#episode 12: daughter daddies | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 11: Visitors

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Your babes meet their family.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs for editing this monster! Thank you also to @evisnotok and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture.

You are startled awake by the sound of crying.

Jolting up before your mind truly registers the sound, it takes you a moment to remember why it is that you have roused. You rub your eyes and yawn, peering to the side as the wailing multiplies, two thready, discordant pitches begging for someone, anyone to notice.

Daemon groans beside you. “Fucking hells.” His voice is muffled by the pillow, timbre lacking the heat his words imply. “We were just up, weren’t we?”

You reach out to whack him for the profanity, arm striking across the span of his back. He grunts with the impact.

“I will take your daughter,” you mutter, already untangling yourself from the sheets, “but your son also begs for attention.”

Rolling from the bed behind you, he says, “Fussy thing.”

You smile. It is true that Aelys is the more demanding of the pair, and you are certain it is her sharp squalling that dragged you from unconsciousness in the first place. You ache with every step and your thickly lined smallclothes squelch uncomfortably from the remnants of afterbirth, denser and of greater volume than your moon’s blood ever had been. Your body still experiences the shock of it all, but it is difficult to feel aggrieved when your eyes alight on the pair of pale-haired miracles fussing in the cradle.

Your thought had been correct, indeed. While Rhaenar’s cries quieten at the brush of your fingers across his cheek, your daughter only sobs harder at the contact. In the weak light of early dawn, her flushed face and stubborn frown are easy to see, wrinkled features contorting in as furious an expression as an infant less than a sennight old can possibly muster. Her knees jerk against her wrappings, the only part of her that can gain any traction within the firm swaddle you have placed her in.

Lifting her up and carefully manoeuvring her into your arms, you coo sympathetically. “Rhovus riñus.” Loud girl, you call her, gently settling her fragile head in the crook of your elbow. Mind her neck, mind her neck, you think, a whisper repeating itself over and over again. It is overly cautious of you, perhaps, but you do not wish to inadvertently harm your babe. “Skorio syt ñāqiot hīghā?” Why are you screaming at sunrise?

Lashes fluttering and lip quivering, she cranes toward the sound of your speech. Though you know she cannot see properly yet, you swear her gaze is trained on you, muzzy and unfocused. She kicks again at the feel of your thumb brushing over her pout, angry soft breaths puffing from tiny lungs. That raw, wrenching feeling of violent love wells up as it does each time you behold these lives you have made, bringing with it the urge to bar the entrances and dash the eyes from the skulls of all those who dare to look upon your little ones.

“Kesrio syt zijo kepo syt ēdrunon iotāptios daor.” Because she has no respect for her kepa’s rest. Daemon grumbles, the warmth of his body spreading into yours as his hands fall to the cradle on either side of you, bracketing you in. He proffers a drowsed, aimless press of lips to your temple, sliding down to your cheekbone as he sets his chin to your shoulder and peers down at the troublemaker in your arms. “Vȳs kiragon lo ziry gaomas jaelza, hm?” She wants the world to wake when she does, hm?

You are sure this is a quality inherited from your uncle. From all accounts, you had been naught but a quiet, pleasant infant, scarcely to be heard unless in great need of the necessities for survival. It entertains you greatly to muse upon Daemon’s penchant for commotion being passed to his daughter, your daughter. Already she shows the signs of such a fate.

“She hungry?” His palm spans the circumference of her scalp and then some, a gentle ruffling of snow-fuzzed skin—your colouring, his colouring—that coaxes a vexed scrunch and whine from your girl.

“No,” you say, passing your thumb back over her mouth. She does not attempt to suckle at it. Good. Freda, the wetnurse, is absent from her pallet. You are not yet able to fill both their bellies alone, your milk thin as it is. “Just wanting her mama and papa, I think.”

There must be something soporific about the hum of mother and father conversing, for by now Aelys’s haranguing has petered off to a manageable grizzle. She is clearly unhappy with her present state, though you are glad she has chosen not to be quite so combative about it.

Rhaenar’s whimpers begin anew below you.

“Oh, kepus…”

Daemon readily slides around you and plucks the babe from the cradle with a deftness borne of familiarity. You do not know if it unnerves or reassures you that you yourself had helped shape this skill, once a newborn niece to the budding Rogue Prince.

He sighs, cupping the back of your son’s head to his shoulder with a hand propping him up under the rear. “Kesīr māzīs, ñuhus trēsys.” Come here, my son.

He sways slowly, and you can only watch spellbound as the motion silences the little boy entirely. Your husband’s lips curve in that gentle, aching countenance reserved for only the quietest, most unguarded moments, his nose brushing along the slope of Rhaenar’s skull.

“Jeva idaña pelrar issa,” he continues, glancing at you impishly. “Īlōn valī hēnkirī humbisi.” Your sister is a menace. Us men have to stick together.

“Lies. Lies and slander, my darling,” you say to your daughter, spinning on your heel to convey her imperiously to the bed.

Your jesting march reaches a quick and abrupt halt as the cramping of your belly reminds you why it is that you are confined to your chambers for the time being. You stop, waiting for the discomfort to pass, clutching the heft of your babe to you tightly enough that she squawks with the indignity of it.

“Give her to me,” Daemon says firmly, hand rubbing soothingly at your waist. “Get back under the covers.”

“But you have—”

“I can bloody well hold two babes, you know.” He levies an expression of utmost stubbornness your way. “You, however, shouldn’t even be up. You’ve scarcely begun to heal after shoving them both from your cu—”

“Language,” you hiss, passing Aelys into the care of your uncle so that you may hobble back to your safe haven. It is still warm beneath the blankets, and you gratefully press your chilled feet into the temperate spaces so as to regain some measure of sensation in your toes. “I wish you would not use foul words in front of them,” you say, rearranging the pillows on either side of you unhurriedly. If you move too fast, a fresh bout of soreness will plague you. “If the first thing they say is something horrid they have learned from you…”

“… then they’ll prove themselves adept pupils, won’t they?” Daemon smirks, sitting himself upon the edge of the mattress.

You stretch forth to take your daughter back, propping her on your lap and unbinding the cloth that keeps her so unhappily restrained. Her little arms lift as though in jubilation the very instant she is free, the knot of frustration between her translucent brows smoothing and her legs curling up in a manner much like the pose she had decided was most comfortable while still in your womb.

“Besides, we’ve a while until that becomes a problem,” your husband says. You are only partly listening, utterly engrossed in the clench and unclench of her small fists as you shift her, swaddling cloths and all, to one arm. “Not as though they’re performing dramatic orations any time soon.”

You do not get the chance to scold him yet again for the profanity, for your other arm is promptly occupied by your son. The movement startles him but briefly. Squeaking with the jolt of sudden movement, he promptly curls into the heat of your skin emanating through your shift, smacking sleepy lips and wiggling his feet against your belly before dropping into slumber.

Rhaenar is a different sort of creature to his sister. Whether it be that he allows her to make complaints vociferously enough for them both or that he simply does not have any, he is a solemn thing, content enough to while away the hours slumbering or blinking new eyes up at the world, aimless, as though deep in thought.

He looks a little like an old man, you think to yourself, charmed by the frowning pucker that forms on his dreaming face. The peace in his darling visage is such that you feel your own lids droop, the comforting weight of happy babes lulling you quicker than any draught or brew could.

Aelys is fire and blood and retribution, the very image of her father. But Rhaenar… he is you. Calm and introspective, the cool that acts as balm to the stinging burn of tempestuousness.

Nothing pleases you more than to have given new life in equal measure, to have given Daemon both a child he may love for those traits he admires in you and another in whom he may see his own reflection. In whom he may learn to love the parts of himself that he has so long despised.

Of course—being her father’s daughter—Aelys is not one to stay still and silent for too long. Rhaenar begins to stir when she whines, twisting uncoordinated limbs and kicking her heels into his.

“Go back to sleep with our boy, hm?” Daemon leans down first to brush a kiss on Rhaenar’s velvety crown, then up to your lips, his smokeleatherspice scent filling your nostrils and his calloused palm etching tender along your jaw. “I’ll take this one for a time,” he says against your mouth, drawing back to lift Aelys from you with feigned resignation. He tuts down at her with a gnawing sort of softness as she complains further, striking out at his proffered finger. “Perhaps her fit will abate with some fresh air.”

“Do not go far,” you say, eyes already closing as you turn to your side to face your son, your firstborn. The babe does not even notice you making yourself comfortable, drawing him ever closer so that you can feel the line of him against you, small head to tiny toes.

Daemon grunts an affirmative. He would not risk Rhaenar toppling from the bed or being smothered. The last thing you register before sleep claims you entirely is the sound of his low hum, fading with each step he takes toward the balcony.

“Brand new to the world, young madam, and already tormenting your brother? A little dragon, that’s what you are…”

Three days. Three days in total are all that is granted to you before the visitors become truly persistent.

To be fair, you had assumed they would barge in on the very first morn, heedless of the alarm and the strife your wearied form had been put through over what had ultimately been a relatively swift labour. And yet, you had been blessed with four entire days in which none but those necessary—Ūlla and Gerardys and Rhaenyra and your ladies, among others—entered your chamber, giving you hours to learn these strange beings who had housed themselves in your womb for the better part of a year.

Alas, you muse, joggling the arm full of a squirming Aelys to soothe her. I cannot keep them to myself forever.

Your hair is combed and braided, your skin scrubbed to tingling and your simple gown pristine as you sit with your babes in your grasp, awaiting the arrival of your guests. They have been fed, in part by you and the rest from Freda. The wetnurse sits on the chaise with Jeyne and Bethany, darning shirts for the soldiers of the Keep with good cheer. You can tell she unnerves them both. She is remarkably like Ūlla in vulgarity, no doubt astonishing their virtuous sensibilities.

“That Aron.” She snickers, winking cheekily at Jeyne. “I’d let ‘im do whatever he wanted to me. Fine, fine arms. Nice ears. Big feet. You know that they say, don’t ya? Bigger the feet, bigger the co—”

“That is—very lovely!” Bethany says, dropping her own embroidery. Jeyne is so violently flushed that you are concerned she may faint away. You snicker quietly to yourself on the bed.

Though you feel well enough by now to walk about with manageable discomfort, you remain all but chained to the mattress, reclined in stately pomp below the covers as though you are an invalid. To Daemon, you may as well be.

“Need anything?” he asks, smoothing a stray lock from your cheek. Clearly, he is ignoring all conversation taking place by the balcony.

“No.” You beam. You have everything you could want.

He stands as the door opens, revealing Laenor and Harwin with the children in tow. Your sister takes the rear with Ūlla, herding them through the entryway and into the room while hushing their excited chatter to a low buzz. Jeyne, Bethany and Freda abruptly rise, ushering themselves through the door of your adjoining solar after dropping a brief curtsey.

“Is that them?” Daeron steps forth from Ūlla’s side, shy at first, then emboldened when Daemon waves him over, hand ruffling his hair as he passes. “Is that…”

“Come here,” you say, watching with fondness as your young brother clambers up with utmost care. His eyes remain fixed on the babes with curiosity and a distinct nervousness. “Come see your niece and nephew.”

He settles himself by your knee, peering down at each infant in turn, studying the faces of these new interlopers. You know not what he thinks.

“Which one is the boy? And the girl?” His small pudgy finger tracing the shell of Rhaenar’s ear. He has chosen well. Your son whinges slightly at the contact but does not make a commotion of it as his sister likely would. Daeron grins, riveted. “They look like you and Nuncle, and me and ‘Nyra.”

“They do.” Daemon laughs, wedging himself beside you. Holding out his own finger to Rhaenar, you feel your husband’s soft exhale as the babe grips automatically at his father’s flesh, little digits just barely wrapping around his own, much larger one. “This fine lad is Rhaenar,” he tells your brother, “while this bold thing”—he taps your daughter on the nose, chuckling when she grouches and flushes red at the imposition—“is Aelys.”

“They’re pretty.” Daeron reaches for his little niece’s hand. She blinks up at him, her wafer-thin nails scraping across his palm, though she seems to find his touch unobjectionable for the time being.

“The prettiest,” you murmur, eyes blurring at the sight. My family.

Bearing and birthing these babes has transformed you into an ocean, perpetually leaking water at the slightest of provocations. You cannot help it. Your brother and your uncle—your husband, your lover—and your son and your daughter are all nestled together with you here, safe, unshakeable in spite of your great trials.

“I wanna see.”

“Luke—”

“No!” You shake your head, glancing up at Laenor. “No. Let him meet his cousins. In fact, there is plenty of room on this bed for you all.”

