#would a tulpa help

[wouldatulpahelpthem]

Would A Tulpa Help or Hinder:

Light Yagami from Death Note?

Death Note is an anime about a teenager, Light Yagami, who picks up a shinigami's (death god's) notebook that has the power to kill anyone whose name is written inside. He decides to secretly use it to rid the world of crime, and anyone who stands in his way. Trying to find and catch him is a mysterious genius known only as L who uses methods that are morally questionable at best. Ryuk, the shinigami who intentionally dropped the Death Note, follows Light around primarily out of curiosity.

I think it would really depend on the nature of the tulpa that Light creates, and what his intention was when creating the tulpa. Would Light create one to do all the boring homework and pretending to be a normal highschooler so Light could focus his attention on not getting caught and stopping anyone in his way, including L? Would he have created one before he got the Death Note, who objects to how the note is being used and how it's affecting Light? Or would one with a strong detachment from humanity view it all as a game to win?

I think it's an interesting thing to think about. Not quite enough to write fanfic about - and I already have ideas for a Death Note fanfic about the cat and mouse game between Light with his Death Note and a girl OC whose guardian angel gives her a Life Note, and how them killing and resurrecting some of the same people over and over affects each other and of course those poor people, like can you imagine? "This is the third time this week I've woken up in the morgue, this is getting ridiculous."

What do you all think?

[cambriancrew]

Edward Elric is a short-tempered (seriously, don't call him short) prodigy in the field of alchemy - transforming things from one form to another. He and his little brother Alphonse used alchemy to do what is forbidden - human alchemy, to try and bring their mother back to life. The alchemy backfired, and cost Ed his left leg, and Al's whole body. Ed sacrificed his right arm to fuse Al's soul to a suit of armor. Ed got replacement limbs made of automail, and now the two of them are on the hunt for the fabled Philosopher's Stone so they can get their bodies back.

Would having a tulpa help him in his and his brother's goal? Or at least stop him from raging every time someone is confused about him being the older brother even though he's much shorter than Al in his armor body?

[pluralhottakes]

willogenic systems are 100% valid and not faking! Most of us don’t even claim to have DID/OSDD,so yh

-💗🌸/🩵🎀

.

[system-of-a-feather]

We are going to finally go and try to chart out / document our system / known parts for our old/current therapist and since we make a lot of organized sheets and stuff for fun I'm sharing a copy of a template for alter information ^^ Feel free to use / make a copy and use on your own and modify and all.

Its BASK + Extra stuff that we find relevant to our system

[kindaeccentric]

I'm trying to re-read The Vampire Armand as research for something and I used to be able to read it easily, but the fragment in which Armand describes how Marius would come home, take him to the bedroom and rip his clothes off off him and how he made Riccardo play music on the other side of the door to the bedroom as Marius fucked* him and how Marius then fed Armand blood for the very first time weirdly enough (not really, it's quite expected actually, that's what I thought he'd do) exactly when Armand was literally half asleep as Marius was pushing his tongue into his mouth made me feel a bit sick. And it's not the content, I know what happens, but the way Armand is describing it. Boy, you would have loved Ethel Cain 'Gibson Girl'.

*'vampires don't fuck' first off, Marius sure did do it when turning Pandora, besides, what he's doing definitely counts as sex, or rather *cough*molestation and assault*cough*

[nexus-nebulae]

As a system based around trauma ourselves, we will always always make our blog a safe place for plurals of all forms, be it endo, willo, spiritual, proto, or anything and everything and each combination. When we were young and scared and didn't know who we were, it was not the system medicalists that took us in- it was not DID-centric communities that took us in- it was tulpamancy communities. It was those people who taught us that this did not have to be wholly scary, that we could feel comfortable in ourselves. It was those people who guided us through the experience of finding out we were never willogenic to begin with. It was those people who gave us real resources on how to move on from trauma, instead of insisting that if we were showing real evidence of healing and growth or even felt happy ever we were never really plural or traumatized to begin with.

Our whole life we have been surrounded by people who refused to believe our identities and experiences at every turn imaginable. We spent 20 years with undiagnosed physical illnesses because everyone told us we were lying about our pain. We spent 10 years being called a "theyfab" and a "straight infiltrator" because we weren't a masciline enough trans man who was open about being aromantic and asexual. We spent 8 years moving from psychiatrist to psychiatrist because each new one straight up did not believe certain disorders existed, let alone that we could have them. We spent 5 years fighting for a place to fit in, because when we were amnesiac enough to not even remember we were plural, we were called fakers.

We have never been granted the right to self-determination. We have never been believed about any of our experiences. We have never been accepted for who we actually are, not until we took matters into our own hands and forged our own safe spaces out of blood and sinew. It was draining. It was exhausting. It was traumatizing. And we will never, ever, ever dare to do that to another person on this planet. Never again. You do not deserve the pain we went through. You do not deserve to feel hated for who you are. You deserve to feel safe.

Plurals of all forms are always welcome here.

[talentforlying]

tommy: john? constantine: mm? tommy: he had your laugh.

the way this almost made me cry just now, like!! the family man looking like john's father (who john resembles) and reminding john of himself, the demon constantine being his own double, the tulpa of the happiest possible version of himself who still turned out to be a raging monster — his scariest enemies keep ending up being versions of him.

his greatest fear is becoming a monster and he keeps coming up against that fear again and again and again. no wonder he avoids his own eyes when he looks in the mirror.

[hardcolorfest]

✨️ AM I PLURAL? ✨️

Please help me, I have gone back and forth on this for years, at least 10 years which is literally like a third of my life so far!

Please, I am desprate for ANY outside views and opinions, I feel like I need others to read my experience and help me understand why I keep on getting into this cycle of "this is plural/no actually its not."

EDIT: this is LONG and I ran out of energy near the end so the writing gets really sloppy so I added a timeline of events up top. I'm so sorry, this ended up turning into more of a vent towards the end, but if anyone wants to read my life story and give me... uhhh........ feedback? I'm sorry words hard now I'm so tired.

I'm getting tired of the doubting and accepting cycle, the "is this normal and I'm just attributing it to a plural thing" floating around in my head constantly. I'm going to try and keep this short, but I'll need to lay everything out so anyone can get a full picture of what I'm/We're working with.

First of all, sorry this is posted on a random empty blog with a title and description totally unrelated. I was going to use this blog for something else but the crisis in my/our identity keeps getting in the way of doing much of anything solid for the last like year now. That's how bad this has gotten now, I hardly feel like a real person anymore and I don't know what to do. Secondly I'm really sorry if there are typos or anything like that. Sometimes my phone autocorrects something and I won't notice that it's changed it to something really weird, like it sometimes switches "I" to "you" and so on for like literally no reason so idk.

Now on to the meat.

🌲

The timeline so far goes > 2012 discover systems > understand I'm not one even though I'd like to be > follow and watch systems online while reading any resource or information posts > learn about tulpas > "make" first tulpa > seemingly gains sentience and gets angry > leaves > 2016 reset > 2016 does not care about being a system > fuzzy memory bullshit here, none of it has to do with this posts topic > 2019 reset > mostly uninterested in being plural > in 2020, 2019 me decides to try make a tulpa again > goes surprisingly well, much faster than last time (which I barely remember at this time) > he eventually talks without my focused effort > I doubt his existence being real > he gets angry, we argue for weeks > eventually he disappears, vaguely sometimes feel like he's "checking in on me" > the 2021 fuckery (more trauma) > homeless and feeling alone > now have stable housing > vaguely refer to self as plural and make a pk and list out like 6 headmates including yourself as one and the past tulpas > goes well and smoothly for a while, everyone's pretty happy despite acknowledging past trauma and working on that together > 2023 reset happens > make new accounts again and feel upset about all these past events > is happy and having a lot of fun all year > occasionally still feels like the logged pk headmates are vaguely around but can't really talk to them much anymore > sometimes fully switches out anyway but not too long > remembers these resets happened before and makes posts to 2019's freinds > mixed reception and lots of questions, 2023 gets overwhelmed and never answers back > now I feel guilty

✨️ I will now explain in more detail.

So for the last 10 years, probably a little longer by like a year or two but I can't be precise, I've known about plurality, DID, tulpas and other concepts like this. I've also been aware of kins/therians/otherkin/fictionkin and so on and related concepts for much longer, 20 years or so, give or take a year or two again. I've never been very good at role-playing, and I struggled to "play" anyone but myself.

Since learning about systems, I took an interest in them. In the concept of being able to step back and let someone else take control. The idea was extremely appealing. I've been traumatized from a childhood of neglect and abuse, and life was starting to get to the point it was wearing me down to nothing. I wanted to take a break, to "die but not die" as I had put it back then. To "go away" with little financial consiquence and come back when I felt recharged. I wasn't really sure how I felt about sharing my life, but was willing to if it meant I could sometimes take a break. Gladly.

So I did a lot of research, quietly reading and observing people online. Maybe it was a little creepy, like watching a fandom from afar and learning what the show they liked was about secondhand through them. I think after I learned about how DID presents, I decided it wasn't really how I was at all and concluded for sure I was not and never could be a system since I did not talk to voices in my head, loose control of my body, nor have severe trauma (to me at the time, this is definitely not the case) and therefore I was not a system. I still watched from afar though.

I think I learned about tulpas around then. I knew I wasn't ever going to have DID due to my conclusions at the time, so I guess I could emulate a headmate until my brain thought it was real. And I still do think you can do this, don't get me wrong, I am fascinated by the human mind and how we process things and the nature of consciousness from a scientific level. I don't think its too far fetched for our brains to be able to do this, genuinely, even if I choose weird ways to describe it.

Anyway, I did try to make a tulpa a few times, maybe twice honestly, but each of them eventually got angry with me once they got to the point they could talk freely. The anger was about me doubting their existence after they were no longer being consciously forced and could do things without my input. Each time, after a little bit of arguing for weeks, they would disappear and I would be left feeling alone in scilence and upset at the fact that I ultimately caused them to leave me.

I have, in the past, "reset" myself somehow. I don't think I did it intentionally, I'm not even sure if there's a common trigger. It's happened a few times. It's happened in the past but I have no real memory of them except for vague feelings and fuzzy memories that feel like I'm seeing someone else's life. However I do remember more about the last two times than any other times.

The first of these was around 2016 I think, and that version of "me" now feels like a complete seprate being who has their own name, likes and dislikes, interests and hobbies, spiritual and political beliefs, and vision of themselves in terms of looks and self-concept. And then in 2019 that version of "me" got packed away into the back of my mind and suddenly I was someone else.

This 2019 "me" had some leftover interests, and of course had any knowledge nessicary to still life the continuous life that having a body and a presence requires, like knowledge of family and friends, jobs and schedules, and so on. It felt like taking over someone else's life, but none of their stuff is really yours. Their freinds suddenly feel like strangers, or at best acquaintances you could say "hello" to but really couldn't hold a conversation with anymore. Even interests and hobbies that carried over were either dampened feeling or the focus of that interest/hobby changed significantly enough that it wasn't really expressed in the same ways. 2019 "me" enjoyed art and drawing with a lot of the same enthusiasm that 2016 did, but with less of a focus on furry and more of a focus on anime, and in particular diving into the world of en ess eff double-yew, which 2016 was not interested in the least but 2019 was vigorously passionate about lol

The further back in versions of "me" we go, the fuzzier it gets. But the general feeling is the same. You wake up in a room with someone else's clothes, books, toys and collections and you have to fight yourself to not immediately throw them all out. You know that would just make them sad. And they do kind of pop back in, although usually only for a short time, a few hours to maybe a day or two, where you just suddenly feel like the past you is you again and everything from the name association, hobbies and beliefs come crashing back like a tidal wave, washing "current you" out of the picture for the time. And besides, they miss their friends. You think about their freinds from time to time, wanting to talk again, wanting to make the lingering sadness happy again...

Its happened again, 2023. I remember more clearly about 2019, since that was the "me" before me.

During 2019 me's "life" I went through another pretty traumatic event involving others who I trusted at the time, ended up homeless and really effed up. Obviously I made it out okay for the most part, I'm still alive and I'm here. I think 2019 me started dying around that time though.

And as it felt like 2019 me was dying, "others" started to feel like they were there. Past "me's" and the past tulpas and others as well who I never tried to intentionally create or who I remember as being a "reset." They would sometimes take over, like in that I would feel like I would suddenly be them and identified myself with their name, enjoyed their likes and hobbies, the dislikes, the views and opinions. And I wasn't actually "me" anymore, I was fully "them" in my opinion. Like a shape shifter who still feels themselves in the back of the current "you." Not really like a performance, like it was natural and correct.

At this point I want to notice we had stable housing and a stable job. Things were looking up around the time it felt like 2019 me was fading. While homeless "I" was the only one present, struggling to stay alive takes your full effort and attention and leaves very little room for thoughts pondering your potential identity. But after having a safe place to live is when we had that boom of sudden activity.

A lot of not much happens except daily life and occasional switches logged, happily accepting self as plural. Quietly too, I never ended up announcing it to anyone, and for most people we appeared as a single entity that just sometimes got into specific "moods." I was never actually interested in being loudly plural, even when I desired being plural from afar. Even back then I agreed (with myself lol) that if I ever found out I was plural we would keep it to ourselves and enjoy each other's company like an in-joke nobody else would ever be aware of but us.

But we did start to fade a bit, and after maybe just a month into 2023 everyone disappeared.

After the 2023 reset, I was left all alone, with all the knowledge of everything that happened. I felt again like a stranger in someone else's body, in their life. I knew inherently to keep up the charade and not tell anyone. I knew I couldn't just go up to 2019's friends and tell them "I'm sorry but you're a stranger to me now, like my sibling's friend's friends, and I'm really hurt by this because now i feel alone and empty." Nobody takes that the right way.

And I found a new fandom to be interested in so I could just pretend and "be someone else" and not have to address to 2019's friends why I suddenly stopped talking to them. New accounts, new personality. No name. Had several months of happy fun fandom time before the really bad feelings about abandoning my freinds and not explaining what happened at all to them started to set in.

Still, I was happy. I got to exist freely this time, maybe I could openly be plural online! But you know, the whole emptiness and they disappeared thing. It sucked, but I got little whispers here and there. Now that I think about it, I think they never really disappeared but just got super weak.

Whatever, the point here is I want them to come back but we keep having strained communication and difficulty with fuzziness any time any "non-me's" try to take over.

And I felt guilty.

