#and punches him so hard he's gonna have to marinate in the pit waters for a year to recover

[sleepy-writes-stuff]

DP X DC WRITING PROMPT #20

(#) = Notes at the end of post

(*) = Other ideas relating to the prompt

✦

To Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Jason stayed dead for about six months before he was resurrected. That left his spirit plenty of time to fully manifest in the ghost zone, but time flows a little weird in the Infinite Realms so it feels like he's been dead a lot longer.

Regardless, six months is enough time for him to make plenty of friends and enemies alike. Enough to fall head over heals for the white-haired boy named Danny who just so happens to also be his king. Enough time for Jason and Danny to finally confess their feelings for each other and form a relationship. Enough time for them to grow to adore each other down to their very cores. Enough time for Jason to become the King's consort and earn the title of Prince of the Infinite Realms.

Not enough time, however, when Jason's spirit is unwillingly dragged back to the broken husk of his body buried in a coffin six feet under. Not enough time when the sheer amount of trauma his body and mind suffered causes his memories of the afterlife to sift out like grains of sand through a colander, mindless in his continued existence and search for a man named Bruce that he only half recalls.

Not enough time for when his body is stolen and dunked into the foulist pools of ectoplasm to ever surface in the living world and he comes back with unbridled rage he only half understands. Where is he? Where was he? Why does green flood his vision? Something is missing but why can't he remember? He shouldn't be here. Why was he here?? (1)

Jason tries to navigate his way through the world he'd previously left behind and discovers what happened after his death. The Joker was still alive. Another child was running around in a traffic light costume in the dead of night. Bruce had replaced him, seeming to forget he ever existed and the consequences of training a child to be a vigilante. That just won't do. He cries. He rages. He plans.

Meanwhile, the King of the Infinite Realms is apocalyptic over the fact that his lover was ripped from his arms, their kingdom, their home. He can sense Jason's torment like echoes in a cave. Can sense when his body enters the fringes of his territory when dunked into the toxic Lazarus waters created by the previous king. How dare they taint his lover's spirit with such filth?! Danny's core rears its head, chanting, growling to protect his soulmate.

Danny is beyond unhappy and he's about to make it everyone's problem.

✦

Notes:

(1) Jason forgets everything he experienced in the afterlife with Danny and is even more confused than he previously would have been when resurrected. Memories only come back to him in bits and pieces when he comes into contact with beings of the supernatural and Danny himself or possibly when he sleeps.

(*) I believe an interesting way to show the events and progression for this prompt would be to switch back and forth between the current events of Under the Red Hood/Phantom's anger and the days they spent together in the Infinite Realms before they were literally torn away from each other. Either as standalone info or through the dreams Jason has as he sleeps but doesn't remember when he wakes.

The events of Under the Red Hood still happen, there's just the question of where he even was for the six months that he was dead added into the equation. Dead on Main tossed in there for flair, because why not? Been seeing a lot of "Jason becomes Danny's Fright Knight" fics, but I wanna see one where they're literally just a royal couple who rule the Infinite Realms with a just and fair hand.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #jason briefly becomes a ghost and falls in love with danny in the infinite realms #danny is ghost king #they love each other very much #jason still gets resurrected tho #he has no memory of his time with danny in the ghost zone #he knows he's missing something and pissed that he can't remember what it was #danny is also pissed #so pissed that the entirety of the infinite realms can feel his anger #magic users who work with/around occult related things also feel it #they get a very very bad tummy ache and are very very scared #he does show up and knock on ra's al ghul's front door tho #and punches him so hard he's gonna have to marinate in the pit waters for a year to recover #what's stopping danny from draining the waters and telling ra's to heal the old fashioned way? #danny is on a manhunt for his soulmate everyone out of his way! #dead on main #danny phantom crossover #dp crossover #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #writing prompt #prompt

[all-hail-the-witcher]

88 ralbert angst that could include one dying?

I think the prompt was “this isn’t goodbye” 

hold onto your hats y’all this ones a ride

__________

ship: ralbert

genre: angst

warnings: fhakalandha alberts a marine, severe injury, hospitals, race is a mess, unconsciousness, tears, lots of tears

word count: 3175

editing: a lil bit

__________

Race hug up the phone and placed his head in his hands. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. His mind drifted back to the last time he had seen Albert, about six months ago when he had been leaving for deployment. Race had been a mess, even after years of Albert being in the Marines he always lost it right before he left. There was so much that could go wrong. And what did Albert say to him every time before he boarded the plane?

“I’ll be back, babe. This isn’t goodbye.”

Race fumbled with his phone, punching in several wrong numbers before finally dialing the right one.

“Hey, Racer,” Spots voice came through the line.

Race opened his mouth to say hi, but no words came out.

“Race?” Spot asked after a few seconds of silence. “Is everything okay?”

“I-I got a call,” Race whispered. “Its Albie.”

“Shit. Okay, okay,” Race heard him grabbing his keys. “I’m headed over right now, do you want me to stay on?”

“Yes,” Race squeaked.

“Okay, is he alive?” Spot asked. Race could hear his intake of breath. Spot was also a Marine, he was just home on leave right now. He had seen firsthand what could happen to people and had lost a few friends over the years.

“Y-yes? I-I think so? It wasn’t really clear….” Race flopped back onto the couch, forcing down his tears.

“What do you mean it wasn’t clear? Tell me exactly what they told you.” Spots voice was gentle and it calmed Race down slightly.

“They said there was a mission, and he was injured on it. They didn’t say how bad,” Race took a deep breath. “They’re bringing him back to the states. Should arrive late tonight.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Race,” Spot said carefully, “if they’re bringing him back he’s probably hurt real bad.”