You lift your elbows just slightly as the mattress jostles about, Rhaena tucking herself against you while the boys and Baela scramble to seek a good vantage point.

Luke leans over Jace’s back to examine them. “Aw,” he says, “they’re not even awake. I want to play with them!”

“They just came out,” Baela hisses, nudging him with her shoulder. “They can’t play yet, stupid.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Get off me,” Jace grumbles.

“Boys,” Rhaenyra says, tugging Harwin along to the side of the bed. “If you’re going to fight, then I’ll have Ser Lorent collect you for your training this very moment.”

“Sorry,” they each say in turn, untangling from each other to sit next to each other, squeezed tight between Daeron and Baela.

“I’m glad you aren’t hurt,” Rhaena says quietly, her chin digging into your arm as she cranes her neck. “Like Mama was.”

Your gut twists low at the reminder of Laena.

Lying abed in a pool of blood—

“I thought I was going to die—”

Face ashen and bloodless, frozen forevermore—

You swallow back the hurt, trammelling it within the iron-wrought cage deep, deep in your soul. All you can do is turn your cheek to press your lips to Rhaena’s crown, silently sharing in her melancholy.

Harwin clears his throat. “… Congratulations, Princess.” He tries to smile, but it falls flat. You wonder when life will afford him respite from the cycle of anguish and betrayal. Baela extricates herself from the gathering before you, shuffling across the mattress toward her father. “And you, Prince Daemon. They are… they are bonny babes, the both of them.”

“Yes,” Ūlla says sagely, patting the man on the elbow. Harwin squints at her, the subtle shift in the arch of his brow a tell-tale sign of his befuddlement. “Very nice, both of them. Look like you, Princess.”

Your uncle offers some response of haughty appreciation, the buzz of it traversing from his chest and through your skin. You do not hear the precise words for your gaze is fixed upon Baela, who has decided to change course and wander past Harwin entirely. Evidently, she has elected herself to the role of cradle inspector.

She stares down at the bedding with a frown. “Where are the eggs?” she asks loudly, looking back at you. The others jump; only you had been watching your little cousin’s adventure. “The dragon eggs aren’t in here.”

“They’re by the hearth,” Daemon says, an indulgent quirk to his mouth. “We must be sure the babes are hale and hearty enough for fresh dragonlings to crawl about in their bed with them, don’t we? Their bones have to harden after spending so long sleeping in their mother’s belly.”

“They have soft bones?” Daeron whispers to himself, alarmed, snatching his hand away as though further pressure might shatter little Rhaenar’s skull entirely. Your son snuffles against your chest, inciting a slow-rising warmth in your breasts.

Oh, dear. Not now.

“Speaking of dragons”—Laenor’s voice is raised, eyes rolling at his former comrade-at-arms—“when are you going to visit that godsawful brute of yours, cousin?”

Never have you been gladder for your goodbrother’s timing. “Hm?”

“Your bloody—” He winces sheepishly at the warning scowl Rhaenyra offers him. “Your… labours sent your dragon into quite the state.”

Your sister motions to the children, encouraging them to join Baela. Jace and Luke engage in a silent shoving tournament as they amble forth, necessitating Ūlla’s intervention. She grabs each boy by the shoulder and cleanly splits them apart, guiding them onward with nary an admonishment to be heard. Meanwhile, Rhaena and Daeron drift toward the open chest by the cradle, inspecting the collected sundries for the babes laid therein.

“I thought the whole Keep would go up in flames,” Laenor says. “Next time, warn us when you go to the birthing bed. I’d like to be far, far away from the threat of immolation.”

Rhaenyra thumps him in the chest hard enough that he chokes on his attempt to draw breath. Daemon snorts.

You remember little of the birth, to be truthful. The hours seemed to pass oddly, in dribbles of awareness amidst a wash of agony, distorted, meaningless. You recall the bare facts, of course. Waking to the cramping in your back and in your belly; wondering if Rhaenar would split you apart from womb to chest; the awful foreboding sense that Aelys may well kill you if you could not amass some strength left to finish the task; your first glance at the bloodied, screaming forms of your babes. But the rest…

“I thought I imagined it,” you say, ruminating over those moments in which your cries had wavered in your own ears, had coalesced and reformed into draconic shrieks, thready, duplicated. In those moments, you were a dragon, your blood was fire in your veins and between your legs and bursting in your lungs and heart, and you felt and heard yourself as girl and beast at once, together, whole, power and magic fuelling you to the racking end. “Athfiezar… he was calling for me?”

Laenor nods with a nervous chuckle. “You could say that. It was terrifying. Almost like he… felt it himself.”

Rhaenyra’s voice is soft, reflective. “Some say Targaryens are closer to gods than men. We owe that to the dragons, yes. But perhaps there is truth enough in it. A bond exists between our spirits and theirs unlike any other.”

He was with me. Of course he was with me.

How many weeks had passed since you were last able to see Athfiezar? To feel the ground shake beneath your feet with his every movement? To scramble atop his mighty frame and take off, to feel the wind whip through your hair and your organs shift inside your body as his wings beat a drum-like tempo across the sky? To stare into viridescent eyes and sense the pulse of life thrumming to the same rhythm as yours? Your heart squeezes with longing, fierce and tormenting.

“We’ll visit them both soon,” Daemon finally says, hand warm on your knee.

Unlike you, he had not been restricted from the arduous walk to Caraxes’s latest island haunt—but in those final days when the thought of him leaving your rooms seemed utterly intolerable, he had foregone his visits, remaining sequestered with you with remarkable forbearance. Sometimes you hear Caraxes’s piping song in the distance, plaintive and searching.

Your lips twist gratefully as you look at your uncle. He understands.

“My mother took me flying on Meleys less than two sennights after I was born,” he says, glancing down at the babes. Rhaenar is awake, staring intently at his father. It is as though he is absorbed by every word that falls from his mouth. “My children ought to have the same.”

You cannot help but to balk. “They are too young and too little to fly on dragonback—”

He laughs, patting your covered thigh. “They’re Targaryens, sweetling. Dragon-riding is in their blood.”

“I know, I know.” Still, you loathe the idea of taking them high above the earth where they may catch cold or freefall from loose hands. Another part of you thrills at the idea of introducing your son and daughter to their birthright.

What is a Targaryen without their dragon? Your father comes to mind. It is not a pleasant association, though admittedly he serves to support Daemon’s argument rather aptly. If our spirits are driven by fire, you think, then his has long since been snuffed.

Predictably, Aelys begins to cry, effectively ending the visit. You pass the babe to your husband so that he may mollify her displeasure by rocking her around the room, humming deep below his breath. Rhaenyra and Laenor and Harwin offer parting well-wishes to you and Rhaenar. You giggle when each of the children offer sweet kisses to the cheeks of each infant. Luke plugs his ears with his fingers before he leans in to press his lips to Aelys’s red face.

That evening, you decide to place the dragon eggs in the cradle. You watch, interested to see if even the slightest contact might bring forth the destined mounts of your twins. It is probably naïve of you to feel so disappointed when there is no change. The babes sleep on, undisturbed by the settling weight of the new additions.

“They’ll hatch when they’re ready,” Daemon whispers into your hair, arms solid as they slide round your form.

Your uncle is firm, hot, the hard line of his shaft finding purchase in the divot of your lower back through layers of fabric, but he makes no attempt to seek relief from you. You are glad. There is no room in you for desire. He seems content to touch and touch alone.

“I know. I just… how long does it take?” you murmur.

“As long as needs be. Give it time.”

You huff, taking one final look—at the babes, at the eggs, still and silent and peaceful—before turning in his arms, resting your own upon his so that you may slide your hands up past his shoulders and neck, trailing fingers across the stubble on his jaw. His palms are brands on your waist, your spine, your rear.

“Thank you,” you say. Such simple words—but the import of them is immeasurable.

‘Thank you for reassuring me. For being here. For loving me, and loving them, too.’ The words are stuck in your throat. You cannot say them aloud, but your body can impress their meaning upon him.

His eyes are crinkled in that way you adore when you crane yourself upward, searching out his lips with your own. There is something pure about the meeting of mouths that follows, the dip and glide of tongue that ought to feel lewd, charged, and indeed it carries a spark that could very easily be stoked but not now, not in this moment. He tastes of wine and home, his breath humid, the rumble in his ribcage buzzing into your bones. You sigh as he lays claim to what is his, tilting your head to accept him.

When it is over, it does not feel like an ending. He strokes along the curves and hollows of your figure, caressing child-widened hips and swelled belly and milk-heavy breasts at a languid pace. It is observation rather than invitation that plays upon his face as he studies the changes he has wrought, hooded eyes scanning you, a twist of pride or smugness or arrogance as if to say ‘yes, I did this, I remade you into the mother of my children inside out, you are mine mine mine’. But there is also great affection there, the earnest softness of desperate, abiding devotion.

You do not need words. Nor does he. Yawning, you follow Daemon to the bed, slipping below the sheets at his gentle coaxing prods. He smooths the covers over you, stroking the stray curls back behind your ears before blowing the candle out.

Each passing moment feels too short, too quickly over and done with. You find yourself hyper-aware of your son and daughter’s development, noting their budding responsiveness as they test their limbs and strengthen the projection of their cries. Mere instances are as full of occasion as entire days. You can almost swear that you are watching them grow before your very eyes.

Aelys’s silver-white hair sprouts thicker, a moonbeam lustre that triggers half-formed memories of a smiling woman that looks as you do now, but older, a deep-seated weariness forming lines upon a face not yet aged enough to have weathered. When your daughter smiles—‘tis instinct, no more, though you like to believe she is happy in your arms—you see something impish, mischievous. You see Daemon.

Rhaenar’s stare is sharper, more alert, seeming intent and focused as you nurse him or lay kisses on his round tummy or sing songs from your childhood. His fingers tangle in your tresses, tugging hard enough to hurt, little lips peeling back to show off pink gums as he grouses while awaiting his turn for your attention. He is patient, your precious boy, but he craves the softness far more than his sister does. It is unbearably sweet.

Though they have thus far been but a fleeting part of your life, you cannot remember a time before your babes were born. Surely it had been a hollow, meaningless existence. Now, you would be utterly content to pass the hours doing nothing but cosying your children amongst the blankets and pillows fluffed and gathered on your mattress, shrouding them in warmth and safety. You would listen to their every breath, track each flailing movement, cherish the scent of newness that clings to them like syrup. Your uncle would join you all after his daily responsibilities were done, sweeping in like a mighty conqueror returned from the horrors of battle and curling around his family. He would kiss you and croon soft words in your mother tongue to Rhaenar and settle Aelys to sleep, and everything would be completely, utterly perfect.

A wonderful dream. Alas, the peace of it is not to be.

“What?”

The contentment of the previous days has been replaced by shock and a steadily banking anger. Daemon levies Ser Lorent with a look of such sternness that you wonder how the man does not quail in his boots.

“The King, your Highness,” the knight repeats, eyes flicking to you. You grip the chair before you tightly. “He is here. The Silver Firedrake has just docked.”

Papa’s flagship. “He has brought the court to Dragonstone?” you ask, stomach sinking. You are not ready to see him. You do not wish to see Alicent. You cannot abide the thought of those vipers in such close quarters with your children.

“No.” Ser Lorent shakes his head. “He… he has arrived alone.”

You look to Daemon, confused. It is not likely that your father had received the news of Rhaenar and Aelys’s births so quickly, and undoubtedly impossible for him to have already made the journey. And to have travelled without the Hand or the Queen or his bevy of attendants…

You release the chair. “Thank you for informing us, Ser,” you say to the Kingsguard, folding your hands together before you. It is difficult to abstain from digging your nails into the skin of your palm. “You may return to your post.”

Ser Lorent bobs his head, eyes lowering in deference. “Princess.”

“Something’s going on.” Daemon stares pensively at the door following the knight’s exit. You make your way toward him. “For him to have come without his lackeys or the Hightower whore—”

“If he has not requested to see us”—you lay a hand on his arm—“then we should not entertain his presence here.”

A noncommittal sound rumbles through him, his countenance as harsh as the craggy silhouette of the Dragonmont. Athfiezar could carve a cavern to himself in those lines upon his face, you muse. He appears older than his thirty-six years, tired, a tension to his frame that you know you cannot ease, and not just from the incessant disruption to the evening hours your children have brought in so short a span and the burden of caring for more than just oneself.

It is the way he always becomes when the King is mentioned: silent, brooding, sullen. You despise the effect your father has on a man so fierce and formidable as your husband. It is most unfair.

