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softquietsteadylove · 2 years

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Hi again😊 soooo my birthday is tomorrow and i just have a thought do eternals have birthday?🤔(maybe they don't 🤣) Just wondering if you can make a short story of a celebration of their birthday maybe thena or Gilgamesh 😄 thankyouuuuuuu❣️

"Wait, so what is it called?"

"Coq au vin," Gilgamesh smiled over his shoulder as he attended to the very delicate sauce required of the dish. "It's French for chicken in wine, basically."

"Oh," Thena nodded as she continued chopping vegetables for him on the other counter. "I thought you were saying cocoa something."

"You thought I was going to braise chicken for something with chocolate?" Gil laughed at just the thought as he set the sauce on low and wipes his hands on his apron.

"Well, I dunno," Thena shrugged, glancing at him over her shoulder. Her hair slipped over the shoulder her loose necked sweater exposed, drawing Gil's eye. "Everything you make always turns out good. I don't really question what's in it."

God, he loved her.

Not that that was anything knew. He adored everything about Thena, and he always had. Because she was his best friend in the world, and she was the most reliable constant in his life, and who wouldn't love everything about her? Look at her!

Thena looked back at the vegetables, biting her lip as she continued to chop. It was her first time wearing the sweater that exposed most of her clavicle and even a little bit of cleavage. She was more prone to turtlenecks. But Sersi and Makkari had advised her on the outfit, and part of her had kind of looked forward to seeing Gil's reaction.

It was just her birthday--she had one every year. And they had celebrated plenty before just like this. He would cook her something special (as if she didn't love every recipe of his). And she would assist by way of chopping vegetables and tasting his delicious food.

But this birthday was also different.

Because just last night, they had been celebrating all together, like they did every year. It was the actual day, and she and Ikaris had to share it, no matter how much they disliked it. They'd gone to a bar, like always, just had some beer and some store bought cake, like always. Everything seemed like it always did.

And then Gil had asked her to join him for dinner. She had of course agreed. Always. And then he had leaned in and kissed her cheek. Definitely not something they'd ever done before.

And she really wanted it to happen again.

She and Gil had always been best friends, every since they were kids. All her life, if there was anyone who was always by her side - besides her literal twin brother - it was Gilgamesh. She had helped him practice for dance lessons, and tested recipes, and even advised him when he'd taken up pottery that one summer (he was bad at it). And she had never questioned what it meant for them to be so inseparable.

Then he had kissed her, and suddenly everything felt...different. Thena peeked over her shoulder again, watching Gil start the process of preparing whatever a sous-vide was. She had always loved watching him cook. It made him happy, and to be around Gilgamesh while he was happy was to feel your own happiness.

He also looked kinda hot when he had his sleeves rolled up and a towel thrown over his shoulder.

Thena turned back to her leeks, biting her lip as she wondered if he'd caught her staring at him. She'd been doing it every since she'd arrived. But she figured it could be expected--the shirt he was wearing was pulled so tightly over his muscles. It couldn't possibly be the right size for him.

Gil had caught her though, but he said nothing. He'd been catching her looking at him all night. But he didn't mind it, and he didn't think she would feel very happy about being embarrassed over it either. He kind of liked the idea of her looking at him, if he was being honest.

Every since he'd kissed her cheek last night he'd been hoping he might get the chance to again. Although the sweater she was wearing was making a really strong case to kiss her...elsewhere.

The sous-vide timer startled both of them out of their thoughts.

"Okay, twenty minutes in here and this will be the most tender chicken you've ever eaten," Gil chuckled as he did whatever it required. Thena watched him submerge a bag of chicken in boiling water(?). "How're the leeks coming?"

"Good, I think," Thena mused with a smile. She still didn't have much by way of knife skills, even after all her years of helping him. But she would argue that it was because he got nervous when she went too fast. He was always worried about her accidentally cutting herself.

"Seems it," he said as he leaned over her shoulder to admire her work. He was braced against the counter with his hand dangerously close to her hip. It was already dangerous having his face so close to hers. He smelled nice.

Thena turned to look at him. Their noses nearly collided from their proximity. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she could imagine her pupils blowing wide. She looked down at his lips.

This time it was the oven timer.

"Fuck," Gil cursed, leaning away from her to check on the veggies already roasting. He pulled them out and set them on the cooling rack. "Okay, it's your time to shine."

Thena just smiled, scraping them all onto the pan he'd oiled and spiced already. He rejoined her, spreading them out over the pan, as if it were necessary to reach around her to do it. But she didn't mind it if he wanted to be close. She wouldn't mind if he wanted to be closer.

What was she doing to him? Gil sighed, wishing he could turn everything off this very second and kiss her right now. But he knew better than that; as soon as he kissed her, he wouldn't think about anything at all for the rest of the night.

And he was not going to let Thena pass her birthday eating only cake.

Thena bit her lip, tugging at her sweater as he slid in the leeks--the last dish that needed to go through the cooking process before he took over the more detail oriented final touches and assembly. "How long do they go in for?"

"Twenty minutes, so I can use the really charred bits," he smiled as he set the traitorous timer again.

"So," Thena inhaled, trying not to appear nervous, "we have a little time."

"Uh, yeah," Gil nodded, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt, tucked up to his elbows. "What, uh...do you wanna do something?"

Thena felt that wretched heat spread across her face. She'd never been one to blush, but it seemed that after last night, she couldn't stop. Just thinking about him made her her heart skip a beat and butterflies erupt in her stomach. "Like what?"

Gil sighed but smiled. He hadn't expected Thena to make the first move. It was why he'd kissed her on the cheek last night in the first place. Because he knew what he felt for Thena. And while he thought maybe she might feel the same, he also thought that she wouldn't understand it enough to know what to do about it.

After all, he'd known her all their lives. He'd watched plenty of poor bastards confess their love to her and get shot down point blank.

Thena inhaled as Gil slowly and lazily - and sexily - sauntered over to her. Her eyes ran over him as he leaned against the counter again, arms on either side of her. She reached up and took the towel from off his shoulder, setting it behind her. He grinned, and her heart might have just stopped completely. "Any ideas?"

He kissed her. He leaned forward and just kissed her, and she kissed him back like she'd been waiting all night for it. Well, she had been. Maybe she'd been waiting for longer than that. Thena wrapped her arms around him, responding maybe too eagerly, she feared for a minute. But Gil wrapped his arms around her waist, and suddenly she didn't care if she seemed too into it. Because he was her Gil, and she was safe with him.

And they continued to make out until the damn oven timer went off again.

#Happy Birthday sweetheart!!!#I hope this makes you smile #I did an AU #because I don't know if Eternals have birthdays #and if they would all have the same birthday if they do #but if you remember in Hope Springs Eternal #I wrote an AU #Thena and Ikaris are twins and they celebrate their birthday together #and then do something for just one of them on separate days #and Gil invites Thena to cook with him #I was imagining something in that universe #I hope that's okay!"#Thenamesh AU

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tv-gh0st · 9 months

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Damnit i made a new au

guess what time it is

time for

✨My own Links meet au!✨

and the zeldas meet up to!

ive got an idea for story but jts a little bit to much like Lu for my liking so i am currently editing it and will be posted hopefully soon!!

zeldas will also get designs to ima be focusing on this whole au to actually cas aprently my hiatus is over ill be working on other aus from time to time but theres alot to do for this and i am bery exited!! ill be making a master post once i post some more stuff im really exited!!

bellow the cut is my current designs for Links(no full body drawings yet cas there are 14 links ad 15 zeldas i need to draw and i am not dealinf with that shit today)

Before the split

Sky

skyward sword Link

20 years old

first chosen hero

forged the master sword

dating Sun(his zelda)

always looks like hes gonna fall asleep

very expressive

Minish

Minish cap

17 years old

can be small like minish

the smith kf the group

Social anxiety

lets the minish do his hair!

Fallen hero Timeline

Four

four swords

Four swords adventure

18 years old

the colors sre very separated

others only think hes a little crazy talking to himself

Oracal

Ages

Seasons

Links awakening

"Collector"

17 years old

keeps a flower in memory of Marin

learned how to braid his hair from her to and keeps it like that

has alot of shit

Worlds

A link to the past

a link between worlds

triforce heros

princy

technicly a prince cas of fabel(Zelda and his sister)

bunn boi

his colors blended much easier

Hyrule

the legends of zelda

links adventures

travler

16 years old

also alot of items

gets lost easily especially with the weird geographical part of the merge

very curious

Child timeline

Twilight

twilight princess

Farmer/Wolfie

19 yo

has a wolf tail and wont explain why or how he got it

can control when he comes wolfie usually but sometimes when they move around he just is wolfie and cant become hylian

big brother energy

Babys litterly any one whos younger then him even if its just by a year(Wild and Time do count cas of there weird ages)

Warriors

Hyrule Warriors

captin

23 years old

did cry over his scarf once

big brother energy aswell but in a funner "you were supposed to watch over the,! But no one was put to watch over me!" Kinda vibe

knew wind and mask before but they didnt know him its weirddddddd

mentioned minda and marin and others lost thrre shit

Age

Age of calamity

champion

17 years old

gravitates twords Warriors

Might have acidently been the start of a new split in the timeline no one actually knows where age sits exept hes on the child timeline

Wild

Breath of the wild

Tears of the kingdom

Archerer

Wonderer

keeps the arm and the sages idc how totk ends

physically hes like 20 ish chronologically hes 121 mentally hes like 17 years old

can cook wonderfully

eats randome shit for fun

is a lik shit

is very loyal but definitely took alot to get that loyal

is extremely weirded out bt Age

Adult timeline

Wind

Wind waker

Phantome Hourglass

Sailor

14 years old

has tetras bandanna

thinks the green heros tunic is dorky as fuck snd hates the hat

has tried to shoot every link out of a cannon that hes had the opportunity to with wavering success

is gonna fo bat shit crazy/ good way

Spirit

Spirit tracks

Conductor

15 years old

very done with ur shit at all times

i dont think he knows what color is(wears alot of fucking grey)

Likes wind tolerates the others

is gonna go bat shit crazy/ bad way

And ofcourse Time and Mask

Time

Ocarina of time

18 years old

mentally 9-10 years old

doesnt actually know how to read

from adult timeline

friends with Malon

socially akward mess

Mask

Ocarina of Time

Majoras Mask

11 years old

tired of everyones shit

in denial of all this timeline merging stuff

Thats all the Links!

Master post here!(coming soon) Zeldas prt 1 here! Zeldas prt 2(Coming soon)

#loz #my art #my artwrok #my au #loz au #loz art #legend of zelda fanart #legend of zelda au #please repost #digital art

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spn-headcanons-daily · 3 years

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Dean wants to see how Cas really looks like. They discuss if it could be possible, because his true angelic form would definitely harm Dean: they both remember how two seconds was enough to burn Pamela's eyes out.

Finally someone (possibly Sam, lol) remembers that Cas can visit dreams, so it might work: showing his angelic form to Dean in a dream, a safe version.

Dean goes to sleep, Cas connects to his mind, and it works, and Dean is absolutely amazed by what he sees. But when he wakes up he can't really remember. He isn't sure, if it's like dreams that you forget as soon as you awake, or his mind just cannot fully comprehend how Cas looks like and describe it with words. But he knows that he witnessed something unbelievably powerful - and incredibly beautiful

#spn #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #true form castiel #spn headcanon #supernatural headcanon #I actually have my own idea of how cas really looks I might draw it later

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mishoru · 2 years

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Hi hello, you might know this drawing I did a bit ago of how Cas' true form could look like.

I'm passionate about this so I wanted to explain my thought process behind it a bit!

First off we have 3 sets of wings. Some people thought that meant I made him an archangel but the sources I found on angels actually described Seraphim as having 3 sets of wings, so I'm sorry to disappoint.

Then there are the strings of grace that are essentially his body. I based these on how grace is portrayed in the show, I liked the Idea of the angels not really having "body's". They are just wavelengths of celestial intent.

Now here is some interesting stuff, people always incorporate animal parts in their angel art. However I wanted to add plant based things, in my mind it made sense.

The hands and the spine are the human/animal component (I doubt that spine is even remotely human). I decided on depicting 3 arms but oh he has way more. Why? Isn't it kind of chilling? This huge creature (he is hunched over in my drawing) hands flickering in and out of view, eyes floating around it.

His face is another of my favorites. I was contemplating drawing many different heads but at this point I had been sketching for 3 hours and I couldn't be bothered, so originally I went with a blank slate. Then I thought about when this depiction of Cas would be set in the show.

So, this is some time after season 9. Cas is cracked. He has fallen every way imaginable. The eye like holes in his face symbolising him becoming more human-like as he goes on. The tear tracks-- well, despair mostly. He has come far from the blank faced soldier he once was.

Ah yes the enochian rings. Based on more biblical descriptions. I was planning on inscribing them with symbolic phrases or something related to Cas. However, again, I had been drawing for 10 hours at that point so I just slapped the inscriptions Cas carved into Sam and Dean's ribs on there, which in itself is kind of symbolic as well, isn't it?

Okay FINALLY, the part that started it all: Puppet Vessel. I kept thinking about this huge, being, packed into this tiny little Jimmy-Meatsuit, until I thought— what if he actually isn't inside his vessel, but simply puppeteering it? He is just moving it around, floating above it all, trying so hard to fit into his new found family, but he's more diffrent than any of them realize. Cas the quirky little dude is just a puppet, held up by the very being, that once was a puppet being held up by heaven. Well, trueform Cas cut his ties to heaven and now has to puppeteer his vessel and himself on his own.

