#since his is better trimmed than cas's

[youchangedmedestiel]

Dean reacting to Cas and Sam having a beard

Dean: Nice peach fuzz (8x02)

VS

Sam: Some people say I look good (14x03)

Dean: No Sam, no people say that (14x03)

[breakfastteatime]

Today's fic is for @garbria, who requested 'Gardening is good for the soul' 🌱

The distant sound of clipping drags Cal out of his meditation. Opening his eyes, he finds himself alone in the engine room. BD has taken off. Cal’s not surprised. They’re tucked up on Bogano before they head back to Dathomir, so he’s probably checking in with his bogling friends.

Standing, Cal stretches out, shakes off a few lingering aches, and heads out. He finds Greez alone, tidying up the terrarium.

“You’re finally looking thawed out,” Greez says without looking up.

“Thanks. I guess.” It is nice that Cal can feel his toes again. That’ll teach him to go plunging into an icy pool on a frozen planet.

“You’ve got caf in the pot and a spice cake I saved ‘specially for you,” Greez continues. “Cere and BD will be back later. They’ve gone exploring. Guess Cere wanted to find some of this Cordova guy’s stuff. She wants you to stay here, rest up before we head to Dathomir.”

Cal glances wistfully out of the hatch. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not saying you aren’t. I’m saying it’s alright to stay put for once.”

He’d spent five years staying put. Now that he’s free, he wants to roam…

…although he doesn’t have his boots on right now, and he is still tired, like Ilum’s cold ate into all his reserves and left him with nothing. He feels better than before, and ready for what he must do next, but a nap would really –

“Gimmie a hand here once you’re fed and watered,” Greez orders. “You planted all of these, so you should learn how to take care of them.”

Cal drinks his caf. It’s about as bitter as the stuff Prauf used to make on Bracca, strong enough to wipe the heat scarring off a hull. Cere made this pot for sure. Greez usually sneaks a syrup in when he makes it. Thankfully the spice cake takes the caf’s bitter edge off. He plods over to Greez and looks at where he’s trimming a tiny green puff of grass, complete with little purple flowers. “What’s that?” Cal asks. “I don’t remember seeing something like that.”

“It’s a weed,” Greez says. “Must’ve snuck in with the other seeds.”

“You can’t get rid of it,” Cal protests. “It’s pretty!”

“It is a weed,” Greez spells out. “It could kill the other flowers.”

Cal scoffs. “Flowers are just weeds with better propaganda. Let it stay.”

Greez sighs. “Go down to the lower deck, open the supply locker, and dig out another flowerpot. Grab the extra compost too. If we’re keeping it, it’s going in another container. I’m not risking the others. Weeds could choke the roots or – ”

“I’ll get it!” Cal rushes off and collects everything he needs. He hurries back and follows Greez’s instructions about filling the spare pot with compost, making a hole in it for the plant.

“Weed,” Greez repeats.

“Flowers,” Cal shoots back.

“Fine, whatever. You can keep it back there in the engine room. Decorate your workbench with it.”

“My workbench?”

“Cal, buddy, I haven’t gone near that thing since we picked you up. It’s yours, trust me. Now, let’s get this thing replanted.”

It’s his? The workbench is his? Cal’s never had a workbench of his own before.

“…hear me?”

Cal shakes himself. “Yeah, sorry. Show me what to do.”

Between them, Greez and Cal moved the so-called ‘weed’ out of the terrarium and into the new pot. The green grass and little flowers spill over in a cascade of life. Cal holds it up, poking at it with the Force. He can feel it settling into its new home, roots digging in. He’d never spent much time on botany, but he remembers learning about the Jedi who could encourage plants to grow and thrive. Maybe he could learn how.

“Put that one aside for now and help me with these vines. Next time you find plants on Dathomir, leave them there.”

“You needed the challenge,” Cal says, grabbing a pair of clippers and following Greez’s lead by dead-heading the plant. “Everything else was easy.”

“Nothing wrong with things being easy.” Greez heads off to fill the watering can.

“If you say so.” Cal reaches out to the Force, senses the difference between each plant. He can feel the different worlds in their leaves and flowers. The Force does live in them, as it does in all living things. It’s not as complex as it is in sentient life, but the flowers pulse and glow with their own energy and power. Some are pretty proud of their blooms too, and Cal smiles with them.

A chuckle and pat on the back from Greez pulls Cal’s attention back.

“Yeah, I knew it,” Greez says, handing over the watering can.

“What did you know?” Cal asks, watering the plants he can feel need it.

“Gardening’s good for the soul,” Greez explains.

“Oh.” Cal looks at his ‘weed’. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

[chirp-a-chirp]

Court of Darkness: The Battle of Facial Hair*

*I wrote this story while hopped up on cold meds. So take this crack-fic with a grain of salt. Enjoy the horribly edited photo.

Description: A rumor spreads (from Vane knows where) throughout Saligia that a royal’s future prospects and strength can be determined by the amount of facial hair he possesses. How does this impact the princes?

Tags: Humor; crack; fluff; (brief mc mention using they/them pronouns)

Word Count: ~1250

…

GUY and TOA

Jasper receives a letter from the Avari royal court. He reads the contents to Guy.

Jasper: King Roc has grown a magnificent beard since you last saw him. The ladies of the court find his Majesty even more attractive than usual.

Guy: …

Guy: He has never lacked for female company.

Jasper: His Highness suggests you grow a beard as a sign of Avari strength.

Guy: *Scoffs* Suggests?

Jasper: Perhaps suggests is an inaccurate word. Here is the royal decree—you will begin growing your beard now.

Guy: Bah.

Jasper: Please tell me how a beard feels. I might endeavor to use one on my upcoming missions.

Guy: You’re enjoying my misery far too much.

Jasper: Impossible sir. *Smirks*

Two weeks later, Guy sports a very thick, luxurious black beard. It is neatly trimmed, complete with sideburns and mustache. As Avari fangirls oooh and aaaah over Guy’s facial locks in a hallway, Toa walks by.

Toa: How like Avari to be swept up by a rumor. Qelsum would never succumb to such a pathetic attempt at a power display.

Knight: Toa! Toa! An express letter has come from Qelsum!

Toa: *Reads letter, eyes widening ever so slightly. His eyes flicker to Guy and then back at the letter*

Toa: …the royal court cannot be serious.

Guy: What was that about pathetic power displays mongrel? Heh Heh Heh. *Walks away*

Within the next few weeks, Toa has a long, thin, deep blue goatee. The Qelsum royal court feared the consequences of Guy displaying a full beard without a Qelsan counterpoint—and as this display did not involve a direct magical competition against Avari, the Qelsan court insisted Toa grow out his own facial hair.

As much as Toa does not want to admit it, the goatee does have advantages. His chin and upper lip were much warmer with a layer of hair covering it; dignitaries were in such awe at the power conveyed that numerous agreements advantageous to Qelsum were given; and teaching had become easier as his goatee conveyed an air of authority that made even the most unruly students obedient.

The fangirls for Toa and Guy are louder than usual, all insisting THEIR prince had the more magnificent facial hair. Clearly, the fullness and thickness of Guy’s beard conveyed his superiority—no, no, the Toa-sters insisted, Toa’s long beautiful goatee showcased Qelsum’s might better. Guy and Toa grumble at the comments and at one another frequently, both embarrassed at the farcical turn the situation had taken. But until their kingdoms release them from their hairy obligation, the facial hair remains.

MC: What IS it with people’s obsession over size?

Fenn: It’s not the size that counts Treasure. It’s how you use it.

Speaking of how you use it…

FENN and ROY

Fenn: I say Roy, you’re not participating in this facial hair competition?

Roy: Why, no. I prefer the clean-cut look. It suits my purposes.

Fenn: *Smirks* You can’t grow a full-beard, can you?

Roy: *Smiles bigger* I did not say that, Master Fenn.

Fenn: You didn’t have to Roy.

Roy: And is there a reason why you’re only growing a mustache?

Fenn: It suits my purposes equally well. Or so I’ve been told. *Wink*

Fenn grows a long twirling lavender mustache. The mustache, while not particularly full, has the remarkable ability to grow and shrink several feet at Fenn’s discretion, like magical retractable hairy vines. It becomes an extension of Fenn himself—for better and worse.

Female student one: My date with Prince Fenn was absolutely divine!

Female student two: So was mine. A night with Prince Fenn is like being caressed with two sets of arms!

Fenn: Are you two comparing notes? May I join you? *His mustache elongates and tickles the ear of each student*

Students: Oooooh!

Roy is incapable of growing a full beard. He CAN, however, maintain a 5 o’clock shadow on his face. This beard stubble is very light in color—so light, it can only be seen if one were mere inches from his face. Roy uses this fact to his advantage.

Roy: Did I miss a spot while shaving Heartspell? *Nuzzles his face against MC’s cheek and neck*

MC: Roy! I’ve told you that tickles!

Roy: Yes, your point being…? *Continues to nuzzle their increasingly red neck*

MC: I didn’t want to resort to this, but these are MY leg hairs…

Roy: Oh you are quite the devious little…*starts laughing as MC lifts the fabric up from Roy’s pants and rubs their leg against Roy’s exposed shin*

Grayson walks up to Roy’s door. Upon hearing dual voices laughing from within, he turns to the diplomat next to him. “My apologies, it appears Prince Roy is indisposed.” Grayson barely withholds the word AGAIN.

RIO and LYNT

Rio, Lynt, Sherry, and MC eat in the dining hall. Sherry asks if Rio and Lynt intend to grow out their facial hair.

Lynt: *Shrugs* It’s too much a bother. I am a Prince whether there is or is not hair on my face.

Rio: Nope. The only hair that grows on me and my dad is on our heads. Not that it makes a difference—dad’s the best king there is!

Sherry: You two are the only ones that show any common sense.

Rio: Roy’s an S:Rank and he doesn’t appear to be taking this rumor seriously.

MC: *Rubs their neck, muttering* Yeah, APPEARS.

Knight ambles over with a tray of food. Suddenly, he jumps in the air.

Knight: OI! Keep your hands off me you—! *Rubs his backside*

Fenn: *Smiles cheekily while retracting his mustache* My hands didn’t touch you, did they, dear Knight?

LOU and the PRINCES

Lou summons the princes to his office. Guy and Toa glare at one another miserably while scratching their faces. Fenn twirls one side of his mustache while lightly massaging Lynt’s hair with his other mustache half.

Lou: I suppose you all would like to know who has won my facial hair competition.

Guy: *Eyes widen* …

Toa: YOU started this ridiculous rumor?! *Lou’s familiars, Phinny and Nix, resignedly nod their feathered heads*

Lou: I have written to each of your fathers to announce the winner—

Rio: Wait, where’s Lance?

Toa: He hasn’t shown up to class for days.

Lou: The winner of this contest is—*at this precise moment, Lance casually enters the office* Master Ira!

The princes stare in bewilderment as Lance opens the door. He hasn’t been seen in four days, but in that short time he has gone from clean shaven to a full dark purple lumberjack-style beard. Lance has spent the past few days with the child Christoph. He’s just arrived from reading Christoph a series of Saligian fairytales—including a reenactment of the brave woodsman (complete with full beard—grown to amuse the boy). Lance reveals none of this as he glares at Lou.

Lance: What utter rot. *Leaves and closes the door*

Lou: Oh well, I’ll give him his prize later. *Turns to the other princes* As the contest has ended, I’ve informed the kings you no longer need to participate if that is your desire.

Guy immediately removes his beard with magic, muttering “Ridiculous.” Toa sighs deeply and leaves without another word. As the other princes leave, Lou calls out.

Lou: Master Invidia! MC has been sporting high collared shirts as of late. Have they caught a chill? The visiting diplomat was quite worried on their behalf.

Roy: *Smiles* Rest assured, I will take care of them.

[somedaylazysomeday]

Na Buachaillí - Part Two

Connor MacManus x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

You run into another Irishman. What are the odds?

Rating: Explicit, lemon, etc. Minors, DNI!

Word Count: 6,500

Warnings: Modern AU, some awkwardness, mentions of alcohol, blatant flirting, discussions of consent, fingering, protected piv sex, squirting.

Previous | Masterlist

---

“Here’s your hat, here’s your clipboard, and here’s your station,” Emiliano told you, handing you each item in turn, then pointing downward as if to show the exact place he was talking about.

You accepted the red Santa hat, putting it on your head. The cheap fabric immediately made your forehead start to itch, but you accepted the clipboard and stood in the right spot anyway, offering Emiliano a polite smile that turned into a real one when he handed you a pen topped with an enormous red and green bow. 

“I know, I know,” he told you with a wince. “But sometimes people like to walk away with our pens. This makes that a little less likely.”

“Or a lot more noticeable,” you added with a laugh.

Emiliano smiled at you. “Exactly! You’ve got an easy job today: this is the online pre-registration check-in. When people bring their children up for the run, just mark the names off of the list. If the kids’ name isn’t on the list, send the family over to Tasha. She’ll make sure they have a ticket and get them checked in over there. Any questions?”

“Nope!” you said with cheery determination. Emiliano nodded, gave you his cell phone number in case you had questions or problems, and left to get someone else set up. 

Of all the temporary jobs you had taken on over the winter school break, this was the one you had been looking forward to the most. A hundred bucks to help set up, run, and tear down the Holiday 5K on Christmas Eve. 

Setup hadn’t been much more than positioning a few barricades around the 5K course and making the cocoa for the Cocoa Run, the short race aimed for runners under the age of ten. The Holiday 5K itself had already started and the young runners were about to start checking in for their own chance at glory…. or, more accurately, their chance at a white-painted, glitter-covered dollar-store trophy with a plastic polar bear superglued to the top of it.

It was terribly cheesy, but everyone seemed fine with that. Several of the 5K runners had been wearing all white or dressed as elves. Many of the children waiting to run were wearing costumes as well. The crowd was in good spirits, most of them dancing or singing along with the stereotypical holiday music that was being piped in over the area’s loudspeakers.

The first hour or so of signing in Cocoa Runners had gone smoothly. The Holiday 5K’s website had been fairly straightforward, so most of the online registration had gone without a hitch. The few times you had a name that was missing from the list, the runner and their family were in such good spirits that they didn’t mind being sent over to Tasha instead. All in all, things were moving along better than you could have hoped.

“Connor MacManus.”

You turned, eyebrows already arching upward. Most of the competitors for the Cocoa Run had already been checked in since the race was getting ready to start. Besides that, the man who had spoken definitely didn’t have a child with him. 

“Sorry,” you apologized immediately, scanning the heavily crossed-off list clipped to your clipboard. “Connor will have to be here before he can be checked in.”

“I am Connor,” the man told you. 

You narrowed your eyes slightly, letting yourself take the man in. He was wearing a red jacket and matching sweatpants, along with a bushy white beard and a Santa hat that somehow managed to look even cheaper than yours was. Blue eyes sparkled at you from under the painfully fake fur trimming the hat and you turned your attention back to the clipboard.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized again. “I don’t see a Connor on my list. Did you register online? Or are you maybe here for the 5K?”

There was a pause, then the voice came again, filled with amusement. “Are ye waitin’ for the clipboard tae answer ye, lass?”

This was not Murphy, you reminded yourself firmly as your heart picked up speed in your chest. It had been several days since you had slept with the virtual stranger and you had been too busy to give the experience much thought. But the blue eyes and the Irish lilt in this stranger’s voice made you think of him.

Still, you had asked a question and it was your job to get the answer. You met his amused gaze evenly, lifting your chin slightly as you reiterated, “This is the Cocoa Run, aimed at runners under the age of ten. If you didn’t register online for it, you’ll have to go speak with my colleague Tasha, who will get you registered now. If you’re looking for the 5K, it started half an hour ago. You can still participate if you want to; there are still quite a few runners out there.”

“Th’ 5K already started?” he checked. When you nodded, he pulled off the beard. “Fuck that.”

You smiled before you could help it. The man didn’t look much like Murphy, but something about his way of speaking - even beyond the accent - reminded you of your recent acquaintance. “If you already registered, there are no refunds-”

He shrugged. “Don’t need a refund. T’is is all fer charity, yeah?”

“It is,” you agreed, dimly registering the screams of excited children. The Cocoa Run must have started.

“Money well spent,” Connor said. “‘Sides, it means I don’t have tae worry about anyone seein’ me haul ass around th’ track in a Santa suit.”

“If you didn’t want to run, why did you sign up?” you asked curiously.

“Lost a bet,” he admitted with a smile.

Ah, the smile was familiar. When he wore that smile, you could almost believe this man was related to Murphy. You hated to seem like an ignorant American, but you couldn’t help but ask: “Do you have a brother who lives around here?”

Connor’s expression immediately grew… well, not shuttered, necessarily, but certainly secretive. “C’n I ask why ye’re askin’?”

“I met another guy with an Irish accent a few nights ago,” you explained, feeling instantly stupid as you heard it out loud.

Connor’s smirk didn’t help. “T’is may be a shock, but there can be more’n one Irishman out wanderin’ th’world. I might not even know this other guy.”

“Yeah, okay,” you agreed. No matter how thin your initial reasoning had been, Connor’s sarcasm only solidified your suspicions.

“Ye don’t believe me?” he asked, sounding deeply offended in a way that you didn’t believe for a moment. “Ireland’s a small place, but t’isn’t that small.”

You hummed a skeptical agreement. “And the fact that you both have the same sarcastic wit is just a coincidence.”

“Ye know what I t’ink?” Connor asked, leaning a little closer with a conspiratory smile. “I t’ink you’re lookin’ fer someone tae replace this other Irishman. Lucky fer ye, I don’t mind a bit.”

Despite yourself, you laughed at that. You and Murphy had shared a one-night stand, nothing more. Connor’s guess made it sound like you were pining after the other man, searching for something to fill the gap of a relationship. That wasn’t your style, not even when your marriage with Paul had ended. Well, theoretically ended. The legal stuff was still going on and would be for a while, but you had never moped about the fact that things were over.

Connor shook his head at you, the puff at the point of his Santa hat flopping ridiculously at the motion. “Can’t help but feel ye ain’t takin’ me seriously, lass.”

“Connor!” someone called. “Shit, is it already over? Did I miss it?” 

A figure rushed up to the pair of you. Recognizing Rocco took only a moment - his hair and beard were still wild and it even looked like he was wearing the same outfit. The only difference was that his sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, holding some of the curls back like an awkward-looking headband. It was a concession to the overcast skies, you guessed.

“Hey, Rocco,” you greeted, tossing a victorious look in Connor’s direction. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, promised Murph I’d get some pictures’a this asshole running around dressed as Santa,” Rocco explained, gesturing to Connor. “What happened? He didn’t win, did he?”

“Won th’ whole t’ing,” Connor told him proudly.

“He didn’t run,” you said at the same time.

Rocco laughed. “Shit, after all’a that, you didn’t even run? Fuckin’ hell.”

A passing parent shot Rocco a dirty look as you muttered an apology for the language on his behalf. That was the only reason you didn’t see Rocco holding up his scratched phone to get a picture of you and Connor. When you glanced back at him, you were greeted by the sight of him snapping a picture. 

“I would have moved out of the shot,” you mumbled. 

“Nah, you’re proof that none’a this was staged,” Rocco told you cheerfully. “Not workin’ at the diner today, then?”

“No,” you denied, but frowned. “I don’t think I am? Hang on…”

You surreptitiously pulled your phone from your pocket, balancing it on the clipboard like you were checking the date or time. Your schedule showed you the necessary information immediately and you tucked the phone away less than a minute after getting it out. 

“No, I’m not at the diner tonight.”

Rocco and Connor were both watching you with lifted brows. You offered them a self-conscious shrug. “I’m working about four temp jobs right now. It’s a little hard to keep track of where I’m working and when.”

Connor’s look of surprise had turned to a deep frown. “But why are ye-?”

“Whew!” you interrupted, bouncing on your toes. “I can’t wait for this to end so I can go warm up. That wind goes straight through you!”

“Wait there,” Connor instructed, hurrying away. 

You and Rocco watched him go before you turned to the other man. “Uh… If my supervisor tells me I need to go somewhere, I’ll have to just leave.”

“MacManuses,” Rocco sighed, accompanying the brief explanation with a roll of his eyes.

“So Connor is Murphy’s brother?” you asked, sensing the chance to get an actual answer. “The one he works with?”

“Yeah, that’s them. They work together, live together, drink together, fight together…” Rocco trailed, shrugging. “They’re twins. Whaddaya expect, ya know?”

You gave an impartial hum at that. If they were so close, why was Connor being so weird about confirming that he even knew Murphy? 

Before you could put much thought into the inner machinations of a stranger - a pair of strangers, really - Connor returned. He was holding two cups of cocoa. 

“Thanks,” Rocco said gratefully, grabbing one of them and taking a drink.

“That was fer her, ye dick,” Connor berated, giving you an apologetic look. “Don’t suppose ye’d be okay wit’ sharin’? I already added somethin’ extra to mine.”

He held up a small silver flask. You smiled, but shook your head. “I’m good, thanks.”

Rocco hit Connor in the shoulder. “C’mon man, ‘course she wouldn’t take any’a that! There could be anything in that shady fuckin’ flask of yours.”

“It’s a flask,” Connor explained slowly. “What else’d be in it, lighter fluid?”

“Nah, like…” Rocco cast about for an example as Connor signaled impatiently for him to finish. You watched the process with interest and more than a little amusement. “Like roofies or some shit.”

“Th’fuck?” Connor demanded immediately. The next moment, he was facing you, eyes pleading. “I wouldn’t do that, lass. T’isn’t anyt’ing like that. Here…”

He took a large swig of cocoa, gulping it despite the way you could see steam rising from the liquid’s surface. You winced in sympathy, but he seemed unbothered. 

“Or I c’n jus’ get ye a fresh one since this idiot drank yer’s,” Connor concluded, swiping at Rocco, who took a quick step backward to avoid his cocoa being upended over him. 

You laughed despite the chaos of the little scene. “It’s okay, Connor. Thank you, but I probably shouldn’t. This is a temp job, but I’m still technically at work.”

“If ye’re sure…” Connor trailed dubiously. 

“I am, but I appreciate the offer,” you told him. It seemed like a good parting statement, so you were surprised when Connor and Rocco continued to stick around. Rocco made his excuses after he had finished his cocoa, but only because he had to run some errands for his boss. He bade you a cheerful goodbye, which you gladly returned as he walked away.

You watched Rocco leave, curious. “What does Rocco do, exactly?”

