#so congrats on the author for making me care about rich kids even though i knew since they first appeared they were shitty

[tenrose]

Crazy it took nearly 500 pages for Richard to realise the others don't give a fuck about university (or like anything else really) because they are rich kids 🤦

[miraculouscontent]

(non-Miraculous asks)

Anonymous said:

Ok this may just be me but I hate deconstructions. I feel like they are always mean spirited and try to be dark and edgy and thinks that every single person is an asshole because that’s “realistic” when no it’s not. This maybe because I like superhero stories and love it when the heroes overcome their struggles.

I can agree for the most part. Whenever I hear “okay but what if it was dArK--” I’m just okay, gonna stop you right there.

Anonymous said:

I swear, nothing bothers me more than people who want Miraculous Ladybug to literally just be Yandere Simulator(with Marinette as Ayano, Alya as Info-chan, Adrien as Taro, Chloe as Osana, Lila as Kizana, Kagami as Megami, and Luka as Budo). It just grinds my gears, especially because they're, once again, framing Marinette as a stalker, which just makes her look bad, AND pits all the girls against each other for Mr. Generic Harem Protagonist, once a-fucking-gain. Just go play the actual game, ok?

All I'm hearing is that now I have to ship Ayano and Budo and write a fic where the ghost girl uses fancy fantasy magic to merge her soul with Ayano and lets her actually have emotions, healing her from being a yandere while the ghost girl (in a way) gets to live a life she was cut short of, also allowing Ayano to be happy and go onto be friends with all the rivals.

Extremely convoluted but that’s the only way we get happy endings in this house.

Anonymous said:

I remember how, when writing Sailor Moon, Naoko Takeuchi refused to bow to older male writers wanted, say, for the girls to be stereotypical manga characters, with one being overweight, one being a stereotypical nerd, etc. But Naoko wanted each of the girls to be beautiful and feminine. While I don't like that they all share a body type, I admire how she didn't listen to grown men when writing for and about young girls. And I can't help but think about how Madoka is the antithesis of all that.

I can appreciate writers who put their foot down to stick to their values. There are limits of course, but yeah, a women writing women probably shouldn’t be listening to a man’s input. I’m sure good advice exists buuut...

Anonymous said:

What is your ranking of the seasons of the year from most to least favorite and why?

Summer - I work best in the warmth

Spring - Always brings images of flowers blooming to mind

Autumn - Things are getting cold and I don’t like it

Winter - It can go choke for all I care

Anonymous asked:

Someone on TV Tropes actually said that the name Feminist Fantasy should be changed because "feminism excludes men the same way meninism excludes women" and actually had the nerve to link that to the "Not So Different" trope, as if women haven't been excluded throughout the history of almost every human society. Fortunately, someone responded to them in a way that technically amounted to "do your damn research" but I'm still facepalming so hard at TV Tropes' "what about the men" rhetoric.

I feel like I lost braincells reading this.

Anonymous asked:

I feel like in fiction written by men there are only three flaws that female protagonists are allowed to have: clumsy, boy-crazy, or ashamed of their flat chests. I hate it.

Don’t forget, “having to listen to the men for how they’re supposed to feel.���

Anonymous asked:

Jatp. Nominated. For. Seven. Emmys. SEVEN!!!! Miraculous could NEVER. Literally.

omg!! Congrats to Julie and the Phantoms!

Anonymous asked:

WHAT ARE YOUR FLASHBACKS TO EVER AFTER HIGH?? I GOTTA KNOW? OMG?

Oh, I’ve seen basically the whole series, though the one I remember most is definitely Epic Winter. It was my favorite one though Beauty and the Beast is my favorite Disney movie so I’m biased.

I also like a lot of the “twists” and just--crazy concepts they rolled with, like with Red Riding Hood’s story and how Apple White gets woken up from her slumber.

Anonymous asked:

You're gonna be happy to hear this...I just started watching Cardcaptor Sakura today, and holy shit not only do I love it, but I also love how freaking META it is! I know you said you're not all that knowledgeable about Magical Girl, but this show is AWARE that it's a Magical Girl show! From Tomoyo(the main reason this show is so meta, tbh) realizing Sakura is a Magical Girl and asking if she has a transformation pose, to designing outfits for her(more on that later) to videotaping her(aka literally making a Magical Girl anime out of her Magical Girl friend), it just has fun with itself and plays with Magical Girl tropes without making a mockery of them like all those "dark" male-aimed ones do(lookin' at you, Madoka Magica and Yuki Yuna!).

And not only is it hilarious and adorable(especially with Sakura's crush on Yukito, Tomoyo's crush on Sakura, and Touya picking on Sakura, but playfully), but I love how it's riddled with girl power. While watching some of the first episodes I was looking forward to seeing Syaoran(partly because I love male Tsunderes and partly because I can't pronounce his name), and was surprised that he wasn't in the first few episodes, but more importantly I was so happy to see a show that treats its female characters with respect and shows women unironically receiving support from other women and being shown possessing power and authority.

I love Sakura and Tomoyo's friendship even if I hate the trope of "Lesbian Never Gets The Girl"(not that I think she's entitled to Sakura's affections or anything, but still.) and watching her support Sakura in her magic endeavors without being jealous or vindictive, I love that they're allowed to be independent and smart but that the show doesn't forget that they're kids, instead of making them like Manon and Chris, and I love that the show passes the Bechdel test in pretty much the first or second episode, and that pretty much every important and unimportant character we meet that's not Sakura's family members, Kero, or Yukito(plus maaaayyybe the Shadow Clow Card) are female.

Even little things, like all FOUR of Tomoyo's bodyguards in the second episode being female without there being a "reason" or the show making a big deal of it(either in a "yay girl power!" way or a "what but women can't x" way or an objectifying way) fills me with insurmountable joy. Also, I love that the show follows the Magical Girl trend of pretty much admitting that femininity is power, since frilly dresses are stated to be the most "fitting" thing for a Cardcaptor to wear, as without it, they might not be mentally up to the task, and this is an unironic truth rather than a joke(although Sakura is shown to be embarrassed, but it's much more likely that she's simply not used to that kind of gear due to not being rich as Tomoyo is.) or a gag.

I just thought I should tell you this because I know you like Cardcaptor Sakura, and with the crappy episodes that just came out of this show, I think you deserve to read an ask that's about a GENUINE girl power Magical Girl show, instead of yet more Miraculous Ladybug salt or Madoka Magica hate(not that there's anything wrong with either of those two, but it just gets grating after a while.). Overall, I'm looking forward to watching this show, since I've been looking for a Magical Girl show to watch nowadays(I've been meaning to watch Star Twinkle Precure but I can't find the third episode and all of Cardcaptor Sakura is on YouTube now, so.). So excited!

Hey, I’m glad that you’re having fun with it!

Though, just a warning, you might wanna steer clear of the Clear Card arc. It’s a sequel to the original series made waaaay after the original (think the equivalent of Yashahime for Inuyasha, though continuing with the original characters) but omg I hated it.

Anonymous asked:

With the crappy Season 4 episodes that just came out I'm glad I got into Cardcaptor Sakura when I did. Who needs "Marinette needs to make a mistake every episode and learn something from it" when you can have genuine girl power and sweetness incarnate?

Alya could never compete with Tomoyo, I’m just sayin’.

Anonymous asked:

Your comment about white men feeling "disenfranchised" because more shows are about black people and/or women(I say and/or because the two aren't mutually exclusive.), as if there aren't a million other things they could be watching instead is so true! It reminds me of how I was talking to someone recently about the new generation of MLP, in which I stated that we didn't need a male mane pony(spoiler alert: they have one, sadly.), and he claimed that it would be beneficial since many shows aimed at boys at least try to include at least one main girl, and that it would be good for G5 of MLP to have at least one strong male lead so that boys could have a role model and know that the show isn't "girly".

Okay, so far, so good, but this I could chalk up to just unconscious internalized misogyny, especially since he didn't say it in any sort of "way". So I respectfully told him that the scale regarding representation is already not equal and that boys can look up to girls and that a show being girly is not a bad thing and all that stuff that you already know about. Then he responded claiming some stuff about how he keeps trying to pitch stories about straight white male characters and how nobody is accepting his offers and so this means that straight white men are underrepresented compared to everyone else. He even explicitly said, and I quote "White people are actually critically underrepresented in media right now. Especially boys."; I swear to the Goddess above.

At this point I was officially upset as a black girl, to hear this white(and presumably adult) man telling me that he was underrepresented in media compared to me, even saying that the media execs are practicing "quotas and tokenization"(and yes, he repeatedly used those terms for any instance of representation, even when I asked him politely to stop.) by replacing women with men or white people with pocs and are making white men look like incompetent doofuses.

He also kept saying stuff about how shows are always shoehorning people of color in where they don't belong by casting them in settings such as Shakespeare and medieval times when "realistically" there were no people of color during those time periods(which is obviously not true, it's just not what the history books show us.), and made a really insensitive comment about how black children in the USA today don't know the significance of having the first black president because the media supposedly already shows them black people in various professions(despite also claiming he couldn't speak to the "black experience" and yet here he is whitesplaining that shit.).

It got to the point where he was seriously and unironically using the word "blackwashing". When I pointed out to him that white men aren't underrepresented and that it's just his self-centered ego telling him that they are, that the word "blackwashing" isn't a thing, and that mis/underrepresentation in media DOES affect black kids negatively(even citing myself as an example) he went on to claim that I was being tone-deaf and that "blackwashing" is just as bad as whitewashing, and that making Ariel black is just as bad as making Jasmine white.

At this point I had to bang my head on the table and explain to him the difference; his ass still wouldn't get it. Eventually he started saying some really skeevy and hypocritical shite that white men say all the time when whining about how "oppressed and underrepresented" they are: that black people and/or women

(it looks like there might be an ask missing here, in which case, sorry if Tubmlr ate it!)

avor of supporting the commonly believed LIE that "women and/or minority groups don't have as much history worth learning about, so there's no point in focusing on them." He also kept using patronizing, condescending, mansplaining language such as "let me explain it to you" or "you still don't get it do you?", and when he said women had nothing to contribute to society because "oppression" he even had the nerve to tack on "welcome to the unequal society" as if I hadn't been lecturing him about just that.

Because obviously only white men did anything worthwhile or important in history. At this point, I had to block him. I couldn't take it anymore and this was on an MLP site of all places(although I'm probably just as guilty of that part, but at least I wasn't an ass!). I just can't stand white men who "want to be oppressed so bad" but still want to claim that their achievements are more important and deserve to be more prominent. Honestly, so many white men are so fragile the second they're not in the spotlight. I can't help but think that despite all the privilege afforded to their class being a white man sounds like the worst thing ever.

“he claimed that it would be beneficial since many shows aimed at boys at least try to include at least one main girl, and that it would be good for G5 of MLP to have at least one strong male lead so that boys could have a role model and know that the show isn't "girly". “

I might be looking too deep into that but I don’t like the idea of, “Well WE squeezed in a girl and therefore YOUR SHOWS--” like it’s some sort of matter of “fairness” or that boys’ shows aren’t putting in girls out of a genuine like for them but because they “need” one or it’s some sort of obligation.

Also, we need to stop this idea that boys can’t look up to female characters and vice versa for girls. You already said it but yeah.

And yeah, I hear "quotas and tokenization" and I officially tune out of whatever the person is saying, lol. White men are critically underrepresented???? Newsflash, maybe it’s just because others are being represented more??

Just the whole thing about whites being “underrepresented” boggles my mind. White people don’t have some sort of special ability or skill that other races can’t do themselves unless you count the “superpower” of white privilege.

Like, oh my god, all that “whitesplaining” and having to read the word “blackwashing” was physically painful. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I don’t know how they got hold of the technology to communicate with you from whatever time period their from, presumably the Stone Age.

Don’t even blame you for blocking them. There’s just a level of absolute... blindness? Arrogance??? That comes with the territory with them sometimes, I swear. You had every right to be upset; other races come to ask for equality and fair representation and suddenly you have these white men (not all obviously but damn) coming by and crying that they’re being oPpReSsEd. U_U

Like, honestly, my father in particular is absolutely that kind of person so I’ve heard that kind of stuff before. it’s all gross.

On a slightly unrelated note (trying to end this with some positivity), I hadn’t even heard about a fifth generation of MLP until I read this, and just wanted to let you know that I really hope you have a really good time with it! Hopefully the male character isn’t... well, you know.

[notyetneedcoffee]

Crossroads

Answer to Lexi’s 1k @the-omni-princess Challenge! Congrats!

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader; some Steve x Peggy; very Steve-centric

Warnings: ANGST and loads of it! 

Author’s note: This is my AU of Steve’s final Pym jump from End Game

____________________

The silence reminded him of the nights during the War. After the raging battle, even the animals and bugs refused to reveal their whereabouts. Although tonight he wondered if even the forest mourned Tony Stark. Steve Rogers sat alone in the middle of a glade not too far from the cabin Tony had called home. He tried to sleep, attempted to rid himself of the bone-weary exhaustion, but his mind would not shut down.

He knew everyone assumed his withdrawal, his moodiness and pain, stemmed from the battle and loss. A part of him felt immense guilt that they should be right, but they weren’t. After all these years of war on various scales, he felt the pain of loss differently. It just was a fact of life.

What spun his mind into a maelstrom of conflicted thoughts, tore his gut up with guilt, was something completely personal. Every option his highly strategical brain considered ended in pain and suffering for people he loved. Every option terrified him.  

He’d seen Peggy.  

It’d only been a moment, but seeing her young and vibrant sent his world spiraling. She wasn’t ravaged by age and Alzheimer's. As strong and lovely as the picture he carried with him, but in the flesh. Every missed opportunity and regret hit him all at once. It pulled at his heart, making him want to hold her like the awful pain of the years never happened.  

The threat of Thanos did allow him to think about it. So, it just took up residence in mind.  

Then there was the battle.  

Those once lost were back. Sam in his ear. Bucky fought his way to his side.  

He’d seen you.  