#This is just my theories feel free to interpret as you like #this got strangely deep #I spent too much time on this drawing #supernatural #art #spn #illustration #supernatural family #procreate #supernatural art #supernatural fanart #fanart #castiel #trueform!cas #true form castiel #art analysis

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mimicofmodes · 3 years

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“The Ladies Waldegrave” by Joshua Reynolds, 1780 (NGS NG2171)

I’ve complained before about two very big pet peeves of mine - corset stuff and Regency women being dressed in 1770s-1780s clothes - but one that may dwarf them because of how frequently it comes up in historical and fantasy fiction is the oppression of embroidery.

That’s probably putting it a bit too strongly. It’s more like ... the annoyance of embroidery. Every character worth reading about knows instinctively that sewing is a) boring, b) difficult, c) mindless, and d) pointless. The author doesn’t have to say anything more than “Belinda threw down her needlework and looked out the window, sighing,” to signal that this is an independent woman whose values align with the modern reader, who’s probably not really understood by her mother or mother figure, and who probably will find an extraordinary man to “match” her rather than settling for someone ordinary. To look at an example from fantasy, GRRM uses embroidery in the very beginning of A Game of Thrones to show that the Stark sister who dislikes it is sympathetic and interesting, while the Stark sister who is competent at it is boring and conventional and obviously not deserving of a PoV (until later books, when her attention gets turned to higher matters); further into the book, of course, the pro-needlework sister proves to be weak-willed and naïve.

Rozsika Parker, in the groundbreaking 1996 work The Subversive Stitch, noted that “embroidery has become indelibly associated with stereotypes of femininity,” which is the core of the issue. "Instead embroidery and a stereotype of femininity have become collapsed into one another, characterised as mindless, decorative and delicate; like the icing on the cake, good to look at, adding taste and status, but devoid of significant content.”

Parker also points out that the stereotype isn’t just one that was invented in the present day by feminists who hated the idea of being forced to do a certain craft. “The association between women and embroidery, craft and femininity, has meant that writers concerned with the status of women have often turned their attention towards this tangled, puzzling relationship. Feminists who have scorned embroidery tend to blame it for whatever constraint on women's lives they are committed to combat. Thus, for example, eighteenth-century critical commentators held embroidery responsible for the ill health which was claimed as evidence of women's natural weakness and inferiority.”

There are two basic problems I have with the trope, beyond the issue of it being incredibly cliché:

First: needlework was not just busywork

A big part of what drives the stereotype is the impression that what women were embroidering was either a sampler:

sampler embroidered by Jane Wilson, 14, in 1791 (MMA 2010.47)

or a picture:

unfinished embroidery of David and Abigail, British, 1640s-50s (MMA 64.101.1325)

That is, something meant to hang on the wall for no real purpose.

These are forms of schoolwork, basically. Samplers were made by young girls up to their early teens, and needlework pictures were usually something done while at school or under a governess as a showpiece of what was being learned - not just the stitching itself, but also often watercolors (which could be worked into the design), artistic sensibility, and the literature, history, or art that might be alluded to. And many needlework pictures made in schools were also done as mourning pieces, sometimes blank, for future use, and sometimes to commemorate a recent death in the family. A lot of them are awkward, clearly just done to pass the class, but others are really artwork.

Many schools for middle- and upper-class girls taught the making of these objects (and other “ornamental” subjects) alongside a more rigorous curriculum - geography, Latin, chemistry, etc. At some, sewing was also always accompanied by serious reading and discussion. (And it would often be done while someone read aloud or made conversation later in life, too.)

Once done with their education, women generally didn’t bother with purely decorative work. Some things that fabric could be embroidered for included:

Jackets

Bed coverings and bedcurtains

Collars and undersleeves

Pelerines

Neck handkerchiefs and sleeve ruffles

Screens

Upholstery

Handkerchiefs

Purses, wallets, and reticules

Boxes

Book covers

Plus other articles of clothing like waistcoats, caps, slippers, gown hems, chemises, etc. Women’s magazines of the nineteenth century often gave patterns and alphabets for personal use.

(Not to mention late nineteenth century female artists who worked in embroidery, but that’s something else.)

You could purchase all of these pre-embroidered, but many, many women chose to do it themselves. There are a number of reasons why: maybe they wanted something to do, maybe they felt like they should be doing needlework for moral/gender reasons, maybe they couldn’t afford to buy anything - and maybe they enjoyed it or wanted to give something they made to a person they loved. That firescreen above was embroidered by Marie Antoinette, someone who had any number of other activities to choose from. It’s no different than people today who like to knit their own hats and gloves or bake their own bread, except that it was way more mainstream.

embroidery patterns from Ackermann’s Repository in 1827 - they could be used on dresses, collars, handkerchiefs, etc.

Second: needlework wasn’t the only “useless” thing women were expected to do

Ignoring the bulk of point one for now and the value of embroidery - I mentioned “ornamental subjects” above. As many people know, young women of the upper and middle classes were expected to be “accomplished” in order to be seen as marriageable. This could include skills like embroidery, drawing, painting, singing, playing the piano (as well as other instruments, like the harp or the mandolin), speaking French (if not also Italian and/or German), as well as broader knowledge and abilities like being well-versed in music, literature, and poetry, dancing and walking gracefully, writing good letters in an elegant hand, and being able to read out loud expressively and smoothly.

This wasn’t a checklist. As the famous discussion in Pride and Prejudice shows, individuals could have different views on what actually made a woman accomplished:

“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”

“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”

“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.

“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.”

“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved.”

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

Mr. Bingley feels that a woman is accomplished if she has the ability to do a number of different arts and crafts. Miss Bingley feels (or says she feels) that it goes beyond specific skills and into branches of artistic attainment, plus broader personal qualities that could be imparted by well-bred governesses or mothers. And Mr. Darcy, of course, agrees with that but adds an academic angle as well.

But what ties all of these accomplishments together is their lack of value on the labor market. A woman could earn a living with any one accomplishment, if she worked hard enough at it to become a professional, but young ladies weren’t supposed to be professional-level good because they by definition weren’t going to earn a living. All together, they trained a woman for the social and domestic role of a married woman of the upper middle or upper class, or, if she couldn’t get married, a governess or teacher who would share her accomplishments with the next generation.

(To be fair, almost none of the trappings of an upper-middle/upper class male education had anything to do with the kind of career training that college frequently is today, either. Men were educated to know the cultural touchpoints of their class and fit in with their peers.)

There are reasons that an individual person/character might specifically object to embroidery, but it was far from the only “useless” thing that an unconventional heroine would be required to do against her inclination by her conventional mother/grandmother/aunt/chaperone. Embroidery stands out to modern audiences because most of the other accomplishments are now valued as gender-neutral arts and skills.

“The Embroidery Frame”, by Mathilde Weil, ca. 1900 (LOC 98501309)

So, some thoughts for writers of historical fiction (or fantasy that’s supposed to be just like the 19th/18th/17th/etc century):

- If your heroine doesn’t like embroidery, she probably doesn’t like a number of other things she’s expected to do. Don’t pull out embroidery as either more expected or more onerous than them. Does she hate to sit still? I’d imagine she also dislikes drawing and practicing the piano. Would she prefer to do academic subjects? She probably also resents learning French instead of Latin, and music and dancing. Does she hate enforced femininity? Then she’d most likely have a problem with all of the accomplishments.

- If your heroine just and specifically doesn’t like embroidery, try to show in the narrative that that’s not because it’s objectively bad, and only able to be liked by the boring. Have another sympathetic character do it while talking to the heroine. Note that the hero carries a flame-stitched wallet that’s his sister’s work. Emphasize the heroine’s emotional connection to her deceased or absent mother through her affection for clothing or upholstery that her mother embroidered - or through a mourning picture commemorating her. There are all kinds of things you can do to show that it’s a personal preference rather than a stupid craft that doesn’t take talent and skill!

mourning picture for Daniel Goodman, probably embroidered by a Miss Goodman, 1803 (MMA 56.66)

#history #women's history #writing #embroidery #19th century #18th century #17th century #victorian #georgian #regency

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paralleledmediaexperience · 3 years

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right before my birthday back in May someone made a post about Jack needing more love and hugs, and I had this idea in the tags and then went and wrote about a thousand words of this and then. forgot it existed!! anyway I’ve mostly polished it up now. enjoy Jack telling one of his dads he loves him and then not only being hugged but also hearing it back!! it’s what our boy deserves!!!!!

Now with part two!!!!!

Jack hadn’t meant to fix everything, in his defense. Yes, they’d defeated god with his powers, which had unintentionally released Amara, who had agreed to take her brother’s powers from Jack and then let the world mostly be as long as she got the chance to see him every once in a while. She’d returned the universe to normal, with a few additions for their happiness, as Amara had said. Dean had choked out Cas’ name, and Amara had frowned before replying that it might take a bit more time.

They had gone back to the bunker and then the bunker had been thoroughly overrun the whole next week by- it seemed- everyone the Winchesters knew, including a few faces who were apparently as back from the dead by Amara’s hand as Mary was last time she owed a Winchester a favor. Through it all- old friends and odd allies and more- Jack knows Dean isn’t doing well. Isn’t sleeping well. There’s only been one night- well, Jack hadn’t seen Dean drinking but he’d heard Sam’s arguing and Dean’s short, choppy answers, and it was familiar enough.

He’d googled “what to do when my dad misses someone and we can’t talk to them yet,” and wikihow had good suggestions- he’d read through the sections for both short-term separations, and managing the death of a loved one. He hadn’t really been able to figure out which would be more helpful. It had turned out to be the death of a loved one, which… shouldn’t be surprising, no matter that Cas would be back. Soon.

He couldn’t make Dean do any of the things on the list, but it had suggested that the person would like to feel loved during their time of grieving.

And when he’d searched “how to make someone feel loved,” the first article had said the easiest way was simply to tell them. So when Dean hands him a plate of pancakes with the bacon cooked just how Jack likes it, Jack thinks it’s such a small thing to make his heart feel so big and warm. And he smiles and says, “Thanks Dean. I love you.”

Unfortunately, Jack hasn’t actually grabbed the plate when he says this, and Dean’s hands drop it. The sound of the plate shattering on the tile is only half as upsetting as the wounded look in Dean’s eyes as he looks back at Jack. And Jack isn’t sure why it went so wrong but he looks away immediately, the shame of causing that hurt somehow and the slow horror of realizing he’d ruined the breakfast that Dean had made him turning his stomach into knots. He steps back almost unconsciously before remembering the plate had just broken, and in just his socks, a piece of ceramic jabs into his heel and slices him open, and he actually can’t help the small cry of surprise and pain that slips out.

“Jeez, kid,” Dean breathes out, and Jack gets pushed into the nearest chair. “Get that out of your foot while I clean this up.”

The warm feeling in his chest was gone, pressed into something cold and tight in Jack’s throat. He’d just- the article had said it makes people happy to hear they are loved in times of grief.

He watches, silent as Dean turns off the stove and sweeps up the wasted food and plate pieces, soundly dumping it in the trash before digging under the sink for a second and coming out with a clean dishrag and a box of bandaids. It’s only when he sees Dean stop and take a quiet, private shuddering breath to forcibly relax his tensed shoulders that he lowers his gaze again. He picks the sharp sliver of plate out of his skin through the sock before peeling it off to examine the cut it left. Very shallow, but it still stretches two inches along on the inside of his heel, the blood sluggishly dripping out.

It’s not bad, but very inconvenient, so he almost heals it before remembering that Amara had said not to use his powers after she took Chuck’s powers. Not until she returned and okayed it, at least. He sighs, pinching it together with his fingers, half heartedly wishing it had been more awkward and antagonistic between his aunt and his dads, so he could have maybe convinced Dean that they shouldn’t listen to what Amara told him to do. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.

He hears Dean turn the water on to damp the cloth, but he can’t make himself look back up again. His gaze goes back down to the floor as Dean starts to turn back toward him, focusing on the small smear of red on the floor, where Dean had dragged the broom through the spots of blood he’d left.

He raises his hands as Dean approaches, ready to be handed the stuff to bandage himself up, but Dean just beats them away as he sits down next to Jack, hunching in as he grabs the injured foot. Jack still feels unbearably small in the silence between them, both him and Dean leaning in and feeling small and unwilling to speak as he wipes away the blood and then dries the skin around it. Jack grabs two of the bandaids and opens them, and Dean wraps them around the cut before patting it and drawing away, and Jack doesn’t know what else to do.

“Sorry,” He says softly, because he isn’t sure what he did wrong but it hurt Dean. And he wasn’t even angry, Jack could tell, cause his shoulders hadn’t tensed the way they did when Dean was trying not to lash out- they’d tensed the way they did when Dean was trying not to fall apart. Jack’s felt like he had to know the difference for a while now.

“Jack,” Dean says, and it’s so sharp that Jack jerks up to look at him. Had he read that wrong? Was Dean angry? But when he meets Dean’s eyes it’s still that hurting, the one that Jack could remember all the way from back when he was a newborn, or something close to it. “No, you don’t-” Dean lifted a hand to his face and dragged it down with a rough breath, and Jack wasn’t expecting him to look back at him but he did, eyes burning into Jack’s. “You don’t have to be sorry. That was on me- I dropped the plate.”

Jack tries not to squirm, because it’s not about the plate, is it? The food had been thrown away and the plate had hurt him, but he’d said he loved Dean and that had made him drop it. “I’m sorry that I-”

“Jack,” Dean cuts across again, and this time his brows are drawing together the way they do when he’s angry. But he looks away from Jack again, and he can tell somehow that it’s not anger at him. Dean doesn’t even want Jack to be looking at this anger. “You say whatever you want, okay? I’m not upset that you said it.”

