequences and repercussions. She frowned when he mentioned the blood was Charlie's. Zatanna tried to maintain a neutral face when he told her Sam had taken Belphegor with him. For Fucks Sake. Bells was a time bomb and she wasn't sure Sam was aware of that. Would Charlie have told him about the void? Clearly not if he opted to take Bells on this mission. Belphegor was likely at their most vunerable tonight with their friend's life on the line. They could very well lose it and New York would be turned into another Grand Canyon. Zatanna swallowed hard and focused her attention back to Dean. A spell. Right, a spell. She could do that.Focus, Zee. "I'm up for it, but call me spirit fingers again and you'll be joining the undead tonight," she warned good-naturedly. Up ahead she saw another ghosts coming their way. "You better get that axe ready again," she warned. But before either of them could take a swing at it, a black shadow in the shape of a dog side swept the ghost and began to tear into it. Hell hound. "Well, now that that ghost is occupied. What exactly does this spell need?"

DEAN: He was inclined to agree but then again, in his universe he killed Death so he really couldn't speak. He noticed Zatanna briefly freeze up at the mention of where Sam went. "What? What's with the face?" The concern in his voice was growing. He didn't like the idea of splitting up to begin with but now he was even more worried about it. "There something I need to know about, Zee?" Keeping secrets was a Winchester family trait so he wouldn't be surprised if Sam kept one or two that would've changed his mind about letting him go at this on his own. He nodded and eased into a smile when the magician told him she was up for this. "I'd rather you kill me than one of these ghosts." He nearly dropped the axe when some invisible force side swept the ghost and started gnawing into it. He could hear growling and barking enough to know what it was. Hell hounds. He felt his mouth go dry as he swallowed hard. "Right, uh," he focused back on Zatanna. "It's pretty simple. Mound of salt," he held it up. "A heart. And this spell." He handed her the journal where they'd written the spell down in case they needed it again. "Maybe you can backward magic it into being." He felt something breathing at his heel and tried not to look in that direction. As if it would matter, he couldn't see them anyway. He didn't need to to know what it was. "We better get to it before we, you know, end up dog food tonight."

ZATANNA: "Nothing, it's nothing," she tried to reassure him. "I'm just...I'm worried about him, that's all. He's gotten really close to Charlie and it looks like she's in rough shape. How's he holding up?" It was as close to an honest answer as she could give Dean right now without putting him at risk. Not to mention, she was sure if she told him about the void, he would go after Sam and then they would both end up dead. She eyed him curiously at his reaction to the hellhound. The dogs weren't likely to hurt either of them. They couldn't without having to answer to Michael. "If you can't see their form then you have nothing to worry about. You aren't dying tonight." She opened up the journal and read up on the spell. It was simple enough to perform. Either it worked and a safety barrier would be created or it didn't work and they would just go back to swinging axes and spells at as many ghosts as they could. Zatanna took the salt from Dean and poured it onto a concentrated spot on the ground before kneeling down beside it. "Do what you can to keep the ghosts out of the way. They aren't going to like this."

DEAN: He wasn't sure he believed her entirely, but the hell hound at his heels kept him from pressing further. If they got these ghosts out of the club, then these demons could take their hell hounds elsewhere for a good old fashion ghost chase. "I am too," he admitted. He was always worried about Sammy. "He's hanging on by a thread but if she dies..." he shook his head. "Look, we just can't let that happen, okay? You saw him tonight." He looked at his heels, feeling the heat of the hell hounds breath where Maze slapped his ass earlier. Was this her dog? Was she fucking with him still? "Yeah, call it bad life experience." He threw the axe over his shoulder and moved to stand behind Zatanna in order to guard her while she worked on the spell. "You got it. I should've opted for the flannel suit, really," he grinned lazily. "Might as well go full lumberjack."

ZATANNA: "Yeah, I saw him tonight," she smiled softly, remembering how Sam's entire face lit up when he was around Charlie. It hurt a little to think back on how warmly the night started and how quickly it all went to hell. "It won't happen," she assured Dean more firmly this time as she placed the heart atop the mound of salt. She looked up for a moment to see Maze periodically staring at her and Dean. It dawned on Zatanna that the hell hound keeping a parameter around them was likely Mazikeen's. Whether she was doing this for their safety or simply to put pressure on them, Zatanna didn't know. The magician placed her hands over the heart and began to recite the incantation backward. "Imina muronrefni sutirips issyba itcerrus ogifed sov artni ainifnoc inmaicniv!" She slammed her hands down on the ground with force and intent, causing a red energy to pulse from the heart and rush out in all directions. As the energy expanded, ghosts were forced out of Lux. Zatanna's own eyes began to glow a similar red color to the heart as she harnessed the spells powers and began to push the barrier further and further around the club, bringing it to encompass not only Lux but the surrounding areas. Maybe she would be able to include more of New York than they thought. As she pushed herself, she felt blood dripping from her nose onto her lips and chin. The spell was talking as much from her as she was giving, but if it meant potentially saving more lives she would take the risks. She knew (or at least thought she knew) how far she could push before she ended up one of the dead too.

DEAN: He wanted to believe that they'd be able to fix this before anyone got hurt, but she hadn't seen Sam the way he had in his universe. When the kid lost hope, it was game over. Right now, Charlie held most of his hope. Dean liked the girl, she was good for his brother. Her softness balanced out some of Sam's harsh lines. It didn't get rid of all the trauma, but it made it easier to swallow. He couldn't see the hell hound, but he no longer felt the dog at his heel. He figured it had taken a position in front of Zatanna, guarding her that way while he covered her back. Or maybe it went away entirely. Dean was okay with either option, to be honest. When the magician slammed her hand down on the ground, a title wave of red reverberated throughout the club. He could hear anguished screams as the ghosts were pushed out of the club. Dean turned to look at Zatanna when they were all gone and his face dropped. Her eyes were glowing red and blood was dropping down her nose as she pushed the spell forward. "Son of a bitch!" he dropped the axe and dropped to his knees in front of her. "Zatanna!" he cupped her face in his hands to try to break her concentration, but it was no use. She was going to get herself killed if she pushed any further. He dropped his hands over hers and the pure force of the magic expelling from her finger tips burned his hands like wild fire. He wasn't a natural conduit for these things like she was, but that didn't matter. His fingers wrapped around her hand and he pulled until he was able to physically break the connection between her hands and the earth. The magician collapsed into him and he held her for a moment as the barrier stopped and held a steady one mile ghost free parameter around Lux. "For fucks sake, Zatanna," he breathed. "I said set the parameter around Lux and only Lux. You trying to get yourself killed?"

ZATANNA: She could hear Dean calling for her but he sounded so far away. It wasn't until his hands pulled at her, breaking her connection to the earth that it all came flooding back. First came the overwhelming exhaustion and fatigue as she collapse into him. Then came the headache. It felt like her brain had its own pulse. To her surprise, the barrier held. The club was eerily quiet now as people cautiously made their way out of the woodwork. Zatanna became distinctly aware of Dean's breathing as he checked her. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease when he found she still had a pulse. "Bold of you to assume we're not already dead and in hell," she laughed, but the effort only caused the throbbing in her head to intensify. She'd burned herself to the wick tonight, but she wasn't the only one. "Your hands..." she winced. Fuck. Grabbing her in the middle of a spell like that was like trying to hold onto a shooting star. "I'm sorry."

DEAN: He chuckled at her response. He was relieved to hear she still had enough energy left to talk. "If that's the case, this might be the swankiest version of hell I've ever been to." He picked her up, wincing sightly when pain shot through his arms, but he managed to carry her over to a table and some chairs that were still standing. "Don't sweat it, I've been through worse." He ripped apart one of the table cloths and wrapped his hands. It did nothing to contain the pain, but it would at least keep the wound clean for now. "You did good tonight, but I'm gonna have to bench you for the rest of this fight. Can you hang tight here?" He needed to leave the safety of the parameter and get as many people back here as he could. "I'll send someone back here to check on you." Maybe he could send Jack out this way. He preferred if the kid stayed in the parameter anyway.

ZATANNA: "Aw, come on, coach," she laughed but even the effort of that hurt. She knew he was right. It was best she say here and recover as much of herself as she could. When she regained enough strength, she would be able to help people get back to this side of the parameter. "I'll stay here," she agreed. "Oh, and Dean," she pulled him back as if she was about to say something serious. "Watch out for the hell hound. He's on your left." The hound never left them. Up until this point he just observed. It was in that moment that it growled to let Dean know it was still there. "Careful out there, yeah?"

DEAN: He stiffened and then straightened when the hell hound growled. "I hate this place." He turned his head to the left and the growling got closer. "Yep, definitely hate this place." He grabbed the axe off the ground. "I'm always careful. Try not to die while I'm gone. I'm the last one that saw you alive and I really don't wanna answer to your angel mafia," he shuddered but a cheesy sort of smile remained on his face to let her know he was kidding. After a beat, he threw the axe over his shoulder and made his way out of the club. Maybe it was his imagination, or maybe it was just his paranoia, but he was certain he could hear the hell hounds paws hitting the ground in time to his own footsteps. It was gonna be a long night.

[queerfables]

Supernatural Post-Mortem (1x12 - 1x15)

P, N and I discuss these episodes after the fact, because I didn’t make notes while we watched them. I don’t think I actually have any major warnings for our conversation about these episodes. 