Among the chaos, with your beautiful face set in grime determination, he caught a glimpse of you battling your way through the aliens. Fierce and powerful, you looked exactly the way you had the day he’d lost you in Wakanda. All the nights of passion, the solace and trust found in one another, lit his chest. Seeing you made him fight harder, renewed his strength.  

The war was won. Friends were lost. Bodies were battered. Steve found himself holding you, but unable to do much more. Those who were lost tried to fathom being gone for so many years, to comprehend the changes to the world. You clung to him and wept. He’d missed you. He felt such relief having you in his arms. 

Guilt ate him alive.  

“You look like you’re planning all kinds of stupid.” Bucky’s voice came out of nowhere, making Steve jump.

“I’m just thinking.” Steve sighed.  

“Like I said, stupid.” Bucky sat down on the log next to him so close their thighs touched.  

Steve laughed without any humor. He felt tears push against the back of his eyes. Bucky’s arm wrapped around his shoulder. His head fell forward into his hands. He was exhausted.

“Rhodes filled me in on a few things.” Bucky squeezed his buddy’s shoulder. “Sounds rough, particularly for you and Natasha.”

“God. Nat.” Steve choked. He looked up at the stars, sniffing back reluctant tears. “I am so tired, Buck. I don’t have any fight left me. None.”

Something inside Bucky crumbled. He knew Steve meant it. That kid who got up time and time again after getting his ass beat, ready to go again because it was the right thing to do finally couldn’t. He just nodded, squeezing his friend tighter, not trusting his own voice.  

“Part of me just wants to go back to a simpler time, make different choices.” Steve whispered, hating himself a little for saying it. “Not take on the fight, not take on the pain, and just live a simple life.”

“Yeah,” Bucky cleared his tight throat. “Although even when we were kids, things weren’t so simple.”

A long silence stretched before Steve moved away a little. “Not talking about when we were kids. I mean actually going back.”

Bucky froze. No.  

Steve glanced at his friend, the hurt look staring back doubled the guilt eating away at his gut. “I saw her, Buck. Peggy.” He returned his focus to the stars. “I never stopped loving her.”

Torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to shake him, Bucky stood up. He paced, stopped, and paced some more. Steve stared at his hands in silence. Finally, Bucky stopped in front of him. His words were tight, ground out through clenched teeth. “Never mind me, or Sam, or anyone else on the team... what about Y/N? You don’t love her anymore?”

“Of course, I love her.” Steve’s face crumbled.  

“So you’re just going to abandon her?” Bucky snapped.

“She’s strong, a fighter...”

Buck cut him off. “Yeah and Carter was always such a pushover.”

Steve pushed his hands through his hair. His voice broke, cracked with pain and exhaustion. “I can’t do it anymore. Bucky, please. I can’t fight anymore battles. I don’t have it in me. I’ve given up my whole life for everyone else. Always. I just...” A sob ripped free, and he stuffed his fist in his mouth.  

“Pal,” Bucky put his hand on Steve’s head. “If anyone deserves to have a happy ending, it’s you.” Tears of his own slipped down his face. “You know I have your back, no matter what. If never seeing you again means that you’ll be able to have a happy life, then there’s no way I would hold you back. I’d hate it, but it would be worth it if I knew you were happy.”

“Buck.” Steve sniffed. “I don’t mean to...”

“Just be sure before you tell Y/N. I mean be absolutely positive.” Bucky’s face went hard. “Don’t break her heart and then change your mind. I swear I will break your neck.”

“What if I don’t know?” Steve whispered.  

“Then don’t say anything to anyone.” Bucky sighed. “If you don’t come back, then I’ll explain it.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not. I’m telling you, that’s how it should go.”

“Buck,” Steve stood. They embraced, hugging tight. “Love you, punk.”

“You too, jerk.” Bucky squeezed him hard, praying to whatever powers that be that he would not have to tell everyone who loved Steve too that he would never be coming home.  

__________________________

“Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back” Steve tried to smile. ‘I still don’t know. Don’t say anything.’

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” Bucky forced a smile, too. ‘Be sure, whatever you do.’

Steve stepped up on the platform. The first jump would take him to Asgard. 

Thor gave him very specific instructions on how to return the Aether. Steve chuckled when Thor told him to put the hammer down anywhere, but on a window sill would be best... less damage to the building when he called it.  

He arrived in a cavernous hall, surrounded by stone and gold. Unfamiliar scents filled the air, pleasant and rich, but he could not place them. Steve heard footsteps and ducked behind a corner. The person stopped close. He waited, silent.

“You must be a very close friend of my son’s.” A woman spoke. “Come out. I won’t raise the alarm.”

Steve cautiously stepped into the open. She was regal in every sense of the word. “Why not?”

“You are able to wield Mjolnir. It’s no small feat.” She smiled gently. “He was here earlier. The future is not going to be kind to Thor.”

He swallowed, taking a deep breath. Thor confessed to him privately he’d seen Frigga. Now seeing her for himself, Steve understood why. He didn’t even know her and he wanted to tell her everything even if he knew he couldn’t. She just radiated a calm, a peace he wanted to drown in.  

“It’s not kind to any of us.” Steve sighed. “I have to return this to Dr. Foster. I don’t want to, but I can’t risk not doing it.”

“Alright.” She smiled sadly. “Let me see what I can do to help. Follow me.”

He did, without question.  

“I don’t want to know what is going to happen, what has happened to you. It has something to do with the Infinity Stones, though doesn’t it?” Frigga glanced sideways at Steve. His jaw clenched. She slipped her hand into his elbow and grinned when his arm instinctively came up to properly escort her. “Did my son tell you anything of my power, my upbringing?”

“Thor say you’re the kindest and wisest person he’s ever known.” Steve answered. “You taught Loki much of his magic and that you see things, the truth of things.”

“That’s one way of putting it. I can follow of the strings of destiny.” She patted his bicep. “I can tell that you, like my son, stand at a crossroads. Perhaps the most important one of your life, because this one is a decision all your own. I don’t know what, but I know it’s deeply personal and profoundly painful.”

Steve stopped, staring wide eyed into her calm face.

“I find when I cannot unravel the answer, I lean on wise counsel.” Frigga led him on. “I may not be the best counsel for you. There is an Ancient One more familiar with your ways that is close to where you call home. Before you do anything else, I would seek out her.”

Steve’s mind jumped to the encounter Banner told him about with the woman who gave him the Time Stone. “Do you know her?”

“No, not personally.” Frigga smiled. “But she protects not just Midgard but all of Yggdrasil. Those of us with the ability definitely know of her.”  

They stopped before a large door ornately carved. “Give me a few moments, then come in.”

Steve waited, listening intently. Nothing but the distant sounds of the city reached his ears. Finally he pushed open the door, peering inside. Frigga stood over the sleeping form of Jane. She waved him over assuring him that the little mortal would not feel a thing, nor would she remember. He felt a little sick when he injected the Aether back into Foster.  

He stood back, staring into Frigga’s kind eyes before deciding to change his plans. Reprogramming the controls for the jump to take him to New York instead of Morag. Extending a hand, Steve took her small hand in his. “Thank you, for everything.”

“When you see my son, tell him to take care of himself.” She pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “Take care of yourself, too.”

Steve nodded, unsure how he would do it, but willing to try.  He stepped back and pressed the button.  

________________________

The jump dropped him on the roof of a building. He looked around, seeing the Chitauri battle not far away. His stomach dropped, the memories of the losses still keen. Another day when everything changed. A battle won, but the world’s innocence died. Aliens were real, and they were as bad as people ever imagined.

“It seems as if Dr. Banner was true to his word.” A calm voice spoke.

“I’ve come to return the stone to you.” Steve turned to see a small, bald woman in eastern clothing. Although nothing like the Norse Goddess, she radiated a similar calm...a powerful presence, like a monolith unmoving among the storm.  

With a wave of her hands, the green stone rose from its container and return to its home in the Eye hanging around her neck.  

“Captain,” She stared at him in a manner that left him feel exposed. “Walk with me.”

She turned, entering the building. Steve followed. Inside the temperature dropped, not uncomfortably. The dim light reflected off the well-polished wood. Cases held artifacts and books lined the shelves.  The air smelled spicy, like raw incense.

“Time is an interesting thing. It is complex.” She spoke melodically as she wove through the glass cases. “It is linear, yet not. It is set, yet holds immeasurable permutations. What is not complex is our journey through it. With every moment, every experience, we change. We incorporate all that we learn as time passes, yet if we move through time we do not unlearn what we know.”

Steve felt his brow pull together. “I suppose we are all molded by our experiences.”

She paused at an hourglass, looking at sands drop a few at a time. “I think you are looking to unlearn what time has taught you. I’m afraid you cannot dial back who you are as easily as rolling back the hands of a clock. Somethings are too powerful to unmake, some threads of who we are cannot be broken.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Steve frowned. He just wanted to rest, to have his turn to be happy.

“You are tired, Captain.” She stepped closer, arms folded behind her back. For all of the intensity, she looked upon him kindly. “We often cannot see clearly through weary eyes.”  

His eyes closed, feeling the burn of frustrated tears again. Steve ground his teeth together. “I am.” He sighed. “And I have a lot more to do before my mission is complete.”

“I would offer you safe place to rest, but I don’t think you will accept.” The edge of her mouth tipped up with a hint of a smile.

“No.” Steve took a deep breath. “I have a long way to go.”

“Very well,” she led him to a large round window where they could see the battle raging in the distance. Turning, she placed a hand on his chest over his heart. “You are a good man, Steve. Through trials and strife, you have remained true to yourself. What’s more, you have evolved. You’ve grown.” A calm smile spread across her face. “Like so many things in the universe, the more you grow, the more you realize how small you are. The more you know, the more you realize you have yet to learn. It can be burdensome, exhausting. But it can also be an exhilarating adventure if we can see it through fresh eyes.”  

Steve knew he should be contemplating her words more deeply. He knew he should heed Frigga’s words and seek this woman’s counsel. However, it just caused the pain in his head to increase. He didn’t want to consider the cryptic meaning behind this woman’s words. He wanted to fold Peggy in his arms, in a simpler place, in a simpler time, and just sleep for days.

The strange woman stared at him, making him feel like she could see straight through him to question his inner most desire without ever saying a word. A defensive urge surged, but he fought it back. Strange called her the Ancient One. Frigga said she defended the world on this plain and others. Getting defensive over her stare, especially when he carried so much doubt was foolish. 

That small smile touched her lips again. “Be well, Steve. May your path eventually lead you to happiness.”

Steve stared out the window at the battle once more, another memory rising to the surface. Out there, among the populace running for their lives, you were helping Clint after he crashed through a window. You helped him evacuate the building and fight off invaders. It was the turning point that brought you into his life. It was the day you decided to give up your job at the FBI to join the Avengers Initiative.  

Guilt twisted his insides, and he choked out “thanks” before turning to leave. He had to return the scepter to Stark Tower. He stopped when she called out his name once more.  

“At least allow me to help you get to your next destination safely." She held out one hand and formed a circle with the other. A portal opened.  

He could see the corner of the elevator banks in the lobby of Stark Tower. Steve’s mouth opened slightly. Did this woman really know what he was thinking? It was exactly where he wanted to intercept the Hydra Agents. “Thank...thank you.”

She gave him a nod, and he stepped through.

_______________________

Returning the Power Stone turned out to be thankfully uneventful. Steve hoped, as he climbed the mountainside on the Vormir, that the Soul Stone would be equally quiet. He did not see anyone. All of the intelligence proved out, no cities or even life forms to be seen.  

“I never thought I would see you again.”  

Steve brought his shield up, shooting with the other hand. The black clad figure only looked down at himself, unmoved as if the bullets passed straight through. Johann Schmidt laughed, red skulled face cracking in a grotesque mirth.  

“Captain.” He held out both hands. “You cannot kill me. I’m already in purgatory.” 

“What?” Steve didn’t relax his stance.  

“I made the mistake of trying to control a Stone and have been paying the price.” 

“You’re...” Steve swallowed past the vice grip around his throat. Clint’s words echoing in his mind about the red floating guy who made them choose. “You were here when Natasha sacrificed herself for the Soul Stone.”

“Yes. A soul for a soul.”

“I’ve brought it back.” Steve strode forward, fury growing with each step. “I want her back.”  

“Ah. Interesting.” Schmidt’s red face tilted sideways, studying him. “Her soul would have worked for you as well.”

“A soul for a soul. That’s what you said.” Steve growled. “I want her back.”

“Yes, because you are tied to her, returning the stone will release her.”  

Steve gasped.

“Though not the way you wish, I think.”

Cap tried to grab him but got a fist full of black mist. “What do you mean?”

“If you return the stone, her soul will return to your life somehow, though not in the form you knew.”

“Like, what? Reincarnation?” Steve frowned.  

“No. Yes.” Schmidt shrugged. “The souls that weave together over time touch and change over lifetimes. If you return the stone, her soul will be free to join the tapestry again.”

“How?”  

“Throw it into the abyss.” The black spectral hand pointed to the edge.

Steve approached the edge, acutely aware this was the last place Natasha was alive. His breath grew shallow. The pain of her loss stabbed his chest. He never properly mourned Nat, his sister in every way but blood. He trusted her, loved her, would never be the same without her.

Finding himself looking down into a deep chasm, the bottom obscured by black fog, Steve threw the stone. He gave a silent prayer that she would be free, would touch his life again. As the stone disappeared, a golden orange shaft of light shot skyward. Brilliant, like the burning of the setting sun over the desert. The light spread radiating heat. Then vanished.  

Steve looked down to see a solid stone floor far below in the chasm. He stepped back from the edge with a sharp intake of breath. Then it hit him. Faint, but undeniable, Steve could smell her. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Natasha. Another breath and it was gone.

He turned around, remembering Schmidt, but didn’t see him anywhere. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps Nat’s soul was free and that somehow, someway, it would touch his again. The thought brought a little bit of warmth back.

There was only one stone left to return. Steve set the controls for New Jersey 1970.

