thoughtfulangeltidalwave

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 6)

Dean pulled into his driveway just after sunset, the sky a muted palette of grays and purples. He sat for a moment in the quiet of his truck, hands gripping the steering wheel as he watched the warm light from the living room filter through the curtains. Home. It should have been a place of peace, but lately, it felt like a second battlefield.

With a deep breath, he stepped out, his boots crunching against the gravel. As he entered, the familiar sounds of the household greeted him—his infant daughter crying upstairs, his son asking endless questions about something or other, and his wife’s sharp voice cutting through it all.

“Dean? Is that you?” she called, irritation already thick in her tone.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he answered, shrugging off his coat and hanging it by the door. He walked into the kitchen, where she stood at the counter, her arms elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing furiously at a pan. Her hair was tied back hastily, and her face was tight with exhaustion.

“Dinner’s cold,” she said without looking at him. “I told you to call if you were going to be late.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, guilt pooling in his stomach. “Sorry, got caught up at work.”

Her laugh was short and bitter. “Of course you did. Meanwhile, I’m here all day with these kids, losing my mind. Maybe next time you can ‘get caught up’ with that, too.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but the baby’s piercing wail from upstairs interrupted him. His wife groaned and threw the sponge into the sink. “There she goes again. I swear, that kid cries more than she breathes.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Dean said quickly, already heading for the stairs.

“You always do,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for him to hear.

Dean climbed the stairs, his jaw tight, and entered the nursery. His six-month-old daughter, tiny and red-faced, was writhing in her crib, her cries echoing off the walls. He gently scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. Her wails softened slightly as he rocked her, murmuring soft reassurances.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he whispered, his large hand supporting her small head.

Behind him, he heard a rustle and turned to see his son, a wide-eyed five-year-old with messy hair, standing in the doorway. He clutched a toy car in one hand and looked up at Dean with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Why’s Lily crying, Daddy?” he asked.

“She’s just fussy,” Dean said, bouncing the baby gently. “Probably hungry or tired.”

“Mommy said Lily’s always fussy,” his son replied innocently. “She said she doesn’t like babies.”

Dean’s stomach clenched at the words. He forced a smile for his son. “Babies can be a lot of work, but we all love her. Even Mommy, okay?”

His son nodded solemnly. “Okay. Can I help?”

Dean smiled, his heart softening. “How about you sing her a song? You’re good at that.”

The boy grinned, proud, and began to hum a simple tune. Lily’s cries quieted as she stared at her brother, her tiny fists clutching at Dean’s shirt. Dean sat down in the rocking chair, letting the rhythm of his son’s voice and the gentle motion of the chair soothe them both.

He thought about Y/N and her children—three little ones, all gone in the blink of an eye. He couldn’t imagine the kind of love it took to bear that kind of loss and still carry on, even in the smallest way. She’d loved them, that much was clear.

“Dean?” His wife’s voice cut through his thoughts as she appeared in the doorway, her expression hard. “You’re just encouraging him. He’ll never go back to bed now.”

Dean sighed. “He’s helping calm Lily down. It’s fine.”

She folded her arms. “Well, she’s quiet now, so put her down and come eat. Or don’t. I’m going to bed.” She turned and walked away without waiting for his response.

Dean clenched his jaw, his gaze lowering to his son, who looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Mommy’s tired,” Dean said softly, more for himself than anyone else. “Why don’t you head back to bed, buddy? I’ll tuck you in.”

“Okay, Daddy.” His son hesitated, then leaned in to kiss Lily’s forehead before shuffling back to his room.

Dean sat there for a long time, the baby now dozing against his chest, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The house was quiet now, but his mind was anything but.

Y/N’s face flashed before him—the haunted look in her eyes, the way her voice shook when she spoke of her children. He’d seen plenty of inmates who claimed they were innocent, but there was something about her story that didn’t add up.

He thought about her husband, the details of the case he’d skimmed over when she first arrived. A butcher. Well-liked in their small Louisiana town. But if Dean had learned anything in his years on the Mile, it was that appearances could be deceiving.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to wonder: what if Y/N wasn’t lying? What if she hadn’t killed her children? What if she’d been running from something far worse?

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 5)

Dean stood at the end of the Mile, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched Y/N sitting quietly in her cell. Her sister’s visit had clearly left a mark on her—there was something lighter in her posture, though her face still carried that haunted look he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t easy to survive on the Mile, not with the weight of death hanging over you like a storm cloud, but she was holding on.  

