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dontasktheradiodemon · 4 years

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Chat Log, Sept 28-ish - New York

Remember when Valera, Sir P, and Alastor went to a Broadway show? Sure you do, here’s the link. Anyway after that they hung out in New York. Like a bunch of frigging tourists, doing normal tourist things. Seeing Time Square. Checking out a local club. Singing musical numbers in the subway. Normal tourist things.

Valera

Wheeling Pentious out of the theatre is a simple matter, especially when he's too busy being.. Well. Probably horny, judging by his face, to kick up a fuss. With record, beau, and a murderous demon in tow, Valera exits the building, and the three of them are left blinking in the afternoon sun over 1960s New York City. Where to even begin?

Sir Pentious

The fresh(?) air hitting his face was definitely helping already. Sir Pentious is no longer biting his glove, having sat back in his seat, squinting up at the skyscrapers. Hmm. What to do with themselves now. He clears his throat, looking to the Radio Demon, "WERE YOU GOING TO TAKE US TO ONE OF YOUR HOT SPOTS, ALASTOR?"

Alastor

Give him a moment. It's been almost a century since he's been to New York City. About forty years from this particular New York City's temporal perspective, but for HIM, almost a century. The moment he steps outside, he's completely distracted by the street and buildings outside the theater, looking up and up. He'd forgotten what blue skies look like. "... What?"

Valera

Valera cocks her head, looking mAlastor up and down. Oh. "Nothing, dear fellow. Take a second, breathe in the air, the sights, the sounds. Let your memories come back. We've got all the time in the world to see the sights." She comes around to crouch in front of Pentious, fussing over his blanket as a cover for squeezing his hands. Plus a little forehead smooch, to distract him.

Sir Pentious

Oh, that was true, wasn't it. He had gotten so distracted with his red facedness that he'd somehow forgotten about the blue sky. That's why everything looked wrong to him. It was like Pentagram City was no longer bathed in blood red hues. It hurt his eyes, too. Still, seeing the Radio demon look so... well. Pentious couldn't think of a word to describe it. Soft and gentle words did not suit Alastor, not at all. The victorian gentleman's eyes squeeze shut at the forehead smooch, and his attention is brought solely on Valera once more. Well, he can give her actual eye contact now and... he risks a little smile, brow creased. "Hello," he whispers.

Alastor

No, such words don't suit him, but for a split second they're almost fitting. But he shakes himself out of it quickly. He's playing host to these two right now, he can't get distracted! He spins to face the two of them. "I just need a moment to orient myself! Can't see a street sign, there's so many theaters around I'm not even sure which one we've just come out of—do you happen to know which way Times Square is from here?"

Valera

She offers Pentious a soft smile in turn, smoothing the hand not holding his over his cheek. So pale, so fair. She could almost see the individual veins under his skin. He looked... Delicate? Delicate, like this. "Hello, dearest." A last bump, nose to nose, and she rights herself to turn to Alastor. "If we go southwest we can reach it in five, my good man! Hang a right and just go straight down 52nd!"

Sir Pentious

He breathes her in--how could he not? That would have to carry him through the rest of the evening, but Pentious is looking much more relaxed now. He's got a very bright smile on his face as he looks up at the two of them. Hmmm! These buildings were very tall, taller than they would have been when he would have been alive back in the late 80s. Not that he was in America, but still! Ever higher, theyd be able to reach a passing blimp!

Alastor

"52nd! Why, not far at all!" He slides his Record That Has Been Officially Autographed "Best Wishes To Alastor From Louis Armstrong" into another dimension, summons up his microphone cane—and if any passersby see these minor magics, that's THEIR problem—and points the way. "What sad excuses for tourists would we be if we didn't start off with Times Square? Onward!"

Valera

They could never live with themselves if they were stuck with the label of sad tourists, now could they? No, never them! If they're going to see the sights, they're going to do it well! Valera tucks their own record into the pocket attached to Pentious' wheelchair, moves behind, and trots after Alastor with Pentious in tow. Sure, he COULD push himself, but this is the perfect angle to dip down and give his hat a little smooch from. You can't take that from her.

Sir Pentious

He's not going to complain, he'd rather it be her behind him than Alastor. Pentious was trying to adjust to not having eyes all over himself, although if that counts as one of his abilities, he wonders if he could just grow eyes. Hmm. Pentious is marveling at the sheer size of the buildings, and the various machines driving around. Look at that! Getting excited over cars like some kind of TOURIST. "LOOK AT THAT ONE," he's gesturing at what appears to be a classic Dodge. Seats two, has space in the back, and top down! What a bright red. Pentious' eyes are SHINING. "I COULD MAKE MULTIPLE IMPROVEMENTS UPON IT!"

Alastor

They barely hit Broadway before Alastor recognizes his surroundings. If his heart was still beating, it would be trying to thump its way out of his chest. Sure, a few buildings replaced, billboards and signs trying to cover up the familiar facades, all the clothing and cars updated, yes—but he knows exactly where he is. It's hardly changed at all. He could walk from here to his old apartment with his eyes closed. And, in the process, run into a thousand people and get hit by a dozen taxis, but whatever. "Oh, I'm sure you could!" He drops back to walk alongside Sir Pentious and Valera—they're going to be walking in a straight line for several blocks, he doesn't need to lead the way—and claps a hand on Sir Pentious's shoulder. "I've always loved your cars, you know." It does not occur to him to stop and wonder whether this Sir Pentious also designed cars postmortem the way his own did.

Valera

Valera can appreciate the look of a classic car, even if her first few experiences with the four wheeled machines of anxiety-torture were, in a word, terrifying. Nicer from a distance, suffice to say. Seeing Pentious so excited was a surprise. Pleasant, but a surprise. Then Alastor, too! It was impossible to be anything but sunny with both her guests in such high spirits. All three of them, grinning away like fools as they stroll along. What a sight they must be. And come to think of it.. "When were cars invented?" More musing aloud than a true question, but she voices it anyway.

Sir Pentious

There's a hand on his shoulder, and Pentious looks up, closing his eyes as he puffs his chest out. "OHO, YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT! YES, I DIDN'T KEEP AT IT AFTER A CERTAIN POINT, BUT THE TECHNOLOGICAL ADVANCES IN HELL WERE EVEN WORSE THAN IN THE LIVING WORLD. I FIGURED BETTER TRANSPORTATION WAS A NECESSITY. A DESIRE TO IMPROVE MODES OF TRANSPORTATION WAS HOW I GOT INTO THE WHOLE AIRSHIP IDEA, YOU KNOW. IT WAS ONLY FITTING THAT I'D BE DOING IT AGAIN IN HELL." He's still beaming with pride, "I WAS APPROACHED BY THE MAGNE FAMILY, ACTUALLY. IN LETTERS, MIND, BUT APPARENTLY MY ENTRY INTO HELL, WITH THE EXPLOSIONS AND FIRE AND FLYING AROUND, THAT CAUGHT THEIR ATTENTION AND THEY WANTED ME TO BUILD SOME THINGS AROUND.... IMPROVE UPON THE GENERAL ARCHITECTURE OF THE PLACE! EVERYTHING WAS RUBBISH. I INITIALLY THOUGHT TO SAY NO, BUT HE WAS LUCIFER. HA! IF ONLY MY MOTHER HAD SEEN THAT, SHE WOULD HAVE DISOWNED ME AND HAD ME COMMITTED, HAD I NOT BEEN DEAD ALREADY." He's really just excitedly yammering on. It's like listening to one's exceptionally English grandmother talk about meeting the Queen. He pauses, to tap the side of his head, "INVENTED? OH, RIGHT, RIGHT. WELL, IN THE LATE 80s, MY LOVE. BUT PEOPLE WERE ALREADY THINKING ABOUT MAKING SOMETHING LIKE THAT FOR A WHILE, EVER SINCE THE STEAM LOCOMOTIVE'S SUCCESS, IT, IT REALLY DIDN'T TAKE LONG AT ALL. THOUGH TO ME, THAT WAS EASY. IF I'D TOLD YOU THAT I'D DESIGNED THE FIRST CAR, YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE ME, SO I'LL LEAVE IT UP TO YOU!"

Alastor

Alastor nods along as he listens, unconsciously tilting his cane in Sir Pentious's direction as though he's presenting a microphone toward an interviewee. He's heard most of this explanation before, years and years ago—but the details vary slightly, just enough to be intriguing. What he wouldn't give for two biographies of Sir Pentious from two different universes, laid out side-by-side for him to compare them. "Approached by the Magne family?! Now, there's an honor! As infamous as I am, even I've never been contacted by the royal family. I had to go and introduce myself to the princess." Alastor actually wouldn't have guessed the late eighties. "I don't think I knew a single person who owned a car until I was well into my teens. They were luxuries before then."

Valera

Valera hums, focusing on rolling Pentious through the crowds more than the actual conversation at hand. Still what she does pick up at least SOUNDS impressive. Lucifer was part of the Mange family. So... Charlie Magne. Oh, that's funny. Right. Plus being approached by the king of hell to improve the infrastructure of an entire kingdom, plus allegedly inventing the modern deathtrap that is a car. That's also impressive, yes. "I don't see why I wouldn't, you've certainly got the technical know-how to build any car you please. In fact, knowing they were built while you were alive, I'd be surprised if you didn't at least have some prototypes in the works before you died!" Mwah, another dip down to reach over one side and peck his cheek. Good work, Penny.

Sir Pentious

Oh he's being praised from both sides, he's going to bask in this for quite some time. "I NEVER FORMALLY DROVE ONE AROUND TOWN UNTIL AFTER I'D DIED. IT WAS MORE REASONABLE TO STAY OUT IN THE COUNTRYSIDE, UNLESS I WERE GOING TO MAKE A STATEMENT IN MY VESSEL."

Alastor

"Of course! You figured out how to get a steamer out of the ocean and into the SKY—who am I to question it if you say you got a train off its tracks too?" The praise train won't stop chugging. "I mainly rode them out in the countryside, too. Having them in cities just seems..." He gestures at the cars clogging Broadway and preventing each other from getting anywhere.

Valera

She coughs, a bit embarrassed. "I don't have much experience with cars, personally. Mostly riding in them and being incredibly confused about why I had to sit in the little fast noisy box instead of teleporting like a civilized being. Nevermind that most species aren't capable of such luxuries. Cars certainly look sleek though, and they're really not that bad. I prefer the convertibles though." Luckily, or unluckily, she can't do the full air quotes around Little Fast Noisy Box. But she shrugs, and it's close enough.

Sir Pentious

"IF THEY'RE BUILT WRONG, THEN THEY ARE BASICALLY LIKE DRIVING AROUND IN A COFFIN! JUST WAITING TO CATCH FIRE!" He even points out a car when he says that, "BUT YES, COULDN'T REALLY SIT IN ONE NOW. MY BODY IS A LITTLE LONG FOR THAT. I COULD MAKE A CAR THAT FITS MY NEEDS, BUT I DO NOT NEED ONE. I PREFER THE AIR."

Alastor

"Unfortunately, around our neighborhood, most civilized beings don't know how to teleport! It's a pity, you'd think they'd make that a requirement. Alastor glances Sir Pentious up and down. "You don't look too long now, we could go for a joyride before we go home. Know how to hot wire a car?" He's 100% not joking. Oh, they've made it to Times Square. Alastor's got to stop dead for a moment, just staring around at all the buildings. "Would you look at that." He's got that look on his face again. "It's exactly how I remember it." Minus the billboards etc., of course.

Valera

"I do. But I'm more familiar with modern cars. I doubt the design has changed too much though." Oh good, Alastor's distracted again. That gives Val time to drape herself over the back of Pentious' chair, propping her chin on top of his head in a lazy sort of hug. Maybe get a little hair stroking in there as she watches Alastor take in the scenery. He certainly did seem attached to this city, maybe she should offer him the same Deal she did his alternate someday..

Sir Pentious

Hey, hot wiring a vehicle does sound fun! Excellent with his wheelchair predicament, not so much. Pentious smiles up at his beloved, removing his hat to give her a bit more room for the moment. "CAREFUL YOU DO NOT CRUMPLE MY ACCESSORY, MY LADY."

Alastor

Okay, all right. He's had his moment. He's basked in the confusing glory that is somehow, impossibly, being back in NYC. Back to being a good host. He whirls back to Sir Pentious and Valera. "So! My old stomping grounds were in Harlem; if you want jazz, that's the place for it. We can take a taxi, take the subway—or hoof it, if we want to be elegant." He winks. "But I never have been an elegant man."

Valera

Valera doesn't bother pulling away this time, setting her cheek down on all the new space Pentious has opened up for her. Mwah, a kiss for the top of his head. He's to blame, surely. The reference gets a snort, but then she thinks about the question. A frown, and she lifts a hand to brush through Pentious' hair. Comforting? Maybe self soothing. "Perhaps the subway? I don't know how many wheelchair accessible taxis are around here."

Sir Pentious

The reference definitely is caught and Pentious makes a face. "YES, I AM NOT VERY ELEGANT EITHER, AT LEAST NOT ENOUGH FOR A JAUNT." He pats his immobile legs, "HOW IS THE RAPID TRANSIT IN NEW YORK ANYWAY? I'M AFRAID I AM UNFAMILIAR, I KNOW HOW IT SHOULD FEEL IN THEORY."

Alastor

"I'm sure that for a taxi ride we could teleport your chariot away and back"—he obviously isn't terribly concerned with subtlety—"but the subway will probably be more convenient anyway." He gets on his toes, looking around for the nearest subway station—he feels so short—then points and leads the way. "Wonderfully efficient, except when it isn't. But that was almost a hundred—er—forty years ago! No doubt the basics are the same, at least..."

Valera

Ugh, more moving? Awful. She has to stop her ridiculous draping over Pentious like some overly affectionate feather boa and go back to actually responsibly pushing him around! A last peck for the road, and she extricates herself to grip the handles and follow after Alastor's spritely steps. Wasn't HE energetic? "Ah, the subway. Never been, but I assume we'll need..." A glance around, and she adjusts the purse she for sure had this whole time. "...Currency to purchase tickets? Where would one go for that?"

Sir Pentious

That energy wasn't new to Pentious, but it did seem like Alastor was solar powered after all. He can recognize a clear difference--he looks like a man mere seconds from bursting into song. People are passing by, it IS New York after all, and some looks are being cast Alastor and Pentious' way--Valera's, too. She's quite the looker! Sir Pentious readjusts his hat on his head, and he drags his fingertips against his lips as he watches the scenery pass ever so slowly, "THIS CITY IS SO BOISTEROUS--WE ARE LIKELY TO BE PACKED INTO THAT TRAIN LIKE SARDINES. NO OFFENSE, MY LOVE."

