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paralleledmediaexperience · 3 years

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right before my birthday back in May someone made a post about Jack needing more love and hugs, and I had this idea in the tags and then went and wrote about a thousand words of this and then. forgot it existed!! anyway I’ve mostly polished it up now. enjoy Jack telling one of his dads he loves him and then not only being hugged but also hearing it back!! it’s what our boy deserves!!!!!

Now with part two!!!!!

Jack hadn’t meant to fix everything, in his defense. Yes, they’d defeated god with his powers, which had unintentionally released Amara, who had agreed to take her brother’s powers from Jack and then let the world mostly be as long as she got the chance to see him every once in a while. She’d returned the universe to normal, with a few additions for their happiness, as Amara had said. Dean had choked out Cas’ name, and Amara had frowned before replying that it might take a bit more time.

They had gone back to the bunker and then the bunker had been thoroughly overrun the whole next week by- it seemed- everyone the Winchesters knew, including a few faces who were apparently as back from the dead by Amara’s hand as Mary was last time she owed a Winchester a favor. Through it all- old friends and odd allies and more- Jack knows Dean isn’t doing well. Isn’t sleeping well. There’s only been one night- well, Jack hadn’t seen Dean drinking but he’d heard Sam’s arguing and Dean’s short, choppy answers, and it was familiar enough.

He’d googled “what to do when my dad misses someone and we can’t talk to them yet,” and wikihow had good suggestions- he’d read through the sections for both short-term separations, and managing the death of a loved one. He hadn’t really been able to figure out which would be more helpful. It had turned out to be the death of a loved one, which… shouldn’t be surprising, no matter that Cas would be back. Soon.

He couldn’t make Dean do any of the things on the list, but it had suggested that the person would like to feel loved during their time of grieving.

And when he’d searched “how to make someone feel loved,” the first article had said the easiest way was simply to tell them. So when Dean hands him a plate of pancakes with the bacon cooked just how Jack likes it, Jack thinks it’s such a small thing to make his heart feel so big and warm. And he smiles and says, “Thanks Dean. I love you.”

Unfortunately, Jack hasn’t actually grabbed the plate when he says this, and Dean’s hands drop it. The sound of the plate shattering on the tile is only half as upsetting as the wounded look in Dean’s eyes as he looks back at Jack. And Jack isn’t sure why it went so wrong but he looks away immediately, the shame of causing that hurt somehow and the slow horror of realizing he’d ruined the breakfast that Dean had made him turning his stomach into knots. He steps back almost unconsciously before remembering the plate had just broken, and in just his socks, a piece of ceramic jabs into his heel and slices him open, and he actually can’t help the small cry of surprise and pain that slips out.

“Jeez, kid,” Dean breathes out, and Jack gets pushed into the nearest chair. “Get that out of your foot while I clean this up.”

The warm feeling in his chest was gone, pressed into something cold and tight in Jack’s throat. He’d just- the article had said it makes people happy to hear they are loved in times of grief.

He watches, silent as Dean turns off the stove and sweeps up the wasted food and plate pieces, soundly dumping it in the trash before digging under the sink for a second and coming out with a clean dishrag and a box of bandaids. It’s only when he sees Dean stop and take a quiet, private shuddering breath to forcibly relax his tensed shoulders that he lowers his gaze again. He picks the sharp sliver of plate out of his skin through the sock before peeling it off to examine the cut it left. Very shallow, but it still stretches two inches along on the inside of his heel, the blood sluggishly dripping out.

It’s not bad, but very inconvenient, so he almost heals it before remembering that Amara had said not to use his powers after she took Chuck’s powers. Not until she returned and okayed it, at least. He sighs, pinching it together with his fingers, half heartedly wishing it had been more awkward and antagonistic between his aunt and his dads, so he could have maybe convinced Dean that they shouldn’t listen to what Amara told him to do. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.

He hears Dean turn the water on to damp the cloth, but he can’t make himself look back up again. His gaze goes back down to the floor as Dean starts to turn back toward him, focusing on the small smear of red on the floor, where Dean had dragged the broom through the spots of blood he’d left.

He raises his hands as Dean approaches, ready to be handed the stuff to bandage himself up, but Dean just beats them away as he sits down next to Jack, hunching in as he grabs the injured foot. Jack still feels unbearably small in the silence between them, both him and Dean leaning in and feeling small and unwilling to speak as he wipes away the blood and then dries the skin around it. Jack grabs two of the bandaids and opens them, and Dean wraps them around the cut before patting it and drawing away, and Jack doesn’t know what else to do.

“Sorry,” He says softly, because he isn’t sure what he did wrong but it hurt Dean. And he wasn’t even angry, Jack could tell, cause his shoulders hadn’t tensed the way they did when Dean was trying not to lash out- they’d tensed the way they did when Dean was trying not to fall apart. Jack’s felt like he had to know the difference for a while now.

“Jack,” Dean says, and it’s so sharp that Jack jerks up to look at him. Had he read that wrong? Was Dean angry? But when he meets Dean’s eyes it’s still that hurting, the one that Jack could remember all the way from back when he was a newborn, or something close to it. “No, you don’t-” Dean lifted a hand to his face and dragged it down with a rough breath, and Jack wasn’t expecting him to look back at him but he did, eyes burning into Jack’s. “You don’t have to be sorry. That was on me- I dropped the plate.”

Jack tries not to squirm, because it’s not about the plate, is it? The food had been thrown away and the plate had hurt him, but he’d said he loved Dean and that had made him drop it. “I’m sorry that I-”

“Jack,” Dean cuts across again, and this time his brows are drawing together the way they do when he’s angry. But he looks away from Jack again, and he can tell somehow that it’s not anger at him. Dean doesn’t even want Jack to be looking at this anger. “You say whatever you want, okay? I’m not upset that you said it.”

It isn't that he thinks Dean doesn’t mean the words, but Jack’s also not sure Dean believes them either. “I am, though,” he says, petulant, crossing his arms and letting his foot fall back down to the ground, ignoring the bite of pain from treating the cut so roughly. “If it hurt you, I shouldn’t have-”

Dean cuts him off again. “No. Jack, that’s-” He struggles for a second, but Jack just wants to understand. Unbidden, he holds his breath and Dean draws his in, trying to find the words.

“You get to love me if you want to,” Dean grinds out, and Jack realizes there are tears gathering along his lower lashes. “And you get to tell me if you want to. This hurt ain’t about you.”

That does clear it up, somehow, and Jack nods and looks back down at his hands, realizing there’s still blood on his fingers, too. Dean turns away enough that they can almost pretend he’s not rubbing the tears out of his eyes. “I won’t say it if you don’t want me to either, though,” he says, and he grabs the cloth from the table where Dean had left it, finding a clean spot on the damp corner and using it.

“That ain’t how it works, kid.” He doesn’t elaborate. He just grabs the box of bandaids and closes it before gathering up the paper wrapping. It gets thrown out, and the box stowed back under the sink, and then Jack is just staring at Dean.

“How does it work?”

They both stop. Jack didn’t expect to actually let the question out, but it’s off of his lips before he can seal them.

Dean is frozen, staring at him.

“Not like that,” Dean says eventually, weariness dripping from each word. “Jack, do you… do you want us to say…”

He doesn’t say it, the kitchen fan blowing white noise into the quiet air between them. Jack knows that he could ask and Dean would say it right now. Dean always gives the people he loves what they want, what they need, and this would just be the next thing he could offer. Something he could give.

“I don’t need you to.” Jack says, honestly. “I know. I just wanted you to hear it, because I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to say it to you.”

Dean squints at him. “You... “ His eyes are wet again. Without warning, Dean grabs him and pulls him up, into a hug, and Jack grabs back as tight as he can, feeling lost. But it’s good, it’s good just like every time Dean hugs him. He squeezes his eyes shut tight as if he can’t feel the tears welling up in his own eyes, hot and stinging. “I love you too, Jack. I don’t get- you and-” Dean sputters off, still holding him. “If you want to hear it, you let me know. I’ll get better at it.”

“Maybe every once in a while,” Jack says, trying not to let his voice sound like he’s crying. It does anyway.

“Alright then,” Dean says, and he squeezes him one more time before letting go, turning away abruptly and bustling back to the stove. Jack wipes his eyes on his sleeve, his whole chest feeling empty and full all at once. The rag had fallen out of his hands sometime in their conversation, and he leans down to grab it, pausing to wipe up the blood on the floor. Dean comes back a minute later and pulls it out of his hand before passing him another plate. “Here, since the last one humpty-dumpty’d.”

They don’t continue the conversation. Jack eats his breakfast as Dean fixes himself another cup of coffee, and they sit quietly, waiting for Cas to come home.

#Jack Kline #Dean Winchester #supernatural #my fic #creativecaviar #pancake cinematic universe

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impyssadobsessions · 3 years

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Danny Phantom Idea

=w=' I'm sure someone done this and I probably should look through fanfics BUT ANYWAYS Time Travel fic Vlad manages to somehow subdue/take over clockwork and reverse time back before Danny got his powers. This time only him and Danny has memories of the future/past. Danny realize this through conversations with his friends, then race back home thinking something terrible happen,(Since he can't go ghost). His mind racing, first thought thinking something bad happened in the future again. His first plan was to go into ghost zone but realizes what day it was. His parents hadn't finished the portal yet. He tries to calm himself down like, its fine, I just gotta go back in there then straight shot to clockwork. Part of him kind of upset not being able to continue living normally, but his anxiety of something terrible happening keeps him from even thinking he could enjoy it for a bit. WELL THEN Jack's old college friend shows up and throws everything out of whack. Danny trying to recreate events that caused him to turn into a halfa, only for it not to work. Vlad standing there, patronizing him about how dangerous that is with the cords unplugged in his hands. Danny getting straight to business asking him what he was up to. Only for Vlad to playfully pretend to be ignorant, before boasting/ranting how he wanted a do over. (Imagine he went into basement after laxatives he puts into jack's food kicked in. Despite being able to freeze time for everyone except him and danny) Vlad basically telling/hinting to Danny his plan. Saying he needs Danny as much alive as possible. Can't have his ghost messing around. Danny tries to fight Vlad, only making Vlad laugh at how helpless he is. Vlad then plugged in the machine once he had his fun, while Danny was still on the ground outside of it. Then called for Jack and Maddie (then realizing they might be preoccupied and sped up time til they could run down there). Vlad convincing them how Danny almost got killed trying to turn on the machine, and that the portal working. Expressing how DANGEROUS it is to have power button on inside and how EASY Danny could of gotten killed. Even helping secure it all later from Danny, to keep him from turning into a ghost. Danny upset he can't find a way to turn into ghost and realized that most inventions that could help him travel, his parents hadn't invented yet. Top that off with a very dangerous ghost calling the shots that want his father dead, and him to suffer. After that night, much to Danny's dismay, Vlad has become their godfather AND is going to be dropping in to help a lot. Keeping in contact with his parents. This adding to Danny's nerves, trying to figure out how the heck he going to reverse this.. or at least protect everyone. Trying to think of all the ghost he fought, worrying about what he going to do now. Jazz knowing something's wrong, and as much as Danny wants to explain to her or his friends, he realized he has absolutely no proof. He can't even go ghost. How and why would they believe him? So instead, he gets the idea if he can't fight ghosts like a ghost then he will like a hunter. Ends up joining in on his parents, trying his best to help jump start ideas of machines he knows they had built in the past, as well as learn how to fight ghosts with just gadgets and skills alone. Becoming a pretty good hunter, and even sneaks down to release ghost into the zone before they can be dissected. But since Jack and Vlad are on "good" terms, unfortunately all his hardwork ends up being destroyed. Vlad congratulating a very tired Danny, who realizing ghost hunting is far more tolling as a human, on his work. Danny gets ready to fight him, only to be beaten, and Vlad teasingly saying such a shame it be all for nothing. Vlad destroys the basement and everything in it with such a ghastly whale or at least whats left of it after having tossed danny around. Danny trying to cover his ears in pain, panicking as everything destroyed around him, to just be tossed onto ground like a ragdoll. Vlad being in his ghost form, making a

large scene to put on a show for Jack and Maddie, when they rush in. Him laughing madly, everything destroyed and Danny beaten and passed out on the ground. Vlad disappearing with words that made it clear that he was after danny because he started hunting ghost, trying to manipulate them into keeping Danny out of the way. Vlad receiving phone call from jack the next day or calling him, only to hear the news, saying how TRAGIC. Luckily he has a portal he just finished at his mansion, (having received plans and help from jack and maddie.) If they ever NEED anything to let him know, offering to help them rebuild and everything. Or offering them to stay with him. Saying how his lab would protect poor Danny. Meanwhile Danny pulling his hair, trying to think, now what do I do?! While his family dotes on him too much. Trying to make sure he's alright. Knowing damn well, Vlad is calling all the shots. I really like Vlad as villain or even as an evil uncle =w= He fun character/antagonist. And thought it be fun if Danny had to fight as fenton and not phantom, as well as how his attitude towards ghost and ppl at school is very much did this done that- to cursing how much easier it was to fight as a ghost. Also imagine he still has a ghost sense in a way. More so he can feel hair on his neck stand and chills, like something's wrong. Can see him finding this out and then getting jump scared by box ghost (meeting him for the "first" time) with a "Boo!". Then him just like I can't believe BOX GHOST just scared me! UGH! Then his attitude ended up him getting caught in a fortress of boxes with said box ghost. Him just unamused and unafraid while Box Ghost keeps trying to spook him. This scenario with his parents breaking in and "saving" him, allows him to pretend this is what made him so interested in fighting ghost with them. : I Also see cute moments of him actually enjoying sitting down with his parents and working with them for once. At least while they're not being over the top. Jack and Maddie getting excited. Jazz knowing something isn't right, but mistakes it as Danny just wanting more time with their parents. Encourages Danny not to forget to spend time with his friends too because of how unhealthy their parents' obsession with ghost hunting can be. Also Also.. I haven't watched the show in a while. =w= b

#danny phantom #danny fenton #vlad plasmius #time travel au #clockwork #Jack fenton #Maddie Fenton #jazz fenton #fan fic idea I guess #I'll never do it because I am terrible at focusing that long on something

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tatooedlaura-blog · 3 years

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Done Pretending

Hi all,

I did a post-Per Manum ... I’ve had the quote ‘you and I are done pretending’ in my head for awhile and finally found a way to use it ... go me!

Anyways, enjoy :)

@today-in-fic

&&&&&&&&&&

He hugged her for what felt like forever, the light fading in the room as he heard her heart break over and over, thudding erratically against his chest, body hitching as a poorly contained sob snuck through her cracking exterior.

She had come so close to kissing him at first, lips stopping at the corner of his mouth, before they traveled over cheek to ear, “I don’t know what to do.”

Whispering back as he tightened his hold on her, “we’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

So, there they stood, until finally, Scully moved her head back, sliding it along his shoulder, “how are you doing?”

“Crappy. You?”

Sad chuckle burbled from her chapping lips, “I meant your back. You’ve been hunched over for,” looking at the clock on the VCR, “a good half hour.”

“Back? What’s a back?”

Pulling away, she stayed connected through fisted bunches of his sweater, not willing to give up contact completely but knowing he needed to stand upright or he’d never do it again. He took this correctly as a hint to stop playing the Hunchback of Notre Dame and slowly, he straightened out. His face showed every damn cartilage crack and screaming muscle and Scully couldn’t help but give him a frowning smile in sympathy, “would you go sit down, please?”

Mulder continued his stretch beyond vertical, leaning back as far as he could. twisting side to side, “if you were just, maybe, four, five inches taller or we had a set of steps or something, this would be so much easier.”

“Steps?”

“Yeah,” finally standing, wince clear on his face as his muscles finally began to calm, “I go down two steps, you stay at the top and I can hug you for a half-hour without dying.” Taking her by the hand, “come on. Let’s go find some stairs.”

“Mulder …”

“What? I’m not done with you yet. I need another hour at least.”

She loved him for trying, “how about we just order some pizza and sit down?”

Quickly taking her face in his hands, he kissed her forehead once again before she could swat his hands away, “make sure to order one of those useless veggie-tarian ones for yourself. I won’t say a word.”

Exhausted by her life, she gave him a sigh fitting someone much larger than her 5’ 3” stature, “screw vegetables. Tonight is extra cheese and as much sausage and pepperoni as they can pack on … and three-cheesy bread with at least four of those Ranch cups.”

Amused and terrified at the same time, “salad?”

“If you want me to throw bits of lettuce at you, sure, but otherwise I’m not touching it tonight.”

“You’re scary sometimes. I like it.”

Conversation gave her the distraction she needed to change into pajamas, toss Mulder some of his own from the stash she had managed to accumulate over the years, then listen to him order an obscene amount of greasy food. She made tea, a big kettle of it, knowing Mulder would consume at least half as well as all her ice cubes making it iced. She started a load of laundry and watered her last living plant. She calculated her half of the pizza bill and had a short argument with her partner when he refused to take her money.

Slow night for the pizza industry, their food arrived in under 30 minutes and once they were settled on the couch, steaming plates in hand, “are we taking tomorrow off?”

“Why?”

Mulder gave her a look, “this is food coma territory we are about to venture into. Just saying.”

And suddenly she started crying again, plate shaking in her hand, cheesy avalanche threating her lap. Taking the plate, Mulder set everything down on the coffee table and pulled her close once more, swiftly twisting so he was leaned against the arm of the sofa, Scully snuggled against his chest, sobbing into his t-shirt and kneading cotton between her fingers.

He didn’t know what to say so he cried with her, quiet but steady, until again, Scully was back down to random sniffles, "our pizza’s cold now.”

Mulder kissed the crown of her head, keeping his lips on her as he responded, “thank God you have an oven. Five minutes at 350 and we’ll never know it wasn’t fresh from Senor Jack’s House of Cheese.”

One long sniff later, Scully pushed herself up, using the back of her hand to wipe her nose, then, realizing what she’d done, “that was disgusting. Sorry.”

“Disgusting is what you did to my shirt.”

Glancing down at the large wet spot spread from collar to mid-chest, sternum to shoulder, “sorry.”

Tilting his head to look at her, wanting her to see the remnants of his own crying jag, tear streaks, bloodshot eyes, “don’t apologize. I’m not going to.”

She hadn’t realized he was crying as well and that filled her eyes once again, but blinking rapidly, she didn’t let the tears fall this time, “what was that about 350 degrees?”

He gave her possibly the saddest smile she’d ever seen, “are we going to talk about this at all? I’m not pushing, I swear, I just want to know.” Seeing her muscles tense to stand, he snagged the arm of her t-shirt, “It doesn’t have to be tonight but I’d like to at some point.”

“Can I maybe say tomorrow but reserve the right to change my mind?”

Still holding her in place, “for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Her gaze drifted from enveloping green eyes to full mouth, before struggling north again, watching intently as he studied her, pupils expanding and contracting, trying to figure her out. She gave him a wannabe smile, corner of her mouth turning up a microscopic notch before she managed, “I’m sorry, too.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Pizza re-heated, crust still crispy, cheese melty as ever, they ate while watching Jeopardy, then Wheel of Fortune. At eight, stuffed to the gills and both yawning, Mulder switched off the TV, asking into the darkness, “are we secure enough in our sense of self that we can go to sleep at 8pm and not feel really, really, and I mean, really old?”

“Well, I’m secure enough to know that we’re both going to need a handful of Tums before any kind of sleep can happen.”

“We are fucking old, Scully.” Standing up, “back in a minute.” He was indeed back in a minute, a little less, actually, pillow, comforter, and bottle of Tums in his hands, “catch.”

Snagging the bottle from the air, she chewed three before shaking the same amount out for him, holding them up to his now empty hands, “three for the old man.”

With a grin, glad some semblance of her sense of humor remained, “you should probably just leave the bottle on the table.”

She did, then stood, opting to clean up in the morning. Eyeing the bedding Mulder had dumped on the couch, she hesitated, her thoughts race-stumbling over one another, squishing their way to an undistinguishable mess. Fingered the corner of the deep-blue comforter, she had words fighting on the tip of her tongue, which she inexplicably ignored as she told him a soft ‘good night’ and skirted by him down the hall.

Mulder’s eyes shut, breath in, breath out, his own words fighting for freedom, to be called after her, to be spoken like they should have been hours, years, centuries, before. Instead, he waited, hearing her brush her teeth, wash something, face, hands, he wasn’t sure, then, not hearing the bedroom door shut, he instead heard the creak of her bed.

Finally opening his eyes again, he took in the shadowed living room, dimly lit kitchen, detritus of dinner for two, and turning on his heel, moved to walk down the hall. He made it three steps before he saw her come out of her bedroom door, stopping when she saw him.

He didn’t care anymore, “why do we keep doing this?”

The denial response automatic at this point, “doing what?”

Mulder took the deepest breath he could, holding it for a second before long, drawn-out exhale, “this. All of this. You there, me here, all of it.”

Her clenched fists fought down the denial this time, “it’s how we survive.”

“It’s shitty survival and getting shittier by the minute.” Tilting his head, he let his eyes bore into her, watching the flush on her skin crawl from small spots on her cheeks down her neck, and around past her ears, the hall nightlight providing everything he needed to read her clearly, “I’m done pretending, Scully. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Her voice nearly failed her, she formed the words, which cracked as they came out, “what are we pretending?”

One pathetic chuckle later, head still shaking, “Pretending I don’t want to sleep next to you instead of on this couch. Pretending you don’t want me to sleep next to you instead of on this couch. Pretending that the only reason I’d like you to stand on some stairs is so I can hug you without dying. Pretending I haven’t wanted to be with you since three minutes after I met you. Pretending that I’m not dying just as much as you are about our child not being inside you right now. Take your damn pick.”