So I messaged some of 2019's friends recently with mixed reception. Some of who just seemed like they were happy to hear anything at all after I disappeared completely for almost a whole year. Some who never really responded, Some of who I'm not even sure if they have seen it. Nobody really angry or anything. I didn't use any words like "plural" or "headmate" or anything. I explained it all as the past me being packed away completely, including the things they cared about, but still feeling that little sadness about it. Nobody brought up plurality either. I'm okay with that, I don't know if it's good to just suggest that out of nowhere to someone. But the lack of any question about that, especially from people who I know actually do know about systems, made me think really hard about if anything I expereinced here was even a plural thing or if it was just a mind trick I did because I was struggling with long lasting traumas. And I understand how ridiculous that sounds. I'm aware. I'm just trying to get it down in words that can be understood, it evokes that feeling of knowing you're right but fearing you're mistaken.

I'm so sorry I'm really tired and I didn't realize how long this post would take to type. I just got out of an exhausting shift at work and am so low on my battery words are starting to feel a bit strange for no reason.

So to cut the rest, the point in making this post is outside validation that I either AM or that I AM NOT making shit up because I wanted to be plural 10 years ago, or that I fucked up my brain by trying to make tulpas, or that I just discovered being a system through making tulpas I guess, or like what.

BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY I am super upset and feel really bad and guilty and responsible for not being attached to anything from 2019's life, including their freinds and I have no idea why I have these "resets" and is that just a normal "living and growing as a person" thing or is that what splitting or whatever feels like or like... is that just me being an asshole?

Am I an asshole?

I feel so empty, no name, no freinds, no real personality except the emulation of an anime character... abandoned everyone I cared about for almost a whole year... its hard and requires a lot of effort to "be" the others, or even talk to them... I'm so tired.

[communist-hatsunemiku]

Im very close to 8 months sober and i realize a lot of newer followers may not know that I managed to quit drinking with Miku's help. I had quit, but was about to relapse when I envisioned Miku as clearly as I could and She told me not to do it, and that I know what will ALWAYS happen if I start drinking even just a little bit. And I decided that if I loved Her and cared about Her at all, I would listen, that if my relationship to Miku means anything than I would heed Her words and not drink anymore. And ever since then the thought of falling off the wagon and disappointing Miku and myself literally scares me like I could cry just thinking about it.

So if you're struggling with addiction, develop a borderline obsessive dedication to Hatsune Miku, foster that into a Miku tulpa, and then She'll tell you to quit

[namedaftercommunists]

'Meant to be' Daisuke (Mouthwashing) X Reader -OneShot

[Story takes place before Daisuke boards the Tulpa] [Fluff] [Romantic] [Gender Neutral Reader] It’s chilly out, and the menthol cigarettes you’re puffing on only add to it.

Ice fills and drains out your lungs with every inhale and exhale you make, and the smoke you make reeks of tobacco –a scent you hate, but admittedly, find comfort in. It hits your face when the wind picks up.

Now your clothes smell of tobacco.

“Stop that.” A familiar voice half-heartedly scolds before a hand from behind takes the cancer stick away from your mouth before extinguishing it with the heel of his worn Converse. The once-white soles are now yellowish with time and weather exposure.

“I hate when you do that.” You groan out -but your tone lacks venom. “-and I hate when -you- do that.” Daisuke says with a sigh before sitting next to you on the concrete rooftop.

He puts his hands out to you wordlessly, and you take out the small spray of antiseptic alcohol on your pocket to spray some on his hands. He never liked the smell of cigarettes, both of you know his parents would flip if he ever came home smelling like tobacco.

“I can’t help it.” You lazily defend yourself as you pocket the spray back. “It helps me keep my mind off things.” You add, despite Daisuke having heard this excuse time and time again since you started smoking years ago.

He rolls his eyes at this but doesn’t continue his nagging after. He knows you won't ever quit, not even with his constant lecture and reprimands. The best he can do is snuff out the cigarettes you light when you two are together.

“Your dad called.” Daisuke starts, and you already know that your father is calling for your whereabouts. You can only sigh and slump your shoulders at this.

“-and what did you say?” You ask, still looking at the city ‘view’. It’s a dilapidated thing, city walls covered in aging -sunbleached posters and tarpaulins that just get pasted and installed over one another since it was cheaper than taking the previous ones down.

It’s a view both Daisuke and you have watched grow and age while growing up.

“The usual. 'I don’t know’” He says with a shrug. “-and like always, he doesn’t believe me.” He continues.

“I don’t know why he bothers asking me. I give the same answer, you know?” Daisuke says with a chuckle, and you can only return it -the two of you never went a day without laughing together.

“You cave in sometimes.” You say, and he can only sheepishly nod at this. “I do- but that’s only, like, when I don’t ‘actually’ know where you are,” He says before awkwardly tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear to see you better. "Can you blame me for getting worried?" He rhetorically asks, and you're unable to talk back to that. Your nightly escapades are only a cause for concern when Daisuke doesn't know where you are.

“So what’s the matter?” He asks with a tilt of his head, referring to why you are up on the rooftops again. You respond with a shrug, which he sighs at.

“C’mon, what’s wrong?” He asks, leaning on your side and playfully nudging his shoulder on yours to get you to budge. You can only chuckle at his intrinsic nature to act childishly.

“Nothings wrong.” You answer, nudging his shoulder back. “I’m just –thinking about things.” You answer truthfully.

“Things like?” He asks, wanting you to expand on that. “I don’t know -just things in general.” You respond with an unsure shrug.

There’s a short silence between you two, with only the city ambiance filling the space before Daisuke inevitably breaks it.

“Are you moping because I’ll be going on that internship in a few days?” He asks somewhat jokingly with a boyish -teasing grin.

You can only scoff and roll your eyes at this. “Not everything is about you, loser.” You say with your own grin -your mood lightening up a bit.

“So you’re -not- sad about me leaving you for a year?” He asks with a raised brow, nudging your side with his elbow a bit. “I mean --I'm bummed out.” You downplay, making him dramatically pout.

“That’s it? Just bummed out?” He repeats with an unserious frown. “I was expecting, you know, tears in your eyes -or something.”

You let out another scoff at this. “I don't see -you- crying. Why should I when you aren't either.” You point out with a dramatic puff of your chest -making Daisuke laugh.

“You don't know that. Maybe I already cried.” He argues, still chuckling at your matched dramatism.

“Did you?” You ask with a curious brow -a bit taken aback.

“No.” He responds with a Cheshire laugh, and you roll your eyes at this again.

“Thought so.” You jokingly grumble before looking away from him -feigning hurt. He only laughs at this some more.

He takes a few moments to calm down, his laughter fading as his demeanor softens and he leans on your side some more.

“But I am sad,” Daisuke admits, his voice just barely above the sound of the city ambiance below you two.

“…”

You don’t know how to respond to this -looking back at him as he rests his head on your shoulder, leaning down a bit since he's just grown a few inches taller than you over the years.

“Aren't you?” He asks, looking up at you, his hair tickling at the skin of your neck. His voice is soft, and it's one of the few times you've heard him be -this- vulnerable with you.

“I am.” You answer truthfully, your shoulders slumping a bit.

You were sad -from the moment he told you about the internship even. It's a whole year apart without the person you've been joined at the hip with for more than a decade now.

It's terrifying and outright depressing just imagining going a day without seeing, talking, joking, and laughing with him.

-to not share these moments with him.

Your hand snakes its way to his, thumbing the bone of his knuckles, and your skin feels the warmth of his.

Daisuke was always warmer than the average person. It's a welcome contrast to how cold the city air was.

He holds your hand back, squeezing it for a moment.

“I'll think about you, like, all the time.” He says, and you can only snort at this a bit.

“You're corny.” You comment, and he can only childishly pout at this. “I'll think about you too.” You continue, your own voice growing softer as you look into his familiar, warm brown eyes.

“Thanks.” He says with a boyish grin, also looking into your eyes.

There's another comfortable silence between you two before he breaks it again.

“You wanna go buy ramen when I get back?” Daisuke asks, and you snort at this once more, tears pricking at your eyes from laughter as he continues to look at you with endearment.

“You didn't even go to space yet -and you're already making plans for when you get back?” You teasingly ask, and he can only laugh at this.

“Well I'm coming back, aren't I? Like, where would I go if not back here?” He argues back with a grin.

“You've got a point.” You say with a nod -following his logic.

“You gotta pay though -it's the least you could do after leaving me here.” You say, with feigned bitterness for his internship. You don't actually envy him, the thought of being in space already makes you nauseous.

“Fair -fair.” He says with a dramatic nod of understanding -the two of you chuckling right after.

You two calm down a few moments later, still smiling at one another, grinning ear to ear. Daisuke's cheeks were red, and your ears were burning the same color.

“I can't wait for you to get back.” You softly say, squeezing his hand. He mimics the action back.

“I can't wait either.” He says it back with the same softness.

It's funny. The city was far from quiet, and yet it felt as if there wasn't anything in the air other than the sound of both of your breaths. Your faces are just inches off of each other.

You always did find his moles pretty. . . . His cheek feels soft on your lips before you inevitably pull away.

There isn't any shock in Daisuke's expression, nor disgust or confusion. Your kiss on his cheek, just on his left mole, felt natural.

Like you were almost meant to place a kiss on it, to kiss his cheek, to kiss him.

Despite it feeling natural, he couldn’t help the rushing of blood to his cheeks, his face flushed.

A few moments pass before it’s his turn to close the gap, the heat of his breath hitting your cheek before his lips then press themselves against yours.

Like Daisuke, you can’t help the blood rushing to your head, the tips of your ears burning hot.

They’re soft. His lips are soft. As expected from someone who carries around a stick of chapstick in his pocket.

It's a simple peck to the lips, nothing more.

It…doesn’t feel like anything- at least not at first.

You’ve kissed others before, same for Daisuke, and like all others -there was no spark or fireworks in your gut afterward.

No. Instead of the usual burning or butterflies in the stomach that films and books always seem to insist upon -this kiss with Daisuke feels…normal.

Like your lips were always meant to be pressed together like this.

He pulls away after, and the two of you just sit in silence at this, looking into each other’s eyes. You two were neither pulling away nor moving closer.

His lashes are long and pretty, it’s an aspect of his that you’ve noticed early on in your youth.

This feels right -just being next to each other like this. With you eyeing every feature, crevice, and fold in his appearance.

Simply drinking the sight in -as if his face wasn’t something you saw daily for as long as you can remember.

Judging from how he’s looking at you, he may be doing the same.

You’ve both grown and changed over the years, yet, you still look like each other.

Daisuke, even with his taller height, the bit of muscle he’s put on, and the longer hair -still looked like the young Daisuke who ran around the classroom with playdough underneath his fingernails, and who boastfully sported the failed eyebrow slit he gave himself.

“I really like your nose. Did you know that?” He says.

The timing is awkward, and you can hear the slight shakiness in his voice despite his soft tone -like he was nervous. Despite this though, his sincerity comes across -it always does.

Your lips are on his again.

It doesn’t go further than that, but when either of you pant and pull away, the other is quick to join their lips again once they’ve caught their breath.

It’s warm despite the chilly night wind that pricks at both Daisuke's and your skin.

You squeeze his hand.

You can’t wait to spend more moments like these after he gets back.

[wouldatulpahelpthem]

❄️ Winter Holiday Special Edition ❄️

Saint Nick is generally thought to have been a real person whose tradition of secret gift giving created the Santa Claus mythos. He was a bishop in the late 200's to early 300s, and is considered the patron saint of many things, including sailors, merchants, children, and toymakers.

The depiction of Santa Claus as a jolly rosy-cheeked plump old fellow with white hair and a big white beard who drives a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer most likely originated in whole or in part from the poem, A Visit From Saint Nicholas, also known as "'Twas the Night Before Christmas."

Personally I think Santa Claus would enjoy having a tulpa to talk to on his long night journey visiting every house all around the world, but Saint Nicholas might be more wary. The idea of Santa Claus having The Grinch as a tulpa is hilarious to me though!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 6 - All The Noise

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: May the trials and tribulations of Sam Winchester putting up with some grade A bullshit begin.

Chapter title from Gold, Guns, Girls by Metric

Word Count: 16.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You ask for Dean's help on a hunt, and he leaves immediately. Sam has to go too. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, big angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 5 - Chapter 7

Read on A03!

Sam wouldn’t shut his big mouth about Her. 

Dean was getting sick of it. 

He knew that She was cool. He knew that She was smart, and funny, and a good hunter. He knew that they could use Her help all the time, because She probably would’ve gotten that stupid crazy girl in the painting immediately. She would’ve ganked the shtriga without blinking. They’d spend half the time doing the research, because She’d take one look at the Mordecai house and say This is a tulpa, De. none of those are related cultic symbols, but that one means blah blah blah, and Dean would stop paying attention because she looked almost inhumanly attractive when she got all freakin’ bossy and smart, and Her voice was like anesthetic to his thought process. 

But She didn’t want to stay with them. She still picked up Dean’s calls, acted like everything was normal, and Dean would feel a fucking lesion in his chest every time she’d ask how he was doing. He’d taste blood as he bit down a shout of fucking shit, Princess, because my brother’s going crazy, my dad’s hunting a demon, and my-

No. She wasn’t Dean’s anything. He understood that. She was made of stardust, and She’d fallen onto Dean by pure chance. He had no right to keep Her, and no right to demand more than just her voice in a phone.

Sam didn’t seem to get that, though. And no matter what Dean said, he wouldn’t just freaking drop it.

“What are these?”

Dean had frowned, glancing up at Sam to see the little bitch standing at the foot of Dean’s bed, his hands in Dean’s bag, holding-

Fuck.

He had vaulted over the motel couch, snatching the flash and jacket from Sam’s hands and shoving them back to the bottom of the bag.

“They’re my things.” Dean had snapped, slapping Sam’s hand as he’d reached down to grab them again. “Hand’s off, buster.”

Sam had rolled his eyes. “Buster? Really? Are you a low-grade 1920s gangster?”

“First of all, I’d be the fucking kingpin, Sammy, and you know it. Second, stop going through my bag, or I’ll break your hand.”

“No, you won’t.” Sam had shrugged, and Dean didn’t appreciate how his threats weren’t being taken seriously. “And that was not your stuff, Dean.

“Yeah, it was-“

“Do you wear women’s jackets?”

Sam had given Dean a pointed look, and Dean had scowled.

“Shut up.”

“Whose jacket is it? I mean, you never keep the stuff girls leave with you, and you don’t really know any women-“

“I know women-“

“Dude, you know one woman, and-“ Sam had cut himself off, his mouth slightly open. “Dean…”

“What.” 