______________________  

Returning the Tesseract was simple now that Steve knew his way around the secure sections of the Army base. He made his way through the halls towards Peggy’s office, nerves moving him forward, but having no idea what he would say. The lights inside the office were office, creating both a surge of anxiety and relief.  

Making certain no one noticed, he slipped inside. In the dim light he saw the photo of himself on the desk. Not after the procedure, but from when they’d first met. It warmed his heart that this was the version of himself she chose to remember.  

He set it back down and looked around... and froze.

He did not notice the far wall last time. It was full of framed photographs and certificates. A large photo of Peggy and her family held a place of honor in the center. Her husband was a kind looking man, her children were beautiful. They looked to be young teens in the photo.  

Another photo showed her and her daughter when she was a baby. Another of her son in his little league gear. Peggy and her husband stood beside Howard Stark and John F. Kennedy in one picture. 

Certificate and diplomas memorializing Peggy’s hard work and advancement were presented side by side with her family. She showed everyone she could fight the good fight and what she was fighting for...all on one wall of photographs. 

All the memories Peggy told him about. 

Steve found himself sliding to the floor, back against a file cabinet and hand squeezed tightly over his mouth. He wanted to scream. All her hard work, everything Peggy did for the world, and he hadn’t even considered it. She wouldn’t give up. If he showed up in 1945, she wouldn’t understand wanting to hide from the world. Even if she agreed, she would never do any of these things. 

His eyes locked closed as he fought back a sob. It was all a foolish dream. There was no going back. The Ancient One spoke the truth. He may be able to go back in time, but he can’t undo what time did to him. He was not the naive soldier Peggy knew. Steve choked. He felt battered, and bitter, far too cynical to even pretend to be that man again.  

Still, every fiber in his being screamed to hold her. The tears she shed every time he visited her in the nursing home killed him a little bit. He wanted his dance.  

Turning to the filing cabinet at his back, Steve quietly dug through the files until he found what he needed. An old address and an old date.  

_______________________

Steve reached the house just as the sun went down. The curtains were open and he could see Peggy moving back and forth from the living room to the kitchen. His palms were sweating.  A brand new 1947 Buick drove by as he crossed the street to the front steps. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears as he knocked on the door.

Peggy answered with a smile, but her eyes went huge and filled with tears. Her hand covered her mouth.  

“Hey, Doll.” Steve reached out, taking her by the elbow and stepping inside. “It’s okay.”

“St-Steve.” Peggy breathed. He nodded. Her hand came out and touched his chest, his face. Tears fell. She stepped forward and he wrapped his arms around her.  

Steve sighed, holding her closed, breathing her in. Some deep empty gash began to stitch closed. They stood there for a long time before Peggy’s curiosity grew. “How?”

“We need to talk.” Steve’s fingers traced over her back. “Can I – Can I just hold you for a minute more?”

She nodded against his chest.  

“I’m going to tell you something that’s pretty hard to believe.” Steve buried his face in her hair. “And I’m going to ask you to never tell anyone about it. Ever.”

“Steve,” She gave a tearful chuckle. “You’re back from the dead. You’ve got hard to believe covered.”

He pulled back, cupping her face in one large hand. Steve’s mouth covered hers, soft and sweet. Tentative, Peggy kissed him slowly. He found himself instantly conflicted. Relishing in the simple kiss, one he only dreamed of having, he simultaneously missed the ravenous intensity of the kisses he shared with you.  

“How? Steve? What happened?” Peggy pushed back.  

“Best we sit down.” Steve led her to the sofa. He took her hands in his.  

Steve didn’t know where to start. He’d thought about it, considered all the best options, but there still did not seem like any good options. He turned to face Peggy more directly. His brows drew together.  

“What happened after the crash?” Peggy asked.

“I was frozen... for about 70 years.” Steve stared at their joined hands.  

“What?” She breathed.

“I’m - I’ve come back from, well, a long time from now.” Steve looked into her wide eyes. “I can’t explain how. I shouldn’t even be here. I just had to...” He bit back his words, fighting to control himself.  

Peggy let out a slow breath. “That means... oh Steve. It would be a completely different world. Everyone you know. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” He shook his head. “I, um, found friends...people that became like family. But everything is so...” Steve’s face pinched, tears threatening to fall. He whispered. “I just really missed... I wanted to have that dance.”

Her hand ghosted over his face and he opened his eyes. “What happened? I’ve never seen you look so...”

Tears fell as he finished for her. “Tired. I’m tired, Peggy. I’ve fought, and fought, and I don’t think I can do it anymore. I’ve seen things, battled things, that make the Nazis look like pussycats. There’s no more clear right and wrong. There’s no more good answers.”

“Stevie.” Tears fell down her cheeks matching his. Her fingers stroked through his hair. “I’m so sorry. But if you have this ability, this technology, then can you keep these things from happening?” She watched him shake his head. “Too easy, huh? What about your friends?”

“Lost some of the best. Nat, Tony.” Steve’s face crumpled. “Tony is, was, Howard’s son.”

Peggy’s hand covered her mouth as Steve went on.

“He was brilliant, Peggy. Smarter than Howard ever imagined. He sacrificed everything. Now his little girl...”

“She has you, right?”

Shame flushed fresh over Steve. He’d never even consider Morgan. “Yeah, she has a lot of us. Every one of the Avengers will look out for her.”

“Avengers?”

“Um,” Steve frowned. “We’re a collection of highly skilled, gifted, agents of a sort. We fight the bad guys.”

“And there’s a lot of Avengers.” Peggy asked, still smoothing his hair.

“More that I would have thought possible when we first started.” Steve nodded.

Peggy held his face in her hands. “You are always the one to lay on the wire, to lead the charge. Steve, maybe you need to let your friends fight some battles, too.”

“They do...”

“Steve. Maybe you can let them fight a few without you.” Peggy’s worried expression finally registered in his tired mind. “You don’t always have to be the one leading the charge.”

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. “Always so smart. You’re going to do amazing things.”

“Don’t tell me.” Peggy placed a finger over his lips. “I want to be surprised.” He sighed. “We’re not going to meet again, are we?”

“You said you want to be surprised.” Steve whispered. His lips trailed over hers again. She pulled back before the kiss could deepen. “Never stopped lovin’ you, though.” He confessed.

“Me too.” Peggy cried. She sniffed. “I should let you know, though, there’s a very good man who wants to marry me.”

Steve sat up a little straighter, wiping his face before give her a smile. “You love him?”

“Yeah,” She wiped her own tears. “Although, I’m making him wait. There’s things I want to do first.”

He laughed. “That’s my girl.”

She laughed as well, taking his hand again. “Even though you’re out there somewhere, and I’m not going to have you in my life,” Peggy swallowed hard, “I’m so happy you’re still alive and have people who care about you.”

Steve stared at her for a long time. “Do you think I could have that dance before I go?”

____________________

You stepped up between Bucky and Sam when Bruce announced that Steve missed the return time. Sam looked confused, but the look on Bucky’s face made your heart sink. He knew something. You took his hand.  

“You came?” He asked.  

“Tried to get here in time to see him off but I was held up.” You chewed your lower lips. Pulling him away from the others, you dropped your voice. “He was really distracted, hurting, before he left.”

Bucky nodded.  

“So was I.” You squeezed his hand harder. “God, Buck, I have the worse feeling. But I don’t know what I’m thinking right now. With everything that happened, learning about what we missed, losing Vis and Nat and Tony. Feeling like shit and now finding out...ugh, I’m just losing my mind right now.” Big tears filled your eyes.

He took you by the shoulders. He did not want to say anything, not yet. Steve just missed the return time a minute ago. “Finding out what, Doll?”  

You reached into your back pocket and handed him your phone, a readout open on the screen. He looked it over carefully, twice. You cried as his eyes lifted back to you.

Wrapping you in his arms, Bucky rubbed your back. “Just breath, okay? When did you...”

“Just now. It’s why I’m late.” You held tight to his chest. “I should have done it earlier. What something happens and Steve...”

“Bucky!” Sam shouted.

You both looked up to see Steve walking toward you all from the lake. You felt Bucky take a deep breath. You let out a small sob. He placed his hand at the small of your back. “Come on.”

Sam was just pulling away from a hug when you come closer. Steve looked at you, seeing the tears in your eyes. “Buck?”

“No. She’s got news.”

“Sweetheart,” Steve pulled you closer, thumbing away a tear at the corner of your eye. You pulled him closer to kiss him. Your lips pulling at his lower lip, before your tongue slid along his, drawing a low moan from him.  He pulled you close, burying his face in your hair. He whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” You pulled back some.

“Being an idiot.” He sighed. “A tired, stupid, idiot.”  

Steve stood up straighter. “I need to tell you guys something. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I never thought I’d say this but, I’m stepping down.”

“What the – wha?” Sam sputtered.

Steve stepped away from you and gripped Sam’s shoulder. Every bit of anguish showed in his eyes. “I can’t do it, man. Not now. These last years, these battles, just took all I had left. I’ve thought about it.” He held out his shield. “I want you to hold on to this.”

“You’re full of shit.” Sam balked.  

“No.” Steve shook his head. “You do what I do, remember? It’s you.”

Sam hefted the shield. Bucky smiled. “Doesn’t look like complete crap.”

“Piss off.” Sam laughed.

“So, what are you going to do, then?” Bucky asked Steve.

“It’s going to take a lot of work to just get things working across the world again. I’d like the Avengers to have a positive impact on the changes without having to resort to something like the accords.” Steve answered thoughtfully. “I think it’s work that would rejuvenate me. I’m tired of breaking things. I’d like to create something instead.”

“Sounds like you’ll be doing a lot of that.” Bucky’s smile spread ear to ear.  

“Buck,” You rolled your eyes him as you slipped under Steve’s arm. “Come with me.”  

You led Steve back toward the water. He held you close, voice tight. “Sweetheart, I’m really sorry. I’ve been...messed up. I should have been at your side every minute. I know I said it before, but my god, life just fell apart with you gone. Coming back, and everything is different, is such a shock. And it’s only been a few days...”

You stopped, facing him. “Steve, do you really mean you’re stepping down from missions?”

“Yeah, Sweetheart. I’ve got to.”

“Good. Me too.”  

Steve’s quizzical look caused you to pull your phone from your back pocket.  

“I didn’t make when you left out for your mission, because I was having this rerun. I didn’t think it was possible, but the test is conclusive.” You handed him the report.

Fresh tears filled Steve eyes, these washed away his pain and filled him with joy. He read the words again and again, pregnancy: positive. A bright smile met your own, he breathed out in awe. “I’m going to be a dad.”

You nodded as he swept you up in his arms and spun you around. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly. Finally, smiling against your lips, Steve said. “Love you. Thank you for being there for me, for being here for me. You and this little princess are everything to me.”

“Princess, huh?” You cuddled into him. “Already sure it’s a girl?”

“Just a hunch.” Steve kissed your hair, utterly confident in the turn he’d taken at the crossroad.

TAGS:

@rainbowkisses31 / @dsakita / @geeksareunique / @lbouvet / @buckybarneshairpullingkink / @theneuropsychwriter / @vanillabunn21 / @sammghgecko / @beautifullungs / @badassbaker / @the-omni-princess / @sebbysstangirl / @jesseswartzwelder / @unadulteratedwizardlove / @the-reading-octopus / @bangtan-serendipity / @kiki5283 / @mindtravelsx / @my-favorite-fics-and-imagines / @patzammit /@thegetawaywriter / @nova3312 / @jennmurawski13​ /  @vxidnik 

[klove0511]

Welcome to Your Future

Title: Welcome to Your Future Author: klove0511 Artist: ncdover1285 Pairing: Sam/Dean Rating: T Warnings/Spoilers: Angst with a Happy Ending, Time Travel, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, season 9/10 Sam Winchester, Mutual Pining, implied unrequited sam/cas, Show level violence, Demon Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Suicide (no actual suicide) Summary:  When Dean is suddenly pulled through time, he's confronted with a broken little brother a decade older than he should be. With Sam determined to send Dean back to his own time, will Dean be able to figure out where his present day counterpart is and fix things for Sam? Art: Tumblr  Story:  Ao3

Dean checked his hand, checked the pot in the middle of the table, then glanced at his fellow players. Two had folded already, and he was sure the last guy was bluffing. So was Dean, mostly. A pair of tens wasn't a phenomenal hand but it was better than nothing. He glanced again at his cards, put on a calculated grin and said, "Raise," as he tossed another few bills into the pot. 

The guy's eyes did the same dance between Dean, his cards, and the pot, and he took a swig of his beer before he tossed his cards down. "Fold. Congrats, kid."

Dean grinned but tried to keep it out of the realm of cockiness. He'd won fair and square, but there was no need to rub it in their faces. He collected his winnings and straightened the bills, estimating that he had at least $500 in his hand. A good place to call it for the night. No need to play until they got desperate enough to pick a fight. He tossed back the rest of his whiskey and took his leave, relieved when none of the guys looked too disgruntled. It had been a good night, and he wasn't looking for trouble. 

The cool night air was refreshing after the smoky atmosphere of the bar. He took a deep breath and made his way to the Impala. He'd drive back to his motel, then check in with his dad in the morning. They were on separate hunts at the moment, and Dean had finished his early. Tomorrow, he'd find out if Dad needed backup in Arizona or if he had another case for Dean to work. Tonight, he'd count his winnings and get a good night sleep for once. 

He was maybe ten steps from the car when his stomach lurched, and the world tilted sideways. Throwing his hands out to catch himself, he fought down nausea as his vision blacked out momentarily before resolving into a dimly lit room that he didn’t recognize.

When the world stopped spinning, Dean took stock. He was in a library with heavy oak tables and stone pillars, filled with low half bookcases and a variety of swords. Someone was passed out in one of the seats. Not a public library, then, but some rich asshole's house. His gaze flicked around, searching for a threat or an explanation, before settling on the figure slumped over one of the tables. His instincts tingled. Long hair, but tall and built like a guy. Plaid flannel shirt. Smelled like cheap whiskey. At least a dozen books were strewn across the table, and at the next table over were a bunch of herbs by a beaten-up copper bowl. Dean’s eyes danced over the guy, noting at least two bulges that probably indicated concealed weapons. Make that a rich, armed asshole. And maybe a witch.

