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pinnithin-writes · 3 years

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more of a feeling

Mission to Zyxx fic, mild spoilers for season 5 if you're not caught up. This started as rambling about our bodies sabotaging us and turned into a conversation about our bodies taking care of us. 2117 words.

It was simple, really. It all came down to chemistry.

C-53 knew how emotions worked, of course; he’d even go so far as to call himself a veteran by now. Every frame he’d inhabited was a different experience, but the emotions he felt in those frames were a reassuring constant. He knew the programming for joy. He could trace the source code for anger. His cube felt it all the same, and no matter how many diagnostics he had to run in an unfamiliar body, his thoughts, his feelings, and his personality grounded him through the flux.

Until, that is, the failed clone of a scientist shoved him in a meat suit without his consent.

Emotions were different when he was piloting flesh. They governed his body more than he was used to. They still generated from C-53’s cube, but now that cube was hooked up to nerves and synapses, blood and organs, and those living, breathing parts responded accordingly. He was a miracle of a machine, truly – a code given life – but he couldn’t wax poetic about something like that when his pores leaked and his muscles tired and his stomach twisted in knots.

It was hard enough dealing with a body that resisted his will at every turn. It was worse still that every fleeting feeling affected him on the molecular level. He didn’t know how organics got anything done like this. Frustration made his head pound and his guts churn. Despair burned his eyes and locked his throat. Even pleasant feelings – affection, mirth – stole his breath, made his pulse race. It was distracting at best and debilitating at worst. Surely there was a way to bypass these effects.

Unable to connect his consciousness to high speed internet, he had to go about this the old fashioned way, which made it a slow process indeed. Thankfully, the USS Synergy owned a vast library, which he took advantage of to scan every file they had on hermanns, discovering himself.

He did most of his research at night. He told himself this was because he was less likely to be interrupted, but in truth he was embarrassed at his own inefficiency. Even in the old loader frame, downloading the data would have taken all of ten seconds. And though he knew his crewmates wouldn’t humiliate him, he still didn’t want to be seen like this. Having to move his eyes across a screen, absorb and process the words they scanned, and then file that information away in his slippery maze of a brain, line after line after line after line after line.

The hours of learning made him feel childish. C-53 was tired.

But he was getting somewhere. When exhaustion pulled at his eyelids and his thoughts went fuzzy in the late, still hours on Bargie, he knew it was adenosine flooding his neural pathways and inhibiting his functionality. No code existed to override adenosine. Caffeine, however, could counteract it for a short time (with the unfortunate side effect of upsetting his stomach and tasting like tar).

C-53 pored over chemistry texts and neuroscience studies, learning what made hermanns - and thus, hermanoids - do what they did. There were no comparable texts on tellurians in this galaxy, but the science, from what he could remember, was quite similar. It was all chemicals, and those chemicals told his brain to tell his body how to act.

It was exceptionally overcomplicated. There was always some other influencing factor to his body, a sensory input or a thought or even his DNA - Jeremy’s genetic memory - that scrambled a system that could theoretically be very streamlined.

An example: he could eat something that tasted good (peanut butter and chocolate), triggering a flood of dopamine that caused him to feel happy. But Jeremy was allergic to tree nuts, so his immune system attacks him for a perceived threat that doesn’t exist, so forcefully that he could die from it. It was as fascinating as it was annoying. Who knew organics could have glitches? Too bad he hadn’t figured out how to debug anaphylactic shock.

He didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish by doing all this research. In a way, studying why his body actively sabotaged him was a comfort, but the more he learned, the more faults he discovered. Evolution was a temperamental thing. He much preferred the elegance of engineering.

At present, it was a dark hour on Bargie, docked and slumbering with her crew on the Synergy. Half awake in the conversation pit, amidst a tangle of textbooks and portable screens, C-53 sat alone under the red glow of the security lights. Sprawled as he was, C-53 didn’t immediately notice Pleck wandering into the room until he said his name.

Blurry lines of text sharpened as he startled, then relaxed. “Hm? Oh, hey Pleck,” he said.

“C-53, it’s like, three in the morning,” Pleck responded. Bare footsteps signaled his approach, and then he dropped onto the couch next to C-53, a glass of water in one hand and an orange fruit in the other. He reached over and set the glass precariously on the cushion between them. “Y’know, tellurians usually sleep around this time,” he pointed out helpfully. “What are you doing out here?”

The info tablet C-53 held was inches away from his face. “I’m learning about my pineal gland,” he announced dully.

A hormone regulator located near the brain stem. Releases melatonin and influences one’s circadian rhythm. Well, it wasn’t doing a very good job right now, was it?

“Cool, is that something like - do tellurians have that too or just, y’know,” Pleck drew his feet up to sit cross-legged, “whatever you are?”

C-53 couldn’t help but smirk mirthlessly at that. “It’s found in most vertebrates, so yes, I would imagine both you and whatever I am have one.” He set the tablet aside to look at Pleck, but the screen made him night blind, and he could only see the afterimage of a splotchy red rectangle in the darkness. “Why are you awake?”

“Oh, I woke up thirsty,” Pleck explained easily. He fiddled with the peel on his fruit as he spoke. “And then I thought, well, while I’m up I might as well grab a snack, and then I saw you sitting there so,” he shrugged, “here I am.”

It was a better explanation than what C-53 had. And it was a far better explanation than Pleck would have given several months ago, when the Allwheat was still worming into his brain and keeping him up at odd hours. C-53 was thankful those days were behind them. As the afterimage of the tablet faded and Pleck became a collection of grays and blues beside him, he quietly mourned the loss of his night vision. And his regular vision.

“You ever had one of these, C-53?” Pleck asked. He finally got his fingernails under the skin and began peeling. “The Themm grow these instead of oranges. They’re kind of sour?”