“I know,” Race said quietly. “They said they had him at the military base hospital for a few hours and now they’re sending him back.” Race’s voice hitched.

“Hey hey, it’s gonna be okay, alright?” Spot said quickly. “Albert’s tough. He’ll make it.”

“I know, I know,” Race squeezed his eyes shut. “But what if he’s not? We’re supposed to get married, Spot. I don���t wanna marry anyone else.” Subconsciously, Race rubbed his fingers against his engagement ring.

“I know buddy,” Spot said. “Can you let me in?”

“Yeah.” Race disconnected the call and walked to the door of his apartment, opened it and all but fell into Spots arms.

Spot gripped him tightly and let Races tears soak through his shirt. “It’s gonna be okay,” Spot whispered pulling race closer to his chest.

Race nodded into Spots chest as he tried in vain to stop his tears. “He’s too young to die, Spottie. I need him,” he hiccuped.

“If he’s survived as many missions as he has, he can survive this one, I’m sure of it,” Spot soothed. “He would never leave you without saying goodbye.”

This brought a fresh wave of tears to Race’s eyes as Spot looped his arm around his waist, guiding him over to the couch.

“They’re going to call you when he’s back on American soil, right?” Spot asked and Race gave a weak nod. “Is there anything you want to do between now and then?”

“I don’t know,” Race mumbled. He didn’t feel like doing much of anything, not when his fiancée was half a world away and terribly injured.

“Have you eaten anything recently?”

Race shook his head. It was coming up on dinner time, and all he had had that day was a piece of toast and a bowl of chips.

“Okay, I’m gonna order some Chinese food, and we’re gonna watch some bad tv, got it?” Spot didn’t wait for Races answer as he pulled his phone out of his pocket to place the order.

Race pulled his knees into his chest and twisted his ring nervously. Albert would be fine, wouldn’t he?

•••

It was nearly 2 am by the time Spot lead Race through the doors of the military hospital. The pit that was forming in Races stomach was getting larger by the second. Albert was so close to him, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see him. But he had to be strong and push through it, for Albert.

“Race,” Spot said, snapping his fingers in front of Races face, causing him to jump. He looked a little worried. Apparently he had found out information about Albert. Race’s stomach tightened even more. “Let’s go sit down, okay?”

Race let Spot guide him over to one of the waiting room chairs. As soon as he was seated he spoke up. “Is he alive?”

“Yes,” Spot said and Race let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “He’s alive. They’re not quite sure if he’s gonna make it though. He’s been through a lot and he hasn’t woken up yet.”

Race took in a shaky breath and fiddled with his ring. “What happened?” he whispered.

Spot took a deep breath. “Well, most of it’s classified. But, he was apparently scouting somewhere with a few others when they got ambushed. He got shot in the knee. And then there was an explosion.”

Race buried his head in his hands. This couldn’t be happening.

“The force of the explosion knocked him back pretty hard,” Spot explained, placing a reassuring hand on Races leg. “He’s got 8 broken ribs and some internal bleeding plus some damage to his lungs. Three major shrapnel wounds from the explosion in his left forearm, hip and side plus dozens of smaller ones on his arms, chest and face, some of which got infected. He has some temporary hearing loss from the explosion in his left ear. And,” Spot took a deep breath, “they had to amputate his left leg above the knee. There was too much damage and he wasn’t going to be able to use it again so they made the executive decision.”

Race’s eyes swam with tears and he threw his arms around Spots neck. Spot held Race in a comforting embrace until the tears stopped.

“Can I see him?” Race asked hoarsely.

“Yeah, they said that’s okay,” Spot said, pulling Race up after him and beginning to walk through the maze of hospital rooms. Vaguely Race wondered why he knew the way until he realized that Albert was probably not the only person he had visited here.

Spot paused outside of door 314. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

Race stared at the door intensely, trying to prepare himself for what was on the other side. He forced himself to take a deep breath. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“Alright, I’m going to go find a doctor and talk to them more about his condition, okay?” Spot said, clapping Race on the shoulder.

“Okay,” Race said.

“You call me if you need me. And Race,” Spots voice grew quiet. “You should say goodbye. Just in case.”

Race felt his eyes water and he nodded before twisting the knob and stepping inside. He shut the door behind him and froze in place.

Albert, his beautiful Albert, was laying on the bed. The most glaring thing was the awkward space under the covers where his left leg should have been. His entire chest was wrapped in layer upon layer of thick white bandages as was his left forearm. Dime sized shrapnel wounds littered his exposed arms and shoulders and there was one on his cheek, chin and jawline. There was an IV and a blood transfusion line in his right hand. The oxygen mask he was wearing made him seem small and frail, accentuating his shallow breaths, which would hitch every now and then. There was a feeding tube going into his nose. Next to his bed, a heart rate monitor beeped every few seconds.

Somehow Race found himself standing right next to Albert’s bedside. His feet must have brought him over by themselves. He dragged one of the plastic chairs from the side of the room to the edge of the bed.

“Hi Albie,” he whispered tearfully, pushing his messy hair out of his face. “It’s good to finally see you again, although I wish it was under different circumstances.”

What had Spot told him to do? Oh right, say goodbye. The very thought of doing such a thing absolutely gutted Race. They were supposed to spend the rest of their lives together. They were supposed to get married. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

No. Screw that. Race didn’t need anyone to marry them. He could do it himself. There was no way he was letting Albert die before he put a ring on his finger. Hesitantly, he removed his engagement ring, fingering the smooth silver band while talked.

“So, Spot said I should say goodbye to you, just incase, cause, well, we’re not really sure if you’re going to make it.” Race bushed away his tears. “And I know it isn’t at all how we wanted it, but I am marrying you before you die, whether it’s official or not.”