“Kepus,” you say, an idea forming. “We should go visit Athfiezar and Caraxes. Introduce the babes.”

His brow raises. “Now?”

You would rather not. They are still far too small. But the notion seems far more attractive than waiting about, wondering if the King might summon him or you or both, driving yourselves mad with possibilities. In addition, it is sure to be a worthy distraction.

“Now.” With a teasing little smile, you lean into him, winding your arms around him and propping your chin on his chest. “They are both awake, and in pleasant moods. I even believe the sun is out.”

“Hm.” His mouth twists reluctantly, finally shifting his gaze down to you. “It is tempting to know I’d sleep tonight without being roused by your shrieking beast.”

You roll your eyes, pushing away from him to prepare.

Brief as you imagine the outing will be, it is nonetheless strange to be attired in daily wear designed for company. You had nearly forgotten how itchy the sleeves of some of your outfits are, how restrictive they are upon the bust. Between the padding against your womanhood and the padding over your nipples, any gown you wear is sure to make for an unpleasant experience. Thankfully, your ladies choose one that laces at the front. Though it is a little tight around the middle—your belly is still quite large, after all—you do cut a fair figure dressed in the traditional Targaryen red and black.

Daemon appears to think so, too.

It is an older gown, and so you find that your breasts spill over the top of the neckline in a fashion that is clearly noticeable, though you had been assured by Jeyne and Bethany that the result is not indecent. Your uncle’s eyes fall immediately to this change, alighting with crude intent and grinning as you venture near.

He frowns when you hand Aelys to him instead, casting a longing look at your revealed flesh. “Kōres maegītsos.” Wicked little temptress, he mutters, hoisting your daughter up so her head is braced against his shoulder. She most prefers this vantage, though you are unsure if her eyes yet possess the capability to see beyond what is directly before her.

Beaming, you flutter coy lashes as you lean on tiptoes to brush your lips across his cheek, dodging his free arm so that you might retrieve Rhaenar from the wetnurse.

A soft breeze blows from the shore as your small party—yourself and Daemon, Ser Lorent, Ser Alton (who had graciously accepted a post as your children’s guard) and a distinctly white-faced Freda—walks the path past Aegon’s Garden to the craggy cliffside. It is a long drop from the grassy plateau, a straight line down to the beaches below. On some days, the winds are so strong that anyone who dares to stand upon the precipice risks falling to their death. You move slowly, in part for your own sake and especially for Ser Alton. He may have skill with the blade, but his leg pains him still.

Caraxes tends to prefer sunning himself on the grassy knolls that spread across the bluff and had only recently begun to be joined by your own dragon, albeit reluctantly. They make for a strange pair, though you are glad to see your boy welcomed by one of his own kind.

Athfiezar must detect your arrival on the air. His massive form rumbles low from beside your uncle’s beast, tail whipping with agitation and sending stray rocks careening over the side of the bluff. Caraxes uncoils himself at the disturbance, his serpentine neck gliding like so many snakes as he stretches out to take in his visitors.

“We ought to greet them ourselves first, acquaint them with the babes’ scent,” Daemon says, coming to a stop beside you. He passes Aelys off to Freda, who keeps herself firmly behind the gold-plated Kingsguard. “Here’s hoping Athfiezar doesn’t decide to expand his diet to include Targaryens.”

“He knew of their existence before I did.” Rhaenar whinges when he is placed in the crook of the wetnurse’s arm. The warmth of her body must be too difficult to refuse, though, for he settles easily enough. You turn to levy Daemon with an unimpressed glare. “And what of Caraxes? Perhaps he will be the one to behave abominably.”

He scoffs. “Hardly.”

Though the Blood Wyrm is famed for his temper, you know Daemon speaks true. Of the pair, Athfiezar is the likelier to require caution in approaching. You are the only person that might consider themselves safe in his presence.

Your dragon hisses warningly as Daemon makes his way toward his own mount, unfurling his wings to display the full breadth of coal-dark, leathery membranes pockmarked by scarring. The threat position is surprising. You had assumed that Athfiezar tolerated him well enough. Perhaps not, you think, eyeing the beast as your uncle ignores him entirely to converse in low tones to Caraxes, too far away now for you to hear.

The rattling pitch abates when you venture forth, reaching up with tentative fingers to trace the outline of an old injury on his maw. He pauses; growls. His wings flatten down, folding in upon themselves. And, finally, he cranes his neck down, angling his head so that he may look at you with a single fixed, unblinking eye. I remember you, it seems to say.

“Yne issa, ñuhus taobus.” It is me, my boy. You keep your voice soft, calming, guilt roiling in your gut like hot lava. It has been far, far too long since last he saw you.

In an echo of another day—another time—he shifts about, the inner folds of his nostril expanding as he takes a deep sniff, relearning the aroma unique to you, The resulting gust of air when he exhales bursts against you in a concentrated stream. At once, his tail ceases to lash about; his spine no longer hunches; all traces of defensiveness vanish like dust on the wind. His giant muzzle presses into your touch like an eager pup, driving you back several paces. You giggle even as you stagger, thrilled.

For a moment, you had worried that your moons-long absence would undo his memory of you. You ought not to have fretted so, for a dragon’s recollection far outlasts any man.

“Avy ozmijetan.” I have missed you, you whisper, warming your palms on his scaled flesh, searing in its heat as it always is. He huffs. You imagine he is reproaching you for staying away. “Drējī usōven.” I am very sorry.

This time, he snorts, a current of smoke stinging your eyes to streaming. You and he do not share the same language, but you nonetheless know in your heart of hearts that all is forgiven. It is a sense just out of the realm of understanding—something you cannot fully describe, but a glow that spreads soothing through the very marrow of your bones. A true bond between rider and dragon, as your blood and his have called you for.

Athfiezar snarls, his lips sliding back to reveal jagged teeth that glint like ivory in the light, the crested spines extending along his skull and down his neck flexing with tension. He is no longer paying mind to you.

You turn to see Daemon sauntering over from Caraxes, hair ruffled by the breeze and shining brilliant white. It is a stark contrast with the cut of his charcoal coat, the hem fluttering aimlessly, and so the matching snow-capped heads of your babes in each of his arms is exceedingly difficult to miss.

“Oh, do be quiet, you great brute,” he says when he is within earshot, brow raised as though said brute was a particularly vexing gnat rather than a colossal, hulking firebreather. “Don’t frighten the hatchlings.”

“Don’t call them hatchlings.” Glaring at him, you slip your finger into Rhaenar’s loosely curled fist. It squeezes reflexively, trapping you to him. “He will think they are his next meal!”

Athfiezar rumbles his agreement. Daemon chuckles. “I doubt it. He’s obsessed with you, and these two”—he bounces Rhaenar and Aelys gently, casting a tender glance upon each—“are of your body. Your blood. He’ll recognise them.”

Already has your dragon extended the scant distance between himself and Daemon to inspect these strange companions of yours, advancing to invade your shared space in a surprisingly gregarious move. It seems the promise of novelty renders your husband a neutral participant for the time being, animosity forgotten for the sake of his interest in your quarry. Huddled close to Daemon, you watch with bated breath, waiting for your mount to make his judgement.

He remains immobile, though you can see the spasm in his eyes that indicates a subtle shift in focus, darting from you to the babes and back again. His head cocks like a bewildered hound’s.

So unwittingly hilarious is the comparison that you let out a laugh at the sight. “Ñuha rūhossa issi,” you say to him. “Zaldrītsossa, hen ñuhā iemnȳ sittis.” These are my babes. Little dragons, hatched from my belly.

There is recognition in his gaze. You know not how you know this, but it must be truth. What else can explain the echo throbbing in the recesses of your mind, the ancient sentience of thoughts that do not belong to you? It is a connection that has existed for what feels like an age, sputtered back to life after moons of dormancy.

His breath rustles as he scents you all, you and Daemon and the babes, inhaling the blend of spice and rose oil and the things that make you each unique, stripped down to their very foundations. You wonder if Rhaenar and Aelys can be traced back to you through aroma alone—if there is some sort of calling card embedded within their skin and blood that signals their belonging.

Aelys’s small, pudgy hand swings out, smacking Athfiezar against his nose. A puff of heat tousles her wispy strands, though he is not annoyed. Nor is she, astonishingly. She coos up at him, kicking her legs in what seems to you like excitement. Rhaenar gurgles at the sensation—for your dragon is much too large to have possibly avoided one babe with his deed—opting to draw the focus from his sister. He too is unafraid of the titanic beast before him. Athfiezar’s eyes snap to him, a sibilant rattle of curiosity slinking forth.

Daemon laughs. “See? They’re naturals. Born dragonriders. I told you, sweetling!”

The satisfaction in his tone is utterly endearing. He is the very image of a proud father, though your children have admittedly done little to warrant such sentiment. Still, the healthy flush of exhilaration and the happy grin that adorns his face make your heart flutter.

“Well, they will not be riding today,” you say, stifling your smile. Daemon pouts as you knew he would, and so you reassure him. “Give Athfiezar and Caraxes both time to accustom themselves to the idea of little Targaryens before we subject them to flight.”

“Hm. As long as we beat Viserys’s nine days.”

You capitulate to this, shaking your head wryly. If I refuse, you suppose, he will only seek to achieve his goal without my knowledge.

Suddenly, a reedy whistle sounds, swiftly followed by the mass of a dragon’s head knocking into you from the side. It is not violent, but the motion startles you, the periphery of your vision occupied by so much red in radiant lustre. Caraxes nudges you again, clearly displeased by having been left out of the proceedings.

“Oh! Rytsas!” You laugh, pushing him back playfully. “Īlōn imazumbagon jaelā?” Hello! Do you want to join us?

He coils his neck around you to re-examine the babes, gently touching his snout along Daemon’s arm to feel their warmth on his scales. Rhaenar wiggles against him.

“Your Highness! Your Highness!”

You turn. Ser Cargyll—you know not if it is Erryk or Arryk—comes to an abrupt halt by the waiting forms of Ser Lorent, Ser Alton and Freda. He is panting from his exertions, the brilliant gleam of his golden breastplate refracting light into your eyes with every rise and fall of his chest.

Daemon scowls. “What?”

“The King,” Ser Cargyll’s voice cracks as Athfiezar zeroes in on him, teeth bared. “His Grace has ordered your presence in the Chamber of the Painted Table.”

Your uncle sneers. “Can it not wait? We’re busy.”

Like a shadow follows his master, Caraxes rises behind his rider, extending his form high to display the full breadth of his power. The babes begin to fuss at the raised volume. There is naught you can do but soothe them with soft humming, reaching across to pet their cheeks. Daemon ignores this.

“I’m afraid not,” the knight says, glancing at your milling companions.

You cannot see his expression from here, but it appears as though he is deciding what ought to be disclosed before those gathered. He straightens; Athfiezar growls. And then, the damning revelation spills forth.

The Kingsguard’s voice is grave as he speaks. “Prince Daemon—King Viserys wishes to question you on your involvement in the death of Lord Larys of House Strong.”

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/118008595

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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seekers-who-are-lovers · 1 year

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There’s something about Rei S kicking the door self-assured with chutzpah on episode 1 compared to miscalculation and the activated fight or flight response of the last episode.

Episode 1: He had nothing to lose, but he was a breathing statue. A puppet. A killing machine.

Episode 12: He realised that the people he loved were in line of fire and must protect them. The feeling of love and affection was brimming he was ready to defy his father and what his blood family stood for. The only way to protect them was to keep himself away from danger for the moment thus he escaped to regroup in order to save them.

#buddy daddies #suwa rei #episode 1: piece of cake #episode 12: daughter daddies #rei s and the door #rei suwa files #buddy daddies wall of text

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mcclens · 3 months

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Everyone's familiar (and sick) of the Buddy Daddies being compared to Spy x Family thing. But I was thinking and realized something funny--

In SxF Yor and Loid try hard to look happy & married for the facade and their fake family. In BD Kazuki and Rei never really try that ? they're already written to act and look like "an old married couple" (director's words)

And yet the side characters (like Anna, Shigeki, the moms) think (know) they're more than friends who have a daughter together.

