#wisconsin weather ig | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

uncouth-the-fifth · 3 years ago

Text

Pythia, A Supernatural Rewrite. Dead in the Water, p.3

read it on ao3. masterlist.

words: 12,769

notes: howdy! sorry for the delay, i didn't want to rush this one and land you w an uggo chapter simply because i couldn't find inspiration. i did eventually tho! includes some cute researching, snow bonding, and hot chocolate <3 idk about you but it's still mf snowing where i live, so winter vibes ig.

LAKE MANITOC, WISCONSIN - NOV. 17th, early morning.

By the time Dean got back to the motel, it was three in the morning and snowing mercilessly.

None of you had any solid clue as to what Lucas’ drawing meant, but either way, the Carltons needed to be kept under a close eye. You took shifts watching them for the next few days. Sam took the first, you spent the following day listening to audiobooks in the Impala and squinting at the house, and Dean had the next night. It bored all three of you to tears—you hoped for the Carltons’ sake it stayed that way.

Between shifts, the research machine worked with more endurance than usual. This was now your third hunt together as a famil—a unit, and without John to shove everyone into order, you’d been a little worried that things might fall apart. As much as you loathed John, he kept you in line, no matter how many nails, stitches, and layers of glue it took. Sam had never been old enough to go hunting alone with you and Dean, so if he did it was under John’s supervision. For the first time, it was just the three of you.

Maybe it was insensitive, but you felt like you could breathe again.

It started snowing at around eight, which is when you traded places with Dean. Sitting in the Impala all day had numbed your ass and your brain, which Sam knew, and was ready for. He loved making lists, so you imagined the one he’d mentally prepared for your researching bash together: reheat her Chinese food, give her the comfiest chair next to me, leave the curtains open so she can watch the weather. Either you were predictable, or he knew you a little too well.

You claimed your seat next to him with a deep sigh, which sunk into a dry smile as Sam—like always—slid a pen in front of you to cross-analyze the vics. He didn’t look at you, but you could tell this is where Sam’s relationships thrived: in soft, productive silences. He would do his research and you would do yours, but when the reading got too rough and your remembered this spirit had killed real people, you could feel him there and he could feel you. When Sam’s thinking became especially sullen, you cheered him up by pretending to be his personal assistant. Mr. Winchester, you have a call on line two. It’s Andy again, about your meeting for this month’s monster-killing projections? And from behind his book, Sam would bite his lip and smirk, Tell him I’m busy. In fact, cancel all my meetings. I’m going on vacation.

But the general numbness that came with the hunt was just one thing. After sharing your emotions with Sam about the spat with Dean, you realized just how much he was burying. Sam really was Dean’s little brother, in all the ways that gutted you. Dean took all his fear about his dad and crammed it in a pine box, six feet under, just so his brother didn’t have to worry; and Sam raked all his grief into one pile, so you and Dean never saw it. He felt like the weak link. The least experienced hunter between the three of you, with few ways to help find John and fewer to avenge Jessica.

You made a list in your head for him, too. Make sure Sam’s sleeping. Make sure Sam knows we listen to him. Make sure Sam doesn’t eat himself alive over this.

Until midnight, you kept each other awake. You started smacking and pinching each other when one of you nodded off, which kept Sam tickle-vigilant and you hyper-aware of every tuggable strand of hair on your head. Eventually, Sam fell asleep with his cheek to a book and you didn’t have the heart to wake him. After checking in with Dean through a text, you tugged on Sam’s arm and sleepily he gave it to you to rest your head on.

You woke up a few hours later in amber lamplight, in bed, and tucked in. Your shit motel room apparently had shit heating to match, so Sam had put you to bed and had thrown his comforter over you for good measure. He was hunched over his laptop, clicking away when you jerked awake.

“Did I wake you?” Sam winced.

All you could do was shake your head and rub the seal of sleep from your eyes. Sam watched you from a safe distance, since you’d probably punched around a little while you were under. You crawled out and stood to meet him, and Sam, peculiarly, made an effort not to look at you.

“Up,” you said to him, taking his elbow.

“The Carltons are totally clean. I still can’t find a thing. We should—” Sam was saying, but you shook your head and gave his arm another tug.

You insisted. “Shh, we’ll have time later. Five-minute break.”

Sam tilted his head back to look at you, bangs splayed across his forehead and his under-eyes smeared with purple exhaustion. “Can’t sleep either?”

“Nightmare,” you explained to him, and without word, Sam hefted himself out of his chair and let you guide him toward the door. “It’s our first snow of the year, and we haven’t had one second to enjoy it. C’mere a minute. It’ll wake you up.”

Sluggish with sleep, you and Sam put on your coats and fumbled around for gloves and shoes. A rattle of icy air purged your room the second you opened the door, but you pushed past it to meet the darkness, which was blacker under the stark flurries. Though it was coming down fast, all was silent. Sam shut the door behind you, and the wind stole the sound. It was so dead quiet that you checked Sam’s mouth for movement, just in case he’d spoken and the strange atmosphere of the storm had kept the sound in his chest. The only light handling its own against the snow was the lamplight from your room. It poured sweetly on one side of Sam’s face, who emerged from his research daze blinking snowflakes out of his lashes.

He noticed you staring. Sam hesitated to speak, afraid to disturb the holy quiet. “Do you wanna talk about your nightmare?”

Standing there beside him on the stoop, you felt again like you’d been flattened to something solid. You could feel the bumpy surface of it under your nails, could feel the cold of it where the backs of your bare thighs and arms met it; your stomach pressed forward, like gravity was pulling it and you out of your own skin. A gross shock of ice-metal pain phantomed across your lower belly. All of the sensations were cold, yet you knew you were burning.

You covered your stomach where that pain had bloomed in your dream, and pretended Sam didn’t notice.

“Spiders,” you lied to him, and Sam spared some of his energy to snort at you.

With all the gentleness of a worshiper at an altar, you got comfortable on the stoop and gazed out at the yawning darkness, swirling with the movement of snow. If you looked hard enough you felt like you could see the wind instead of the flakes riding it, curling and ebbing in all directions like the limbs of a vast being. Sam paused behind you, endeared by your fascination for the scenery. When he fought his limbs long enough to join you sitting on the cement, he gave a dramatic shiver and inched closer to you. Sam sighed once. Then he sighed again, and a third time.

“Wimp,” you smirked, but you gave Sam your arm anyway—extra warm from sleep—and opened your hands to the sky. Tiny flakes peppered over your hands, dissolving instantly into the heat of your skin.

Sam did the same, and for a heart-bursting moment you thought he planned to reach out and take your hand in his. All thoughts of taking a break from research or calming your mind whipped out into the wind. Sam had long, handsome hands that gathered two times as many snowflakes as yours did. The flakes melted on his skin even faster than they did on yours, so you didn’t have to wonder what it would feel like to hold them. You knew they’d be encompassing and warm and familiar—

“Dean’s back early,” you blurted, and snapped the fist of your right hand, the one closest to Sam, instantly shut. Sam’s went limp into his lap.

A minute later, the Impala cut smoothly through the flakes, making them flutter around the car in one surging rush. Like a massive, unseen creature taking in a breath miles away. It seemed to emerge from nothing. You couldn’t make out Dean until the car was pulling into park, and even then you only saw his eyes illuminated strangely in the Impala’s headlights. Both you and Sam were too exhausted to stand when he evaporated out of the driver’s seat.

Dean snapped the driver’s door shut, rubbing his hands together. “Will Carlton’s dead,” he said, severely.

As one, you and Sam shot off the stoop. “No fucking way,” you said, as Sam shook his head in disbelief. “How? In the lake?”

“In his sink,” Dean grimaced.

You covered your mouth. The last time you’d seen Will… He’d been bent over his sink in the Carlton kitchen, head hanging, fingers digging into the counter’s edge. That had been days ago. And yet you could still chase the feeling that final look at him had given you, like all the world’s gravity dragging down a guillotine blade. Fever rolled in your stomach. What? The visions, the fainting, the nightmares—none of that was enough? Now you had death omens, too?

Your reaction must’ve been a little intense, considering Will was a stranger and combined, you, Sam, and Dean had probably watched hundreds of people die during the hunt. Your first instinct was to tell Dean about the feeling you’d had. A death omen? That was something he should know about. But you were startled out of your spiral by his hand on your shoulder, and found trepidation in his face instead of comfort.

“You good?” He asked, and now Sam was looking at you too.

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat, jolted by the sound of your own voice in the hollow blizzard. “Just—man. In his own sink?”

“One more reason we have for putting this spirit to rest,” Sam assured, and turned to his brother. “What happened?”

“I get the feeling the spirit knew we were watching the house.” Dean’s hand slipped off your shoulder, but he kept close to you, subconsciously putting you in the warm space between him and Sam. “I know m’ not the psychic one or anything, but the spirit didn’t lure Will out to the water, where I was watching—he killed him quietly, in the house. I’m sitting there and all of a sudden a shitload of cops pull up.��

“Bill found him?” You winced, and Dean nodded, his face as silent and telling as stained glass.

Sam worked his jaw in thought. “Civilians… they’d look at a guy drowned in his own sink, alone in a house but for his dad, n’ they’d think…”

“That Bill drowned his son himself,” you finished. How many people today, you wondered, had been jailed for something a monster had done?

“That’s what I thought too,” Dean explained, and shoved his hands in his pockets to warm them. “Figured’ they’d drag him out of the house in cuffs, since what else could they think. But nope.”

