#the kid from akron

[freshthoughts2020]

[instructionsonback]

[supernotnatural2005]

Hey love! Could I request Dean and wife!reader who have been trying for a baby and reader is finally pregnant and then during some celebratory sex, Dean has a moment where he realizes that he might have a tiny (massive) pregnancy kink? Maybe we can traumatize Sammy with it a little too just for fun

Burning for You

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: You're pregnant and it's awoken something feral, something instinctual in Dean.

Word count: 4.7k

Prompt: "But you said..."

Warnings/tags: Smut (18+), Canon divergence, 'fix it fic', fluff, pregnancy kink, established relationship. Kind of spoilers?

AN: Okay so I've done a 3 in 1 one with this one!😅 What originally started as inspiration from this gif 👆🏻 by @heytheredeann, then turned into writing up this prompt, which then felt like it would work well with this request too! 😂 This is set during and after the events of 'Carry On'. Yes, another "fix it fic" because, why not? 😂 I hate that ending! But, I hope you enjoy this one @sir-thisisadndserver and also excited to kick off my second @jacklesversebingo card 😁

Main Masterlist

JVB Masterlist

“But you said…”

“I know, baby.” You sighed, pausing as you folded a shirt into your duffle. “I promise, once this case is over, we will. Okay?”

Dean didn’t respond right away. When you glanced over at him, you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing. He sat on the edge of the desk, head bowed, fingers fidgeting in his lap—like a little boy who’d just been told Disneyland was off the table. No tantrum, just pure, pitiful disappointment.

It was tempting to give in. But this was a decision you both had made—one final hunt, one last job, and then you were done. No more blood-soaked motel rooms, no more chasing monsters in the dead of night, no more wondering if you’d make it back alive.

Just a normal life. A real future. And maybe, just maybe, a family.

You, Dean, Sam—even Eileen—had all agreed. It was time. Let the next generation of hunters take the wheel. You’d earned your way out.

Of course, the universe had a sense of humour, because your last job wasn’t just any hunt. It was pulled straight from John Winchester’s journal—a cold case, buried since 1986.

Akron, Ohio. A family torn apart. The father drained of blood, the mother’s tongue removed, and the kids—vanished. Classic vamp MO, the kind John had chased for years but never managed to put down. Now it had circled back, like some twisted full-circle moment. And it was up to you three to finally put it to an end.

You sighed, taking pity on him and crossed the room, stepping between his legs. You let your arms slide over his shoulders, fingers curling at the nape of his neck, and his hands instinctively found your hips, thumbs stroking the skin just beneath your shirt.

“Look,” you murmured, tilting his chin up. His pout was as ridiculous as it was endearing. “I’m all for trying, I am. And if this is really it, our last hunt, then we’re gonna have all the time in the world to, you know…” You smirked, voice dipping suggestively.

Dean’s eyes lit up instantly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Oh, hell yes.”

He leaned in, pressing a firm but chaste kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to study you. His fingers tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, then skimmed down to your cheek.

“It is the last one,” he said, voice rough with conviction. His hands squeezed your hips like he needed you to feel it. “I want to stop. I want to do life with you.”

One of his hands then slid lower, resting over your belly where, for months now, he’d been dreaming of something more. A future. A family.

“I wanna make a baby with you.”

Your heart swelled, and your hand came to rest over his. “I want that too.” It left you in a whisper, but the second the words were out, Dean lit up—equal parts awe and that boyish joy that melted you every time.

“So…” he grinned, already pulling you in closer, “why not start now? We’ve got, what—” He flicked his wrist dramatically to check his watch. “Fifteen minutes before we hit the road. And technically, this is our last hunt…”

His eyebrows waggled as his hands slipped down to squeeze your ass, all charm and mischief.

You closed your eyes with a quiet sigh. “You’re impossible.” You huffed humourlessly as you pulled away. “I am not potentially conceiving our child during a quickie, Dean.”

He’d been pestering you for days to ditch the last layer of caution, but you’d held the line. You wanted to be sure—really sure—that this was the end of the road. No more hunting. No more living out of duffels. Just you and Dean, grounded in something real.

“Hey, some of our hottest moments have been on a time crunch, and you know it.” He pointed at you as if daring you to argue.

And honestly? You couldn’t. He had a damn point. Your wedding night, for instance—sinful, passionate, right there in the chapel, until an angry Elvis had chased you both out onto the Las Vegas strip.

But that was beside the point.

“C’mon, I’ll make it worth your while,” he coaxed as he stepped up behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist. His lips ghosted over your neck, trailing to that sensitive spot just below your ear, the one that had you shivering in his arms.

Goddamn it.

Twenty-five minutes later, you slid into the backseat of the Impala, cheeks still warm and hair slightly out of place. Dean climbed behind the wheel, looking like the cat who got the cream—smug, satisfied, and grinning like the devil himself.

Sam was already in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw tight. The moment Dean turned the key in the ignition, Sam glanced between the two of you, narrowing his eyes.

First at the faint, fresh bruise on Dean’s neck.  Then at you, subtly tugging your rumpled shirt into place.

And it clicked.

“Guys. Seriously?” Sam exhaled through his nose and shook his head like a disappointed parent.

You bit your lip, fighting back a laugh. Dean didn’t even try.

“What?” he said, full of faux innocence. “I can’t show my girl a little love, but you can have phone sex with Eileen?”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “I—what? I wasn’t—”

“‘Course you weren’t, Sammy.” Dean smirked in triumph, looking far too pleased with himself. He may have accidentally overheard his little brother’s, not-so-innocent, conversation with Eileen over the phone as he passed by his room on the way to you. 

To further prove his point, Dean continued, in a terrible imitation of Sam’s voice, “I can’t wait ‘til I can see your—”

“Dean!”

“Dude!”

You and Sam shouted in unison, cutting off whatever he was about to say. Dean just burst into laughter, the sound echoing as the car pulled out of the garage.

You shook your head, fond and exasperated all at once.

In all the years you’d hunted together—fought monsters, cheated death, faced down the end of the world more times than you could count—some things never changed.

This. Your family. And now, another chapter awaited. One you were looking forward to the most.

All it needed was for the three of you to make it out in one piece. Then, finally, that dream could become reality.

Three months later…

You couldn’t stop picking at the skin on your thumb, nerves fraying with each tiny tear you made. Your leg bounced restlessly, the stiff white paper beneath you crinkling with every tremor, filling the quiet exam room with a sound far too loud in the silence.

It smelled like antiseptic and latex gloves. That sterile scent that clung to medical offices, mingled with the chill of the air conditioning and the hum of fluorescent lighting above. Your palms were clammy and your mouth tasted like metal.

The door was closed, but every creak in the hallway made your breath catch in your throat.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, willing your heart to slow down, to stop pounding against your ribcage like it was trying to escape. It didn’t work. It never did. Especially without him.

The gentle knock came a moment later, and you startled slightly before forcing a smile as the nurse reentered the room. Her scrubs were a soft lavender, her badge clipped to her chest. Julia, RN.

“Sorry about the wait,” she offered, voice light as she moved toward the counter to update something in the chart. “Dr. Harlow’s busy with another patient. So I’ll be doing your ultrasound today.”

You nodded, swallowing thickly. Her practiced small talk filled the air like a balm—something to distract you from the gnawing anxiety. You let her ask the usual questions: last menstrual cycle, any spotting, morning sickness. You answered automatically, a little detached, but you caught her eyes flickering to the empty chair beside you.

You saw it—the subtle flicker of sympathy before she masked it again with professionalism, and you cleared your throat trying to stay composed.

“Will I... will I see anything yet?”

“Depending on how far along you are, yes,” she said gently. “We will be able to detect the heartbeat, too.”

You hesitated. “Can you tell if it’s a boy or girl?”

She gave you a soft smile, probably used to all these questions. “Not until around 18 to 20 weeks. But if you’re about twelve weeks, we should get a good look at the gestational sac, yolk sac, and your baby.”

Twelve weeks. You’d done the math a dozen times already. Calculating to the day you’d left for your last hunt three months ago. Where Dean had seduced you right before. Ironically, you’re certain that ‘quickie’ is what knocked you up in the first place. 

Dean.