“Mulder …”

About to start bawling all over again, he bit his cheek, realizing his confessions had escaped the confines of his mind, “what?”

“Why are you still standing over there?”

His legs wouldn’t budge, rooting to the spot, needing a question answered before he moved his life forward, “are we done pretending?”

Eyebrows scrunching, lips a tight line of fear, she nodded, “I think we need to be.”

His muscles remember the act of walking and seven strides later, he was in front of her, “you need a place with steps in it.”

“How about we worry about steps later?” Smiling the smile of someone who’d been through the proverbial wringer several times in one day, she reached out, took his hand, “maybe we’ll start with forgetting about you sleeping on the couch.”

Because he was Mulder, he looked over his shoulder to do one last front door lock check before letting her lead him into her bedroom, “you got another non-crusty shirt for me?”

Ticking them off on her fingers, “I’ve got Power Puff girls, Brady Bunch, Tetris, or the one with the Easter Peeps.”

“This feels like a Tetris kinda night.”

“If that’s not a metaphor for our lives, I don’t know what is.”

“They get lined up eventually, Scully. I promise.”

Exhaustion hit her like a freight train and handing him the shirt, “I need some sleep, Mulder. Can we worry about our puzzling lives tomorrow?”

Exchanging one shirt for the other, he headed to the opposite side of the bed, pulling comforter back, “as long as we can order some more pizza while doing it.”

She gave him a curt nod that made him smile, then silence settled while they did, shifting, pulling covers, straightening pillows, giggling once on Scully’s part when Mulder’s cold feet hit hers. Once quiet, comfortable, Scully slowly reached across the expanse between, 14 inches feeling like a mile, stopping when her fingers reached his cheek, “I love that you wanted this child just as much as I did.”

His hand drifted across the same expanse, palm on her cheek, closing the circle between them, “I fell in love with the idea of him the moment you asked me.”

Fingers to his lips and endlessly tracing, “I fell in love with the idea of him three minutes after I met you.”

“I love you.”

Scooting forward, she breathed her ‘I love you’ back, running firmly into his chest, arm up and over his side in a hug.

Tetris, my ass. They’d fit together perfectly from the beginning.

#msr #x-files #x-files fanfic #per manum #Senor Jack's House of Cheese #because Tetris is life #and because we never got to see how Mulder handled things #My writing

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tearsofgrace · 3 years

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when you wish upon a star

requested by @mishanova

word count: 2k, tags: fluff, fall fluff, halloween, costumes, first kiss, dean dressed as minnie mouse cuz why tf not, eyeliner!dean (i had to)

thanks @fandomstuff67 for the title and and for the minnie mouse dean idea and for putting up with my descent into craziness while writing this [fluff isn’t good for my health]

also on archive

“What are you going to dress up as?”

Dean blinked into his coffee and looked up to see Jack leaning against the kitchen doorway. He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. “Dress up as?”

“For Halloween,” Jack said simply, a small grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wake up. “Uh, I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Jack crossed the room and sat at the table across from him. He popped a handful of the cereal that had been left out into his mouth. Dean felt a swell of warmth in his chest for the kid and he leaned back, watching Jack’s expression change to one of contentment that reminded him so much of Cas it hurt.

“Sammy and I don’t really celebrate-”

“Celebrate what?” Sam asked, walking into the kitchen and heading for the fridge.

“Halloween,” Jack said.

“Hey, no talking with your mouth full,” Dean said immediately, almost instinctively.

Jack frowned seriously and swallowed. “But you do.”

“We could celebrate Halloween,” Sam interrupted, sitting at the table with a plate full of fruit and other shit that definitely did not count as food.

“I guess.” Dean downed the rest of his coffee and checked the clock. Cas should be in by now.

“I thought we could do a costume together,” Jack said, eyes glinting as he shoved another handful of cereal into his mouth.

Dean stood and walked to the coffee pot, his body now buzzing with caffeine. He walked back to the table with his fresh mug and sat down heavily.

“Together?”

“I saw some ideas online.”

As Jack spoke his eyes lit up and he became more animated. Dean glanced at him fondly again. Whenever he got like this, acting so much older than he was, it reminded Dean of the power he used to hold. The otherworldliness that hung around him even now that he was human.

Then Dean looked up and he felt a familiar rush of heat and love and want rush through him as Cas walked into the kitchen. “‘Morning sunshine,” he said, trying to keep his tone light enough that Sam wouldn’t say anything.

It worked, but his brother still looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

Dean took another sip of coffee, purposefully ignoring Sam’s eyes as Cas took a seat next to Jack.

“What were the ideas, Jack?” Sam asked.

“I thought we could do something Disney themed.”

Dean rolled his eyes and gripped the coffee mug tighter. They better not be going out in public with these stupid costumes.

“I could be Pluto, Sam could be Goofy,” Dean glanced up at Sam and smirked before raising his mug again, “And Cas could be Mickey and Dean, you could be Minnie.”

Dean spit the coffee from his mouth and started coughing, tears forming in his eyes as the hot, bitter liquid burned his throat. He kept coughing, cheeks flaming until he could breathe again.

Then he looked up to find Jack and Cas staring at him with tilted heads and squinty eyes. Next to him, Sam’s shoulders were shaking in uncontrolled but silent laughter.

“Why- uh,” Dean started, struggling for words. “Minnie? Seriously?” he finally got out, his voice tight.

“Why not?” Jack said simply, innocently. “Cas would make a great Mickey and then since you guys-”

“What?” Dean cut him off, his heart pounding in his chest.

Sam finally stopped laughing long enough to get a word in. “It’s a great idea, Jack. Let’s do it.”

“But-” Dean said, voice shaky. Cas still hadn’t said anything. He was just looking at Dean with a mixture of confusion and something else Dean couldn’t quiet place.

“But, what, Dean?” Sam said, a barely contained smirk tugging at his mouth. “Not man enough to be Minnie Mouse for Halloween? Or is it that Cas is-”

“Okay, we’ll do it,” Dean said quickly.

Fuck. Leave it to Jack to send him spiraling on a Tuesday morning.

“Great,” Sam said, cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “I’ll get some stuff and then we can celebrate on Friday. Maybe take some pictures,” he added with a pointed look at Dean.

“Sounds perfect,” he said through gritted teeth.

When Sam walked into his room on Thursday and tossed a pink dress with frilly lace on it at his face he almost threw up. And then Sam had to make it worse and throw a clear plastic bag with a pen-like thing right after.

“What the hell is this?” Dean asked, holding it up and shaking it.

“Eyeliner.”

Dean’s heart froze in his chest and he glared at Sam.

“Bitch, I-”

“Jerk,” Sam said with a laugh before leaving the room.

When Friday came Dean stayed in his room all day. There was no way Sam actually expected him to do this. And Cas… who the fuck knows? But Jack did care. And as stupid as it sounded, even to himself, he didn’t want to let the kid down.

So he pulled on the stupid dress, not listening to the voice in his head that said he’d always wanted to try something like this. Then he did his own eyeliner. He made it messy on purpose, some part of him terrified Sam would find out this wasn’t his first time doing it. Besides… it looked better that way.

He looked in the mirror and cursed before putting on the stupid ears that, according to Sam, “completed the look.”

He looked ridiculous. But it was for Jack. It was for a newly human Jack that was terrified to be in this world and that needed his family around him to experience everything humanity had to offer. So he sucked it up and left his room to join everyone else in the library.

Even with his newfound resolve, he paused at the entrance to the library before walking in.

Jack, Sam, and Cas were standing in a small circle setting up a cheap tripod. At the sound of his entrance, they all turned to face him.

Sam’s eyes widened and an expression of glee spread across his face, too dumbstruck to even laugh or make fun of Dean. Jack just smiled, completely innocent but happy in a way that made Dean think this was all worth it.

As for Cas, Dean had no idea what the expression on his face was. But looking at it made the familiar want in Dean’s heart tug and pull him closer to Cas. The former angel was dressed in a comical Mickey suit that fit his body tightly, with ears that matched Dean’s (minus the bow) on his head.

To be completely fair, Sam and Jack also looked ridiculous. Jack was wearing what looked like a onesie complete with a hood that zipped up to make him look like Pluto. And Sam was wearing a theme-park style Goofy costume.

Dean felt himself relax a little as he walked over to them, trying to look more confident than he felt. “Let’s get this party started,” he said, flashing a grin at Jack.

They all gathered in front of the camera and took a few pictures with varying degrees of success. None of them seemed to be able to stop the laughter long enough to keep a straight face. But that was what this was all about, right? Getting closer as a family.

After a few minutes, Sam went through some of their pictures and then shot Dean a look that scared him more than facing down a nest full of vamps.

Sam cleared his throat first, then gestured to Dean and Cas. “Now why don’t we get some of just the happy couple.”

“Sam,” Dean growled, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

“That’s a great idea!” Jack said brightly before Dean could continue. And fuck it, he only had to look up at the kid before he was standing in front of the camera again with Cas at his side.

Cas didn’t say anything, just stood there, his whole body tense, as Sam readied the camera.

“Can you guys at least pretend to like each other?” Sam smirked.

Dean looked to Cas and looped an arm around his waist tentatively, his heart pounding in his throat.

God, he was a fucking teenager.

Cas leaned into him, his fingers clenching around the lace on Dean’s skirt. Dean felt heat rising in his cheeks and he resisted the temptation to flip Sam off. The red polka dotted fabric brushed against his bare legs and he fought to keep his blush down as Sam snapped a few pictures.

They probably looked terrible. His face tense as Cas leaned further into him, his heat a steady presence at his side.

After a few more bright flashes, Sam pushed a couple buttons on the camera and then turned to Jack. “C’mon, let’s go get the candy and these two can choose the movie.”

Jack grinned and nodded before following Sam out of the room.

As soon as they were gone, the silence was deafening. Dean shifted, and let his arms slip away from Cas before staring down at his stupid dress and grimacing.

“I like your costume,” Cas said softly.

Dean jerked his head up, his eyes wide. “You what?”

“I like your costume,” Cas repeated, more confidently this time.

“Thanks buddy,” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, trying to get rid of the permanent blush staining his cheeks. “Uh, you look good too.”

Really, Winchester. You look good too? He didn’t fucking say-

Cas took a step toward Dean until there was almost no space between them and Dean finally let himself look into his eyes. His heart stopped and his breathing went with it and holy shit what was Cas doing they didn’t do this this wasn’t allowed this wasn’t-

Cas rested a hand on his shoulder and Dean’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. Cas looked open, happy, but hesitant, unsure.

“Is this okay?”

The words fell in the space between them, barely louder than a whisper, and all Dean could do was nod before Cas was pulling him close, his hands raking over the ridiculous costume as their lips finally met.

Dean sighed softly into it, not letting himself question what they were doing before his hands came up to thread through Cas’ hair.

They didn’t stop until a wolf whistle rang through the bunker. Dean broke apart from Cas but kept him close, hands never leaving the place on his back where they had settled.

“Mickey and Minnie did the trick after all,” Sam said, walking to the camera.

Dean felt a slight nervousness enter him as he looked over at Sam, a small part of him sure his brother would react exactly as his dad had. A small part of him afraid he’d soon be bloody and on the ground.

As the thought ran through him, almost as though he knew, Cas’ hand tightened around his waist.

Sam nodded once, his face serious, and Dean relaxed. “I’m happy for you guys.” Dean couldn’t stop his smile and he looked over his shoulder at Jack, who gave him a thumbs up.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” Dean said, trying and failing to sound angry.

“It was Jack’s idea, man. Don’t look at me.”

Dean rolled his eyes and looked at Cas, who just smiled.

“That’s not the best part, though,” Sam said, his eyes glinting mischievously. He reached for the camera on the tripod and for the first time, Dean saw the red blinking light.

“Fuck. You asshole.”

“I had to,” Sam said immediately.

Cas let go of Dean’s waist and instead intertwined their hands so they could face Sam and Jack.

“What movie are we watching?” Jack asked.

Dean looked to Cas and an unspoken agreement passed between them.

“We’ll save the movie for later,” Cas said gravely.

Before Sam or Jack could answer, Cas was pulling him from the library toward Dean’s room. They could leave Sam to explain to Jack… he deserved it.

Dean looked down at his costume and smiled. Maybe the eyeliner and stupid Halloween games weren’t the worst thing.

tag list below, ask to be added or removed

@starlightcastiel @chaoticdean @larryforeveralways @dreamnovak @heller-jensen @tlakhtwritesdestiel @wanderingcas @prayedtoyou @good-things-do-happen-dean @jayus-fandom-writer @dean-you-assbutt-cas-loves-you @gayyyy-tv @starrynightdeancas @radiantdean @piemaker-from-gallifrey @on-a-bender @eshaninjer @trasherasswood @dreadful-delight @feraladoration @trenchcas @contemplativepancakes @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @thefourthheadofcerberus @seffersonjtarship @randomblabbling @craftywitchywoman @adsp-destielcockles @tehmanda @castielscrookedtrenchcoat @queen-rowenas @expectingtofly @that-one-fandom-chick @mishas-blog-url @destielle @charmedbycastiel @cursed-or-not @faithcastiel @internetintroverts @sloth-with-y-yo-a-ti-cas @dea-stiel @lulu-zodiac @my-favourite-hellatus @footstepsontherun @withclawsandsympathy @nguyenxtrang @marichankitty @celestialcastiel @goblinwritergay @deancasology @cassgetoutofmyass0907 @destielskygalaxypalace @anelitefangirl @destiel-bitches @ciniluv

#destiel fics #eyeliner!dean #fall fluff #destiel first kiss #destiel fluff #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #spn fan fiction #destiel fanfic #deancas fic #destiel fic #destiel ficlet #my writing

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angelfishofthelord · 3 years

Text

my life is a song for you

(a 15x18 au where Billie isn't in the picture, set before Chuck snapped everyone away)

I don’t think I can sing this song to you

Hold my lips and power through

Think about a different day

It starts with anger, of course; most of the ideas Castiel has have been met with that. This time, though, instead of the anger coming solely from the elder Winchester, it is a united chorus from all of them. Together the choir flows into bargaining, eventually being backed by a full orchestra of third day denial. The percussion of depression comes soon after the fourth day. By the time they reach acceptance on Saturday, the conductor has already put down his bow.

They end up agreeing to Castiel’s plan without actually saying those words. They just stop.

Stop arguing, stop researching, stop fending off each other’s stubborn reasoning with weak excuses.

The room stops thrashing to and fro and sits there, hands on its knees. Jack is staring at his shoes, the line of his throat bobbing up and down. Sam brushes an arm across his face, pretending it’s to wipe the hair of out his eyes, and then stands up, saying I’ll get you a bag for the trip. After he leaves Dean clears his throat and mutters about going to fill the tank on Castiel’s truck. Jack, come on, come help me, he says and the boy follows him without a word.

Castiel stands alone in the library and carefully folds up the map spread out on the table. His fingers move rigidly, like they are already paralyzed by mourning. The relief that they’ve finally accepted the plan and everything it entails is drowned out ten times over by the reality of what happens next. It has be done tomorrow night; he has less than twenty four hours to spend his family. He has to go do it alone; their presence would derail the entire plan.

No one is hungry during dinner that night, even though the burgers smell exceptionally good. After the dishes are done Dean puts on a movie that none of them are really watching. Still they huddle together on the sofa, letting it play loudly anyways because otherwise the quiet might shatter them.

I don’t think I can do this without tears

Pick a moment, fly the years

What can there be left to say

The hour before Castiel leaves the next morning Sam comes into the front room and puts a beige duffle bag down on the table. Here, he says, fumbling uneasily with the straps. I put a charger in, in case your phone runs out of battery. Castiel peers into the bag and sees different parcels of the spell ingredients, all wrapped and marked individually in Sam’s neat handwriting. There’s also a new mixtape, probably from Dean, and a little plastic bag of nougat candy, fruit roll ups, and gumdrops that Castiel knows is from Jack’s secret movie-watching snack stash.

They’ve all added a little farewell gift for him. A lump the size of a watermelon swells in his throat.

Sam is still standing there, fidgeting with the zipper of the bag and Castiel just reaches over and grabs his hand and holds it for a moment, long enough to pull himself together. And then Sam tucks his fingers around his and they hold for several minutes more. When they eventually have to let go it hurts, physically, like someone just sliced open the veins on his palm.

Dean comes by a few minutes after Sam leaves. He stands next to Castiel, looking at the map spread out over the table. The clock clucks loudly in the background and Castiel stands there, motionless, as if he can will time to pause just by sheer determination. If he feels a weight on his left side that is Dean resting s head hon his shoulder then that’s just another reason not to move or even breathe. The pressure lifts, eventually, and Castiel feels the vacancy like part of him has been sliced off.

Ten minutes before he leaves everyone else is going about the Bunker as usual. There’s been an unspoken decision reached by them all that there will be no speech, no goodbye, because otherwise Castiel simply won’t be able to go. It’s for his sake that they’re pretending to be researching in the library, or cleaning up the kitchen, or fixing the Impala.

Castiel slips the straps of the duffle bag over his shoulder. He checks his right coat pocket for the truck keys. The front room is empty but from where he’s standing he can see Jack reading at one of the library tables. Jack hasn’t come up to him yet today; Castiel understands why. He’s been avoiding the boy for the same reason.

But against his better judgement Castiel walks into the library and stands there at the edge. He watches Jack silently for a few minutes before he realizes that if he lingers even a second longer he’s going to throw down the bag, pull Jack into his arms, and never ever step out the door.

So he moves forward, quickly, and puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder. He closes his brimming eyes and presses a kiss to his son’s forehead, ignoring the teardrops rolling down his cheeks and onto Jack’s forehead. The boy’s fingers immediately close around his coat sleeve and Castiel lets the boy cling to the fabric for just a second before he pulls away hard and goes, one foot after the other, because he knows--he knows that Jack is watching him leave and it takes all the strength he never knew he had to not turn back.

When the Bunker door finally slams behind him Castiel jumps a little. The lock clicks in place like hinges on the side of a coffin.

(oh, my life is a song for you)

He breaks down at a cafe, over a coffee refill.

For the past four hours of driving he’s managed to keep himself stitched together. The threads stretched but did not burst. Not even when he put on Dean’s new mixtape at the second hour; not when he ate one of Jack’s nougat bars while getting a gas refill at the three and a half hour mark. His phone has been plugged into Sam’s charger the entire time, even though the battery is blinking at one hundred percent.

But around noon he decided to stop for some coffee. He didn’t need it to stay awake for the drive ahead, and he didn’t need to stretch his legs, but he pulled over by the diner anyways.

He needed to breathe. That was all.

As he took a table in the corner the waitress came over to pour him a cup of black coffee and he thanked her. His phone sat warm in the right pocket of his coat. Sam and Dean were only a phone call away. The thought prickled in his chest like a bouquet of needles. He tried to focus instead on the hot bitter liquid moving down his throat, drowning the temptation out.

When the waitress returned to refill his cup she told him he needs to order something to keep the table. “I’ll be on my way soon,” he said, motioning to the tip he had placed under his cup. “Could I stay for just a few minutes longer?”

Her eyes widened at the sight of the bill. “This coffee ain’t worth that much,” she laughed.

“No,” Castiel admitted, talking without thinking. “Dean makes a better cup anyways.”

And just like that, a blade cuts through all the neat knots in himself and he unravels, face buried in his hands, deaf to the fumbling questions of a slightly puzzled but concerned waitress.

A cup of coffee is enough to almost make him turn around. Almost.

keep reading on a03

#if i suffer with these ideas y'all have to suffer too #cw death #my spn fanfic #fanfic writer #castiel #jack kline #dean winchester #sam winchester #dadstiel #spn 15x18 #slipper007 #seraphcastiel #rambleoncas #plantdadcas #spn s15 #the empty

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bokunoheroanalysisforthefuture · 3 years

Text

Part two of the chapter, featuring the OTHER declaration of war, as well as Izuku starting to take this sports festival seriously now that he’s found his motivation to win again.

[No. 23 - Roaring Sports Festival]

Izuku’s narration talks about how everyone was determined to give it their all, so each of them prepared in their own way. The two weeks just flew right by. In order from top right to bottom left, we see Tenya running while listening to music (he’s got the small in-the-ear headphones), Mineta standing in his room holding a fake trophy and waving, Katsuki training his quirk (I think), Kirishima throwing some punches, Kaminari charging himself from a charger, Tsuyu doing some swimming, Jirou whipping her ear jacks around, Momo studying out of a book, and Izuku doing bicep curls.

We transition back to where we were at the start of the chapter, with the media crowds waiting outside the UA gate. The reporter woman complains about how the security check is taking forever. Her cameraman says there’s no helping it, since UA is on guard after the villain attack, and a lot of people are speaking out against the event this year. The reporter hypes herself up, stating that controversy means higher ratings for them, and at the center - class 1-a!

God, I just feel so bad for the 1-a kids… they didn’t ask for all this attention and drama around them, they just got shoved into the limelight immediately and were never allowed to leave it. They aren’t even a month into heroics, and there’s already controversy around them. Like. The FUCK, people.

Anyways. There’s fireworks going off over UA as… someone? The narration? Present Mic? Restates that today’s the day of the sports festival. We transition to the crowds heading into the school, with food stalls along the path to entice customers.

Kamui Woods (I presume?) talks about how the third years usually take center stage, given that they can use their greater experience and strategy to give their all for their last chance, but all eyes are on the first years this year. He then laments not being able to doing some scouting himself. Death Arms says what can they do, they’re on security detail. Mt. Lady, walking in front of them and eating out of a dumpling box, notes that it looks like UA called in pro heroes from all over the country - this year, anyways.

