#the holding of the antlers and the blood. jesus christ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

penaltybox14 · 4 years ago

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@dying-redshirt-noises @its-skadi You could basically title this “feelings are hard” and be done with it.

Every time Jim Reed comes slinking, soft-shouldered, out of the locker room at the end of the night, Mac wants to stop him. Wants to talk to him.

Listen, he wants to say. Listen, it's not you.

Mac wishes he could sit him down without the uniform and the stripes and the years between them and tell him about Pete.

Sometimes, he does hold Reed up. Sometimes he says - how're things going? And Reed nods earnestly and says things are fine, really, Sarge, things are going ok.

Reed's not a bad liar but Mac's seen a lot of eyes in his years and they always give 'em away, even the young men who believe they can't be hurt. Reed's not stupid, not really - just new, just some yearling who hasn't settled into his stride yet, who wears his badge like a buck wears a new pair of antlers. He's a good kid. A fool kid, but a good kid.

Mac thinks that Pete can see that, too - which is really part of the problem, isn't it?

Mac'd love to have a beer with the kid, and tell him about Pete. How he laughs and how he drinks. How he kids but he's honest to the core. How he loves, and how he's loyal to a fault. Mac could tell him stories so raw and rowdy they'd take the blue off the sky. He could tell Reed how Pete was.

But that's just the problem, isn't it.

When the Captain and the Lieutenant had asked him what he thought of assigning Pete a rookie, he was all for it. He would've set up a full briefing, with color photographs and pull-down charts and diagrams on the chalkboard, about how they couldn't find anyone in the division better, Pete would for sure drag any rookie through the briar but he'd drag him out too, he'd be by his side all the way. Pete would tease the kid and teach him. Mac could've told them all about him, but he typed it out in measured sentences, to only say that yes, he would recommend Pete for the job.

Pete had talked to him about it. Pete, being Pete, wasn't too sure. Pete had always had a patient streak, and he liked to get the facts before he made a move.

Mac had said, what do you mean? You remember being the rookie, you just be the guy you needed to bring you along.

And Pete had said, what I needed was to get a clock upside the head.

But he was grinning when he said it, the smile he had that rose into his eyes when he meant mischief.

Mac had said, and that's why I've got the stripes and you don't, pal.

By the end of the watch, Tommy was bearing Pete's taunts about his hair with reasonable humor. Tommy was a stolid kid who still had acne under his ears, a boy with a bad case of bravery but a kind face, and kind hands. He came out to inspection his first day with his badge on upside-down, and Mac had liked him immediately.

"He's like you," Pete had told him.

Mac had frowned at him - "I don't know how I feel about that."

Pete, grinning, the laugh at the corner of his mouth, said "Me neither, Mac."

Two shifts in and Mac was pretty sure the two of them were plotting to woo every eligible woman in the division, four shifts and there was a fake scorpion in Walters' locker, but Mac couldn't be too mad, because Pete was teaching the kid to be a good cop. Pete's tongue was a knife some watch-nights, but it was carving a good man out of the raw-boned boy.

It was a good couple of weeks. So good, that Mac still yearns for the laugh ringing in the locker room, the way a treble note hangs in the rafters of a church, the way a boy's hand remembers the first shy touch of a girl. They were riding high, Pete and Tommy, faltering sometimes, but falling to each other's shoulders. The Lieutenant had said, Mac, you were right about him, for sure. And the Captain had even thanked him for the recommendation - but please, he'd said, creases milding his eyes, keep them out of my office.

Mac thought he could do that, he said to Pete, the Captain tells me if you give him any more grey hairs he's going to start charging you for the dye job.

"Just me? What about Tommy?"

"You're the senior man, Pete. You've got responsibilities now."

"You mean I've got custody."

"That's another way to put it."

"I'll have him in home and in bed by one o'clock."

"Make sure he brushes his teeth."

"You got it, Papa Bear."

Pete was smiling when he left him, and smiling when he swung Tommy out to the parking lot by the shoulder. Mac had followed them. It was a cool night, and a dense fog had lumbered into the basin, and in the drizzle their breath hovered in front of their faces as they got in the car, talking about something. Probably women, or perhaps where to go for seven. Maybe where to stash another fake scorpion. Mac had a cigarette, watching them pull away.

The smile on Pete's face, and the way the drizzle had collected like stars on Tommy's jacket collar, are fixed in his mind as sure as a snapshot.

The next time he saw Pete there had been some expression frozen to his face, something Mac had never seen before, and something that scared him back to being twenty with a rifle in his hands. The look on his face was like an trapped animal, and his teeth, bared and chattering, shone in the damp black night.

Tommy was dead on the ground out in front a of a very ordinary looking house, a yellow Craftsman with a picket fence, a slate walkway, a neatly trimmed lawn and a wreath of plastic flowers on the door, which was open.

Tommy's eyes were open, too, halfway, and his mouth, and Mac thought maybe the light from the porch was casting a long shadow from Tommy's sprawled shoulder but it wasn't, it was blood, and the blood was still wet.

Blood and grass was in Pete's hair, on his jacket, on his knuckles. There was a man mostly in the patrol car and he'd been cuffed and was spitting onto the curb.

Walters had Pete by the arm, both of them tense, Pete a storm and Walters a rowboat tossed on waves. Walters' face was splashed with porch-light and pale with hollow fear.

There was so much to take in, so much to sort out. On the back end of it, after the detectives had spit Pete back out and he sat in the locker room half in uniform, Mac had wanted to go to him, like a sergeant would, like a friend would. But Pete was sitting there in his ruined shirt - the blood had dried in muddy blotches, and Mac thought he could smell it, like meat in the market, or maybe it was just the lockers, just the smell of men's bodies crammed in, joking and sweating and laughing and living.

Pete just sitting there dumbstruck on the bench, his eyes far-off, looking young and strangely small, as if he'd shrunk a size or two. Sat there like a kid who'd lost a fight too big to win, waiting on authority to come down on him.

Looking an awful lot like Reed did some nights after watch, an expression pinched with lonesome thoughts, trying to get it right, trying to catch a break, trying so hard he trips over his own feet, his face, his words, his hands.

Mac isn't sure which of them he wants to grab and throttle more. Jim, who runs headlong - every damn time - into Pete's wicked tongue or worse his silence, or Pete, too damn stubborn to remember who pulled the trigger. He wants to shake some sense into the both of them, either of them, whoever runs afoul of him first. It's a rotten, surly kind of anger, something that makes his chest feel like caving in.