“I haven’t,” C-53 answered. He hadn’t eaten an orange before, for that matter, but he wasn’t too interested in expanding his food horizons. Most things had an unpleasant texture to him.

“Do you want some?” Pleck went on, adding pieces of rind to the small pile in his lap. He slanted C-53 a glance. “Oranges are the most shareable fruit.”

“No, thank you.”

Pleck shrugged again before separating a slice of not-orange and popping it in his mouth. As he chewed in silence, C-53 picked up the glass between them and placed it safely on the coffee table. Piles of nearby notes were scrawled in his own clumsy hand, amateur diagrams and chemical formulas with lots of arrows and exclamation marks littering the margins. Writing it down helped the nonstick pan of his brain gain some traction, he found, but the coffee table was starting to look like Nermut’s conspiracy wall after so many hours of research.

His neck ached. His head pounded out a protest.

He’d been pushing his brain and body to its limits and had what to show for it? A newfound disgust with himself? A frustration he only knew more intimately? C-53 frowned and used one of his papers as a coaster.

Beside him, Pleck happily ate his fruit, unbothered. Being organic was easy for him; he was a native to his body and didn’t know anything else. C-53 pitied and envied him in equal measure.

“You’re going to bed soon, right C-53?” Pleck asked after making his way through half the orange. He reached to retrieve his glass from the table, but condensation stuck a note about the amygdala to the bottom. “Oh,” he remarked.

C-53 peeled it off for him. “I don’t like sleeping,” he explained, crumpling the note and tossing it on the table. “So I’m reading.”

Pleck took a sip of water and frowned. “You gotta sleep sometime.”

“I know,” he answered shortly. He’d read dozens of articles about the side effects of sleeplessness. Fatigue, irritability, memory issues, hallucinations if you waited long enough. He knew he’d crash eventually, he just wasn’t especially motivated to avoid it. “It feels bad,” he went on. “Waking up is disorienting.”

There was a thoughtful crease between Pleck’s brows; C-53 could barely see it under the security lights. Pleck took a moment to set his glass back down on the table before turning the remainder of the fruit over in his hands. “Is it because you don’t feel safe?” he asked without looking up.

“I’m… sorry?”

“It’s just - y’know, when I was having trouble sleeping-”

“Pleck, I’m not a lunatic,” C-53 interrupted. “I know I’m perfectly safe on Bargie. I just don’t like sleeping. I don’t need you to teach me how to be tellurian, okay?” He gestured at the pathetic mess of research before him, scrawled in an obvious lunatic’s hand. “I’m figuring it out.”

Pleck fed himself a section of orange and didn’t answer right away. On C-53’s other side, the info tablet’s screen auto timed out and went dark. They were bathed in red completely now, one of them frustrated and exhausted, the other watchful and concerned. C-53 removed his glasses and rubbed at his stinging eyes.

“Sorry,” he said after a time. “I’m just…”

“Tired?” Pleck offered.

C-53’s sigh went through his whole body. “Yes.”

A stubborn, senseless part of him didn’t want to overcome this. He didn’t want to be an example of perseverance, some epic struggle conquered by learning to live well. He wanted to kick and bite and throw a fit over this new frame. It wasn’t fair.

“C-53,” Pleck broke quietly into his thoughts. “You don’t have to, y’know, have the answer to everything all the time. Sometimes you have to just… do what your body is telling you to do, even if you don’t want to.” He offered an orange slice in C-53’s direction. “It’s trying to take care of you.”

“You say that like this flesh suit has a soul,” C-53 grumbled, but he took the fruit anyway, staring glumly as it lay in his stupid, sweaty palm.

“Well, sure it does.” Pleck smiled and prodded his shoulder with an index finger. “It’s you.”

C-53 fell silent. It was strange, learning things from Pleck. He was used to the roles being reversed, and it shifted something uncomfortably inside him every time it happened. Dutifully, he put the orange in his mouth, felt the tart flavor burst on his tongue, and chewed past the slimy sensation until he was able to swallow it. He was unable to hide a shudder.

Pleck watched him with one hopeful eye. “Not your favorite?” he guessed.

“It’s the texture,” C-53 explained, grimacing. But he held his hand out for another slice in spite of it.

Pleck grinned. “We can find something you like to eat instead of this,” he said, scooping the orange peels out of his lap and leaving them on the coffee table for later cleanup. “It doesn’t have to all be bad. Come on,” he rose from his seat and offered C-53 his hand. “Let’s check the kitchen for something better and then, y’know, maybe try and get some sleep?”

The please was unspoken, but C-53 could see it on Pleck’s freckled face. He was trying to take care of him, just like his clunky, unfamiliar body was. C-53 didn’t like his body very much, and wasn’t sure he ever would, but he liked Pleck enough to go along with him for now. He didn’t know what kind of chemical governed trust. He didn’t even let himself ask.

C-53 took Pleck’s hand, tried not to flinch from the zing it sent up his arm, and followed him out of the pit.

#mission to zyxx #mtz #pleck decksetter #c-53 #AI in a meat suit having an understandable problem with being Flesh #do you know how fuckin hard it was to walk this Jeremy line without letting it be rpf on accident #hhhhanyway #pleck/53 #(very minor)

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wildefiction · 5 years

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Of Course...Mr. Collins

THIRTEEN

Thursday came and went with little excitement, Misha leaving you to your own devices as he was briefed on that weekend’s convention schedule. You spent the day sun-bathing, napping and texting your sister about your first day in Hawaii.

Friday morning, you woke to the incessant buzzing of your phone. Cracking one eyelid, your vision slid into focus as you noted the annoying black device vibrating towards you along the table. Groaning, you winced as the backlight blinded you. It was six in the morning.

“So much for this trip being a vacation, hah.”

The six text messages surprised you and you began to scroll through them, expecting them to all be from Misha. Only that man would wake up six hours before the convention was due to start.

