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hope-to-hell · 3 years

Text

This is a long one, so I’ll split it up into three parts. The Walker possession fic that nobody asked for but is happening anyway.

A Possession, part one: Convergence. August Walker x Henry Cavill. Warnings for the entire fic: possession, dubcon (possession-related; our hero never asked for this), mentions of past torture (prior to story events), some degradation, praise kink. Roughly 6k words altogether. Section heading titles largely pulled from whatever music I was listening to at the time. Part two is here, part three is here

Your body is a temple

—-

He doesn’t die, not quite. He finds something better.

It’s like this. You tried sitting on your hand once til it was numb, so that when you closed your hand around yourself it would seem like it belonged to someone else.

A face at the glass. The sensation of falling, of oil under your skin. Sharp pinpricks in every pore, a headache that threatened to split you in two. Stillness, for a moment. Then

Wake up.

Nobody there.

Wake up.

You push up on your elbows, look around. Everything looks the same as always. You’re alone, as always. Even Kal is asleep in the other room, and anyway if he’s started talking then you’ve got more problems than you thought.

Get up. Isn’t there a mirror?

There is, on the wall above the dresser. You rake your hands through your hair, making your bedhead even more pronounced. It feels good, so you do it again, tugging a little on your curls. And again, scraping one hand down through your stubble, over your jaw and down your neck. Press just a little.

We look good.

What?

Pay attention. I know you won’t want to miss this.

It’s like this. Your hand is your hand is not your hand. The calluses are the same, the thick fingers are the same, but there’s static fuzzing the signal somewhere between brain and hand. You surprise yourself with the way you scrape your fingers down your chest, with the way you dig those fingers into the skin of your belly, nails raising red welts.

Hm, you really like that, don’t you? Look at you.

And yeah, it’s a little surprising, watching the blood pulse into your cock like that, watching it twitch and jump, but it is morning and you were dreaming—

Dreaming about what? Tell me. Give me your secrets. Was it something like

Your hand closes around your cock, stroking dry once, twice, before pulling away and you whine, you whine and want to touch again, it’s like your hand is your hand is not your hand and you grip the edge of the dresser, breathing just a little harder than you should.

like this?

And you open your mouth, shove the first two fingers of your right hand inside. Suck. Get them wet for me. What? You’re not sure where this is coming from but oh there’s a line of fire running down from your fingers to your cock and it’s so so so

Good. That’s a good boy.

Oh fuck. Your left hand slips off the edge of the dresser. You catch yourself on your forearm and that’s going to be a bruise for sure. And now, bent over like this, it’s just so easy to reach back behind yourself with your right hand, feel your fingers stroking cool and wet down the cleft of your ass. Feel the muscle of your hole twitch, just a little. But it’s not—

Not gonna work. Where do you keep the lube? Fucking tell me we have lube.

You do, and it’s right here, regular fucking boy scout aren’t you; you squeeze it sloppy onto your fingers and kick your legs farther apart, getting into position like you’re presenting your ass for, for what?

For me. Now, get your fingers inside yourself. You know how I like it.

Yeah, just a little too fast, a little too hard. You breach your entrance with one fingertip and it’s like fire; your head jerks up like someone’s grabbed you by the hair and there you are in the mirror, eyes just a little too bright, eyes on me, that’s good, oh you good boy. Look at you.

One finger becomes two becomes three, slopping more lube onto your hand like it’s going out of style, and the stretch, the burn of it has you gasping voiceless, breath fogging the mirror as you try to lean forward and reach back at once, as your strange tv-static fingers search for the spot that makes your vision white out.

There. Just like that. Oh you’re so greedy, aren’t you. You’d take my whole fist if I wanted, you’d take it and you’d like it.

Fuck, yes, god you can’t breathe, can’t think, because you’re hitting that spot with every press of your hand now, you could swear you feel fingers gripping at your hair, raking down your chest, closing around you and it’s impossible, impossible, it’s

Me. Come for me, now, that’s it. Don’t look away.

And oh, fuck, that’s all it takes until you’re coming hard, so hard it drives you to your knees, right hand wrenching free and you think maybe you’re dying. Is this what dying feels like?

Obviously not. Now get up. Get dressed. We have such a busy day ahead.

—-

Blinking lights and revelations

—-

He makes you lick your own semen off the dresser. Well, he doesn’t make you exactly; you have the sense that he’s more a passenger than anything, but fuck if it doesn’t get you going anyway. He says clean up after yourself in that weird way that’s like talking but not, like he’s right inside your brain (am I not? What do you think is happening here, boy?) And that weird static feel is ghosting down your spine, nerves firing in a fingertip pattern. So you lick at the wood and fist your cock which is somehow, impossibly, hard again already. Until

No.

“No?”

Drop it. I will tell you when you can touch yourself.

There’s that static again, bursting down your spine to your arm your hand your fingers. Your hand drops open and you breathe hard, pained, every nerve firing at once.

Maybe not just a passenger after all. There’s a rich warm sensation, curling under the skin behind your ear. Try again, pet. See where it gets you.

“Who even are you? Why is this happening, I don’t understand.”

You don’t have to understand. You just have to deal with it.

“But who—“

You don’t know? Even though we fit so well? I think maybe you do know, and you’re scared.

He’s not wrong.

Of course I’m not.

You dress, let Kal out and back in. He looks at you skeptically before disappearing to wherever he goes when he’s not lounging at your feet. You get out egg whites and chicken breast for breakfast which somehow becomes bacon and eggs and those weird American biscuits that are like scones except not. You certainly don’t know how to make them, and yet there they are being formed under your hands. You watch a little, feeling your mind disconnect from your body a bit. Static again.

Your body is a tool. You have to take care of it. And if you don’t, then I will. Now drink.

The water is halfway to your lips before you realize you can’t remember pouring it. The glass drops from your suddenly nerveless fingers.

Well, clean it up. And get another glass. Christ, we’re thirsty. What have you been doing to yourself?

You eat your ridiculous breakfast and drink your water, and you hate it but he’s right. You do feel better. You could almost forget what has turned out to be the weirdest morning of your life so far.

You flex your fingers, roll the stiffness out of your spine and

Oh, fuck. That feels good. Do it again.

What? You go through the motions in reverse, stretching your spine til it pops, shaking out your fingers, flexing them against the opposite palm until you feel yeah the coil of pleasure in your gut. And oh that drops a thought like ice into your veins. A little detail you thought up during one of those never-ending script rewrites, something you’d never shared and had in fact put out of your mind because it was so ridiculous. His hands hurt. They always hurt.

Walker.

This is ridiculous. It’s completely insane, completely impossible, and yet

And yet here we are. Funny, so I exist here too?

“You’re just a character. A figment. You aren’t real.”

Not real, huh? I saw how hard you came with our fingers in your ass.

And oh how your cheeks burn at that. You can still feel echoes of that stretch, that soreness that lingers.

“But if you’re here, then—”

uh-uh. You start to feel that static creeping down your spine—again?—come on, there’s a good boy.

“Honestly? I don’t think I can.”

You can. You think I don’t feel it? That ache, that burn, that little bit too much? Think I can’t feel what makes you weak?

“You’re deflecting.”

And it’s working.

Fuck, he’s right. You hate that he seems to know you as much as you know him. You’re frantically scrabbling through your memories, trying to pull up your sense of Walker-the-character but it’s been two years. Still, you reach bits and pieces, his confidence, his almost aggressive masculinity, his betrayal.

His—

Bright, blinking lights. Shouting. Begging. Asking why—

A burst of static drops you to your knees. It hurts him. This little bit of backstory you’d pulled out of your ass to try and keep Walker consistent in your mind when the script changed every damn day. It hurts him and you take it back, you take it back.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t, I didn’t know.”

—-

“I got a hunger and I can’t seem to get full”

—Bright Eyes

—-

You prod at him like a bruise, a wound, a scab you pull off before it’s healed so you can see, just for a moment, the raw wet flesh before blood comes rushing in, feel the flare of pain as the last of the scab lifts away.

Knock it off.

“Come on. Please. I didn’t know, how could I? I didn’t even think you were real. If I’d known, I wouldn’t— Shit. This isn’t coming out right. Look, if something like that happened to me I wouldn’t want someone digging it up either.”

Something like that.

Something like that? Something like

Static bursting in your head again, loud and overwhelming, the signal lost and all you can do is writhe, all you can do is crawl as it takes you under. Because

The lights are bright, so bright, and the blood roars in your ears as they tie your wrists down tight, as they pull off your nails one by one. As they break your hands lovingly, bone by bone by bone. As they leave you to lie on the floor, gasping through tears and snot, clutching your hands to your chest.

And that was an easy day.

Jesus. The static fades, receding back up into your spine as you lie there gasping, trying to push down the memory because that’s what it was, wasn’t it. Not backstory, not theory, and oh your hands ache with it. So you rub them, thumbs pressing between bones, until the feeling recedes, until you feel a little spreading warmth work its way up your arms.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Don’t.

“I—“

Not happening. Now you know and that’s the end of it. Worry about it on your own time. With anyone else, you’d bring them something to drink, sit close enough that they could lean into you if they wanted. Give them space while offering up your own. Even knowing what kind of man he is, what he’s done, he’s still hurting and you always were taught to help those in need. But here you are more intimately connected than you’ve ever been with anyone before, with Walker so deep inside you, and there’s nothing you can do for him.

Phrasing, boy. Amusement, warm at the back of your neck. Besides, if I was inside you, I doubt you’d have the space to think about it. You feel that static again, radiating out from your spine. It curls around your hips, wraps around your inner thighs. It’s gentle, effervescent. And god help you, but you want more of it.