It takes a warehouse bust to finally snap his temper like tinder on a hillside. Nothing serious, but the kid takes a right-hook to the jaw and a carton of computer parts to the gut. Reed is writing the report with an bag of ice to his face, when his nose starts bleeding again.

"Aw, Christ, Reed, wouldya get that fixed? Look, you're - jesus, you've fucked up your book."

"Sorry, sir," Reed mumbles, fumbling over grabbing a kleenex or shoving the ice-bag into his face. "Sorry," comes out all muffled.

"Don't be fucking sorry, kid, don't do it!"

In the time he's been Sergeant, Mac has pulled rank less than a hand of times on Pete. Not because they're friends - but because his friend has never made it necessary.

"Malloy." He barks, his voice dropping an octave, calling up his service days, and the few officers still around make themselves scarce.

Because they're friends, though, Mac drags him to the locker room and not his office, where the window makes it too easy for the rubberneckers to lurk.

"What in the hell is this about?"

That stubborn kid from the Academy with the smoke-blue eyes is staring back at him with boxer's shoulders cocked. "What?"

"You! Reed! You've raked that kid over the coals almost every watch I've seen you two - everything he does right, you give him two things he did wrong."

"You wanted me to teach him."

"Teach him! Pete, you're grinding him down to a nub, lay off, will you?"

"Lay off, what'll that get him? A fist in his teeth, like tonight? I let him get complacent, he's liable to get a bullet in his head."

"I'm not asking you to give him free rein, I'm asking you to be reasonable. A bloody nose isn't his fault."

"It's his fault for getting it, isn't it?"

"Is it? Who's his FTO, Pete? Who's his partner? Who's supposed to be looking out for him?"

That's the wrong thing to say, and Mac knows it. Pete's face seals it, that stunned look from eight weeks ago, the hands with the blood on them that wasn't his, and the ruined shirt crumpled on the floor outside the showers.

He's known him long enough to dodge the hit, and he hasn't been so long off the streets that his body's forgotten how to fight.

If anybody's thinking about coming to the lockers about now, they'd damn well better think twice.

If anybody sees them, he's going to have to save face, he's going to have to be the sergeant, and he can't do it, can't twist the knife he's already jammed in.

So he pins Pete, like he'd wrestle a perp, and Pete curses him, curses his family, curses Jim, curses God and the world, curses Tommy Parker, and finally, finally, he curses himself.

"Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ, what'd I do, Mac, what'd I do? I've thought about it a hundred, a thousand times, what'd I do? Why didn't I think of it, why didn't I remind him, stay to the side? Why'd I send him first? He wasn't ready, Mac, he wasn't."

"If you'd gone, it might be him taking a swing at me right now."

Pete laughs a jolting laugh, like boxcars clanging in the yards. "Tom couldn't hit the broadside of a barn."

"No. Wasn't much of a fighter."

Pete breathes in deep, breathes out hard. But his eyes are softer.

"Pete," he says, letting him up and letting him stand, man-to-man, against the wall. "It wasn't your fault."

"That's what everyone says."

"It isn't Reed's fault, either."

Pete looks away. At the lockers. At the scuffed floor. At the ceiling, where one panel is askew, because Brinkman and Parker were relieving their high school glory days with an apple from the breakroom.

"Pete. It's not his fault."

"Yeah." Pete sighs. "Yeah. I know."

"Well, could you act like it, then?"

"What do you want me to do, hold his hand?"

"Apologize, for one. Two, treat him like a person. And three, get him a new ice pack and a box of kleenex."

Pete's smile is shaky, but it's the most genuine Mac's seen on him in two months. "You gonna write me up for assaulting an officer?"

"No, but if you ever try anything like it again, I'm staking you out on the beach and dumping french fries on you. Those Manhattan Beach gulls get hold of you, there won't be anything left to write up."

Pete shrugs. "Fair." Pete brushes his uniform off. Tucks the hem of his shirt back into his pants. "Mac."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

#adam-12 #sass is a love language #sergeant macdonald #pete malloy #jim reed #butterfly meme: is this homoeroticism?

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fightevilandthengetblownup · 5 years ago

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FIC: Tell You All The Things You Should Know

“I’m out, I’m out! You two win, Jesus Christ I surrender.” There was a round of laughter from the pair of them as the third of their little party lurched to his feet from the seat around the beat up table. Sam’s hands were like fleshy dinner plates at the size of them on the table as he pushed his way to his feet with a slight wobble and away. “You guys are crazy, I give up.”

“Aww Sammy, can’t hold your liquor any more?” Dean joked in response, shifting in his seat to watch as his brother caught his balance and rolled his eyes down at the smirking pair remaining at the table. Bobby had left with a snifter of whiskey several hours earlier and a hissed request that the three of them keep the celebrations down; and now Sam was giving into his weak will like Dean had called almost two hours earlier when Jo had brought out the whiskey and vodka rather than just the rounds of beers. “Go on then, get yourself up for a sleep you giant waste of potential.”

“Har har, Dean.” The other sneered back, rolling his eyes again before leaning down to ruffle the blonde on the other side of the table to Dean’s hair up into a mussed pile atop her head. “Don’t let him pass out when you win, Jo, you hear?”

“Sure thing, Sam. Sweet dreams.” Jo’s voice was softer, more conscious of the request for quiet from their host than Dean could remember to be in his current state, or maybe she just sounded softer than he could ever achieve. Dean felt a shiver of envy when she grabbed a hold of Sam’s hand like it was nothing and gave it a squeeze before the other lumbered off through the study towards the stairs.

There was a quiet pause as they could hear the heavy footfalls of the other walking up the stairs and bumbling about on the next floor, before Jo reached out to pour them each another double of whiskey in the same glasses they had been using all night. It was a night to celebrate after all.

—

It had been Sam who decided to call in for backup on the case, and Dean had been surprised when their hotel door had opened to reveal the short, blonde woman rather than the older, cap-wearing hunter they had called about the case.

“So, which of you chuckleheads went and got yourself spotted by the pretty deer-lady?”

The words had gotten a huffed chuckle from Sam as he jerked his head towards where Dean still staring as Jo’d made her way into the room and thrown her dufflebag down on the bed that had Sam’s special chiropractic pillow he’d started taking everywhere with him.

“Stands to reason she went for the cute one.” Jo quipped, smiling up at Sam as she was practically engulfed by his brother in a hug before there was the sound of a loud, girlish squeak. “Hey!”