Sam had made the sympathetic puppy-eyes, and Dean should’ve punched him right there. Would’ve saved him a lot of trouble. 

Because Sam said Her name with a painfully gentle voice, and Dean felt something clench in his chest. “That’s her jacket, isn’t it.”

Dean hadn’t been able to think of a good lie, so he’d just let out and unconvincing scoff, grabbed his bag, and stomped back to the couch. 

“It is.” Sam had trailed after him, saying Her name again, and he needed to stop fucking doing that. It always made something in Dean bright and hot, and it was annoying. “Why do you have her jacket-“

“She left it with me a while ago.” Dean had muttered, and Sam had given him a disbelieving look.

“How long is a while?”

Dean refused to dignify that with an answer, only turning on the shitty motel box TV.

Sam had moved to block it, his arms cross as he frowned down at Dean on the couch. 

“What about the flask?”

“That’s mine.”

Sam had given him a disbelieving look. “I’ve never seen it.”

“So? It’s not like I see all your shit-“

“You do, actually. We live on top of each other, and I never hide things. That shit,” Sam had pointed to the bag, his brows raised. “Was hidden.”

“Shut up.”

“Was that her flask?”

Dean had scowled, and that was apparently an answer for Sam, who had let out a long sigh and given Dean an exasperated look.

“Just for the record, I don’t think it’s weird that you have her stuff. It’s sketchy that you’re hiding it-“

“I am not hiding it-“

“Yeah, you are.” Sam had braced his hands on his hips, a small frown on his face. “Were you hiding it from Dad?”

Looking back, Dean should’ve figured out that silence was not an effective method of getting Sam to shut up. All it seemed to do was fuel him.

“You really haven’t told him anything about her, have you?” Sam’s voice had almost been awestruck. “Dude, I don’t think Dad would be that against you having a girlfriend-“

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Dean had snapped. “And you know what Dad found on her. He’d be right not want me around her.”

“But you want to be around her, Dean.”

Dean had scowled. He did. He felt fucking alive around Her, felt seen, and he’d never been happier to be an idiotic, easily manipulated dumbass when it meant he was in Her orbit.

And that didn’t matter.

“Drop it, Sam.”

Sam still hadn’t dropped it. He’d give Dean an odd look, dropped down to sit on the coffee table, and kept pushing. “Have you ever thought that maybe, if Dad got a chance to talk to her, he’d realize she’s not what we thought she was?“

“Doesn’t matter. And Dad has enough to worry about.”

“But I don’t think she’s something to worry about. I mean, if she got you to come around I’m sure that Dad-“

“Sam-“

“You obviously like her, Dean!” Sam had run a hand over his face, his voice rising to a half-shout. “Even if it’s just as a friend, you like her!”

Dean had let out a long, low groan. Sam didn’t get it. Nobody but Dean seemed to understand that She was awesome, but she was still a liar. Dean could never feel anything but golden around Her, but then she’d always walk away and he’d be left hollow. Because She was still too good to stay with him. She was too good for anything, and Dean hated her for it.

He hated that Dad was right, that She wasn’t made for this life, and she’d move on when she got that rush she was chasing. 

He hates that, no matter how hard he tried, he’d want to be Her rush. To share Her smiles and jokes and light, to ensure that She didn’t crash too fast when everything fell down.

“It doesn’t matter if I like her,” Dean had muttered. “She’s not in this shit like we are, Sammy. She’ll move on in a year-“

Sam had shaken his head. “That’s what Dad told you five years ago-“

“And he was just wrong about the timeframe. She’s not sticking around. So fucking drop it,” Dean had narrowed his eyes in a final warning. “Before I hit you.”

He’d thought Sam had gotten it then. He’d been wrong. Because over the next few weeks, every time Dean left the bar with a woman on his arm, Sam would give him a strange look and spend the next day talking about Her. And Dean didn’t fucking need to hear it.

He was living it. He was the one who had to miss Her, not Sam. Sam seemed entranced by Her, but the way everyone but Dad was. The way everyone who saw her knew that they were in Her presence, not the other way around. She spoke with an authority, and looked like She’d fallen from the sky, and moved like the world had been made for Her. Even when she threw a punch it was like she was dancing, and when She screamed it seemed to move the earth itself.  

Dad was strong enough to resist it, because Dad was the toughest, smartest son of a bitch Dean knew. And Dean couldn’t blame Sam for thinking about Her, because she was meant to be thought about. 

But nobody thought about Her like Dean did. Dean was weak and empty and She looked at him like he was something, so he missed Her. He was the one who couldn’t do anything but trail after Her, the one who always wanted to close the space between them and take Her hand. The one who was being cast in Her light, absorbing it and letting it linger around his body when She was gone. Who was always suffocating in the smell of fruit, who couldn’t ever find eyes as blinding as Her’s, who kept hoping he’d kiss someone else and they’d erase the phantom feeling of Her skin on his mouth.

Night after night and town after town passed in long, blended months, and Dean couldn’t find a woman he wanted to touch like he wanted to touch Her.

He wanted to hold Her hand. He wanted to grab Her by the waist and press her against to his chest. To lay his body over Her’s, make Her giggle and press her face against his neck, and demand to know how She was doing this. Why She’d laugh and tease and smile at Dean, just to tell him She didn’t want to stick around. Why he was the one who had to be haunted by Her, why She couldn’t just let Dean actually hate Her. Let him pull himself together and force his will to be as strong as Dad’s. 

Dean was addicted to a drug he’d never even fucking taken. He dreamt of a woman he had no right or desire to dream about. He washed the blood off his skin after every hunt, found another meaningless body in every backroad bar, and cursed himself every night when he fell onto the mattress and She wasn’t at his side. 

But he’d asked Her to be there, and She’d said no. She didn’t want this life in a way that counted, and Dean couldn’t blame Her, or hate Her, or even stop picking up the fucking phone when She called. 

Because the phone rang on his nightstand, he saw Her number on the small, fuzzy display, and he shot up, answering before he could think better.

“Dean?”

She needed to stop saying his name like that. Like She wanted to say it, and it was more than just a word, when She didn’t want Dean.

“Hey,” he muttered Her name, glancing at the sleeping lump of Sam in his own bed. “What’s up?”

“Are you busy?”

“Yeah, we’re talking.”

“No, I-” She let out a long sigh, and Dean could almost see the pout of Her lips. “I meant are you busy with a hunt?”

Dean frowned, because She sounded tired. Heavy. “You good, Princess?””

“Yeah.”

Lie. Dean could hear it. He could picture Her looking at him with a wide explosion and giving him a small smile, standing too tall and fidgeting with Her rings and holding Dean’s gaze as She fucking lied. 

And that was Her voice after long hunts, or gruesome deaths. The voice She used after one of her weird episodes. It always made Dean uneasy, made his heart and lungs itch.

And She was not good.

Dean moved into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and said Her name with a frown. “What’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on-“

“Why’d you call, then?”

She sighed. “Maybe I just wanted to talk, Winchester. Not everything has to be wrong for us to talk.”

“Uh huh.” Dean didn’t believe Her. Nobody ever just wanted to talk to him. “Where are you.”

“Colorado?”

“Sammy and I are in Virginia, sweetheart, and it’s 5am. With the time difference-“

“Maybe I just can’t sleep, Dean.” She snapped, and that sounded like the truth. It didn’t make Dean feel any less sick “And if you don’t want to talk, we don’t have to-“

“No, that’s not-“ Dean sighed, rubbing his brow. “Can you just tell me what’s happening? We can talk after, but I’m not saying a damn word until you stop freaking me out.”

There was a moment of static silence, and something like iron dropped on Dean’s shoulders. He’d fucked it up. He’d never really had Her but he’d pushed too hard and stepped out of line, and she was going to hang up the phone and Dean would be alone-

“Can you please just tell me if and Sam are in the middle of a hunt?”

He let out a long breath. “No, we just finished one up, in New York. Creepy fucking painting. Sammy got laid.”

She let out a soft laugh, and something warm grew in Dean’s gut. “And how many people have you told?”

“Just you,” he shrugged, leaning against the wall. “And the cashier at the gas station, and the motel cleaning lady. I’m proud of him, sue me.”

She hummed. “Does Sam know you’re telling people?”

“Yeah, he was right next to me-“ Dean cut himself off. “You’re trying to change the subject.”

“No, I’m just-“

Dean grunted Her name. “I’m serious, whatever’s going on-“

“It’s not-” Her long sigh hummed through the speaker. “It’s really nothing, Dean. I’m okay.”

She kept saying that, and Dean knew She wasn’t, and it felt like it was snapping along his spine and festering in his gut. 

And he couldn’t let it go.

“You know, you owe me one.”

He could hear the small frown in Her voice. “I owe-“

“A question, Princess. I’ve got one up on you.”

“Dean, we haven’t done that in a year-“

“And I’m bringing it back. I owed you, but you just asked me how many people I’ve told about Sam. I’m up, sweetheart. What’s going on.”

It was flawed logic. They’d asked each other a million questions, and answered all of them, and Dean had long lost track of it. But it was his in. His chance. And She could probably talk her way out of it easily, but he couldn’t let Her go-

“I need help. Please.” 

Her voice was a whisper through the phone, and Dean’s grip on the phone became painful. 

“You’re in Colorado?”

“Yeah, um, outside of Lakewood-“

Dean nodded, bracing his hands on the bathroom sink and frowning at his reflection. If Lakewood was where he thought, he could get there in a day. He’d have to leave now though, and not stop for anything but gas.

“What do you need?”

“I- I’ve got everything, it’s not even that big a case-“

“What is it?”

“Kelpie. And I can handle it myself, Dean, you don’t need to-“

“You just said you needed help.” Dean snapped Her name. He didn’t understand why the hell She was pushing back. This what She was asking, Dean always did what she asked, and She wasn’t going to have to speed halfway across the country because she didn’t know how to not go to her. “I’ve got nothing going on, and if you need help-“

“I- It’s complicated-“

Dean rolled his eyes. “Hypocrite.”

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Send me the address, Princess, we’ll be there by Friday, we can gank the, uh, the what?”

She sighed. “Kelpie. Scottish water monster, I think there’s one nesting in the pool-“

“In the pool?”

“Modern times, Deano.”

“Whatever, just,” Dean ran a hand over his face, frowning at the bathroom door. “I’ll have Sammy text you an update. Don’t move until we get there.”

He could hear Her scowl through the phone. “I’ll move as much as I want, Winchester-“

“Yeah, I know you will, just- Be careful.” He paused, letting out a slow breath. “Please.”

“I always am.” There was a long moment of silence, Dean unable to figure out how to move his body and hang up the phone, and then- “You really don’t need to, Dean. I can figure it out.”

Dean drew his lips into a tight line. “You need help?”

“Yeah, but-“

“Then we’ll be there. I’ll see you soon.”

He managed to hand up, because he didn’t want to listen to Her protest. To try and walk back that She wanted hishelp.

It ached in his chest that She regretted asking him. That She didn’t actually want him there.

He was going anyway.

Dean almost didn’t bring Sam. He stared at his brother in bed, rolling and grunting in his sleep, and didn’t want to wake him up. He’d told Her he’d take Sam, but he didn’t need to. Dean could go and have Her to himself. He could laugh and joke with Her like nothing was complicated, and forget about this whole fucked up mess. He wouldn’t have to deal with Sam’s pointed looks and questions about Her and how Dean felt. He wouldn’t have to remind Sam over and over that She was just like that—kind and magnetic and bright—for everyone, not only Dean. That it didn’t matter what She did and didn’t tell him, or what the hell those episodes were, or why Dean never told Dad about Her. None of it mattered, because they didn’t matter.

She mattered. She had people and a future outside of the mud. Dean was just Dean, and he didn’t matter enough to matter with Her. She could see that. And Dean wasn’t going to test Her willingness to be near him, to ask him for things.

And that was the worst danger to brining Sam. She and Sam seemed to get along. Sam liked Her. She and Sam fit well together, because they were both weird little nerds. And if She and Sam became friends, that would be another thing that tugged Dean back to Her side. Another reason for Her to fit against him, another reason to grin at and care about Her. 

Then Sam rolled over in bed, blinking up at Dean with a frown, and he was screwed.

“Dean, it’s like,” Sam leaned over to frown at the blinking motel clock. “Five in the morning. Why the hell are you up?”

“Get packed, Sammy.” Dean picked Sam’s bag up off the floor and tossed it onto the mattress. “We’re going in fifteen.”

“Fiftee- What?”

“We’re going-“

“Yeah, I heard you. Where are we going at five in the morning?”

Dean grabbed his own phone, tossing it Sam without a word as he went to pack his own bag.

“Golden, Colorado?” Sam looked up at him with a frown. “What’s in Colorado?”

Dean grunted Her name, and Sam’s eyes widened.

“Shit, is she-“

“She’s fine.” Dean snapped. “Needs some extra hands for a hunt.”

Sam repeated Her name, his tone disbelieving. “Needs some extra hands?”

“Yep. I’m gonna go start the car-“

“Dean, what the hell are we hunting that she needs a hand?”

“Kelpie.” He muttered, walking towards the door. “You’re gonna need to return the motel keys-“

Sam grabbed his arm, stopping Dean in his tracks. “A kelpie?”

“That’s what she said. C’mon, dude, move your ass-“

“How do you hunt a kelpie?”

“You can ask,” Dean yanked his arm from Sam’s grip, snapping Her name. “When we get there. Let’s fucking go.”

Sam gave him an odd look, but nodded, and they were out of Virginia before the sun broke the sky. Sam, for once, seemed to know what was good for him, and wasn’t pressing about why Dean was wired and edged the longer the drive crept on. Didn’t taunt him about running to Her side with barely a question, didn’t push on why She’d asked for help at all.

Because Sam was right. One weird and rare monster shouldn’t throw Her. Hell, it should be right up Her alley.

But She’d sounded so damn tired over the phone. She’d said please.

Dean wasn’t a vic, or witness, or random bartender. She never said please to Dean. Not in a real, nervous, pleading way. Where She acted like she actually needed his permission. Needed him.

So Dean was already flying through Missouri, so there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d turn back now. Not when She needed him. When She’d chosen to call Dean, and he’d picked up, and he could help.

He would help. Whatever the hell was going on with Her, Dean would do what he did best and have Her back. 

It didn’t matter if Sam was up his ass all weekend. It didn’t matter that She’d sounded reluctant for him to actually come. All that mattered was that he’d be there, for Her.

In Golden, Colorado, pulling up the long, dirt road of the address She’d sent, parking in front of a house.