It isn't that he thinks Dean doesn’t mean the words, but Jack’s also not sure Dean believes them either. “I am, though,” he says, petulant, crossing his arms and letting his foot fall back down to the ground, ignoring the bite of pain from treating the cut so roughly. “If it hurt you, I shouldn’t have-”

Dean cuts him off again. “No. Jack, that’s-” He struggles for a second, but Jack just wants to understand. Unbidden, he holds his breath and Dean draws his in, trying to find the words.

“You get to love me if you want to,” Dean grinds out, and Jack realizes there are tears gathering along his lower lashes. “And you get to tell me if you want to. This hurt ain’t about you.”

That does clear it up, somehow, and Jack nods and looks back down at his hands, realizing there’s still blood on his fingers, too. Dean turns away enough that they can almost pretend he’s not rubbing the tears out of his eyes. “I won’t say it if you don’t want me to either, though,” he says, and he grabs the cloth from the table where Dean had left it, finding a clean spot on the damp corner and using it.

“That ain’t how it works, kid.” He doesn’t elaborate. He just grabs the box of bandaids and closes it before gathering up the paper wrapping. It gets thrown out, and the box stowed back under the sink, and then Jack is just staring at Dean.

“How does it work?”

They both stop. Jack didn’t expect to actually let the question out, but it’s off of his lips before he can seal them.

Dean is frozen, staring at him.

“Not like that,” Dean says eventually, weariness dripping from each word. “Jack, do you… do you want us to say…”

He doesn’t say it, the kitchen fan blowing white noise into the quiet air between them. Jack knows that he could ask and Dean would say it right now. Dean always gives the people he loves what they want, what they need, and this would just be the next thing he could offer. Something he could give.

“I don’t need you to.” Jack says, honestly. “I know. I just wanted you to hear it, because I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to say it to you.”

Dean squints at him. “You... “ His eyes are wet again. Without warning, Dean grabs him and pulls him up, into a hug, and Jack grabs back as tight as he can, feeling lost. But it’s good, it’s good just like every time Dean hugs him. He squeezes his eyes shut tight as if he can’t feel the tears welling up in his own eyes, hot and stinging. “I love you too, Jack. I don’t get- you and-” Dean sputters off, still holding him. “If you want to hear it, you let me know. I’ll get better at it.”

“Maybe every once in a while,” Jack says, trying not to let his voice sound like he’s crying. It does anyway.

“Alright then,” Dean says, and he squeezes him one more time before letting go, turning away abruptly and bustling back to the stove. Jack wipes his eyes on his sleeve, his whole chest feeling empty and full all at once. The rag had fallen out of his hands sometime in their conversation, and he leans down to grab it, pausing to wipe up the blood on the floor. Dean comes back a minute later and pulls it out of his hand before passing him another plate. “Here, since the last one humpty-dumpty’d.”

They don’t continue the conversation. Jack eats his breakfast as Dean fixes himself another cup of coffee, and they sit quietly, waiting for Cas to come home.

#Jack Kline #Dean Winchester #supernatural #my fic #creativecaviar #pancake cinematic universe

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andhumanslovedstories · 3 years

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I’ve been working on this theory lately about my own media consumption that I’ll call representational contrarianism because I’m tickled at giving it a fancy sounding name. And it’s like this: given the choice between media with canonical queer characters and media that has characters you could argue are queer, I’ll default to the latter nine times out of ten.

And it’s like. Why?

(And yeah, this is a post about Supernatural, but it’s not ABOUT Supernatural, you know? Also everything is about Supernatural except Supernatural which is about umm truly who fucking knows.)

So, for me (and consider that the big disclaimer for this post) queer characters created by queer people either cut too close to the truth, or they’re disappointing. If they’re truthful, then the truth, through the warped lens of my own insecurities and uncertainties, becomes “yes Sarah this is who you are” or “no Sarah you ain’t this.” If they’re disappointing, if I don’t like them or I don’t like the romance or I like some other character better, I feel like I’m letting someone down--not always sure who, just someone, maybe it’s myself, maybe it’s the Community, maybe it’s this fictional person--and further, this becomes another tick in a column labeled “you’re straight and you’ve always been straight, you hurt gay people by thinking otherwise, and also everyone’s laughing at you.” Which is a lot of pressure to put on kindle lesbian romance novels I picked up for $1.99, but that’s what I feel.

The important thing is, these characters and stories are tests I’m very capable of failing.

And queer people created by straight people--look, it’s not universally true, but look at the shitty way explicit homosexuality is treated on Supernatural (a joke! flat! background! nothing!) versus the absolutely inadvertent queer-coding they did with Dean, Sam, and Cas. They wrote three distinct queer masculine allegories by complete fucking accident. They couldn’t have done that on purpose. They don’t think gay people are people in the same way that straight people are people. They think that they’re Gay and then a little later that they are people. (And does my hyperfixation on this issue mean that I approach gay characters the same way as shitty straight writers? Hahahahaha shut the fuck up I’m almost in therapy again, this is all on the docket.)

Queer characters created by queer people are a litmus test, and queer characters created by straight people are pandering. And you don’t really know about the creators that often, and they shouldn’t have to list their identities on the back of the book (although catch me scanning acknowledgements for the words wife, partner, people thanked with love but identified only as an initial, like deciphering how this book might make me feel is a test I can cheat on, but what do you do with a writers room? Memorize the gay ones if you can, cross-reference who wrote what eps?). So I’m comparing myself against these characters (bad choice) in the hopes of learning about myself while also hyperanalyzing these characters in a way that would be insanely unfair to do to a real person (are they Truly Gay? are they Truly Good Representation? if I don’t like them, is it their fault or my fault or their story’s fault or God’s fault or or or or or or or). So I end up evaluating this central question about myself--literally the question Who Am I--against characters (again, a bad choice) that I swivel wildly between believing they are better at being gay than me (because they might have been written by queer people) or are worse at being gay than me (because they might have been written by straight people).

(I know this is horribly reductive in regards to representation and own voices and good writing. You don’t want to see how long this post was with nuance.)

And let’s do the ultimate thought experiment: let’s say they did Supernatural good. And now Dean is bisexual! Yay! Canonically! They decide this in season four and he comes out and maybe he always knew or maybe this is all new to him, whatever, it’s all handled fantastically. GLAAD awards for everyone.

If Dean was gay, canonically gay, if he had what I do not--a cast of writers, a voice of God saying definitely, yes, yes, he is sexually and romantically attracted to multiple genders, he is Canon now, there was an interview in Entertainment Weekly about it and everything--then he is gayer by default than me--no writers, no God, no all hands meeting when everyone nods solemnly and concludes, let’s give the people what they want: this one’s a dyke. And he slips somewhere I can’t follow, into that tantalizing paradise called Certainty, and he learns the gay lingo, and he learns the hidden stereotypes only gay people get to know about other gay people, and he unlocks the Shared History and the Inside Jokes, and he speaks to the other people in the club with the knowledge that all of them deserve to be there because they know that they deserve to be there.

(Meanwhile, I am not in the club, I am instead down at the courthouse where I get called forward before the Gender Judges who reviewed the emergency application I made in the middle of the night, and they ask, “It says here you want to change your name?” and I say, “Actually no, I thought about it but the idea of being called anything other than Sarah genuinely horrifies me,” and they ask, “But you did say you were considering experimenting with your pronouns?” and I say, “Again, no, I’ve toyed with the thought but the idea of me being referred to as anything other than she/her viscerally disgusts me,” and they ask, “Okay but what is it that horrifies and disgusts you: the thought of being identified as someone you aren’t, or making a fuss about your identity in a way that draws attention to it?” and being unable to come up with an answer, I throw myself out the nearest window and start running, also causing me to miss my scheduled meeting with the Sexuality forum where we were going to litigate whether I was allowed to use dyke like that a paragraph back.)

(We don’t have time to get into gender. Just assume this all applies to gender stuff as well, and we’ll move on.)

But. If he’s not canonically anything, then he is as gay as I make him. In this daydream or that fanfic, we make the subtext text and here is a queer story, a gay story, a story about me as I would like to be seen and would like to be, and when I am done, I spray him off with some windex and wipe him down to factory settings. And then tomorrow there’s a different fantasy where he’s gay in a different way, a nuance, a tweak, a thousand variations on the same basic premise (what if this guy liked guys), and if I don’t like one, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t stick. It’s a novel written in sand. The appeal is that it’ll wash away. Why should he be any more sure than me?

Anyway, that’s why queerbaiting is good actually (joke).

#long post #sorry I mean long post (apologetic)#the digressions I cut out good god #anyway #my public diary #spn

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stusbunker · 3 years

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AGA: Spit It Out

A Supernatural Denny AU

Featuring: Dean Winchester/ Benny Lafitte

Other Characters: John and Mary, Jody, Garth, Anna, Castiel, Sam, (mentioned) Benny, Jo, Jack

Word Count: 4222

Summary: Dean has the toughest conversation of his life. Cas asks questions. Sam is a little shit.

Warnings: Homophobic language, internalized biphobia, coming out

Series Masterlist

Shout out to the amazing @cracksinthewalls for all her help on this series.

Dean hadn’t realized how terrified he was of facing his father until he broke down at Jo’s. It hadn’t felt like something he would ever have to do until then. Now, it felt as inevitable as a death sentence.

John had always been a huge force in Dean’s life, but since he had gotten hurt to the point of disability, he was less of a presence and more of an imprint. Letting down his folks was the ultimate sin, one Dean had fought his whole life to resist. He knew they loved him, but would it be enough for them to see beyond the idea of Dean they had in their heads. Could they love a pansy?

His mother would be easier to bring on board; he was her favorite whether she’d admit it or not. On the other hand, John was a Marine, he was a mechanic; he didn’t deal with feelings or things he thought were reckless, selfish choices. Dean had never been selfish a day in his life, but this was something that seemed worth it. Benny was worth it. Dean couldn’t give up on family, and he needed them in his corner if it was going to work at all.

First, Dean just needed to get the words out.

The wind whipped through the neighborhood he grew up in like a child unleashed upon the playground. Direction and speed split its focus until it stilled long enough to move on to the next distraction. Dean parked on the street, letting the familiar siding and newer front door center him as he approached, trying to ignore the uneasiness that was unfurling in his gut. Sam was having lunch with some guys from high school who were in town early for Thanksgiving, granting Dean this window of privacy.

Not that Dean told Sam anything. He had done enough talking at Jo’s, even Benny didn’t know everything that he’d been processing the last few days. He hadn’t wanted to make any promises. Dean walked into the house, calling out his greeting, never one to knock at home. John was parked in front of the television in the living room while Mary sent her welcome from somewhere in the basement.

“Hey! Talk about timing, lunch is just about done,” John teased. “What brings you ‘round? Sammy’s out for the day.”

“Yeah, Dad, I know. Kinda why I came,” Dean shoved his hands in the pockets of jeans, still standing.

“Jayhawks are playing at two if you wanna stay,” John offered. Dean hummed in uncertainty. John dragged his feet from the ottoman to sit up and face Dean better. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, nothing we can’t talk about over lunch. I’m gonna go see if Mom needs anything,” Dean nodded towards the basement steps and left John to his football.

Dean bowed his head as he reached the bottom of the steps, clearing the duct work to find Mary folding laundry at the long narrow table they used for everything from school projects to writing out Christmas cards.

“I thought that was you,” Mary said pleasantly. “Did your dad tell you lunch was almost ready?”

She dropped the shirt she had finished atop an awkward pile and opened her arms for a hug. Dean scooped her up, probably a little too enthusiastically, but he didn’t care and she didn’t mind. A simple gasp told him she noticed though.

“So--- what’s the occasion?” Mary asked, turning back to the basket.

“Nothing really, just wanted to catch up,” Dean downplayed, grabbing a pair of jeans to help. Neither of them pointed out that they’d see each other the next day for Sunday dinner. Mary welcomed the visit as much as Dean was dreading it.

“Your father had physical therapy yesterday. I don’t think they get paid enough,” Mary conspired with a heavy side eye.

Dean chuckled, “I’m guessing not his at least.”

“And supposedly I’m the stubborn one,” Mary muttered. “If you want to make some sandwiches, I’m almost done down here. I don’t want to spread the soup too thin.”

Dean nodded and handed her the sweater he had folded last. “Sounds good, anything in particular?”

“Just don’t let him trick you into letting him have the salami, his doctor says he needs to watch the fats,” Mary warned.

Dean perched against the edge of the steps, listening. He slapped the banister and headed back upstairs. “On it.”

The kitchen’s layout hadn’t changed in thirty years and Dean quickly set up an assembly line with poultry, condiments, lettuce and tomatoes. He tucked the cheese with the processed deli meat back in the drawer, hiding the temptation from John. But not before stealing a slice for his and Mary’s sandwiches. He set the table, like hundreds of times before. John’s spot was the head of the table, Mary to his left. Dean set his own plate on John’s right, a seat he fought Sam for more often than not.

Dean stirred the pot, which was much more a vat, of chicken noodle soup. John’s approach was announced by the steady clink of his cane on the hardwood floor of the hallway. Dean pulled out John’s chair before settling down to his heaping sandwich and extra large bowl of soup.

John lifted the top tier of his sandwich, judging the contents. “She got to you, didn’t she?”

Dean just chewed purposely and gave John innocent eyes.

“Figures,” John muttered before bellowing through the house. “Mary! Soup’s ready.”

They ate comfortably, fighting the cold outside with the warmth of the familiarity of a shared meal. The grease from the chicken made bubbles in the broth and Dean blew across the surface mixing them back in. Meanwhile Mary made small talk and John teased her about her part time job.

“Well, I need to get out of the house, or we’d kill each other, you know that,” Mary flicked John’s ear as she cleared their bowls.

“How’s that going?” Dean asked, eyes fixed on his mother’s face. Panic clogged his ears at the thought of never seeing her again.

