It’s “Someone needs to read your story” for me, both as a writer and as a reader. I don’t know how often I’ve fallen in love with fics that I needed to read, for so many different reasons - because they reflected my exact same headcanon, because they catered to my favorite trope, because they they put something into words that I couldn’t find the words for and needed someone else to do that.
I’ve also fallen in love with stories that I didn’t even know I needed. Those are always a special surprise.
I’ve also written and posted stories that I thought no one would be interested in but me - to receive the loveliest feedback or even a keysmash because it was exactly what that reader needed at that exact moment. It’s the best when that happens!
So, dear writers, post your fics, no matter how niche they seem to be, no matter if you think there’s an audience out there for your story or not. Someone out there needs to read exactly what you write! Put it out there.
Reblog so everyone can hear what they need.
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Damage Control - 2x09 Croatoan
(Please read the tags and trigger warnings for this one!)
Dean’s heard the cheesy saying that the night is always darkest before the dawn, and although he doesn’t believe either Sam or he will actually see the next day, he’s inclined to believe whoever said it was right. Even with the sudden disappearance of the infected roaming around the clinic, the darkness seems to be pressing in on the squat building. The sky is pitch black, void of stars. Dean feels like he can barely breathe.
He’s keeping watch. While… and …are patrolling the entrance, ready for the infected to return, Dean is inside, pacing in front of a locked exam room where Sam is sitting. Sitting and waiting. Through the glass part of the door, Dean sees him fidget, perched on the exam table, knee bouncing anxiously. Around his thumb, the cast on his right hand is fraying, as much as he’s picking at it. Shoulders slumped, jaw pushed forward, he looks every bit as tense as Dean feels. At least, as far as Dean can tell from where he’s pacing, there are no black veins running up Sam’s neck yet, and, so far, his little brother hasn’t tried to attack him either.
Dean feels the cold metal of his gun against the small of his back, where it’s tucked into his jeans. He’s refused to give it to Sam, no matter how many times he’s asked now, wanting to end his own life before the Croatoan virus turns him into a raging monster. Almost four hours have passed since he’s been infected, and Dean’s spent most of them arguing with Sam and telling him that, no matter what happens, he’s not going to put him down like a rabid dog.
“What are you gonna do then, when I turn?” Sam had asked him, yelling. “What?!”
“I don’t know yet,” Dean had answered, just as angrily. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there, okay? If we get there.”
“I’m going to turn, Dean,” Sam had urged him. “And I’ll attack you! If you don’t stop me I’m gonna kill everyone in this building, including you. Do you want to let that happen?!”
Maybe he does.
Dean had needed to step out of the room then, get some air.
Maybe he wants to let it happen.
The admission comes unbidden, but it’s the truth. Dean had said it earlier - he is tired. That weight on his shoulders has become too heavy, and Sam doesn’t even know the half of it. Doesn’t know that Dad warned him of something exactly like this, exactly right here - that, if Dean couldn’t save Sammy, he’d have to kill him.
But Dad was wrong. There’s another way out: Dean can just stand down and let it happen. When - if - Sam turns, he’s going to infect him as well, and it’ll be all over soon. They won’t even be aware of the end when it’s coming. They will no longer be themselves, lost in monstrous thirst, oblivious to what's happening.
It scares Dean that he’s even considering this. His father taught him to always keep fighting, to put one foot in front of the other, no matter what was coming at him. And he’s done that, after Mom’s death, after Sam leaving for college, after Dad’s death, after he found out about Dad’s demon deal. But the last couple of weeks have worn him thin and he sees no way out of this one.
He turns his back on the exam room door and on Sam, just for a minute. Rubs his hands down his face, feels his exhaustion battle with the adrenaline that fear keeps pumping through his body.
He has kept fighting, but, in truth, not for himself, but for Sam. It’s always been for Sam. Since his father told Dean to watch out for Sammy, and then to save him (from what, Dad, from what?!), it’s been his job. Dean should have been dead a while ago. He’s been walking around with a borrowed life ever since some other young guy’s heart gave out so his own could keep beating. Definitely since his father traded his life for Dean’s after the car crash.
It seems fate (and his dad) kept him around for one purpose only - to protect Sam. And now that he’s failed at that, too, now that Sam is dying, there’s no reason for him to be here anymore.
A knock on the door behind him startles Dean out of his thoughts. He swivels around to look directly into Sam’s anxious face.
“What?!” he almost snaps, his eyes quickly running down his brother’s face and neck through the glass partition, expecting to see dark black lines appear. But Sam’s skin looks clean.
Sam points at his watch. “The doctor wanted to test my blood every two hours,” he says loudly through the glass. “It’s time again.”
The fear loosens its claws a little around Dean’s heart. For now, Sam still seems normal. For now, he’s still his little brother, alive and breathing.
Impatiently, Sam raps against the door again. “Will you let me out? I’m not going to bite you, I swear.” An unconvincing smirk tugs at his mouth.
Dean rolls his eyes and unlocks the door. Sam steps into the hallway, bringing with him the same smell of sweat and anxiety that Dean can smell on himself.
“It’s been four hours now,” Sam says cautiously. “Do you think… maybe I got lucky? Maybe I’m not infected after all?”
Hope. Dean sees it shimmer in Sammy’s eyes, and it almost kills him.
“How- how do you feel?” he brings out.
“Fine. Nervous. I can’t sit still.” He chuckles nervously and runs his good hand through his hair. Dean sees that his fingernails are once more bitten to the quick. “But I feel fine. The others turned quickly. I don’t know, but maybe…?”
Dean claps one hand on Sam’s shoulder and draws up an encouraging smile although, inside him, a terrible collision of hope and despair batters against his ribcage.
“Let’s get you checked out then,” he says. “Doc’s in there.”
He steers his brother to the small lab room where the doctor is poring over slides and bloodwork of the previously infected. She looks up, a bit startled when they enter, and her questioning eyes flick from Sam to Dean.
“He’s still okay,” Dean says quickly. “Here for his bloodwork.”
The doctor relaxes and gives them a well-practiced smile. “Sit down then.” She points at a chair by the table. “Roll up your sleeve.”
Dean stays right next to Sam as she draws his blood, takes his pulse and blood pressure and checks his skin. So far, he’s clean, and Dean feels hope flutter–
No.
He pushes the feeling back down. He won’t allow it. He can’t afford it. If Sam turns after all, it’ll crush him. He needs to be there for his baby brother, needs to see him through to the end, no matter how bad it’s going to get. And then he’s going to follow him. He won’t leave Sammy alone in the darkness. He won’t leave him. He won’t. It’s his job.
The Damage Control Series - Masterlist
Read the whole series on AO3 here:
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