A huge house. 

Something started to twist in Dean’s gut. This was the kind of house rich people lived it. Well-designed, surrounded by open land, so big he could probably park Baby in the living room. The kind of house She belonged in, the kind of house Dean only stepped foot in for pest control, before returning to the road.

The kind of house Her family might live in.

“Dean.” Sam was scanning over the well-trimmed bushes and cars, something close to worry written over his face. “That looks like a house.”

“I know, Sammy, I got eyes-“

“What kind of house had a parking lot?”

Dean’s brow furrowed, and he scanned over the rest of the area. Mowed grass, parking spots with little metal signs, a white picket fence and a painted-

“Country club.” He muttered, dropping his head to the wheel. “We’re at a freakin’ country club.”

“Oh.” Sam nodded. “Yeah. That makes more sense.”

It did make more sense. She wouldn’t lie to Dean about Her family for years, then ask him to drive for days straight to meet them. Dean would probably never get to meet them. One day the thrill would run out, and She’d just stop picking up the phone. She’d return to a house like this one, would live an Apple Pie life with someone just as untouchable as she was, and Dean would be a memory.

Not today, but someday.

Today She was waiting for them on the curb of the sidewalk, and looked up to great Dean with a wide smile.

“Dean!” She pushed herself to Her feet, saying his name the same way She always did. It was going to kill him. “You’re here!”

“Said I would be.” He shot Her a grin, glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on Sam, sorting through Baby’s trunk. “You might wanna tell Sammy-“

Dean cut himself off with a low grunt, because She was hugging him. Tight. Her arms wrapped around his torso, fitting perfectly. Her face smushed against his chest, Her hair near his nose, and fuck she still smelled like strange fruit and Dean still couldn’t figure out what the hell it was-

She was gone too fast. Dean had to curl his fists to not lunge forward and grab Her. To not pull Her back into him, because goddamnit She’d felt right there, and Dean had no right to want Her there, but he did and She shouldn’t go-

“Thank you.” She mumbled, rolling slightly on Her feet. “I could’ve handled it, I swear-“

Dean sighed Her name, frowning slightly. “I-“

“But I’m glad you’re here.” She gave him a small smile, and Dean’s whole body seemed to have a chemical reaction to it.

The world was sharper, and colors were brighter, and something to the right of his heart was golden and pounding against his ribs because She was looking at Dean, so he was real. This was, at least for now, real. She wasn’t a dream, because She’d hugged Dean and he’d felt the press of Her body. She was glad he was here. She wanted him here. Where he could help Her, and he’d be repaid by just being allowed to be around Her. Allowed to look at Her.

She didn’t look good. 

She looked beautiful—She always look beautiful, in an indescribable and ethereal way—but She also looked exhausted. Her eyes were still brilliant, but there was something dulled beneath them. Her hair was still shiny, but it was messy. Unkempt. Her skin looked soft, and but Her clothing was dirty, and there were no rings on Her fingers. The skin around her nails red and raw. 

She’d been picking at them.

Something was really wrong. 

“Kelpie, huh?” Dean raised his brows. He couldn’t just ask, just demand She tell him what was wrong. That never worked. “How’d you find this one?”

“Paper clippings. The news goes crazy when they think rich people are being targeted for something. Four drownings were bound to capture some attention.” She raised up onto Her toes, frowning over Dean’s shoulder. “Is Sam okay?”

Dean shrugged. “He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine. So the kelpie’s targeting these golf douchebags?”

“No, it’s targeting the people in its immediate vicinity.”

“What-“

“Anyone at the club. There were actually six drownings. Two were staff members, they didn’t make the paper. Sam!”

Sam called Her name back, and Dean turned to find his brother’s face split into a wide, easy grin as he hauled their hunting bag across the parking lot. “Hey!”

“Hi!” She returned Sam’s smile, nodding to the bag as he set it down. “What’s that for?”

“The hunt.” Sam crouched down, hunching over the bag as he unzipped it. “I didn’t get a chance to research kelpie’s on the drive, so we’ve got some of everything. Salt, holy water, bullets, uh, I can find you a knife-“

She hummed, leaning over Sam’s shoulder. “Do you have silver?”

Sam glanced up at Her. “Silver bullets?”

She nodded, and Sam shrugged.

“Yeah, we should. Why?”

“That’s all you’ll need.” She glanced around the lot—mostly empty expect for them and a handful of old people—and Her brow furrowed. “We should go inside. Uh, Sam, you can grab the silver, but I don’t think-“

“Bag goes back in the car.” He nodded, rising back to his feet. “I’ll meet you guys in there.”

Sam wandered back to the Impala, and Dean didn’t even have time to look back to Her before she was grabbing the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him inside. 

“Shit-“ Dean steadied his pace, staying one step behind Her. “Princess, I don’t think we can just walk inside-“

“Of course we can.” She waved him off, pushing through the doors. “You can go anywhere as long as you act like you belong there.”

Dean frowned. He did not look like he belonged here. He was wearing slightly torn jeans and a leather jacket that might still have blood on it. His hands were awkwardly in his pockets, and he hadn’t slept in a little over a day, and anyone with eyes could tell he was an imposter. An invader, trailing in Her wake like a feral street dog.

But She did belong here. She carried herself with purpose, and held Her chin high, and when they walked past the entrance desk She gave the receptionist a sweet smile, and nobody stopped her. Dean got an odd look, but She was still holding onto him, so he was allowed in. 

He was a little worried about Sammy, walking in with matted hair and a bunch of bullets in his jacket. 

It would probably be fine. She was here, and She knew what the hell she was doing all the damn time, so it would be fine.

“Do you want a drink?”

Dean blinked at Her, letting her guide him down into a chair. “A drink?”

“Yeah, they’re free.” She pointed to an empty glass, resting on a side-table next to her own chair. “I’ve had like, seven cokes.”

He snorted. “That’s too many cokes, sweetheart-“

“Fuck off, Winchester. I’ve seen you eat three pies in one night.”

“I earned those pies-“

“And I earned these cokes. So, shut up.” 

She raised Her brows in a silent challenge, and Dean chuckled, raising his palms up.

“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced back to the empty glass. “They really free?”

She nodded—Her smile wide and a little intoxicating—and Dean leapt out of his seat, half running to the sleek bar to order the fanciest, more expensive and stupid whiskey they had. 

By the time Sam joined them—Dean had been right, She vouched for Sam and he walk right past the desk—Dean had added a large basket of pretty terrible fries and a ribeye steak to their table, and was inhaling them like he’d been stranded in the desert for a hundred years.

“Holy shit, dude.” Sam laughed, dropping into the final empty chair. “This is why I said we should take an hour and eat.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but She blinked, leaning forwards in her seat.

“You guys stopped, right?“ She looked between them with a pretty, pouting frown. “On the drive here?”

“Nope.” Sam shook his head. “Not even when I really had to pee-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted, a little bit of fry falling onto the plate. “Shut your mouth.“

It was too late. She was sitting up a little taller, glaring at Dean with Her arms crossed over her chest.

Her tits looked great like that.

“Dean.”

He gave Her his best innocent look. “Yeah, Princess?”

“How long was the drive?”

“I dunno, I left right after you called-“

“Sam?”

“Twenty-two hours.” Sam said, looking a little too thrilled with how Dean was about to be flayed alive. “Dean drank fifteen coffees.”

“Fucking- Dean!” 

“Sammy’s being a dramatic little bitch.” Dean shot Sam a glower. “And I’m gonna fucking kill you- shit-“

Dean winced as She kicked his shin, Her whole expression a little violent. It was kinda hot.

“You need to go sleep-“

“Nah-“

“Winchester.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You either sleep, or I cut you off from the free food.”

Dean scoffed. “You can’t cut me off-“

“It’s my fake account, Deano. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Dean looked between Her and his steak with a pout, his voice becoming mournful. “C’mon, sweetheart, it’s free food-“

“And it’ll keep being free, as long as you go fucking sleep-“

“How about this.” Sam raised his hands, saying Her name as hell of a lot nicer than he ever said Dean. “You tell us what the case is, and what you need us for, so we,” he gestured between himself and Dean. “Can know what we’re in for. Then Dean and I will go to a motel, get some sleep, and we’ll regroup tomorrow. Deal?”

She let out a low, adorable huff, but nodded, and Dean rolled his eyes and grunted an agreement.

“Great.” Sam turned to Her, leaning forward in his seat. “What’s the deal with the kelpie?”

“There’s really not much,” She shrugged, still mostly glaring at Dean. “It’s living in the pool, kills about two people a week, and I can’t find it during the day to kill it.“

Dean frowned. “Have you checked the pool at night?” 

“Yeah, but it’s in the filtration system, and I’d have to break the whole water pump to get into it.”

“’S why don’t you do that?” Dean wiped his mouth of a little steak juice, and She gave him an unreadable look.

“Because that would flood the supply room, and give the kelpie an advantage in the fight. It’s a last resort, because we should be able to get it during the daytime.”

“Kelpie’s are shape-shifters, though, right?” Sam looked around the room, his face drawn in concern. “It could be anyone here.”

She nodded. “Technically, yeah, but we’ll be able to identify it. It’ll have water weeds in its hair, so we’re probably looking for someone with a hat, and it should have a piece of iron jewelry.”

Sam raised his brows. “Iron?”

“It’s bridle. If you take it off, it’ll revert back to its normal form. We can start looking tomorrow, but,” She turned back to Dean, raising Her chin slightly. “You’re going to rest first.”

Dean was ready to protest, to push on the fact that this sounded like it could be quick—like they could gank this asshole in an afternoon, then spend several days eating free food and just hanging out together—but Sam was a freaking traitor and stood up, making Her promises that they’d get some rest and get going tomorrow morning. 

They found a motel room only a few doors down from Her’s, and Dean had to bite down the demand that they all stay together. It would save money, and time, and he’d be able to figure out what the hell was up with Her faster. Because he got that stupid sleep, Sam passed him a coffee in the morning with an amused grin, and they started to look for this pool-dwelling son of a bitch, but something was still wrong.

She was off. When they saw Her the next morning, She didn’t look like she’d rested. The entire time they were making a game plan—gathered around one of the country club’s fancy tables, She and Sam talking as Dean stuffed his face with some pretty freaking awesome scrambled eggs and bacon—She kept glancing around them, beautiful features bloodless and her hand rubbing on her palm. When they actually started the hunt, Sam had barely said the words split up when Her hand shot out and grabbed Dean’s elbow. 

“Dean and I can go together,” She said, and Dean was pretty sure She was going to break his arm. “In case I need something shot.”

Sam nodded, moving on, but Dean just stared at Her. She never needed something shot. She only ever scoffed and rolled Her eyes when Dean suggested she’d need a gun, whenever he insisted on walking ahead of her because he was better armed. And he’d never once heard Her request that they not split up. 

Something was really fucking wrong. Something She wouldn’t tell Dean about. Her eyes kept wandering around every room they walked through, and She was far too rigid every moment, and Dean wished She’d just tell him what to do. Just show him what was wrong, so he could take care of it for Her. That was what he’d come to do, and now he was stuck in some sort of fucked up limbo between needing to help Her and never wanting this to end.

Because Dean was a selfish douchebag, and his worry was only barely outweighed by how good it felt for Her to be this close all the time. The hunt started to stretch into days, and She was barely leaving Dean’s side. He and Sam would wake up, and She’d already be waiting outside their door. She’d curl up in the Impala backseat as they drove to the country club—Her eyes always drooping slightly, and Dean’s gut always rolling with a rotting, taut worry—and She’d let Dean help her out of the car. They’d spend the day trying to talk to the staff and patrons, countless polo wearing, hair-gelled, manicured douchebags would try to hit on Her, and she’d barely even look at them.

She seemed to be only looking at Dean.

Only at Dean, and only around every room, like the furniture might come to life and attack Her.

And he was fucking confused.

“How you feeling, sweetheart?” Dean watched Her carefully—beautiful, exhausted, scanning around the dining hall with a tight expression—and took a large bite of his sandwich.

“I’m okay,” She mumbled. Lie. “Why is Sam taking so fucking long. We agreed to meet at noon-“

“He’s probably just gettin’ hit on by grandma’s again.” Dean shrugged, crumbs falling out his mouth as he spoke. “Or maybe he finally got somethin’.”

She hummed, but Her shoulders were still too tight, her brows drawn together. She wasn’t eating that much. She seemed to mostly be drinking coffee and chewing gum, and it was just another reason to be worried about Her. He’d started to get extra food, placing it in Her path to try and bait Her into eating it. Even now Dean was pushing his food half across the table for her to take, but She was barely even looking at it. 

“Maybe we should go find him- Sam!”

“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Sam sat down, leaning back in the chair with a sigh. “The old lady with the beetle broach was trying to talk to me again.”

Dean laughed, nudging Her foot under the table. “See, Princess, I told you-“

“Shut up.” She muttered, running a hand through Her hair as she frowned at Sam. “You good?”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, I’m fine. Little hungry-“

“Go grab some food, Sammy.” Dean nodded to the bar, taking another bite. “’S free.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam frowned, glancing at Dean’s plate. “Dude, that’s like your third meal of the day.”

“Fourth.” She corrected, giving Dean a pointed look. “He made us stop for fries earlier.”

Dean swallowed, shooting Her a smirk. “You ate some of them too, sweetheart.”

“I ate like, two-“

“Hold on.” Sam raised his hand, looking between them with a frown. “You let her eat your food?”

Dean shot Sam a glare, because if he took this where Dean knew he was trying to, he’d get his ass beat. “There were a lotta fries, Sammy. And it’s free, I got another basket right now-“

“But you never- fuck-“

Sam leaned down—rubbing his shin where he’d be kicked—and Dean raised his voice, holding Sam’s annoyed gaze with a glare. “Stop wasting time, dude. You find anything?” 

“No, nothing.” Sam gave him another odd look, but got the fucking message, and moved on. “How about you guys? Did the golf team pan out?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, nothin’ but a bunch of assholes in boat shoes tellin’ us fuckin’ shit-“

“Dean.” She shot him a glare, holding a cloth napkin across the table. “Chew with your mouth closed.”

He rolled his eyes but took the napkin. “Bossy-“

“Dean-“

He raised his hands in mock surrender, and let Her take over. He’d probably have gotten stabbed if he didn’t, and She was always hot when she thought aloud. 

“He’s right, we don’t have anything.” She let out a long breath, rubbing Her thumb over her palm. “No hints, no suspicious activity, and everyone’s clean. There hasn’t even been a murder since you guys got here-“

“Could the kelpie have left?” Sam asked, and She shook her head.