“Deflecting again?”

Obviously. Now shut up and let me take care of us. It’s nearly soporific, the way he curls around your mind. You can feel him picking at the seams of your worries, brushing them away and leaving an emptiness behind. Let me do this, I’ll make it good.

You’ve thought about it, haven’t you. Thought about the way Walker would fuck. You always do, when you’re feeling out a new character. After all, it’s the closest you can get to another person, the most honest and intimate you can possibly be with someone.

Almost, anyway.

Charles Brandon? Up for nearly anything, anywhere, with anyone. Likes to surprise his partners with a silk bow around his cock. Has a scar in his left armpit from a knifeplay experiment that nearly went very wrong.

Clark Kent? Gives and gives and gives. Always holds himself back, likes it out in the cornfields where he can smell the warm earth. His first orgasm blew out every window in a three-mile radius.

Napoleon Solo? Oh, you don’t really like to think about that one. He’s tried just about everything and enjoyed almost none of it. Would really like to be tied down and petted until he falls asleep, but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

And August Walker?

Come on. Tell me how I like it.

“You, oh Christ this is embarrassing.”

Mmm, is it? I can feel it, you know. You can’t hide from me, not really. Now be a good boy and tell me. I want to hear it from you.

“You—oh hell. You like to leave marks, alright? Cuts, bruises, it doesn’t matter. You just want them to look at themselves after and be reminded of you. You always make it good for them, it’s a point of pride I guess. But you never let go, so you’re never really satisfied.”

Clever. Go on. How do I touch them? I want you to show me.

—-

“And who is to say what flesh should do, and who is to have it for that use?”

—Built to Spill

—-

It’s like this. Your hand is your hand is our hand. Show me.

“I— I don’t even know where to start.”

Same as anything. You start at the beginning. Here, I’ll even make it easy for you.

There’s that creeping, bubbly feeling again but this time it’s crawling up the side of your neck. You follow it with your fingers and yes, good, definitely the right choice. Press your fingers to your lips, try again, move your hand to your hair and tug. There you go. Show me your throat. You can picture him, can’t you, drawing your head back with a grip just the wrong side of too hard. Can feel him nosing at the point of your jaw, biting over your Adam’s apple.

“How in the fuck?”

Your nerves are my nerves. Keep touching. Mmm, yeah, like that. That’s your carotid artery, can you feel the blood pumping? Not too much now, follow the blood down.

And yeah, yeah you can feel your artery pulsing as you press into it with your index finger, hold it long enough to feel that thrumming in your skull, but

Not today.

Fuck but it’s good, it’s so good, hold it long enough and you could drop to the carpet, starve your brain of blood a little and you could

Don’t.

That static again, sharper this time. Driving your hand down, unbuttoning your shirt with one clumsy hand. It’s like you’ve never undressed yourself before. And it hurts, somehow, little prickles of pain at your fingertips with every button. But that creeping static is curling under your shirt as you work, running blunt little tendrils down your chest and circling your nipples until they pebble hard, until your hips make the tiniest movement, seeking any kind of friction you can get, until you open your pants and get yourself out in the open air. Until

“What the fuck?”

You can feel a hand on your cock, sure and strong, but it can’t be yours because by this point you’ve got one hand playing with your tits and the other wrenching your head back by the hair. And you try to speak but the angle of your throat crushes the words, rasps them out weak and strangled.

“Oh, that’s good.” Your voice is doubled, echoing on itself, flat American accent chasing your own. His words are hot in your throat and you can’t tell if it’s actually good or not; it’s like being in a hall of mirrors and not knowing which way is out and which way will break your nose against the glass. He’s like fire in your throat, under your skin, everywhere.

Fuck, you’ve got that tightening coil in your gut and this might be it, might be the first time you’ve ever come untouched

Untouched? Really? I’m insulted.

And then you feel it. That hot white spark inside, the one you’ve only sometimes managed to hit with fingers and a careful angle, the spark that makes your balls draw up tight and your cock pulse even as something just barely holds you back from the edge. Whatever it is, it’s

“Christ. I— what is that? How are you—?” You’re wound tight, so tight. All it would take is the smallest push; you’re so hard you’re sweating and your nails are tearing at your chest, at your scalp, everywhere except where you most need your hands to be. And when you feel the first tears start to prick at your eyes, you hear him.

Hey. He sounds— stretched, somehow. You ever come so hard you see God? And with a flare of fire deep inside, you do. You come harder than you ever have in your life, and it’s the last thing you know for a long, long while.

#henry cavill #august walker #my fic #mission impossible #mission impossible fallout #august walker fic #august walker smut #henry cavill fic #henry cavill smut #august walker x Henry cavill #august walker x Henry cavill smut #mission: impossible fallout fic #mission: impossible fic #mission: impossible smut

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reddogcollar · 3 years

Text

The Day After

Here's your sleepover chapter.

warning for depictions of self harm, and blood

sorry abt formatting for the second time I just. don't care

First/Prev/Next

The morning after Bergan's visit, Drew didn't come by.

He didn't come later in the day, either.

Hector wasn't that disappointed, though. He'd accepted early in the morning that he'd be alone all day. And he prepared to be alone the next day, too.

And he was fine with that.

He was fine.

Even with the cacophony of viles, he was fine.

"What a DISGRACE!" One laughed. "You must be furious, boy, the way he manhandled you!"

It had been an entire day ago and they hadn't let up.

In his experience though, viles always were persistent.

"Refusing you your freedom! Just like all the rest of us. Why think YOU'RE different? Insolent boy." The second growled, right next to his ear.

The candle light just hid them, didn't drive them away. Not at night.

"Oh, I know.." The third one hissed, its voice made him shiver. "Take that knife of yours and STAB your way out of here!"

He cringed, and they all cackled.

It was right, though. The gem encrusted dagger had been left in his bag for the past year. He hadn't handed it over with everything else.

And he'd been lucky with it, hadn't he?

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He wouldn't be hurting anyone, not again.

He could. But he wouldn't.

He was better than that, at least.

"What's wrong, magister? The Woodland realm not as appealing as that wasteland Icegarden?"

"I don't want a realm." He muttered, digging his nails into his palm.

It did no good to respond to them, but it hadn't done any good to ignore them yet either.

"Oh really? Such a change of heart, for you to be content with being nothing all of a sudden! Under the Bear's foot again."

"You should stab the Bear in the foot with that lucky knife of yours! Then cut it off!"

They all laughed, praising the idea then offering new ones.

"Oh, cut out his heart!"

"Open him up like a turkey!"

"Pop his lungs!"

They didn't stop, the three cycling between each other and everything Hector could do to him with a knife and all the luck he'd ever had.

He shook his head, covering his ears again, even though it barely helped.

The shoulder pressed into his ear stung, though the wounds were incredibly small. The bruises, however, were huge. He was probably lucky Bergan didn't break anything.

Bergan was lucky Hector couldn't break anything of his, anymore.

He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying not to think about it.

That was hard though, with the viles still going on their tirade.

Hector pressed his ear into his shoulder harder, and winced before letting up. It wasn't helping, he could still hear them no matter what, and the bruises hurt.

He poked at the bruise some more, harder than before.

It was something easy to focus on.

It was easy for the viles to focus on, too. They'd all turned their attention back to him.

"OH, the boy wants to hurt, does he?"

"He's better off hurt, if he won't stab the Bear!"

"Take your dagger, why don't you?"

He wanted to throw the dagger out the window, now more than ever. With his luck though, it'd catch someone in the throat.

He reached back, under his shirt to feel the scabs left from the Duke's claws. They'd scar, certainly. He picked at the scabs, peeling them off.

That stung enough, but then he started scratching at the wounds. That burned.

He sucked on his teeth, and stopped, letting his hand hover over his shoulder.

The viles all started snickering.

"Can't take a little pain, Blackhand?"

"Really? THAT'S your limit, magister?"

"Come now boy, haven't you been stabbed before?"

He brought his hand in front of his face. There was a spot of blood under his nails. He hadn't cut them in a while.

He slid his hand back under his shirt, scratching at the wounds until the burn was all he could think about.

It was so much easier to ignore the viles this way.

He didn't stop, and he didn't keep track of time while he did it. He was pretty sure he'd peeled back a layer of skin.

Eventually, he couldn't take it. His hand came away bloody. He wiped it off on the front of his shirt without thinking about it. The shirt had already been ruined when Bergan grabbed him, anyway.

He twisted, trying to get a good look at the back of his shoulder. From what he could tell, the blood spot on the back of the shirt wasn't too bad.

Definitely bigger than the actual wound, though.

The pain was fading to the back of his mind now that he wasn't scratching at it anymore, and it became harder to ignore the viles.

"Done so soon, boy?"

"Want to hear us that bad?"

"Could dig all the way down to bone and never hear us again!"

He shook his head, and took off his shirt to look at the actual damage.

He'd been right, he'd peeled off the upper most layer of skin, just around the claw marks. The wounds themselves went deeper too. The damage wasn't that bad, though. And it was still a small area. He could see the worst of it without a mirror.

He'd be fine, it'd hurt for a bit and scar over, and that'd be that.

He put his shirt back on, not interested in staining another, before the viles could figure out something whitty to say about his body.

Just as he pulled it over his head, he heard something rustling just outside the window.

He leaned over the table, wanting to look out without bothering to get up.

Then the White Fist shot up, gripping the window sill, bathed in white fire.

He almost fell out of his chair.

Even the viles were shocked into silence.

The crackling filled the room, and Hector was briefly worried about the Garrison Tree's wellbeing.