I think that's also one of the reasons why I like Kurusu family dynamic more. Because it feels more real and is never an act and they never try to make their family seem "properly real" in the way the Forger's try to seem perfect. I mean at the start they're like "ok we gotta play pretend family!" but post ep 3 it was all natural lol

After Rei accepts himself as Miri's father and after their talk with Misaki, they're already committed to Miri, and I remember watching SXF and just thinking WHEN are things gonna move forward?? The slowburn is burning too slow I'M IMPATIENT when is loid gonna accept anya as his daughter--

Sure, Yor and Loid are strangers, compared to Kazuki and Rei who have lived together for 3+ years.. and share a bank account... But it feels like they're still stuck at that "strangers" bit for the whole first season. I'd call them acquaintances even lol. But I get it, SxF is slower and has more of a slowburn, VS Buddy Daddies that had 12 episodes + 4 cd dramas. But even then, BD was easier for me to get attached to. (But also. I'd absolutely KILL to have BD have 2+ seasons like uhhhh yes give me all the "unnecessary" fillers and random stuff, I want to see it all, anything, I'll take it. ANYTHING. PLEASEEEE)

Also I'd call SXF a pretty vanilla anime, it's meant for all ages, it has a lot of genres that appeal to a wide range of audience (like romance, comedy, action, fictional fantasy (mind reading, loid's costumes...)), it has a fun concept, nice characters... It doesn't have blood, death, the idea that the main characters could die, no lives are at stake, it doesn't have the same approach to childcaring like BD has (the whole daycare episode, oof), it doesn't have same sex parents.

#ramble #last time (first?) I'll talk about sxf and bd together #buddy daddies #rei suwa #kazurei #buddy daddies anime #reikazu #kazuki kurusu #i like them both ig #but bd >>#my fave family anime atp

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months

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Daddy-Daughter Podcast 2023

11 years ago, my kid's daycare surprised us by announcing that they were closing for Christmas break a day before everyone else, so I ended up with our then-four-year-old daughter, Poesy, at my office for the day.

After she got bored with coloring and playing with my office toys, I sat her down on my lap in front of my podcast mic and we recorded the greatest, all-singing episode of my podcast ever:

https://craphound.com/news/2012/12/21/happy-hols/

Thus began an annual tradition. Every year since – save one, when my mic was busted – we have recorded a podcast: I interview the kid about her favorite media, apps, books, and hobbies. Sometimes, she gives a tutorial. Then, we sing a song.

She's 15 now (!), and I still managed to drag her to the mic this weekend. We discussed her musical favorites, old (Ike and Tina singing "Proud Mary") and new (Dominic Fyke). We discuss high school, volunteering at the zoo, and the rigors of dance team. She teaches us how to drive. She runs down her favorite apps, and discusses her recent name change. And then, we sing!

https://craphound.com/news/2023/12/10/daddy-daughter-podcast-2023-edition/

This is the eleventh installment in this time-series snapshots of my kid, starting in London, then moving to LA, and every year I go back and listen to the previous recordings. It's not just a wonderful moment of nostalgia for me – it's also a powerful way to put everything into perspective. Anyone who's kept a journal (or a blog!) knows, the act of regular record-keeping, combined with regular revisiting of those records, turns the impressionistic jumble of memory into a clear picture of your life and its trajectory. We remember so poorly, but our treacherous minds fill in those omissions with whatever's going on right now, so if times are good now, we remember all times as good. If times are bad, everything seems bad.

The following year sees Poesy far more confident and even funnier – and excited about working at the zoo someday:

https://craphound.com/news/2013/12/23/christmastime-daddy-daughter-podcast-with-poesy/

At six, Poesy has learned a little French, and some naughty words for Jingle Bells (and she's got a lot more vocal control!):

https://craphound.com/news/2014/12/22/podcast-happy-xmas-guest-starring-poesy/

At seven, Poesy is living in Los Angeles and my mic is very busted, but Poesy knows all the words to Frosty and she's got the barrelhouse walkout nailed:

https://craphound.com/news/2015/12/25/podcast-happy-xmas-guest-starring-poesy-2/

We didn't manage to record the next year, so we catch up with Poesy at nine, with her English accent all but gone – but her memory for lyrics is better than ever (who knew there were so many choruses to "Deck the Halls?"). This is the first time I interviewed her, for an in-depth discussion of how to make slime (remember slime?):

https://craphound.com/news/2017/12/23/reviving-my-christmas-daddy-daughter-podcast-with-poesy/

At ten, Poesy is now watching online makeup tutorials and has lots of advice for you, and is super into squishies:

https://craphound.com/news/2018/12/24/christmas-podcast-with-poesy-2018-edition/

At eleven, Poesy's no longer willing to sing, but she has lots of information about riding horses. This is the first year that she's got her own music preferences, with half of them being contemporary artists like Billie Eilish and the other half being older acts like Queen. This is also the year that she got rid of all her old toys, books and clothes, because they were "not her style":

https://craphound.com/podcast/2019/12/20/my-annual-daddy-daughter-xmas-podcast-interview-with-an-11-year-old/

Twelve sees us podcasting from covid lockdown. No song this year, but she's playing video games (Among Us), thrifting (while double-masked), and she's just discovered Tiktok, along with Tiktok dances, and she's started to find cool music that I enjoy:

https://craphound.com/news/2020/12/11/daddy-daughter-podcast-2020-edition/

At thirteen, Poe's a high school freshman and the singing is back! She's big into Drag Race and Ru Paul. And high school sucks so hard that she'd rather go back to Zoom school. She's still riding horses, and she's fallen in love with a book for the first time in years: Animal Farm (but she hates the ending):

https://craphound.com/news/2021/12/23/daddy-daughter-podcast-2021-edition/

Last year, Poesy was fourteen, and my office had just flooded out in a freak rainstorm. Poesy has discovered her argumentative nature, and she loves hiking in nearby Angeles National Forest. She's getting into hiphop – Eminem, Snoop Dogg, and Cyprus Hill – and South Park (also Fleetwood Mac!). We get a lot about Big Mouth, and a long discussion of her short fiction writing:

https://craphound.com/podcast/2022/12/12/daddy-daughter-podcast-2022-edition/

These annual time-capsules are just tremendous. I may not have had the discipline to do daily, time-lapse ready photo portraits, but this corny, silly yearly tradition is more than a way for my kid and me to spend a few minutes together just before Christmas – they're a way to connect to our past and think about the future to come. I can imagine doing these over Zoom when the kid's away at university in a couple years, though who knows if she'll stand for that.

Here's the podcast episode:

https://craphound.com/news/2023/12/10/daddy-daughter-podcast-2023-edition/

And here's a direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the Internet Archive – they'll host your stuff for free, forever):

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_457/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_457_-_Daddy_Daughter_Podcast_2023_Edition.mp3

And here's the RSS feed for my podcast:

https://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/11/daddy-daughter-2023/#not-bye

#pluralistic #podcasts #parenting #christmas #mp3s

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lilyginnyblackv2 · 1 year

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The Buddy Daddies Episode 12 Title Screen is Interesting! - SPOILERS!!!

Here is the title screen for Episode 12:

This title screen uses the same exact font as the series title and it also uses the text color to represent the characters like the title colors do:

In the Buddy Daddies title, the red is to represent Kazuki and the blue to represent Rei. In the other episode titles, we see that pink is used to represent Miri, and obviously in the Episode 12 title “daughter” is Miri and daddies represents Kazuki and Rei as a unit. Right, they are both her papas.

The way the title has shifted from Buddy Daddies, where the focus was on Kazuki and Rei separately growing and learning and becoming more and more like a family, the title Daughter Daddies has two words that are family based and indicates that they are “real” family now. They aren’t just two “buddies” co-parenting a girl, they are two daddies raising a daughter.

Now, I don’t want to get my hopes up for a second season. But it is very interesting how Episode 12′s title screen and text looks so vastly different from the others:

The only one that comes somewhat close to resembling the series title is the Episode title for the 8.5 Intermission (Recap) episode: Cherry-Pick. But, It uses the episode title font, instead of the series title font.

Now, the use of the title font for Episode 12 could just be because it is the final episode and to show the transition that Kazuki and Rei have gone through. But, what if it is also indicating a possible second season, one that would be titled “Daughter Daddies” instead of “Buddy Daddies,” because in a second season they wouldn’t be “Buddies” anymore, they would be “Daddies,” together?

I swear, if that does end up being the case, I will scream! lol I don’t want to get my hopes up too much though!

#Buddy Daddies #Kazurei #BD #Kazuki Kurusu #Rei Suwa #Miri Unasaka #BD spoilers #Buddy Daddies spoilers #meta post #speculation #thought post #long post #image heavy post #also...#going by the episode title colors #so many were Kazuki focused #wow #I never really realized that!

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velaryqns · 11 months

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Hey!

Can you do a Robert Chase x imagine?

Chase is married to his co-worker that also works with House.

Chase and his wife has a daughter together who is almost 2years old and she is her daddy’s little girl.

After chase got stabbed and he needed to stay home for awhile, he was giving his wife the cold shoulder and even to his daughter. Chase and his wife gets in a fight at the hospital which makes chase realize what he has done and he is trying to go everything for his wife and daughter.

Something like what happened in season 8 and episode 12

On Your Side

Pairing: Robert Chase x Female Reader

Universe: House MD

Summary: after your husband is stabbed during work, your relationship seemingly changes and you need to prove to him that you’re on his side no matter what

Warnings: mentions of a stabbing, angst, it’s a long piece (sorry, I like long pieces 🥲)

Author’s Note; I was so excited when I saw this request; Chase and Wilson are my favorite House characters and I don’t get requests for Chase. I’m really excited for this story! I did age their daughter up for plot purposes

Your day had started off normally; or as normally as it could when both you and your husband, Robert Chase, worked under Greg House on the diagnostics team. You had woken up early to shower for the day, then woke up your daughter; Ivy Chase. The four year old was exited to see you, and you tasked her with waking up Robert.

He faked being asleep, teasing her until he woke up to tickle her. Squeals filled the room and you watched with a satisfied smile as your sat on your’s and Robert’s shared bed. He looked up at you with the smile you had fallen in love with at the very start of your relationship. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Morning,” he said softly when you pulled away. To which you smiled and ran your hand over his disheveled hair.

Ivy mimicked you, giving her dad a kiss on his nose and then playing with his hair. He looked at her in fake shock, and his attention returned to your daughter entirely. Ivy was a daddy’s girl, from the moment she was born. Ivy was born within your first year of being married to Robert, but she completed your family and she was something he truly needed.

Ivy was a split image of the both of you, and completely spoiled by her father. Robert insisted on helping you as much as possible after Ivy’s birth, and truly focused on bonding with his daughter during his time away from the hospital.

Your morning continued normally, the two of you getting Ivy ready for her daycare stay. You both covered her with hugs and kisses and a promise that you would pick her up as soon as you got off work.

How wrong that promise was.

You had been with Foreman, asking him for his opinions of the chemistry teacher. Even with Eric Foreman being the Dean of Medicine, he was still one of your closest friends and someone you had always bounced ideas off of since he joined the Diagnostics team.

You pair were interrupted by you being paged. Robert had been stabbed. You didn’t know the extent of the damage, but still ran out of Foreman’s office for sight of your husband. Taub had Jessica Adams keep you out of the room, where she informed you of what had led to the stabbing, as well as where it was.

Of course you cried, and immediately knew you couldn’t take part in either case anymore. You needed to be there for Robert. Once he was brought out of the OR, you followed and sat beside him. The rest of the team sat around the room, and you didn’t bother to ask them to leave.

Holding his hand, you didn’t leave Robert’s side except to call your mother to pick Ivy up and briefly explaining what happened. You watched your husband closely. He looked so different…the blood loss and anesthesia had heavily effected him.

Your peace was short lived when House came in insisting that you and the rest of the team drop everything to return to the “real” patient. Taub insisted that House leave, or at least let you stay with Robert. You were his wife.

When Robert woke up, you got excited. You squeezed his hand, smiling at him and inching closer to Robert.

“Hey, hey,” you whispered, rubbing his arm with your opposite hand, “You’re okay, I’m right here. You’re in the pac-u.”

He groaned, squeezing your hand slightly. You breathed a sigh of relief and rest your head on his shoulder. Your joy faded when he asked if he had been given an epidural, and then explained that he couldn’t feel his legs.

You sat in silence, processing your husband’s words while the team began to theorize as to what was going on. You were automatically off of helping for obvious reasons, and could only sit in silence and hold his hand while you listened. But you noticed that Robert was slowly pulling away from you, but you couldn’t fight him; he was already stressed enough.

Being interrogated by Cofield didn’t make matters any better, and you wanted nothing more than to go back to early in the morning when you and Robert had been curled up with Ivy. The two of you weren’t worried about the chance of Robert being stabbed by a patient dealing with psychosis, let alone him losing feeling in his legs.

House and the rest of the team being cleared to continue their practice didn’t matter to you; what mattered was your husband. You spent the next three weeks helping Robert as much as you could. Whether this was getting him to and from physical therapy or helping him at home. Or you tried to.