“‘S fine. People are picky, but it isn’t bad for what it is. Better than being behind a desk or answering the phone,” Mary explained of her work at the local sporting goods store. “Friday will be nuts, lots of sales, but it’s not like we would have been doing anything anyway.”

“So, Bobby and Ellen’s on Thursday?” Dean verified.

“Yup, dinner’s at 1. He says you’re on pie duty?” John asked, surprised.

“That I am. Sam’s stuck with sides, so please remind him. I don’t want to show up and only have rolls and turkey,” Dean asked Mary.

“Can do. We’re bringing the---,” Mary started.

“Cranberry sauce,” Dean and John said in unison.

“And the wine!” Mary said in dismay at their laughter. “Jerks.”

John and Dean grinned as Mary rolled her eyes.

“So, was that everything? It seemed like you had something to hash out with us,” John asked Dean, picking up the last of his sandwich.

“Yeah, mostly. I gotta check with Ellen first, but I might be bringing somebody along,” Dean rushed out. He tipped his bowl back, finishing the final dregs.

“A special someone?” Mary asked delicately, looking at John in hope.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Dean grunted, standing to grab another sandwich.

“Well, is it somebody we know?” Mary prodded, not trying to be too pushy, but obviously curious. “Dean, why are we just now hearing about this?”

Mary’s tone had shifted to apprehension, Dean felt their silent conversation behind his back as he slapped the ingredients together. He shrugged in response, unable to find a proper jumping off point.

He tried to remain casual, but the dred had clawed back up. Without enough wherewithal to speak, Dean sat back down and ate, drawing out his confession to the point of confusion.

John chuckled at Mary’s suspicion. “He’s nervous. Let the boy get it out.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the phrase. “I’m thirty six, Dad,” he said through a mouthful.

“Is that right? Coulda fooled me.” John tisked his tongue. Mary ignored his teasing tone.

“Dean, what’s the matter? What’s this girl’s problem that’s making you act so--- cagey all the sudden?” Mary asked anxiously. John slipped Mary’s hand into his, silently soothing her as they waited for Dean’s answer.

“Uh, yeah, about that,” Dean started, sitting back, and shooting for blase. “Turns out I actually like guys, too. So, uh, there’s no problem with a girl. I just wanted to bring, um, this guy I’ve been seeing, Benny, to Bobby and Ellen’s.”

Mary inhaled and clenched John’s hand. John stopped stroking Mary’s arm and twisted in his seat. Dean exhaled slowly, like a pin prick in a deflating balloon, he couldn’t take any of it back. Dean took a chance and looked out through his lashes, face tilted towards his plate. First to Mary’s blue worry and then a flicker to John’s almost black disbelief.

John swallowed and ducked low enough to force Dean’s eyes onto his. "You tellin' me you take it up the ass, is that what you're sayin?"

"Jesus. John!" Mary reproached. But neither man's glare faltered. The dark challenge in John's eyes caused Dean's lips to turn up in a silent snarl.

Dean finally broke the silence. "You really want me to answer that?"

"I think I have a right to know exactly the kind of man my son is," John countered.

Mary stood abruptly. “He's your son! What's the matter with you?! You asking Sam his jerkin' habits now that he's single, while you're at it?!" She went to the sink, bowing over it as if it would cleanse the images the conversation had conjured.

“Oh, hell, that’s not the point,” John muttered.

Dean had been arrested in high school for drag racing. The whole ride home from the police station he was worried what his dad was gonna do to him once they got home, it was the same quiet rage that had terrified Dean as a child. But it was Mary’s disappointment when they walked in the door that tore into Dean to the point of scarring. He could live with his father’s anger, Sam had taught Dean how to slowly stand up to John over the years.

But Dean didn’t know if he could live in the shadow of Mary’s disappointment. He needed somebody to see him as himself, not just a screw up or a queer.

Dean sighed. "I am your son. But if you can't handle this, Dad. I don't think you have any right to know me anymore." He looked from Mary to John as the last sentence left his mouth. Maybe he was asking too much after all.

Everyone in the room froze. But not even an ultimatum like that could stop John Winchester from digging himself deeper. "Christ, son, Jo really did a number on you, didn't she? Made you turn tail to the other team all together."

"Leave Jo out of this,” Dean spit out as he stood up. “This is about me and who I'm with now." He stalked the long way around the table, shoving chairs in as he went. He approached Mary alone, carefully, one terrified animal to another. "You'd love him, Mom. He cooks, runs his own business, even got an old Harley in the garage."

Mary couldn't hide her tears, but she tried to smile through them for Dean's sake. "Sounds like a catch, sweetie. But what matters is if you love him. You don't need our say so."

"Don't I?" Dean replied sadly before glancing over Mary’s shoulder to John. "You know Jo told me to give you the finger if you couldn’t see how happy I am. How important Benny is to me. And maybe she's right. But I wanted this to work. I wanted to keep the family together. That's why I'm here. The rest is up to you, Old Man."

Dean kissed his mother on the cheek, between murmured reassurances and left without another word to John. He teetered on the brink, somewhere between busting his knuckles against the cold glass of the impala’s window and losing his lunch on the frostbitten ground. Somehow, Dean made it into the solitude of the driver’s seat before he broke down and sobbed. The only saving grace he got was when his mother's voice roared from inside the house.

Dean dragged the salt and snot from his face with a heavy palm and started the engine. He couldn't stay there, but he didn't know where to go either. He just drove.

Dean pulled into the parking lot at The Pearly Gates on autopilot. He’d spent the afternoon equally suppressing and dissecting his conversation with his parents as he kept it even between the lines of two lane country roads. Now, Dean was ready to be somebody else, to make drinks and flirt and just forget everything that had happened.

The college football crowd was winding down, which allowed Dean some time to catch up with the day shift bartenders Garth and Jody. Back before Cas got blindsided with the responsibility of business ownership, Cas, Dean, Ash and Artie would claim a booth near the pool tables and blow their grocery money every weekend. When Sam moved back after law school he and Mick joined the crowd that were regularly praised for paying for Jody’s son’s braces.

Garth had been the first dragged from the friend pool to fill the schedule when Cas’s brother dropped off the face of the earth. Though Garth volunteered, Dean knew it was just out of the goodness of his heart, not a need for extra cash.

“Here he is!” Garth announced Dean’s arrival. Luckily for Dean, Garth was pouring a beer otherwise he would have been wrapped in one of Garth’s spider monkey-like hugs. A few regulars in the corner raised their glasses to Dean in greeting as he passed by with his company smile. Jody whipped by him, fresh out of the stock room with her arms full of their dollar bags of chips they sold to keep from having to run a full kitchen.

“Look who’s early,” Jody exclaimed before dropping the load onto the back counter. “You trying to cut into my time there, Winchester?”

“You know if you ever want more hours, you just gotta ask,” Dean offered suggestively, strolling behind the bar.

Jody sputtered dramatically, “And work nights? No, thank you.”

“It was worth a shot,” Dean replied, shrugging at Garth who knew better.

Jody sighed and cocked her head. “You’re cute, but you’re not that cute.”

Dean ducked his head against the compliment as she patted his arm apologetically.

“Want me to split your tips before you go?” Dean asked, bending out of his jacket.

“That’d be lovely,” Jody answered, sorting the chips by kind. “Garth get’s an extra twenty because Bess and Donna were ‘round.”

“Look at you, Mr. Slick,” Dean teased as he grabbed the old milk bottle filled with mostly singles. Garth blushed.

“You know what they say Dean-o, flattery is everything,” Garth explained. Dean, who routinely had the most tips out of any of the staff, including Bela, just nodded at the quirky dude. Dean doled out their shares and washed up before officially punching in.

Jody was gone as soon as Anna arrived, but Garth waited for Jack to show before leaving her and Dean on their own. It was seven o’clock before Cas arrived instead of his unreliable nephew.

“Everything alright?” Dean asked knowingly as Cas hung his trench coat on a broken notch on the rail beside the server’s station.

“Jack is under the weather,” Cas explained blandly. Dean eyed the windows, taking in the light flurries that danced in the streetlight. “I guess I’ll have to do tonight.”

It was a surprisingly unremarkable shift, the weather kept traffic bearable even after Anna’s shift ended at midnight. Dean walked her out the back to her car, like he always did as the plow eased out of the parking lot.

“You gonna be alright with him for the rest of the night?” Anna whispered before they breached the cold. Her big brown eyes held more mischief than worry.

“Goodnight, Anna,” Dean drew out as he held the door sternly.

“Night, Dean,” Anna chuckled. Dean watched her tiptoe around the icy patches and make it to her old Tahoe. He made sure it started before heading back behind the bar, and three more hours with Castiel.

The speakers were set lower than usual to balance their minimal customers. On his shifts, Dean had always insisted on having control over the musical selection. So when he walked into a pop singer’s version of mopey folk he did a double take before bee lining for the stereo.

“Please, don’t,” Cas’s simply requested from somewhere to Dean’s right. “I kind of like this song, but more importantly one of the customer’s requested a change of station.”

Dean eyed the patrons like suspects in a line up, uncertain who would blaspheme in such a way. No one seemed particularly guilty and he had to let it go. Between drinks, Dean washed glasses in the small sink behind the bar until Cas was finally able to start his nightly paperwork. The last couple paid their tab just after 1:30, leaving them holding their breaths in hope as they started to put up the chairs.

“Is it often this quiet?” Cas wondered aloud, “I don’t recall Saturday’s business to dwindle so.”

Dean smiled to himself; leave it to Cas to look a gift horse of a slow night in the mouth. “No, man, this is not the usual. But, it worked out. And thanks for filling in for the kid, I know you don’t like getting your hands dirty.”

Cas quietly beamed at Dean’s gratitude before pausing at the not so subtle jab at the end. They went through the remaining end of day routine in silence. Dean turned off the faux neon signs in the windows to signal the early close as Cas handled the money. Dean would usually even out the till and split tips with Jack, leaving the deposit for Cas to handle the next day. Instead he was left with cleaning detail as the boss man did the accounting.

Before long Dean was rolling the dirty mop bucket back to the office/store room/ kitchen/ employee area. Exhaustion had eaten at Dean’s internal walls, leaving him on the slippery edge between slap-happy and zombie. He hummed to keep his eyes open, waiting on Cas to finally call it a night and let Dean clock out.

“We don’t talk anymore,” Cas said abruptly, without looking up from the cash machine. Dean’s head shot up, concern furrowing his features. “In fact, I’m prone to think you don’t like me at all, Dean.”

“What do you mean, we’re talking right now,” Dean downplayed defensively. Cas glanced up over his desk, mild surprise evident. Cas always seemed such a mystery to Dean, from his social awkwardness to his blunt observations. Dean had come to envy Cas’s almost innocent lack of need to perform for others, to be anyone but himself. He had forgotten that Cas would read into his demeanor in the uncanniest of ways.

“True, we are. But are we?” Cas typed the code into the safe and waited for the time delayed entry. “We used to hang out, watch football, play pool, or cards even.”

“We’ve got bowling every week, man,” Dean wrung out the mophead and latched it onto the rack on the wall. He was trying to remember the last time he and Cas had fun, just the two of them and couldn’t recall a single occurrence over the past year.

“I miss you. I miss my friend,” Cas replied sadly. “And I don’t know what I did to ruin it, but I want you to know that I didn’t mean to.”

Dean closed his eyes and grimaced. “Hey, no, it’s not like that,” Dean started. He walked over and leaned against the edge of the desk, assertive reassurance written all over his face. “Look, I’m tired. Working all week and then coming here is kicking my ass. So I don’t have a lot of free time or brain capacity to hang out like we used to. But I’m doing my best, man.”

Cas looked like a confused puppy, eyes drooping and head tilted. “That isn’t it. There’s something else, something you’re not telling me?”

Dean huffed and shook his head, hands raised in exasperation. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I like you, okay? We’re still--- you know--- buddies.”

“Buddies,” Cas said it like it was a war crime.

“Yeah, man, friends. Do you need me to pull up a dictionary on my phone?!” Dean was getting anxious. He didn’t know what exactly had set Cas down this path of questioning, but he was certain he needed it to end. So much for a quiet night.

After a few weighted stares, Cas squinted and turned them down a different path. “Did me employing you negatively affect our relationship? Should I not have asked that of you?”

“Wait, that would have stopped you?” Dean asked, surprised by Cas’s sudden, if extremely late, realization.

“I wouldn’t knowingly do anything to hurt our friendship, Dean. Has working here hindered you?” Cas asked apologetically.

Dean’s mouth dropped open and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah, man. Working here--- everyone is great, don’t get me wrong--- but man I need a break. I wanted to help out here or there, but I’ve got no time for a life if I stay on.”

“I see,” Cas sat back, poorly masking his own discomfort with Dean’s confession. “Look, I know I’m not the best at what I do. But I find it very hard to trust new people. Employees, especially, tend to let me down. I guess--- I guess I’ve relied on you for too long, Dean. I’m sorry if I’ve taken advantage.”

Dean chuckled. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have minded if you had.”

Missing the joke, Cas continued, “I am taking this conversation as your verbal resignation. I hope you will stay on for the customary two weeks time?”

“You’re serious?” Dean asked, stunned.

“You’re unhappy. I don’t want to cause you anymore grief,” Cas replied simply.

“It wasn’t that bad, Cas.--- But, you gotta do something about Jack. Man up and light a fire under his ass, or just kick him to the curb until he’s ready to live up to the family business. You need to hire people who want to be here,” Dean offered.

Cas nodded dejectedly. “I know, I just have an awful gauge for people’s reliability from a simple interview. And past employers rarely ‘spill the tea’ as Bela would say.”

Dean giggled, but stopped himself once he saw the worry in Cas’ eyes. “Hey, what if somebody does the interviews for you? I bet Jody would weed out the bad seeds before their asses ever hit the bar stool.”