He didn't know what a witch would want with him, but he was sure it wasn't good.

He pulled his own gun from the small of his back before slowly approaching. He considered just shooting the bastard, but he could use some answers. Where he was, for starters. He got close, almost close enough to touch, when the guy groaned and rolled his head to the side, one hand fumbling for the empty tumbler just out of reach. Dean stepped back out of the guy's range and flicked off the safety.

The soft click was obviously enough to alert the witch, though, because he froze, hardly even breathing. The hair moved, revealing a beard and a jawline that sparked recognition deep in his gut. But his dad would never let his hair grow that long. And it was hard to tell when he was sitting, but Dean was pretty sure this guy was longer and leaner than John Winchester had ever been. Never mind the spell ingredients. John Winchester wouldn't be caught dead using magic.

"Who are you?" he asked, lowering his voice to a growl in an attempt to intimidate.

If possible, the guy in front of him stilled further. He was statuesque, could have been carved from marble for all he moved. Finally, an eternity later, the guy breathed out a name, reverent and disbelieving. "Dean?"

He didn't recognize the voice, but the guy clearly knew who Dean was. Which made sense, given the circumstances. The evidence pointed to Dean being summoned via some spell this jerk had done. He hadn't heard about anyone summoning a person before, but he learned new things every day.

The guy never answered the question, just turned slowly and sat up until Dean could see his face. The familiarity lurched against his consciousness again. He didn't know this guy, but... he did. He was older, bearded, and broken, but he thought he recognized his kid brother under there. He faltered, lowered the gun minutely. "Sam?" he asked, unsure.

The guy's eyes widened in what might be surprise or fear, but he nodded.

Nausea threatened to overtake him again. Dean may not have an explanation yet for what the hell was going on, but he believed this guy. Sam. He believed Sam. Instantly, he dropped his aim, turning on the safety and holstering the gun in one smooth motion. Still, he was wary. This wasn't his little brother, not really. Not unless school had aged him a decade or more.

This Sam was gaping at him like a fish, or like he was some kind of fucking miracle, which sat all kinds of wrong with Dean. He didn't seem like he was going to start supplying answers on his own any time soon though, so Dean was going to have to take the initiative.

He looked around, taking in his surroundings in light of this new information. "Want to tell me what's going on, Sam?"

Sam swallowed hard and dropped his eyes. "I don't know." He glanced back at Dean with a shrewd look. "What year is it for you?"

That confirmed one thing, anyway, though he was sure Sam was lying through his teeth about not knowing what was going on. "2004.”

Sam started, leaning back in surprise.

Dean waited, cocking an eyebrow. Sam needed to give him something. Some explanation.

Sam's jaw worked and a furrow appeared between his eyes. He gave a weird half smirk that Dean couldn't interpret and said, "Welcome to 2014."

 Alone in his room, Sam couldn't stop thinking about what had just happened. The spell had worked. Just not how he'd intended. Certainly not how he had expected it to work. Dean at 24 was a sight to behold, all confidence and cocky attitude, full of easy grins and so much optimism. Dean had thought he was being skeptical, sure, but the second he knew he was talking to Sam he'd dropped his guard. Sam's Dean would never. Not now, not after having met too many doppelgangers of themselves or people they knew. It stung, but it was safer, and he breathed easier knowing that his Dean would have asked for proof that he was really Sam.

It felt good, though, knowing Dean was in the bunker again, even if it was the wrong Dean. Tomorrow he was going to have to figure out how to send him back to 2004, and then go back to figuring out how to find his brother, or, more likely, his brother's dead body. He still had nothing more than a shitty note to go on, and he had already been scraping the bottom of the barrel with this spell. Cas had told him it wasn't likely to work, and Sam just hadn't cared. A slim chance was better than no chance. Of course, it hadn't worked. Had instead yanked his brother (his gorgeous, alive, never gone to Hell brother) from the past. Even younger than the version that had pulled Sam back into the life, the version Sam had been entirely unable to resist.

He closed his eyes and willed away his erection. His brother was dead, and this vision from his past needed to go away before he did something truly inappropriate. Worse, before Dean found out just how bad things got in the next decade of his life and decided Sam wasn't worth coming to Stanford for. Or... No. They'd learned, painfully, that messing with the past did nothing. Warning Dean of all the problems Sam would cause in the future wouldn't do anything good. Wouldn't stop the Apocalypse. Wouldn't bring Sam's brother back. It would just erase the trust that he had maintained in Sam for years, warranted or not, and it had been that trust that kept Sam going after losing Jess and Dad.

 Dean sat alone in the room Sam had given him. It was bare and musty, like it hadn't been used in years. He had a lot of questions that Sam hadn't been willing to answer, and honestly, Dean thought they were both probably too drunk for a useful Q and A tonight. That was why he'd agreed to go to bed and figure things out in the morning. The problem was that he couldn't sleep, and the questions circling his brain were getting louder with every lap. Chief among them was what the hell was going on with Sam? Even factoring in the extra decade that Sam had lived, he looked old. Worse, he looked desperate. Dean just wondered what he was desperate for. The question that followed naturally from there was where the hell was 2014 Dean? He should be here taking care of his brother when he was such a mess. Sam hadn't denied that he'd been doing spell work, which, best case scenario, meant that he was hunting again. What had happened to the Sam that wanted out of the life at any cost? Who had turned his back on his family to go to college? Something had gone down, and Dean was absolutely sure he wasn't going to like it when he found out. No matter how mad he was that Sam had wanted a normal life more than he'd wanted his family, no matter how much he resented that Sam got a shot at college and a life that wasn't hunting, Dean had been proud of his brother for making it into Stanford. 

The way Sam had looked at him—it was unsettling. Dean wasn't sure where the present version of himself was, but with that look... Well, Dean had suspicions. He wasn't going to get any sleep until he had some answers, so it was time to do some digging. He padded out into the hall, careful to keep his footsteps quiet. Sam had said he was in room 21, and a quick check of his door revealed that Sam had put him in 15. Heading away from Sam's room, he started checking doors as he went. Three rooms identical to his, down to the mothball smell, and then he hit the jackpot with room 11. Weapons were mounted on the walls, the bed was rumpled, as if it had been used recently, and the air was fresh. Reasonably fresh. Ok, it smelled like old pizza and gym socks, but at least it smelled like something besides dust and stale air. His eyes were drawn to the box of magazines on the desk as he flicked on the light, and he knew he was in the right spot. A box stuffed full of Busty Asian Beauties could only mean that he was in his room. Dean's room. Current him's room. Whatever.

There were photos on the bedside table, and he grinned as he flipped through them. He didn't recognize most of them, but he knew why they lived in a prominent place. Happy memories, all of them. It was weird, watching Sammy grow up in stutter stops across the four pictures he was in, and Dean frowned, realizing nothing looked recent. The last picture of Sam was easily years younger than the Sam he'd met tonight. Replacing the pictures on the table, he did a slow inventory of the room. There was a note on the bed, and on closer inspection, there were stains on the bedspread. Blood. Diluted blood, like someone had cleaned wounds here and never bothered to clean up. A touch revealed that it was dry and stiff. Days old at least, no telling if it was more than that. He checked the note.

Sammy, let me go.

He recognized his own handwriting but felt nothing other than confusion. Why would he write a note like this? This place was awesome, and he knew, instinctively, that no matter what else had changed in the intervening decade he would kill to have his own room. The decorative touches spoke of someone who had settled in, who wanted to be here. Not a Dean that was planning on leaving his brother. He frowned harder. How could this have happened? He managed to get his brother back, despite years of no contact while Sam was at Stanford. A decade later and they were still together, living in the same weird mansion with no windows. They had made it. Hell, they had both made it past their thirtieth birthdays, a feat he hadn't even dared to hope was possible.

So why had he left?

Blood on the sheets. Note saying to let him go. A profoundly messed up little brother. A room so untouched it may as well be a shrine to present day Dean. If it hadn't been for the note in his own handwriting, he'd say 2014 him was dead. With the note... Hunt gone wrong? Dean must have blamed himself, so he took off. Which meant it had probably been Sam hurt. Judging by the quantity of blood on the comforter, it had been bad. He cursed himself. He'd probably patched Sam up and ditched as soon as he was stable enough to leave alone.

The thought of patching Sam up in this room, rather than taking him to his own spoke volumes to Dean. They had separate rooms, but this Dean obviously loved his brother as much as Dean did. He shuddered at the thought that maybe that affection had been given voice, and that was why he'd fled.

He turned off the lamp and closed the door. Time to see the rest of this place.

 Sam stumbled into the kitchen and was surprised to find it smelled of freshly brewed coffee. It cut through the hangover fog enough to jolt Sam into confusion for a moment, and then he remembered. His brother (not his brother, not his brother) was sitting at the table, contemplating his cup of coffee and picking at a plate piled high with bacon. Dean looked like he was nursing a mild hangover himself, which made Sam wonder what he'd been doing before the spell had caught him.

Dean smirked at him, which Sam ignored, then said, "Interesting place you got here, Sammy."

Sam groaned internally. He should have known Dean would go exploring if he left him alone for two minutes without any answers. Still, he didn't want to give anything away that might screw up the timeline. It would be his luck to accidentally change something and find himself in a future that was even worse than the hell he was currently living in. 

When his silence continued past the limits of Dean's patience, Dean made a frustrated noise. "Come on, man. I know last night wasn't the time, but you've got to tell me what the hell is going on. You were wasted and doing spells powerful enough to pull me through freaking time. Talk to me."

Sam sighed and relented, if only slightly. He poured himself a cup of coffee and said, "If it makes you feel any better, I didn't do the spell drunk. Got wasted after it didn't work."

There was a pregnant pause, then Dean said softly, "What was it supposed to do, Sam?"

Sam's heart broke all over again, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and grip the counter to ground himself. "It was supposed to find you. Just not you from 10 years ago."

The silence in the room was oppressive, and Sam waited for Dean to ask the obvious question. When he didn't, Sam steeled himself and turned around to face his brother. Dean was staring into his coffee mug, unreadable expression on his face.

Sam stumbled over his thoughts, wanting to fix this, to make it better somehow. He'd just ripped his brother out of time and then told him that he wasn't supposed to be here. No way that hadn't hurt. "I—Dean, I'm glad you're here. It's good to see you again. It's just—"

"I'm not him," Dean said quietly, firmly. He didn't sound upset, exactly, but Sam had been around Dean long enough to hear the layers of emotion hiding in his brother's voice. "Why did he leave?" Sam shook his head in denial, but Dean continued, "I found the note."

Sam blanched. "Honestly? I don't know." He gripped his mug and moved to sit across from Dean. "I don't know why he left. Or why he just left that shitty note." He paused. "Sorry," he said, as an afterthought.

 Dean watched Sam bend over the books, trying to figure out a reversal spell that would send Dean back to his own time. They hadn't really talked at all, and Dean didn't know what to make of it. Sam refused to talk about the bloodstains on the comforter, and he seemed to be telling the truth when he said he didn't know why his Dean had walked. That said, Sam was definitely hiding something. He may not know the exact reason, but he knew a lot more than he was letting on. Unfortunately, the guy was dead set on "preserving the timeline" and nothing Dean had said over breakfast seemed able to dissuade him. 

He tried to distract himself from checking out Sam by instead checking out the library. It was tough, though. Sam had filled out over the years and barely resembled the scrawny kid he'd driven to the bus station on his way to Palo Alto and a normal life. Dean clenched his jaw and turned back to the bookshelf in front of him. He recognized a few titles from Bobby's library, but most of the books he'd never heard of. There was no organization that he could make sense of, but that was probably because half the books were in languages he couldn't read. Sam probably could. He'd always had a better head for language than Dean, and with a decade to practice and pick up new ones, Dean would have been surprised if there were any books here Sam couldn't translate. 

Peeking behind him, he studied Sam's broad shoulders. They were gorgeous, even if they were tense. Sam had obviously kept himself in shape over the years, and Dean wondered if getting wasted like last night was the norm now or not. Their dad had started going soft in the middle when his drinking kicked up after Sam had left, and it didn't look like that was happening to Sam's waist. But if it was new... It didn't matter because Sam didn't want his help. It had hurt when he'd realized that this morning, that Sam wanted the brother who had abandoned him. 

It just didn't make sense. Sam hadn't hinted at anything, really. Just that the blood on the bed had been Dean's, not Sam's. Still a hunt gone wrong then, but Dean couldn't fathom what had possessed him to leave. Dean had been hurt before, plenty of times. He'd even been hurt because Sam or their dad made a mistake. But that's all they were, mistakes. He'd never held a grudge so hard that he'd walk on his family like this. It all spoke to something far more broken than he wanted to think about, because how could things have gone this wrong between him and Sam? Even in his own time, he would do anything to stay near Sam if his brother would let him. 

Sam was muttering to himself and mixing ingredients. Looked like he'd found the spell he needed then. 

Dean moved over to the table. He didn't do chick flick moments, but he couldn't just leave without saying something to comfort Sam. He cleared his throat, already feeling awkward. "Look, Sam. I—" He sighed, frustrated. "I don't know what the hell would make me walk out on you like that, but I can tell you this: I have always been proud of you. No matter what. Ok? I, uh, don't know that I'd ever have the nerve to tell you that if I wasn't currently Marty McFly." He hoped Sam understood. He knew he was never going to tell that to his little brother when they joined up. Too many emotions too close to the surface, still too fresh for both of them. But this Sam, well. He had distance from college, and it seemed like in the end he'd chosen Dean anyway. It made it easier, somehow.

Sam's eyes were wide, his expression something Dean wasn't sure how to interpret. Sad? Shocked? Relieved? Some bizarre combination of all that and more. Yeah. Clearly their family was still great at communication.

"Dean—" Sam stopped, obviously biting back whatever he'd been about to say. After a moment he started again. "Stanford was never about leaving you."