Race gently lifted Albert’s left hand. “Albert Dasilva,” he whispered tearfully “I take you to be my lawfully wedded dumbass of a husband, even though you're stupid and really cute and an idiot. I'll be with you through even more shit than we've already been through, since we've already been through sickness and health and...this. I love you so much, I don’t even know what to compare it to. I just- I need you and please don’t die on me please. Who am I going to be stupid with if you’re not here? Just hold on for me, please?”

Tears dripped onto Albert’s bandages as Race carefully slid his ring onto Albert’s ring finger. Then he pressed a long kiss to Albert’s forehead.

“Don’t go, Albie,” Race pleaded. “This can't be goodbye.”

•••

It had been a week of Albert being in the hospital. Race had been home exactly three times to shower and sleep. Albert was doing a little bit better. He had been in and out of surgery for his leg and ribs the last few days, but he had a good chance of making it provided he woke up soon. The doctors said there wasn’t anything else they could do for him. He had been through so much trauma that his body and mind just needed time.

Race had been there the whole time, only leaving his side when absolutely necessary. And his ring remained on Albert’s finger. Race had decided that he liked the way it looked on him and couldn’t wait until they could get married for real.

But in order for them to do that Albert had to wake up first.

Race had his hand loosely intertwined with Albert’s and was tracing light patterns around his healing shrapnel wounds when Albert finally stirred.

A soft groan escaped his lips and Race’s head shot upright, his heart beating a mile a minute. “Albie?”

Albert’s eyes began to flutter and he took in a sharp breath, which was accentuated by the rattling of the oxygen through his cannula. There was another pained groan.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Race reassured, thumbing Albert’s cheek lightly. “Take your time, babe.”

Albert’s head rolled toward Race and he could see his eyes moving back and forth beneath his eyelids. His facial features scrunched slightly and he made a sound of discontent.

Race gently squeezed his hand and almost sobbed in relief when Albert’s fingers twitched beneath his. “That’s it babe, I got you. There’s no need to rush.” I’ve waited this long, I can wait a few more minutes.

Albert let out what sounded like a painful cough, and winced slightly. His eyelids fluttered some more and Race could see that he was trying desperately to open them.

“‘ace?”

Race’s eyes began to water at the sound of his fiancées faint and broken voice.

“Yes Albie, I’m right here. I got you, don't worry,” Race soothed in the most calming, steady voice he could muster.

“‘ace?” Albert asked again, finally pushing open his eyes. “You shouldn’ be ‘ere. Why are you….” He looked around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. “Where am I? The las’ thing I rem’ber is that explosion an’ then….” He looked up at Race again. “Am I dead?”

“No babe, you’re not dead,” Race smiled. “But try not to talk so much okay? You’re hurt real bad and I don’t want you to make it worse.”

Albert nodded.

“You’re back in the states,” Race explained slowly. “There was some kind of mission and you got really hurt and they had to fly you home. You’ve been here for a week now. You- you almost died Albie. I said goodbye to you and everything. You almost died.” Race forced down his tears, Albert didn’t need to see him crying, not now.

“Hey,” Albert whispered, looking up at Race, “it won’t happen again.”

Race let out a loud groan and a shadow of a smile tugged at Albert’s lips.

“You're such an idiot,” Race moaned, playfully slapping Albert on the arm. Unluckily for him it was the one with the massive shrapnel wound.

Albert let out a loud yelp of pain. His eyes flew shut and his breathing came in short rapid bursts.

“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m so so sorry,” Race apologized. What was he supposed to do? Did he call for a nurse? Did he try to comfort him? “Do you want me to get a nurse?”

“No,” Albert choked out, wincing slightly as he opened his eyes again. “I’ve been through worse.”

“I know babe,” Race sighed, gently touching his face, “but that doesn’t matter right now. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Albert reassured him. “But you know what would make it better?”

“What babe?” Race asked, gently pulling his fingers through Albert’s knotted hair.

“A kiss.”

Race rolled his eyes and planted a quick kiss to Albert’s forehead. Albert whined with dissatisfaction.

“No, a real one,” he complained. “I haven’t seen you in over half a year, I want a real kiss.”

“Fiiiine,” Race said with fake annoyance. He had been wanting to kiss Albert since the moment he saw him again, but he held back, wanting him to be conscious for that event.

The kiss wasn’t their most romantic or graceful. Race had to be careful not to knock Albert’s cannula or his feeding tube. Albert couldn’t exactly move, which made for an awkward angle, but they made it work. Their lips pressed gently together and Race felt Albert sigh with content. Albert eventually broke the kiss because his lungs couldn’t handle one of their usual makeout sessions at the moment. Race pressed their foreheads together.

“I missed you,” Race whispered, staring into Albert’s warm brown eyes.

“I missed you too.” Albert reached up his uninjured arm to stroke Race’s hair.

“I was so scared that I lost you,” Race continued. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever had to experience, please don’t do that again.”

“Well, now I physically can’t so…” Albert winked at him.

“AL!” Race jumped back, glaring at his fiancée. “That’s not funny!”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Albert said quickly. “It’s just, I don’t really know how to deal with all this. I know this must have been hard on you. I’m sorry.”

“Hard on me?” Race asked in disbelief, gently holding his hand. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine, I’ll heal,” Albert said, waving him off. “You almost had to watch me die. That’s gonna stay with you forever.”

“Yeah, but you're the one who lost your leg,” Race blurted without thinking.

Albert’s facial expression darkened and he waited a few seconds before responding. “....what?” he whispered.