...also wow I just realized, Kamui Woods mentioning that usually third years get the most attention because they have the most experience and can make the best show for their final attempt. Remember who's in third year? Mirio.

Nighteye, already slighted once because his choice of successor for OFA was shot down by All Might, instead given to some quirkless brat. And then! When Mirio finally has his chance to shine and prove himself better in his final year and perhaps get All Might to change his mind with the showing... there's the attack on 1-a, and everyone is focused on the first years and all but ignoring the third, thus meaning that Mirio's showing is basically all for naught.

And of course, how does Izuku respond to having 'Mirio's spotlight'? Using All Might's quirk so sloppily that he injures himself, and then fails to even win the sports festival despite the fact that he has All Might's quirk and therefore should be capable of winning with that power. He looks at Izuku, whose entire focus in his fight with Shouto is to save him from himself, and dismisses him as not good enough to hold One For All because he didn’t collect a shiny medal at the end.

Wow, this sports festival must have just been another point of resentment for Nighteye, and it never even comes up in canon, but. Yikes.

[Insert long and rambling aside in the discord about BNHA narrative meta.]

Anyways, while they’re busy with all that. Back to the manga.

We transition to the 1-a prep room. Tenya is being himself as he checks to see if everyone is ready, since the event is about to begin. Mina, sitting at one of the tables, complains about how she wishes she could have worn her costume. Ojiro says costumes aren’t allowed, in the interest of fairness. To the side, we see Izuku standing and trying to keep himself calm, looking hella nervous about what’s coming. Mineta is next to him trying to tell him (or himself) to keep it together.

Shouto approaches him, calling his name to get his attention. Izuku pulls himself together and asks what’s up. Katsuki immediately notices and turns to pay attention as the two talk. Shouto states that, objectively speaking, he’s stronger and more capable than Izuku. Izuku jolts and gives a nervous agreement. Shouto goes on to mention how All Might has his eye on Izuku; Izuku is a bit shook as Shouto says he’s not going to pry into why that is, but he will beat Izuku.

Honestly, the fact that he says he’s not going to pry, and then literally a few hours later (in-universe) he ends up prying, is kind of hilarious.

Katsuki’s ticked off, while Kaminari comments on Izuku getting a declaration of war from the strongest in the class. Kirishima heads over to Izuku and Shouto, asking why Shouto’s picking a fight right when they’re about to go out. Shouto shrugs off Kirishima’s hand, saying he doesn’t care, he’s not pretending to be anyone’s friend here.

Izuku says nothing for a moment, looking down, thinking about his reply. When he does speak, he says he isn’t sure why Shouto feels the need to tell him he’ll beat him - Shouto is clearly stronger, and Izuku can’t measure up to most of the others in skill here, objectively speaking, even. Kirishima tries to offer comfort, telling Izuku not to be negative, but Izuku cuts back in as he thinks about Shinsou, and then the beach and his determination to become the strongest hero - everyone, even the kids from the other courses, are aiming for the top. And Izuku is not going to fall behind.

Shouto looks a bit surprised at this turn of confidence, but accepts it. Meanwhile, Katsuki continues to sit there and stew in resentment at I guess everything about the convo.

Finally, we transition to the kids heading into the arena, Present Mic hyping up his announcement of them coming out onto the field. The crowds are all waiting for them to step out. Inko is at home watching on the TV. Izuku thinks again about Toshinori’s call to arms, to tell the world he is here - and now, he’s planning on fulfilling that call.

What a chapter. Sorry I took so long to get this part done, Real Life happened. But yeah, next time we get into the first event! See y’all then!

#chapter 23 #readthrough #sports festival arc #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #todoroki shouto #Kirishima Eijirou #mt lady #kamui woods #death arms #its strange looking at early development for some characters #and then going back to current manga and seeing how far they've come #even for side characters like mt lady #also apparently bnha is listed as comedy on hulu #(looks at current manga events) yeah that tracks

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 4 years

Text

Home Bound (Part 2)

Summary: With some help from Samson, Dean makes it back to the bunker and starts to process everything that’s happened...

Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 2,700ish

Warnings: language, angst, injury, mention of character death, mourning, supernatural events

A/N: Written entirely in Dean’s POV. Enjoy!

______

“Morning,” said Sam as I groggily sat up. He was cooking in the kitchen, humming a happy tune to himself.

“God, it’s barely seven in the morning,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“I’ve already been up for an hour,” he said. “Eggs?”

“If you’re offering,” I said, stumbling over to his bathroom. I changed back into my clothes, yawning as I sat down at the table. He put down a cup of coffee and plate of scrambled eggs along with some hot sauce.

“You got any money to get by?” he asked, standing at his counter eating.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, wolfing down my food.

“Here,” he said, pushing an envelope towards me. I leaned over and grabbed it, opening it up to find a wad of money. “It’s about five hundred. S’all I got laying around the house. That enough to get you home?”

“Samson I can’t accept this,” I said, putting the envelope back.

“I wasn’t really asking,” he said, setting it down on the table next to me. “I’d let you take my car but I need it for work.”

“Sam, it doesn’t look like you got much. I’m not taking your life savings,” I said.

“I have a bank account, jackass. It’s not my savings. Don’t worry about it. Go home, take care of what needs to be done and yourself. You’re getting closer to popping. Pay it forward some day,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, drinking down the last of my coffee. I tucked the envelope in my pocket and he set his mug down.

“I’ll drive you to the bus station,” he said. I put on my boots by the front door as he rummaged around in a closet. He pulled out a black winter coat and held it out to me. “For if you decide you need a walk again.”

“Write down your address,” I said, handing him back the envelope.

“Alright. I don’t want any money or the jacket back. Send me a Christmas card or something,” he said. He returned it after a moment and grabbed his keys as I slipped into the coat. “Better?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks man.”

“S’no problem. Let’s get you home.”

36 Hours Later

My hands were shoved in the fleece lined pockets as I walked up the dirt road to the bunker. The ice storm in Colorado had followed me all the way back to Kansas but the hooded winter coat made all the difference in the world. I couldn’t wait to take a hot shower and curl up in bed with one of Y/N’s blankets.

What happened after...I wasn’t going to be able to put off later for much longer. Now that I was home though, I could let go and get my head on straight in the morning to figure out what had happened.

With a deep breath I stepped down to the door and opened it up. The heat had been left on and the hallway was cozy. I stepped through to the other door inside and found the lights were on too, exactly as they were when we’d all headed out. Just in case, Y/N said. She didn’t want to come home to a dark house.

I headed down the stairs and cut into the library, the space feeling far too big for just me.

“I miss you,” I said. I pinched my nose and heard a creak behind me. I spun around, eyes wide.

“Dean?” said Sam. My Sam, the one that must have died, must have, was right there, in pajamas and with a bowl of chips in his hand.

“I die and now you eat the crap, Sammy?” I said. He set the bowl down and rushed over, giving me a hug. “I’m getting you all wet.”

“Don’t care,” he said. He squeezed me hard and I let out a tiny gasp, Sam giving me some room after that. He looked confused though and shook his head. “How…”

“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” I said.

“I didn’t die. You pushed me out of the way,” he said.

“I don’t remember that,” I said. “You were right there. Since I woke up I assumed…”

Sam was smiling at me still but the hunter in him finally kicked in. I nodded to the cabinet where everything he’d need to test me was. Three minutes later he was hugging me too hard again.

“Relax, Sammy. Gonna pop my shoulder back out,” I said. He immediately released me and I cradled my arm. “I fixed it already.”

“Still. You should wear the sling Y/N bought,” he said. We wandered over to the infirmary and he dug around in a drawer until he pulled it out.

“Is she…” I said, taking off my jackets and slipping it on over my head. Sam shook his head and I sighed. “You don’t know that for sure. Up until five minutes ago you thought I was dead too.”

“True but, you know,” he said. I nodded, staring at the floor. “Cas is alright. Billie got him back from the empty. He’s up in heaven trying to help keep that going. They’re trying out this new method or something.”

“Not your memories?” I asked, heading for the kitchen.

“No. I mean kinda. More like, collective afterlife? It uses a lot less power I guess,” said Sam. “They’re doing small test groups right now he said. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“How’s he alive again?” I asked.

“Billie brought him back,” he said as we walked over to the kitchen.

“How’s Jack?”

“He’s doing okay. He got pretty hurt during the fight. I took care of him for a few weeks before he headed out. New God and all. He’s still learning.”

“He bring me back?” I asked.

“He doesn’t know how to do that yet. He says he feels like he will be able to someday, like it’s in his bones but he doesn’t know quite right now how to pull it off,” said Sam.

“So how am I back?”

“I honestly have no idea,” he said. I took a seat at the table, catching Y/N’s mug sat at the end in her usual spot. “We gave you guys a hunter’s funeral. There’s a little marker up in the woods a ways, in that clearing you two used to go have dates in.”

“There’s no body then.”

“No. Where’d you wake up?” he asked, taking two beers out of the fridge.

“Middle of nowhere Colorado,” I said. “Any idea why?”

“No, not really. Any place we ever hunt?”

“No. I met a guy. Samson, apparently dad and I saved his folks back in the day while you were at school. But they didn’t live there. I never...I never met the guy,” I said. “He knew who I was but he’d never met me.”

“You think he was lying?”

“He was nice to me when I was an ass. I don’t think he was playing at anything. How would he know what I looked like though?”

“It’s possible I suppose that he reached out to other hunters and learned more about you? I mean the girls got pictures of us. Maybe Eileen?”

“Maybe,” I said, shaking my head. “Shit, Sam. How’s-”

“She’s good,” said Sam with a small smile. “She’s over in Lawrence at the moment actually. She’s looking at houses for us.”

“You guys deserve to finally be together,” I said. “She’s good for you.”

“I know.”

“Gonna stop hunting?”

“I don’t really need to anymore. We kind of turned them all human,” said Sam. I cocked my head and he shrugged. “The hail mary? It worked. No more monsters.”

“That’s great,” I said, forcing a smile. Great. I couldn’t even bury myself in hunting to feel slightly less crappy. I was worthless.

“I’m heading out to meet Eileen in a few days. Come with me.”

“Nah, I don’t wanna intrude or-”

“You can have some space but you’re not staying here alone,” he said.

“Y/N’s dead. I have no job now. I’m not gonna be the brooding mope sitting at the end of your couch when you finally get to be with your girl.”

“Dean,” said Sam as I stood up.

“I really want to shower and sleep, Sammy. I’m cold and exhausted. Please,” I said.

“You’re gonna come with,” he said. I clenched my fist and glared over my shoulder. “Y/N wrote you a letter for if she didn’t make it back. It’s in your room. When I thought you both...I read it in case she wanted something to be done after she was gone. You know the only thing she said? You need to go live your life. She loves you and wants you to be happy.”

“Easy for her to say. She’s not here,” I said.

“Dean. I know this is raw for you and I’ve had four months to deal you didn’t. Don’t disrespect what she wanted.”

“Oh fuck you,” I said. I stormed out, pausing around the corner. I heard him behind me and slumped my shoulders down. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay,” he said.

“She was supposed to live, not me,” I said. “Cause she’s stronger than I am and I can’t deal with her not being in that bedroom when I go down this hall.”

“Dean. Grieve. Please. For the first time in your life, grieve properly. When you’re ready, you and me will go out to Lawrence. I’m gonna call Eileen and make sure she finds a place where you got a big room and your own bathroom and garage and all that. Until then, I’m gonna stay here. Ignore me, yell at me, whatever. I’m staying. Alright?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I want a pool too.”

“Dean.”

“Hot tub.”

“We’ll put one in.”

“Fine,” I said. He ruffled my hair and I headed down to the bathroom. I slipped out of my clothes, pulling out the envelope with a few hundred dollars left. “Sammy.”

“What?” he called back.

“Figure out who this guy was,” I said, holding the envelope out the door. “That’s his name and address.”

“Whiltiston,” said Sam, making a face. “You sure this is his name?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You wouldn’t know. About two months back, the Whiltiston family was in the news. National news. They’d been reunited with their daughter who was kidnapped as an infant. She was safe. The people who took her pretended to be her parents. They were real sickos. I’d hunt ‘em down if they weren’t already dead,” said Sam.

“So this guy’s her brother?” I asked.

“Yeah, there was a brother Sam I remember mentioned at the press conference. They didn’t show anyone but the dad but they were all really happy to be back together,” he said.

“Still doesn’t explain how he knows what I look like.”

“They said the girl has a sketchy memory of certain things. I mean they were bad people, Dean. It’s possible we worked her case and didn’t know?” he said.

“See if you can dig up a phone number for me too,” I said.

“Yeah. I’ll see if...you know, we’ve been in the national news before too. It’s entirely possible that one of his parents saw us on the news and told him that was you.”

“Oh. That’s...a lot more likely,” I said, frowning to myself. “Forget about it. Could you just slip in some extra cash in there for me? I’ll send it back along with the coat. The guy didn’t have much.”

“No problem. I’ll get you the phone number too. I know you’ll drive yourself nuts if you don’t know for sure.”

“Sam,” I said as he started to leave. “I’m really happy you’re not dead.”

“Me too. Take your shower. I’ll put out some pajamas for you.”

I nodded and shut the door, resting my head against the back of it. After a moment I went to the shower and turned the water on, forgetting about the prickly heat until my skin turned a slight pink and started to warm up. Somehow I got through with washing myself before I saw Y/N’s shampoo staring back at me in the cubby. I swallowed and picked it up, flipping open the cap and taking a deep inhale.

It took awhile and one concerned knock at the door to realize at some point I’d sat down with my knees in my chest, Y/N’s shampoo sat on the ground beside me.

“Dean? You okay? You’ve been in there for an hour,” said Sam. I buried my head down and heard the door creek open. “Dean? Answer me or I’m coming in.”

“I’m fine,” I said, voice raw and cracking with every syllable. Sam didn’t open the door anymore but he was still there.

“Turn off the water,” he said. I reached up and hit it off, wiping the back of my hand across my nose. “You have one minute to dry off and put on a towel.”

The door shut and I forced myself to get up. I patted myself off and got a towel around my waist, trying to wash my face off before Sam saw me.

“I’m coming in,” said Sam. One look at him said more than enough and I looked away. “I told you to grieve.”

“Her freaking shampoo bottle,” I said. Sam looked over to the shower and saw it on the ground, running his hand through his hair. “Why can’t I shove it down like every other time?”

“You know why. There’s no chance of you getting her back and she wouldn’t want you to do something stupid. You loved her. You’re always gonna love her. Dean, I’ve been there with Jessica. It’s gonna fuck you up real good for a while. I thought I’d never be happy again, not like that, and then I found Eileen. It feels like the end of your life but it’s not,” he said. “It’s not going away if you shove it down so just feel it.”

“Yeah,” I said. I brushed past him and went to my room, shutting the door to change. I left it closed and sat on the edge of the bed, catching his shadow under the door. It moved away after a minute and I let out a sigh. The room smelled musty which I appreciated. It was something different to focus on.

I rolled over to Y/N’s side of the bed and saw the letter Sam had mentioned on her nightstand. I ripped it off and found it wasn’t as long as I’d expected. She probably did it last minute.

De, I love you. I’m always going to love you. I need you to try to keep loving and not shut the world out. Find some happiness again or I’m gonna haunt you like I’m your own personal Casper. Okay? You’ll get there someday. My big green flannel is in the closet if you need it. Be safe (I’ll keep an eye out for you though, promise).

My head glanced up and over to the closet, staring before I stood and opened it. At the end was her big oversized green flannel. She’d stolen so many of my clothes over the years she’d decided to get something of hers I could take for myself.

I pulled it off the hook and brought it back to bed, tugging it on before I lay back on the mattress.

It too was a little musty but there was the faint scent of her shampoo again filling the air.

“Fuck, I miss you,” I said. I shut my eyes and turned off the light, hoping exhaustion would put me to sleep quickly.

_______

A/N: Read the Final Part here!

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean x reader #spn reader insert #supernatural reader insert #dean x #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean series

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 4,369

Chapter Warnings: swearing, references to past child abuse (regarding c!Tommy)

Chapter Summary: In which Schlatt is his own brand of irritating, Wilbur and Tommy talk a bit but not about everything, and they make their way to Dream’s prison cell.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Five: hide your soul out of his reach (i)

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m what?”

His response is automatic, comes spilling out before he truly registers that someone has spoken to him, much less who it is. So when he looks up and locks gazes with Schlatt, the annoyance bubbles up quickly. He’d been sitting quietly, in a relatively secluded area near Tommy’s house, thinking about nothing in particular and everything all at once, and he’d felt settled. Peaceful. His mind quiet.

So much for that.

“I thought you’d fucked off somewhere,” he says.

“And deprive you of my company?” Schlatt shoots back. “You wound me.”

“I wish I could,” he mutters. He glances away, staring off into middle space, hoping that maybe, Schlatt will go away if he pretends very hard that he doesn’t see him. No such luck, and he sighs. “What am I stalling about?”

“Dream,” Schlatt supplies. He strides closer, then kicks off into the air, drifting aimlessly in a seated position. The sweater still looks odd. Too soft, when the man in front of him is anything but. “You said you were gonna go see him.”

“And I am. Just not yet.”

Schlatt snorts. “What’s keeping you?”

He frowns. Meets Schlatt’s eyes again, and finds no sympathy there. A bit of hard amusement, at best. Not that he was expecting anything else.

“Tommy’s going to want to come with me, when I go,” he says. “But I don’t want him near Dream.”

Schlatt makes a sound that’s more mocking than understanding. “Right, Tommy,” he says. “Where is the kid? I’m surprised he left you alone in the first place.”

“Tubbo went back to his town. Snowchester, I think they said it was called.” There is an undefinable melancholy that fills him at the thought. Even now, after everything, they are still trying to make a home. Still trying to carve some corner out of the world and make it theirs. Or Tubbo is, at least. He’s no longer quite sure what Tommy wants. “Tommy went with him.”

“But you didn’t.”

He shakes his head. Tubbo said that there were other people who lived in Snowchester, when he asked. Jack Manifold, for one. Maybe a couple of others. Captain Puffy, maybe? Either way, to go with them would have been to invite the possibility of meeting people, and every cell in his body cringes away from that idea. He’s not ready for that just yet. If ever.

(you’ll have to face them eventually, will have to stand your ground against the hatred in their eyes, burning and so well-deserved, shattered fractals of a people you used to belong to and did your best to destroy)

(you’ll have to face them eventually, and yet you hide)

“Tommy said he’d be back later,” he says. “He doesn’t live there. In Snowchester.”

“So here you are, waiting for him.”

“I suppose.” He frowns, shifting in place where he’s sitting on the ground. He brushes his fingers against the grass, absently pulling up a flower or two. “It’s not as if there’s not time. We can wait until Tommy’s not quite so—” He trails off here, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Not quite so what? Not quite so traumatized? Trauma doesn’t work like that, doesn’t go away within the span of a few days or weeks. He knows as much, though he used to be content enough to ignore it

(when he was the one causing it)

back in the old days, when there was no choice otherwise, when there was no chance of rest.

“Well, aren’t you considerate,” Schlatt says, and Wilbur looks at him sharply, because that was definitely snide. Schlatt stares right back, brows lifted, smirking. “Waiting for your little brother to be a little less broken. How kind of you.”

He bristles. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“I’ll talk about him however I want,” Schlatt says. “What are you gonna do, shout at me? Play some shitty music? Please. But all I’m saying is that a few days isn’t gonna make a difference, and you know it. You’re stalling to make yourself feel better, to try and convince yourself that you’re better now, that you’re not gonna hurt him anymore.”

His mouth goes dry. “I’m not—” He shakes his head again, as if trying to dislodge the idea. “It doesn’t matter right now, anyway,” he says. “He’s in Snowchester. He’s not here. There’s nothing to do until he gets back.”

“Oh my god, just comm him,” Schlatt says. “Tell him you’re going over to the prison. Do it now, and you can leave before he decides to go with. Win win.”

“I don’t—” He furrows his brow. He doesn’t have his comm. He’s not sure where his comm is. Except—

For the first time, he thinks to check the pockets of his coat. The first couple turn up nothing, but then, in the third, his fingers wrap around a sheet of thin, hard plastic. He freezes for a moment, and then draws the communicator out, holding it loosely in his hand. A tap on the screen, and it lights up, just the way he’s used to.

It doesn’t make sense for him to have this.

Schlatt leans over his shoulder and whistles.

“Daddy’s worried about you,” he says, and Wilbur blinks, pulling up his unread messages. There shouldn’t be any, shouldn’t be any at all, because he can count the number of people who knows that he’s back on one hand. And yet, there is one, and perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised at the identity of the sender, but he is.

Philza whispers to you: don’t mean to be pushy but could you let me know you made it to smp lands safe?

He has to read the message several times before its meaning sinks in, and once it does, he’s not sure how to feel about it. It doesn’t particularly read like Phil wrote it; it’s too hesitant, too apologetic. But Wilbur remembers what Phil looked like, standing in that kitchen, wingless and so very cautious, flinching away from his words as if they were physical blows. And in the end, letting him go, even though it was plain as day that he would have liked nothing more than to keep him there.

He’s angry with Phil. For a lot of reasons. But then, he’s angry at the world, too. Angry at himself, most of all.

(and there is so much of him that just wants someone else to swoop in and fix things, just wants his dad to make everything better in a way that he hasn’t since he was a kid and the first fracture formed, splitting their family apart, and as much as he is angry there is a large part of him that just wants to go back to that house and sink into his father’s arms and learn how to call a place home again)

“You gonna answer?” Schlatt asks.

He ignores him, checking the timestamp. It was sent a few hours after he left the tundra. So, a couple of days ago, now, and there have been no messages since. Perhaps it’s no longer relevant.