To your surprise, only five of them were from your boss. The sixth, was from Norman.

“Hey [Y/F/N], how ‘bout that ride today? ; )

Your heart fluttered for a moment, chills running down your arms. Sure, he’d said he’d text you - but you hadn’t actually expected him to. Your hands shook slightly as you typed out a quick response.

“That would be awesome! Let me get back to you after I check in with Mish. Woke up to five messages from him!”

Switching back to the group of messages from Misha, you sighed in relief when you realized they weren’t urgent. There was a picture of the sunrise and the beach where he’d gone running. The third was him letting you know the cast was getting together for drinks that night, asking if you wanted to go. Then one mentioning he was on his way back to the hotel, and finally one asking if you wanted coffee or tea since he was stopping anyhow.

The last message had been sent five minutes ago. Hurrying to respond, you asked for an earl grey latte before throwing the phone down on the bed and moving to find clothes for the day.

Fifteen minutes later, a dull thudding sound coming from across the room had you pulling the door open to see Misha, two paper cups in hand and a brown bag clenched in his teeth. Laughing, you grabbed the bag from his mouth and moved back, allowing him to join you in the room.

“I grabbed some of those bantam bagels and a breakfast sandwich for you to go with your tea.” We’ve got a few hours of work ahead of us, but I figure if we get done by lunch, you can have the afternoon off. Did you want to go tonight?”

Realizing you hadn’t answered that text, you quickly agreed.

“Of course! I’m super excited to meet everyone!” Clutching the warm drink in your hand and raising it to your lips, you drank deeply of the caffeine before eyeballing the paper bag you’d set down on the table.

Misha wandered into his room to grab the laptop from his bag.

“Here [Y/F/N], I’d like you to book us tickets to San Francisco for the first week of December and make the travel arrangements. I’m due at the convention Saturday morning, so we should probably get in Friday afternoon. The convention takes care of our hotel, but you should send the co-ordinator an email if you want your own room, they usually need a bit of notice for that kind of thing.”

With a bagel stuffed in one side of your mouth, you nodded in understanding as you pulled your tablet out and began writing a list of the things you needed to do.

“When you’re finished with that, do you think you might be able to find me something to wear to the luau tomorrow night? A fun shirt or something? I’m thinking my usual just isn’t going to cut it. Pick something nice up for yourself too while you’re out.”

As you opened your mouth to protest, Misha held up a hand, effectively silencing you.

“Before you say anything, just consider it a signing bonus.” “Think you can be ready by, say, nine?”

Nodding as you scribbled the notes on your list, you moved out onto the balcony, deciding to work on booking flights in the sunshine.

“Sounds good Misha, want to meet for lunch later?”

“I’ll actually be out most of the day, if you need me feel free to send me a text.” Reaching into his back pocket, Misha pulled his wallet out before rifling through it for a moment and then selecting a card and handing it towards you. Taking it from him, you were surprised at the heaviness of it. The black and cobalt gradient running over the front wrapped around the metal rectangle. Flipping it over, the card number and identifying information were printed neatly in the bottom corner.

“Kindly send me a screenshot of the flights you find before purchasing them please.”

“How much do you want me to spend on your shirt, sir?” You were still writing notes and didn’t look up to see Misha’s body language quiet as he watched you at your task.

“Whatever you like. I’m sure you can figure out what is and isn’t appropriate.” Snapping your head up, you rose from the chair as Misha turned from the room.

“Uh, no. You just gave me a credit card and I’d have a hard time spending thirty dollars on a shirt, so, I mean, can I at least have a range?! And, I don’t even know your style, what are you looking for?”

Misha turned as your cool fingers touched his skin and he smiled at the apprehension on your face. Grabbing both of your hands in his, he looked straight at you, demanding eye contact as a smile spread on his face. You stilled as you looked back at him - damn if those eyes weren’t easy to fall into…

“I have complete faith in you [Y/F/N], pick something that you’d like, doesn’t have to be fancy. And keep it under two-hundred?” “You’ll do fine.” With a final squeeze to your hands, he turned again and disappeared back into his room, leaving you with your assignments.

Settling into the table, being warmed by the morning sun you dove into searching for flights immediately, comparing the differing airlines and seat arrangements. As simple as it seems, you enjoyed this kind of work. It kept you busy while placating the organization skills that you couldn’t function without. Within the hour you’d found suitable flights for a pretty decent price and took a screenshot to send to Misha. Your phone notification sounded almost immediately; “Well that was fast,” you mused - sliding the menu screen open.

“Busy, busy eh? How about that ride?”

At first, you were confused, thinking it was Misha that had responded so quickly. Realizing it was Norman, you cursed to yourself. You’d completely forgotten to text him back. Glancing down at the clock, you noted it was only almost eight.

“Wanna meet for lunch around eleven?”

Another text. This one from Misha.

“Try again [Y/F/N] - how can I utilize your assistance properly if you’ve put yourself in coach?” “Dates and times look good though, just update your seat and send me the confirmation.”

He’d included his email address in the message. You sighed, but made the changes he requested anyhow before clicking on the checkout button. Buzzing twice in a row, you picked up your phone and saw that Misha had received the confirmation, and Norman had responded:

“It’s a date” ; )

Crossing the flights off of your list, you moved on to making travel arrangements. Several driving companies surrounded the airport you planned to fly into and you quickly made reservations with the best reviewed. After shooting a quick email to the convention organizers requesting two hotel rooms, you closed your laptop and gathered everything before heading back into the dim, air conditioned room.

After taking a quick shower and blow drying your hair, you stepped back into your room to get dressed. Settling on a pair of cut-offs and a Zeppelin t-shirt, you pulled a pair of boots from the closet you’d finally managed to unpack now that it was halfway through the week and laced them up over your socks. While the warm weather made wearing heavy boots less comfortable, one thing you’d remembered from growing up on the back of a bike was that you had to wear good shoes. Technically, you should’ve also worn pants, but you needed to be at least a little comfortable.