Race took Albert’s hand in both of his. “You got shot in the knee,” he explained slowly. “There was too much damage and infection. Albie, they-” he paused looking away from Albert’s confused expression. “They had to amputate your left leg.”

Albert was quiet for several long moments, processing what he had just found out.

“Are you okay baby?” Race asked after almost a minute of silence. “I know that was a lot to take in. It’s okay to be upset or sad. The doctors said that’s normal.”

Albert shook his head slightly. “Well, at least you’ll have more closet space now since I’ll be throwing out all my left shoes.”

Race couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Oh my god.” He placed his head in his hands in frustration. Leave it to Albert to find a way to make light of this situation.

“Antonio,” Albert said unsteadily, and Race’s head shot up. Albert only called him that when something was wrong.

“What is it babe? Is something wrong? Do you want me to grab someone?” Race stared at Albert’s sad face with alarm. He didn’t seem to be in pain, but then again, Albert was exceptionally good at hiding things. Race was halfway out of his chair when Albert spoke up again in a voice so soft and broken he barely heard it.

“Where’s your ring?”

Race paused, sitting back in his chair, his right hand subconsciously rubbing his empty ring finger. “I-”

“No, I get it,” Albert’s voice hardened. “You don’t want to marry someone like me. I’ll just be an inconvenience to you. You didn’t need to stick around. You could have just left when you found out I was going to be disabled.”

“What?” Race asked, confusion clouding his face. “No. I still want to marry you. It doesn’t matter what you look like or what your condition is. I will always want you. This last week has been hell, not knowing if you were going to survive or not. I never want to experience something like that again.”

Albert opened his mouth, but Race cut him off. “My ring is on your finger,” he whispered, trying in vain to force down his tears as he lifted Albert’s left hand so he could see. “I thought you were going to die, and I wasn’t about to let that happened before I got the chance to marry you. So I used my ring, said some tearful half assed vows, and put it on your finger.”

“Tonio…” Albert whispered, tears pricking in his eyes. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Race shrugged. “It was pretty sad, actually. I’m pretty sure I was sobbing. I think I called you an idiot.”

“How dare you?” Albert exclaimed with mock horror. “After all I’ve been through?”

Race let out a watery laugh, leaning down to press his lips to Albert’s again. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

Albert smiled. “Me neither, but it might have to get postponed, since I want to actually be able to walk down the aisle.”

Race grinned. “I wouldn’t want anything else.”

__________

oooooooof alright shoutout to fizz for coming up with all of Albert’s injuries, just remember y’all she decided what happened to Finch, this is what you’re dealing with

also did you really think I was gonna kill him ?? c’monnnnn

anyway that was a ride

feedback is always appreciated hmu to be on the tag list

tag list@fairly-awkward-trashcan@well-the-kids-do-too@racetrackcook@bouncyscreamingnewsboys

@ughwaitwhat@aw-jus-let-em-try@ben-cook-can-cook@the-woild-is-my-what-now@elmer-s-s0cks@voice-foundshoe-lost@galaxy-trees13@stopthe-presses@ridin-in-style@pinecovewoods@imjusttheoutgoingsidekick@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing

@bencookisagod@be-more-chill-evan-hansen@hellasoulless@stellar-alpaca@saxoph-ella@smolcanadiankid@disney-princess-sized@the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog@insane-tomato@so-up-rolls-a-riot-van@spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn@have-we-got-news-for-you@thatfancyclam@myidkwhatmynameisblog@legoflambwrites

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@not-a-scab

#saphie scribbles #ralbert #racetrack higgins #albert dasilva #oof #I hurt these bois too much #thanks for the help fizz #newsies #newsies fic #also there were italics but I got lazy and didn’t put them in

[sunlightdances]

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader Rating: M for language. Warnings: Dirty talk, barely any smut. A/N: Just something fun since I’m alone in the office today and didn’t feel like doing anything. PSA: I’m a terrible employee. I got the idea of a haunted zoo from this article.

“Don’t move.” You tell Dean, carefully tiptoeing towards him. His breathing is shallow, and you fixate on his shoulder. 

“I swear to fuckin’ God, kid–”

“Stop talking.” You hiss. “Do you want to die?” In retrospect, taking a case at the city zoo was probably a bad idea, but what were you supposed to do? As soon as you heard ghost animals, you jumped at the trip. Dean, however, wasn’t so sure.

“If you don’t get this fuckin’ thing off me, I’m going to freak.”

You snort. “A little late for that, don’t you think?” You get closer, trying to figure out how the hell you’re going to get this poison frog off Dean’s shoulder.

The ghost animals turned out to be real, as was their ghostly zookeeper, and the struggle ended in the reptile house, with a few broken glass panes. Of course Dean was here for this. The guy wasn’t keen on reptiles in the first place, and you’re pretty sure he’s two seconds away from losing it and shooting the damn thing.

“Let me–” you get closer, “Let me find a stick or something.”

“That sounds like the worst plan.” Dean shifts on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “Just shoot it.”

“And get the poison everywhere? No thanks. Plus, this frog didn’t do anything to you. Don’t be so cold-hearted, Dean.” You pause, snapping your fingers as you grin at him. “Or should I say, cold-blooded?”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

“We’re in the reptile house. I couldn’t help it.” 

“Okay, that’s great, I’ll be sure to applaud you later. Just– get this fuckin’ thing off me so we can find Sam and get out of here.” 

You find a fake branch in one of the broken enclosures, and you inch towards Dean again. “Why do they even have poison frogs at a zoo?”

“For science.” Dean says, like you’re asking a dumb question. 

Much to your relief, the frog practically leaps at the branch before you even get to Dean, and you let out what you’ll deny later is a yelp before you hurriedly put the little guy back where he belongs. “Okay.” You sound a little breathless. “Let’s get the hell out of here before you make another friend.”