Drew's other hand came up on the window sill, and he hauled himself halfway through the window. Shielded from the moonlight, the White Fist's fire was put out.

Hector snapped out of it, helping pull Drew in the rest of the way.

"Hey... Hector..." Drew said, between deep breaths while his claws receded. Climbing the entirety of a Great Oak was a feat, even for the Dyrewood's fabled Wolf.

"Hi? Why did you climb through the window??" Hector asked, bewildered.

Drew stayed quiet while he caught his breath on the floor, and Hector sat down next to him while he waited.

"After talking with you," He said eventually, picking bark from under his nails, "Bergan came to me and disallowed me from seeing you. I tried to come in the morning but he told-" He stopped when he looked up, getting a good look at Hector.

"Dear Brenn! What did he do?!" He asked, scrambling to stand up.

"Wha-" Hector looked down at himself, to find that in taking his shirt on and off, he'd gotten a lot more blood on it than he'd thought. Enough to be mildly concerning.

Or very concerning, in Drew's case.

"Oh! No! No, no, I'm fine. It's just my shoulder, is all." He explained quickly, struggling not to look off to the side.

The viles had started snickering again.

"Oh, what a noble wolf!"

"Still cares for the scourge on the Boar's bloodline!"

"Why don't you get a closer look at his noble heart, boy!"

He shivered, paying Drew little attention as he leaned past Hector to look at his shoulder. From the sound of it, the stain had spread much farther in the past few minutes.

"I'm fine, Drew, really. It's not even bleeding anymore." That wasn't quite true. He could feel a drop of blood slide down his back as he said it. "Barely" was just as good as "Not at all".

"What did he do?" Drew asked, still leaning over his shoulder.

"He just grabbed me. It's nothing to worry about." He said, gently pushing him back so he could get off the floor without knocking into him.

Drew sighed and sat at the table, sure the keep the White Fist out of the moonlight.

"You should probably change your shirt." He said, staring at the stains on the front.

"Probably." Hector nodded. The blood really didn't bother him, but if it bothered Drew he wouldn't argue with it.

Though, Drew seemed to forget to stop staring at him. His eyes were locked on the blood stains.

He wasn't sure if he'd grown an aversion to blood, or to Hector's specifically.

"Drew." He said, pulling out a clean shirt.

"Hm?"

Hector just stared at him. It would be funny, how oblivious Drew could be, if Hector wasn't currently bleeding.

Drew stared back for a minute, not getting it right away. He squinted until he figured it out.

"Oh! Oh. My bad." He quickly looked down at the floor.

The viles ate it up, laughing so loud and hard Hector was stunned for a second.

"What a savior, that wolf!"

"Doesn't he know it's rude to stare?"

"You should teach him some manners, boy!"

He couldn't stop his hand from shaking while he changed into a clean shirt. Between Drew and the viles, he was feeling all too crowded.

He considered doing something about his shoulder, but it was barely bleeding actively anymore. A spot of blood wouldn't matter, not compared to the mess of a shirt he'd taken off, and he didn't want to be shirtless longer than he had to.

Besides, why waste time on something so surface level?

When he sat down, Drew stopped staring at the ground. He smiled awkwardly, before dropping it for a concerned look.

"You're sure you're alright?" He asked, reaching across the table and grabbing Hector's hand.

He'd never done that before.

"I'm sure, Drew." Hector said, staying stiffly still. It was hard to tell if he liked it or not.

Drew made the choice for him, though, seeming to realize something and letting go, quickly pulling his hand back to himself.

"Sorry, you don't like-"

"It's alright, Drew." He cut him off, pulling his hand back anyways. "You said Bergan talked to you yesterday?" He changed the subject, not feeling like talking about himself.

"Yes. He wanted to know about the viles. I told him I didn't know anything." Drew sighed, looking exasperated just thinking about it.

"Did he believe you?"

"I'm not sure. Either way, he said I wasn't to come back in here. Or there'd be consequences." He explained, resting his head in his hand.

He didn't look as tired as the last time, but he still seemed exhausted.

"What kind?" Hector asked.

Surely whatever Bergan would do to Drew if he found out wouldn't be too bad, but still.

"Probably getting demoted." He shrugged. "I don't know if he'd lock me up. He might, though, for a little while."

"You didn't have to climb all the way up here." Hector frowned, starting to feel bad. He wasn't worth this.

"It was worth it. I had to come check on you." He said, shrugging again. Like it was no big deal to him.

"You really don't need to worry about me."

"Hector, we both know Bergan is no stranger to violence." Drew said, growing more serious and sitting straighter.

"You think he'd maim me?"

"I worry he may decide to execute you, Hector."

The viles went quiet again, murmuring amongst themselves, saying things Hector couldn't understand.

"I- Really?" Hector was shocked. He shouldn't have been, but he hadn't expected Bergan to actually want to kill him.

"One more misstep, and you're through. He'd fed up with the supernatural."

"He IS supernatural." Hector sighed. He wasn't afraid, but he didn't feel particularly comfortable with the thought of being executed either.

"Yes, well... I tried to make him reconsider, and I'll keep trying."

That made the viles excited, snickering amongst themselves. He still didn't understand what they were saying.

"Maybe you shouldn't." Hector sighed.

"What? Why not?"

"I don't." He stopped, glancing around for a glimpse of the viles, "I don't think seeing Bergan anytime soon would be very good. For either of us."

"Maybe not... It'd take a long time to convince him, though."

"Drew, if I deserve to be let out, I'll be let out. Don't worry about it." Hector said, trying to assure him.

"You already do deserve to be let out." Drew said, frowning.

"Clearly not, if I'm still here." Hector muttered, feeling only a little bitter about it.

"Hector-"

"Let's just talk about something else, alright?" He interrupted, not feeling up to it anymore.

Drew sighed, glancing out the window for a second before looking back at Hector.

"Alright, then. What've you been reading?" He asked, smiling.

"Um, about bugs, mostly." Hector said. He hadn't expected the question. "There are thousands of species of ants to learn about. Not very interesting though." He added on.

"If it's not so interesting, why read it?" Drew asked, chuckling.

"I like to learn." He shrugged, managing to pull out a smile as well. Just a bit of one. "Even about something boring, like every species of ant."

"Any interesting bugs for you read about?" Drew asked, resting his head in his hand again.

"Mantises, actually." He said, straightening up a little. "There are a lot of those, too. But they can be a lot more interesting than ants."

"Yeah? Tell me about it."

"Worried that might bore you, too."

"I've had far more boring conversations, trust me. Go ahead." Drew said, with an easy smile.

It made Hector smile wider, in a way he hadn't in a while.

"If you insist. Well..." He went onto explain mantises, their habits, different species, until the moon was in the middle of the sky.

He shut up when Drew couldn't stop yawning.

"You should probably get to sleep." He said, biting back a yawn of his own.

Drew glanced down out the window, and sighed.

"Yeah. Probably. Can I sleep on your floor for a while?" He asked, looking back at Hector.

"Huh?"

"Not looking forward to climbing down." He explained.

"Take the bed, then." Hector said, gesturing at the bed behind him.

"And you'd sleep where?" He asked.

"Maybe I won't sleep."

"You need to sleep as much as I do." Drew rolled his eyes.

"Then ILL sleep on the floor." Hector insisted.

"No, it's your bed."

"If it's my room then you're a guest, take the bed. Its hospitality."

"Well it'd be rude of me to make you sleep on your floor."

"Just lay down, Drew."

"Then take the bed."

He sighed, and looked over at the bed.

"Its big enough to share." He mused.

"You don't like being touched."

"If it'll make you sleep on a mattress, I'll deal with it." Hector smiled at him, hoping to look convincing.

For a second, he worried it wasn't working when Drew didn't say anything.

"Whatever you say, Mr Host." Drew shrugged and got up, flopping down on th bed, and pressed himself against the wall to give Hector room.

Hector laid down, trying not to crowd him.

This had to be his worst idea. He should roll onto the floor and let Drew sleep in peace. He should jump out that window and put an end to their troubles, each. He should-

Drew snoring broke him out of his thoughts.

He sat up and looked at Drew. He looked peaceful.

In another life, maybe he could enjoy this. Be peaceful too.

But Drew was risking his job and possibly some of his freedom to be there. Hector was just another problem in his life.

It made him sick.

He sighed. Watching Drew sleep wasn't helping. It was weird, too.

He was stuck in place though, sitting in bed with his knees up to his chest. Watching Drew sleep.

Listening to him breathe, and snore.

If he shifted, he'd probably be able to hear his heartbeat. Though, he'd probably also pop a lung. And wake Drew.

He wasn't gonna risk that.

Listening to him breathe was enough.

It was steady, and easy to focus on.

It made him tired.

He layed back down, facing away from the room. He didn't want to fall asleep looking at viles swarming the corners of the room.

Looking at Drew back and hearing him breathe was much more appealing.

Eventually, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke late in the morning, he was alone.

#I hope its everything you wanted. everything you hoped for #anyways. once again as always I hate dialogue tags. dialogue tags my be loathed #beloathed**#also. sorry but I don't even brain space to list mantis facts at you. you'll need to supplement your own #fun fact abt them though. when I was younger I was incredibly terrified of them #bc of their shape #now I think they're cool but if I had to touch one. I'd cry.#and yes. I'm projecting that #projecting very specific. very small things #wereworld #there was a point where I just stopped changing the draft. because it is 6 am

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apathetic-revenant · 7 years

Text

we can figure this thing out

...okay. so, um. explanation.

