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#i can't postpone this even more this is already from last tuesday
purple-hel · 2 years
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I just had to spend pretty much every penny I had on a car rental for the next 3 days cos my apartment complex lied to me. (Details under read more.)
I've got $4 until payday now, which is August 12th, and may lose stuff from my pantry if I can't get it out of the apartment. (I might not have time, cos I can't take off work on this short notice.) And the only reason I even had the money for the car rental was that I'd been saving up to attend a dear friend's wedding which is this coming weekend, August 6th, and now I probably can't go, cos the gas is going to be like $125-$150 (1250 miles round trip), and I'd need a hotel for 2 nights.
If anyone wants to help mitigate this bullshit, maybe even make it so I can see my friend marry her sweetie of 16 years, my gfm is https://gofund.me/18d27573 and I'm PurpleHel on venmo&cashapp. Venmo or cashapp would be most helpful cos gfm has like a week lag. I also have zelle and will give the associated email to people privately.
So my apartment complex said last week that the bug treatment this Wednesday, August 3rd, was going to be low key, 20 minutes tops, and I could just put the cats in another room. Then told me today (August 1st) at 3:30pm it's a 'you gotta leave for 4 hours and anything in the apt has to be scrubbed after and pets shouldn't be brought in until it's aired out', and can't be rescheduled, so I gotta take as much as possible to storage so it doesn't get gassed, and I have to take me and the cats to a friend's all day Wednesday, cos I work from home.
And I can't take off work on such short notice, 3 people on our 8 person team are already off this week. So I had roughly 12 usable hours to get everything done from when I got the email : 6pm-midnight today, and 6pm-midnight tomorrow. I'm a spoonie, so don't dare purposely cut into my sleep, tho anxiety is doing it anyway. I busted my ass tonight, and will tomorrow as well, and I'm hoping to steal some time from work, but I have a half day one time project I can't postpone tomorrow morning, besides all my usual Tuesday stuff.
This was really like, the worst possible time. Next week I'd have had my car back, and only 1 person at work would be out so I could have taken the day off.
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erlkoenige · 3 years
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It's taking me every single drop of willpower to not just click off the recording even though i only have 15 minutes left
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herstarburststories · 3 years
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tolerate it
Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader
Summary: your love for Dean used to be celebrated, but now he tolerates it.
A/N: here it is, hunters! First fic of the year, wow! I hope you guys like it! Based on Taylor's song tolerate it. Also requested by @ashleyygeza!
Warnings: so much angst, language, smut
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There was this thing you always liked to do. It was mostly the learned behavior of a child that grew up in motel rooms. It was usual for the adult that called a bunker her home, too. You’d lay on your back, staring at the light on the ceiling and squint your eyes to the point the glimmering white light could be mistaken as the moon. You never thought you’d end up doing that to people as well.
It used to be something so sensual and sequin back then, but now the fact that he's so much older and wiser only makes you quiet. You see his bruised hands and worried glances; the stubble on his face growing as his sense of self starts to fade with borrowed time. Dean used to love you in screaming colors; now he just sits in silence reading with his head low, researching the next case under the dim light while you watch him. Sam can't seem to stand slow deaths either -- he just clears his throat and leaves the bunker with the empty excuse of a supply run. 
Still, you remain here. You stand still like a good ornament in Dean's collection of lovers. It seems like it's a matter of time until he leaves you too. Yet, you’re sitting and watching him, and you can't help but wonder if you aren't just another wrinkle on his face. You’d been a memory of something worth dying for, once, but now you were starting to believe you were just another battle scar; marred skin that had spent so long settling that he didn’t even notice the scarification anymore. 
Hours pass as quickly and emotionally draining as dry heaving. His huffs of annoyance and thirsty fingers of whiskey were difficult to ignore. The eldest Winchester doesn’t dare to approach you; to throw those dust-collecting books away and make love to you with dumbfounded grins and breathless groans like he had done so many times before. That was when you were a complete person and not just the husk of a lover destroyed. Once you held the strength of Jeanne d'Arc, now you sit and wait for a man to love you back. You’d be disgusted by your weakness if you had any pity left to spare.
If you look at someone too much you can confuse it with love. And if you already love someone and keep looking, you might waste all the rose-colored visions love could create. Maybe that's what happened to Dean. It’s a treacherous game, and it seems like he’s winning. Perhaps it’s your fault, your snide mind speculates against your will. You should try harder.