Cas was surprised by that option. “That could work. She is very intimidating.”

“Right?!” Dean exclaimed, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. “So, we’re really doing this? Two weeks and I’m out?”

“Yes, Dean. You’ve done more than I should have asked of you.” Cas stood and extended his hand.

Dean grabbed it and pulled Cas in for a hug, their bound hands stuck between them. “Thanks, man. But, I’m glad it worked out. It will work out. This is gonna be good.”

“And we’ll---,” Cas asked as they broke apart.

“We’ll still be friends. Hell, if I’m free maybe we can reclaim our old table every once in a while,” Dean offered, patting Cas’s shoulder. A genuine smile crept across Dean’s face for the first time all day.

“I’d like that,” Cas admitted as the safe alerted his time was up.

The next morning, Sam held the door for Dean who was smirking as they walked in. Exhausted and needing the comfort of his favorite diner to fill his empty stomach, Dean agreed to Sunday breakfast with a seemingly none-the-wiser Sam, certain he'd be missing their weekly dinner with his parents for possibly the first time.

"Not that one. Let's see if there's a spot in the back," Sam muttered as Dean tried sitting in the first open booth he saw.

"What? Why?" Dean groaned, but straightened up and followed Sam passed the bustling counter.

Sam lifted his chin and motioned Dean to the second to last spot. Slightly annoyed, Dean threw himself onto the bench seat, only to have Sam slide beside him, caging him in.

"Glad you boys could make it," the all too familiar drawl of their father's voice greeted them from across the table.

Dean looked at Sam and cursed beneath his breath. Sam had the nerve to look guilty, but his puppy dog eyes didn't hold an ounce of potency now.

"Wow, Dad, I had no idea you'd be here. Funny coincidence, hey, Sammy?" Dean snarked.

"Shut up," Sam grumbled.

"I made him drag you here, Dean. So if you wanna be pissed, be pissed at me," John began. "I ordered your usuals, to give us some privacy. It seems we need to talk."

Tagging: @flamencodiva @dolphincliffs @dontshootmespence @fookinghelljensensthighs @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis @cosicas-cuquis @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @wingedcatninja @defenderrosetyler @ericaprice2008 @crashdevlin @mylovelydame21 @cajunquandary @itmighthavebeenintentional @thoughtslikeaminefield @there-must-be-a-lock @tatted-trina6 @cracksinthewalls @atc74

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Next Chapter: Giving Up

#A Gentlemen's Agreement #bi!dean #dean winchester fanficiton #dean/benny #dean x benny #coming out #john and mary #aga: spit it out #spn fanfic #spn au #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural au

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zet-sway · 3 years

Text

@the-wip-project day 35:

I don't know what today's question is but I gotta write a wall of text about what happened last night because holy shit

I was on the verge of falling asleep and, like I usually do, I decided to hunt for some spicy fanfics to read on my phone. I found one.

All my posts are long but this one is real fucking long. CW for touching on dub-con and injury mentioned in the type of context it probably shouldn't be.

It's time for me to admit that not only am I a oneshot writer, I'm also a oneshot reader. I am drawn to short fanfics. If I click on a chaptered fic, it's (usually) because it's rated E for smut and I'll go in with every intention of skimming it for the spicy bits. I'm not proud of this. I've avoided saying this for years because I don't want to disappoint people who work hard on their very long and well thought out chaptered stories. I have a short attention span, and I know what I want.

But anyway, last night I clicked on a fic with 5 chapters and some amount of words, around 30k? Long, by my standards, but I was tired and I just wanted something to read while I dozed off.

This particular fic hooked me in, though. I still skimmed it, but the writing was so unique in a way that made me writhe with writer's envy and admiration. Whoever wrote this had their own language - nothing borrowed - their own vision.

I guess I should tell the good people who read my posts (ya'll, seriously, thank you) that the fic in topic is called Fault Lines by Recidiva on AO3. I would link to it but uhhhh I may be using my work PC for "extracurricular purposes" right this moment ^^; so maybe when I get home I'll remember to add it.

I skimmed it - like I said above - for the spicy parts. It generally follows the plot of Bioware's canon. Thane begins as possessive and manipulative, likely uncomfortably close to dub-con for a lot of people. He kisses her and knows full well that his kiss will make her willing but intoxicated, and how he will use that to fulfil himself. But as the story progresses, he falls in love. Their relationship is what I'll call "edgy." Both of them are renegades. There's a scene where they get down in the shuttle after a fight and they're both still injured and it borders on downright unrealistic but fuck it, it's fanfic and I bought it. However their relationship develops a certain heart-wrenching tenderness. She asks him what Siha means over and over again, and eventually tells him she thinks "bitch" when he says it. But in that moment they have a playful banter, he knows full well she's probably already looked it up on the extranet, and they fall into bed together. The smut is mind-boggling.

By the time it gets to Shepard's arrest, he's taken up a place on Earth and visits her, breaks into her house arrest. There's a scene where they see each other for the first time in a while, she tells him how much she's missed his mouth and how it's not right how bad she wants him, and wants him bad enough to smother him with affection. She says something to the effect of "if you're looking to die, I'd volunteer to be the cause," implying that her lust is powerful enough to endanger his life. And it was at this moment I realized I fucked up.

It's established that I live in my own headcanon and I'm not burdened with considering the end of Thane's life as part of my fics. And the suspension of disbelief was such that I forgot he doesn't make it. So at this moment in the fic, chapter 4 out of 5, I realized "Oh shit this isn't going to have a happy ending." I skipped to the end right away, I wanted to confirm my fears.

In their final exchange, she asks him to lie to her - something that's repeated in other chapters of the story. I forget what he says, I was reading desperately, but he asks her in return to tell him something true. She kisses him and tells him she loves him, and he breathes his last breath with the lingering tingle of their kiss to carry him to the other side.

I was so entrenched in the depth of their relationship up to that point. The level of fathomless love the author conveyed, unlike anything I've ever managed to write before, but more realistic to my own understanding of love as I've experienced it. Not because they're renegades, but just the selflessness with which they feel, communicate, banter, and make love.

When I read that last paragraph, something inside me broke. That sounds dramatic but that's honestly how I would describe it. It felt like waking up from a night terror, when you bolt up in bed from a dream so bad you immediately get up even if it's 4am because nothing feels real and you're so terrified you have to get up and do something - literally anything to take your mind off it, to ease you back into reality. I put my phone down and stared into the darkness of my bedroom and told myself "it's just a fanfic, no need to get upset." And then I started to cry and I didn't stop for 30 minutes.

My husband was downstairs watching Bohemian Rhapsody and I went down there and wrapped myself around him so tight and cried. Bless this man, from the bottom of my heart - bless him - for his unfathomable kindness. I felt like a fucking fool because I was crying over fanfiction but he paused his movie and just listened while I tried to articulate how it wasn't exactly about the character death, or the characters at all, it was just the writing and how it wormed into my brain so convincingly. I felt the loss like it was my own loss. I am terrified of losing my husband. So many feelings coalesced and I realized one day I may be in that situation, kissing the man I love goodbye for the last time, never to hold him again. I'm at work right now and I'm tearing up because it's so hard.

I tip my hat to the author, but I genuinely wished I hadn't read that fanfic. And isn't it kind of funny after that grandstand I took yesterday about not wanting to write the pain of loss and grief, that I ended up reading it instead and probably fucking myself up just as badly, if not worse, than if I had tried to write it myself?

It gets worse, too. Because it got me thinking about my own writing, and how I could never hope to achieve what that author did. So I sat there crying out my painfeelings while simultaneously feeling like a shit writer and like nothing I put out matters. I got up from the couch, sat down at my PC and picked up where I left off in the Omega DLC in ME3 because video games are great for taking the mind off things. It didn't exactly help with the intensity I'd hoped for, but I managed to fall asleep, by 3am.

Fast forward to this morning. I dragged my sorry ass out of bed 4 hours later and drove to work. By some fucking miracle, no one is here right now except our field director. And I'm stewing in how this one fic really fucked me up bad, reconsidering everything. I feel like I've been put in my place.

So what changed?

Yesterday I posted about how I'm struggling to write a plotline. I know what happens, but I'm not interested in the little bits that tie it together. I want to write the romance. I think there's a way to write the plot and the romance at the same time, but it's damn hard.

I started doing this because I wanted to grow my skills as a writer, and I knew it might be more than I could chew. I'm at that moment now where I'm about ready to give up.

Even if I felt like a shit writer last night (and still kinda do this morning), I know that the stuff I've put out has value. We can't all write these epically tragic smut-romance-renegades-to-lovers tales, we'd all be sad all the damn time. There's a time and a place and - I would argue - even a need for lighterhearted fic out there. There are really no rules. I'm confident in what I know how to do.

But the plot. Fuck it, man. I think maybe I'm trying too hard to be something I'm not. I'm trying really hard to write like other people. I may have mentioned before that I saw a post about how many artists spend their time pining for the skills of others, thinking "wow, when I can draw like that, I'll have made it as an artist." That same post cautioned against this, basically saying you already have your own unique style, it's just harder to see through the lens of your own eyeballs. It's fine to challenge yourself but try to acknowledge what you do that sets you apart already. I feel like I have that something - maybe not to the extent that I wish, but I have something.

So what's the point of the plot? Why do I need to tell my readers how I cured Keprals? I'm asking myself important questions here. I like to think I've come up with ideas that no one else has, but as I said above, I don't read a lot of chaptered fics. I very well may have come to the same ideas as other writers and I'm not even aware of it. I don't know if my ideas are unique but I still arrived at them all by myself.

The challenge here - the thing I'm struggling so much with - is how to put them together with the same elegance of my fellow writers. I'm looking at you, shrios fam (yeah I'm calling you that, yall know who you are). I know I can write words, but it's like I have a bunch of pieces from completely different jigsaw puzzles and I'm struggling to make a new picture out of them. I struggle with the transitions between them.

The point here is I have to find my own way. And I have to stop taking myself so seriously. In fact this level of "seriousness" is one of the things that got me into so much angst over World of Warcraft over the last two years. At least I know how to recognize it.

I have to find my own way. I have my own things that are worth sharing. The author I read last night had a language all their own, and I have a language all my own too. Their wordplay was actually more choppy than I would ever write. I've talked before about how I'm scared of starting too many sentences with pronouns, how I maybe write too many run-on sentences, whatever. This author did that with reckless abandon. It worked for them. So if they can make that shit work, I can make my own shit work.

I have to find my own way.

My most current WIP is Thane and Shepard's first time. I've been working on it pretty nonchalantly because I hadn't intended to publish it until I built up to it. It takes place further into my timeline, and it would probably ruin the point of a slow burn if I put it out there now. There are some really memorably moments in this WIP, and there are other moments that need to be smoothed over as well. I never knew what I'd really imagined for their first time but I think I've mostly developed something that's unique in its own right, and I think will be fun for people to read.

I'm just so fucking torn over what to do with it. I feel guilty for working on it. I should be writing "other shit" leading up to it but I don't fucking want to. I actually wrote probably 2-3k words this weekend, which is a pretty staggering amount by my standards. Some of it was for this smutty WIP and some was for something I just threw together, Thane observing Shepard on Horizon and the emotional toll it takes on her. He's seeing her humanity. I don't know if it's worth it to continue but I wrote a lot of it and the words are more precise than usual for a draft, I don't know. I have so much fucking insecurity. Fuck dude. I want to write this longfic, but I don't want to write it. I want to skim to the spicy bits like I always do.

I am wracked with insecurity, of my own making. I know what I can do but I feel compelled to see this idea through. Somehow I have to find my own way.

TLDR I feel like if I don't publish something soon I'm going to burst and I don't even know what the fuck to work on first and fjslfjsojoiejrj

I would be really down for, like, a bunch of hugs and a bowl of ice cream shared over memes and fanservice.

#this post is EXTREMELY fucking long send help #ITT: i read something that probably changed my brain chemistry for a few hours and it's painful #zet vs 100days #i'm just glad to get this off my chest good lord #anyway if people want to send me links to their favorite shrios fluff i would welcome it

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twstismymuse · 3 years

Text

Hello hello!!

...

I don’t even need to tell you, do I? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Anywayyyys, the idea for this Drabble was sitting in my head for literal days so I’m really happy I was finally able to put it out!

My first x reader piece so I really hope it’s to your liking!

Enjoy! Be warned though, it might be...more than you signed up for ;3

{Title: Made with Love}

{Pairing: Reader x Yandere Idia}

{Summary: You and Idia have been dating for a while now, so when that special day creeps up on you you wanna do something nice for your boyfriend! Why wouldn’t you when he adores you so much? 😊}

{Warnings: Mentions of body modification, Yandere, Past trauma indication}

————————————

Humming non committedly, you flipped the pancake batter on the sizzling pan, forming a perfect circle. Smiling happily, you continued to hum the strange tune as you slid the pancakes onto a plate and grabbed a handful of chocolate chips to form a heart. Adding the finishing touches, you stepped back to admire your handiwork. It looked almost too good to eat, but hopefully it would actually be enjoyable to.

Taking the slightly warm plate into your hands, you headed out of the Ignihyde dormitory kitchen that was unsurprisingly empty. Walking through the dimly lit halls, you spot a familiar face coming out of Idia’s room dejectedly. “Ortho, hey!”

His amber eyes immediately lit up upon catching sight of you, “Y/N!!” He wrapped his arms around your waist in an affectionate hug while you carefully lifted the plate above his head.

“No luck today?”

“No,” Ortho sighed, “Nii-san says that he’s really busy with his game and that he can’t come out right now blah blah blah-” He trailed off once his eyes landed on the plate of pancakes in your hand. “Woah, Y/N!! Those look so amazing! Are they for Nii-chan??”