“That’s what you get for under appreciating me!” Sam replied, releasing her and tugging on her hair sharply in the same jesting way he had before. “What are you doing here anyway? We thought Bobby was coming.”

“Ah he was, but Rufus called and you know how that goes.” The other replied, smiling and holding her hands out in a ‘ta-da’ fashion, before she finally looked over at him. “So voila! Your knight in shinin’ armour is here to save your asses.”

“Really? You’re our saviour, huh?” Dean remarked, raising a brow at her as he continued to work on cleaning his gun as the other hunter made her way into the room and towards the wall covered in newspaper clippings of missing and dead men in the area, the locations of last sightings (practically all being local nightlife hot spots where dancing and dim lighting and the loud thud of music would cover practically any and all noise) and some pieces of lore that they had thought it may be originally. Jo looked decidedly unimpressed and began removing pieces while the brothers’ looked on. “And what makes you think you’re the woman for the job?”

“Easy, Deano, because I, unlike you, will not be fallin’ under some pretty gal’s charms and getting myself on her deadly bed post.”

That had proved far too accurate as the hunt had progressed with Jo’s calm and efficient research added to their own, Sam’s thoughtful suggestions, and Dean’s overall ability to come up with unorthodox ideas on the fly when things went haywire.

It had started out downhill, given Dean had already found himself caught up in a dance with the strawberry blonde previously before they’d realised exactly what they had been hunting, with him having to play bait for the first time in a long while. Things had gone well though with the suggestion, shouted over the thudding music, to take things back to his hotel room going down smoothly with the beauty. From there, it had been Jo’s idea to fill the room with cigarette smoke through the vents from the unaffected pair while Dean attempted to avoid falling under the monster’s powers too far that he would be run through and drained by her hidden antlers like the rest of her victims before having his blood drank and energy absorbed.

While the Deer Woman had been subdued by the smoke and eventually collapsed and died from the inhalation of the tobacco substance in the cramped room, Dean had tried to hide the fact he had indeed fallen victim to her, the cut on his neck oozing slightly while Sam and Jo had wrapped the body in tobacco leaves and cut off the cloven hooves of her feet as per Bobby’s instruction. If either Sam or Jo wanted to comment about it, they’d both kept their mouths shut after a significant glance while Sam had carried the body to the impala’s trunk and Jo had set to the task of patching his neck up instead quietly.

From there, they had returned as a group to Bobby’s house to celebrate a hunt well down and relax some - and in Dean’s case, to be berated for being distracted “as always” by a pretty face by the older hunter for a good half an hour while the other two had watched on in mirth.

—

“Has it been long enough I can start with the jokes yet?” Jo asked, head tilted to one side as Dean tossed back his double whiskey with a hiss at the burning to his throat. She didn’t even flinch at the loud slam of his glass back onto the table, and he had to bit down a laugh at the bemused look on her face. “Cause, like, I very rarely get to be the white knight and I am so totally ready to rub it in your face.”

“Oh really? You think you saved me, huh?”

“I don’t think, I know. You were all ready to get wrapped up and ruttin’ with that girl-”

“Monster-”

“Fucking girl, Dean. You didn’t know what she was to start with, so stop trying to pretend it matters what she was.” Jo laughed a little, shaking her head at him as she rolled her eyes.

Dean shrugged a shoulder in response, hand wrapping around the whiskey bottle and refilling his own glass and then adding another double pour to her own. If she was going to be drinking with him, he thought, she would be matching him like for like at least. “Of course it matters. I mean, maybe not to someone like you, but it does matter.” The moment the words were out his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say, the wrong time to bring this up and the complete wrong emphasis to be making to try to make this point or bring this topic up.

“Someone like me, huh?” Jo asked quietly, a blonde brow raised across at him as she lifted her glass to her lips with a small frown. Dean felt like his tongue was ten times too large as he watched her, too large to correct himself correctly quick enough to stop whatever was going to come next. What did was the almost professional tip of her head as she polished off the entirety of her glass in one gulp and barely even coughed at the burn of alcohol down her oesophagus. There was a matching slam to his own before she was pouring herself a double and touching his up the same amount again with a sneer. “What did you mean by that, Dean?”

“Jo, you know I didn’t mean-”

“Oh yes you did. You meant a lot by that, so lets do this. You tell me exactly what you meant about someone like me.”

“I didn’t… That.. It wasn’t what I meant by that.”

“But what did you mean by it?” Jo practically hissed the question out, eyes sharper than they had any right to be from the amount of drinks they had both consumed so far that night; and Dean wasn’t sure what it was that was keeping her more focused than himself, but he was definitely feeling the draw to talk he would not usually do without copious amounts of liquor in his system.

Shaking his head and lifting his glass to sip at its contents slowly, the older hunter gave a weary sigh. “I just meant that you would think that what the monster was wouldn’t matter. Since it doesn’t seem to matter to you that you’re sleeping one with yourself.” The truth tasted better on his tongue for once than the lies or the bitten off remarks he had been struggling to keep a hold of ever since he showed up on her and the monster’s doorstep months and months ago. At the same time however, as Jo’s eyes seemed to flash with something he couldn’t recognise, Dean abstractly thought maybe he should keep this concealed and buried instead before the fuzzy thoughts faded that again. “It matters to me, but of course you wouldn’t see it that way.”

“And what does it make me to you that I’m… with a monster?” Jo’s voice was quiet and almost accusatory as she looked across at him, her own glass almost half drank already. “What’s it matter or mean to you, Dean?”

“It’s wrong is all, but you know that already Jo.” He scrubbed a hand across his face as he lent his elbow onto the table top and refused to drop his eyes from her widening ones - this talk was a long, long time coming, and made even more needed for him since that hunt a little while back. “I get that you’re all like… in fucking love with him or something, whatever the fuck that means with a manipulating, mind-controlling thing like he is, but Jo, you know that your whole thing is wrong. He’s a fucking monster, for God’s sake, you should know better than to think that’s okay."

“Would you say that I was a blood traitor? That my standards were gone? That I should just bow out?"

Dean balked at the first question, eyes zeroing in on the frozen, icy look on Jo's face as she spoke. There was something to her tone as she talked that Dean couldn't quite place.

"That's not quite-"

"Not quite how you'd put it?" Jo snapped back, her hand tightly gripping around her glass as she raised a brow at him. "How would you put it?"

“It’s just wrong, Jo. It’s Sam and Ruby all over again, and we all know how that ended!” He growled back, hands forming into fists between his knees under the table top as he tried to hold himself back from getting drawn into the anger about that situation again. Jo scoffed at him, flipping her hair and rolling her eyes, which just got another growl from him in response.