He hesitates, eyes tracing over don’t mean to be pushy.

It feels so strange, for Phil to qualify a sentence like that. Like he’s unsure of his welcome. And perhaps he’s right to be.

You whisper to Philza: I’m safe.

“Touching,” Schlatt says dryly. He scowls, trying to bat him on the arm or push him away or do something, but his hand goes through, and Schlatt just smirks some more for his efforts. “Now do Tommy.”

He puts the comm down on his lap, turning to face Schlatt fully. “Why are you being so fucking insistent?” he demands. “You’re a ghost, you can go by yourself. Through the walls and shit, since apparently you get actual ghost powers.” Ghostbur didn’t get ghost powers. He recalls that very clearly, because Ghostbur was immensely disappointed by this. For once, he agrees with the shade.

“And do what, look at him? Like it’s a fucking zoo? Watch him twiddle his thumbs and chuckle evilly to himself? Not exactly my idea of a good time,” Schlatt says. “I don’t know if you forgot, but nobody can see me. Hell, for all you know, I’m not even real. You could be making me up.”

He tries to brush the comment off. It hits just a bit too close to home

(whispers in shadows and enemies around every corner, people watching and staring and plotting against him, and no one else can see, Tommy can’t see, but that’s alright, he sees enough for both of them, and he will have his victory, and if he cannot have that, then nobody can and there is laughter, laughter, laughter)

for his comfort.

“If I were making you up,” he says, “I would simply stop.”

“Cute,” Schlatt says. “Do you wanna know what your problem is? Your problem is that you’re scared of people seeing you for what you really are.”

His hands clench.

“You say you don’t want to hurt Tommy? Fine. I even believe you,” Schlatt continues. “But don’t act like you’ve come back to life and suddenly you’re some saint. You’re fooling yourself, Wilbur. People like us don’t change. You can put on as much of a shine on the outside as you want, but scratch that paint off, and you’re still the power-hungry asshole who blew up a city as a hissy fit.”

His mouth works for a second, wordless.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, and scoops up his comm again.

You whisper to TommyInnit: I’d like to visit the prison today

“Was that so hard?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he says again. “And fuck off. Or I swear to god I’ll figure out a way to exorcise you.”

“Please do,” Schlatt says. “I’d thank you for it. But sure, have it your way.” He shrugs, looking completely unconcerned. “I’m never too far.” Then, he disappears, and there is a shimmer of blue in the air, and even that fades away, and Wilbur is left alone and feeling no better for it.

“It wasn’t a fucking hissy fit,” he says to the empty space. There’s no one left to hear him, no one left to justify himself to, but

(it wasn’t a hissy fit it was desperation and fear and wild abandon and a surging, terrible victory and a fire in his chest driving him onward and he relished in it, relished in the freedom and the power and the control and he was the villain, he was the villain and he was good at it, he was the villain and he loved it, he was the villain and everyone else paid the price and he didn’t pay at all so what happens now, what happens to the villain back from the grave what happens)

he’s not wrong. Not about this.

TommyInnit whispers to you: ok

TommyInnit whispers to you: i’ll be back soon

TommyInnit whispers to you: dont leave without me or your a bitch

He doesn’t leave without him.

He should. Should venture on to the prison by himself, to spare his brother the effort. But in the end, he can’t bring himself to do it. Can’t bring himself to go it alone. Perhaps it really is pathetic, but he wants to have someone by his side when he starts revealing himself to the rest of the server.

It’s certainly selfish. But he’s never claimed not to be.

They don’t meet anyone on the way. Wilbur doesn’t understand why, not when the sun is shining brightly and they’re walking the established path, matching each other stride for stride,

(there was a time when he would have walked behind you, would have trailed on your coattails, would have looked to you for direction and guidance and look at him now, look at who he has been made into, a child who should not have to be as grown as he is but there is no changing it now and he really is someone to be proud of, isn’t he?)

but they run into nobody, and those vines are fucking everywhere.

“Why hasn’t anyone cleared these?” he asks, more to himself than anyone else. “They’re a fucking eyesore.”

Tommy snorts. “You don’t need to tell me,” he says. “They’re ugly as hell. But there’s this Egg thing, see, that BadBoyHalo and a couple of others are all constantly going on about, and those vines come from it, I think. I don’t see what all the fuss is about, personally. I mean, it’s just an Egg. Can’t be all that great. But BadBoyHalo swears by it.” He pauses. “Well, he doesn’t swear. He says muffin by it, I suppose. Still can’t get him to swear.”

“An egg,” he says, and then frowns. “An Egg,” he repeats, and there’s a difference in the way he’s saying it, in the strange emphasis that implies the capital letter. “That’s—vines don’t come out of eggs. They’re not—vines don’t hatch, and eggs aren’t fucking plants.” And then, he remembers— “Techno told me about an egg. Said he thought it was some kind of cult. He didn’t know much else.”

Too late, he realizes what he’s said, and catches the way that Tommy stiffens.

“You’ve been to see Technoblade, then,” he says, and his voice is far too casual to actually be casual. He winces.

“When I—woke up,” he says, “I was really near the tundra. And I remembered where he lived, from when Ghostbur would visit. And I thought that maybe—”

“I mean, you don’t need to explain it,” Tommy interrupts, but his tone of voice tells Wilbur that actually, he really does need to explain it, because there is undoubtedly a note of hurt there, and that won’t do.

“No, no, I do,” he says. “I know you’re not exactly good with each other right now. I’m not really good with him either. But I woke up and it was raining and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, and I made a list, see? And number one on that list was to get to you. But I was cold and wet and I had no idea what was happening in the SMP because Ghostbur’s memories are patchy as hell, so I thought that Techno could tell me some things so I wouldn’t go in blind and walk into—I don’t know, a nuclear war or something.”

Tommy makes an odd sound at that, like a cross between a cat having a hairball and someone choking on water gone down the wrong pipe. “Nuclear war,” he repeats, in a voice that’s a bit strangled, and his words seem to trip over each other in his rush to get them out. “Right. Yeah, no, none of that here. Nope. No way that could ever happen. Uh, yeah, no, that makes perfect sense.” He stops, and Wilbur is about to ask what the actual hell that was about, when he speaks up again. “Is he—I mean, how is he? Still a fucking crazy arsehole?”

Wilbur looks at him. Tommy does not look back. In fact, he seems to be making a point of looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Still an arsehole. Same old Techno, you know him. Phil, too.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way Tommy’s shoulders relax at that, just fractionally.

“Right, yeah,” he says. “Good to hear.”

“Tommy—” he starts, and is saved from having to figure out what he’s going to say, because suddenly, he sees it. The prison. There’s no way that it could be anything else. And he has to stop and stare for a long moment, because he’s never seen a build like that before. Not on any server he’s ever lived on. He’s seen some impressive buildings in his life, and he’d like to think that he’s made a few himself,

(walls to keep them safe to protect them and hold them dear and he hasn’t seen Fundy yet, has he?)

but nothing compares to this.

“Who built this?” he breathes. He feels claustrophobic just looking at it, dark walls towering over them, looming, intimidating.

“Sam did,” Tommy says. “He’s the warden, too. But Dream commissioned him, which is what makes it so fucking funny.”

He feels a grin spread across his face.

“Wait,” he says, “Dream’s locked in his own fucking prison?”

“Dream’s locked in his own fucking prison!” Tommy whoops, and just like that, he’s laughing, and they both are, and maybe he can do this after all. He follows Tommy’s footsteps as he leads him to the doorway, to an empty room with a portal frame, and he’s sizing it up, trying to figure out how they’re supposed to get through, when Tommy steps forward.

“Sam?” he calls out. “You here?” And then, to Wilbur: “Sam’s kind of a dick when he’s got the whole warden thing going on, but he’s pretty nice when he’s not working. He’s been a good friend, you’ll like him. Later, I mean. When he’s not being a dick.” And then again: “Sam? Sam, we want to visit Dream!”

“You don’t need to yell, Tommy. I’m right here,” someone says, and there is another person in the room, and every muscle in Wilbur’s body tense because he didn’t see him come in. “I wasn’t expecting—” And then the man stops, staring right at Wilbur, and Wilbur is left to size him up and rack his brain as to whether or not he’s formally met Awesamdude before. He’s been on the server for a while, he knows. Was around for L’Manberg, was a part of the Badlands, was neutral. He’s met him before. He’s almost certain he’s met him before. But there’s no spark of recognition in him, looking at this man, with his full netherite armor and the mask covering the lower half of his face and the green patches that dot his skin.

“Wilbur Soot,” Sam eventually says. “I would assume? Not Ghostbur?”

He regains himself. Inclines his head. “You’d be right,” he says, and then he steps forward, taking his place at Tommy’s side, and he extends a hand. “Sorry, I’m not sure that we ever really got the chance to meet.”

Sam takes his hand, showing only a bit of hesitance. His grip is firm.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure,” Sam says. “I’m not sure if it is or not.”

“You know what?” Wilbur says. “That’s fair.”

“Hm,” Sam says, and it’s hardly approval. But Wilbur is very aware of the fact that they’re standing in the entrance of a prison, a prison that is supposedly inescapable, and that he has definitely, by the standards of the server, committed at least one crime. And what’s more than that, he doesn’t particularly regret it. Not the act itself. The effects it had, maybe. The pain it brought. But in his heart of hearts, he is glad that L’Manberg is gone.

So really, the fact that he isn’t being arrested is a win.

(he thinks, he wonders, what would he do if he was, if he was locked away in the dark and the walls loomed all around him and the sun was a distant memory and ah, he thinks, no, I would rather die, and then the imagined prison becomes Pogtopia, shadowy and dank and every sound echoing off the stone, melancholy and abandoned, and he wonders what it looks like now, now that there is no life in it at all, and he wonders if it is haunted with the ghost of who he used to be, if he left some important part of him behind to shrivel into dust)

“So, I assume this is a recent development?” Sam asks. He’s being very calm about this, which Wilbur appreciates. But then, they were never close. Were never connected personally. The real tests still lie ahead.

“Couple of days,” Tommy says cheerily. “We’re taking it slow.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” Sam says, and Wilbur blinks, because it’s a joke. Someone feels familiar enough with Tommy to make the comment, and likes him well enough to make it playful.

That’s—good? He thinks it’s good? Probably? Yes. Good. Tommy has friends. Good.

(he doesn’t need you. not really. he wants you, for some godforsaken reason. but he doesn’t need you)

“Oi, I can be slow,” Tommy says. “I can be the very slowest. I am excellent at being slow, I’ll have you know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Wilbur says, and Tommy gapes at him, looking back and forth between them with a dawning expression of betrayal.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says, stabbing a finger at both of them. “I didn’t introduce you so that you could go ganging up on me. That’s just not right. I changed my mind, Wilbur, you’re not allowed to like Sam. None of this bullshit.”

Wilbur laughs, and for a moment, it’s like nothing has changed at all. He’s ribbing his little brother, and there’s even someone else here for support, and it’s not Techno, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much. The motions are familiar, the words an old pattern.

“You’re here to see Dream, right?” Sam says, and just like that, the illusion shatters. And the smile is gone from Tommy’s face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we are.” He hesitates. “We can both go in together, right? Because I’ll tell you right now, nothing else is going to work. We’re a package deal, me and Wil are.”

Sam tilts his head. “No one’s ever tried to visit with someone else,” he says. “I don’t see an issue with it, as long as you both pass security.”

This is relieving. But Wilbur’s a bit more concerned with the way that Tommy’s hands have begun to shake. Just slightly, barely enough to see.

“Good,” Tommy says. “Wilbur, there’s so much security, it’s honestly ridiculous. There’s a bunch of checkpoints and lava and you have to put all your stuff in a locker and get splashed with potions, and oh! There’s wavers, too, you’re going to have to sign a bunch of shit.”

“Great,” he says. It’s not great. It sounds nerve-wracking, in fact. But if Tommy can do it, so can he; he’s just a bit worried that Tommy can’t do it. Or rather, not that he can’t do it, since he’s done it before, apparently. Just that maybe, he really, really doesn’t want to do it. That maybe, it will not be very good for him to do it. That maybe, he’s putting himself through this for Wilbur’s sake, and hasn’t Wilbur just established that he doesn’t want to hurt Tommy anymore?

(but the past echoes forward into the future and there’s no way around it now)

But they’re here, and he’s not going to be able to get Tommy to turn back, and he’s not sure that he would even if he could, because his nerves are all shot and he doesn’t want to be in this dark prison without an ally. So Sam guides them through the checkpoints, and there are indeed a lot of wavers, and a lot of splash potions, and Tommy has to put all of his things in a locker. Wilbur pulls up his inventory, certain that he doesn’t have anything on him, still, but he’s not entirely right about that; he must have kept the flowers he was pulling up earlier, because he’s got about five cornflowers in one of the slots.

He puts them in a chest, and ignores the startled look that Tommy shoots him when he sees. He’s not sure what that’s about. They’re just flowers.

The walls are too close. The shadows too dark. The crackle of lava too near. Tommy is putting on a front, chatting at Sam more than he is with him, and to his credit, Sam puts up with it with easy acceptance. But Wilbur knows that a front is all it is, because his smiles don’t reach his eyes, and he knows how Tommy sounds when he’s talking for the sake of hearing his own voice.

This may, perhaps, be a mistake.

(you can’t let him near Tommy don’t let him near Tommy not after what he did to Tommy don’t you know can’t you remember how can you be letting this happen after what he did Tommy shouldn’t be anywhere near here but now he is and you brought him and what kind of a brother are you)

But he has questions he needs to ask. And he hasn’t forgotten his list. His goals.

If there is anything he can do on this server to make it better, after everything he’s done, let it be this.

“Alright,” Sam says, “call for me when you want to leave. Make sure to walk with the bridge.”

And then the curtain of lava falls, and there is a moving platform, and Tommy is deathly still by his side, and there is the cell, and there, in the cell—

Dream.

He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit. A prisoner’s outfit. But he’s kept his mask, stark-white and smiling and laced with spiderweb-thin cracks. His mouth is visible, canting upward into a slight smile, one that mimics the black paint. He stands at their approach, and then they’re stepping into the cell, and Wilbur lets his hand land on Tommy’s shoulder, to steady him and to steady himself.

“Oh, fuck,” someone says, and it’s not him, and it’s not Tommy, and it’s not Dream, and it sounds faint and far away. The living aren’t the only ones in this cell, then. He hopes that Schlatt has the good sense not to be too distracting.

Dream takes a step forward. Under his hand, Tommy stiffens.

“Hi, Tommy,” Dream says. “It’s good to see you.” It’s directed at Tommy and Tommy alone, like Wilbur’s not even there at all, Dream’s mask tilted toward toward him, toward the kid that he manipulated and abused, and Tommy is trembling and Dream has no fucking right to address him like that, so soft and friendly, and Wilbur—

—sees red.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #jschlatt #tommyinnit #awesamdude #dreamwastaken #alivebur #glatt #/rp #cat writes fic #long post

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irrlicht-writes · 3 years

Text

the path we choose to walk on pt.3

Part 3! still not the last part. But I’m getting close! Note to mention: there is death here. But it’s not permanent. Okay? It gets worse before it gets better. @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @cass-said-i-love-you @professorerudite @insertdeeplyrics anyone else want on the tag list?

PART ONE | PART TWO

Ao3

PART 3: a soul as gentle as a star

Dean is sobbing. He can’t stop. Cas has been sick for a whole week already and still, Jack has not shown up. Dean had to shoo Miracle out of the room because he’s afraid that she’s going to get sick too.

Dean doesn’t know what to do. There’s a fever running through Castiel and no matter what Dean does, it won’t go down. The few times that Cas is awake, he’s puking up his guts over the toilet – all black goo and Dean’s heart breaks. Cas is crying before he passes out again and Dean can’t help. Cas is losing weight and it’s hard to even get him to drink water. Jack doesn’t come.

He pets Castiel’s hair and whispers sweet nothings into his ear. Cas never responds and Dean cries in his damp hair. What’s he supposed to do? He can barely eat food himself. The only thing keeping him from breaking down completely is Miracle because she’ll remind him of feeding her and walking her and honestly, Dean is glad for the temporary distraction she provides.

“Cas,” he says and Cas whimpers.

“Cas, baby, please come back to me.”

His fever goes up.

A month later, it’s not better. Dean only functions whenever Miracle forces him to. It’s been a while since Cas woke up to puke. Dean tries not to dwell on it. He spends his days laying in bed next to Cas, staring at a wall in silence. The only sound is Cas’ shallow breathing and Dean doesn’t know what to do.

He hasn’t really gotten Cas back and now he’s about to lose him again.

Why has Jack not shown up?

Doesn’t he care about them anymore?

He’s always said that he considered Cas to be his father, but does he just stop caring like that?

“Jack,” Dean whispers into the void, “please.”

Nobody answers him.

Castiel’s chest rattles.

A week later, Sam shows up. Dean has been trying to pretend that everything was going fine, just to avoid Sam coming here. Maybe he shouldn’t have given his brother a key.

“Dean,” Sam says sternly and Dean can barely lift his head. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s eaten something. He hopes he didn’t neglect Miracle too much.

“He’s sick, Sammy,” he rasps and Sam’s expression softens. He walks over to the bed and feels Cas’ temperature.

“Dean,” he says, “we have to bring him to a hospital.”

Dean shakes his head. “He’s an angel.”

“He needs help.”

Sam doesn’t understand. Dean’s afraid that they will understand that Cas isn’t human and take him away. They’ll take him away and Dean will never get to see him again and they’re going to conduct experiments on him and Cas won’t understand and he’ll be in pain and Dean wouldn’t be able to save him because he can’t overthrow the government and Cas will think that Dean gave him to these people and he’ll resent Dean and wish him the worst and wish he’d never pull Dean out of hell –

“Dean, breathe.”

Dean sobs loudly and starts to cry. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Please, let me take care of you. Of both of you.”

Dean sobs and doesn’t argue. He can’t. He can’t do it anymore. If he loses Cas again, then – then...

Who knows what he’ll do.

“Your friend doesn’t have long.”

Dean barely understands the doctor. Castiel is filled up with that black goo stuff – his lungs, his stomach, everything. Jack still doesn’t show. Cas is dying, again, and Jack doesn’t care. It’s almost like there’s no change at all.

If Jack doesn’t even want to save his father, what good is he?

They give Cas an infusion. Sam asks if Dean can get one too but he refuses. He’s fine. He doesn’t need any help. He just wants to sit here, next to Cas and be with him until the very end. Just like last time. Dean reaches for Cas’ hand and holds it loosely in his own.

“I’m here,” he whispers, “I’m here.”

It’s empty. These words mean nothing. Dean hangs his head.

In the end, it didn’t matter.

Two days later, Castiel dies.

Dean has pamphlets. They gave him pamphlets but he hasn’t looked at them. He sits on his bed and stares out of the window. Sam has Miracle. Dean told him to take her. Castiel is in the morgue.

Why did this happen?

Why didn’t Jack come?

Dean prayed to him every waking second.

Why did Jack ignore him? Hands off or not – this is his father.

Dean doesn’t understand.

It makes no sense.

Maybe this is a dream. A terrible, terrible nightmare and Dean just has to find a way to wake up.

He remembers the nightmare djinns. It must be like that, right? Everything is just a dream and he just has to wake up.

Die.

He has to die to wake up.

And when he does, Cas’ll be there and he’ll be worried and hug him and Dean’ll hug him back and everything will be okay again.

Cas won’t be dead, then.

Dean gets up from the bed.

He walks over to the window and opens it. He bends forward and looks down. It would be quite the fall. But it’s going to be worth it. Down there, Cas will be waiting for him. If he imagines hard enough, then he can almost see Cas standing down there with open arms.

Dean smiles.

He’s safe.

His angel will catch him.

His angel will always catch him.

Dean closes his eyes.

His hands are shaking.

“Cas,” he whispers.

No matter what, at the end Cas will be there.

“Dean,” someone says and stops him.

He turns around.

“Jack.”

Dean steps away from the window and he can only stare. Jack is here. Why is Jack here now, when it’s pointless?

“I’m sorry,” Jack starts and Dean swallows down his anger. He wants to yell, he wants to scream and he wants to grab this kid and shake him. But he doesn’t. At least the kid looks guilty.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” His voice is hoarse and Dean’s glad he didn’t yell. His voice would’ve given out.

“I heard you, I did, I swear. But Dean, I can’t fix the Empty. So I tried, I looked how to help Cas. I care about him, Dean, he’s my father. But I didn’t want to come here without a solution. If I would’ve come and would’ve said I can’t do anything, you would’ve lost hope immediately. I’m – I’m sorry that I’m late. But we can fix this, Dean. Look.”

Jack is holding something in his hands. He opens them somewhat so that Dean can take a peek. It’s glowing and Dean doesn’t know what it is.

“It’s a soul,” Jack says, “well, at least as much as I can make.”

Dean frowns.

“It will help Cas to battle the goo inside of him. The Empty has no dominion over souls, you know?”

Dean shakes his head. “Jack, he’s dead.”

Jack clenches his jaw. “And that’s why we save him.”

Dean looks at Jack’s hands. A soul. He doesn’t know what that means for Cas but if Jack is so sure it’ll save him... why shouldn’t they try?

It’s not like Cas could get anymore dead.

So he nods.

“Let’s go, then.”

It’s surprisingly easy to break into the morgue. Apparently they don’t really guard their dead and well – your kid being God probably helps too. Dean gets an uneasy feeling in this place. Cas is in one of these, dead. His hands start shaking again. But he has to pull through. For Cas.

For Cas.

With shaky legs, Dean walks over to the one that says “Castiel Winchester” on it and opens it. He takes a deep breath and pulls the gurney out. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to see Cas all pale; all dead. He doesn’t think he could take it.