Robert grew to push both you and Ivy away. She had already rarely been home because your mother didn’t want you dealing with the stress of tending to both your toddler and your husband. And when she was home she wanted to see her father. To see the smile he had given to her before the accident. But it didn’t show.

Two weeks into his treatment, Robert was on crutches and managing much better on his own. You still tried to help here and there, but were glad to have Ivy back in the house. You understood that Robert was struggling, but you wanted your family to be back to how it had been two weeks ago.

One night you were tucking Ivy into bed, placing her favorite stuffed teddy from her dad on the bed next to her. She looked up to you with eyes that shone like her dad’s, and you smiled down at her.

Ivy, though only four, was an intelligent little girl. She often picked up on when there was tension between you and Robert, or when one of your were upset after a case or argument. And you knew she had noticed Robert’s shift in behavior as well.

“Is daddy okay?” She asked, playing with the ears of the teddy bear. She held the bear close and you felt tears prick in your eyes as you forced a smile on your face, “I miss my morning tickles.”

“I know baby,” you sighed and pushed her hair back, rubbing her forehead with your thumb, “Daddy’s okay…he’s just dealing with something in his own way. Like how you do when mommy and daddy take a toy away for being naughty.”

Ivy hummed, nodding slightly. You knew she couldn’t fully understand what you were trying to tell her. You tucked the blankets into her sides more and then rose to your feet. She watched you before she spoke up again.

“Mommy,” you hummed at her as you folded your arms and smiled at her, “Daddy still love us?”

“Of course, baby,” you assured her, then pressed a kiss to your fingers tips before gently placing them on her forehead, “Now go to sleep.”

You walked out of the room, turning off the big light and only the illumination of her night light is what filled the room. You walked through the silent house, stopping in the living room briefly to see Robert in the place he’d taken residence in: the couch.

He was sitting on the couch reading a book, his legs propped up on the table. Coffee sat on a coaster, and he didn’t acknowledge your presence when you walked in.

Sighing, you stopped by the couch and folded your arms, “You are welcome in our bed.”

He hummed, looking over at you. For a brief moment you saw your Robert again, but then he looked back at the book that was in his lap. Clenching your jaw you shook your head and walked out of the room, going down the hallway and entering the bedroom.

You changed in silence, then turned off the light and climbed into bed. You purposely faced away from Robert’s side, as you had done for the past two weeks. You couldn’t bare facing the empty side of your bed, the side Robert was supposed to take up just as much as he took up yours.

Over the next few days, everything remained out of rhythm. Robert not only pulled away from what he had built for him at home, but at work as well. You’d eventually had enough, and couldn’t take the constant silent treatment from your own husband.

You walked to a table at the cafeteria, seeing him sitting in silence and reading his book. You sighed and approached the table, folding your arms and looking down at him.

“We need to talk,” you told him.

“It can wait for at home,”

“So you can ignore me and our daughter longer?” I snapped, I sat at the table and leveled a glare at him. Robert brought his gaze up to your own, eyes locking, “You’ll never believe the type of question Ivy asked me the other night. We need to talk, or I’m going to stay with my mother and Ivy will go with me.”

He hesitated, but then stood from the table and waited for you to follow him. The two of you walked into the diagnostic conference room, knowing the rest of the team was away for lunch or to do tasks for House.

“Robert, I have been trying to help you,” You began, trying to keep your tone level and. It show your emotions, “For the past three weeks I have been trying to help you take care of yourself. You have done nothing but push me away at every turn. At the start of the week Ivy asked me if you still love us. Why should our daughter being those kinds of questions. Especially with how little she is?”

Robert was silent, pressing his lips into a thin line as he processed your words. Robert watched your for a moment, and then nodded, “You know I’ve been processing what happened —“

“That gives you no right to push away the people who care about you,” you snapped, dragging a hand down your face as you shook your head, “I love you. Ivy loves you. We want to help you get better and I don’t have the patience to continue and act like this doesn’t hurt me. Watching you heal from the accident hurt enough. But you’re shutting me out Robert! You don’t understand, but I am on your side. I always have been, I didn’t marry you for nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” he said almost immediately, setting the crutches aside and walking up to you. He placed his hands on your upper arms, looking down at you and shaking his head, “I’ve acted wrong, I’m sorry. Of course I love the both of you, and I’d never intentionally push the both of you out of my life like that. I can’t lose you. I don’t want to.”

You were silent for a moment, processing your husband’s words before you moved his hands from your arms and took them into your own. You have a small smile to him, “Don’t just apologize to me.”

You were relieved to go home, hugging Ivy and adorning her with tons of kisses as you moved to start preparing supper for the two of you. Robert said he needed to finish some things in the clinic, and you didn’t want to cause another argument at work about work.

You and Ivy settled for your meal, and were interrupted by the front door opening. You turned to see Robert walking in with a grocery bag in one hand a tub of ice cream in the other. You raised brow at him as he struggled into the house and Ivy rushed into his arms.

“Ivy baby, you still need to be careful,” you called out and rose to your feet. You grabbed the items from his hands and Robert let you take his crutches and set them aside.

Robert lifted Ivy and looked toward you, “I hope there’s some supper for me?”

“In the microwave,” you confirmed, walking alongside him toward the dining room. He kissed Ivy and told her to climb back in her chair while you walked to the kitchen.

Robert sat in his chair as you warmed up his plate of food and bri fight it to them. As he began to dig in, you out the ice cream away. You began digging through the bag and froze at a small felt box in your hand. You looked up curiously, and he caught your eye with a small smile.

You opened the box and found a small gold necklace. Shaking your head you closed the box again, chuckling to yourself and continuing to put everything away. After a night of ice cream and movies, Robert insisted on putting Ivy to bed. You could hear her laughter and his voice as he told her a story.

He eventually limped into the living room, watching from where you were in the kitchen cleaning up for the night. You had just finished up and shut off the light to leave the kitchen.

“I’m going to bed,” you told Robert, sending a smile in his direction, “Night.”

You had already changed and climbed into bed when you heard the door open. You did not pay attention to Robert until you felt the bed dip. He inched closer to you and his arm wrapped around your waist. You let Robert pull you as close as his wound would allow, before you brought your hand up to cover his own.

“I love you,” he whispered softly, pressing a kiss behind you ear.

You smiled softly and brought his hand to your lips, “I love you too. And I’m happy you came to your senses.”

You had your Robert back, and things were already looking much better.

#fanfic #fanfiction writer #oneshots #reader insert #gregory house x reader #house x reader #james wilson x reader #allison cameron #gregory house #house md #robert chase x reader #robert chase #jesse spencer #floridwrites

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dianawinchester03 · 1 month

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Season 1, Episode 3 - Dead In Water

Series Masterlist

Third Person POV

Flashback to after the Wendigo hunt:

Y/N is driving Baby back to the motel to pick her bike up after the hunt and her mind runs on her dad. They could really use the help looking for John. Sighing y/n breaks the ice. "You know fellas.....the hunt for you Dad. It's getting colder. We could use some extra help" Y/N says, turning to the boys.

"You thinking what I think you're saying?" Dean says surprised. Y/N shrugs "Yeah, I could use the father-daughter bonding session" She says dryly. Sam is in the backseat processing. He brought it up to his brother earlier, there really was a fat chance of y/n saying it but never say never.

"Are you sure y/n? We know you guys haven't been on the best of terms" Sam says concerned. Y/N hasn't seen her dad in two years. Hearing is one thing but seeing him after all that time is another. Sam would know. He hasn't seen or heard from his since he left for college.

Y/N just waves it off. "Have we ever been since I gained thinking of my own?" She says laughing but there's no humor behind it. The boys exchange a look and decide to just go with with. "You fellas in?" She asks as she turns into the motel parking lot, unclipping her seatbelt. "Yeah. All in" Sam and Dean say in unison.

"Alright, I'll call him and let him know we're on our way" Y/N nods, jumping out of Baby and Sam goes to the drivers seat. F/N inherited a bunch of safehouses scattered all over the US from his family. Coming from a long line of hunters, it made sense they had a place to stay when hunting. They were quite well off surprisingly. Last they talked, he was in the Texas safehouse.

They already packed their stuff, they just needed to come back for Quinn. She fishes her phone out to call her dad but no answer.

"That's weird" She mutters to herself. She calls again five times but it goes "This is F/N L/N, I can't reach the phone right now so you can call my daughter. Y/N at (your phone number). Have a good day". The personalized voice message says each time. The boys can see y/n panicking outside and Dean steps out.

"Everything okay, Princess?" He asks her concerned and she turns to him, worry etched over her face. "He's not answering. He never does that. Even if daddy is mad at me, he always answers" She hyperventilates holding up her phone. Dean wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug.

Sam sees this and now gets concerned,

stepping out. Y/N's back is to him. Dean puts his hand up in a "I've got this" motion while nodding.

"Hey shhhh, it's okay sweetheart. We'll go find him" He comforts her gently, shushing her. His tone is soft and gentle, patting her head as he holds her. "Do you know the last safehouse he was at?" Dean asks, his hands still on her face, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "Yeah, Fredericksburg, Texas. It's a 12 hour drive" she says, nodding quickly. Dean doesn't hesitate. They hop onto their respective vehicles and make way to the safehouse.

Y/N POV

Fredericksburg, Texas.

I pull into the safehouse's drive way in a rush, parking Quinn and running over to the porch. Dean pulls in same time in Baby, Sam holding on for dear life as his brother drives like a madman.

I knock on the door harshly screaming "Dad!?!". No answer. I pull my keys out of my pocket, hoping he didn't change the locks. I feel Sam and Dean coming up behind me. Unlocking the door and stepping in, the house is quiet. Too quiet.

We all make way to the kitchen that is empty, I rush up the stairs to my dads room. Bursting in there's no one. "Daddy!? Come on old man this ain't funny!" I scream hysterical. Praying nothing happened to him. "Y/N!" I hear Dean scream from the living room and I run the stairs. He has a note in his hand and I freeze.

"You should read this" He says softly. I take the note from him, sat on the couch and began reading.

Dear y/n/n,

I found John. I'm sorry but I can't tell you where he is, where we're headed or anything at this point in time. Do what you do best and kill as many evil bastards that go bump in the night. I am safe, John is safe so you don't need to worry, stick with Sam and Dean. You guys will protect each other.

To Dean I'm sure you're reading this too. Look out for Y/N. I can't tell you where me and your father are at the moment but soon we will meet again.

To Sammy. Please accept my deepest condolences, son. I understand the pain you must feel losing your girlfriend like that. Justice will be served, you can count on that.

Take care kids. Take care of each other.

Sincerely, F/N L/N

I finish reading the letter. Not knowing what I'm feeling. Fear? I think. Sad? Yes. Anger? Yep, that's the one. Crumpling the sorry excuse of a letter. I grab the vase that was next to me on the couch. "That SONUVABITCH!" I scream in a pure fury of rage. Throwing it at the wall causing it to smash into pieces. "Woah easy!" Sam and Dean try to hold me down from destroying to place.

Dean holds me into place, "We'll find them! I promise! We will!" He tries to calm me down but I just break down. Crying into Dean's shoulder. God I hate this. Sam looks at me, concerned and pity etched on his face. I finally get how they feel, not knowing where their dad is.

Sam walks over to us and wraps his arms around me and Dean. Now in a group hug. They comfort me the best they could but I can tell they're also pissed at the fact that my dads withholding information on where their dad is.

________________________________

Third Person POV

Sam, Dean and Y/N are at The Lynwood Inn Hotel. In its restaurant, Dean and Y/N are sitting at table after eating breakfast, looking over the newspaper for possible hits on cases.

A sexy waitress dressed in a rather revealing top and shorts comes up to them, leaning over infront of Dean. "Can I get you anything else?" She asks sultry. Dean looks up and Y/N look. Dean has his pen in his mouth tugging on his bottom lip, smiling.

Y/N's eyes trail up the girls toned body, checking her out but more subtly, not really in the mood to gawk. Noticing the way Dean is looking at the waitress, she clears her throat saying, "Just the check please" smiling tightly. "Okay" The waitress' smile at Dean drops and she awkwardly walks away.

"You know Y/N, we are allowed to have fun a little every once in a while." Dean grumbles, turning to Y/N. Pointing to the waitress walking away he says, "That's fun" and Y/N rolls her eyes annoyed. "I know how to have fun" She says scoffing, in an offended tone. "Really?" He smirks, intrigued. "When was the last time you had a hookup?" He asks probingly. "Little on the nose don't ya think?" She says cocking her eyebrow.