I’ve had the rough idea for this bouncing around in my head for quite a while now, but I was trying to be a good, responsible writer and not start anything else until By the Skin of Your Teeth was finished. but then, well, things happened and I couldn’t write at all for a while, and when I finally started feeling like doing a bit I just wasn’t quite up to working on BtSoYT. my anxiety was through the roof and Nazis were running rampant and things were just generally bad, y’know, and I knew the upcoming chapter was going to be really intense and I just couldn’t do it yet.

so I fell back on this considerably less angsty idea, which, um, I sort of wrote in between two periods of not being able to work, so it’s been sitting around for like a week now because I wasn’t up to editing it. but today I did feel up to editing it, and it seems like an appropriate day to post this. I mean, it doesn’t really have anything to do with the twins’ birthday, per se, but uh...I don’t have any other fan content for you so here you go.

but please rest assured that By the Skin of Your Teeth is not dead, and I’m very sorry for leaving you guys hanging so long.

AO3 link here. title is from It’s Only Life by The Shins.

Everything was fine.

The Shack was almost back to its former sort-of-glory, thanks to the dedicated and boisterous efforts of pretty much the entire town. Grunkle Stan had recovered most of his memory, and seemed certain to regain the rest with a little more time. Most of the scrapes had scabbed over and the bruises yellowed and faded away, and even Grunkle Ford's burns were healing nicely. It was a warm and beautiful late summer afternoon and birds were singing and the world was healing.

Everything was fine.

Mabel sat in the grass, not caring that her skirt and shoes were getting muddy, and skipped a stone across the surface of the little pond she'd found hidden away in the woods. She watched as it skipped one-two-three times before it disappeared into the murky water, and felt absolutely terrible.

Everything was fine except it hadn't been fine when she saw all her friends imprisoned in screaming images at the snap of a finger, when she and Dipper were running down a corridor with a howling, furious demon hot on their heels, when she was staring into that vast red eye and watching the symbols sliding back and forth like a demented slot machine, waiting to know whether she or her brother would die first. It hadn't been fine when Stan was kneeling on the floor and Ford had slowly raised the memory gun in trembling hands and she had realized all in a great terrible rush what he was about to do. It hadn't been fine when she had run to Stan in the meadow, so sure that everything was alright now, only to see the blank, empty look in his eyes and realize that he no longer knew her.

It wasn't fine. It wasn't fine when she heard Dipper crying in his sleep, when he woke up in the middle of the night with a yell. It wasn't fine when she saw Ford wince as he moved, or run a hand over his wrists when he thought no one was looking. It wasn't fine when Stan hesitated over some behavior that should have been familiar, or gave her that bemused, I'm-sorry-I'm-trying-my-best smile that didn't belong on his face at all.

It wasn't fine but everyone was acting like it was, like it was all over and done with and they were all better now only she didn't feel better. She felt awful and twisted-up inside and she didn't know how to be happy and bright again. She didn't know if she ever would be.

There was a big work party going on to finish up the Shack, with food and soda and loud incoherent music for everyone, and she should have been there, should have been enjoying it, cheering everyone on, eating sheet cake icing and singing at the top of her lungs and generally being the life of the party. That was how things were supposed to go. That was how she was supposed to be. And she had tried, she really had, but every forced smile and half-hearted stab at a piece of food made her feel like she was falling apart, hairline fractures spreading farther and farther across her surface like an old china doll, until she was knew that one more crack would make her shatter into a million pieces.

She hadn't meant to run this deep into the woods. She hadn't meant to run away at all. She'd just had to get away.

She didn't even know where she was, really. She hadn't been paying attention to where she was going, until she looked up and realized she had wandered into some patch of the woods she hadn't seen before. The only identifying marks were a small pond and a few old rocks jutting up out of the grass. It looked more or less like any other part of the woods, beautiful, sunlit, meaningless.

Given the nature of the woods in question, of course, there was probably some ancient secret or hidden treasure waiting to be uncovered in that very spot. Maybe the muddy little cattail-flooded pond was actually a magic pond, and if she threw enough stones into it everything would go back to being alright, properly alright, like it had been before the wood had ended.

She threw another stone into the pond. It skipped once before sinking with a sad gurgle.

The worst thing, the thing she couldn't tell anyone, the thing burning a cold hole in her chest, was that it was all her fault.

She hadn't really remembered, at first. Her memories of being in the bubble were all strange and sticky and unclear, like someone had pulled them out and shuffled them around and messed with all the filters. It had been a lot like a dream, timeless and hazy, where the strangest things made perfect sense, and she had no idea how it had all started. At some point she hadn't been in the bubble, and then at some point she was, and the space between those two points didn't seem to properly exist.

But she'd worked it out, slowly, in bits and pieces in the dead of night, in quiet moments of aftermath, crawling pace by pace to the terrible but inevitable conclusion: she had given the rift to Bill. He had been able to enter their world, to take over, to do all of the terrible things that he did, because of her. Because she had been scared of middle school. Because she had wanted her perfect summer to last a little longer.

Her fault, her fault, her fault: the burns and the blank eyes and the crying in the night. She hadn’t told anyone. She couldn’t. It sat in her throat like she’d swallowed a rock, like something choking her that she couldn’t cough loose, and every time she saw some evidence of the terrible days behind them it dug into her and hurt a little more.

She couldn't get away from it.

Angrily, she picked up another rock and threw it, giving it a good sharp twirl that send it skipping all the way across the pond, and dropped her head onto her knees, waiting for the splash.

It didn't come.

“Ow!”

Mabel jerked her head up in surprise, expecting to see one of the forest denizens-a gnome or a Manotaur or something-and already feeling guilty. Careless, all over again-even sitting on her own in the middle of the woods she made mistakes and they hurt people-

It wasn't a gnome or a Manotaur or any of the other things she'd been imagining. It was a unicorn.

For a moment she just stared at it, forgetting everything else. It was beautiful, graceful and shining in the late afternoon sun, and looking at it made her feel a lot like she had when she'd first seen Celestabellabethabelle: sort of awestruck and overwhelmed and guilty for being so plain and grimy and ordinary compared to that. And she'd hit it. With a rock. She'd beaned a unicorn with a rock.

“Do you mind?” the unicorn said, in that weird way unicorns seemed to talk through their horns. “I'm trying to get a drink here.”

Mabel abruptly remembered that unicorns were actually jerks.

“Go away!” she yelled at it, balling her fists into her sweater, sharp, brittle anger washing away her guilt. Stupid unicorn probably deserved to be hit in the head with a rock anyway.

“Oh, that's nice,” the unicorn said. The voice wasn't quite what Mabel would have expected; it was feminine, but not at all like Celestabellabethabelle's high, flouncy whine. This unicorn sounded...grumpy, and low, and a little gritty and a lot older. “This is your pond, is it? You get to decide who comes and who goes?”

“I said go away!” Mabel bawled back at it. “Leave me alone!”

“I was leaving you alone,” the unicorn snapped. “Minding my own business, me, not bothering nobody. You're the one who threw a rock at me.”

“I'll throw another one if you don't leave me alone!” Mabel yelled, barely even aware of what she was saying; all the anger and guilt and awfulness was racing on ahead of her like an out of control roller coaster and all she could do was try to hang on. “I'm not afraid of you! I know what unicorns are really like! You're all...all...selfish and judgy and you lie to people and make them feel bad!”

The unicorn slowly raised her head from the water she'd been lapping at.

“Really,” she said slowly. “And what, pray tell, are you basing this comprehensive value judgment on?”

Mabel scratched at the dirt with a rock. “I've met unicorns before,” she mumbled.

“Have you,” the unicorn said. “My memory must be going. I don't remember ever meeting you at all.”

“Well...no...I haven't met you,” Mabel admitted. “But...but I've met other unicorns. And my Grunkle Ford has met a bunch too,” she added, rallying a little, “and he said they were all jerks, and he's super smart and knows what he's talking about.”

“Ah. I see. So, having met some members of my species, and knowing someone else who claims to have met some members of my species, you feel confident in your assertion that we all share exactly the same qualities,” the unicorn said. “Sound logic.”

Mabel felt her stomach twist around. For a moment it was like she was back in the glade and feeling lower and lower as a voice from on high trumpeted that she was not pure of heart! But it had been a trick that time. She didn't want to get tricked ever again.

“You're just trying to...to confuse me with your...words,” she said.

“Yes. Definitely,” the unicorn said, sounding dryer than ever. “Getting hit with a rock and called a jerk has all been part of my master plan to make you feel bad. You've figured me out. Bravo.”

She lowered her head and went back to drinking.

Mabel stared across the pond and she wanted to be brave and strong and good and clever, like the Mabel who punched monsters and stood up to mean jerks from any species and made her family proud. She wanted to tell that unicorn what was what and back it up with a good left hook if it tried to argue. She wanted it so hard her fingers dug into the dirt like she might be able to hold onto it, get a grip on her better self before it could slip away, but the horribleness was bubbling up through her like a volcano, like an untended kettle getting ready to scream, and it was all drowning her out.

She leaned her head against her knees and scrunched her face up tight and felt like the world was ending all over again.

After a long, long moment she heard a soft, delicate plish splish plish sound, like hooves stepping daintily through mud.

“...Alright, kid,” the gruff voice said from somewhere above her. “What's eating you?”

Mabel screwed herself up even tighter and willed the unicorn to just go away already. “Nothing,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, right,” the unicorn said. “I'm not so near-sighted I can't spot a blind funk when it's right in front of me. Or are you going to tell me that glowering at a pond and chucking rocks around is how you normally express exuberant happiness?”

Mabel scowled into her skirt. “Why do you care?”

“I'm sure I don't know,” the unicorn said witheringly. “But apparently I do care, so you might as well take advantage of the opportunity.”