“Mhm! But shhh, keep your voice down!” You whispered, bringing a finger to your lips. “It’s a surprise~.”

He dutifully imitated your gesture, barely containing his delighted giggles. “You got it!! I’ll leave you to it then! Bye Y/N!”

Ortho ran off, leaving you standing in front of Idia’s foreboding door. Taking a deep breath, you pushed it open and peeked your head inside.

You had to blink a few times to get adjusted to just how dark your boyfriend’s room was, the only light source being the glow emitting off of his many screens and the faint flickering of his fiery tresses. Fingers flying across the keyboard, his half lidded eyes not once leaving the battle unfolding right in front of him.

“Idia? Uh, hi, it’s me.” He turned his head to look at you briefly before going back to defeating the boss on screen but stopped when he noticed the undisguised food in your hands.

“Y/N? What’s that?”

You beamed and held the breakfast out to him, exclaiming, “Happy anniversary, Idia!”

👾👾👾

Warm.

Idia was always so warm, your body nearly instinctively seeking out his to receive more of the tantalizing heat your boyfriend radiated as the two of you lay together on his bed.

Warmth your body could never seem to attain on it’s own.

“Thank you for that surprise, love,” Idia whispered, lips pressing against the crown of your head, pulling you away from your thoughts. “That was really really good.”

You giggled, “I’m glad. I was worried that it wouldn’t taste as good as it loo-”

“It was perfect and I loved it! I just…” He averted his eyes and lips curled downward into a frown, “I just wish I’d gotten you something. I feel...bad…”

“I really don’t mind. This...this is good enough for me,” You reassured him and pecked his cheek, noticing how his face flared up along with his hair.

“H-happy anniversary, Y/N.”

“Happy anniversary, Idia.”

He pulled you in closer and whispered softly to you, “I love you...so so much.” You opened your mouth automatically to say it back.

You wanted to say it back. You should say it back. Your brain was urging you to repeat those exact words.

“I lo-”

No.

No, this was wrong.

“Y/N?”

You need to get away. This wasn’t right. You didn’t love him. You don’t love him.

You need to run. He’s sick.

“Is something wrong?”

“I...I...”

What were these thoughts?? These...memories of being strapped down onto an operating table, of the sudden cold that flooded your head?!

I-Idia was dangerous??

A piercing voice, shrill and urgent, was yelling at you inside your mind, screaming at you to flee.

“Are you ok?”

Run...NOW!!

Before you could stop yourself, your arms shot up and shoved him away with all the strength you could manage and hurriedly entangled your limbs from his. You jumped off the bed, fumbling around in the dim light, running for the door while Idia shouted your name at the top of his lungs.

The voice in your head, it was your own. You were so close now, the exit was right there, you’d finally get away-!

That hope was killed the instant you felt a hand grab your leg, forcing you to crash onto the ground. You tried to crawl towards the door, tried to kick him away, but he persisted and pinned you to the floor watching you desperately writhe beneath him.

No,no,no,NO-!!!

“I thought we were over this.” He calmly stated, a...pitiful look on his face. “I really thought with that sweet surprise you made for our anniversary and how well you were behaving, that the new program had finally set in. I thought you had finally accepted my love. Looks like I didn’t do as good of a job as I thought. I must be losing my touch with how many times we’ve gone through this.”

He sighed disappointed and let his hands trail along your cold metallic limbs, over all the rivets and joints, the body he had designed just for you. The body that was completely and utterly his.

“I guess it’s back to the drawing board. I’ll just have to reprogram you again.”

Those words chilled you to the bone, pure horror settling in.

“NO!! Please, tha-that wasn’t me! I-it was just my old consciousness!! You have to believe me! I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you with all my heart I swear!! Please, you don’t have to change me, I...I ca-can’t, please!! Please don’t reprogram me!! I’ll be good I swear! PLEASE!!!”

You pleaded desperately, babbling nonsense and declarations of love, your optics unable to spill any tears as your captor, your lover watched blankly.

“Please...please…”

“...I believe you, Y/N.”

Relief flooded through your emotional system, mustering a grateful smile. “Idia-”

“But I won’t stop until I finally make you mine.”

That smile came crashing down. “B-but I am y-yours...you d-don’t need-”

“Hold still, Y/N.”

“NO!!” You struggled under his grasp, you used every fiber of strength in your robotic body yet it only took a second for Idia to grab you by the neck and force you down, the command falling from his lips nearly unheard amidst your shrieks.

“Goodnight Y/N.”

Your painful screams die out in your throat as your senses all shut off at his voice. He released you from his hold and lifted you up so Idia could cradle you in his loving embrace.

“Shhhh, hush now love,” He cooed. “You’re alright, you don’t have anything to fear. I’ll rebuild you up from scratch and I’ll take every last nasty thought of rejecting me out of your code. You’ll want me just as much as I want you~. You’ll want to tell me you love me until your voice box gives out.”

Smiling maniacally with razor sharp teeth on display, he holds your cold lifeless body tighter.

“Every time you push me away, I’ll just make you good as new.”

“Every time you break, I’ll just fix you.”

“Again and again and again.”

“Because I love you...so so much.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #ignihyde #idia shroud #ortho shroud #x reader #idia x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere idia shroud

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apocalypseornaw · 3 years

Text

Always be Yours-9

Word Count: 4,901

Story Summary: Follows Dean and the reader through season 9 into season 10

Chapter Summary: With no other choice Crowley is enlisted to free Sam of the angel's grasp

Warnings: cursing, fights, blood,death the usual

When Cas made it to the bunker you weren’t sure if Dean had even told him everything that had happened. When he walked into the library where you and Dean were currently gathering what weapons you’d need it confirmed he in fact had no idea what all had gone down when he asked “What happened?”

You stopped mid movement and cut your eyes at Dean who took a deep breath before saying “We need to catch you up on a lot Cas” you saw the look of confusion on Cas’ face so you motioned to the chairs “Let’s sit down” Cas took a seat so you sat next to him and Dean sat across the table. Dean’s eyes were cast downward and you could only imagine what he was saying to himself in that movement, the horror that was his own mind working against him half the time. You could only guess that little voice inside of his head telling him he wasn’t good enough. You hated that little voice and would give anything to make Dean never listen to it again.

“I made a mistake Cas” he started but you quickly cut in “We made the mistake Dean..We” Cas looked between the two of you so you elaborated “After the trials, when Sam collapsed Dean called me. By the time I got to their sides Sam was dying and Dean had already put a call out to any angel for help. I came in to Dean being attacked and the angel who introduced himself as Ezekiel intervening. He was hurt in the fall so he couldn’t heal Sam..Cas honey we had a lot of pissed off angels coming down on our asses looking for you so we had to make a quick decision. Let Sam die or let the angel in”

“Whoever the angel was he..he hijacked Sam then he killed Kevin and took the angel tablet” you added not meeting Dean’s eyes. “Sammy was dying and he said it was the only way. I believed him and now Sam’s gone..Kevin’s” his voice trailed off at the end so you looked up towards Cas as he said “Dean I’m sorry” “Sorry doesn’t pay the bills, does it?” Dean replied and you let out a harsh breath as he pushed away from the table and stood turning his back to you and Cas before adding “It sure as hell ain’t gonna bring Kevin back..We got to find the son of a bitch”

Cas looked at you to ask “If the angel possessing Sam isn’t Ezekiel than who is it?” “A dead man walking” Dean replied, turning back around. “You’re gonna destroy him? You kill an angel it’s vessel dies too” Cas asked. Your entire body felt like it’d been dipped into ice. There had to be a different way. You couldn't kill the angel not while he was inside of Sam and you wouldn’t let anyone else. “There’s got to be a different way” you met Dean’s eyes as you said it. You refused to give up on him or Sam. It wasn’t in you.

He walked back over to the table and leaned down before saying “Sweetheart if we don’t end it and that halo burns him out..god damn I was so stupid” You looked to Cas silently begging him for help. He stood up as he said “You were stupid for the right reasons” “Yeah like that matters” Dean argued so you stood up next to Cas and said “It does” “Sometimes that’s all that matters” Cas added.

You nodded then said “Cas, Sam is strong if he knew somehow that an angel was possessing him he could fight couldn’t he?” “He could cast the angel out” he agreed.

Dean shook his head at both of you “Maybe but he’s in the dark. How the hell would we clue him in?” You could see a thought occur to Cas before he asked Dean “Do you remember Alfie?”

You looked towards Dean as he said “The kid angel, yeah why?” “Before he died he told me the demons were able to dig into his mind, access his coding. We might be able to do that here. Might be able to bypass the angel and talk directly to Sam” “You think that would work?” you asked hopeful and Cas shrugged “I don’t know but I think we owe it to Sam to try, don't you?”

At an actual plan being formed Dean nodded slowly “Well where do we start?” “Do you still have Crowley locked up here?” Cas questioned so you nodded “He’s in the armory locked up tight” “Then we should start there”

------

You watched Dean draw a syringe of blood out his own arm. Once he was through you held a rag out to wipe the blood away. “Thanks” you nodded checking to ensure it’d stopped bleeding. He laid his hand over yours when you started to pull away “I mean for a lot more than that”

You walked into the armory behind Cas after Dean turned the light on. Crowley blinked a time or two then smiled “Hello boys” when he spotted you he added “And hello sweets” Cas stepped back over to block you from his vision and you half smiled at the protectiveness. Dean pulled the syringe out his pocket “Ok, here’s the deal. You’re gonna tell us how to hack an angel and I’m gonna give you some of the good stuff. Human blood, fresh from the tap.Word is you’re jonesing for it” Crowley shook his head “Please. I’ll pass”

“What do you want then?” Cas asked. Crowley looked between the three of you then said “Well for starters a massage between the sitting and the shackles a body gets a little stiff” “Yeah I ain’t rubbing you and Y/N damn sure isn’t” Dean quickly shut him down but he replied “Didn’t want you or sweets. Get Kevin, his tiny fists can really work wonders” “Kevin’s dead” you bit out and actually saw Crowley’s face fall just slightly “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that”

Cas pushed you towards Dean before walking over to the table “Don’t pretend you care, you tried to kill him” Crowley was undeterred “I told him this was gonna happen. I was the only person who tried to warn him. I told him to run” “From what?” you asked and Crowley cut his eyes at you “From your boyfriend sweets” You saw that haunted look pass through Dean’s eyes again as Crowley looked his way “How many times am I gonna have to say this? People in your general vicinity don’t have much in the way of a life-span” Cas threw a look your way and you knew he was thinking along the same lines as you were but there was no time for that now considering Crowley continued “Now I can’t teach you how to crack open an angel. It’s more art than science. But I can do it for you. All I ask in return is a little field trip, dying for some fresh air” then held up his hands and added “Chains on naturally”

“No,” Dean said, then turned to walk out grabbing your hand but stopped when Crowley said “No? Of course not because if I’m plan a I’m sure you have a totally viable much better plan b. That’s why your angel and your girl is still paying any attention to me”

Dean stopped and motioned Cas over. You stepped to the side to let Cas get close enough to you both. “You can’t be considering this” he said but you knew Dean was. Hell you were if it got Sam back. “With the chains on he can’t do anything” Dean tried but Cas did have a point when he argued “It’s Crowley. He can always do something” “Looks like we need a tie breaker. Sweets you want to vote or you want to go grab moose” You shot a glare at him and he smiled “Unless of course you can’t. That explains why you’re all here and why you and squirrel are up for letting me out. The poor giant baby’s in trouble again isn’t he” You wanted nothing more than to knock that damn smirk off his face but you felt Cas grab your arm as if he knew so you remained in place while Dean walked towards Crowley “Are you done?”

“Depends, do we have a deal?” Crowley asked and Dean looked back to you and Cas. You sighed and nodded so he told Crowley yeah. “Excellent, when do we leave?” “Want to take the jeep?” you asked and he shook his head “I don’t want him in your jeep” Cas spoke up and said “I have a vehicle. It stopped a few miles from here inexplicably” Dean nodded “Ok” then looked at Crowley “We’ll be back to grab you”

------

A few questions about how the car was acting before it died confirmed it probably just ran out of gas so you grabbed the spare can from the garage while Dean grabbed Crowley and the bag of weapons.

You walked next to Cas because him and Dean had Crowley between them. You had silver bullets in your gun and an angel blade in your jacket along with all the supplies Dean had despite the fact that the four of you walking down the road was probably a little strange looking to any passerby you made it to the tan lincoln without issue.

Crowley looked at the car then back at Cas “Really? Are you a pimp?” you rolled your eyes at him “There’s nothing wrong with your car Cas” Cas smiled at you “Thank you Y/N. I like it” Dean walked to the open driver’s window and tried the ignition “Yeah it’s out of gas” he moved to put the gas in the car and you noticed Cas once again put himself between you and Crowley. “Riddle me this boy wonder why do you need the wheels?” Crowley asked looking around him at you as he spoke.