He pasted on a cocky grin, suddenly desperate to not show Sam how much his leaving still hurt, even two years later. Even if he had already known that it wasn't about him, that it had been about Sam needing to assert his independence from Dad and just the way those two personalities conflicted. Sam always needed an explanation for things; it was part of what had always made him great at research. Dad expected his sons to follow his lead, and Dean could admit that he provided explanations far less often than he maybe should. The difference had always been that Dean trusted their dad completely, and Sam didn't.

 Sam had no idea how to explain to his brother how devastating it was to hear that parody of his Dean's dying words, spoken just a few weeks ago. It—He couldn't. Not without risking everything. For a moment he thought about it. Telling this Dean everything. There was no way his life could get worse than this miserable existence he was currently living, after all. But no, there was too much at stake. He might not end up in a worse version of his existence, but the world might. Lucifer, at least, was safely locked away, and Abaddon was dead. They had done that. No matter what he wanted personally, he had to keep the bigger picture in mind. Besides, his Dean had left him a note. While he couldn't fathom an explanation for that, he wasn't going to rest until he had one, until he found Dean.

He swallowed and clenched his jaw to keep himself from spilling everything. The only thing he trusted himself to give Dean in answer was a short nod, and he knew it wasn't enough. But it was all he had, so Dean would just have to deal with it. They could talk it out in a decade.

Turning back to the spell, he continued mixing components, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember if he'd added the yarrow root yet or not. He surveyed the contents of the bowl. He... had. That powder looked like the yarrow. Moving on, he continued adding ingredients and chanting under his breath. He didn't look at Dean, didn't want to watch him disappear back to his own time, even though he knew it had to happen. With a flourish, he threw in the final herb and watched the surprisingly small puff of smoke rise and dissipate into nothing. It was done.

From behind him, he heard Dean ask, "Was that it? Because I'm still here, dude."

Sam's eyes flew open as he spun to see Dean still standing there, arms crossed and looking deeply unimpressed. "What? How—?" He turned back to his spell book and ingredients. The damn yarrow. Of course. Only.... No, he looked at the bottle, and it looked like he had definitely added it. Sam rummaged through the ingredients for a few more minutes, eyes darting between ingredients, bowl, and spell, until Dean put a hand on his shoulder. 

"Sam, stop."

Sam stilled, about ready to throw something in frustration. No wonder he hadn't been able to find his Dean. He apparently couldn't do any magic right these days.

Dean spoke gently. "Look, you're tired, and you're obviously stressed out. Bobby always told us that magic is best done with a clear head, right? If I had to guess, that's about the worst description for you right now. Take a day. Let me help if I can. And then we'll figure out a way to get me home together." He paused, giving Sam a chance to answer that he didn't take. Dean sighed. "I'm sorry it didn't work."

Sam hung his head and leaned heavily on the table. "I'm sorry I keep letting you down."

He could almost feel Dean working to unpack that, trying to figure out what Sam was referring to. There was a long pause, and Sam wondered what Dean was thinking, if he was going to push Sam to talk again. After Jess's death, Dean had been a strange combination of pushy and hands off with Sam, trying to give him space until Sam pushed himself or Dean too far and Dean felt the need to prod answers out of him. It hadn't been overly effective then, and Sam didn't think it would work on him now. 

Dean let his hand drop, though, without a word. Sam fought the urge to watch his brother leave the library, instead forcing his gaze to remain on the table in front of him.

 Dean avoided Sam for the rest of the day. He prowled through the entirety of the bunker, exploring every nook and cranny he could find now that he wasn't drunk and exhausted, looking for any further clues as to his counterpart's whereabouts. He found the shooting range, the garage full of old cars (notably missing the Impala), the infirmary, and the archives. There was also the herb garden outside that looked like it had been recently plundered for Sam's spells. But mostly there were just seemingly endless dorm rooms, identical to the one he had slept in last night. One other looked and smelled like it had been used in the recent past, but it was just as plain and boring as the rest. No one had stayed there long enough to move in. Dean longed to see Sam's room, but there was a decent enough chance of finding Sam there that he didn't try. 

Eventually, though, he found himself back in present Dean's room. It felt like home, even though he hadn't yet laid hands on most of the personal items in here. It still felt right, like it was tailor made to make him feel comfortable. He supposed it had been. 

A simple survey wasn't going to cut it this time, though. He needed answers, and Sam was too reluctant to give them up. Looking around the room for the best place to start, he decided to be methodical. Each desk drawer was opened and rifled through, carefully catalogued and replaced before he moved on to the next one. There wasn't much. By the time he was done, he'd been most impressed by just how many shirts he'd managed to accrue now that he didn't have to cram them all in a duffel bag. But he also noted just how many things had been left behind. It hadn't caught his attention yesterday, but those pictures, at the very least, should be gone. This wasn't the room of someone who had decided they'd had enough and moved on. This Dean had left in a hurry. He wasn't sure what it meant, yet.

Further investigation yielded a lot of nothing. It looked more like future Dean had vanished than packed a bag, and Dean was struggling to come up with an explanation. Turning back to the bed, he did another survey. The whole thing was slightly rumpled, like someone had been laying on it. Ok. The blood was everywhere, but maybe more concentrated at the head of the bed. So, wounds, probably in the chest area. Dangerous, if they were deep enough, but there wasn't enough blood here to kill a man. He lay down, hoping by some miracle that looking at the room from his counterpart's perspective shortly before he'd left would provide some insight he'd been missing up to now. 

The mattress molded itself to his body, easily the most comfortable thing he'd laid on in his entire life. For a moment he lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what would make him leave a sweet place like this behind. Rolling over, he buried his head in the comfortable pillow, feeling exhaustion and the lingering effects of his hangover pulling him toward sleep, despite the weirdness of the situation. He breathed in deep and promptly gagged, rolling away from the pillow and coughing to clear the putrid smell. "Holy shit. What the hell is that?" he wondered to himself. Another, much more cautious, sniff revealed a lingering rotten egg smell. That was... weird. Everything here was weird. This, at least, was a weird thing he could take to Sam and demand an explanation for.

It took a while, but he eventually found Sam in the library on his third try. Wherever Sam had been before that was someplace Dean hadn't found yet. Maybe this place had magic changing rooms like Hogwarts. 

Sam looked even worse than he had at breakfast. His hair was lank and greasy, and the bags under his eyes were darkening into bruises. Dean watched him quietly for a few minutes, keeping himself out of sight. He wasn't spying per se, just....observing. Who knows what secrets this Sam might reveal when he thought he was alone? In this case, just another indication that Winchesters were prone to alcoholism. After Sam poured out his third shot in ten minutes, Dean decided he needed to intervene before his brother wouldn't be able to answer any questions, at least not intelligibly. 

"Day drinking? Seriously? I thought you didn't want to be like Dad," Dean said, putting on his most affronted face and voice. 

Sam just lolled his head towards Dean, mind clearly already slowing down. Damn it. Sam must have had a few before Dean found him.

He sighed in frustration. "Fine. Look, just tell me why your Dean's bed smells like something died there, and I'll leave you to your liver poisoning, all right?"

A pained look crossed Sam's face, so grief-stricken that Dean almost told him to forget it. But then Sam said, "Because you died."

He continued babbling, but Dean wasn't listening anymore. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears as he tried to process that, and in the meantime the rest of the world took on a surreal quality. In a decade, he would be dead. He always expected to die young, he did, just. Hearing it felt different somehow. Seeing his little brother like this was different. After Sam had left for Stanford and made it clear he didn't want or need his family to contact him Dean had made assumptions. Like how he would probably die in his twenties because he didn't have backup, or how Sam may never even know he was dead. Confronted with a grieving Sam who had been living with Dean for years was something unexpected and much more painful. The thought of Sam not knowing or caring had hurt, of course, but it was a different animal to see him grieving. He couldn't help but put himself in Sam's position. How well would he be handling it if Sam were dead?

Then he came back to the note. Sammy, let me go. He frowned, putting pieces together and not liking the picture that was emerging. Future Dean hadn't packed or taken anything, left those pictures behind too, and those had to be some of his most prized possessions. Left a note. And... had died. Shit.

"Sam? Did—" He swallowed, trying to figure out how to ask if he'd killed himself and if so, why.

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion, clearly not following Dean's train of thought. 

He gave up. He couldn't ask. More than anything, he didn't want to know, but besides that he didn't want to make Sam relive it if he had committed suicide. He didn't want to watch Sam reliving it. And it didn't actually explain the smell. The Winchesters were familiar with death and the smells that went with it, and sulfur wasn't one of them. Another horrible thought crossed his mind, and he stumbled away from Sam. 

"Dean?" Sam asked, instinctively reaching to stop Dean's retreat. 

"How long were we on the road together?" His voice was shaky, praying that it wasn't true. The only things he could think of that involved sulfur in their lives were demons, and he'd heard plenty about what happened after you made a deal with one. 

Sam hesitated, reticent as ever to divulge information about his past if it wasn't something Dean had experienced yet, but whatever expression Dean was wearing must have convinced him. Or maybe he just didn't care as much because of the alcohol, who knew. "Nine years. I started hunting again in 2005."

Dean racked his brain. That wasn't long enough, he thought. He certainly didn't have Sam's talents for encyclopedic knowledge, but he was no slouch when it came to knowledge about the supernatural. Everything Bobby or Pastor Jim or Caleb or their dad had said about the monsters out there was stored somewhere in his brain, and he was pretty sure he remembered something about ten years in connection with demons. Maybe he was wrong, though, because if he had died, and his pillow smelled like sulfur, there weren't a lot of other explanations.

"Dean, talk to me. What's going on?"

He couldn't chicken out of this question. "Did I make a demon deal to get you on the road with me?" His words came out in a rush, leaving him breathless and edging ever nearer to panic. No way would he do that. Right? He had accepted that Sam had left them. Had left him. 

Sam looked shocked into silence, his mouth working to form an answer. When nothing appeared to be forthcoming, he resorted to slamming the shot of whiskey he'd poured before Dean interrupted him and pouring himself another. When he finally found his voice, it was rough and broken. "Why do you think you made a deal?"

Dean winced at how Sam refused to meet his eyes. He may not know this Sam as well as his own, but he knew how to read body language. Sam's Dean had obviously done some stupid shit in the past. "The pillow smells like sulfur. I know they're pretty far out of our league, but that means demons, right?"

Sam barked a laugh that was in no way funny. Dean swallowed hard, just a little afraid of the person his brother had turned into. Sam eventually knocked back a swallow of his whiskey and said, "Yeah, it does. The pillow smelled?"

Dean nodded and watched as Sam stalked to his brother's room. 

 Sulfur. But Crowley had no-showed that night, hadn't he? Sam had waited and waited in the dungeon, until finally he accepted that the demon wasn't coming and returned to his brother. Only Dean was long gone, leaving only that note behind. But if Sam had summoned Crowley to the bunker and he'd been in Dean's room... why would Dean's pillow smell? He flung open the door to Dean's room and grabbed the pillow, breathing deep. Gagging, he threw the pillow back on the bed. Definitely sulfur. It didn't make sense, but it was a lead that he didn't have before. 

Sam's phone rang, the shrill noise piercing the silent room. Sam flinched at the sudden noise, but he pulled out his phone to glance at the caller ID. Cas. He sighed and dismissed the call. It was the third or fourth call he'd ditched from the angel today, and he knew he couldn't avoid his friend forever. He just wasn't ready to hear the "I told you so" that was inevitably coming his way. Besides, Cas couldn't help. Or if he could then he shouldn't. Sam wasn't sure exactly how stolen grace worked, but he'd seen how weak Cas was these days. He'd even caught the angel sleeping a few times, to his dismay. If Cas offered to fix Sam's mistake by sending Dean back to the past where he belonged, then Sam would have to stop him. Dean needed to go back, of course, but not at the expense of the last of Cas's strength. Besides, Dean wasn't supposed to know about angels for a few more years. If he met Cas, who knows what would get screwed up. Later. He'd call Cas later and fill him in, tell him to make himself scarce until he heard from Sam. 

Sam turned back to the bed. Reverently, he touched the comforter, the last place he'd seen his brother's body. He had to check. Drawing close, he sniffed. Yes, buried under the metallic tang of blood and the gun oil smell Sam always associated with Dean there was sulfur. He closed his eyes. That was probably a really bad sign.

For the next few minutes, Sam sniffed everything in the room, finding more sulfur on the chair beside the bed but nowhere else. Crowley must have been in here. Sam could practically see him in his mind's eye, sitting in the chair beside Dean's dead body. The options for why Dean's body had disappeared and left behind the smell of sulfur on the sheets were disappointingly limited. Ok, there was one that Sam knew of, and even thinking about some demon riding Dean's dead body around the world being Crowley's lackey made his blood boil.

He sighed and clenched his jaw in frustration. Before he could fix that he needed to deal with his mistake and get this other version of Dean out of here. 

"What did you find?" Dean's voice behind him startled Sam badly, and he spun, eyes wide in panic. 

After a moment during which he tried to bury his reaction as far down as he could, he said, "Not much. Just confirmed what you said." 

"Sam, what the hell did I do?" 

Sam didn't turn and look at Dean, couldn't stand to. This Dean sounded so young. Like it was barely conceivable that he would make a deal to keep his brother close, and he looked devastated at the thought that he'd done just that. Sam wanted to comfort him, but he couldn't find the words. Because Dean did do those things, had made deals like that. Just not the one he was currently accusing himself of making. "You didn't make a deal to get me out of school." That, at least, was a true statement, and it made Sam breathe a little easier. If he had made that deal, then he wouldn't have had anything left to bargain with when Sam died in Cold Oak. Now he just needed to figure out how to break the rest of it to him. Or not. This was still a terrible idea. 

Dean made a noise of frustration, slamming his fist into the wall and making Sam flinch hard. "Damn it, Sam, I know I did something. And don't give me that crap about not changing the timeline, because seriously? You want to preserve this? You're miserable and drunk, and I'm dead. Who knows where Dad even is since you won't talk about him. What exactly are you trying to protect here?"