He saw her reach for the folded sundress Sophie had brought. She handled it gently, like it was made of glass, smoothing out the fabric with trembling hands. For a moment, she just stared at it, her lips moving as if she were saying something to herself.  

Dean felt an ache in his chest watching her. That dress wasn’t just a piece of clothing—it was hope. A reminder of a life that didn’t revolve around cold steel bars and the oppressive march of time.  

She hesitated before stepping toward the bars, clutching the dress to her chest. Dean tensed as he saw her lips part, her voice barely audible. “Could I have a moment? To... change?”  

Percy’s laughter rang out before Dean could respond. The little weasel was standing a few cells down, leaning lazily against the wall. “Privacy? Here? You think this is a five-star hotel or somethin’?”  

Dean’s jaw tightened, and he stepped forward. “Knock it off, Percy,” he said, his voice low but firm.  

Percy grinned, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Why? She’s just gonna die in that dress anyway. What’s the point?”  

Dean’s temper flared. “The point is, she’s still a human being. You don’t have to act like a damn animal every chance you get.”  

Percy straightened, puffing out his chest like a rooster. “I’m just followin’ the rules, Stanton. You got a problem with that?”  

Dean stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Percy could hear. “I got a problem with you makin’ this job harder than it already is. Let her have her dignity, or I’ll make sure Paul knows exactly how you’ve been runnin’ your mouth. You want him breathin’ down your neck?”  

Percy glared at him but didn’t say anything. After a long, tense moment, he threw up his hands. “Fine. Whatever. Let the princess have her little moment.” 

Dean turned back to Y/N and walked to her cell taking the keys to the cell with him. He slide the door open with a clang and ushered for Y/N to follow him. Being out of her cell was always a relief, the air just felt fresher out of it. Both Brutus and Harry were sitting at the front desk, hats of looking more relaxed and less rigid that she’d ever seen them.

Dean motioned to the door of the small washroom, used by the guards on the mile. “Here, you’ll have all the privacy you need,” said Dean as he opened the door. “Take your time. We’ll give you some space.” He motioned to Brutus, who was watching the exchange with a look of quiet approval.

---

Y/N closed the door behind her and clutched the dress to her chest, her heart pounding. Percy’s words still echoed in her ears, sharp and cruel, but Dean’s intervention had silenced them, at least for the moment.

She unfolded the dress, her fingers trembling as she traced the soft fabric. It felt like a piece of another world, one she barely remembered. Sophie had always loved floral prints. This dress—with its white fabric and delicate blue flowers—reminded her of the summers they used to spend together, laughing under the Louisiana sun.  

Slipping out of the drab prison uniform, she pulled the dress over her head, the fabric cool against her skin. It fit perfectly, hugging her body in a way that felt both comforting and foreign. She ran her hands down the skirt, smoothing it out, and for the first time in a while, she felt... herself.  

Her eyes filled with tears as she caught her reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her, but for a fleeting moment, she wasn’t the broken person locked away for crimes she didn’t commit. She was Y/N—the woman her children had loved, the woman who still had a right to exist.  

---

Dean heard the soft rustle of fabric and a faint sniffle from the washroom. He exchanged a glance with Brutus, who gave him a small nod before turning to patrol the other end of the Mile while Harry still sat at the desk shuffling through his paperwork.

When Y/N finally stepped out, Dean couldn’t help but stop and stare. The dress transformed her—it wasn’t just the way it fit or how the color brightened her face. It was the way she stood, a quiet dignity replacing the usual slump of her shoulders.  

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.  

Dean nodded, his throat tight. “You look nice,” he said, his tone gentle but sincere.  

Y/N’s lips curved into the faintest smile, and for the first time since she arrived, he saw a spark of life in her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.  

---

Dean sat in the break room, nursing a cup of coffee as Paul walked in. “You all right?” Paul asked, taking a seat across from him.  

Dean shrugged. “Just thinkin’.”  

Paul gave him a knowing look. “About her?”  

Dean hesitated, then nodded. “She’s got more fight in her than I thought. And I can’t help but wonder... what if we’re wrong about her? What if she really didn’t do it?”  

Paul sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We’re just here to do our jobs, Dean. You start askin’ too many questions, and you’ll lose sight of what you’re supposed to be doin’.”  