“Dean,” Jack says and Dean’s eyes snap to him. He’s holding out his hands.

“It’s got to be you,” he says and on auto-pilot, Dean reaches out and takes this soul Jack is offering him. It feels warm in his hands. It feels a little bit like a baby bird.

“Cas,” he says and he feels as if the soul in his end flickers. “Come back to me.”

He holds his hands over Castiel’s chest, looking at Jack who nods. Dean nods back and presses the soul inside.

First, nothing happens and Dean wants to panic. He looks at Jack who’s frowning.

No no no no no no no this isn’t good. It’s not working, it’s not working –

Castiel tears his eyes open and he’s gasping for air, heaving dryly. Dean chokes down a sob, but Castiel grabs his own chest as if he’s struggling to breathe and his blue eyes fly to Jack. The kid just shakes his head and takes Castiel’s hand in his own.

“Fight it, Cas. I know you can do this. You’re stronger than it. You’re the only angel in all of existence that ever walked out of the Empty of his own will. Out of his own might. The Empty has no power over you – it never had. Why do you think it hated you so much?

It was afraid of you, Cas, because it knew only you could ever walk away from a confrontation. You’re the angel that defied and defied and defied again. The Empty can’t hold you. It never could. You were awake, and you found your own way out. Do you even know how much power that takes? How much will? And you did it.

You did this, with no help, no assistance, and you survived. The Empty followed you outside and you overpowered it. It tried to drag you down, again and again, but you kept fighting and you kept winning. I can only ever hope to be as strong as you, Cas.

You are Free Will. You’ve always been. Without you – without you, Chuck would’ve determined the ending. But he didn’t. Because you made us believe that we can choose our own path. That we can choose who we want to be.

You’re stronger than the Empty, Cas. It cannot defeat you.

You loved me, you believed in me, you supported me when I didn’t deserve it. You explained the world to me; and you made me see that it’s worth loving. The way you’d talk about a roadside flower and what a miracle it is, I – I saw the little things. I saw the things that make the world what it is. It’s not about the big battles, the big wins or even the big losses – it’s about the things you never appreciate. The roadside flower, the leaves on the trees or the rustling of the wind.

And with – with everything you said, I realised – I realised that you thought... that you believed you were lesser than these things. That the dirt on the ground deserved better than you. You praised everything – Sam, Dean, me, the world – but never yourself. You are the guy I look up to most because – because you’re so kind, and caring and full of love. I heard – I heard the birds sing and thought they must be singing about you. I saw flowers bloom and I thought they must be doing this for you.

You are so good, and so kind and I – I will make a world that appreciates you. I will make a world in which you are loved, unconditionally.

I love you, Cas. I’m sorry it took me so long.

The Empty can’t take you away from me. I won’t let it. You crawled your way back here again and again, and I will make sure that you’re rewarded.

You taught me I can choose my own destiny. That I can choose my own path. And you told me that I will forever be loved, no matter what. And you did. No matter what I did, you loved me. You loved me unconditionally, and I never appreciated it. I took it for granted but then I realised – you were never loved like that. You were never – you were never told that you are loved. But I do.

I do, and Sam does, and Dean does and so many more. You, of all people, deserve the world. And I’ll give it to you.

I love you, Cas. I’ll say it now, and I’ll say it a hundred times. You are loved, Castiel, now and forever.

And whatever sins you believe you committed – sins that you believe that cannot be forgiven – I give you absolution.

You are forgiven, Castiel. You were always forgiven.

I love you. I love you so, so much.

I can be God, I am, but... I can’t do it without you. What if I stop looking at the small things? What if I end up like Chuck? I need you, Cas. I need you to remind me of a fallen leaf, of a newborn bird. I need you to remind me of the wonders of the world.

You were always fighting. And most times, the enemy was yourself and nobody of us helped you. You’re stronger than I could ever hope to be.

You’re my father, Cas. Sam and Dean are so, so important to me, but – I’d pick you, every time. Now and forever, I will always pick you.”

Castiel squeezes Jack’s hand. “All I ever wanted,” he rasps, “is for you to be happy.”

“He’ll never fully recover,” Jack says after he got them all home. Dean holds Castiel tight to his chest. The angel is asleep but his breath isn’t rattling this time. He looks at Jack, unblinking.

“The soul,” Jack starts, “will help. But Dean, you have to understand that when Castiel made it out of the Empty, he took death with him. It’s not going to let him go. The – the sheer might it must’ve taken him to survive as long as he did, I...”

Jack stops and looks to the ground.

“I could never hope to be as strong as that. But now with the soul, his grace can draw strength from it. But it’s a weak soul. It’s... it’s just an imitation, but it’ll hold. He’ll get better; and in time, he’ll be walking around again.”

Jack turns and looks at them.

“He’s essentially human now, Dean. Not in the sense that he’ll die from old age, but in the terms that he needs to eat and sleep. He’ll probably get sick a lot, but he’ll be fine.”

“The black goo will never go away?”

Jack shakes his head.

“No. But with the soul, his grace is strong enough to keep it in check and keep all the internal organs working. I – I have to go now. But I’ll drop in whenever I can. Say hi to Sam for me and – tell Maria about me, too, okay? I’m excited to meet her someday soon.”

Jack smiles brightly and holds his hand up in a wave. “Bye, Dean,” he says and disappears.

Dean lets out a deep breath and gently places Castiel on the bed. Castiel is breathing quietly and really, Dean should call Sam and tell him but he’s just so tired.

When he crawls into bed next to Cas, he thinks about the people at the hospital. He forgot to ask Jack to remove their memories. It would work out, though, right? Cas is alive and he’s home and now he’s finally gonna get better.

Dean snuggles up next to Cas and vows to call Sam tomorrow. They’ll sort it out together. But right now, the only thing that matters is Castiel’s soft breathing and the knowledge that a soul shimmers inside him.

“I missed this,” Cas says when Dean opens his eyes. He’s been awake for a while at this point, but he had wanted to enjoy Castiel playing with his hair. It feels nice.

“You never played with my hair before,” Dean replies.

“No, but I missed watching you sleep. It’s very calming.”

Castiel’s voice sounds tired, but it doesn’t seem to pain him like it did before. Dean is glad. Now everything would work out. And even if Cas would be bedridden for the rest of Dean’s life, then that is okay too.

“You can watch me sleep forever then.”

Castiel laughs a bit but he ends in some light coughing.

“This goo,” Dean wonders, “will you really never be rid of it?”

Cas sighs. “No. I figure being in Heaven would help me. I might be able to get rid of it if I was able to tap into Heaven’s energy reserves, but I don’t want to go there now. The soul Jack made for me is going to suffice until it inevitability runs out.”

“It will run out?”

“Yes. All souls do, eventually, and this one even more so. I figure that after it’s done – it will just disappear. But by this point, decades should’ve passed and I’ll be able to go to Heaven.”

“You can’t go now?”

“Why would I?” Castiel replies while smiling against Dean’s hair. “Last I checked, you’re not in Heaven, and won’t be for a very long time. I’d rather be here with you, then waiting for you in Heaven.”

Damn, now Dean’s blushing.

Sam’s a bit upset when Dean calls him. He’s wanted to see Jack too, and he’s also worried about the hospital staff. Nobody’s called Dean yet so Dean has hope that Jack made them forget.

“Cas is alive,” Dean says because he thinks that maybe Sam didn’t hear him properly the first time.

“I... yes. You said, I just... I can’t believe it. I didn’t even think... it’s amazing. How... how is he doing? Is he conscious? Can he talk at all?”

“Yeah. Jack said he’s probably gonna be sick for the rest of his life, but he’ll be able to move around again.”

Dean is in his kitchen; and Cas is asleep in the bed. It feels surreal. It feels like someone’s gonna pinch him in the arm and wake him up and then Cas is still gonna be dead and they’re still in the hunting life and then they go on a hunt just for one of them to die.

But that’s not gonna happen.

Their hunting days are finally over.

“Can we come over?”

Dean looks around. Them coming here might be better than hauling Cas into the car. Cas just came back so he might get tired more easily.

“Only if you bring the dog. I don’t think Cas has properly met her yet and that’s a crime.”

Over the line, Sam laughs. “Yes, we’ll bring the dog. We’ll be there in about half an hour. Prepare to hold a crying baby, Dean.”

“Oh, it just feels like yesterday when I was wiping your dirty ass.”

Sam hangs up and Dean grins.

There’s hope for a future in his heart and for the first time, he’s not afraid of it. Things will get better and they’ll start getting better now.

Cas made it to the couch when Sam and Eileen arrive. As per Sam’s promise, Maria is crying her heart out and Dean feels sorry for Sam. Eileen, God bless her, probably doesn’t hear the crying too much. Dean guesses it’s Sam who gets up in the middle of the night, judging by his face. Dean grins and bends down to greet Miracle. Man, he’s missed her.

“Cas,” Sam says and Cas responds in kind. In the corner of his eye, Dean can see that Cas tries to get up from the couch but decides against it in the last moment.

Eileen walks right over and plops herself and her baby next to him. “Your niece,” she says and Cas smiles at the baby who stopped crying when she spotted Cas.

“Hello, Maria,” Cas says. Maria blinks in his direction and after some thought, reaches out for him.

Cas takes her easily and puts her in his lap.

“Have you been keeping for father up?”

Maria wiggles her arms.

“You know, for all I missed, I’m glad Jack decided to skip the toddler phase. I wonder what happened to all the diapers I bought. My doula classes were very unhelpful with my son but they might come in handy with you, hm?”

Maria smiles brightly and starts whipping in Cas’ lap.

“Hm. I guess I can be Big Blue if you want.” He boops her nose. “But then you have to be Little Cutie.”

Maria blinks at him, then laughs and claps her hands. She turns her head to her mom and brabbles to her and Eileen just smiles.

“You speak Baby, Cas?” Sam asks and Cas turns his head.

“No. Babies don’t use words like we do; it’s more of a... sense. A feeling if you will. They can’t think in complete sentences yet. It’s along the lines of Sad because hungry. Upset because dirty. Happy because play. Happy because friend. Like that.”

Cas smiles and lifts Maria up and she giggles.

“Guess she found a friend in you, huh?”

“That she did.”

Dean isn’t surprised when Castiel and Miracle get along splendidly. As soon as the dog warms up to the angel, Dean is permanently degraded to giver of food and honestly, he’s not even mad at that. Miracle keeps Cas company when Dean has to go to work and they even go on walks together – never very far in the beginning because Cas still has to get his legs under him but the important bit is that Miracle makes Cas leave the bed or the couch.

There are days, sometimes more and sometimes less, where Castiel is sad. Dean knows that that word is probably an understatement, but he doesn’t want to call it depression – it’s too big of a word and Dean’s afraid of it.

There are days when Castiel’s body just refuses everything and anything. Cas doesn’t want to see or hear Dean on these days and Dean respects that. He wants to be there, but his presence is upsetting Cas way too much.

Cas isn’t used to being sick and somewhere deep down Dean thinks he remembers. Cas needs to be useful. And on these days, he’s not useful at all. But Dean doesn’t know how to tell Cas that it’s okay. He doesn’t know how to make Cas understand that he doesn’t have to be useful. No words that Dean could come up with seem good enough for him. So he stays silent and he knows it’s not the right thing to do.

Cas gets sick at least one time a month, sometimes more. He’s always sick for at least two days, battling fever and puking up goo. Dean’s terrified every single time.

“I’m fine,” Cas says every time and Dean wants to believe him.

I love you, he wants to tell him but he’s afraid.

He’s not sure what he’s afraid of.

Cas cries at night sometimes and Dean pretends not to hear.

Cas has nightmares sometimes and Dean sleeps on the couch.

He doesn’t understand himself.

“Dean,” Cas says one day just after his bad days ended.

“I know you don’t love me. It’s alright. I’ve accepted that. It doesn’t change what I feel, how I feel. You are – I’ve never met someone like you. There have been others that have fascinated me, but – but I’ve only ever watched them from a distance. I was never inclined to come closer, to get to know them, to have them know me. I was content just watching them from afar, learning about them and studying them from my high perch.

But you –

I wasn’t supposed to get involved. I was supposed to tell you your part in the Apocalypse and then I was – I guess I was supposed to die. But you were, well, you and it made me rethink. I wondered if you were right, if people could actually choose their own destinies.

And Sam – Sam as the Boyking of Hell, the true vessel of Lucifer, I expected him to be evil, I expected him to be malicious, but he wasn’t. Sam was good and kind and brave and the small spot of darkness was a stain on him, but then he’s only human and it didn’t even matter.

And I saw that I was wrong and I thought – I thought maybe Dean is right. Maybe this is a story we can choose for ourselves.

Maybe this could be a story that doesn’t end with humanity wiped out. Maybe this is a story that ends differently as it was foretold. I wanted to believe. I wanted to have faith in what you said and – and so I did.

I know you never had faith in me, but I had faith in you and – I never really stopped. People getting to choose their own lives, their own destinies, their own ends – it just had never been in the cards. Everything had always served a bigger plan; always aiming to getting closer to the one true end when there was so much more.

I’ve had people believe in me; when in the same breath they defied God himself. You’re here, they’d say, he is not.

And they were right. I was there; and he was not. I always wondered if our path was the right one – after all, who’d stop us if we were wrong? We’d listen to no one but God himself, so who would’ve been able to halt us in our wake? But still, I followed my orders and whenever I saw fit, I’d tweak them, just a little.

I’d let a child go. I’d give an old man a few more minutes to say good-bye. I’d save the mother giving birth. I’d do these things and I got punished for them and I’d falter. What if I did something wrong? What if I altered the big plan? What if the ending would never come as it had been planned? And maybe –

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe the mother I saved changed something. Maybe the old man saying good-bye gave closure to someone. Maybe the child I let go grew up to influence someone they were never meant to meet. Who can tell?

I realised something so small can change the world. Maybe it won’t change the world as a whole but someone’s world will be different.

But the point is: I went against my orders and every time, I got punished for it. And then I met you, and you went against your orders and I couldn’t see you getting punished. And I thought, maybe you had the right path. Maybe wrong decisions get punished and right decisions do not. So I decided to follow you. I decided to follow the path you were carving.

And then you left the path, so I decided to keep walking on it because to me, it was the right path to take. And I was right. Every time I got punished, I knew I was doing the right thing. They were wrong; and I was right.

They wanted to reverse me, they wanted to change me by any means possible but I didn’t let them. Even when they succeeded, I didn’t let them take you away from me. You allowed me to change, Dean, you allowed me to be who I’m really meant to be. And for that –

For that, I’ll forever be grateful. I was right. There was a better way and they were proven wrong. I’m – maybe I’m still defective. Maybe I’ll always be wrong, and broken, and useless. But if that’s who I am, then – then so be it.

I am – I was always ashamed of myself. Why couldn’t I be like the others? Why couldn’t I follow orders like them? Why was I so different? And no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I did, I – I was always the outsider. The one that didn’t belong, not really, and –

And when I was with you, that didn’t change. I was still the outsider, I was still different. Not in the same way, sure, but still, I didn’t belong. I’ll never do. I’ll never belong anywhere, because maybe there’s no place for me after all.

But – I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. I was supposed to be dead. I’ve died again and again and I came back, again and again because – because I wasn’t done yet. There’s still more. It made me think that maybe I have a purpose. That I have a reason for living, no matter how small it might be. And I always wanted –

I always wanted to make you feel safe. I always wanted to be the guy you could trust in. I wanted you to call me, I wanted you to need me. I needed you to want me, but maybe you never did and that’s okay.

I’m here now. And once I’m – once I’m better, I’ll be on my way. I’ll find something to do. I’ll find a place where I can be useful but until I’m strong enough for that – maybe it’s okay if I stay a little bit longer?”

There’s something here, Dean knows that. There’s something here he’s supposed to say, some clever line, some heartfelt comment, but – but he doesn’t know.

Dean hears I don’t want to go.

So he says: “I don’t want you to go.”

And maybe that was the right thing to say after all.

#supernatural #Destiel #castiel #dean winchester #writing #Sam Winchester #eileen leahy #angst #hurt #hurt/comfort #brief character death #Jack Kline #irrlicht writes #fix-it #spn fix it #spn 15x20 #fanfiction #userpris

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sprog-writes · 3 years

Link

Read here, or on AO3! Word count: 3293 Possible trigger warnings: Danny’s death is referenced, as is that of other ghosts.

Enjoy!

He let himself fall to the ground, phasing through it and stopping himself just in time not to facepalm on sewer water.

“Ghost or no, I’m not getting that on myself” he muttered out loud. He was sure he had lost his parents, he didn’t think they would follow him into the sewers.

But apparently he thought wrong, as he heard the metal sound of the manhole getting opened a couple of feet from him. He started flying again, turning invisible and phasing slightly through the ground once more, ready to flee if necessary, but he couldn’t help but stay to look at them, hoping to see… he didn’t know what, exactly, but he didn’t want to miss it. He thought maybe they’d let something slip, or at least he’d see their new tech in action.

He saw them look his way, scanning their surroundings, most likely in search of his presence. They walked around for a bit, with Danny on their trail, before deciding to split up, his father going back on the streets where they came from and his mom staying in the sewers walking around.

“Jack, dear, everything as expected?” he heard his mom suddenly say. They were probably talking via intercoms, having upgraded their basic equipment over the years, as well as their ghost hunting tech.

‘What does that mean?’ Danny wondered to himself. He didn’t hear the response, but something told him he had better run away from there, far from her. As soon as he actually moved away and phased through the concrete and was back on the street, he was met by his father’s eyes looking directly at him, a smug smile on his face.

Danny looked at his hands to make sure he was still invisible and as he found nothing, he shot a questioning look to his dad, before turning the other ways and flying up to run somewhere safe -or at the very least, safer than there-, instead he found himself face first onto a ghost shield, tumbling back a couple of feet and turning visible again.

“Great…” Danny muttered out loud and found himself asking his dad “Can curiosity kill the cat, if the cat already died?” His father looked at the boy confused, obviously not understanding the contest of Danny’s joke and why it was absolutely hilarious. At least, to Danny it was.

‘Not the time for jokes!’ he thought as he turned intangible again to escape towards the sewers, but as he hit his face against the shield again, he realised that it went all the way around.

He saw his mom cheekly smiling at him before turning around and going back the way she came from, most likely to meet with his dad.

He floated back up, sitting on the street with his arms and legs crossed, and pouting.

“Pouting? Really?” his mother’s voice caught his attention, but he refused to look at her. Getting out of those things was annoying and he really didn’t want to be vivisected by his parents. Or dissected. He was technically a ghost, but also not really, and ghosts are not dead bodies so which one would be more correct? As he wondered his mom continued talking to him “What are you? 5?”

“I’ll have you know” he pointed at himself with his thumb “I am almost of age” Danny announced.

“It’s not like you’ll actually age past 14, ghost” his dad intervened “you’re a ghost!”

Danny stayed silent for a moment, looking at him and then floated to his eye level “Astute observation like alway, Jack” it was always weird having to refer to his parents with their first names, but after a good almost 4 years it became second nature, even a little hard not to mix it up and call them by their names when he was their son, and ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ when he was Phantom.

His dad seemed to take his obvious sarcasm as a genuine compliment and smiled proudly, as his mom shook her head and put a hand on her husband’s shoulder.

“You’re coming with us” as the words left his mom’s mouth, his mood worsened, the air getting colder by the second. His parents visibly noticed. He never meant to do it, but it was hard to control how much cold he emitted, especially when in distress. Some sort of defense mechanism, Sam had once offered as an explanation.

While he was floating, his parents took the opportunity to slide the bottom of a ghost cage under him. Danny recognised it; it was made of ectoranium, impossible to phase through for any ghost. Or, well, half-ghosts, as it were. How his parents got their hands on it, Danny didn’t know.

He sat back down, the same position as before, pout ever present on his face, and the rest of the cage appeared around him.

“You gave up easy” ‘almost too easy’ was left unsaid, but clearly implied. She was wary of what she probably believed to be unusual behaviour for the ghost child, and really. Who could blame her?

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I could’ve gotten out of here, anyway, right now” Danny shrugged, but keeping his face glowering, eyes just a tint of toxic green too much.

“Contrary to popular belief,” he decided to add, as his parents started lifting the cage -complete with its own ghost shield- to carry him to the familiar RV “And by popular opinion I mean, specifically, your opinion” the halfa turned to glare at the two adults holding his temporary prison, no real malice behind it “I am neither dumb, nor do I want to hurt humans!” he huffed, having had this conversation with his folks too many times to count.

Danny realized that carrying him in a metal cage was not going to be a good experience, the RV being pretty far away from his point of capture, so he started floating a bit. Not too much to hit the metal roof, but enough to take off the weight of his ecto-body.

A thought entered his mind, so he ignored his dad’s questioning look, probably in relation to his act of altruism towards his capturers, to ask “Why a cage?” he didn’t really expect an answer, and when neither of his parents answered he let out a heavy breath, a little disappointed.

Then, Danny heard his mom sigh and saw her shake her head as she asked for clarification “What do you mean, ghost?”

“Well, isn’t a cage a little… I don’t know… primitive? Couldn’t you have captured me with one of your Fenton Thermoses?” to Danny it seemed more work than it was worth. The Thermos would contain him and he would be much easier to carry.

“We wanted to keep you under observation” his dad butted in, making Danny turn to look at him.

“What if I just turn invisible? Can’t really observe me if you can’t see me” he smirked as he thought of turning invisible just to piss them off.

But his dad kept smiling, and even without checking, he was almost certain that his mom was doing the same. They had found him before, when he was invisible. Ergo: they had something to track him down with.