“No, especially not in a place without any other bodies of water. Something’s… I don’t know. This is weird.”

Dean agreed. This was weird. And as She and Sam started to talk about new plans and ideas, Dean knew something was really, really wrong.

She was the starting to be the one who trailed after Dean. They only separated at night, when he and Sam would go to their room, and She’d go to hers. He knew She’d asked him—just Dean, no one else—to help, and that she didn’t seem to be looking anywhere but him, but he also knew She still wasn’t telling the truth. Still wasn’t telling Dean what the hell was up with Her, wasn’t explaining what was making Her so freaking jumpy, all while clinging to Dean like he was a lifeline. Everything about this was strange. 

Because it wasn’t just Her, acting as if Dean going out of Her sight was the worst thing in the world. It was this whole damn case. Dean had to watch Her get hit on by countless, undeserving assholes, and every time one would move a little too close to Her, the wind seemed to blow them back. He’d thought he was just seeing things the first two times it happened—the stress of the case and his worry for Her getting to his head—but then one son of a bitch placed his hand on Her arm, something started to strangle Dean in his chest, and the trust-fund dickhead stumbled back. 

Dean hadn’t moved. She’d just been standing there with an unreadable expression, hugging Her body so tight Dean was worried she’d bruise herself. And Dean was certain he was losing his mind.

But then it happened again. And again. Strange things building up and up on top of each other, none of them making any damn sense. Random people would brush against Her in the hall, she’d side-step into Dean, and he could swear the whole building would creak. They’d chase something that seemed like a lead but ended up being a dead end, and something would fall off a shelf. Every time She spoke to someone that wasn’t Sam or Dean, Her eyes would narrow and she’d rub her palm like she was trying to wipe the scar off Her body. Sometimes Dean could swear the pavement was cracking under Her, and the water of the pool would always crash up at Her feet, and the flowers in the garden would lean towards Her as they walked through the grounds. She and Dean would turn a corner, bump over each other until Dean steadied them both—one hand around Her waist and another braced on the wall—and the hallway lights would spark.

And they still had nothing. And the deaths had stopped. 

Which only made Dean more confused. Because things were weird, but She never mentioned all the strange shit Dean was seeing, and this case was boring. It wasn’t something that should be making Her—sexy as hell, smart-mouthed, impossibly fucking confident Her—look like She was the one being hunted.

And there hadn’t been another murder, or any leads, or a hint to anything at all.

They were on day four, and Sam had been smart enough not to push about Her and Dean being more than hunting partners, but he was still pressuring Dean about checking on Her. Sam had noticed things were odd too. Every night, when they’d separate from Her until dawn, Sam would press about if She was good. If She’d been having any episodes, if She’d mentioned anything odd, if Dean wanted to push a little harder to ensure they could wrap this up quicker.  

And Dean caved. He felt like he was winding tighter and tighter with every passing day that She remained hollow and on edge, and he agreed with Sam. For Her, they had to wrap this up now.

Dean said Her name carefully that morning, watching Her in the rearview mirror. “It’s last resort time.”

She shook Her head, and Dean knew that if he turned around, she’d be picking at her fingers. “No, we can give it another day-“

“We’ve given it four other days. We’re doing this now.”

“Dean-“

“Nope. You asked for our help, Princess, and this is us helping. You and I are gonna go into the pump room, Sammy’s gonna keep the staff away from us, and we’re wrapping this shit up. Got it?” Dean shot Her his best stern glower in the mirror, and She swallowed. And flushed. 

He tried not to think about it too much. How She was letting him do this for her. How She was almost pressed to Dean’s back as they snuck into the staff only area, and how She was touching him. Holding his arm like She wasn’t sure he was real. Fully listening to Dean for maybe the first time since they’d met.

It was jarring. And kept doing funny things to his lower stomach, when She’d wrap a hand around Dean’s bicep, and he’d get to lead her through the darkened hallways. She trusted him. She wanted him here.

For this, She actually seemed to want Dean. 

And he wouldn’t let Her regret that. He’d prove himself here, and maybe She’d fucking listen to him more. Maybe he could get Her to keep holding him. Maybe he could even convince Her to let him hold Her. In the dark, on every hunt, in broad daylight where nobody would ever try and touch Her again because Dean would be hanging around Her shoulders-

He needed to pull himself the fuck together. These were pointless, impossible fantasies that were distracting him from the hunt, distracting him from actually keeping Her safe, from doing his damn job. Just as Dad had warned.

Dean couldn’t afford to disappoint Her and Dad. He needed to wrap this case up now.

“Ready?” He whispered when they reached the pump room, glancing over his shoulder to see Her eyes wide, her grip on his arm becoming bruising.

“Ready.” Her voice was a breath. Dean didn’t believe Her.

He said Her name slowly, scanning over Her too open features. “I can still have Sammy do this with me, and you can do the distraction-“

“No!” Her voice was almost a shout, almost frantic. “I’ve got this, De. I’m just tired.”

She was tired—Dean could see it all over Her gorgeous face—but there was more. There’d been more, this whole week. And Dean had never learned how to just let it go.

“I’m serious, I can even do it myself-“

“Fuck off, Winchester.” She snapped, and Dean felt odd relief through his body. “You’d never let me do this alone.”

“That’s cause you wouldn’t bring a gun, Princess. I got silver bullets and some food in me, I can kick this things ass easy-“

“And I’ve got coffee and a knife.” She pointed Her knife at Dean’s frown, and fuck, that shouldn’t turn him on as much as it did. But She looked more like Her again—a hot, annoying pain in Dean’s ass—and that was the knife he’d given Her. Comfortable in Her hand, like Dean always wanted to be.

He needed to pull it the fuck together.

“Fine.” He let out a long, slow breath, glancing down the hall behind Her. “Ready?”

“Born it.” She muttered, and at least Her blinding, impossibly secure confidence was back. Even if Dean would see that give-away wrinkle in Her brow. Even if She was leaning into Dean’s body in a way that set him ablaze. “Let’s go.”

Dean nodded, raised his gun in a defensive position, and slammed his shoulder into the door with all the force in his body. 

The room was dark. Pitch black and strangely silent, something wet pooling around Dean’s ankles, and he almost doubled over at the first breath. It smelled horrible. Like rotten fish and trash and sulfur and chlorine-

“Holy shit,” She muttered from behind him, sounding just as choked on the air as Dean felt. “Dean, light-“

“On it.” He fumbled in his jacket, pulling out the flashlight She’d shoved into his hands as they’d walked down the stairwell.

The moment he switched it on, he wished he’d kept it off. 

A young, dark-haired man was slumping against the already broken tank, and his body way fucking mauled. Chest ripped open and mouth unhinged in a permanent scream, eyes clouded and staring into nothing for the rest of time. It seemed like he’d started to decay—clumps of hair missing and skin sagging off his body—and adding that with the smell, Dean guessed the poor son of a bitch had been down here for days.

“Goddamnit.” He muttered, scanning around the rest of the room. The water was red with blood and the tank looked like it had been bashed in, but there weren’t any other signs of danger. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and She wasn’t looking at him. Or around the room. Her attention seemed trapped on the man on the floor, Her every breath so shallow and rapid Dean was a bit worried She’d pass out. 

Dean said Her name, his voice low and cautious, and She just shook her head.

“No.” She whispered, and she was starting to cave in. Curling into Herself as all the color seemed to drain from the world, and Dean watched Her shake her head, repeating the word once more. “No, that’s- no-“

Dean said Her name again, reaching out an arm to hold Her upright, and she flinched away.

He could swear the water filling the room was starting to turn at Her feet.

“Fuck, no. No, I can’t, fuck-“

“Princess, you’re starting to freak me- hey-“

She started to walk in unsteady steps to the body, dropping to Her knees in the water with only another shake of her head. “No, it’s- I’m not-“

Dean snapped Her name, his voice rising to a shout as She didn’t even look at him. Her hands only rested on the neck of the corpse, pulling down the collar of his ripped and tattered shirt. Dean heard a choked, distressed sound, and when he came up behind Her there was a thin, gray chain glinting around the man’s neck. 

She ripped it off, and the body started to transform. Limbs growing longer and thinner—almost bone-like—and skin turning green. Hair started to grow down the man’s neck, his eyes peeling and stretching to the side of his head, his hands fisting and becoming rock solid and hoofed-

Those were hooves. Those were fucking hooves. That was a fucking horse.

That was the kelpie. Still with its chest carved apart and bleeding, still rotting and glassy-eyed, but now in its true form.

Dean hadn’t thrown up on a hunt for a long, long time. He was pretty damn close to losing his lunch now.

But then he glanced at Her, and the whole world narrowed down. She was panicking, scratching at her throat and scrambling backwards—slipping in the blood-stained water and hyperventilating with glassy eyes—and She needed him.

Dean didn’t care that the hunt was suddenly and strangely over. He didn’t care about who or what had killed the Kelpie, or cleaning up a horse from a basement, or how the water was definitely starting to swirl and crash like an ocean at his feet. He cared about Her. About how She was falling apart, and Dean could help. She’d wanted him here for Her, to help, and that’s exactly what he’d do.

He ran to Her side, ignored Her weak and strangled protests as he hauled Her up in his arms, and carried her out of the pump room, away from the body.

He didn’t bother to look anywhere but Her and the immediately steps ahead of him as he carried Her away. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and Her face buried in the crook of Dean’s neck as her breathing didn’t steady, but slowed. They were both covered in the reek of blood and chlorine, and when he lowered Her onto the curb of the parking lot, she seemed to just collapse. Hugging Her knees to her chest and clawing at her face, muttering low words Dean couldn’t make out.

He could swear he heard his name, somewhere in this impossible, confusing mess. But it didn’t really matter, because there were tears flowing down Her cheeks, and Dean needed to take care of this. Take care of Her.

Just make this better, somehow, because every weak noise that left Her mouth seemed to be a poisoned stab into his intestine. 

He didn’t know how to do this. She was fucking crying, and he’d only ever dealt with this for Sam. And She wasn’t six years old. Dean couldn’t promise Her ice cream and TV, or tell Her about how he was afraid of the dark sometimes too. He didn’t think She’d be that comforted knowing Dad would always protect them. 

He knew She wouldn’t give a shit that Dean would always be there to keep Her safe, even if that was truer than he’d ever say aloud. 

But he had to do something, so he knelt at Her side and raised slow, careful hands to frame her face. He wiped away her tears, and his thumb moved on what might be becoming instinct, stroking a slow, firm line down Her nose.

The tight furrow in Her brow vanished. Her breathing started to find a long, slow rhythm. And when Her eyes blinked open they were glossy and a little red, but still brilliant. 

Her hands shot to his chest, and for an infinite, painful moment Dean thought She was going to push him away. That he’d be sent stumbling down to his ass, and She’d shout that he didn’t need to coddle or touch Her. That he should be going to Sammy and focusing on the hunt, because she could take care of herself and Dean should’ve stayed on the target, no matter who fell in his path. Even if it was Her, and she was the most important thing he’d ever been allowed to be close to.

But She didn’t shove him. Her fingers curled in his shirt, she leaned a little further forward, and Dean was pretty sure that if the sky fell, he wouldn’t be able to do anything but remain like a statue or suit of armor at her side.  

“I-“ She swallowed, Her eyes wide and open on his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, Dean, I’m sorry-“

She fell silent as Dean squeezed his hands on Her face, a frown pulling at his lips. “What the hell are you sorry for.”

“I- I can’t- I don’t- I’m sorry-“

Her voice started to grow pleading, and She was leaning forward like Dean needed to breathe in Her words to get them.

Once again, he didn’t know what the hell was going on.

Dean grunted Her name, shaking his head. “It’s good, Princess. I’ll clean it up, Sammy’ll figure out what killed it, and you’ll go rest until we’ve got something.”

She gave him an odd look, shaking Her head again. “Oh. Um, I can help-“

“You can get some sleep.” He made his voice firm and commanding again, holding her gaze as he spoke. “You need to lie down, Princess.”

“But-“

“You called us for help. This is us helping. If we see you on the grounds before we get back, I’m driving you back to the motel and sitting on you until you sleep.”

She let out a long breath, Her voice becoming a little sharper. “You suck.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean fished around in his pockets, pulling out his keys. “I’m driving you back, and then you’re getting some sleep.”

He expected Her to protest. To push back and say that she could help with clean-up. That She’d just freaked out a little—even if Dean had seen it, and that was one of the worst episodes She’d ever had—and She was more than capable of at least researching with Sam.

Dean needed to stop trying to predict what She’d do. He was bad at it. 

“Okay.” She nodded, and went without a fight.

She let Dean pull Her to her feet, and curled into the passenger’s seat of the Impala as Dean drove her back to the motel. He called Sammy as they pulled out of the country club lot, keeping his voice low and his words simple—Sam needed to get a good look at the body in the basement, keep everyone away from it until Dean got back—as She remained silent at his side.

“Is she okay?” Sam asked, and Dean sighed.

“We’re alright. Hold down the fort, Sammy, and I’ll be back soon.”

Dean hung up, because he didn’t need Sam to push this right now. He’d explain more later. Explain how he still felt sick, long after leaving the basement, because She wasn’t okay. She was staring at Her hands and picking at her skin, and Dean was really fucking worried. 

It wasn’t his place to worry. It was barely his place to take care of Her at all.

But that didn’t stop him for helping Her out of the car, half-carrying her into his motel room, and moving her into his bed. From muttering that this way, when he and Sam got back, they wouldn’t have to wake Her up to check on her. From putting a glass of water on the nightstand, and saying he wouldn’t move until she drank it.

Dean wasn’t sure how the hell water was supposed to help. He knew that Sammy was always telling him to drink more, and it was supposed to be healthy, so he’d have Her drink some. He’d kiss Her brow before he left—because he was weak and bendable, and She was like a flame he would follow until it turned him to ash—and he’d wait until she lay down before walking back to the Impala, and driving back to the country club.

For the rest of the afternoon, She kept spinning around his head. He kept replaying how She’d been so silent. Heavy silence that lodged itself in his throat and rotted in his gut, reminding Dean that something was wrong. That something had been wrong. That, even as he explained everything to Sam—almost everything, leaving out how She’d cried, how she’d leaned into Dean’s touch and gripped onto his shirt like him walking away would be the worst thing in the world—there was something scratching at Dean’s skull that he shouldn’t have left.

She might have needed him, might still need him, might want him there. 

