#sam thinks he has the higher ground here but his wardrobe says otherwise....

[novakiart]

this is mostly @nevidimochka ’s fault for showing me that godawful garfield shirt today........anyway they probably have a solid collection between the two of them

[zrtranscripts]

Home Front, Mission 27: Cat and Mouse

The Thurman Show

~

[alarm blares]

SAM YAO: Five, Five! Get up, get moving. Something's triggered the mall's alarms and every zom in earshot's shambling towards your location. You need to get warmed up if you're gonna stay ahead of them. Head out of the room into the corridor.

[door opens] There should be a couple more doors at the end of the corridor. Open the first one, and – [zombie roars] Aw crap! Zoms. Slam it, quick! [door shuts] All right, we'll try straight on. Zoms that way, too. And behind you! They're blocking all our exits.

Okay, okay. Just-just think. Wait a minute, is that an open door straight ahead of you? I don't remember that being there before. And uh, no, it's not on the map. It's painted, so you'd hardly be able to see it if it weren't opne. Well, it's the best option we've got. Head through... [door opens and closes]

Ah yeah, I can see you on my cams now, Five. There's a staircase down. Wow, those steps go down a really long way. You better get moving and I'll... I'll try and work out where you're moving to.

~

SAM YAO: I can't find the staircase anywhere on the map. There shouldn't be anything this deep under the mall, but I'm getting camera access as you go down, like... like the whole place is waking up around you. You've reached the bottom, Five. There are zoms on the stairs behind you, but there's a door ahead of you you can lock from the other side.

[door opens and closes] Right, more cams turning on, and then I can tell where you are. [door creaks open] Okay... you're in a wardrobe. In a bedroom. Right, that's a bit surreal. Get out and close the wardrobe behind you, okay? [door closes]

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Welcome to your new apartment, employee! Overwhelmed? Take a moment and breathe it all in. Need to escape from it all? Well, there's your 13-inch color TV complete with walnut cabinet and Betamax video recorder!

SAM YAO: A recording of Thurman's voice. What's going on? It's like you're in a show house or something. Look for a way out, Five, I don't want you trapped in there.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Not in the mood for telly? [continues in background]

SAM YAO: It's like you've walked into the 80s. And everything's so clean. It looks box fresh. If anyone was supposed to live here, they never turned up. Right, there are zoms behind the wardrobe, so you're not going that way. Front door's locked... you're gonna have to kick it in, Janine-style.

Right, stand with one foot in front of the other about shoulder-width apart. Lift your back leg and bend it, keeping your knee as high as you can, and kick your heel straight out in front of you, remembering not to lock your knee, okay?

Go for it. Aim your heel at the door hinges. You can lean on the wall for balance if you need to. Pull your toes back as you kick, otherwise you might break them on the wood. All right, swap to the other leg, now same again. Knee up, kick out. Yep, yep, you're definitely getting there. Fantastic, Five! You've got legs like, like... a donkey. But in a good way. Yes, you're through!

Head out into the corridor. Cams are showing me you're on the ground floor of an apartment block. The doors either side of you must lead into other flats. Go straight ahead and you'll get to the main door. Did you hear that? Flies, buzzing behind the doors of those flats.

I don't want to know what's in there. Get out of the building. If the main door won't open, you know what to do. I don't understand what's going on here, Five, or why the zoms were suddenly like, herding you here, but we've got to get you out.

~

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Welcome to Thurmanville, loyal employee! To reward your tenacity, creativity, grace under fire, you've earned what everyone wants: citizenship in my own personal utopia!

SAM YAO: It's so weird. It looks like you're in a cookie cutter suburb from an American movie. Huge pastel houses with swimming pools, massive cars. But the trees are... plastic. And it's empty, like a ghost town. I think something very bad happened here. The apartment block you just came out of, someone's written inside the window with lipstick, I think. It says, “Help us.”

I can see Thurman! He's here! He just walked out of that same apartment block. Oh, he looks angry. He's looking for you, Five. Duck behind the hedge now! [foliage rustles] Okay, I can get you away. Commando crawl. Stay low to the ground and crawl forward on your forearms. Go. Thurman still looks exactly like he did in his videos. Could it be his son? It's a pretty uncanny resemblance, if it is. He's quartering the area, pacing up and down. You've got to keep moving.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Don't you dare let Thurman down!

SAM YAO: Five, just keep moving. He hasn't seen you, just keep going. Okay, right, that wall will break his line of sight. When you're ready, head for the next building, but stay low.