You and Dean hurry outside and meet up with Sam towards the zoo entrance, and you know if you don’t get out of there soon, the cops are going to show up. The alarm in the reptile house started going off as soon as the glass broke, and you really don’t want to spend time explaining your way out of that one.

Back at the hotel, you call dibs on the first shower, and to their credit, the boys only grumble a little. It’s been a long few days working this case and you’re tempted to stay in the shower a bit and– well, relieve some tension. You’ll use all the hot water though, and you don’t feel like having an argument about it with Sam or Dean later.

When you get back out to the main room, Dean escapes into the bathroom after you, squeezing by you in the small hallway, making you shut your eyes in frustration. You’re– okay, you’re a little hard up for it, but it’s not your fault.

You travel with two very extremely attractive dudes on the regular, both of whom do nothing to curb their own desires - they just go out and find a nice girl and go to her place. 

You don’t have as much luck. Not for a lack of trying, though. It’s just– you’ve never liked one-night stands. Nothing wrong with ‘em, but you just don’t think you’ve got the emotional bandwidth, as Charlie would say, to deal with that. You’re too quick to get a crush on someone.

So, you deal with it the best you can, but some days it’s harder than others. It doesn’t help that the longer you hunt with the Winchesters, the more affectionate they become. Sam is more shoulder squeezes and arms around your shoulders. It’s Dean– Dean’s the one who’s always gives you hugs, and flirts with you (the guy doesn’t have an off switch, apparently), and gives you these looks sometimes that make you flush.

You’re not sure if he’s doing it on purpose, so in the meantime, you just suffer.

Later, you’re asleep when you hear the door, and you’re instantly upright, scrambling for the knife under your pillow. 

“Relax.” Dean’s voice is deep in your ear.

“Sorry–” Sam says sheepishly, “Go back to sleep.” 

“Where are you going?” You ask, groggy. Turning to Dean, “Where is he going?” 

Dean chuckles. “He’s got a date.” 

“It’s late!” 

Now Sam laughs too. “Calm down. You were only asleep an hour. It’s eleven. I’m going to have a drink with that marine biologist.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Don’t wait up.” 

You groan and flop back down, pulling the blanket over your head as Dean laughs. “Ugh. Shut up.” 

“I mean, at least you’re prepared for anything?” He says, teasing.

“Why are you in this bed?” You ask, grumpy. You hate being woken up. You feel like you slept for hours.

He gets quiet. “You were– you were kinda thrashing, a little. Thought you were having a nightmare. Didn’t want you to punch yourself in the face.” He tries to lighten his tone at the end, but you frown anyway.

“I don’t remember it.”

He shrugs. “No worries. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

You roll over, facing him. “Thanks.” You prop your head up on one hand. “Why aren’t you out with the– what was she?”

“Angela worked in the butterfly exhibit.” He says, indignantly.

You snort. “Yes. Right.” 

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going out.” He drops his hand and it brushes your thigh, just barely. You suppress a shiver.

You sit up, leaning back on the headboard beside Dean. He flips the TV on, and you sit there in a comfortable silence until he shifts, too close to you to be casual. You side-eye him.

The small clench of his jaw is the only clue that he realizes you’re on to him. “You, uh–” He stops himself, then seems to decide he wants to go on. “Am I crazy or were you getting off in the shower?”

Your jaw drops. “What?” You blurt. “I–”

“Don’t answer that.” He holds his hand up. “Sorry. I– I shouldn’t ask you that. None of my business.” 

You’re staring at him now. “Why would you even–”

“I just thought I heard–” He hangs his head, clearly embarrassed. “Nothing. Never mind. I’m a huge asshole. I’m really sorry.” 

Your cheeks are flushed, but you almost want to laugh. Nothing about this hunt has been normal, so why not throw this conversation into the mix? “What if I was?”

His head snaps up to look at you. “Excuse me?”

“Why are you so curious? Maybe I was.” 

Dean’s eyes go dark. “Is that right.”

You feel an ache start to build in the pit of your stomach. “Maybe.”

“Maybe isn’t a great answer, kid.” He says. His voice sounds dangerous.

He slides a little closer, and must see how eager you are, because he starts touching you immediately. His hand slides up your thigh, and you shiver. “You need help?” He asks, a low rasp.

“Dean–”

“You want me to stop, I’ll stop. But if you want to get off, I can help you do that too.”

You whimper as his mouth hovers over your ear, and jaw. “Want to touch you.” You manage to get out, and he groans softly.

“Want that too.” He tells you. “Been wanting to touch you. For weeks, months.” His hands slide up, up, up, until they dip under the hem of your sleep shorts.

Your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders, and you relish in the way he shudders slightly. “Dean, if you don’t kiss me in the next two seconds…”

His mouth slants over yours before you can finish your sentence. You gasp into his mouth, and your hands frame his face as you hold him to you in hopes that he never, ever stops kidding you.

“Jesus.” He says, his mouth sliding down over your jaw and your neck, sucking a mark into the hollow of your throat. You whimper again, and he ruts his hips against you in reaction. He pulls back and his hands slide down where you’re warm and aching for him. “Goddamn, kid.” He mumbles. “The zoo really got you worked up, huh?”

“Shut up,” you say, breathlessly, almost keening as he presses his fingers against you. 

Neither of you talk for much longer, not until he gets both of your clothes off, and then– Dean’s inside of you, and he lets out a groan, and starts talking again. You’re starting to think the dirty talk is as much as thing for him as it is for you.

“You feel so goddamn good.” He whispers as he sets a steady pace. “Fuck.”