Alastor

"Getting up close and personal with other commuters' body odor is all part of the busy city experience!" If he wasn't busy navigating/narrating, he probably WOULD burst into song. Watch out for humming. "There should be a ticket window downstairs! I'm sure you can cover the fare, can't you? You covered the theater tickets quite handily—" He stops dead at the top of the stairs down to the subway. Emphasis on "stairs." "Hm." Well, he's completely ready to carry Sir Pentious down the stairs. The question is how to say so without sounding eager about it.

Valera

The sardine comment earns Pentious a snicker. She'd do move, but alas, they must move. "Oh, yes of course I can. Now, 'scuse me, dear. Need to get down there!" Alas, poor Alastor. He'd set a precedent with all his summonings and minor magics. Valera saw no issue with swerving around their tour give and making an invisible (to any normal human) ramp straight down the stairs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Who's going to complain if Pentious isn't getting jostled around? Perhaps she simply has superb upper arm strength!

Sir Pentious

Oh. Stairs. Hmm. He's about to make a comment, only to notice the ramp. Ah! How handy. Sir Pentious beams as he's not being bumped around like a sack of potatoes. "YOU KNOW, ALASTOR, IT'S REALLY RATHER ODD TO HEAR YOUR VOICE WITHOUT ALL THAT RADIO STATIC IN THE WAY! IT MAKES YOU KIND OF FADE INTO THE BACKGROUND?" And it's probably weird not hearing Pentious hiss every time he says an S, although apparently he just naturally drags out his S's. He might have done that in life.

Alastor

"Fade into the background! You insult me, Sir." Tone of joking faux offense aside, he is insulted. Him? Fade into the background? THE Radio Demon? Broadcaster extraordinaire, voice that can command the attention of a million pairs of ears at once? How would Sir Pentious like being told the Wright brothers did it better? He brushes off the insult. He's been resting on his laurels for decades, he knows that. Maybe he should work on his presentation some more. "You think that's weird, try listening to a snake suddenly start talking like a human." A ramp works too. Maybe Alastor doesn't get to carry Sir Pentious, but he DOES get to kick a bit of flat rubbish onto the ramp and see if he can stand on it and sled to the bottom. He can. He trips at the bottom.

Valera

"Boys, boys, you're both pretty." Valera will do nothing to save Alastor from his own hubris. But she WILL make sure Pentious gets to see his antics before she moves along to purchase tickets for the three of them. A miserable affair, but all that's left is to wait for their.. train? Subway? Ride? She hums. "Is there any meaningful difference between a train and a subway? Surely not, right?"

Sir Pentious

"OH, I CAN'T IMAGINE WHAT THAT SOUNDS LIKE!" Smooth. Pentious snorts against his glove, watching him trip--it was always fun to watch Alastor prance about. He's going to look over at Valera, reaching for her hand to pet it gently in his, "A QUICK TRIP FROM ONE AREA TO THE NEXT! ALTHOUGH, FROM THE SOUND OF IT..." He can hear a train leaving, probably they were going to catch the next one. How the station fills with noise! "FASTER."

Alastor

Alastor picks himself up, brushes himself off with great dignity, and answers without acknowledging his spill, "Sure, it's for when the rail-way is sub-terranean!" He trots after Valera and Sir Pentious. "Actually, maybe we don't need tickets." He'd just seen the turnstiles and had his memory jogged. "We also might be able to put our nickels in at the turnstile. That was a new feature when I moved here, don't know if they kept—twenty cents?!" He gapes at the price card on the turnstile asking for tokens; and then, turning toward the other two, repeats indignantly, "TWENTY cents?!" Better buy some tokens after all. Once they're through the turnstiles and Alastor has recovered from this fresh scandal, he notices a route map on the wall—oh good lord, they multiplied—and starts studying it for a route. He puts one finger on Times Square, one near his old apartment in Harlem, and—oh, all right, there's the old line he used to use, buried beneath all the others. "Now, hold on! There's a lot more lines now, we don't know if that's the right—" He squints at the sign on the train that just pulled up, squints at the map, and yells, "It's the right one!" He books it for the train, half-breathlessly humming "New York, New York" as he goes.

Valera

Pentious' pats are appreciated, but all too soon she's distracted once more by Alastor's frantic energy. Mostly the offended outburst at the, apparently, ludicrous pricing. She blinks, uncomprehending. "Twenty cents..?" Is that a lot for this era? Surely she can find enough change in her purse-- Oh he's off again. Dear gods, are subways always so terrifyingly hectic, or is this just a perk of being here with Alastor? Valera swears under her breath, grabs the wheelchair, and starts chasing Alastor down. Hopefully he's as confident as he sounds with his choices, otherwise it's the blind leading the blind here, and Pentious is stuck along for the ride.

Sir Pentious

Twenty cents!!!!!!! Though he had used a different currency, his father had been american and he had been educated in such things. That was a lot. Couldn't be to maintain the train, right? Likely, that was the reason given, but in actuality, taxing people based on quantity alone was just good business. Local Villain Here. He'd charge twenty cents if it were him. Actually, he'd probably charge an arm and a l--EEEEEEEGHHHHHHHHHH!!! Quite suddenly, he's being RUSHED along in his wheelchair, holding onto his hat while his eyes are wide as saucers!!! "ALASTOR, YOU BETTER NOT BE WRONG OR YOU'LL BE MEETING THE TRACKS SOONER THAN THE TRAIN!"

Alastor

"If I'm wrong, we'll have an adventure somewhere else in the city!" But he's probably right. There's a lot less wood in these subway cars. Pity, they used to look nicer. He takes a seat with enough room next to it for Sir Pentious's wheelchair, crosses an ankle over his knee, and hums cheerily.

Valera

It's tempting to take a seat as well, but Valera will stand. SOMEONE needs to keep Pentious from rolling around the whole trip, and she's not going to leave her beau to defend himself against the crowds. And oh, dear gods, she hadn't thought about the crowding. It's fine. A few minutes of unpleasantness will be well worth it. Backing into the aforementioned space with fiance in tow, she scoots his chair as close to Alastor as she can manage, already on the lookout for any unpleasant sorts. With a face like murder and a voice like she was discussing the weather, she begins combing her fingers through Pentious' hair once more. "Wow, sure are a lot of people around here. We aren't likely to run into trouble, are we?"

Sir Pentious

Okay, he's not as jostled anymore, and with Valera and Alastor here, he wants to assume he won't get trampled. Well. Can't be sure of that from Alastor. He'd probably encourage a stampede, knowing him. Sir Pentious rolls his neck some, frowning at the lack of flexibility he'd become so accustomed to. Feeling hands in his hair, the former-snake quickly turns to look at Valera, and his briefly tense expression softens. Time to look back at Alastor, "YES, ONE CAN ONLY IMAGINE. YOU ARE IN THE COMPANY OF TWO DEMONS, VALERA. IF TROUBLE DOESN'T COME TO US, WELL, IT'S LIKELY TO MANIFEST FROM OUR GENERAL VICINITY!"

Alastor

"Three of us together, this time of day? Surely nobody would try to bother us!" He smiles innocently and bats his eyelashes. "If we want trouble, we'll just have to start it ourselves." On the other hand, one of them a woman, one of them in a wheelchair, and one of them using a cane—and the latter two dressed like they'd come from a costume party. If anyone wants to cause trouble, they might be targeted. But if they were, whoever bothers them is in for a series of rude surprises. He starts humming again as the train rolls along, this time wordlessly singing under his breath, "Da da-di-da dah~" The musical number danger zone has been breached, they are near the point of no return.

Valera

Oh no... She knows that tune, turning to raise an eyebrow at the musical strawberry himself. Really, Alastor? Right now? In the middle of a subway ride? Well, then again. He'd surely missed Earth, and the city life, and... Ah, what the hell, not like anyone here could STOP them. She grins, snickers, and starts humming along as her fingers start twiddling to the beat. There's never a bad time for a musical number when nobody can beat you in a fight, now is there?

Sir Pentious

........... WAIT, WHAT'S HAPPENING. Sir Pentious looks alarmed, glancing between Valera and Alastor. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT IS THAT TUNE? I DO NOT RECALL IT FROM THE PRODUCTION!"

Alastor

"Oh, this tune won't be written for another decade or so! But you might be able to catch the chorus after a round or two." He's gotten too used to Hell, where the musically-inclined (and dangerous) can burst into song any time they want and nobody can do a thing about it but grumble and maybe laugh mockingly. Today, New York gets to experience true Hell on Earth: some tourist singing loudly on the train when you're just trying to get through your daily commute. Alastor stands, adjusts his monocle, winks at Valera—you know this one, right?—grabs a pole with one hand for support, and starts singing into his microphone cane: "Staaart spreading the news~" And he will keep singing until they reach their destination or one of the two people he actually knows tells him to stop.

Valera

Ah, could be worse. At least this subway car, Pentious included, gets to enjoy a LOVELY (allegedly) pair of voices on the trip over. Valera lets Alastor have his moment in the spotlight, harmonizing when appropriate and sticking to an acapella backing. So much harder to carry a tune without a band behind you, and she's perfectly happy to play the part. When they finally arrive at Harlem, she just. Wheels Pentious out like that was a perfectly normal thing they just did.

Sir Pentious

, Pentious can only stare at the two of them in abject horror. What are they doing!! Singing in public like this! It makes sense in a production, but this was real life! OH just... Hide his face...... Until they're off the train.....

Alastor

He's in the zone, he's having a good time. He doesn't even notice the horror he's causing until they reach their stop and he stops singing. As they get off, he wryly asks, "Too much?"

Valera

Valera snorts, rolling to a stop in an open area so she can pat her beau. "Oh don't worry my good fellow. Penny gets flustered over anything. Did you not enjoy our singing, love?"

Sir Pentious

He's so huffy, looking at the two of them with the reddest cheeks!!! "YOU TWO ARE INSANE. SINGING LIKE THAT IN PUBLIC! NO ONE ELSE CONSENTED TO BEING PART OF YOUR LUNACY." Says the Supervillain who Murders People.

Alastor

If he gets flustered that easily, that means they ought to be putting MORE effort into not flustering him, doesn't it? "Frankly, I don't care what any of those people consented to!" He gestures back at the subway car drawing away. "But VERY WELL! If you'd rather your regal reputation not be besmirched by your association with a couple of accompanying bards, then I'll simply have to resist the temptation in public." Alastor can sing any other time he wants. Like hell is he going to let a couple of musical numbers be a reason for Sir Pentious not to call on him to hang out again.

Valera

"Oh, Alastor! So considerate!" Valera titters, coming round the front of the wheelchair to look Pentious something akin to head on. Talking from behind him was getting weird! "If that is the bar you're setting, my love, so be it! But why is it alright to murder them, and not serenade them? Do you simply want us to... Reserve our voices for you alone?" A flutter of her lashes, first at Penny, and then at Stick. She's connected the dots. She's connected them. "Why darling, why didn't you say so? If I'd have only known!"

Sir Pentious

.............................. Sir Pentious is looking absolutely mortified.

"WHAT???? NO! THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT AT ALL!!!" Do not LOOK at him!! He scowls, pointing at Valera, "YOU ARE TWISTING MY WORDS!!! YOU ARE SINGING A SONG I DO NOT EVEN KNOW!"

Alastor

Goodness, Valera, don't say things that make Alastor's dead heart jump into his throat, it just hurts when he has to swallow it back down. And it leaves a funny aftertaste. "Don't you worry, my friend—no songs but the ones our listener calls up to request! Otherwise, the station will be playing nothing but John Cage's 4'33"!" He pantomimes zipping his mouth. It feels kind of weird without being able to add a zipper sound effect.

Valera

"Alright, alright. Message received, dearest." Pointing at your fiance is rude, Pentious. But Val can forgive him, this time. By taking his accusatory gesture in her dainty little human hands and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Mwah. "Oh, 4'33"? I love that one! Though they keep copyright claiming and muting the audio on the websites I frequent. It's the damndest thing." A wink is thrown to Alastor, and she lifts herself up into a good stretch. "Alright, enough of our nonsense. Alastor, my dear fellow? Lets hunt down a jazz club for dearest Penny. Perhaps he'll enjoy a good trumpet more than our nonsensical crooning."

Sir Pentious

Oh SHIT she's kissing his hand again--well, fine whatever! He huffs. Pentious probably wouldn't have MINDED a musical number, but he is clearly the type to want a lot of ... warning. Or maybe to not be trapped in a wheelchair. Or maybe............. a slew of YEAH BUTs. You never know with this guy. (You do know. He's grumpy.) "I JUST WOULD PREFER SOME WARNING..."

Alastor

Alastor doesn't have the slightest idea what copyright claiming is, but he understands the concept of muted audio just fine. "I tried to watch a live performance, but I was so far back I couldn't even hear the song! What a disappointment." Asking for warning is quite a step down from asking for them to hold off on the musical numbers altogether, and Alastor doesn't trust this abrupt deescalation at all. Sir Pentious is probably proposing a compromise that will just inspire further irritation if Alastor actually goes along with it. Oh no. Alastor's playing it safe. "Don't you worry, I won't be subjecting you to any more musical embarrassments," Alastor reassures him. "Now! Most of the clubs I went to only operated at night, but that was back when booze was illegal! Let's see if we can't find one that's still open and has daylight hours!"

Valera

Or! Or he's had his ruffled scales smoothed by Valera's affections! She's good at that! But she doubts there'll be any more musical numbers anyway, it'd be rude to take over a jazz club for a number, and they already made an elegance joke on their commute. Another kiss to his knuckles, and she drops Penny's hand to go take up the handles of his chair again. You never know, with Alastor. He might start sprinting away again. "Oh? Are we going to have to go door to door then?"

Sir Pentious

Pentious leans back in his seat, looking around at the people passing by. "ILLEGAL! WHAT DID AMERICANS DO FOR FUN? OR TO DROWN THEIR SORROWS?"

Alastor

Sure, like Alastor hasn't seen enough lovestruck men to know how willing they are to say things they don't really mean when a lady they find pretty coos at them. The fact that Valera's here to smooth his ruffled scales is half the reason Alastor doesn't buy a word of the retraction. "Why, what do you think we did? We broke the law! Yessir, America drank more during Prohibition than it did before! We bribed the officials trying to crack down on bootlegging with whiskey! One story goes—at least, the way I heard it—that when a Mabelman came to Chicago to see how hard it was to find an establishment selling illegal alcohol, it took him twenty minutes! In Detroit, fifteen! In New Orleans—my beloved New Orleans—it took him five seconds! He got into a taxi, asked the driver if he knew where a man could get a drink, and the driver said 'right here' and pulled a bottle out from under his seat!" Door-to-door it is. While he waxes dramatic on the abysmal failure of America's dumbest amendment, he leads them down a street toward what had once been a hotbed of speakeasies where jazz played.

Valera

Ah, and there's Alastor, prattling on like the chatterbox he is. Valera doesn't even need to say a word, just humming at the interesting parts and rolling after the stoplight red radio host. Gods did he stand out, maybe she SHOULD have put him in a different outfit.. Ho hum.