~

SAM YAO: Okay, Five, he's moved on. Head towards the convenience store ahead of you. I had a look on ROFFLEnet, and I don't know if this is good or bad, but I think I know where you are.

Remember how Thurman wanted to create a bunker that would survive the nuclear apocalypse? Well, there were rumors he built a whole underground town. It was supposed to be for him and the people he thought were worthy of joining him. I guess that includes you, Five.

So there must be a lift back up or another set of stairs, right? But until we find them, you need to steer clear of Thurman. God knows what he wants you for, or what happened to the people who were supposed to live here.

[door opens, bell rings]

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Welcome to Thurmart, where you can support your town through the magic of capitalism 24/7.

SAM YAO: There's a lot of food in here, Five. You could hole up in here for months, if you really like weird-colored soda and tins of hot dogs. Yeah, you'd better crank those storm shutters down, I don't want Thurman to see you inside. Grab the handle and move it up and down like your bicep curls, yeah?

Oh no, Thurman heard the shutters rattling! He's coming. Keep going, Five. They're good and thick, they're your best chance at keeping him out. Halfway. Keep cranking the handle. You're doing so well. Nearly there, Five, but so is Thurman. Keep going. That's great, Five. The shutters are down.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: I'm not finished yet.

SAM YAO: Bloody hell, he's hitting the shutters with his fists. I can't believe how strong he is. What's he done to himself? The shutters won't keep him out for long. There's no back door, but there should be a fire escape on the first floor. Head up the stairs, and mind that fruit display! You're going to - ooh... knock it all over. The fruit, Five. It's plastic, like the trees outside. The food in here, it's-it's all fake. Get up those stairs, Five. Yep, that's brilliant. You're nearly there.

Oh God, there's someone up ahead lying on the floor. He's dead, long dead. Except the body, it's-it's not decomposed, just sort of uh... it's dried out, almost mummified, like there's no bacteria in the atmosphere. And there's some of that fake fruit in his mouth. I think he was trying to eat it when he died.

I don't understand, Five. Why bring someone down here just for them to starve to death? It's-it's monstrous! The shutters won't last for long. If there's a fire escape, Five, you'll need to use the handle to crank down the ladder. Hurry!

~

SAM YAO: Okay, I've found a lift shaft on the plans that will get you back up to ground level. I think it might be in the tall building to your right, the one that says Thurman High. Smash the window and get inside. [glass shatters] You're in, Five. Man, it's like stepping into the high school from every American kids' TV show, except it looks brand new and completely empty.

Okay, go straight past that row of lockers towards the trophy cabinet. Wow, there's even a poster for the prom, Summer 1989. We never had anything like this when I was at school. I suppose Thurman thought America was the ideal of capitalism or something.

Yep, there's the lift. Press the call button quick. It's not coming. Maybe it's stuck on a higher level. Get up there and see if you can unjam it. [glass shatters in the distance] Thurman smashed a window and he's climbing through! Oh, his face, Five. He looks so angry. What does he want? Get up those stairs, go.

There's another body on the stairs. I think... I know who she is. Keep moving. All that noise has attracted some zoms. The woman on the stairs, she's a New Canton runner, vanished six weeks ago on a meds run. Her mum offered a reward on ROFFLEnet. Her name was Marsha. I guess we know what happened to her.

You're nearly there, Five. If you can get to the lift, we can get you out of there. Keep climbing. You're there, and there's the lift! Ah, but there's no up button! It's not the one to the surface. I'm so sorry, Five. Okay, there's a corridor ahead of you. I think it's a connecting bridge over to the next building. I'll get you out, just keep going.

~

ARTEMUS THURMAN: Welcome to the Thurman Institute of Technology, where today's dreams become tomorrow's reality.

SAM YAO: Five, there's a mob of zoms chasing you. Head for that sturdy-looking laboratory door past the robotics department, the one marked longevity research. I've watched the tapes back. Thurman definitely set off the alarms in the mall to use the zombies to herd you down here, just like we did to him with the water, but we can use that trick, too. [door shuts] Brace the door. You need to stop the zoms coming in. Remember your wall sitting?

Get your back pressed to the door in a sitting position, your knees over your ankles, and hold it as long as you can. Yeah, keep bracing, Five. And there's another dead body slumped over that workbench. Oh, I hate this place! She's holding... is that a Dictaphone?

[alarm blares] Okay, right, I've set off the fire alarm to distract the zoms. Thurman must be bringing people down here just like he did with you. The zoms are starting to disperse. Is it all some sort of sick game for Thurman, luring people here just to watch them die? I won't let that happen to you.