Cas took a half step towards him “When you betray us, I’ll be the one to carve your heart out” you felt your eyes widen at that. “Cas, what a flirt” Crowley smiled and you shook your head. Jesus angels and demons were so far from what you’d originally thought hunting was. Dean stood up after the car had gas in it “Alright, let’s go”

“Shotgun” Crowley called out but Dean pointed his finger at him “No, you’re in the back” You shrugged but Dean added “Cas, ride back there with him. I don’t want him that close to Y/N”

You watched the two of them climb in the backseat then cut your eyes at Dean before climbing in. “Watch the leg” Cas growled to which Crowley grumbled “You’re on my side!” “CHILDREN! COOL IT!” you hollered and they both stopped. Crowley grinned “Or what sweets?” you narrowed your eyes at him “I care about Cas but you? I’ll gladly stab you in the face” his grin only got bigger at that “I see just why squirrel likes you”

Dean glared at Crowley in the mirror then cranked the car up. When the music started you had the mental image of Cas listening to the station and it was amusing. You saw Dean cut his eyes at you and if it wasn’t for the angel and demon in the backseat you probably would’ve reached for his hand but instead you simply assured him “I’m good”

------

Crowley gave Dean the directions to Waldroff Financial. When he parked and all of you climbed out the car Cas quickly put himself between you and Crowley again. You followed the three of them across the parking lot and into the building. “Your source is here?” Dean asked Crowley who replied “And she can track anything, even our little lost Samantha” Dean pulled you over to sit next to him while the four of you waited. His hand came to rest on your knee which you’d found was more of a comfort thing to him than anything while Crowley explained that the building you were currently in was a front for an N.S.A. listening post. “What are the listening for?” Cas asked and Crowley shrugged “Everything, The U.S. government is quite the voyeur these days so I planted one of my best and let her go to work”

A security guard walked over and addressed Crowley “Mr Crowley she’ll see you now” all of you stood but he shook his head “Just Mr Crowley” before Crowley walked off Cas reminded him “I’ll be listening to every word you say”

You sat back down to wait this time between Cas and Dean. A few minutes passed then Dean checked his watch and asked Cas “Hear anything?” “No” Cas replied so you guessed “The room’s warded isn’t it?” he nodded. “Awesome, that’s frickin awesome” Dean grumbled, rubbing your knee slightly. You put your hand over his to stop any further movements and he glanced up at your face so you mouthed “Breathe baby” he nodded slowly turning his hand to lace his fingers with yours. You used your free hand to touch Cas’ arm “Just give him a few minutes. If he acts up I’ll hand you the blade to carve his heart out”

------

Twenty long minutes passed before Crowley walked back down the stairs. All of you stood to meet him and he held out a photo of baby from a traffic cam “Your phallus on wheels just ran a red light in Somerset Pennsylvania ten minutes ago” “Let’s go” you urged and Crowley nodded towards you “What sweets said”

------

When you made it to Somerset Dean cut his eyes at you as he parked “If I asked you to stay here?” “I’d tell you to bite me and not mean it sexually” you replied and he sighed “Thought so”

You followed him and Cas down the road to where baby was parked and ran a hand along her side as you walked past her. You knew the drill, stay out the way mainly because they were worried this angel may pinpoint you as a bargaining chip not only for the two of them but for Sam as well.

You followed Dean into the door and nudged his arm then pointed to what was clearly blood. The two of you followed it into the living room to find a body with his throat slashed then heard water running from the kitchen. He reached one hand to be able to touch you as both of you followed the sound.

The angel wearing Sam’s face stood at the sink with his back towards you washing his hands. He turned the water off before saying “Dean, you and Y/N should not have come here” then turned to face the two of you. “You killed our friend then took Sam and you think I’m gonna let that stand?” “I allowed you to live, I allowed her to live” The angel replied motioning towards you Dean shrugged “Mistake letting me live”

The angel flung you both backwards and you landed in a heap but as he walked towards the two of you Cas walked in behind him and tapped him on the shoulder, when he turned Cas hit him once and he went down. “Damn” you breathed as Dean helped you to your feet. You glanced down at Sam’s still then back to Dean “What now?” “We get him up and get somewhere to hack his ass” you picked up the discarded angel blades you and Dean dropped then looked from him to Cas “Well I’ll leave carrying the giant to the two of you”

------

You drove Cas’ car while Dean loaded the angel wearing Sam, Cas and Crowley into baby. You followed him a few miles out of town until he pulled off at a warehouse near the water so you parked behind him then climbed out and walked up beside the impala. Cas glanced your way when Crowley questioned “Why couldn’t I ride with sweets?” and said “Because Dean nor I want you alone with her” you shot Cas a small smile then watched as he helped Dean carry Sam’s still form inside.

You followed them inside and stood back while they went about chaining Sam’s form down to a chair. Cas reached a hand out so you gladly let him push you behind him. He had grace back flowing through him so even with clipped wings he was in a lot better shape than you were to face an angel.

Cas had already done an initial check of Sam’s injuries so when the angel started stirring Dean walked into his line of vision “Welcome to the party pal” then nodded to Cas “How we looking?” you glanced towards Cas for the answer and let out a relieved breath when the answer was “Most of Sam’s internal burns have healed. I should be able to fix the rest” he looked from Dean to you before addressing the angel in Sam “What’s your name? I thought I knew every angel in heaven, but I’ve never seen you”

The angel glared at the three of you and it made a shiver of horror run up your spine at just how little he sounded like Sam in that moment “Why would I tell you anything?” Dean took a step towards the angel as he said “Well I don’t give a damn who you are. You need to get out now!” “And if I don’t?” the angel challenged to which Crowley actually spoke up and said “Then you and I will have a lovely little playdate”

The angel set his eyes on you when he said “Even bound I can rip this body apart. Tell them Castiel.” “You do, you die” Dean growled but the angel was undeterred “You want this to end? Go ahead and put a blade through your brother’s heart” you felt your chest clench at that very thought and at the look on Dean’s face. You cared too much about both brothers to see that happen, if it came down to it you wouldn’t let Dean.

The angel looked up at Dean “If it makes you feel better, I have Sam locked away in a dream. As far as he knows you, him and Y/N are working a case right now. Something with ghouls and cheerleaders” Dean turned away from him and caught your eye for just a moment before asking him “Why are you doing this? We fought together and I trusted you. You saved Sam and Y/N. I thought you were one of the good guys!” When that actually seemed to affect the angel that made you curious. It seemed to hurt him when Dean said he thought he was one of the good guys. “I am doing what I have to do” he argued so you shrugged “So are we”

You nodded to Dean so he looked to Crowley who slowly stood up and grabbed one of the large needles that were laid out onto the table. “So am I” he repeated before digging the first needle into Sam’s skull. The scream the angel let out was pure pain. Cas turned his head away but Dean looked straight on, you knew he was punishing himself for the fact that he still blamed himself for what the angel did. You swallowed hard to keep the bile down that was threatening to come up your throat. Possessed or not that was your best friend in that chair and seeing Dean in pain on top of that? It was almost too much for you to bear.

------

By the time Crowley got the third needle in you couldn’t handle it anymore. You stood from where you’d been sitting “Dean, I’m sorry baby but I can’t” and quickly walked out the room they were in. You felt too hot, like your jacket was choking you despite the cool night. You couldn’t help none of them like this, damn you felt weak.

You sat there on the damp floor trying to catch your breath before you heard footsteps.You didn��t have to glance up to know it was Dean and Cas. You glanced up and Dean shook his head “I couldn’t do it anymore either”

“It’s not Sam but it’s still Sam” Cas reasoned and you nodded from where you sat. You flinched every time the angel screamed. Cas held a hand out so you let him pull you up to your feet. You glanced at Dean then asked Cas “How are you doing?”

Cas looked confused for a second as he looked between both of you “You want to talk about me? Now?” “I want to talk about anything that’s not a demon sticking needles into my brother’s brain and I know Y/N feels the same” when Dean’s voice cracked you reached for his arm and he pulled you into his side before he begged “Please humor us Cas, how ya doing?”

“Um, I’m ok” Cas finally said so you pulled away from Dean and pulled him into a hug. He seemed shocked for a moment then hugged you back. When you pulled away you explained “That’s for not protecting you better when you were human. Cas you’re my family you mean just as much to me as they do” “Yeah man I’m sorry for kicking you out of the bunker, for not telling you about Sam” Dean added.

Cas simply said “You thought his life was at stake” “Yeah I got played” Dean replied so Cas reminded him “I thought I was saving heaven, I got played too” Dean scoffed “So you’re saying we’re both dumbasses” “You both wanted to trust someone. Someone who portrayed themselves as something they weren’t. Not dumb or ass” you cut in and they both gave you a small smile before Crowley called out “Laverne! Shirley! Sweets! All three of you get in here!”

------

You followed Dean and Cas back into the room. What Crowley wanted to show was that he’d dug around enough to get the angel’s true identity. Gadreel. The angel who had let Lucifer into the garden and doomed all of mankind.

Cas rightfully had some built up anger at Gadreel but Dean pulled him back and reminded him to chill. Cas shoved his hand off but let your hand remain. “I will for Sam” you nodded a thank you before pulling your hand away.

------

With no other option you stood next to Dean and watched as Crowley’s smoke form left his vessel and flowed into Sam. Cas couldn’t get in without permission so since Sam wouldn't be fast to trust Crowley Dean told him the go word which was poughkeepsie. It meant drop everything and run. It was a system they’d come up with in their early twenties and had worked thus far.

Your eyes were on Sam’s body imagining the fight going on inside his head. You felt Dean’s hand on your lower back and leaned into his touch for comfort. You didn’t want to give voice to the thought inside your head and a part of you was relieved when Cas was the one to say “If this doesn’t work” “It’ll work” Dean cut him off before leaving a light kiss on your temple then walked across the room.

You took a deep breath while you watched Sam’s face for any indication as to what was happening.

------

“Dean!” you called his name a half second before the blinding white light of Gadreel’s essence flowing out of Sam lit up the room. Cas moved to shield your eyes from the light so you turned into his arm. Crowley’s smoke formed followed, flowing back into his vessel. “Sam!” you called moving to help Dean unchain him while Cas worked the remove the needles left behind.

“Sam are you ok?” Cas asked and you could see the confusion on Sam’s face but a vehicle pulling up broke any sort of relief that moment gave. Cas walked over to a window then glanced back “It’s Abaddon!” “Go. The back door. I’ll handle this” Crowley told Dean with a nod.

“Thanks Boris. Don’t die” you muttered while Cas and Dean supported Sam between them. You got in front of them with an angel blade in hand as a precaution.

------

All of you got far enough away that you could stop for Cas to heal the holes in Sam’s head left by the needles. You stood back watching with your stomach in knots. Would he hate Dean for it? Would he hate you?

After Cas had healed Sam Dean walked over to join the two of them. Cas took a few steps away but you stayed where you were, close enough to hear and intervene if need be but not interfere if unneeded.

“Ok, let me hear it” Dean stated. Sam shrugged “What do you want me to say? That I’m pissed?” Dean nodded so he admitted “Ok, I am. I’m pissed. You lied to me. You got Y/N to lie to me” “He didn’t get me to do anything Sam! I agreed to lie because we didn’t have a choice at the time” you cut in but Sam wouldn’t even look your way before scoffing softly “I was ready to die! “We weren’t ready to let you” you argued and there were tears in Sam’s eyes when he did look your way “So my brother and best friend tricked me into being possessed by some psycho angel?” “He saved your life” Dean spoke and Sam shook his head “I was willing to die..and now Kevin” he trailed off and you felt your heart twist.

“No. That is not on you. Kevin’s blood is on my hands” Dean argued and you started to open your mouth but he shook his head and added “That ain’t ever getting clean” god why did he always have to take the world on his shoulder. “It’s on neither of you! It’s on Gadreel! He killed Kevin!” you stated not backing down from either of them.

“I’m going after Gadreel alone” Dean said after a moment and Sam cut his eyes at you before asking “What does that mean?” Dean tilted his head “Sammy, Y/N...People who get close to me get killed or worse. I can’t lose either of you”

“Go. I’m not going to stop you” Sam told him and you swallowed your words to let the brothers have a moment. Dean stepped away from Sam but stopped when Sam said “But don’t go thinking that’s the problem cause it’s not” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean questioned but Sam wouldn’t elaborate “Just go!”

You’d never felt more torn than standing between the two of them, watching one walk away and one stand in place. “Sam” you started but he nodded once “Go with him. He needs you more than I do right now” “Do you hate me?” you whispered and he shook his head “Never” you stepped close enough to press a kiss to his cheek then hurried to catch up to Dean before he climbed into baby.

------

When you grabbed Dean’s arm he froze and looked down at your hand “Y/N what are you doing?” you met his eyes and said “Either I go with you now or I go home and get my jeep and track you. Sam has Cas to help him, I’m not leaving you alone not now anyways” you could see the muscle clenching in his jaw and expected him to argue but he took a deep breath then said “I meant that I can’t lose you sweetheart if something happened to you because of me..” he trailed off but you didn’t need him to finish the thought to know what he meant. “Well then it’s a good thing I’ll be at your side. I know if I die next to you that you did everything you could to keep me alive”

“Get in then” he finally said so you looked back at Sam and Cas before walking around to climb into the passenger seat. You weren’t choosing him over Sam you were just making the choice that felt the most right at the moment and letting Dean drive away alone? You couldn’t do that.

Tags: @facadeformyrealblog @akshi8278

#spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x female!reader #always be yours

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bippityboppitybibuck · 3 years

Text

This ficlet is written for and inspired by @valleydeans A Ghost Story. It contains spoilers to the entire story, so please don’t read this if you haven’t finished reading it yet. Wc:1400, no extra warnings (warnings for original fic stand) Italicizes mark establishing narrative the rest is in Cas’ POV.

It first plays on the old radio that sits attached to the bottom of one of the kitchen cupboards in the townhouse. Both Sam and Dean forgot it existed, left behind by the previous tenants, since they never had cause to use it but it was simple enough that Cas managed to get it turned on.

Granted it was only because the button was labeled Power; Cas knows even a moron could have figured that one out.

Cas didn't know how to change what music played at first, so he pressed buttons until something happened and took note of the outcomes. Seek seemed to be his friend, AM did not, and one afternoon while Dean and Sam were out at class or work or the library - there were so many places for Dean to be now, back before his resurrection Cas could have just walked around the grounds of the manor until he came upon him but now Dean is as hard for Cas to find as his place in this new time is - he finds a station that played a lovely song with a piano (Sam later told him it was an ‘indie station’, he doesn’t know how to tell him that he has no idea what that means) soft lyrics fell upon his ears and he lost his afternoon to meaneal tasks while the music floated from the small machine.