“Nothin’ good, that’s fer sure,” Connor said darkly. “How about ye, lass? What do ye do when ye’re not jugglin’ four temp jobs?”

“I teach high school science,” you told him, grinning at the disgusted noise he made. “It isn’t for everyone, but it’s a passion of mine.”

“So… biology and…” Connor squinted, clearly trying to scrape up another kind of science. “...Zoology?”

With effort, you kept a straight face. “Well, the zoology budget is pretty thin in Boston’s high schools, but yes to biology. I also occasionally teach chemistry, physics, anatomy and physiology, and I’m trying to convince the board to let me add a marine biology class.”

Connor puffed out a breath. “Ye’re too smart to be talkin’ tae th’ likes o’ me.”

“Everyone’s smart in a different way,” you countered. “I’m sure you know things I’ve never even thought to wonder about.”

He shook his head with a wry smile. “Pas à moins que ce soit une autre langue.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Connor chuckled and took a gulp of his spiked cocoa. “I’m good wit’ languages. Me an’ Murph both are.”

“What language was that?” you pressed, trying to remember the flowing words. “Italian?”

“Nah, but close,” he praised. “It was French.”

“That’s really impressive, Connor!” you told him. “Languages have always been a bit of a struggle for me. Do you speak any others?”

“A few,” Connor said, giving you a sideways sort of glance. “Ye like smart guys, yeah? That how ye met dat husband o’ yers? Is he a teacher, too?”

“Murphy mentioned him, huh?” you asked, trying to disguise your wince with a playful duck of your head.

“Weren’t no big deal, lass,” he brushed off. “Jus’ told me ye were goin’ through a divorce.”

You nodded, offering a weak smile. “Yeah, that’s true. But he wasn’t a teacher. He was a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” Connor repeated, sounding thoughtful. “So’s he representin’ himself, then?”

You snorted. “I wish! Paul has a high opinion of his own abilities, but even he wouldn’t go that far. He’s gotten one of his friends to represent him.”

Connor nodded slowly, but Emiliano walked up. “How did it go?”

“Perfectly fine!” you told him, giving a professional smile and turning the clipboard so he could see it. “Everyone who registered online showed up.”

“Excellent!” Emiliano told you, beaming. “Some of the other volunteers have already started taking down the 5K barriers, so if you want to go help break down the cocoa tent, that would be great! It looks like it’s going to start snowing anytime, so we’re trying to tear down in a hurry.”

“On my way!” you chirped. When you turned back to Connor, he was already starting for the cocoa tent. “What are you doing?”

“Helpin’,” he said simply, then expanded when you tilted your head at him. “Me ma didn’t raise me to sit back an’ watch when there’s work tae be done.”

“We’re getting paid,” you reminded him. “You aren’t.”

“T’is a charitable time o’ year, lass,” he told you with a smile. “‘Sides, I was hopin’ ye might want tae spend a little time together after this.”

“Yeah?” you asked. Your brain twisted what could have been a casual invitation to hang out into something decidedly different. As a result, the single word came out in a tone you could have described as ‘sultry’.

You would have died of embarrassment on the spot if Connor’s eyes hadn’t flicked down your body in a slow study that ended with a salacious grin when he met your eyes again. “Yeah. If ye’re interested, o’ course.”

You smirked, but didn’t reply. If you were reading the signs correctly, you were in for a good time before your overnight shift… though you would need to have a rather awkward conversation first.

Connor rolled with that easily, staying silent until he helped Emiliano move some of the tables. The organizer was clearly struggling, but Connor took on more of the weight without complaint. When the table was safely delivered to the truck so it could be taken back to storage, Emiliano chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Strong guy, huh? Where were you when we were setting everything up this morning?”

Connor just laughed and shook Emiliano’s hand. He preened slightly and flexed when you looked his way. “Weren’t nothin’, lass. ‘Course, I’ve always been stronger than me little brother. I t’ink it’s because he’s a smoker…” Connor shook his head in heavily exaggerated disappointment. “Disgustin’ habit, that.”

“Little brother?” you asked, ignoring the smoking comments. “I’m pretty sure Rocco said you were twins.”

“Oh, we are,” he assured you. “But even so, one’s got tae be older. And we both know it’s me. ‘Both’ bein’ ye an’ I. Murph’s in a bit o’ denial about it all.”

You hummed skeptically, but Connor didn’t hear it over Emiliano’s voice. “And that’s it for this year’s Holiday 5K! Thanks, everyone, for helping out. It’s starting to snow, so be careful. Get home safe and have a happy holiday season!”

A quick glance upward confirmed Emiliano’s words: it was indeed snowing. It wasn’t really a shock. Boston had gotten little snow showers almost every day for the past week, but there was something special about snow on Christmas Eve. A smile stretched across your face as you watched the flurries glide their way to the ground.

“Well?” Connor asked, drawing your attention away from the snow. “What do ye say, lass? Want tae keep spendin’ time wit’ me?”

You took a deep breath as you eyed him. You were never the most confident when it came to situations like this. It was considered sexy for things to be hinted at, implied… and you were someone who liked things to be extremely clear. It was possible you were misinterpreting Connor’s invitation and he really was just trying to be friendly to a lonely woman during the holidays. 

But you doubted it. Why would anyone volunteer to spend time with their brother’s one-night stand unless he was interested in a similar arrangement? Of course, why would he be interested in his brother’s leftovers?

You pulled yourself from your spiraling thoughts. If you had misjudged the situation and he was interested, you were just as well off as you would have been otherwise. If you had misjudged it and he wasn’t interested, you would just be the weird lady who propositioned him while you were both wearing matching cheap Santa hats. 

“I’d like that,” you agreed, but signaled for him to wait as he started to smile. “I feel like I should tell you, though: I slept with your brother.”

Despite your nerves, Connor grinned. “Believe it or not, I already knew that. I texted m’brother as soon as I saw ye. It don’t bother neither o’ us. Does it bother ye?”

You almost laughed at that. Did it bother you, the idea of sleeping with the brother of your one and only one-night stand? It probably should have been a resounding yes. You had never been one for casual sex, and there was something even more intimate about the fact that your prospective partners knew each other. Actually, the morality clause in your teaching contract alone should have been enough to push you into thanking Connor and sending him on his way. 

But it had been a hard year. Paul was dragging you through the mud and you would have to deal with much worse before it was over. Sleeping with two people in the span of a week was an anomaly for you, but you weren’t going to turn it down… especially since those two people were sexy Irishmen. 

You smiled at Connor. “Doesn’t bother me a bit.”

“Okay, den,” he agreed, stepping close enough that your heart picked up pace. “Can I kiss ye, lass?”

“Yes.”

Connor’s lips were soft, but you could only enjoy them for a moment before he got impatient. The small sting of his teeth nipping at your lower lip made you gasp, allowing Connor to deepen the kiss. By then, of course, you had been distracted by the sweep of his talented tongue.

You weren’t pulled back to awareness until a group of teenagers passed by, calling loud suggestions about what you should do next. You broke the kiss and rested your forehead against Connor’s shoulder. “Well, that was embarrassing.”

“They c’n mind their own business,” Connor countered. “But they do make a fair point about location. Ye want tae take this somewhere else?”

“Please,” you said with a decisive nod. “My apartment is a few blocks away from here, unless you’d rather go to your place?”

He grinned. “Murph’s stuck at work an’ we’d have th’ place tae ourselves, but it’s a bit further away than I’d like. Do ye mind if we go tae yours?”

“Let’s go,” you suggested, glancing at the sky. The snow hadn’t dramatically picked up, but there were some foreboding clouds rolling in. “We can probably just walk there.”

“Aye, I know how ye like walkin’ to and from yer jobs,” Connor agreed. 

You were about to make a sarcastic comment about Irishmen owning their own cars if they wanted to drive around so badly, but he distracted you when he laced his fingers with yours. Clearly noting the breath you had taken and released without a word, Connor smirked at you. “Somethin’ ye wanted tae say, lass?”

“Not a smoker, huh?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at him until he gave a sheepish smile.

“I had a smoke jus’ before I spoke tae ye,” he admitted. “But if ye kiss like that every time, I’m a very recent quitter.”

“You had a cigarette right before you were going to run a 5K,” you reminded him. “That doesn’t sound like someone who particularly wants to quit. It’s really not my business…”

“Hey, c’n ye blame me?” Connor asked with a shrug. “I knew I was goin’ to speak wit’ a pretty girl while I was wearin’ a Santa hat an’ a big beard.”

“You’re still wearing a Santa hat,” you pointed out, reaching up for the offending fabric.

Connor swatted your hands away. “Not on yer life. Not until I have a mirror an’ a comb tae fix th’ damage.”

The laugh burst out of you, startling Connor, but he joined in a moment later. You decided not to tell Connor he was attractive enough to pull off hat hair. It was true, but he probably didn’t need to be reminded of it. He seemed to have a tendency toward cockiness. 

Since it was earlier in the day than when you had brought Murphy in, there were more people milling around your apartment building and you had to refrain from making out with Connor in the elevator. You did your best to make up for it with enthusiasm when you got into your apartment, though, almost tackling him with the force of your eagerness.

When you finally broke apart, your jacket was unzipped and Connor’s scarf was unwound from its original place around his neck. Connor chuckled lowly. The sound, paired with the heat in his eyes, made you shiver.

At least, until you caught sight of the time. “Shit. I have to work tonight.”

“Do ye need me tae leave?” Connor asked, sounding like the words were dragged from him.

“No, but we-” You shifted your weight uncomfortably. “This will have to be kind of quick. Are you okay with that?”

“Well, I’d prefer to take me time wit’ ye…” Connor said, eyes raking over you, “but I suppose we c’n speed it along.”

“Great,” you said with a relieved smile. “There’s the kitchen, pantry, coat closet, bathroom, bedroom.”

Then you had to pause for a second to let the strong sense of deja vu pass. You had given Murphy the exact same verbal tour. You would feel bad giving Murphy an idea of your apartment’s layout but not doing the same for Connor. Was it weird to worry about the fairness of the situation when having two single encounters with men who just happened to be brothers? Was it weirder to deny that it was weird?

The questions only multiplied when Connor went for your bedroom, letting you inside first before trailing in behind you. The last person you had brought into your room had been Murphy. He and Connor didn’t share much of a resemblance, but there was something about the way he looked, watching you and getting ready to strip off his clothing…

“Are ye okay?” Connor asked, ducking his head a little to catch your eyes. You had been staring blankly at the bed, but you had no idea how long it had been going on. “Or are ye thinkin’ about me brother?”

“Not… about him, exactly…” you hedged.

“Told ye, I’m fine wit’ it,” Connor reminded you with a careless shrug. “Are ye? We c’n call th’ whole thing off if ye want.”

“I don’t want that,” you said distinctly, feeling it ring true in your chest. 

Connor hummed, his fingers toying with the hem of your Holiday 5K shirt. “Then how ‘bout, instead o’ us tryin’ to guess how the other feels, we jus’ focus on makin’ each other feel good?”

You smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

“Good. I’m gonna get ye naked now,” Connor warned before he lifted your shirt up and over your head. You did the same for him a moment later, and managed to unzip and push his pants away before he unfastened your bra. The sight of your bare breasts distracted him badly and you had him completely stripped by the time he got back to work.

“Slow down, lass,” he urged. “Let a man catch up, yeah?”

“We’re in a hurry, remember?” you asked, palming his hardening cock. 

He hissed out a breath and you froze, worried you had hurt him somehow. Instead, you glanced up to find that he had paused in undoing your pants to stare at you. His blue eyes seemed darker. “I hope ye’re ready fer me, sweetheart. If ye keep doin’ that, I won’t be able tae control meself.”

You smiled at him, but it turned to a gasp when Connor yanked your pants and underwear down, then pushed you backward onto the bed as he pulled the rumpled clothing from your feet. When he stood back up, Connor pressed his hips between your thighs, urging you to stay open for him. It wasn’t a difficult choice.

With the space he had created for himself, Connor trailed his fingers across your collarbone, over the swells of your breasts, and down your stomach in a leisurely exploration that left no doubts about his intended destination.

All thoughts of being in a hurry fled from your mind as you watched him work his way lower and lower until his fingertips were parting your folds. The mildly cool air of the room felt glacial against the heat of your core, but it was only another layer of stimulation added to everything you were already experiencing. 

When his finger brushed between your lips, though, you felt that sensation clearly. Your hips pressed forward reflexively, trying to push closer to that teasing touch. Connor hummed, eyes fixed between your legs, and slowly pushed that finger into you. 

Your gasp felt too loud in the room, but you couldn’t help yourself. Connor’s eyes flicked to you as one corner of his mouth pulled up in a tiny smirk, but his gaze dropped again as he began to slowly pump the digit in and out of you. You could feel the way your body started to relax around the intrusion, gripping him by choice instead of in protest.

It was bliss, but it somehow became something even more when he started feathering his thumb over your clit. Your mouth fell open and you couldn’t close it, not if you wanted to take in enough air.

“Connor…” you sighed.

He hummed again, the depth of his voice turning it into half a growl. “I like when ye say me name.”

And since he apparently intended to make you say it again, Connor increased the pace of everything he was doing. It made your toes curl with pleasure, but you caught sight of another clock, the glowing numbers of the digital face burning into your brain and leaving you with a sense of frantic urgency.

“We… have to-” Your reminder cut off with a gasp as Connor pressed his thumb harder against your clit than he had up to that point. You bit back a plea. “Fuck, Connor!”

He pulled his hand free, leaving you staring up at him, bewildered. “Heard ye th’ firs’ time, lass. Short on time. Ye don’t need tae swear at me fer it.”

The humorous glint in Connor’s eyes told you that he was teasing and you gritted your teeth. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. You glowered at him, but he didn’t see it. He was too busy putting on a condom and, by the time he refocused on you, your own attention was on more important things than fighting with him. 

You were still sitting on the edge of the bed. When Connor approached, you began to scoot slowly backward across the surface of the mattress, but he grabbed you around the waist. “An’ where do ye t’ink ye’re goin’?”

“Onto the bed..?” you answered questioningly.

“Ye’re already on th’ bed, ain’t ye? ‘Sides, since we’re in such a hurry…” he teased, interrupting himself as he kissed you. “I will need this, though.”

He pulled one of your pillows down the bed. “Lie back fer me.”

When you did, Connor lifted your hips, settling the pillow beneath them so your torso was flat on the bed while your lower body was elevated for him. You watched him curiously. “What are you doing, Connor?”

“Trust me,” he urged, patting your knee, “an’ tell me if anything starts tae hurt.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice enough to verbally confirm that. It wasn’t that you distrusted Connor, not in the slightest. Hell, you wouldn’t have brought him back here in the first place if you didn’t trust him. You were just worried you wouldn’t measure up to his expectations. Whatever Murphy had told him that convinced him to flirt with you, you didn’t want to be a disappointment.

Connor - blissfully unaware of the grinding of your internal monologue - grasped your leg just above the curve of your calf muscle and placed it over his shoulder. The stretch was intense at first, but eased until you were comfortable enough. That was a surprise, since flexibility wasn’t a particular talent of yours, but something about the pillow under your hips and the fact that Connor was leaning down made it bearable.

“Okay so far?” Connor asked.

You shrugged. “Not bad.”

He nodded reassuringly, placed the tip of himself against your entrance, and drove into you with one strong push. Your breath caught at the unexpected fullness, but you were a little distracted, mentally changing your opinion of this position from ‘not bad’ to ‘amazing’.

When he was pressed as far into you as he could get, Connor pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Are ye alright?”

“I’m fine.” It was the truth, too. Since it hadn’t been such a long span of time since your last sexual encounter, you weren’t struggling with the lengthy adjustment period you’d had with Murphy. You didn’t tell Connor any of that, of course. “We can keep going.”

“Be careful, lass,” Connor warned you. “I won’t be gentle. We’re on a schedule, after all.”

You smiled at that despite yourself. “I think I can handle it.”

“We’ll see,” he said, grinning. With a last nod from you, he withdrew and slammed back into you so quickly that you gasped. He raised an eyebrow, though you could see the way his muscles were beginning to tremble from trying to hold back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, all good,” you insisted.

Connor took you at your word, setting a steady pace built up in cycles of withdrawing slowly and thrusting back in. It felt like an exclamation point at the completion of every circle and you soon picked up the rhythm, lifting your hips in time with his thrusts. 

“Look so good, sweetheart,” Connor told you, voice strained with effort. “Pretty little thing all spread out under me.”

He reached out and ran his fingers over one of your breasts, giving your nipple the slightest tweak. You arched for him, supporting yourself on your shoulder blades to give him better access. “Like that, do ye? I c’n tell; squeezin’ me so tight I c’n hardly move.”

As if to prove that was a lie, Connor drove into you with a firm thrust that left you writhing on the bed. You reached out for him, but all that met your searching fingers was air. You pouted… at least, as much as anyone could pout while gasping for breath. “You’re so far away, Connor.”

“I c’n fix that,” he offered, leaning down a little closer to you. The stretch in your hamstring intensified slightly, but the burn only added to the fire burning in your gut.

Connor planted one hand on the bed beside your head, the other keeping its original position on your hips. It put him close enough for you to wrap your arms around his shoulders, feeling the way the muscles tensed and danced under your hands as he continued to take you apart with his demanding pace. 

Most devastatingly, though, this angle left Connor thrusting directly against something inside you that made you fight not to openly wail. Was it your g-spot? You had heard stories from other women about the depth of their pleasure with a g-spot orgasm, but you’d never managed to find yours. You tried to memorize the exact spot where the overwhelming feeling seemed to stem from, but your mind was busy melting.

After a few thrusts that seemed to stroke that magical place directly, you could feel yourself starting the inevitable spiral. “Connor, I’m-”

Your warning was cut off as your head kicked back. You gave a hoarse gasp as the world exploded. In the past, you had read all of the cliches about ‘white-hot pleasure’ in romance novels and dismissed it as artistic license, but this was so far beyond anything you had ever experienced that it was all you could think of. Your limbs tightened around Connor, trying to hold him in place, but the rippling waves of your core only spurred him to move even faster. 

By the time you could finally see and hear again, Connor was staring down at you, wide-eyed. “Are ye okay?”

“Yes,” you bit out, realizing with something almost like dread that another orgasm was already approaching. “And I think it’s going to happen again.”

“Already?” he asked, sounding both surprised and pleased.

“I think so. I’m already close.” 

“Then we’ll go together,” Connor decided. You tried to nod, but the only thing you could focus on was the building of pleasure in your belly. Connor’s hand cracked over the sensitive stretch where your asscheek met the top of your thigh. “Come on, lass.”

“I can’t wait any-” You couldn’t even finish the statement before your body locked down around him. This time, it almost seemed determined to tear you apart, your muscles cramping even as they locked into the agonizing tension of a mind-boggling orgasm. Distantly, you heard Connor curse and begin to buck into your depths, but you were only peripherally aware of your body. With the single remaining scrap of rational thought left in your head, you wondered if you were going to pass out from the sheer overload of sensation. 

And then it was over. You and Connor were collapsed against your bedspread, both of you lying at an odd angle with the pillow still propping your hips upward. 

You couldn’t feel anything below your knees and elbows and dimly wondered if you had some kind of nerve damage. The mere thought of trying to investigate that left you feeling more exhausted than you could remember feeling, so you decided to wait and see if the feeling came back. 

That was all forgotten as you felt a trickle of liquid run from your pulsing core down to your ass.

You gasped, struggling to sit up. “Connor! Did the condom break?”

Connor frowned, pulling out of you with a groan. That last bit of sensation seemed to send an aftershock through both of you and you shuddered together as you stared down at Connor’s cock.

The condom was intact, completely covering him. Connor glanced at you curiously. “Why did ye think it broke?”

“I felt something wet,” you explained, slapping him weakly when he gave you a dirty smile. “Not that. Something thinner. More… liquid. I don’t know. It was weird.”

“Ye did squirt when ye came th’ second time,” Connor told you. 

You frowned. “No, I- I didn’t. Did I? I’ve never done that before.”

“Do ye usually come twice so quickly?” he asked, tucking a hand behind his head and letting his eyes fall shut.

“No, but I think you found my g-spot.”

“Did I, now?” There was a satisfied little grin playing around his mouth. “Well, they say a woman’s more likely tae squirt with a g-spot orgasm.”

You raised an eyebrows, even knowing that he couldn’t see you. “Do you know a lot about women’s g-spot orgasms?”

“I’ve put th’ work in,” Connor said. “An’ what I didn’t know, I researched. If I can’t make someone feel good, why should they keep comin’ back?”

With an unconvinced hum, you let yourself collapse back on the bed, though you moved the pillow out of the way first. After you shared the silence for a few long minutes, you heard Connor shift slightly. “Do ye really have tae go tae work tonight?”

“Yeah,” you said. Even to yourself, you didn’t sound excited about it. “Speaking of, I should probably go shower.”

“Wake me up when ye’re done, will ye?” Connor requested, closing his eyes again. “Don’t think I c’n move jus’ yet.”

You laughed despite yourself and dragged your way to the bathroom.

---

Author's Note - I would like to say this is the end, but I've wanted to write for the Boondock Saints for a long time. I'll probably end up writing more for this little story, but I'm not sure when.

In the meantime, I would love to know what you thought! Thanks for reading, have a great day!

I don't offer a taglist for adult fics, but you can find other works on my masterlist!

[bearificationtransformations]

Becoming a Mass Monster

“Dear Daniel,

Are you looking to get huge? To dominate in the weight room and on stage? To get freakishly big? Of course are! Even since your early days lifting at Eagle Gym, you’ve always dreamed at stepping on stage as a total mass monster. We know you’re hesitant to take on the extreme steroid cycles and growth hormone required to pack on that kind of insane size.   Well, Your friends at Énorme have created the perfect lean mass gainer that’ll add more size and strength than you could imagine.”

That’s how the email began. At first, Daniel figured it was just another new supplement company looking to find representatives, but the little details about his life startled him. How did they know he had an itch to get seriously big? How did they know where he got his start lifting?  Something about the email unsettled him, but it also intrigued him. 

Since he was, afterall, a middle-weight bodybuilder looking to get big, so to speak, in the fitness industry, this  didn’t seem like a bad deal at all. A new supplement for lean mass? He was on board with the idea. 

Daniel Hernandez, with movie star good looks and in fantastic shape, had high hopes of getting attention in the fitness world. A recent set of professional pics had just been sent around to a supplement ad agency only hours ago, but this was the first “bite” he had gotten. He wrote back and said he was interested.  