Sam closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. Dean didn't know. He couldn't know. But... he needed to know. Sam was always being told how strong he was, but he knew the truth. He was a weak man who would do anything for the brother he loved more than anything else in the world. "There's always a chance it turns out worse. You understand that, right? If I tell you anything, there's a chance that it all goes to hell faster and worse than it did anyway."

"I don't care. I can't help you if you keep me in the dark like this." He sounded determined, confident. Sam knew it was mostly bravado, but it confirmed his own resolve to throw caution to the wind.

"We should get comfortable then. This is a long story."

 Dean was numb, trying to process everything Sam had told him. They had saved the world—that, he finally understood, was the outcome Sam was most concerned about preserving. But the cost had been... He scrubbed a hand down his face. They'd lost so many people. There were holes in the story, of course, and Dean didn't want to ask, didn't want to know for sure, but he was pretty sure their dad was long dead. Sam had stopped talking about him early on. It was good to know they'd killed the thing that destroyed their family, at least. That was something. And they'd met their mom. Because apparently time travel was a thing they did now. Dean was not thrilled to hear that they'd already tried to change the past without success, but maybe this time it would work? Maybe not. Sam had made it sound like there had been a lot of manipulation going on behind the scenes by both Heaven and Hell, and Dean had trouble believing Heaven actually existed. According to Sam it was a pretty shitty place, though. Which was another thing. Sam hadn't said it explicitly, but Dean could read between the lines well enough. At some point Sam had died too. 

That was the worst part. 

He couldn't imagine it. Sam had implied that deals had been made, people brought back to life, and he knew. If his little brother had died, then he would absolutely make that deal. Leaving Sam dead, living without him, was not an option. It was different with him at school. Dean might be lonely, but he could see Sam on campus whenever he was in California. Had, more than once. It hurt, but not like this. Which was ridiculous, because Sam was sitting across from him, perfectly healthy.

Sam was also patiently waiting for a response beyond deafening silence and complete shock. 

Dean tried to pull himself together. "Remind me again why you didn't want to mess up the timeline?"

Sam chuckled darkly. "We're alive. Or, we were. And we saved the world against all odds. That's worth something."

"Yeah. But." Dean closed his eyes again, let himself really feel the grief over losing his brother that he knew Sam had to be feeling right now too. "What happened before I got here? Where am I? You said I died, but you were doing a summoning spell. Where did you think you were summoning me from?"

Sam looked away, chagrined. "I don't know. I was desperate. Considering the sulfur you found, I think a demon took you." Or your body. Sam didn't have to say it for Dean to hear the unspoken caveat.

He nodded. "One more question, then I swear I'm done asking. You never mentioned—" He trailed off, unsure how to ask. "After your—After you left Stanford. Was there anyone—?" He needed to know, though he wasn't sure why. It was hardly important in the grand scheme. Still, the two of them had been together, living and hunting and sharing space, for almost a decade. And Dean hadn't met anyone else yet in this place. It gave him hope that he wasn't sure he deserved to have. 

Before Sam could answer, the door at the top of the stairs crashed open and a man in a beige trench coat shouted, "Sam?"

Sam startled badly at the sound of the door opening, but he didn’t look surprised when he heard the voice. Interesting. 

Dean followed Sam out of the library reluctantly, keeping his distance.

"Hey, Cas," Sam said. 

Dean appraised the new guy. He looked disheveled, tired. Almost as worn out as Sam. His dark hair was a mess, and even from a distance Dean could see the worry on his face dissipate when he spotted Sam. Even more interesting. He didn't think the tax accountant look would be his brother's type, but maybe it was one-sided. The way the guy looked at Sam definitely spoke of something more than simple friendship, anyway.

"You weren't answering your phone." The guy, Cas, sounded out of breath, and his concern was palpable. "I thought—" 

Sam seemed to understand, though Dean didn't. "It's ok. I'm sorry I didn't answer. I've just been busy." He gestured slightly behind him, presumably to indicate Dean's presence. Which meant, what? That Sam hadn't wanted to tell this guy he'd done a spell and dragged his brother ten years into the future? Yeah, ok, that was probably fair. Dean wouldn't have wanted to advertise that either. 

Dean watched as Cas's eyes tracked behind Sam, searching, and when they finally landed on Dean, the difference was startling. Cas's face was slack, totally shocked. "Dean? How? Where—?" He approached a few steps and stopped short, looking sharply at Sam. "What did you do?"

Dean didn't appreciate this guy taking that tone with his brother and stepped forward, starting to say, "Hey—" when Sam cut him off.

"It's fine, Dean. He's right. You don't belong here, and we all know it." He sighed. "I did that spell. The one you said wouldn't work."

Cas searched Sam's face a moment, then turned to get a closer look at Dean. Dean bristled, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. He wasn't sure what the guy was looking for, but he eventually turned back to Sam with a disappointed sigh. "Sam."

Dean watched his brother crumple at that, and it hurt. Sam managed to recompose himself quickly though, something Dean had seen him do too many times in the last 24 hours. He had never wanted his little brother to turn into this hard man who could break with a single word and rebuild himself in moments, burying whatever pain he was experiencing so deep it was like it was never there. Sam was supposed to be loud and angry about hunting and, more than anything else, happy. "I had to do something. We were out of leads."

Cas pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. This is just—I can't send him back."

Sam nodded, as if he'd been expecting this. "Cas, even if you could, I wouldn't let you. We'll figure something out. Obviously, he can't stay, but we'll find something else. I was never going to let you do that to yourself."

Smiling with weary fondness, Cas replied, "I appreciate your concern, Sam, but I'm fine, I promise."

It was such a Winchester line that Dean had to wonder how long this guy had been part of their lives. 

Sam ignored it, however, and just continued talking. "I think we have something, though." He glanced backwards at Dean, then back to Cas. "Demons. In Dean's room. I assume the night he disappeared."

"Crowley?"

Sam shrugged. "I assume so. I think—" He turned back to Dean, obviously hesitant about saying the next part in his presence. "I think he had someone possess Dean."

Dean started, surprised. That...would explain the smell on the pillow. It was a horrifying thought though, his body running around with a demon in it. "How do we find them?" he asked, surprising even himself when he spoke.

Sam and Cas both turned to look at him. 

"What? I may not know who this Crowley is, but I know I don't want some demon running around in my body. So how do we find them? Demons aren't that common, so it shouldn't be too hard, right?"

Sam and Cas shared a look, then Sam said, "Yeah. You remember how I told you some of what happened to us? I... may have left a few things out." He gulped. "There are a lot of demons out and about these days. They're pretty much the only thing we hunt anymore."

Cas rolled his eyes. "You told him? How much?"

That raised Sam's hackles. "Does it matter? We've never successfully changed history before, why should I expect that we'll start now? And if we did, would that be such a bad thing? Dean is dead, Cas. And I want my brother back. If telling this Dean a little bit of what happens gets me a living, breathing brother, then I'll take it and screw the consequences."

Cas balked. "Sam, you can't mean that. What about Lu-" 

"I beat him before, and I'll beat him again if I have to." Sam's eyes glittered with defiance, and Dean grinned, glad to see that some of Sam's spirit was still in there somewhere.

 The three of them sat around the table in the kitchen, and Dean couldn't stop glancing from Sam to Castiel and back. "He's an angel? You're shitting me, right? Angels don't exist."

Sam laughed at Castiel's scowl. "Yeah, that's pretty much what you said the first time you met him. Hate to break it to you, but they do. So do a lot of other things."

"Unicorns?"

Sam shrugged. "Not as far as we know, but it wouldn't be the weirdest thing we've encountered."

"Do I want to know what tops that list?" 

Sam thought about it for a second. There were a lot of good possibilities, from the Leviathans to actual dragons. But there was one that still made him chuckle when he thought about it. "Fairies. Masquerading as aliens."

Dean blinked. "What?"

"You zapped Tinkerbell in a microwave, dude." 

"You're lying."

"I'm really not. The point is, angels barely even register on the weird scale these days." Sam sat back, relaxing at the normal banter with his brother. He'd missed this. The warm grin Dean sent his way didn’t hurt either.

Grumbling with annoyance, Cas spoke up. "What do we plan to do about Crowley?"

Sam considered their options. There weren't many. "I could summon him again, but that didn't work the first ten times. No reason to assume it'll work now. We might be able to find a locator spell?"

Castiel shook his head. "If there was a useful one, wouldn't we have used it already? You've been through every book in this place twice, at least." 

Dean was unusually quiet as he nursed his third beer. Sam smirked a little at that. He hadn't expected to introduce Dean to his favorite beer. He hadn't realized Dean had only started drinking it sometime after their Dad died. Finally, he spoke. "So we look again. If summoning isn't going to work, then we have to find him some other way. I'm sure the two of you will figure it out."

Sam rolled his eyes. "What, trying to duck out of research? Seriously? When I got back on the road with you, you had a hell of a chip on your shoulder about being able to do research too."

Dean shrugged, grinning. "What can I say? I was probably just trying to make you feel useful, Sammy."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

The nicknames fell easily from their mouths, and Sam didn't bother hiding his grin. God, things hadn't felt like this with Dean in too long. 

"Come on. Fresh eyes might find something I missed. You and Cas are on library duty, and I'll see if I can find signs of demonic activity that might be Crowley."

 Dean tossed another book in a foreign language onto Castiel's pile. "Remind me to call Sam a nerd later. I bet he can read all of these."

The angel didn't even look up, just kept reading the book he was going through, something in ancient Aramaic. "Sam is a remarkable linguist these days, but I am unsure how much is due to his status as a 'nerd'."

Feigning nonchalance, Dean said, "Then what is it due to?"

This time, Cas did look up, his gaze sharp. "Most likely his proficiency with so many languages despite very little time in which to study them is due to his high levels of exposure to archangels and their grace. His fluency in Enochian certainly is. Then again, I am aware that Sam's sleeping habits leave much to be desired. Perhaps he is, as you say, a 'nerd'."

Dean tried to parse Cas's words into something that made sense, because he was pretty sure there was an important revelation in there somewhere. The problem was that the angel was even more cryptic than Sam. Where Sam had simply refused to answer, Castiel answered as though Dean hadn't jumped forward a decade in time. Every damn sentence was full of information that Dean was missing the background for, and it was getting annoying. The angel, of course, seemed to be infinitely amused by it. Deciding to put a pin in it until later—maybe he could ask Sam about the time he spent around archangels or why he didn't sleep enough—Dean flipped open another book. This one was in English, at least, and he settled in to read.

Four hours later, he was ready to throw all the books across the room. Cas was right, there was nothing here. Then again, Sam had been the one to pull these books for them, and as they'd previously established, Sam hadn't been able to find an answer. Dean stood and stretched, then went to find Sam. Holed up by himself in his room, of course. "Hey."

Sam jumped at Dean's voice, and Dean hated it. He wondered if his 2014 counterpart knew how jumpy Sam was, or if Sam did a better job of hiding it when he expected Dean to be around. "Hey, Dean. You guys find anything?"

"Not yet." Dean leaned against the doorframe. "Hey, is there a card catalog or something? I didn't see one in the library, but I figured a giant nerd like you would have some sort of filing system."

Sam looked surprised, but only for a moment. Probably remembering that Dean didn't know everything Sam expected him to. "Yeah. It's just— Let me show you. This place is kind of a maze sometimes."

"What, like Hogwarts?"

Sam shot him a disbelieving look, then said, "Less 'the staircases move' and more 'there might be a minotaur I haven't discovered yet.'"

"Got it. You know, I did find my way around ok earlier. It didn't seem that bad to me."

Sam chuckled despite himself. "Most of the main floor is fine. The basement is where things get tricky."

"Wait, this place has a basement?" Just knowing there was an entire floor to the building that Dean hadn't even found yet set his mind running down a dozen different tangents, at least half of them involving doing inappropriate things to his not so little brother. Maybe there was a sex dungeon hiding somewhere. No. No, he reminded himself. There was no way he and Sam were like that. Sam would have said something by now, right? 

 Dean read the spell three times before he showed it to Cas and made him read it. "I'm not crazy, right? That'll track a demon, any demon, so long as we know their real name?"

Cas nodded, slowly, rereading the spell. "Yes. This will work. Go get Sam."

Sam wasn't in his room, which immediately set Dean's big brother radar into overdrive. Doing a quick lap of the upstairs rooms didn't yield an overgrown little brother, so Dean ventured into the basement. Maybe Sam was looking something up in the card catalog. Or maybe he was bored and thought trying to find a minotaur in his basement would make a good distraction. "Sam?" he called, trying to remember the order of turns Sam had taken last time.

There was no answer, but that didn't mean much. He'd seen himself how big this place was. Luckily, Dean was good with directions and found the card catalog and library overflow pretty easily. Unluckily, Sam was nowhere to be seen. "Damn it, Sammy. Where the hell are you?"

He could search the rest of the basement, but something told him that would be a waste of time. Trying to think like Sam was harder when his information was a decade out of date, but it shouldn't be this difficult. Then it hit him. There was one room upstairs that Dean had skipped over entirely, assuming Sam wouldn't have bothered to go in there. Of course he was wrong. 

Dean's—other Dean's—door was closed, but he knew Sam was in there. It sucked. He couldn't exactly tell his brother not to grieve for him, but at the same time, Dean was here and alive right now. Steeling himself, Dean opened the door.

Sam was curled up on the bed, face buried in the sheets. 

"Found something. Cas thinks it'll work." Dean's voice was rough. No way was he calling Sam on the fact that his shoulders were shaking with sobs as he lay there, even if he kind of wanted to. Without even waiting for acknowledgement, Dean retreated to the library.

Sam joined them a few minutes later. He looked even worse than when Dean had found him last night, but he brightened as soon as he read through the spell. Cas had already started to gather the spell components, and in a matter of minutes they had a location.