As the last hour ticked by, your nerves began worrying at you, and try as you might to calm them, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t startle when a heavy knock sounded on your door. Wiping your hands against the denim covering your thighs, you rose to answer the door.

“Hey, hey sweetheart, ya ready ta go?” Norman stood before you, dark Ray-bans wrapped over his eyes; a black hat pulled down over his shaggy auburn hair.

Grinning widely you turned to grab your phone and wallet before closing the door behind you.

“So, where ya wan’na go? Throwing an arm across your shoulders, he led you down the hallway.

Walking out to the parking lot, you waited as Norman swung one of his long legs over the seat of his bike, slowly backing the machine away from it’s parking spot. Looking up at you, he smirked as he waited for you to join him. Stepping up to the edge of the curb, you straddled the now rumbling monster, balancing yourself with one hand on Norman’s shoulder before seating yourself behind him. With a twist of the throttle, the bike lurched forward, and you pressed yourself against his broad back, gripping his waist with only your thighs as he accelerated out onto the main road.

Pulling into a Hawaiian barbeque place fifteen minutes later, you steadied yourself on his shoulders as you stood up from the bike.

“Ya like bar-ba-que lady?” The deep voice reminded you of the bike you’d just stepped off of and it sent a chill through your body as the smell of smoked meat drew you to the front doors.

“Uh, does a bear shit in the woods?” Norman laughed as he held the door open to let you pass through.

Sitting down at the outdoor patio, you attacked the brisket and pulled pork you’d ordered from the run-down little establishment.

“So, where’d ya learn ta ride?” Norman sat across from you, momentarily taken aback with the obscene sounds that drifted from your body as you savored the food before you, eyes screwed shut in concentration. Opening them at the question, your face reddened as the man across from you removed his sunglasses and fixed you with his light blue eyes.

“Blue, just like Misha’s, but lighter.” You mused to yourself before answering.

“My dad. I spent a lot of time on his bike growing up. He was a Harley guy too.” Norman grunted in appreciation as he continued eating. Eyeing your t-shirt, he rose an eyebrow, “ya like Zeppelin eh?”

Grinning, you nodded enthusiastically, launching into an animated discussion of your favorite songs and how you liked a lot of classic and modern rock.

Over the next hour, you talked about everything from the weather to relationships - good and bad and your hobbies. You learned that, while they filmed in Georgia, Norman actually lived in New York and spent a lot of time sculpting and painting when he was home, which wasn’t very often.

“I always wan’na be doin’ sum’thin.” “Get kin-a res’less if I’m in one place too long, ya know?”

“Sounds like a helluvan adventure actually.”

Rising from the table, the two of you made your way back to the front of the establishment before climbing back on the bike.

“Ya can hol’ on ya know. I ain’t gonna bite cha…”

“Oh, but biting’s excellent - it’s like kissing, only… there’s a winner!” You laughed, but wrapped your arms low around his waist, sliding your hands under his vest to splay your fingers over his muscled abdomen.

“Well then, darlin’ I’ll hafta keep that in mind.”

The next several hours flew by in a blur, you and Norman spent the time driving along the coast, stopping occasionally to sit in the sand and watch the waves crash over the beach. At one point, you stopped to pluck a plumeria blossom from one of the fragrant trees that dotted the park you were walking through, carefully tucking it behind your right ear. The yellow and white flower striking against your [Y/H/C] hair.

Reaching into your back pocket, you took your phone out and flipped on the camera, taking a picture to send to your sister back home. This island was so amazing, you almost didn’t want to go back.

“Hey, Norman, can we take a picture? My sister will never believe me if I try to tell her what I’ve done with my day.”

Chuckling, he ambled over, throwing an arm around your neck and pulling you harshly against his side. Taking your phone, he held it up in the air before releasing the shutter a couple of times.

“Alrigh’, one more.” Turning the camera sideways, he squeezed you closer into his side and as you looked up into the screen, he turned and pressed his lips to your cheek right as he hit the button. Blushing to yourself, you took the phone back from him and mumbled a thank you as you busied yourself with sending her the pictures.

Upon returning to the hotel, you checked your phone again as you said goodbye to Norman, with the promise to text him later. You were surprised to see there were no messages from Misha, he must be busy you thought to yourself before heading for the outdoor shopping area.

Drifting in and out of several shops trying to decide what to pick up for Misha was pretty challenging, but you ended up settling on a blue Hawaiian print shirt that was nearly the same color as his eyes. Gods that man had beautiful eyes. You’d never seen anything like them. Perhaps you were a bit biased, but you’d always been attracted to guys with dark hair and light eyes, and that rough stubble peppered over his jaw certainly didn’t hurt.

Checking the time, you noted it was nearly seven thirty and you still had to find yourself something to wear. After trying on several things you finally asked for help from one of the sales associates in a store filled with dresses.

“Hi, I’m looking for something to wear to a beach party tomorrow night, something nice but not too formal? Your [Y/E/C] eyes searched hers and she smiled back before bustling out from behind the counter to dig through the racks.

When your phone began ringing, you quickly answered Misha’s call, holding the device up to your ear.

“Hey, [Y/F/N], you gonna be ready soon?” Pulling the phone away to glance at the time, you cursed under your breath when you noticed it was quickly approaching eight. You’d never been more happy that you had showered that morning.

“Uh, yeah, give me twenty? Oh! Wait, that stuff you wanted me to buy is for tomorrow right? Not tonight?!” He laughed through the phone and assured you that was correct.

“Come in whatever you’re wearing now, we’re just going out to a few bars after all.”