A few minutes after he shot off an email expressing interest he got a reply:

“Thanks Daniel, 

We’re very happy you’re going to try out product. Just take some before and after photos, and I’m sure the results will speak for themselves! No need to get professional pictures done. Just send us the email with the updated shots and we’ll send you the money.  Your shipment is in the mail and will be sent to: 142 Chestnut Ave, Los Angeles, CA. 90042 USA.

Happy lifting and massive gains, 

The Énorme team”

How did they know his address? This was a bit freaky. Unless his publicist had shared it with them? That must have been the case. Odd, because he didn’t think publicists would share addresses like that, but maybe it was to help him get free samples. 

Only two days later a small package arrived addressed to him from Énorme. Inside was two small vials that simply said “Lean Mass gainer”. 

At first Daniel thought it was a joke. No way was this stuff real.  He hadn’t spoken to his publicist about it, but something about the packaging, its simplicity, the professionalism of how it was put together and the instructions convinced him otherwise. He was intrigued, and the more he looked at the packaging, the more he read the label, the more intrigued he became. After a few days he felt compelled to try the stuff. 

Daniel, following the instructions, downed the first vial. What harm could it do? He treated it like a preworkout and went to the gym. He lifted with so much energy, with a newfound vigor and strength that surprised him. He looked so pumped in the mirror.  His tank top even felt more snug than usual.

As the day went on Daniel swore he could feel his muscles growing. It was like the gym pump never subsided, but kept going. His arms and shoulders were looking bigger and more jacked than ever. Daniel knew his way around anabolics, but he never had heard of anything that worked like this. As he stared at his reflection in the bathroom at home he knew he was bigger. He looked bigger for sure, and his beard was coming in fast. Daniel showered put on a clean shirt and it felt tighter than normal. How was that possible? As the evening went on he continued to feel like his body was gaining more and more muscle mass.

Daniel stepped on the scale that evening. There was no denying now that he had grown. Instead of normal 210 pounds, Daniel was now pushing 240. He was so into this growth he got a boner from just looking at the numbers. Fucking hell, he had actually gained 30 pounds of solid muscle in a matter of hours. He jacked off at his own reflection, seeing his bigger arms flex with each pump. Fuck it felt so good to be big.

Daniel was horned up all night. He kept feeling up his bigger pecs and thicker arms and got worked up all over again. His chest hair, which he usually kept short, was growing in, and his beard was getting longer quickly. Fuck, he was getting hairier. All this testosterone was overloading his system. Even his dick felt fatter in his hands. Daniel slept like a rock after jerking off for the third time in bed. The

The next morning he moved quickly to head to the gym again. He cleaned up all the used up socks around his bed and got dressed. He was bigger and his shirts were tighter. He had a full beard. For the first time in his life he had grown out a full beard. He wore one of his big tank tops only to find it fit him well, hugging his increasingly hairy pecs. Fuck, He looked even bigger. After jerking off quickly Daniel went to the gym.

Fuck he was big. He looked like a pro bodybuilder. The scale at the gym confirmed it. 260 pounds. He was one of the big boys now. Forget fitness magazines, Daniel wanted to be on the cover of FLEX magazine, or on stage at Mr. Olympia. He looked practically stage ready. 50 pounds of lean muscle mass had piled on without seemingly a single pound of fat. If anything, he looked even more defined.

It was hard to concentrate at the gym, he was so horned up. So obsessed with his new size. His strength was way up. Benching 405 was no problem now. He was probably the most jacked, and the strongest dude in his gym.

And he was nearly the size of a real mass monster now. Goddamn he loved this. He loved ever second of it. He was getting boned up at the gym just seeing his own muscles flex and press.

His libido continued running at this extreme high.The growth may have run its course but his testerone seemed to be supercharged. A super horned up 260 pound bodybuilder. Goddamn that wasn’t such a bad arrangement, not at all.

Days went by, and his libido didn’t repent. He had to jack off four or five times a day to keep himself in check. He needed new shirts to fit his broader, beefier muscular frame. Friends at the gym were shocked by his sudden growth. He kept jerking off in the mirror, loving his size, feeling his huge muscles up with his hands as he stroked his fat heavy cock. Goddamn, had that grown too? It felt thicker and maybe even longer, but it was hard to tell.

But Daniel wanted more still. He dreamed of more mass piling on to his frame again. That wave of growth had been such a high, he still hadn’t come down from it. Daniel had to keep trimming his beard and trimming back the chest hair every day. It was growing in fast and thick. He was a beast. It had to be his hyped up test levels.

And that second vial. It sat there on his nightstand, tempting him. He wanted more, he fucking loved being huge, and what a better way to get noticed than to be an absolute mass monster? This was his ticket, it would make his dreams of true muscle freakdom come true. He could be inhumanly massive. Inhumanly strong. Damn, had he always wanted to be that huge? Wasn’t he big enough? Nahh, he wanted more. Whatever voice of his that envisioned him at 260 forever was getting drowned out by the desire for more. Lots more.

So four days after his first transformation into a heavyweight bodybuilder, Daniel decided to make the plunge. Would it bring him another 50 pounds of pure muscle mass? Fuck, he’d be over 300 pounds if it did. Just the idea turned him on so much.

When did he get so horny thinking about muscle mass like this? Was this the side effect of stuff he took? Even other men’s muscles got him worked up now. Fuck, was he gay? Not that he had anything against gay guys, but he didn’t used to get a boner looking at other jacked guys. Now he was into it. Totally into it.

Fuck, maybe he was bi?

Daniel shrugged at the idea. Muscle mass was so fucking hot, who cares. He just wanted more. He wanted to get so huge that he wouldn’t be able to fit into any of his clothes. He wanted to outgrow the fucking doorway.

After hitting the gym that morning, Daniel came back home and without jesistaying, just downed that second vial. A warmth spread over his entire body like he hadn’t felt before. Fuck yeah, it was starting to work.

Daniel could actually see his muscles grow minute by minute, he stood there with the biggest boner of his life, flexing, posing, jerking off.. watching himself steadily grow larger and larger. It was intoxicating, insanely hot. He stepped on the scale just 30 minutes after taking the potion to find his weight had climbed to 280 pounds. He jerked off on the scale looking at those numbers and looking at the mass monster in the mirror in front of him. Jizz flung everywhere in the bathroom.

This was the best experience in his whole life, the best thing he had ever felt. Better than sex, better than drugs. Growth was the hottest thing he’d ever experience. He was so indebted to this company, what was their name? God he would rep them in anything they did now. He owed everything to them now.

God he was getting so huge. So enormous. Becoming the mass monster he always dreamed of being.

The mass kept piling on, faster than before. He walked around his apartment, noticing how his arms had to swing out further to move around his massive blown up lats. His saunter was more exaggerated as his quads had grown thicker and were now pressing against each other. His footfalls were heavy, deliberate. They seemed to shake the walls a little. He was getting hard, his fat dick slapping heavily against his massive thighs. He loved this. Daniel made his way back to the bathroom to examine the changes further. His triceps hit the doorframe as he walked into the bathroom.

How big was he going to get? He looked into the mirror and was shocked to see his size. Looking down he could barely see passed his pumped up pecs, which now was getting a thick coat of fur on them. He sauntered back to the scale. 304... fuck no wonder his arms were flaired out to his sides like that, no wonder his footsteps were so heavy. Goddamn he had made it. He had grown to muscle freak status.

And he was still growing. Steadily growing. It wasn’t noticeable with the passing seconds, but it was event he was still getting bigger with the passing minutes. Lats pushing out wider, shoulders growing more and more broad, pecs blowing up, his arms packing on more mass. He tested the doorway to see if he could clear it at his shoulders now. He still had tiny bit off space to clear the doorway at his shoulders, but not at his arms, which pushed out far from his sides due to their hulking mass. Damn, he really was wider than the doorway now. It was such a rush.

Daniel jerked off furiously again, watching the overblown muscular beast in the mirror flex with each tug on his thick cock. His dick felt heavy and fat in his hands. He was definitely bigger down there now too. No way to deny it now.

He came again just looking at himself. All that freaky mass, that size, that bulk. He was a monster, a gigantic hulking stud. Overblown muscles growing so big they seemed almost impossible. So overgrown.

327 pounds. Fucking hell, that was more than 50 pounds. No wonder this was so much more intense than last time. He began jerking up again, unable to keep his big fat dick down. It had a mind of its own now and it didn’t want to quit.

His beard was getting heavy. Growing higher up on his cheeks. It was getting heavy on his massive chest too. Swirling fur was starting to cover those huge bulging pecs. God he was an animal. A freaky huge muscle bear he thought. Wait, what? A bear? Where did that term come from?

Daniel kept growing over the next few hours. His shoulders finally growing too wide for his door frame. Even sideways, getting through doors in his home would be a little tricky. He was that massive, that thick. All night he had Slowly morphed into a freak of inhuman size. An utter overblown giant in the world of bodybuilding that would put most mass monsters to shame. 360 something pounds of hairy lean muscle. Pure, extreme, mass.

Daniel lost count how many times he blew his loads, he just knew his hefty 9 incher was tired by the end of it, sore from too much use and abuse. His heavy balls were still pumping out more cum, but he could keep up. He passed out that night with cum soaked towels covering every inch of his floor.

Daniel could hardly reconcile with the freak had become. Muscle mass competed for space on his 5’9” frame. He could barely His libido was now barely manageable, his dick was huge, beer-can thick, constantly sporting a chub, and eager to blow. He had to trim his beard back, it had grown enormous since taking the potion. He had to clean up all the hair on his stomach and abs too...at least if he wanted people to see the definition. And he definitely wanted people to see the definition.

Jerking off, Working out, eating, and jerking off more. This was his life now. He was meant to be seen, meant to be stared at. And he did get stared at. Everywhere he went.

Daniel got a new set of professional physique photos taken a few days later. The world of bodybuilding ignited into furious speculation and talk over this new giant, this new 360 pound freak, that was now making his presence known online and on instagram.

Daniel didn’t know how to thank Enorme except to write them back with the new photos attached. He explained to them how much attention he was getting now, how many other offers he was getting from supplement companies... and his deep deep gratitude to their product.

A few weeks later, Daniel got another vial. A hot gay bodybuilder, Jordan, had come over for another hot session of muscle worship when the package arrived. Jordan was just starting to suck off the giant muscle freak when Daniel heard the package come to the front door.

It was from Enorme. A letter of thanks for the photos and a little note. “We wanted to provide you with some more lean mass, in case you’d like to show anyone else how well it works” Daniel look at three more vials with the note “these extra vials are for sharing, that is, if you want to” and a smile crossed his face.

“Hey Jordan” Daniel called out from the hall. “Are you looking to get huge?” Daniel went back to the bedrooms and handed Jordan the vial. “Just drink this”.

[insaneasgardian]

Haircut Of Love - Sambucky

Summary: Confessions are made, and lives are changed the day Sam gives Bucky a haircut.

Genre: FLUFF

Warnings: Bucky being slightly sad while thinking of Steve, Bucky thinking that his feelings for Sam are unrequited (they're not), Idiots in love.

A/N: I have actually worked on this for longer than I should've XD A big thank you to @cassiecasyl and @aixabi for being such great friends and helping me out by proofreading, and making suggestions!

He knew he should've stopped Bucky tagging along, but the moment that infamous, "I'm coming with you!" so eagerly left the super soldier's lips, Sam knew it was pointless to persuade him to stay behind.

Not that he really minded, the mission he'd been assigned with was a tough one, and it would've been lonely if Bucky hadn't been so adamant about accompanying him.

Sam stared into the fireplace and focused on the embers as he let his thoughts wander. There were some terrible people to be stuck with in a log cabin in the middle of nowhere, but Bucky certainly wasn't one of them. He was an interesting character for sure, and Sam was sure he still didn't know a whole lot about him, but their relationship had developed all the way from 'a couple of guys' to 'almost best friends'.

"Hey", came the voice of the man Sam had so deeply been thinking of. He turned around with that signature smirk he reserved especially for Bucky, and watched with delight as the White Wolf turned a light pink color, and it wasn't because of the cold.

"I thought you might want to catch a shower, the water's nice and warm" the brunette said, and Sam nodded as he noticed his friend's damp hair from his own shower.

"Man, you need a haircut" Sam remarked, and much to his pleasure elicited a chuckle from Bucky.

"Do I?"

"It has gotten kind of longer..."

"Well, it's not easy to find a hairdresser in the forest"

"I could cut it for you"

The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop himself, and he didn't miss the way Bucky's widened ever so slightly. Sam internally scolded himself, feeling that he'd made things awkward somehow.

There was a slight pause in the atmosphere, but the ex Winter-Soldier eventually smiled. It was a weak smile, but genuine nonetheless.

"I'd like that," he told his friend, "would you mind?".

Sam shook his head, a bit too enthusiastically, and that made Bucky raise his eyebrows

“I can do it now if you want, so I don’t get your greasy ass hair all over me after I’ve gotten out of the shower”, Sam casually slipped in to look less ecstatic than he really was.

Bucky scoffed and crossed his arms at the statement, but his grin only grew wider.

“So… are you gonna give me something to cut your hair with?” his friend asked him, making a scissor snipping motion with his fingers.

The brunette’s lips tugged downwards into a frown and bit his lip as he often did when pondering. Sam couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to the bottom lip in between those pearly white teeth, but he forced himself to snap out of it.

After a brief moment, Bucky snapped the fingers on his vibranium arm and turned to walk towards the room he was staying in. “Wait there!”, he had instructed Sam, who had no intention of getting up from the comfortable position he was in anyway.

Promptly, Bucky had returned, clutching a pair of scissors that Sam immediately identified as a pair of Captain America themed kiddie scissors he had recently bought for his nephew, AJ. He burst out cackling.

“What’s so funny Samuel?” the White Wolf pouted, plopping next to his friend who was dying of laughter.

“You stole that from AJ didn’t you?” Sam pried, inwardly dancing at the thought that his secret crush would want something with his face on it.

“Psh, no… I permanently borrowed it, that’s all”, Bucky insisted, moving from the couch to sit on the floor in front of Sam’s legs so that the other man would be able to cut his hair with more ease.

“Mhm”, Sam hummed, already weaving a piece of Bucky’s hair between his fingers, and snipping it off, just like that. It seemed easy enough, so he kept on going, chopping bits of hair here and there, trimming the areas which really needed it, and taking care not to overdo the cut and end up making Bucky look bald in certain places. He was doing quite well considering that he was equipped with nothing but a pair of small, blunt kiddie scissors, which Sam was certain professional hairdressers did not use

A lovely period of pure silence fell in between the two men. The only sounds were the scissors delicately doing their job of cutting the brown locks, accompanied by the gentle crackle of the fireplace, creating a relaxing atmosphere.

“Steve used to cut my hair, you know… Used to do it all the time in the 40’s” Bucky said, breaking the silence. Sam froze in his movements, but only for a second. It was rare for this man, who had been through so much to talk about his past like this.

“We’d sit outside on the street in the summer, he’d be on a chair with his scissors and I’d sit down in front of him, punk gave a damn good haircut to be honest”, he continued, and Sam chuckled.

“People would give us dirty looks as they walked by, it wasn’t uncommon for people to think Steve and I were a couple, but it was frowned upon to be in a same-sex relationship back then… sometimes still is of course”, his tone was now sad, as if he wanted to admit something, but was refraining from doing so. Sam stopped what he was doing, and set down the scissors, obviously sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

“Still, Steve and I were just friends, that’s all he’d ever wanted to be anyway”, Bucky finally finished.

Sam got off the couch, and slipped down onto the floor next to the 107 year old. “And what about you? Did you ever want to be more than friends?”

Bucky ran a hand over his face, which donned a neutral expression, “It’s complicated Sam… I’d be into a girl one second and thinking about Steve the next”.

Sam gently nudged Bucky’s shoulder with his own, and gave him a small smile, “Bisexual then?”, he questioned.

The other man nodded, and looked at Sam with a grin now gracing his features, “Yea, but you know what? I forgot all about Steve…” he paused to dart his tongue out his mouth and wet his lips, “The day I met another guy I haven’t been able to stop thinking about”.

Sam’s world shattered the moment those words left Bucky’s lips. The thought that the man he had pined after for so long was yearning for another made him want to burst into tears right there. However, Sam Wilson was not the kind of man to be salty over the choices of others. So he kept on the smile he had been wearing the entire time his heart broke over and over again. Yet, he had been so absorbed in his own mind that he failed to notice the longing glances Bucky was shooting at him, the ones he had been giving Sam ever since he first met him.

“Happy you could get that sorted out for you man!” He said brightly, patting Bucky’s back and climbing back onto the couch to resume the haircut.

The ex winter soldier was dumbfounded. Had Sam not noticed how he felt? What if he had? What if he didn’t appreciate the advances?

There was stillness once more, but this time it was incredibly awkward. The two sat absorbed in the silence, no longer so focused on their own thoughts, but on every movement and action the other did.

“All done,” Sam finally said, and gestured towards the large wall mirror in the living room. Bucky looked into it, and nodded.

“You’ve done a nice job, thanks”, he mumbled.

“No problem” Sam told him, getting up from the couch. “I’m going to go take a shower now”, and with that, he rose and climbed the stairs to get to the bathroom. The footsteps faded away and when Bucky heard the bathroom lock click shut, he leaned his back against the couch with a sigh. He ran a tired hand over his face.

What had he done wrong? He’d watched all the movies, read all the books and listened to all the music Sam had suggested. He’d come to see Sam’s family as his own, he cherished Sarah, AJ and Cas with all his heart.

Hell, he’d even taken dating advice from Zemo…. Maybe that’s where he’d gone wrong.

Bucky wasn’t sure. He may have lost the charm he had back in the 40’s, but Sam had always accepted him for who he was. He never questioned Bucky’s past, or forced him to be more social and open. That’s the reason Bucky developed more than platonic feelings towards him. He was so easy to be around.

However, the white wolf figured that if Sam didn’t want anything to do with him romantically, the least he could do was to maintain the relationship status they had now. Not to mention, he had the perfect way to do that.

Mac and cheese. Sam’s favorite food.

A grin grew on his face as he scrambled to the kitchen. It was a tasty and easy thing to cook and would be done before Sam even got out of the shower. Bucky proceeded to locate all the necessary ingredients they had brought to the cabin, and got straight to work.

It wasn’t a difficult job at all. With his swift speed, and his mind set only on the task before him, he was done within minutes. He even managed to get two servings plated beautifully, and just in time too, because as he finished setting the table, Sam descended the stairs and made his way into the kitchen. A smile was drawn on his face at the smell of the meal, and all the previous tension seemed to have dissipated.

“Smells good in here!” he exclaimed, his eyes then landed on the beautifully presented plates of mac and cheese. He gasped and clapped his hands like an excited child, and Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. He thought it was adorable.

“Alright, alright, take a seat Sammy,” Bucky said, gesturing to the bar stools next to the kitchen island which the food rested on.

Both of them rushed to sit down and dig into their dinner. Bucky watched his friends expression as he took the first bite of his food.

Sam’s eyes closed in pure bliss, as his taste buds thanked him. “Buck, this is heaven in my mouth, tastes even better than what Sarah makes”.

Bucky blushed, but quickly tried to hide it with a chuckle, “Sarah’s my teacher, I owe it to her”.

Sam nodded at the statement, but commented no more on the topic. Instead, he took another bite and made eye contact with Bucky. “So… who’s this guy you’ve been crushing on?” he inquired.

Bucky was taken aback by the question, he blinked rapidly, “huh?” he mumbled, earning an eye roll from Sam.

“Listen man, I’ve never pressured you to tell me anything before, but we can’t pretend like that conversation didn’t happen” Sam said gently, setting his cutlery down, and reaching a hand over to place it on Bucky’s vibranium one.

The brunette gulped, closed his eyes, and took two deep breaths. He’d have to get it out. Or else it would slowly kill him to watch Sam find someone else. Even if his feelings were unrequited, the man had a right to know.

“It’s you” he said quietly before he could chicken out.

Sam slowly blinked, and shook his head, “Sorry, repeat that?”.

Bucky groaned and looked up from his plate which he’d been staring at the entire time. He gazed into Sam’s doe brown eyes with his own piercing blue ones, “It’s you! You’re the guy I’ve been crushing on!” he agitatedly replied.

Once more, there was that silence that seemed to be consuming the two of them so much lately. Bucky wanted to cry, to hide the humiliation. He was certain that Sam’s lack of words meant he didn’t feel the same, because Sam always had something to say.

“Forget it,” Bucky choked out, getting up from his seat, but Sam’s hand tightened its grip on his wrist, stopping him from getting away. The super soldier turned around slowly, trying not to make eye contact with Sam so that he wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

Then, all of a sudden, Sam rose from his seat and his lips met Bucky’s in what was a tender, loving kiss which shocked the latter, but he readily returned it. They stayed like that for a while, embracing each other as their arms snaked their way around each other's torsos. It was a moment neither of them wanted to break, but were forced to. Eventually, when they pulled apart gasping for air, they looked at each other in surprise, but merriment. Wide beams adorned both of their gorgeous faces, and their eyes glinted with excitement.

“So…” Bucky began, “you were desperate to get a piece of me, why, is it the new hair?” he said teasingly.

“The next time I give you a haircut, it’s gonna be turned into a mullet”, Sam threatened, making the other man raise his hands in surrender.

The mac and cheese was long forgotten as they clutched each other once again. Their hearts were bubbling and overflowing with love for one another, and it was not a love that was going to fizzle and die out. They fit perfectly in each other’s arms, like it’s where they belonged.

Two men, who had their own individual problems denying them a place to be truly content in the world, had finally found their refuge in each other.

Finit

[castleshadows]

A Deeper Form of Hunger

The scene where Casteel goes crazy from blood deprivation from his perspective.

18+ Content: Smut, Non-Consensual

Written March 23, 2021

“Here take him, just spare me!” Shea shoved my weak body towards the Ascended, and in that moment I knew that she wasn’t here to rescue me. It may have started out that way, but first they took Malik because of her, and now I was going to be taken back to that cage, where I would be cut and raped and mocked until the end of my days.

I knew that this woman behind me no longer loved me, maybe never loved me at all. I could feel my heart breaking, which was absolutely ridiculous, because a heart could be squashed, a heart could be torn out, a heart could even be ripped into pieces. But, a heart couldn’t break, not like a bone could. However, looking at Shea behind me, feeling my limbs starting to give out, seeing the Ascended reach for me with bloodthirsty eyes as the woman I loved prepared to run, something in me snapped, and I was pretty damn sure it was my heart.