You don’t miss Dean’s hidden sigh of relief when the door makes a noise, announcing Sam’s return. How could you? You notice everything he does or doesn't do. At first, you fantasized that, even if it started getting messy before, he was pushing you away because of the whole fighting God problem, now you aren’t so sure. The clues were all over the place when Chuck was gone. Dean smiled at Sammy as if there was no tomorrow and said we’re finally free without sparing a glance at you. When they-- when he started building other worlds, where were you? That long-fraught, battle-ridden past of the Winchesters might be gone, but the more you try to turn the page, the more they stick to each other.
‘’Sammy,” his gruff voice says. It is the first word in hours that wasn’t half-hearted mumbles agreeing with your occasional comments or the tuneful hum of a classic rock song between reading and drinking. ‘’Did you bring any bacon?’’
‘’Yeah, but they need cooking--’’ Sam interrupts his brother, already familiar with this conversation. Dean’s half-open mouth and wiggling brows meant one thing. He was such a kid sometimes. ‘’And no. I’m not frying this cardiac embolism waiting to happen for you, dude.’’
You get up, aiming a smile at the long-haired hunter. ‘’Don’t worry, I can cook it. I was gonna make some pasta anyway.’’
Sam slightly nods before tilting his head towards you. ‘’You sure?’’
‘’Yeah. My butt’s already sore from the research. Those chairs aren’t that comfortable.’’ You scrunched up your nose with a good-humored grimace. 
‘’Okay, thanks.’’ You nod, throwing a last glance at Dean, who barely moved since you got in the conversation. You turn around, walking to the kitchen when Sam’s voice reverberated through. Deciding to overhear against all your sense of privacy, like a schoolgirl in the bathroom, you lean against the wall. You can’t believe the point you got to at those moments, but the answer to the question Sam asks may be the solution for your personal tophet. ‘’What’s up with you?’’
Dean doesn’t seem phased by his brother’s prodding. ‘’What do you mean?’’
Sam arches his eyebrows. ‘’No butt jokes?’’
At least you aren’t going crazy here. Even Sammy noticed something peculiar about Dean and you. There had to be an explanation or reason.; something broken that you could fix.
‘’I’m a grown-ass man, Sam.’’ He scoffs as you heard the chair being pushed. You nibble on your bottom lip, catching your breath as they continue.
‘’Yeah, sure,” the younger man snaps sarcastically. Dean rolls his eyes. ‘’Actually researching when I leave you two alone? Come on, Dean. Did you guys argue or something?’’
‘’We are just fine.’’ His boots scuffing against the wood floor makes a well-known melody, just like Sam’s loud sigh. You know him; he thinks this his brother’s way to avoid the subject and run away. You can’t say you don’t agree with that.
‘’Dean…’’
“I’m gonna take a shower. I spent two hours reading. I gotta get ready for my bacon.’’ It is a simple answer that made your heart spin like a girl in a brand new dress. You had the sudden realization that at least he spent those hours with you, right? Deadly in his quietude, but he was there. Women always are excellent at convincing themselves that crumbs are a whole meal. Therefore, convince yourself this is enough.
You hear the creaking under his strong, heavy steps as he leaves, and a couple more from Sam as well. Ultimately, you turn around, clapping your hands together as you glare at the food still waiting to be made. You give yourself a comforting smile as you speak: ‘’Time to get to work.’’
Then you go. You pace around the kitchen, preparing the lunch with everything you have. Make it perfect, make it delicious. Fuck, even make it deluxe with pre-made bacon and vegan pasta on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s so silly how you make such a lavish effort with the smallest things only to maybe catch a glimpse of his attention. As if Dean would see, truly look at you again. You gave him the best you had, and when you ran out of that, you gave him what was left too. 
The pasta is smelling good. You two used to be each other's better halves, but since the coin had been tossed, you are now each other’s worst reflections. He’s your coldness; the gelid nature that was so useful as a weapon to hurt those who came before him. The ignorance, the lack of care for the ones who claimed to cherish you with their ripped out chests and open hands. You can see you in the way he moved, told white lies and walked away. All the most brutal aspects that your soul built through the years. You almost burn your hand, but at least it isn’t his bacon. And in you, you hold all Dean hated in himself lately. The clingy behavior, always urging to serve and make someone else happy. So needy for a gentle touch, one single proof that his lurking was wrong and he was worthy, that he could be loved someday if he just tried hard enough. Desperate in earge for aprovation, just like you grabbing the Men Of Letters’ sumptuous tapestry and the elegant candle holder, laying the table with the fancy shit.
‘’Wow.’’ Sam says once he arrives in the dining room. Dean refrains his reaction to arching his eyebrows in an unspoken question: what the fuck is happening there?
‘’Is the queen visiting us or somethin’?’’ You catch the pissed off glare that Sammy gives him, yet the older Winchester just shrugs. His little brother had the same eyes as him in many aspects, he had to agree that all those snobby objects were too much.