1x12 - Faith

Notes to self, as a reminder of what it was about: “Dean faith healed, reapers”

When I read these out to P & N, they both start making excited sounds and I join in because yeah, we all really loved this episode!!

N: This is when Dean nearly died saving kids, too. P&I: Is it? N: Yeah, at the beginning, when he got electrocuted! Another point for Dean is good with kids! P: A good boy!!

This is the episode where Dean’s life is saved when it’s traded for the life of the gay man.  Me: So, like, Dean was given his heart! P&N: Ohhhhhhhhh. N: Aw, Dean has a queer heart. Me: I mean, we knew that already.  N: Yes, but it’s surprisingly literal and I love it.

N says, “I think every time Dean tries to problem solve in an episode, there’s probably a simpler solution.” When he was in the tent trying to stop the faith healing from happening, he yells, fire, but he could have like ACTUALLY started a fire, which would have stopped the lady from hanging around and trying to continue killing the guy. Or he could have faked a heart attack, which might have made people doubt the whole faith healing thing. 

P&N disagree with me on this, but I personally think the subtext of the villain in this episode trying to kill Dean when she realises he’s trying to stop her is that it’s because he’s queer. She doesn’t try to kill Sam, even when he’s trying to stop her just as much - she locks him in a basement and tries to reason with him about why his brother is an abomination. (Ofc I do tend to think Sam is queer too, but maybe she hasn’t figured that out). 

I generally loved the lady who had a brain tumour in this episode. It was really powerful to set her up as, like, complicating the narrative of “We have to stop these healings from happening”. It’s not wrong but she kind of shows why it’s not that simple, there’s always a cost even to doing the right thing. She also feels like one of the first ladies Dean actually had a real connection with, their - maybe romance? maybe friendship? whatever it was - really worked for me. 

N says they loved how the reaper was super keen to kill the lady who’d been controlling him. “I mean, I would be too. I don’t wanna go around murdering queer people!” P agrees. “Right? I love queer people.” I would definitely rather murder homophobes instead. 

1x13 - Route 666

Notes to self: “Cassie, Racist Truck”

P: Oh! I loved Cassie!  N & I agree. Cassie was great. 

I actually did start making notes from this episode while we watched but I never finished them. Here’s what I had: --Dean says he was called by a friend who really wouldn't have called if it wasn't urgent. Me: "That sounds like an ex" --It's Cassie! I'm excited to meet her! --P, N & I agree Cassie is a babe and we're excited to see how Dean fucked this up

N says, “It might have been me reading too much into it but I actually thought this episode was a pretty solid commentary on race.” 

N: I really thought that, despite the entirety of supernatural handling race about as well as a greased football, this episode had a solid multiple-layer analogy for the way racism, historically and currently, expresses itself across communities and generations. the analogy goes as far as making it clear that the instigating incident that prompts the angry, racist resurgence is done by a white dude, but that he is shielded from the initial backlash and consequences while the revived racism starts out targeting tangentially-related black people instead--something that definitely happens irl. It also makes it clear that a) racism is something you have to actively examine and purge, sometimes multiple times, b) it is not over even when the racists are dead and its spectre lurks amongst our communities and, most importantly, c) respectability politics are junk and sometimes you have to help cover up a racist’s murder

P says that they love that the white dude was a cop but, like, actually a good cop. Again, because of the covering up racist murder. 

I’d like to emphasise that I loved the way that Dean and Cassie’s relationship was portrayed. It turned out it was actually not entirely Dean’s fault that this fell apart. I mean, I personally think he should have lied to her until he was able to come back and then told her the truth, so she wouldn’t think he was coming up with a bizarro lie to leave her, but also like... He was trying to be honest, he wanted to really connect with her, and I have a lot of feelings about that. 

I’m sad that Dean and Cassie aren’t going to work out in the long run but I understand why. Would have been cool to see her again, though.

I just want you all to know that through a very, VERY meandering conversation, we now have N and P arguing over whether octopi or alligators have the perfect body.  N: Sack! Tentacles! Beak! P: SCALES AND TEETH. N: I’m just saying that the number of problems you can cause as an alligator is kind of limited. All you can do is bite things.  P: That’s all you need!!!! We’ve declared the conversation a draw for now but they’ve promised (threat) to come back to it later

Also N is now looking at Giant Squid fanfic and keeps announcing things like “There’s a whole tag for ‘Dubious Consenticles’??” and “SQUIDITCH”

None of this is related to Supernatural but it IS very funny. 

1x14 - Nightmare 

Notes to self: “Sam’s visions, telekinetic abuse victim gets revenge”

N says, “This was just fucking intense, if I remember” and P says, “Yeah, it was scary.” 

N says they saw the guy’s death coming as soon as it was revealed it was him committing the murders.  Basically, Sam and Dean couldn’t have trusted a rehabilitation arc without being directly involved and the nature of the show is that they couldn’t have been directly involved.

We understand why the episode played out the way it did but we wish it handled it differently. We were all 1000% on the telekinetic victim’s side and fully supported him murdering his abusers. I remember when we were watching it, being, like, horrified by the things that happened to his dad and his uncle and then when we found out the truth about how they were abusing him we were like “Oh, yeah, warranted.” We do think the mother was probably abused too and that’s why she didn’t step in to stop anything. Still understandable that he can’t forgive her, though. 

My main thing I’d like to say about this one is that I love Sam connecting with the other people who’ve been affected by the yellow-eyed demon (in later episodes too) I would really, really love more of that tbh, I want him to form a network. I love how much he understands and relates to this kid, and how hard he tries to save him. 

I also love the part where seeing a vision of Dean in danger allows him to use telekinesis too. We’re in the middle of s2 now and we haven’t seen that again and it’s a shame!!! I want more of that!!!!

P says xer mad the show dropped Sam’s telekinesis stuff too. “In a later episode, Sam says he gets visions but other people get other things, and it’s like, ‘No! Buddy! You have more than that!’” N says it would be cool if they set it up so that Sam’s powers, in addition to getting visions about the other people like him, included being able to use their same powers when he’s near them. Like the episode later on where a guy can use mind control?? Instead of just being immune, wouldn’t it have been rad if Sam could do that too?? KILLER. 

1x15 - The Benders 

Notes to self: “THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME. Sam in a cage.”

P: OH YEAH, this was the one that wasn’t even like -- N: It was just people.  P: Yeah, it was just dudes being dudes. 

I very much enjoyed this episode. N agrees. I think P is distracted typing something on xer own computer. N says, “It wasn’t as fast paced as some of the other ones but it was fun.”

N: I have thoughts about the way they handled the cop killing the head of the family. I feel like he was already cartoonishly evil--to make him openly sneer in the cop’s face about her dead brother and hunting ppl as an in-the-moment justification for killing him seems... almost cowardly? he was an irredeemable human-hunter who raised an entire family to hunt ppl in the woods. that’s enough justification! i think viewers should get that. you don’t need to make him have a rude snarky one-liner to justify his death. commit to ‘some humans are Bad’ properly!  P: I have thoughts about the little girl. She was weird and creepy and I didn’t like it. I think my major issue with her was that she was a child, who was used as a twist to be the worst one of the family, which is so overdone. We get it, kids are creepy. And also, given that the rest of her family - her dad+uncles/brothers(??) and her grandpa/dad(??) - were murderers, implied cannibals, and general all around awful people, she’s more likely than not a victim of abuse. So I think portraying her as the worst of them all is callous at best, highly problematic at the worst. Get her therapy and away from the people that call themselves her family. Anyway, it boils down to that I think it’s overplayed, and I wish she had a happier path than “Oh, she’s so creepy!!!!”

I love N & P’s really interesting and coherent thoughts but I have to be completely honest that 90% of my thoughts about this episode were like “Mmmmmmm, Sam in a cage” and later “Mmmmmm, Dean tied to a chair.” The other 10% was me having emotions about Dean being desperate to find Sam. Don’t let that undercut the extent to which I loved the episode though. I really loved this episode. 

[justjessame]

Dr. Tali Sullivan Chapter 29

Harvey felt my first real shiver from the cold, and helped me onto the porch. He pushed me toward the front door and promised that he’d be right behind me. I didn’t want to leave him alone with this John person, but Harvey knew guns and standing near one another, they were well matched physically.

I watched from behind the closed door, catching a word here and there, both men gesturing toward me and glares being tossed in both directions. Harvey was clearly telling the other man to go, that he wasn’t welcome, but I heard the stranger say Abi’s name and my blood ran cold.

Opening the door, I stepped back out, still in my winter coat and gloves. “Did you say ‘Abigail’?” I asked, staring down at the man who still hadn’t taken a step onto the porch. “How do you know my daughter’s name?”

“You mean OUR daughter, Tali,” and as I stared in horror at this man making such a completely ridiculous claim, he didn’t see Harvey’s fist coming until it made contact with the side of his face. Before he could retaliate, I yelled for the both of them to stop.

“I don’t know who you are, or why you’d make something so completely horrible up, but you need to leave. Now.” He stood his ground and I did something I hadn’t allowed myself to do for a long time. I prayed for Cas.