Sir Pentious

The story gets Pentious grinning wide again--it's probably very weird seeing him without those sharp teeth of his. He slaps a hand down on one of the armrests as he laughs. "HAAAA HA HAHA!! OF COURSE IT WOULD BE THAT EASY!!! YOU CAN'T KEEP A MAN FROM HIS LIQUOR!!! THE MORE YOU HIDE SOMETHING FROM SOMEONE, THE MORE THEY WILL GO OUT OF THEIR WAY TO TAKE IT."

Alastor

"And trying to get it is just more fun that way." Like treats stuck inside toys as enrichment for a cat. It's weird seeing clearly-visible bars and clubs advertising their drinks freely. Alastor's used to it in Hell, but in this place, a place he remembers, it seems wrong. Several places advertise live jazz; he searches for one that's live right now,not in a few hours.

Valera

Venues, venues everywhere, and not a club to-- Oh, there's one with a few people coming out of it. And not JUST white people, at that. That's significant, for reasons Val doesn't quite remember off the top of her head, but she jerks to a halt anyway, giving the building a closer look. A flashy, lit up sign casting bright white light down onto the streets of Harlem. A strange little overhanging structure over the door. A.. Marquee? Yes, a marquee, advertising names she didn't recognize, declaring they were playing THAT NIGHT! People going in and out, lights on display... Surely it must be open? She moves closer, glancing over to see if Alastor's noticed the same thing she has.

Sir Pentious

Pentious doesn't really have anything to say, he's still watching people pass to and fro. People from all walks of life, it seemed.

Alastor

He certainly has noticed what she has, and he's delighted at the sight. "Well! Look who's still in business! I used to come here when I was alive!" The fact that not JUST white people were coming out of it was probably a contributing factor to that. "I even played here once or twice. You know—when they let the amateurs get on stage. Ha!" Tonight doesn't look like an amateur night—he doesn't recognize the names on the marquee either, but they certainly suggest the stage isn't free for casual jam sessions. Well, he doesn't think he's going to be performing any more today, anyway. He gestures grandly toward the entrance. "Shall we?"

Valera

"Oh good! You're familiar with the establishment, then? Perfect! Hope nobody recognizes you, they'll be hounding you for your beauty secrets the whole time!" A snort, and she pushes through the doors to reveal.. Well now, wasn't this lovely? A standalone bar, well spaced tables with lovely linen cloths, an open space for dancing in front of the modest stage. Open, accessible, and not a stair in sight! With the music already crooning and the smell of food from the kitchens, it was hard not to feel right at home despite never having been here.

Sir Pentious

Oh, now this is a venue indeed. Sir Pentious tilts his head as they head inside... What an atmosphere! He smiles, relaxing a little more. "AH, THIS WILL DO NICELY." Food.... Yes, he was getting peckish but he's not sure what would be on the menu.

Alastor

"If I run into anybody I recognize, I'll claim to be Al Junior and ask who knew my dad. Hah!" He idly wonders if his duplicate had ever even visited here. They can figure food out once they're seated—although, once they are, Alastor almost immediately forgets about the menu to pay attention to the music.

Valera

If only they could all be so easily distracted from the siren song of food! Valera fixates on the menu the second they're seated, tapping a few options before she looks up at her guests. "If it wasn't obvious, dears, I'm paying. Get as much as you want of anything you want." SHE is going to get an appetizer and a drink. It's only the afternoon, but an old fashioned and a shrimp cocktail are calling her name.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious looks at the menu, and... He makes a face, as he usually does when he's met with something he doesn't like or understand. He brings the paper closer to try to read out these items.... But then he just sits back, dropping the menu itself and drumming his fingertips upon the table. "WELL SO FAR NOTHING SOUNDS APPETIZING. I'LL HAVE A POT OF TEA." Scowl. It might be better to let him see what he'd be getting, since he's barely got any idea about many of these, "THEY LIKELY WON'T PREPARE IT THE WAY I LIKE." Big Fussy!

Alastor

"Oh, you'll regret that." Alastor is not known to be considerate when other people are paying for him. The music sounds like what he hear in jazz clubs in the—let's see, he remembers being incredibly drunk—the 70s? That must be the lag between mortal world innovations and how long they take to reach Hell. He finally picks up the menu—oh, ooh, he's probably going to order half of this.

Valera

"MAKE me regret it, my dear! I dare you." She's making money out of pocket lint and wishes, deer boy. You can't break this bank with a big appetite. A pause, and she glances at her beau in his huffy glory. Oh, Penny's texture aversion, right.. A closer look at the menu, and she leans in to point a few of the softer choices out to him. "Maybe the gumbo? That should be soft enough.. Or the steak? I hear they've got nice steaks. And just ask them to make the tea a certain way! I'm sure they'll cooperate."

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious tends to expect others to disappoint him, but he'll try to be somewhat less pessimistic. He's having dinner with Alastor and Valera, after all. "THEN I'LL HAVE A GUMBO. SURPRISE ME." which probably just meant choose the type for him. "THE TEA SHOULD BE FINE, UNLESS AMERICANS DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BOIL WATER."

Alastor

"I'm never introducing you to iced tea." He taps the menu. "They've got sandwiches, too." Alastor isn't sure what Sir Pentious's issue with the food is—although now Alastor's heard the both of them mention that Sir Pentious is particular a few times—but Sir Pentious brought sandwiches to their indoor picnic, so that ought to work, right? "I think I'll get gumbo, too." He remembers being sorely disappointed the last time he tried it, but he wonders if forty years have changed that. "... And maybe the oxtail soup." To cover up the inevitable disappointment from the gumbo. And the filet mignon with mushrooms. And the live lobster, like hell is he passing up a chance to get fresh shellfish while he's in the mortal realm. And— He can take leftovers home, right?

Valera

"Who knows? As far as I'm aware, Americans are mostly known for throwing their tea into harbors, not preparing it." Perfect, here comes the waiter now. Valera orders their appetizers and drinks, then wave the poor human away before they hear anything they shouldn't. The last thing these three need is even more attention than the two demons are drawing with their looks alone. And now, while they wait for these brief minutes.. She leans back in her chair and sighs. This is nice, all things considered. Being able to relax to any degree around Alastor AND Pentious? Not something she'd expected to ever achieve.

Sir Pentious

ICED TEA??? He looks at Alastor with abject HORROR at the implication. The waiter coming and going was a fine moment of Sir Pentious just staring at people when they address him, rather than. Being casual about it. It was impolite to not face someone when speaking to them, his mother had explained, and apparently he'd gotten back at her for this by pointedly staring at anyone who spoke to him to the point of making them uncomfortable. HE WINS THE SOCIETAL ETIQUETTE CHALLENGE. HE IS THE VICTOR!!! Holy shit though, that was a LOT of food that Alastor ordered. Pentious can't help the grin that spreads on his face as he leans towards the deerman, "STORING FOR WINTER, ARE YOU?"

Alastor

"Sure, if I get through all this I'll need to hibernate for a month!" He also threw in a couple of sandwiches, a crab salad, an order of golden buck, and Roquefort cheese. When is he going to get this easy access to fresh mortal food next? "You're both welcome to steal off my feast, I plan to sample everything and take the rest home with me anyway."

Valera

Damn, she gives him a blank check and Alastor does his best to order everything on the menu. Guess he really doesn't like the food in hell! Valera stretches and leans back into the conversation, propping her elbows on the table to support her head. A lazy glance around to ensure nobody's looking too closely.. Good. A little attention was inevitable, but it would be a shame to play cleanup in such a nice establishment. A hum.. "Why thank you! But my goodness, if I'd known you were so desperate for proper food, poor dear, I'd have invited you to use my kitchens while you were over last."

Sir Pentious

Now there's an idea. Pentious thinks about the three of them in the kitchen and he can't help but snicker, "AND ALASTOR MIGHT HAVE COOKED ONE OF YOUR CITIZENS! NYA HA HA!" Very funny. He's started paying attention to the musicians now, turning to watch them with interest. The gentle crooning was pleasing.

Alastor

"I wouldn't say desperate! I would say incurable gluttonous and absolutely shameless about taking advantage of those who offer me kindness without putting boundaries on it!" The sweetest smile. "Plus, I'm fairly sure none of the money you're paying with is real." Now there's an idea. "Well, if you happen to have any citizens you wouldn't miss..."

Valera

"It's real enough!" A pause, assessing her statement, and she amends with a mutter of "It wont disadvantage the establishment any, at least. I'm not that heartless..". Cough. And how convenient, a subject change! She beams at the two of them, showing off those weird flat teeth humans have. "Oh, if you're interested in trying Veci, we have PLENTY of undesirables! Though I'd warn you that the different breeds give a wide variety of flavor profiles, so you'd have to plan accordingly."

Sir Pentious

Oh they are actually taking it seriously. He snickers at that!! "I DOUBT THAT KIND OF THING WOULD DISSUADE ALASssTOR. AS YOU CAN TELL FROM WHAT HE'S ORDERED, HE IS A BIT OF A FOODIE!!"

Alastor

"There's the understatement of the century." He leans toward Valera, arms crossed on the table. "Give me the menu! Fair warning, at times I'm a bit of a food snob. My tastes skew toward the upper class." Perhaps more honest to say that his tastes skew away from the lower class until he learns why, exactly, they were deemed "undesirable."

Valera

She blinks at Alastor, keeping a carefully neutral smile as she turns that over in her head. Was that a threat? No, that was silly. He wasn't stupid, he must believe status made a difference. And didn't it? Higher quality foods, higher quality meats. Yes, that makes sense. She clears her throat and nods, casting her mind back to what she recalled. Ahem. "Well! A coastal veci like myself has very tender, buttery flesh. Melts in your mouth, so they say. A more open ocean type like, say, my friend Istoph, has much firmer, strongly flavored meat. Very much the game of the Veci world. I'd avoid the deeper sea Veci, their meat tends to be..." She grimaces. "It tends to be either rubbery, or gelatinous. And they're scavengers, so they taste like the fermented meat they live off of."

Sir Pentious

This is a very weird conversation to be in the middle of. Sir Pentious is looking at Valera the entire time they're describing what the meat of her species is like. He has bitten into her before, he RECALLS the tender flesh. ............... Oh probably shouldn't think of that right now. "AND VERY POISONOUS, ALSO. THE LOT OF YOU, CORRECT?"

Alastor

And now Alastor is thinking of biting her, but for completely different reasons. Sounds delicious. "I'm sure you must have recipes to get around the poison issue!"

Valera

Valera reaches over, taking Pentious' hand to give it a gentle squeeze. "It's not uncommon for coastals to have some form of venom, but the flesh itself is safe. My toxins are the result of some clever genetic tampering." A proud little head waggle! "Oh, and yes. The toxins break down in heat, so fully cooking the flesh is enough. Or you can be immunized against them, like Penny was!"

Sir Pentious

He smiles, holding her hand in his and stroking over it with a gloved thumb. "DIDN'T YOU SAY THAT YOUR TAIL WAS TORN OFF AND DEVOURED BY SOMEONE BEFORE?"

Alastor

Alastor's eyebrows shoot up and he leans around to try to see Valera's tail before remembering that, in their disguises, she doesn't have one. "That's a fair amount of flesh to grow back!" Like a lizard.

Valera

"Hah! You remembered that? Yes it was, my love!" She snorts, pulling his hand up to kiss his gloved knuckles. Mwah. It's nice having things she mentioned so casually be remembered. Even if they're weird things. "Oh yes, my body repairs itself quickly. My tail was back to normal in an hour or two. Could have been faster, but I was burning energy helping him with meal prep."

Sir Pentious

They are Very Weird things but Sir Pentious is just that kind of guy. He's looking over at Alastor like do not try to Catch my Wife's Booty with Your Gaze, Sir.

Alastor

"An hour or two! With magic, I trust?" If it had been by devouring enough food to rebuild the missing flesh, she wouldn't have been worried about meal prep. Anything raw would do. It takes him a moment to notice Sir Pentious's Look. It takes him another moment to figure out what it's for. He decides to play dumb, props his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, and leans toward Sir Pentious. "Listen to me, jabbering away with the lady and ignoring the gentleman completely! My apologies!"

Valera

"Magic! Plus the energy reserves in my.." She gestures at her chest. "..Body fat." FINALLY their food arrives. Or as much of it as the waiters dare try to fit on the table. Drinks, dinner, and the cannibalistic conversation conveniently avoided around any human ears.

Sir Pentious

Penny's

looking at Alastor. About to say something when their food arrives! Finally. That's... A LOT, DEAR SATAN.

Alastor

Oh. Oh that really is a lot. What consequences hath his careless words wrought. For a moment he stares in horror at the covered table. Then he says chipperly, "Well, like I said! Feel free to taste anything you want!" He's gonna go for... ooh, what's first... how about the lobster.

Valera

So much for a low profile. She looks over the table... Then to the cart the waiters have parked near the table with the rest of their food. Then to Alastor, eyebrows raising as she whistles. "Goodness, my dear fellow. We'll have to use poor Pentious as a tray to get these leftovers out the door." She reaches over to pluck Pentious' gumbo out of the chaos and put it in front of him, then tries to puzzle out her own meal. Steaks, steaks, everywhere... Ah, there were two filet mignons, one of those must be hers. Come to mama, beautiful.

Sir Pentious

"MOST CERTAINLY NOT!" Do not stack food on him, he would hate it!!! But he looks over at Alastor with a squint as he begins tucking a handkerchief into his collar, like a bib. "YOUR STOMACH IS GOING TO BE DISTENDED BY THE TIME THIS IS OVER, ALASTOR."

Alastor

Alastor tugs at the front of his coat to test its give. "Not much room for that. Good thing I plan on taking most of it home!" The lobster passes muster. Time to try something else. Where's that rabbit? "Tell me what you think of the gumbo—I'm wary of it anywhere outside Louisiana, I want to know what to brace myself for."

Valera

She's going to stack food on him. She's going to stack SO much food on him. Or she'll just make the staff conveniently ignore the fact that their doggy bags are suddenly gone to some pocket dimension. But threatening to turn Pentious into a cart is funnier. "Mmrph." Sorry, her mouth is full of approximately half her meal.

Sir Pentious

NOOOOOO Oh. He looks over his gumbo, stirring the pieces of chicken and veggies around with a spoon... like a particularly thick stew. It smells good, anyway... some of the meat doesn't appear to be as squishy as he wants, so he shoves them aside, instead looking at the veggies. Big Fussy. "ARE YOU GOING TO ATTEMPT TO HAVE SOME OF MINE? YOU ARE NOT TO PUT YOUR SPOON IN MY SOUP!" Rabbit's a bit left of Pentious' gumbo. He's looking at Valera, "....QUITE A LADY! HAHA!"

Alastor

"I ordered my own, thank you." The fact that Sir Pentious is already pushing aside bits of food is a dangerous sign, but Alastor will reserve judgment until he sees him actually taste it. Oh, there it is. He snags his next dish, glances at Valera, and laughs. "I take it the filet mignon meets your approval!"