Okay, the zombies have gone, you can relax. Damn it, here comes Thurman again! Quick, Five, open the door and - No! There's no door handle on the inside! You need to find a way out before Thurman comes in, but there's no other door. That must be how the poor dead scientist got trapped. There's... there's no way out.

Hang on a minute, loads of the food's piled up around that cupboard in the wall, like it fell out... It's a dumbwaiter, Five! That's it, that's the shaft back to ground level. I think... I think I can reroute power to it long enough to get you out of there. Just give me a minute to uh... Yep, yep, it's working!

Grab the Dictaphone, we'll listen to it later. Might be something on the tape that'll explain this place. Now wedge yourself in the dumbwaiter in your wall sitting position and hit the switch. Yes! It worked. You're going up, Five. And in the nick of time, too.

ARTEMUS THURMAN: You're one of the lucky ones, one of my chosen ones. No matter how far you go, there'll always be a home waiting for you in Thurmanville. There'll always be a home waiting for you... always waiting for you... always...

~

SAM YAO: Thank God you're out of there. For a moment, I thought I'd lost you for good, but you're safe now. You can't be comfy, squeezed into a tiny food elevator, but you're nearly back at ground level and Thurman's hundreds of feet below ground along with all the zoms. The worst thing is he seems to be obsessed with you, Five. We need to figure out what's going on down there or we'll never be able to stop him.

Oh... that's weird. Your headcam’s glitching. Back on the surface, Five. Time for you to get some rest. There's someone there, Five, waiting for you outside the dumbwaiter. But that's not possible. How could he be here so quickly? It's... Thurman.

~

[mattzerella-sticks]

Bait & Tackle, Castiel-centric, Dean/Cas fic, heavy angst, TW: suicidal thoughts, coda to 15x06 “Golden Time”

Cas had a friend who saw the meditative benefits to fishing. If only he agreed, and still could call Dean a friend. If only he could call Dean something more. Alas none of that was possible, so he sat on a dock every day with a fishing pole in hand. Hoping that he can finally catch his first fish.

But how long can you toss your line out and expect something to happen that never does? Doing it again and again can drive you to the breaking point.

What happens when you shatter?

Cas feels the sun set behind him, the pinkish hue of the sky bleeding through the blue. Stray beams filtered through blanketing clouds strike the strip of skin between his collar and hairline. He rubs at it, massaging at the ache that settled there earlier in the day. While annoying to deal with Cas chooses to wait the pain out. Careful not to expend any of his dwindling grace on something so simple. When finished, he returns his hand to the fishing pole resting on his lap.

“Getting late,” a man says from nearby, dragging Cas’s attention away from the lake. A common practitioner of the sport, Cas met him on his first day at the cabin. Spoke with him between long dry spells where nothing bit either of their lines. In his sixties, the man’s silver beard stretched far below his chest. Long hair swept neatly under his bucket hat. Usually he wore casual shirts with witty sayings, like today’s ‘Shove It Up Your Bass!’ For the unusual amount of time they spent in each other’s company, though, Cas never asked for his name. And the stranger paid Cas the same respectful indifference. “Fish’ll hardly be active now.”

Cas nods, “I might stay here a bit longer.”

“Of course,” he smiles, hitching his gear over his shoulder, “Nothing more peaceful than a body of water at twilight. I’ll leave you to it then. Same time tomorrow?”

“See you then.”

He left Cas, footsteps light on the pier until they disappeared into the ground. Now alone, Cas allowed himself the luxury of dulling his senses. Limiting his grace to only on what he could see and sense in his line of sight. Like putting blinders on a racehorse. Cas needs the extra effort, otherwise he will be returning to his cabin without catching anything.

Again.

If it takes all night Cas will stay rooted to the pier. If he needs to dive into the lake and catch one with his bare hands, he will. If Chuck appears with a fish in hand, offering it only if Cas prays, his knees will buckle without question.

Cas cannot screw this up.

One star sets and a million take its place, dotting the sky like freckles across soft skin. He clears his head of those thoughts, leaning forward in his seat. Tightens his grip on the fishing pole and quells the yawn bubbling in his chest before it can burst.

Fighting exhaustion is new territory, but Cas will not relent. Fishing a welcome alternative to the chaos of sleep. Where any possibility comes to life when he allows humanity to color his actions.

The first night in the cabin he fell asleep between infomercials. One moment learning about how easily knives can dull after constant use and the next staring into familiar green eyes, hard as the last time he saw them.