 He was beside me in a flash of light, eyes only on me, so he missed the two men staring one another down with clenched fists. “Tali?” Cas’ voice held concern and confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“You knew where she was?” It was the strange John that growled at my guardian angel. “You knew she was here, alive and well, raising MY fucking daughter?”

He didn’t take the first menacing step toward Castiel because Harvey blocked his path. “Think of that first punch as a warning,” he glared down at his doppelganger. “The next is gonna hurt a shit ton worse.”

Castiel was trying to keep my attention focused on him. “Tali, you need to calm down,” easier said than done, my stomach was in knots. “Think of-” his hand touched my coat where it covered the tiny one growing inside of me. “Please?”

I could feel his angelic power giving me a tiny shred of peace, but I was still worried that Harvey would be hurt. “Harvey? Come in the house with me, babe, please?” I wanted to lock this stranger and his anger out. I wanted to have my future husband holding me as we watched his truck drive away.

“Let me see our ‘guest’ out, sweetheart, and I’ll be right behind you.” Harvey promised, but John looked like it would take a LOT to ‘see’ him out. “Go, Tali, I’ll be right in.”

I watched him give Castiel a sidelong look, and the angel was helping me back over the threshold, shutting the door behind us. “We need to call Rowena, Tali, now.”

 I called the witch, Harvey was still outside when I heard her Scottish lilt added to the noise of their voices outside. Sighing, but knowing that Cas would probably restrain me to keep me calm if I tried to join them, I tried to make myself busy with making tea.

“Tali?” I didn’t turn toward the voice, afraid that it didn’t belong to Harvey. Then his arms wrapped around me and his lips were on my ear. “We’re at a stalemate, honey.” I sighed, wondering what the hell we were going to do, other than call the police and have this weird man removed. “Rowena has an idea.”

I turned in his arms and buried my face in his shirt covered chest, letting the beating of his heart and the scent of him calm me. “What’s the idea?”

 Rowena, it seemed, wanted to give me back a part of my life that I asked to be removed. At least temporarily. Just long enough for me and John to sit down and talk. Well, that’s what I agreed to, anyway. Anything to get him out of my hair and my life back to normal.

She touched my forehead, whispered words that I didn’t catch, and stared into my eyes to watch for the dawning of my memories to return. I felt every single piercing pain of loving John Winchester come rushing back in a flood. The first kiss, the last goodbye, every speck of any moment that we’d ever had all returned in living color. I felt like the air had been knocked out of me, and that I was dying all over again.

Tears streaming down my face, I watched as Harvey called for my first real love to walk back into my life. And I knew, it changed nothing. Not how I felt for Harvey, not how he felt for Mary, but definitely how Abi’s life may change from this moment on.

 Harvey refused to leave me, and for that I was more grateful than I could say. Holding my hand, he gestured for John to take a chair close, but not near enough to touch. Harvey’s thumbs brushed my tears away and he gave me a soft reassuring kiss, and when I turned back to John i noticed his fists were still clenched.

“How’s Mary?” I asked, thinking that reminding him of his wife and her return to the land of the living was worth the dig and would cool his irritation off. It didn’t have any effect on him, but I didn’t really care.

John didn’t look comfortable. He looked like a caged animal who wanted to pace and growl, but he managed to hold it in. Thinking about Harvey’s reaction on the porch, I thought it was a good idea myself.

“She’s fine.” He was glaring at Harvey’s hand curled protectively around my stomach, and he didn’t look all that happy about the way I was curved into his body. “Why did you purge-”

I gave a harsh chuckle that stopped him. “Why did I get rid of my memories of you and your family?” I wanted him to understand that to me, HIS family and MY family were completely opposite. “It made coming back more bearable. I wanted a fresh start, or fresher start.” I bit my lip. “And I have one, John, I have a new lease on life. A peaceful life.”

He sat back as if I’d punched him, as though my words hit harder than Harvey’s fist. “With him?” He gestured at Harvey with a just of his chin. I nodded as I felt Harvey’s grip tighten on me. John gave a soft snort. “He could BE me, Tali.”

I raised an eyebrow. “No, he couldn’t.” I knew that John was basing his belief on the way they looked, but that wasn’t the only thing I saw in Harvey. “Harvey loves me completely, John, not because I sacrificed anything for him. Not because he watched me grow up and saw my crush grow. Harvey loves me. He loves Abi. But the real difference between you and Harvey?” He was staring at me like he was seeing me for the very first time. “I’m Harvey’s Mary.”

I saw John’s Adam’s apple bob from the hard swallow he had to take. “That’s not fair, Tali.” I had trouble hearing him, he was so quiet. “I told you that-”

“That you loved me just as much as her?” I offered, fully capable of remembering every word he’d ever said to me now. “That you’d love me until I took my final breath? That I would be your ruin?” I nodded. “But you didn’t, John, not really. You didn’t want to see that I wasn’t even there those nine years you had me. That I wasn’t even THERE when you helped create Abi. You didn’t fight Castiel, did you? When I had him tell you not to come, not to visit, not to try to see her?” I shook my head and squeezed Harvey’s hand for strength. “You have Mary, John. You have Dean and Sam. You have the life you always wanted, the life that you saw when the djinn took you. Let me have Abi and Harvey. Let me have the life I want. I never asked you for anything, not really, but I am now. Leave us alone, let her have a father that has loved her since the first moment he laid eyes on her.”

His eyes were tight and I felt a tug of my own pain at hurting him. I just couldn’t let him back in. I couldn’t. “She’s my blood, Tali.” I huffed out a tiny breath of disbelief. “She is, and you-” he closed his eyes to gather his words. “You meant more to me than you think.”

“If I did?” His eyes met mine. “If you’re telling the truth and I meant so much, John, then let me and Abi go.” It hurt me more than I wanted to admit to, to push him away, but I had to. For my own sanity and his. “Let us have our new life, please?” I was begging, and I knew he could hear it in my voice.

“Can I see her?” Bargaining, John Winchester was trying to bargain. “Just once, Tali? Let me see my little girl and say goodbye?”

I agreed, but told him that it would have to wait until the next day. She was with her grandparents and I didn’t want John to have a punch to the other side of his face courtesy of my dad. Agreeing to meet the next day, in a neutral spot, John left even as I watched him struggle not to reach for me.

[sculptorofbeginningslibrary]

Black Eyes & Bloodlust - Chapter 11

THIS IS A RE-POST SINCE THIS CHAPTER WAS POSTED RIGHT BEFORE THE PURGE. THIS STORY AND ALL MY FICS WILL BE POSTED FROM HERE AND REBLOGGED (POSSIBLY POINTLESSLY) TO MY MAIN BLOG UNTIL TUMBLR UN-BLURRIES ME.

My Masterlist

Black Eyes & Bloodlust Masterlist

Summary: Dean has never met his Omega, never even thought there could be one waiting for him–but she’s out there, and they’re connected in ways they could never have imagined.

Characters: DeanxReader, Sam, Cas, a few OC’s

Warnings: SMUT so typical A/B/O warnings, Slow burn (and I mean it. SLOW BURN GUYS.) Language, depictions of mental illness, Gore and Violence. (Warnings will apply to all chapters just to cover all the bases.)

Word Count: ~ 3800

A/N: Pretty Dean-centric chapter :)

Beta’d by @justcallmeasmodeus

AS ALWAYS,

ENJOY!

__~*~__

“Didn’t we just have a conversation about how you liking serial killers is weird?”

Sam rolled his eyes as he fixed his tie in the motel mirror. “I don’t like serial killers, Dean. I just…like studying them. It’s an interesting statistical anomaly that–”

“Woah there, Einstein. You start talking statistics and I’m gonna take a nap.” Dean snagged Baby’s keys from the table and looked over at Sam. “I’ll be in the car when you’re finished primping.”

“I’m not–” Sam started, but the door slammed shut, cutting him off yet again. He rolled his eyes good naturedly, just glad that Dean seemed to be in better spirits knowing that Cas was actively searching for Y/N.

They still hadn’t told Dean what Cas knew, but he seemed to appreciate their new-found enthusiasm enough to agree to check out the Omega serial killer Sam had been following in Colorado. Dean had insisted it ‘wasn’t their kind of thing,’ because monsters didn’t take their time to mutilate their victims only to steal their eyelids before moving on–that was crazy human shit–but after a few days of nagging, he gave in.

Which led to now, with both Winchesters headed up to the police station to interview the sister of a missing Omega. The missing girl fit the victim profile, but normally a body would have been found by now.

Dean was sure it was unrelated, but the sheriffs were insistent that since she was an unmated Omega, they had to treat her case as if it were related to the others.

Sam dropped into the passenger seat of the Impala just as Dean started her up. The comforting purr of Baby’s engine always lulled Dean into a sense of peace he couldn’t find anywhere, especially now that the Mark was assaulting him with new and improved spats of unrest that tested his control in new ways.

“Alright so what are we lookin’ at, Sammy?” Sam pulled up his laptop and went through the case file again.

“Well, uh, the sister’s name is Lane, and Y/N has been missing for almost a week. They found her apartment all torn up. Lane is staying in town even though she lives two hours away so she’s agreed to come in and talk to us.”

“Y/N?” Dean asked, his gut twisting at the name. Sam’s eyes flicked to Dean’s hand tightening on the steering wheel.