Dean drove. Sam protested, but he was in no condition to drive. At the very least, this was a way Dean could help. Sure enough, less than an hour into the trip Sam was fast asleep in the passenger seat. He stayed that way until they arrived at a motel in Beulah, North Dakota. Crowley was in town somewhere, hopefully staying put, but Dean figured they could use a base of operations while they looked. According to Sam, while there were signs that a demon was in the area, nothing suspicious had been reported, which meant Crowley was keeping quiet. You know, for a demon. 

Sam blinked awake when the car turned off, and Dean tossed him a room key. "You still look like hammered crap, but at least you got some sleep."

"Thanks." The sarcasm in Sam's voice rivaled his teenage self, and it made Dean grin. 

"Come on. I figure you can get set up doing your geek thing looking for this Crowley dude, and I'll go grab us some dinner. Saw a roadhouse on the way in that looked good."

Sam didn't disagree, so Dean chalked it up as a win. Maybe his brother had just needed to be on the road again to start taking care of himself again.

 The roadhouse was exactly Dean's kind of place. It was full of people and the smell of beer and fried food, and it even had a karaoke stage. Maybe once they were done with Crowley, he'd be able to drag Sam out for a beer or two. Probably not, but Dean could hope. He'd pay good money to see his brother doing karaoke. Speaking of, Dean leaned against the bar to watch the atrocious singing while he waited for his to-go order. What he saw made his insides freeze.

Up on stage was him. 2014 Dean. Or the demon riding him, anyway. Fuck. He considered calling Sam, but quickly tossed that idea away. Sam was too broken up, never mind sleep deprived and probably malnourished. Then again, Dean didn't exactly have a lot of experience dealing with demons. The song ended, and Dean made his decision. The demon had apparently decided that he was going to perform all evening and stayed on stage as the next song started. Perfect. It gave Dean time to grab some gear from the trunk.

Ten minutes later, the demon was booed off the stage and started to make his way outside, following some girl that had caught Dean's eye too. That was when Dean made his move. Ducking out the door first, he waited until the demon exited the building before dragging him around the corner and out of sight of prying eyes. Shoving the guy away from him, he pulled out his dad's journal and flipped it open to the exorcism he'd bookmarked.

"Exorcizamus te—"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the demon said, glaring at him. 

Dean paused, then against his better judgment asked, "Why the hell not?"

The demon grinned and leaned in to say, "Because I'm not just some random demon, Deano." Then, without any warning he drew his fist back and threw a punch hard enough to make Dean see stars.

Dean rolled across the ground from the force of the punch and scrambled back to his feet, knowing he had made a mistake. He was way out of his league, and he found himself wishing Sam was here to bail his ass out. Rubbing his jaw with the back of his hand, he said, "Sure you are. Just a black-eyed bitch borrowing a body that doesn't belong to you. Time to vacate the premises."

The demon just laughed at his bravado. "See, that is where you're wrong. I'm not borrowing anything. This body is mine, and I don't mean that in a 'finders keepers' way. Welcome to your future, Dean. I'm you."

That stopped Dean in his tracks. "What?"

The pause gave the demon a chance to launch another attack, and Dean was too stunned to properly defend himself. The next minute or so was a blur until he found himself in a chokehold while his phone rang. Sam. No one else in this decade had his number. 

Effortlessly keeping Dean pinned, the demon reached into Dean's pocket, pulled out his phone and answered it. "Thought I told you to let me go."

Dean heard Sam say something, but the response was muffled. 

"Sorry, I'm a little tied up right now. Or is it he? Time travel makes pronouns so difficult, don't you think?" Another pause where Sam shouted something at the demon, and the demon rolled his eyes. "Oh, Sammy, what did you think was going to happen? Did you seriously think the Mark was going to let me die?"

Despite the spots that were starting to dance in Dean's vision, hearing this thing call his brother Sammy made something snap inside him. With an unexpected strength, he broke the demon's grip and slammed his fist into his older self's face. Whipping out the runed cuffs he'd grabbed from the trunk, he slapped them on the demon's wrists and said, "You don't get to call him that."

The shock on the demon's face was almost comical, and Dean reveled in his win for just a moment before picking up the phone from where it had fallen. "Hey, Sammy. I got him. We'll be back in ten."

 Back at the bunker, Dean and Sam walked into the library, and Sam poured them each a drink. 

Dean sipped his and shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe you have a freaking dungeon, man."

Sam chuckled. 

"Seriously, though. What're you going to do with him?" Asking for information about his own future was probably asking for more trouble, but he had to know. 

Sam waved him off. "Don't worry. We, uh, we figured out how to 'cure' demons a while ago. You'll be ok."

"Right." Dean took another, bigger sip. "Dude, your lives are weird."

This time Sam gave him a heartfelt laugh. "Seriously, though, thank you. I couldn't have done this without you."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yes, you could."

Sam smirked. "Yeah, well, I don't want to."

Feeling like he was missing an inside joke, Dean changed the subject. "So, we got your Dean back. What are we going to do about me?"

Dropping his gaze, Sam said, "I actually have an idea about that. There's a blood spell that our grandfather used to time travel to us last year that should work."

"Seriously? Did you just forget about that?"

"No, not really. But I was trying to preserve the timeline, remember? The way this spell works, blood calls to blood, and the person using it walks through a door next to a blood relative."

Immediately catching his brother's train of thought, Dean said, "Yeah, I doubt Dad would take that very well."

"And you didn't pay me a visit in 2004 that I'm aware of, so—"

"What changed?"

Sam shrugged, then he shot Dean a look that was unreadable. "You."

Wondering again if things were that different in 2014 than his own time, Dean said, "Me, huh?"

Sam smiled shyly, then said, "I just need to figure out how to direct the spell so you don't end up at the wrong end of Dad's gun."

"You're sending me to you?" Dean wasn't sure if he should hope or not, but he couldn't help the lightness in his chest at Sam's fond look.

"Yeah, I am." Sam shrugged again, but Dean could hear the unspoken statement that the future might already be screwed over because of everything Dean had learned. What was one more change?

Finding the answer Sam needed on how to direct the spell wasn't hard, and an hour later they were standing in front of a door painted in Sam's blood while Dean chanted. The sigil glowed, and Dean fell silent.

"I guess this is goodbye, huh?" Dean said, not looking at Sam. He wanted to know, wanted to ask, but his older self was down in the basement, and that guy was going to have to deal with the consequences of any revelations Dean made right now.

"Hey," Sam said, placing a gentle hand on Dean's cheek and turning his face until they were looking at each other. Then he leaned in, kissing Dean hard and dirty. For one shocked moment Dean froze before his brain and body got with the program and kissed back. Too soon, Sam pulled back, leaving them both breathless. Smirking, Sam said, "Go get him, tiger."

Dean grinned and opened the door.

He walked into a bedroom he didn't recognize but which didn't scream "Sam" to him. There was a floral comforter on the queen bed and sheer blinds on the windows. The sunlight streaming through the window combined with the yellow paint to bathe the room in a soft summer glow. It was too clean and small for a motel, but too impersonal to belong to someone. And, contrary to what Sam had told him about how the spell worked, Dean was alone. It gave Dean an opportunity to keep things the way Sam remembered them, if he wanted to, but the memory of Sam's lips on his still burned into his skin, and he knew he wasn't leaving here without seeing his little brother. 

There was a choked noise from the hallway, and there was Sam, damp from a shower and looking almost exactly as Dean expected, just a little leaner, a little more mature. A far cry from the broken—but healing—man he'd just left behind. "Dean? What the hell are you doing in my closet?"

Dean laughed and said, "Dude, you will not believe the week I just had." Then he strode over to his little brother and kissed him like his future depended on it.

[kurt-nightcrawler]

Handmade Healing: The Beginning

Warren Worthington III x Female Reader ft. Billy Hargrove x Female Reader

Summary: Jubilee is from Beverly Hills, CA. Billy Hargrove is from CA as well, plus they’re both teens in 1983. What if they were friends? Or what if Jubilee’s best friend was Billy’s girlfriend? 

What if our destinies were predetermined? What if things just happen because that’s how life works?

Warnings: language, angst, mentions of sex, and mentions of self-harm.

Word Count: 2.2k

Author’s Note: I will finish this series even if it kills me. You can all hold my word against me. This is supposed to be around 27 chapters, so strap in everyone!

Mutant.

The word was something you thought about often. You were always scared, always worried people would find out. Realize you’re a freak.

No!

No— there was nothing wrong with you, but you needed to be safe— even if it hurt.

You had wings. Butterfly-like wings, but less delicate. They were purple, and no matter how many times you cut them off or shaved them down they always grew back, and they became thicker and stronger each time.

So you cut them once or twice a week and always wore a jacket.

Even though you lived in California, nobody questioned it, not your family, not your best friend, not even your boyfriend.

Besides, it’s Cali, pretty much anything goes.  

Everything was going perfect for you.

And then it wasn’t.

-

Jubilation Lee, also known as Jubilee, was your best friend since primary school. She was bright, spunky, and full of energy— she got you out of your shell and made you social.

Her parents were like your second set of parents, always there when you needed them.

She lived in a much nicer part of town— Beverly Hills to be exact. However, she wasn’t like your typical rich kid from the hills— she was nice to everyone and partied harder on weekends than anyone you knew. You probably wouldn’t know she was from Beverly Hills unless you asked.

-

Jubilee was the one who set you and your boyfriend up. They had some mutual friends, and he seemed like the perfect guy for you— good looks, and he’d get you out of your shell when Jubilee couldn’t.

Billy Hargrove was everything most girls wanted— nice car, an even nicer body, he partied hard and had an attitude to match. You, on the other hand, were quiet, and if people knew who you were it was as “Jubilee’s best friend” or “Jube’s sidekick.” Once you started dating Billy you were then known as “Billy Hargrove’s girlfriend.”

-

As a wise man once said, “Young love— full of promise, full of hope, ignorant of reality.”    

Billy’s dad cheated on his mom with his secretary and wanted a divorce so he could marry her. So Billy and his mom moved from their familiar home to the empty house next to yours.

This led to late night rendezvous, parties, and lots of sex. It was like a teen drama, minus the drama.

However, reality had other plans.

-

You walked into Jubilee’s house. It was quiet, so you took that as your cue to head upstairs into Jubilee’s room.

You knocked on the door. “Jubes, It’s me. I brought Jaws 2.”

The door opened and Jubilee stood there, hair in a messy bun and pajamas on her body.

“Jubes did you wear pj's all day?”

“Yeah, I haven’t bothered to change. I have to pack my stuff.” You set your bag on her bed, ignoring the state of her room.

“Where ya going this time?” The Lee family took random vacations quite often, so this wasn’t much surprise to you. They would usually be gone just for a handful of days, coming back with some souvenirs and stories to tell.

“You know how I like, take a bunch of honors classes and stuff?” You nodded. Jubilee was smart, something people never thought when they saw her, as they never looked past her bright clothes and curly hair.

Their loss.

“Are you going to DC for that one camp? I heard Allen Smith is going to that. Maybe you’ll see him there.” You noticed Jubilee’s eyes were glossy. “Hey, Allen isn’t that bad, plus you may not even see him!”

She quickly rubbed her eyes, “It’s not that.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I’m going to a boarding school in New York!”

“What?!”

“My parents really want me to go. Uh, one of our teachers recommended me to the headmaster and he wants me to enroll as soon as possible. My parents think it’s a good opportunity for me. Meet new people, see new things, stuff like that.”

“But… but... you… You can’t leave Jubes!”

“I have to.”

“Why? Why do you have to go to some boarding school all the way on the other side of the country? Our school is just fine and if your parents have a problem with it they can just wait and send you to some fancy Ivy League college.”

“It’s not like I wanna leave! It’s just… It’s just what’s best. I’m sorry.” You nodded, unsure what to say. Your best friend was leaving you for New York.

“You’ll visit, right...? They, they let you come home for like summer and Christmas?”

“Of course! Of course, I’ll visit. Don’t want me getting pasty do we?” You smiled a little at her joke, a bit happier that she wouldn’t be gone forever.

-

Yet Jubilee never visited. Not for Thanksgiving, and not for Christmas.

She never called or wrote letters either. It was like she just wanted to vanish from everyone’s memory. Her own parents didn’t even mind they never saw their daughter! It made you sick sometimes, knowing they just shipped their kid away from everything she’d ever known— that they sent away your best friend.

Being the not-so-social-butterfly you were you spent more time with your boyfriend, Billy. He’d gotten a job as a lifeguard, trying to save up for a car.

You, on the other hand, engrossed yourself in your studies, hoping to please your parents with a 4.0 GPA, as Jubilee’s school switching stunt made them upset you weren’t also recommended for some smarty pants boarding school.

So you were at the library, getting books and information for your physics project.

Placing a book back on the shelf, you saw curly, dirty blonde hair in the corner of your eye.

You turned around, knowing exactly who it was.

“Billy!”

“Hey, baby, your mom said you’d be at the library so I figured I’d pick you up.”

You squinted your eyes, “What have you got planned, Hargrove?”

He winked, “You’ll see.”

“Alright, just lemme grab my stuff.” You grabbed your bag and headed outside.

“Okay, close your eyes.” You do as he said and laugh a little, feeling somewhat childish. He held your hand and slowly guided you forward.

“Okay, you can open your eyes.”

“Oh my god… Is that?... Billy is that?...” You asked, mouth gaping.

He grinned, “Yep. Just got her today.”

“Oh my god! Oh my god! Congrats baby!” You have him a peck on the lips and open the passenger door.

“You can throw your bag in the back seat.”  

“Billy this is amazing! But... why a Camaro as your first car?”

“Because I like Camaros?... Look, I’ve had my eye on this specific car since New Years. Plus I’m a good driver.” You nodded, a little skeptical, but trusting in his judgment nonetheless.

He started the engine and backed out of the parking lot.  

Loud rock music blasted through the windows as you drove by people, making heads turn. It was a good feeling. Something you hadn’t felt in a while.

You were mindlessly bobbing your head to the music, facing the passenger window.

Billy glanced at you. He gave you a sad smile and put a hand on your thigh.

“You doin’ okay, (Y/N)?”

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Wanna stop somewhere and get food?”

“Sure.”