Dean didn’t respond, his mind still on Y/N—on the way she looked in that dress, on the way her voice had trembled when she said thank you.  

He couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t like the others. And no matter how much he tried to remind himself of his duty, he couldn’t help but want to protect her.  

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 4)

Sophie pulled Y/N into her arms, and for a moment, Y/N couldn’t hold back anymore. She buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, the tears she’d tried so hard to keep hidden spilling out in quiet, desperate sobs. Sophie held her tightly, her hands trembling as they stroked Y/N’s hair, whispering soothing words that barely registered over the storm of emotion between them.  

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” Sophie murmured, her own tears falling freely. “We’re gonna fix this. I promise, Y/N, we’re gonna make this right.”  

Y/N clung to her, the warmth of her sister’s embrace thawing something frozen deep inside her. It felt like the first truly human contact she’d had in what felt like years. The sterile walls of the prison faded for just a moment, replaced by the comforting familiarity of home.  

When they finally pulled apart, Sophie cupped Y/N’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away the tears. “You look so tired,” she said softly, her voice heavy with concern. “Are they treating you all right?”  

Y/N nodded, though her throat felt tight. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” she said, her voice hoarse.  

Sophie didn’t look convinced, but she let it slide, taking Y/N’s hands in hers. “I brought you something,” she said, her tone gentler now, as if she were trying to lift the weight pressing down on them both. 

From the small bag she’d brought with her, Sophie pulled out a worn sketchbook. Y/N’s breath hitched as she recognized it immediately. The cover was faded, the edges frayed from years of use, but it was unmistakable—her sketchbook. The one she used to fill with drawings of her children, her family, and the little moments of life that had once seemed so ordinary, so precious.  

“I found it in the house,” Sophie said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought... I thought you might want it. There’s still room in the back for new pages.”  

Y/N’s hands trembled as she took it, her fingers brushing over the familiar texture. When she opened it, her heart twisted painfully at the sight of the sketches inside—Henry playing with his toy soldiers, Mary holding a flower she’d plucked from the garden, James curled up with a book on the porch.  

“They’re beautiful,” Sophie said, her eyes glistening as she looked over Y/N’s shoulder. “You captured them so perfectly.”  

Y/N nodded, unable to find her voice. Her throat burned with the weight of her grief, but there was something else there too—a flicker of warmth, of love.  

Sophie reached into the bag again and pulled out a small bundle of charcoal sticks wrapped carefully in cloth. “I know they wouldn’t let me bring pencils,” she said with a faint smile, “but I thought you might be able to use these.”  

Y/N stared at the charcoal for a long moment before taking it, her fingers brushing against Sophie’s. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper, her voice cracking.  

“There’s more,” Sophie said, her smile widening just a little. She reached into the bag one last time and pulled out a dress—a simple white sundress with blue flowers. It was soft and delicate, like a memory of another life.  

Y/N’s breath caught. She ran her fingers over the fabric, the touch of it almost surreal in the harsh reality of the prison.  

“I thought you might want something to wear... that’s yours,” Sophie said quietly. “Something that feels like home.”  

Y/N couldn’t stop the tears this time. She pressed the dress to her chest, holding it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “Sophie...”  

“I’m not giving up on you,” Sophie said firmly, her hands resting on Y/N��s shoulders. “Sebastian went to New York to get his brother—John. He’s a lawyer, and he’s well-connected. He’s going to help us fight this.”  

Y/N’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Sophie, I—”  

“Don’t,” Sophie interrupted gently but firmly. “Don’t say you don’t deserve it. You do. You deserve justice, Y/N. And if no one else will fight for you, I will.”  

Y/N swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. The weight of her sister’s love was almost too much to bear. She didn’t feel worthy of it, not after everything that had happened, but she couldn’t bring herself to push it away either.  

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.  

Sophie reached out and squeezed her hands. “We’ll get through this. Together.”  

---

The visit felt far too short, and when the guards came to take Y/N back to her cell, she didn’t want to let go. But Sophie hugged her tightly one last time, whispering words of hope and strength before stepping back.  

As Y/N walked back down the Mile, clutching the sketchbook and dress to her chest, she felt a strange sense of calm. The prison walls were still cold and unyielding, but for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel entirely alone.  

Back in her cell, she sat on the cot and opened the sketchbook again, her fingers tracing the lines of her children’s faces. Slowly, carefully, she picked up one of the charcoal sticks and began to draw.  