“Yeah,” Sam replied softly, “Dean it’s probably not–”

“Yeah I know.” Dean brushed off what he knew Sam was going to say. It probably wasn’t his Y/N. That would be too much of a coincidence, even for their crazy life. “So what else?”

__~*~__

Tex had arranged to meet the witch somewhere on the Colorado Wyoming border, and you drove non-stop to get there. You had been in contact with her through Tex’s phone, and she seemed eager to meet you despite the weirdness of your request.

After assuring her that Tex had kept you safe and given you his phone as proof that he had sent you, she texted you an address.

Another handful of suppressants and Benadryl didn’t help the swelling in your arm or the cramps occasionally rolling through your body, but you chalked it up to lack of sleep. You hadn’t gotten one wink in since killing Tex, nor had you wanted to.

There was a pull guiding you to where you needed to go, and it wouldn’t let you rest until it was satisfied. Like some kind of psychic GPS it was leading you straight to Rowena, as she’d said her name was. The strong feeling made you wonder absently if she really was a witch. If magic was real and this whole time you’d been living in a sweet bubble of normal life not knowing that the supernatural existed, what would that mean for your life? How had it found you  after twenty-odd years of boring normalcy? It all seemed too ridiculous, but then again you were certified crazy and officially a murderer but couldn’t bring yourself to care, what did you know?

Your fingers tapped on the steering wheel in time with the soft rock playing on your stereo, not a care in the world despite the growing pile of problems and  the blistered wound on your arm. You had a good feeling about this woman.

She had the answers you needed. You didn’t know, like everything these days, how or why you knew that, and the part of you that cared was slowly being replaced by the beast that had been shredding away all sense of who you were.

__~*~__

When Sam and Dean arrived at the station there was a small group of people waiting for them.

Three officers and two doctors were crowded around a crying woman Sam could only guess was Lane. The closer they got to the group, the stiffer Dean’s body went. Sam scented the air, but nothing seemed amiss despite the stomach churning mix of smells that accompanied places like this.

“Hello,” Sam said as the group glanced up, finally noticing their presence. The male doctor looked visibly uncomfortable as the Winchesters stepped close enough for their scent to carry. The female doctor, however, looked ravenous. Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, who was glaring openly, and without reason, at the male doctor. “We’re Agents Allman and Betts,” they flashed their badges before stuffing them back into their jackets, “We’re looking for an Officer Bishop?”

A sturdy looking officer stepped forward, removing his arm from around the crying woman. “That’s me.” He reached his hand out and Sam shook it, Dean seemed lost in his own world and missed the hand offered to him, looking as though he was trying to solve a particularly aggravating puzzle. Sam cleared his throat and Dean shook himself out of it, glancing suspiciously around the group.

“Are you Lane?” He managed to ask gently towards the only obvious civilian. She nodded, appearing to collect herself and step forward.

“Yes. T-Thank you for coming.”

“It’s not a problem Ma’am, we’re here to help.” Sam tried to smile reassuringly, and started to speak but he was cut off by the female doctor.

“Is there a reason the FBI stepped into this? Is it because you’ve read Y/N’s file? Because I didn’t authorize—”

“Woah woah woah,” Dean said quickly, shutting down her rant. “You mind telling us who you are? Actually, I’m gonna need each of you to provide identification before we discuss any specifics of the case.”

“And…” Sam glanced around, noticing the rising interest in their gathering. “We’re going to need somewhere more private. I think Lane here has had enough being ogled for one day.”

Bishop hopped into action, ushering everyone towards a back room with two couches. Sam let Dean, Bishop and Lane enter before stopping the two doctors and other three officers from going any further. He shut the door, separating the two groups. The officers took the hint and left, leaving only the doctors.

“Excuse me what do you think you’re doing?” the male doctor demanded.

“I need IDs. From both of you.”

“My name is Doctor Mara, and this is my colleague Doctor Cameron,” offered the female with a sultry smile. She produced her ID and piqued an eyebrow at the man beside her until he did the same. “I was the head of Y/N’s medical team while she was in our facility.”

“Your facility?”

“Yes, a psychiatric facility. With Y/N being a missing person of questionable mental integrity Lane called us in, hoping we could provide some help. I’m afraid, however, that a warrant will be necessary for you to access her files.”

She smelled like too-strong cinnamon as she stepped into Sam’s space. It was a seemingly innocent movement, but Sam knew she was trying to bully their way into the room behind him. Doctor Mara seemed like the kind of woman who was used to getting her way.

“Well Doctor, the warrant isn’t necessary in an active missing persons case because of relevant information that might lead to the victim’s whereabouts. I’m guessing you have the file on you or you wouldn’t have brought it up, so how about we cut the crap and you tell me what’s going on here? Since when do contracted psychiatrists make house calls to family members?”

“Y/N is a special case,” Doctor Cameron spat. He had decided he didn’t like the FBI Agents the second he scented them. The way they carried themselves and the way the shorter one smelled rankled him. He reeked of gunpowder and old leather–a combination that had been intolerable since Y/N had almost killed him.

Their attitudes didn’t help. Like all Federal Agents they thought they owned every piece of ground they walked on, he could see it plain as day.

“A special case?” Sam asked, waiting patiently and making it obvious they wouldn’t be going any further until they told him something worth knowing.

__~*~__

“Knowledge? Dearie, I know everything worth knowing.” The red-headed woman with the thick Scottish accent was beautiful as she sipped her wine, looking other-worldly. You felt mildly self conscious sat at the same table, but mostly you were curious about her.

How did someone so gorgeous know someone like Tex?

“Then you can help me find them?”

Rowena grimaced. Perpetually, the fucking Winchesters were a pain in her ass. Even hundreds of miles away she couldn’t escape them.

“Why d’you want the Winchesters? I can teach you everything you need to know. I can feel the magic wafting off of you, dear. You shouldn’t want them for anything. What is it? A spell?” Her eyebrow arched perfectly as you stared blankly at her, unsure of what to say. “For your heat, dearie. Doesn’t take a witch to smell that too.”

“You can do that? Take it away?” You voice lowered excitedly as you surveyed the room suspiciously, missing her comment about your magic.

“Of course! Didn’t Tex tell you who I am?” She seemed slightly offended, but you shrugged.

“No…I mean, nothing other than you being the most powerful witch he’d ever met.” He hadn’t said that, but you had a feeling it was something she liked hearing.

“Well,” she gushed, feigning bashfulness, “he wasn’t lying there. I can do just about anything you need.” Rowena contemplated you for a moment before reaching some kind of decision. “Give me your hand.” She held hers out across the table, smiling encouragingly for you to do the same.

When you slid your arms across, your sleeve rolled up, revealing the rash on your arm. You didn’t miss the widening of her eyes as she spotted it, and you quickly covered it back up.

“No no no, love. Let me see.” Rowena caught your arm, her delicate fingers clasping you with a strength her petite frame hid well. You hissed when the fabric brushed against the raw flesh as she gently rolled your sleeve up. “Oh my,” she mused, taking in the oddly shaped blister on your arm.

It was raw and red, seeping where spots had popped. There were tinges of black beginning to vein out around the edges which usually meant infection…but you were sure that wasn’t the case here.

You could practically see the gears turning in her head as she examined you. The warmth of her touch was soothing and discomforting at once.

Rowena knew more about you than you could ever imagined. She had divined your purpose right after talking to you for the first time and now, after touching you and the vicious curse on your arm, she understood your predicament fully.

Dean Winchester’s Omega had the Mark of Cain, just like her Alpha. It was an interesting development, one that Rowena knew she should be working in her favor, but she found herself feeling bad for you. She could see the black ooze overtaking your aura, smell the curse on you as surely as she could smell your heat, even with her Beta nose.

The power emanating from you had her wondering just how someone could acquire a curse in the way you had. Your personality was hidden under layers of desperation she didn’t think even you could see any longer, but she could tell you were an innocent buried under the blanket of evil the Mark had thrown over you.

She wanted to help, but as of yet the Winchesters were her enemies, and no matter how much she liked you, pride wouldn’t let her. Better to let the pains in her ass have a pain of their own.

“What?” You asked, suddenly worried as something flickered in her eyes. It was the first real emotion you’d felt since leaving Tex.

“Oh it’s nothing. Just…” her well manicured nails ghosted across your palm and she closed her eyes, feeling the magic there. “I can feel him. Your mate.”

You snatched your hand back, astounded. Maybe she really was magic after all.

“How do you know about Dean?” You hissed. Her smile was patient.

“Your body told me. And the magic. He is the source of it.” Her smile formed into something more sinister as she continued, taking in your shock. “He’s there you know. I saw him when I touched your mark. He’s at your home, standing in your living room as we speak.”

__~*~__

Dean stared at the file, fighting the urge to vomit. Sam had strong-armed the doctors into giving up Y/N’s file while Dean had interviewed Lane. She hadn’t been able to offer much besides Y/N suffering from nightmares, being committed, and the strange turn of her personality. None of it seemed relevant to the serial killer, but his gut was telling him something he couldn’t understand.

The file was thicker than any patient file either brother had ever seen, and contained more than just the pictures Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from. It was a record of everything Y/N had said while interred, every procedure and every move she’d made, but Dean hadn’t made it past the pictures.

It was her.