Mabel peeked up from her knees to glance at the unicorn. This one was white, shading to silver, with a silvery-blue mane that ran wild halfway down her back. Up close she was still graceful and pretty, but not quite as breathtakingly beautiful as she had seemed from a distance. More...normal, more like an actual creature and not a painting come to life. At the least, Mabel could see that she wasn't nearly as well groomed and coiffed as Celestabellabethabelle; there were burrs in her mane, spots of dirt and mud on her coat, and the edges of her hooves were rough and worn.

For a moment the two of them just looked at each other, and then Mabel burst into tears.

She'd never cried so hard in her life, not even when she was seven and the family cat had died, not even when she was ten and a girl at school at pushed her down and stolen her favorite backpack, not even when when she was twelve and her brother was going away forever. It felt like everything she'd kept pressurized inside her for the past few days was rushing out in a torrent so powerful she could barely even breathe. She cried so hard it hurt.

There was a shifting of silver in the corner of her eye as the unicorn lowered herself onto the grass next to Mabel. She didn't say anything, not even when Mabel huddled against her and got tears and snot on the lovely white coat, just lay there and let Mabel cry until she was finally spent.

For a while, then, there was just quiet, nothing but the sound of the woods gently stirring around them, and Mabel sniffling and hiccuping to herself.

“...'m sorry,” she said eventually.

“Apology accepted,” the unicorn said calmly. “But don't expect me to believe all that was over a mis-aimed rock.”

“...'m sorry I called you a jerk.”

“That's...not really what I meant,” the unicorn said. “But I'll accept that one too, if you want. I take it you've had an...unpleasant interaction with unicorns before?”

“Yeah,” Mabel mumbled. “It ended in a lot of punching.”

“Really? From who?”

“Me.” Mabel sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “And my friends. We had to get some unicorn hair so my uncle could protect our house. So we went to the glade and we met this unicorn called Celestabellabethabelle-”

The unicorn groaned loudly.

“-and she kept saying I wasn't pure of heart, and I was trying really, really hard to be better, but, um...things happened, and then, and then she admitted that it was all just a con anyway. That unicorns just told people that they weren't pure of heart so they didn't have to give away their hair. And she laughed at me. So I punched her.”

“About time someone did,” the unicorn muttered. “I've half a mind to go around and sort that mare out myself. I knew Celestabella was a stuck-up twit, but torturing kids with that business is a new low.”

Mabel shifted uncomfortably. “I...guess I just thought all unicorns were like that. I mean, she said-”

“Of course she did,” the unicorn muttered. “That's the sort of thing she would say, isn't it? Much easier to claim that everyone's like that than to admit that she's just being a jerk all on her lonesome.”

Come to think of it, that sounded a lot like some humans Mabel knew.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

“Eh,” the unicorn said. “I admit, we have some bad representatives. There aren't a lot of us, so it's a lot easier for a few to speak for the lot. Especially if they're attention hogs, like some people I could name.”

“Is that why you're out here and not in the glade?” Mabel said curiously. “Because you don't like the other unicorns?”

The unicorn twitched an ear, which Mabel thought might have been something like a shrug. “Not really. The company can get a bit grating in the glade, to be sure, but it's not all bad by any stretch. I just tend to prefer my own. And I like to get out when I can, get some fresh air. Too many rainbows give me a headache.”

“Oh,” Mabel said.

“But enough about me. How about you tell me why you're out here in the woods all on your lonesome, crying up a storm?”

She didn't want to. Once upon a time Mabel had been convinced she was pure of heart; now, she knew that if this unicorn told her that she had done bad things, it would not be a lie. But the unicorn was waiting, patient as an old tree, and Mabel couldn't stand the rock in her throat any longer. She had to tell someone.

“I did something bad,” she said whispered at last. “Really, really bad.”

“Really,” the unicorn said, sounding faintly amused, but not unkind. “What heinous crime did you commit?”

Mabel swallowed hard. “I...think I kinda...caused the end of the world.”

There was a long pause.

“Well...okay,” the unicorn said eventually. “I can't say I was expecting that one. You wanna give me some context here?”

So Mabel told her.

About staying in Gravity Falls with her twin brother and her great-uncle and having great adventures except they got scary sometimes and there was this freaky one-eyed triangle demon that kept pestering them, only at some point he wasn't a pest anymore, he was terrible and threatening and he tricked her brother, and then he tricked her, and she had given him something she shouldn't have because she thought it would make things better but instead it had made everything much, much worse, and lots of people had gotten hurt and Grunkle Stan had lost his memory, had lost himself, all because she had thought, I just want summer to last a little bit longer, had thought, this is just some dumb science thing of Dipper's, had thought, it won't hurt anything.

It took quite a while.

“...and now everyone keeps acting like everything's okay but it's not okay, it's my fault and they don't know it's my fault and I can't tell them but they're gonna find out eventually and then everyone's gonna hate me and I'm not a good person!”

This last came out a lot louder than she had really intended, and startled a few birds.

“...I thought I was,” she said, after a minute. “I thought I was but...I think Celestabellabethabelle might have been right after all. I think I am a bad person.”

The unicorn sighed-a big, snorty, horsey sigh. “Hoo boy. That's a big 'un, alright. Hmm. Hmm. You got anything to eat?”

Mabel blinked, torn out of her reverie with this abrupt comment. “Um. I...have half a bag of gummy koalas.”

“Give 'em here.”

Bemused, Mabel pulled out the wadded-up bag and shook the contents onto the grass. The unicorn nosed around for a moment and selected a green one.

“Mmm. Sugar. Good. Now, then.” The unicorn looked up at Mabel sternly. “First thing, we're going to discard the notion of Celestabellawhatsherface being right about anything, on general principle.”

That made Mabel smile a little despite herself.

“Second.” The unicorn picked up a couple more gummis and mouthed over them thoughtfully. “You didn't know what was going to happen when you handed that thing over, did you?”

“Well...no,” Mabel said.

“So it's a bit rich to say you caused the end of the world. Sounds to me like it was this Bill character who was responsible.”

“Yeah, but...but...” Mabel twisted a hand around in the damp grass, pulling up a few stalks in agitation. “But I still shouldn't have given it to him. I mean, I keep thinking about what would have happened if he had done what he said he would and...I don't think that would have been a good thing. Not really.”

Not after the bubble.

“Well, no,” the unicorn admitted. “Probably not.”

“So...so I still did something really bad,” Mabel said.

The unicorn swished her tail through the grass. “You did something you shouldn't have done, yes,” she said. “There's no getting around that.”

Mabel looked down at the mud and felt her eyes start to swim with tears all over again.

“But everyone does,” the unicorn said. “Everyone screws up sometimes. We're none of us perfect-not even unicorns, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Mabel looked up. The unicorn looked back at her, calm and still.

“But...doesn't that make me a bad person?” she said.

The unicorn sighed. “Kid, I'm going to level with you on something. It's a hard truth, but it is true. You ready for this?”

Mabel wrapped her arms around her knees and nodded.

“People like Celestabella, they like to sell you on this idea that there are Good People and Bad People,” the unicorn said. “That goodness is inherent somehow. Ain't so. No such thing.”

Mabel frowned. “That's not true! There are good people, I know that- ”

“Good grief, I'm not saying everyone is terrible,” the unicorn said, rolling her eyes. “I'm talking about this whole pure of heart business.”

“I mean...I know that's baloney,” Mabel said. “I know Celestabella was lying. She said herself.”

The unicorn sighed. “Yeah. I think that might be the problem.”

She nosed through the grass for more gummies, tail twitching thoughtfully. “Look. I'm guessing you believed in this whole 'pure of heart' thing even before you met Celestabella. If you didn't think you were a Good Person, capital letters, would you have been so upset when she told you that you weren't?”

...I'm probably the most pure-of-heart person in this room!

Mabel sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess.”

“And then you found out that she was lying, and she was a jerk, so you must have been a Good Person all along, right? You were in the right and she wasn't, so it didn't matter much what she said.”

Mabel tugged on her skirt and thought about this. “Well...”

“Which, I'm not saying she was right,” the unicorn went on. “But...sometimes knowing that someone else is wrong can stop you from seeing that you're also wrong. It's a tricky thing. My point is, I'm guessing that whole encounter didn't do a lot to convince you that you weren't fundamentally a Good Person, or that Good People didn't exist. It just convinced you that unicorns weren't any good at telling who was and who wasn't. And that may have done you more of a disservice in the long run.”

“So...so I'm not a good person after all, then,” Mabel said, feeling her heart sink down somewhere into her stomach.

“No, that's not what I'm saying,” the unicorn said irritably. “What I'm saying is that being good...it's not a quality that you just have. It's not some shiny thing in you, or anyone else. Neither is being bad, for that matter. Being a good person is something that you do. And here's the hard part: it's something that you have to keep doing. It's not a prize that you win if you get enough points. It's...like a marathon that you have to keep running, every day, and there's no finish line. And sometimes you're going to run really well and cover a lot of ground, and sometimes you're going to trip and plant your face in the dirt. That's okay. The important thing is that you keep going.”

Mabel frowned this over. “So...so I have to keep doing good deeds? Like every day?”

The unicorn flicked her ears. “Not exactly. I mean, good deeds are, well, good. Generally speaking. But it's not about doing things just to be good. It's more of a mindset. Just...when you do things, think about why you're doing them, and what impact it'll have. Be good to the people around you. Give back what you receive. And when you make mistakes-because you will-learn from them. Own up to them. Do what you can to fix them. And then move on. That's the worst part of this whole stupid pure-of-heart idea. If you define yourself as a Good Person, when you do eventually slip up, well, one of two things can happen. Either it completely breaks you, because you don't know how to think of yourself as anything but a Good Person, or, worse, you get to thinking that because you're a Good Person, anything you do is automatically good. Which is how crusades get started, but that's a whole other topic. Point is, it doesn't help anyone.”