Your eyes drifted to the door and you blinked quickly, instead focusing Julia’s instruction to unbutton your jeans and tug your top up beneath your bra line. You did as she asked, shivering slightly as the cold of the exam room kissed your skin. 

“This’ll be a little cold,” Julia warned, twisting the cap off the bottle of coupling gel.

Just as she lifted the tube, the exam room door clicked open.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” came a breathless voice—his voice. “Damn roadworks blocked off half the street. I had to park three blocks away and run the rest.”

Dean was flushed, chest rising and falling with each breath, a faint sheen on his forehead. He moved straight to your side, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple before easing into the chair beside the exam bed.

Your hand reached for him instantly and he caught it without hesitation, wrapping both of his hands around yours, lifting your knuckles to his lips for a quick kiss.

Julia paused, arching a brow as she looked between the two of you. “I take it this is the father?”

Dean gave a crooked grin. “Well, I sure hope so.” You smacked his arm lightly, and he let out a playful hiss.

Julia chuckled under her breath and resumed her position beside the ultrasound machine, gliding the gel tube across your belly and dispensing a generous amount on your skin. You hissed slightly at the sudden chill, muscles tensing.

“Alright, let’s take a look,” she murmured, lifting the transducer probe and pressing it gently against the gel.

The machine beeped softly as she began her sweep, shifting the probe at various angles, the monitor flickering with black-and-white static before resolving into grainy anatomical structures. She adjusted the gain and depth on the control panel with quick, practiced movements, her eyes scanning the screen.

Dean leaned in instinctively, his brow knit with quiet intensity, both of his hands still wrapped tightly around yours. His thumb stroked over your knuckles—slow, nervous, steadying. You could feel the tension vibrating through him. Neither of you were breathing properly.

The room stilled.

Just the soft hum of the machine and the rhythmic taps of Julia’s fingers on the keyboard filled the silence.

Then—

“Right there,” she said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She angled the screen toward you both, her hand still steady on the probe. “That’s the gestational sac. And see that little oval inside? That’s the yolk sac.”

You both leaned forward, eyes locked on the image, as she adjusted the probe slightly, changing the angle.

“And here,” she continued, pressing a few more keys, “is your baby. Measuring around 12 weeks. Everything looks perfect.”

Dean’s grip on your hand tightened as if grounding himself. You could feel him trembling ever so slightly.

Then with a few more taps, the sound came—soft and crackling at first, then unmistakable.

Womp womp womp.

“There’s the heartbeat,” Julia said with a warm smile. “153 beats per minute. Nice and strong.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

There on the screen was the tiniest flicker of life. A rhythm. A pulse. A flutter of motion in a shape no bigger than a lime, with arms and legs now starting to form—so tiny, but so perfectly human. A miracle, unmistakable, undeniable. It was real. Yours. A heartbeat separate from your own, yet part of you. A miracle forming inside you.

Your chest ached, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Dean was completely still beside you, his thumb frozen on your skin. When you looked over at him, your throat tightened.

His eyes were wide and wet, his jaw clenched as though he was holding back everything he was feeling—but it was there. Every ounce of emotion was written all over his face. He looked like he was seeing the world for the first time.

Julia printed the sonogram photos and gave you some paper towels to wipe the gel from your stomach, all the while murmuring about your follow-ups and OB appointments before she stepped out for a moment.

Silence settled over the room again, and you both looked down at the black-and-white strip in your hands. Dean reached for it first, holding it so delicately between his fingers like it might crumble if he breathed too hard.

“That’s… ours,” he whispered, voice cracking around the edges. “We made that.”

A tear slipped down your cheek with a quiet sniffle and before you could wipe it away, Dean turned to you, cupping your face gently in both hands. His thumbs brushed across your cheeks, catching the tears before they could fall any further. His eyes shimmered with unshed emotion, the vulnerability in them something you rarely saw—raw and unguarded.

The moment was made more intense for the fact you’d almost lost him on that hunt. A few more inches to the left and he would've had a rebar shaped hole in his heart. Could you imagine how ridiculous that would’ve been? 

“I love you,” he breathed and your heart swelled to the point of pain, your lips parting on a breath. 

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice thick and trembling.

Dean leaned in and kissed you softly—slow, reverent, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into that one touch. Your hand tangled in his flannel as you kissed him back, your foreheads resting together as the kiss broke.

Then you both looked back down at the sonogram again. Two pairs of eyes locked on the tiny life that was half him, half you. A piece of each of you growing into something whole.

Excitement blended with your nerves for what came next. For the journey you were about to take—together.

By the time you made it back to the bunker, the emotional buzz hadn’t worn off. If anything, it had only deepened, sinking into your chest like warmth after a long cold spell.

Sam and Eileen were already up, rounding the corner at the sound of you and Dean descending the steps. Miracle was right behind them, tail wagging like he sensed the joy radiating off you both.

Eileen’s face lit up as soon as she saw you, her hands already moving. “So?” she signed eagerly, her smile wide with anticipation.

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips as you reached into your bag and handed both her and Sam their own copies of the sonogram. Your fingers trembled slightly, the moment sinking in all over again.

Eileen gasped softly, lifting a hand to her mouth as her eyes scanned the blurry black and white photo. Tears welled in her eyes almost instantly. She looked up at you, her gaze shining. “It’s real,” she signed with a shaky laugh. “You’re really having a baby.”

You nodded, lips wobbling as you fought back a fresh wave of tears—only to lose the battle completely when Sam looked up at you, his eyes already glassy.

“This is… wow, I don’t even know what to say,” Sam breathed, laughing a little as he shook his head. He then pulled you into a careful hug, one arm around your shoulders, the other hand cradling the back of your head. 

He kissed your hair before stepping back, visibly choked up. “I’m so happy for you both.” He said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

Then he turned to Dean, and the brothers embraced briefly, but it was more than the usual back-pat—it lingered, unspoken gratitude. Dean’s eyes looked a little misty when he pulled away, but he just cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck.

Eileen was already pulling you into her arms, sniffling softly against your shoulder. “You’re going to be amazing,” she signed when she stepped back, voice trembling as she spoke it aloud.

The celebration that followed was cozy, full of soft laughter and teasing. Dean poured a round of whiskey—apple juice for you—and you couldn’t help but grumble about your temporary drinking ban. But truthfully, you didn’t feel like you were missing out. Not tonight.

By the time the excitement had settled, it was late and you were exhausted. You and Dean said your goodnights, and headed down the hall to your room hand in hand. But the moment your bedroom door shut behind you, Dean turned and pressed you gently against it.

His mouth was on yours before you could catch your breath, his hands threading into your hair, tilting your head just right as he kissed you deep, slow, like he needed you to feel what words couldn’t say.

Your surprised squeak turned into a soft sigh, your hands finding the back of his head, fingers curling in the short hair there. His mouth moved against yours with aching tenderness, stealing your breath as easily as he always did.

“You’re really pregnant,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with awe. Like seeing it on the ‘big screen’ solidified it. “We’re really doing this.”

You nodded, heart thudding as you cupped his scruffy jaw. “We are.”

He kissed you again—softer this time—and then, without warning, bent to lift you into his arms. You gasped and instinctively clung to his shoulders as he grinned, carrying you across the room like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He laid you down like you were something delicate, something precious. His lips brushed your forehead, your cheek, and then he kissed you again—slower, but with simmering heat.

Then he trailed down. Along your neck. Across your collarbone. He pushed up your shirt, his rough hands gentle as they skimmed along your skin, and pressed soft kisses down your stomach.

There was the faintest bump, only a hint of life growing inside you, and he paused at your navel, hands cradling your hips, thumbs moving in slow circles.

“That’s our kid in there,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent. “Our baby.”

Your fingers threaded into his hair, heart pounding as you looked down at him. The look on his face nearly undid you—pure awe, disbelief… and something else. Something darker. Needier. Hungrier.

Dean froze, staring at you like the air had been knocked clean out of his lungs—eyes wide, pupils blown.

“What?” you whispered, breath catching in your throat.

He let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh and dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know, I just—” He shook his head, voice dropping, eyes darkening. “The idea of you carrying my kid? It’s so damn hot.”

You blinked, caught off guard for a second—then grinned. “Yeah?”