Their last encounter looped frequently in his mind, but given the wild ranges of sleep that memory grew and twisted into something unrecognizable. Dean’s face shifted into something crueler, and his sharp words were more precise. An intent to maim instead of wound driving his actions, carving into Cas like a frog in a science class. In those dreams Cas didn’t move on, unable to. Glued to the floor while Dean transformed into a hellhound and tore him limb from limb. The last thing he saw were those green eyes and then he woke up. Public access playing, showing a man and two women trying to cook something live.

Hours passed with a snarling Dean trapped in his mind, unable to forget. That dream haunted him most nights when the need for sleep overpowered him.

But it wasn’t the dream Cas feared.

Two nights ago Cas laid on the bed, eyes drifting shut. Preparing himself for the hellscape most likely greeting him.

His dream placed him in another area of the Bunker entirely. A familiar room, although he never spent too much time there. It wasn’t his . Except waking up on the bed, dressed in a black shirt and hot dog pajama pants that certainly weren’t normally part of his wardrobe, he never felt more right . Finding the other side empty, Cas shuffled from the room and followed the enticing smell of bacon drifting out the kitchen.

He froze under an entryway. Sam sat at the table across from Jack, discussing a section in the book while the younger boy happily ate his cereal. Mary carried a plate of bacon over to them, ruffling Sam’s hair while she took her seat.

And over by the stove, draped in his apron, stood Dean. The other man smiled at him like he used to, gaze soft in their adoration. Dean beckoned him closer, Cas unable to resist. Cas floated over and wraps his arms around the other man’s waist. Buried his nose into his collarbone and breathed him in deeply. Delighting in the mix of sweet from the laundry detergent and savory from the bacon that sticks to his skin. Kisses the skin there, lips curling hearing Dean’s laughter.

Learning it was a dream nearly broke Cas. He spent the entirety of that day holed in the cabin, wrapped in the blankets.

His hands tremble thinking about it. Cas steadies them, thinking of fish and nothing else. Fish to catch. To release. To cook or to display. To tell his friend when he sees him again. To do absolutely anything with.

Once he catches a fish than anything is possible.

At least two more hours pass with nothing biting. Cas, used to waiting, finds his patience thinning. He taps his foot rapidly against the deck. “Is it always like this?” he asks himself, mumble echoing across the placid lake, “Or is it me? Will I always be waiting for nothing ?”

Cas promised he would move on. It’s a poor show of it.

In fairness, Cas’s response served only to wound Dean as harsh as the other man did him. Given the space to breathe, however, Cas realized after all that talk he had nothing to show for it. Spent days driving across America, stopping only to refill his truck until he finally decided to pitch his flag down when he heard of a cabin for rent. A cabin with easy access to one of the most plentiful lakes in forty-eight states.

A claim Cas proves untrue with each passing day.

“One of the most relaxing things you can do,” he growls, stretching his legs until they threaten to slip off the dock. “Peaceful… clears your mind… I don’t know why I talked myself into doing this.”

Lies. Cas saw the lake and the dock and reflected on simpler times. When the world was only a man, an angel, and the scant inches between them.

Even when he moves on, he fails.

He frowns at the water, barely visible given his dwindling powers. It looks more like ink than the liquid mirror during daytime. Reminds him of another far off place, and the invitation of sleep beckons even louder.

Cas pinches his leg, stubborn until the end. Steels his nerves and brushes the sleep from his shoulders. “This is my mission,” he says, “All that matters is the fish… if I could catch one fish…”

The lake answers. Something tugs on his line, startling Cas. He stares at the pole while it bends towards the water. A beat passes before he realizes what that means. Cas jumps from his chair, knocking the cheap plastic to the ground and reels his line in. Struggles when the fish matches his strength. Abuses his limited supply of grace to overpower it.

Zip zip zip zip zip . His line drifts closer, and Cas feels his face stretch with the foreign appearance of a smile. With one last spin of the reel and a tug on the pole, Cas drags his hook from the water.

He sinks to his knees. His smile vanishes in the next instant, fading like it was never there. Cas snatches the hook and studies the small, metal curve. Aware that his bait is gone, and the fish escaped. Nothing like he pictured. Nothing like he was told would happen.

Nothing went right.

Could he really blame the fish for that?

Cas chuckles. A cruel, hollow sound that starts low in this chest before drifting higher. Amplifies when he throws his head back with wild abandon. Birds scatter nearby, their crows joining his crazed laughter. Soon it chokes off, melting into sobs. Raindrops stain his cheeks, only the clouds disappeared along with the sun.

He lets go of the pole, it rolling close enough to the edge to cause worry. Except it doesn’t fall in. Stays there to remind Cas how he failed at the simple task of catching a fish. How he failed to provide. How he failed his family, his love, and most importantly - himself .