Valera

She gets her meal, she starts eating, and now! She's the center of attention! She swallows with a bit of struggle, clears her throat, and picks up her napkin to daintily dab her mouth clean. She's got manners, sometimes. Deep inhale.. "It's good! Though I'd prefer it rarer next time." And now SHE can stare at Pentious. Try your gumbo, Penny. The audience is waiting.

Sir Pentious

Oh no they are both looking at him. He hates this. Time to go on a face journey while filling his spoon up with broth. He brings the reddish brownish liquid to his lips, flicking his tongue against it. Yes. He is human. But he has spent the last one hundred and thirty two year as a snake. Leave him alone. Okay... the taste isn't atrocious. Sir Pentious sips it up, smacking his lips a little. Beer tasting tik tok. Aaaaaaand he finally speaks, "YOU KNOW, IT ISN'T BAD. THE BROTH ANYWAY, I COULD GET BEHIND. THOUGH I AM NOT YET CERTAIN ABOUT THE VEGETABLES OR THE MEAT."

Alastor

"Do you prefer your meat raw, by chance?" No judgment, it's a fine culinary choice. Look at Sir Pentious. Going about it like a connoisseur. A connoisseur who sticks his tongue into spoons before sipping. Alastor can tell exactlywhat he's doing, which makes it even funnier to see with a human tongue. "Sounds like a recommendation to me!" Now for that rabbit.

Valera

The spell is broken, the table can breathe a collective sigh of relief. Pentious can enjoy at least ONE thing at the table. Crisis averted! Val can return to her meal, taking much more respectable portions of steak now that she knows she's APPARENTLY got an audience watching. They wave for a second old fashioned, and tuck in. There, much better. Civilized fish.

Sir Pentious

Very civilized. Maybe Sir Pentious just likes watching you eat food, Valera. HE'S NOT WEIRD, YOU'RE WEIRD.He's going to try the vegetables now... They're much softer inside the brother, and they kind of melt in a buttery fashion. Hmm... Not bad. The chicken is next... It looks tough, and he's not excited about it. Scooping the meat into a spoon, he brings it to his mouth and bites down on the spoon. .... A frown... And he unbites, putting the chicken piece back into the bowl. "NO. NOT A FAN."

Alastor

From the corner of his eye, Alastor is watching Sir Pentious's slow analysis with fascination. Oh, he's going to be a challenge for Alastor to cook for, isn't he? Good—no one else ever holds Alastor to any standards, he's going to have to actually improve his work. His face falls as much as it can when Sir Pentious... spits out? a bit of chicken. Alastor tisks. "We should have known better than to trust gumbo in New York."

Valera

"Hang on, I can fix this." Without missing a beat, Valera reaches over the table with their fork, rapid fire skewering a few pieces of chicken to steal away from Pentious. Down the hatch, and look. Nobody has to deal with them anymore! Isn't she generous.

Sir Pentious

............................ He wonders how that must have looked to literally anyone else.

[

11:41 AM

]

AND THEN HE PUTS HIS ARM AROUND HIS BOWL, AND LOOKS SO OFFENDED.

Alastor

"Well, if you don't like the gumbo..." He gestures around at the table. And the cart. "There's a couple of sandwiches on the cart if you want to try those." He got the sandwiches for Sir Pentious, because Sir Pentious eats sandwiches. He really did order this feast with the intent to share it with the table.

Valera

Val's completely focused on their own meal, smug as can be. Mm, yes, the mushrooms are so soft and lovely, mmm. Pairs so nicely with this steak. Better eat a little faster before anyone gets any funny ideas.

Sir Pentious

Oh sandwiches. He does like sandwiches... generally. Sir Pentious lifts his nose, looking over at the cart before he gestures, "I WILL TAKE A SANDWICH." And he is going to eat vegetables and this broth, because it is tasty, even if the chicken was TERRIBLE!

Alastor

"Have at it!" There should be some kind of meat sandwich, he forgets which one he finally ordered, and a jelly and cream cheese one he ordered mainly out of morbid curiosity. Okay, he's tried the rabbit, time to switch out the plate for his own filet mignon, Valera's making him jealous. "You know, I've been so distracted by this feast here, I've hardly glanced at the stage! After we came all this way to hear the music." He's gonna. Try to focus on that.

Valera

He's done with the rabbit? Perfect timing, Val's just about done with her own meal, and Alastor DID say she was free to sample. A few slices of lagomorph shouldn't be missed. Music? Right, yeah. Music. She'll worry about that when her stomach is done threatening to start dissolving.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious smirks, "WELL WHAT WOULD YOU EXPECT? IT IS NOT AS THOUGH WE NORMALLY HAVE ACCESS TO FOOD FRESHLY PREPARED IN THE LIVING WORLD." He's going to take a bite of this meat sandwich... That's a happy Penny. He's going to delight in this soft bread.

Alastor

"True!" He pauses a moment to listen. Hmm. "If anything, I think the music in Hell is better. More time to practice, I suppose! Better music, worse food—not a trade off I would have expected, would you?" He's finally gonna try that filet mignon—oh, good God, this must be what they serve in Heaven.

Valera

She snickers into her food, moving on to the lobster now. She can't comment on the workings of hell, but she can appreciate a good meal on her own dime. Let the boys have their talk.

Sir Pentious

"I WAS THINKING SIMILARLY, ALTHOUGH, YOU WOULDN'T HAVE THIS PROBLEM IF WE WERE ATTENDING A FULL ORCHESTRA SHOW. TOUGH LUCK, ALASTOR." He grins, "STILL, IT ISN'T BAD. I FIND THE RAW, SOMEWHAT FLAWED STYLE OF PLAYING RATHER CHARMING. REMINDS YOU THEY ARE ONLY HUMAN, NYA HA!"

Alastor

Give him a moment. Give him a moment, he's gotta bask in the meat. Oh, that's superb. He makes a mental note to ask Valera to leave an exorbitant tip. "I think an orchestra that's been playing together for over a century, give or take a few exterminated cellists, is going to be able to show a thing or two to an orchestra whose members have only been playing their instruments for a few decades!" He glances at the stage. "But—you're right. Jazz is at its best when it's raw. Maybe we damned fools have gotten a little too refined in our playing."

Valera

Valera is picking away at the meals, humming idly but mostly ignoring the two.

Sir Pentious

IGNORING....

Sir Pentious sips more of the broth, then finishes off a sandwich before pouring himself some tea. "TOO TRUE. WE'VE GROWN ACCUSTOMED TO OUR UNLIVES. WHO COULD BLAME US? THE DEAD SHOULD NOT USUALLY RISE AGAIN."

Alastor

"And if they do rise, I'm given to understand the living expect we'd start eating their brains! Ha!" He pauses thoughtfully. "Actually, brain doesn't taste bad. Although it's got nothing on the filet mignon."

Valera

She waves the waiter over to take her empty plates and cups, then props her chin up on her hands. The music is nice. She'll just close her eyes for a second and listen..

Sir Pentious

Hopefully the waiter didn't hear that. Penny snickers, and sips the tea. Actually not bad. And then he's looking at Valera. ... He smiles, wide. She isn't looking at him, so he gets to admire them!

Alastor

Oh, Sir Pentious is distracted. They're both distracted. Alastor swallows down the urge to constantly be making sound so as not to distract them from their distraction. He'll watch the show and switch to trying his own bowl of gumbo. If it sucks, he can cleanse his palate with more of his steak.

Valera

It takes SEVERAL seconds before Valera realizes the two have fallen silent, brows furrowing before she cracks an eye open to make sure they aren't moments away from going for each other's throats. Does she need to step in? No, Alastor's eating, and Pentious is.. Watching her, it seems. She smiles and gives him a little wink, then blows a kiss. "Hey handsome."

Sir Pentious

Color reaches his cheeks, and he can't help the grin, avoiding eye contact now... One hand reaches for hers, and he squeezes it. Listening to decently played Jazz Music, sitting with his good friend, and the love of his unlife. And more food than they knew what to do with. Pentious feels.... Good.

Alastor

The gumbo isn't bad. It isn't great gumbo, but it's an okay soup. Maybe he should ask if Sir Pe—oh, he's having a moment. They're both having a moment, the two of them. Alastor will keep suppressing the urge to speak. BOY THAT SURE IS A BAND UP ON STAGE THAT ALASTOR IS LOOKING AT. RIGHT NOW. WITH HIS EYES.

Valera

Try not to break your neck, radio demon! Pentious' hand is squeezed back, and Val scoots her chair a bit closer with the excuse of messing with the blanket draped across his legs with her free hand. If she doesn't move away afterwards, well. She's just being cautious. What if it falls? "Enjoying yourselves, boys?"

Sir Pentious

C: He is very smiley. Sir Pentious turns around to look at Alastor, and then he closes his eyes, raising a declamatory finger. "ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, YES! I RATHER ENJOYED THIS EXCURSION."

Alastor

Oh thank god they're talking again. "Why, a show, a signature, another show, a feast fit for a king, and such fine company besides—I'm enjoying myself enormously! And will continue to do so for another few days at least!" Yeah he's hardly made a dent in the food. He's gonna have hella leftovers. If they're talking again he can ask the question he's been holding back. He leans toward Sir Pentious and elbows an edge on his wheelchair. "I'll trade you the vegetables out of my gumbo if you trade me the chicken out of yours." If the veggies were all of it that met Sir Pentious's tastes, Alastor was at least going to make sure he got a full serving of it.

Valera

"Glad to hear it, my dears! We'll have to arrange a second excursion at some point. Penny needs more broadway, and poor Alastor needs regular access to Earth food. Speaking of, how is that okra plant doing? Should I arrange for a replacement sometime soon, my fine fellow?" She snorts, eyeing the leftovers scattered around them. This had to be a week's worth of food for a single deer, right? Surely! But it's a fine compromise he offers. Hopefully Pentious wont be overly stubborn about it.

Sir Pentious

In terms of deals that Alastor could be offering him, this was by far the mildest compromise. Sir Pentious looks at him with his usual big eyes, raising a brow.... "OH THAT'S RIGHT, THE VEGETABLES THING. YES, GO AHEAD, ALASTOR." He slides his bowl over. Whatever remains of the chicken within!

Alastor

Vegetables thing? Did his duplicate have a vegetables thing? Well, whatever—he scoops out what's left of his veggies (farewell, dear okra) and claims the chicken. Speaking of dear okra—"The plant's doing marvelously so far!" So far. "I found a spot for it and that bell pepper plant I won under a nice sunny window in that ship embedded in the hotel, you know the one."

Valera

She DOES know the one, in fact. Even if she doesn't know how a boat wound up not only in hell, but somehow being used as part of the architecture for what seemed to be one of Lucifer's estates turned rehab facility? Hell was a STRANGE place. A puzzle for another day. Maybe Charlie would know. "Ah! Wonderful! Okra is such a hardy plant, if anything could survive in Hell it would be that little beastie. Maybe I'll bring you some other plant next time I visit? Sounds like you need some fresh tomatoes and you'll be set for a fine side."

Sir Pentious

Once the swap is finished, Sir Pentious slides his own bowl back towards himself and returns to eating. AH, this was MUCH better. He didn't eat all that much and seemed to be used to that fact. Hard to be overwhelmingly hungry when you already knew your texture issues would make it difficult to actually eat something. But he's smiling away as he consumes the veggie gumbo. He didn't think he'd like it, but the added flavor of the now removed chicken did good things for this.

Alastor

"You'd be surprised. It's harder than you'd think to find fresh okra in Hell! Probably some local blight that wipes them out, that would be the kind of thing Hell does." But tomatoes... it's easy enough to get jarred tomato sauce and canned tomato paste in Hell—albeit at exorbitant prices—but when was the last time he'd had simple, plain, fresh tomatoes? "Let's see if I've got a green thumb or two hidden under these gloves"—he wiggles his fingers—"before subjecting another poor plant to my tender mercies—but if the okra lasts long enough to give me a crop, tomatoes would be a fine addition to my little garden!"

Valera

She snorts, sudden visions of Alastor in overalls over his suit, wearing a straw hat with holes for his antlers invading her mind. Ah, and he would fertilize his bountiful crops with the corpses of his victims, and put a hoe head on his mic's staff. Behold his new show, Farm Talk Radio.. May the gods have mercy on her for these evil thoughts. AHEM. Back to reality, no farmer deer here, just a man with wiggly hands who hasn't managed to kill an Okra plant yet. "Of course! Now, do either of you want dessert, or should I flag down the waiter for our bill?"

Sir Pentious

"DESSERT? SHOULD YOU OFFER HIM MORE FOOD?" Pentious scoffed, still working on his soup. Dipp.... The sandwich.... IN THE SOUP. What a rebel. OH it's delicious.

Alastor

"He has a point. If I get any more plates, I'm going to have to start holding them in my lap!" He considers the offer anyway. The problem with ordering dessert is that, generally, you only get dessert foods. Anyway, he was pretty full. Surprise surprise. "I think I'm taken care of!"

Valera

"Alright, thank you Alastor." Valera raises a very pointed eyebrow at Pentious. Answer for yourself, fool. But he hadn't said yes, so she'll wave down the waiter.. and watch them put the bill in front of Pentious. Right, this is the sixties. She's just going to take that and pay, thanks.

Sir Pentious

He fucking gave it the STINK EYE like No fuckin waY. Still finishing off his soup... "I SUPPOSE AFTER THIS WE HEAD BACK?"

Alastor

Sir Pentious is over here reinventing the au jus sandwich, it's a wonder he registered the dessert question at all. "Tip them very well." Does Alastor want to see what the bill is? Probably not. "We could! Or you could put up with me while I drag you halfway around Manhattan seeing what's still standing! But you'd probably want to re-kill me by the end of that." He looks around, do they have doggy bags? Or is he going to have to slide this food into a pocket dimension as they are, plates and all? He wouldn't mind stealing the plates, but...

Valera

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe we'll have to make another day trip closer to your own time, Alastor! That sounds fun." Valera hums, looks at the food, looks at the pathetic little waxed paper bags covered in pictures of dogs the waiter gave her.. Then reaches into her purse and pulls out extremely not period accurate takeout boxes that CERTAINLY didn't fit in there to hand off to Alastor. "Here, dear. Don't worry, they won't see anything."

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious is just like. Looking, but mostly after he's done his soup (finally) he sits back and cleans up his face, pulling the handkerchief out and setting it down on the table. "HA HA HA HA!!! OH, WHAT AN ENJOYABLE LITTLE TRIP THIS HAS BEEN!"

Alastor

His own time. He isn't sure if he even wants that. A question for later. He takes the boxes and starts loading one up. "Is that a reassurance, or are you planning on creating a distraction across the room? Because if you weren't, I was ready to ignite something on the table by the stage." He beams at Sir Pentious. "We must do this again! And sooner rather than later!"