I heard screams, wild, roaring screams that may have been coming from me. Something feral in me came to life, something that had been present for five decades, but never consumed me in this way. Everything darkened as I leaped for my fiance's throat —

There was movement, jerking me from the dream, and into a brighter, more colorful world. One I did not know. The movement happened again, more sure this time, and I rolled on instinct, pinning the wriggling creature beneath me. I gave a growl of warning. The woman under me yelled something, her eyes wide with surprise. Some deep part of me recognized the word. Some part of me tried to struggle to the front at that sound. I knew this woman. I didn’t care.

My hand moved to her neck, pressing down and causing her to let out a woosh of air. She swung her arm at me, trying to break my hold, but I easily pinned it down by the wrist, holding her down even as she strained against my grip.

I could smell her. I could feel the blood pumping through her veins. I wanted that blood. I wanted to sink my teeth into her neck. I wanted to drink her blood until it filled my veins. I was hungry. No, I was starving. And here was my meal.

The woman said something again, the same word. Less hostile this time, and again that deep part of me tried to push to the front. I shoved it down once again, snarling.

She stilled, and I felt her heartbeat slow beneath my fingers. I still wanted her. I could still smell the blood in her veins, waiting there for me to take, but the feeling was less consuming.

There were more words that I didn’t care to listen to.

I trailed my gaze down her body, and a different scent hit my nose, something I hadn’t noticed before. It was strong, and sweet, and utterly enchanting. It smelled like… honeydew. I inhaled it, letting the scent fill my mind and body until I felt something twitch to life in my pants.

I shifted my hand, removing it from the woman’s neck, and towards the source of that intoxicating smell.

She moved as well, reaching her hand behind her to grab something. I paid no attention, too distracted by the way her robe was parted revealing her beautiful leg, and the crease that pointed right to where I wanted my mouth.

The honeydew smell was growing stronger by the second, and I lowered my head, my chin brushing her stomach. I needed this, I needed her. I needed to taste her until she screamed. I needed to devour her until there was nothing else but honeydew, and this curvy, beautiful, woman, with red hair like fire, and a scent that consumed me.

I lowered my head further, prepared to do just that.

Something cold and sharp pressed against my neck. I ignored it. It pressed in harder.

I couldn’t stop now. I wouldn’t. I needed this. She needed this. The scent was too strong, and something primal in me kept me moving. I moved the robe out of the way to look between the woman’s legs. I growled in appreciation, the scent growing stronger the close I got. My breath ghosted over her thighs, and she seemed to clench, her breathing growing heavier.

She started to say something again. That word I knew was in there, but it was easier to ignore with my face so close to her.

“Or we will find out what happens to an Atlantian when their throat gets cut.”

The sharp thing pressed in closer, and it took everything in me to drag my gaze away from between her thighs.

I stared at her, her eyes wide and a beautiful shade of green that was almost as captivating as her scent.

She said something else, that I wasn’t able to pay attention to. The moment of clear-headedness was gone.

My all-consuming hunger had taken hold of me again. It was a different kind of hunger this time however. Less for her blood, and more for her.

This woman was everything I wanted. Even in my fuzzy state of mind, I knew she wanted this as much as I did. I could still smell her, and each moment that my mouth wasn’t between her legs, devouring her flesh, each moment I couldn’t bury my face in her neck, biting and sucking until her blood flowed into my mouth was torment. Pure torment.

The hunger wasn’t just in my stomach, it was flowing through my body. I felt it in every nerve and bone, every piece of me, wanted her. In more ways than one.

The woman was still looking at me, her gaze wide and searching, as if looking for something that didn’t exist.

I didn’t feel anything except the pain and hunger. I didn’t know anything other than this woman and her scent. I needed her. Badly.

She tugged on her arm, the one that I still had pinned beneath my hand, and I let go, my thoughts more on what was emitting from between her thighs than whether or not she was pinned down.

My head moved almost of its own accord. My chin grazed the crease of her thigh, the scars that I didn’t bother to pay attention to.

There was that blood scent again, though it didn’t overpower the honeydew I was so focused on. I knew a major artery waited just beside my jaw. Just a small tip of the head, and I could have satisfied my hunger right there and then. But, I didn’t. I didn’t sink my fangs into her leg, no matter how much I wanted to. There was something else that demanded my attention right now. Something else that so utterly… utterly intrigued me.

The honeydew scent was going stronger, refilling my senses, after the momentary distraction. The sharpness at my neck trembled, and I growled again, a primal sound that I hadn’t even realized had come from me until seconds later.

I dipped my head, instinct taking over.

The sharpness left my neck, freeing me to lift the woman’s hips, and spread her thighs.

Moments later my mouth was on her, and I forgot all about my hunger.

My tongue sliced between her legs, and I found that this woman tasted just as good as she smelled. Even better. I slid my lips across her folds, devouring her, savoring the sweet taste of her on my tongue.

Each stroke, stoked the fire inside of me even more, and I found myself pressing in harder, spreading her legs further apart to allow for better access. The taste of honeydew invaded my senses, and I knew nothing except for this woman. This woman that I could feast on for the rest of eternity, and never grow tired of her taste and smell and the moans I could hear coming from her mouth.

She tried to move, to thrust her hips against my tongue, but I held her in place, pressing down on her legs to keep her from interrupting my ministrations. Her legs shook, and I felt her hands beside my head, gripping the sheets like a life-line. Some part of me felt almost smug. I could make her feel like this. I could give her pleasure, and make her scream, and only me. This perfect woman.

Her wetness coated my lips and mouth, and I knew that her flavor would be stuck on my tongue for many hours. I didn’t know how I had ever survived without this, how I had gone even a few moments since waking up without devouring this beautiful creature.

I could feel her hips stuttering, and I knew she felt pleasure from this. I knew that she was moments from coming apart, and sure enough, several seconds later, a loud scream when up, filling the room. I continued to lap at her, lightly grazing my teeth across the little bundle of nerves to prolong her pleasure. I never wanted this to stop. I never wanted this feast to end, but I lifted my head, catching sight of this glorious creature. Her hair, even messier, her face pink, her mouth open and chest heaving.

She blinked open her eyes, locking them with mine.

My hunger was sated. At least one part of it.

I parted my lips, moving forward, reading to sink my teeth into her pretty little neck—

There was someone else in the room.

A door had been opened to my right and a gust of wind was flowing through the room, cooling my heated skin. Footsteps, and then an abrupt stop.

I was going to kill them.

They spoke, and I shook with anger.

Swinging my head around I snarled, the noise promising death. Whoever had barged in, had just offered themselves up as dinner.

It was a man. Tawny-skinned with dark hair, that was long and coiled on the top, and trimmed close on the sides. His ice-blue eyes tugged at my memory, but I was too far-gone in my rage at being interrupted to pay much attention to it. The walls were about to run red with blood, whether I knew this man or not.

The woman was still lying beneath me, and I knew that this man would try to take her from me. That would not happen.

“Shit,” the man said, stepping forward, “Cas, my brother, I warned you this would happen.”

That world sounded familiar. Cas. The first part of what the woman said to me.

The woman repeated it

I ignored her, snarling at the man, and baring my fangs. Dead. That was what he was.

There was an exchange between the two. The man and the woman, talking as if they knew each other. I didn’t like it. She was mine.

But, something he said made me pause for a split second.

“...Poppy…”

I recognized that.

“Casteel.”

That… I recognized that too. I didn’t want to recognize either of them.

The woman reached out and placed a hand on my arm. I didn’t think much of it, not until the feelings started.

One moment there was only the hunger and rage, the next an onslaught of love. With each wave, the monster receded just a little bit. Every second I became more me.

Casteel. My name.

Poppy. The woman I was hopelessly in love with.

The man across from me was Kieran. Worried for me. Worried for his best friend.

The monster still held on a little. Still had it’s claws dug into my shoulders.

The woman, what was her name?

“It’s okay Hawke.”

Hawke.

My mother called me that.

The woman used to call me that.

I missed it.

I wished she would call me that more.

My entire body jerked, and it was like I had been set free.

Poppy removed her hand from my arm, sitting back. I looked down to see that the robe was still parted, and I saw the place where her legs met, still completely exposed.

I looked up, embarrassed, scared at what I would see in her face. Scared of what she now thought of me. How could I do that? How could I have let it get like that? This was all my fault. She would never trust me again, and for good reasons.

Poppy’s eyes were wide, her gaze filled with surprise and… and fear. I looked down, unable to stand it any longer.

She was still exposed, in front of both me and Kieran. She was probably uncomfortable. Ok, after what had just happened, she was definitely uncomfortable.

I tugged the two halves of her robe together, covering her upper legs and between them. The taste of honeydew was still on my tongue, still covered my lips.

“Honeydew,” I whispered, unable to stop myself. “I’m sorry.”

I was sorry. Gods I was so sorry.

I walked past Kieran, not strong enough to look at the expression on his face, and did the only thing I knew how to. I ran. As soon as I exited the terrace doors, I broke into a run, past servants, past those I had traveled to Solis with, sparing none of them a passing glance.

I turned a corner, my mind set on finding the nearest bucket of water to clean myself up. Poppy would probably be embarrassed if she knew I was running around with her release all over my mouth. Thankfully, one of the servants was walking up a flight of stairs to my left, carefully carrying a bucket of water and a sponge.

I nodded politely towards her, asking if I could use the water. She bowed leaving me with the bucket and sponge to clean myself up.

I stepped into the nearest empty room, striding towards the bathing chamber with the water. Making quick work of my face, I shaved as well, using the complementary razor left in a shelf by the sink.

I avoided looking in the mirror, knowing that what I would see, was not something I currently wanted to be seeing.

It didn’t take long for me to find my clothes and boots from last night, which had been washed and set out to dry the evening before. The boots had apparently been washed on the inside as well and still slightly damp. I cringed as I pulled them on, ignoring the way they squelched.

I knew breakfast was just starting, and I should probably go eat some real food, but I couldn’t make myself face either Poppy or Kieran, who would probably be there by now.

There was another kind of hunger, one that consumed me like it had this morning. I hadn’t taken any blood in a long time. Not since we were in Masadonia, and Naill had offered me his wrist. I was starving for it, and I knew that if I went to any Atlantian here, they would be more than happy to give me their blood, but the thought disgusted me.

I couldn’t possibly take blood from someone else, when my mind was so utterly focused on Poppy. It was too intimate a gesture to even consider doing it with someone else. But I knew damn well I couldn’t take Poppy’s blood either. I was too close to the edge, and I could hurt her. No, I wouldn’t ask her to do that. I wouldn’t add her blood to the ever growing list of things I’d taken from her.

Instead I headed towards where I knew Alistir waited. I would talk with him, find out how many would be traveling with us to Saion’s Cove, and in how many days we would leave. I would distract my mind from Poppy, and ignore my hunger. Because that was the only thing I could do, if I was going to keep from breaking apart.

My dream from earlier came back to me. I had never told Poppy about Shea, though she knew that I had been in love before. I didn’t want to talk about her, ever. I shoved those thoughts to the back of my mind, and stood up, preparing myself for yet another day.

[aidanchaser]

Waterloo Station

Several folks said, “I would love to see more of Regulus and Sirius shenanigans!” after Chapter 18. Well, lo and behold, I actually have a deleted bit of Chapter 18 showcasing just that. The second draft was from Sirius’ perspective, but since Sirius lent his voice to In Memoriam, and we’re about to hit a short run of non-Harry chapters, I brought the chapter back to Harry in the third draft. (the first draft was an entirely different Harry chapter about breaking James out of prison, but that got pushed back in favor of some character development; we’ll get back to it, I promise.)

So here’s a short bit, taken out of my scraps. It’s headed with “MY DARLING” because it is one of several darlings I have killed while writing Deathly Hallows, but it’s the only one to earn the all-caps title. Thanks to the magic of fanfic, I can still share this darling with you. (the alternate title for this chapter should be: Sirius Accidentally Outs Himself as a Furry)

Padfoot hated the city. It was loud and there were so many people, each with their own scents and emotions. He supposed he should count himself lucky Harry had bled so much, or the trail would have been harder to follow.

He recognized the wizards on the platform easily. Their attire of slacks combined with hoodies or rain slickers paired with thick rubber work boots marked them easily as incompetently dressed Ministry employees. Sirius supposed they were keeping an eye open for someone stupid enough to come to the platform in search of Harry, someone just like him.

The platform had been scrubbed clean, but Padfoot could still detect Harry’s scent through the bleach. He didn’t board the train that pulled into the station, not yet. He waited, sniffing the entrance of the car carefully. He didn’t smell Harry or bleach. So he sat back and waited. A few Muggles scratched his ears as they passed or before boarding the train. Sirius let them without protest. 

He had learned that Muggles, by and large, enjoyed dogs as long as those dogs were gentle, still, and quiet. And if he was anything else — too loud, too quick, or too threatening — they were eager to chase him out or worse, catch him. It was a lesson he had learned early in his life, long before he had become Padfoot; it was just an easier lesson to follow when he was Padfoot. Something about a thick coat of fur, the eyes and ears of a predator, and four paws to run with made him far more comfortable and settled in his own skin than being a young boy in the middle of a war ever had. 

Another train pulled in, and this one, too, didn’t smell of Harry, but the third one did. He followed the Muggles into the carriage, and noticed a small black shadow slip in after him. It hid under the seat, and Sirius pointedly ignored it. He took a post at the door and waited, ready to check each stop this train made until he found Harry.

Regulus had tried desperately to talk him out of this, but Sirius had ignored him. Between him, Lily, and Remus, Sirius was the only one who could track down Harry, and if he didn’t, Lily and Remus would. Lily was far more likely to be recognized on the platform than Padfoot was, making Sirius not only the safest choice, but the most efficient choice, given Padfoot’s hunting instincts.

The first stop didn’t have even a whiff of Harry, but the second one did, though it was no longer paired with bleach. Sirius could only surmise that Harry had healed any open wounds before exiting the train and he felt both relieved and proud. 

That relief vanished almost as soon as he stepped off of the train. This station was enormous. It wasn’t just another Underground station; it was the biggest train station in London. Crowds hurried past, chasing after trains. Others clustered around kiosks and maps. Sirius’ heart sank. Harry could have boarded a train to practically anywhere from here, even Paris. 

The small black shadow slunk out of the carriage behind him and slipped into a tiny space beneath a nearby bin. Padfoot put his wet nose to the ground and followed Harry’s faint scent to a ticket station. From there it was difficult to determine where to go next. He thought he had a faint trail of Harry’s blood but it was unusual, mixed with something else.

“Pardon me, sir,” a nearby Muggle said, “but you need to have your dog on a lead at all times —”

“Oh,” a man looked down at Padfoot. “He’s not my dog.”

Sirius decided to follow the scent of Harry’s blood. It led him out of the station and away from the Underground service workers. The last thing he needed was for a well-meaning Muggle to try to help him find his owner. The few times it had happened in the past, he had always had James to bail it out.

Sirius shook off the stab of grief that came with the thought. It was always easier to shake off grief as Padfoot, as if the same abilities that heightened his physical senses dulled the sharper edges of his hurt. Besides, he reminded himself, there was nothing he could do for James right now, not until they were able to find whatever Death Eater prison he was being held in — and they had to believe he was being held. What Sirius could do was find Harry.

Though it had been less than twenty-four hours since Harry had passed through here, London had a way of making people invisible, of burying passersby in the scent of automobile smog and endless eateries. Sirius had to work hard to discern the scent of Harry’s blood through it all, but he managed to follow the trail south for less than a mile until it disappeared into a tall, brown-brick residential building.

Padfoot sat down on the pavement and evaluated his options. It would not be hard to sniff out Harry, if he truly was in this building, but a large dog was likely to be chased out of a private building. As Sirius, it wouldn’t be hard to charm his way into the building, but it might be harder to find Harry.

Padfoot barked softly at the bushes. The black cat that had been tailing him crawled out. He knew Regulus had no interest in helping him, and had only come along as emergency backup in case of a duel, but Padfoot gestured his head towards the building anyway.

The small, black cat stared at Padfoot, then back up at the building. Reluctantly, he slipped up the stairs and into the building on the heels of an unsuspecting resident.

Padfoot sniffed the stone retaining wall. Plenty of people had passed through here, but he didn’t smell Harry, not exactly. He definitely smelled the blood trail he had been following, but that wasn’t the same thing as Harry’s scent. He wondered if it was Greyback who had come through here, but Sirius was fairly certain that he would recognize Greyback’s scent if he came across it.

He wondered, briefly, if Regulus had been right when he had said that Sirius was better off staying with Remus and Lily, rather than hunting down Harry. The full moon was just two days away, and he knew Remus was nervous. Brewing the Wolfsbane Potion had been impossible this week. They had been moving too frequently to get together the ingredients, and they still hadn’t figured out where Remus was going to transform. Lily would need to be somewhere safe but on hand in case of emergency, and they couldn’t be anywhere too open that might put others at risk. Tonks had, kindly, suggested hers and her mother’s home, but that had only sent Remus into another downward spiral. Remus was wary enough of transforming around people he loved when he had the Wolfsbane Potion to keep his mind. He was never going to allow himself to lose control with Tonks so close at hand.

Sirius tried to shake his worries off. Remus was tomorrow’s problem. Harry was today’s.

Regulus returned from his investigation surprisingly quickly. He hurried across the street and over a low wall, into some plants. When he stepped out as himself, Sirius reluctantly followed and also used the wall as cover to return to his human form.

“What did you find?” Sirius asked.

Regulus smoothed the front of his cloak. “Harry isn’t there.”

“I know.”

“Then why did we come here?”

Sirius swung his legs over the wall. “Because someone here has information about Harry. Did you follow the blood trail?”

“It’s going to be a dead end.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t use that word.”

“The trail is cold, Sirius. We have no way to know where Harry has gone.”

“Give me a flat number and I’ll go myself.”

Regulus hesitated, but Sirius knew he would give in. They were stubborn, the both of them, but Regulus had never built up the tolerance for conflict that Sirius had. Sirius could thrive in the center of chaos; he’d had to in order to survive. Regulus, however, invested too much effort in fighting chaos. It was always going to be a losing battle.

Regulus crossed the street, back to the building. He pointed his wand at the lock, but it didn’t budge.

Sirius looked over Regulus’ shoulder. “Oh, it’s one of those keypads? <i>Alohomora</i> is no good.” He dug his own wand out and aimed a hot white spark. It fizzed and sputtered and then the lock clicked.

Regulus pulled the door open. “Did you break it?”

Sirius shrugged. “They malfunction all the time. Keeps the Muggle maintenance men employed.”

Regulus led Sirius upstairs to the top floor and gestured at a door near the stairwell. “The trail leads here. But I didn’t see, hear, or smell anything to indicate that Harry might be here. I can’t imagine Harry would have stayed in London.”

“No, but if whoever lives here had Harry’s blood on them, they might be able to tell us something.”

“And if that person is a Death Eater?”

“Then I guess we’ll duel them.” Sirius knocked on the door.

“We aren’t even going to try to disguise ourselves?” Regulus hissed at him, but Sirius couldn’t answer, because the door opened.

The gentleman in the doorway wore a fine Muggle suit. His skin was dark and he had a neatly trimmed beard and shaved head. He looked about Sirius’ age, and was about as tall, though definitely rounder in both face and build.

He looked over the two of them and raised a thick eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

Sirius held out his hand. “I hope so. My name’s Sirius.”

“Nigel Brooks,” he said, and shook Sirius’ hand warily. His eyes drifted over Sirius’ shoulder to Regulus, but Sirius had a feeling Regulus would not be keen on an introduction.

Sirius reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. “We’re trying to find someone, and we think you might have run into him.” The picture of Harry was from Remus’ wedding. He had folded it over so that Ron and Hermione were hidden, along with most of the movement in the picture. Harry still blinked and his smile moved slightly, but Sirius hoped the Muggle would just think it a trick of the light.

Brooks took the photo to examine it more closely, then shrugged. “Might’ve seen him around.” He looked Sirius and Regulus over again. “You don’t look like police.”

Sirius glanced down at his worn jeans and leather jacket. “Hardly,” he said. “I’m his godfather. His mother’s awfully worried. We’re just trying to get some information.”

Brooks returned the photograph. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Best of luck, though.”

He started to close the door, but Sirius wedged his foot in the door. “We know you saw him, and at the very least, got his blood on you. We’re just trying to find out where he might have gone. There are dangerous people after him.”

Nigel straightened, and Sirius recognized a familiar determination in his dark eyes. “If what you say is true, and if I really did run into a young man, injured and running for his life, then what makes you think I would tell the first strangers who knocked on my door anything about him?”

“We’re his family.”

“Family can’t be dangerous?” Brook’s voice was cold, and Sirius, while he appreciated the man’s desire to protect Harry, felt outmatched. He didn’t feel outmatched very often.

“His name is Harry,” Regulus said, “and all we want is to know that he’s alive. You don’t have to tell us where he went, just tell us that he’s safe.”

Brooks stared at Regulus for a moment, then opened the door so it was no longer pressing on Sirius’ foot. “He’s alive, as far as I know. There was a lot of blood, but his injuries weren’t as bad as they looked. I thought whoever was chasing him had torn his wrist open, but when he showed it to me, there wasn’t even a scratch. He refused to go to hospital, just said he wanted out of the city, so I put him on a train. That’s the last I saw of him.”

“Has anyone else come asking for him?”

“No. You’re the first.”

“Thank you for your help.” Regulus inclined his head. “Sirius, we’re done here.”

Sirius did not think they were done. He wanted to know exactly which train Harry had gotten on. But Regulus was already leaving.

“Reg — wait —” But Regulus did not wait. Sirius eyed Brooks, but he supposed Regulus was right. They weren’t going to get anything more out of this man.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Sirius —” Brooks hesitated, and Sirius waited, hopeful.

But Brooks gave them neither a train nor destination. Instead, he handed Sirius a small business card. “If you find him, I’d like to know he’s alright.”

Sirius looked down at the plain white card. It had the man’s name printed on it and the contact information for an art gallery. 

“I’d find him faster if you’d tell me more.”

“He told me he was going to find his aunt and uncle,” Brooks said. “If you’re really his family, it shouldn’t be hard for you to track them down.” And he closed the door.