Unbothered, too used to his butch nature, you chortle. ‘’I just thought we deserved some nice things tonight.’’
Dean hums before adding: ‘’As long as there’s bacon.’’
Sam praises how good the sauce you made tastes. Of course, Dean just nods and agrees with a grumble, not even taking a second glance at you. He doesn’t notice that you are watching him, neither does he compliment your cooking. You never get the reaction you expect from him. Not a thank you, or a true smile, or even a drop of love in the saliva of his kiss, but you keep trying. Just like he tried to make daddy proud for so long. You both should know that's not how it works, but who can argue with a broken child mosaic in an adult damaged heart?
The green eyed man purposely sets the scene in a manner that his brother would be between the two of you. And yes, you manage to double cross this signal and sit down on another chair by his side. Although, when your elbows accidently meet during the homemade feast, Dean doesn’t look at you with the lopsided grin that you love so much. He doesn’t lean in to steal a kiss. Instead, he moves to the side discreetly. You were the roots of hope once, the one who could grow inside him and wrap around his organs for some relief of the hematoma and blood. The Winchester held the arm that pulled you closer and made sure you would stay. But he no longer touches you and the plants died of thirst and you are still here. In these moments, your trick mind asks: why are you still here? You can’t answer.
The lunch goes by filled with your and Sam’s chatter, Dean’s loud chewing and Miracle’s ocasional barks until there’s no food or reasoning to postpone staying together. All the three of you raise up, adamantly ignoring the strange atmosphere. 
‘’We’re leaving in an hour.’’ It’s all Dean says before leaving the room. Sammy dares to squeeze your shoulder softly before following his older brother’s path. With a suspire, you collect all the plates and lead to the kitchen again, starting to put the 60 minutes to good use. Polish plates until they gleam and glisten, maybe Dean will sneak in and wrap his arms around you, press a kiss to your neck and tell you to go to bed, that he will take care of the dishes. He used to do that. This was then and this is now. It’s easy to get lost in the tangles of time.
Of course he doesn’t. Though the hunter shows up with a bag and shouts from the living room for you to hurry up, so you do. Sleeping in the backseat of Baby through the streets of the United States, you wake up with Sam gently shaking your shoulder. Dean is already inside the restaurant. You try not to think too much about it, he could’ve been needing to hit the bathroom or something. As you and the youngest Winchester enter the establishment, four trained eyes fall on your boyfriend and the waitress, who’s clearly leaning forward to make her cleavage more evident. You two pace towards the table just in time to hear the end of their conversation. 
‘’Call me if you need anything.’’ The name tag says that the brunette is called Andressa. She's tall, tan and beautiful, smiling in a way that you never can never conquer. You miss having that confidence, how you’d walk in a room and be sure people would stop and stare. Remember when you used to be like that?
‘’Betcha.’’ He gives her a lopsided grin, the one that used to be directed to you. Andressa winks at him and leaves, swapping her hips in the most seductive way, which catches Dean's eyes like it's the whole Aurora Boreal and not just a woman's ass.
‘’Nice shirt, yeah?’’ You take his indiscretions all in good fun. Dean, though, takes a deep breath and wipes his face, as if he's the one with the right to be annoyed in this situation. It's so stupid how you keep making yourself smaller to fit in whatever expection is comfortable for him. At some point you'll disappear-- but hey, no body no crime. You attempted to explain yourself, ‘’I was just kidding.’’
He tightens his mouth into a thin line. ‘’I know.’’
‘’I saw one on Shein.’’
‘’Come on, Y/N.’’ The green eyed hunter scoffed. ‘’That’s like, Belladonna’s boobs sort of thing.’’
It’s so stupid how his opinons can change your whole weekend, as if your emotions were some sort of board game that Dean played by his own rules. You hang your head low, playing with the menu. You can ‘’Yeah, you’re right. It was dumb.’’
‘’That’s not what I---’’ He stopped himself with a deep inhale. Why did it seem easier for him to criticize than compliment you? You are using your best colors for his portrait of stares, yet all you gain are vacant side eyes. That man killed for you, and now every second by your side seemed to be murdering him. ‘’You’d look good on it.’’
You decide not to go on the next hunt, give both of you a break from the grey skies that always seem to suppress you and Dean. What if you two just need time apart? You live together, work together, and even have the same group of friends. Putting the whole monsters and multiple deaths aside, it was pretty much like a normal relationship. You must just need some time alone to miss each other. So you start going on less and less hunts. God, past you’d hate that scared little girl act, begging to be seen like a shiny toy.