“I’m serious,” he rasped, voice low and rough as he slid back up your body, his gaze locked on yours, all heat and hunger. “You’ve always been sexy, sweetheart, but now?” His hand came to rest on your belly, possessive and tender all at once. “Knowing you're mine… and that you’re carrying my baby? That’s—fuck, that’s next level.”

He groaned as he kissed your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—like he was trying to devour you piece by piece.

Your breath hitched at the sheer intensity in his voice, the look in his eyes like you were something holy. Then your mouth met his in a crash of heat and urgency, and he answered with equal fervor—like something inside him had just snapped loose.

You tugged him closer, breath hitching as his hands gripped your waist, his body pressing into yours like he couldn’t stand a second of space between you.

You were both surprised by it—that sudden, burning need. But the more it sank in, that you were carrying his child, something primal flared to life in him. It rewired everything. Made him want to claim you all over again.

It wasn’t just lust—it was need. Raw, instinctive, protective. It was a part of him he hadn’t even known existed, But now, now it was fully awake.

And it had only just begun.

One month later…

You and Dean were curled up on the couch in the ‘cave’, the flickering images of an old action movie dancing on the TV screen, but neither of you were paying much attention to it. 

Dean’s body was pressed flush against yours from behind, the heat between you simmering as he slowly moved inside you, his large hand splayed possessively across your belly—now rounder, more pronounced as your pregnancy progressed.

Your leggings and panties were long forgotten on the floor. Dean’s jeans and boxers were shoved haphazardly down to his knees, giving him just enough freedom to move inside you with that torturous, maddening pace—slow, deep, controlled. His cock dragged against your walls in that way that made your toes curl, made you arch back against him for more, always more.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin, voice low and reverent, “you feel so fuckin’ good like this. So full, baby.”

His lips grazed your neck, then your shoulder, kissing and nipping every inch he could reach while still moving inside you. His breath was hot and uneven, his mouth trailing along the shell of your ear as he rocked into you again, the thick heat of him stretching you open like he belonged there—because he did. God, he did.

And still, that hand never left your belly.

It was possessive. Proud. Worshipful. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were his—like he needed the physical reminder that you carried something he’d made.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your fingers digging into the couch cushions for purchase as your body trembled. You could feel him twitch inside you, thick and throbbing, pushing deeper with every roll of his hips. His other hand slid beneath you, rough and greedy, cupping your swollen breasts, teasing your sensitive nipple with a practiced touch that made your back arch and a strangled cry escape your throat.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he whispered, grinning against your skin. “You love when I fuck you like this, don’t you? Wrapped around me, nowhere to go…”

“Yes,” you breathed, whimpering as your body tightened around him again, helpless to the sensation. “God, Dean…”

You pushed back against him, chasing that edge, chasing him, needing it—needing him. The friction was heaven, his cock dragging slow and hard inside you, until you were right on the verge of—

The door creaked.

“Hey, I grabbed those chips you were—OH MY GOD.”

The sound of Sam’s voice cracked through the haze like a gunshot.

You both froze. For one hilarious, horrifying second, and then with a gasp, you scrambled for the blanket Dean had kicked to the floor after his wandering hands had convinced you to let him fuck you right here on the couch. 

“Are you serious?” Sam exclaimed, hands flying to his face in an attempt to block his view, but it was clear he’d already seen far too much.

Your face went up in flames. You scrambled to yank the blanket up over you both, heart hammering in your chest. Dean didn’t even flinch—he just let out a low, unbothered scoff like his little brother had interrupted a commercial break, not mid-fucking.

“Don’t be jealous, Sammy,” Dean drawled with a smirk, voice thick with satisfaction. “One day you’ll knock up Eileen and then you’ll get it.”

“Dean!” you gasped, horrified, smacking his thigh as your eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh my God.”

Dean just chuckled, the sound deep and smug, like he was proud of getting caught. You practically shrivelled into the couch, trying to disappear into the cushions as Sam let out a dramatic groan, turned on his heel, and slammed the door behind him like he’d just witnessed a crime.

Dean snorted. “Damn kid needs to learn to knock.”

You covered your face with both hands, mortified, still curled up in Dean’s arms as the aftershock of the interruption pulsed through you. “Dean,” you groaned, voice muffled behind your palms. “This is the communal room.”

Dean just shook his head, utterly unbothered, and gently peeled your hands away from your face. “Hey,” he murmured, eyes soft with amusement as he looked down at you. “You weren’t complainin’ a minute ago.”

You tried to glare at him, but it faltered when he leaned in and kissed your burning cheek, then your jaw, then your lips—slow and deep, like he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

“Whose side are you on, sweetheart?” he hummed against your mouth.

You opened your mouth to retort, but it turned into a shaky breath when his hand slid down again, settling right over your belly with that same heavy, grounding pressure. Possessive. Reverent.

And then you felt him.

Still hard. Still inside you. Still twitching.

The heat flooded back like a wave, washing out the embarrassment and replacing it with a low, simmering ache. You shifted, breath catching as you clenched around him involuntarily.

Dean felt it too.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah... I’m definitely not done.”

And just like that, your argument disappeared. Along with any thought of Sam—or the damn chips.

You couldn’t help it.

Sam had become an unfortunate, unintended witness to this very new phase of your relationship with Dean—one that involved a whole lot more skin, a whole lot less shame, and a very inconvenient inability to keep your hands off each other.

Since finding out you were pregnant, something had shifted in him. Desire had always been a part of your relationship, but now… now it was constant. Insatiable. Like some primal instinct had flipped inside him. He touched you with a reverence that bordered on obsession. It wasn’t just sex anymore—it was possessive, protective, feral.

This wasn’t some generic “pregnancy kink.” No, this was Dean losing his mind because you were carrying his child. The thought alone seemed to short-circuit something in him.

And honestly? You were just as wrecked. Yes, you’d been mortified more than once—especially by Sam’s increasingly bad luck—but at the same time, it turned you on beyond belief. The way Dean made you feel, like you were the most beautiful, most desired woman in the world. It made your body hum.

Unfortunately for Sam, that devotion came with side effects.

Take a couple of mornings ago, when you were making pancakes, for instance. You’d opted for a pair of loose shorts despite the bunker’s steady chill, thanks to another hot flash, but it was enough to drive Dean out of his goddamn mind. Your body was changing—hips a little wider, breasts heavier, ass just a little more plush—and Dean worshipped every new curve like it was the first time he was seeing you.

He’d come up behind you at the stove, his hands spreading over your stomach with that now-familiar, possessive touch. His hips pressed into your backside, already hard, already needy. His mouth found your neck, and his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing your soaked folds like he had all the time in the world.

You’d barely gasped his name when Sam walked in—right as Dean slid a thick finger inside you.

Poor bastard hadn’t even gotten to the coffee pot.

And then there was the library. After dinner. Dean, completely unprovoked, hauled you up onto the nearest table and sank to his knees, muttering about wanting ‘his dessert’. You’d barely managed to stifle your cries when Eileen walked in, book in hand, and promptly turned on her heel like she'd never been there.

You tried to be discreet. Truly. But Dean didn’t care. Hell, he seemed proud when someone caught a glimpse of just how thoroughly he worshipped you.

And as mortifying as it all was, deep down… You loved it.

You loved him.

This time in your life could’ve been scary. Lonely. Uncertain. But Dean had made it something else entirely. He made it intimate. Raw. Beautiful. He made you feel like a goddess, like you were his whole damn universe—and he wanted the world to know it.

So maybe Sam had to suffer through a few mental scars. Maybe Eileen was avoiding eye contact for a while.

But as Dean curled around you again on that couch, hand warm and protective on your belly, still deep inside you, his lips brushing against your cheek like he’d never get enough—

Yeah.

You figured it was a price worth paying.

AN: Okay, so this was a new one for me, I've never been pregnant so most of this is research or from my friend. Plus shout out to all you moms out there, I know this isn't entirely accurate, but if I had me a Dean like this 😮‍💨. Let me know what you thought, and again thank you for the ask @sir-thisisadndserver, I hope this is what you were hoping for ❤️

If you would like to be tagged in this series or my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

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@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel

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@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

[longlistshort]

This mural in Akron by Axel Void was organized by Curated Storefront and is based on a photograph taken with a ring camera and posted on the Neighbors app.