“Jesus Christ, I know how that did but this isn’t the same, Dean. Ruby was fuckin�� manipulating him and was so bad for him, this ain’t even remotely like that. This is good for me.”

"But you could do better. You deserve better." Dean found himself answering, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought. "I get that you think you're happy right now, and I'm glad you've got some in your life - I really am, Jo - but it's with a freaking monster of all things. You couldn't have found it with a real person?"

“He is a real person, you asshole.”

“He’s riding about in a real person.”

That got a scraping of metal chair legs upon the tile floor as the other jerked to her feet angrily. Jo looked furious, but Dean just couldn’t find the response to care. It was the truth, he was simply telling her the truth.

“Of course, of fucking course, that’s how you see it!” Jo flung a hand up with the inelegance of an angry, tipsy Sorority Girl as she span about on her heel in the centre of the small kitchen before pointing her finger at him, waggling it. “That’s how all your fucking assholes see this, ain’t it? Just seem ‘im as a fucking monster, another thing to fuckin’ hunt!” She clenched her fist as he looked back at her, unrepentant at all that he’d upset her and feeling the fuzzy buzz of the drinks smoothing his own need to get up and resettle her nerves right now. He was right and she was wrong, and that needed to get across to her. “Just another thing that needs to be dead, and I’m just a fuckin’ foolish little girl who’s a disgrace to the community, right? Bet you wouldn’t have lifted a fuckin’ finger for us if you’d known the truth.”

“Wouldn’t what?!”

“You heard me! You’d have let Walker do what he wanted if Bobby’d told you the truth, Dean. You’d have turned your back and let him do whatever he was planning to us.” Jo’s voice cracked slightly as she stared down at him, and Dean could see the slight shake of her hands as she pulled both arms in against her chest, staring at him like a drowning man desperate for help. He found himself rising to his feet as her words fanned to burning, scorching heat the flames of his own anger at the accusations. “I know you, Dean. You would have left me to face him alone if you knew it was over Grey.”

“Over a monster, you mean.” Dean snarled back, stepping right into her space and sneering down at her as Jo glared defiantly up at him. “Not over anything but a fucking monster.”

“But you.. you don’t deny it.” Her voice wavered then, eyes wide but clearly furious as they stared down one another. A battle of wills finally coming to a head. “You don’t deny you’d have let Walker do what he wanted. You gonna deny if you’d have helped him out too, or not?” Jo’s eyes looked glassy and shiny under the dim, old bulb of the kitchen light, and Dean could barely stand the way she hissed out the next words. “You want to deny you’d have killed Grey instead of wanting Gordon dead? You want to deny you haven’t thought about finishing the job?”

“Jo, I wouldn’t-”

“Oh, but just because it was Gordon yeah? Just because it was the guy that had been gunning for your brother, right? That’s the only reason you sided with me over him, innit? If some other hunter asked you to, you’d do it in a heartbeat.” Her words felt like bolts, spearing right through him and leaving him an open bleeding mess at how true they sounded. Jo’s eyes were staring through him and leaving him to the naked truth of just how he would behave if any other hunter, anyone other than Gordon Walker, had been the one targeting her and her monster. She shook her head when he remained silent, one shaking hand wiping at the wet track on her cheek. “I bet you’d not even disagree with his plan to cut the stain out from Grey would you. Bet you just see a trail of monster filth on me every second you look at me these days, huh, bet I’m nothin’ but monster-fuckin’ trash when you really think about it and you’d want to rid me of anything he’s touched... Even though it is every single part of me.”

That broke the heavy tension between them, his hands coming up to grasp her shoulders tightly and shake them harshly as the idea washed through his mind. If he had received a call about some monster being alive and fucking with Jo? If he had heard Gordon Walker’s take on the pair? If he’d seen them together and just known it was a monster with the ability to control thoughts, and memories, and feelings?

Dean could barely see Jo behind the watery film covering his eyes, snarling and shaking her harshly, with fingers dug in tightly as if afraid to let her go and have this be what she thought of him. “Jo..” He grunted the word out as he blinked, and suddenly he could see her clearly again - her eyes wide and her mouth open in a gasp of pain at his tight grip on her and the almost violent shakes, but making no move to stop him or strike back just a look of simple acceptance flooding across her face - and he let go as if his hands were burnt. “Jo I... I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, Dean.” There was an almost resigned sound to her voice as Jo lifted her hands to rub at her shoulders gently, a flash of pain on her face that rushed over his anger like a tidal wave of ice cold water to the hot flames.

“No, no, Jo I’m sorry. For everything.”

“No your not.”

He felt something constrict hard at that, the way she said it sounding achingly familiar to something she’d said before that he had barely heard and barely remembered when he’d stormed out of the old bar without a glance behind. The resignation, the acceptance and the heartbreak in her tone lanced him right through in a way it hadn’t that previous time. Before? She had just been like a little school girl in his mind, a capable and fierce one, but something off limits and far from what he could handle or desire at the time. Something to be protected from the world and most of all from himself in that tumultuous time they first crossed paths. But now? Now he saw her for what she had always been, and hearing that tone from her, just how much more responsible, accepting and mature she still was to him that she could read him like a book and still care and hurt from his actions, was enough to pierce it into his very soul to never do this again.

“You’re right. Maybe not for everything right now, but-” Dean let out a shaky breath as he stepped back towards her and replaced his hands where they had been, trapping her own beneath them as her stared down at her stubborn look. “Look. I don’t want to be on the same level as Gordon Walker-”

“Good, then don’t fuckin’ act like him!”

“Will you let me fucking finish, God!” Dean let out a huff that was as close to a laugh as he could get at the impertinent look on Jo’s face and the stubborn set of her jaw as she raised an eyebrow up at him. Rubbing his hands slightly before squeezing in a much gentler, calmer way than he had before, the hunter gave a small sigh before continuing, “I want to be better about this, but it’s hard you know? This is not what I expected would be happening in either of our lives, Jo, and I’m just coming to terms with that let alone what your life really is now.”

“Dean, I know you’re trying to protect my feelings, but that’s long in the past-”

“Your feelings are not the ones I’m trying to be cautious of, Jo, you moron.” That time Dean did feel himself give a short bark of a laugh, feeling the heat in his cheeks as Jo pinned him with a raised brow at that. “You’re good, I know you are, I know that you’re happy and you say that you’re being treated well. Even Sam seems to be a fan of your shad- uh, guy.”