“There’s no way. They believe that someone had to drown Will, and if the only other person home is his mad-with-grief father, well. That’s probable cause for filicide. And they still didn’t arrest him?” Sam rubbed his jaw.

Dean pretended to shiver, or maybe it was a bit real, since the snow was starting to find its running legs. He notched a lazy grin. “You know I love it when you go all lawyer on me, Sammy.”

Sam rolled his eyes. He looked to you for help, but admittedly, Dean had taken the words right out of your mouth. The phrase probably cause for filicide endearing you to a person probably let on just how messed up you were, but hey. Dean was smiling a little too. Law boy.

“Seriously.” Sam shouldered through all the fond looks being thrown at him, “Any reasonable cop would arrest Carlton, for sure. This has to be a cover-up.”

“You don’t think Sheriff Devins…?” You trailed off.

Dean hummed, eyebrows jumping. “He was there. First on the scene.”

“Then that’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Sam said, now surging with conviction, “Bill Carlton’s two children both die in water-related accidents all in one month. Instead of rightfully arresting him, Devins lets him get away with it. Why?”

“Because he knows it’s a spirit, not Bill,” you breathed, “they’re our spirit’s killers.”

“70-30 chance, I’m betting. Maybe they’re just old friends and that’s why Devins is getting him out of it, but… but…” Sam lapsed into such intense thought that he paced in a circle, drawing figure-eights in the snow with his boots. You and Dean shared a look—Sam’s nerdy old self still existed, then. He snapped his fingers. “Lucas’ Dad—he was Bill Carlton’s godson, and Devins’ son-in-law.”

“That sounds like it’s all clicking,” Dean decided. He sighed through his nose, which joined the fog of your warm breath in the icy air. “But that thirty percent—just in case, I say we keep looking for our spirit’s name before we go knocking any heads around.”

“I agree. But me and Sam’s research hasn’t turned up much,” you grumbled. Pausing, you tried to sort all the evidence out in your mind, flattening it all down like a piece of crumpled paper. Paper. Drawing paper. You made a grabby hand at Dean, “Hey, you still have that drawing Lucas gave you?”

“Yeah, of course.” Dean fished it out from his jacket, where it’d been neatly folded into quarters. He hesitated for a second to hand it over, which you would’ve teased him for, had your train of thought ever slowed down. “Uhm. If Lucas drew the Carlton house before Will died, you think…”

You caught the piece of paper between your thumb and forefinger. Then, you were out.

The icy familiarity of a vision swarmed over you, dragging you under black, artic currents. First you were in the water, which was so cold and all-encompassing that you could feel the tips of your limbs melting like ice. Your skin was almost too numb to feel the tickle of bubbles flooding out of your nose and mouth. Your last breath floated up and up, popping on the surface. Then, you were someone else. The suffocating feeling of drowning became the stifling feeling of sobbing. You were on a floating platform in the middle of the lake, clutching your knees to your chest and sobbing and sobbing and waiting for dad to resurface. Something had dragged him under. He never came back up. It dragged him down, and it dragged Sophie Carlton down, and it dragged a hundred other people into the depths with it. You saw Will Carlton at his sink, face seared against the drain like he could be pulled through it into the lake. You watched Bill Carlton from the water, waiting for a moment to strike. To them the water was cold, but to you it was a million times worse—the summer heat had died with you, so they’d die the same way. They all would. They all would.

“They all would,” you were saying.

Sam put his hand on your forehead. It was so warm on your freezing skin that it hurt, but you were too cold to resist. “They all will what? ____?”

“She’s coming out of it,” came Dean’s voice.

You blinked against the blazing lamplight, which Sam immediately spun around and turned off. Again, they’d maneuvered you under the covers, having shirked you of your cold boots and snow-dusted coat. Sam’s hand turned over, testing your forehead for a fever. His knuckles felt sinewy and calloused.

“She’s not too warm,” Sam judged. His brows were creased together. “You okay, hon’?”

“Ugh,” you said, and Sam sighed in relief, collapsing back.

Dean offered you a mug of something hot. Immediately, you sat up and took it into your hands, soaking in the heat burn as it melted your ice burn. Without looking, you slumped sideways against the headboard and took two huge gulps, and immediately regretted it. Irish coffee. “Jesus,” you gagged, eyes watering almost to tears, “warn a girl.”

“There’s like one shot in there. S’ more coffee than whiskey,” Dean scoffed, and gave you a hearty pat on the back.

To his credit, it did shock you awake, and you sat there for a moment shaking off the nasty taste. You flexed your hands in front of you and digested the vision, which was muggier and more confusing than usual. It all felt newborn and raw to you, similar to the first few visions you’d ever had. The images blended together in your mind, all of them walking on knobby lamb knees, fresh to the world and exposed.

“I think,” you coughed, “Lucas is a psychic.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Unsure, but trying to help, Sam said, “...You did get a vision when you touched his drawing.”

“Yeah,” you passed the drink to him, “I think it showed me one of his visions. It didn’t feel… like my brain. It felt like his brain. I saw his dad pulled under the water… and the vision that probably made him draw the Carlton house in the first place.”

“Wait, wait,” Dean waved a frantic hand around the air, laughing breathlessly, “you think he’s drawing because he’s having visions?” He lost some of his humor, and stilled. “Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died.”

You paused, and wrung your hands in thought.

“...I got my Gift after my dad’s accident.”

Again, Sam and Dean stared at you. To be honest, they probably remembered your dad’s death better than you did. It’d been twelve years ago, making Dean a freshman at some random Colorado highschool and Sam a fifth grader. Your dad had always hunted with his “biker gang,” which was really just a group of his hunting buddies who appreciated a good motorcycle. You had a vague memory of waving goodbye to them as they’d poured out of the parking lot of your dad’s autoshop. The motors roared so loud, but you wanted to impress your dad by not covering your ears. Ray had been the caboose in a pack of seven men—seven—because he always had the backs of his hunting partners; he was famous for his reliability, and even hunters ten states over knew to call him when they needed help. Even Uncle Bobby asked him for help, that’s how good your dad was.

You don’t remember where you’d been. All you knew—when your mom had explained it to you, weeks later—was that one moment you’d been standing, and in the next you were bent over, wailing and clutching your stomach. Even she had been too scared to give you many details beyond that. You eventually got it out of Dean, who told you that Beth had found you like that after she’d had an episode of her own. She knew exactly what happened; at the same time, with miles and miles between your dad and you and Beth, the two of you had felt him die.

Dean said your dad and his entire gang—seven whole men, seven whole capable hunters—had been killed by a shapeshifter. You went into some kind of psychic coma as a result, and for weeks there was nothing any of them could do.

After that you could start to fill in your own memories. You remembered ten-year-old Sam reading books to you at your bedside, Dean spoon-feeding you soup, Bobby chasing them out of your room while you slept. Weirdly enough, you remembered John being there too. He and your mom talked for hours into the night. When you weren’t catatonic with grief you pestered her about it, and then Dean when she wouldn’t answer.

She wants to get the shifter back, was all he’d said, stiff-lipped and dull-eyed. Me and Sammy are gonna be here with you, though. We’re gonna be here s’ long as you need.

All the while, your Gift, freshly born, stretched its legs. Any time your mom or the boys tried to get you out of bed, you’d be dragged into nonsensical, prophetic dreams. The entirety of your life had been spent preparing for the moment you’d get your Gift. For every time you’d asked about what it would be like or how you’d get it, your mother had answered. It’ll be hard. But you’ll get through it, and we’ll all be here for you. That’s what she’d always said. She was lucky; she got her Gift in a hunting accident. Still, no explanation or example could’ve even hoped to prepare you. You couldn’t even touch a person without devouring every possible thing they could ever do with their life. Every dream they’d ever had. Every ending they could ever get.

This is why, during this time, you stuck most closely to Sam. Bobby had put a wet rag on your forehead and you’d been gutted by every brutal, flesh-tearing death he could possibly find on the hunt. Dean had tried to braid your hair, and just the brush of his hand to your skin had roared a blaring white light over all your senses, a light with a thousand eyes and lion’s heads and boar’s heads and wings. Both times had been so terrible and gruesome that your nose had bled and you'd blacked out. Your mom had tried to soothe you with her own Gift, but just looking at her provoked images of your dad’s death.

Sam’s was different. With him, there was no explosion of sensation or skin-shredding mental pain. Ten-year-old Sam, who shoved newspaper in his hand-me-down shoes to fit in them, had the scariest, most unnerving future. His was tangible; it wasn’t a blind, restless pile of pain or the indescribable. He’d pull your comforter up to your chin or pass you a glass of water, and when his knuckles would brush your cheek you’d have a vision of a Sam twice his age. Even older than Dean was now.

And he’d only say one word: yes.

You told yourself that it was a happy yes. A yes, I’ll marry you, or a yes, the baby’s born and healthy. But you knew Sam, and even if he was older and changed, you could recognize the pure, unshakeable terror in his voice. In that single yes. You got the feeling he was accepting something terrible—submitting to an incredible, unimaginable evil.

But his future was quiet, the whisper of a yielding man, so he was the only one who could come close enough to help you.

After years of telling silences and interrupted conversations, you had a guess as to why John was there. Your mother had wanted revenge, but she couldn’t get it herself while her daughter was undergoing severe mental torture. John’s whole life was hinged on killing what had killed a loved one. It was his job, in every sense of the word, and your mother had enough favors saved up to pay the fee.

The difference between you and the Winchesters was that your revenge had been so swift and so silent that all that was left for you was the grief; and for them, revenge was everything, so grief had no room left to live.