From Curated Storefront about the work-

This piece is a note on human inter-relational experience. The work presents a highly specific, anonymous interaction between neighbors in the digital realm.

The image is sourced from a post on the Neighbors app, a location based message board designed to connect Ring doorbell cameras into a network of private surveillance, with the intention of “always knowing what is happening in your neighborhood with real time, hyper local safety.”

The posting was created on June 18th, 2022 by an anonymous neighbor 3.4 miles away from the site of the mural. The post is titled: “Unknown visitors, Strange kids at my door 10:30 pm do you recognize them?” The Ring doorbell footage shows a young man at the door for about one minute; the footage is grainy and black and white, he is hard to make out and shuffles from side to side; a friend waits in the background on a bicycle. Twelve commenters on the post argue on whether or not the boy appears suspicious, or if he is merely looking for his lost dog; casing the house or calling for help.

This piece proposes a discussion point on irrational fear, the changing nature of surveillance, and an overarching sense of paranoia in modern society.

[the1astolympian]

an introduction my percy jackson ocs !! part one

- warning this post will be LONG. this is only 10/22 but i have years worth of lore/info. im hyperfixated on them LMFAOO

- i love talking about them. So Much. if yall have any questions or want any extra information please dm me/reply i will be so happy

- ages operate under the assumption that pjo takes place in the late 2000s/early 2010s hence why they r all 90s kids. all the ages mentioned are as of tower of nero (june 2011ish) because the ages are technically fluid depending on what time period im writing about

info below the cut :D

1. jacqueline sistine jakobs

she/he/they, genderfluid, lesbian

16, born march 23, 1995

child of dionysus

from paris, france. year round camper

dating madeleine

she is my favorite oc. ever. out of 180+ percy jackson ocs and god knows how many ocs for other fandoms/no fandoms. i love them the most

fun facts

1. their mbti type is esfp

2. she really likes reading

3. his dream job is to be an actor, if that doesn’t work out he wants to be a nurse

2. asra marceline hall

she/her, cis, lesbian

19, born october 31st, 1991

daughter of hecate

from bethlehem, pennsylvania. summer only camper but has since left for college

was in the titan army for a while. left shortly before the battle of the labyrinth with sebastian and ashlynn and rejoined camp half-blood

fun facts

1. her mbti type is intp

2. shes currently a psychology major

3. she has a photographic memory 

3. lydia “lyra” melody jumper

she/they, cis, lesbian

15, born january 28th, 1996

daughter of apollo

from burlington, new jersey. summer only camper

in an on-again-off-again relationship with lace

the first pjo oc i ever created :,)

fun facts

1. her mbti is estp

2. she changes the color of their braids like every two weeks. she is very indecisive when it comes to her hair

3. they really like photography and collect digital cameras (most are thrifted)

4. madeleine rebecca cole

she/her, cis, bisexual

15, born september 25, 1995

daughter of apollo

from north charleston, south carolina. summer only camper

fun facts

1. her mbti type is infp

2. she has prophecy powers which are so cool to me. i love writing stuff with them

3. she likes pottery

5. reid lucas edwards

he/him, cis, gay

16, born april 17th, 1995

son of demeter

from asheville, north carolina. started off as a summer only camper but switched to year round after 2 years

despite her not moving to the united states until she was 8, jacqueline and reid have been friends since they were toddlers. they met while reid was on vacation and jacqueline happened to move into reids neighborhood when she moved to the us

fun facts

1. his mbti type is isfj

2. hes deaf and uses hearing aids

3. he collects magazines and is an avid fan of crossword puzzles

6. catalina “cat” valeria gurrero

she/her, cis, bisexual

16, born september 18th, 1994

daughter of ares

from puebla, mexico. year round camper

dating darcy

fun facts

1. her mbti type is entj

2. shes my shortest oc at 4’11. she is also without a doubt the best fighter out of all my ocs

3. her original name was isabela (isa for short) knight. i do not remember when her name changed but its been catalina for over a year at this point

7. amira blair dupont

she/her, cishet

13, born january 22nd 1998

daughter of aphrodite

from paris, france. year round camper

fun facts

1. her mbti type is enfj

2. she is my youngest oc

3. a bit of a neat freak. she also loves decorating things

8. chase deshpande

he/him, trans male, straight

17, born november 30th 1993

son of ares

from aurora, colorado. summer only camper

fun facts

1. his mbti type is istj

2. he is in a band and plays guitar

3. he really likes race cars. he likes cars in general really. his car is his baby

9. kieran blake lee

they/them, nonbinary, pansexual

16, born august 26th, 1994

child of athena

from akron, ohio. summer only camper

dating taylor

fun facts

1. their mbti type is estj

2. they have glasses that they dont actually need. its purely for the aesthetic

3. very computer smart. they hack people for fun

10. lace amalia van astor

she/her, cis, lesbian

16, born april 26th, 1995

daughter of aphrodite

from amsterdam, the netherlands

in an on-again-off-again relationship with lyra

if my memory is right shes the first oc i ever created however she wasnt a pjo oc until later on. she was created around the same time as lyra i think

fun facts

1. her mbti type is infp

2. she collects vintage dishware/silverware

3. she always smells like vanilla. no matter what

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Pun Times

[at unicorn fuck club] Piers Anthony: ok guys get ready Piers Anthony: it's time for PUN times with Piers Anthony! Anthony: i think you'll all have a real SNAKE time! Anthony: ANACONDA they're so funny!

Anthony: so bob basilisk, gooey goblin, and steve Stymphalian bird were walking on the beach Anthony: when suddenly someone started shooting sea shells at them Anthony: normally shells just lie on the beach Anthony: but THESE shells were being shot at them

Anthony: these shells were being loaded into guns and shot at them Anthony: propelled by gunpowder! Anthony: in a manner quite unusual when it comes to shells in fact Anthony: most peculiar! Anthony: [turning to audience] can YOU guess the pun? turn the page for the answer

Anthony: in fact they were artillery shells! Anthony: eh? eh? get it? JRR Tolkien: GRR Martin: CS Lewis: Anthony: well, if you don't like it, blame Jimmy B. (12) of akron, ohio

Anthony: anyway princess penelope comes by Anthony: and she's all "oh no" Anthony: "i'm at the beach" Anthony: "guess i better..." Anthony: "TAKE OFF MY PANTIES!!!" JRR Tolkien: GRR Martin: CS Lewis: Anthony: you guys she's taking off her panties

Anthony: so princess penelope hides deep in the bushes and looks this way and that just to make sure that no one can see her take off her panties Anthony: but you know what she can't hide from? Anthony: the author! Anthony: it's too late, i've already seen everything

Anthony: guys for real though Anthony: i totally saw EVERYTHING Anthony: like, ALL her panties Anthony: i saw them JRR Tolkien: Anthony: she was wearing them Tolkien: Anthony: pretty cool, huh? JRR Tolkien: you know i'm just not gonna put any women in my books i think

Anthony: so just imagine if a sexy girl wore panties JRR Tolkien: i can't imagine this GRR Martin: no no he's on to something, i can picture this Brian Jacques: [squeaking] i use a sewn-up maple leaf for underwear!

Anthony: ok now just imagine the panties Anthony: oh boy you guys Anthony: i don't know if i should say it Anthony: it might be too hot GRR Martin: say it! Anthony: ok guys now just imagine Anthony: the panties are   Anthony: pink Anthony: oh ho ho i can't believe i said it!!!

Anthony: so just imagine the perkiest little pink panties you can JRR Tolkien: wait isn't this story for kids? Anthony: oh yeah there's nothing prurient or adult about this Tolkien: ah ok Anthony: these panties are being worn by a virginal 8 year old Tolkien: Anthony: so its fine

[kijew]

So I’m watching “the Frisco Kid” as part of my Jewish film study/education and I did not expect to be bawling my eyes out in the first twenty minutes.

All because the Amish folks so genuinely and kindly gave him $10 for the trip to Akron. After he’d been conned and beaten and thrown from a wagon.

How dare this slapstick comedy make me feel things.