Promising to meet him at the room, you spent another ten minutes choosing between a couple of dresses the woman had suggested and paid for your purchase before flying back through the shopping center and up to your room.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TAGS: @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven

#WildeFiction #Misha x Reader #Supernatural Fanfiction #SPN x RPF

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crispychrissy · 7 years

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Lost and Found - Part 1

Summary: Waking up in a field with no memory, your path crosses with two strange brothers who promise they can help. Pairing: Eventual Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester, Castiel Word Count: 2505 Warnings: Mild angst, language A/N: This is part one of a new miniseries I’ve been working on. It just kept pouring out of me and I couldn’t stop. The first chapter is similar to the season 2 episode Roadkill, but it takes a completely different turn after this chapter. Beta’d by the stunning @saxxxology and if you want to be tagged in this series, please send me an ask!

Lost and Found Masterlist

Have you ever felt like you were floating? Like everything around you is gone and you’re completely weightless? Like your body is just drifting out into nothingness and no matter how much you squirm or fight, you just keep floating further and further away?

You blinked your eyes open and groaned, feeling cold droplets bounce against your exposed skin. A shiver ran up your spine and you felt something hard and wet against your back. Slowly twitching a hand out, you grabbed ahold of what was surrounding you: Grass. Wet grass. Okay, I’m outside, you told yourself.

You tried remembering where you were, but your memory felt like it was blocked by a brick wall. Upon rolling onto your side, you instantly felt like you were going to throw up. You brought your other hand to your forehead and rubbed, trying to push through the dizzy feeling and stave off the nausea.

After several seconds, you slowly sat up, trying to see where you were. Hopefully you could find shelter or someone who might help you. It was nighttime, the only light available was from the half moon when it peeked through the clouds, but you could tell you were in a field or some sort. There were several rows of trees around you, but no structures. You shifted up to your knees and stood, your legs wobbling with the exertion.

You closed your eyes as you felt your breathing and heart rate start to increase. You had no idea how you got there. Why couldn’t you remember anything? The last thing you remembered was saying goodnight to your dad and heading upstairs in your shared house to go to bed.

You opened your eyes wide and you instantly looked down at your clothes. You were wearing jeans and a fitted button up dress shirt that were both soaked from the rain. No visible cuts, bruises, and you didn’t feel anything broken. Drugged and kidnapped? You shook your head and felt around your pockets… nothing. No wallet or car keys; you were obviously dumped here.

You had no time to think further as you heard a low rumble of a car echo throughout the field. Your eyes darted around until you saw the faint glow of headlights off in the distance. A car, perfect. You began to take a few tentative steps towards where you think the road would be, making sure to give enough distance so you would be able to get there before the car. Your legs wobbled at the first few steps, but you quickly regained your footing and began to jog.

Your mind was racing just as fast as your heart was, but you didn’t need answers now. You needed help and to get out of the cold. Your fingers were starting to feel painfully tingly and you knew it was only a matter of time until there was permanent damage. You kept an eye on the bright headlights through the trees as they curved around the outside of the field down from where you were… they were still headed your way.

You slowed down and began to walk as you came across the road, your chest heaving due to the sudden athleticism. You could clearly see the headlights as they got bigger and closer to where you were. When the car was only a few hundred feet away from you, you stepped out into the middle of the road. Now or never.

“Stop, please! Help me!” Your voice came out as a raspy whisper and you cleared your throat. “Stop! I need help!” You waved your hands in front of you, trying to get the driver’s attention. You couldn’t tell if he saw you, so you closed your eyes, preparing for an impact just in case.

The impact never came. All you heard next was the screeching of brakes. You opened your eyes and saw the headlights stopped about ten feet in front of you, reflecting the light rain that was falling in their glow. Two car doors opened in succession.

“Hey, lady, are you okay?” One of the voices called out.

You looked up and blinked your eyes, trying to make out the faces of the people in front of you. You blocked the light from the headlights with your hand, but you were only able to make out silhouettes. One was standing behind the open driver’s side door and a taller one was standing behind the passenger’s side door.

“I,” your voice broke and you took a breath, “I don’t know. I don’t know how I got here. Please, I need some help.”

“Okay. Are you hurt?” The man on the driver’s side stepped around the door and took a few steps closer to you, making you instinctively take a few steps back. He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, my name is Dean, that’s my brother Sam.”

“Y/N,” you said as the man stepped closer to you again. “I don’t feel safe with you. How do I know you guys weren’t the ones that left me here in the first place?”

“We’re FBI agents. I’m reaching in my pocket for my ID, okay?” Dean said, and you nodded. He slowly reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small rectangle, throwing it over to you. It landed at your feet with a wet plop.

You slowly bent down, keeping your eyes on both men, and picked up the ID. Your hands were shaking as you flipped it open, revealing an FBI badge with a picture of a very attractive man with brown hair. You looked back up and closed the badge. You took a few steps closer to the man you figured was Dean, just close enough to be within arm’s reach.

“Sweetheart, you’re shaking,” Dean said as you handed him his badge back. “We have the heat going in the car. Let us give you a ride into town, okay?”

You nodded weakly as the world around you began to fade out and become blurry. Your legs began to wobble and your whole body began to shake as darkness overtook your vision. The last thing you remember was a strong pair of arms wrapping around your torso and murmurs of the two men talking to each other.

“… can’t leave her, dude. She might have been hunting what drew us here in the first place.”

Hunting? Were these FBI agents on a hunting trip? You slowly opened your eyes and realized you were in the back seat of the two FBI agent’s car, a soft blanket wrapped around you. The shivering had stopped and you had feeling back in your fingers.

“If she doesn’t remember how is she going to help- Oh, hey. How are you feeling?” The man in the passenger’s seat was turned around and looking down at you, long brown hair falling in his face.

“Warm and wet,” you shifted uncomfortably, your wet clothes making a squeaking noise against the leather.