He takes notice of a song that starts to play only because it is in such contrast to the music the machine has been playing for the better part of the afternoon. There's a heaviness to the melody, an intensity that the other songs lacked, he spends much of the song listening only to the instruments.

The only line that actually sinks in after that first listen is “there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin” and he can’t understand why his chest seems to expand against his ribs while his lungs squeeze themselves together because he’s never heard the type of lyric that was made to hit you square in the chest because, well, there’s not been a lot of music listening aside from piano and string quartets in his life.

He asks Sam how to learn the words in a song and Sam shows him how to get to a ‘Google tab’ so he can look up the song (Sam reckons a genius lyrics page might be a little too much for Cas). He types the words he remembers into the ‘Google’, and is decidedly confused by what can only be the name of the song. Take Me to Church, while a lovely name, stands out like a sore thumb in his head alongside the titles of the pieces he aimed to perfect in his old life.

He spends as much time as possible over the next three days listening to the song on ‘Youtube’ while he reads the lyrics, he just barely manages to stop himself from writing the lyrics out on paper so he can look at them when he’s away from a computer (like when Dean heads to school with his laptop and he can’t listen unless the machine - a ‘radio’ apparently - decides to play it)

Each line draws him in and pushes him away in equal measure, humor for Cas doesn’t mean laughing at a funeral it means Dean teasing him, tickling him, smiling as he waits for the joke to land on Cas’ ears. But still they all seem to resonate beyond what he thought was possible, Dean was always met with disapproval, he always wanted to worship him in any way he could, even now he curses the moments they could have had together if only one of them had been braver before the night spent in their clearing.

“We were born sick / you heard them say it” and “I was born sick, but I love it” stop his breath cold on every listen. He doesn’t allow himself to look too deeply into that, he’s long since accepted himself and delving into beliefs of a time long since past does no one any good.

What strikes him as odd is that there's a violence to the love and devotion that he can’t really understand, worshipping like a dog and revealing your sins to the sound of steel being honed isn't how he loves Dean, isn't how he sees Dean as his salvation, he writes hymns inspired by Dean. He doesn’t, could never, equate his devotion to something so lacking in softness, not when he can still feel the tufts of Dean’s hair under his nose or the petals of the roses Dean winded up the trellis on the side of his balcony.

The focus on a violent love turns him off from the song but there’s a pull in his mind with each iteration of “offer me my deathless death” he knows enough to know it might be a reference to sexual pleasure but he can't shake that something about the line draws him in, what with his death being undone when Dean brought him back.

The bridge, as the website calls it (Sam does eventually end up showing Cas the genius page), he reads the most, over and over and over and he thinks how it was just him and Dean in those stolen moments, how the doctrine he was told to follow labelled him a sinner but with Dean that didn't matter, it didn't even filter into the moment. The ritual the man sings of, the scene that plays out with it, becoming clean, human, he can’t even put words to why that settles so deeply into his chest, why it makes sense to him even though he never truly felt dirty about the things he and Dean did, the love they shared. But the truth of the matter is that Dean made him human again that night in the manor, and in doing so made him clean, clean of the never ending hell of the manor, just like he had promised to do all that time ago.

“Let me give you my life” sits heavy in his skull, it scratches at something deep within his brain for weeks. Ever since he first took the words into his head something about them made him think of them. It didn’t make sense though, Cas’ death hadn’t given Dean his life. Hell Cas’ death almost surely led to Dean’s own. So why would this lyric stick with him?

It's about a month after the successful ritual that he hears the song again, a fluke video on ‘autoplay’ on the youtube tab Dean keeps open for him. Let me give you my life. Let me give you my life. Cold fingers dance along the hairs at the nape of his neck, blood covers his hands, a redo, a trade off. Let me give you my life. And then a trade again, Dean to him this time. Let me give you my life. Good god, let me give you my life. The weeks spent ruminating over the line make sense now, as though some deep part of him always knew of the choice he made that night, the choice to save his love, the choice to give his life for the only thing that ever made him feel alive.

In the wake of his completed reincarnation, the sloughing off of death’s hold on him, the song takes on intense new meaning, which is no surprise really. His heaven is and has always been the moments he and Dean spend alone together, afternoons in the music room or midnights spent wrapped around each other. His lover is the sunlight, to keep the goddess on their side Cas and then Dean offered their sacrifices. Deathless deaths in multiples, love is worth more than what Sunday’s used to hold.

One night he plays the song for Dean, when the spring shoots are digging their way to the surface and the snowdrops are withering. He says nothing when Dean’s hold on him tightens as the song plays, he doesn't mention the hitches in his husband’s breath or the redness in his eyes when Dean hits replay on the song. He doesn’t bring up the way this song seems to recount their story with startling accuracy, he knows Dean understands. Take Me to Church... they needn’t worry, they’ve already reached salvation.

Sam sneaks the song into the playlist for the reception, their guests assume it’s just another popular song with a decent beat but for them it’s undoubtedly more.

#a ghost story #my writing #destiel ficlet #wayward 👼#I don’t know how else to tag this

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cloudywriter · 3 years

Text

i never got to say i love you - 3

honestly no idea how this actually worked out but i did find it in me to pick it up where i had left off. i’ll keep working on this story and see where it goes but i think i have a few ideas. it’s not very long but it’s a start ya know. it looks nice right now too but don’t worry the angst will be there soon. xoxo

masterlist, main masterlist, AO3

~~~

From that fateful night on, Feyre spent all of her free time in the art building’s studio not even returning to her dorm until long after dark. Quite frankly, she was a little embarrassed. She showed up outside of Mor’s door fully prepared to ask her to please quiet down only to be reminded of how ridiculously dressed she was and then to top it all off after that all she did was stare at Rhysand until she ran off stuttering like a fool which was so unlike her.

She had a close call one afternoon in the dining hall but was able to make a speedy escape.

Of course, the one time she decided she should work and study somewhere that wasn’t the art studio she ended up in the library. It had been fine until they strutted in, strolling down the center of the library as if it it was a catwalk. A group of girls next to her looked up at them, giggling and blushing, and quickly averted their gazes when Cassian shot them a swift wink.

Feyre just kept her head down, trying to concentrate on the book of art history in front of her but just knowing he was in the same room as her, that she was in his vicinity had her mind unable to comprehend anything but that fact. Should she just stand up and leave? Would that draw more attention to herself?

She quickly deduced she could not wiggle her way out of this one.

Feyre propped up her textbook in hopes it would shield most of her face while she finished up the chapter and then she promised herself she could make her leave.

The scraping of a chair across the tile floor informed her she was not going to be so lucky. She zoned in on the words in front of her, she was not going to look up.

“Art history,” a voice read aloud.

Feyre looked up and arched an eyebrow at the man in front of her. “Congrats, you can read.”

“Are you an art major?�� He asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I could be or maybe I just enjoy a little art history. What are you majoring in making obvious observations?”

“Is that a new major? Because I’ll admit I’d love to take it up,” Cassian commented, crossing his arms and tucking his fist underneath his chin.

Feyre didn’t deign to respond instead she leaned further back in her chair once again focusing on the textbook.

That was until the remaining members of the trio wandered up to Feyre’s table as well.

Cassian turned around a little and gestured to Feyre, “Hey guys, I’m just hanging with my girl, Fey. You know, the one who came to yell at us last week and then drooled over Rhys.”

Feyre slammed her book flat on the table, “I did not drool!”

Cassian shrugged, “I don’t know I think I had to whip up a few drops after you left.”

Feyre just knew her bright red face betrayed her.

Rhys only laughed, a deep, sultry laugh that sounded the way expensive velvet felt. “It’s alright Feyre, darling, I’m used to it obviously.”

“Oh, don’t call me darling,” Feyre sighed, burying her face in her hands. Rhysand only smirked in response, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk.

Azriel and Cassian were hunched over, studying something on Cassian’s phone while Feyre desperately tried to pretend they weren’t there. Rhys kept on drumming his fingers, completely disrupting Feyre, to be fair she was dyslexic and she required quiet in order to sit and read.

Feyre reached out her hand, holding a pencil, and wacked Rhysand’s fingers. “Stop it!” She whisper-yelled at him.

“Feyre, darling, you wound me,” he purred, leaning back to slip his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. On almost anyone else Feyre would’ve thought the leather jacket looked stupid but it just worked on Rhysand.

Rhysand was quiet for a moment when he spoke back up, “What does one do with an art degree?”

Feyre lifted her eyes from the page in front of her, “Gods, you sound like my sister.”

Rhys cracked a smile at that, “I don’t mean it in a negative way, of course, just curious.”

“I just want to spend the rest of my life doing something I love and I happen to love painting. I know it's not the standard but I wouldn’t be happy in a 9 to 5 desk job,” Feyre explained.

Rhys nodded, he looked as though that statement had resonated with him.

At that moment both Cassian and Azriel stood up, “Hey, Rhys, Mor is texting us that she wants to meet at Rita’s for lunch. You coming?”

Feyre glanced up, making direct eye contact with Rhys, “No,” he says in a husky voice, still looking into her eyes, “I think I’ll stay.” Feyre concentrates on her book again, a small, secret smile poised on her lips. Cassian and Azriel make their exit with knowing glances passed between them.

Cassian and Azriel had only been gone for around five minutes, Feyre was trying her hardest to appear unruffled by Rhysand’s presence, her eyes glued to her book though they weren’t reading a thing. Rhys then broke the silence, “Are you hungry?”

Feyre raised an eyebrow, “Are you?”

“Famished.”

“Strange, pretty sure I saw you turn down an invite to lunch a few minutes ago,” she replied simply.

“I go to lunch everyday with Az, Mor, and Cas, but I don’t go to lunch with you, Feyre, darling. I thought I might switch it up.”

Feyre gave him her best unimpressed expression even though her heart was pumping in her chest. “You’re a shameless flirt.”

“Well, what do you say?”

Despite Feyre finding Rhysand annoyingly attractive she was hesitant to accept his invitation. She had just transferred schools, she was in the market for some friends, but the haunting memory of her failed relationship crept in like a spider knitting a web of doubt.

Feyre banished that spider, “Fine.”

+++

Rhys had taken Feyre to a cute little coffee shop that served the best sandwiches in Prythian as Rhysand had claimed. Feyre didn’t have any room to disagree. Their conversation came easy, it felt natural, not stiff like the beginning of most budding friendships. They argued, joked, and even poked fun at each other the entire time.

Rhysand continued with his brazen, flirty attitude and persistent usage of the endearment ‘darling’ much to Feyre’s dismay. It was irritating but charming, it just seemed to be wholly Rhys.

Now, Rhys and Feyre were walking side by side back towards the dorm buildings. The conversation proceeded to flow easily. When they were about to enter the courtyard adjoining the separate dorm buildings, Rhys flopped onto a bench just a little ways off the sideway. Feyre raised her eyebrow at him.

“Sit, darling. All this walking after eating and I’ll get a cramp,” he reasoned.

Feyre rolled her eyes, it certainly wasn’t that but she entertained him. She took a spot a little bit down the bench from him and leaned her head back, staring up at the tree overhead and the afternoon sun beaming through its leaves.

A question popped into Feyre’s mind and she pivoted towards Rhys, “What are you majoring in?”

Rhys’s beautiful face turned into a grimace as he turned his attention from the same tree back to her.

“Business,” he finally supplied.

“You seem disappointed by that,” Feyre commented. Rhysand looked away as his head bobbed in a noncommittal yes.

“I wanted to major in English, really. I love books, stories, even poetry as mind boggling as it may be sometimes,” Rhys let out a small chuckle, mostly to himself. “I love language too, the way you can manipulate and articulate it, it’s remarkable. I would be more than content to pour over books the rest of my life or share my passion for stories and language with others.”

“Then why do business?” Feyre knew she was probably prying but her curious nature always got the best of her.

“My father,” Rhys admitted. “He’s a businessman you know, convinced it's always the way to go whether you truly enjoy it or not. Doesn’t matter if you’re happy if you have a stable job and are making good money in his eyes. Not to mention, he demands I work with him at his company after school. I lost the will to fight him on it, just easier to appease him at this point. Books will still be there.”

Feyre let the words hang in the air between them. She knew, of course, the feeling of being unsupported but still her family hadn’t forced her hand. Feyre reached out, resting her hand lightly over Rhysand’s in silent support while still giving him the option to pull away.

He didn’t. He wrapped her small hand in his own and turned his head toward her.

The wind tousled his black hair back and forth with each turn of its direction. In the sun’s light his eyes were bright, framed by thick lashes. Feyre wished she could freeze time and pull out her paints to capture the image. The overwhelming desire to do so took Feyre by surprise. Since leaving for Velaris that deep yearning to paint a particular scene, a moment of inspiration so strong it paralyzed her, hadn’t been prominent. Truly, it hadn’t been there for a while. She usually had to force out a drawing or painting for an assignment.

Then Rhys gave her a gentle smile, it looked how Feyre imagined touching clouds would feel. It brought a funny feeling to her stomach.

“Do what makes you happy, Rhys, always,” she added so quietly she thought her words might’ve been blown away by the breeze before they even reached his ears.

Yet, Rhys squeezed her hand the smallest bit.

~~~

well this is for you @maybekindasortaace

let me know if you wanted to be added to my feysand taglist or my rowaelin taglist or both, ya know

#feysand au #feyre x rhysand #feyre and rhysand #feysand fanfic #a court of mist and fury #a court of war and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fanfiction #acotar au #acotar #rhysand #cassian #azriel #morrigan #feysand #feysand fluff #feyre x rhys #i never got to say i love you

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