The lines came easily, as if her hands remembered a part of her she’d thought she’d lost. She drew Henry’s toy soldiers, Mary’s curls, James’s quiet smile. And as the images came to life on the page, she felt a small, fragile spark of hope.  

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep her going. For now, that was all she needed.  

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 3)

The dream always started the same way—soft and sweet, like the echo of a distant memory. Y/N was in the kitchen of their little house, sunlight spilling through the window, casting a warm glow on everything. Her children’s laughter rang in her ears—Henry giggling as he played with his toy soldiers, Mary shrieking in delight when she knocked them over, and James’s quiet chuckle as he sat at the table, coloring.  

Y/N could feel the joy of the moment, the kind of warmth that filled every corner of her heart. Her chest swelled with love so fierce it hurt. But then it turned cold, like ice sinking through her veins.  

The laughter twisted into sobs. The sunlight flickered, replaced by the cold, sterile buzz of fluorescent lights. She was running—no, stumbling—toward the freezer. Her heart pounded in her chest, her legs heavy, as if something was dragging her down.  

Her voice cracked as she screamed their names, her body moving on instinct, as she neared the freezer. Her hands trembling, she pulled open the steel door with a desperate force.  

And there they were—her babies, lifeless, huddled together in the icebox, their small bodies frozen in a twisted embrace.  

She collapsed to her knees, a wail rising in her throat. The cold of the freezer washed over her like a wave, a suffocating reminder of the moment she’d never escape. The dream blurred around her as she reached for the knife—her husband’s blood on her hands, his voice still echoing in her ears.  

A scream tore from her chest, and just as quickly, she was awake. The cold air of her cell hit her like a slap, her skin damp with sweat, her heart still racing.  

Y/N gasped for breath, clutching the thin blanket to her chest. The nightmare still gripped her, leaving her shaken, her mind swimming with the images of her children’s final moments.  

It was just a dream. But it wasn’t.  

---

The sound of boots tapping on the Mile snapped her from her thoughts. The heavy tread echoed down the long hallway, steady and insistent. Y/N was sitting in the corner by the bars of her cell facing the end of the Mile so she couldn’t see who was approaching her.

Dean appeared outside her cell, his figure framed by the harsh light of the corridor. His voice was low, a touch softer than usual. “Mornin’, ma’am, sleep ok?” he said, sliding a tray of food through the slot.  

Y/N rubbed her face, still feeling the weight of the dream pressing down on her. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples. “Fine,” she whispered, barely meeting his gaze.  

Dean didn’t buy it. He crouched down, his eyes gentle as they met hers through the bars. “You doin’ all right?”  

She nodded, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine.” The words felt like a lie.  

Dean didn’t seem convinced, but he gave her a reassuring nod. “If you need anything, just let me know.”   His voice was kind, no strings attached, and as Dean walked away, Y/N felt the warmth of his words linger in the cold confines of her cell. 

The weight of years spent in silence and fear had made her forget what it felt like to receive kindness with no strings attached. No hidden agenda, no expectation—just a simple act of human decency. It was almost too much for her to process.

She turned to face the wall, her hand unconsciously resting over her heart, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. The heavy silence of the cell had never felt so welcoming before. Dean’s voice echoed softly in her mind, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Y/N didn’t feel alone.

After a long moment, she heard his footsteps fade away down the hallway. Before she could fully settle into the strange calmness, she whispered, “It’s Y/N.” Her voice, quiet yet filled with meaning, carried through the empty room.

Dean, who had only just taken a few steps back toward the corridor, paused. His head turned sharply toward her, and he stepped back into the cellblock, brow furrowed. “Beg your pardon?” he asked, a look of confusion mixed with curiosity.

“My name, it’s Y/N,” she repeated, this time a little louder, her words feeling as foreign as the air around her. “I just don’t like being called ma’am all that much.”

Dean stepped closer, crouching down to her level again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ma’am just makes me feel so old, like I’m some cooped up housewife who can’t stop goin’ on about how back in her day things were this and things were that, and what people nowadays need is to return to the God-fearin’ ways of ye olden times.” She chuckled softly, surprised by her own words.

Dean was taken aback. That was the most he’d heard her speak, the first time she’d truly laughed. It caught him off guard in the best way, and he couldn’t help but laugh along with her, the sound of their shared moment filling the space between them. His hand instinctively reached for the bars, offering it to her as if this moment, so rare and genuine, deserved to be acknowledged in a way they hadn’t yet.