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

plot bunny rachel zegler in glee, sam AND mike ship

anon I'm so glad that you support my love of Rachel Zegler and my underpromoted Sam x Mike agenda but also I feel like I'm cheating on @cecexwrites' Maite who is my most beloved girl pls go check her out and love her asap

Carlotta "Carla" Vasquez

named Carlotta after the Phantom of the Opera character and Vasquez after Maria in West Side Story. She's an aspiring actress and has spent her entire life in dance and voice lessons and doing community theatre.

She and Rachel have known each other forever because of this, and were in countless dance & voice classes together and competitions against each other, and Rachel has been bullying her since they were little kids.

At 13, after Rachel did something to completely humiliate her at a competition (ripped seams out of her costume so it fell apart onstage, also put gum in her hair so she had to cut a lot of it off), Carla had a severe breakdown. She switched to a new dance studio, where she befriended Mike Chang and Brittany pierce, but her parents also moved to Akron to give her a fresh start. Everything was great, she was happy, no one knew about the worst moment of her life. She starts high school, becomes a cheerleader, gets recruited into Vocal Adrenaline by Jesse St James himself, and he and Shelby start preparing her to be the new female lead. She got a solo at nationals. Everything was perfect.

But then, because of something with one of her parents' jobs, they have to move back to Lima. Thankfully no one seems to remember her, except for Rachel Berry, and Carla is able to protect herself by joining the cheerios – the only club in school safe from Rachel Berry. Everything is fine. Thanks to Mike and Brittany, Carla is adopted into the Unholy Trinity and has the combined protection of the cheerios and titans, and she's finally starting to breathe again

Until Sue Sylvester decides that her four stars are going to prove their loyalty (and stay on the cheerios) by spying on the New Directions. Rachel Berry's ego club. And Carla might be a nationally winning show choir star, but Rachel is no more willing to share the spotlight than she was when they were 13

[tsunflowers]

I don't think "unwind" by neal shusterman is suitable as baby's first dystopia. you should start with the giver and work your way up. but it's perfect as baby's first speculative fiction that's a little Effed Up, and Twisted. if you're too young for margaret atwood and cormac mccarthy, here's a book full of real sicko stuff, for teens

the premise is that the US fought a second civil war over abortion and the compromise that left everyone unhappy was the invention of a procedure that allows for every part of a human body to be transplanted into another. the argument is that bc the donor never loses consciousness during the procedure, they are still "alive" while spread out in different people's bodies. this is unwinding. legally it can happen to any teen between 13 and 18. it's pretty dumb if you actually think about it but it's also very scary. too scary for me as a kid

our three protagonists meet by chance in akron ohio and end up on the run together trying to avoid getting unwound. one is a troublemaker whose parents got sick of him and decided to have him unwound. one is a girl from a state home who was sent to be unwound bc other kids were more talented and deemed worthier of growing up. there's a lot of kids in state homes in this universe where medical care is pretty advanced but abortion is illegal. the third was born and raised with the intention of being unwound bc he's the family's tenth kid and you gotta give 10% of everything back to the lord

there's a bunch of discussion questions at the end and I remember when I was reading for pleasure as a kid I always thought it was so cringe to see those in a book. but honestly I think it would be fun to read this in a class and discuss it. there's a strong theme of "don't judge a book by its cover" and it makes a real effort to get into the heads of all kinds of different people. there's a lot to dissect

also when mr shusterman wrote more books in the series they rereleased them with matching covers and they're fine but the first edition cover is absolutely the best

[freshthoughts2020]

[instructionsonback]

[heliads]

Your fics are amazing!! I especially love the Unwind ones! :) Can I request an angsty what-if fic where Connor doesn't go deliver his letter and is there when Nelson finds the antique shop? I don't know how specific you want me to be in my request, but a fight scene between Connor and Nelson would be cool (Nelson deserves to be punched). Thank you!

yes...YESSSSS

'guess that's growing up' - connor lassiter

masterlist

warnings: blood, violence, death

Five years ago, if you had asked Connor Lassiter where he thought he’d end up in life, he wouldn’t have said the basement of an antique shop. He certainly wouldn’t have expected to be in that same basement twice in the span of a few years. Life has a way of throwing you a few curveballs. It isn’t Connor’s fault if he can’t help but follow their winding paths until he ends up exactly where he started.

It isn’t like he’s back to square one. It can’t be, after all the friends he’s made and lost. Still, it’s hard to shake the feeling that he keeps getting dragged back home. As a kid, he’d always dreamed of running away and making it big, and then he’d actually had to run away when he found out he was going to be unwound. Now he’s back in Ohio, and although Connor finally has a hope for the end of unwinding thanks to the Rheinschild organ printer, he knows as surely as anyone that if this doesn’t work, the last of his luck might finally have run out. He was born here almost eighteen years ago, and he might just die here too.

Connor tries to keep his emotions light, but it’s hard, especially after being stuck in Sonia’s basement for far too many days. It took forever for them to leave the first time, and now he’s wondering how long they’ll spend trapped inside the lightless cellar now. Maybe someone will come down here decades in the future and find his old, brittle bones propped up in a corner someplace, the Akron AWOL reduced to a skeleton with a white, wiry beard like in the cartoons he used to watch as a kid.

So no, he’s not exactly doing a great job of staying optimistic, but it’s hard to get up the energy to converse with the other scared unwinds down here when he knows how this is going to end. It’s not his first rodeo. Nothing gets better before it gets worse again. Why take the time to memorize everyone’s name and favorite color if they’re just going to get ripped apart again in a matter of months? Connor might as well spare himself the heartache. If they do get unwound after all, some future client would probably appreciate it if Connor’s heartstrings were tugged as little as possible.

It’s not a funny thing to think about, but Connor’s sense of humor has gotten increasingly jagged and sarcastic as of late, if it wasn’t already bitter in the first place. When he tries to be funny, he just ends up cutting to the bone. He’s not Hayden. He’s never been good at making the jokes land when he needs them the most.

Hell, maybe that’s what’s unsettling him the most about being back here. If it weren’t enough to see the same familiar shadowy walls and low ceiling (look, there’s the place he gouged his initials in the corner two years ago), Connor has to do all of it not only with new faces but with the ghosts of the former ones. 

Thinking about who had been here with him before makes his stomach roil with guilt and regret. Roland is unwound now; Connor has his arm and is starting to understand his surly temperament, his gut reaction to snap at everything around him instead of smiling. Mai became a clapper and blew up Happy Jack; Lev was there with her, chemicals in his veins, but saved himself when she didn’t. Hayden is still alive, hopefully, although Connor hasn’t seen him in ages; he misses Hayden’s sense of humor most of all.

The only repeated characters in the basement are Risa and himself, but even they are so fundamentally transformed from who they’d been at the start that they could be different people entirely. Connor isn’t sure that he’s at all recognizable as Connor Lassiter anymore. He has the same skin, or most of it, but that’s the end of the similarities. Connor is left wondering how everything changed so drastically over two years, which leaves him in a state of hazy dread.

And then, of course– well, there’s the letter, and that blows everything else out of the water.

Sonia still has his letter, the one she’d had him write to his parents when he first showed up at her antique store. All of the notes from past unwinds she’s harbored are still here. The thought unsettles him more than Connor would care to admit. Even if the kids who wrote them are long since stripped of their parts, dead and gone or maybe somehow still alive, their writing is still here. He wonders if his handwriting has changed since he wrote it last. If Connor saw a few sentences of his letter, could he recognize it as his own, or is even that last hallmark of the boy he’d been gone from him forever?

Connor can’t help but obsess over every detail. It’s hard not to when Sonia keeps bringing it up. He’s not sure if she thinks he’s dramatically different from the boy he’d been, but she must want him to return to that former version of himself somehow, because she’s offered for him to hand deliver the letter to his parents. In fact, she seems rather put off by the fact that he hasn’t leapt at the chance.

It’s not the first time in his life that Connor doesn’t have the right answer, and just like every other impossible choice, Connor isn’t even sure that there is a right way to go about this. He can take his letter to his parents, the people who had him unwound in the first place. He can be the bigger person and forgive them for wanting him clinically dismembered. Maybe, after time, they’ll even be able to move on from it and grow back together again.