Your cell phone buzzes, causing a smile besides the burning anticipation building up in your veins, crawling under your skin like a million little stars, or bugs. It depends on how you choose the perspective, no surprise you’d go for the romantic one. Well, it's a text from Dean. Plaid and crude: getting home in ten minutes. Why’d you be unpleasantly anxious about that? He’s your boyfriend and he’s coming home after a week! Your fingers dance around the keyboard before answering a sweet waiting for you, with a couple hearts in the byline.
You get his favorite burger and a whiskey older than you in the Deancave, which is settled up with a three hours marathon of Scooby-Doo. It was always so adorable when Dean and you made bets to see who’d guess the episode villain first. Even his hot dog pants and his robe are on the armchair. As for you, you are waiting by the door like you’re just a kid, in a vat to greet him with a battle’s hero welcome. One, two, three, minutes piling up as uncountable as the hidden tears that you cry each week in after the city’s asleep. Let’s be fair, you should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. What was the last time Dean accomplished something he promised to you? He doesn’t even reply to your text message asking if he was okay. Minutes trapped into hours, and you’re sitting with your back to the wall, right next to the door he should have burst out long ago. Time’s ticking, your mind is so tired and your body is sore; it’s exhausting to love someone like this, so you take a rest when sleep wins your hopeful, unclever thoughts.
Dean arrives one hour later, an oral scarlet letter on his tongue that tastes like beer and unregrettable priorities, an apologist expression accompanied of a very grumpy-ish Sam as the door is pushed open. The short haired hunter purses his plump lips at the sad sight; you sleeping on the floor next to the door, probably waiting for him. Maybe he should've answered your text earlier and not just rolled his eyes and ordered another drink. What a suburban mistake for a Winchester.
Dean doesn't turn around to face Sammy; his brother made his opinion on that matter very clear during their roadtrip. Instead, his aching body just leans in and picks you up bridal style — that would've made him smile in the gentlest way his blood-stained mouth and sharp teeth could, eye dipping with joy and a silent promise for the future, but now that only gets a stoic expression as he walks towards your shared room. 
He dares to sigh. There you go, taking too much space and time. This might be a deceiving concept dappled with melancholic nostalgia, but to take space and time wasn’t a trouble before. Dean once worshiped the light-hearted emotion you could bring out his inner little monster - or his soul, whatever you wanna name it. The time wrapped around your finger as he was, and things were just good. Raw good. Yet, now he sees it; time’s always running, and so is him. It’s no surprise the heart he was holding fell and was left behind at some point of the race.
The hunter bumps on the door with his shoulder, leading inside the bedroom and placing you on the mattress. Your body can’t help but to cling to him as you mumble in your sleep; maybe it’s your fond memory, used to Dean’s body seeking some human contact only in the middle night.
Clicking his tongue, he pulls away. The movement is docile, just enough to wake you up. Dean can’t help but to groan at this.
‘’You came back.’’ You murmur, while Dean adjusts on the spot next to you in bed.
Arching his eyebrows with some comedic background, he answers: ‘’Of course I did. I live here.’’
Live. You wouldn’t call what he does living. More like a ghost hunting his old house when you are around. Or maybe you were the ghost and sure, most people would run away from it, but Dean always goes looking for the supernatural beings anyway. Unnerving that he’d make someone he loved out of one.
‘’Why didn’t you pick up the phone? I was worried.’’
He shrugs and kisses your hand. ‘’Was busy.’’
It’s a poor excuse, but those are all that have been holding you two together lately.
Here it is. Your inner anger for being treated wrong, the mad woman inside you scratching to come back. He has been treating you like a coat in Texas’ summer, like a stained flannel, like a forgotten feeling. You deserve more than this. You are so much more than this. Who he thinks he is?
But he has those green eyes that cried single man tears, and he’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. And you love that man so.
Instead, you smile and reach out for his hand. ‘’I missed you.’’
Dean doesn’t answer. He restricts any emotion to a grin, and suddenly you are under him. He pushes his lips against yours in a desperate act of recovery, to gain back what he somehow lost through the way. The green eyed man might not find his love in you, but there’s something else he can work with; luxury. Love was always harder to spell than lust anyway. To you, the way he howls against your lips is love. To him, it’s the confirmation of the absence of it. But he can’t let go.
Your hands and his, still together coaxing each other into giving in. It’s so easy that way. Dean rushes to rip your t-shirt, gaining a laugh out of your and a kiss to his jaw. He’s out of his pants before you can even pull away to assist him. The male catches your earlobe, kissing that sweet spot to make you whimper his name.
‘’Dean.’’