His own grin was wiped off of his face as the realization of them being several steps ahead hit him, as he began assessing their tech, everything they had with them, everything that could be new.

‘Man, I should really pay more attention when they talk about their new inventions’ he scolded himself for being so careless.

That was when he saw it. “Your goggles” he shook his head ‘The lenses are green, how did I miss that?’ Danny chastised himself for not noticing it in time.

“What is it? Heat signature? Ectoplasmic residue? A bit of both?” The look on their faces was one of confusion and mild astonishment. His dad opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, probably about to give Danny an honest response, his mom answered him “We won’t tell you how our weapons work. It would be giving you a way to work around them” she glared at him, a silent threat not to try anything stupid.

“So I was right on the money. It’s a bit of both, isn’t it?” he put his hands down, floating a bit more to put himself in a more comfortable position “Man, you guys are good!” he chuckled, then sighed loudly when his eyes landed back on the cage’s bars.

“Well, I’m taking a nap” a yawn escaped his mouth before he could catch it, watering his eyes a bit “Wake me up when you need me” he rolled to the side and, using his forearm and hand as a makeshift cushion, he closed his eyes, hoping he could drift off to sleep.

But his peace was short lived, as he heard his mother groan not more than a few minutes later. He opened one of his eyes to look at her, and as lucidely as possible addressed her.

“What?” he asked.

“You can drop the act, stop trying to pretend you’re human”

“Maddie, I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s about…” he made a point to look at the sky, as if assessing the time. He could, if he wanted, with just a bit more time. But not at that moment “ass o’clock in the morning!” he emphasized his point by turning around and looking the other way “I’m tired and I want to sleep. So” he yawned again “if you do not require my services” he said, with as much of a posh english accent he could master “I’m going to take a power nap”

It seemed that his parents really didn’t want him to sleep, as his attempt to slumber was once again interrupted by his mom speaking, as the cage was lowered in the backseat of the RV “You’re a ghost” she simply stated.

Danny stayed silent for a second, then sighed. He had been doing that a lot that day “And you’re a human” he hoped she would understand that stating the obvious wasn’t going to help her with whatever she needed from him.

“You don’t need to sleep” she stated, once again, as if it was an undeniable, scientific truth she gathered studying ghosts, and not a prejudice developed after years of conjectures.

Danny gave up on trying to catch some shut eye. He would have to take a nap during lunch the next day, because at that point he was sure it was going to be another all-nighter. He stayed laying down, with his back towards the cage’s floor and his hands behind his head, still floating a little. It made him feel more comfortable, as a ghost, to be above ground instead of touching it. He thought it had to do with the change in weight that came with his body changing from meat to ectoplasm, but he couldn’t be sure.

He closed his eyes, but didn’t try to fall asleep, as his dad started driving “If I wasn’t already dead, I’m sure your driving would kill me” he complained to himself. His breath hitched, as the vehicle swayed all of a sudden, the motion causing a startled noise to exit his mouth and his eyes to open.

“Why do you put that much effort in seeming human? It won’t work with us” his mom didn’t even turn around to look at him. Danny wouldn’t lie and say it never hurts to be treated like that from his parents, but he knew they would change their point of view in a heartbeat if he revealed himself. After all, he had lived it.

But he never did. The cons had always outweighed the pros, the pain he would bring them to see what they unconsciously did wasn’t worth it. They would fret, and worry, and blame themselves for everything. Danny didn’t want that. He didn’t want to see the look in their eyes when they realized how much they had involuntarily hurt him.

“What do you mean?” he tiredly decided to ask his mom.

“You know what I mean,” his mom replied, completely useful. Danny raised an eyebrow at her, awaiting clarification.

She sighed “I mean” she said harshly “the breathing. The saying you want to-to- to sleep!” she sounded utterly done with the whole situation “I don’t understand what benefits you get from keeping up the charade, seeing as it won’t work” she unfatised the last words, making it clear for Danny that they didn’t buy whatever they thought he was selling.

He looked at her, closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled “Do you want an actual answer you will listen to? You will consider what I say, even if it doesn’t align with what you think you know about ghosts?” he knew they weren’t going to. They were stuck in their way, too obsessed with being right to even consider that something was different, twisting every bit of evidence they got to fit their beliefs.

His parents shared a glance. His dad had seemed more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He never wanted to prove that ghosts were evil -after all, why would someone wish for inherently evil things to exist?- no, he just had always wanted to get rid of those that were, and for a while it was all of them. But a lot of things happened over the years, he met a lot of ghosts that didn’t fit the mold they created with speculations.

His mom, Danny knew, was the same. But she was also in denial. She didn’t want her entire worldview to change, because the unknown was scary.

‘Wow’ Danny thought ‘I’ve been hanging out with Jazz too much’

He saw his father smile and turn to look at the road in front of him, as did his mother, but she wasn’t smiling. She had her arms crossed and looked at Danny from the rearview mirror.

“We’ll humour you” she simply stated.

‘Well… It’s a start’ Danny wasn’t going to look a gifted horse in the mouth.

“Have you ever considered I’m not faking it?” that elicited a chuckle from his mom “Yeah, sure” she said sarcastically “You don’t need to breathe, why would you?”

“I’m not sure” Danny answered honestly “I’ve thought about it, though” he, Jazz and Sam had that conversation once, when he was still scared of not being completely human. When he hadn’t quite accepted everything that had happened.

“That’s your answer? ‘I don’t know, but I’m not faking it’?” his dad said, incredulous.

“I can give you some theories I have,” he offered. He won’t let that afternoon of oversharing insecurities with his -at the time- wanna-be-psychologist sister go to waste.

“Sure” they said at the same time, his dad with a curious note to his voice, while his mom just sounded wary.

“Well…” he thought about where to start. He could pull out the big guns, but was it really worth it to lay bare his doubts in front of his parents? He decided that maybe it was, if he could change their opinions like that.

“The most probable thing is I do it out of habit” he shrugged “even though I don’t need it, I’ve been doing it for 14 years, so it’s hard to just… not. Somethings I catch myself not breathing and I panic, before remembering that it’s not a big deal” which was something that Tucker always made fun of him for, but after it always got a good laugh out of all of them.

He waited for his parents to say something, but they didn’t comment, so he kept going “The other theory I had for a while, which was mostly before I stopped aging, was that it was a subconscious thing” he heard his father mutter under his breath “Aging?”

“Yeah, I kept aging for a while, but I don’t know if you could actually call it that. I think that since I died before finishing puberty I… Involuntarily kept changing my body to look like I was still, somehow, going through puberty”

“What made you stop?” His father seemed much more interested in all that than his mom, who just looked skeptical. He answered anyway.

“I noticed that ghosts weren’t supposed to change. Seeing how young Youngblood is, how long Dorothea has been a ghost even though she’s been one since the 12th century made me realize that” it had been a little painful, Dora had actually been very supportive and helpful about it. Clockwork tried to help, but he didn’t really understand with his whole ‘being all ages at the same time’ thing he had going on.

“I was in denial. About the whole ‘being dead’ thing. When I accepted that it was it. I wasn’t going to get a driver’s licence. I wasn’t going to be old enough to drink. I wouldn’t graduate. That’s when I stopped aging” it wasn’t a lie per se, sure. It was true that he did age for a while before accepting the fact that, partially, he was a ghost and nothing could change that. But he would still be able to achieve some of the things he wouldn’t be able to do if he was fully a ghost.

Sure, he had given up on being an astronaut, certain that he couldn’t pass any medical exam, but at the end of the day, he could go up to see the stars every time he wanted. Basically everything else on his list was doable.

“So,” his mom’s voice brought him back from his daydreaming “you’re saying you remember your time being alive?” she sounded like she hadn’t believed a single thing that came out of his mouth, but like the sole thought of something like that being possible was intriguing at the very least.

“Some ghosts do, other don’t” he yawned, a very high-pitched sound coming out of his mouth at the end “Word of advice though, it’s generally considered very rude to ask a ghost anything to do with their time as a living person or, and I cannot stress this enough, about their death. Unless they’re the ones starting that kind of conversation” Danny decided to warn them. He knew some ghosts wouldn’t do anything if someone asks, but they’d most likely get their day ruined. Others could just try to harm them for such queries.

“And why is that?” His mom’s tone of voice made that question sound like a little bit of a challenge, but Danny wasn’t kidding. It was a sensitive topic, one that even he found difficult to talk about, even with his friends.

“Because happy people don’t become ghosts” his voice was flat, void of emotion and low enough that for a second he wondered if his parents even heard him.

Then his dad spoke up “I’m sorry kiddo. Must’ve been awful” his mom looked like she wanted to argue, but didn’t really have it in her heart. After all, ghost or not, he still looked like a teen, and everyone would be heartbroken when confronted with the idea of someone so young, not only dying, be having such a horrible life, or dying in such a traumatic way that they become a ghost.

Youngblood came to Danny’s mind. He didn’t think he ever wanted to know.

The rest of the ride was suffered in silence by both parties. Despite his desire to rest, Danny couldn’t fall asleep after having had such a conversation with his parents. He wasn’t delusional enough to think that one simple conversation was going to fix things, but he still hoped that it could be a start.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #jack fenton #maddie fenton #danny phantom fanfiction #dp fanfic

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suntrastar · 4 years

Text

abstract: chapter 1

chapter 2!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word count: 7k (i am insane i know this!! you can also find this fic on ao3 !!)

Author’s note: hello! attempting to upload a fic on here for the first time ever! do i understand this website’s format. perhaps not. but am i going to try? perhaps yes! anyways hope you all like it :) likes and reblogs are very much appreciated!!! umm idk how this works if you wanna follow me you can?? do follows exist on tumblr dot com i think they do. hope they do. love you all. this is a long chapter buckle up (BUCKle up lmao i am not funny)!! enjoy ;o

“Hey, can you come look at this?”

You teach three classes a week- Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. The latter two are enjoyable in their own right, but Mondays are definitely your favorite. Instead of teaching kids, who are funny and creative but so messy, and so loud, you get to teach adults. People your own age or usually older, putting you in a position of authority, valuing your opinion, wanting you to come look at things.

It’s a delightful power trip.

You turn away from the window to see who’s speaking.

It’s Steve.

Of course it’s Steve, your star student, staring at you with a worn, weary intensity, wiping a paintbrush on a paper towel. He’s already pushed his sheet of paper across the table, bumpy with water and watercolor paint, cream-colored edges starting to curl. He leans away from it, reclining in a seat that’s adult-sized but dwarfed by his frame, looking so forlorn, like the paper just abandoned him, moved to the opposite side of the table by itself.

You stifle a laugh.

“Sure,” you say, and make your way over to his table.

Steve fidgets in his seat as you look at his painting. You try to keep your jaw in check.

It drops anyway.

As always, it’s beautiful. He’s painted a sky, swirling with purples and pinks, and careful clouds, flickering in and out between layers of paint, elegant and pale yellow-orange. And the sun- it’s off-center, and you’re sure it was unintentional, but that adds to the effect, because it’s hot red, and dazzling, and slowly seeping into the still-wet sky. Tendrils of red like real sunbeams, pushing through the clouds like a real sunset.

You don’t know why Steve even takes this class. Half the time, you feel like he should be the one teaching.

“It’s gorgeous,” you say eventually, once your words come back to you. “I love how you painted the sun- the red, oh my god. You’re seriously a natural.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and you push the paper back towards him. He looks down at it, still tense, brow furrowed, and you almost laugh again, until he looks back up at you. “I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

Power trip.

“I love it,” you say, giving him a reassuring smile, which he hesitantly returns. You might be laying it on a little thick, but Steve still looks distressed, and you genuinely like the guy enough to try to help him.

When he walked in with his friend for the first class, you were floored. People like Steve don’t attend classes like this- classes like this are attended by regular people. Not people that walk like dancers, all grace and light steps, not people that are extraordinarily jacked, with jutting shoulders and rippling muscles, not people that have a weirdly authoritarian air around them, like a politician, but less shrewd.

Still, you welcomed them and made awkward small-talk and tried not to stare at their arms and hoped you came across as a somewhat decent person. It’s your first time teaching adults, you explained, and Steve gave you a smile so sincere and reassured you that you would do great, boosting your confidence to the point where you actually did.

Steve is lovely. He’s passionate about art and has a good eye, a better eye than you, really, and he always tries so hard with whatever he does, and he’s funny in a dorky way, and completely unaware of it. He always wears a baseball hat and tucks his shirts into his pants and called you ma’am once, and looked so surprised when you burst out laughing and told him to call you by your first name. With him, two classes have flown by, and now, during the third, he’s warmed up to you enough to talk to you like a friend.

The friend he brings with him, though?

A total douchebag.

The night to Steve’s day, the rain to his sunshine. It’s obvious that Steve brings him along as some sort of moral support, to make himself look less out of place, which is fine, except the guy always treats you like you’ve perpetually offended him.

And maybe you have, maybe one time you did something that’s worthy of his eternal dislike, but you wouldn’t know what it is, because he’s never brought it up, because he barely fucking talks.

You don’t think he’s a naturally quiet guy. He definitely looks like he has a lot to say, but no matter what, he only ever talks in single-syllable bursts, quiet enough that half the time you miss what he’s saying.

He doesn’t ignore you, either- he listens to everything you say and lets his judgement flicker over his face- which is way worse. A glare is a slight misstep, a shake of his head means that you’ve just said something that he finds stupid, a scowl is a catastrophe.

You don’t even know his name. He’s never introduced himself, and always writes his name in a shaky, illegible scrawl on the sign-in sheet, and by now you don’t care enough to look it up.

Still, you’re nice to him, polite. It��s okay if he doesn’t like you. You don’t need to be liked- being noticed is enough.

You shift away from Steve to his friend, sitting next to him at the table. He’s staring at you in a way that you can only describe as violent, and you flinch, and then plaster your smile back on.

“How’s it going?” You ask, expecting no response, stealing a glance at his paper. He’s painted the entire sheet a watered-down blue, and you want to congratulate him, for actually participating this time, but you don’t say anything. “The watercolors working out for you?”

Your heart goes out to the poor paintbrush in his hand. It’s barely been used, is steadily dripping water, and is being throttled in his gloved grip. He always wears one glove- it’s weird, but you’re not going to pry.

He catches you looking and a whole myriad of emotion plays over his face; irritation and shame, a creased brow and a scowl. You have the feeling that you’ve taken a massive overstep, even though you haven’t said anything else, even though you’re not looking at his hand anymore, just at him.

His hair hangs over his eyes, glossy and carelessly wavy, which you would find pretty, maybe, if he wasn’t looking at you the way he is. Like you’ve just done something terrible.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s it.

Even when you turn away, he’s glaring.

You hate it, so you pretend it’s not happening.

Steve gives you a sympathetic glance before you head back. You wave it off.

“Shonna,” you call, to the fiftysomething woman hunched over her painting a few tables down, “how’re the flowers looking?”

***

Thirty minutes before your fourth Monday class starts, you arrive at the studio to find Rina washing paintbrushes in the sink.

“Hey,” you call.

She turns to you and gives you a surprised grin. “Oh, hey! You’re here early- come help with these brushes.”

You set your bag on the counter by the wall and join her at the sink. You’ve known Rina for ages- ever since you were roommates in college. The class before yours is taught before, some advanced painting thing that she is extremely overqualified to teach.

She’s kind of famous. And kind of self-absorbed, and a little bit pretentious, but maybe that’s just what happens when you’re as successful in your field as she is. No matter what it is, you can’t complain- she’s the one that helped get you this job in the first place.

“A couple of people in my class like to get here early, so I just try to arrive before them,” you say. She passes you a clean paintbrush. You reach around her and tear off a paper towel from the dispenser. “Did you dye your hair? It looks so pretty.”

“Yes!” She shakes her head, letting her hair sway. Last time you met her, she had dyed it pink. Now it’s mahogany red, straight and sleek and falling just past her shoulders. She looks a little unreal. “How’s your class going? Are the people okay?”

“Yeah, most of them are pretty nice.”

She passes you another paintbrush to dry. You consider bringing up Steve’s friend, but decide against it.

“That’s good- and you’re welcome, by the way. But okay, listen. Do you remember that one guy I told you about a while back, Dustin? So yesterday I was just sitting at home, and then he texted me…”

With the formalities out of the way, she launches into a story about someone you definitely don’t remember. Still, you humor her, listen to what she has to say, chime in at the right parts and say “really?” and “no way!” too many times. The minutes tick by.

When all of the brushes are washed and dried, you take them, since you’re going to be the one using them next, and start setting up for the class. Rina walks away and grabs her stuff from the counter. She lingers by the doorway, door already propped open, aimlessly scrolling through something on her phone, hesitant to leave for a reason you don’t know. Maybe she has more to say- if that’s even, like, possible.

You set the brushes in a container at the center table, and head over to the shelves on the far wall to pull out more supplies. Unfortunately, today’s class is revolving around watercolor again. It’s drudgery, such a boring medium- dull, unsaturated, painstaking when it comes to detail. You bring out a stack of paper, the least-depressing palettes, and then mason jars for holding water.

You’re setting the last jar on the table when Rina shrieks.

It startles you, making your hand slip.

The jar wobbles over the edge of the table and then falls, shattering into cloudy glass pieces at your feet.

“Shit,” you curse, and look over at her. “Rina, what the hell?”

Standing across from her in the doorway, having arrived early for class as usual, are Steve and his friends, two shades more flustered than usual. Rina is gawking at them.

Okay, they’re attractive, but not that attractive.

Not shriek-worthy attractive.

You sigh loudly and carefully step over the glass, making your way over to them. “Hi, Steve,” you say, and he jolts, like a scared cat. He’s blushing, stepping back into the hallway, hands awkwardly dangling at his sides. His friend is staring at Rina like he’s about to murder her, and you’re staring at him like you’re about to ask him to pass you the broom behind the door.

Because you are.

“Sorry about… that. There’s a broom behind the door, could you pass it to me?”

He opens his mouth to say something, and you are desperate to hear him, even if he’s only going to utter a simple yes, but Rina buts in.

“You did not just ask the Winter Soldier to pass you a broom.”

Who?

“Girl, what?”

All three of you turn to her, cornering back into the wall. She looks even more unreal, eyes blown wide, red creeping up her neck, giving her hair a run for its money, still gawking. You resist the urge to reach out and pull her chin back up, to close her mouth.

She alternates between looking at Steve and at…

“That’s the Winter Soldier,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself, or you, and then steps closer to Steve, who instinctively takes a step back. He’s fully in the hallway, now. “And you’re Captain America.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He stays silent, and you feel bad for him, that’s all you can feel, really- you are confused beyond reason, halfway convinced that Rina is losing her shit, still awaiting the broom, still awaiting Steve’s friend’s words, racking your brain for any image of Captain America or the Winter Soldier that you might have- and coming up completely empty.

You don’t watch the news, like, ever.

Little details float back to you. Steve’s dressing sense, his manners, his muscles…

The baseball caps that both of them are always wearing...

His friend’s glove…

Oh, fuck.

“Are you?” You ask dumbly. The question is meant for both of them, but you only look at one of them while speaking. A glare meets you back- a slight misstep.

You can’t even see your feet, in this situation. You’re walking blind.

Steve crosses his arms and looks at you sternly. He doesn’t look angry, but as close as he can get. “Yes,” he says, completely guarded and unfriendly and not lovely at all. “I thought you knew that.”

You are so stupid- how did you not know that?

“I didn’t,” you say, and you don’t sound convincing at all. Not much fazes you, but you are absolutely, positively fazed right now, and starting to spiral out. “I had no idea- I thought you guys could have been, like, bodyguards, or something, not actual Avengers, oh my god. I’m so sorry, shit, thank you for your service?”

You’re going to end it all- this is so embarrassing.

Steve’s mouth twitches. Rina is scarlet-faced. The Winter Soldier, god, looks so tense, like he might shatter, too, into silent, grumpy pieces all over the floor.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, and marginally relaxes. He stays in the hallway, the Winter Soldier by the door- you should have paid more attention in your tenth grade history class, what is the guy’s name?

Rina peels herself off the wall, and you start to get nervous. There’s a painful silence, with lots of staring, where you’re still trying to coax a few rational thoughts out of your brain, and only coming up with one- Rina needs to leave.

You try to tell her that with your eyes, with a pointed look, but you’re not great at this whole communication-through-expressions thing, so she doesn’t get the hint, or does and just ignores it.

“So, let me get this straight,” she says, tearing the silence like a plastic seal, voice starting to rise, from wonder to excitement, from painless curiosity to danger, “there’s two Avengers taking your class? And you didn’t even recognize them?”

“Nope,” you say, looking away, at a stain on the wall, at the distant glass shards still unswept away on the floor.

“That’s…”

She trails off before she has the chance to call you stupid, because the Winter Soldier gives her a pointed look of his own. Low brows and dark eyelashes, blazing blue eyes- she has no choice but to listen. Your staring was irritating, but his is intimidating.

She scampers away, mumbling something you can’t catch and brushing against Steve as she leaves.

This whole thing is so unprofessional, but at least you can breathe again-

“Here,” the Winter Soldier says, and a broom handle comes into your view.

Just one word, but you’ll take it with open arms. You take the broom from him, give an unreturned, unfamiliarly sheepish smile and head back to the broken glass on the floor.

The broken glass is swept up and tossed in the trash. You avoid looking at the doorway, focusing on other useless tasks instead. Rearranging the supplies on the table, fiddling with the window blinds, chatting with the rest of the class attendees as they start to file in.

Then the class starts and you’re swept back into your demonstration, talking and teaching and showing off different techniques that can be done with different types of brushes. You only look in their direction once, right after showing off some technique you barely remember from art school with a fan brush- they sit at their table near the back, Steve paying attention as usual, his friend silently reacting, as usual.