“You know his name is Grey.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause as they stared at one another, Jo’s hip jutted out and if her hands were free he knew they would be planted on either side of her hips and she would be the spitting image of her mother with the determined, forceful look on her face. A thought flashed through his mind watching her that this could have been what he could have had. It felt so real in that moment that this could have been it - they could have been fighting about a hunt or Sam doing something stupid, or her mother calling for the tenth time that week to check up on her - and he could have pulled her up in his arm and kissed that look off her face. Instead, Dean found himself tugging her close and wrapping her up in his arms.

“Dean.. what the fuck?”

“Just let me get this out without you looking at me like that okay?” Dean muttered into her hair, and he could tell the moment she recognised his request at the jerky nod of her head against his chest and the way the tense setting of her shoulders seemed to relax a hair. Sighing to himself, palms almost as big as her ribs across her back, he knew from the soft, fuzziness in his head that this would be the one and only time to get this out once and for all if it was ever to be spoken. With just enough drinks to make his tongue loose and his heart win out over his head; and inevitably to regret it in the morning.

“Jo, I’m sorry for it all. For ignoring you, for denying myself and you as well. For putting you in that position so many times to be hurt because of knowing me. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, and I just couldn’t give you what you deserved.” He wasn’t sure when it happened but he found one hand stroking over her hair gently, and surprised at the slight shudder he felt run through her as he continued. “I’m sorry that you died because of me, and that you couldn’t rely on me when you came back. That it took Bobby calling for me to come around. I should have been there for you the way you always were for me, but I just.. couldn’t.”

“Dean-”

“Shush, I need to say this, Jo.” Dean’s voice rumbled quietly between them before he felt her nod again. Sucking in a deep breath, the taste of whiskey filling his senses from the drinks upon drinks they’d both had, he took a short step back and held the other at a small arms length away, hands on either side of her head. He found himself smiling at the confused bordering on concerned look that spread across her face, brows furrowed but eyes wide as she looked up at him and he didn’t have the will to fight off the little voice telling him to stroke his thumbs across her wet cheeks. “Look, I couldn’t face you, not after what happened. And by the time we got here, I was too late wasn’t I? You’re.. your happy now, and I swear that’s all I want for you these days. You deserve more than I could have ever given you, and if you can look me in the eyes and tell me that’s what you have, I’ll never ever bring this up again.” He could see the sharp jolt run through her eyes at that, and let out a deep sigh as he watched Jo’s eyes run around his face as if chasing what he was sure was an extremely confusing look upon his face for her. “If you can tell me he deserves you and you aren’t just...settling or have got yourself caught in something, then I’ll leave it be and never discuss this again. I’ll even shake his bloody hand, okay? I can’t promise to like him, but I can accept it.”

Dean almost forgot to breathe at the way her face shifted at his last words, from concerned and embarrassed and almost borderline angry into something softer than he’d ever seen from her before. It almost reminded him of the way his Mom had looked at his Dad back in ‘73. That thought sent a shock through him and his hands dropped immediately to his sides as he shifted to look over the top of her head rather than look directly at that look, knowing it was all for the shadow.

“Dean...” Jo’s voice was quiet as she tilted her head at him, drawing his eyes back down to her own against his own will, before she let out a sigh. Next thing he knew, her hands were on each of his cheeks and Dean groaned at the feel of her lips against his for just the briefest moment. They were gone a second later, and as he blinked his eyes open, that look was on her face again, stabbing right through him all over again. Jo was smiling so sweetly he wished he’d been by so much sooner. “Dean, he is the best part of my life. He makes me happy, and I really hope you can be happy for me.”

Clenching his fists, he found himself nodding along as her hands dropped back to her side and Jo stepped back from him without any sign that she had felt any of the shivers, shudders or heart thumping pain he was at it. Gulping thickly, Dean nodded his head at her and rubbed a hand across his face roughly compared to the way he wished to ghost his fingers across his lips but that wouldn’t do. “I’ll try, Jo. I promise.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.” Jo replied brighter than she’d spoken all night before she shifted her weight and pointed back towards the table. “Let’s drink to it being enough for now, right?”

Dean let out a chuckle at her attempt at a carefree suggestion before nodding and moving back to his own seat in sync with her. “Sounds good to me Jo.” He sank down into the rickety old chair, hearing the slight whine of the metal as she refilled both their glasses, looking for all the world as if a weight was off of her shoulders while he knew it had settled sharply down on his own instead. Taking the glass she slid across the worn table top at him, Dean stared at the brown liquor for a long moment. “Enough for now.”

Jo chirped the words back at him, and the sound of their glasses chinking filled the room as they moved to finish the drinks in a toast and Dean tried to hide the burning feeling being from the alcohol alone, before the other began retelling some story of some ‘sexy piece of wood’ she took care of a while back and he forced his lips into a corresponding smile.

That she was happy was enough now.

#CA #deanpov #cc

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atmaandauraofdean · 7 years ago