His neck droops and Cas finds himself staring at the lake again. A voice whispers in his mind, tells himself how easy it would be to dive in and never leave. Surrounded by all that water, hidden at the bottom, no one would find him. That he probably has enough grace left in him to allow for a peaceful few years with all the fish he cannot catch. “There’s nothing for me here, anyway,” Cas says, hand slowly reaching for the edge.

It pauses. Cas’s grace ignites in his eyes, and he can clearly see for the first time.

A perfect reflection greets him, Cas gaping at his own face. His head tilts to the side while he studies it. Anger boils his stomach the longer he looks at himself and distorts his features. “You’re a failure,” he says, snarling at the water, “You can’t do anything right. You can’t catch a fish, can't protect your family, and you can’t keep the trust of the man you love. No matter what you do it’s never right, never good enough. You don’t belong anywhere you’re a… you’re a… a fish out of water -”

Cas quiets, clarity poking through the dense fog of hatred clouding his mind. He relaxes on his haunches, away from his reflection. Stunned by the overwhelming ridiculousness of the situation. How easily he let himself spiral because of one false catch.

Venom drips down the corners of his mouth while Cas calms himself. Each measured breath helps douse the vicious flame that threatened to burn him. In the ash, positive thoughts can re-grow.

“You are not a failure,” he starts, “you are allowed to fail, but that doesn’t make you a failure. Failing is a natural part of existence. The only true failure comes in giving up. If you give up, it means you’re letting those who wish to see you broken win. It tells them that you are powerless to stop them. But you’re not. As long as you’re there to greet the sun each day, you haven’t failed. They haven't won.”

“And the ones who have failed,” he stutters on this next bit, heart twisting in knots, “the ones who have failed you are those who aren’t able to provide you with what you need.” Cas glances at the water again, green dots peering up at him. “Who take but cannot give in return. Sometimes you cannot fix this and that’s okay. The actions of others are not your fault. In this world we only have true control over one thing… and that is ourselves.”

A Gas n Sip display held a collection of self-help CDs that Castiel blew all his cash on. Wore his speakers thin by playing them without pause. They helped provide a safety net in his darkest moments, little nuggets of wisdom like the mantras he repeated scattered throughout.

Cas picks up his pole and stands. Sunlight begins cresting over the trees, morning arriving without fanfare. “Y’know,” he says, “maybe it’s not me… or the fish. Maybe it’s something else.”

Folding his chair, Cas strolls back to his truck and places his gear inside. “It could be anything…”

He looks at the lake one more time, storm settling inside his chest. Cas leans against his truck bed, the tiniest of smiles reappearing on his face. “It’s not my fault.”

The sun fully rises and Cas leaves.

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

honks my shitty little clown horn

FIC UPDATE THIS TIME WITH 100% MORE ADAM

(you should read the first parts of this au, posted in completion on AO3. or just let your hair down, throw caution to the wind, and try desperately to understand things through context clues. follow your heart.)

Juno feels the message coming before she sees it. She’s hunched over her desk, and in front of her is spread eons of paperwork. Hundreds of years worth of things to be signed in triplicate, stamped, approved, and filed alphabetically. Work she’ll never have the time to do, ever, because a new idiot dies every single solitary moment.

She’s very much looking forward to that Deetz woman coming down here and having some actual help. Doesn’t matter that she’s bending the rules to get it. She knows the point of the paperwork is to keep her busy, but if she can just get a handle on it, get through enough of it, she knows that there’s got to be some kind of reward from the higher ups, whatever mysterious beings those actually are. No one, not even her, is quite sure.

She suddenly feels her son’s arua, which causes her to pause in her scribbling, and look up. The room goes still, completely, without the sound of her pen on paper. There is no atmospheric noise from outside her window, because there is nothing outside her window. On the wall across from her desk, blazing letters tear themselves into reality.

FUCK YOU JUNO

She smiles. Good to see she’s managing to keep him on his toes. He’s growing soft, up there, literally, because when she’d spied him through some cursed book, she’d seen his chubby cheeks and fat stomach. He needed a little toughening up, and she needed a little distraction.

She stares at the writing on her wall as it smolders and simmers, and remembers the skinny little annoyance that was always underfoot. He’d been the biggest distraction she’d ever had, with his constant crying and questions and need for her attention. She was convinced he’d been a curse from someone above her, a petty problem sent to keep her so busy with him that her work would pile up, and she’d grow further and further from her goals of promotion. How else could she account for one random night leading to creating some form of life? Or unlife, as it were.