Valera

"I don't need to make a distraction, I just suggested to the population of this establishment that they care more about their own business at the current moment. The guests are enjoying their meals, and the waitstaff don't need to come tidy up here for another ten or so minutes." Valera raises an eyebrow at Alastor, slides her gaze from him to Pentious and back again, and smirks. "Perhaps next time we'll have to visit a museum, those are always good fun. I'd be interested in seeing one of the exhibits on Pentious for myself, and I'm sure at least one of you would be over the moon as well."

Sir Pentious

Pentious glances over at Valera, and his smile falters somewhat. Thinking about it... Would he be featured in a Museum? Of course, he must be in some history books, but... Why hadn't he heard so much about it when he was in Hell? Was it just because he mostly met a lot of Americans? "ER, YES. QUITE! I WOULD LIKE TO SEE SOMETHING LIKE THAT--THOUGH I IMAGINE THEY WOULD ATTEMPT TO PSYCHO-ANALYIZE ME OR SOMETHING. IT WOULD BE EMBARRASSING WATCHING THEM ATTEMPT TO CRACK MY GENIUS MIND!"

Alastor

“Oh, we can go laugh at everything they got wrong, then! You can look at the artifacts and we’ll read the plaques for you and tell you which ones are the most wrong.” Sir Pentious’s lack of enthusiasm has been noted; but Alastor’s too excited by the prospect of the trip to focus on that at the moment. He wants to see a Sir Pentious museum display and by god, he’s gonna. “It sounds like a spectacular trip! And I’ve been dying to find out how your history differs from my local version of you!”

Valera

"It's one thing to know the man himself, but quite another to see how the world at large remembers their villains." She reaches over to take Pentious' hand, giving it a squeeze. It's alright. "I did cheat a little, I'll admit. I've been to this reality at least once before, so I did some research to find the museums that had the BEST exhibits dedicated to my beau. I've already got one picked out for the three of us, schedules permitting."

Sir Pentious

He looks up at her, eyes wide. There are a great number of thoughts buzzing around in his head. Why didn't you tell me? being one of them, but... Would he want to be told? It was hard even for himself to predict his own reaction sometimes. Still, the fact that there are exhibits dedicated to him..... Sir Pentious turns back round, settling in his wheelchair and adjusting his blanket. "VERY GOOD THEN! WE WILL MAKE IT A TRIP. I WILL MAKE A POINT OF POINTING OUT ANY AND ALL INACCURACIES."

Alastor

“Who could ask for a better tour guide!” That’s the last of the leftovers loaded into boxes. Alastor glances around to make sure everyone still seems to be paying them no attention, then quietly opens up a neat little square-shaped portal on the table and drops the boxes through. “Depending on what’s in the museum, maybe we could steal back some of your possessions. You know, if there happens to be anything you want to retrieve.”

Valera

"Is it really stealing if they're going back to their rightful owner? I would think not!" The conveniences of demon magic are not to be underestimated. Food no longer crowding the table and plates stacked for the busboys, Valera stands, reaches into her purse, hesitates a moment, then drops a pair of twenty dollar bills on the table. Is that a generous enough tip? She has no idea. But it's more than twenty percent and that's what matters. Probably. Hopefully. Alastor will probably say something if it isn't. Maybe. Gods help her.

Sir Pentious

TWENTY DOLLARS---oh right, Penny is from the late 19th century. He clears his throat. Sometimes he forgets that money is ridiculous in one hundred years. Though he does chuckle, "NOW YOU ARE A TRUE NOBLEMAN, VALERA. YOU HANDLE YOUR MONEY LIKE YOU'VE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO WITH IT!"

Alastor

“I would think not either! I doubt the museum will see it that way, but that’s their problem, isn’t it?” TWENTY DOLLARS—oh right, the money is imaginary and capitalism is made up. They’re going to be making some waiter’s night.

Valera

She looks at Pentious, glancing at the money on the table before clearing her throat and striking a dramatic pose, complete with fluttering lashes and her hands clasped together under her chin. "Money is like manure. It's not worth a thing unless it's spread around, encouraging young things to grow." Nice save.

Sir Pentious

Ohhh, he sees what you did there. Clap, clap, clap. "FROM THE GOODNESS OF YOUR HEARTS? NYA HA HA!"

Alastor

Alastor cracks up. It was a good reference! Applause from him too. “I did say we should tip generously!”

Valera

Oh thank the gods, they bought it. She takes a bow, then props her hands on her hips and squints down at the table in thought. Food was sorted, tip was sorted.. That was everything, right? A nod, and she retrieves her compact and begins reapplying her lipstick. She can't walk out of here looking like she ate or anything, goodness. "You did indeed, my dear fellow. Are you both ready to go, then?"

Sir Pentious

"YES, LET US BE OFF. I SHOULD LIKE TO RETURN TO MY TRUE FORM--IT IS A PAIN TO NOT BE ABLE TO MOVE AS EFFICIENTLY ON MY OWN. I SHOULD DESIGN A BETTER CHAIR FOR THE FUTURE ENDEAVORS."

Alastor

“And I’m missing my studio audience and sound effects department. The world’s entirely too quiet!” He says in the middle of a jazz performance. Quiet is relative. (It really is too quiet, though. For a moment, in the subway, he even lost the signals from New York’s radio stations. He’d forgotten the inside of his head could ever be so silent—and he can’t stand it.) Alastor gets to his feet, ready to go. “Let’s!”

Valera

Wonderful. Another tick off the checklist, then. Valera hops up, takes one last look around the club, and goes around to take the handles of Pentious' chair. "That sounds like a fantastic idea, love. If we really do plan on this being a regular occurrence, you're going to need a lot more freedom of movement." And with that, she pushes him towards the exit. It'll be a small matter to transport them back to her room as they walk through the doors, as seamless an exit as could be asked for.

#hissandvinegar #autokrates #chat log

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deanssweetheart23 · 7 years

Text

Cross My Heart

Title: Cross My Heart (Soldier!Dean AU)

Summary: Dean Winchester is a man who’s been to war and back, a man that’s lost loved ones and has seen too much to believe in love or fate or destiny. But when he meets a girl that radiates kindness and warmth, one that’s ready to love his shadowy corners and accept him for the man he really is, he begins to change his mind. And, when she shows him the darkness in her light, he promises himself that, no matter how hard things get, he’ll never let go of her. Because, he realizes, he loves her. And that is the beginning and end of everything.

Author: deanssweetheart23

Characters: Dean Winchester x reader, Mary and John Winchester (both mentioned), Benny Laffite, Sam Winchester

Word count: 7026 (I know, I know it’s a monster fic, but I promise, it’s worth it)

Warnings: Fluff. Angst. Some language. Implied smut. Death of a parent. Loss. Mentions of blood and of the warzone (nothing too graphic). Bad marital relationship (not Dean associated). Domestic Dean Bean (yup, this should be a warning)

Author’s Notes: This is my submission for @jpadjackles Double Birthday Challenge. My sweet B, thank you for letting me participate. I had the time of my life writing this and I can promise you, it ended up being a fic very close to my heart.

Special thank you to my twin @ravengirl94 for answering my stupid questions about the US Army, and being such an amazing best friend and beta. Without her, this story would have never been posted.

My prompt for this was Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop by Landon Pigg.(I am not American so every detail about the US Army in this fic is the result of research. If there’s a mistake in it, I apologize in advance.)

And, without further ado. Enjoy <3

The first time Dean sees her it’s on his mother’s birthday.

It’s a sunny day, sky a soft shade of blue, summer slowly creeping its way into his life and, even though he’s not sure of a lot of things, he somehow knows she would have loved this day.

He can almost see her, standing in the middle of their garden, sundress blowing with the wind, a smile gracing her lips while he’s whining because there’s no pie, and it’s all so tangible, so real, that he thinks he can reach out and touch her.

Her image disappears as soon as it’d appeared though, and he’s back in the middle of a crowded street, on his way home from training, all alone, with no plans for the day and no mum to celebrate with because his mother’s gone and nothing can bring her back.

The thought pulls at his heartstrings and he can feel it again, that sickening sensation of missing someone so much that all of his body cells are aching for her and he curses under his breath, already loathing the day.

And then she catches his eye.

She’s just sitting there, at the bay window of the old coffee shop that always seems to have some jazz melody pouring out of it, nose buried in a book.

She’s beautiful, he can tell that much, but what really stuns him is the way she’s holding the dog-eared book, fingers grazing the paper gently like it’s soft skin, eyes skimming the pages as she bits her bottom lip, a wrinkle in her brow. It’s been a while since Dean has seen someone so engrossed into something and he loses track of time, forgets that he’s burning holes on her until she looks up and her eyes meet his through the window.

And Dean is speechless, he’s terrified because he’s caught staring, but she smiles at him, soft and warm and genuine and it’s the purest, most breath-taking thing he’s ever seen.

So, he does what he’s never thought he’d do on a day that hurts him so much.

He returns the smile and watches as she goes back to her book, fingers tucking strays of hair behind her ear, then steals one, two, three long glances and leaves, mind already drifting to work and how he really needs to call his kid brother to see how he’s holding up.

He pretends he doesn’t think of her for the rest of the day.

Dean doesn’t believe in fate.

He doesn’t believe things happen for a reason and he’s seen enough to know that good things happen to bad people and bad to good ones and that there’s no one out there who gives a damn about how broken this world really is, no higher power that protects and loves and saves.

He’s seen kids dying, seen soldiers that had been laughing at his jokes the night before spitting blood from their mouths in the midst of a blaze of chaos and bullets. He’s seen his mum dying, his father turning into a shell of his old self and he’s returned from war only to wonder why.

Why the hell did he survive while others died?

And he knows, that there’s no one to answer.

So, yeah.

Dean doesn’t believe in fate.

But the next time he passes by that coffee shop, a couple of weeks later, he still stops for a second and lets his eyes drift to that bay window.

It’s stupid, he knows that, and makes him feel like he’s a character in a stupid Hallmark chick-flick, but he goes for it anyway, because, oddly enough, he feels like he’ll end up regretting it, if he just walks away like that.

But she’s not there, and for some reason, the day doesn’t seem as bright anymore and meeting with Benny for beers later doesn’t sound as fun.

Trying to swallow his disappointment, he crosses the street, pointedly ignoring that little building that has always seemed like a little piece of another world in the middle of his town.

He doesn’t go back for a month.

Dean’s almost convinced he’ll never see her again.

It makes sense, of course, because she’s nothing but a stranger that caught his eye for just a split second, one of those people that are somehow supportive characters in someone’s story without even knowing it, but it still baffles him a bit, still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth when he thinks of her.

Not that he thinks of her too often.

Nope.

He doesn’t.

But she’s a nice memory, lively and serene, and the image of her lost in her own world, scanning the pages of a book like it holds the world’s most precious secrets always manages to put a smile on his face in the darkest of hours, because, admittedly, he doesn’t believe in magic, but it’s comforting to know there are still a few people in the world that do.

So, he stops by the coffee shop a couple of times, but she’s never there and he loses all hope.

And then it happens.

He’s leaning against his shiny muscle car, right outside Benny’s house, arms folded in front of his chest, eyes focused on the front porch, when he hears a loud thump, followed by a string of extremely colorful expletives he doesn’t even know existed, and he stops and takes a breath to remind himself that he doesn’t have to reach for his gun, that he has no gun, because he’s safe, he’s back home in the States and his mind is just playing tricks on him.

He doesn’t have time to really dwell on it though because-

“Fuck. Fuck, fuckety fuck, fuck.” Someone mutters, voice soft and surprisingly pleasant.

And he doesn’t even realize it at first, but he’s already next to Sailor Mouth, and when he mumbles an are you alright, ma’am and she turns to look at him, he swears that his whole world stops for a minute because it’s her.

It’s the girl from the coffee shop, cheeks a little flushed, hair a little disheveled and he wants to say something, he wants to say anything, but he can’t seem to find the words.

She smiles.

It’s gorgeous and genuine and a bit sheepish and he notes that if he’s thought she was beautiful before, now he knows she’s stunning.

“I’m fine. I’m just… Did I say all those things out loud?”

He laughs.

Even he is surprised at how easily the sound seems to bubble up his throat.

“Yeah, pretty sure you just did.”

“Oh God. I’m… It’s been a long day and I-”

“’S okay, kid.” He chuckles because she’s flustered and it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. Then. “Here, lemme help with that.” He offers and crouches to the ground to pick up the books she’d dropped, eyes sweeping over the titles quickly.

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” she implores, brow raised.

“Nothing, just,” he smirks a little, smug and playful, then licks his lips, “I didn’t really know people are still into Elizabeth Barret Browning. Since this is, you know, the 21st century.”

“Hey.” She whines, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Elizabeth Browning is frigging awesome, man.”

“Sure she is.”

She’s bothered now, forehead puckered and eyes ablaze with a sort of brightness that surprises him.

“Are you –how can you not like her? What’s next, are you going tell me you hate Shakespeare?”

“Well,” he chortles, shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, “I wasn’t going to say anything but-”

“Oh, c’mon. He’s Shakespeare.” She chants, spread-armed shrug as she stares at him in shock.

“Hmmm. Bit overrated if you ask me. Now Vonnegut on the other hand…”

“Of course you’d say that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? What could you possibly have against Slaughterhouse 5?”

“What could you possibly have against Hamlet?” she retorts, waggling the book she’s been holding.

“Look,” he tries again, titling his head to the left, “all I’m saying is the guy just whines too much, you know? And.” He jabs a finger at her. “He’s disgustingly sweet.”

“Right.” She huffs out, sarcasm laced in her voice. “Do you have a pen?”

“What?”

“Do you have a pen? It’s a simple question.” She states, then thinks about something and reaches for her bag. “Never mind, I got one. Just give me your hand.”

“I, uh,” he pauses, eyes drifting to the letters sprawled over his palm, “Sonnet 138?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you-”

“You should read it. Pretty sure it’ll change your mind on your whole disgustingly sweet thing.” She gushes, pink lips curling up in a self-satisfied smile that was one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

“You’re-”

“Awesome. Yeah, I know.” She says, Y/E/C orbs drifting up to meet his, and beams so brightly he can’t really argue with her.

So, instead, he grins and just stares because there’s nothing else he can really do but search for colors and light and life into her eyes while he listens to her speak, about Shakespeare and the sonnets and how she’s definitely gonna prove him wrong.

He stops by the bookstore on his way home that day.

Dean’s nervous.

Sitting right next to her, he drinks in the way she throws her head back when she laughs at his joke, the way her perfume blends with the fragrant smell of fresh coffee and, even though he’s so forever stunned by how easy almost everything seems to be with her, part of him is still terrified that he’ll mess something up and make a fool of himself in front of her, like a teenage boy that just had a girl say hello to him for the first time.

“So,” she says, drumming her fingers on the table, soft smile gracing her lips, “I got an important question for you, Dean.”

He hums and arches a sly brow.

“All ears, sweetheart.”

“Apple pecan, blueberry buttermilk or coffee, walnut and chocolate chip?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

She laughs.