She looked like shit in the first one, dark bags under her eyes, hair ratty and unkempt, her body swallowed up by an unflattering patient’s uniform. In the other she was smiling wide for the camera, lit up eyes sparkling out at him under perfectly styled hair. His finger traced longingly down the center of her happy face, wondering if being connected to him had done this to her.

“Dean? What’s going on?” Sam closed the door, leaving Officer Bishop to lead Lane to his car for the trip back to her hotel. Sam didn’t like the look on Dean’s face, at all.

“Sammy…” Dean started, his voice cracking as he laid the folder flat so they both could see. “It’s her…It’s…this is her.”

New panic was taking him over as he realized how close they had been, and now she was ripped from his grasp. “God Sammy, what if she’s…” he broke off, voice cracking and unable to form the words.

Sam wanted to object, but the pure emotion and certainty on Dean’s face stopped him.

Looked like his hunter senses had been more on point then expected.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Dean removed the pictures and handed Sam the file. There was one photo remaining Dean hadn’t seen, and Sam slipped it to the back of the pile before he could dwell too long on it.

The last thing he needed was to analyze the familiar looking rash.

The most recent files were on the top, and it only took three pages for Sam’s stomach to finish dropping to his feet. He swallowed thickly as he read the lines she had babbled while unconscious.

They were transcripts of Y/N’s last, and apparently most intense, episode. Behind those were the transcripts of her hypnosis session with…Doctor Cameron.

Sam’s head snapped towards the door, eyes narrowing as he tried to put all the pieces together. When he looked back at Dean, his brother hadn’t moved, still entranced in the glassy eyes staring up at him from the lifeless photo paper.

Turns out it was their kind of thing after all, and it was time to call Castiel.

__

Dean had Y/N’s picture safely tucked into his jacket the minute Castiel had convinced him to move from his stupor. Cops had watched warily as the terrifying Agent stomped his way through the precinct and slammed his way out the door, Castiel in tow. Sam had waved apologetically, hoping they wouldn’t attract too much more attention.

The ride was awkwardly silent.

Castiel revealed Y/N’s prayers and the life he thought she’d taken once they’d gotten into the car and Dean hadn’t said a word since. Dean’s pounding heart practically filled the empty space as he raced to the address they’d been given. Sam’s stomach felt like it had pushed up into his chest as Dean took a few rough corners, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“Dean…”

“Shut up Cas.” Dean’s tone was shaky, but firm. No words would suffice now that he knew the truth of what Castiel had seen.

Dean was furious at both of them for so many reasons. A week. She’d been missing for a week. If they hadn’t searched so hard for Cain they might have found her before this.

As if sensing Dean’s thoughts, Sam’s were running along the same line. His guilt was compounding with every word he read from Y/N’s file. He turned another page.

From the looks of it, she’d been suffering a breakdown since Dean had taken on the Mark.

In the silence, all they could do was think. All they could do was ponder their mistakes and every sign they’d ignored.

Every time they’d brushed Dean off in favor of curing the Mark. They’d told themselves it was for Dean. It was for the greater good.

As Sam handed Cas the file, open to the pages where she had directly quoted Dean while he was being cured, he knew it was a lie.

__

Dean was tapping her song onto the steering wheel as he glared at Y/N’s apartment building. Sam had cleared his throat twice, but nothing was pulling Dean out of the car until he was ready.

Castiel had a habit of not realizing awkward situations, but this one was unavoidable. He knew finding Cain had been the right thing, but it didn’t feel like it at the moment. He exchanged a loaded glance with Sam in the rearview mirror that felt endless, their shared guilt simultaneously connecting them and separating them from Dean.

Then the driver door was flung open and Dean was gone. He was on the landing by the time Sam and Castiel entered the building, his head dropped against the door and eyes tightly closed as he inhaled the scent of death seeping thick though it.

Sam and Castiel smelled it too, and wondered what the police could have missed that was causing it. Dean’s hand hovered over the doorknob before he shoved it open, taking the crime scene tape with him when he stepped inside.

The smell of her was faint, it was obvious she hadn’t been there in a while, but it still smelled just like he expected–minus the rotting flesh somewhere in the apartment. His experienced eyes searched everything from the blood stains under his feet to the vomit stains by the couch.

The room was a disaster unlike anything he’d seen, but some part of him knew there hadn’t been a struggle. She’d done this herself.

His connection to her was singeing his arm, digging in and giving him flashes of emotion that came and went, flitting about like a hummingbird in search of nectar. His eyes followed the line of destruction until they found the room he was searching for. The one that contained her scent stronger than any other.

His feet were moving before he told them to, carrying him into what he discovered was her bedroom. Castiel and Sam hovered in the entryway surveying the damage as Dean had, but not seeing the pattern Dean had followed. Dean had no care for them as he stood just inside her door with his eyes closed, letting his nose and the Mark lead the way. He could hear them moving around despite the carpet muffling their steps.

“Get out!” He yelled suddenly. The feel of them inside her space was too much combined with the scent of Y/N, death, and the dozens of people that had traipsed through collecting evidence. Dean heard them stop then shuffle out the door. He waited until he heard the click before he really started searching.

The idiot officers couldn’t have used their noses because the scent of rot was strongest here. The knot headed alphas probably only scented her panty drawer, while the Betas probably hadn’t smelled anything besides the rotting flesh somewhere in the apartment.

Everyone was operating on the assumption that her body was hidden somewhere inside the apartment from the smell, but Dean’s instincts were telling him different. There was something dead, but it wasn’t his Omega.

The song playing in his head was evidence enough of that, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t been taken. Maybe the man she’d killed was the one who’d taken her…maybe she was on her way home.

Dean didn’t need to open any drawers considering they were all on the floor already. All but one.

His Alpha raged at seeing her panty drawer placed on the bed, two familiar Alpha scents lingering around it. They’d been at the police station.

There was only red as he grabbed the wooden drawer and slammed it into the wall. His chest heaved with the effort as he tried to control himself, forcing himself to remember that they hadn’t actually touched her. That crime was reserved for someone else. Someone who was possibly dead, and if they weren’t…they would be.

The Mark amplified his anger, but he was dealing with it better than anyone else would have. He caught a whiff of the death through the disturbed air and followed it to where the drawer had shattered against the wall.

Almost absently he grabbed a pair of her panties, barely a scrap of fabric, and tucked it into his pocket before moving the broken pieces of wood. Underneath, a small pile of books had been tossed just as carelessly as everything else around him.

“Sam!” He called, knowing they would come.

Everything in him knew what he was about to find, but he couldn’t believe it until he pulled the Bible from the bottom of the pile.

Dean almost gagged as his hand touched it, violent visions of sticking knives into innocent Omegas assaulting him.

“Dean?” Sam called from the doorway, knowing better than to step inside. His nose rankled as Dean crossed the room with the Holy book in hand. Castiel arrived just as Dean opened it to pages that were bulging the book out at the center.

The three men stared, disbelieving, at the Bible in Dean’s hands.

Castiel covered his mouth as realization set in, his eyes taking in the multitude of emotion the brothers were expressing.

Pressed between the pages, rotting, slick and wet, staining the pages black, were eight sets of dismembered eyelids.

__~*~__

Questions? Comments? Incoherent screaming?

Bring it on!

🖤

__~*~__

Story Tags:

@allaboutbailey @alligator210 @amarokofficial @antiscocialfanwarrior​ @bodhi-black @deanna-s-winchester @deliciouslydisturbed365 @edensparks​ @erinmcd1234 @faith901t-blog @fangirl-and-medstudent-help​ @fangirlanotherjust​ @flamencodiva @getnaildbyme @hennessy0274-blog @hotterthanfire-colderthanice @jodibullock1 @karouwinchester​ @katkit73 @kbl1313​ @kittenofdoomage​ @mannls​ @mbbevans @mistress-sassafras @ne-gans @pickleporkupine @rainbowkisses31 @secretlysage​ @shatteredabby @spnskinnyballs​ @starfirerules​ @tamtamlov @tgwge @thatrandomredheadchick @tumbler-tidbits @ultrahviolent @violentmommabear42 @weepingwillowphoenix @whisperingwillows @wildsageleon @winchesterprincessbride @witchyhoeski​

4ever&ever Tags:

@ain-t-bovvered @bamby0304 @curly-haired-disaster @dean-winchesters-bacon @ldyhawkeye @justcallmeasmodeus @maddiepants @mogaruke @mrs-meghan-winchester @stormy-skies-1997 @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @waywardbaby

Dean Tags:

@adoptdontshoppets @akshi8278 @bobasheebaby @paranoiadestroyah

[seenashblog]

Nash Watches & Rates Cheesy Hallmark & Lifetime Winter Movies So You Don’t Have To

a.k.a. -  Nash Records Her Viewings Of Hallmark & Lifetime Winter Movies, which are fanfic in visual form & are gold. And yes, it’s a apparently a legit sub-genre. Best I can tell, if it’s not Christmas or Valentines, and there’s snow, then it goes. Spoilers abound.)

Note: This adventure has been moved to here from my main blog @seenashwrite, so my SPN peeps can rest assured they’ll not be exposed to this any longer - I have a feeling I’ll not be done purging my soul for a while yet #bless my heart

As per last time during the Christmas round-ups, 4 and 5 stars mean the best of the lot, 3 stars means it’s not necessarily a waste of your time, 2 stars is up to your discretion, and 1 star means it is time you will never get back.