Sirius walked away, more confused than when they had arrived. He met Regulus at the bottom of the stairs.

“Did he tell you anything?” Regulus asked.

Sirius handed Regulus the business card. “He said Harry went to stay with an aunt and uncle. Do you think he meant Tonks and Remus?”

“I suppose that would be a simple way to explain their relationship to a stranger. Why would Harry go to Remus?”

“Maybe a fight with Greyback scared some sense in him.” Sirius found himself hoping it was true rather than believing it was true. Harry had been pushing them away all summer, and Sirius thought one duel unlikely to have changed Harry’s mind. Harry had his mother’s stubbornness, after all. 

Regulus handed the card back to Sirius. “I suppose there’s nothing else to do. We’ll just have to trust this man Brooks’ word that Harry is safe.”

“We’re hardly done.” Sirius was already walking back to the station at a brisk pace. “Now we show Harry’s photograph on the platforms. We start with the line headed for Tonks, and pray he didn't actually board a train to Paris.”

An unusual anger sparked in Regulus’ cold gaze as he hurried after Sirius. Not that Regulus never got angry, but he usually tempered it so well. “Harry is wanted by some of the most dangerous people in the world and you think it's a good idea to flash his picture around to every blasted Muggle in London — you’re also wanted by those same people! You can't just spend a day on a platform where they're surely to be looking for Harry — it’s absurd!”

Regulus' general frown of displeasure twitched with his outburst. His nose scrunched the tiniest bit and his already thin lips seemed to disappear. He looked so much like Narcissa. Sirius looked away, wishing his brother could wear someone else’s face. He wished, more often than not, that he could wear someone else’s face, too. Perhaps that was just another reason it was so much easier to be Padfoot.

“We’ll wear disguises.” Sirius surprised himself with the “we.” He had never wanted Regulus to come along on this hunt in the first place, but suddenly he was not keen on Regulus leaving him to it alone. “Hell we could even pretend to be Hit Wizards, deputised with hunting Harry down, if any wizards question us.”

“But the Muggles, Sirius! You’ll have to Obliviate every single one of them that you talk to, or else the Death Eaters or Hit Wizards or Muggle-born Registration Commision or Snatchers or any other group of wizards that want you and I dead could interrogate them and track it back to us — or worse back to Harry.”

“That will take us forever —”

“Why can't you just let Harry go? You know he got away from Greyback. Brooks put him on a train, helped him, made sure he wasn’t injured, so he must be safe somewhere. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. Not for me, and not for Lily nor Remus.” It wouldn’t be enough for James, either.

“You can't protect him from everything, Sirius. He’s seventeen now, and whatever Dumbledore’s asked of him —”

Anger flared hot and bright in Sirius' chest as he whirled on Regulus, and there was no Padfoot to soften the edges as he snarled Regulus words back at him. “‘Whatever Dumbledore’s asked of him’? Harry’s told us you're in on it so don't give me that hippogriff shit acting like you don't know. Like you're not keeping all the same secrets from us as Harry is. Like this is somehow less your fault, just because you slink away from arguments whenever you damn well please.”

Regulus’ temper faded from his face, replaced with an unusual, stricken expression that Sirius was not sure he had ever seen on his brother. Blacks felt many things, and usually felt them strongly, but fear? That wasn't something Sirius had seen in any of his cousins before, nor his brother.

But to Regulus’ credit, he did not transform into a cat and run away. He carefully schooled his expression back into its traditional calm and proud with a dash of disdainful form.

“I’ll help you find Harry,” he finally said in a quiet, almost apologetic voice. “But we Transfigure our disguises, no Polyjuice. It's too unreliable. And we Obliviate every Muggle we meet — don’t argue with me on this, Sirius! Yes, it will take longer, but it will keep Harry safer, and I trust that wherever he has run off to, he is indeed safe. We would have heard otherwise if he wasn't.”

Sirius took in several deep breaths to make sure his anger was cooled, at least enough that it would not attract the attention of those passing by them on the pavement, before speaking again. “Fine. Let’s do what we can today. And I want to put a word in the paper to Tonks, just in case he really did mean that he was on his way to her and Remus.”

“The paper? Sirius —”

“Not the <i>Prophet</i>. I’m not an idiot. Tonks, Remus, and I have a code we use for personals in the <i>Times</i>. Her idea. Said her dad used to use it in the first war to communicate with some of his Muggle-born friends, at first just after he and Andromeda eloped and had gone to ground to avoid her family, then as part of the war effort.”

Regulus shook his head. “It’s still risky —”

“It’s a war. There’s risk. Accept it and move on. The longer you whine about it, the longer nothing gets done.”

Regulus studied Sirius, and Sirius did not care for the intent look on Regulus’ face, almost like Regulus was trying to peer directly into his thoughts. It reminded him too much of their mother, trying to parse just how much trouble Sirius was in, just how much damage he had done.

But Regulus did not scold Sirius, nor criticise him. “I’m sorry,” he said instead. “You're right.”

Had Sirius been in a slightly better mood, he might have had a joke ready, made Regulus repeat his apology. As it stood, Sirius had trouble accepting it at all. Perhaps it was no real wonder he and Regulus had grown so far apart. Even when one reached out, the other couldn't bother to reach back.

He zipped up his jacket, suddenly cold, though it was only the middle of the afternoon, and kicked his boots against a nearby wall. It didn't lessen his frustration. 

And after a full day walking up and down train platforms, talking to and Obliviating every Muggle they met, Sirius was no less frustrated. The task ahead of them was enormous, and with each passing day that left them with no leads, it seemed more and more futile.

But there was nothing else to do. Lily and Remus did their part connecting with the Order, hunting down rumors of sightings of Harry, while Regulus and Sirius plodded on through Muggle after Muggle and Memory Charm after Memory Charm.

It was two full moons more before, finally, a Muggle woman frowned as she looked at the photo.

“I think… Goodness it’s been a while, but I think I did see him. Or I saw a boy who looked like him. Had red hair. I thought it odd with his complexion, but it was a dark sort of red, I suppose. The glasses… I can’t remember if he was wearing them or not. He was a twitchy lad, though, rather unhappy face. Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“No,” Sirius said, though it was not exactly true. He spoke quickly, anxious to get every detail out of this woman. “I’m his godfather, just trying to track him down. Can you tell me where he went?”

She pursed her lips. “I think… it must have been the rail line that goes out to Portsmouth — yes, I was visiting my sister that day, and I remember he had a large pack. I thought he must be on his way home from a walking tour.”

Sirius could not fathom what might have attracted Harry to Portsmouth. He wondered if it had something to do with Dumbledore. Maybe Regulus would know, but Regulus said nothing, mere stood at Sirius’ side, waiting to Obliviate this poor woman as soon as she was done talking.

“Do you know where he got off the train?” Sirius asked.

She frowned and handed the photograph back to Sirius. “I don’t know… he tripped over my bag on his way out. I felt awful. It… oh! It was Guildford. Yes, I remember, because —”

“Thank you so much for your time,” Regulus interrupted. Then, her eyes glassed over. She blinked at Sirius and Regulus, slowly, uncertain.

“Er — can I help you?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” Sirius grunted, and as soon as she was gone, he whirled on Regulus. “She might have had more information!”

“We needed to know where Harry had gone. Now we know. What else could she have told us? It’s not as if she followed him off the train. Besides, Sirius, she saw Harry over a month ago. There’s no way Harry’s still in Guildford, no reason he would stay in one place for so long.”

“Are you sure?” Sirius lowered his voice and tried to keep the threatening tone out of it, but he found it difficult. “You don’t know of anything in Guildford that might keep him there? Nothing to do with Dumbledore or You-Know-Who?”

Regulus’ stare was even, but that didn’t tell Sirius much. “Nothing. And if you can’t think of anything that would keep him there, then all we can do is go down there and see if some other Muggle happens to remember him passing through months ago — there’s just no sense in it. We know he got away safely. Let that be enough.”

Sirius was no longer listening to Regulus. He had plucked a map from a kiosk and was staring at Guildford on the network of spider web lines spiraling out from Waterloo Station, trying to make sense of why it had appealed to Harry.

“I’m an idiot,” he finally said.

“That’s nothing new,” Regulus said.

“Brooks told us where he was going from the beginning and I was too stupid to understand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was going to see his aunt and uncle, is what Brooks said. Not Tonks and Remus — his mum’s sister. Her Muggle family.”

“Does Harry even know them?”

“He knows they’re in hiding, and he knows their house will be empty — bloody hell I can’t believe I’m that thick.” Sirius balled the map up in his fist.

“Should we tell Lily and Remus —”

“Let’s make sure he’s there before we get their hopes up.” Sirius fought down another grunt of frustration. He had not felt this stupid in a long time, but how was he supposed to connect Harry to Petunia and Vernon, whom Harry had met perhaps twice in his life? He did not even wait to slip away to a hidden corner of the platform to Disapparate. He turned on the spot, in the midst of a crowd of Muggles, ignoring all of Regulus’ protests, and disappeared with a crack.

[hellerism]

(Regarding your jewelry post earlier) in secret good supernatural demon dean gets an ear piercing and dean gets it redone after Michael lets it close

im sorry this took so long to answer but i was inspired and ended up writing 1.2k about deans bodily autonomy as related to his earrings

---

Jimmy Novak had once described angel possession as like being chained to a comet.

With all due respect to Jimmy, Dean disagreed.

Maybe it had been like that with Castiel, who—incredible as he was—had only been a regular angel at that point. But being possessed by Michael, first and most powerful of the archangels, the leader of the Host of Heaven, was like being at the center of a perpetual supernova. Dean was exhausted from the strain, weary down to his bones. Deeper than that, even; his very atoms burned with exhaustion.

Worse than that, though, was the way he’d been trapped in his own body. Michael had kept Dean as a prisoner in his own mind, filling out his limbs with a strange presence, dressing him in clothes he hated, torturing with Dean’s hands. Killing with Dean’s hands. He’d thrashed against Michael in his head, clawed at his prison until his metaphorical fingers bled, but he was powerless against him. All he could do was watch.

Now, even with Michael gone, Dean still felt the ghost of his grace running through him, angry and burning and utterly wrong, nothing like the gentle warmth of Cas’ grace he felt whenever Cas healed him.

He stood at the mirror in the bunker’s bathroom. He’d taken a long shower and changed into familiar clothes, but the feeling of Michael still lingered. He examined his appearance in the mirror, ran his finger over the tiny scars on his earlobes where Michael had let his earring holes close. Earrings were, apparently, not Michael’s style; one of the first things he’d done after he escaped that church with Dean’s body was yank them out and throw them away.

It was a tiny thing, really, in the scheme of things, but right now, looking at his bare ears, something in his chest curled inward.

See, he’d wanted earrings growing up, wanted to look like the pretty boys in the magazines scattered around motel lobbies. But John, of course, would allow no such thing. As he got older, Dean reasoned to himself that earrings would just get in the way of hunting. Some monster would rip them out during a fight, and then he’d have to deal with injured ears on top of everything else. So he told himself.

When he’d been turned into a demon, on the other hand, free of those pesky human inhibitions, he’d walked into the nearest tattoo parlor the day after Crowley whisked him away from the bunker and left an hour later with his ears pierced. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a simple black stud in either ear.

Months later, when he was back in the bunker and once again human, after he’d shaved his face and trimmed his hair and started to feel like himself again, he couldn’t bring himself to take out the earrings. When was the last time he’d done something like this for himself? He liked how he looked with them in. They looked good. He looked good. Throwing them away would be a waste of a perfectly good pair of earrings, anyway. Honestly, it just made sense to keep them in.

The next morning, he’d walked into the kitchen to find Sam and Cas at the table eating breakfast. Well, Sam was eating, at least; Cas was absorbed in some book Dean didn’t recognize. They both looked up as he walked in.

“Morning. I made pancakes,” Sam said, gesturing to the platter in the middle of the table. “You feeling okay?”

“Never better,” Dean said. He almost hoped that Sam wouldn’t mention the earrings and just let him get his pancakes in peace, but then Sam’s eyes flicked to his ears.

“Those are new. You keeping them?” There was no judgment in his voice, just genuine curiosity.

Still, Dean had flooded with self-consciousness, struggling not to think of John. His hand went to his ear, his finger playing with the backing. “I mean. I don’t hate ‘em. Just seemed easier to leave ‘em in. For now.”

“They look good,” Sam assured him, and gave him a little smile, then returned to his pancakes.

Dean grabbed a plate and slid into the seat next to Cas at the table, piling pancakes onto it. As he reached for the syrup, he caught Cas staring at him.

“What?” Dean asked after a few seconds, his face growing hot, but neither of them looked away.

“Piercings suit you,” Cas had said finally, and then returned to his book.

Dean had flushed red to the tips of his ears. He finally turned away to see Sam smirking, and he had to resist the urge to tell him to shut up, grateful at least that neither of them were making a big deal of it.

So it became a normal thing, Dean wearing earrings. He bought a few different pairs of studs over the years—a gold set, a silver one, ones inlaid with tiny blue gems, but mostly he stuck to the black ones.

He loved how he looked in them. He loved the compliments he got, from both men and women. And every day that he wore them, the voice of his father in his head, the source of his shame, grew smaller and quieter.

But Michael hadn’t cared about that. Michael cared about how useful he could be as his vessel, as his sword. The Michael Sword.

Dean couldn’t stand his reflection anymore. He stormed out of the bathroom and down the hall to his room and rummaged around until he found his first aid kit, a brand-new sewing needle, and a lighter. He yanked open his nightstand drawer and paused as he looked over his few pairs of earrings. His favorites—the first pair of black studs—were long gone, thanks to Michael. So instead, he settled on a pair of small gold hoops that Claire had given him last Christmas.

She’d tried to pass it off like it was no big deal, tossing him the wrapped package and muttering something about how he couldn’t keep wearing those lame studs forever, but Dean invented that move. He knew what it had meant to her to give him something, and he treasured the earrings for that. Still, he hadn’t worn them yet. Hoops were less practical than studs; with his luck, they were bound to snag on something during a hunt, and he didn’t want to risk losing them.

But caution be damned. He was going to do this for himself. The monsters would simply have to work around him this time.

Back in the bathroom, he flicked open his lighter and held the needle over the flame to sterilize it, then wiped it clean with rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit. It occurred vaguely to him that he might want to go to a professional for this, like the first time, but he couldn’t wait that long. Besides, he could do this. He’d seen movies.

He braced his ear with an unused bar of soap, took a deep breath, and stuck the needle through his earlobe, wincing slightly at the pinch. He removed it and quickly stuck in one gold hoop, then repeated the process on the other side.

It was done in less than two minutes. Dean studied his reflection in the mirror and poked gently at the hoops, and for the first time since Michael had inexplicably left him, a real smile spread over his face.

It felt right. He looked right. He looked like Dean again. He could still feel the remnants of Michael’s grace in his veins, but it was Dean’s body. He was taking it back again, starting with a pair of gold hoop earrings.

[forthiswholeworld]

for @cursed-or-not because we’re thriving on each other’s clownery (page break bc this got Too Long to inflict on unsuspecting dashes) 

They’ve had Cas back for four days when Dean realizes something is wrong.

For a paralyzing moment, he stumbles on the thought, feels the fear of it choking him as he freezes in the doorway with a mug of coffee in his hand. He watches Cas blink dazedly at Sam’s debriefing on the rugaru in San Antonio and wills himself forward, wills his mind not to go straight to darkness and loss and cosmic consequences. Cas flashes a ragged smile as Dean sets the mug in front of him, and it occurs to Dean that maybe this is less about cosmic consequences than it is humanity. 

Now that Dean thinks about it, he can see it: the circles under his eyes, the weary slope of his back-- the things Dean had attributed to resurrection rather than humanity. 

Cas is human, though, and Dean thinks he needs to remember that before he remembers that he was gone. 

Cas needs food and laundry detergent and coffee and sleep, and now that he thinks about it Dean is absolutely sure he hasn’t seen Cas touch his bed since he got back. 

He doesn’t bring it up; they’ve been here before. They’ve come back and kept secrets and spent sleepless nights trying to fix things before, and heart-to-hearts have never gotten them anywhere. 

Instead, Dean drinks three pots of coffee and waits.

It’s 2:07 AM when he hears the echo of footsteps in the hallway. He swings open the door and tries to look like he hasn’t been waiting in ambush as Cas freezes.

“Dean,” he says, voice rough and a little frantic, and Dean is reminded of the days he’d wake up to Cas blithely watching him from the foot of his bed. (The days when Heaven filled the space between them and Dean didn't understand the difference between being a human and being human.) 

He watches Cas’ eyes flit away from his gaze and smiles brazenly. “Trouble sleeping?” 

Cas shifts on his feet. “No,” he says like he’s not the worst liar in the entire multiverse.

Dean holds his gaze for another beat before breathing a sigh. “Cas.” He settles back against the doorframe to scrutinize him. “What’s up?” 

Cas swallows. His eyes trace a scuff on the floor. “It gets so quiet here at night,” he mutters, and Dean understands.

He works his jaw as he realizes. He thinks he should’ve recognized the signs. He should’ve seen the tired eyes and haunted glances and known then, because Dean doesn’t know what it’s like to come back from nothingness, but he knows what it’s like to close his eyes and see hell.

He watches Cas’s gaze flit from the floor to the wall behind him and settle just above Dean’s left shoulder, and he’s not consciously aware of deciding anything but he’s inhaling to say something, and he guesses it better be good because there’s not a whole lot he can say to heal emptiness. 

“Sleep in my room,” he says, and he’s not sure which of them it surprises more.

“Dean—” Cas starts, and Dean knows he’s going to refuse, but there’s a millisecond where his gaze catches on Cas’s and there’s something heavy in the space between them, and Dean knows what it is but he’s always refused to put a name to it.

Cas swallows as he looks away. “As long as you don’t mind,” he says, and Dean also tears his gaze away before he can do something dumb like consider the vulnerability of it. 

“Come on then,” he mutters as he heads back into his room. “You can take the bed.”

“Dean—” Cas protests like Dean knew he would, and Dean narrowly avoids rolling his eyes.

“We’ll both take it then,” he says before he can ponder the sheer idiocy of it. 

Cas hesitates beside the bed, but Dean thinks he must be either too tired or too apathetic to argue, because he swallows and steps forward. 

Cas is careful as he pulls back the comforter and settles in; he’s careful not to take too much blanket or too much space, and they both lie stiffly on their respective sides of the bed until Dean decides he can’t take it anymore and clears his throat a little obnoxiously. He hears Cas huff a laugh. 

“You said it was too quiet,” Dean says softly, and he’s grateful for the darkness because he thinks he’s wearing a damningly fond expression. 

He thinks he feels Cas relax as he mutters, “that’s on me, then.” 

The stillness doesn’t feel so stifling after that, and he hears Cas’s breathing start to even out. 

He can feel the thrum of caffeine in his veins as he watches the ceiling. Even in the dark, he can see the outline of the ceiling fan, the trimming on the wall, the chair in the corner. He can hear Cas’s breathing, feel the warmth in the space between them, and he realizes he has no idea what emptiness is. He wonders how long it’s been since Cas closed his eyes without seeing it. 

He lies awake for the next three hours, but the rise and fall of Cas’s chest is steady and even beside him, so the caffeine overdose is a small price to pay. There are no windows in his room, but if there were he’d be able to see the first hazy traces of sunrise filtering in by the time he starts to drift off. 

Cas is gone when he wakes up. 

He staggers out of his room just before noon, and Cas doesn’t quite meet his eye as he wordlessly hands him a plate of pancakes, courtesy of Sam and Eileen, but Dean thinks the circles under his eyes look a little less absurd, and it’s enough. 

The next night, Dean leaves his door open. 

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but 11:00 rolls around and he’s just getting ready to turn out the lights when he hears a tentative knock at the doorframe. He looks up to see Cas in the doorway. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Cas mumbles, and something about his awkward stance and fragile uncertainty makes Dean’s chest ache. 

He thinks this is where he becomes brash; this is where he scoffs a laugh and brushes off this heaviness like neither of their shoulders are bowed under the weight of what-ifs. This is where he flees back to the safe side of the lines they’ve drawn. 

He swallows. “You wanna come in?” 

Cas stills. “I--” his eyes flit to Dean and then away in a millisecond. “No. I just--” 

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, and he guesses he’s being reckless instead of brash and can’t say whether it’s for the best but he can feel the thrill of it in his veins. “Get in here.” 

Cas watches him for half a beat, probably just as surprised as Dean is that he’s managed not to be a defensive asshole about this, and then he swallows. “Thank you.” 

Dean thinks he absolutely doesn’t deserve a thank you, but Cas shuffles in and hesitates at the side of the bed and before he can say as much he’s pulling the comforter aside to make room. 

Dean falls asleep earlier tonight; he thinks it has something to do with not being hyped up on three pots of coffee and the thrill of reckless, stupid ideas. He’s not sure when Cas nodded off, but he wakes up at 3:42 to the sound of gasping, panicked breathing. 

“Cas?” He asks with a sleep-worn voice but he’s halfway across the bed, reaching for Cas’s shoulder before he can get a response or take half a second to consider how horrible an idea this is. 

“Dean,” Cas breathes, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s a question or an answer or a prayer but Cas’s breath mingles with his as he says it and something in the fragile space between them finally shatters as Cas leans into the touch. 

Dean pulls him into his chest, holds him there and tries not to let the ache of it convince him he’s going to regret this.

Cas clutches the back of Dean’s shirt like it’s all that’s keeping him tethered to this world where things are allowed to make noise and wake up and see light, and Dean rests his palms against Cas’s shoulders and wishes he had the words to promise he’s holding on just as tight. 

Dean isn’t sure how long it is, whether it’s two minutes or three hours or an eternity, but Cas’s grip on his shirt loosens, and he breathes less stuttered exhales, and he rests his chin somewhere in the crook of Dean’s shoulder and closes his eyes. 

Dean leans slowly back against the headrest and thinks he’s never been very good at this. 

The intimacy of it is familiar—the weight of an arm over his stomach, the heady tangle of limbs, the needy warmth— that’s always come naturally to him. It’s the tenderness that gets him. It’s the brush of Cas’ breath against his neck, the softness of ten years of fear and loss and a word that Dean can’t say as easily as he should. It’s the ache where the rhythm of his pulse screams something between I want this forever and I’m so afraid.  

Cas is gone when he wakes up. 

Cas is gone, and Dean’s arm is stiff and he wonders if it will ever be enough just to hold an angel haunted by empty nights. 