Or, far more tempting still, Connor can let his resentment stand as firm and impenetrable as a fortress. This is the choice that calls to him the most. Why should he forgive them? It’s up to his parents to reach out to them first, even if they have no idea if he’s still alive nor how to contact them. Connor is not the one who wanted his own flesh and blood unwound. There’s no reason for the responsibility of breaching the immovable gap between himself and his family to fall on his shoulders.

Still, the Objective Right Thing to do is to give them the letter. Connor knows this, in a shifting, sinking feeling in his stomach, like when you tell your first big lie as a kid even though you know it’s wrong. Connor should meet his parents again. Probably.

Problem is, he doesn’t want to. The anger may not be as white-hot as it had been when Connor first found out he was going to be unwound, but it’s still there, simmering beneath his skin like a stovetop that wasn’t turned off properly. He isn’t going to burn down the house, not yet, but the possibility is there.

Risa would support him in this, Connor knows that. She immediately advocated against it, citing the immense risk posed by leaving their hiding place in Sonia’s basement. She doesn’t know the conflict in Connor’s heart quite as well as the terror of getting caught by the Juvenile Authority, though. She never had a family to love and loathe like this, and although Connor hates to say it, this will be the one time her advice won’t be as picture perfect as usual.

Sonia can sense this hesitation, and she’s been even pushier than usual in an attempt to convince him to visit his parents. At one point earlier today, Connor was helping her bring down some groceries when she asked him again when he was planning on leaving.

“I’m not going,” Connor had complained angrily, and immediately felt like a kid throwing a temper tantrum because his favorite shirt was in the wash or something stupid like that. So many unwinds here would kill for a chance to see their parents again, and here he is practically frothing at the mouth at the thought of it.

Sonia had raised her eyebrows at that, but said nothing, for once. Connor had lugged the last of the bags down and sat in silence, fuming, until he finally cooled off again. He feels bad for snapping at Sonia like that, especially when she’s risking her life for him by harboring unwinds right underneath her shop, but not bad enough to deliver the letter.

Sonia doesn’t usually check up on them during the day, electing to preserve her ruse by manning the counter of the antique shop, so Connor assumes he’ll have all day to practice an apology before she checks up on them after closing time. Maybe he’ll write her a letter. He could both thank her for shoving him in her basement for so many weeks and also say he’s sorry for being an ass. He probably owes a lot of people similar letters. He’s been an ass many times.

Connor is idly monitoring the sounds upstairs, waiting to tell when Sonia will come down again so he can have his statement ready, when he first hears the loud thump. Noise isn’t uncommon up above; customers buying large objects can be heard huffing and puffing as they drag their purchases to the door. However, this sounds wrong. The voices Connor makes out through the dusty floorboards don’t sound like people ogling antiques. One of them sounds cruel, and the other, Sonia, sounds distorted somehow, unlike herself. They’re too quiet for him to hear, but none of it can be good. Then Sonia lets out a cry of pain, and Connor knows for certain that something is wrong.

All of the other runaways in the basement perk up. Fight or flight senses are always amplified among AWOLs. Connor silently gestures for them to back away from the cellar entrance, holding a finger to his lips. This could be a Juvey-cop, so they can’t risk exposing Sonia through too many sounds. Risa picks up a wrench, testing its weight experimentally, and Connor and the others follow suit. Whatever’s going on up there, it can’t hurt to have a weapon.

They wait in tense, painful silence, and then there’s a softer thump from above as the rug is flipped off of the trapdoor and Sonia shouts down for Lev of all people to come up and help her with something. Lev isn’t here, he hasn’t been near Sonia’s shop at all. Sonia knows this, and she’s well aware that the kids know this, too.

Connor’s eyes widen as he puts it together. This is a trap, obviously. Risa, sensing the same thing, grabs a small, blond kid (Jack, maybe? Connor tried not to learn their names. Unfamiliarity makes it easier to lose them) and starts to push him up the stairs, promising that she’ll be right behind him. Connor moves to join her but Risa stops him with a single harsh look.

“Don’t you dare even poke your head out,” she urges in a terse whisper. “Whoever’s here is probably only looking for you. Don’t make a sound.”

Connor would like to argue with this, but he knows she’s right. Odds are somebody saw him through a storefront window or something after closing. It’s not right to let Risa fight his battles for him, but maybe the intruder will leave if they don’t see the Akron AWOL. It’s not lost on him that Risa and the blond boy might get taken away anyway all for the sake of covering for him, but Risa’s not taking no for an answer, and she’s gone within a moment.

Connor paces back and forth, unsuccessfully trying not to let his panic show. Beau, one of the latest wannabe top dog types, starts prying at a window in the back, which is good. Odds are, they’ll need a second way out of here than just the trapdoor. Connor is about to pitch in and help when he hears a gunshot up above, followed by an agonized cry by Risa, and then all bets are off. Risa’s plea for him to stay hidden is gone from his head. If his worst fears are true– if she was shot, if she was dead– nothing matters anymore.

Connor bounds up the stairs two at a time, emerging into utter chaos. The blond kid is crumpled on the ground, a mess of blood and gore coating his chest. A grungy man is standing over his body holding a real gun, not just a tranq. Risa is beating him with a wrench, but he throws her off of him the second Connor appears. The man’s face cracks into a leering grin, and Connor realizes that he knows this man. It’s Nelson, the cop he shot so long ago.

Worse than that, it’s not just Nelson. Half of his face has been replaced with unwound flesh. Connor discovers with a sickening lurch of his stomach that he knows the donor, too. That’s the good side of Argent Skinner’s face isn’t it? Come to think of it, Connor hasn’t seen Grace in a little while, too. He silently hopes she’s alright, then shuts off every part of his brain that isn’t wired to defend himself. Nelson looks crazy. He has to be ready for anything.

Nelson lets out a slow, cackling laugh. “Connor Lassiter. In the flesh.”

“Nelson. In somebody else’s flesh.” Connor mimics. “What did you do to Argent Skinner?”

Nelson rolls his eyes elaborately. “He got in the way. I think his fate is obvious, isn’t it? I needed new skin. He needed to learn his lesson. No one crosses me and gets away with it. You’ve been on the run for a long time, but I’ve caught up to you at last. I always catch my prey.”

To the side, Risa is slowly getting to her feet, but there’s a gash opening up on her temple. Behind her, Sonia is chained to a chair, obviously in pain. Only Connor can save them. Only Connor can save himself.

Nelson starts to glance over at Risa, following Connor’s line of sight, so Connor quickly speaks up again to distract him. “So what, are we going to fight again? Boring, but let’s get on with it. Do you want to get out your tranq gun for old time’s sake? Maybe I’ll shoot you again. They might give me a new nickname for that.”

Nelson actually growls in anger. “I’m not interested in tranq guns, Connor. A permanent solution is better for you.”

He’s still holding the gun he just used to kill the blond boy, and Connor realizes with a sinking lurch that Nelson is planning on utilizing it for a second kill. This time, Nelson isn’t leaving until the job is done. Sure, it would be good to collect the payout of grabbing the Akron AWOL, but this is personal. Nelson can make up any excuse he wants about why Connor forced his hand. In the end, this is about Connor repeatedly humiliating the guy, costing him his job, his life, his flesh and bone, everything. One of them is walking away from this, not both. Perhaps neither of them. Looking up at Nelson, Connor finally knows:  this is where it all ends.

“That’s fine with me.” Connor tells him. “I’d like to get rid of you, too.”

He briefly considers going for the ‘nice socks’ distraction, but, afraid of having used it one too many times, Connor decides to ignore the pleasantries and just get going. There’s a table of antiques next to him; Connor grabs the closest heavy object, a brass candlestick, and lobs it at Nelson’s head. The former Juvey-cop manages to duck, but not entirely, and the metal clips him on the temple.

Nelson grunts in pain and angrily points the gun towards Connor, who frantically hurls himself to the floor. The shot misses, shattering a glass cabinet and sending the contents showering to the floor. Connor picks himself up and sprints away, hoping Nelson’s more interested in him than staying to finish off Risa and Sonia.

Luckily, the guy’s got blinders on for anything that isn’t his least favorite AWOL, and Nelson gives chase immediately. Unluckily, this means that more bullets are directed Connor’s way. He skids through a series of small displays, using the advantage of a few tight corners to remove himself from Nelson’s immediate line of vision, then ducks into a hiding space below a desk. There, he waits, one hand clamped over his mouth so Nelson can’t hear him breathing.