“We need to talk to Lucas again,” Dean decided.

“And Bill Carlton,” Sam agreed.

Seeing as Dean was making the best progress with Lucas, you and Sam left for the Carltons’ at sunrise. Few people had left their beds, so the only other vehicles on the road were snowplows, pushing the pristine sheets of powder into sludgy roadside banks. It was a gray and ugly snowing. You kind of liked it. Beyond the roads, fields of pure white remained untouched by humans. You drove the Chief a little slower than usual, for the sake of the slippery road and Sam’s sight-seeing. He was “riding bitch,” as Dean would say, and crouching closer to you on the bike to avoid the windchill. His helmet bumped against yours every once in a while, and eventually it got annoying enough that he gave up and kept them pressed together.

You were anxious about Bill Carlton; after both of his kids dying, and dying in ways connected to the lake, he had to have realized what was going on. Or at least a notion. You wished that when civilians like him—murderers or unlucky people or whoever—found out the truth about… what’s out there, that it was easier. Every time you’d had to give someone the speech, it’d been at the worst possible time, when their world had been wedged upside-down by something they couldn’t even quantify. You wanted it to be easy.

There’d been a time once when everybody knew about the supernatural. Maybe that’d been during the Medieval Ages and everything, but you got the feeling that if all this was commonplace, spirits, protection sigils and hunting, maybe everything would be easier. It would just be another one of those things that humans had domesticated, like electricity and food. One day, hunters could be as normal as exterminators or firemen. Maybe then, telling somebody you’re being haunted by the spirit you created would sound like your sink’s broken.

“You okay?” Sam asked. He pat your shoulder where it’d twisted into knots.

You drew the Chief to a stop in the Carltons’ gravel driveway, eyeing the snow-layered house. “Bad feeling,” you explained, and unsaddled your bike. “C’mon.”

Sam started up for the house. You hesitated, lingering at the sight of the lake through the trees.

The quiet of the early morning couldn’t hold a candle to the quiet of the lake; it’d be snuffed out. Something about the snow muffled every step, every breath, so even the ringing of your inner ear and the pulsing of your heart was silent. There was no wind. The Chief’s motor hushed. Sam was too far away to hear. And the lake was more than soundless—it sucked the sound out of the air, drawing it in and capturing it. You could see the water in the finest detail, twisting and writhing beneath the lake’s ice, pushing and pushing against the surface. A thick shield of white ice separated you and that water. Your nails suddenly itched, and something told you that the only way to satisfy that itch was to fall to your knees on the ice and dig. Dig until your nails were in shards and your fingers were bloody.

You forced yourself to turn around, where Sam was patiently allowing you to do your thing. The sight of his face seemed to flush some color back into the air. In a daze, you asked him, “How do your nails feel?”

Sam drew his hands from his pockets and shot you a curious look. “Uh…cold, like the rest of me. Why?”

You could see in your mind’s eye the water seeping up from the cracks in the ice, black blood oozing from a wound.

“Nothin’. The spirit. Let’s knock, huh?”

Sam tried the door. From what you could see through the frost on the windows, it was just as Dean had said. Devins and his men had cleaned the scene fast, too fast, so any sign of Will’s death in the kitchen was in the wind. Probably not in an evidence bag somewhere, either. Even the dinner you’d seen him prep in your vision—well, Lucas’s vision—had been trashed. You understood keeping things quiet not to start a panic, but Dean was right. A few hours and the crime scene was already wiped? Definitely a cover-up.

“Mr. Carlton!” Sam yelled. He gave the door a couple more bangs, growing increasingly urgent.

“I guess I wouldn’t want to be in the house where my son had just died, either,” you sighed, “but where could he have gone?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. He spied over his shoulder for onlookers, frowning. “But we should look here while we can. You don’t sense anybody in there?”

“Not a soul,” you shook your head. “Everything’s dead out here.”

With that, Sam reached into his coat and unfurled his lockpick. For a moment everything was fine. You slid in front of him in case someone were to walk up the wooded drive and discover you, but facing this way forced you to look out at the lake again. When seers talked about there being a veil between what was living and what was dead, it was more literal than most people expected; when you turned away from the lake, you could hear the jiggle of the lock and Sam’s soft breathing; when you faced it, the anxious, organic pound of your heart in your ears silenced and the world grayed.

You kept your eyes away from the lake, now conscious of its effect on you. There were little indents in the snowy branches where a bird had landed. Sam’s tracks in the snow closely followed yours, twisting in a circle around the bike and dancing up to the house.

“Wait,” you tapped Sam’s back, “Do you see those tracks? Under ours?”

Sam did. He shared a glance with you, and together you bolted down the porch toward them. “Fresh,” Sam cursed, pushing into a sprint, “and they lead to the dock. Shit.”

“There!”

You veered to a stop on the bank of the lake. The tracks circled the shore… made impressions on the snowy dock… tested the surface on shaking legs… and walked in a death march to the eye of Lake Manitoc.

Against the black outlines of the trees on the other side, you almost missed Bill Carlton. Still marching.

“Mr. Carlton!” You screamed. It ripped out of your ferociously, tearing the clinging silence away with it. “Come back! You have to come back! Carlton—!”

Sam’s eyes raked over the ice, chest heaving. Your yelling wasn’t working. He raised his boot to chase Carlton across the ice—you heaved him back by the sleeve, barking, “No! It’ll take you too!”

“We have to help him!” Sam’s voice broke.

“We—we—” you whirled around, pacing the edge of the bank, spitting snow and sludge up from your heels. Bill was still walking. “I-I can—”

You thought you knew why Bill wasn’t responding. That was the effect of the lake, of your spirit, right? It had warped Lucas’ mind and your mind and Sophie Carlton’s mind. Winter had come, yet Sophie had swam and you’d nearly joined her. It entered your thoughts and made you forget how cold the water was, promising, urging, knowing that you’d be safe with it in your lungs and your ears and your nose.

You’d barely heard Sam and Dean when under the spirit’s influence. But Bill… even so far away, you saw him look back. This was a choice.

The spirit had taken his children. If he gave it himself, too, then maybe all this would be over.

Under Bill’s feet, the white ice was cast in shadow. That shadow blistered through the surface, forcing itself through the cracks and oozing up from below. He ignored your screams and Sam’s. When the cracks were too long and the web on the ice was too large, Bill Carlton let the spider take him.

Dean felt like an asshole.

He’d managed to pry another drawing out of Lucas, successfully scaring the shit out of Andrea. Everything had started fine. Well, fine as in terrible, because terrible was Dean’s fine. You know, I, uh, I wanted to thank you for that last drawing. But the thing is, I need your help again, he’d said pathetically. Lucas had colored and colored, a million miles away from them. Dean saw now that he was drawing black spirals and red bicycles all the time—then cramming them into the trash, under his bed, and in the garbage disposal. Andrea hadn’t been happy. She’d been even less happy when Lucas had come out of his daze, chased Dean out to his car, and broke down in front of him.

Dean still couldn’t shake the feeling of Lucas clinging to his leg and sobbing. His eyes had been so big and round and hopeless, pleading with him in the only way he could. To do what, Dean wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he’d seen what these… powers did to people, and knew some poor kid from Wisconsin didn’t deserve to suffer with them.

He picked up Sam and ____ outside the police station. Driving up, for a second he thought Sam was actually going to let himself be angry about everything—but no, ____ was fuming behind him also, so something had happened. They both were trembelling in the cold. Dean cranked the heat, then watched them turn as one toward the sound of the incoming Impala.

“Why all the long faces?” Dean greeted, slowing the car to a stop.

The two lugged into Baby. Another time, Dean would’ve definitely nagged them for slamming the doors so hard. Sam jammed his legs into the footwell, scowling in earnest. “The spirit killed Bill Carlton, too. And there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it.”

Dean seeped into his seat, shaking his head. He gave the wheel a harsh thump. One spirit, and it had all three of them chasing their fuckin’ tails. “Damn it. Lured him out to the water?”

From the backseat, in the gentlest, least-angry voice she could manage, ____ said, “No. He went on his own.”

He studied her through the rear-view, where she’d already dragged the spare blanket up from the floor and pulled it over her lap. ____’s gaze drooped out the window, and she brooded there for a moment, exhausted to the bone. Her Gift had very obvious limits, but she never failed to ignore them (and Dean) when those limits were stressed. He felt useless asking her to nap or sleep in, since every time it did less and less—like rest wasn’t the problem. A part of him wished he’d never asked her to help him find John. A larger, more selfish part feared what would happen to her if she wasn’t where Dean could see her.

She felt Dean looking, but those intense space-girl eyes never turned to his. ____ rested her cheek on the spine of the front bench, sighing into the upholstery, and Dean wondered if she’d be bothered if he pat her hair. ____ looked like she needed it.

“We went in to report this to Devins, maybe get an idea about his culpability,” Sam nodded back at the police station. “The second we get there, he uncovers us. Said he wants all three of us to,” Sam snorted, “put this town in our rearview mirror and never darken his doorstep again.”

There was a whisper of old panic in his closed fists, and if Dean pried, he figured Sam was replaying their run-in(s) with CPS over in his head. He’d always hated getting caught. Sam reached up to scratch at the back of his neck, letting wary eyes settle on the station, like he could sense Devins watching them. Dean was sure he was. He kept this to himself.

“A little dramatic, if you ask me,” ____ murmured into the leather. “Darken his doorstep? He has to be involved with our spirit, he has to be.”