“They’re muffin flavors.” She explains, reaching for the catalogue. “You said you’ve never been to this coffee shop, right?” A nod. “Well. You got to try the muffins. They’re the best in the entire town. So. Apple pecan, blueberry buttermilk or coffee, walnut and chocolate chip?”

“I don’t really, uh… I’m not a muffin guy.”

A scowl.

Eyes rolled skywards.

“Not a muffin guy?”

“Yeah. I… Pie. I love pie.”

“That’s because you haven’t tried these muffins.”

He chuckles, corner of his mouth curving up in a smirk.

“Kid, no offense, but ain’t nothing in this world that’s gonna make me give up pie.”

Her lips twitch at his words, something he can’t quite put his finger on dancing in her eyes.

“You mean like there was nothing in this world that could make you come to this place?”

“Nope. See, that’s different.”

“It’s different because…?”

He smiles, a boyish grin that makes him look, at least, ten years younger.

“The only reason I agreed to this is because you said you loved this place.”

“And?”

“And I’m clearly trying very hard to impress you.”

“Clearly.”

“Now, what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she says, mischief coating her features, “that when the girl you’re trying very hard to impress wants you to try the muffins, you try the muffins, Dean.”

He laughs at that, but his eyes soften as they flicker over her face slowly.

“What? What was that look for?”

“Nothing…” he replies, scratching the back of his neck. “You just… You really love this place, don’t you?”

A breathless smile.

“Yeah, I really do.” She whispers, looking at him from the rim of her mug. She pauses for a second, seemingly thinking about something, then licks her lips and continues. “My dad… He and I don’t really get along, -we never did quite frankly, so when things got a bit tough at home, my mum would bring me over here for breakfast. It was kind of our thing, you know?” she grins at the memory and looks at the table, seemingly counting the grains of sugar she’d spilled minutes earlier. “We still stop by when she visits.”

He sees the serenity that has settled into her eyes then, notices the tenderness that’s basically strapped into her soft voice, and grins, because it’s almost as if her love for that place seeps into his bare skin and makes him feel lightheaded.

Glancing at the silver band he never takes off, he twists it around his finger and just thinks for a minute.

And then-

“My mum used to take me fishing.” He tells her, absentmindedly cracking his knuckles. “See, my dad has always loved it, but he’s pretty bad at it. And I mean pretty bad, kid.” He chuckles, rough and low at the back of his throat, eyes glancing out of the bay window. “She’s always lied to him about it though. Didn’t want to hurt his feeling. So, when he said he wanted to teach me, she just took me to the lake one day and said Son, I’m gonna show you the ropes here but if your dad asks, this was all him.”

Y/N laughs at his words, nose scrunched up in the cutest of ways and leans closer, fingers tucking a strand stray of hair behind her ear.

“She sounds amazing.”

Her words are like a stab in the heart.

“Yeah. She, uh, she was.” He rasps, averting his gaze. “She died. When I was four.” He pauses, hoping that she didn’t hear the way his voice wavered. “Fire accident.”

And he waits for her to look at him like he’s a lost puppy, waits for some pitiful comment to leave her lips but instead-

“God –I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“No, it’s –you’re fine, don’t worry.” He cuts her off but she hesitates, looks at him like she might want to apologize again, so he reaches for her hand, his knuckles scraped against her soft skin. “Seriously. We’re good.”

Cracking a small, grateful smile, she traces the back of his hand slowly.

“Well. I know it’s not what you want to hear but she… She would have been proud of you.”

And she might think it isn’t much, but he feels so overwhelmed, so absolutely floored by that statement, by the kindness in her eyes and that genuine smile she’s wearing that he wants to lean over and kiss her.

He doesn’t.

“Give it a little time, kid. You might change your mind.”

“That’s not gonna happen.” She blinks. “Unless you’re a serial killer.” A chuckle. Brows raised in question. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

“Nope.” He grins, playfulness coating his features. “But you know what they say. Got to keep my options open.”

She barks out a laugh at that, the sparkling sound spilling from her lips and filling the space in between them with nothing but gleam and sunshine and, despite the fact he’s at a coffee shop with colorful walls and jazz vinyl records, all he sees, all he can see is the bright girl in front of him, the one that’s still holding his hand and smiles the most radiant smile he’s ever seen.

He’s never felt quite at home until now.

It takes him six more dates to kiss her.

He’s walking her back home from a carnival, small hand in his large one, fingers soundly intertwined together, and she looks so absolutely breath-taking under the moonlight that all he can do is stare, at the way the soft glow dances across her face, the way her eyes shine like diamonds, the way her lips curve up into the perfect smile.

So, when they stop under a lamppost and he says something that makes them both laugh until they can’t breathe, he gathers every ounce of courage, presses his forehead against hers, clasps the side of her face with his hand, and when her eyes flutter shut for just a second, he slowly ducks in and brushes his lips against hers.

It’s a ghost of a kiss, breathy and attentive at first, but then she whimpers into his mouth and he deepens it, winds an arm around her waist and, God, she tastes like whiskey and cinnamon and that cherry pie they shared earlier.

He’s never tasted anything better.

Dean’s happy.

It’s been there for a while now, he supposes, hidden in secret smiles and quiet afternoons spent in that coffee shop she loves so much, but it hasn’t really hit him, not until he sees her in his kitchen on a Saturday morning.

She’s just standing in front of the counter, dressed in one of his crisp white shirts, coffee pot in hand while she hums a familiar tune under her breath and he stares at her, bones turning into liquid at the way she moves into the little room like she’s always belonged there, and he can feel it, he can feel happiness and serenity and warmth pulling at his heartstrings.

Quietly, he wraps his arms around her waist and presses his lips against that soft spot on her neck that never fails to make her shudder.

“Mmmm. Good morning to me.” He mumbles, the words caressing her skin while they make their way into the fresh morning air.

She laughs then, that bright, lively laugh that he’s come to love and turns around to face him, hands finding their way around his neck within seconds.

“There you are, sleepyhead.” She murmurs, pecking the corner of his mouth. “I thought you’d never get out of bed.”

Instead of replying, he smirks, all playfulness and mischief, lifts her up and sets her on the counter, long fingers caressing the side of her face gently.

“Yeah, well” he starts, tucking a strand stray of hair behind her ear, “I didn’t exactly get much sleep last night.”

“Or maybe you’re just getting old.”

Growling, he rolls his eyes at her raised brows and gets an arm around her shoulders.

“’M gonna pretend I didn’t hear that because you’re cute and last night was pretty awesome.” He gloats, nudging his nose up against hers.

“Awesome, huh?”

“Kid, you have no idea.” He hums and leans in to kiss her, lazy and soft, grinning a little into it because, dammit, it’s a good day.

It’s all pastel touches and warm lips after that and when they finally break off, he braces his forehead against hers and takes a deep breath.

“You look good in that shirt by the way.” He whispers, parting her legs with his thigh and wrapping them around his waist.

She beams at him, cheeks going a bit pinkish.

“I do?”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact,” he starts, fingers undoing some buttons as they work their way down her breasts, “I think it looks better on you.”

She chuckles at that but then he latches his mouth on her neck and she sighs, that little sigh that lets him know he’s doing everything just right, the one he loves to pull out of her whenever he can, and, Jesus, he wants to-

“Easy there, cowboy.” She chuckles. “We got a date with your brother in a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, I know.” He says, tone matter of fact as his lips move along her sternum. “He can,” another kiss, “wait.”

“No, he can’t.” she objects, but he can feel her heartbeat against his chest, knows exactly the kind of effect his ministrations have on her. “D., I’m serious about this.”

“Hmmm,” he hums, sucking a kiss into her collarbone.

“Okay, you really need to,” she pants a little, “you need to stop that. We can’t be late.”

“Why not?” he implores, pulling back.

“Because I can’t just… I mean, I want…” she huffs out a breath in frustration, clearly struggling with her thoughts, then purses her lips and drops her eyes to the floor. “What if your brother doesn’t like me?”

“Not like –kid, how could someone not like you?”

“I dunno,” she shrugs, clutching at his arm, “why don’t you ask my dad?”

And he knows it’s not supposed to sound bitter, he knows she’s just being sarcastic, but he can still taste the sourness in his own tongue, because it’s something that could have dropped from his lips, because sometimes he can see shadowy corners of himself in her lightness, can see scars that for some messed up reason match his.

“Yeah, but to Sam’s defense, your dad’s a dick. My brother’s a good kid.”

“I know that but-”

Warm lips brush up against hers, soft but persistent, and for a moment, she loses herself completely in him and everything he is.

“You worry too much, sweetheart.”

“Well, I can’t really-”

“Sssh. Lemme help with that.” He breathes against her ear as he nibbles on her lobe, hand sliding from her waist to the inside of her thighs.

“You are so not helping.” She chuckles, breathy and loose.

He hums.

“D., you really have to stop. I have to go back home.”

“You know,” Dean says as he tugs her closer, pecking her forehead sweetly, “this would all be easier if you just lived here.”

The words are out of his mouth almost immediately and she freezes and goes tense under his arms while the whole room falls silent.

And, so, he waits.

He waits for one, two, three long bits and, when she still doesn’t speak, he begins to second-guess his own self, and starts to think that maybe it’s too big of a step for them to make, or that perhaps she doesn’t want to move in with someone who can’t even whisper those three little words to her, someone who’s less than anything she’ll ever deserve.

“Are you…” she lets out a chuckle and grazes his back with her fingers nervously, eyes wide and confused. “D., do you really mean that?”

Licking his lips, he nods and tucks some hair behind her ear.

“You spend most of the time here anyways.”

“Yeah, but do you want me here? Because what we have right now-”

“What we have right now is great.” Dean interrupts her and intertwines his fingers with hers soundly, smiling when he feels her squeezing in response.

“That’s what I’m saying. And I don’t want you to-”

“No, just…” he shushes her with a finger on the lips and chuckles a little at her adorable pout. “You asked me what I want, right?”

She nods.

“I want to have this. Every day. With you.” He explains, kissing her wrist. “So,” he locks eyes with her, all openness and softness, “move in with me.”

And he expects her to say yes, expects her to laugh and squeal and giggle in his arms, but instead, she ducks in, smooths her thumb over his jaw and kisses him, deep and ardent, and when her fingers sink into his hair he thinks that, yeah, he could really get used to this.

“I guess we’re doing this then.”

“God, yes…” She breathes, face breaking into a breathless smile, so bright and so sunny that it reminds him of spring and sunflowers.

So, he chuckles and kisses her, fingertips traveling to the junction of her thigh and hip slowly.

Moaning a bit, she squeezes her legs around his waist and he smirks against her mouth and hoists her into his arms.

“Dean, what on Earth are you-”

“’M taking you back to bed,” he hushes her, pressing his lips against hers.

“Your brother is-”

“Don’t care. Want you, sweetheart.” He rasps, mouth up her jaw. “Want you so much.”

Being late for lunch turned out to be just fine.

Dean’s in love with her.

He has been for a long time, maybe even since the very beginning, but the deeper he dives into her, grasping quirks and scars and warmth, the freer he falls, feelings he didn’t even know existed wrapping around his heart like vines and reviving every withered, every dead cell.

It’s something that’s always there, in boisterous afternoons spent within the crowds, joined hands a cardinal proof that he’s not alone anymore, in quick kisses and witty remarks whispered during hurried coffee dates on bustling days, but the sentiment is always louder, always purer in moments like this, moments of stagnation, when his whole world is wrapped up in her scent and the sound of her voice and the feel of her skin on his.

As if she’s just read his mind and knows he’s thinking of her, Y/N stretches out in the hammock, cat-like, and nuzzles his chest adorably, prompting a soft chuckle from him.

“You falling asleep on me, sweetheart?” he whispers, combing his fingers through her hair.

“Mmmm… ‘M just tired.”

“Told you we shouldn’t have driven four hours to see this place.” He teases and before he even has the chance to add anything she opens her eyes and growls at him, irritation coating her features. “Can’t see why you love it so much.”

“New Hampshire is gorgeous and you know it, heathen.” She gushes, ruffling his hair.

“Pffft. ‘S okay.”

“Yeah, right.” she huffs out, looking up at him. “You love this view.”

Grinning, he pulls her impossibly close, and locks eyes with her, in love with the way they shine brightly under the afternoon sun.

“Yeah,” he whispers, not averting his gaze. “I do.” A kiss on the tip of her nose. “I really do.”

He expects her to laugh, waits for her to blush or smile or call him a cuddly ol’ teddy bear like she usually does in occasions like this, but she just looks at him, Y/E/C orbs burning into his with an intensity that reminds him of lazy mornings and tender glances, of the nights he loves to spend plugged deep into her, smoothing calloused hands over bare skin, exploring edges and curves and pulling shaky whispers of soft love out of her.

It’s that look that pulls him right in, the one that mesmerizes and terrifies him at the same time because he knows exactly what it means.

So, he lets out a nervous laugh and mumbles a what? under his breath, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Nothing I’m just… I don’t know how I got so lucky with you.”

And he’s never thought that he could be that one good thing in somebody’s life but it’s so genuine and sweet-spoken that he believes it.

“You going all cheesy on me, kid?” he grins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Shut up.” She whines, smacking his arm. “I mean that. Before you I thought I would –I didn’t believe I’d get to have something like this. The way I grew up, I-”

“Hey,” he cuts her off, thumb brushing against her bottom lip, “we’re not your parents. We’re never going to be your parents.” He promises, clasping the side of her face.

“D., -”

“Don’t. Kid, you have no idea how much I want this to work.” He objects and reaches out for her hand, interlocking their fingers together. “God, you don’t even know how much I-” he pauses, and swallows, all kinds of pent up emotions running through his veins, threatening to spill into his voice.

“How much you what?”

He takes a deep breath then and looks into her soft eyes, drinking in the way they’re staring back at him like he’s her entire world, the way her lips are pursed in an adorable frown, the way she furrows her brows in concern and she’s so unbelievably pure in that moment, so real, that he wants to let go, wants to stop holding back, to stop being so frigging afraid.

And so-

“How much I love you.” he whispers, just three little words, out in the open. “Sweetheart, I-”

“I love you too.” She cuts him off, propping herself on her elbow to straddle him, hands cupping his face as she leans in. “I love you so much.”

And then she kisses him like she’s never kissed him before, deep and demanding and a bit desperate, and, he grips at her, lets his hands wander beneath her sundress, and he knows.

She’s been the one for him all along.

Dean’s going to break her heart.

He should have seen it coming really, should have known that nothing good would ever come out of a relationship with him, but he’d been so fascinated by her kind heart and her sweet acceptance, he’d fallen so stupidly and insanely in love with her that he’d forgotten he was practically poison for everyone and anyone around him.

And yet, now that she’s looking at him, soft, wide eyes curious and concerned, he knows he’s going to break her in ways no other man ever had.

“D? Everything okay?” she implores, hand reaching out to touch his and he shuts his eyes closed for a second and lets himself get lost in her softness.