So she’d dumped her little problem on someone else, and then had managed to wrangle a future assistant out of the situation, to boot.

There is, she feels, a part of her that misses him. It’s the last part of whatever she has left in her from her time as a mortal, a time so long ago that she can hardly remember, some barely understandable biological impulse that forces her to care. He is her son, after all. Her only child. And he’d been so small when she’d thrown him out. She can almost recall the pain of a similar circumstance, of being small and alone and left somewhere, intentionally or not, and never seeing her mother again. But then she takes another drink of the bourbon on her desk, numbs all that, pushes it back down, and forces her eyes from his message to her, back to her paperwork. The sound of pen on paper fills the room.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````

There are, annoyingly enough, consequences for his actions.

It’s two days after Halloween, and he’s seated in the vice principal's office. Mr. Honeywell is a big, intimidating tree of a man, maybe as big and wide as Charles. Mrs. Birch, the guidance counselor, is also there. She’s a soft, slim woman, a little older than Emily, with great cans. That’s as much about her as he cares to note.

She’s giving him a soft, kind look, like she gets it, like she totally understands, being a teen is so hard, yada yada, and it’s pissing him off, because this is the first time he’s ever met her. What the fuck does she know?” He feels uncomfortable. His black and white hoodie had been ruined by bloodstains and the slashing cuts Sam had delivered, even though he’d shoved it in the washing machine nearly as soon as he and Lydia got home from the party. Instead he’s wearing an oversized green army coat, and a brightly patterned button up, something Charles had bought him to try and spice up his wardrobe. He feels weird without his stripes, or maybe it’s just the hoodie itself. There’s no hood to retreat into, which makes him feel vulnerable. Maybe it’s a snake thing. Small warm dark spaces. Who knows.

“Lawrence,” the vice principal rouses him out of his thoughts by using his first name. It’s almost enough to make him snarl. “BJ,” he corrects, voice like gravel. The older man does seem to pause at his voice, but continues. “Lawrence,” he says again, clearly trying to look stern and commanding, and clearly trying way too hard. “This is serious. People saw you by the punch bowls, and that was the last anyone saw of you. Do you care to explain that?” He grits his human looking teeth and shrugs. “I have a deep, hidden affinity for drinking punch and then mysteriously vanishing,” He says. “It’s absolutely a fetish. Really got me off, doin’ it in public, my nipples were hard enough to cut glass,” he snarks. Neither adult looks impressed. “And the second floor science lab?” Mr. Honeywell presses, and Betelgeuse throws his hands up. “You can’t seriously be tryin’ ta blame that on me!” He protests. “So what, it’s my fault th’ buildin’ apparently isn’t up to code? What the fuck do you think I did to that room, took a fuckin’ jackhammer to it?”

He’s not about to get blamed for the mess Kevin left behind.

“Language,” Mrs. Birch reminds him, and he barely keeps from snapping his jaws at her. “Do your parents let you talk like this at home? This is an important meeting, Lawrence. We’re not trying to attack you. We just want you to tell us the truth.” He grips the arm rests of the chair he’s sat in, hard enough he can hear the wood cracking.

“You call me that one more time-”

He doesn't finish the threat, because the door behind him opens, and he closes his eyes. Please be Emily, please be Emily, please be Emily- His father’s aftershave hits his sensitive nose, and he slumps in his seat. “Hiya, pop,” he grunts, as Charles takes the empty chair beside him. He doesn’t look at his son. Betelgeuse can feel the disappointment rolling off his father in waives. It makes him cringe. Charles conducts himself like the businessman he is. Betelgeuse is talked over, the few times he does try to speak, and it becomes clear the adults are not interested in his side of the story. That’s fair, it's a bullshit lie, but he’s still irritated by the treatment. Charles, at least, is on his side when it comes to the science room. “Unless you can prove BJ was there,” his father says, voice grave, “Then I don’t want to hear it. Spiking the punch, I can believe, but excessive property damage? What could he have possibly done to make the floor collapse?” And that matter is settled.