“We can’t just leave,” Sam grimaced—apparently impersonating government officials was on the table for him, but not being hunted by cops. “There are still so many people at risk.”

“Oh, yeah, leaving is out of the question,” Dean laughed mirthlessly. “Some pansy-ass pig with an uneven dye-job ain’t keepin’ me from workin’.” He glanced at Sam, then ____, and at least one of them hid a smile at his jab.

With a sigh, Dean unfolded Lucas’ new drawing from his inner jacket. It was of a plain white church—which only added to Dean’s heeby-jeebies—a quaint yellow house, and a boy with his bicycle. All in a child’s crude style. Like some kind of horror movie bullshit.

He hung an arm over the bench of the Impala, still feeling like a jerk, and laid a gentle hand on ____’s hair before he could convince himself not to. He couldn’t say how, but she brightened a little. The whole affection thing always worked on her more than it’d ever worked on him and Sam. Well, maybe just Dean. He could look at Sam and the idiot would call it babying, but ____ tenderly brushed the hair away from his eyes and both of them pretended that wasn’t weird at all. Nerds.

He offered the drawing to her. “Think you can do one more?”

“I can come back there, if you need me too,” Sam said, but ____ just shook her head.

She took in a cavernous breath, pried herself off the seat, and flexed her right hand like she was about to throw a mean-ass fastball. If the vision caught her off guard, it was a lot like getting a sledgehammer to the face. Most people fainted. But after a moment of gathering herself, all she needed to do was close her eyes and take the paper in her hand.

In darker moments, Dean wondered what she saw when she went into her visions. Was it flashes of pictures, or full-on movie-style flashbacks? Both? He got the impression that her nightmares were always first-person, so were these the same? The few times he ever allowed ____ into his head, he just thought about the flood of what he wanted to say and somehow she just kind of… knew. He hoped it wasn’t messier on her end.

Sam and Dean held their breath. All the sound seemed to be drained right out of the Impala, like it was possible to pump it out through the seams in the windows. Dean’s chest felt prickly, and he looked at Sam to see him anxiously rubbing the raw middle of his right hand.

____’s eyes fluttered open, and her pupils undilated to the size of lighter flames.

“9384 Briarwood Street. That’s this house that Lucas drew,” she said, cooly, “and—our spirit had a red bike when he went missing. Lucas saw a lot of that.” ____ waved a hand at the road ahead, a nervous smile in her eyes. “So. Shall we?”

Like always, the boys did the talking. Dean summoned the fog of natural expertise he kept in his back pocket, suspiciously good at being someone else, and Sam spoke surely, falling into the rhythm of his disguise and taking Mrs. Sweeney with him. She made the three of you tea. Unused to company, she squeezed the three of you onto a plastic floral couch. You sat down and breathed in the steam, scrutinizing the street outside as much as you soaked in the house.

There wasn’t much to sense. Mrs. Sweeney lived in a quaint yellow house just a stone’s throw from the town’s church, both buildings scrubbed with the same moss and seamed with the same grit. Sitting in Mrs. Sweeney’s house reminded you of the few times you’d ever been to church. Everything was warmer and cozier because of the influence of the cold, candlelight filled each dark corner, and somehow the cluttered space felt as expansive as a cathedral ceiling. Yet something heavy pressed on your back. Unfortunately, you knew what it was at a glance.

Peter Sweeney had gone missing thirty-five years ago. The police… I never had any idea what happened. He just disappeared, she’d said. Now you knew that wasn’t true.

Mrs. Sweeney had shown you pictures of Peter, bright-eyed and dimpled in his scouts uniform. She said he was shy, that he stood up for anyone despite his size, that he’d once replaced the cold silence of her house with the flutter of turned pages. He loved to read. He liked archeology, and he’d been trying to teach himself card tricks before he disappeared. Your heart always ached for the people you helped. But this time, Peter Sweeney’s death felt personal somehow.

You reached out with all your senses, but not much came through. There were other ways to dig into the soft impressions left in the air of Mrs. Sweeney’s house, but you doubted she’d let you meditate in a circle of candles on her kitchen tile or consult a crystal ball. Beyond the more literal sixth sense you had, a strong gut feeling told you that there wasn’t anything else to find here. You would be able to tell if he’d attached himself to any of his belongings when he died. And given your vision, you would bet money it was the red bicycle from Lucas’ drawings.

All you’d uncovered was a picture in Mrs. Sweeney’s photo albums. She’d immortalized so many of his pictures that you’d almost missed it, but Dean was sure—those two toothy, naive kids beside Peter at scout’s camp were Bill Carlton and Jake Devins. That was proof they knew the spirit when he was alive. Now, all three of you were certain it was them.

After you’d given Mrs. Sweeney your condolences, you and Sam waited on the sidewalk for Dean to pull around the car. It was hard not to think of that freckly little kid, so much like the man next to you, and wonder how he’d become the eye of black water churning in the lake. The card-trick-loving rascal Sweeney had described was somehow the murderous spirit of the water. You’d read hunter’s journals theorizing about what exactly made spirits so enraged in death. As a seer, you had a unique insight as to why, but the question had never fully been answered even for you. The distortion of the mind after death? The waiting, for the end or unfinished business? If the will for revenge was so strong that it kept spirits in the mortal world, then…

You thought about Peter’s dresser in Mrs. Sweeney’s house, its silk magician’s hat and faded yellow cards preserved by his mother. A cop car rolled passed on the street, and you spoke to Sam as you ducked behind Sweeney’s fence together.

“I remember how crazy you were about the whole sleight-of-hand thing. You remember any of your old magic tricks?”

“No,” Sam said, and your heart stopped.

In the corner of your eye, something shifted. You twitched to look, only to go still head-to-toe against your will, halfway through lifting your head. Sam had reached out to touch your face. His hand radiated heat against your cheek, and the split-second contact of his knuckle to your cheekbone tingled through your entire nervous system with embarrassing ease. A bolt of lightning through a spider’s web.

Sam flourished a quarter out from behind your ear. His smile was sly, and his eyes even more so. Trying to perk you up.

“Well,” he said, dropping the quarter into your palm, “maybe a little.”

Now, in the backseat of the Impala, your cheek was still tingling. Sam’s little magic trick had definitely not cheered you up. While he and Dean were crouched in the front seat and honed in on Sheriff Devin’s house through binoculars, you couldn’t think of anything else. The only thing left to do was find Peter’s bike and destroy it. You were supposed to be scanning the property for it in case Devins had buried it there, but your Gift derailed constantly to swirl around Sam, and refused to learn its lesson after the fifth time you’d dragged it back to the house. People could die, and your Gift was still a flock of thousand-eyed moths with a girlcrush. Ugh.

“Can you turn down the music?” You cleared your throat. It was already just a notch above silent, but you couldn’t hear yourself think.

Dean responded by never taking his eyes off the house, reaching for the volume dial, and gently winding it up. Aerosmith’s eerie opening guitar in Dream On crept into the circulated air of the backseat, adding to your unease. All three of you were fully dressed for a fight. The snow had stopped midday, leaving behind an entire town holding its breath. Most days the Impala felt safer than the Proctor House, but it too was under the pall of the lake tonight. All that lived on the street was Dean and Sam in front of you and the lamplight in Andrea’s window. Still, you felt like a damn creep.

Devins and Andrea were still awake in the house—and still very much in danger, along with a sleeping Lucas. Spirits claimed their patterns and stuck to them, so Peter would torture Devins the same way he’d tortured Carlton. His family would be taken first, making the killer broil in grief like Peter’s mother had. Then they’d drown, too. They all would, Peter had said.

Well, something that used to be Peter.

“Anything?” Dean tipped his head back toward you.

“It’d be easier if I was actually there,” you shook your head. “But I can feel the bike. It’s buried somewhere, I think.”

Sam frowned one side of his lip. “We’ll have to wait until they go to sleep—”

A panicked chuckle jumped out of Dean’s chest. “Orrr, right now,” he decided, and dropped his binoculars.

The driver’s side door of the Impala was ripped open, forced onto its springs. Dean barked in protest, outraged, and the sound had you out of the car and on your feet without a single thought. Sam’s boots scraped the asphalt just behind you. Dean hovered in place at the wheel, instantly annoyed—he hated when civilians intervened with a job, and he hated guns being shoved in his face even more.

Sheriff Devins may have had only one service pistol to point with, but his sweeping glare kept you and Sam pinned too.

“I gave you a chance to get out of here,” he snarled, his weapon arm certain and still, “you’ll regret not taking it.”

An icy wind fluttered under your jacket, prickling the hairs already on end at the base of your scalp. The moon was nowhere to be seen tonight, hiding from the cold, so Devins was a trembling silhouette against a void of blackness and innocent small town homes. The disc of faraway street on the horizon veered the same way in each direction, arching toward the lake. In the strange lightless night, it felt like even the houses were inclined toward it, everything within a mile radius spiraling into the water. You shifted on your feet, trying to regain your own ground and remind yourself what you were here for.

“Sheriff,” you and Sam warned in the same pleading voice. You felt Sam hesitate, gauging who would take the lead, and you willed him to do it with you. “We know about Peter. What he turned into, and what he did to Bill Carlton, ” you raised a shaky, open palm at the cop. “Let us help.”

“Your family is in danger,” Sam stressed, “Lucas and Andrea—”

Devins ignored you both. He didn’t look at you, but his terror and confusion steamed off him so powerfully that you could feel it without touching him. It was hard to make out his face in the dark, but you guess he was sneering at Dean, his face peculiarly frozen that way. Like if he shifted the wrong foot or blinked, you’d all know how he was really feeling. Too late for that.