You saw Dean smile. “That’s what-”

“Not now, Dean.” The long haired man scolded. What was his name again?

“Whatever,” Dean grumbled. “Sam here gave you a once over after you passed out, just to make sure nothing was broken and you weren’t bleeding.” Sam, that’s right. Wait… he had his hands on me when I was unconscious?

Sam seemed to notice the change in your expression and his eyes went wide. “Oh, no. Don’t worry, we didn’t touch you or anything. I mean, I had to touch you to feel for broken bones, but it wasn’t anything inappropriate. I didn’t touch anywhere that I shouldn’t…”

“I get it, Sam. Thank you for checking,” you interrupted his rambling, offering a small smile to sooth his panic. “So you’re FBI agent brothers?”

Dean and Sam exchanged a look and Dean offered a shrug as you sat up in the back seat, swinging your legs around in front of you.

“Yeah. Our last name is Winchester,” Sam said, studying your face.

“Oh cool, like the shotgun? My dad taught me how to shoot when I was growing up. The farms in Nebraska get a lot of wild animals,” you rambled, adjusting your shirt.

Deans brow furrowed and eyes met yours in the rear view mirror, allowing you to make out more of his features. He had bright green eyes and a dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He was even more attractive than his picture.

Sam was also looking at you with a confused look on his face, causing you to speak up. “Why are you both looking at me like that?”

Sam pointed at the tattoo on your left forearm. “Do you remember where or why you got this?”

You looked down and ran your fingers over the design: a pentagram surrounded by flames. You shrugged. “My dad had the same one and he got me a matching one for my eighteenth birthday last year.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, you’re nineteen?”

“Yeah, I was born in 1989,” you looked between Sam and Dean. “Why, is that a problem?”

Dean looked over at his brother, concern all over his face as he spoke up. “Y/N, what year is it?”

“It’s 2007. Mid-April, I’m guessing based on the weather. Nebraska is all but predictable,” you shook your head and let out a small chuckle, “so I’ve been missing for a few days, I’m guessing?”

You looked back up at Sam, who was staring at you with his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. You looked to Dean and saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Your heart skipped a beat and your smile disappeared. “What? What’s wrong?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Y/N, it’s October of 2017. And we’re about fifty miles outside of Missoula, Montana.”

“What?” You stared deep into Sam’s kaleidoscope eyes for any signs of deception. “That’s impossible.”

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a small and flat tablet-looking thing. Was that a phone? He tapped the screen a few times and a calendar appeared. He lifted it up to show you the date listed on the screen.

October 10, 2017.

Your eyes darted across the text on the screen a few times, but you still weren’t able to comprehend it. How could ten years of your life just disappear? Your eyes began to sting with tears as you dropped your head and stared at your hands clasped in your lap.

“How do I just not remember ten years of my life? How do I know you’re not tricking me?” You asked, growing suspicious.

“You remember using a cell phone back then, right?” Sam asked and you nodded. “Here, take my phone and click on the news app that’s there. It’ll show you the date at the top.”

You took the phone and stared at the screen. There were so many boxes, you didn’t know where to start. You saw one labeled News, and you tapped the screen. “I miss my Blackberry.”

You heard a soft giggle from Sam as the news app popped up on your screen. The first item you saw was an article about President Donald Trump. “Donald Trump is the President? What the fuck-?”

“Don’t even get me going,” Dean grumbled, shaking his head.

You raised an eyebrow at the date on the article. It confirmed that it was written today, October 10, 2017. You really had no memory of the last ten years. Tears began to fall down your cheeks as you passed Sam back his phone with a shaky hand.

“It’s okay, Y/N. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this.” Sam flashed a sympathetic smile and passed you a tissue. “We’re headed for a motel in town, stick with us for now, we might be able to help. We do need to have chat first.”

You wiped your eyes and choked back a sob when Sam mentioned talking. “About what?”

Sam hesitated, but Dean spoke up. “Well, not to pile on top of the shit-sundae that’s been your day, but we’re not FBI agents.”

“What?” You practically yelled, immediately trying the both the passenger and driver’s side rear doors, only finding them to be locked. “Let me out of here!”

“Y/N! Calm down! We’re not FBI, but we’re not bad people. We’re hunters,” Sam said before he heaved a heavy sigh. “We hunt monsters.”

You arched an eyebrow at him and parted your lips. Part of you wanted to scream, but all that came out was a laugh. “You’re joking, right? Did you two escape from a psych ward or something? You’re both nuts.”

“It’s been said,” Dean interjected. “But we’re serious. The tattoo on your arm is an anti-possession symbol, sweetheart… and if your dad wanted you to get one, he obviously was a hunter as well. Is he still alive?”

You closed your eyes and thought back to when you were a kid, running around the living room in a fit of giggles while your dad chased after you. He would always make up a new monster that would be chasing you. Wendigo, shapeshifter, rougarou… could they all be real?

“He is… um was, alive. Oh my God,” you leaned forward, folding your arms on the back of the front seat. “You have to take me there, now.”

“Hold on,” Sam said, turning in his seat to look at you. “We still don’t know how you got to that field. Something obviously wiped your memories, and we don’t know who or what that was. It could still be coming after you. Come with us back to our bunker, it’s protected against evil beings. We have a few resources there that might be able to help, and I can call around to other hunters and see if anyone remembers your father.”

“A bunker? Are we talking about some hole in the wall with metal bed frames, thin mattresses, and water leaking from everywhere?” You shook your head and sat back against the leather seat.

Sam smiled. “No, nothing like that. It’s… well, it’s more of a home for us than anything. There’s actual beds and hot water.. You’d have your own bedroom and there’s a library and a kitchen.”

You perked up at the mention of a kitchen. “A kitchen? I was in college studying to become a pastry chef.”

“Pastry chef? As in desserts,” Dean licked his lips, “and pie?”