“That...that doesn't sound so hard.”

“It's not, by and large. Except when it is. Mostly, you just have to do what you can with what you have. Some days that might be giving to charity and rescuing kittens from trees and some days it might be all you can do to not haul off and punch anyone who doesn't deserve it. It'll come and go. Just do your best. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The unicorn hunted around for more gummis. “Now, for what it's worth,” she said, “I'd say you're doing pretty well. You made a mistake, alright, but only because you were in a vulnerable spot and someone took advantage of it. After all, you figured out what was wrong with that decision. You owned up to it. A lot of people wouldn't have ever made it that far, you know. So chin up, girl. Don't let one thing throw you off the track for good. After all, the world may have ended for a while, but it seems to have come back just fine.”

Mabel nodded slowly.

For the first time in several days, the rock in her throat seemed to ease up and shrink away a little.

“I daresay it'd do you some good to talk about this with someone else, though,” the unicorn said. “I know it hurts to open up sometimes, but it'll hurt more in the long run if you don't. Otherwise, this thing is just going to sit on your chest and make you miserable forever, and that won't fix anything.”

It hurt just to think about, but deep down Mabel had to admit that the unicorn was right. She couldn't imagine keeping this secret much longer. It felt like something was eating her up from the inside.

“Okay,” she said. “I will. But can I...um...ask a favor?”

“You can ask,” the unicorn said. “I may not grant.”

“Can I have some of your hair?”

The unicorn cocked her head to one side and eyed Mabel thoughtfully. “Well, that depends. Are you a girl of pure and perfect heart?”

Mabel hesitated. “No?”

“What are you?”

“I'm...I'm a person trying really really hard to be good but sometimes I make mistakes and I'm not perfect but I'm going to pick myself up again and keep trying.”

“In that case,” the unicorn said, bowing her head, “I grant you a lock of my mane. Use it well.”

Mabel pulled out the penknife Grunkle Stan had given her and gently began to saw off a lock of the silvery mane.

“Though I confess, I don't really see the appeal,” the unicorn went on. “It's just hair. But perhaps that's because I'm attached to it. The novelty's worn off a bit. What are you going to do with that, anyway?”

“I'm going to knit it into a sweater,” Mabel said, tucking the hair carefully into her pocket. “Or...no, a scarf, I think. So I won't outgrow it. I can keep it and remember.”

“Huh,” the unicorn said. “That's a new one. I like that.”

“A girl in a movie I really like did that,” Mabel said. “Well, sorta. She went to a really strange place and it was hard at first and she had to do some really scary things but it got better. And in the end she had to leave but first some of the friends that she made wove her a new hairband to remember them by. Only I don't think any of my friends know how to knit so I'll have to do it myself.”

“Mabel!”

Mabel jumped. That was Dipper's voice.

“Sounds like you're wanted,” the unicorn said.

“I'd better go.” Mabel said, and then, on sudden impulse, threw her arms around the unicorn's neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the soft, sweet-smelling mane.

The unicorn nuzzled her gently. “Oh...go on. Get on with you. Your family's waiting.”

Mabel stood up, wiping grass off her knees, and, waving hard all the way, ran off in the direction of her brother's voice.

As she got closer she heard other voices calling her name as well: Wendy, it sounded like, and Grunkle Ford. She ran harder, stomach fluttering as she realized that they all sounded worried. They must have noticed she was gone and come looking for her.

In the end she almost ran into Dipper, who was coming up the path ahead of the other two. They both skidded to a halt, kicking up leaves.

“Mabel!” Dipper gasped. He was out of breath. “Where have you been? We were all worried!”

Mabel twisted her hands, feeling guilty all over again. “Is...is everyone looking for me?”

“No, just me and Wendy and Ford right now. We-we didn't want to make a big fuss about it at first. Where'd you go? Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“No...well...not exactly.”

“Mabel, thank heaven.” Ford came jogging up the path, gasping a little, one hand held gingerly to his side. “You're okay.”

“Maybe don't go wandering off in the monster-filled woods without telling anyone right after the apocalypse,” Wendy said, managing close approximation of her usual careless tone, but not quite so close that Mabel couldn't tell that she was also relieved. “Especially when you've got this guy looking out for you.” She jerked a thumb at Ford. “We only just barely convinced him to try looking for you first instead of charging into the woods guns blazing. Literally. Did you know he just carries a gun around? Like, all the time?”

Ford glared at her, but he did look a little bit sheepish.

“I didn't mean to worry anyone,” Mabel said, twisting her hands in her sweater. “I just...”

She'd done it again. Careless. Silly.

Everyone was looking at her.

“Are you okay?” Dipper asked quietly.

The rock was back in her throat and she had thought this would be easier after getting it out the first time, after everything the unicorn had said, but it was still really, really hard.

“Mabel?”

“I have...something I have to tell you guys,” she whispered.

All three of them glanced at each other in bemusement. “What?” Dipper said.

Mabel squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists and choked out, “It was all my fault. Everything that happened. I gave Bill the thing he needed.”

Silence.

“You...you what?” Dipper said.

Mabel couldn't look at him. She couldn't look at any of them. “I, I ran out of the house cause I was all upset cause I thought everything was going to be awful and you were going to leave and I took your backpack only I didn't know it was your backpack and then that time traveler guy showed up and he said he could make summer last longer and I just, I just wanted a little more time! And he said he just needed one little thing and it wasn't that important so...so I gave it to him, only it turned out it was actually Bill and he did all the bad stuff with it and it's all my fault and I'm sorry!”

She wadded herself up with her eyes closed tight and waited for the anger, the hatred, the rejection. The how could you, the you horrible person.

Instead she felt a broad hand rest gently on her shoulder and opened her eyes to see Ford kneeling in front of her. He didn't look angry. He looked...sad.

“Mabel,” he said gently. “Bill...tricked people. That was what he did. And he was good at it. He tricked me. He...he tricked a lot of people. It's not your fault.”

“Yeah, I mean, I fell for him,” Dipper said. “And he pretty much spelled out what he was going to do to me!”

“But...but I shouldn't have given your thing away,” Mabel said. “I should have known better.”

Ford shook his head. “I should have told you about the rift. If you'd known what it was, you wouldn't have given it away. But I...I was foolish, and I didn't want to trust anyone, I thought I had to be the hero and do everything myself and...and...and if anyone's to blame for all this, it's me.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” Wendy said. “How about if instead the person actually to blame for all this is the flippin' demon who wanted to end the world.”

“I like that,” Dipper said with a grin. “Let's blame Bill.”

Ford blinked, slowly, like this thought had never occurred to him. “I...yes, it...perhaps it is time to put the blame back on the shoulders where it belongs.”

“He didn't really have shoulders,” Dipper pointed out.

“Metaphorical shoulders,” Ford amended. “The point is...you certainly aren't to blame for what happened, Mabel. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else.”

“Bill was really good at knowing right when the best time was to try and trick you,” Dipper said. “I mean, he waited to get me until I was really desperate and, uh, I'd been awake for a really long time. And he came after you when you were really upset...”

He hesitated and glanced at Grunkle Ford.

“That...is certainly true,” Ford said. “Bill was extremely good at spotting vulnerabilities.”

“Operative word being was,” Wendy pointed out.

“That's right.” Ford smiled a little. It wasn't something Mabel had seen very often, and it changed his whole face. “He's gone. We beat him. We won. Which we would not have done if you hadn't been very clever and stubborn and brave and good. So let's have no more of this, alright?”

Mabel smiled.

“C'mere, squirt.” Wendy hoisted Mabel up onto her shoulders. “We gotta get you back before Stan notices you're gone.”

“You didn't tell him?”

“We didn't want him to worry,” Dipper explained. “And it's really busy back there. I only noticed you were gone cause I went to see if you wanted to help me make some more Punch-Aid and you weren't anywhere.”

“Yeah, it's dangerous enough having one Mr. Pines freakin' out,” Wendy said. “God only knows what would happen if both of 'em thought you might be in danger. Might not be a town left afterward.”

“You're a very impudent young lady, you know that?” Ford grumbled.

Wendy grinned. “So I've been told.”

“But...um...why did you leave?” Dipper asked, looking up at Mabel with those little creases between his eyes that he always got when he was worried. Which was most of the time.

Mabel fiddled with the back of Wendy's cap. “I just...everyone was being so happy and I felt really rotten and I was trying really hard to be all happy and okay but it wasn't working and I...I don't know. I guess I kind of freaked.”

“Oh, Mabel.” Ford reached up and gently took Mabel's hand. His hand dwarfed hers and she thought of the first time she had met him. A whole finger friendlier than normal. “You...you don't have to try and act happy if you don't want to. It's, it's okay to not be okay sometimes.”

“Yeah, everyone feels rotten occasionally,” Wendy said. “Especially right now. Shhhh-shoot, man, you think everyone back at the Shack's making all that noise and using lots of power tools cause they feel really mellow? A lot of that's stress relief. It's like when my dad gets really worked up about something and he goes out and chops a bunch of trees. I mean he does that anyway, but, y'know.”

“You could always come help me and Ford down in the basement,” Dipper said. “We're fixing up the lab. It's quiet down there. Erm- that's okay, isn't it?” he added, glancing at Ford.

“Of course it's okay,” Ford said. “Frankly, we need all the help we can get down there. It's a mess, and I'm not letting Manly Dan anywhere near it-no offense, Wendy.”