“Well alright then,” he said after a pause, still chuckling, “Y/N it is. And I guess if we’re dropping those formalities, you can just call me Dean. Mr. Stanton or Officer Stanton makes me feel like old Harry or Brutus. Been on the Mile so long, they can’t remember life before it!” He grinned, clearly amused by his own words.

Y/N looked from his hand to his face. There was something so disarming about his kindness—like he wasn’t just doing his job, but connecting with her in a way that felt personal, real. She took his hand without hesitation, the warmth of his touch sending a strange but comforting shiver down her spine.

“Dean,” she said softly as she let his hand go. 

“Y/N,” he replied, tipping his hat slightly in respect before standing upright again. “I hope you enjoy the breakfast. Lord knows it’s not the finest, but it’s not half as bad as what the rest of the Block gets. And just holler if you want any more.”

Y/N nodded as he turned and made his way back toward the front of the cellblock, leaving her alone with the food tray in hand. She sat down slowly, feeling like she was in a world of her own for a moment, untouched by the heaviness of the prison walls. For the first time in a long while, she felt... almost human.

As she picked up the tray, a faint smile crossed her lips. She found herself thinking about Dean and, without realizing it, catching herself smiling like a giddy schoolgirl. It was a strange sensation—like the world had paused just for her. For a fleeting moment, she forgot her pain, her grief, her fears. She was just... happy.

The weight of the day ahead seemed lighter now. And for the first time in so long, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could find some peace here, even if only for a little while.

---

The next time Y/N saw Paul Edgecomb, she hesitated. The Mile was quiet, the usual clatter of guards and prisoners muffled by the thick walls. Her voice was barely a whisper as she called to him.  

“Mr. Edgecomb?”  

Paul stopped in his tracks, turning to face her. His eyes were still kind, but his professional demeanor didn’t slip. “Yes, ma’am?”  

Y/N shifted uncomfortably on the bench in her cell, feeling the weight of the question pressing on her. “Has there ever been another woman here? On the Mile?”  

Paul’s face softened a little, and for a moment, he almost seemed to remember something long forgotten. “Once,” he said, his tone distant. “Beverly McCall. She was here before I started working the Mile. A harmless lady, if you ask me. Much older than you are now, though I reckon you’d’ve gotten along just fine.”  

“Really?” Y/N’s voice broke slightly as she leaned closer to the bars, eager for any connection to the past. “What happened to her?”  

Paul’s lips twitched with a half-smile, though it quickly faded. “She wasn’t executed. No, ma’am. She wasn’t even supposed to be here, if we’re bein’ honest. A little off, but harmless. We let her out of her cell sometimes, let her sit in the sun or knit. Gave her some space to feel human, you know?”  

Y/N nodded, a strange sense of relief washing over her. She wasn’t the first woman to walk this path, but the knowledge didn’t seem to ease the weight of it all.  

---

As the day wore on, Y/N found herself looking into Delacroix’s cell again. She hadn’t spoken to him much, but the faint sound of his voice caught her attention.  

“Hey, miss!” Delacroix called cheerfully from his cell, leaning out to wave a hand in her direction.  

Y/N paused. “Yes?”  

Del grinned widely, clearly unbothered by the constraints of his cell. “You wanna meet Mr. Jingles? He’s the smartest mouse in the world.”  

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy. She glanced toward the little matchbox at Del’s feet. A mouse peered out, its tiny face twitching in curiosity.  

“Mr. Jingles?” she asked, her lips twitching into a hesitant smile.  

“That’s right,” Del said, puffing up with pride. He spoke to the mouse in a gentle voice, and the creature immediately scurried up to Del’s shoulder before jumping down and weaving through a maze of blocks arranged carefully on the floor.  

Y/N laughed softly. “Well, I’ll be. He’s got some moves.”  

Del’s smile grew wider, as though her approval meant the world. “He likes you,” he said. “Don’t he, Mr. Jingles?”  

The mouse gave a small squeak, and Y/N found herself laughing again, the sound almost foreign in the silence of the Mile.  

“Ma’am” came a hesitant voice from the cell furthest down the corridor, a voice she remembered as John Coffey. She had seen him earlier, of course, but today something about him felt different.

“Yes, John?” She asked moving to the bars of her cell. She couldn’t see him but she felt some sort of calmness that radiated from him, a stillness that was almost soothing.  