“If you stop, I’ll shoot you.” You warn when his pace falters, and he grins.

“Just making sure you’re– shit.” He swallows hard. “Just making sure you’re feeling good.”

You smile up at him. “Never better. Now shut up and fuck me, Dean.” 

His eyes darken even more, and he picks up the pace, until you’re practically writhing underneath him. He tells you how much he’s thought of this, how many times he’s pictured you spread out underneath him, and you whimper.

“C’mon.” He whispers. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let go. I want to see you. I want to watch your face when you come for me.”

You arch your back as your orgasm overtakes you, and Dean’s face looks strained as he struggles not to close his eyes. “That’s it, baby. That’s it. Fuck, yes.”

He says your name on a low moan when he comes, and you hold him close to you as you both ride out the aftershocks. A few minutes later, he lets out a breathless chuckle. “That was… unexpected.” He kisses your collarbones. “Good, though. Really good.”

You grin back at him, unable to tear your gaze away from his sparkling eyes. “Yeah. Good.”

“You gonna freak out? Try to bail on us tomorrow?” Dean looks at you with a surprisingly vulnerable look on his face. 

“Nah.” You say, casual. “Too much work to change my identity and all that.” You wink at him.

“God.” He snorts. “You’re such a brat. I almost can’t believe that I–” He stops himself, and your heart starts pounding. “Can’t believe that I actually like you.”

It’s not an admission of love, but it’s enough. Dean doesn’t do emotions. The way he’s looking at you, though– it makes you want to do some cartwheels or some shit.

“Hey.” He says, getting your attention. “I do, though. Like you.”

You smile softly. “Same, Dean.”

You drift off to sleep in his arms, and in the morning, he holds your hand as you walk out to the Impala to load your stuff in the back, only letting go when he goes to the front desk to check out while you wait for Sam. He looks over his shoulder at you twice on his way there, and you think that if this is how it’s gonna be from here on out, you could get used to this.

#dean x reader #dean x you #spn reader insert

[cantstopthesignal2005]