That night, he tells himself he isn't waiting for the knock. 

He tells himself he’s not waiting, but he hears the shuffle of bare feet in the hall and a single rap at the door and a millisecond later he’s swinging it open. 

Tonight, there’s no apologetic hesitance or fumbling for words.

There’s Cas, standing plainly in the doorway and there’s Dean, dropping his hand from the doorknob and standing too close. There’s the tilt of Cas’s head as he searches Dean’s face for something Dean knows with terrified certainty he’ll find, and there’s Dean’s gaze flitting to his mouth for a stupid, breathless moment. There’s the part of Cas’s lips and the desperate beating of Dean’s heart, the distant electric buzz of the lights and the hitch of his breath as Cas leans forward—

There’s the cluttered breath and scrape of teeth as their mouths crash together.

His lungs stutter on the drag of stubble and chapped lips and tired warmth, and because he never thought he’d be allowed to, he pulls Cas in, clutches the front of his shirt and crowds him up against the doorway until they’re pressed together and they can both feel the desperate rhythm of his pulse. Cas’s fingers ghost over his jaw and something in Dean is absolutely dizzy with the realness of it. 

He doesn’t know how long it is before Cas breaks away but he feels ready to shatter. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Cas says, and Dean breathes a ragged laugh into his shoulder. 

There are still things he can’t say, words that form in his chest sit and like a lump in his throat and will probably stay unsaid for just a little while longer, but he lets his arms circle Cas’ waist and murmurs “sleep in here, then,” and he has to bury his face in the crook of Cas’ neck to hide a stupidly fond smile.  

Cas breathes a soft “thank you” against his temple as Dean pulls him toward the bed, and Dean can hear the worn tiredness in his voice and thinks that might be all there is for a while but for the first time in their lives they have time, and it’s enough. 

It’s enough, he thinks, and he pulls Cas against his chest and holds onto him until there’s no empty space between them. 

[pluckydean]

It’s a Tradition

A gift for @tlakhtwritesdestiel for the @destielsecretsanta2020 exchange

Title: It’s a Tradition Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, Jack, Sam Rating: T Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Fluff, Christmas, Traditions, First Kiss, Mistletoe Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: Team Free Will scrambles to put together a Christmas celebration for Jack, and Cas finds one tradition he'd like to try with Dean.

[ao3]

"We're gonna try and hit as many Christmas traditions as we can," Dean said. "I know Jack's expectations are high, but Christmas is tomorrow so we don't have much time." He grabbed a shopping cart and led Cas through the automatic doors.

"What traditions?" Cas asked, and he yawned. Understandable since Dean had dragged him out of the bunker at six that morning. "I thought you and Sam avoided celebrating Christmas."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean I don't know how to do it." He wheeled the squeaky cart toward a sign that said "Decorations". "First thing is trimming the tree. Sam is taking Jack to pick one out later, but we're gonna need ornaments."

The selection was pretty dismal. Dean probably should have expected that since it was Christmas Eve and most people had put their decorations up weeks ago.

Cas held up a dented box full of sparkly neon ball ornaments. "These look festive."

That was one word for it, Dean thought. But there weren't any better options so he took the box and dropped it into the cart. He also grabbed a few strands of lights in assorted colors while Cas spent a suspiciously long time looking at the bows on the other side of the aisle.

Dean crossed "tree" off his mental list.

"I would've said wrapping paper is next, but Sam helped him wrap gifts yesterday apparently." Dean, Sam, and Cas had all agreed that they would only exchange presents with Jack this year. Dean had gotten him a collection of Scooby-Doo on DVD that was packaged in a cardboard replica of the Mystery Machine and could double as a decoration in his bedroom. Truth be told, Dean nearly bought another one for himself. "We should see if they have any gingerbread house kits left."

"What are we going to put on the top of the tree?" Cas asked.

Dean turned to find him staring at the last angel and three star toppers left on the shelf. "Well, since I guess it would have to be an awfully big tree to get you up there without breaking limbs-" Cas glared at him "- grab the gold star. Now c'mon, we're gonna hit the baking aisles. Hopefully those are better stocked."

They weren't.

Dean found a gingerbread house kit wedged behind a few boxes of cake mix, and though it was a little dented it was better than nothing.

Cas took the box back out of the cart after Dean added it. "This looks very messy to eat after it's built and decorated."

"That's why we're not gonna eat it," Dean said. "That and the fact that it probably tastes like plastic. It's just for decoration. Besides, the next thing on our list is cookies and those are gonna taste awesome."

Dean continued to shop for another twenty minutes while Cas followed him around like a lost duckling. Only when he was satisfied that he had everything he would need for a decent Christmas dinner did he finally head for the check-out.

As they waited in line, Dean watched Cas browse the candy that lined the check-out lane.

He picked out a king sized bar that boasted "Now with even more nougat!" and put it into the cart.

"That one is Jack's favorite," he said.

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I know, but between that and the cookies I'm gonna let you deal with the sugar high tomorrow."

-

Cas had been acting suspiciously ever since they got home from the store. Dean couldn't pin it down, but figured he'd get to the bottom of it later. Right now it was all about giving Jack the best Christmas he knew how.

They all sat beneath the haphazardly decorated tree as midnight approached. Sam had the great idea to string popcorn and Jack had loved that most of all. He was still making another strand as Sam read The Night Before Christmas off his phone screen.

Dean grabbed another sugar cookie from the plate between him and Cas. It kind of looked like a reindeer, if reindeer were purple with yellow stripes. Delicious, though.

"Is it time for presents, now?" Jack asked when the story was finished.

"Sure, kid." Dean pointed to his gift under the tree. "Open mine first."

Sam gave him the stink eye, probably because he knew Dean's gift would steal the show.

Jack tore into the wrapping paper with glee. "Scooby-Doo! This is so cool, thank you Dean." And he scooted forward on the ground to wrap Dean in a hug.

"Oh," Dean said, patting Jack's back a little awkwardly. "That's… that's good, I'm glad you like it."

When Jack pulled away to investigate his remaining gifts, Dean caught Cas smiling at him.

"What?" he asked, feeling a little defensive.

Cas' eyes crinkled at the corners. "You're a good dad, Dean," he said quietly as Jack started to rip up more paper.

Dean flushed.

"Oh wow!" Jack said, holding up a thick leather-bound journal and the king-sized candy bar from the store. "These are great!" He already had half the candy bar in his mouth when he went to give Cas the same thank-you treatment.

Dean didn't realize he was smiling until Cas caught his eye. Huh, he thought. "You're not so bad yourself."

They watched their kid open his final present.

Dean groaned. "A laptop, Sammy? Really?"

Sam just gave him a shit-eating grin over Jack's shoulder.

-

An hour later Jack was off to bed and his laptop was confiscated until Dean could set up some parental controls on the damn thing.

Cas lingered as Dean picked up the last of the wrapping paper from the floor. He leaned against the door frame casually, which wasn't casual at all. Dean glanced at him suspiciously and that's when something caught his eye. He stepped closer to see what it was.

"Cas, did you shoplift a piece of mistletoe?" Dean asked, not sure how to react to the strange situation he had found himself in.

Cas narrowed his eyes. "Did you buy the other supplies with a fraudulent credit card?"

"Point. But, uh… why?"

"It's a tradition," Cas said. He stepped closer to Dean. "One that I wanted to experience for myself."

His eyes never left Dean's, but Dean couldn't help the way he dropped his gaze to Cas' lips.

"Oh," Dean said. He looked up at the mistletoe above his head. "Might be bad luck to break tradition," he said, only half-joking.

"Then you'll kiss me?" Cas asked, his voice a low rumble.

Oh, Dean wanted to. He wanted to more than anything.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Dean hated the words that left his mouth when they caused Cas to fall back half a step. "This," he pointed at the mistletoe, "is convenient. An excuse. But it'll be gone after tomorrow."

Cas furrowed his brow. "I thought you would be glad of that."

"No, Cas." Dean reached out to touch his jaw lightly, just with his fingertips. "If I kiss you now, I'll need to do it every day for the rest of my life."

Cas' eyes widened and he surged forward to crash their mouths together.

At first it was too desperate to be a proper kiss, all teeth and bumped noses. But Dean slowed them down with one hand pushed into Cas' hair and the other rubbing gently between his shoulder blades until Cas' lips softened into something less fierce. When his hands unclenched from Dean's shirt to settle on his waist, Dean pulled back just a little and pressed their foreheads together.

"What do you say we continue this conversation somewhere a little more private and mistletoe-free?" he asked with a grin.

"It's actually holly, you know," Cas said, "so in theory we are not beholden to the tradition if we continue to stand beneath it."

Dean rolled his eyes, but nevertheless leaned in for another kiss.

[bright-eyes-strawberry-lies]

My (incomplete) Notes on The Lightning Thief

Percy Jackson, at 12 years old, is miserable

Percy is trying very hard to be good

Percy reacts violently when his friends are threatened

“I’m going to kill her” 

I wish I’d decked her right there

Percy turns red when he gets called on 

Percy knows a lot about both Greek and Roman gods

Percy has an “I’ll-kill-you-later” stare

Percy gives “safe” answers to authority figures

Percy sells an illegal candy stash out of his dorm room

Percy knows about shrooms and thinks that he was drugged on the field trip

Percy has nightmares about the teacher (Kindly One) that he killed

Percy has to get summer jobs

Grover is a very bad liar

Percy almost cries in class when his favorite teacher tells him that he’s different

Percy gets into fights to protect Grover from bullies

Percy sees the Fates snipping the thread and knows he’s going to die

Grover mentions that it’s always 6th graders who are killed

Percy ditches Grover at the bus stop

Grover’s bladder acts up when he gets nervous

Sally Jackson took night classes to get her GED

She wanted to be a novelist

Gabe Ugliano is Percy’s stepdad

His cigars make Percy nauseous 

He drinks beer and leaves a mess everywhere

He takes money from Percy and uses it to fund his gambling and calls it their “guy secret.”

If Percy tells Sally, he’ll “punch Percy’s lights out”

Gabe takes over Percy’s room while Percy is at school

Gabe makes fun of Percy’s grades

Sally works at a candy shop and brings Percy blue candy

She runs her hands through his hair and asks him how he’s doing

She never raises her voice or says anything unkind to anyone

Percy wants to punch Gabe

Percy wants to kick Gabe in the balls and “make him sing soprano for week” 

Gabe blamed Percy for things that aren’t his fault

Percy makes a hand gesture that Grover did, but at Gabe, and the screen door slammed shut 

They have a rental cabin on the beach that is “half hidden in the dunes, full of sand and spiders”

Percy and his mom eat blue foods because Gabe said there’s no such thing as blue food. It’s an act of rebellion. 

Percy thinks that his mom doesn’t want him around

Percy is mad at Poseidon for leaving him and his mom

In preschool, Percy is put to sleep in a crib at school. The crib had a snake in it and Percy strangled the snake to death. 

Percy has a dream that a horse (Poseidon) and an eagle (Zeus) are fighting to the death

“O Zeu kai alloi theoi” means “Oh Zeus and other gods!” 

Percy experiences panic when he realizes that his teacher was a monster trying to kill him

Lightning hits the camaro and blasts off the roof

Percy’s got good instincts; the hair frequently raises on the back of his neck when he’s in danger

Sally gets killed by the minotaur 

She’s actually stolen by Hades

Percy rips off the minotaur’s horn and impales it into his side

Percy is crying, weak, trembling with grief and he literally carries Grover and drops onto a porch

Annabeth tries to get Percy to talk while she’s spoon-feeding Percy ambrosia 

Percy has been unconscious for two days after his fight with the minotaur

Percy would rather live on the streets than live with Gabe

He considers lying about his age and joining the army

Percy is very good at telling when adults have been drinking

Grover is nervous about Mr. D

But he still manages to ask for the diet coke can to eat

  The farm house is four stories tall, sky blue and white trim

The camp grows strawberries and the campers pick them

Grover is 28 years old but satyrs mature at half the rate that humans do

The Poseidon cabin walls glow like abalone. There are six empty beds with silk sheets. It smells salty. 

Chiron gets horribly depressed about training heroes

Luke is very handsome except for a thick white scar that runs from his right eye to his jaw.

He’s the son of Hermes and the counselor 

Luke is 19

He’s in cabin 11

Monsters will always reform because they don’t have souls

The bathrooms are cinder block buildings with a line of toilets and a line of showers; there’s a girls and a boys

Percy feels a tug in the pit of his stomach when he uses his powers

Annabeth just watched Clarisse drag Percy into the bathroom to give him a swirly 

Luke steals Percy some toiletries from the camp store. 

Percy is not good at archery, foot racing, or wrestling

The only thing that Percy is good at is canoeing 

Percy can’t find a blade that fits right in his hand. 

Luke has been the best swordsman in 300 years

Percy bests him after pouring ice water on his head (son of Poseidon) 

Hades doesn’t have a cabin at Camp Half-Blood or a throne on Olympus. They say that it would be bad if there was a cabin for Hades. 

Sixty years ago, after World War 2, the big three gods made an oath not to have more kids.

Two of them broke it; Zeus with Jason and Thalia, Poseidon with Percy.

When Hades found out, he let out all three Kindly Ones and a pack of Hellhounds

Thalia wound up becoming a tree. 

Grover was the satyr assigned to bring only Thalia in. Thalia had befriended Annabeth and Luke, and she wouldn’t leave them behind. 

Percy thinks that Luke’s scar makes him look almost evil

Clarisse has an electric spear

It makes Percy go numb wherever she touches him with it

One of the boys in Cabin 5 (Ares) cuts Percy across the arm

Once Percy gets into the water, he’s very good at fighting

Luke wins capture the flag

Annabeth has a Yankee's cap that makes her invisible. It was a gift from her mother. 

Annabeth is the first person to figure out that Poseidon is Percy’s father.

No wait, Grover was first and then Chiron. Well, they knew he was one of the Big Three’s son.

As soon as Percy steps out of the water, he is exhausted and in pain.

When Hellhounds die, they melt into shadow and soak into the ground.

Hellhounds are from the fields of punishment.

When Poseidon claims Percy, everyone kneels.

“Poseidon, Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God.”

Percy is miserable being alone in Cabin Three and being so isolated. He would rather get into fights every day than be ignored. People are steering clear of Percy. 

Except for Luke, who gives Percy one-on-one sword training. 

Annabeth teaches Percy Greek but she’s distracted.

Gabe tells the press that Percy is violent and a troubled kid. The newspapers say that Percy may be involved in his mother’s disappearance. 

Gabe also tells the press that Percy has expressed violent tendencies in the past.

Percy has more dreams of Zeus and Poseidon fighting. He hears Kronos’ voice calling to him. 

It doesn’t rain in Camp Half-Blood (or even get overcast) unless they want it to. 

Dionysus wants to kill Percy. 

Percy gets embarrassed when he knows something someone doesn’t want or expect him to. 

Percy has a nervous laugh. 

Illegal copies can be made of the Gods Symbols of Power.

Percy has tried to steal pizza from Gabe’s poker parties and got busted for it.

Percy is furious that the camp is being punished for his existence. He thinks he’s responsible for the gods' fight. 

The Big House attic is four flights up. It’s full of mementos from old demigod fights. 

Percy is scared of the oracle. 

Percy’s fists clench at the very sight of Gabe. 

Percy doesn’t have many friends. 

Percy isn’t afraid of Hades; he wants to get revenge and take Hades on. 

Gods can’t encroach on each other’s territories but demigods can. Gods can’t be held responsible for heroes actions. 

Percy describes his emotions as rolling glass in a kaleidoscope. 

Percy is so relieved that Grover is coming with him that he wants to cry. 

Annabeth volunteered to go on the Quest. Percy is not surprised. 

Previously, Luke told Percy that Annabeth has been harassing Chiron for a prophecy and that she’s been hanging onto all of the new campers until she’s sure they aren’t the chosen one. 

Annabeth says that Percy will mess up this quest without her even though he’s been more than adequate at handling everything that’s been thrown his way. 

The camp store loans Percy $100.00 and 20 golden drachmas. 

He’s also given a canteen of nectar and a ziplock bag full of ambrosia squares.

The ambrosia and nectar is only to be used in emergencies; it will kill a mortal and demigods will literally burn up if they overdose. 

Annabeth’s cap was given to her on her twelfth birthday by her mom, Athena. 

Luke actually runs up the hill to give them the basketball shoes. They’re the flying shoes he got from his dad for his quest when he was seventeen. 

Luke gives the shoes directly to Percy. 

Percy is worried that Luke would have been jealous of the attention he’s been getting.

Percy blushes because Luke gave him the magic gift. 

Luke seems uncomfortable talking to Percy. He trails off three times and uses “um.” And then there’s an [awkward] handshake. 

Luke pats Grover between the horns and gives Annabeth a hug.

Annabeth’s crush on Luke has been brought up three times so far. 

Percy figures out by this one interaction that Annabeth let Luke capture the flag instead of her. 

Percy thinks that he’s a brat for wanting a magical gift from his father. 

Riptide (Anaklusmos) is a gift from Poseidon that Chiron has been holding onto for the next child of Poseidon. 

Riptide is forged by the Cyclopes, tempered in the heart of Mount Etna, and cooled in the River Lethe. 

Mortals aren’t important enough for the blade to kill but it will kill demigods and anything from the Underworld. 

Percy thinks that the real world feels like a fantasy after spending two weeks at Half-Blood Hill. 

Percy thinks that Annabeth hates him. 

Annabeth thinks they have to be rivals because their parents are. 

Annabeth was also mean to him before she knew who his dad was.

Even after two weeks away from Gabe, Grover can still smell him on Percy.

This makes Percy immediately want a shower.

Grover says that Percy should be thankful Sally was with someone who smelled so repulsively human because it kept the monsters away and that Sally must have loved Percy a lot to put up with that guy.

This does not make Percy feel better but he hides his feelings; or hopes he does since satyrs can sense emotions with or without an empathy link. 

Percy is on the quest because he wants to save his mom.

He is not on the quest to retrieve Zeus’s lightning bolt

Or to save the world 

Or to help his dad out of trouble. Percy is actually really, really angry with Poseidon for never visiting or helping Sally. 

Annabeth and Percy are good at playing hacky sack. 

The three Furies are considered the worst monsters in the Underworld. 

Percy had a chance to escape on the bus and didn’t take it. 

Alecto threatens to kill Percy (again)

Percy can speak Latin

Percy knows that the Greek Gods (Zeus and Hades in particular) are being assholes to him. 

The food at Camp Half-Blood is grapes, bread, cheese, and extra-lean-cut nymph-prepared barbecue. 

“Your head is full of kelp.”

In Aunty Em’s emporium, Percy says that the smell of her cooking makes everything else go away, however he still has the sense of mind to notice Grover whimpering, the statues’ eyes following them, and Auntie Em locking the door. 

Percy’s neck tingles when he’s in danger. 

Percy is annoyed that Annabeth is being rude to a woman who just fed them for free. 

[pigtownchronicles]

Chapter 1.1 - A Reunion at a Gallery Show

“There’s a spot!”

“It’s too tight. I’m gonna circle around and get that one we just saw on the other block.”

“That one’s probably gone already, just squeeze in here!”

Dennis had already passed it, and Barry sat back in his seat with a sigh, but let his husband circle back around. By the time they’d reached the spot they’d seen a few minutes before, he’d already thought of the perfect little jab, but the spot was still open, and Dennis pulled in without trouble. There, see? It’s closer to the gallery anyway.”

Barry gave a little huff, and got out of the car onto the sidewalk. It was a weekday evening, but the walkway was still flush with people going to dinner at the various restaurants around them. The couple were there to support a gallery show by Samuel, who was an old college friend of Barry’s. An ex, technically, but that was well buried by them both. Samuel had been the flamboyant, outré fine arts major known for his extravagance and openly gay work on campus, and Barry had been the closeted business major just beginning to poke his head out. Barry had been drawn to Samuel’s freedom, while the artist had enjoyed prying open the scared little baby queen, as he’d called him. None of it had been particularly healthy, and the breakup had been explosive, forcing Barry out of the closet, and while he had been bitter about it at the time, with distance and a good therapist, he’d come around to crediting Samuel with a good amount of personal growth. The two of them had reconnected on facebook eventually, and were better friends than lovers.

Dennis knew the history between the two of them, but he didn’t understand why Barry liked Samuel’s company at all. His personality was about as distant from Samuel’s as you could get in many ways. Pragmatic, practical, with a reputation as a bore and a square. The two of them had met through a mutual friend after Barry graduated and landed his first job, and a few years later, had gotten married after a steady engagement. Dennis worked at a hospital in the city doing lucrative knee replacements, while Barry had focused on climbing the corporate ladder. The two of them were a classic TWINK scenario--TWo Incomes, No Kids--though their physical twink days were well behind them at this point. Dennis was quickly approaching forty, and while he assured everyone that age was just a number, he himself was finding some personal reservations and difficulties with it, not that he bothered sharing that with anyone openly. At some point, his boyish charm had slipped away, replaced with a burgeoning bearhood, and a growing waistline to go with it. He was currently experimenting with a beard, and waffled on shaving it off every day. It had a bit too much grey in it for his liking, and it only emphasized his own age. Barry liked it, however, and so it stayed for the moment.

Barry was a couple years younger, and seemed to be coming into his own at last. His career had gotten off to a rocky start, and had remained so over the years. Barry blamed it on the latent homophobia of the corporate world, and while Dennis was sympathetic, he pinned more of the blame on Barry himself. He lacked focus and drive, tended to flit from one project to another, and didn’t really have the leadership and confidence he imagined he did. Barry didn’t like to hear any of that though (another flaw, Dennis thought) and so he coddled him along. His salary more than provided them with a comfortable lifestyle after all. Barry, in turn, considered Dennis to be a bit dismissive of his own contributions to their lifestyle. The aloofness his husband had could drive Barry mad at times, along with his refusal to cede the moral high ground at any moment. But despite their frustrations, their relationship was comfortable, and neither saw any reason to disrupt that. Dennis checked that the car was locked, while Barry brushed his hair into place. Then they oriented themselves, and set off for the gallery where Samuel was exhibiting his latest work.

“So what has Samuel done this time?” Dennis asked him, “That last show of his didn’t make any sense to me.”

“He’s assured me that this one is more grounded, but I’m not sure what that means exactly.”

“Fewer dicks maybe?”

“Doubtful.”

“I just find it a bit crass.”