She didn’t. She wouldn’t. Dean had helped, and that had been Her orders, so he’d done his job. With the kelpie dead, She probably wouldn’t want to stick around, because who would.

And that was the worst fear. That She might just be gone when he returned. That he’d open the door to his motel room, and the bed would be empty. That he’d knock on Her door, and she’d be gone. That Her car would be missing from the lot, and Her number would be dead, and Dean had stepped out of line by helping her too much—by showing too many cards, holding Her face and kissing Her brow—and She’d left forever, because everyone always did. 

Sam got out of the club first. He came up with a complex lie involving gas leaks and bugs that kept everyone out of the basement and the pool—the water filtration bursts apparently proving to be a problem—and muttered to Dean that he was going to stop at the library to start working out what the hell could rip a kelpie to shreds like that. Dean nodded, grumbled that he could use some freakin’ hands with this mess, and Sam had just shrugged and told Dean to call when he needed a ride back.

Dean was not a fan of this plan. For one, he was now cleaning up a disguising corpse alone. Two, whatever the hell had gotten the kelpie might still be wandering around, and Dean wasn’t looking to get ripped to shreds. And finally, worst of all, Sammy was getting his grimy nerd hands on Baby.

But the plan made sense. The motel wasn’t far, they had done a sweep of the ground and patrons for anything immediately suspicious, and Sam knew the day he scratched the Impala would be the same day he died, but Dean still didn’t like this.

What if She lost it again. Sam didn’t know how to calm Her down. Dean didn’t want Sam to calm Her down. He’d probably be better at it—Sam was great at soft words and emotional bullshit—but Dean wanted to be the one who did it. Whose shirt she clung to. Whose hands wiped Her tears, and who carried her away from danger.

Dean wanted to do that. He was a hollow, greedy ass, so he wanted to be the one She held in the dark, for comfort or more.

And he wouldn’t be that. She still didn’t trust him enough to tell him what the hell had actually been going on all week, and what the fuck was up with Her family, or why She always lied about such weird shit.

He’d have to live with it. Even as it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Even as he hated himself for allowing it to get to this. For being so fucking weak that he’d fall this far down.

But he’d fall further. Because when he finished up in the basement, walked up to the parking lot to call Sam for pick up, he spotted a lone car still in the lot.

Her car. The dark blue, four-wheel drive She’d been using for this hunt. Dean wasn’t sure where the hell She got all these cars—he didn’t really want to find out, because that would just be another reason to hate Her that he couldn’t hold onto—but that was Her car.

When he scanned around the silent yards and walkways, there wasn’t a soul but his. Only the dead of night making long shadows and odd shapes on the building wall, only crickets and soft wind, only the pool lights still glowing through the fence.

There She was. 

She was glowing. Literally freaking glowing. Blue and white light shifting over Her features, every shadow cast on her face made the right places sharper and softer, and the golden light of the overhead lamps giving the impression of a halo.

Dean felt like he shouldn’t be looking.

It felt like he was invading something, watching a piece of beauty that no one person should be allowed to witness. She couldn’t be human, not when She looked like that. When the whole world seemed to be bending to make Her more beautiful. The colors around Her seemed brighter to compliment her. The wind drifted around and though Her hair like a movie. The shifting water reflected onto Her skin, giving the impression of a strange water spirit or fallen star, resting for only a moment at the edge of the pool. 

For a brief moment Dean was frozen. Watching the water move, watching Her like she was a secret he’d really like to keep.

Then Her eyes drifted up and met his, she smiled, and Dean was pretty sure that time stopped. That they were the only ones left in the universe.

It didn’t matter why She was here and not Sam. It didn’t matter why She wasn’t doing as he’d told her and resting. It didn’t matter how blood was caked and dried and itching on Dean’s hands, staining the fence as he crawled over it to join Her.

He’d just wash it off in the water.

“Sam was eating really loud.” She said, looking up at Dean as he dropped to Her side. “And I needed some air, so volunteered to pick you up.”

“Huh.” Dean scanned Her over. Still impossibly beautiful. Still tired. “And he let you?”

“He’s not my boss, Winchester, I don’t need permission-“

Dean raised his brows, and She sighed.

“He lost rock, paper, scissors.”

“There it is.” Dean chuckled, glancing back to the lot. “Where’s my car?”

“Back at the motel.” She shrugged. “I never learned stick.”

He could teach Her stick. His hand would touch Her’s. It would cover Her’s and Dean would guide her movements, and she’d smile and he’d maybe find an excuse to touch Her thighs, or trail his fingers over Her lips-

“Are we in the clear?” Her voice was soft, but it still grabbed Dean’s attention. He blinked at Her—feet dragging small circles in the pool, head slightly bowed to watch the water—and frowned.

“In the-“

“The kelpie.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Dean held his hands up, displaying the blood under his nails. “Wrapped the son on a bitch up and burned him in the furnace.” He made a face. “What kinda country club has a furnace.”

She let out a soft laugh. “One that was built in the 1900s.”

“How would you know-“

“It says established 1923 on the sign, Deano.” 

“Oh, c’mon, how am I supposed to tell-“

“It’s a pretty easy thing to spot.” She gave him another small smile, and he was going to explode. “And it’s either just an old building, or,” Her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “That’s not the first body that’s been burnt in the furnace.”

Dean laughed. “You think they’re running a front for boat shoes and shorts?”

“I think they just murder people for fun. That’s why there were so freaked out about the kelpie deaths.”

Dean gave Her an amused look, raising his brows, and She grinned, leaning closer as she continued.

“Unsanctioned. No one filled for the murder permit.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “That’s so fucking dumb-“

“You’re laughing.”

“Yeah, cause it’s dumb.” 

She scoffed. “Like you could do better-“

“Oh, I could, Princess. My bet is that the furnace was for orgies.”

“What?”

“Furnace for orgies.” He smirked at Her, wiggling his brows as he leaned closer. “Shit gets so wild with these assholes that they have to burn the evidence, because there ain’t enough condoms in the world to just clean it up after.”

She wrinkled Her nose. “De, do you know how much jizz they’d have to be producing for a trash can not to work?”

He winked. “You know I do, sweetheart- Son of a bitch!”

She’d pushed him into the goddamn pool. When Dean wiped the water from his eyes, She was still sitting on the side, a wide grin of challenge on Her face. Her body so close to his, and She looked so fucking beautiful, and everything about Her goddamn blinding. Dean really could fall further. He could crash all the way down. 

And he could take Her with him.

She opened Her mouth, and any words turned into a yelp as Dean grabbed Her wrist and pulled her down over him. 

“Dean!“

He laughed, watching Her brush wet hair from her eyes, swimming over to hang off of the wall. “You gotta be able to eat what you dish out, Princess-“

Dean choked on chlorine, as She splashed water right into his mouth, Her annoyance seeming to have vanished into thin fucking air.

And this was too simple. Too easy to feel like nothing mattered but Her and Dean in the dead of night, screaming at each other like children and laughing like their lives were nothing more that this moment. 

Nothing really felt real but this. But Her, trying to possibly drown Dean and squeaking when he pushed Her away, looking more and more like something that couldn’t have been born on earth. Mascara was running down Her cheeks, her face flushed and hair clinging to Her neck, but She might be the best thing Dean had ever seen. And when they finally got out of the water—Dean finding some towel in the pool supply office, wrapping two around her shoulders and one around his own—and silence began to stretch on, he was certain she was a siren, or witch, or something made to loosen his tongue and say things he shouldn’t.

Because She asked if he was tired. Just asked it like it was a normal question, and she wasn’t looking for any specific answer, watching Dean with bright, soft eyes, and it broke a dam that always caged over his throat.

“I’m fucking exhausted.” He muttered, dropping his head into his hands, and She was silent.

In the brief second, something started to wrap around Dean’s chest. Vile and toxic and sneering up his spine that he’d fucked it. That She didn’t actually care that Dean was tired, because Dean was supposed to be tired. He was supposed to keep moving and fighting and-

“Do you, um,” She swallowed, and when Dean looked over She was staring at her own hands, picking at the skin around her nails. “You wanna talk about it?”

Dean frowned. He wasn’t the one who had the big fucking freak out. He didn’t need to talk about anything. 

But then his mouth opened, and he was telling Her everything. The words fell out of him like a flood his didn’t know how to stop, didn’t know how to contain when She just listened with wide eyes and a gentle expression. She was dangerous. Dean couldn’t move away from Her gravity, couldn’t shut his mouth and keep down things he needed to keep down.

He told Her about Sammy’s weird visions and nightmares. He told Her about Dad in Chicago, and going back to Kansas, and his fight with Sam about tracking Dad down. And She listened. Silent, leaning forward with an open expression and eyes Dean would like to stay trapped against his forever. The only blatant reaction was at the end, as he told Her about the reapers, and something impossible to understand flashed over Her face.

“You almost died?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point-“

“The point?” She repeated, shaking Her head in what might be disbelief. “I don’t care what the point was, Dean, you almost fucking died-“

He frowned. That really wasn’t such a big deal. “Well, I obviously made it out alright-“

“Would you have told me?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“If Sam’s idea hadn’t worked, and you were still going to die in a few months, would you have told me?”

He said Her name, slowly, because he wasn’t sure what the hell was happening. “I dunno, I wasn’t thinking about it that much.”

That was a lie. Before Sam had found that preacher and his bitch of a wife, Dean had stared at his phone and thought about calling Her nearly every second. It would’ve been the time to demand some answers. To do some kind of sick, selfish test to see if She would stick around for Dean, when he needed Her. When he needed someone who was complicated, but not Sam let’s-get-all-hung-up-on-Dad-and-hunting complicated. She was complicated because Dean always wanted Her there, against all reason.

It was the exact reason he hadn’t called. She didn’t want him there. And Dean was pretty sure his heart would’ve just given out there if he’d called, told Her he was dying, and She hadn’t given a shit.

She seemed like She gave a shit now, though. She was glowering at Dean and hugging Her body, and Dean would’ve thought he’d stabbed Her.

“Would you have asked Sam to call me?” She asked, and Her voice was small again. It made Dean’s gut stretch and ache. “After?”

“Probably, yeah. But it doesn’t really matter-“

“It matters.” She muttered, and Dean blinked. “I- I would’ve spent months wondering where you were, what happened, and you’d be fucking dead-“

“I’m not dead.” He snapped, something spiking and irritated creeping over his skin, twisting his words in his throat. “And it’s not like you were sticking around in the first place, Princess.”

She blinked. “What?”

Dean rolled his eyes, every word bitter and hot on his tongue. “You didn’t want to stick with us. You don’t get to have fucking updates on everything we do.”

“This isn’t an update, Dean, it’s you dying-“

“Yeah? And would you give a fuck if I did?”

She recoiled, and Dean hadn’t seen that expression on Her face in a while. She wasn’t wounded, or nervous, or apologetic. She looked like a cornered animal. Every word spitting and laced with a silent, tight fury that burned like a hot poker in Dean’s chest.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She hissed. “Of course I’d care if you died, you’re my partner-“

“Only when you think it’s convenient.” Dean spat right back, everything winding up tight and vaulting out of him without control. “You don’t want to stick around for the rough shit, sweetheart? You don’t get to go all goddamn righteous on me, because this is the goddamn job. People die all the time.”

“You wouldn’t have had to die! I could’ve helped-“

Dean huffed a dry laugh. “You wanted to help, you could’ve been there.”

She shook Her head, her words becoming slower. Sounding more measured as she curled further into Her body. “I told you, it’s complicated-“

“It’s not,” he sneered Her name, and She flinched, and Dean hated that he still wanted to reach out at sooth Her. She didn’t want him. She didn’t get to act like She gave a shit when Dean was just her toy. 

He loathed that he liked being Her toy. He loathed that She always knew the right thing to say to make him follow Her further down. He loathed that She hadn’t been lying when she said she cared, but She also didn’t want to stick around. To lay in the mud with Dean, until they both drowned in it.

He fucking despised that he still didn’t know how to really hate Her. 

But he did know how to keep hurting Her. How to keep fighting, even as every word made him sick, because everything was spewing out of him like lava, and he was tired, and he never knew how to just fucking stay in line. 

“I drop fucking everything when you call. I drive across the goddamn country whenever you ask me to-“

“I do the same for you-“

“No, you don’t!” Dean was shouting. It was making something to the left of his heart cower. “It’s not the fucking same! I’ve got shit to lose, I’ve got things to do and people to look out for, but I still always go for you!”

Her lips curled as She sat a little higher—Her back straight and chin raised—and Dean’s blood went cold. She wasn’t cowering anymore. And She looked furious. 

“Do you seriously think,” Her voice was low. Quiet. Venomous in Dean’s brain. “That I don’t have shit to lose? That I’m here for fun?”

“Aren’t you?” He needed to stop. He couldn’t. “You fucking chose this, Princess.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Her voice echoed around the grounds, leaving scars on Dean’s ribs. “You keep- you keep fucking telling me that I don’t get this life, that I’m not in the exact same situation you are-“

“Because you’re not! I fucking know you’re not! I’m fucking stuck here, Dad’s stuck here, hell, even Sammy can’t get out, but you can just fucking leave whenever the hell you want! You can just crawl home when you get sick of it, got back to your rich fucking family and pretend this never even happened!”

Dean realized what he said too late. He could almost see the words sink into Her skin, she her eyes narrow as something strange and hostile and bloody flashed over Her face.

 “How the fuck do you know about my family, Dean.” She hissed, and Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Dad. He figured you out immediately.”

She blinked at him. “Immediately?”

“On the moroi hunt.” He muttered. “And you could’ve fucking told me. But you kept never did. You kept lying to me, Princess. And that’s the shit you do when you don’t trust someone, don’t want them around-“ 

“You lie to Sam!” She shouted. “Sam lies to you! Why am I any different, just because I’m not a Winchester-“

“Yes! Sam and I are lying to protect each other-“

“Who says I’m not lying to protect you!”

“Protect me from what?!” Dean scoffed. “I’m the one who always saves your ass! You’re the one who freaks the fuck out, who would be dead if I wasn’t there! You’d be long fucking dead if it wasn’t for me, sweetheart. You’re just a spoiled fucking brat chasing a high,” Dean spat Her name, and toxics rooted deeper into his body. “So don’t fucking act like you give a shit about me.”

“I’m a spoiled brat?” Her laugh was loud, and cold, and set a chill over Dean’s bones. “You don’t have a fucking clue about my life, about my family-“

“I know that-“

“No!” She shot up, walking a few paces from Dean and shaking her head almost frantically. “You don’t have a single fucking idea, you don’t know what they are, you-“ She ran a hand over her face, leaving scratch marks on her skin. “They’d make the worst monsters your dad’s killed look like fucking bunnies.”