Back Into It

           Roman Morrison lied awake on his twin bed, the unforgiving autumn wind blasting through the window, leaving a thin glaze of frost in its wake. He wrapped his comforter around himself like a shawl, though it did little to protect him from the cold, and rose from the bed with a shuddering start, shuffling to the thermostat to crank up the digits. Grabbing a towel from the top of his dresser drawer and some warm clothes, he ran the water in his shower, the steam rising to create a fog. He stayed in the shower a little longer than necessary for the warmth it provided.       Stepping out, he dried himself and rubbed the towel against the thin veneer of moisture on the mirror and was embarrassed by the patchy beard which had grown from neglect. Applying a few dabs of shaving cream, Roman ran the safety razor through the unkempt thickets of facial hair he let accumulate, his smooth brown skin able to finally breathe.  Feeling accomplished, he dragged the towel along the mirror again, to fully appreciate his newly fresh appearance. The proud smile on Roman’s face was soon broken, as he confronted the laughter lines creasing his cheeks and bags beneath his eyes; flaws in an otherwise, he could admit, decent looking face.     It wasn’t the tides of old age ravaging his body that so perturbed Roman. It was the uncanny ways in which he began to resemble his father. He’d always had his eyes, but now his cheeks were sinking the same way as the old man’s. Roman had contempt for his father Julius who, despite his love of the poison (tequila being a favorite,) was neither a very cruel nor gregarious man. Roman considered his father’s life and legacy and realized the worst thing one could say about him was that he was absent. Absent in the upkeep of his house, absent in the lives of his children, and absent even in the company of others. Worse still was Julius’s lack of fight regarding his own life, simply allowing things to happen to him, being taken advantage of, never actively involved with the world around him. As a result of their father’s milquetoast personality, Roman and his sister Jenny led a hand-to-mouth existence until they were old enough to get jobs. He tried his damnedest to replicate none of his father’s appalling behaviors, remaining sober, working, being a somewhat bristling character.  It occurred to Roman that his spartan existence—owning little more than clothes, groceries, and furniture—could be traced back to the scarcity and impermanence he suffered in his transient youth. Consequently, he had little need or tolerance for frivolity and tchotchkes. Roman, holding a disgust for Julius in the pit of his stomach, was bringing his father back. And now, he would have to confront him whenever he looked in the mirror.    Following a protracted study of his features, Roman walked to the living room wearing only his towel. Seized by nerves, he stared ahead vacantly.  Not much had been done much to improve upon his standards of living, never accepting invitations to socialize, never looking to spend more than necessary. A beer or a joint wouldn’t allow any comfort that he couldn’t gather from a good night’s sleep. The wallowing had to stop, he realized, if he was to make the six-a.m. bus; hastily dressing for work, he ran down the stairs and just barely made it, smiling with a racing heart.  Roman, following the unwritten rules of public transit, knew to avoid eye contact with fellow passengers. He would reflexively stare out of the window or stare at his restless feet to deliberately avoid offense.    Roman worked at a local deli as a prep cook. Cutting, curing, roasting, five days a week.  He liked the job, as it afforded him space. He worked alone in the back and therefore wasn’t occupied with any workplace drama or politics. He swiped his employee ID card on the punch-in monitor, grabbing the checklist for the day, scavenging the cooler shelves for the items. Wesley, the first cook, walked into the prep kitchen with a shit-eating grin.  “Hey, Roman!”    “Hey, man,” he modestly replied.    “Doing alright?”    “Can’t complain.”    “Love to hear it. So, you know it’s slow lately, so I think today’s a fucking cakewalk. Donnie’s gonna join you today.”   “Donnie?”   “New kid. You’ll show him around, let him know what’s up, ride his ass if need be.”   “I think he’ll play the game, it’s not a hard job.”   “Just keep saying that shit I love hearing. Be easy, brother.” Roman went through the grunt work, mindlessly chopping, flaying, and marinating the food he had to prep. Donnie, late by forty-five minutes, came in through the door with a forced huff of breath, feigning exhaustion. Roman came to see that no one respected their In or Out times, though he was often expected to extend. After going over the expectations of the job, Roman took his break and ate a chicken salad sandwich in the dining room on a two-person booth. He answered his sister’s essay length texts regarding her struggles with imposter syndrome. Jenny had just been accepted into her first choice for university, she expected a sense of pride and community. But now, she found it to be worse than waiting for it. She saw that it was a rat race, one where she could barely keep pace with her peers. Her sleeping schedule was shambolic, confidence plummeting as the days dragged. Roman consoled his baby sister, being empathetic with her struggles to maintain a sense of worth.  Their identities having been cradled by a catatonic father and a wrathful mother, a sense of self-regard or esteem did not come naturally. Bombing Jenny with several messages reassuring her of her merit was an exercise in futility, Jenny replying only with more uncertainty and dread.       Sam, a bespectacled, cashier with long strawberry hair and freckles, sat next to him. She was a sweet girl, just out of high school. She would join Roman for lunch breaks when it was slow. Sam came to depend on his quiet, reserved tendencies for some peace and quiet.  Conversations between the two, while never significant, grew to be even more sparse of late. Gathering the braves, Roman mumbled, “How’s it going?”  She was somewhat startled, her attention snatched from her notepad.      “Oh, uh. Yeah. I’m good. I’m good. I mean, no, no I’m not. I’ve got to extend because Josh got fired.”    “Josh is that pale, white kid?”    “Yep. Smoked himself incompetent.”    “That’s pretty wild.”        “Yeah. How’s training that new fuckhead going?”    “He’s doing his job.”    “Yeah?”    “Mmhmm. How’s art school going?”    “Not bad. It’s stressful, but it’s worth it.” Roman nodded, and Sam pursed her lips in kind.  The connection petered out but despite the brevity of their interaction, Roman felt a swell of pride in his chest for having circumvented his laconic, withdrawn tendencies. He returned to work with a grin, going through the remainder of his tasks before checking out with Katie, the current manager on staff. Katie had cherubic cheeks and eyes like tundra ice, which went well with the jet-black hair she clearly achieved with a dye kit. Katie and Roman got along fine; much like any other relationship in Roman’s life, theirs could be described as “cordial.” Katie, while never abrasive with any of her crew members, was particularly ebullient towards Roman. He always appreciated the kind, inviting disposition she maintained.   “Hey, Katie,” he muttered.   “Roman! What can I do for you, my man?”   “Just need to get checked out, is all.”   “Any snags with stock?”   “No, everything’s solid.”   “Hmm. I’m gonna say you’re good, I trust you.”   “You sure?”   “Should I not be?”   “Well, I didn’t mean it like that.”   “Then I trust you, I’m sure, you’re good, and you can trust that I’m sure you’re good.”   “Thanks, Katie. Take it easy.”   “You too, Mr. Roman. Catch you on the flip side.”   Roman clocked out and braced himself for the gusts of wind whipping through the air outside. He made it to the brass bus stop, where he would sit and wait on the unreliable bus drivers, usually arriving well past their set arrival times. He contemplated the options for spending his evening. He could rent a film. He could power through a few television series.  He felt a bile rise in his throat considering those thoughts, and his reflexive pivot towards them. How would that be any different than the past five years of his life? How had he fallen in such a deep, sickeningly clockwork routine? He could predict interactions down to the parting sentiments. He was going through the motions and living his life like he was painting by numbers.  