“Get,” he hissed, “out of the car.”

Your gut twisted. After a heavy pause, Dean shuffled to the edge of the bench and stepped out. A flicker of something touched his face when he met your eye, and your stomach fell; Dean was gonna attack him. You prayed he just disarmed him, but Devins’ desperation made him dangerous—the guilt he’d been fostering his whole life had returned from the dead, killed his friend and dozens more innocent people. His past mistakes were literally coming back to haunt him. For fifty-something years, Devins had lived in a perfectly normal and reasonable world, and suddenly that was all being rearranged right in front of him. He didn’t just think the three of you were crazy. You saw it in the iron-wrought trembling of his aim. He thought he was crazy, too.

Sam raised his hands in surrender. “Put the gun down, Jake.”

“You’re under arrest. All damn three of you,” Sheriff Devins said. He didn’t have handcuffs on his belt, and didn’t make any move toward Dean, so you willed the two of them to stay that way.

“Peter’s bike.” You uttered, and Devin’s snapped to look at you, ugly recognition tensed in his shoulders—

Dean whirled around, whipped Devins’ wrist to the side, and ripped his pistol out of his grip. In less than a second it clattered to pieces on the street, and Dean’s snarl met Devin’s. “Don’t be stupid,” he barked, “we’re here to help you! Now listen to the girl, cause’ she might just save your ass.”

The three men turned their eyes on you, but everything you planned to say was dragged under the current.

Your knees buckled; icy water burned through your chest, bursting through every fissure in your lungs. Invisible nails punctured your arms and ribs, trying to drag you down. You stumbled back to catch yourself on the Impala, only for Sam to take you by the elbow and tether you upright against his chest, panicking through ten feet of black lake water. Your head swam.

“____? ____, what’s wrong?!”

“Andrea…!” You managed, but there was no need for another warning.

Lucas burst through the front doors and threw himself off the front porch, streaking toward the four of you at a crazed, sobbing stumble through the snow. His face was drained of all color, so he appeared like a ghastly death omen by the light of the house. He was doing something with his hands, signing something over and over—Devins whipped around to face him, “Lucas! Lucas, it’s okay—get, get back inside—”

He hurled himself around Dean’s arm, anchoring him down by a whole foot. Lucas couldn’t speak, so he shook Dean with all the same fervor a shout could give, barefoot and blue-limbed. Again, he signed. “Mom,” Sam translated. “Shit.”

“Your mom, Lucas? What happened?” Dean’s look pierced him, then you, and that was all it took. He took off for the house like a sniper’s bullet.

Andrea’s son led the way, Dean on his heels, and you, Sam and Devins in Dean’s dust. The bootprints of snow on the doorstep had turned to sludge. You bolted inside, up after Sam, and registered with horror that the dirt on his boots had softened into mud—that the stairs were slippery with water, soapy water—that the bath upstairs was roaring. Sam overcame the staircase four steps at a time, and you matched his with two. As soon as you flew up the top step, you almost collided with Lucas as he veered out of Dean’s way. The bathroom door took one slam of Dean’s shoulder, two, three, brown water gushing from its seams. Lucas clamored for hold of something, and you let that be your jacket as you hid his face in your mud-flecked shirt.

“Move!” Sam barked. As soon as Dean was aside, Sam bashed in the weak door by its knob, smashing it against the sink inside the bathroom.

Dean, Sam, and Devins disappeared inside. You cupped Lucas’ hair, securing him in a calm, assured bubble of warmth, willing him to tune out the rushing water and Devins’ yelling and Andrea’s panicked shrieking.

Lucas covered his ears. You laid your hands over his, forcing back the influence of the spirit.

LAKE MANITOC, WISCONSIN - NOV. 17th, late night.

You risked another glance at the lake over your shoulder, perched above it on Sheriff Devins’ back stoop. A hill of spindly trees separated you and Peter Sweeney, who filled the whole lake with frothing, furious hatred that melted the ice in patches near the shore. Boot tracks in the snow drew two lines between you and an innocuous spot within a copse of trees. It took digging up the snow and puncturing the permafrost, but you managed to touch the earth and sense it: Peter Sweeney’s red bike.

This side of the house was mostly square, white-framed windows, so Sam could see you from where he was comforting Lucas and Andrea on their couch. Andrea was dry now, and huddled close to her trembling son. The soft turn of Sam’s brow made sympathy burn in your chest. He was explaining what had happened to them. Somewhere beyond, Dean and Devins’ shadows crossed in the lamplight of the front hall. It impressed you how little yelling there was.

You thunked the two shovels you’d fetched from the Impala’s trunk beside the door, scraped off your snow boots and entered their dark kitchen. Sam caught your eye through the archway, and you gave a nod. Found the bike, you mouthed, not sure he’s linked to it. His face hardened with focus, which is when Andrea and Lucas followed his eyes to you.

Uncomfortably, you stepped into the equally dark living room. You did your best to smear away any strangeness in your body language, in case it was obvious that you’d just been sensing around their backyard—learning that ghosts were real was one thing, so adding psychics into the mix wouldn’t help anybody. But Andrea had this new weariness in her face when she studied you. Sam and Dean had saved her life; you shared her son's sickness. Feelings were definitely mixed. Nobody actually wanted to know their future.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Andrea,” you offered, “Do you have a suitcase you could use? I can, um, help you pack…” you gestured blandly over your shoulder, at the stairwell. It reeked of lake water, permeating it through the rest of the house.

“Linen cabinet. Top of the stairs, on the left…” she trailed off. You nodded, and her gaze floated between your shoulders as you walked away, like you were one of the supernatural entities Sam was claiming were real. She looked at you like you were proof of something. Quickly, you ducked out of the room.

Devins was in the shadow of the front hall, facing away from Dean and now you. “...this can’t be real, it’s not rational…” he’d been saying. Devin’s voice retched with shame, and you could feel his remorse, his regret, his guilt, all the way from outside. He stopped at the beat of your footsteps.

Dean tilted his head to hear you, the rest of him a cross-armed pillar at the foot of the stairs. You leaned into his shadow, and tried ignore how Devins pinned you with his eyes like his daughter had—like you were some other spirit, haunting him. It wasn’t new to you. Sometimes, when people found out about the supernatural the hard way, all they could assume was that everything “other-worldly” was bad. Including you. This was a prejudice hunters sometimes carried, too. It needled, but you empathized with them too much to say anything.

“I don’t think Peter’s connected to the bike,” you whispered to Dean. “Even if he was, we can’t burn the metal. N’ it’s gonna be a bitch to dig up through the ice.”

Dean’s lips pressed together. “We can bless it. Buy us some time, since we can’t hide the whole town… But they dropped his body in the lake. All your visions were right. He n’ Carlton drowned him.” He shook his head, and the little hope you’d been holding onto—that Dean would have a solution that you weren’t thinking of—quietly died. “All we can do is get them out of here. You shut off the water to the house?”

“Yes,” you said, though you got the feeling that wouldn’t stop Peter. Judging by Dean’s face, he knew this too, so you gave his arm a squeeze.

Dean flashed you an unfocused smile. “Devins is gonna drive them out of state. You n’ me will get the bike, and Sam can bless it. Yeah?”

“Way ahead of you,” you agreed, and pulled a bundle out of your jacket to give to him.

Dean took it, slightly annoyed. It was a Latin bible and rosary, bound together in bloodroot twine. For all practical reasons, Sam was the logical first choice for anything Latin, reading, or pronunciation-related, and both you and Dean would’ve chosen him to bless the bike first. But Dean was the only one out of the three of you who was baptized, so blessing it with a bible would only work with him. Maybe if you had one of the big blessing tomes Bobby kept around on you, you and Sam could do it, but for now you’d have to work with what you had. You wondered sometimes why Mary and John hadn’t baptized Sam; maybe it'd been too late.

Over Dean’s shoulder, you risked a glance at Devins. Your stomach dropped to your toes. A raw, bleeding sense of finality rolled through you as you looked at him, and again you were overwhelmed with the compulsion to warn him about something, to save him and his family. Another death omen. Four times as powerful, rippling over your senses like a final breath.

You had no idea how set-in-stone these omens were. But there was one thing you could do about them, at least. You turned up the stairs to pack for Andrea and Lucas, puddles splashing under your shoes.

You’d just started shoving close into Andrea’s suitcase when the shouting started downstairs. A series of bangs shook one side of the house, and before you knew it you’d chased them into the kitchen. Sheriff Devins had just plunged into the snow, and Sam burst after him, both careening over more tracks in the yard as the screen door rattled behind them. You ripped it open and cleared the stoop in one jump, throwing snow up under your heels. Already, your heart was pounding in your ears, nerves singing—blindly, you sprinted toward the sound of screams, lungs bursting.

It was so dark that you almost lost Sam through the trees. As much as you’d prayed for something else, you knew they were all heading for the water.

“Lucas!” Andrea wailed. Dean roared right along with her, Jake crying out in shock. Above them all, Andrea’s hoarse, terrified sob pierced your senses. “Lucas! Baby, stay where you are!”

You ran faster.

The trees parted. For a split second, Lucas’ silhouette on the dock was clear, illuminated strangely against the reflection off the lake. You watched in slow motion, Dean and Andrea and Devins and Sam all charging for the water, as Lucas ignored them. He reached into the glimmering void of water. The chunks of ice parted for something under the surface. You could almost hear it, the surging, warbled whisper of the spirit calling to him.