He puts up his hands in surrender. "Hey we're all friends here" He says chuckling. "Alright" She shrugs, sitting up properly. "Last time I had a hook up was.....the night you called me to and told me your dad was missing. Funny enough, I forgot his name and right as I was about to leave for the road to meet you. He woke up. He told me it was nice to meet me and I said 'You too, Mark'.... His name was Max" She says honestly and Deans mouth is agape.

Dean did not expect her to be that honest. He was teasing mostly, he knows Y/N is a very sex-positive confident woman who's comfortable in her own skin with every damn right to be. But thinking of another person with Y/N intimately, for some reason it makes his skin crawl and his chest hurt.

Y/N snorts at his facial expression, putting up finger on his chin to push his jaw back up into place. "Pick your mouth up from the ground there before you catch flies, Winchester" She says and Dean snaps out of it. He covers it up with a smirk.

"Damn princess, I didn't know you got on like that" he teases, his voice husky and her breath hitches in her throat. "Wanna find out, charming?" She retorts back, winking at him and biting her lips. Dean feels a heat growing in his stomach, his eyebrows shooting up. His heart is going crazy. God the things I would do to this woman. He thinks to himself.

Even if Dean could respond to that, Sam approaches the table, coffee in his hand and sits down next to Y/N. Unintentionally interrupting their "conversation".

"You two okay?" He asks, feeling like he just walked-in on something. Dean and Y/N were inches from each others faces. They turn their heads simultaneously when they hear his voice. Pulling back, Y/N clears her throat nodding, "Yeah, just looking out for some cases." She says, picking up back the newspaper, scanning it with her eyes.

Sam chuckles, hiding his smirk at their discomfort of him interrupting their little moment, shaking the sugar packet, tearing it open and pouring it into his coffee. "Here, take a look at this. Think I got one" Dean also clears his throat, trying to get rid of all his lustful thoughts, resting down the newspaper on the table.

Y/N's POV (excuse all the POV changes)

Holy fuck I should not be this turnt on right now. Why am I turnt on? Focus y/n focus! We need to find dad. I mean fuck, you're here turnt on by flirting with Dean and our fathers are missing. Real classy L/N.

"Here, take a look at this. Think I got one" Dean says, clearing his throat. He rests down the newspaper on the table and I pick it up scanning it. "Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin?" I ask questionably. Never heard of it.

"Last week, Sophie Carlton, 18. Walks into the lake, doesn't walk out. Authorities dragged the water. Nothing. Sophie Carlton is the third Lake Mantitoc drowning this year. None of the other bodies were founded. Had a funeral two days ago" Dean explained and Sam chirped in. "A funeral?" He asks confused. "Yeah it's weird. They buried empty coffin" Dean says also confused.

"Could be for closure" I say shrugging and they look at me. "Closure? What closure?" Sam asks, amused. "People don't just disappear guys. Other people just stop looking for them" Sam shoots back shadily.

"Is there something you wanna say to us?" I ask ruggedly, crossing my arms over my chest. His face softens a bit, seeming to just remember that my dad is missing also. "I'm sorry y/n/n. But the trail for our dads....it's getting colder everyday. And your dad telling us he can't say where they are. It's all just- odd" He says softly and I bite my tongue because he's not wrong.

"Exactly, so what are we supposed to do?" Dean says. "I don't know. Something. Anything." He says annoyed. "You know what. I'm sick of this attitude. You don't think we wanna find Dad and Mr. L/N as much as you?" Dean says irritated. "Yeah I know you do. I-" Sam goes to say but Dean cuts him off.

"I'm the one that's been with him every single day for the past two years while you've been off to college, going to pep rallies. Y/N and her dad fell out but still talked more than you and dad did. We will find dad and Mr. L/N!" Dean snaps at Sam, authority in his voice and Sam's face drops. Ouch, that was harsh. "But until then, we're gonna kill everything bad between here and there. Just like Okay?" Dean finishes and Sam sighs sadly.

Okay...awkward. The waitress from earlier walks past again and Dean's eyes roam her. I stew a bit and try to cut the tension. "Alright fellas, Lake Manitoc" I cheerfully with a fake smile and they both chuckle at my attempt to break the ice.

"How far" Sam asks.

________________________________

The Impala and Harley drive past a sign saying 'Welcome to Lake Manitoc WI.' Headed for what evil awaits us.

We pull up to Sophie Carlton's house, making our way to the porch of the rustic house. I knock on the door and a young man answers. "Will Carlton?" Dean asks. "Yeah, that's right" Will confirms.

"I'm Agent Fisher. This is Agent Ford and Hamill. We're with the U.S. Wildlife Service" I introduce ourselves, pointing to Dean then Sam and I flash him my fake badge.

________________________________

Will leads us out to the pier. An older man was sitting on the edge, looking out into the water. I assume that's his dad. "She was about 100 yards out" Will begins to explain, looking out at the lake sadly. "That's where she got dragged down" He points to the lake.

"And you're sure she didn't just drown?" Dean questions. "Yeah, she was a varsity swimmer. She practically grew up in that lake. She's ask safe out there as in her own bathtub" Will says.

"So no splashing? No signs of distress?" Sam asks. "No, that's what I'm telling you." Will says rigidly.

"Did you see any shadows in the water? Maybe some dark shape breach the surface?" I interject. "No I- Again, she was really far out there" Will crosses his arms. "You ever see any strange tracks by the shoreline?" Dean asks. "No, never. Why? What do you think's out there?" Will asks, now curious.

"We'll let you know as soon as we do" I say nicely, smiling at him. Me and Dean go to head back to our vehicles till we hear Sam ask Will, "What about your father? Can we talk to him?" Causing us to holt in our tracks and turn to him. "Look, if you don't mind— I mean, he didn't see anything. And he's kind of been through a lot" Will said, looking back at his father on the pier sadly. "We understand" Sam says understandingly and we all head back.

Now at the station, the boys and I try to dig deeper into the case. So we request to talk to the sheriff who isn't very compliant. "Now, I'm sorry. But why does the Wildlife Service care about an accidental drowning?" The sheriff asks us, skeptical.

"You sure it's accidental sir?" I ask him nicely. "Will Carlton saw something grab his sister" I insist. "Like what?" Jake, the sheriff, asks annoyed. "Here, sit, please. There are no indigenous carnivores in that lake" Jakes reassures us, offering the three of us a seat. I sit in between Sam and Dean.

"There's nothing even big enough to pull down a person, unless it was the Loch Ness monster" he says sarcastically and Dean chuckles. "Yeah. Right." Before looking at me and Sam with an exhaustive look. "Will Carlton was traumatized, and sometimes the mind plays tricks. Still we dragged that entire lake. We even ran a sonar sweep, just to be sure. And there was nothing there" Jake insists.

"That's weird though. I mean, that's the third missing body this year" Dean says, leaning forward in his seat. "I know. These are people from my town. These are people I care about" Jake says, sorrowly. "I know" Dean says understanding, nodding. Jake sighs, "Anyway...all this, it won't be a problem much longer" leaning back in his chair, shaking his head.

"What do you mean?" Dean asks. "Well, the dam, of course" Jake says, as if we should've known. Right...wildlife service. The boys and I nod in fake realization. "Of course. The dam" Dean says, looking over to Sam and I. "It has...yeah...sprung a leak" Dean says. "It's falling apart. And the feds won't give us the grant to repair it. So they've opened the spillway" Jake explains, leaning forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table.

"In another six months, there won't be much of a lake. Won't be much of a town either. But as Federal Wildlife, you already knew that" Jake says, narrowing his eyes at us and I say "Yes sir, of course we did" smiling sweetly. We hear a knock at his office door causing all of us to turn our heads and in walks a beautiful woman in a white dress and brunette hair. "Sorry, am I interrupting? I can come back later" She says smiling.

We all get up and instantly I notice Dean checking her out. Ohhh boy, here we go. "Agents, this is my daughter" Jake introduces the woman as his daughter. Of course, Dean is the first to introduce himself. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Dean" He says, giving her his classic shit-eating grin and his hand to shake. "Andrea Barr, Hi" She says kindly, taking his hand. "Hi" He says charmingly and I internally roll my eyes.

"They're from the Wildlife Service, about the lake" Jake says. "Oh" she says and I see a little boy come out from behind her. "Oh, well, hey there sweetie. What's your name" I ask the little boy smiling. He doesn't answer or even look me in the eye and just turns, walking away. "His name is Lucas" Jake says and the boys and I look at each other in confusion.

"Is he okay?" Sam asks. "My grandson has been through a lot. We all have" Jake says somberly. "Well, if there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know." He says, patting Dean on his back as we walk out. "Now that you mentioned it, could you point us in the direction of a reasonably priced motel?" Dean asks Andrea. Me and Sam look at each other like, "this dude ugh".

"Lakefront Motel. Go around the corner, it's two blocks up." She says, me and Sam turn to leave but Dean being Dean, acts clueless. "Two..? Would you mind showing us?? He says and Andrea chuckles while me and Sam roll our eyes simultaneously. "You want me to walk you two blocks?" She asks. "Not if it's any trouble" Dean smiles. "I'm headed that way anyways" She says and we all nod. "I'll be back to pick up Lucas at 3. We'll go to the park, okay, sweetie?" She tells her dad and then turns to Lucas kissing his head. We thank Jake again and we leave.

________________________________

Now walking down the street, Dean perks up conversation. "So, cute kid" He says. "Thanks" She smiles as we cross the road to the motel. "Kids are the best huh" He says and I cringe at this, holding back my snicker. I look over at Sam who's doing the same as me. Andrea doesn't answer and just says. "There it is" Gesturing to the motel. "Like I said. Two blocks" She says sarcastically. "Thanks" Sam says.

"Must be hard, with you sense of direction. Never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line" She adds and I burst out laughing while Dean glares at me. Andrea smiles at my reaction while Sam puts his hand over his mouth. Holding his laughter back. She crosses the road yelling out "Enjoy your stay!".

"Dude, she just owned you" I say to Dean, laughing. " 'Kids are the best' " Sam mimics Deans statement from earlier, giving him his classic bitch face. "You don't even like kids" Sam says, matter of factly. "I love kids" Dean tries to convinces us. I snort, "Name three kids that you even know" I retort, pushing my hands in my pocket.

Dean puts his fingers up, trying to think but fails. I roll my eyes, Sam waves it off annoyed and we walk into the motel. He scratches his head, stumped. "I'm thinking" He lamely says, me and Sam just ignore him and go to book a room.

________________________________

Now in the motel room. Sam's researching on his laptop, Dean's sorting out his clothes and I'm by the window smoking a cigarette trying to call my dad again. 'This is F/N L/N, I can't reach the phone right n-'

I cut the phone off, huffing in annoyance. I toss my phone on the bed almost hitting Dean. He looks at me with a concerned expression as I out my cigarette and put it in the ashtray the motel had on the nightstand. "We'll fi-" He goes to say and I cut him off. "Yeahyeah I know, we'll find them" I sigh, slouching on my bed.

He just frowns at me and I feel bad for snapping at him. "Dean I'm sorry I'm just- I just don't know why they would do this" I put my head in my hands, running them through my hair. I feel the bed next to me sink, I look up to see Dean next to me. I just look at him frowning then he rests his arms around my shoulder from the side and starts singing.

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad.

Take a sad song and make it better."

I start laughing, groaning in mock annoyance.

I smile thinking about the memories of Dean singing that song to me and Sam when we were little. Whenever John and dad were on long hunts, me and Sam used to get grouchy, asking all sorts of questions and Dean would calm us down by singing it. Honestly I think singing it for calmed him down also.

"Remember to let her into your heart,

Then you can start to make it better."

"You're such a dork!" I exclaim, pushing his hand off my shoulder laughing. "I got you to smile, didn't I?" he winks at me, a wide grin on his face and my heart melts for some reason. "Thanks for that, charming" I say gratefully, looking into his eyes. "Anytime, princess" He says sweetly, chuckling. Staring back at me, I could've sworn his eyes glanced down to my lips.

"So, there's the three drowning victims this year" Sam interrupts us. "And before that?" I ask, clearing my throat and snapping out of the trance I was in. "Uh...yeah...six more spread out over the past 35 years. Those bodies were never recovered either" He tells us. "If there is something out there...it's picking up its pace" I say, crossing my legs as I lean back on the bed, bracing on my arms behind me.

Dean eyes me up and down subtly before clearing his throat. "So what? We got a lake monster on a binge?" He says. "This whole lake monster theory, it just bugs me. I say as I get up from the bed and walk over to the desk Sam's sitting at, taking a spare chair to sit on. I turn it around and straddle it next to Sam.