He echoes the question as Betelgeuse buckles into Charles’ car, twenty minutes later. “What could you have possibly done to make the floor collapse?” His father waits expectantly, eyes hard. “Wasn’t me,” he grunts out, crossing his arms, and then a third one, for emphasis. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes, Beetlejuice. You were obviously involved. What happened?” The third arm disappears. “It was… Kevin.” Another lie, but hopefully it’ll keep his dad from banning Sam from visiting. Not that Charles has any control over what the other demon does, but he knows his dad can work himself into a fit, given the time and stress. “Kevin,” Charles says. “He made part of a floor collapse.” “S’what I said.” “Don’t get smart with me.” “Trust me, no chance of that happenin’!” Betelgeuse cracks open his skull, showing the empty cavity inside to his father. Charles doesn’t laugh. Fuck, that would have gotten Emily. He shakes his head hard, and his skull snaps closed. “Kevin was messin’ with ritual bullshit,” He finally says, because the air in the car tastes tense on his tongue. “He’s the one who broke th’ floor, an’ I’m gettin’ blamed for it. S’not fair.” “Kevin isn’t my son. I can’t ask him questions, or ground him. All I know is that something supernatural happened in that room, and it’s tied back to my hellspawn.” At least Charles finally starts the car. The drive home is a silent one.

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His punishment at home is apparently boredom. His TV, his CD player, and worst of all, his ukelele are all removed from his room, and Charles doesn’t react to his impassioned plea for his instrument. “One week,” Charles says, “And you can have these back.” They’re stored in the attic, and he watches as Charles pours a circle of salt around his possessions. He hates both that the salt trick works, and that Charles knows about it. Emily is softer, but even she doesn’t give in. “Spiking the punch bowl is a good old fashioned prank, but not when there’s kids Lydia’s age there. Some of those kids might have driven home drunk, with their little siblings in tow. You’re lucky no one got in an accident.”

He doesn’t have the nerve to look her in the eye and say he doesn’t care, even though that’s the truth. Emily and her whole belief in the “inherent sanctity of life.” Whatever.

His punishment at school was almost no school, which he had been very for, but Charles had managed to ruin that, insisting him being physically present was more of a punishment than getting a few days out. He’s been assured there is an actual punishment coming, though. Hooray. On Thursday, he’s called via loudspeaker to come to Mrs. Birch’s office. He’s sitting in math class, in his usual spot in the back, and when the grainy voice over the ancient system calls for a “Mr. Deetz to come see Mrs. Birch,” the entire class turns to look at him. He stands, and a few kids even let out an “Oooo!” as he quietly leaves the classroom.

Mrs. Birch’s office is all sunshine and sweetness in a way that makes him sick. Motivational cat posters, wood art of rainbows, a light catcher in the window that refracts colors all around her otherwise sad little space. He’s getting very quickly tired of going to offices and being talked at, but he sits dutifully in the chair in front of her desk. She smiles across it to him, and he reaches a finger out and taps one of her desk toys, a drinky bird. It bobs pleasantly, and she smiles from it to him.

“Now, BJ,” she begins. If his voice is all gravel and blades and sandpaper her’s is honey and bubbles and puppies, or something. It’s an artificial sweetness that he thinks must hurt her throat, in the same way people assume his speaking must hurt him. “I’ve talked to a few of your teachers, and I think the biggest take away from all of this is that you’re a very isolated young man.” “Oh, my, do go on,” He puts on a faux southern drawl and acts bashful. The smile he receives is a very patient one. He wonders exactly what her threshold is for no longer smiling. He really, really wants to find it. “You eat lunch by yourself, most days,” She continues. Well, that’s not exactly fair. “I been sittin’ with Kevin,” he tells her, and she nods. “But Mr. Loh is no longer attending. So I think it’s fair to assume,” she gives him a look he thinks she thinks may be meaningful. “That you’ll be back to sitting alone.” “S’not by choice.” He’s wearing the green army coat again, and he can’t shrink into it like he can his hoodie. Damn it, Sam. “I know you have a hard time making friends,” she gives him that sympathetic look again, and it just makes him angry.

“You don’t know anythin’,” he bites, mouth moving faster than his brain. “Until yesterday, you didn’t know who I was.” “That’s where you’re wrong, BJ. I’ve been watching you for a while.” “Creepy.” “It’s not creepy, it’s my job.” “It’s someone’s job to clean up blood at crime scenes, too. Doesn’t make that less creepy.”

“The point is,” she desperately tries to drag the conversation back to her corner. “I have noticed that you’re a loner. You don’t interact with children your age, you don’t engage in any after school activities or clubs, you’ve never shown up for any football games or pep rallies. You’re sullen, you’re angry, you’re not a team player, you sit in the back in every class you take, and until Mr. Loh, you did not even try to speak to the other kids.” He focuses on the still bobbing drinky bird on her desk, because otherwise, he’s worried he’s going to throw Mrs. Birch through the window. “So maybe I like to be alone.” “But do you?” she presses, like a thumb into a bullet wound. He squirms uncomfortably. Of course not. He hates being alone. He hates that no one his age wants to talk to him, he hates feeling weird. But it’s not something she can fix.