-

You only got a soda, but you stole a fry from Billy every so often.

“You going to Sarah’s bonfire next Thursday?”

You shrugged, “I dunno. I’m not really friends with Sarah.”

Billy scoffed, “So? I don’t think anyone going is really friends with her.”

“Yeah, but…” You sighed, “I don’t know... I’m not sure I’ll go.” Billy rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“You never go out anymore. Hell, we didn’t even go to homecoming this year!”

“You said you didn’t want to go to homecoming!”

“Yeah, but that’s only because I knew you didn’t wanna go.” Billy pursed his lips for a second before continuing to speak, “Look I know you and Jubilee were really close, but you can’t just shut yourself out from everything.”

“I’m not shutting myself out!”

“Then prove it, princess.”

You glared daggers at Billy. He knew you hated that nickname. He knew!

“Fine asshole. I’ll go to Sarah’s stupid bonfire.” You dipped a fry in your ketchup with a bit too much force. “There, see? I go out.”

He raised his eyebrows and feigned surprise, “Guess I was wrong.” He then ate the fry from your hand.

-

You got home before dark, however, your house was dark inside, meaning you were home alone.

You walked into your room and sighed and set your bag on your bed. You kicked your shoes off and laid on your back. You squirmed a bit, having some uncomfort.

Getting up, you headed to the bathroom. You turned on the light and locked the door shut, then you took your jacket off.

You admired your back in the mirror, “Okay so they’re not noticeable from under my shirt—” You took your shirt off and gazed at your shoulder blades. “Okay, I should shave tomorrow. Yeah. Shave tomorrow, that’ll be good.”

When your parents got home you told them you already ate and were heading to bed. They didn’t question it and bid you sweet dreams.

-

You pressed snooze at least five times, for it was a weekend.

You only woke up when your mother banged on your door repeatedly. “(Y/N) get up! Get up!”

“Just give me a minute!” You tied your hair up in a scrunchie, and changed your sweatpants for leggings, leaving on the baggy shirt you wore to bed.

“What do you want?”

“It’s the Hargroves.” Your heart was pounding. Was Billy okay? Was his mom alright?  

“They were in a car accident. Billy and his mom are in the hospital right now—” You pushed past your mother and ran to the kitchen. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the hospital! I need to know if they’re okay!”

-

Your mom had a cow when she saw you take her car to the hospital, worried you’d get into an accident yourself, but you didn’t care.

After parking, you made your way into the hospital lobby.

“Um, hi. Hi. I’m here to see Billy Hargrove.”

The woman looked you up and down before responding, “He’s not taking any visitors right now. Only family can see him.”

“We are family.” You spat. The woman looked taken back and stuttered out an apology and his room number. You didn’t even thank her, you were so quick on your feet, hurrying to see if he was okay. And his car…

Oh god. He just got the Camaro— Unless it was his mom’s car. Maybe his mom’s car was in the wreck. Either way, it was a messy situation.

You slowed down and started mentally counting the room numbers— looking for Billy’s.

“333… 334… 335… 336.” Billy’s hospital room. You had no idea where his mom was, but that didn’t matter right now. You just needed to know Billy was alright. You couldn’t have someone close to you taken away, not again.

-

“Um, hi. I’m Billy’s girlfriend, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” You awkwardly waved at the doctor.

“Oh, yes. Hello, I’m Dr. Marcus. We called your parents.”

“Yeah, I came down quickly as I could. Is he okay?”

“Billy will be fine. His biggest injury is a minor sprain in his wrist.” You tried to get a good look at him. He was sleeping, arm wrapped up, and a bruise on his face.

“How about I explain what happened outside?” You nodded and stepped out of the room.  

“Dr. Marcus, what happened exactly?”

“A man went through a red light as Billy was driving. He t-boned their Ford Fairmont.”

At least it wasn’t his Camero.

“What happened to—”

“Where is he?” A deep voice asked. You turned to look at the man.

Great, he’s here.

“Mr. Hargrove, Billy’s asleep right now.”

“What is she doing here?” He sneered at you.

“We called (Y/N) up here. I’m telling her what happened to Billy and Helen.”

“I don’t know why she needs to be here! She’s just his damn girlfriend. All she does is cause trouble and get others blamed for it. Wearing her stupid jacket all the time, and getting her friend sent to boarding school.”

“That—”

“Don’t interrupt me.” You suddenly wished you were twenty times smaller, or that you could turn invisible.

“(Y/N), how about you wait inside for Billy to wake up while I speak to his father?” You scurried back inside the hospital room.

-

You tried to make out what they were saying, but you couldn’t.

It wouldn’t matter anyway, for Billy was starting to wake up.

He let out a groan, probably adjusting to waking up. “Hey, baby. How are you feeling?” He blinked a few times and tried wiping the sleep away from his eyes.

“(Y/N)?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s me. The hospital called. I came down here to see you.”   

“Aw fuck.”

“What is it?”

“They called him too didn’t they?”

You didn’t answer; you didn’t have to. Billy knew they’d call his dad.

“God damn it,” He groaned.

“I’m sure he’ll leave after they give him some more info. You know he doesn’t stay too long for anything.” Billy just rolled his eyes in response.

-

Dr. Marcus entered the room alone. “Your dad’s leaving, but he’ll be here tomorrow to take you home.”

“I wanna stay here with my mom until she recovers. He doesn’t need to pick me up.”

“About that…”

Tag List: @mooniessuniverse @warrentrash 

[sushildhiman]

Top 10 Wedding Photography Myths: Wedding Photographers and Brides, Oh My!

You might be getting married (congrats, by the way) and trying to decide whether or not to even hire a wedding photographer. You might be trying to decide now on which photography professional to choose for your wedding day. You might be a wedding photographer, trying to understand the delicate and confounding psyche of those who engage in wedding planning.

Whoever you are, for your reading pleasure, check out the top 10 myths of wedding photography as relayed by a photographer who still loves taking pictures. These are broken in to three categories: a. Myths about not hiring a professional at all; b. Myths about the selection process; and c. Myths about how the photography should be done.

CATEGORY A: I don't need/want a wedding photographer because:

1. My cousin's roommate from college just got the new Canon 999D and a plethora of 'L ' professional series lenses; it will be great (and, did I mention, FREE!).

Is it impossible to find a good free photographer? No. Is it likely? No. Is it a good idea? Almost never. But hey, it is your wedding day. You can chance it on the stranger who could very well be overly intrigued by the bridesmaid who has just a little bit too much to drink at the reception and starts to dance provocatively. That way, the bulk of your photos could be of her. Perfect, right? And free. In this situation, you can just point out to your kids, twenty years down the road, that the photographer did take these photos with really cutting edge technology, which is why you can see just so much detail of the lewd woman at your wedding with, how shall we say... 'perky' breasts. No, she isn't the bride, but doesn't she look like she is having fun?

2. Why would I get a photographer? Everybody and their dog has a camera (even cell phones pictures are creeping up in the 'megapixel' race). The snapshots from guests will suffice.

Yes, it is true to state that most of us now carry a camera on our body at all times (on our phone at the very least). Moreover, at a wedding, many if not most guests bring some type of additional camera to memorialize the event (particularly things that go wrong, if they don't like you; tears from the groom if they do). However, rigorous double blind studies have been done on the data stream to which we are referring, and they all show one thing. These pictures have a 99.9982% chance of sucking. Really badly. There might be one great photo of the bunch, of a dog at the end of the aisle that meant so much to Great Aunt Esther. It will be perfectly exposed, focused, and display Sparky with a beautiful stance using great composition.

3. Wedding photography is too expensive - why would I support an industry of so-called 'professionals' who really only work a few hours a week. I don't know whether to be angry or jealous.

You can be angry if you would like. You can even be jealous, since we have a job that (hopefully) we love, and take great pride in. If you think we work a few hours for a single wedding, you are fooling yourself. Those are the hours that you see us at the wedding; suffice it to say, many hours of preparation went in to that particular wedding, countless hours will proceed upon the end of wedding day in post-production. When done correctly, the work is extensive, fun, and pays decent.

CATEGORY B: I do need/want a wedding photographer, but the selection process should be limited:

4. I'll hire my photographer after all the other planning is done. I'll select the flowers, the venue, the dj or band, the bridesmaid dresses, the honeymoon hotel, and more. Then I'll think photography.

Of course you will wait till the last few months to hire a photographer. Why would you want a wedding professional like a great photographer to help you with smart referrals for all the other services you will be seeking? While a good photographer will have worked with a spectacular cake business in previous weddings and gladly suggest that you check them out, you can spend forty-seven hours pouring over brochures featuring batman shaped carrot cakes (a theme which will certainly to take off when new brides really stop and think about it). Really, though, consider this - waiting will only limit your choices. Photographers contract for specific dates. When your arch enemy plans her wedding on the same day as you (out of spite), she will also try to wrap up the services of the best photographer in town. Beat her to that photographer for years of bragging rights.

5. I don't want recommendations - why would I care what some other couple says about this photographer? I love her website; it is shiny, happy, and new. It makes me smile on the inside.

Classy websites abound among wedding photographers, for all of the obvious reasons. You are considering paying them money for an art, so the designs they use for marketing and information delivery, then, should be equally artistic. However, take a quick look at the photographers in your location, and I'll bet that you find one with an impressive website, with dramatic motion and animated vines growing out of the monitor and instant chat functionality with on demand videos... and other cool technological things I don't even know about. However, you may also find that this particular photographer has acceptable photographs, and nothing more. Then, I hope, you will realize that you deserve more than acceptable photography from a marketing guru who dabbles in photography.

6. I'm looking for a photographer who can take pictures - that is ALL. Give me the product, and then keep on your merry way, Mr. Camera Man.

Well, it is not the case that I am going to suggest you develop a relationship with your photographer that you would develop with, say, the groom. However, the talent or skill of taking good photographs really is only part of the package. A photographer ought to also be able to show up on time, dressed appropriately, converse with the guests, corral the wedding party, and so on. Otherwise, you will have the photographer who shows up at the wrong location, late, wearing her parka in the Florida summer because of her 'extreme anti-social' nature and a desire to photograph only the frogs near the wading pool. Again, the frog photos might be great. But you will have to reminisce about your wedding without any visual evidence to support the memories.

7. I want a photographer who does the latest post-processing fad, and proudly displays it. An absurdly heavy vignette with color spot and 'double exposure'? Groovy.

Some photographers, myself included, groan just a little bit on the inside when clients request a particular photographic fad that jeopardizes the timeless nature of photography. What we typically shoot for are photographs that will speak to the event itself, and not serve as an indication of the era. Granted, some of the content of the photo - the people and places photographed - will pick out clothing styles, automotive or architectural design, and the like. But the photography itself - the image - should fail to scream 'This happened in 1984 - no one superimposes a ghost-like image of the grooms head over the bride praying anymore.'

CATEGORY C: I've got a photographer, and here is what is going to happen:

8. I want ONLY [formal or candid] shots. Any shots other than [formal or candid] are stupid, make me cry, and give me stomach pain.

Use antacid and just stop it already! No, really. Virtually every wedding photography professional practices the craft in a way that utilizes the benefit of multiple 'styles' of wedding photography. Some photographers emphasize one over the other - mostly heavily posed fashion shots, say, with only a few candid shots from the ceremony and reception. However, understand that both styles, and so both sets of images, will tell the story of the day, whereas the absence of one of those sets would yield a collection that isn't as rich or descriptive.

As you select your photographer(s), you will take a look at the collection of photographs that he or she chooses to display prominently, and these will speak volumes about the style of photography that is most important to that person. However, it is perfectly reasonable to expect (dare I say, assume) a certain amount of variety in the final collection of images.

9. I've got a shot list. It is important to me. There are many like it, but this one is mine. Deviation from this list will result in a world of pain. To the photographer who dares to cross me.

Please understand, it is the opinion of this author that certain wedding planning resources overstate the rigid and unyielding nature of wedding planning, which can be far more organic and fun than you might otherwise believe. That is right, I just claimed that wedding planning can be fun. So that means that you don't need to hang your head in shame when you haven't selected the caterer by the 18th planning day when the moon is in decent. THERE AREN'T STRICT RULES ABOUT THIS STUFF.

Nor is there a strict rule about the beloved (alternatively: dreaded) shot list. Such a list can be quite useful in many situations, particularly when family members in attendance are especially important (for whatever reason) and certain shots are needed of them prior to, say, their imminent demise. (This happens to photographers, unfortunately, with some regularity. The groom will pull us aside midway through the reception, and mention the fact the we should really try to get some great shots of the brides father who "will not be with us much longer.")

For those that can't resist looking over typical shot lists, your best bet will be to print out one that you like, highlight a few that are especially important ('a few' in English means three or so; I didn't write 'highlight all of them'), and hand it to your photographer. Nicely state that, while you are sure that she would capture these regardless of the list, the highlighted shots are REALLY important to you. Message sent, right?

10. I will direct my photographer throughout my wedding day like the pitiful waif that he is. (Alternatively, the photographer will direct me throughout my wedding day and I'll obey every command.)

Neither of these options will occur; no one should allow it. Your wedding day is YOURS in every sense, and you are given enormous powers to direct the vendors you hire. However, the vendors you hire, including your wedding photographer, are professionals and know what they are doing. While this may very well be your third wedding day, presumably your photographer has had even more.

The service provided by wedding photographers is one best performed in the presence of open communication. There may be a situation where your photographer has an idea, pitches it to you, and you decline (nicely, of course, but firmly). "No," you say. "I will not place that stuffed animal under my arm while humming the Battle Hymn of the Republic, gazing thoughtfully towards the east." Similarly, there may be a case where you suggest a shot and your photographer says 'no thanks.' "No," he says. "I will not take that photo; it makes me uncomfortable and I have never worked for Larry Flynt, so I don't have that kind of training." This type of open communication is the best (and only) way to conduct business for a photographer, and we expect it of our brides as well!

Sushil Dhiman is an award-winning professional photographer and considered one of the best Indian professional Wedding Photographers in Chandigarh. Visit our site to know more about Chandigarh photographer.