Audio

Tell me again. What do you remember? We were at Grandma and Grandpa’s… Which ones? Deanna and Samuel Campbell. Good. What happened while you were there? The house was surprising cozy and normal looking for it being owned by two never retiring hunters. There was a ranch-style feel to it- something to be expected of couple born and raised in Kansas. The room that always stuck out in Dean’s mind was the guest room that he shared with Sammy whenever they stayed over there. It was like the rest of the house with the old western feel, the touch of antiquity and grandparent style softness of it all. Every visit left Dean with a hazy, blurry feeling- even after ‘the incident.’ Safe to say, Dean- much to his embarrassment- had many a night for the following eight years where he woke up to the damp discomfort and fetid stench of piss stained sheets that could only be the result of a nightmare about a very traumatizing incident from the past. Back to the room. It had a thin yet heavy tan ranch style quilt with matching pillow cases on the pillows and the sheets were a broken in, baby soft brown. There were nightstands on either side of the bed. Along the wall next to the door to the room was a large vanity style oak dresser with a mirror just as long as Sammy, at the age of 8, was tall. There was another taller oak dresser on the wall opposite the bed that sat in a little cubby like space thanks to the closet that jutted out from the wall behind it and was closed off by two large mirrored sliding doors. On the wall above the bed, slightly off center, was a very old, very expensive painting of Jesus Christ holding a sort of amulet dangling from the hand level with his eyeline and a rosary dangling from his other hand that clutched at his robes. There was a window to the left of the painting that was lined with salt. Three large plush, mock persian rugs of the same design covered most of the visible wooden floors, under each was a devil’s trap. The wall opposite the door had squat but abundant and overflowing bookshelves with different knick knacks and toys decorating the top. This was Dean’s favorite room in all the world. Dean was haunted by a weekend that he’d spent at his grandparents home. Everyone said it was amazing he remembered the night at all since he was only two when it happened. Mommy had already died but Dean couldn’t remember it. Sammy said it was a fire in his baby brother’s nursery- which made sense since the younger Winchester had an indescribable fear of fire from before he could truly remember. Since Sammy was four years older than him, Dean was inclined to believe his big brother and trust his memory. Daddy wouldn’t talk about it, nor would he discuss the events of ‘the incident’ at his in-laws’ home. It had been late at night and two year old Dean awoke to his big brother Sammy snoring and his own wet diaper. Memaw had warned him about drinking too much before bed but he was two and he wanted his sippy cup of warm milk, like Sammy always gave him as he explained that Mommy used to do that for them. Dean was not very happy to be awake and therefore quite close to tears as he hugged his stuffed moose with a scrap of Daddy’s plaid shirt tied around its neck like a winter scarf and patted his brother’s shoulder until the giant slowly awoke with a sigh and slurred ‘what’s wrong, bud?’ It hadn’t taken the older Winchester long to figure out that his baby brother was in need of a change. As Sam swallowed a moan of frustration and cooed nonsense to his brother, he slipped out of bed and looked around the room before remembering that Memaw had given Dean a bath before bed and the diaper bag was left in the bathroom down the hall. “Can you walk, De?” Sammy croaked, turning toward his brother as he stood next to the side of the bed closest to the door, the side Dean preferred to sleep on. As Dean reached out to Sam with his moose dangling from one hand by an antler, Sam frowned ever so slightly- despite how it actually warmed his heart and turned him to a pile of useless mush. They moved down the dark hallway, Dean tucked comfortably tucked into his big brother’s arms and sucking on the pacifier he refused to give up (that John only allowed to keep his youngest calm and quiet since he was a bit more sensitive than his stubborn, thick headed eldest son), towards the bathroom with its open door and faint glow from a soft nightlight. Once Sam had his brother in a better state and in a clean diaper, he opened the door and turned back to Dean. He paused when he heard voices- angry, low toned voices hissing at one another. Dean toddled closer and hugged his big brother’s pajama clad leg, looking up at his brother with fear in his eyes. Sammy felt bad for his baby brother, but he was also about as curious as a cat with all nine lives- very. He led Dean towards the kitchen where only sage scented candles cast their dull glow to allow any sort of light. There sat who they assumed to be Deanna Campbell, their grandmother. In front of her sat two Doberman-like dogs with glowing red eyes and tribal patterns in neon blues, greens and yellows adorning their fit frames. Looking in their eyes and the way they held themselves, Sam swore the two hounds looked familiar. “Look familiar, Sammy?” The woman questioned, turning to look at him and his baby brother with a sick pleasure on her face. The voice was their grandmother’s but the eyes were cold, dead, and black as midnight when they were cast on the boys. “Who are you?” Sam warily asked, resting a hand on his brother’s head as the younger started whimper. “What the hell do you want?” “It’s not so much what I want as what Hell itself wants.” The demon controlling Deanna spoke. “And what it wants is you and your brother.” “Well good luck with that. You’re already stuck in a devil’s trap, stupid.” Sam pointed out, tensing as her pleasure faded to annoyance and malice. “Oh, don’t you worry, Daddy and Papa are gonna take good care of both of you.” She spat, pursing her lips in distaste.The two hellhounds straightened up and any familiarity they held prior to her statement and the following snap of her fingers vanished. “Shit!” Sam breathed, roughly yanking Dean into his arms and dashing towards the guest room. Dad and Papa- no, the hellhounds were hot on their heels the whole way, snarling and foaming at the mouth for taste of the children in front of them. Sam practically tossed Dean on the bed, forcing himself to ignore the toddler’s screeches of fear, and slammed the door, barricading it as best he could with the most empty but still solid and quite heavy dresser beside the closet. He went to the nightstand below the painting of Jesus and ripped the two drawers out, dumping their contents onto the bed. Sam paused for a second to slip Dean’s pacifier back into his mouth to lessen the younger’s cries- not that it did much- and began to dig through all the little pieces of jewelry, amulets, charms and tiny herb bags. Just as the hellhounds were starting to make progress on scratching and ramming through the door and dresser blocking it, the distinct sound of the front door being kicked in sounded through house and reverberated through the structure. Sam looked up as the sound of the snarls retreated and a familiar voice was heard shouting near the front door. There was only one person that voice could belong to. “Get outta her, you black eyed bitch!” Bobby Singer’s voice roared through the house. Sam sighed in relief as he found the amulet he was looking for. It was the amulet of Christ, the one from the painting- the painting done by Jesus’ very first disciple. He clutched it in his fist and carelessly shoved the dresser back in its nook. Then, he took Dean in his arms and ran out the kitchen where their Uncle Bobby had barely managed to tie down their possessed Memaw and was wrestling with the two hellhounds, one of which he proceeded to shoot with a specially made bullet that was filled with holy water and made from melted down demon blades, which they had collected off the bodies that had formerly been inhabited by various demons. The hellhound collapsed to the floor and morphed back into Samuel Campbell, their beloved Papa, who began to sputter and cough up blood as the wound in his chest bled out. “Uncle Bobby! Stop!” Sam shouted as Dean wailed in his ear and the bitch inhabiting their Memaw cackled gleefully. “That’s Dad!” “For fuck’s sake, Sammy! Get back in the goddamn bedroom with your brother!” Bobby shouted, grunted as he used his shotgun to hold the remaining hellhound off. “DON’T SHOOT HIM!” Sam hollered once more, freezing as the hellhound turned its attention towards him and his screaming baby brother, staring long and hard at the amulet dangling from the older’s hand, after being thrown back by their uncle. “RUN GODDAMMIT!” Bobby bellowed, reloading despite Sam’s argument. The elder Winchester booked it out the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. The hellhound that was formerly their father growled and snapped as it lurched forward in attempt to nab one of the brothers- flinching away from the amulet when Sam used his free hand to hold out behind him to protect himself. He scrambled up to the top of the slide connected to the swing set and perched on the topmost support beam with Dean hugged to his chest. He said a prayer under his breath and swallowed his own panic as he wiped his baby brother’s face with the sleeve of his pajama top. Over the barking and snarling of the mad hound that so far seemed incapable of climbing up to get them, they heard screams of pure agony from inside. Uncle Bobby had to be exorcising the Demon. His gruff deep voice could barely be made out over all the other sounds that broke through the once peaceful midsummer night. After what felt like an eternity, the screams stopped and the hellhound became utterly docile and calmed until it laid on the ground in show of submission. Their uncle came out to fetch them, warily eyeing the former John Winchester as the patterns on his fur glowed softer than before. Once they were sat down in the kitchen, across the table from their dead Memaw and beside their dead Papa on the floor, with Sam in a chair across from Bobby who held a sniffling and clingy Dean in his lap while the John-hound lay quietly at their feet. Once Dean was sufficiently calmed, Bobby cleared his throat and stopped as Dean whined in distress when the John-hound nudged his foot with his cold, wet nose, who was rewarded with a good kick to the snout for his efforts to comfort his son. “He ain’t gonna hurt ya no more, Duckie.” Bobby soothed, bouncing the toddler on his knee and kissing his forehead. “And if he tries, I’ll shoot ‘im.” “Uncle Bobby?” Sammy hesitantly prompted, hugging his knees to his chest. “Yer Daddy will be just fine. Just a spell. He’ll back to ‘is old self in a couple days.” Bobby responded, wiping a few tears from Dean’s chubby cheeks. “Me an’ the fellas looked into all this before I got here. Had a feelin’ them black eyed bastards had somethin’ in mind. Didn’t hurt that a similar incident happened about a month ago.” “So he’s just gonna be dog for awhile?” Sam asked, an uncertain look on his face as he eyed his morphed father. “There’s no safe way to turn ‘im back far as I know.” Bobby affirmed, looking down at his fellow hunter and friend with a huffed sigh. “Ya sure know how to get into some messed up shit, ya idjit…” The John-hound whined and huffed. “Yeah, yeah, quit yer bitchin’.” Bobby teased. “Ya think you and yer brother’ll be able to get back to sleep?” Sam shook his head as Dean fussed and rubbed at his eyes. “Didn’t think so. We’ll call the authorities and say it was a home invasion. That way no one will go snoopin’ or come lookin’ for no one.” Bobby voiced, grabbing the landline and dialing 911. “After that, we’ll head back to my place and wait things out till yer Dad’s back to normal.” From there it played out just as Bobby Singer had promised it would. The authorities accepted the story of the home invasion and Bobby’s heroic arrival- claiming he had been coming over to pick up the kids for some bonding time but arriving late due to car trouble (the mechanic cringed at that particular part of the lie). They then headed back to Bobby’s with Sam and Dean dozing and cuddled up in the backseat while the John-hound sulked in the front passenger seat, curled up into a ball, occasionally huffing, whining or softly yipping in response to whatever Bobby said. A few weeks later, the Campbell property and all its contents were sold off to one Robert Singer since none of the designated recipients of that part of the estate were still alive to claim them. The shabby but impressive for a hunter savings was put aside for the brothers whenever they came of age. No one knew that Bobby had purchased and deep cleaned the property to one day hand over to the brothers if either ever managed to retire. You have excellent recall for being so young when it all happened. I didn’t want to forget so I had Sammy and Bobby re-tell it over the years. We do it once a year on the day that Deanna and Samuel Campbell died. Why would you want to remember such a horrible night? Wouldn’t you rather have them remind you of all the other visits where you were simply a toddler playing at his Memaw and Papa’s? No. That’s not who I was, who any of them were. Interesting… What? When your brother recalls that date, it’s a very different story. What do you mean? We’ll get to that in just a moment. First, do you remember what I had you recite when we first started? Yeah? Say it for me one more time. My name is Dean Winchester. I am the son of Mary Campbell and John Winchester. My older brother is Sam Winchester. I was born on May 2nd, 1983. My grandparents died as result of a plot by demons and a family friend and fellow hunter’s attempt to save them and us. I am a hunter of the supernatural and vessel of the archangel Michael. I am told to be the Righteous Man. The way your brother tells it quite different in some aspects. Like what? You are the older brother to Sam Winchester. You were not born on May 2nd, 1983 because that is your brother’s birthday. Your birthday is January 24th, 1979. You never met your grandparents and neither did he because they died the night your mother eloped with your father and were allegedly left vulnerable to the yellow eyed demon that your brother names as Azazel. He states that the entire incident you have recited to me never occurred. So which one of you truly remembers? Are you who you say you are? I… I am Dean Winchester… and I… You what? I remember…?