"Why?" Dean questions as he leans between me and Sam's chairs, looking at the laptop. "I agree" Sam says before he continues. "Loch Ness. Lake Champlain. There are literally hundreds of eyewitness accounts. But here...almost nothing. Whatever it is out there, no one's living to talk about it" Sam explains but Dean notices something in the article and points to it.

"Wait. Barr. Christopher Barr. Where have I heard that name before?" He says. "Christopher Barr, the victim in May." Sam says, clicking on the article. "Oh. Christopher Barr was Andreas husband. Lucas' father" Sam says, turning to Dean and I continue reading the article. "Apparently he took Lucas out swimming . Lucas was on a floating wooden platform when Chris drowned...two hours before the kid got rescued" I read.

I click on the picture of Lucas wrapped in a towel being held by a deputy. "Goddamn, poor kid. No wonder he won't talk" I say, my tone filled with sorrow, my heart starting to hurt for the kid. "Maybe we do have an eyewitness after all" Sam says, scratching his head sadly. "No wonder he was freaked out. Watching one of your parents die isn't something you just get over" Dean says in a benevolent tone, a flash of pain in his eyes. I rest my hand on his that's still on my chair comfortingly, sighing.

________________________________

Later we're at the park taking a stroll, kids playing, swinging on monkey bars, sliding down the swirly side. The works. We needed a little breather after reading that heavy article.

I see Andrea sitting on a bench looking out at Lucas, coloring and drawing with his crayons on a brick bench.

I nudge Sam and Dean to show them she's here, Sam nods at me and we approach her. "Can we join you?" He asks and she smiles at us. Hesitantly saying, "I'm here with my son". Dean looks over, smiling he says, "Oh. Mind if I say hi?" And he walks over to Lucas while me and Sam stay behind.

"Tell your friend this whole Jerry McGuire thing is not gonna work on me" Andrea says to me and Sam as we take a seat next to her. "I don't think that's what this is about hun" I tell her. I look over intently at Dean trying to talk to Lucas.

He picks up one of the action figures next to him that looks awfully like what he played with when we were young and starts playing with it. After about 5 minutes he comes back after talking with Lucas.

"Lucas hasn't said a word, not even to me" Andrea starts explaining to me and Sam as Dean walks back to us. "Not since his dad's accident" she says sadly. "Yeah, we heard. Sorry" Dean says, empathy in his voice. "What do the doctors say?" I ask softly and she sighs.

"That it's a kind of post traumatic stress" She says and I feel bad for her. Losing her husband and her son disappearing emotionally infront of her could never be easy. "That can't be easy for either of you" Sam says. "We moved in with my dad. He helps out alot. It's just....when I think about what Lucas went through....what he says..." She says trailing off.

"Kids are strong. You'd be surprised what they can deal with" Dean reassures her. "You know, he used to have such life" Andrea says, smiling nostalgically. "He was hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there....drawing those pictures, playing with those Army men. I just wish—Hey sweetie" She opens up but stops when Lucas comes over with a picture in his hand.

He doesn't look at any of us and just hands it to Dean. "Thanks. Thanks Lucas" Dean says smiling and I peer over to see what it is. It's a picture of a house with a red roof and a grassy yard. Lucas walks back to his bench.

________________________________

Later, me and Dean are in the motel room on our beds when Sam bursts in. "So, we can safely rule out Nessie" Sam says. "What do you mean?" I ask him, confused. He sits on the bed next to us and starts explaining "I just drove past the Carlton house. There was an ambulance there. Will Carlton is dead" He says, agitation in his tone.

"He drowned?" Dean asks. "Yep, in the sink" Sam says. "What the hell?!" I say in confusion, Dean shakes his head at this. "You two were right, this isn't a creature, we're dealing with something else" Dean says. "Yeah, but what?" I ask.

"I don't know" Dean says. "Water Wraith, maybe? Some kind of demon? I mean something that controls water." He says and something clicks in my head. "Water that comes from the same sources...." I say. "The lake" Sam finishes. "Yeah" Dean agrees

"Which would explain why it's upping its body count. The lake is draining, it'll be dry in a few months. Whatever this thing is, whatever it wants, it's running out of time" Sam says. "And I'd it can get through the pipes...it can get to anyone, almost anywhere. This is gonna happen again, soon." Dean says, getting up from the bed.

"And we know one other thing for sure. We know that this has got something to do with Bill Carlton" I say. "Yeah it took both his kids" Dean says. "And I been asking around, Lucas' dad, Chris? Bill Carlton's godson" Sam rests the new information on us and Dean says. "Let's go pay Mr. Carlton a visit".

________________________________

We walk down the short pier and see Mr. Carlton on the edge, sitting on a stool. "Mr. Carlton?" I ask as me and the boys approach him, speaking softly. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind" I say. "We're from the Department—" Dean starts but Bill cuts him off.

"I don't care who you're with. I've answered enough questions today" Bill says, his voice absolutely broken. "Your son said he saw something in that lake. What about you? You ever see anything out there?" Sam asks. "Mr. Carlton, Sophie's drowning and Wills death, we think there might be a connection to you or your family" Sam tries to explain but Bill isn't having it.

"My children are gone" Bill says, his voice breaking. I can't imagine how this poor man is probably feeling. "It's.....it's worse than dying" He croaks, looking up at us, tears in his eyes. My heart grieves for him. "Go away. Please" he pleads and we comply.

"What do you think?" Sam asks us as we walk back to Baby. I left Quinn back at the motel. "I think the poor guys been through hell" I say. "But it also seems like he's not telling us something" Dean adds and I nod. "So now what?" Sam asks us and Dean has this look on his face. "What is it?" I ask Dean. "Huh" He says looking over at a house that oddly looks like the one in the picture Lucas drew. "Well I'll be damned" I say, chuckling, shoving my hands in my jacket pocket.

Dean takes the picture out of his jacket, "Maybe Bill's not the only one who knows something" He says, opening the picture, looking over at me and Sam.

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We go to Andrea's house in hopes of Dean getting a word of two out of Lucas. "I'm sorry but i don't think it's a good idea" Andrea says. "I just need to talk to him, just for a few minutes" Dean insists. "He won't say anything. What good is it gonna do?" She asks.

"Andrea, we think more people might get hurt" Sam tries to reason with her and her face changes, worried. "We think somethings happening out there" I add. "My husband, the others, they just drowned. That's all" She tries to convince herself.

"If that's what you really believe, then we'll go" Dean says. "But if there's even a possibility something else could be going on here...please let me talk to your son" He pleads and she obliges.

We all walk up to Lucas' room, the door wide open. He's sitting on the ground, cross legged. Playing with his Army men, drawings sprawled out over the ground. Dean walks up to him and stoops at eye level. "Hey Lucas, remember me?" He asks softly, and I smile at his interaction with him. He wasn't lying when he said he loves kids.

Dean moves one of the drawing of a red bicycle and sits on the ground with him. "You know, I, uh...I wanted to thank you for that last drawing" Dean says gratefully before adding. "But the thing is, I need your help again" He says but Lucas continues drawing. Dean pulls out the drawing he gave him earlier, placing it down in-front of him and asks him. "How did you know to draw this?"

"Did you know something bad was gonna happen?...maybe you could nod yes or no for me" Dean tries to get an answer somehow, but Lucas doesn't answer, he starts breathing faster and harder. I think he's scared. Dean notices this. "You're scared....It's okay. I understand" He says gently.

"See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom" Dean starts to explain and my heart sinks. He never talks about Mary unless it's 'finding the thing that killed mom'.

"And I was scared too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see my mom...I know she wanted me to be brave and I think about that everyday" He pauses, taking a breath. "And I do my best to be brave. And maybe your dad...wants you to be brave too" He finishes and Lucas looks up at him.

This shocks all of us, including Andrea. Lucas picks up a drawing and gives it to Dean. He says "Thanks Lucas"

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Sam, Dean and I are in the Impala after leaving. Sam is looking at the drawing that Lucas drew and gave to Dean. It was a house with a church in the background, a yellow bricked two story to be exact. In-front of the house is a gate with a little boy in a blue ball cap standing next to a red bicycle. "Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died" Dean says.

"There are cases where after going through a traumatic experience could make certain people more sensitive to premonitions, psychic tendencies" I explain, I remember my dad telling me that he and my mom dealt with a case like that yearsss back.

"Whatever's out there, what if Lucas is tapping into it somehow?" Dean questions and Sam shakes his head disagreeing. "It's only a matter of time before someone else drowns. So if you got a better lead please" Dean argues but I agree with him. "We still got another house to find. And I think you've got a point" I say. "Only problem is there's about a thought yellow two stories in this county alone"

"See this church?" Sam says, pointing to the church in the drawing and I lean over, looking at the photo. "I bet there's less than a thousand of those around here" Sam says. "Ohhh, college boy. Thinks he's so smart" I tease Sam and he chuckles before mumbling "Shut it" and I smile.

He turns to Dean, a heavy look on his face. "You know, um...what you said about mom...you never told me that before" Sam says genuinely but Dean brushes it off. "It's no big deal" He says but me and Sam look at him, genuinely worried. He catches us staring and cringes.

"Oh, god. We're not gonna have to group hug or anything, are we?" And we chuckle. "Oh shut it, Winchester. I give the best hugs" I tease Dean, leaning over from the backseat. I hug Sam from behind his neck.

"Don't I, Sammy?" Sam laughs and returns the hug, holding onto my forearms with his hands. "She sure does, Dean" Sam says in a suggestive voice, going along with it, smiling. Dean just looks at us, rolling his eyes.

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Next thing I knew, we were at the church that Lucas drew for Dean. Across from the house is a yellow bricked house, just like the picture. We all make way to the house.

"We're sorry to bother you ma'am. But does a little boy live here, by chance." I ask kindly ask the sweet old lady by the name of Mrs. Sweeney who answered the door for us. "He might wear a blue ball cap, has a red bicycle" Dean adds. "No, I'm sorry. Not for a very long time." She says sadly, looking at an old picture of a young boy and I couldn't help but feel bad for her.

"Peter's been gone 35 years now" Mrs. Sweeney sighs and continues to explain. "The police never....I never had any idea what happened....He just disappeared. Losing him....You know, it.... it's worse than dying" she concludes and the bells in my head ring. Me and the boys exchange a look and turn back to the woman.

"Did he disappear from here? I mean, from this house?" Dean swallows, gently asking her. "He was supposed to ride his bike straight home after school...and he never showed up" She's on the verge of tears at this point. I noticed something on the mirror across the room, a picture of two young boys. Peter and one looking very familiar.

I pull it from the mirror, examining. And I turn it around. Written on the back of it was...holy shit. "Peter Sweeney and Billy Carlton, 1970" I read it out loud. Me and the boys basically haul ass out of there and back to the Carlton's house. "Thank you for time Mr. Sweeney" I smile softly at her before the three of us leave.

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"Okay, this little boy Peter Sweeney vanishes and this is all connected to Bill Carlton somehow" Sam starts. "Yeah, Bill sure seems to be hiding something huh?" Dean says and I nod in agreement. "And Bill, the people he loves are getting punished" I says.

"So what if Bill did something to Peter?" Dean says. "What if Bill killed him" Sam instigates. "Yeah, Peter's spirit would be furious. It'd want revenge. It's possible" I say as we pull into Mr. Carlton's house. We all jump out of Baby and call out for him. "Mr. Carlton!" Sam calls out for him but no answer.

"Hey, check it out" Dean draws our attention to the lake. In the lake is Bill going out on his boat. Oh no. We all run towards the pier in a hurry. "Mr. Carlton! Come back!" We all begin yelling when we reach the edge of the pier but he keeps going further. "Please! Don't do this!" I scream, waving my hands in the air but he doesn't listen.

"Turn the boat around!" Dean yells. "Mr. Carlton!" Sam yells. Bill looks back at us and keeps going fast. In a split seconds, his boat is thrown into the air. Toppling over, causing the three of us the flinch. The boat falls top first and sinks into the lake. Son of a bitch.

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We call in the "accident" and all head back to the station. Jake just behind us. Entering the station, Andrea sees us. "Sam, Dean, Y/N. I didn't expect to see you here" She says surprised. Jake looks shocked at her friendly demeanor.

"So now you're on a first name basis? What're you doing here?" He says, slightly annoyed. "I brought you dinner" Andrea says and Jake sighs. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. I don't really have the time" He says, taking his jacket off and her face drops. She looks over at us and notices the look on our faces.