“They’re safe,” John said softly, his voice carrying a strange, comforting weight.  

Y/N stopped short, her breath catching in her throat. “What?”  

“Your babies,” John said. “They’re laughin’ and playin’. They’re safe.”  

A chill ran down her spine. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about her children. How could he know?  

But the words hung in the air, and for a fleeting moment, Y/N almost believed him.

Before she could collect her thoughts, Percy’s shrill voice cut through the moment as he waltzed onto the Mile.  

Delacroix immediately recoiled back onto his cot, picking up the matchbox with Mr Jingles inside and clutching it to his chest. Y/N was water of Percy, she had been since she first laid eyes on him — while it was only a short time ago she knew she’d never forget the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach from their first interaction.

“What a fine mornin’ it’s turnin’ out to be! Isn’t it Del” he asked smugly coming to a stop outside Del’s cell looking down on him. Del wouldn’t meet his eyes and kept shrinking back on his cot, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Percy scoffed, straightening his hat and turned to face Y/N, it was silly of her to think that he’d only be satisfied belittling Del and leave, of course it was her turn next.

“And what about you missy? Have a good night?” He inquired slowly walking towards her cell. 

Y/N wouldn’t look at him in the eyes, she murmured a quick “yes, thank you” to the floor and turning to sit at her desk, focusing on anything, the cracked brown wood, the dusty floor, the paint chipping off the wall, anything except the looming figure at the bars of her cell.

“What’s the matter, miss? Can’t handle a little friendly chat?” 

Y/N stiffened, but she said nothing, turning her back to him as he stepped closer.  

Percy’s sneer grew wider, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Bet you’re missin’ your little ones, huh? Or maybe you’re glad they’re gone. Makes your life easier, don’t it? Bet maybe you even liked it a little” he said leaning nearer his eyes boating into her.

The words were like daggers, each one sharper than the last. Y/N’s eyes filled with tears, but she swallowed them down, determined not to show him weakness. 

“Yeah, maybe you did, you’re not all that innocent, you gotta dark side to you. I see it”

“Enough.”  Dean’s voice was firm, his body a solid wall between them in an instant, taking Percy by the shoulder and lightly but forcefully pushing him away. He glared at Percy, his jaw clenched tight. “Go find somethin’ else to do, Percy.”  

Percy scowled, his eyes narrowed with resentment, but he turned and stormed off.  

Dean’s expression softened as he turned to Y/N. “You all right?”  

Y/N nodded, her throat tight. 

---

The day was drawing to a close when Paul came by again, his expression a mixture of professionalism and kindness. “Y/N,” he said, “your sister’s here to see you.”  

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. It hadn’t been long since she’d last seen her sister, maybe a few days but it felt like an eternity. Through this whole ordeal it had been her sister, Sophie, who had kept her going, kept her sane; the only one who believed her side of the story, that Y/N’s husband had been a wicked cruel man, that Y/N loved her children more than anything, that she was innocent. A flood of emotions crashed through her—guilt, fear, longing—and she suddenly felt small again, like the young woman she used to be.  

Dean, Paul, and Brutus escorted her to the visiting room, her pulse racing with every step. When they reached the door, Paul stepped aside, and Y/N was met with the sight of her sister standing on the other side.  

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Her knees nearly buckled as she looked at the face she thought she may never see again.  

“Oh Y/N” Sophie’s voice trembled, a small sob breaking through the silence, her arms outstretched towards her little sister.  

Y/N took a tentative step forward, tears blurring her vision. The door closed behind her, and the past and present collided in a quiet storm.  

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 2)

The heavy door of E Block creaked open, and Y/N stepped onto the worn floor of the Green Mile. Her first thought was how silly the green paint looked—an odd, almost cheerful contrast to the grim reality of what lay beyond. Yet, there was something about it that softened the harshness of the place, as though the color was trying, in vain, to make death less menacing.  

Dean edged ahead of her, his calm demeanor steadying. "This is the Mile," he said, his voice low and reassuring. "It’s quieter than the rest of the prison."  

Her eyes scanned the block, catching sight of the cells on either side and some strange door at the end of the hall. The air on the Mile felt heavy with purpose, but not the suffocating kind she'd expected.  

Dean slowed as they approached the first guard. "Brutus Howell," he said, motioning to the tall, broad-shouldered man standing close the wall.   Brutus straightened up and gave her a small bow, his lips curling into an easy smile. "Ma’am," he said warmly, his voice deep and rumbling.  