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krakenator · 6 years ago

Text

CHAPTER 19 aka “Time Out”

SPOILERS are sprinkled around extremely liberally for The Property of Hate

Masterpost here

Dude, Hero’s schism got fucked WIDE open my god. Then again, running directly into a storm of Nothing can’t have done anything good for it

Clever girl solves the equation. Immediately sets out to test it despite fears because it is GOOD SCIENCE

But chickens out when source of experiment shows signs of vague consciousness. Fair enough

BUT- turning his dial to TV mode is supposed to knock him the fuck out ENTIRELY. RGB is supposed to JUST be a TV and nothing more. Negative once again out there breaking all the set rules, like the menace he is. Even if its just sleep-talking

Aww- the amour took a real beating, but it did a MARVELOUS job protecting her- the bottom half of her face is pretty much 100% fine! Thank god for turtlenecks

More speechbubbles directly from the mystery man himself! So, Negative’s text is white and his bubbles are rectangular static

And once again… the flower dies once it has fulfilled its purpose

the actual petals are sticking around this time... this is gonna be one heckuva beautiful but incredibly weird ruin people come across. that the Idea and snail will come across

WHY IS the Idea following them, anyway???

Hero you precious bean I would kill and die for you

But YIKES her voice. Don’t do Nothing, kids

Lovin’ these parallels. Both times RGB’s finished being Negative Hero’s had to drag him places, sings, and wears his hat. Last time it was sad, this time its funny

Look at how tall the fence is. LOOK AT IT. I don’t CARE how much we’ve established that RGB is a secret muscle boy, how the FUCK did he throw her 50 feet in the air

I mean its possible the Nothing shifted around the sand bordering the fence so much that sea level dropped a bunch but STILL. HECKUVA YEET

About this door though… was it always here? Did it just... appear for them? It’s also the only one here. Back when first entering, the door RGB used was amongst a bunch of them. Time’s hangout also has a bunch of these doors.

having said that... hold on. hold the fuck on

its the same goddamn place. we’ve come full circle, baby! and, even MORE evidence-

same doors!