"I heard about Bill Carlton. Is it true? Is something going on with the lake?" She asks, crossing her arms. "Right now, we don't know what the truth is. But I think it might be better if you and Lucas went on home" Jake says to his daughter and we look over at Lucas. And uneasy look on his face. Lucas runs and grabs onto me and Dean's arm. Pulling him frantically, panicking.

"Lucas! Wait, what it is?" He asks him, concerned at his erratic behavior. "Lucas!" Andrea says, pulling Lucas off of Dean. I kneel down and say, "Lucas it's okay. Hey sweetie. It's okay." I rest my hand on his head comfortingly, calming him down. Andrea ushers him out of the station and he looks back at me and Dean. A worried look on his face.

Jake dashes his coat in anger on the chair and goes into his office as Dean and I look back at Lucas. We all file in after and Jake begins chewing us out "Okay, just so I'm clear...you see something....attack Bills boat....Sending Bill, who is a very good swimmer.....by the way. Into the drink and you never see him again?" Jake asks suspiciously.

"Yeah. That about sums it up" Dean says as we all nod. "And I'm supposed to believe this? Even though I've already sonar-swept that entire lake. And what you're describing is impossible??" He says, getting agitated. "And you're not really Wildlife Service" he adds and our faces drop. Oh shit. "That's right, I checked. The Departments never heard of you three" He says, his tone accusatory.

"See, now we can explain that—" I try to explain, lying my way out but he cuts me off. "Enough. Please." Jake says fed up. He's not even yelling. "The only reason you're breathing free air is one of Bills neighbors say him steering your that boat just before you did" He says. "So, we have a couple of options here. I can arrest you for impersonating government officials and hold you as material witnesses to Bill Carlton's disappearance or we can chalk this all up to a bad day. You get into your car, you put this town in your rear-view mirror and you don't ever darken my doorstep again" He points his finger at us angrily, giving us an ultimatum.

"Door number two sounds good" Sam says, cheekily. "That's the one I'd pick" Jake growls and we all leave. Something doesn't feel right however. This is going to happen again and Jakes failure to compliance will cause many deaths.

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We all left for the motel to pick up my bike and are now at the turn off into Milwaukee waiting for the light to change. I'm next to The Impala on Quinn, the windows rolled down.

The light changes and I see Dean doesn't move. Flipping the visor of my helmet up, I hear Sam sarcastically. "Green" to his brother. "What?" He asks, clearly deep in thought. "Lights green" I say and they turn their heads to me, outside on my bike.

Dean looks at me and waves his finger in the air in a circular motion, indicating for us to turn back around and go back to Lake Manitoc. I couldnt just left just like that either. I sigh, nodding and flipping my visor down. Following behind him.

We're now back at Andrea's house. Me, Sam and Dean are at her front door when Sam begins to get skeptical. "You sure about this? It's pretty late, guys" Sam says impatiently. Neither of us answer and I ring the door bell. Almost immediately after I do this, the door flies open. A panicked and scared Lucas opening it.

He's gasping for air and this alerts us all. "Lucas? Lucas?!" Dean grabs a hold of him but he runs off into the house, we all follow behind quickly. He runs up the stairs and as we follow behind it, we notice it's flooded with mucky water coming out of what seems to be the bathroom.

Lucas tries knocking the door down but I pull him aside and kick it down. Inside is Andrea, drowning, being pulled down in the tub. Me and Sam run in, trying to pull her out but she's being held down tightly. Dean stays outside with Lucas, shielding him from the sight.

Me and Sam groan and scream from the pressure that's pulling her down but eventually get her up, falling over onto the ground with her onto of us with her gasping for air.

________________________________

The next morning, Andrea is all dried up. Me and Sam are in her living room trying to comfort her. Dean went to look for some kind of clues on what's going on. "Can you tell us hun?" I ask her calmly, resting my hand on her comfortingly. "No....It doesn't make saying sense. I'm going crazy" She sobs, looking up and putting her face in her hands.

"No, you're not" Sam reassures her. "Tell us what happened. Everything" He says. She takes a deep breath, recollecting her self and thoughts of the events prior. "I heard....I thought I heard...There was this voice" She breathes out, trailing off. "What did it say" I ask gently. "It said... 'Come play with me' " She says, fearfully, starting to sob again at the thought. "What's happening?" She asks, panicked.

Not too long after, Dean rushes downstairs with a photo album labeled 'Jake, 12 years old'. Resting it opened on the table, on the page is a picture of a group of Boy Scouts. He turns to Andrea and queries her, "You recognize the kids in these pictures", pointing at the group picture as he leans on the table. "What" Andrea asks confused.

"Oh, hmmm...No. I mean, except that's my dad right there. He must've been about 12 in these pictures" She says, pointing at the young boy, standing next to Peter Sweeney, our vengeful spirit. "Chris Bart's drowning, the connection wasn't to Bill Carlton. It was the sheriff" Dean says, turning to us. "Bill and Sheriff. They were both involved with Peter" I clarify, referring to the picture of Peter and Bill.

"What about Chris? My dad? What are you talking about?" Andrea asks us, panicked and confused. "Lucas?" Dean says worriedly, looking at Lucas who's staring out the window."Lucas, sweetie, what is it?" I ask gently but he stares ahead, opening the door and we all follow out into the yard.

"Lucas? Honey?" Andrea's voice is shaky, trying to break through to her son. Lucas stops at a random spot in the yard, looking down it and back up to Dean. I get an eery feeling from it. "Why don't you and Lucas get back to the house and stay there, okay?" I say softly to Andrea, she looks at me then at Dean who nods his head and then she grabs her son. Dragging him back to the house.

The boys and I get some shovels that were in Baby and begin digging. After a couple minutes we hit something solid, now using our hands to dig it it out. I grabbed onto what felt like a handle and with the help of the boys we pulled it out. Buried is a red bicycle like what Lucas drew. Holy shit. "Peters bike" Sam says.

We then hear a familiar voice and the cocking of a gun behind us. "Who are you?" Jake, the sheriff, has his gun pointed at me and the boys. "Put the gun down Jake" I said firmly. Jakes trembling with anger. "How did you know that was there" He asks, terrified. "What happened? You and Bill killed Peter? Drowned him in the lake and then buried the bike?" Dean says accusatory.

"You can't bury the truth Jake. Nothing stays buried" I say harshly. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about." Jake denies it and I shake my head. "You and Bill killed Peter Sweeney thirty-five years ago. That's what the hell we're talking about" Dean says, not letting him up.

"Dad!" Andrea yells, seeing her father pointing a gun at us. "And now you've got one seriously pissed of spirit." I interject. "It's gonna take Andrew, Lucas, everyone you love. It's gonna drown them and it's gonna drag their bodies to God knows where. So you can feel the Sam pain Peters mom felt" Sam says lowly while Jake glares at us and Andrea looks terrified.

"And then, after that, it's gonna take you. And it's not gonna stop until it does" Sam finishes. "Yeah? And how do you know that?" Jake presses. "Because that's exactly what it did to Bill Carlton" Sam says. Jake shakes his head in denial. "Listen to yourself. Both of you, you're insane" Jake says. "I don't really give a rats ass what you think of us, but if we're gonna bring down this spirit, we need to find the remains, salt them and burn them into dust" Dean explains to him harshly and Jake has this look on his face of guilt.

"Tell me you buried Peter somewhere and tell me you didn't just let him go into the lake" I say suspiciously and he doesn't look me in the eye which only confirms my suspicions. "God dammit Jake" I growl. "Dad, is any of this true" Andrea pipes up. "No. Don't listen to them. They're liars and they're dangerous" Jake still denies the fact, still pointing the gun at us.

"Something tried to drown me. Chris died on that lake. Dad look at me!" She demands. "Tell me you didn't kill anyone" But just like before, he couldn't look his daughter in the eye. Her face drops, "Oh my god" she gasps.

"Billy and I were at the lake. Peter was the smallest one, we always bullied him. But this time it got rough.." Jake begins to confess. "We were holding his head under the water. We didn't mean to....but we held him under too long, and he drowned" Jake confesses sorrowfully and Andrea looks horrified.

Now turning to us, "We let the body go..and it sank" Jake says, turning back to his daughter. "Oh, Andrea. We were kids. We were so scared. It was a mistake. But, Andrea, to say that I have anything to do with these drownings, with Chris...Because of some ghost? It's not rational." He tries to justify their actions and to be honest, it sickened me.

"Alright, listen to me, all of you. We need to get you away from this lake. As far as we can, right now." Dean starts to instruct them but Andrea looks over and gasps. We all look in the direction she is and notice Lucas is out by the water. "Lucas!" Jake yells and we all burst into the direction he's in.

"Lucas!" Me and Dean yell as Lucas is sticking his hand in the water. "Baby, stay where you are!" Andrea calls out to her son but he can't heard us. Just before we reach the edge of the pier, Lucas is pulled into the water, I see the head of a little boy, pale, poking out of the water, looking at Jake. Jake notices this too and gasps. It has to be the ghost of Peter Sweeney.

Sam, Dean and I waste no time and dive headfirst into the lake. Searching for Lucas. I see Andrea taking off her jacket to jump it in but I stop her cuz the ghost could drag her down too. "Andrea! Stay there!" I call out to her. "No! Lucas!" She screams for her son. "We'll get him, just stay on the dock!" Sam instructs her as we look for Lucas.

"Sam? Y/N?" Dean calls out to us but we shake our heads. No sign of him. "Lucas, where are you?" Andrea sobs and we dive back down into the water to look for him. I hear Jakes voice on the surface, calling out to Peter pleadingly. "Peter, if you can hear me, please. I'm sorry" I resurface and see Jake getting into the water. "Jake get back! He'll take you too!" I warn him as Andrea pleads, "Daddy. Daddy, no!"

"Im so sorry. Let me- Lucas, he's just a little boy" Jake pleads, getting further into the water . "Please, it's not his fault, it's mine. Please take me!"

"Jake! No!" Dean yells out to him and Jake starts to struggle, being dragged down. "Just let it be over!" he screams. "Daddy! Daddy!!" Andrea screams for her father. Me and the boys dive back down. Me and Sam resurface back after not finding anything, looking over to Andrea shaking our heads.

Soon after, Dean resurfaces also, Lucas in his hands. I breathe out the breath I was holding back. If that little boy died, I didn't know if I could handle that.

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The next day. Sam, Dean and I are getting ready to leave the motel. Though we did save Lucas. I can't help but feel bad that Jake died doing it. We toss our bags in baby and I go to hop on my bike. But I notice Dean is awfully quiet, I turn to him.

"Look, we're not gonna save everyone Dean" I say calmly and Sam nods in agreement. "I know" He sighs. "Sam, Dean, Y/N" we hear a familiar voice call out to us, it's Andrea with Lucas. "Hey" Dean says smiling as Lucas runs up to us with a plate filled with what looks like sandwiches.

"We're glad we caught you. We just, um...We made you lunch for the road. Lucas insisted on making the sandwiches himself" She says smiling and Lucas looks up at his mom. "Can I give it to them now?" He says and a smile breaks across my face, it's so good to hear him talk, my heart bursts with joy.

"Of course" Andrea says, kissing Lucas on his head. "Come on Lucas. Let's load this in the car" Dean says smiling, talking Lucas to carry the sandwiches to the car. We watch smiling as they walk off and me and Sam look at her. He crosses his arms and I ask her softly "How're you holding up hun?"

She sighs before answering, "It's just gonna take a long time to sort through everything, you know?" She says and we nod understandably. Sam sighs and says "Andrea, I'm sorry". She smiles at us regardless and says, gratefully "You guys saved my son. I can't ask for more than that. Dad loved me. He loved Lucas. No matter what he did, I just have to....hold onto that".

I understand where she's coming from. I'd hate to admit it, but regardless anything, my dad raised me the best he could. For a man who had no idea what he was doing, he taught me how to make it out there as a hunter. I love him through everything and the fact that he's missing with John who's also like a father to me. I'm worried to my core that somethings wrong.

We walk back to the car and see Dean high-fiving Lucas after he thought him the phrase, "Zeppelin Rules!" And I smile at this gesture. The smile leaves my face when I see Andrea lean over and kiss Dean. I feel an aching in my chest when she does it for some reason, like my stomach and chest is on fire.

Turning my head away so I don't have to look, Sam look at me with a twinge of pity. "Thank you" She says gratefully. Dean give a a small back, scratching his head, he looks at me and I don't meet his eyes. Clearing his throat he says, "Sam, Y/N move your asses. We're gonna run out of daylight before we hit the road" He walks over to the driver seat.

I head on over to my bike, starting her and revving my engine. And we're off.

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