Nelson stalks slowly from room to room, Connor can hear the thud of his boots against the ground. “Come out, Connor,” Nelson calls, “Let’s settle this like men. You can’t hide forever.”

Maybe not, but he can certainly push off more fighting as long as he can. Nelson was a cop once, he’s got way more combat training than Connor. Connor’s only hope is to stay one step ahead and confuse him into letting down his guard. There’s no way he’s winning a direct fistfight, so Connor has to be as difficult as possible. 

Something dense thuds on the ground, then the glug of liquid pouring out follows the sound. Connor has no idea what that could be, but there’s no mistaking the subsequent click of a lighter. “If you won’t come out on your own, I have no problem smoking you out. I hear that’s best when taking care of rats. You have to burn down their nest to kill the young.”

Connor does not know much about rats, nor the proper method of extermination, but at this moment he doesn’t like any of it. Nelson is just as stuck in here as Connor if the antiques shop goes up in flames, but Connor realizes with a sinking feeling that Nelson doesn’t care about getting out if Connor doesn’t either. As long as Connor dies first, Nelson is happy. 

Connor, however, needs his friends to stay alive. He rolls out from under the desk to find Nelson crossing over the threshold of the room. The former Juvey-cop bares his teeth in a grin. “See, there you are. I knew you’d let your feelings get in the way of your own self preservation.”

He holds up the lighter triumphantly over a slick of what might be rubbing alcohol or gasoline. Connor tries to stay cool, but his hands twitch at his sides. “Easy, man. You don’t want to blow yourself up, too.”

“How considerate of you to think about me,” Nelson muses. “I won’t return the favor.”

With that, he drops the lighter. The liquid immediately erupts into flames, streaking out of the room and into the next with lightning speed. Connor shouts in despair, but it’s too late. He can only hope that Risa was able to get Sonia out, that the unwinds in the basement could get the window open. Hope is all he has left. That, and the undeniable anger coursing through his veins. Nelson wants to play with fire, does he? Connor is more than willing to follow suit.

He’s not stupid enough to start a fight in a burning house, so he runs for the back door, which opens up into a barren grassy patch hemmed in by a fence. Good; Connor doesn’t want Nelson running. If Connor is the only one that survives the fire, he will make sure Nelson pays for it.

Connor makes it out the door first, so he has enough time to pick up a rock and hurl it at Nelson’s head as the Juvey-cop chases him out. This time, Nelson doesn’t duck, and the man cries out in pain as the rock connects directly with his left eye. Whatever Unwind’s eyeball ended up in Nelson’s face, he hopes that they’re not aware of the injury. He wants only Nelson to feel the agony of the blood welling up in the ruined socket.

Nelson clutches the bloody wound, swearing at Connor. “Do you know how costly those things can get on the black market? I’ll have to replace it with yours to even things out.”

“Try it. See what happens,” Connor dares him, and lunges for the man.

Nelson’s sense of balance is still impacted by the blow to the head, so Connor manages to tackle him around the middle before Nelson is even aware that he’s attacking. They roll around on the ground for a little bit, exchanging punches back and forth, before Connor is able to force him onto his back. From there, it’s easy to keep him pinned and rain blows upon his face. 

He used to get in fights a lot before the unwind order, it’s all coming back to him now. Nelson tries to shove the barrel of the gun towards Connor, but Connor knocks it out of his hand in an instant. The man’s face is almost unrecognizable by now, but Connor isn’t done yet. This man is responsible for so many teenagers being unwound, doesn’t he deserve this punishment? He, too, should be in pieces. Connor can arrange that.

Nelson tries to shout something, but the words come out garble and broken around his swollen tongue. It’s going to attract attention, if the inferno behind them hasn’t brought scrutiny already. To shut him up, Connor wraps his hands around Nelson’s throat and starts to squeeze. It’s easy at first, just a matter of applying pressure. One of his hands– the right one, Connor thinks, but he’s not entirely aware of the difference nor why it should matter– tries to back out, but Connor redoubles his efforts. Nelson is not getting away. Not this time. Not ever.

It takes Connor a long time to realize that the man is no longer moving. Longer still to realize why. Connor has never killed someone before. He didn’t think he could, but. Sometimes we learn things about ourselves later than we expect.

Connor falls to his knees, leaning back slightly as he stares at his handiwork. His heart beats an urgent, irregular beat, telling him what he has known for a while now but is certain of today:  he is a terrible, terrible person. Lev wouldn’t blow up Happy Jack, even Roland couldn’t kill, but Connor could. There are no lines he would not cross, no boundaries he cannot push. He is, at last, well and truly feral. No wonder the world wants him in pieces.

People are starting to emerge from their houses, attracted by the glow of the fire and the jumbled shouts of the fight. Connor is sheltered by the fence and hedges for now, but soon they’ll come for him and find the bloodied corpse of the former Juvey-cop. There are very few people who would mourn for Jasper T. Nelson, if there are indeed any at all, but any witnesses will see a dead man and a living killer and know who is worse off at the moment. The dead rest. The living do not.

Risa finds him first. She skids over the ground to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders. Dimly, Connor is reminded of tackling Nelson to the ground, one rough arm against his throat, but this is Risa, this is different, this has to be different. Not everything in this world brings death. Still, it’s hard to remember now.

“It’s over,” Risa breathes against his ear, “It’s over. Let’s go home.”

Connor isn’t looking at her, though, he’s watching the flecks of burning paper float down around him like snow. In his head, he’s a kid again, bundled up in a parka and too-big snow boots. He’ll grow into them; so will his brother, in a few years. Now Lucas gets new clothes and Connor gets nothing at all. Lucas has had two winters now of being the first one to run out into the yard in the fresh snow, of sinking the first boot prints into the endless expanse of white, and Connor hopes to God he’s loved it.

Connor stretches out a shaking, blood-spattered hand and picks up one of the pieces. It’s an envelope, the contents either ripped away in the wind or already burnt to bits. Right now, the delivery address is damn near indistinguishable from the coarse ash rubbed against it, but Connor can pick out the words by heart:

Claire & Kirk Lassiter

3048 Rosenstock Road

Columbus, Ohio 43017

As he watches, the smoke from one corner of the envelope picks up into a spark, which turns into a flame that gnaws away the words one by one. Like unwinding, his mind whispers. Each letter ripped away to some new fate. Risa has to pluck the quickly burning paper out from between his fingers so Connor doesn’t scorch himself. He doesn’t even notice the flames are at his flesh until a dull, throbbing ache some time later.

Connor is still in Ohio. He’s within driving distance of his house, but there is something Connor has known from the moment he came back here, from the moment Sonia put that letter in his hands again, from the moment he throttled Nelson until the light left his eyes:  he can never go back. That house is for the whole, and although Connor still has possession of all of his limbs, he cannot ever be described as such again. He is not his father’s son. He is not his mother’s boy. If there was ever a Connor who could return to the Lassiter family, he is not the one who just strangled a man to death. There is no place in Ohio that Connor can ever return to again.

“No,” Connor chokes out, half-gagging on the wet slurry of ash and blood in his mouth, “No. I have no home.”

Risa’s saying something soothing about how that’s not true, he’ll always have her, and they’ll find a way, they always have, but he’s not listening anymore. Instead, Connor’s face is tilted back, letting the sun wash over the gouges on his cheeks, his split lip, the bruises already flowering under his skin. He stares once into that blinding light, then snaps his eyes shut. 

The elder Lassiter boy is dead. Only Connor remains.

requested by @bopeisdope, i hope you enjoy!

unwind tag list: @schroedingers-kater, @sirofreak, @locke-writes

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[usafphantom2]

My father was picked by a computer in 1964 to become a candidate for a new position, called the reconnaissance systems officer in the new SR-71.

He was picked because of his outstanding bomb record in the B-58. He was the first man interviewed by Doug Nelson at Little Rock Air Force Base home of the 43rd wing of the B-58 because he had walking pneumonia; Colonel Nelson interviewed him first, took him into a small closet, and asked him these questions: would you be willing to fly over Russia or China and are you a volunteer?