“Honestly, he’s toned it down a lot over the years.”

“What did you ever see in him?”

“Honestly? He has a great hole. He makes you feel like you’re the greatest fucker in the world.”

Dennis’s lip sneered a bit. He’d never been the most sexual person, and didn’t really understand people’s obsession with it. When Dennis did fell the urge, he’d usually just jack off, or at most, oral only, preferring to top. Since getting married, the two of them didn’t do much together, or separately. Work came first for them both, though Barry would binge on occasion, going to a circuit party on a weekend while Dennis stayed home. It didn’t bother him, so long as he didn’t do drugs or fuck bareback. Barry assured him that the parties he went to were classier than that. “I’d never want to fuck someone on meth, could you imagine?” he said once. Dennis couldn’t, and he’d left it at that before Barry might elaborate.

They reached the gallery not long after that and stepped inside. There were a surprising number of people there in Barry’s opinion, and of a slightly more elevated persuasion than the other shows Barry had attended. More suits, fewer drag queens in outlandish flair, though there was a gaggle of them tittering in a corner. Samuel had confessed once that he usually hired them to attend--after all, a gay artist with no drag representation isn’t really a gay artist at all.

The work was a bit more toned down, in Barry’s opinion. A couple of pieces he could imagine hanging on his bedroom wall (Dennis would never allow it of course) but nothing that he could hang out in a main room where someone from work might see it. Leather, denim, cock, hair. The bodies were twisted out of proportion, almost abstracted. Dennis waved down a young man with a tray of champagne, took a glass, and proceeded to meander, while Barry looked around for Samuel.

It didn’t take long to find him. He had cleaned up for the occasion, and Barry was always impressed with how well he could look when he allowed himself a bit of respectability. Tall, broad shouldered, long hair slicked back against his scalp and down to his neck, with a short beard trimmed up around his mouth. He had a thicker frame, but carried it well--managing to tread the line between beefy and chubby better than Dennis did. It helped that he had a better sense of style at least, or at least cared to know what fit him well, and lean into it. He was chatting to someone who looked rather wealthy, probably trying to drum up a sale. Barry hung back until they had moved on, and then slipped in for a hug before anyone else could commandeer him. 

“BarBar, you came! So glad to see you,” Samuel said, bending down and planting a kiss of each of Barry’s cheeks. 

“Yes, well, I was sick and tired of staying at home on the weekends. Dennis can be such a bore at times.”

“Yes, well, you knew that when you tied the knot. No use being bitter, it will sour your soul,” Samuel said, then gripped Barry by the hand, “Speaking of, I have someone I want you to meet,” he said, and pulled him along.

Barry sighed--Samuel was a serial philanderer. No one stuck around for long, but they were always, well, something. This one proved to be no exception. Barry found himself looking up at a rather imposing fellow wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts that did nothing to disguise the size of the cock he was packing in the front of them. “Barry, this is Parker. Parker, this is a old friend of mine, Barry.”

The muscular fellow stuck out a hand, gripped Barry’s, and while he had long practiced a firm handshake for the business world, this one left him feeling like his hand might cramp. “Nice to meet ya,” Parker said, and then pulled Samuel close. “When are we getting out of this joint baby, you said we were gonna party tonight.”

“Not too much longer, I promise. These rich fucks are boring the piss out of me--no offense Barry.”

“None taken, I guess,” but Barry did feel boring, and sizing up Parker, who seemed to grow more muscular each time he looked at him again, he was feeling a little jealous, a little aroused, and a little bit of FOMO creeping up on him. Samuel was just a year younger than him, and despite all of his own successes, looking at him he still felt envious of his confidence. 

“Evening Samuel, it’s a very nice show,” Dennis said, wandering over to join the three of them. He stuck a hand out to Parker and introduced himself, and seemed unfazed by his substantial grip. 

“So glad you could join us, Dennis. Barry says it’s been a challenge prying you up from the couch on the weekends.”

Dennis ignored the jab. Their mutual distaste for one another was well known. Dennis considered him to be a phony, while Samuel considered him to be a tasteless square. Neither cared enough about the other to make an issue of it, and Barry smoothed it over well enough with his usual enthusiasm. 

“Barry, why don’t you come out with us tonight? I’m having a little afterparty at Depot, have you even been there? Hell, when was the last time you two even went out? The last year or so, it feels like the city is breathing again, you know? You have to come, it’s amazing. They took this old warehouse, and kept all the scaffolding, just dropped a stage and a bar in the middle of it. You wouldn’t believe the shit people get up to in the corners.”

“Fuck, last weekend, Hugh told me he saw a four guy train up in the rafters,” Parker said.

Dennis heaved a sigh, and generally, Barry would have taken the cue, excused them both for the evening, and gone home to Netflix and bed. But between his annoyance about the parking situation earlier, and the euphoria he alway got for the first few hours he was with Samuel again, he decided to throw caution to the wind. “Fuck it, why not?” he said.

“Barry--”

“Come on Dennis, just one drink. We don’t have to be out long.”

Dennis was caught off guard, and had never been good at putting his foot all the way down. Samuel assured them that it was just a few blocks away--they’d be home before their couch could even miss them. They slipped out the back of the building and into an alley, and the four of them headed for Depot, on the edge of what was, at the time, just beginning to be called Pigtown.

***

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[prayedtoyou]

overrated - read it on ao3

<<  when you get home, will you help me with a project?

>>  sure thing. i have to stop by the gas station on my way back, want anything?

<<  yeah, grab me some of those chocolate covered raisins that i like

>>  you got it. see you in 15

Dean had plans to go home after his three classes of the day to watch Netflix with his hand in his pants and eat pepper jack Cheez-Its until his stomach hurt, but he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to cancel those plans to help out his roommate for a few hours. Dean doesn’t often interrupt plans with himself, especially on a day where he doesn’t have any homework and he doesn’t have to show up for a shift at the salvage yard, but Cas is someone Dean doesn’t mind giving up a  few luxuries for.

Dean met Cas in their Design 101 class during freshman year. It was nothing more than a foundation class, one that Dean and Cas had to take in pursuit of their BFA degrees in film and television, and photography, respectively. Dean expected to jack off to the course by flirting with the fellow classmates while still paying just enough attention to pass the class and turn in projects and assignments on time, but when Cas started sitting next to him in the third week of the semester and heckled him about listening to the professor and taking better notes, Dean really started to buckle down and take it a little more seriously.

They’ve been friends ever since. They had late night study sessions during their first year when they were only an elevator ride away from each other’s dorm rooms. Their first college summer was mostly spent at the Biggerson’s just off SCAD’s campus where Cas served tables; Dean would come in to bother him, drink coffee, and take advantage of the free WiFi. They found an apartment they could barely afford just south of the metro area and moved in a week before the new school year started. They still have that same apartment.

This was to Charlie’s disappointment, at first. She had suggested moving in together before Cas had and Dean had been on the fence about it. He loved Charlie, they got along, she understood his nerdy references, they had similar taste in women--but he had been holding out for another photography major to make his move. She quickly forgave him when she met and later moved in with her girlfriend, Dorothy.

There was just something about Cas that set him apart from Dean’s other friends. It might have to do with how passionate Cas was about his classes and major; since sixth grade, he’s known that he would grow up to be a photographer for National Geographic so he could travel the world and take pictures of all his favorite creatures. Or it might have to do with his sense of humor--a little dark and always just flirtatious enough to make Dean wonder just how serious he is and whether or not he should laugh or take him up on his offers.

More than likely, though, it has to do with how attractive he is, how his smile is so bright it puts the sun to shame, how his laugh makes Dean’s heart swell up like a helium balloon, how he’s intelligent and eloquent, but also absolutely clueless about a lot of stuff Dean considers to be required life knowledge. Does most of that knowledge revolve around Star Wars, Back to the Future, and Indiana Jones movie references? Yes, but that’s beside the point.

And that’s what led Dean to living with the guy for going on three years, to spending entire days dedicated to showing Cas his favorite movies and shows, to picking up dark chocolate Raisinets on his way home from school, to walking into their apartment and calling out Cas’s name just like Ricky Ricardo.

Cas shouts back from the opposite side of the apartment where their bedrooms are. Dean finds Cas in his room, furniture pushed away from one wall and replaced with Cas’s favorite reading chair from the living room (that old, forest-green armchair that Cas found at an antique store on the Savannah River that Dean verbally hated, but secretly used when Cas wasn’t around because it’s about the most comfortable thing in the world), and a camera set up on a tripod facing the chair. Cas is wearing that white button down that looks especially good against the tan he got over the summer, the one that matches Dean’s after they spent several long days on Tybee Island right before their senior year started.

“So, what’s the project?” Dean asks, handing over the box of Raisinets. He curses at himself for forgetting to get a snack of his own while he was out.

Cas takes the box with a smile. “Thanks, Dean. This one is based on touch and what emotions it brings out in us, but we can’t have more than one subject in the shot. So, I need you to put this on.” Cas reaches out and drops a small black object into Dean’s palm.

It’s… a tube of lipstick.

“Uh, Cas? I thought we’ve established that I’m not really much of a model.”

Cas rolls his eyes, no doubt remembering the arguments they had on the river walk during their second year when Cas tried to shoot Dean for an assignment that ended up with them deciding that Dean would stick with filming and Cas would recruit performing arts majors to be his models. “I know, I'm not taking pictures of you, you’re taking pictures of me. I already have the camera focused and everything, you just need to put that on, give me a few kisses, and snap some pictures.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits. “K-kisses?”

“Yeah. I’m using lipstick kisses to represent my past relationships and how I feel about them touching me. Just cheek and forehead kisses. We’re not going to be Frenching or anything.”

“Oh.” Dean looks down at the lipstick, caught somewhere between disappointment and relief, wondering if it would be better or worse if these kisses were meant for Cas’s lips instead of the rest of his face. Would it even be right of him to take Cas up on this offer when he already fantasizes about putting kisses all over Cas’s skin? Would it be wrong for their first kisses to be over some project? “I don’t know how I feel about this, Cas.”

“About what, kissing me? They’re not even real kisses, you just have to pucker up like you're kissing your mom.”

Dean chews on his lip. Would it be so bad to take advantage of the situation and indulge in something he’s wanted since their second semester together? Shouldn’t he be a good friend and roommate and help Cas with his project, no matter the requirements?

Cas must see the uncertainty in Dean’s expression because he continues with, “Come on, Dean, we’re graduating next semester, we’re practically professionals. Are you really going to be embarrassed about a little lipstick when you could be filming HBO sex scenes a year from now?”

Dean looks back up at Cas. If he’s going to insist, who is Dean to tell him no? “Alright, asshole, I’ll do it. But you owe me.”

Cas smiles wide and, damn, Dean would wear lipstick every day if it meant Cas would look at him like that. “Okay, there’s a mirror behind you. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just put some on and lay it on me.”

Dean turns to find Cas’s mirror hung up with his portfolio. Photos are hung, tacked, and taped up from vacations, day trips, school projects, and family holidays. Dean is up there a few times: laughing on the opposite side of the table from Cas at Biggerson’s, a selfie of the two of them under the unflattering flash of a smartphone in a dark movie theater, the only good shot Cas got of Dean that day on the river walk, Dean asleep on the couch with a book folded up in his arms like a teddy bear.

Dean didn’t even know Cas took that last one.

He puts on the lipstick, ignoring the photos of himself. It’s definitely not as easy as he thought it would be--staying inside the lines was something he’s improved upon since childhood, but crayons are a lot different from makeup. He manages to swipe the color onto his face, grimacing at the taste of it.

When he looks back at Cas, all he gets is a blank stare and a slight nod. Feeling less than confident with deep red lips, Dean steps up to the plate.

“Where do you want it?”

Dean can hear the click of Cas’s throat as he swallows. He raises a hand, pointing to the knob of his left cheekbone.

“Here.”

Dean steps just a little closer. Cas is about his height, maybe an inch shorter, but it’s not even noticeable when Dean tilts Cas’s face up with a finger and thumb gently pinching his chin. He leans in and--smells Cas’s shampoo, notices the pores on his nose, finds trimmed whiskers along his cheeks--presses his lips right where Cas wanted them.

With the lipstick, Dean can’t taste Cas’s skin, but he can smell the face wash where his nose is sticking into Cas’s temple. Like pomegranates.

When he pulls away, he knows he’s blushing, but he has no way of hiding it, so he just smiles and says, “That’s a good color for you.”

Cas, a little pink himself, scoffs. “Just take the picture, Taylor Swift.”

Cas takes his seat, Dean steps behind the camera. He clicks the shutter button a few times, watching Cas’s face on the screen. He’s leaning his face up and slightly away, lips parted, eyes cast toward the door instead of the lense. It’s a great angle to show off that jawline of his.

Dean was never destined to be a model, but Cas looks just as good in photos as he does in real life. He knows exactly how to position himself, which light to use, how his face should look. He could model, if he ever wanted. Dean asked him if he would star in a short film Dean had to film, but Cas just laughed and said if he wanted to act he would have gone into performing arts.

“That should be enough,” Cas notes, and Dean realizes that he had taken way too many photos while thinking about Cas’s face. He backs away from the camera. “I’ll need a fresh layer for each kiss, so apply some more lipstick.”

Dean does as he’s told and goes back to Cas to kiss him again. This time it’s just above Cas’s right eyebrow. They go on like this a handful more times, until Cas has lipstick stains across his entire face. Each time feels like the first, and Dean has a harder and harder time removing his lips from Cas’s skin as they progress through the photos. Cas doesn’t seem to be as phased--he sits right down and assumes his pose. In each and every picture, Cas mostly just looks sad.

“Why do you look like that?” Dean finally asks after the sixth kiss, snapping pictures.

Cas unfurrows his brow and looks up from the floor. “Like what?”

“Like your dog just died.”

Cas cracks a small smile. “These kisses represent each of my exes and how I felt about my relationships with them.”

“They were all that bad?”

“They certainly weren’t good. After being cheated on, left for someone else, and dumped over text, I don’t exactly have fond memories of most of these people.”

“I remember when that dickhead Balth slept with that web designer. You didn’t leave the house for a week.”

“You took me to the Atlanta Aquarium and pointed at all the ugliest fish and said they looked like him.”

“And I was right. ”

When Cas smiles broadly, Dean sneaks in another picture. The shutter of the lense gives him away, but Cas doesn’t mention it.

“Remember when I watched 500 Days of Summer eight times in two days?” Cas asks. “That’s because Hannah kept telling me she didn’t want a relationship and ended up leaving me for someone who she got engaged to after five months.”

Dean chuckles low under his breath. “Yeah, I remember. I had to force you into the shower and then we went out for burgers.”

“And when Gadreel drunk texted me all the things he hated about me--”

“We toilet papered his frat house and went to a baseball game the next day. We got so sunburnt.”

Cas laughs at the memory and Dean captures it with the camera. He looks so much better like this, happy and covered in kisses from someone who actually cares about him. He deserves to be this happy for the rest of his life.

Cas sobers up and looks at Dean. His expression is soft, something closer to adoration than anything else. Dean wonders if he’s just amused  by the makeup.

“You were always there for me, Dean.”

Since Dean can’t take a compliment to save his life, he shrugs it off. “I was just trying to be a good friend. You did the same for me when Lisa and I broke up.”

They go quiet for a moment. Dean reflects back on the two weeks after their break up. Dean was drinking daily, taking whiskey in a travel mug to his classes, going to bars at night, falling asleep on the couch with a bottle in his hands. It took Cas several tries to get him out of his rut, first by asking Dean what was wrong, then by requesting that he eat something solid, and finally by whacking him with his rolled up yoga mat until Dean cleaned himself up and changed into some fresh clothes.

Dean had grumbled about it for a few days, but it was just what he needed. He couldn’t mope around forever and fall into a pit of alcoholism just because his year-long girlfriend finally got fed up with his shit. Cas spent extra time with him that month, changing his schedule and cancelling plans to hang out or do homework in the same room as him, occasionally reaching out to lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder or knocking their feet together to remind him that he wasn’t alone. It helped tremendously.

The worst part wasn’t losing Lisa, it was coming to terms with everything he had been trying to deny since he was seventeen. His attraction to men was something he first noticed when a new kid came to his high school and he fell for the linebacker build and honey-sweet Cajun accent. But after dating women exclusively his whole life, the last thing he wanted was for Cas to feel like some sort of experiment.

“What happened? With Lisa. You never told me.”

Cas catches his eye, but Dean directs his gaze away quickly, suddenly finding the curves of the camera very interesting.

“I, um… I wasn’t very good to her. I was kind of using her to get past a crush I had on someone, but it didn’t go away and she said she couldn’t keep living like that. Like she was competing to be my girlfriend. I don’t blame her one bit, she was right to leave me. I just thought, if it was just a crush, it wouldn’t be a problem once I was with someone else, but when I couldn’t stop liking them…”

Dean chances a look at Cas, who looks just as sad as he had in those pictures. His eyes are wide and it almost looks comical with all the lipstick kisses on his face.

“I realized it was more than just some crush,” Dean finishes lamely.

Every part of him wants to tell Cas. But what would be the point? The two of them will graduate and Cas will become the next most famous National Geographic photographer and Dean will be looking for work as a camera holder on low budget movies and shows that may or may not be cancelled halfway through filming. He could always turn to porn as a last resort, but he'll never make it as far as Cas and he’ll never make it with Cas.

In the beginning, he didn’t want to ruin their relationship. They worked well together, whether it was study sessions or getting back at exes or picking out mismatching furniture at second-hand stores. He worried about losing his friend. Now he doesn’t want to say anything because he knows he’s going to lose Cas one way or another, and it will hurt less if they don’t get involved with each other any more than they already are.

Cas takes a deep breath, processing the information. He searches the room. His eyes land back on the camera.

“I have one more shot to get.”

Dean blinks. It’s what he expected. It wouldn’t matter if Dean subtly tried to imply how in love he is with Cas or if he bluntly told him, he would always get the cold shoulder. It’s for the best, he tries to convince himself. Any other way would just end in a bigger heartbreak than necessary.

He turns back to the mirror. He finds the photo of him and Cas in the movie theater again. He can’t remember what movie they saw, but their faces are nearly touching and Dean’s arm is around Cas and he wishes more than anything that he’d taken the chance to kiss him back then. Because, what’s the quote? ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Does it count when Dean is, technically, in love, but just hasn’t voiced it yet?

With a new coat of lipstick, he faces Cas again. He’s standing in the middle of the room, right next to the camera, ready for his last kiss. Dean musters up all his fake confidence and closes the distance between them, standing just a little closer than he had before.

“And this time?” Dean asks.

Cas looks hesitant. Maybe he’s finally realizing that he should have chosen someone else to kiss him over and over again. Someone who he wouldn’t have to awkwardly live with afterwards. Someone who wouldn’t have made a straightforward project into something uncomfortable.

His hand comes up to his face. He points a single finger to his bottom lip.

“Here.”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He hunts for any sort of lie in Cas’s eyes, any indication that he didn’t want it, that he wanted to take it back. But Cas just looks right back at him, waiting, patient.

Dean fits the corner of Cas’s jaw into the center of his palm, runs his thumb across Cas’s cheek. A lipstick kiss smears under the pad of his finger, wiping into nothing but a blur, just like the memory of whichever lover that one was meant to be.

When their lips meet, Dean forgets about every single reason he didn’t let himself have this before. Everything in his head melts away until there’s just Cas and mouth and hands and Cas and Cas and Cas.

Cas doesn’t hold back. He grips Dean’s waist like a life raft in the middle of the ocean, opens his mouth and moans when Dean slips his tongue in. He takes everything Dean gives him. He moves his head aside when Dean trails his mouth along his jaw and down his neck, kissing and sucking and nipping at the skin. Dean pulls him closer, desperate to feel as much of Cas as he possibly can.

Dean feels like he’s shaking, or maybe vibrating, with need. Everything is tilting, moving, wavering around him. The lights could blow and he wouldn't even notice, he’s too wrapped up, too confused about which way is left or right.

Their mouths come together again and the world straightens out on its axis. They slow down, brushing their lips together the way pages of a book slide against one another. They take their time. They learn the way they move with each other.

Eventually, they part. Not to gasp for breath, but to rest their foreheads together; to align their hearts. Between them, Dean can smell Cas’s toothpaste and taste the lipstick.

“We should do projects together more often,” Dean concludes humorlessly.

“I think we should skip the projects and just make out,” Cas counters.

Dean pulls back to laugh quietly at Cas, but then sees his face. Cas is covered in lipstick, all around his mouth, his chin, across his jaw, down his neck. The makeup follows the patterns of Dean’s kisses, right down to where he had sucked Cas’s earlobe into his mouth.

He lets loose, practically wheezing at the state of Cas’s face. Dean’s must look similar, because Cas erupts into laughter too and they both sink into each other, bodies convulsing in their arms.

“Come on, come on. One more picture,” Cas begs, pulling out of Dean’s grasp and positioning himself on the chair. He couldn't wipe that smile off his face if he tried, and it looks like he isn’t putting in any effort at all to push it away.

Dean presses the shutter button three times, hoping at least one of them is a good shot, before diving around the camera to pull Cas into his embrace again.

The lipstick ends up on chests, wrist, bed sheets, and hips, but they don’t mind. They might even keep the tube for another time.

tags below the cut!

@sweatercas | @queenvee08 | @fierydeans | | @scamp-00 | @cottondean | @hallowedbecastiel | @wanderingcas | Please let me know if you’d like to be added to/taken off the list!

[smol-and-grumpy]

Something Just Like This - CH14

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester, mobster boss. He’s a little cocky, a lot ruthless and more often than not, short tempered. But he’s also, Dean Winchester, a war veteran and hero who suffers under a shit ton of PTS. He met her in a bar and thinks it’s fate that brought her to him. Little does he know why she’s really here.

WC: 3672

A/N: Thank you all for the lovely feedback I get for this series. Thank you for reading and staying. It’ll be a while until I get to the end, just so you know. There might be bumps on the way. Some bigger, some smaller. Please stay safe and don’t forget to wash your hands!

SERIES MASTERLIST

Dean hears things. 

He feels things.

There’s a movement that makes the mattress he lies on rock. There’s a sound of something. It gets brighter, he knows this, even if he has his eyes closed. 

And yet, even though he hears and feels things so vividly, he can’t seem to be able to open his eyes. He doesn’t feel like he wants to, at all — feels too cozy in the warmth of the bed. A feeling he can’t really place, one he hasn’t felt for a really long time.