Every fucking night, he would turn on that television, recline, maybe eat some high-sodium takeout and die for six hours, closing the blinds and shutting it all out. All this comfort for what? The pursuit of an unmarked grave? For him to die as he had lived: unremarkable and anonymous?   “Hey, you okay?” a familiar voice asked. Looking up, he saw that it was Reenie, one of the bussers. She was the only other worker in his age bracket, getting off the 405, likely making her routine off-day visit to work friends.    “Yeah, just, long day. Thanks, sweetheart.”    “You need some water, amigo?”    “No, no, I’m . . .I’m alright. Thanks.”    “Yeah? That’s good, dude. Who’s working today? Do you know?”    “Katie and Kenneth are heading the shift. Sam, Jeremy, Nat are all on cash.”    “Nice.”    His heart palpitated, his breathing still irregular, as he was able to ask, “Hey, did you want to hang at all this week?”    “You know, I’d uh, I’d love to. But, uh, I’m fucking super slammed with work and all.”    “Oh, no, that’s, yeah, no I get it.”    “Wait, are you going to Allison’s coffee shop tonight?”    “Allison? Oh, wow, she got the shop?”    “Yeah, she and Darius got the loan, infrastructure all that junk. Opened up the coffee shop like a month ago.”    “Good for her.”   “Yeah, she’s doing an open mic tonight, Xander’s gonna spit some bars. You should come.”    “Yeah? Yeah, for sure that’ll be great.”    “Great. Let me get your number so you know the addy.”    The two exchanged phone numbers and parted ways. He boarded the bus and was rejuvenated, smiling as he occupied his spot on the back of the bus. Roman had life surging through his veins, a stark contrast to the opposing passengers who were dead on their feet. The maids, getting off their double shifts, were eating their dinner from a brown bag which was lousy with patches of grease spots. This was not for him, this life. He would be devoted to thrusting himself out there, taking chances, experiencing things, loving people, getting his heart broken, making awful mistakes. He wouldn’t be reduced to this cold, empty life of routine.   He returned home and began his process of fretting over what to wear. This anxiety was not unfamiliar, though it hadn’t been present in his life for some years now. He hadn’t needed to contend with another person’s expectations, let alone those of an entire group. This anxiety he learned to appreciate. It meant only that he had something to lose or gain. It meant that he was participating. Breaking him from this rumination was a phone call from Jenny. Answering the phone, he heard only sniffles and shallow breathing.   “Hey, Roe,” she began, congested. “Can you talk?”   “Of course, Jen,” he demurred, gentling his voice to soothe his baby sister.   “Yeah, no, it’s just all kind of fucked. Just, shit’s bad, dude. These roommates I’m with, they’re just, they’re getting so much done. They’re getting double majors, they’re all in constant communication with their professors, they have mentors. And they’re just so fucking nice. And I feel like I’ve just been this total bitch. And they’re just so sweet, you know? I feel like I’m so mean. I’m so sorry if I was ever mean to you when we were kids, Roe.  You know I love you, right?”   “Of course, I do.”   “Good. Good. I just, you know, I see how far they’re getting, their drive, the way they already have a fucking lane . . .” Roman’s phone began chirping. Checking the messages, he’d seen that Reenie had messaged him the address, informing him of the expected meet-up time. He agonized over the undue burdens he accepted.  He would be the rock for the limited amount of people in his social orbit, the shoulder to lean on, the wall at which they could throw their primal screams and neuroses. Was this going to be his life? Eating everyone’s sins, their trauma and panic gnawing at him, until he was a bloated carcass with poison for blood? No, he thought. He could be there for them, but it wasn’t going to consume him. Julius and Katherine might be his parents, but he didn’t need to be their son. It wasn’t necessary for  him to die for the sins of his parents.  “. . . and I feel like I don’t have any of that. And I’m thinking, maybe this isn’t the right choice for me. Like, maybe I don’t have it in me . . .”   “Jen, we’ve been over this. You’re gonna be fine. You are fine.”   “How do you know? How are you this certain?”   “I think you’re looking for reasons to worry because there aren’t really any.”   “Ugh, I fucking . . . ugh . . . you’re right. You’re right.”   “Look, I’ll check in on you tomorrow, but I’ve got plans, I gotta get going.”   “Oh my god, of course. Of course, oh, god, yeah, thanks for talking. I love you!”   “I love you, too, Jen. Take it easy.”   Roman became sick with anticipation as he took the subway to the upper crust, hipster area of Wisteria.  He periodically looked at the address on his phone, making sure the route he was taking was the proper one. He deserved to be happy, didn’t he? To share his life with others. These years of self-loathing and melancholia, to what purpose? Was this worth his identity and security? No, he wouldn’t waste any more years prostrating and self-flagellating at the altar, hoping for forgiveness from some imagined saint, absolving him of the transgressions of his youth. Roman reached the store, which had a small spearmint colored awning above it.  In gold, bright, loud letters, it yelled: Aunt Allison’s Coffee and Books. The fear began to hold him, but he had the choice to confront it or to remain its limp, quivering victim.       He swung open the glass door and walked softly inside, methodically observing the worn, wrinkled spines of books. Books made by fearsome, angry, vitriolic, eccentric people who wrestled with life, wearing fresh bruises, ensuring the world heard their voices as they roared. He walked over to a corkboard which was, he surmised, the bulletin board. It was dressed with overlapping flyers: business opportunities, local shows, rooms for rent. Flyers made by young, hungry people who lunged after what they wanted, never stopping until they achieved their goals, subsisting on ambition and instant noodles. The store he was admiring came about because Lizzie wanted it, worked at it, clawed out her eyes at three in the morning over it.  He smiled as he heard the rapturous conversations held by passionate people, who would wax poetic with bloody throats and bulging eyes.     Allison, without the messy bun and baggy eyes for which she was known at the deli, approached Roman with a warm, inviting smile. “Reenie said you were coming, and I called bullshit.”   “Hey, Lizzie.”   “You’re hanging out with the cool kids, now?”   “Yeah, I’m the chaperone.”   “Hmmm. Everyone’s over there,” she said, motioning to a ramshackle assortment of mismatched chairs centered around a coffee table, which collected several magazines, saucers, and cups.   “Yeah. Hey, congrats.”   “Thanks.”   “The name of the store is interesting.”   “Oh, god, do you love it?”   “Hmm,” he nodded. “Very familial.”   “Ha! Yeah, that’s true. Hey, I gotta check up on my crew, but have fun with the party over there.”   “Yeah, good night.”   “Good night. It’s nice seeing you.”   Roman took a few steps, hesitating, trembling. The group had him in their crosshairs and whipped their heads almost in harmony. “Hey!” Reenie exclaimed.  “I told ‘em you’d make it!”   “Hey, guys,” Roman nervously stammered.   “Hey, so, Roman, you’re a movie guy, right?” Emmanuel, from deliveries asked. “Okay, so there’s this documentary my little brother was showing me like a couple months ago. It’s like, these girls in New York, and they like, follow them from junior year of high school all the way to college, right? And we can’t remember the fucking name.”   “We’ve been telling him he dreamed that shit up,” Greta the cashier quipped.   “Hmm,” Roman mumbled. “I don’t know it.”    “Oh, man, if I find it out, I’ll let you know. It’s fucking wild, they’re like, drifting apart, doing drugs, or freaking out, going to parties, one of thems moms is like, mad unstable. It’s crazy. It’s so sad, but like, real. You know?” And Roman did know. Pain, love, estrangement, anger, sadness, joy. That’s what a life is. And he was ready to embrace it.