Lucas reached. A hand blackened by frostbite seized his arm. He was ripped under the water so violently his foot caught against the wood of the dock, twisting his leg in one sick lurch.

Dean hit the water first, boots pounding against the wood, his arms slicing through the surface with deadly precision. Sam dove a millisecond later, shooting diagonally over the edge and sinking like a rock into the murk. Your lungs crystalized in the icy air—it burned, but you spurred yourself even faster. You tore your dagger out of your waistband, clipping Devins with your shoulder as you went. He’d stilled on the bank. His eyes bored into the water, his strength and composure cracking like lake ice.

Devins met eyes with Peter Sweeney’s spirit. Then, the spirit sunk under the surface again.

You skidded to a stop at the end of the dock, gasping for breath. Andrea was ripping off her sweater and weeping, angling for the water too. “Oh my god!”

“Andrea, don’t!” You reeled her back with your free hand, and on instinct, set yourself in front of her.

“What do we—” she sobbed.

You scoured the water with your eyes and your Gift, scrambling for any sign of Lucas, Sam, or Dean—Peter was impossible to sense on his own, encompassing the entirety of the lake’s wrath. Adrenaline abandoned all sense of cold in your limbs. You jerked off your coat, panting over the edge of the dock, and tried to decide—stay with Andrea and Jake to protect them, or dive in to protect Sam, Dean, and Lucas? Three outnumbered two. Maybe you could hold the spirit back. Your dagger was an iron alloy, you could—Sam and Dean weren’t surfacing, they weren’t coming up, you couldn’t feel them anymore, Peter’s influence was too vast—you couldn’t feel them—

Sam’s outline broke through the water on one side, almost impossible to see without moonlight. Your Gift slammed back onto its rails at the sight of him, and stilled when he barked, “Stay there!”

Andrea’s voice tore. “No! Lucas!” she yelled, just as you cursed, “Sam!” You didn’t sound as brave as you’d like.

“Stay with her! We’ll get him!” Sam ordered, and disappeared under the waves again.

Andrea collapsed over the edge of the dock, face in her hands. You put your jacket around her, rubbing her back to a hypnotic rhythm you couldn’t follow, dagger ready in one hand. Somewhere behind you, Devins was laboring for breath beside the water.

Dean came up, arms empty. He swiveled to his right, where Sam surfaced. “Sam?” He asked, but his brother shook his head. They descended again.

Andrea despaired at her reflection. Her cheeks were drowning in tears. “Lucas, where are you?”

There was a splash over your shoulder. You jerked sideways, dagger raised, and felt your gut singe with horror: Jake had waded into the lake.

“Dad—” Andrea cried, and you cursed him, urging him back, his daughter clutching your free hand like it held the last wisps of her life, her son’s life, and now her father’s life. Devins ignored you both.

Fifty years of self-loathing and regret chilled him, froze him, so his slow walk into Lake Manitoc was all too easy. He wept freely. He spread his arms, and gave you one last look—it pinned you to the spot. Bill Carlton had looked at you in the exact same way. There was terror and confusion and guilt there, and acceptance somehow too—resolution. If this is what it took, he would do it.

“Peter, if you can hear me...please, Peter, I'm sorry. I'm so—I'm so sorry.”

Andrea screamed. You had to fish your arm around her shoulders, reining her back onto the dock. “Daddy!” She cried, and behind you, Sam and Dean burst through the surface. They still couldn’t find Lucas.

Devins was up to his waist, now. “Peter. Lucas—he's, he's just a little boy. Please, it's not his fault, it's mine. Please take me.”

“Jake, no!” Dean roared.

You put as much power into your voice as you could. “We can find another way!”

Devins was up to his neck. It was too late. The lingering sheets of ice watching from the lake splintered, and a massive shadow surged for the air; then it shrunk, and shrunk, until it was no smaller than a child’s body.

Jake closed his eyes and stopped kicking. “...Just let it be over.”

The spirit’s hands, twice as small as yours, burst up from behind him and took Devins by the shoulders. In one sinister push, he was shoved face-first into the water. Peter held him there. Devins sank.

He let the spirit take him.

Andrea lurched, clawing out of your grip, desperately trying to reach her father. You held on, no matter how hard her nails seared into your arms. No matter how much she tried to escape. You couldn’t lose all three of them. This couldn’t be for nothing. Her guttural scream pierced the air, the water, and for the first time you could hear her, hear everything, over the thrashing, writhing lake.

Dean and Sam dove again. Where Jake went under, the ripples from his struggle bloomed out like the blood expanding on an altar. The ice on the surface stilled. The water calmed, purifying. But Lucas still hadn’t come up.

You heard Sam gasp for air. Again, you swiveled to look at him, and again, his arms were empty. He shook his head.

All was still. Andrea keeled back into your hold, her voice lost. You couldn’t make Dean out under the water. Sam staggered, limbs stiff with hypothermia.

“Please,” you prayed to yourself.

Right where Devins had gone under, at the epicenter of the new health billowing out through the lake, Dean broke through the surface one last time. Relief burned through your freezing limbs. He tilted his head back, soaking up the flush of moonlight breaching the fog, breathing in the lake’s first clear breath of air in thirty-five years.

Lucas was over his shoulder, alive.

LAKE MANITOC, WISCONSIN - NOV. 18th, midday.

The parking lot of your motel had become Lake Manitoc’s latest snowball battleground. Being one of the only lots in town yet to clear out its snow, the local kids had flocked to it, eager to enjoy the first day of the season with sun. You two young boys race past the Impala, shrieking with glee as a girl their age pelted the backs of their hand-me-down jackets with snowballs. The girl had some wicked aim. She nailed the taller of the boys in the head with a solid fastball, squealing and red in the face, I do not have a crush on you! He ran away in stitches, his freckled brother pushing him into a snowbank.

You checked that the rosary was still tight around the handlebars of Peter’s bike, cinched its garbage bag shut, and mimed clawing it with three fingers—an old gesture to ward away evil. A day’s trip would take you to a friend of Bobby’s who could melt it down. Beside you, Dean was suavely pretending he wasn’t freezing his ass off. He tried to do the gesture too, but his joints still ached from his swim. You’d done your best to force the boys into every layer you’d ever owned. Sam stubborned his way into forgetting the hat and gloves, claiming his case wasn’t all that bad. Dean was doing a great impression of someone who didn’t want to be babied, even though he’d laid his head in your lap all night and whined for more warm washcloths.

Sam closed the driver’s side door with a familiar creak, then moved to hover at your side. The three of you paused and leaned against the trunk. Lake Manitoc was alive again, its streets bustling with people pre-shopping for Thanksgiving, its businesses reopening after the blizzard, and its lots booming with giggling kids. You could feel it in the air how much things had changed. Maybe it was the lake’s effect on you alone, but there was a new comfort in the air. Things felt safe again, even if no one around you could say why.

Peter Sweeney had gotten his revenge. His unfinished business was finished now, and Lake Manitoc was finally clean.

On your left, Dean sunk a bit into his boots. You nudged him with your elbow, worried about the far-away look in his eyes. “I know it doesn’t feel right, but we can’t save everybody,” you tilted to look at Sam, “we helped two people, and prevented bad things from happening to a lot more. You two should be proud.”

“And you,” Sam reminded. “We wouldn’ta found Peter’s mom or his bike without you.”

“N’ Dean pulled Lucas out of the water. You helped look for him, and together you got Andrea out of that bathtub.” You held up your fingers, threatening them with a list of all they’d accomplished, and in the same, unsatisfied way, Sam and Dean turned away to play with their hands.

For effect, you slapped both their hands and put on your best, morale-summoning grin. Cheesily, you lifted your chin and gazed off into the distance, like somehow, somewhere, there was a grand future for you on the horizon. “I couldn’t ask for two better hunting partners.”

“Oh, you can say that now that Sam’s here, huh?”

You considered hitting Dean with a snowball, but with how much he’d been complaining, there was a chance he’d keel over and die from frostbite first. If you were lucky. You were about to lean over and snuggle against his arm to embarrass him—but he’d kill you for stealing his chance with Andrea.

She and Lucas emerged from the crowd of playing kids. Framed against them as he’d been before, you expected to see that small, sullen kid, standing among the other children as soundlessly as a pillar. Maybe that kid hadn’t quite left Lucas, but you could sense a change in him too. It reassured you, after everything.

“Sam, Dean, ____,” Andrea greeted.

Her smile was a reach for optimism, but it was hard, almost impossible, to find hope when three reminders of her father’s death—her husband’s death, even—stood in front of her. She separated herself from you with a platter of food. Something told you it wasn’t a wholly grateful gesture—maybe, she just needed to make something to distract herself. You’d been there.

Dean pushed off the Impala’s trunk, careful to keep his tone disarming. To you, it bled with empathy. “Hey.”

“We’re glad we caught you,” she spoke for herself and her son, “We just, um, we made you lunch for the road.” Andrea hung there for a moment, like she was going to teeter on her toes or do something with herself, but had no energy to go through with it. “Lucas thought you’d appreciate some hot cocoa in the cold.”

Lucas signed briefly with his free hand. Sam translated for him, smiling warmly, “With milk. That’s wonderful, Lucas. Thank you. We’re, um, we’re freezing our butts off here, so…”

“They’re freezing their butts off,” you tried to joke, and immediately worried if mentioning the reason why would be insensitive. “Probably because they like watered-down hot chocolate, like crazy people. Milk-lovers like us don’t freeze, huh?”