He let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Whatever. You couldn’t even kill a bunny without crying and panicking. Maybe they’re just fucking people, and you just don’t like that they don’t do whatever the hell you say. That you can’t control them.”

He wanted to take it back. The words had barely left his mouth and he wanted to take them back. He didn’t know where they’d come from, why the hell he’d said them, what the fuck was wrong with him. Because She didn’t look alive. Her jaw was clenched, hands curled into fists, so still Dean would think She’d be turned to marble, the only sign that She’d heard him the ragged sound of her breath. The wind was cold in Dean’s wet hair and biting at his ears, the night loud and creaking around him, but he could only look at Her. 

She didn’t look broken. She looked faded. Colorless. Silent as she just stared at him, and Dean started to beat himself black and blue in his chest. 

She didn’t insult him, or scream, or fight. She threw her keys at his face, didn’t look to see if he caught them, and just walked away. Vanished into the grounds, swallowed by the dark. Leaving Dean alone, like he deserved. He was a fucking monster. He’d done that. He’d shut Her down. He’d done what he’d sworn not to do and broken this. Taken the one good, easy thing and fucking bashed its brains in on the pavement. He could’ve never said anything. He could’ve kept pushing down the questions, kept moving in Her orbit until she cast him away, and he drowned himself in fruit perfume that didn’t smell quite like her, and beer she’d have never drank.

But he’d opened his mouth, and now he was alone. He’d pushed Her to leave, to wander into the darkness, when there-

Fuck.

Something had killed the kelpie. Something that might still be out there. Where She was. Without any weapons, without Dean there to protect Her.

And that something might be close, because everywhere Dean looked things were wrong. The trees were bend away from him, towards where She’d vanished. The water was crashing up on the deck with the howl of the wind, there were cracks on the pavement that hadn’t been there before, and nothing was good.

She was in danger.

And it was Dean’s fucking fault.

—————————

You can’t be here. You can’t be anywhere right now, not as it all becomes too much. Far too much. 

You never should’ve called Dean. You never should’ve let the lonely, cold exhaustion and fear and pain erode at your will until you caved in the White, and reached for Dean. You should’ve called Bobby. You could’ve told Bobby about the demons, told him you didn’t know what to do, and he’d have told you to come home.

You should’ve gone home.

You should’ve done anything but fucking call Dean.

But it’s been long. Long and dark and lonely for months, and you’d missed him, and you’d wanted to see his stupid, handsome face just to let the world fall back into harmony for a few days. You’d wanted to feel like you weren’t the burden, the sickness, the problem. You’d just needed to not be alone. You’d been sick of being too much and nothing at all in all the worst moments, and you couldn’t stop worrying about Dean anyway, so you’d called.

If you were smarter—if you could ever actually know something and care about it—you would’ve dealt with this yourself. This was your Darkness. This was your problem. The demons weren’t hunting Sam and Dean. They had enough problems without dealing with yours. 

Dean was right. He’d been such a fucking dick, but he’d been right. 

You can’t do anything. You can’t help anyone. You wouldn’t be dead without Dean, and he really didn’t know anything about your family or past, but you weren’t in control. You weren’t worth sticking around for, weren’t worth putting up with. You kept caving and crashing and losing control, and nobody should ever be around you.

Not before. 

And especially not now. 

The past months have been hell. Literal hell, let out to roam the earth and always tracking and hunting you. The plaguelike feeling of horror was always scraping at your head and hands, darker than the Darkness and making the White whine and riot with distress. It was wrong. Plain fucking wrong.

And it followed you everywhere. Every town you stopped in had a demon. Sometimes they’d just watch you on the street, and you only know they were there because you could feel that pitch fucking blackness. Sometimes—if you reigned in the Darkness with a bite of your hand or blood-drawing scratch on your skin—you’d be able to see them. Glinting and rolling and black in the body of someone as they passed you, faces painted and twisted like a lingering nightmare taken form.

But there were others now, too. Strange ones. Worse ones.

The first one had been only a week after the onryo hunt. You’d been hunting a werewolf in Washington, sitting alone in your motel room and scrubbing your skin raw as the Darkness sat at the top of your throat. You’d missed Dean. You’d wanted to call him, to take the risk and just join them. When they found John, you could run. Maybe you’d finally find a time to tell Dean that there was something wrong with you. Maybe you’d have figured out a way to make him stay for good this time.

And the next day—when you hadn’t called, but had been so fucking close to it—a strange woman had started to asking you questions about things you wanted. About how she could give you anything, but you’d have to barter with a different type of currency.

You’d honed the darkness—squinting and ignoring the pain that had gnawed at your organs—and she’d been red on the inside. Seeping and flowing like blood around her vessel, her darkness a little stickier, a little less violently chaotic. 

You don’t know how, but you’d trapped her. You’d gotten the jump and pinned her down, your hands moving of their own accord to draw a symbol you didn’t understand on her brow, and the demon inside had sunken a little further down. 

“Aren’t you a quick one.” She’d mused, scanning you over with a smirk. “It’s going to be so much fun once we have you. Once we get to see what makes you tick.”

She been the first crossroads demon. She’d taunted and mocked you until everything was too big, the Darkness rocketed out of your body and crushed her down into nothing, and you were left sitting on top of a terrified, very normal woman.

The yellow demon was still there. Still the same asshole, still only watching like the black ones, but he felt like ash, clogging around your throat and making the world gray. He wouldn’t try to hide from you like the others. He’d smile at you, following you around on a case and seeming to turn to thin air whenever you tried to confront him. 

And then he’d up and vanished. Fully disappeared. And in his wake had come the nightmare. The fucking blight. 

Green demons. Rock-like and solid and violent. Rioting around inside their vessels, barreling through the world and finding you wherever you went. 

It started in a bar. You’d been in the bathroom, a sweet old woman had come up next to you, and she’d attacked you with the force of a tank. With hands around your throat and a knife that seemed to be aimed near your heart. You’d kicked her off and let the darkness strangle her like all the others. 

But they’d kept coming. And you don’t know what to do. You don’t know where to hide. You didn’t know where to go. In all the months since that first one, you’ve been home once. Bobby had tried to get you to stop, to just rest and figure out what the hell was going on, and you’d said no.

And now you’re afraid all the time. You’re never not in pain anymore, and the Darkness has only grown more malignant as you push it down almost every waking second. It’s why you’d called Dean. He always made it better, just by being there. Everything would bend and turn to silver, and fear wouldn’t seem real because Dean was there. The pain would be worse when it came, but it would come less. 

All you’d wanted was to be in pain a little less. 

But Dean had been right. You’d just wanted him for you. He had enough of his own stuff going on, and he wasn’t yours to be angry about. He wasn’t yours at all.

That didn’t stop you from hating him. Knowing Dean wasn’t yours wasn’t nearly enough to stop the white-hot and boiling fury that he’d fucking left you. That he’d known about your family and never just asked you, that he’d looked at you and seen everything and acted like he could stick around, when he’d probably just been waiting. Waiting to see the part of you that wasn’t quite human burst out. Waiting for you to say what you were first, so he could…

You don’t know what he would’ve done. You just know that he’d known, and he’d left, and he’d lied, and you’d probably never see him again. He’d been noticing the episodes. He’d know you weren’t worth trying to fix anything with, because everything would always shatter around you. 

All those fractures in you were bursting again. Lodging deeper, searing along your guts and in the cavity of your chest. Dean wouldn’t stick around after this. You hated him for that.

You hated yourself more for wanting him to stay. Hated that, if he grabbed your face between his hands and apologized, you’d forgive him. You shouldn’t. But he’d plunged deep into your body, carved himself along your ribs, and you just didn’t want to be in pain anymore.

You don’t know how long you wander. You don’t know where you’re going. You only know you don’t want to hurt anyone until the Darkness—howling and stretching through the whole world around you, making rocks crumble to dust when you pass them and brush part to clear your path—falls back down into your body.

When it does, you make it back to the motel. The Impala isn’t in the parking lot. 

You’re not surprised. It still makes the White ache and whine.

You’ll have to go in the morning. The kelpie had been a message. You’re sure of it. It had been a demon—probably one of the green ones—telling you that you can keep running, keep fighting, keep hiding, but they’ll find you. They always find you. You’re like a beacon. A lighthouse splitting through the dark that seems to draw ships towards you rather than helping them coast away. And it’s not safe here. 

It’s not safe anywhere.

But you’ll get through this. You always do.

You don’t sleep that night. You sit in the corner of your motel room with your knife clutched in your hands, watching the doors and windows with stinging, heavy eyes.

And still, if Dean knocked on the door and told you he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it and he was an idiot, you would’ve fallen into his arms with a sob, putting a trust in him that you shouldn’t have, feeling a comfort you didn’t deserve.

But when there is a slam on the door, it’s not Dean. You peek out the blinders to see a beady eyed, red-faced cop standing outside, his expression painting with something hateful.

And you can feel it. The blood and disease and sense of worse. Everything around you is worse, and the Darkness is spreading not because you’re on edge and unable to control yourself, but because the fear in your body is justified. Because you draw blood biting on your inner cheek, narrow your eyes, and something foul and green was bursting inside of the cop. 

You could sneak out the back. The Winchester’s are gone, and likely won’t come back, so if you ran to your car and booked it down the road, you could get away without any destruction-

Shit.

You’d given your car keys to Dean. You’d been overwhelmed and everything had been too much—feeling how the water was disgusted and trapped in the pool, how the trees were aching from the country club’s rough trimming, and the wind felt lost and alone—so you’d thrown your keys at Dean because even their weight in your pocket had felt like a blade on your skin. And you couldn’t have stayed there, but you hadn’t wanted to leave him stranded.

And now you were fucked. 

You’re going to have to fight. You’re going to have to drag yourself together with bruises and bites and try to kill this thing without destroying the motel. The green demons are harder to kill—harder to shred apart with the Darkness, harder to aim at and not catch the rest of the world in the crossfire—but you’ll manage. You’ve done it a few times before, and been left wracked with pain and sickness for days after, but survived.

You don’t need Dean Winchester. 

You can do this.

You open the door with a sickly-sweet smile, your knife hidden behind your back, and raise your brows at the demon. “Can I help you, sir.”

The demon scans over you with a flat expression, and says your full name in an empty voice. “You’re gonna need to come with me.”

“Can I ask why?” You take a measured pace back, forcing your tone and expression to remain flat and bored. “No offense, officer, but unless you have a reason-“

“You’ve been turned in for theft.” The demon drawls, moving closer. You’re going to break your jaw. “I gotta warrant for your arrest.”

You raise your chin, still not moving. “Let me see it.”

The demon gives you a dry look, shaking his head. “Darlin’, we don’t have to do this.  You know what I am. I know what you are. We all do.”

“You know what I am?” You ask the question before you can think about it, and the demon smirks.

“We’ve been lookin’ for you for a long, long time.” He drawls your name, taking another step forward. ”C’mon, let’s just fuckin’ spill some blood so we can all go home.” He pauses, letting out a loud, cold laugh. “Well, I’ll go home. You’ll be comin’ with me.”

“I think,” you raise your knife, standing a little taller. “You should walk away. If you know what I am, you should’ve heard what I did to all your friends.”

The demon’s eyes narrow, you brace yourself, and an engine revs in the parking lot.

Sam and Dean didn’t leave. They’re climbing out of the Impala, and they look like shit. Both covered in dirt, both with bags under their eyes, Sam looking mostly relieved and Dean looking like he’s going to strangle you.

A small, glowing and colorful part of you is consumed with joy that Dean’s here. That he didn’t leave, and that he cares enough to roar your name and stomp across the small yard until he’s at your side.

The rest of you is still bleeding from where he’d twisted his obvious hatred for you into your body.

All of you is starting to collapse and panic, because he can’t be here. He’s in danger. You’re putting him in danger, and you’re fucked, and Dean needs to leave now but if you shove him away you know he won’t ever come back-

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Dean stops beside the cop, his attention and wrath so fixed on you that you’re not sure he notices you situation. “We’ve been looking all fucking night, we thought you’d gone and gotten yourself killed! That when we found you, you’d be ripped up like that damn kelpie-“

“Dean.“ Sam comes up to join you, eyeing the cop wearily, and Dean ignores him.

“No matter how pissed off you were that was fucking stupid, we know something else is out there, we know what it does, and we don’t have a goddamn clue what it is, so if it had found you alone you would’ve been fucked-“

“Dean.” Sam raises his voice. It doesn’t work.

“I mean, are you actually that fucking stupid?! Were you trying to prove a fucked-up point? Trying to find the monster first so you could gank it and rub it in my face, trying to get a rise out of me by giving me a goddamn heart attack-“

“Dean!” Sam steps between you, his tone firm and hushed. “Calm the hell down, you need stop talking-“

“I don’t need to do shit, Sam! What I need are some goddamn answers why little miss independent over there is trying to get herself fucking killed-“

“I wouldn’t worry about your little bitch, Dean Winchester.” The demon sneers, and there’s a brief moment of silence as Dean realizes what’s happening.

“The fuck did you just say?” You can’t see Dean over Sam’s massive body, but you can hear the cold fury in his voice. Imagine how he’s moved into a tense, battle ready stance.

Sam groans, running a hand over his face. “Dude, that’s a police officer. We’re, shit, we’re so screwed-“

The demon chuckled, shooting you a look Sam and Dean can’t see, his eyes flashing green just for you. Just in a silent promise of more blood and death and horror.

And this is suddenly about more than you. It’s about Sam and Dean, and keeping them safe even if they never want to speak to you again. 

“I think it’s best if all’a’ya’ll come with me.” The demon drawls, and Sam tense, taking a side-side back to frown at the officer.

It sounds like he’s arguing. You can’t really hear it over the ringing in your ears—twisting in your ear drums as you try to get a goddamn hold and keep it together—but you don’t really need to. You need to get Dean’s attention. You need to stare at him until he looks at you, to push down how it feels like there’s a corrosion along fractured pieces in your body as he ignores you. 

He won’t look at you. He’s furious and hates you and won’t look at you-

You’re about to take the risk and hiss his name when his eyes lock onto yours. There’s something sharp and wounded inside of them, and now is not the time to care about that. You can deal with how the White wants to walk over to him and hold him against you later, when he leaves for good and you have to teach yourself how to hate him again.

But for now, all you can do is blink at him. Two firm times, praying he’ll catch on.

He frowns. One blink.