“Yeah. I cooked every night for my dad, it was just me and him since I was a kid. He always told me I made the best pecan pie in Nebraska.” You smiled at the memory of you and your dad sitting in front of the TV watching football and enjoying slices of pie.

“You’re coming back with us to the bunker,” Dean’s eyes lit up. “Sammy, call Jody and some other hunters to see if we can get an idea about if her dad is still alive. What’s your dad’s name, Y/N?”

“Steven, Steven Novak.”

Tags: @katymacsupernatural @queen-of-deans-booty @your-modern-shakespeare @wh1sp3r1ng-impala @wheresthekillswitch @holyfuckloueh @just-another-busy-fangirl @growningupgeek @ididntasktogetmadedidi @trashimaginezblog @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @atc74 @sofreddie @percywinchester27

#sam x reader #reader insert #sam winchester x yn #lost and found #miniseries #dean winchester #castiel #no memory #angst #cliffhanger #sorry not sorry lol #sam winchester x reader #memory loss #confusion #spnfanfic #supernatural fanfic #spnfamily

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rrrawrf-writes · 7 years

Note

nah, I'm kidding, 1 & 33 for the drabble thing, please!

i was growing concerned

1. “That’s starting to get annoying.”

33. “Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?”

(tw for threatening someone’s pets?)

“That’s starting to get annoying.”

“Oh, really?” Winn gave the back of Rembrandt’s seat another hard kick. “Wouldn’t’ve -” kick “- guessed -” kick “- it.”

Rembrandt leaned forward, hissing as a bit of coffee splashed out of his travel mug and onto his wrist. Weston, in the driver’s seat, shot Rembrandt a sidelong look, and then glanced up at Winn in the rearview mirror. “You should really stop.”

“Shut up, you — prick.” Winn squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, his cuffed hands making an uncomfortable lump between his spine and the back of the seat. Weston had even buckled him in before they started driving. “Let me outta the bloody car.”

“Prison made him even more of a child than he used to be,” Rembrandt muttered, as Winn kicked his seat again. He considered shooting his other leg, but they were too close to the heist to jeopardize their only thief. “Maybe I’ll tell Mr. Huntington to start kicking your dogs, Yale.”

“They’d tear him apart,” Winn retorted, but he finally subsided, slouching as best as he could in his seat. “Roll down the window.”

“It’s roasting outside,” Weston said. “No.”

“Mr. Weston, get out the gear, please.” Rembrandt leaned against the side of his car, looking up at the facility they had come to rob. It was supposedly abandoned, but everyone steered clear of it anyway - no one wanted to tr and break into one of Wildcard’s lairs. They were famously riddled with traps and lethal mindgames; Rembrandt wouldn’t have even considered the possibility of sending someone in there. At least, not until Winn fell right into his lap.

Weston moved around to the trunk of the car, while Winn skulked in the back seat. His door was open, but no one had yet bothered to undo his handcuffs, or the seatbelt. Rembrant normally wouldn’t have trusted mere cuffs to keep Winn contained, but he’d made sure to force the ex-con to change clothes completely, and then for added measures, stuck a pair of mittens over Winn’s hands. It was childish, but effective.

“Do you need another look at the building plans?” Rembrandt asked.

“I’m not going in there.”

Rembrandt just sipped at his coffee, rolling his eyes when he was sure neither Winn or Weston could see such an immature expression. “Oh. I wish you had told me that earlier. I’ll pass word along to Mr. Huntington, then. I’ll make sure he gives your dogs a clean death.”

Winn’s head snapped up. Rembrandt couldn’t believe that he had to resort to threatening a man’s pets to get what he wanted, but Winn always had been easy to manipulate. The idiot didn’t seem to have anyone else dear to him.

Weston interrupted their conversation by thumping a hard-sided case down on the hood of the car. Rembrandt winced, and looked at him sternly - he hoped Weston hadn’t scratched the paint.

“All right,” he said, “let him out.”

Winn frowned at the all-too familiar backpack Weston set on the hood of the car. “That’s mine,” he said, and the instant Rembrandt undid his handcuffs, he snatched it and unzipped the top. His grappling gloves were in there, and his lockpicks - the nice set. He’d left all this behind in a storage unit he hadn’t been able to get to since getting out of prison. “Where’d you get this?”

“Gary told us where to find it.” Rembrandt smirked as he leaned against the car again, as if it were impossible for the man to stand on his own two feet. Winn’s jaw clenched, and his hands tightened around the backpack’s straps. “We found your motorcycle, as well. I had Mr. Huntington drive it back to Boston. He was very impressed.”

“You let him what?” Winn looked up from his old backpack - he even had the mask in there, something ridiculous that he wanted to burn - and stared at Rembrandt. “I’m taking that back. Did he wreck it? He’s too big!”

“We’re wasting time.” Rembrandt nodded towards the case. “Hurry up, Yale. If I don’t have those codes in my hands in three hours, I’m going -”

“You’re gonna call that bastard and make him shoot my dogs,” Winn interrupted waspishly. “I know.”

He jerked the case away from Weston, the corners of it scraping against the car. Winn reveled in Rembrandt’s wince as he dug an earpiece out of the foam inside of the casing, jamming it into his ear. “I ——- hate you.”

“Here, let me,” Weston said in a quiet voice, as Winn pulled a digital watch out of the case. He set his jaw and let Weston wrap it around his wrist; the man was entirely too close, though. Before he drew away, he slipped something into Winn’s front pocket, a hard rectangle. A mobile phone. Winn opened his mouth, and Weston only shook his head, shooting a look over Winn’s shoulder, and to their erstwhile boss.

Rembrandt checked his own watch. “Thirteen minutes to one-thirty. You’d better get moving, Wings.”