Winter's Dream (Kristy Hot Damn Swanson, Dean Mothafukkin' Cain - Hallmark)

With it packing this level of stardom, how can it go wrong? Understand that I can take or leave Dean Cain, but Kristy Swanson is the shit. 

The official summary/another summary from somewhere:

When a former ski champion re-enters the competitive world after a 16-year-old downhill racer asks for help, she finds a new love and reawakens an old passion.

Former pro skier, Kat, is asked to coach a younger skier, named Anna, and finds love with the girl's widowed father, Ty.

These are both kinda garbage summaries - I mean, they're accurate, but it doesn't paint the whole picture. There's nothing really to spoil, and though it hits a couple things on a winter bingo (still forthcoming), they're more the Hallmark staples, such as the kid (in this case, a really great teen gal who's a good actress) who brings people together, and that the lodge/the resort is in danger of being lost, and somebody teaches somebody else how to skate, and that shit, but the bottom line is it's a fine watch. It's not spectacular, but it's not dipped in cheese, and there's some really pretty shots of the skiing (especially something they do at the end), plus kudos for the body doubles (the ones doing the actual skiing) were spot-on, and the teen actress did an impressive end-of-run stop at one point, you know it's her because she immediately whips off her mask.

Bottom line, this movie woulda been ass if not for Swanson and Cain, who didn't have greeeeat chemistry, though they made it work. In any event, the script was solid - like I say, not a great deal of cheese and any lines that were aren't sticking out to me because they were delivered so well - so I'm actually gonna rate this one decently high.

4/5 stars

.

Love on the Sidelines (this dude who's been in three movies I've seen so far, John Reardon, and some basic blonde chick who is vaguely familiar - Hallmark)

This isn’t technically a winter one, I don’t think, but it’s on, so it counts.

So they try to throw you from the get-go with "Is injured dude gonna be the love interest which is totally inappropriate since he's her boss and clearly got about 12 years on her and has made multiple patronizing comments to her, about how physically strong she is and about her classic car and about her abilities in general, or is it the other dude on the team who took an immediate interest in her and has thus far been polite and respectful and friendly and flirty?"

(By the way, main dude has cock-blocked his friend, but he has a model girlfriend [who is styled to be a stereotype from extensions to heels] and it's also shown he has no idea about stuff she likes/is into, such as her favorite flowers - but chick knew because she had 'em out for their romantic dinner. That's right, it's part of her assistant duties - and she's supposed to be helping him with activities of daily living stuff - is to prep his bone zones.)

If they make dude #2 turn out to be a douche and that main dude is somehow awesome underneath all his shit----- what am I saying, of course they are. The latter, that is. You know I'm right. Hundred percent.

People are like losing their chickens over this jersey she's tailored to be a "girl fit" - you know what I mean, it's not a box with sleeves, there's tailoring to it, so the sleeves aren't so ginormous and it's tapered on the sides. This jersey's been the topic of about three interactions thus far and we're only 40 minutes (so 30 mins airtime) in. They're all "Wow!" and "This is so creative!" and "My wife would love that, where'd you get it!"  Y'all, google for this, that type of jersey, I mean. [pause] Nevermind, here:

I put in the mystical combo of "women's NFL football jersey".

THIS IS REVOLUTIONARY

Hey, and heh-heh.... quick bonus....

WHYENNE!!!! THAT BITCH IS EVERYWHERE

But hey, how else would we know that fashion design is her passion? Scriptin' be hard, yo. Speaking of her clothes skillz - "I think there's more to him," she says to BFF, whose wedding dress she's fitting. First, *eyeroll*. Second, if your friend is trying to watch a football game and learn the basics, don't let them fit you for your farging wedding at the same time. Which is what is happening.

There's twinkly magical music when his hand runs over hers when they're both searching under the couch, feeling around for his dropped cell phone.

*more eyeroll*

I do like the car, it's a red Mustang.... early 70s, maybe?.... but I can say I don't care for the shade of red, it's a little too cherry popsicle or hooker scarlet lipstick.

(My dream car is probs a Mustang muscle in black, but as far as zoom-zooms go, I tell ya, a friend of mine had a Porsche Boxster, and What. A. Ride., and he'd offered to teach me how to drive stick on it - not a euphemism, I swear, I was 16, my dad was his mentor, he's like the child my father never had - I'M A HUGE DISAPPOINTMENT OKAY - so like my big brother, and anyhow, it was so beautiful I gasped at the very thought. But sweet babby jeebus, those suckers are smooth rides. None of this matters.)

Anyway, she keeps having trouble starting it, and I can tell by the sound it isn't the alternator, nor is it the battery, nor is it a belt, nor is she flooding the engine. I know fuck-all about cars as a general rule, but I know those sounds because I've experienced all of them. It has now gone to commercial, as he's just looked under the hood and announced after 3.8 seconds "Yup, I think I see your problem."  He must have x-ray vision. I am on pins-and-needles, shivering with anticipation.

Back from commercial, he's shutting the hood and she's saying "Wow you did it!" and wiping grease from his face. He's got an absolutely wrecked calf/ankle/foot (and straight up, they've done a good job making it all seem legit, props to... well, props... and make-up), but you're telling me he was standing and bent over long enough to get all greasy, and he's supposed to be - most of the time - either sitting or standing with that bitch elevated. This was stupid. This was a stupid, wholly unnecessary scene. Oh except we find out - because it's visible in the back seat - that she's read his children's book.

That's right. He's written a children's book.

Dude's mom: "I think he's dating the wrong type of women". Subtle, screenwriters, subtle. Now he's sneaking and working out. I really hope they show his ankle buckling out at a wicked angle. I'm gross like that. Twinkly music plays as she waits for him in the locker room while he's in with the sports trainer because he shouldn't have been working out.

Forgot to mention there's an awesome dog, this really beautiful Dane, and of course it loves her and hates Stereotype, because reasons for him to go ga-ga. She's honestly not bad, I have zero issue with the actress, nor with this actor, they're actually both good, but between the music and this script, I'm fighting over what rating to give it. (Checks clock) Welp, the next 45 minutes should tell me. It's dragging ass, I'll tell you that, though.

Like, nothing's happened. Nothing. He has an injury, she's his new personal assistant. I can list traits they each have. I've seen groups of moments. I don't know what the story is. Is it just "they get closer and fall in lurve"? That's... not a story. That's a series of facts. People meet their partners/spouses via the workplace all the time. What's the plot? What's the conflict? The obstacles? The tension? The OOMPH, I'd call it, is missing. This is what kills me about most fanfic - they just tell me stuff, they aren't showing me a new perspective or a twist or a unique take or differing interpretation that's still supported by canon, or an inventive plot that or what-the-hell-ever. Dean and Whyenne were in the bunker and they researched and they cooked and they talked about Cas and Sam, and they argued about her going on a hunt, then they kissed, the end! That's not a story, that's a daydream. I've digressed.

Now he's texted her "the emergency code" while she's at her best friend's wedding, and turns out it's because he's cranky because his sister said he's got to learn how to not be the center of attention. And she - I am proud to say - lets. Him. Have. It.  Part of what she says is - Can you do *anything* for yourself?!  And he goes - This!  And he kisses her, and it takes her off guard, but then they go for it, and I am actually happy for them.

Shit. I still hate that this isn't a story, but holy hell the difference when some conflict is introduced. Ahhhhhmazeballs. Conflict, however minor, is what shows us who these people we're watching/reading really are - and no, conflict does not mean angst, nor does it mean some sort of heart-breaking, can't-take-it-back fight, nor does it mean life-and-death, just divergent paths or opinions is all it takes. I've digressed again.

My interest is piqued because we have a half-hour to go, and typically this is how Hallmark blows their wad in the last fifteen.

[time passes]

Okay, a couple things turned out decent. Y'all will *love* what the best friend pulls at the end, and she and her hubby have been great throughout, but this one particular thing was clutch. And everybody had chemistry, family and friends and romance alike. It just can't help the lack of story, and I really detest the manner in which they made lead dude a jerk - there's other ways to do that besides going the lazy route, a.k.a. being sexist. It's not as bad as a two (a.k.a. - this is a matter of taste), because there's some objectively good stuff.... on the other hand, my lord is dragged. So I'm going with a three, because it's a toss-up as to whether you're gonna really like it, or think "Meh".

3/5 Stars

.

One Winter Weekend / One Winter Proposal (Taylor Cole, some other people - Hallmark)

So the former was in last year's winter line-up, the latter in this one. Taylor Cole played Sarah Blake on SPN. I see she's also on deck for some detective thing on Hallmark Movies & Mysteries.

And.... that's all I got to say about that.

I genuinely tried to watch these. They played them back-to-back, and speaking of backs, mine was acting up so I was laid out, and I thought - all right, this'll kill some time. And I fell asleep at 6 p.m., y'all. I took ibuprofen, I was not getting liquored up, I slept plenty the night before, and I fell the fuck to sleep. These movies are boring as fuck. 

I saw no sparks, and there were two couples from which to divine said spark. The co-lead chick was incredibly annoying, she plays everything too perky, and it's really evident in scenes with her romantic interest, who is a good actor and came off completely naturally. Actually, he should've been the main-main male lead, I bet he'd have had great chemistry with Cole, who's a better actor than the dude they had her paired with, but I say all that to say, the script was... meh. The pacing of both movies was weird, and the conflicts that were in them (see above for discussion on what conflict in stories actually is) were nothingburgers. It was stupid. Don't waste your time, seriously.