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected gesture. "Oh, uh… thank you?" she stammered, her lips quirking despite herself.  

Brutus chuckled. "No need to thank me ma’am. Just figured you deserved a proper welcome." He winked, then leaned toward Dean, mock-serious. "You didn’t tell me she was polite. That’s new around here."  Dean rolled his eyes but grinned. Y/N couldn’t help but laugh softly, feeling some of the weight in her chest lift.  

Next, they approached Harry, who stood more rigidly. His expression was neutral, though his eyes were kind. "Harry Terwilliger," Dean introduced.  

"Ma’am," Harry said with a polite nod.  

"Nice to meet you," Y/N replied. His reserved demeanor didn’t bother her—it was better than open hostility, after all.  Finally, Dean led her to the head guard. "This is Paul Edgecomb. He’s the one who keeps the Mile running smooth."  

Paul stepped forward, his posture straight and professional. "Welcome to E Block Ma’am," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "We run a tight ship here. You’ll find the men respectful, so long as you respect them. Our other inmates here won’t trouble you, they’re eccentric alright, but no trouble." He motioned toward one of the cells. "That’s Eduard Delacroix. Del, say hello."  

Delacroix, a wiry man with an almost childlike enthusiasm, darted to the front of his cell. "Bonjour, mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. "You are a very pretty lady! Lucky to have you on the Mile, oui?"  

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but she let out a small laugh. "Thank you, I guess."  

Paul shook his head, though there was a faint smile on his face. "That’s Del for you," he muttered.  "And over here," Paul continued, motioning to the farthest cell, "is John Coffey."  

Y/N looked past the guard, trying to make out the figure in the furthest cell. As she stepped closer, a large man emerged, his gentle eyes meeting hers. He lifted a massive hand in a small wave.  

"John Coffey," he said quietly, his voice like a soft rumble. "Like the drink, only not spelled the same."  

The corner of Y/N’s mouth twitched. "Good to meet you, John Coffey," she replied. John smiled faintly, nodding.  

Behind them, Percy let out an exaggerated sigh. "Are we done with the introductions? Or are we gonna throw her a tea party too?"  

Paul shot him a sharp look. "Percy, decorum please."  

"Yeah, yeah," Percy muttered, slinking away with a scowl.  Paul motioned for Y/N to enter the cell opposite Del’s. “I’ll leave you in Dean’s capable hands, the Mike takes a bit of getting used to but let us know if we can do anything to ease your time here,” and before she could manage any response he bowed his head and left going towards the desk at the front of the Mile as Brutus, and Harry followed, leaving Y/N alone with Dean in her new cell.

He guided her in, the clang of the keys breaking the silence. Inside, there was a small desk, a cot, and little else. Dean unlocked her cuffs, his hands lingering over hers for a moment.  

"You’ll be okay," he said softly, his voice low and sincere. "It’s hard at first, I know. But like Mr Edgecomb said if you need anything, the men on this block will take care of you."  

Y/N stared at him, momentarily lost for words. His kindness was foreign to her, almost disarming. Finally, she nodded, her throat tightening. "Thank you," she managed.  

Dean hesitated, as though he wanted to say more, but he only nodded and stepped back. The cell door clanged shut behind him, and his footsteps faded down the Mile.  

For a moment, Y/N stood there, staring at the chipped paint on the wall. The weight of the day—the trial, the journey here, the faces of her children in her mind—crashed over her. She sank onto the cot, her chest heaving with silent sobs as she buried her face in her hands.  

Outside, the Mile was quiet, save for the faint creak of the ceiling fan and the distant hum of life continuing without her.  

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 1)

First time doing this. Severe lack of Dean Stanton content everywhere so if you like it I’m happy🩷

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The van rattled down the cracked, uneven road, its tires crunching gravel as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Inside, Y/N sat on the cold metal bench, her wrists bound in chains that bit into her skin with every jolt. She barely noticed. Her gaze lingered on the small, grimy window across from her. Through it, she caught fleeting glimpses of the outside world: fields fading into shadows, a rusted barbed-wire fence that stretched endlessly, trees with branches outstretched, and the occasional flicker of sunlight painting streaks on her face.

But it wasn’t the scenery she saw. It was her children.