Lucas smirked, hiding behind the tray of styrofoam cups. He seemed hesitant, embarrassed even, to speak with you, and the reason why burned behind your ribs. Still, he presented the drinks to you first. A peace-offering. You took the one in the middle, forcing down a sudden surge of loathing for your Gift.

“For the record,” Dean plucked up his drink, his smile finding its footing, “I like both.”

Sam said nothing. You were 80% sure that he was lactose intolerant, but that was something to lord over him another time. As Andrea offered the sandwiches she’d made to Dean, flushed into her ears, Sam offered you his elbow. You shared a glance with him—could he really read your mind that clearly, knowing you’d planned to do the same for Dean? Or maybe you just wanted the same things. Again, your brain found the worst time to remind you of his hands and the melting snowflakes, or his hands and the quarter, and suppressed the soul-burrowing urge to scoop his fingers into yours.

“Come on, Lucas, let’s load this into the car,” Dean invited, and Lucas pursued him faster than you could blink.

With him gone, Sam softened his voice for Andrea. “How are you holding up?”

“It’s…” Andrea choose her words carefully. “It’s going to take a long time. To, to sort through everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam sighed, and you joined him to say, “I wish we could’ve done more. I-I wish…”

“You saved my son,” Andrea shook her head. “I-I can't ask for more than that. Dad loved me. He loved Lucas. No matter what he did, I just have to hold on to that.”

For someone so fresh out of something so terrible, you were impressed by how ready she was to face it. If this was how she was fresh out of… well, seeing what the world really looked like, then. Then she’d be fine, and so would Lucas.

He appeared at his mother’s side again. Dean strode in, offering his hand to Andrea. After a long, weary look, she took it with both hands and gave it a single grateful shake. “If you need anything…” he advised, and Andrea nodded, “We have your number.”

Well, this was your last chance. As much as you hated to put it out in the open, it needed to be said. You slipped from the safe warmth of Sam’s arm, moved your hair away from one side of your face, and bent to Lucas’ height.

You didn’t have much experience with kids, so your voice stuttered out, somewhere between stern and precautious and comforting. “If you start drawing that way again, or the nightmares come back…” you pulled a folded piece of paper from your jacket, presenting it to wide-eyed, jaw-clenching Lucas between two fingers. “You can call me personally. I’ll know exactly how to help you, okay? It’s—it’s—”

It’s normal, you wanted to say, but you couldn’t lie to him.

“It’s not evil,” Sam said, over your shoulder, and whatever it was in his voice—that softness, that softness he always saved for you—could’ve made you burst into tears. “It helped us. You helped us with it, Lucas. And you saved your mom.”

You stood up with a jolt, unable to look at Lucas. Sam’s broad, warm hand settled sideways on your shoulder, and you let that comfort bleed into your system, wanting more than anything to believe what he said. You turned for the Chief and grabbed your helmet.

“Now, uh, since you’re feeling up to it now, I need to teach you this important phrase,” Dean said, from behind you. He looked skyward, fumbling with his hands, and to your absolute, overwhelming delight and shock, Dean signed for Lucas: “Zepplin Rules!”

A giggle bubbled out of you. Dean looked over, flushed, but Lucas repeated the sign back to him. Satisfied, Dean raised his hand, “Up top, man.”

Lucas gave him a high-five, and Sam seemed to give Dean a bit more credit. His brother really was good with kids. Where had that come from? Sam mouthed to you. You pointed at him, which just confused Sam further. It was impressive, how he could read your mind and have something obvious completely fly over his head on the same day.

Andrea gathered her son under one arm. She said a final, choked, “Thank you,” and with Lucas in tow, dissolved into the crowd of gleeful children.

You watched them walk away, roamed all over by a strange, indescribable feeling again. You’d almost killed yourself saving their lives, yet you’d never see them again. You were proud of what you’d done. There was no better way to spend this life, and your Gift, than to help other people. But the Carltons and Sheriff Devins were all dead, and that was all on you. Turning to Sam and Dean, you saw the same guilt settling back onto their shoulders—and decided that if you didn’t like it on them, then it didn’t look any better on you.

“Ma wants us back for Thanksgiving,” you reported.

“We could check in on that hunter in Michigan, before then,” Dean suggested, “get a lead on Dad. Winter’s full-on monster sleep season—we’re gonna have plenty of time to look for him.”

“Alright,” you agreed, “but um, before that,” you raised your hot cocoa, hand warmed through the styrofoam, “a toast?”

Sam hummed in thought, and raised his cup too. “To supernatural hibernation.”

Together, you clanked your cups in cheers, each taking a long, fulfilling drag of the cocoa. It wasn’t often that you got homemade anything on the road, so the drink was a full-body balm. Dean drank down whole marshmallows, hooked arms with you, and hoisted his cup to the clear winter’s day sky.

“Sleep deep, ya sick son a’ bitches! See you suckers in five months!”

tags: @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-loou @dakota-dream

ask to be added to my taglist!

NEXT PART: phantom traveller, p.0

#sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #uncouthspn #supernatural rewrite #supernatural reader insert #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn rewrite #spn #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester

91 notes · View notes

actual-talking-trashcant · 8 years ago

Note

Do all the asks, if you have time. I'm especially curious about number 14 from the story time asks.

ask #2

Tattoos: What is art to you? Does it have an important place in your life? things that people make. yes

Soil: Something that you have grown from, or that has helped you grow. tbh my life as a whole

Dusk: Name something that captivates you. the sky

Ravens: What is something you are inexplicably drawn to? the sky, water, and skateboarding oddly enough

Natural curls: List some things that you like/love about yourself. at this moment in time not much

Zack: Describe someone you love. (Can be s/o, friend, family member, fictional character) i really love my mom. she cares all the time.

Pomegranates: Talk about something that is meaningful or has personal significance to you. music.

The Smiths: Share some artists, songs or albums that you adore. ajr, pwr bttms right now

Jars: Do you collect anything? If so, what do you collect and why? coins, money, boxes, instruments, books, regrets, metal

Mountains: Do you have any sanctuaries, or places you feel at peace in? my room, the youth room, sometimes trees i need to find a good tree

Hugs: Is there anything/anyone that helps keep you going on the really rough days? my mom, music

Caves: Something that terrifies yet also fascinates you? space, water, music, relationships

Mythology: Is there anything you have a vast knowledge of or enjoy studying? a good few things

Ruins: Are there any places in the world that you would love to see or visit? rome hawaii the gay parts of canada

Road Trips: What gives you that sense of freedom and adventure? walking alone at night

Megan: Is there anyone in your life that you admire? my mom

Bubble Baths: Where or in what situations do you think most clearly? in ones where i have a bubble of space and can think and are not about relationships

Evening Walks: Are there any things you do that put your mind at ease? music

Amy: Is there anyone in your life you would consider to be a kindred spirit? my mom

Crossroads: You are at the crossroads and there are four roads. The road going north will take you somewhere or to someone that is home. The one going east will be a long journey that you will learn from, a message will be given to you. The road leading south will be an epic, unpredictable adventure. The west road leads you down a beautiful path to a body of water, where you may bathe and heal from something that you have endured. Which road do you choose and why? in this moment I'm not really up to adventure so probably just north

Folk Metal: Tell me about something you get really excited about. music

Full Moon: Describe an experience you had that was somehow related to the moon. i was at my grandmas and i was just thinking about how i had wanted someone with me to see how nice it was so i was going to draw it but i never did

Live Music: Have you ever been to a concert? If so, what were some of your favorite ones you’ve been to? If not, who or what would you love to see? yes. I've loved all of them because I've loved the people that I've gone with. still pissed that i missed oh pep and i really want to see them.

Spill your thoughts

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? yeah02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? my mom03: Do you regret anything? probably

04: Are you insecure? yes05: What is your relationship status? single06: How do you want to die? hm. quickly ig07: What did you last eat? cookies that were not for me08: Would you want to know what happens in the future if you couldn’t change it? i think so because then i wouldnt have to waste my time09: Do you bite your nails? i used to a lot now i dont usually10: When was your last fight? dont remember 11: Do you like someone? i dont think so12: Have you ever pulled an all-nighter? Why? i couldn't make it because i never sleep enough anyway13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? donald trump14: Do you miss someone? yes15: What would you see in the Mirror of Erised? (What do you most desire?) people around me16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? not much. not good17: Ever made out in the bathroom? i dont think so. I've been kissed in a bathroom and got a hickey in a bathroom though18: What are you afraid of? the dark. being left behind. 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? probably 20: Where was the last place you made out with someone? my bed21: What are your plans for this weekend? i went to wisconsin then i didn't do anything today except feel shitty22: Do you want to have kids? How many? adoption. as many as i can handle, 2-323: Do you have piercings? How many? no24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? i like science and math, though i never study either25: Do you miss anyone from your past? yes26: What are you craving right now? how i felt yesterday27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? maybe28: Have you ever been cheated on? i hope not29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? yes30: What’s irritating you right now? a lot of things31: Does somebody love you? my mom said she did a little while ago so32: What is your favorite color? blue33: Do you have trust issues? yes34: Who/what was your last dream about? dont know35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? people yesterday36: Do you give out second chances too easily? yes37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? forgive38: Is this year the best year of your life? no39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 14 i think40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? maybe when i was tiny51: What is one book everyone needs to read? I'm sure there is one but i can't think of anything52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? probably 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? watched too much skateboarding youtube54: Is cheating ever okay? i dont really think so55: Are you mean? i hope not56: How many people have you fist fought? outside of martial arts like maybe 257: Do you believe in true love? i dont think so58: Favorite weather? nice59: What is your perfect day look like? i dont know60: Do you wanna get married? i dont know 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? in any context at this moment no62: What makes you happy? music friends 63: Would you change your name? yeah64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? no65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? say sorry66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? not really 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? my brother68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? probably rhys69: Do you believe in soulmates? maybe70: Is there anyone you would die for? yes