1/5 stars

.

We interject for a non-review that needs to be mentioned. Oh, Lifetime. Holy shitsnacks.

Double Mommy (I... I don't know... people... - Lifetime)

This is the synopsis:

Ryan discovers his friend Bryce is the father of one of his girlfriend's twin babies and that he date raped her at a party over the summer. With college looming over Bryce's head, he will stop at nothing to make sure that he clears his name.

Because the guys' feelz are what's important, here.

.

The Birthday Wish (Jessy Schram, who only acts one way and that is coked-up squirrel with blonde barrel curls - Hallmark)

This is the official summary, and it should let you know how pleased I was to watch this:

On her birthday, a woman who desperately wants her boyfriend to propose to her wishes for the opportunity to see into the future, with surprising results.

'Cause I love seeing "desperate" and "woman" in the same sentence about my main character! This was precisely what you think based on the summary - though I will say Schram doesn't play it "desperate" so that was kind've a weird word for them to use - she somehow has these premonitions (it's never explained) and the boyfriend's a dick and she ends up with her co-worker who's a great guy. The end.

1/5 stars

.

Once Upon A Prince (Megan Park, who is familiar though I don't know how, and a quite charming British fellow who isn't really, he's actually from Canada by way of New York but sounds really damn convincing - Hallmark)

Also unsure this is “winter”, but it’s worth talking about. Seriously. Still, let's get the shite - and it's minor! - out of the way.

First complaint: they blew their wad in the title. Not that we don't get the scoop fairly quickly, but... welp, no we don't, the beans aren't spilled for a while - they *easily* could've skirted it, and they HAVE, it's very nicely and smoothly done, I mean, you can divine it but it's not plot anvil'd, his situation unfolds gradually across the first act, which is so refreshing. Whoever titled it was the screw-up. I'm looking at you, Hallmark execs. All their titles spoil.

Second complaint... despite the adept nature they handled main dude's backstory, there's a really bad clunker of an anvil in that first bit - we know exactly how he's gonna propose to her in the end because they shoe-horned in really abrupt and almost non-sequitur dialogue for her wherein she tells him her dream proposal not terribly long after meeting him. It was weird and awkward. I mean, the fuck. I get she was still rattled as her longtime boyfriend with whom she had both business and personal futures planned out breaking up with her in the prior scene(s), but shit. They do recover a bit by having our dude - and damn, I love him, I genuinely do - comment something to the effect of "Well oftentimes it's easier to tell a stranger things we can't tell the ones to whom we're close". My point is, they knew it was a dog of a line, but I thought of three options to get the topic out there over the course of them getting to know each other just while I’ve sat here typing this recap - hell, they revisit the damn location later, when they are friends vs. strangers! It was bad writing.

Third complaint... y'all know by now: I hate the fake made-up countries. And this one is (wait for it) Cambria. Google Cambria. Go ahead. I'll wait. [pause] Nevermind, I'll just tell you, and this isn't because I have some bizarre encyclopedic knowledge of the way-back-when in Jolly Ol', it's because - well - I'm a reformed dinosaur nerd, and that overlaps with having an understanding of geology, because fossils. There, I said it. There were charts and sketches and stuff of the various periods of dino development from National Geographics on bedroom walls. I had it bad. For the record, I loved the book Jurassic Park, and the first movie was great, and the rest are good for laughs. The last two are good for mocking. I probably would've been a paleontologist, except for when my Christian father, who at the time  I thought was the smartest man in the world (and he is objectively intelligent in many ways) told me God put the dinosaurs in the earth, that there's no way the earth is as old as science proves. (I say proves, he said claims.) 'Cause, y'know, an almighty being is totes into pranks. Ha ha. Ha ha ha. Funsies. I've digressed.

The quick-and-dirty is that the Cambrian is the geologic period that's from around 550 million years ago. (Okay this part I'll look up, because I'm so nerdy.... yup, I see it's 542-488 mil.) Anyhow, the dude that coined the name found the goods, the exemplars that proved this stage in earth history/backed up earth's age in Wales. And the area now known as Wales used to be called Cambria a way long time ago. Not millions time ago, of course. Trilobites and whatever can't speak... THAT WE KNOW OF. So I don't know if somebody was just like "Oh, that sounds like it could be a country" or somebody was being cute, thinking Cambria wasn't real, like it was something akin to Camelot, I've no idea. Who cares, it's stupid.

However.

Guys.... y'all.... my peeps.... um.... this'n is a keeper, so I'm not going to break it down and spoil it. It is very much worth watching, if you're into these types of movies, because it differs in a huge, very positive manner. Here's why this movie is above average for Hellmark: there's legitimate conflict (see above, re: what that means), and - most importantly - they are friends. They are buddies. They genuinely like each other. This isn't just about romantic love, this is about two people who care about what happens to each other. They care that the other person is living a life in  which they are happy.

There's also some realism here, not because it's an identical situation (it is not, trust) but in the broad strokes, I think of the Prince Harry-Meghan Markle situation. Middleton is uppercrust Brit stock, if memory serves (I'm not looking it up) with some sort of pseudo-distant-whatever royal line connection. She was gold for William, she's a good option for a queen (I mean, I'm sure there's duchesses out there, but that ain't who Wills loved). Now, Markle? So far from what would be called uppercrust. So, so very far. And yeah, yeah, I get that it's not as big a deal since he's not direct but more adjacent in line to the throne, but c'mon. It was a big deal. And you know all the ways why, I won't go through them here. My dude broke about a bazillion years' worth of tradition, and good on him.

And at the end of the day, that's what this movie is about - making your own way, creating your own traditions, adapting the old traditions, having confidence to do the things you're good at, the things you believe you're meant to do, and doing them the way you think is best. Is this a deep movie? No, it's fucking Hallmark, haven't you been paying attention? You think they let us escape without a super-rushed, wrap-it-up-in-the-last-five-minutes ending? You know better. I'll tell you this, though - it may not be deep, but it ain't shallow. And it's the best royal movie we've had so far, despite the too much haste with information-giving in the beginning and with the title and, as you'll find out, a really bleh last line... and of course with him being king of Fossilville. (I'm not letting that go.)

You're going to love him, he's a doll and classy and darling the entire time. You're going to love her, she's self-assured and fun and mature and hard-working. And you're really going to love John the valet. We find ourselves at ratings time and, somewhat shockingly:

5/5 stars

.

Past entries below

Winter Castle (people you’ve never heard of - Hallmark)

Holy shit, cliché on parade and nobody can act?! Jack-friggin’-pot. Zero chemistry amongst anyone, from family to friendship to romance?! Hot damn.

So they’re all at this place for a destination wedding (a.k.a, Selfish And Life-Disrupting And Huge Expense For Guests Thing And Oh Here’s Our Registry Too, come at me brah), and everyone is staying in a hotel. HA! KIDDING! They’re all in this giant faux igloo, and by “faux” I mean there are these church-esque doors in what is, I guess, a specially-flown-in iceberg on land. Google tells me it’s an actual place.

Anyway, through the doors you’ll find hallways (that have people carved into them, not creepy at all) which are lined with rooms. Suites? I never saw a bathroom door, doesn’t damn matter, nobody poos in Hallmark’s world. Oh, also, for lighting, we have Target pillar candles, then everything’s backlit in ‘80s neon:

Are they shitting me?

But that’s beside the point. Point is, it may be pretty to look at but in execution, it’s stupid. No way people haven’t had to peace out and find a new joint to stay in because of near or actual hypothermia. Based on the warm, cozy, wood-floored, windowed, staircase-and-balcony-having rehearsal dinner area in a large building with stone wall exterior, this hotel actually has some, y'know, hotel to it. Lodge? Who cares, but I bring it up because of the standard precocious child who is there to bring everybody together whilst turning into a popsicle.

The poor kid is bundled within an inch of her life, dumb bunny-eared toboggan to puffy jacket, and is burrito’d in a sleeping bag, with a quilt on this bed that looks to be carved out of ice, as well, and I say “as well” because our leading lady is shown frequently perched on what looks to be a chair carved out of ice (fur puffy thing for ass protection) with her laptop on a table carved out of ice when she’s face-timing her Not Gay Male Best Friend in a bow-tie and sweater vest back home, and - bonus! - he doubles as The One Person Of Color. Now, if memory serves, legit igloos made by actual First Nation(s) folks (meaning both Canadian and American - specifically, Alaskan - and probs any groups that found themselves in the way-way-North in the way-back-when and had to come up with this genius or, you know, die) are actually pretty damn warm once the fire gets cranking. Not to say you don’t keep some fierce socks and gloves on, that’s plain smart, but enclosed space with heat is enclosed space with heat - just don’t lick the walls. That’s good advice, igloo or otherwise.

On that topic, via the article linked above, says one of the actresses:

“It’s like an igloo,” Mullen told the Standard. “The further you go into the hotel, it gets colder and colder. As you walk down the hallway into the different rooms, it’s just getting into your bones.” She said every time they called “Cut!,” everyone would put on jackets to warm up.