Rembrandt had put a tiny camera in Winn’s new shirt, and he was more impressed than he would ever let show. Five years in prison had not done much at all to dull Winn’s skill - he navigated Wildcard’s abandoned labyrinth of traps with - well, Rembrandt wouldn’t call it ease. It wasn’t grace, either, but Winn’s panicked scrambling had a certain elegance to it. Rembrandt had never gotten to really see Winn truly in action, and now he regretted that the little bastard’s skills came with a cocky, self-absorbed arrogance and a truly bizarre moral code that prevented him from being a reliable lackey.

It was truly a pity that Rembrandt would have to kill him once he got the codes, but it would only be a matter of time before Winn betrayed him again. After this job, the man had to die.

Weston leaned over his shoulder to watch Winn’s progress on Rembrandt’s tablet. He was making good time - it had only been a little over an hour when Winn gained access to the facility’s inner sanctum.

“Could you have gone any slower?” Rembrandt asked archly. Winn let out a hoarse bark of laughter that sounded a little tinny over the earpiece.

“I’d like to see you do any of that,” he muttered, panting a little.

The room Winn had finally entered was a large, echoing space, filled with dozens upon dozens of enormous, square storage containers. Winn ignored them all, heading straight down the aisle to the center of the room. Lights clicked on after his first few steps, though more than one lightbulb fizzed and flickered.

There was a metal desk with a single computer in the middle of the room - but the computer was huge. Three large monitors angled around the desk, which was dusty from lack of use. Winn ran a hand through his scruffy hair as he circled the desk and computer, inspecting it for any last-minute traps left behind. He couldn’t find anything, though, not in this room, so after a few moments, he dropped down into the chair to catch his breath.

Despite being inactive for well over five years, the computer started up the second Winn’s thumb hovered over the POWER button. He pulled out the flash drive Rembrandt had given him, marked with Wildcard’s symbol. However the arms dealer had gotten this, Winn didn’t want to know. There was dried blood in the cracks of the flash drive.

“Just plug it in,” Rembrandt said impatiently, “it should take care of any passwords or firewalls.”

Winn rolled his eyes. He stuck the memory stick into a port and sat back. “This was way too easy,” he said, in spite of the tears and scorch marks on his clothes from a few too many brushes with death (or at least, permanent disability). “You gonna give me another challenge after this, Remy?”

He could just imagine the frustrated look on Rembrandt’s face at the old nickname. The bastard’s voice was far too smooth, though, when he answered, “Oh, certainly. You’ll have plenty of fun.”

I’m going to die after this. Winn stared gloomily up at the computer as code ran across the screens. Rembrandt was too smart to let him run loose. If Winn didn’t end up getting shot after all, he’d probably be chained up in some box, on hand for the next time Rembrandt needed a tool.

“Who are you texting?” Rembrandt asked - but Winn’s hands were laced behind his head as he waited for the codes to download.

“Nobody,” Weston said. A second later, the phone Weston had slipped into Winn’s pocket buzzed. Frowning, Winn pulled it out, and opened up a picture message.

It was Eli and Kawai. The former had his arms around two dogs - Braith was enthusiastically licking his face - and the latter stood in the background, her arms crossed as she glared down at a tied-up Huntington.

Winn stared, and then a grin crept over his face. He angled the phone so that the camera Rembrandt had stuck on his shirt could catch the picture just right.

“What were you saying about my dogs, Remy?”

Rembrandt stared at his tablet. “Where did you get that phone?” he snapped, once he found his voice again. “Who the hell are those people?”

“Friends,” Winn said, the smugness coming in loud and clear even if his voice was a little crackly.

“You don’t have friends.”

“Neither do you,” Winn pointed out. “Ha. Brilliant. Hey, look, there’s a self-destruct option in this computer.”

The camera angle shifted; Winn must have shifted his shirt to point it at the screen. A red line of code near the bottom right of the screen flashed at him. Rembrandt was no programmer, and neither was Winn, but the purpose was clear in the red COMPUTER SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE.

Rembrandt’s breath caught. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You wanna bet?” Winn’s face appeared on the screen; he had managed to finagle the camera out of its spot. He smiled at Rembrandt, but it was cold and unnerving. The expression didn’t fit on his face. “Don’t f—— threaten my pets, Remy.”

“We’re in the middle of the desert, Winn,” Rembrandt said, trying his best to keep his composure. “I’ll just drive away now, and maybe even call up a couple capes. Do you think Starblast would be happy to hear that a known thief was trying to run away with some of Wildcard’s greatest weapons?”

“They couldn’t catch me,” Winn said, but he looked briefly uncertain.

“It’s miles and miles to the nearest speck of civilization, Winn,” Rembrandt said smoothly. “If they didn’t catch you, the heat would kill you before you got anywhere.”

“No one -”

“And,” Rembrandt said, cutting Winn off. “I may not have any friends, Winn, but I recognize yours. That woman is from Mercury Independent - do you really think they’re here to do you a favor, Winn?”

Winn narrowed his eyes. Rembrandt gave him a thin smile. “My people will easily catch up to them, Winn. Think. Are you certain that’s the decision you want to make?”

“I’m certain you’re a —— son of a —-,” Winn snapped, and Rembrandt knew that he was winning. Winn resorted to insults when he felt like things were out of control - which, granted, they usually were.

“Mr. Weston and I will be driving away in fifteen minutes, Winn,” Rembrandt said coolly. “And I’ll be calling my people in two, and Starblast and Scorchstorm in five. You might want to be out of there and in my car before then.”

“Actually,” Weston said. Rembrandt started to look up from his tablet, and froze when he felt the barrel of a gun cold against the back of his neck. Sam continued, “We’re not going anywhere.”

tagging @gingerly-writing since she just loooooOOOoOOOOoOOOooves rembrandt so much (and sam)

#tumblr games #ask games #iwrite #winn #sam #rembrandt #superpowerverse #mercury independent #mi

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