So they decided to stay- that’s good. Great, even.

Until the next part of the class starts, when everyone gets to work on their own paintings, when you have to stop talking.

You mill around the room, searching for a conversation to join in on or a comment to make, but find none. Then you take a sheet of paper and hopelessly try to draw- search for a distraction and a spark up of an idea, something, anything, and come up completely empty. It’s just...

How famous are they? Like, A-list celebrity famous? Are they offended that you didn’t recognize them- should you start treating them differently? You don’t keep up with this stuff. You have an impossibly long list of other things to worry about- you don’t have the time to worry about this stuff. The Avengers aren’t something you think about ever, because why should you?

If you opened any newspaper or magazine you would find something about them- a charity gala they attended, some recent threat they neutralized, the latest gossip surrounding their personal lives. But those lives are so far detached from your own that you’ve never bothered to look.

You simply don’t care. You’re not a native New Yorker- it’s not like these people are your hometown heroes, that you grew up idolizing them. They save the world time and time again and society is forever indebted to them and all of that, but what are you supposed to do about it?

And most importantly, what is the Winter Soldier’s fucking name?

Enough of this chaos goes on in your mind to make your head hurt. Fuck it, you decide- you’ll face it. You straighten your shoulders as you stand, trying your best to look purposeful as you walk to their table, like you have reason to go over there. Yeah, they’re strong. Genetically enhanced and all of that, and they’re important: they’re Avengers.

But they’re taking your class.

You slide into the chair across from the Soldier without taking the time to gauge their reactions.

“Do other people here know?” You ask.

Steve startles, eyes widening, and then considers the question while swirling his brush in green paint. He’s working on a landscape today, you think. “Shonna might,” he says, not rudely. “But nobody else.”

So maybe not that famous. Or maybe the people here are just like you and don’t care.

But it still doesn’t make sense. “Then why did you think that I knew?”

“Because you talk a lot,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing ever.

“Well, yeah, that’s part of the job-”

Steve cuts you off, and fuck, you hate getting interrupted. But he’s smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to get upset over it. “You talk a lot to us.”

Us?

More like to him.

You take it in stride, don’t let your confidence slip. You’ve purposely angled your head away, and you know the Winter Soldier is staring at you- you can feel it on your cheek, on your shoulder, on every nerve in your face. You don’t look back at him. This revelation hasn’t made him any less unpleasant.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s just as obvious, “because you’re a nice guy, Steve.”

Steve raises his eyebrows so high that they disappear under the brim of his hat. You smile at him as nicely as you can, sugar-sweet, until he can’t take anymore and drops his gaze back to his painting. You turn back to the nameless man across from you.

Winter Soldier.

“Hi,” you say, only to him, and prop your elbows up on the table, resting your face in your hands. “I love the little pattern you have going on with your painting.”

It’s random splotches of black paint- calling it a pattern is an exaggeration. But you carry on.

“This is probably a bad time to ask, and it’s kind of a dumb question, but, like, what’s your name?”

He just barely raises an eyebrow, allowing for a fraction of surprise, before schooling his expression back into his usual mix of anger and boredom, a casual glare and slight frown. For a moment, you wonder what he looks like when he’s happy.

“You don’t know his name?” Steve is in disbelief, and then he winces, and you think he’s been kicked under the table. Abruptly, you laugh.

It rings out. A few people turn and stare, but you brush it all off with another smile.

He’s still staring. You don’t mind it.

The paintbrush in his hand is suddenly unsteady.

“My name is Bucky,” he says, slowly and loudly enough for you to make out the sound of his voice, for the first time ever.

He is definitely bothered by you asking, his mouth drawn tight, and you can’t even take the time to appreciate how cutesy his name is compared to his demeanor, because oh hell. It’s going to be difficult to keep up this whole dislike thing, if his voice sounds like this, low and rough and gritty like sandpaper, pleasantly grating over you and your skin…

You have to consciously remind yourself to keep on smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Things should feel different, but they don’t. Nobody really reacts- everything resumes as normal. Steve focuses on his panting, adding delicate brushstrokes to the branches of a tree. You linger for a moment, and then get up from the table and flutter off to someone else.

For every class, you wear this kitschy apron, paint-stained, with strings tied in a hasty bow against your back that Bucky always aches to even out. Someone tells you something, and you respond eagerly, fully phased out of the past incident.

He stares until he realizes he’s staring, and then drops his eyes back down to his paper.

Steve wanted to attend this class for a number of reasons- he was bored and wanted something to occupy his time, he wanted to revisit an old hobby, he wanted to learn from you- some hip, emerging artist he’s a fan of, whose work he’s been following for a while now, who is seriously talented, although you have yet to prove it. He wanted to go do something separated from the events of his regular life.

So much wanting. Bucky wants to know why you’re so indifferent.

He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that you didn’t know his name, or that you didn’t flinch or gasp or accuse him of something, or pointedly look at his left arm. Should he be thankful? Steve is clearly thankful, already loosening up, freed of any lasting tension.

Bucky just feels wary. You’re unsettling.

You come back over to their table one more time. The sleeves of your shirt are pushed up, and there’s a smear of something dark on your forearm, ink or paint. On one wrist you’re wearing a bracelet made of braided leather. On the other you wear a bulky digital watch.

Practical.

“Everything okay?” You ask, as if something not okay could potentially have happened, in your forty-five minute absence.

Steve fixes you with a friendly smile. Bucky can’t ever bring himself to do the same.

“Yep,” Steve says, and you nod your head, clearly relieved.

“Great!” You glance at him for a spare second, and turn away again.

Everyone he knows is so guarded, walls built high and doors barred shut. Except for you, if Bucky can say that he knows you, the perky art instructor, Steve’s favorite artist. You’re confident and flippant, and that should be a bad pairing, but somehow you can carry yourself within it just fine. Always purposeful in the space you occupy, not reacting to the knowledge of his and Steve’s major, momentous identities.

Bucky wonders, idly, as he blots water over what you so generously called a pattern, why you didn’t.

It’s not like he wants you to acknowledge it, wants you to call him a war criminal or a Rusisan spy. He just wants you to-

He doesn’t know.

The class goes on. An older couple sitting a few tables away have caught your attention, chattering on and on about their personal lives.They have a pet cat that their landlord doesn’t know about, and when they retire they want to move to the seaside in Italy, and in May their son is going to graduate high school.

“High school?” You gasp, loud for no reason. “I hated high school.”

Before the class ends, you take your position at the front of the studio, and talk some more. He knows it’s part of your job, but you are excessive.

There’s an art exhibition going on at some museum, and one of the featured artists is an acquaintance of yours, and on Saturday the admission fee is discounted, and if anybody is interested, you have a stack of flyers on the center table. And you hope that everyone has a good week.

You look at Bucky while finishing up your little monologue, giving a half-smile that’s for the whole class, but seemingly only directed at him. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, you’re looking somewhere else.

***

“Morning, pal, you ready to go?”

Steve gives him a hopeful smile as he peels an orange.

Bucky’s hair is still wet from his shower, dripping water onto his shirt. It’s early, too early to go anywhere. He doesn’t even know why he’s awake- usually after his wake-of-dawn runs, he falls back asleep, or lies down and just stares at his ceiling, thinking, until he grows restless enough to get up and do something. But today, the restlessness came much sooner, so he got up much sooner, and it might already be a mistake.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, next to Sam, trying to think of something that Steve might have had planned for today, and coming up completely empty. “Go where?”

Steve looks hurt, for a brief second. “The exhibition at the museum, remember?”

Oh.

That.

“I’m not going to that,” Bucky says, harshly enough for it to be dropped.

Steve does not drop it. “Hey, come on. Just look at it.”

From his back pocket, Steve pulls out a flyer, one of the flyers you had out on Monday, folded up in a neat square- when did Steve pick one of those up? He holds it out, and Bucky, wishing he was asleep again, takes it.

He unfolds it, and the words are written in tiny letters, and the few photos on the paper are in color but too grainy to make out, and it gives him a slight headache, but he pretends to look it over. Sam leans into him to see it, loudly crunching cereal in Bucky’s ear.

“Looks cool, Rogers,” Sam says, and Steve grins, and now Bucky is the bad guy in the situation, for not wanting to go, even though Sam isn’t going either.

Bucky passes the flyer back without reading a single word.

“I’m not going,” he says, again.

But Steve is relentless. He sets the orange peels aside and gives him a look, and Bucky can already feel his resolve starting to crumble, and it’s kind of pathetic, really. Does he not understand that Bucky is already doing as much as he can?

“Why not?”

He picks the easiest answer.

“I don’t want to.”

Steve’s brow furrows as he splits the orange into two, giving half to Bucky. Sam slurps the milk from his cereal bowl.

They’re all blissfully silent.

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says suddenly, almost begging. “I really want to see it.”

“I don’t-” He falters, he’s losing the battle. “How many people are there gonna be?”

Steve lights up. Bucky tries to stay indignant, tries to keep his face twisted in dislike, but it’s difficult with Steve. He’s always so full of optimism, has so much of it that it spills out through the seams, rubs off onto whoever’s closest.

“Not that many,” Steve says, like a promise, shaking his head. “That’s why we should go now.”

“Will she be there?”

Sam perks up.

Steve frowns. “No? Or wait, maybe. It’s a public place- I don’t know. She could be.”

It’s miles off from the answer he wants, but again, for Steve, he’ll take it. Bucky ignores Sam leaning across the counter like an idiot and asking “who’s she?” and eats his orange slices in silence.

***

Huge, bulbous heads, and beady little eyes. The limbs are long and wavy and contorted in the weirdest positions, seas of arms and legs and joints, women twisted over each other in gnarled embraces, a man with his arms twirling over and over again around his own torso. And the colors- a complete eclectic mess of everything- blue, red, yellow, green, purple. Everything.

You walk through the museum floor one, two, three times. The paintings on display are unsettling and ugly, and you’re on the verge of tears.

They’re gorgeous. Pain thrown on a canvas, told through canvas. It’s overwhelming- you’re overwhelmed, and you can’t do anything else about it. The museum just opened and there’s barely any people around- you can wallow in your sadness as much as you want to, for now.

Or maybe you’ll wallow in your frustration, instead.

This… you want to create like this.

But you don’t have it.

It being an impossible, nearly unattainable type of pain, or misery or anger or any other emotion so strong and visceral that you could translate it into something like this, something that evokes something else from other people. From an audience.

You might have had something like that once, but that’s all too far behind you now. Forgettable. What you need right now is an idea, a spark of inspiration, a single coherent thought. A confirmation that you aren’t completely lost.

You wander back to a painting in a far corner, all alone in a small alcove. A red woman, with her head nestled in green grass and legs wrapping around the sun, quite literally head over heels for it. Her mouth is wide open, gaping, calling, wailing, maybe. She has a hooked nose and a mole on one of her arms, and her white dress has fallen down to pool on the grass, and her legs are lithe and unshaven, prickly like the grass, just like the yellow spikes of the sun, drawn almost comically.

How do you even- how do you even come up with things like this?

By living an interesting life, probably. Through not being boring.

You stay there for a while. Long enough that more people start to file in, pretentious art students wearing all black, eccentric people with awesome haircuts, tourists. They peer over your shoulders, awkwardly, waiting for you to move. When you don’t, they leave you to be, giving you a rude look or two that you pay no mind to. There’s space on either side of you, if they’re so desperate to see. Sidling up right against you is kind of weird, but you’ll excuse it, for this painting.

Eventually, you realize that you should probably get going.

You’ve been standing so long that your legs are starting to ache, and there’s countless other Saturday errands you have to run- doing your laundry, buying groceries, calling up your mom- boring Saturday things to do.

You leave the red woman, regrettably. The fabric of your sleeve comes back dry when you wipe your eyes, even though you feel fully washed away, feel like you’re floating as you drift over to the elevator.

The doors slide open and a few people file out, and then it’s empty, thankfully. You step inside, press the button for the ground floor, wait for the doors to fully close-

“Wait,” a voice calls.

You’re not rude- you press the button to hold open the door.

When it fully opens, Steve steps inside, followed by Bucky.

You’re still out of it. You don’t even realize who they are, not until the doors have slid shut and the floor jolts as the elevator starts its descent and they’ve been staring at you for a solid five seconds.

“Oh, hi,” you say, after too much silence. You need to get yourself together. “You guys came!”

Put a little pep in your step! And more joy in your voice- nobody wants to listen to someone so drained.

Steve shrugs. “I wanted to see it.”

Bucky just smolders, clearly saying with his silence, “I didn’t.”

“Did you like it?”

Steve considers your question. The elevator stops at another floor and the doors slide open, but there’s nobody waiting to step inside. You wait for Steve to gather his words together, sure that he’s trying to come up with a nice way to voice whatever he’s thinking, which is definitely not nice. There’s no way that he liked the art, not one chance.

“It was… intriguing,” he says, at last. Neither of them are wearing hats today, because the museum doesn’t allow it. Even in this artificial light, his hair shines, golden-blond. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you say, without wasting a second. “The one of the red woman- it’s probably the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

“It’s only January,” Bucky grumbles.

His voice shocks you, sends an ice-cold jolt up your spine that you definitely dislike.

Steve turns to him, peering over your shoulder, surprised and disappointed. The two of them have a silent conversation with their eyes and you stand in the midst of it, waiting for the goosebumps to settle back down, waiting for the chill to go away.

It’s difficult- he clearly doesn’t like you, either- and even if he has his own troubling little backstory, which you don’t care enough about to google, it’s not justified.

But…

It almost makes his aggression... amusing.

“It is January,” you say politely, dismissing him. “Great observation.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors side open. You exit in step with Steve, with Bucky right on your heels.

You all stand around in the museum lobby, a wide hallway down from the giftshop and a small cafe.

“Are you headed out?” Steve asks. He puts his hands in his pockets, feet planted wide.

Bucky crosses his arms. He’s wearing all black. If it were anyone else, you would make a joke- he could almost pass off as a pretentious art student, if the outlines of his body weren’t so visible through his clothes, all taut muscle and sharp angles. His hair curls over his shoulders, prettier than anything you’ve seen on any girl.

These guys are Avengers, you think, and proceed to push the thought away.

They look so… un-Avenger-y.

“Um.” You press a hand against your forehead, trying to formulate a response. Chores suddenly seem miles away, the last thing you should be doing. You have all of Sunday to complete them, anyway.

“I was going to get something to eat from the cafe first,” you say, nodding over in its direction. “You guys wanna join me?”

You don't know why you look at Bucky when you say it

“Sure!” Steve says, all cheery, still standing alongside you. He smiles and his teeth are pearly white.

Of course his teeth are pearly white. Dentists everywhere are probably cowering, clutching their little metal instruments for dear life.

Then he hesitates, and turns to Bucky. “If you have nothing else to do, I mean.”

Bucky pauses. You and Steve both stare him down.

“They have these raspberry-almond muffins that are to die for,” you say, like it’ll convince him.

He rolls his eyes. Bored and still gorgeous- if only.

“I’m free,” he says, and you don’t know why he looks at you when he says it.

You pay the bored teenager working the cash register with cash. He gives you your change, and when he turns away to prepare your order, you shove half of the bills and all of your coins into the tip jar.

Bucky sits at the farthest table with Steve. His knees can barely fit underneath it, and the tabletop is sticky, and he’s now willingly spending more time here, and with no disguise there is no way that he isn’t going to be recognized by someone, and he doesn’t know why he hasn’t fully booked it yet.

Because…

He doesn’t know.

Maybe because you’re not asking for anything from him, aren’t minding that he’s sullen or unapproachable or anything else- his presence seems to be enough for you, which is bothersome, and at the same time, mildly exciting.

“Are you having fun?” Steve asks, while you smile at the teenager handing you plates of muffins, little glasses of some milky-espresso-coffee drink.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, while you start your journey back to the table, and Steve opens his mouth to respond, already bothered, and Bucky’s already guilty, but then Steve hops up to help you carry everything back.

You sit down laughing. Steve is laughing, too. The corners of your eyes crease and he can see all of your teeth, and you look at him for a split second, and then turn away before he can get a read on your expression.

He sits in silence, while you and Steve trade jokes and stories and easy banter, talking about art and local politics and all types of things he can’t bring himself to care about, things that Steve is relishing in. You’re witty, apparently, or at least quick enough to get a few quick laughs out of Steve, and Bucky would never say it, he’s barely thinking it, but he appreciates you for it.

And the muffin isn’t quite to die for, but it’s okay.

During a lull in the conversation, you break your attention away from Steve and turn back to Bucky. You look concerned, almost, still smiling but without showing all of your teeth, leaning towards him like you’re about to tell him a secret.

“I never apologized for before,” you say, and Bucky immediately sits up on edge.

Even Steve goes wary, eyes narrowing.

You suddenly give a long, weary sigh, and press a hand against the back of your neck, like whatever you’re about to say is going to be so tedious. “For my friend flipping out when she saw you guys- she’s literally crazy, she’s always doing too much- but on her behalf, I’m sorry.”

The silence following afterwards is deafening.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, after a long moment, while you’re still looking at Bucky- your eyes make his skin itch, and he doesn’t say anything else. “She’s not the worst that we’ve gotten.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, great,” you say, and you slump back in your seat, looking away, back to your half-eaten muffin. You pick off an almond from the top and eat it. “Glad we got that out of the way. I just thought it would be weird if I didn’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, so polite, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve his thanks. “Have you known her for a long time?”

“Yes, oh my god,” you say, and readjust yourself in your chair again, accidentally bumping your knee against Bucky’s, but not apologizing for it. He glances underneath the table, at your entire bare knee, visible through a rip in your jeans. “Rina- her name is Rina- was my college roommate for a while.”

“You went to college?” Steve asks.

“I have an art degree,” you say dryly, “which was… an okay decision, I guess. Sometimes I think I should have just dropped out and done, like, stand-up or something.”

You clearly don’t want to discuss it, leaving the last part as some sort of rhetorical joke. Steve takes the hint and nods, already closing the chapter, and you take a sip from your little glass, finally silent. The foam on the top of the drink sticks to your mouth until you lick it off. Bucky replies to it anyway.

“Why stand-up?”

You turn to him so fast that he almost misses you faltering, and give him a dazzling smile. He thinks of your bare knee under the table, and tries not to sweat. “Because I’m funny, Bucky.”

He doesn’t like how his name sounds when you say it. “Tell me a joke.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, and clasp your hands together. Steve is watching, rapt at attention. “Let me think real quick- oh, I have one. Which beverage has a black belt in karate?”

Bucky waits.

You wait, expecting something from him.

It’s Steve that has to say, “I don’t know, which beverage?”

“Fruit punch,” you say, exaggerating the last part, and Bucky just keeps on waiting.

Steve cracks a small smile.

“Let me tell you another,” you say. “What type of phone does a piece of fruit carry?”

Steve takes a few wild guesses. He’s enjoying this, and you are too, both of you feeding off of each other. “A phone-fruit. A fruit-phone. A frone?”

You shake your head. “A blackberry.”

Bucky doesn’t tell you that he has no idea what you’re talking about.

“Tough crowd,” you say, when he doesn’t react. “Don’t worry, I have more. Where do you go on red and stop on green?”

“Where?’ Steve asks, waiting, leaning forward in anticipation.

“When you’re eating a watermelon!”

It is not funny, it’s painfully unfunny, and maybe that’s why you and Steve burst out laughing. Bucky steals a glance at your watch, since he doesn’t wear one of his own. It’s nearing noon- how has so much time passed? Why is he still even here when he doesn’t even like you?

“Why are all of them about fruit?”

You look at him like his question is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard. “What food is the best listener?”

Bucky just sits. All the foam in his little espresso thing has dissolved, having been left untouched. He doesn’t like the taste of coffee- too bitter, and caffeine doesn’t work on him, anyway. Maybe he should drink it, because you paid for it, and because you didn’t make a comment about old-fashioned manners or chivalry when Steve offered to at first, just shrugged and got in line.

He knows that you won’t care.

The drink sits on its own, glass beading with condensation.

“Corn is the best listener,” you say, without waiting for Steve to throw his questions or guesses at you, without waiting for Bucky to spit out another sentence. “Because it’s all ears.”

“That wasn’t funny,” he says, and glares at the spot beside your head.

You nod sympathetically, and he thinks again of the rips in your jeans. “I know. But it was about a vegetable.”

Oh.

You stare at him straight-faced, crossing your arms over your chest. Steve does the same, and then he realizes- the two of you are a bunch of kids, punks, juveniles- mocking his stature, pretending to be serious, somehow not offending him.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says. “You’re…”

He can’t even help it. He looks back at you and his face works on its own. He gives a single, dry chuckle, but he’s smiling, and dragging his hand over his face, scrubbing it off just as fast, but you still see it, and smile back and gently nudge his knee again underneath the table, and then turn back away again, and he’s still staring at your hair while you take big bite out of your to-die-for raspberry-almond muffin, already back in conversation with Steve.

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crackcrocs · 3 years

Text

DEATH WILL ONLY BE THE BEGINNING #3

3. Transformation Central

the entities of my personalities would like to come together in one voice that speaks through me, we or I call this collection of words from the mustiest corners of my brain to this note page to voice something that might come close to what I feel underneath the skin I wear. In all my unorganised words- I might even go as far as to call this a poem, titled:

‘TRANSFORMATION CENTRAL’

sub characters in my head would appreciate if this could be visualised & understood through as deep a lens as humanly possible. even I confuse myself so if you can decode or relate to any of this, wonderful. If not, I’m locked in my own mind, swallowed the keys to my soul.