She’s incorrect - that’s not like an igloo. It’s too big, that’s why it doesn’t stay warm. I have *zero* desire to go to this place. That sounds like Dante’s Frosty The Snowman circle of hell. I digress.

I say all that to say, this movie is straight dumb because the script is basic bitch, they were leaning on the location and hard. It gets a star because they tried in the sense that they did use a unique setting, but the rest was neglected (the story and the casting). Everything else was so blaaaaaand, and the acting was so stilted and unnatural, and they cast the mother with someone who looks the exact same age as the lead gal/her sister (the bride), and then there’s this one chick character who was so pathetically desperate, and the leading man was such a pussy who wouldn’t make a fucking decision, and they had our leading lady be all *sniffle* and tolerating that shit AND SHE JUST MET HIM BY THE WAY, and I just…. ugh.

1/5 stars

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Royal Matchmaker (Bethany Joy Lenz - Hallmark)

This isn’t an “official” Winter '19 jam, google tells me it’s from the '18 spring movies, but everybody’s bundled up, so I’m calling bullshit. It ain’t half-bad, despite the fact that it’s a “royal” one, who’d-a-thunk? There was one over Christmas that got a 4 (see link up top), and I never would’ve predicted it. But that was an oldie-goldie, this is now. This one has the traditional royal romance beats and, no shit, the sidekick is the same one from another “royal”, the absolutely horrid “Christmas At The Palace”, from Christmas ‘18. I cannot reiterate how bad that movie was - not ”My Christmas Love“ bad, but bad.

All right, so - she’s a matchmaker from NYC, which is at least a new take on what’s coming next - and you guessed it, a prince HAS to get married or some reason, even though it’s mentioned they are under a Parliamentary system and not a monarchy, but he still has to because it’s the 17th century, oh wait no it’s not. The king, who is from a random made-up locale (*sigh*) has hired her (and said partner) to find a suitable wife for his son, who’s presented as the typical eligible rich bachelor, and “presented as” is the key phrase. It’s one of the things I like about this plot, but it doesn’t outweigh the bleeeccchhh.

For one, it wears me out, the making-up of countries. It’s distracting. If you’re gonna do royalty, the right move is to have the royal not be a king/prince but make it a duke/duchess jam, refer to the locale vaguely as a duchy in England or Ireland or Scotland or Sweden or Norway or whatever Americans will fall for, 'cause as a rule, Americans aren’t typically hip to other countries’ jams. Hell, say someone is a prince/princess, but it’s more in inherited title only - that’s what the 4 from the Christmas list did right. Nobody called him “Prince Whatever”, he wasn’t presented as this hot commodity, it was a nothing burger, we didn’t even find out that he had the title til near the end of the movie. I’ve digressed, back to this flick.

I detest the royal garb they’ve got lead dude in at the conclusion, it looks like you or I waltzed into Party City and slapped down $30 and walked back to the set. It’s ill-tailored and in too-bright colors and is, again, something utterly distracting that could’ve been avoided, and same with the king’s, too-small jacket to too-long length of slacks. All the women, including our main gal, are in prom dresses straight off the rack from Sears and J.C. Penney’s. This is not praise. The men are all in identical rented tuxedos with clip bow-ties. Thanks, I hate it.

I mean, and I hate that there’s a ball at the end at all, but it goes hand-in-hand with the core premise, which is that they’re on a tight schedule - ol’ Bethany has 4 weeks. They, of course, fall in love with one another, and props to casting because these two look good together and have decent chemistry, but that could be because Lenz knocks these movies out of the park - this is the third… maybe the fourth… that I’ve seen with her - she elevates everything she’s in. When I mentioned her to a friend, I was told she also elevated some shitty TV show that I never watched, so perhaps you are already familiar with her.

Anyhow, once again there’s too much filler and the ending draaaaaaags and then BOOM it’s done in the last three minutes, which is standard for these movies (both Lifetime and Hallmark), I’d say, about 95% of the time. The story was good in that the prince wasn’t a typical playboy and he kept his philanthropic side a secret because he didn’t want press invading these small villages and whatever he was helping rebuild - he genuinely likes getting his hands dirty and he actually knows how to do shit, he fixes a radiator at a community center at one point. Eh. I dunno. It had such potential in the front half, then just shit the bed in the back half, so it was half of a waste of my time. But you may dig it. It’s far from the worst of Hallmark’s offerings but, again, I think it’s because of Lenz, she’s the only thing getting it up from a 1/5.

2/5 stars

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Oh… oh mah… what the… we interrupt the winter fare for what looks like a rando that’s snuck in and christ on a cracker, no. No. No. NO. The summary:

A woman begins an online relationship with a famous photographer, not realizing that she is actually communicating with the man’s young son.

This caught my ear because as I was sitting here writing up the last movie, it came on, and I hear this woman’s voice, her typing (so it’s her voice in her mind), then a man’s voice (as she’s reading), and I looked up when the man’s voice started switching to a kid’s (boy’s) voice back and forth every sentence or so - and then I looked at that summary, and….

NO

"Chance at Romance”, it’s called –> 0/5 stars, I don’t even need to watch it, what a stupid garbage fucking premise, and it’s gross, and I hope that shit kid gets punished, like as in, no computer til he’s old enough to own his own home and pay for his own internet, because scumbag kid. If he has the balls to pull this catfishing shitstorm on a fucking adult and gets away with it, what the fuck will he do to manipulate girls his own age? Gross. IT’S A GROSS PREMISE YOU GREETING CARD FUCKTARDS

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Love On Ice (Andrew Walker, who’s in every fourth movie, and  the lead chick’s familiar her name is Julie Berman - Hallmark)

Former pro skater, now teaching - don’t worry, it’s not the aforementioned “Christmas At The Palace”, despite the similar M.O. - and decides to go for one last run at regionals because the new coach in town who’s teaching the next big thing is like “You used to be the next big thing, why don’t you undo eight years of not training aggressively in, like, a couple weeks and compete against the girl I’ve been hired to make a winner, and I’ll coach you both, because I have a boner for you and your shitty blonde extensions! No, that’s not what he says, but that’s the deal, yo. The next-big-thing’s got an overbearing mother and, once his boner gets found out, here comes a new coach that used to be the former-next-big-thing’s coach, and she’s a horrible actress, she can’t play sneaky-evil to save her life. I liked the two leads, and they did a better job than the other ice skating scenes/movies with concealing the real skater actors, but overall this was as boring as watching paint dry, I just wanted it to be over.

1/5 stars

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The Perfect Catch (Nikki DeLoach and… shock of all shocks, no not really… our old buddy, Andrew Walker - Hallmark)

I swear, I don’t know if Andrew Walker is on some mission from god, or being punished by him. I’m in the same boat, so I empathize. At least I’m not contracted. I can’t speak for him, but I remain happy for DHJ, that he’s escaped this purgatory, and is safe on the shore… at least, at present.

In any event, this one doesn’t seem like a "Winter official”, but there were jackets and no definite spring or fall standards (pastels or orange leaves), and it’s airing now, so here we are. It seems to be baseball season, so I know they mean for it to be spring, but they are wearing coat-coats, not it’s-still-kinda-chilly light jackets. I don’t fucking care, I watched it, so I’m reporting on it.

It ticks many boxes on the Winter Fanfic Bingo card (forthcoming), specifically the ones that are carryovers from Christmas and will be carried over to all the Hallmark/Lifetime movies regardless of time of year. Because being formulaic, when playing the long game, is cheap and efficient, and in the restaurant business, or products made on a factory line, or in healthcare standards, things of that ilk, you want streamlined coupled with the trieds-and-trues. In writing? Not-so-much. It’s lazy.

And speaking of restaurants, that’s the first box that got ticked - our leading lady owns a restaurant and, next box, it’s in danger of being lost. Other boxes include: our leading man is famous; he’s the character that comes back home, leaves/might leave, then changes mine/comes back, and it’s to stay!; adorable child who ideally will bring everyone together; a character’s parents are dead. Blah-blah. Blah-blah-blah. Blah-blaaaaah-blah-bleh. <—- that had more variety than this flick. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with this movie. It’s vanilla. It’s white bread. It’s mashed potatoes with no salt or a touch of sour cream mixed in, no loading with shredded sharp cheese and crumbled brown sugar-and-cracked-pepper bacon and the barest touch of chives. I’m hungry, shut up.

It doesn’t just get 1 star because it’s not bottom barrel - everyone’s competent in their acting, there’s nothing outlandishly stupid about the script, it’s not shellacked in Velveeta. I will say that they pull a little teensy, micro-twist with how they resolve his balancing a primo offer that in no way should he pass on career-wise fairly realistically. The very last scene is, of course, stupid and embarrassing.

2/5 stars

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The next movie has palm trees, so officially not Winter. But oof…. it’s got Kelly Rutherford and Cameron Mathison, both of whom are ringers. Hmmm. Yeah, I still ain’t subjecting myself to more than needed for this adventure. Oh, and they continue to play the basic-basic-BAAAAASIC-boring “Hope At Christmas” on Hallmark Movies and Mysteries", if you’re interested. It is a mystery to me as to why they continue to do so. Anyhow, there’s apparently 3 or 4 more brand spanking new offerings from Hallmark for the next several weeks.

More to come. I’ll reblog this with every new entry added to the top, so you can always just keep this post URL bookmarked if you think you missed it. Send an ask if you want to be tagged.