The Sheffield family was the first SR 71 family to arrive at Beale Air Force Base March of 1965. My Dad was picked not because he knew someone important. He didn’t know anyone. He came from a small town in Ohio called Rootstown. His father worked at the Goodyear rubber plant in Akron, Ohio. The first group were all like Dad, and they knew what an honor it was to be selected. This was a noble calling. They put the love of their country first in their life. These men were sincere, and their word was so honorable that you knew it was a solemn promise that they would rather die before they revealed it. You could just feel feel the goodness of these men trust honor, faithful, noble, confident, and humility. The tradition of selecting, the very best was continued throughout the whole program.

I would go to basketball and baseball games to watch my Dad and his coworkers play. I was shocked at how aggressive Daddy was. He didn’t act like that at home. They were all aggressive men .

These men knew how to handle social situations expertly. I would go to the officers club with my parents occasionally. Who could turn down a colored TV in the lobby near the bar at the Beale Air Force Base officers club with all the Shirley Temples (7-Up with grenadine ) with cherries on top that I could possibly drink. My friends lived near by they were mostly SR 71 pilots and RSO‘s children. I spent a lot of time eating dinner with them, watching TV , going to the bowling alley, going on picnics, running down the street to Ryan Park. Stopping by the Vicks, the Jarvis’s, the McCallum’s and Payne’s last, but not least I practically lived at Janet Payne’s house.

When I was a teenager, I hung out with Kent and Sherry Collins I would babysat for the younger kids in family. I didn’t know that their father Ken Collins’s was an A-12 pilot turned SR-71 pilot until many years later. I’m sure the postman was confused as an another Collins lived across the street. Charles “Pete” Collins SR-71 Pilot and his wife Shirley and kids Petey, Kim and Kathy they moved back after being away for a year, and now lived across the street from us.

The neighbors and my parents all came around with bottles of liquor. It was getting kind of late and they were getting rather noisy. I thought it would be funny to call the police on them. Just to see what they would do. I had my friend Jeff Anderson, deepen his voice and call the police from my kitchen. The police quickly came. I didn’t know that the phones were bugged. The base police assumed that the call came from my father not from one of his daughter’s friends . Jeff and I and a few other friends that had stopped by were hiding behind the bushes . The police said I heard there was a disturbance up here. As the two young police officers looked at the sidewalk with spilled liquor and bottles everywhere and four couples sitting in the grass !

Ken Collins quickly gets up approach the police car I said “You can move on now we took care of it.” I waited about 25 years before I told my mother that I was the one that instigated the call to the police. I think she was still thinking about putting me on restriction. Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[venusdenighlo]

Alright Chapter 1 of the thing is finished, hopefully I'll write chapter 2 tomorrow

This is it. Their final day whole had come. They had no idea of what was happening in the nation’s capital, as the triplicates were signed when the Stork Brigade was the most pressing issue in the news, out of fear that they would somehow run away from home & join the group. Sixmile Harvest Camp was notoriously underfunded and the facilities showed it, instead of the expected recreations, campers were expected to work at a local turf farm, but to Noel, none of that mattered now that they were being driven in a golf cart to the adequately named “Shed of Doom''. A Tithe would be joining Noel for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to Noel’s dismay. The band stood on the roof of the male dormitory building, playing a poor cover of The Weekend’s prewar hit “Blinding Lights”. Noel’s grown to hate that song after their dad signed the unwinding order, so imagine the nightmare it is to hear it right before your division, it's as if the universe is taunting you. “I love this song.” says the Tithe, “I hate this song.” replies Noel, quieting the probably baptist “Quiet.” the counselor finally says after staying quiet the whole journey. Just then, the counselor’s cell rang, the counselor answered with a “Hello?”. After about 15 seconds of the voice on the other end chattering away, the counselor abruptly yelled out “What? Scott signed it?”, confusing Noel & the tithe. The only newsworthy ‘Scott’ Noel knew of was President Rahil Scott, a known opponent to unwinding, despite the cards stacked against him in congress. With a sigh, the counselor hangs up the phone and looks back at the teenagers. “Well kids, turns out the Akron AWOL is alive and has just gotten the government to ban unwinding, so I guess you’re free to go?”  “...What?” Noel finally says, after a solid 2 minutes of silence from both them and the Tithe. “Do you want me to drop you guys off at the gate or something?” “Yes please.” says the Tithe, whose voice is becoming increasingly annoying for Noel. After a surprisingly awkward ride to the front gate, the two kids get off the golf cart & exit the harvest camp, something neither of them thought they would do as themselves. “I’m Lucius, by the way.” the tithe says, as if Noel cared about his name. “It seems as if I’m stuck with you, Lucius, since I’m definitely not going home and it’s too far to walk anywhere. Want to catch a train?” “Where are we going?” asked Lucius “DC, New York, Denver, all depends on what train we board.” Noel responds. “Well, how are we going to buy tickets? We didn't get any money.”

“Who the fuck said anything about buying tickets?”

[beardedmrbean]

“It’s fascist to eliminate DOE!” Americans are considered some of the most illiterate people and lack critical thinking skills on the planet since the DOE was made.

Boys are INTENTIONALLY throw under the bus since the public school system is purposely designed for girls style of learning. Fuck I’m 23 and I realize I only got any form of support because of my skintone.

And what we been getting, hmm, kids don’t know how to do taxes. We barely have any cooking lessons unless your lucky af. Most Americans can only read at a 3rd grade level and oh the big ones.

Teachers unions are corrupted af and we have rampant child sex abuse issues where 1 in 10 students REPORTED sexual misconduct. And how many headlines that boils down to “Teacher raped a male student” in one year alone?

And I’m African American, now I didn’t grow up in the inner cities. But I known the government don’t give two fucks about me(I live in the Chicago area too)

What wrong destroying the DOE? People call American schools a hell on earth and we been getting more stupid since the government interference. Oh shit I forgot, how many boys were overdrugged again? Sorry I don’t have Stockholm syndrome towards schools

2013 not sure if there's anything more recent this was the one that popped up when I was looking for something different for that post

You'll notice that adjusted for inflation there is three times the money being spent per student now than there was in 1970 with a fairly static level on scoring, but you know that whole definition of insanity trying the same thing and expecting different results doesn't count when it comes to my tax dollars apparently.

There are understandable newer things that will increase the monetary need like ADA compliance, computers, and meal programs (which I wholeheartedly support, kids shouldn't go hungry drop the obama one tho I don't support that one it's garbage and kids were still hungry, how bad does it have to be for a kid to skip out on some of what might be all they eat that day) and various other improvements and such, big fan of air conditioning myself.

Still shouldn't triple the dollar number,

Also for the record the DOE was formed in 1979 so the numbers were already going up for spending when it came in.

Data presented to the Akron, Ohio, school board revealed not a single student from the school’s inaugural third-grade class — now entering eighth grade — has ever passed the state’s math test. “It is discouraging,” said Keith Liechty-Clifford, the district’s director of school improvement, in a model of understatement. State test scores in English and science are nearly as bad, and Black students at I Promise test in the bottom 5% of all Black students in Ohio.

Nice to see the people there making excuses instead of taking responsibility too, one more lesson in failure from this school.

I do hope they can figure it out though, I still have hopes for this one.

But if you've been around here for more than a few months you'll likely know I have hopes for everything to be better, I try to be very bright side oriented.

and in that vein, at least these kids get 3 hots 5 days a week maybe more so that's a W, less hungry kids is always a W

[yetisidelblog]

Linda McMahon’s nomination for Secretary of Education is heading to a full Senate vote next week – and if confirmed, she’ll carry out Trump’s plan to dismantle the Department of Education and gut public school funding. We can’t let that happen.

McMahon is unqualified and committed to diverting taxpayer dollars away from public schools, cutting resources for students with disabilities, slashing support for teachers, attacking LGBTQ+ students, and censoring what our kids can read and learn. This is about the future of our children’s education – and we need to act now.

@upontheshelfreviews

@greenwingspino

@one-time-i-dreamt

@tenaflyviper

@akron-squirrel

@ifihadaworldofmyown

@justice-for-jacob-marley

@voicetalentbrendan

@thebigdeepcheatsy

@what-is-my-aesthetic

@ravenlynclemens

@writerofweird

@anon-lephant

@mentally-quiet-spycrab

@therealjacksepticeye