Clean and Simple

A. What makes life worth it? good question

B. Hidden talents? i dunnoC. Last book you read? frankensteinD. Are you seeing anyone? i dont see anyone right now because I'm alone and also noE. What color do you look best in? let me knowF. Favorite place to nap? my roomG. Last film you saw? boys dont cryH. Best advice you’ve given? dont do itI. How many languages can you say hello in? a few probably J. How often do you nap? not oftenK. Favorite fast food? meatheads friesL. Piano or drums? drums because i find piano really hard. both are hardM. First thing you ate today? i think a piece of brownieN. Best Birthday party you’ve attended? i dont know. ones with friends O. What’s your typical Tuesday? school soccer homeP. Celeb you’d most like to meet? kaitlyn alexanderQ. Weirdest phone call you’ve had? i dont normally call people R. Favorite memory? sleepS. Who gives the best hugs? this girl from my church retreat gave really good hugs and so do my friendsT. Sitting on laps or piggy back rides? as long as I'm not on topU. Best holiday song? white christmas is my first thoughtV. Last shoes you bought? no ideaW. What’s your skin care routine? badX. Coolest thing about your best friend? artY. What’d you have for lunch two nights ago? uhhhhh Z. Something kind you’ve done recently? i was nice to people yesterday

Story time

Put a number in my ask and I'll tell you about a personal story/experience with that theme!1. Happy story? when i got into my school

2. Injury story? I sprained my ankle running down the stairs on easter3. Funny story? me saying “i would eat- CELIA” 4. Scary story? i almost died under an inter tube 5. Random story? my dog and i breathe the same sometimes6. Sad story? my dog died from cancer my day off of school7. Secret story? (A story you have never told anyone before) 8. Infuriating story? when the varsity soccer coach acts nice but she is not9. Awkward story? i threw my phone in the closet after telling my friend i was gay10. Fun story? i caught a turtle because it bit me one time11. Self incriminating story? i stole $20 from my brother one time because he had more money than me12. Embarrassing story? i dyed my hair green and gold 13. Weird story? my friend opened my other friends photos and the first photo that popped up was a dick pic14. Oddly sexual story? I've only made out standing up once and it was not super serious. Also i almost stuck my hand down someones pants because i am competitive15. Face-palming story? “where do you wanna dye?”16. Food story? i like carrots and ketchup 17. School/college/work story? my mom is friends with my principal. its weird.18. Illness story? my brother got a concussion from snow tubing and he only had this really tiny cut19. Event story? (Something that happened at a public event) i got kissed but paid more attention to the music my friend didn't20. Boring story? today i watched 5 episode of bones

100 questions to invade my personal life

1. What's your middle name, and do you like it? jane, not terribly2. are you artistic? nope3. Have you had your first kiss? yes4. What is your life goal? graduate college, do something cool, get a nice house with bookshelves and a music room5. Do you have any expieriences with a famous person? I'm friends with this family who are in the tv and play industry and my nickname is nugget6. Do you play any sports? soccer, martial arts7. What's your worst fear? dark, being left8. Who's your biggest inspiration? mom9. Do you have any cool talents? music?10. are you a morning person? not really11. How do you feel about pet names? they're kinda weird but sometimes nice12. Do you like to read? yeah but I'm shit at actually doing it now13. Name a list of shows that have changed your life. glee and a few others ig14. Do you care about your follower count? no ( but i have 295)15. What's the best dream you've had? can't remember16. Have you ever kissed someone of your same gender? yes17. Do you have any pets? yea i have a beagle18. Are you religious? yes19. Are you a people person? sometimes20. Are you considered popular? i used to at least21. What is one of your bad habits? worrying about not working but not working but also not resting22. What's something that makes you feel vulnerable not enough clothes, no sound23. What would you name your children? gender neutral names24. Who's your celebrity crush? kaitlyn alexander? i mean i wanna meet them25. What's your best subject? english is easy but i like math and science26. Dogs or cats? dogs27. most used social media besides tumblr? snapchat usually28. best friends name rhys29. who does your main family consist of my mom dad brother dog30. Chocolate or sugar both31. have you ever been on a date? yes32. Do you like roleercosters? no33. Can you swim? yes34. What would you do in the event of an apocalypse? i would probably try my best to live or just give up and fuck someone (dealing with extremes i guess)35. Have you struggled with any kind of mental disorder? yes. i still have to do intake for a therapist but its only at certain times and my mom has missed it a couple times36. Are your parents together? yes37. What's your favourite color? blue38. What country are you from/do you live in? us39. Favourite singer? tyler joseph i guess40. Do you see yourself being famous some day? not really but i wish41. Do you like dresses? no42. Favourite song right now? let the games begin or pitchfork kids43. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable? yes. but it needs to be talked about44. How old were you when you first got your period? i think 1245. Have you ever shot a gun? yes46. Have you ever done yoga? yes47. Are you a horror girl? god no48. Are you good at giving advice? reasonably49. Tell us a story about your childhood. i would count and organize coins instead of going outside50. How are you doing today? nope51. Were you a cute kid? i guess52. Can you dance? if I'm given something to learn53. Is there anything you do that you can't remember ever not doing?54. Have you ever dyed your hair? yes55. What colour are your eyes? blue/green56. What's your favourite animal? turtle57. Have you ever made a huge fool of yourself? yeah58. Do you have a good relationship with your parents? yes59. Do you have good friends? i guess60. Are you close with anyone of the lgbtq+ group? hahaha yes I'm gay61. What's your favourite class? guitar is fun and i like physics even though its hard62. List all the tv shows you are watching. i just started watching bones63. Are you organized? some places yes, others no64. What was the last movie you saw? Opinion? boys dont cry. i thought it was a little weird but it was an important movie for trans and lgb+ representation67. Which tv character do you relate to most? all i can think of is Lance and head canons i saw today68. What are some things that stand between you and complete happiness? knowledge, time, other people, situations69. If you received enough money to never need to work again, what would you spend your time doing? learning and teaching about the environment and lgbtqia+ stuff70. What would you change about your life if you knew you would never die? i would probably procrastinate more and maybe learn how to like everything and probably try to kill myself after a while because everyone i loved would die71. What would you do differently if you knew that no one was judging you? id probably kiss more people who knows72. If you could start over, what would you do differently? dont get attached73. Would you break the law to save a loved one? yes74. When was the last time you travelled somewhere new? i went to madison wisconsin a little while ago75. When you think of your home, what immediately comes to mind? my mom, warmth, my dog, blankets and tv76. What have you done to pursue your dreams lately? How about today? not much, absolutely nothing77. What did you want to be when you were a kid? pediatrician 78. If you dropped everything to pursue your dreams, what would you be risking? i dont know i dont really have much in the first place79. When did you not speak up, when you know you really should have? when i shouldn't have distanced my problems 80. Describe the next five years of your life, and your plans, in a single sentence I'm gonna go to college and maybe live with some friends and still play music81. What would happen if you never wasted another minute of your life, what would that look like? i would have written 3 plays and a book, be in a band, get 5s in both ap tests and get all a’s and know how to ride a skateboard and be organized and my room would look nice and i would have scholarships already applied to. just a lot of things82. If you could live forever, how would you spend eternity? probably learn for a bit then just play video games or something83. How would you spend a billion dollars? probably save it or use it to keep my grandmas house. There are a lot of financial issues with that.84. If you could time travel, would you go to the past or the future? maybe future to see if it gets better85. What motivates you to succeed? right now not much. my mom86. What dream that you’ve had has resonated with you the most? idk87. Would you rather live in the city or the woods? Why? city. i like to travel to the woods but not live there88. Do you believe in life after death? i hope so, i think just dying would be boring89. What teacher inspired you the most? How did they? I've had a lot of great teachers but i think davey inspired me to learn about the world and meacham helps me think about myself and others90. What’s your fondest childhood memory? lemonade stand91. If you could have dinner with any one person, living or dead, who would they be and why? alexander hamilton maybe so i could see what he was thinking when he did all that he did, and so maybe he could help us out and also see how gay he was92. What would you have to see to cry tears of joy? depends on the day, probably something i would think is jesusy93. What is the hardest lesson you had to learn in life? hm. i still havent learned how to care for myself but to be respectful of other people and to really think of things from an even standpoint.94. What do you think happens after we die? i like to hope it isn't nothingness95. What would you do if you would be invisible? pantsy a lot of people. maybe steal some stuff96. What's something you can't do no matter how hard you try? do my work apparently 97. Would you want to choose the sex and appearance of your offspring? nah 98. How did your first crush develop? friendship to wow i really miss this person99. Is there a feeling you are trying to ignore? What is it? a feeling of hatred towards myself, a feeling of confusion at a dynamic, a feeling of angst over my feelings towards relationships and the fact that i wish i could just figure what i want out100. Do you live or do you just exist? right now I'm staying at exist so i dont go crazy trying to live

alright i think thats it, i kept being pulled away and not being able to do this sorry

2 notes · View notes