Your wince, his shirt is tossed away, just like your skirt. You aren’t wearing a bra, and quickly your cherry panties are pulled apart with a simple move of his finger.
‘’Gonna make you feel so good, babe.’’ His index finger is shoved inside your tight cunt. You throw your head to the back, spreading your legs open. You want to beg him to make you feel anything good, for him to be the reason of the holy and not hollow, just this once. ‘’You are so wet--’’ Another finger, they move inside of you in an attempt to find the right spot. ‘’So fucking tight for me. I’ve fucked you so many times and you’re still so tight.’’ Dean’s thumb caressed your clit as he licked his lips, relishing how you squirm and whine his name. What a good girl. ‘’Can’t wait to fuck you.’’
It doesn’t take much longer. The eldest Winchester quickly replaced his skilled fingers with his pulsating cock. His member begged to be inside you, squeezed by those warm and tight walls. Your pussy was always so good for him, taking him so nice. Dean moans at the sensation, his hand losing yours to hold the bedpost, his thrusting wildly against yours.
No more praising words, no more foreplay. He comes to get what he wants and you’re willing to give. He used to touch you like a priceless wine, now his hands are hustled and careless like you are just another bottle of cheap beer. Dean fucks himself into you and you can’t do anything but groan in pleasure. Sometimes the hurting can be delicious, too.
You crave more, though. Your hands, tiny compared to his, meet Dean’s back, nails digging into the bare skin in a reminder I’m here, you’re still mine. Your legs wrapped around his torso, which only caused his moves to go faster and more ferocious, destroying your needy cunt for any other. It feels so good to have him inside you, fucking you up to the point you are an inchorent ball of cum and sweat. He’s gonna get you there, it’s certain, Dean always does.
His thumb comes back to your vagina, digital press to your clit as he attacks your neck. You try to move your head and get those plump lips against yours, but he sounds like an animal, increasing his rhymin and sucking your tender skin.
Everything is so hurried and irrational and not intimate. He comes inside of you after your own release, marking you up with his orgasm. As soon as he’s dones, he crawls out of you and lays on his back. Sure, you come around and rest your weary head on his chest, but that’s what it is. Deep silence. Not the one where love or magic or whatever Aphrodite is made of fills the void and makes the lovers comfortable. No, this one is visceral, like a chuckle empty of joy. It’s like the tie of gold that tried you two were tangled and ripped. Your love should be celebrated, but he tolerates it. He tolerates everything you do. He tolerates your presence. 
The wrath sneaks in smoothly and astute. You aren’t just one night stand or a sweetheart. How can Dean act like you are? You lift your head and watch him breathing with his eyes closed. It’s so brutal, emotionally violent how you are aware that he’s only doing that not to have pillow talk. Where’s that man who’d throw blankets over your barbed wire? Easily misplaced by the one who threw your boundaries away and out the trap there nowadays. You made him your temple, you mural, your sky, now you’re begging for footnotes in the story of his life.
In the rare cracks of lucidity, you picture what would happen if you did what your old, better self would do. Dean appears to assume you are fine, but what would he do if you break free and leave you two in ruins, took this dagger in you and removed it, gain the weight of you then lose it? He was so comfortable with you. Maybe he didn’t think you would ever do that, but there’s just so much a woman with your determination and cleaverity can take. Believe, I could do it. You did it before with others. Sometimes you need to leave to breathe. Perhaps it's time. 
But then, he embraces you. Just like that, all your doubts and fears and bruises caused by his kisses are reduced to paranoia. You decide maybe you got it wrong somehow. Not even blinking at the thought that Dean enjoys cuddles. No, he’s pulling you closer and snucking his nose into your hair because he loves you. Convince yourself. You are majestic with lies, it gets surprisingly facile to tell them when you nuzzle into the Winchester’s neck like his smell is some sort of placebo.  
You aren't tiptoeing around it, or even stepping on the doubts with tiny hoaxes. You are barefoot on his love-- but his love feels a lot like walking through a street of fire and thorns. But hey, isn't that the point of devotion? To put something, someone first? To go through any suffering and starve to get to the prize, to walk through the golden gates? If this was a church, the priest would tell you to get on your knees and pray harder. You can see where he’s going. You’ll do better. Be everything Dean needs. You can be worthy-- you are worthy. You were his everything once and you can be that again. Pick up the soul tapestry he shrewd so unintentionally and patch it up. Most of those things must be in your head anyway, and if they aren't… Well. He will love you that deeply again, right? Right? It’s an echo. Right.
Tomorrow you’ll try again. In the name of love, condepedency, or whatever it is. Sit and watch him.
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