“Listen, tell me something I don't know.”

Mabel perked up. “I could help you guys with your science stuff?”

“Absolutely,” Ford said.

“Oh man, there's some really cool stuff down there,” Dipper said. “Um, which I take very seriously,” he added when Ford glanced at him.

At the start of this summer, Mabel would have thought that spending an afternoon sorting out a dusty old science lab full of nerd stuff with her nerd family when there was a big loud party going on right above her would have been some kind of horrible ironic hell.

Right now it sounded like heaven.

“Oh!” she said, realizing something. “Grunkle Ford, I know something you can add to your journals!”

Ford blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah! It turns out there are nice unicorns!”

“What,” Ford said flatly.

“Get out,” Wendy said. “When did this happen?”

“Just now! I met one in the woods! She was old and grumpy and she ate all my gummy koalas but she was nice actually even though I accidentally hit her with a rock and she talked to me and then she even gave me some of her hair and I'm going to put it in a scarf!”

“Wow,” Dipper said. “Sounds kind of like Grunkle Stan.”

Ford very nearly stopped walking altogether. “What a horrible mental image.”

Mabel giggled. “It's going to be my summer memory scarf. I want to put things in it from all my friends.”

“Uh, you don't mean like, more hair, do you?” Wendy said. “Because that would be kinda weird.”

“Noooo,” Mabel said. “Just like...yarn and things. Maybe I could ask around and get everyone to pick a color of yarn.”

“That sounds rather nice,” Ford said. “I like red.”

“Dibs on green,” Wendy said.

“I call blue,” Dipper added.

“You guys do know that there are like, multiple shades of color, right?” Mabel said. “We can have different reds and greens and blues.”

“Is there a flannel shade?” Wendy asked hopefully.

“This is going to be a really interesting scarf,” Dipper muttered.

“It'll be beautiful,” Mabel said, and smiled.

But there was still one person left to tell.

Later, when the work party had broken up and everyone had gone home, leaving the Pines and one adopted honorary Pines alone in their mostly reconstructed house, Mabel sat on the arm of Grunkle Stan's chair and squirmed.

They'd gone through every scrapbook, every ancient video reel, everything concrete they could get their hands on that might jog Stan's memory. The twins had recounted every story from the course of the summer, from the biggest adventures to the tiniest anecdotes. Soos had described, at more length than was possibly strictly necessary, everything he could recall from the years that he had known Stan-if it was embellished a bit here and there, no one had said anything.

Once, Ford and Stan had gone into the kitchen and talked quietly until well after the twins had gone to bed; when they come downstairs the next morning, they found both men asleep at the table, with an empty bottle sitting between them. Dipper and Mabel had glanced at each other, fixed their bowls of cereal as quietly as possible, and crept out again without a word.

What was left now were things that no one could rediscover for Stan but himself: the things about his time in Gravity Falls that he had never told anyone, the long ten years of silence that now had no witnesses to tell the tale save a small box of keepsakes waiting in Stan's office. Stan didn't talk much about what he thought about all this, what he had remembered or not remembered; he tended to shrug it off and, laugh and steer any inquiries into another topic entirely. No one really asked much anyway.

“It's kind of like those old maps,” Dipper had said one night, as the two of them lay awake in bed talking uncertainly about it. “You know, really old cartographers, when they were making maps and there was some area they didn't know anything about, they would draw a dragon or something there instead. Like, we don't know what's out here, but it's probably really dangerous and you don't want to go there anyway. Here be dragons. Like that.”

Mabel didn't know about really old cartographers one way or the other, but it sounded right to her. Here be dragons. That was how it had felt when they had uncovered the box of fake IDs and started wondering if Stan was really even their great uncle after all: like something terrible jumping out at them from the mist. That was how it had felt when she'd been trying to figure out how Bill had gotten the rift.

For the moment, anyway, there seemed to not be much more the rest of them could do, and by general unspoken agreement it was universally felt that everyone wanted to think about something else for a little while. Dipper had suggested a movie night. This of course had immediately run into a speedbump, as no one could agree on what movie to watch, the end result being that they had decided to take turns. The disparity of tastes meant it was shaping up to be a very interesting marathon.

Dipper and Soos were in the kitchen making a small avalanche of popcorn, and Ford was off somewhere rummaging for a part that he swore would allow him to significantly upgrade the TV, leaving Stan and Mabel alone in the living room for the moment. Stan was going through the stack of movies. Mabel was fidgeting.

She knew she had to get it over with, but somehow it still wasn't any easier the third time.

“Grunkle Stan?” she said at last.

“Yeah?”

“I have to tell you something.”

She told him. It took a while. Stan wasn't entirely clear on how the whole business with the rift worked to begin with; neither was Mabel, really, come to that.

“So?” he said, when she had finally finished.

Mabel stared at him. “So...so it's kind of my fault. Um. That everything happened. That you...”

She didn't want to say it.

“I just...thought you should know,” she mumbled into the collar of her sweater.

“No it ain't,” Stan said calmly, not looking up from the pile of DVD cases.

“But...but... if I hadn't given Bill the thing-”

“There wouldn't have been a rift if I hadn't pushed Ford into that portal in the first place,” Stan said, still sounding inexplicably calm. “And spent thirty years tryin' to bring him back even when he told me not to.”

“But that was a mistake!” Mabel blurted out, horrified. This was not at all how this was supposed to be going. “It...it was an accident! You didn't mean to-”

“And you're saying you did?” Stan said, finally looking up at her.

In the sudden silence, the sound of far too much popcorn popping at once drifted in from the kitchen, along with a few panicked shouts.

Stan got up and shuffled over to the chair Mabel was sitting on. “Look,” he said, dropping into it with a sigh, “you really think I'm gonna hold something like that against you? I mean, look at all the mistakes I've made, and here you all are calling me a hero.”

“You are a hero,” Mabel said firmly.

He gave her a wry look. “Well, you can't keep calling me a hero even though I screwed up a whole lot, and keep beatin' yourself up for screwin' up. They're, uh...what's the thing. Mutually exclusive. Now, me, I'd prefer you went with the first one. It's a lot nicer for everyone.”

Mabel wasn't quite sure what to say to this.

“Anyway, take it from someone who lies to people for a living,” Stan went on. “It's not your fault. It's the other guy's fault for lyin' to you in the first place. And I punched him dead, so. Problem solved.”

To her own surprise, Mabel realized she was starting to cry again. She didn't even really know why, except that she seemed to have too many feelings all of the sudden and they were all overflowing and pouring out of her.

“Aw, c'mere, kiddo,” Stan said, holding out one arm. Mabel leaned against him and let herself be enveloped in a bear hug of the sort only Stan could provide.

“I love you, Grunkle Stan,” she whispered.

“I love you too, sweetie.”

“FOUND IT!” Ford bellowed triumphantly from somewhere deep in the house, at almost exactly the same time that the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen.

Stan rolled his eyes. Mabel giggled.

Maybe everything wasn't fine just yet.

But it was getting better.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfic #fanfic #scribulations

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mad-as-a-box-of-frogs · 7 years

Text

Teachable Moments

Dean sees the tiny brunette way before Cas ever does, not because he was checking her out - okay, maybe just a little when he and Cas had first entered the bar and he caught her laughing with her friends, more of a cursory once-over than anything. But now he’s definitely watching her without looking directly her, because for the last half hour she’s been glancing their way more and more often, a lascivious smile on her face as she twirls a glossy curl of hair around her finger. Or more specially, she’s been glancing at the seat next to Dean, currently occupied by a clueless Castiel intently reading the label of his imported beer.

When she rises from her seat, gaze locked on Cas’s shoulders as she makes her way through the crowd, Dean instinctively tenses like his body’s preparing for an incoming punch, grip tightening on his beer bottle. The intent in her gaze is unmistakable as she strides confidently forward, shaking her hair out and discretely tugging down on her halter top.

Dean has no friggin’ clue who the girl is or why his dislike for her is so immediate, wondering if he can reach for his flask and splash her with holy water without making a scene. Then it clicks, who she looks like, and Dean would laugh if he wasn’t so embarrassed for himself.

Like witnessing a head-on collision about to happen, Dean can only watch as the brunette slides right up to Cas in the bar, putting herself well within the angel’s personal space.

“Heya, handsome,” she says, and Dean could happily stab himself in the ear the smokey drawl is that similar. Beside him, Castiel startles, probably wondering how she appeared practically in his lap so suddenly and if demonic magic is involved. “Haven’t seen you around these parts before. What’d you say we head back to my place and get to know one another better.”

Dean whistles lowly before Cas can answer, unable to hold back the snark. He supposes he should be grateful she didn’t call him Clarence. “Brazen.”

Her eyes are venomous when they flicker at Dean, but when they switch back to Cas, she’s all smiles. “What can I say, I’m a girl that knows what she wants. So how about it, big boy?” She reaches up to place a hand on Castiel’s arm, and Dean can feel his blood pressure rising. “Whatya say?”

Dean takes an angry pull from his beer to drown out the ringing in his ears.

“I’m sorry, my friend and I have had a long day at, um, work, and we’re just here to drink,” Cas says, and it bothers Dean that he can’t tell if Cas is politely telling her to fuck off or if he’s saying he’d rather stay and get to know her here. And Cas hasn’t shaken her hand off.

She covers her initial shock well, Dean’ll give her that. She recovers in time to smoothly say, “Are you sure? I got drinks at my place, too. I’ll even let you take a shot off my stomach.” She smiles seductively up at him as she slides her hand farther up his arm.