Oh, OH! New suit!

PAN FLAG PAN FLAG PAN FLAG

WE STAN ONE DISASTER PANSEXUAL ON THIS BLOG

RGB thinks he’s a distinguished pan but we all know the truth

Have I mentioned before loving how Hero’s thoughts are shown as a kids drawing? If so I’ll say it again, because I love it

Something tells me RGB’s gonna reach for the nightmare Hero just threw about willynilly and find it missing at a super unfortunate moment. it’s basically got it’s own panel, this si gonna come back to bite us

Are you ever LATE to anything if you’re literally Time? Asking for a certain white rabbit

Interesting that fire in this story has so far only been a destructive force- the sun’s scorching nature and its association with light, the burning iron to RGB’s face that killed him, how Nothing is reminiscent of a forest fire; and yet here, to burn Hero’s tongue is to restore her voice

TIME’S DESIGN THOUGH

I love how he’s basically three people/perspectives jammed into one body all interacting with each other. It’s bonkers

How he interacts with himself across pages

His speech is black box, echoing white text (so, kinda the inverse of RGB) and I love how clock hands act as tails, joining boxes from one to the other to easier follow the flow of his speech

His domain is apparently outside of the Make Believe? like, in this weird inbetween-

motherfucker

THE CHAPTER TITLE IS “INBETWEEN” GOD DAMNIT

HIS THORAX IS AN HOURGLASS

Time is helping them, giving Hero back some color and draining RGB of some festering emotion. Time heals all wounds

Time’s candle’s are also growing throughout the entire interaction- they begin as uneven stubs on page 364... and finish as full antlers

BUT BACK ON TIME’S HANGOUT BEING INBETWEEN WORLDS- Hate’s hangout is also like this. we enter/exit the Make Believe through these golden doors, Dial ALSO exits the comic by walking through a door. a far more hidden one, but same principle. Makes you wonder if Time also has a method of cutting you out of the story like Hate did to Jules and Melody

Is Time literally telling me that the reason RGB bleeds out of his face is because he is emotionally constipated on a chronic level? That’s amazing. That’s incredibly on brand for RGB

So, honestly, paying for Madras’ wares with pints of color is probably kinda good for him. Let out your feelings a little

BLOODLETTING IS A LEGIT MEDICAL PRACTISE, YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST FOLKS!!!

But back on that joke way back where music lesbians were ragging on RGB about what he tastes like; considering it’s literally an almost incomprehensible mashup of his bottled up emotions, “sharp”, “sour”, and “cheesy” are probably real, literal, and canon

The canonical answer is “awful”

Color restoration, go!

Time’s heating up the colors using one of his candle flames- distilling it? And what’s getting sprinkled in there?

i think the crunched up stuff is the star he pulls down on page 367?

CONFIRMED on next page: the medicine was ‘starlight, feelings, and regret’

So if they had’t run into Time and RGB had woken up, do you think he would have solved Hero’s coloring dilemma the same way? “Here, Hero, come now, drink up. It’s only my blood”

Huh- so acknowledging the contradiction of the fire to heal Hero. And flame is used once again to heat up the sand sprinkled into the drink so it wasn’t frozen

So RGB is never fully dead. Interesting.

eeeey, Hero’s schism has also knitted back together a bit- we’re back to what is, at this point tbh, the usual baseline of schism

Y O we’re gonna see Madras again!! yes!!!! now the question is- is Time just saying “yeah you’ll run into her again soon” or “i personally will expedite things so you run into her soon. its juts a lil time travel”

Hate took/will take Time’s eye? Bruh. At least my exes never poked out my eyes. Are we getting set up for an eye for an eye pun here mod? Are we? Did Time poke out one of Hers first or are we gonna get to see Time come in later to exact equivalent revenge?

alternatively, ‘she’ is Madras. after all, we can’t tell if Time is speaking with with capitalization here, since ‘she’ only appears at the beginning of sentences. either way, it’s looking like we’l be going back (or forward?) to the House of Paint!

this is also a super neat example of using page composition to tell us which Time is speaking, and using the growth state of antlers as another visual cue.

Time is... a hare...... has antlers....... that’s a fucking jackalope

ADDITIONALLY the antlers are candles, which......... JACK O’ LANTERN? REALLY MOD?? I LOVE THIS

She loses WHAT

MOD? HELLO? WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU PLANNING FOR MY PRECIOUS DAUGHTER HUH

More exposition on why Hero entering the Make Believe kills her “waking” identity

(dreamy sigh) mod, I know I’ve yelled at you a lot throughout this entire reading but please now it is out of deep, reverent love for the story and worldbuilding because mod, modmad, uncle mod, sarah jolley- you are hitting exactly on all my favorite story setting tropes. Hero’s out of her mind. God. Fuck. I love it. this might be my favorite page

i f uckign- love this panel? reinforcing that Hero’s home is so close, and yet so far- it’s under their feet, but unattainable. she can’t go back, and ‘home’ is looking far more like her thoughts and scribbling than it is a tangile reality. she’s just. in the clouds n-

her head is in the clouds >:(

TIME PLEASE. DON’T BLAME ME FOR HERO’S PREDICAMENT BY STARING OUT AT ME WITH THEM BEADY EYES

Time, snidely: They know who They are

I love the full antlers. how far we’ve come in just like... jesus christ, did all this manage to happen in just 9 PAGES? this has been........ a lot lmao

Dgsafjkghf Time LITERALLY ROCKS HER TO SLEEP that’s amazing

Time wtf the fuck do you mean that’s the same word twi-

...I gotcha

RGB is going to wake up so confused. Where did this weird glass boat thing come from? Why are all the tricks up his sleeve littered all over the floor what the hell. HERO WHY ARE YOU COLORS FADED. WHAT DID YOU DO. Damn, at least I’m in my swankiest suit of all

The moon starts to wane as Time spins it! Neat detail

well that only took forever! we’re caught up to the comic at this point in time- I mean, chapter 20 is like 5 pages underway but I kinda like the format of just doing it all in ONE BIG GO, so I guess we can expect the next one’a these to be when Cut To concludes. that’ll be a while, but hey, good to marinate on stuff for a while

there’s already so much going on in chapter 20 oh god thINGS ARE HAPPENIIIIIING

Next time on TPoH we’re checking in on all those other cool cats of the comic

#tpoh #the property of hate #tpoh time with gill #LIFE AND THE POSSIBLE ADHD KICKED MY ASS ON THIS ONE BUT ITS HERE

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