He blinks and nods, squeezing her fingers in response.

“Was that your dad? You sounded kind of-”

“No, that was –kid, that was my CO.”

“Your CO?” she repeats, forehead puckered. “But I thought you said you had the day off .”

“I did. I do…” he sighs, running a hand over his face tiredly. “He, uh, he wanted to tell me that I…” A glance that’s filled with sorrow and regret. “I got called back on active duty.”

Silence.

Everything around them, every single sound fades into the background until there’s silence and nothing else and even though she doesn’t say anything, Dean swears that every single thing she’s feeling floats across her face like a lonely cloud on the pristine sky.

“But you’re on reserve duty, right? They can’t just do that.”

“’S not that simple, Y/N. If they need me, they can do pretty much anything.”

She nods, eyes a little lost and face white as a hospital sheet and, God, he wants to take her in his arms and tell her that’s everything is going to be okay, but he can’t lie to her.

“So, you have to go.” She whispers slowly, eyes drifting to the spilled coffee in front of her.

“So, I have to go.”

“How long do we-”

“A month.”

She hums, biting on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, orbs dark and misty.

His stomach plummets.

“You’re leaving in a month.”

He mumbles a yeah under his breath and notices the tears in her eyes.

He almost chocks on dry air.

“Hey,” he whispers softly, running a hand over his jaw, “don’t go crying on me now, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry.” She whines, sniffing a bit. “I’m just… D., I can’t-”

“You’re not going to.” He objects, reaching up to wipe away the wetness. She leans into his touch, almost absentmindedly, and he smiles just a little, despite himself. “’S not my first rodeo.”

She laughs, bitter and wrecked.

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Well, it should.” He smirks, all smug and swagger, even if he’s dying on the inside. “I’m not gonna die, kid. I love you too much to just leave you like that.”

She looks at him, looks into his eyes, searching for something.

“Do you promise?”

Instead of replying, he smiles, soft but honest and reaches out for her, manipulating their fingers until they’re laced together, then brings their joined hands to his lips.

“Cross my heart.” He vows and kisses her knuckles sweetly.

He lets himself store the feeling of skin against lips on memory but the serenity that simple intimacy gives him evaporates almost immediately, because his mind drifts to the small velvet box that’s been hiding in the pocket of his leather jacket for almost a month, the one with the elegant diamond ring his mum used to own.

And he prays to God he’ll get to keep his promise.

Dean’s been gone for 240 days.

He sends letters, even calls when he can, but she misses him, misses his scent and his smile, the way he throws his entire body into laughter, the way his eyes shine like caramel when the light catches them just right.

But she holds on.

She reads all the messy scribbles he sends, no matter how bedraggled and jumbled they are, listens to his gruff voice as it blends with the sound of static when he tells her he misses her and he can’t wait to kiss the hell out of her again, drives around his Baby with love and makes sure Sam’s doing okay just like she promised him she’d do.

And she waits.

She waits and hopes, no matter how much it tears her apart, because there’s nothing else she can do.

And then there’s a knock on the door one day.

She’s in the kitchen with Benny, making dinner for them and his girlfriend, when she hears it, a loud thump that sounds like a porcelain heart breaking.

Slowly, she reaches out for the towel, but Benny beats her to it, laying a hand over her shoulder.

“I got it, Muffin. Emily’s probably here early anyways.” He tells her, blue eyes lighting up in adoration and she chuckles a little at how love-struck he looks, and goes back to stirring the pasta, throwing a Call me if you need anything and for God’s sake, don’t have sex on my couch over her shoulder.

And she waits for Benny’s warm voice to echo in the rooms of the house, waits for Emily’s laugh to fill the place, waits for them to come into the kitchen, Benny’s hand wrapped around her waist, no matter how much the blonde woman claims to hate it, but nothing happens and she knows something is wrong.

So, she almost storms into the living room and stops dead in her track as soon as she sees them.

Sam standing at the door, tears in his eyes.

Dean’s dog-tag in Benny’s hands.

And she knows what that means, they all know what that means, but she still shakes her head, wraps her arms around her middle and mutters a broken no under her breath.

“Y/N, I-” Sam starts, taking a step forward, voice hoarse and numb.

“No. This can’t –there must have been some sort of mistake. Dean can’t –he’s not…” she chocks, despite the tightness in her throat.

“There was a road side bomb.” Sam tries to explain, taking a tentative step forward. “Dean –he was at a convoy somewhere with his team.”

“No.” she almost screams, bumping into the sofa. “He’s not…. He promised me. He said he’d come back, he…” she pauses and takes a deep breath, tears streaming down her face, then runs a hand over it. “I got one of his letters yesterday, he can’t just-”

“They were ambushed, Y/N. No one –only one person survived the explosion and he’s in critical condition. The bodies, they’re…. charred up, no one can know-”

“So maybe he wasn’t there.” She cries, hope floating across her face “Maybe this is some sort of mistake and he’s-”

“He’s not. He’s… Y/N, my brother’s dead.”

My brother’s dead.

The words echo soundlessly into her head as Dean’s smile flashes before her eyes.

She remembers the first time she saw him, remembers how bright his eyes were as he helped her pick up the books she’d dropped and teased her about Shakespeare.

There was a road side bomb.

She remembers the look of pure interest and concentration on his face as she talked to him about her favorite book on their first date, remembers the way his eyes sparkled every time he talked about Sammy.

Dean –he was at a convoy somewhere with his team.

She remembers the way his lips felt against her own every time he kissed her, the way their bodies always fit together like pieces of the same puzzle, the way he worshiped here, passion and lust blending with tenderness and love every time he wrapped himself around her.

The bodies, they’re…. charred up

She remembers the nights they spent laying side by side after he’d woken up from yet another nightmare, looking at each other’s eyes and muttering secrets to one another until they fell asleep, the days of pure bliss spent by the lake at New Hampshire, filled with swimming and love-making and laughs and soft, tender touches.

My brother’s dead.

She remembers every graze of skin, every whispered promise, every smile and every tear and she realizes she’ll never have that again.

My brother’s dead.

She falls into her knees and begins to sob.

She’s sitting there again.

The girl with the Y/H/C hair and the bright Y/E/C eyes that found love in that small coffee shop is sitting next to the bay window, a Vonnegut book in hand while she sips at her beverage leisurely.

But she’s different now. She drives a 67 Chevy Impala and always wears a dog tag around her neck. She doesn’t radiate hope and bliss like she used to and doesn’t believe in magic anymore.

It’s the first time she visits the coffee shop in six months. She’s tried to stop by before, tried to go there with Benny or Sam but she never made it to the door because everything hurt too much.

Everything reminded her of Dean, of the day everything started, of the day that signified their end even if they both hadn’t realized it back then, and she couldn’t let herself be buried in that blur of emotions that just wouldn’t let her be, wouldn’t let her breathe properly.

Today’s different though.

Today she knows that they would have gone there together, so she’s there, sitting at the table they used to sit, pretending that he’s there with her, that he holds her hand and whispers jokes into her ear, laughing that rich, warm laugh of his that she misses so damn much.

The bell above the door dings and pulls her out of her thoughts, but she’s too overwhelmed and too spent to care.

She hears footsteps, feels someone burning holes at her from behind and, God, she wants to yell and cry at the same time because she’s so tired, so absolutely drained from all these people that look at her like she’s a beaten puppy.

But then-

“You know for a birthday girl, you look pretty miserable.”

And she freezes because that voice is so familiar, it’s the one that has been sneaking into the corners of her mind for months, the one she wishes she could hear again, just once, and it’s loud and clear and there.

So, she turns around slowly and when freckles and broad shoulders swim into view the breath hitches in her throat because the man standing in front of her might look older than he really is, burdened with death and ghosts of loved ones and loss, he might look worn out and tired, but his eyes, those eyes that can turn into a million different shades of green in the blink of an eye, are as bright as she remembers them when they lock into hers.

“You’re –you’re back. You’re alive.” She stutters stupidly, tears glistening as she gets on her feet.

“Well,” he smiles that crooked smile she’s missed so much, scratching the back of his neck nonchalantly, “I promised, didn’t I?”

And it’s all she needs to hear, everything she needs to know, it’s an answer that’s so simple, so solely and uniquely Dean, that she breaks into sobs in the middle of the coffee shop until his large hands wrap around her waist, pull her to his solid chest and squeeze like he’s afraid she’s not real, that someone will take her away from him again.

“Ssssh,” he coos, kissing the top of her head softly “it’s okay. I’ve got you now, sweetheart.”

Another sob rips through her and she clutches at his shirt, body wracking with defeat.

“They said –they told me you were dead.”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean drops another kiss on her hair and then cups her chin and forces her to look at him, eyes dark and filled with unshed tears, a fading scar between his brows.

“They thought I was.” he explains, dabbing away the saltiness. “After the bomb went off, I was... I was trapped behind enemy lines. Busted my leg real bad too.”

“Are you-”

“’M fine. The pain –I could take that… But knowing I couldn’t get to you… Knowing you thought I was dead, it killed me. And I was worried… When I finally found a way to get back here I thought you’d have-”

“Don’t,” she pleas, cupping the side of his face, “don’t say that. You’re…”

He nods slowly and sucks in a breath.

“Just,” she sighs in a whose, grazing his jawline gently, “never do that to me again.”

He smiles, the first real smile in over a year.

“Never again, kid.” He promises, voice wavering, mouth millimeters away from hers. “Never again.”

She laughs the laugh of a mad woman, broken and relieved and overwhelmed, and he leans in, brushes his nose against her jaw and ever so slowly, he captures her lips with his.

He tells her everything she needs to know with that kiss, takes everything she has to give, pain and tears, love and longing, and it’s like she breathes life into him all over again, it’s like that first kiss under the lamppost in the middle of the street on a summer night, a kiss that’s able to put all of his broken pieces back together and make him feel whole again.

And Dean tastes everything, drinks everything in and gives it back tenfold, knowing that he’s really back and she’s real and she’s his, she’s always been his and he smiles against her lips.

He’s right where he belongs.

Forever Tags: @jpadjackles @supernatural-jackles @ravengirl94 @percywinchester27 @hannahindie @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @trexrambling @pickupthatamulet @impala-dreamer @imagining-supernatural @becs-bunker @wordstothewisereaders @winchestersnco @sgarrett49 @myrabbitholetoneverland @iwriteaboutdean @ruprecht0420 @captainemwinchester @mogaruke @imissyoualittlemoreeveryday @wellthatsrandomkek @jayankles @keepcalmandcarryondean @escabell @thevioletthourr @kathaswings @tiny-friggin-human @winchesters-flannels @akshi8278 @atari-writes @emilywritesaboutdean @ofloveandlonging @mandilion76 @polina-93 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester

Cross My Heart Tags: @jensen-akf @samsfabuloushair @shamelesslydean

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savannahblack6170 · 7 years

Text

Meeting Dean Winchester...With Wings?