You repeat your movement, tilting your head slightly to the demon, and it’s like your fight never happened. Dean’s face twists in a wrath that’s for you, not at you, and he slams his fist into the demon’s jaw without hesitation.

There’s a stumble in time, a brief moment where everything freezes and it’s only the demon’s shout of pain, Dean’s rage on his face, and Sam’s look of pure confusion.

Then the rush begins. You’re moving on blind instinct, and it’s stronger than usual. It might be Dean, or the demon, or both. You can’t really see anything but lights and shadows and colors until it’s over. The demon is green, a neon and toxic shade of it that’s made of everything savage and torrid in the world, and Sam’s still strange—he’s always strange, always in an odd time and just a shade off of the color he should be—and you’re made of vast and searing Silver. Contained and in harmony with something golden you’re pretty sure is Dean.

And the Gold is the realest thing you’ve ever see. You can almost taste is, almost feel it pull you, hear it call you. You know how to move with it, around it, in rhythm with it, more than you’ve ever known anything. 

It flares and rampages when something twists into your gut. The color that’s Sam starts to chant something—you don’t remember telling them it’s a demon, but they seem to have figured it out—the green begins to bellow, and when it all falls back to earth, you’re dizzy.

Clutching the blade in your stomach, the metal leaving blisters right under your skin.

Iron.

Fuck.

You hear Dean shout your name again, and it’s just Dean now. No strange, magnetic gold. Only pretty, furious eyes looking at you.

“Sam, get the-“

“Going.” You see Sam move away, heading back in the direction of their room, and just a second later Dean’s face moves into your vision. 

He looks pale. Worried. His face is firmly set and unreadable, but you think that’s just what he does when he’s concerned. Even his voice is steady, but tight, and his hands on your body feel restrained. Like he’s trying not to make it worse with just his hands.

“Keep the knife in,” he snaps, covering your hand where you’re clutching the blade. “And stay awake.”

You shake your head, wincing from only that movement. This is going to be more than just a stab wound. You can feel the iron dull and pushing on the Darkness, and it’s making this all the pain that always lives in your body become more. Your brain feels fogged and clouded, and you don’t trust your own hands or body to aim the Darkness how it needs to be used. You can’t figure out anything that will fix this, because you can’t think outside of pain. Horrible, consuming and tearing pain.

“I need to, fuck-“

“Stop talking.” He grunts, glancing over his shoulder to where Sam disappeared. “I’m gonna pick you up, move you to our room-“

“No, Dean, wait-“

“Listen, you wanna fight, we can tear each other to goddamn pieces. But only-“

“Shut up, Dean, I don’t wanna fight, I- Goddamit-“

His grip on your body tightens, and his face starting to get a little blurred. “Stop fucking moving, Princess, you’re gonna make it worse-“

“It’s already worse.” You mutter under your breath. “Dean, I, I need to go home-“ 

“Shit-“ He mutters, before raising his voice to a shout. “Sam, she’s fucking losing it-“  

You roll your eyes, letting out a low hiss of pain. “I’m not losing it, dumbass, you need to get me to- fuck- he’s gonna kill me-“ 

That gets Dean’s full attention, his words sharp as his gaze shoots back to yours. “Who the hell is gonna try and kill you-“ 

“Bobby.” You mumble, and there are strange, darkly colored spots clouding your vision. “You- Fuck, you need to call him, tell him I’m coming-”

“Bobby?” Dean repeats, and you wince. Bobby’s definitely going to kill you. “Bobby who? Not Bobby-“

“Singer.” It’s hard to keep talking. You don’t feel that all that good. “Use my phone, he always picks up for me.”

“For you?!” Dean says your name, his voice like thunder in your ears. “How the hell does Bobby know you?! How the hell do you know Bobby-“

“He raised me,” you mumble. “Sorry.”

 Dean says something. You don’t hear it. 

You’ll be alright. Dean’s shouting in the distance, and he probably hates you, but he’s not leaving you to bleed into the dirt and turn to ash. He sounds worried, and furious, and kind of like the ocean. Loud. Strong. Certain.

Everything is a little fuzzy and blurred, but there are also strong hands holding you, and they don’t feel wrong on your body. You’re in so much pain, but you’re completely yourself.

Safe, right here, with Dean. 

End Note: Poor Dean is about to spend a whole chapter in an existential crisis. Sorry my king it's for the growth.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[plurapony]

Endogenics need to realize the world doesn't resolve around them.

Let's lay out some ground rules first, endogenics aren't systems and endogenic plurality is nothing like having a CDD.

We once compared endogenics like a small fly that keeps buzzing in your ear and no matter how much you swat at it you can't quite kill it, and I still very much agree with that analogy. They infiltrate CDD spaces like a disease and are so prevalent that trauma survivors have to call themselves traumagenic systems (an entirely redundant term as you need trauma to be a system) and have to put endogenics in do not interact to distinguish themselves from endogenics.

I don't care if endogenic plurality exists, I really don't. My disorder is a trauma disorder and my experience with my parts is not a pleasant one. Overall I share the same sentiment as many other CDD systems would - that I would give anything not to have this disorder. I love my parts but if we could be singular and never go through what we did I would do it in a heartbeat.

Being endogenic doesn't make you special, it doesn't make you cool and it doesn't make you an individual. Sure in your echo chamber on Tumblr, you may find solace but in the real world or any other place online you look like an attention seeker and a fool. I remember once me and my wife found the tulpa subreddit and it was completely ridiculous, so much that it was humourous.

Truth be told, I don't care if someone is genuinely endogenic and plural. I've even told my wife from time to imagine herself as someone else to complete difficult tasks. I think the majority of it is nothing more than an imaginary friend, and if it's something that helps you - good for you. But the problem lies with the attention seeking and the need to prove themselves. Prove that they're real, prove that they're victims, prove that they are just as "valid" as trauma survivors that developed a CDD - to the point where they will harass anyone who disagrees with them.

So be endogenic and be plural if you want to. Just know that you're nothing like traumagenic systems and allow them to have their own spaces with their own boundaries. And for God's sake stop harassing people that don't like you, not every single person is going to like you just block them and move on.

[sophieinwonderland]

Hi sophie (again) one really quick note, the reason i read through your ENTIRE blog is because my dissertation is on facetious disorders portrayed and influenced by social media and the likes of such- it is literally a 250 page document about people like you. It's literally a part of my research to read long-winded things like this and write about them. My livelihood revolves around this. I don't expect to see a Dr. before your name, but you can damn well expect to see it before mine.

The only reason I sent that ask and wrote a targeted post was to get a response from you. The only reason. Had some writers block lol, I needed some material 😅😅

Another note to add to the grooming part was not about LGBTQ or transgender people as I am both myself. Please do not take it as a jab to your gender identity, and I apologize if it came off that way. It was in no way meant to insult you in that regard.

First, thanks for clarifying about the use of grooming. I don't mean to suggest you did intend it as a remark about my gender identity.

But I do think it's important to note in a "you are not immune to propaganda" way. Because I think, consciously or unconsciously, anti-endos have adopted transphobic talking points.

I assume and hope that this is unconscious. That rather than looking at how conservatives have used these talking points to harm queer communities and going "yeah, we can use that talking point too with these people we don't like," this absorption and repetition of these talking points is happening on a subconscious level. In which case, I think it's important to understand where they've originated and what the history is behind them.

As well as what misusing these terms normalizes. Because repeating them does contribute to a culture that is okay with using "grooming" this way to associate people they don't like with child abusers.

Now, allow me to first commend you on starting work on your dissertation so early. Working on it at just 20 is quite impressive indeed.

Although I have to question the subject matter.

A factitious disorder is when somebody is faking a disorder or pretending to have a disorder. It seems strange that you would seek to use examples of people who do not actually have a disorder and are not claiming to.

Even if endogenic systems were lying, unless they're presenting themselves as having a disorder they weren't, they wouldn't qualify for criterion B.

If you do want to write about people who have plural experiences without having trauma or a disorder, you might want to actually read my studies and research page. I'm sure that you could find stuff there that could help you on your journey.

And if you plan on writing about tulpamancy, specifically, Dr. Samuel Veissiere's Variety of Tulpa Experiences is probably most useful in understanding the tulpamancy community and viewpoints on the practice.

I would also recommend Learning to Discern the Voices of Gods, Spirits, Tulpas, and the Dead, as it offers a great comparison between tulpamancy and other forms of non-pathological voice hearing.

I imagine that these studies are much more productive uses of your time than scrolling through over 11,000 Tumblr posts, and would look better as sources in your dissertation.

Finally, if you are committed to doing a dissertation on factitious disorder, I would highly advise learning how to spell factitious. Because it's not "facetious" disorders, and spelling it that way might look a bit awkward on your dissertation about factitious disorder.

[t4tharuspex]

castiel would absolutely take deans personification of baby literally and at first dean would be like aw he calls my car she :) just like i do. my best friend likes my car. but then he would start asking her consent for shit like buckling his seatbelt and putting a tape in, and taking a little pause and going Thank You Baby before proceeding. and dean would be like okay bro ur autism is showing a little the car isn’t sentient. and cas is like? she enjoys being included and acknowledged dean you know this. and over time he notices that baby Behaves for castiel. like rewinds tapes at the end for him, handles easier when he drives and always unlocks in time for him to reach the handle. and dean would be like Shit Cars Haunted and try to seance and shit but there’s no spirit poltergeist demon angel Anything. and he goes to sam like girl help car is haunted by a secret second thing we don’t know abt. and sam never sees any of the shit going on firsthand so he chalks it up to dean winchester mind disease and is like if it’s anything it might be a tulpa. cas has powerful faith, it once held up god in heaven and kept legions of angels in line for milenia so he probably has stronger influence than a regular person, therefor being able to power a tulpa car spirit solo. and deans like shit that almost makes sense. so he confronts cas and is like dude i love u but u have got to quit making my car alive it’s creepy i know u created a chitty chitty bang bang ass tulpa. que cas being like wtf are u talking abt no one being can manifest a tulpa it takes group hysteria to do such a thing. and deans like then explain herbie over here! and cas is just like dean are you stupid baby had a soul long before i ever met her. dean runs into oncoming traffic.

[apocalypseornaw]

Meant to Be (Pt 1/5)

Dean Winchester x Reader

You're Sam's best friend. That's the only connection you'll ever have to Dean...isn't it?

Warnings: cursing, mention of death. The usual

@lacilou s idea and I kind of ran with it

Also Bobby's alive past the Canon storyline cause I said so

You'd gotten dragged into hunting at a young age. Your aunt was your legal guardian and a full time hunter meaning you were raised bouncing between motel rooms much the same way Sam and Dean had. That was how you met them, Bobby may never have had his own kids but he had no issue in stepping in to help with both you and the Winchesters. When you were deemed too young to leave alone, too young to hunt you'd end up being dumped off at Bobby's.

You'd met Sam when both of you were ten and had gotten dropped off at Bobby's due to the flu. Your aunt had been mid hunt when she realized you were too sick to keep in a motel and Dean had demanded Sam be taken some where he could actually rest and get meds in him.

A quick friendship formed over the course of the next week while Bobby kept the two of you confinded to the living room. You both slept on the couch, curled up on opposite ends. Bobby would keep a schedule to meds that you both had to take along with feeding you enough soup to feed an army and constantly remind you both to drink more water.

When the week ended and your aunt along with Dean and John came to retrieve the two of you neither of you had wanted to leave each other's side, finally finding a friend that lived a similar life.

Your aunt and John ended up synching schedules on the three of you getting dropped off at Bobby's. Dean needed more training while you and Sam were just starting.

Dean was a smart mouthed fourteen year old, he didn't know why he had to get dropped off "like the little kids" he didn't want to train on the guns or knives with you and Sam, made fun of any movie the two of you watched and just seemed like he couldn't wrap his head around you being trained as a hunter.

You tried to be nice to him because he was your best friend's brother and you thought he was cute with his bright green eyes and splash of freckles.

Over the next few years you and Sam grew closer and Dean even started to accept you as a hunter and a friend of sorts. When Sam graduated high school with honors you were in the stands next to Dean, when you got your ged a couple months later they popped up at Bobby's to take you to dinner as a surprise.

While Sam was at Stanford you and him spoke regularly. You knew about the falling out between him and John when he'd headed for college. You'd encouraged Sam to chase his dreams outside of hunting, he deserved it.

You never told Sam how often Dean would track your most recent number down to check on him. You didn't mind Dean calling but seeing him was an entirely different story, the smart mouthed fourteen year old who was "kind of cute" and didn't quite get females as hunters had turned into a twenty five year old with a smirk that made your knees weak and a swagger that made women throw themselves at him no matter where he was.

--------------

You would never admit under torture to the crush you had on the eldest Winchester brother. You told yourself it would go away and it was easily buried for years after all dealing with loss after loss and an apocalypse or two would push anything to the back burner.

You had assumed the feelings were remnants of the fact that Dean had been your first actual crush. Over the years you'd had a few boyfriends here and there and as most hunters a few hookups under your belt as well. Hell Dean had more than a few hookups under his belt and had taken a year off hunting when he'd thought Sam was dead to be with Lisa. You had gotten over the feelings for Dean or so you'd thought anyways.

-------------

What pushed you back fully into the Winchesters' gravitational pull was when you'd gotten hurt on a hunt. A damn tulpa of all things. The embarrassment of getting rolled by something that only existed because a certain number of people believed in it was horrendous. What was even worse was the fact that while you were recovering at Bobby's he'd given you am ultimatum, find a hunting partner or quit.

"Bobby I've only ever been a hunter. I don't know anything else" you'd argued and he'd come right back with "Yeah and I've done lost too much to lose you. Please, I promised your aunt when you were just a kid I'd look after you. This is me looking after you"

You'd given up after that. Two days later Sam and Dean had rolled through Sioux Falls. Bobby had brought up wanting you to have a hunting partner and before Sam could agree to it Dean had spoke up "Hunt with us Y/N. You'd a damn good hunter I've seen you in action. You're Sam's best friend plus me and you get along"

You tried to ignore the little flip your stomach gave when he'd smiled at you, those green eyes as mesmerizing as always. "We'll do a trial run. I'll hang with you two for a few weeks and see if the dynamic can work full time" he'd grinned at that almost as if he'd taken your words as a challenge "Oh sweetheart. I'm a delight to be around and you know it"

You'd rolled your eyes and told Sam "Your brother is too damn full of himself" Sam had laughed and teased both of you by saying "Gee thanks Bobby for recommending me be with these two all the time"

@lacilou