In a motion to quick for Dean’s eyes to follow, Cas snatches her hand off his arm, not hard enough to hurt her, but Dean can tell from her wide-eyed stare that she got one hell of a shock.

When Cas speaks again, his voice is as cool as the blue in his icy eyes. “I’m with my friend. Please let us be.”

Dean smiles his victory into the rim of his bottle, his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. “You heard him. Beat it, sweetheart.”

She yanks her hand out of Castiel’s, her upper lip curling in disdain. “Whatever, I’ve got better offers anyway.”

Castiel frowns at him when she flounces away in a huff, her friends quickly descending to sweep her into their arms and console her. When Dean spots her dabbing at her eyes, he almost feels bad. Almost. “What was that all about?” Cas demands.

“What can I say Cas? You’ve got that whole broodingly sexy thing going on.” He almost panics, but then remembers he called Cas devastatingly handsome in front of him at that diner the other day, so he figures he’s in the clear. “Chicks dig that.”

“No, not that -” Cas huffs, strangely flustered. He pick, pick, picks at the label of his bottle. “That. Why did you have to be so rude to her? Contrary to what you think, Dean, I am able to handle myself.”

Dean can’t help but roll his eyes Cas. “Obviously, dude. Just trying to be your wingman.”

“If I understand the term correctly, you can’t be a wingman if the other party doesn’t express interest. I didn’t. I, erm, wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Dean says, unsure of what else to say, if Cas wants him to say anything else.

“Yes, well…” Castiel ducks his head, fiddles with his bottle that’s been empty for a while now. Dean signals for the bartender, and Cas smiles his thanks, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Dean has to brace himself for the long-familiar curl of warmth blossoming in his chest.

Dean taps his foot against the bar stool while the bartender hands them their refills. He should just find something else to talk about, or go back to whatever it was they were talking about before, but it’s like a scab now he just wants to pick at until it bleeds. “So, you really weren’t interested, then? You weren’t just blowing her off because I’m here?” he asks, hope like new spring buds sprouting in his chest.

“Yes, Dean,” Cas answers, and there’s a smile in his voice that makes Dean smile too. “Believe it or not, I find your company much preferable to that of a complete stranger’s.”

“Even a pretty one?” Pick-pick-pick. “I thought tiny brunettes with big mouths were your thing,” Dean smirks, his voice brittle.

Castiel, if possible, looks even more confused, with a side of Dean-I’m-concerned-you-may-have-a-concussion. “Dean, what are you …?”

Dean wipes a hand down his face. “Oh, my god - Meg, Cas. I’m talking about Meg.”

Poor Cas looks utterly bewildered now. “Meg? The demon? What does she have to do anything?”

Dean eyes Cas steadily, trying to determine if the bastard is fucking with him. Cas stares back, the tiniest bit of anger tightening his mouth. “You don’t think the waitress looked like Meg?”

“Well, what you knew as Meg was just a vessel -”

Now, he might actually be fucking with him. “No, that’s -” Dean shakes his head in frustration, runs a hand through his hair. “I know that, but that’s not what I meant”

Castiel opens his mouth, stops, and then squints so hard that Dean’s worried that Cas might have actually been shortsighted this entire time. “Dean, are you trying to imply that I was interested in Meg?”

Cas’s voice is a mixture of horror and disbelief with an edge of growing amusement, but Dean stands his ground. “I’m not implying anything. I caught the tail end of that moving furniture conversation.” Dean makes a face, very nearly gagging for real. “Really, dude?”

But Castiel remains nonplussed. “Dean … I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What? Sure you do,” Dean insists. “You know, during the whole Lucifer’s crypt business when you, um - and we, um -” What an unfortunate time to remember that he and Cas have never really talked about the time a brainwashed Castiel beat the living shit out of Dean in Lucifer’s grimy, cobwebbed crypt. “Kinda of hard to forget that, heh.”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably, looking down where his fingers twist in his lap. “I … actually don’t remember a whole lot from my time under Noami’s control,” he confesses in a small voice Dean can just barely hear over the din of the bar, even though they’re sitting so close their shoulder are touching. “And what I do remember, I’ll spend the rest of my existence wishing I could forget.”

Dean flinches, because yeah, he can relate, but still … “You were acting all weird and more dickish than usual, yeah, but you were pretty protective of her. You sent her off with Sam when you and I went into the crypt,” Dean recalls carefully, trying hard not to sound like he’s accusing Cas - or rather, mind-controlled Cas - of showing preference for Meg over Dean.

At that, Cas looks swiftly up at Dean, eyes wide and apologetic. “Dean, I know you want this to all be water under the bridge, but please believe me when I say I’ll never stop being sorry for hurting you.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says fiercely.

Castiel allows a smile. “Regardless, you should know that Naomi considered you the biggest threat to our - her - mission. Killing you if you got in the way - which you did,” he adds with a sigh that is almost exasperated, “was her main concern. As for Meg, she knew where the tablet was, and she couldn’t tell me if she was dead, and therefore spared from Naomi’s wrath. If there was one reason that I attempted to protect Meg, it was to pay the debt I made when she saved me from Hester. That’s where our … relationship, if you can call it that, ends.” He hesitates, then leans in closer to Dean. “No matter what, if she had turned against us, I wouldn’t have hesitated to strike her down to protect you, nor would I have regretted it.”

Dean ducks his heads, but he knows the corner of his mouth is pulling up in a please little smile, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in his veins. “Aw, Cas, you say the sweetest things.”

“It’s all true,” Cas says simply. “I meant it what I said in the barn, Dean. I love you, you are my family.”

Right about now, warning bells should be going off in his head, telling him there’s not enough space between them for two full-grown men (well, one man and one man-looking angel) to be sitting this close. Instead, Dean allows himself to back him the moment of being loved. Maybe it won’t ever be the way Dean wants it to be, but it’s still more than he’s ever had. A best friend, a brother-beyond-blood.

Pursing his lips, Dean nods slowly, turning this world-shifting revelation over in his mind. “So, just so we’re clear, you don’t like … like her like her.”

“Dean,” Castiel says slowly, like he is seriously worried for Dean’s mental stability now. “She was a demon. She reeked.”

Dean nearly falls out of his seat at that, clutching his belly as he laughs and laugh and laugh until tears form in his eyes. Castiel even allows himself a small chuckle, waiting until Dean can compose himself,

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Dean huffs in amazement. “Dude, why did you never tell me this?!”

Cas shrugs helplessly. “Because it doesn’t matter? I don’t go asking if you and Benny had sexual relations,” he points out reasonably when Dean tips back his beer.

Dean nearly spits out his drink. “I did not fuck Benny!” he sputters in a choked half-whisper.

The smirking bastard just shrugs. “Well, I didn’t know for sure, but now I do.”

“Ass,” Dean says as he wipes his mouth off with the back off his hand. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels fingertips - Cas’s fingertips, holy shit - brush hesitantly down the back of his hand. “Uh, Cas?”

In the low lighting of the bar, Cas is drop dead gorgeous, all sharp cheekbones and plush lips. None wonder he got hit on within an hour of sitting down. But with the way Cas is looking at him now, he might as well be the only other person in this bar.

“Dean, would you …” Dean watches, fascinated, as Castiel pauses to inhale deeply, his nostrils flaring. His lips are shiny from the beer. “Would you like to know what, erm, sort of person I’m attracted to?”

“Oh.” Does he sound disappointed? Should he be disappointed? What is Cas getting at? “Um, sure?”

“Well … the type of person I’m attracted to, they’re brave, at times to the point of recklessness. They’re generous, even to people who don’t deserve it. Their soul shines so brightly that sometimes it’s all I can see. Yet the one person who can’t see his goodness is himself.”

“Him? Cas, you’re not about to tell me you’ve got the hots for Sam, are you?” Dean whispers, his heart pounding like it’s trying to escape from his chest. He’s lightheaded, and it’s not from the alcohol.

Cas breaks into a gummy smile, the biggest Dean has ever seen on the angel, and Dean’s own smile tries valiantly to match it. “You’re also the single most infuriatingly person I’ve ever met.”

“I find that hard to believe, I’ve met your family.”

“Dean.”

He grimaces. “Sorry, I’m nervous”

“That’s okay,” Cas assures him, his pointer fingers tracing circles into the soft skin of Dean’s hand, leaving a tingling warmth behind, “so am I. Although, you have more experience in this than me.”

“Not in this,” Dean corrects softly. He can’t believe he’s doing this in some dive bar, surrounded by a crowd of strangers, but he is, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “Fooling around, picking up strangers at bars, sure, but, this -” He makes a finger motion between himself and Cas “-Us. This is all new for me.”

A beat, and Cas’s eyes marginally widen. It occurs to Dean for the first time that Cas might really not know that Dean is just as head over heels in love with Castiel as he is with him. “… Really?”

Without even thinking about it, Dean leans forward until his mouth meets Castiel’s, eyes slipping to half-mast as he presses into the soft skin.

No one screams at them, no angels or demons come storming into the bar, the world doesn’t stop turning. But Cas’s hand presses where it rests atop Dean’s, and Dean can taste the beer on Castiel’s mouth. They pull back after only a moment, even though Dean is already itching to get his mouth back on Castiel, to really taste him, to touch him all over.

“Hey, Cas, you, uh -” Dean can’t help himself, laughs. “Whatya say we pay and head on home?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Get to know each other?”

Castiel’s eyes are suspiciously misty as he gazes up at Dean, and Dean doesn’t mention it, knowing he’s probably not all that better. “That sounds wonderful, Dean.”

#Destiel #ranting disguised as sappy deancas #discussion of 8x17 #*slides this over there counter and runs away*

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