This story started with me writing an imagine for my friend to help cheer her up. The story really just expanded after that. This story takes place around season 5, a while after Lucifer is released from the cage. Imagine prompt: Imagine being hugged by Dean with him having angel wings, him pulling you close and just shutting out the world, wings and arms wrapped around you. winchestershatedemon Prologue: (2012) His golden feathers rustle as he pulls back to see your face. You're outside. "Hey, kiddo, you can get through this. I know you can. You just gotta trust in your own strength, find your family. Remember what we say?" You speak together, his deep baritone mixing with your lighter voice, "Family don't end in blood" Dean smiles "That's my girl." He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, as he looks you in the eye. Dean's eyes become more solemn, his brows drawing together "You're stronger than you know. You just gotta find that strength in yourself." He smirks "You're basically a Winchester. You can get through this, okay Kiddo?" You nod, burying yourself back into his arms. The day is unusually sunny, the sunlight reflecting off of Dean's feathers, the warmth soaking into your bones. You'll never forget this moment. You never want to lose either of the men who had become your brothers. ******** You had met Dean one day in the year 2009, and the day had started out sunny and warm, but the sky had turned dark and foreboding, thunderclouds rolling into the valley. Odd occurrences had been all over the news, odd deaths and crop failure...all over America. But since none of these worrying problems had any effect in your small town, your life went on like usual. You didn't really plan on going for a walk in the woods that day, on leaving the path that led to your backyard. You were only taking a shortcut through the park to get back to your house, your thoughts dark and brooding after an encounter with some of what you could call enemies from school. You had been planning on going to a neighborhood pool party, but it had been canceled because of the weather, and although you had been invited to stay, you didn't want to be in such close proximity with people you disliked. You didn't particularly want to mess with them, especially since you were on break. And so, you started on the walk home. But something in you pulled you deeper into the woods. You had found Dean (But you didn't know his name then)unconscious in a clearing where you liked to read. You almost ran away, thinking some homeless guy had decided to sleep there, but you didn't.As you drew closer you saw feathered appendages protruding from his back, draping across the grass, dirty and tarnished golden feathers covered in grime. They were huge. His shirt was in tatters, barely still on him.The downy feathers closest to his skin were bloody, with what looked to be frantic scratch marks near his spine. You belatedly realized that you still had your backpack on, with your towel inside. Maybe you could help him, despite whatever had happened to him. You had dropped your backpack, quickly jerking the zipper open. Rummaging through it, you pulled out your towel, along with the oversized hoodie you had forgotten that you had left inside of it. Your sneakers brushed the wet edges of the man's wings, which is what they appeared to be. You circled around, far enough that if the man did wake up, he couldn't grab you. Kneeling, you spoke to him. "Hello?" After a few more failed attempts at waking him up from a distance, you grabbed your hoodie. Holding it by the sleeve, you tossed it like a fishing line, bringing it back to you after you threw it. The edge of it hit his shoulder a few times, and he stirred. "Sam? Sammy?What the hell...What did those sons of bitches do to me?" He grumbled, turning slightly so he was on his stomach, his eyes still closed. His wings followed, shifting and resisting the movement, dragging in the weeds. His voice was deep, gravely and husky. From the side, you saw eyes blink... Once...and twice...before he jerked his hands under his chest and tried to push himself up, and get his legs under him, only to fall back down.The wings were huge, and they flailed, arching over his back as his panicked eyes darted around the clearing. Finally his eyes landed on your scared and confused face. They were a startling shamrock green, with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, but worry lines between his brows. You momentarily thought of that man who had seen both the highs and lows of life. Someone not unlike yourself. Even though his face was stern...he wasn't angry, no. He was deadly serious, and worried, but not angry. "What are you doing here kid?", he questioned you while struggling to sit up, only for his back to arch in pain. "Ah, crap." He spat. Forgetting the danger momentarily, you crawled forward, making sure he saw your movements, with your towel in hand. "I was just on my way home", you answered as you pressed the clean towel around the base of his wings. The...roots? Wing base... Of the feathered appendages spanned from the top of where his shoulder blades should have been all the way to the small of his back. He shuddered minuscule tremors racking his body. You might not be an expert, but you could tell this stranger was freaking out, even though he was trying to hide it, and in serious pain. "You got a phone?" He asked, with a grimace. You startled a bit when he spoke. "Yeah", you responded, pulling it out of your back pocket. "Thanks kid" he ground out as he quickly tapped a number out on your phone, putting it on speakerphone. As it rang, he looked a bit closer at you. You were dressed simply that day, just jeans and a t-shirt, and your hair was in a ponytail. You knelt by his side, your hands keeping pressure on the cuts on his back. A voice cut through the relative silence, a wary tone to its deep chords. "Hello? Who is this?" The man beside you spoke up, "Sammy! Hey. We've got a situation here, and it's not pretty." "Dee-Dean!"the man's voice stuttered,"Where are you man?!Last I saw that rouge angel and that witch had you cornered then you disappeared!" His voice cracked a little. "I've been searching everywhere!" Dean looked at you, his face questioning. Turning to the phone he stated,"I don't know. Some kid found me. This is her phone, I got no frigging idea where I am." You take the phone and tell Sam the general location, and which path to follow through the woods to get to you and Dean. You realize after a few seconds that beside Dean is a large Bowie knife, along with some triangular blade as well. Deciding that you might as well get the tatters of his filthy shirt away from his wounds, you pick up the more normal looking knife, telling Dean what you were doing before you touch the blade's handle. After you cut the shirt away, you hand him your hoodie to pillow his head on. Thunder rumbles overhead as you check to see if his wounds had stopped bleeding, hoping whoever this Sammy character was would get there soon. The rain was soon pattering down, and for a reason unknown to both you and Dean, the rain sizzled against his skin, seeming to both heal him and hurt him at the same time. Short, pained grunts escaped him as you saw the rain flow in rivulets through his messy and dull golden feathers, the droplets glowing down to the base of his wings. You saw the gashes around his wings start to close, even as you heard a voice shout through the rain, "Dean!" A voice laced with fear, and just a hint of desperation. You turned to look at the entrance to the clearing to see a tall,long-haired man, clothed in flannel and jeans running towards both of you. For a moment, you were defensive, grabbing the knife for a split second until you recognized his voice as the one that had spoken so worriedly over your phone. In the back of your mind, you realized that your family was probably wondering where you were...but they haven't called, so they most likely weren't worried. That must be Sam, you thought, as he skidded to a stop next to the both of you. His face was a mask of both worry and shock. "What happened to you?" He pulled Dean upright, the wings' weight making it a bit hard for even him. Dean slurred out an answer."That angel, the guy? That witch had found a way to bind him"Sam blinked as Dean continued. "You know, like a slave? Well, she found a way to drain and use his grace for spells...along with how to use that little bit of grace to make more. A synthetic kind. I got in the way between her and that angel. She hit me with a spell, and as I fell I hit and broke the container holding the synthetic grace" he frowned " but I don't know how I got here. All I know is I've got freaking heavy, painful wings and this kid found me" Sam glanced at you. "Dean, she's not a kid, she's got to be at least 14..." ,he quipped,"Anyway, we need to get you back to the Impala and then to either a motel or the bunker. Okay? Hopefully this spell wears off and we can hunt that bitch down for this. Cas will probably help now that we know that she's got an angel imprisioned." *** Somehow you helped Sam fold up Dean's wings and loosely bound them together with Sam's flannel shirt, just enough that Sam could carry his brother without tripping over the feathered appendages. You held his wings, and Sam carried his body. You emerged from the woods next to a deserted and cracked road, with a gorgeous classic black car in front of you. You glanced at Sam at the same time as he realized that there was no way that you would be able to fit Dean, along with his wings into the car. A frown creased his brow. "Hey- oh... um, sorry, I don't think I ever asked what your name is." His face was sheepish and worried at the same time. He fidgeted a bit, running a hand through his too long brown hair. You smiled a little bit as you helped Sam prop Dean against the car. "It's Rani. Rani Cooper." Sam stared at Dean then quickly looked back towards you. "Rani, is there any chance your family owns a minivan or some sort of truck? There's no way we can fit Dean in here without crushing him." You nodded quickly thinking through your options. Your dad was a contractor, and he was on his week off, which meant the large utility van he owned would be at home. "Yeah, we have one. I can run back home and grab it." You started to turn, ready to run through the woods to get to your house, but Sam grabbed your arm. His grip was gentle, but strong. "Wait Rani, can you even drive?" He questioned. His hazel eyes were worried, and he startled a bit when you smirked. "I'm not a kid Sam, I'm sixteen. I've almost got my license. I'll be fine." You were a bit surprised that even with his brother bleeding and cursed, that Sam made sure you would be okay. You were a little touched too. Your parents just let you do whatever, they didn't really think about safety. Just that you didn't give them a bad reputation. This 20's something guy who you just met seemed to care more about your wellbeing than your own family. "I promise. I'll be alright Sam." It's not far. I should be back in... ten minutes. Okay?" Sam still had a frown on his face, but nodded. "I'll be back soon." You sprinted through the woods, instinctively weaving through the paths back to your house, your shoulder length hair whipping in its ponytail. You checked to make sure that your parents weren't home before rummaging through your dad's work bag to grab the keys. Dashing up the stairs, you ran to the closet to grab some supplies to take care of Dean along with a change of clothes since yours had blood on them and were soaking wet. First making sure your father's tools were all in the garage, you grabbed the first aid kit, along with a bottle of pain meds, sleeping bags to cushion the floor of the van, and some clean towels, throwing them in the back of the truck with your clothes. After a second thought, you also took some dry and canned food along with some soup, since it had sounded like Sam and Dean were pretty far from home, and there was no way Dean would be able to get food with his brother in his condition. You also threw some water bottles in your backpack. The rain was coming down harder when you got out of your neighborhood and back on the main road. As you drove back to where Sam and Dean were you saw multiple police cars race by. That wasn't normal in your town, but you dismissed it, you needed to get back to Sam and Dean. It was probably just a car accident anyway. Soon you pulled up to the back road where both Sam and Dean were. Sam had made a makeshift covering over Dean's body with some ratty umbrellas and an extra coat. You slowed down, nearly stopped then pulled the van up to them, with the large door on their side. In near silence, other than the pattering of the rain on both vehicles, you both got Dean in the van, with enough room for his wings. Laying him on the unzipped sleeping bags, with a towel under his head, you thought you did a pretty good job along with Sam. Once inside the fairly warm truck you pulled out the medical supplies you had brought, handing them to Sam. While he cleaned the remaining wounds on Dean's body, you checked the local news station on the radio wondering what the fuss was about with the police cars. A voice crackles over the speaker, -"and still at large are the two criminals who escaped the local prison today. One is a tall white male with blond hair and is wearing a white button down shirt with black pants. His accomplice is a shorter dark-skinned female, with long brown hair and wearing strange jewelry along with a loose red shirt and shorts. They are both carrying weapons. Earlier today they had been arrested attempting break into a house for reasons unknown." You looked back at Sam. "Are those the people who attacked you earlier? I heard what Dean said, you know, about her being a witch and all, but...how? How did she do that to Dean? I thought that witches mess around with spirits and stuff." Looking fairly surprised, Sam glanced at you. He finished cleaning Dean's wounds, gave him some of the pain meds, then maneuvered himself to sit next to you. "Well, some do. But others use their powers for more...selfish purposes. They will brew spells for people. There are good witches, but not many that we've met. Quite a lot make spells, and charge large amounts of money for spells like love potions, amnesiac ones, revenge, all sorts of things. But if you do them wrong, and back out of a deal, they can hex you and kill you. That's what we had thought was going on here." You were still confused, but you nodded. "Okay. So there's a witch in my town and it killed someone, right? That's why you guys are here? But why would you two guys in their twenties hunt witches, and why would she go after you guys? You should be in college or something!" You nearly whispered, not wanting to disturb Dean. Sam looked at the floor. "Well, first, we didn't have a normal childhood. When I was six months old a demon killed my mom. Dean was just four. Dad became a Hunter, and not one that kills animals, he hunted the supernatural beings and just about anything that hurts people that isn't human. Sometimes, that includes witches. He brought us up in this life. And, yeah, I was in college for a little while until I got pulled back in the life to help Dean find Dad. The same demon who had killed our mon killed my girlfriend Jess soon after." You tentatively laid your hand on Sam's arm. His hazel eyes met your own golden brown ones before he looked away again, continuing the story. "About four years ago we were able to kill the demon who had killed our mom, but Dad died," Sam hesitated, his words starting to come out short and choppy, "saving Dean." He coughed. "Anyway. I guess after a while I just realized that I need to accept that my life, like Dean says, is Saving people and Hunting Things. It's just how it is for us." Dean spoke up from the other end of the van. "Bitch." Sam's face twitched before he responded, a very small grin on his face. "Jerk." ******** Sam's hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, knuckles clenched until they were white and pale as another muffled moan sounded though the backseat. Your eyes wavered, continually switching focus between Sam and Dean. The chilling groans of pain had started not long ago, along with a dark blue glow and a wavering drone of spine-chilling shrieking. The hairs on the back of your neck raised with each sound that came from the winged man, from Dean. A quick glance at the phone told you that it would only be another ten minutes until you reached Singer's Salvage. Thankfully, though, Dean's wounds had stopped bleeding short time ago, and you no longer needed to crawl into the backseat to check them. Surprisingly, you had learned earlier that Sam and Dean's closest family friend lived in Sioux Falls, which wasn't too far away from your home, not even an hour's drive. Although you initially had doubts of accompanying Sam and Dean, the knowledge that you would be back home before your curfew eased your mind. Earlier on the drive, the three of you had spoken, well, more like Sam and Dean talked, more about what being a hunter was like and the basics of how they lived. It sounded very rough and probably was. Your hands fidgeted over a small gray device, occasionally flipping it open and checking the time, even though your watch was secure on your wrist. You debated calling your parents, but choose not to. They thought you were at that stupid party anyway. You wanted to help the brothers, but you didn't want to get grounded because of it. Even if you weren't home in time, you could tell your parents that you were staying at a friend's house overnight. They never paid any attention to who you hung out with anyway. *** The quiet hum of the van's engine droned low, barely heard as you realize you hadn't heard any loud sounds from Dean in a few minutes. You turned around in your seat, looking into the back of the vehicle. Dean's wings were unbound, having come out of the loosely tied hoodie. The blond man lay on his stomach, wings tucked around him, the blankets and towels configured into a nest of sorts, his head pillowed on your backpack. His mouth was open, left cheek pressed against the canvas of your bag. Soft snoring was able to be heard if you listened carefully. Snickering at the sight of the man who was surely at least ten years older than you sleeping in such an odd way, you remembered your Nokia phone also had a camera. Flipping it open, you snapped a quick picture to show Sam once you got to "Bobby's" house. *** You gazed around as Sam steered the van into a smaller dirt road, passing wrecked cars, scrap heaps and a rusted sign with the words "Singer Auto Salvage" spelled out in dusty letters. Dirt and rocks crunched under the tires as the van continued forward. The vehicle coasted to a stop, and although the sun still blocked out by the clouds, you could still see the old cobalt house you halted in front of. Although the paint was peeling higher up, and rusted cars surrounded it, the small amount of vegetation around the house was trimmed, and the small porch free of dust and grime, and the white framed windows were decently clean. Although dried leaves still lay on the dirt road from last fall, it was fairly well kept. For a junkyard that is. You turned to Sam, forehead wrinkling and a frown pulling the corners of your mouth once you pulled to a stop, reaching out and tapping his shoulder. "Alright. Which one of us is going to get Dean up?" With a small flinch, Sam looked at you, attempting to cover up his reaction as his mouth twitched in a half smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll do it. We don't know how he's going to react waking up like this. Can you go and knock on the door? We'll need Bobby's help to get Dean inside." Confused with his reaction to your touch, but refusing to show it, you nodded. "Got it." The door slammed behind you as you jumped out of the van, your slight 5'4 frame approaching the front door of the building, two stories of faded blue paneling and chimney towering over you. You fairly jumped up the three steps, and rapped your knuckles on the wood three times, turning once you did so to see Sam pulling the side door of the van open, only to have your face drenched in cool water when you spun back toward the door. Blinking furiously to clear your eyes, hand swiping down your face in an attempt to rid your face of the liquid covering it, you peered through blurry eyes to see a bearded man in rough flannel and a ball cap standing in front of you. You glared at him, your gaze accusing. "What the hell was that?! I've already gotten soaked once today, I didn't need a freaking bath before coming inside if that's what you were thinking!" His expression cleared as he stared at you, before grabbing your wrist and jerking a knife against it, slicing a small cut into your forearm, not far from old scars from when you were younger. A yelp escaped your mouth as the man restrained your other arm when you tried to hit him in retaliation. With an expression like that of a kicked dog, you twisted your arm away once his grasp loosened; retreating to Sam once you were free, you hid behind his massive frame. Hissing in pain you punched Sam. "What was that?! Your friend cut me!" You cringed, water still dripping from your face as you peered out from in between Sam's side and the white side of the van. The taller Winchester bent down to where you were unzipping you backpack, his calloused hands gentle as he pulled your arm towards his body to check the cut. He turned his head towards the man that you now glared at, his expression an odd mixture of amusement and annoyance. "Couldn't that have waited Bobby? Did you actually think we would have brought someone dangerous with us?" Sam shook his head as he pulled the already depleted first aid kit over, cleaning the cut and sticking a bandage over it, all the while not looking at your questioning and angry face. "You know I can't take that chance boy." Bobby replied "Not with how the world is going to hell right now. You didn't really mention having checked her already when you called." Sam sighed, his expression apologetic when green-hazel eyes met yours. His mouth pursed into a tight line as he glanced in between you and Bobby. "Rani, this is Bobby, he's the friend"- You held up your hand, your visage hurt but focused, interrupting his apology as you saw Dean's bleary gaze watching you both, the pupils of his eyes engulfed in a whiteish-blue light. "Whatever, let's just get Dean inside. He's awake." *** Once Bobby recovered from seeing Dean in a winged state, and you stopped glaring at the man, the three of you were able to carry Dean inside and lay his body on a couch, which had been dragged into the middle of the room and away from the bay window. Once getting Dean's human limbs into a mostly comfortable position, with a lot of grumbling from the man, you helped him extend his wings out to dry since they were still soaked from the rain. It was surely an odd sight, brilliant golden feathers draping over the drab furniture inside the old house, some feathers had dried blood caked on them. Shaking your head, you cleaned up the base of Dean's wings again with your quickly dwindling supply of antibacterial wipes from the first aid kit. You learned the brother's last name earlier. Winchester. It seemed like a fitting name for these two men, considering their profession. ***Authors Note: Thank you so much for reading! Please vote and comment if you liked this chapter, and if you have any advice, it is certainly welcome. If you see any plot holes, please tell me. ❤

#dean winchester #jensen ackles #supernatural #supernaturalfanfic

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