He pretends to still be sleeping. Like those times when Sam was in high school and he came home late. Dean was still awake but as soon as he heard the turning of keys in the lock, he slumped down on the sofa and pretended that he was sleeping, just because he didn't want Sam to know that he was worried sick and waited for Sam the whole night. He was just glad that Sam came back unscattered.

And that’s exactly what he’s doing now, he can feel the presence of someone else, can feel that someone’s moving around in the room he’s in but he’s just too lost in his own cozy cocoon.

He can hear a door closing in the distance, can hear someone walking around, hears water running, and he knows that he should be aware, maybe even frightened at the intruder who’s in his apartment, but he can’t seem to bring himself to care. It’s a weird and scary kind of satisfaction he feels. That’s what it is.

Dean wakes up a little more when he feels the mattress dipping and there’s someone nudging at his face, he opens his eyes but it’s way too bright so he closes them again. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air. 

He feels someone moving beside him, someone nudging closer, a body cozying up to his, and there’s a soft giggle.

It takes him a while before he realizes where he is but when he does, the feeling of contentment almost suffocates him.

“Wake up, sleepy head,” Y/N says, nosing at his scruff that’s now evidently even longer because he hasn’t trimmed in days, she kisses along his cheek, down his neck, and over his bare chest. His heart pumping away underneath her fingers and lips. He’s sure she must have been feeling it, too.

“No,” He mumbles, his voice scratchy, too deep, still full of sleep, feels the bass of his own voice rumble in his chest. 

“Come on.”

She sounds whiny and Dean couldn’t help but smirk when he opens one of his eyes. He has to squint because of the bright light but makes out her face as she smiles at him. She kisses him again, the corner of his lips, his chin, his nose. Her breath smells minty, fresh and there’s a smell of coffee mixed into it. She must have been up for a while.

“What a wake up call,” He says and tightens his grip around her waist, pulls her closer, lets her bury her face into the crook of his neck. “Just a little while longer, okay?”

And it’s true. He could get used to being woken up like this. 

Preferably every day.

She wraps her legs around his middle, he takes it as a yes. Her fingers trail along his bare chest and up his shoulder, stopping at the scar of a stray bullet that once grazed his skin. She lets her fingers dance along his bicep, there’s another scar too. He’s riddled with them. Too many to count or remember where he got it from. Sometimes he has a hard time distinguishing scars he got from his job with the ones he came home with from the war.

“War?” She asks, and there’s a crease between her eyebrows to which he lifts his head and kisses it away.

“Yeah,” He answers, even though it’s not the entire truth. Some of them are, yeah, but most of the scars on his body are not from war. She doesn’t need to know that because it doesn’t seem important to him. And that particular one she has her finger on, that’s not from war, he knows because it’s the most recent one, an ice pick from an angry dealer because Dean just put him out of business. The dealer paid for the mistake with his life with a bullet out of Cas’ gun.

He takes another look at her, the crease between her eyebrows is still there and he tucks some loose strand of her hair behind her ear, lets his finger skims along her face, she looks much better than yesterday. “How are you feeling? Still hurt?”

She shrugs. “I’ll survive.” 

“Well, I would hope so,” He chuckles. He knows that she’s probably still hurt, she must be. But he also knows that she’s one tough cookie. 

She sits up and reaches over to her bedside table to hand him a mug of steaming coffee. Heaving himself up, he rests his back against the headboard and takes the mug from her. “I don’t know how you drink it, but since I don’t have any milk and sugar left, black it is.” 

“That’s perfect.” He blows the steam a way and takes a sip. It’s perfect. He likes to drink it hotter, too. “Same color as my heart. Black as coal.” 

Y/N swats at his chest and Dean has to balance the mug as not to spill any coffee onto the bed. “Woah!”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

He scoffs but feels his cheek heating up. He drinks the coffee, downs it in one go to hide the flush in his face. 

Dean turns around and places the mug onto the table on his side of the bed. He could get up now, the only problem is that he doesn’t want to. So instead of getting up, he lies down again, cozying himself up in her bed. “What time is it?” 

“It’s still early for you probably. 9AM. I just couldn’t sleep any longer.” She lies down with him and he spreads his arm for her to climb into. She comes in willingly, settles next to him, her arm drapes over his middle, her cheek on his chest. 

It’s still damn early, Dean agrees. But weirdly…

...weirdly, he feels like he slept for at least ten hours. 

He kisses her forehead, and she nudges closer so he rests his chin on the top of her head. “I didn’t have any nightmares,”

It’s a fact. He just realizes it now. It’s the second night without nightmares. Maybe the second night in what he thinks went on for years on end. He lost track already, can’t really tell when the last time was that he didn’t wake up with cold sweat and a beating heart.

“Do you usually?” Y/N asks, the tip of her finger paints figure eights on his chest. 

“Yeah,” He sighs, “Every night.”

“The war.”

“Yeah,” He chuckles, even though it’s not funny. “But with you, I don’t.”

She tilts her head, looks up at him like he’s shitting her and he chuckles, paints along her eyebrow with his thumb, massaging at the crease that’s showing right between her eyebrows, before he goes on, “Last time too, when I slept next to you, the nightmares, they were gone.” He takes a breath, feels his heart pumping faster again. “This is it, right? I found you and you found me.”

  “I found you and you found me.”

Y/N doesn’t say anything, wouldn’t know what to say to this, instead she buries her face into the crook of his neck and presses closer to him, hoping it's enough. Kind of hopes, he knows that she feels the same, it’s just a little more complicated for her and she buries her face even deeper, presses her lips to his skin. She doesn’t want him to see her guilt ridden face. 

He’s stroking her back with one of his hands, his finger traveling over every bump of her spine, as if he wants to memorize it, memorize her, every bump of her body, every crease etched into her skin. 

With his other hand, he blindly reaches for his phone that he carried and placed on the bedside table before he climbed into bed with her. She feels him thumbing through his messages, and knows for sure that there were some texts from Castiel because she peeked when he was still asleep.

She watches his face as he reads through the messages. Watches the long lashes when he blinks. Sees the freckles on his face, the crease of his dimples that are showing when he’s discontent or when he purses his lips. Knows so much of him already but it doesn’t seem like she knows him enough. After the texts, he went straight to his inbox. He has twenty-three unread texts and a dozen unread emails, she saw that.

Dean thumbs through the mails, scanning the names of the sender, only opening those mails he thinks are important to read right now. He did the same with his texts.

His fingers are still lazily stroking her, and every now and then he would absentmindedly kiss the top of her head. She has her eyes closed, listens to the beating of his heart. It feels good to lie like this. It strangely feels like home, something she never knew she missed. 

“What time do you have to be at work?” He asks her but his voice is low, like he doesn’t know if she’s still awake and he doesn’t really want to wake her up.

“Seven.” She answers. It’s usually her shift because Ellen has grown comfortable with her closing up. 

Dean places his phone back on the bedside table on his side of the bed and turns around abruptly, tackling her to climb on top of her. He pins both of her hands with only one of his to the mattress above her head, laughs at her because of the look of surprise on her face. He lowers himself, kisses her nose, her lip, her chin. He’s hard, she can feel that too. He dips his free hand underneath her shirt which she put back on after she got out of bed, skids his fingers up to her tits, twists at her nipple and makes her yelp up and then he laughs some more. 

“Fuck, I wish I had more time to do all the things I wanna do to you.”

“What things?”

“Nasty things. Filthy things.” He chuckles and lowers his head to place kisses on her throat, sucks in a patch, draws blood to the surface of her skin.

He’s marking her up. And she doesn’t really mind.

“Why don’t you have time?”

He lets go of her throat long enough to answer her, “Gotta be at the bunker at ten. Cas called for a meeting.”

“The bunker?” She asks, raising an eyebrow at that.

He shrugs. “Yeah. A great one. It has a gym, gun rage, garage, kitchen, library, bedrooms, TV room, bathrooms, some more rooms and even a tub.”

His face lights up when he counts off the things he has in the bunker. Like he’s really really proud.

She wonders if they took Jo to the bunker. If Jo’s still alive or if they’ve already killed her off. It’s not her place to ask and she knows that too.

“Wow,” Y/N huffs out, “Is there anything you don’t have?”

“A pool.” The answer came out quick. 

“Well, who needs a pool when you have a bunker, huh?” She jokes and in the next breath she goes, “Like really underneath the ground?”

Dean chuckles, “Yeah. I can show you around once.”

“What do you use it for? Like, why? Oh my god, you have a dungeon there, don’t you? A red room.”

He laughs, dropping his head on her shoulder, his breath warm against the crook of her neck.

“A dungeon, yeah. But it’s not a red room. I don’t even know what a red room is.”

He’s lying. She knows that he must know. She hasn’t read a single of those books but still she knows that it’s about a millionaire business man with a freaking sex dungeon of sorts?

Dean kisses her once, chaste, before he pushes himself up and starts to get dressed. “You gonna be okay?”

“Sure.” She says, pretending that she doesn’t mind that he leaves when in fact, she minds. A lot, actually. She’d love to spend the day with him. Maybe being lazy together, in bed. Or go on a walk, or fucking talk. She doesn’t know really. Just… something.

She walks him to the door and he bends down, places his hand on the back of her neck before he kisses her. 

“I’ll see you tonight, baby.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” She still can’t hide that she’s disappointed. “When?”

“I’ll pick you up. Take you home.” He says in a kind of a sexy voice that makes the hair on her back stand up, his arms sneaking around her waist as he takes a step towards her and pulls her close, her chest flat against his.

“Yeah?”

He lowers his face, kisses her cheek. “Yeah.” 

“And then?”

“We play with the pussy.” Dean laughs like he just made the best joke in the world, the crinkles around his eyes deepening, and she rolls her eyes. “Oh come on, that was funny!”

“Sure.”

“And I wanna play with yours.” 

Her cheeks feel hot all of a sudden. Last night’s memories are flashing behind her eyes. 

She looks up to meet his eyes, sending him an amused look. “Will you let me play with your cock?” 

“Christ, Y/N!” He hisses and she laughs at that.

“Hey, it’d only be fair.”

He places both his hands on her ass, drags her closer and grinds against her, makes her feel his boner and shit, it’s really really big. “Now I can’t think of anything else and will have to sit through a meeting with a boner. Thanks to you.” Dean whispers grumpily. 

“You’re welcome,” She winks and it’s his turn to roll his eyes.

 *

 Dean left with a bruising kiss. She’s grown to like his kisses. They always start tantalizing slow but the pace and heat picks up soon, and he sucks and nibbles at her lips, making her shiver and leaves her wanting more. He’s a damn good kisser and that’s not really fair. 

She goes back to bed, clasps her hands over her face, the heat in her cheeks almost unbearable. 

This is it, isn’t it? He picks her of all people. And while he could have anyone, he wants her. She can’t help but feel guilty about it, but also she’s selfish, because she wants that too. She wants him. 

Y/N thinks about when the last time was that she felt what she feels now. Thinks about her last relationship, not that there were many. She can count them off on three fingers. There was Brad who took her virginity. And she let him because she was curious and just wanted to get it over with. After all, she agrees that virginity is just a social construct, plus, she didn’t want to be the last one to go to college with her v-card on display. She never thought Brad would stay with her afterwards but they really had a great Summer together, until they parted for different colleges. She still thinks of him every now and then, they keep in touch, too. There are obligatory emails and texts for Birthdays and Christmas. 

There were Michael and Cain later on but she barely remembers them because it’s so long ago and she doesn’t think the relationship was a fun one. Michael didn’t see her as his equal and Cain liked to keep tap on her and was very jealous. He turned into stalking and that’s the story of why she moved away from where she was before. And she’s glad that there's no way for him to find out her whereabouts when she’s undercover.

She’s yet to find out how Dean ticks but from what she gathered, he quite sees her as his equal but also someone he has to take care of (which she sometimes really doesn’t mind because she thinks that Dean needs this. Needs to be able to take care of someone).

Oh my god, Dean. 

She turns and buries her face in the pillow. There’s still traces of him left. She inhales, closes her eyes.

Fuck. 

She’s really fucked. She shouldn’t but all the fibers in her body wants.

  Dean drives to the bunker in a hurry. The meeting was a lie. Of course it was. He really didn’t want to lie to her but he couldn’t tell her the truth either. Not yet. Cas only told him that he has to take on the shift as everyone seems to be occupied. But the boner is a real thing and fuck, he really can’t wait to see her tonight.  

He arrives when Bobby is about to head out. 

“Did she talk?” He asks the old man. 

“Not a word. At least not the things you’d want to hear.” Bobby places a hand on his shoulder in passing. 

“Dammit,” Dean huffs out.

“You gonna be okay? Rufus is going to come over but he can’t make it before noon.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “That’s alright.” 

Bobby nods and makes his way up the stairs when Dean turns around to call up to Bobby. “Thanks, you know.. For the food.” 

“Anytime, son.” Bobby has a smile on his face, the man likes to talk about his food. “She’s a lovely young lady.”

“Yeah,” Dean replicates the smile. “She is.”

“Take good care of her.”

“I try.”

When the door closes, Dean walks down to the dungeon. He wonders if he needs to fix Jo something up for breakfast but seeing that Bobby was here, Dean’s sure that Bobby won’t let anyone go hungry anyway. Not even Jo.

He steps into the room, closes the door behind him before he takes a look at the girl on the chair. Jo still has that mad look in her eyes. 

Dean takes off his hoodie, drapes it over the chair and pulls the chair close to Jo. Not too close, because he knows that she can spit quite far, but close enough. Her hands are bound onto the arms of the chair.

Jo’s eyes are fixed on his crotch. What is it with women. Every time he wears sweatpants nobody even looks him in his eyes. He knows how women who are objectified on a regular basis feel now.

“My eyes are up here, Jo.” He says calmly and takes a seat. 

She chuckles darkly, her head’s a little tilted downwards but her eyes are looking up at him. “You’re half hard. Is it because of me?” 

Dean snorts. “You probably wish, Jo.”

“I mean, I can help out.” She shrugs, her lips curve into a playful smile but then her face settles into something else. Something Dean hasn't seen for a long time. Something that resembles the old Jo. “You were with her, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” He says, smiles a little and can’t help it because he always smiles when he thinks of Y/N.

“What is it about her?”

“She’s not you.” Dean shrugs.

“Ouch, that hurt.” 

He doesn’t know why Jo starts to chuckle but this time it isn’t dark. It sounds kind of genuine and he wonders if that’s it. If this is the moment Jo comes back to her fucking senses.

And then Jo adds, “No, really, why her?”

He takes a moment to think. Yeah, it’s a legitimate question. Why her of all people when he could have anyone? “I don’t know. I think that there are people out there who will fuel the fire inside of you, you know? Who will push you and better you. She’s doing exactly that.” 

“You love her?”

“I don’t know,” He threads his hand through his hair, “It’s still new.”

“You do, because that’s how you are.” Jo says then when her chuckle dies down. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s sad that everyone knows you better than you know yourself, Dean, isn’t it?”

Dean raises his eyebrow, not really getting it.

“You love her. You don’t know it yet but you do.” Jo huffs out. Her lips curve into a playful smile. 

“Love is so rare.” He says, knowing that it is.

“When you love, you love. You wouldn’t go through all this if you don’t love her. We all know that. And your love, Dean, has always been unconditional. It’s rare, you know? So, love is not rare. Your love is.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jo sighs, “Oh my god, you can be glad that you look as good as you do. What do you mean you don’t understand?” Jo rolls her eyes and he knows that if she could, she would gesture wildly with her hands. “You don’t know any other love than unconditional, is what I’m saying. John? Mary? Sam? Those are the only ones you ever did love. And it’s unconditional. They could do no wrong in your eyes.”

Dean’s crease between his eyebrows deepens.

Jo chuckles and goes on. “Remember when Sam totalled your first car? Or when John neglected you guys and dropped you off at my mom’s? You were annoyed, yes, but nothing could make you unlove them. Not even the shit that they both threw at you afterwards.”

Dean’s exhales. “Aaaand that’s enough story time for today. It’s too early for me to wrap my head around this shit.” 

He stands up, grabs his hoodie and walks out without looking at Jo. 

Walking along the corridor he thinks he needs a drink but he decides to take a shower instead. He meets Crowley later, needs a clear head to talk things through.

CH15

[katymacsupernatural]

The Depth of Ebony Part 4

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: A hell hound is needed to fulfill a spell. A hellhound is captured by TFW. But it turns to be more than they bargained for. Y/N becomes more than they bargained for.

Catch Up Here: Masterpost

The blanket was soft against your fur, cushioning the ground. So different than what you were accustomed to. But then again, anything would be the stables in Hell where you were kept. The floor had been lined with molding hay, your hiding hole later on just a pile of rocks. The blanket was almost too soft in comparison, and you found yourself tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable place.

Dean seemed to have the same problem. His bed seemed soft, and he had to be used to it. But still, he tossed and turned, trying to fall asleep. 

You ended up turning once again, resting your head on your paws as you watched Dean finally relax into sleep. He had one hand resting on his belly, the other tucked under his pillow. The blanket was bunched at his waist, his white t-shirt pulled tight to show off his trim figure. 

You had never met a man like this Dean Winchester. Not in your times as a human, or as a Hell Hound. He was rough but kind, overwhelming but in a good way. He drew you to him, and you hoped that if they were able to help you that you might stay around for a while. 

As you watched him sleep, you could see his sleep wasn’t an easy one. His fingers twitched on his stomach, his muscles clenching. He started mumbling, his head tossing back and forth. Moving from your spot, you watched as the nightmare took complete control of him. 

He thrashed about in the bed, his head arching back. His voice came out strangled, and you acted impulsively. Jumping on the bed, you whined next to his head. His hand lashed out, hitting the side of your head, but you shook it off.

Whining again, you nudged his cheek, then again, slightly harder. His eyes snapped open as he furiously pushed himself away from your hot, putrid breath. “What the…,” he muttered, his chest rising and falling fast. 

You stayed where you were, whining again. Dean’s pupils were wide as he tried to calm his breaths. Running his hand through his hair, he glanced over where he thought you were. “Y/N?”

You yipped softly. “I know I should be afraid of you. But thank you, for waking me up from that nightmare.” 

He took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m going to go get a drink. Why don’t you stay here.”

He stood up, heading to the door. “And by the way, your breath smells like rotten meat that’s been brewing in sewage. We definitely need to get you a mint.”

He shut the door behind him, leaving you alone in his room. But you didn’t mind. Hopping down from his bed, you curled back up on your blanket, your mind swirling back to your time when you had been human.

You missed it so much. Being able to walk on two legs. To talk and interact with other humans. Your life had been simple as a human. You helped run your family’s grocery store in New England in the 1920s. You had a beau, a handsome young gentleman named Freddie. You were planning your wedding when this angry woman had accused you of stealing him away. That night you had gone to sleep a woman and had woken up this horrid, ugly version that no one could see. 

If Hell Hounds could cry, your tears would have long since dried up by now. Your life had turned into one nightmare after another, and finally, just maybe you had a slim chance of hope.

You had no idea how long Dean was gone, but you had finally fallen asleep when the door creaked open and he stepped inside.

He was wearing the glasses once again, staring at his bed before turning to where he had placed the blanket. “There you are,” he seemed surprised that you had gone back to your bed. 

He reeked of alcohol but seemed to handle it just fine. He had a book in his hand as he stumbled to his bed. “Got this from the library,” he told you, waving it in the air. “All about hell hounds. These men of letters kept stuff on everything!”

He tossed it on the nightstand before stretching out on his bed. Yawning he waved over your way before taking the glasses off. “Thanks for waking me from the nightmare,” he muttered before falling asleep instantly.

You cocked your head to one side before laying it down over your paws, falling back to sleep once again, hoping that tomorrow would bring you better news. 

Somehow Dean had managed to slip past you while you had been sleeping, leaving you in his room with the door cracked open. Yawning, you stretched your aching joints before your stomach rumbled loudly. 

Heading out the door, your claws clicked on the tile floor. You could hear loud voices from up ahead, but it was the smell that you paid more attention to. Meat. It smelled so good that your mouth began watering, and you let out a little growl of appreciation.

“Dean, what the hell are we doing?” His brother Sam exclaimed. “You’re letting a Hell Hound run loose in the bunker!”

“She was in my room,” Dean argued, and you heard Sam scoff. 

“Yeah, and you left the door open.”

You peered around the corner. They were all sitting at the table. Dean, his brother, that Angel named Castiel, and the nice red-haired woman Rowena. Dean had a plate of food in front of him, the smell wafting towards you. Both Sam and Dean were wearing their glasses, and you knew there was no sneaking up on them. 

Cautiously you stepped forward, your claws loud as you entered the library. Rowena and Cas were the first to glance up even though they weren’t wearing glasses. But they could sense you. “I think we’re not alone,” Rowena spoke softly.

Dean’s head snapped up, and he saw you padding closer to him, your nose sniffing the air. “Hey Y/N!” He exclaimed.

You sat down right beside him, easily noticing the way Sam glanced warily at you. You sniffed the air, drool pooling in your mouth at the sight of all that bacon sitting in front of you. 

“Dean, I think she wants some of your bacon,” Sam suggested. 

Dean glanced between you and the bacon, torn. But finally, he picked up a couple of pieces, sitting them down in front of you. He watched as you slowly ate the delicious meat. “See Sam? She’s nothing at all like the other Hell Hounds.”

“Yet,” Sam argued, but just then Rowena spoke up.

“Dean, this book you found. It might help us out!”

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Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82​​ @acreativelydifferentlove​​ @adoptdontshoppets​​ @a-girl-who-loves-disney​​ @akshi8278​​   @bi-danvers0​​  @cap-just-said-language​​ @colette2537​​   @deansgirl215​​  @flamencodiva​​ @hamiltrash1411​​ @its-not-a-tulpa​​ @jerkbitchidjitassbutt​​ @justanotherwinchester​​ @just-another-winchester​​ @karouwinchester​​ @keikoraventeller​​  @krys198478​​ @librarygeekery​​ @magssteenkamp​​ @misspygmypie​​ @mlovesstories​​ @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk​​  @mrspeacem1nusone​​ @nothinbuttrouble2​​ @ria132love​​ @ruprecht0420​​     @sortaathief​​ @superseejay721517​​ @squirrelnotsam​​ @team-free-will-you-idjiot​​ @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​​ @torn-and-frayed​​ @tricksterdean​​ @wonderfulworldofwinchester​​ @woodworthti666​​

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