She could almost hear their laughter, clear and bright like church bells on a Sunday morning. She could see the way her youngest grinned when he lost his front teeth, the way her eldest scrunched her nose when she concentrated on her drawings. Those memories felt like they belonged to someone else now, someone who lived a lifetime ago, someone who was supposed to be happy, someone who wasn’t her. And yet, the warmth those fleeting memories brought her was bittersweet, mingled with the ache of knowing she would never see them again.

Her fingers curled into her palms, she felt a dull pain… but that was all she’d ever felt, pain was the only thing that she knew would be with her forever. But she couldn’t let herself cry. 

Not here. 

Not now.

At the front of the van, Dean Stanton glanced into the rearview mirror. His eyes lingered on the woman sitting quietly in the back, her face bathed in the amber light of the setting sun. She didn’t look like someone who belonged in chains. There was no defiance in her, no cruelty, no bitterness, no hate, just a calmness that he couldn’t quite place, like she’d already made peace with the worst.

It unsettled him.

Dean shifted his grip on the steering wheel, his mind racing. Over the years, he’d seen countless prisoners come through the gates of Cold Mountain, each one carrying their own unique weight of guilt or resignation. But this woman… She was different. There was something almost fragile about her, like she might shatter if handled too harshly.

And yet, there was a strength there too, buried deep beneath the surface, she wouldn’t cry, she just seemed so distant.

The van came to a slow stop inside the gates of the prison the clang of the metal doors locking behind them sent a shiver through Y/N, pulling her back to the present, back to her end. 

Dean stepped out first, his boots crunching on the gravel. He walked around to the back and unlocked the doors, his movements steady and unhurried. When the doors opened she didn’t look at him, her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply. Dean had seen it before, fear, fear and the knowledge the mile was all that was left. He slowly climbed into the van and sat opposite her.

“You’ll be alright,” he said, his voice low and calm as he met her eyes. “The guards on the Mile…we’ll look out for you. Anything you need, you’re safe with us”

For a moment, Y/N could only stare at him. No one had spoken to her like that in years—not with kindness, not without an ulterior motive lurking beneath their words. Her throat felt tight, and she forced herself to look away, but after a breath her eyes met his again and she felt brave enough to manage a soft, “Thank you” before looking away again

Dean nodded, his expression unreadable, but there was a softness in his eyes that lingered.

The moment shattered as Percy Wetmore strode up from the front of the van, his smirk already plastered across his face. Always the indelicate man he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, his gaze falling on Y/N like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Well, well,” Percy drawled, his tone laced with mockery. “Look what we’ve got here. Hope you’re ready for the grand tour, sweetheart” he drawled.

Y/N stiffened, her muscles coiling with unease, she knew that tone, it reminded her of Him. Percy reached for her arm, his grip too firm despite Y/N trying to pull away, but before he could pull her out, Dean grabbed Percy’s wrist.

“That’s enough, Percy,” Dean said, his voice firm but measured. Percy let go and Dean was able to throw his wrist away causing Percy to stumble out of the back of the van, though he regained himself quickly he was undoubtedly shamed. 

Dean turned his back to the younger man, blocking him from Y/N entirely. Reaching out, he offered her his hand.

“I’m sorry about him, I promise he won’t touch you again. Just take your time,” Dean said, his tone softer now, his eyes never leaving her. 

“Watch your step.” Y/N hesitated, her gaze darting between the two men. Percy’s scowl was dark, his lips curling in disdain, but Dean’s calm presence felt like a shield, a small reprieve from the sharp edges of the world. With his hand still outstretched slowly Y/N took his hand. His grip was steady, warm, comforting, and it steadied something in her, she hadn’t even realised was trembling until he put his other hand on her waist slowly and steadily guided her out of the van.

As her feet touched the ground, the towering walls of Cold Mountain loomed before her, stark and unyielding against the fading light. The weight of the place pressed down on her chest, she shouldn’t been here…

But for a fleeting moment, the memory of Dean’s kindness cut through the suffocating fear.

Percy muttered something under his breath, stalking ahead with a sour expression, but Y/N didn’t hear him. Her focus remained on the building before her, the place where she would meet her end. And then there was Dean, who walked beside her as if to silently promise he wouldn’t let her face this alone.

The gates of E block closed behind them away with a deafening clang as the van rode ,and Y/N knew she was stepping into a new kind of hell. But for the first time in a long time, she felt the faintest glimmer of something she couldn’t quite name.

Maybe it was hope.