“I think what you need is a fresh perspective,” Mrs. Birch says, standing up, and coming around to sit on the front of her desk. She hands him a folder. He takes it from her, flipping through it. It’s information on different after school stuff. He looks up at her. “My punishment is participation?” He groans, because her smile is growing wider. “We are going to find a social activity that you enjoy doing, BJ. It’s going to be good for you. It’ll be a chance to make friends, and develop new interests and hobbies. This is hardly a punishment at all! You can take that folder, and decide tonight what club you’d like to join. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” Oh, good. He’s going to be locked in a room with breathers who inherently dislike him after school every day for the foreseeable future. “Also, Mr. Honeywell has decided you’ll be helping out in the library on your lunch break. Indefinitely.” Fuck these people.

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Library duty starts that same day. Mr. Honeywell leads him into the school library, a place he’s literally never been and wasn’t even 100% sure existed, and he’s given a task by the librarian working there. He has to go around, collecting books that are left out, put them on the cart, bring them back, catalogue the books, and then put them back onto the shelves in the proper order. It’s mind numbing. He thinks back to the waiting room, and all the people behind the window there, stuck in the bullpen because of one stupid choice made in their lowest moments, all doing this kind of boring bullshit forever, and he especially remembers the tired looking Miss Argentina. She was so nice to him, even when she was busy. He never got the sense she was annoyed with him for bothering her, like he felt from some of the other office drones. Mostly, she was sad, and it seemed that him coming around and talking to her perked her up, if just a bit.

He wonders suddenly, standing there in the middle of the shelves, how she’s doing. It’s been a long time since he thought about that kind older woman. She’d let him hide under her desk, sometimes, when Juno was in a mood and was tearing through the office looking for him. No one could save him from Juno, but she would at least pat his head, and offer a little bit of shelter. It wasn’t fair, a nice former breather like that being stuck there for the rest of however long it took to work off her sentence, but neither life nor death were fair.

He’s zoning out, thinking about all of that, and intentionally doing a bad job reshelving books, when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He doesn’t move.

The throat is cleared again, and again, he doesn’t react. Just shoves another book into the wrong place. “Excuse me!” An exasperated voice whispers, and he turns to see a boy his age with short brown hair and thick glasses staring at him. He’s wearing a green polo, which is tucked into his tan pants. Betelgeuse, not exactly a paragon of fashion himself, has never seen a more plain looking kid. At least his outfits clash in a fun, weird, loud way. This guy looks like a mannequin at JCPenney. “What?” He grouses. “I’m workin’!” “I can see that,” the boy blinks. “But you’re.. You’re putting these books in the wrong section.” “Yeah,” Betelgeuse agrees, shelving another book. “I sure am.” “Well, how is anyone supposed to find anything if you put them back wrong?” “Guess they won’t. They might have to leave th’ library, and, gasp, do somethin’ more interestin’ than read all day.”

The boy looks offended. It’s a cute look. He’s still a little too sore about the last cute boy he talked to, though, and he’s not in the mood to be nice. “You spiked the punch at the Halloween party,” the stranger accuses. “Yeah, an’ I bet it was your first time drinkin’. You’re welcome.”

“I nearly got in trouble because of you,” the boy huffs, and adjusts his slipping glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose. “Spare me. You could nearly get eaten by a lion cause of me and I wouldn’t care.” “You have an attitude problem.” “You’re about to have a physical problem,” Betelgeuse slams one of the books down on the cart and turns to face the boy, who takes a startled step back. There’s a tense beat. The boy is silent. “S’what I thought.” The other teen doesn’t leave, though, just stands there. “The library is my space,” he says, defensively. “I don’t like you coming in here and messing things up.” “Then I guess you better go behind me and fix everything, you anal nerd.”

He wheels the cart down, and to the next row of shelves. The boy doesn’t follow, and Betelgeuse assumes the matter is settled, as he goes back to shoving books wherever he wants, but then the other teen rounds the corner, arms full of the misplaced books, and he sets them back on the cart. “I’m going to make sure you do this right,” he says, defiantly, and Betelgeuse regards him for a long moment, before shrugging. “Do whatever you want, man. Either way, books are goin’ back on shelves.”

That’s how he spends his lunch that period, reshelving poorly, with the other boy scrambling behind him and finding the proper place for the books. They don’t talk, except he can make out the teen muttering to himself as they both leave. “Jerk.” Whatever.

Tumblr does not like the length of this, so please find the rest over HERE every comment i get, here or on ao3, makes me more powerful. i am teeming with negative psychic energy, you should all be afraid.