SIMILARITIES & INTERCONNECTEDNESS BETWEEN HUMAN & PLANT CONSCIOUSNESS EXIST! if you look closely at my nose freckles you’ll see the resemblance of the constellations above. if you look at the human veins & the layout of a tree, this is further proof.

{VISUALS THROUGH A SEPIA WINDOW STARING @ THE AUTUMN LEAFS; IMAGINING THE SEEDS UNDERNEATH, THROUGH NUMB ROOT VESSELS THAT PERMEATE THROUGH EVERY MEMBRANE OF MY EXTERNAL TO INTERNAL ENVIRONMENT}

~FEATURING THE VICIOUS CYCLE OF DEPRESSION & PERFECTIONISM.

here goes:

What is this part of my mind ?

If you want; delve inside-

I may look sweet like Alice,

but underneath it all

I deteste looking in the mirror

-cos I see the mad hatter.

my inner child needs a platter-

full of care not distortion & abuse pls.

less fibbin would’ve been a breeze.

now following the dead fish in the stream!

HOW on EARTH do I fit with the cod & the Haddock?

I’m the rainbow fish- beat & battered.

dim my own light cos I’m too afraid to shine.

alone.

thieves tried to steal my shiny scales.

I sat and watched them grow.

In the sea realm they were mean gargantuan selfish whales, with poisonous shark fangs & alligator tails. scorpion hands. (gremlins)

and still they make me feel like the alien-

I cant take it.

Make it make sense ?

I can’t.

controller in my hand-

Off balance stance.

anxiously I move round like a wobbly jelly.

where’s the button to balance my chi & shut out the ego ?

the teLLIE telling lies to our vision!

change the channel aura terracotta orange- daily dosage of vitamin D & C.

catch me sun gazing by the sea

head buzzin like a bee.

speaking from a dusty box

stuck on top of a forbidden shelf

cos I dunno how else.

I’m tryna delve deep but forgot how to dive

How can i visualise? scenery foggy-

the establishment man with the glue gun got me xD

inner monk burning but at peace

Cos I refuse to believe

If the only way is the American dream

Interconnected; like the frog in science -let’s dissect it!

down to every floating atom spirit neighbouring your door

subcategories & divisions, it’s more!

than the rich and the poor -prism that’s been built

do we all feel like a performance monkey on stilts?

will my data be extracted & used to mould a robots personality some day?

well obviously not.

does the price of our lives all amount down to slave ways?

LABOUR YAY!

but morals & values it seems we’ve forgot.

sO If i don’t speak its cos I’m lost.

or maybe i’m enlightened-

Standing at the edge of the porch;

watching TRYING to understand how the flowers grow.

questioning eVERYTHING man made!

I’ve stepped out of the perfect picture frame

I can see the coal pollute the sky

I need to hop on the train-

but I’m comfortable

Sunset to sunrise statue standing still.

what’s the ingredients to life’s yucky pie?

I’ve exceeded mental lotteries.

Sanity n universal peace would be a trophy.

TIL then I’ll be crafting & shaping a solid pottery reality,

with a few pence, gum, and a bandana of belongings tied to stick.

thinking one day I’ll be laying the bricks

& building a kingdom of bliss.

guess for now I’ll use the intricate delicate materials in my tool box- that’s all I’ve got.

might have a long way- maybe worth a shot.

I observe, cruisin in the sky.

dunno why..

I jus look @ the hills.

Only time & history reveals.

no thanks mr men-

I don’t want your prescription pills.

there’s enough propaganda as it is.

I won’t jump on the merry go round-

til my core trusts & envisions we’ll actually feel safe!

I don’t want to take part in this faux fur, sweet nothings & a jack in a box punching blur, so called future.

oh and genuinely thanks quarantine-for once again, I can hear bird sounds!

guess this is me tryna speak out loud!!!...

it’s not thrilling

system time killing everything-

mother nature’s oxygen

everything is nauseating

clock ticking, I better start creating.

they should write a book on how to be free when the system set us up to believe that we’re tied to the cut down trees that gives them a currency of greed that they breed.

If blindfolded, I don’t wanna eat what they feed.

Whilst they profit of us -tell us smile and the bandits don’t wanna see us happy.

they’re too busy robbing all our hoods.

In exchange for the silence, they’ve granted us with a 21’st century fashion garment of a slave muzzle! labelled conform.

More delusion to add to the already desensitised norm.

zootonic diseases, welcome covid 19 to your plastic kiddy tea party!- apologies for questioning your motive!

Been handed too many hot plates with a post it note saying HOLD THIS.

we’ll be okay just hush.

Same Shan message told to every generational seed.

If we don’t TRY overpower-

we’ll never succeed!

it’s getting even more scary.

Artificial intelligence.

Societal negligence..

my canvas isn’t clear-dunno am I schizo ?

finger painting, cos it makes more sense.

struggling to blend.

borderline conspiracist pretending to be fine;

moving the goal post, hovering above the race line.

who made the chalk? who set the lanes?

I wanna know it all, maybe¿ far past insane.

I can fit all I need in the palm of my hand,

Maybe even less! cut a finger off not sure it’ll even add stress.

hi from personality Peter, even sober- always away with the fairies.

Pass the pixie dust, I’m in a rush

Found shelter in the comfort of pan physicists timer, no not the one on your phone!

Ring ring, skeptical! is it my demon or my mommy on the phone?

I’m stuck in the airspace of an infinite glass filled with beach particles trying to form myself standing up still attempting not to slip through the hands of my very own discovery.

time is running out & ill go when I go.

I’m sitting inside the fly trap -

stardust, chakras can you feel the sensation colors like a starburst.

deep emotion is a curse.

still entrapped in the sand dune of nothingness-

flipping a domino monopoly of solidified thoughts as I sway with the wind.

I’m the trapped sandbox in the playground & the slipping sand in my own hands.

Inhale chronic but I wanna enter the quiet realm of white noise

-color of a wife beater vest, calmer than the ease in ignorance of a red neck.

sadomasochistic, messes.

but oblivion, seems like less stress.

Unfortunately I can see, with all eyes

empathetic paralysis, gets me vexed.

Punching truth into the core of your chest!

It’s not funny, neither is the one on the receiving end..

My limbs are numb

& im done playing octopus alchemy.

I want minimalism & life can be simple,

Evil entities have made it hard.

Maybe I’ve got stars above my head like an old cartoon character.

But I can’t make it make sense, are they out to get me. worse all of us? Or have I bottled myself tryna re mesh the broken shards,

I feel glued to the floor cos there’s a pretty price to pay if you want more.

I see life through a different lense, maybe born downside up, Benjamin button I came out the back door-

Outside looking in, digesting confusion.

Is to be a product of environment a sin?

rummage through my messy brain.

personalities sardine packed in this tin

I’m the wizard of my mania

Scaring & attracting the black crows-

they’re my friends.

Sometimes still a cowardly lion

Roaring pain & true riddles at the wrenching wicked witch posse of the west.

will my voice ever be loud enough to shed light wit my words and grate the sweet zest

In to the cake i’m baking?

Probably not.

Got more thoughts than the autumn leaves collected by the garden rake. alone.

gathering & storing the pains of yesterday.

sometimes I stay in line

Other times in my head Im on my hands juggling out of time.

but I really don’t mind if I lose or win.

we all have a pace

I jus don’t want the 1% to win the race.

It’s unfair!

Humanity does anyone care ??

Half lady

half fairy

Good MOOrning-

from my anagrams.

no I’m not a cow.

twister fidget spinner brain in the flesh-

form of expression this time around lyrics.

feel I’m jus a silly rubix

& still mourning

I don’t like dairy

pass the oat milk.

Are you aware the industry are sabotaging our diets?

we want peace!

the powerful elite-

perceive & deceive

the scene they want us to be.

chuck the narcissistic psychopathic pie back in our face-

every time we almost found & addressed the Programme & Control man in the maze.

evil & extroverted- he said that the anarchists have to be the cause of riots.

working isn’t class. I said let’s switch roles- he said pass.

It’s piss! Who’s got the bomb & the guns?

Who got the land? off wit OUR heads 4 fun!

it’s pure scary.

Pharmaceutics handshake.

with the cooked up suppliers, also crooked wack liars.

I’d rather shot a gallon of bloody blubbery infused slaughter house milk

If it meant we didn’t use cocoons for silk.

why not add a drizzle of bleach to the concoction & maybe that’s a reach.

every time I guzzle fakeness, it taste peak.

I want real fruit, what next-

a seedless peach ???

what’s the difference between a weirdo & a freak?

layers & levels to the shit.

Magnifying tapping the window of society, I’ll be puffing green til I get to the land of Oz.

sponge soaked soaking up emotions

Suffocated by deduction of care in life

feel entrapped in this paradigm

what am I thinking ?

got the verbs & a cuppa tea

It’s mixed with torment & desire to be free.

I’d rather be awake than asleep

When I get too comfy I feel weak

Demons they reap

underneath

rip the seems as I bleed

Concrete

Solid

Emotions

Is all you’re getting

It’s all sad scenes in the imagery I’m setting

people need care we seem to be forgetting

why are we in debt wit

a posse of clowns

pay the price so we can get a frown

here’s some seratonin

quit ya moaning

life is all sound

aw yeh¿ if you’re not an over thinker!

product of environment- Sirius flickers

theyve done a ritual like it’s Wicca

now here’s your gold sticker..

for managing to co operate.

In this world fuelled off of evil n hate

waking ups a bloody disgrace

I am not amazed.

Man I love my fam n my friends

Just hate this part of my brain that feels the need to play pretend

sometimes I feel insane

but I’m calm

need to escape so I don’t do harm

Gold lioness in the sky by the sea

with puff the magic dragon

fire out my mouth, fuel helps me breathe

I will shine bright

Promise imma be alright

even tho I’m not sure why

I function like this

I wanna be myself

It’s just hard to find the comfortability

To feel happy and pretty

Lay me down on a bed of roses

Ring around sing about overdose emotions

Sorry dunno how to communicate

Heads in a constant debate

Should I go or should I stay

My head clashes

Burnin the next ciggy as my thoughts become ashes.

#LCZABIBU #deathwillonlybethebeginning

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angryhausfrau-writes · 3 years

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I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 13 - In Which Charles Vane Wanders Towards Domesticity Via Bareknuckle Boxing And Jack Feels Feelings

Charles has been... not ignoring Jack – he's never cold or brusque – brusquer than usual, anyway. But he is giving Jack space that he's never really given him before. Space that they've never really had, living in doorless squalid squats always in arms reach of each other and often closer. But it's fairly easy to stay out of each other's way in a house this big.

And Jack has been exerting plenty of effort to stay out of Charles's way. Unfortunately, Charles has noticed – how could he not, when Jack routinely followed him like a particularly persistent shadow. And damn Anne for pointing that fact out, for now Jack can't help but acknowledge the truth of his long infatuation – there, that's a good word for it – infatuation, not crush, no matter what Anne says.

Anyway, Jack's is pretty sure Charles thinks he's is mad at him when in fact the problem is that entirely the opposite is true – Jack is lovestruck and giddy in Charles's mere presence. Practically doodling little hearts with his and Charles's names written inside them in pink glitter gel pen like it's still the nineties and he's just discovered the magic of perfectly coiffed boy bands. Which Chaz would tease Jack mercilessly about if he ever found out – tease him for both his teenage taste in music and for his feelings for Charles.

So Jack has continued to cloister himself in his workroom with Christine to work on his next fashion show. An activity that isn't quite as much of a safe harbor after the conversation Anne had with her. Something about managing Jack when he gets in a “mood” - as if Jack has moods! And if he does, as a rich eccentric creative genius type person, he's more than entitled to whatever moods he cares to have. So there!

Charles has been out of the house more often than not over the past few weeks. Partly because Jack's been holed up with Christine, putting together another fashion show. And every time Charles has tried to butt in – to remind Jack to eat something, damn it, or to just take a break – he's been very summarily excused by Jack. And ok fine Jack's in a tizzy, what else is new? But it's not like he really wants to be around for that shit.

And. And. And he's got that itch under his skin that means he needs either a fight or a fuck.

Fucking's off the table, cuz he's Jack's pretend boyfriend and they're supposed to be monogamous. Not that he couldn't find someone reasonably discrete and reasonably removed from the world they're moving in now. The world of rich marks who think a night of slumming it means going to clubs that only have twenty pound cocktails on the menu rather than fifty. So he could find someone who'd never have a chance of encountering one of the rick fucks who'd know him as Jack's boy toy and not as a scourge of the streets.

Hell, he could go find a lower class prostitute who doesn't give half a fuck about anything about him other than that he's got cash to pay for their services. Christine may even have been amenable before Jack had driven her crazy with all his ridiculous demands. But he had and now she flees the house at the end of every day, desperate to be away from his shit. Or maybe she's got something to rush too, rather than away from – Charles doesn't know or really care to. Regardless, that's that plan scuppered.

Of course, there's always other fish in the sea. Or corner boys and girls looking for a John. Christine is just the most available. But there's another reason he doesn't go seek someone else out – another prostitute or even just someone looking for a casual fuck after a long day of being a boring corporate drone.

It's because Charles knows now, after months of collecting information and blackmail on various rich shitstains, just how far some of them are willing to go to see their enemies brought low. Hell, Flint's boyfriend – or husband or whatever their actual relationship is with one another – Thomas Hamilton's own father had him exiled. Left him homeless and destitute and unacknowledged simply because his relationship with Flint might someday be a liability to his business.

All the so-called civilized motherfuckers are so ready to toss aside anyone they think of as lesser and then climb the pile of corpses to even more wealth and power. And Charles refuses to hand any one of those sorry fucks any leverage against him or Jack or any one of their crew. Refuses to see their plans, everything they've worked for, thrown away for a quick fuck.

So Charles keeps himself company. And starts looking for a fight.

He's not so far separated from his days on the streets that he doesn't still remember how to find the underground bare knuckle boxing ring that floats through London's abandoned warehouses and highrises. The place where all the flotsam and jetsam of the criminal underbelly congregate to see a little blood spilt. Or to spill it.

And Charles is not so far separated from his days on the streets that the guy watching the door – some big hulking bearded fucker who dwarfs Charles – doesn't gape and stare but still let him in. In to the derelict parking garage that was meant to serve a set of luxury condominiums that were never built and so the land remained solely as a tax dodge for an absentee landlord to launder his actual business's shady money through.

Charles descends into the dank depths of the service corridors underneath the garage. And he stands face to face with a ghost.

Some fucking idiot, with more money than taste – not that Charles himself is a paragon of that, but some of Jack's obsessive rants about good design sense had to have rubbed off on him – some stupid fuck has installed a huge black door, mirror shiny, at the entrance to the illegal fighting ring. And it reflects his face from endless murky depths.

He looks like a dead man.

He looks like he did before. Before prison and before Jack taking over the crew and before Max and before playing pretend. Before dressing like a rich fuck almost too stupid and self obsessed to notice anything beyond his own reflection in the mirror.

He looks strong. He looks casually cruel – looks like a man whose only goal is to gather strength about himself and to crush out weakness. He looks ready to spill blood and have his own spilled.

Charles pushes open the stupid, ugly, ostentatious door.

His reflection may not look changed, but everyone there, all the hard fuckers, all the street trash, they know what happened to him. They know where he's been and what – who – he's been doing. So he gets a lot of shit on first walking in, shit for being a poof and a dandy. For moving out of the streets and into a house – a big posh house and not a crumbling council estate. But mostly he takes shit for him and Jack being bum buddies.

Cuz news like that's always going to travel right down to the lightless, scummy depths of the lowest places in London. Especially when it's about someone like him. Someone strong, since they see that as a weakness. Someone masculine, since they see that as inherently emasculating.

No one had been surprised about Jack swinging both ways, for instance. He looks like a poof and acts like a poof, no big mystery there. And him so unapologetically larger than life like he is, it's not like he kept it quiet. Although the street's acceptance of him might have had something to do with Anne always lurking at his shoulder, ready to slit an adversary's throat before they even knew it had been cut. And with Charles too backing Jack when he'd been in charge of the crew, making it known that if anyone fucked with him they'd have Charles Vane to deal with.

Charles himself, though. That is a surprise. One that ripples around the ring of fighters like the wave that pulls back before a tsunami is unleashed.

Charles steps into the center of the ring. A dare. A challenge.

And once he's knocked a few dozen heads together, knocks a few dozen teeth in. Once he's standing bloody and bruised but unbowed, with his vanquished enemies at his feet. Well, they all leave it alone after that.

Cuz he's still Charles fucking Vane.

And he feels that more clearly here than in the posh streets of Camden or the West End they now frequent. Feels it in the brutality of the fight for his place here, his life. Feels it in the friendlier sparring that replaces it once he's proved he's worthy to stand among them – sparring no less brutal than his earlier fights, but much more full of camaraderie and less full of a genuine desire to kill one another. And it's nice to feel like his old self, to know he's still him even after everything that's changed.

But that doesn't mean it's not nice to go home at the end of the night, bruised and bloody and with his blood finally cooled and settled under his skin. Nice to emerge from the dank underground into the grey miserable filthy dawn of London streets and know he's got a home to go to.

Jack... Well, he's not waiting up for Charles, because that would imply that he's anxious about where he's gone. And Charles is a grown man, more than capable of going wherever he'd like at whatever hour he'd like.

But he may admit to waking up a bit earlier than usual and, when he passes by Charles's room and finds his bed empty and unslept in, drinking his morning coffee in the sitting room that faces the street so that he can see Charles first thing when he arrives.

Not to be a nag or a mother hen or anything. But simply because he finds he's rather missed having Charles around – barging into his space and interrupting his work and generally making a nuisance of himself. And it's Jack's own fault Charles has started going out more. It's Jack who's been driving him away. But Jack misses him.

And Jack's going to nut up and tell Charles he's missed him. Because he doesn't want to keep going on this way. And his feelings aren't Charles's problem and Jack never should have made them be.

So he's going to fix this, he is...

And then he sees Charles coming up the street. At first, Jack thinks he's just drunk – or fucked up. He's moving a little strangely, like his legs won't quite carry him in a straight line. But as Charles gets closer, Jack can see that he's dead sober – and that he's been beaten to a pulp. His hair is stuck to his face with blood from the cut on his forehead and he's got one hell of a bruise blooming on his cheek and his knuckles are split all to hell.

He looks wrecked. He looks almost as bad as he had after he'd killed Albinus.

Jack runs out to him, where he's standing looking lost and alone out on the pavement.

Charles smiles at Jack as he approaches - Jack who must make a ridiculous figure, rushing outside in nothing but a silk robe and fuzzy slippers - and his teeth are stained red with blood and the smile is really more of a baring of teeth.

“Chaz.” And there Jack stops, because he's really not certain how to go on.

“Jack.” And Charles's voice is steady, even if his footsteps aren't.

Jack places an arm under Charles's and helps him towards the house, towards the hanging open front door and the warmth and safety beyond. “Charles, what the fuck happened?”

Charles slumps against the hallway wall while Jack turns to close the door. “Got in a fight.” And he's grinning up at Jack, looking absolutely fucking unrepentant.

Jack throws his hands up in exasperation. “Really Chaz? You got in a fight? I never would have guessed.”

Charles's grin just gets even more smug.

“Who, pray tell, were you fighting? And why?”

Charles moves further into the house, to the hallway bathroom, where he starts dabbing at his cuts with a delicate hand towel. And yeah, that stain's probably never coming out. But it wasn't his decision to buy white towels, Jack. “Just some street toughs. And as for why...” He shrugs. “Sometimes a man just wants a fight. You know how it is.”

Jack certainly does not know how it is. He's always had the philosophy that fights are to be avoided at all costs – he would never seek out a, a recreational skirmish.

And Charles seems to realize that, because he turns away from Jack and begins dabbing in earnest at the cut on his forehead with a now dampened – and frighteningly bloody - hand towel.

Jack purses his lips but squeezes into the bathroom alongside him. “Here, Charles. You'd better let me do that.”

#black sails #charles vane/jack rackham #anne bonny/max #i travel troubled oceans #chapter 13

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chatsanova · 4 years

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Have Another Go At It and Hope For More Than Change: Ch 1

I’ve been sitting on this AU for a while and quarantine as left me more than enough time to write so here so trauma and angst ML fic. There’s some time fuckery, and swearing, as well as major character deaths (think Infinity War here)

AO3

“Cat Noir get back!” Chaos fills Paris as akuma victims attack from all sides.

“I’m not leaving you, my lady!” Bee, Rena, and Carapace have all fallen. It was just the two of them, with no options left.

“Noir, I’m not asking!” Hawkmoth and Paon, now a lot more powerful than the months before, attacked on both fronts, Le Paon causing large and terrifying creatures from the nightmares of people passed out on the streets. Ladybug lost her yo-yo to the reincarnated Jack-ady, Cat Noir’s staff broken in half by Dark Blade. They both had used through their Miraculous. Cataclysm barely effective, the Lucky Charm postponed the inevitable. They were surrounded by past villains, new and old. Some of them seemed to hold a grudge from the last time they were defeated. These were citizens of Paris that Ladybug had failed. She should have known it wasn’t enough to just capture akumas. She should have gone to the source. She should have been proactive. This was her fault.

“Fall back!” Cat screams but Ladybug’s thoughts drive her to hesitate and in a rumbling of the streets Stoneheart picks up Ladybug crushing her body down hard. She screams in pain and passes out in his hand.

“LADYBUG!” tears spill down his cheeks as he scrambles for some semblance of a plan. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Today was supposed to be normal.

The booming voice of Hawkmoth shakes the streets, “CAT NOIR, I’VE CAPTURED LADYBUG. I HAVE HER MIRACULOUS. GIVE UP YOURS AND I WILL GRANT YOU YOUR LIFE.”

Cat Noir collapses on the ground, holding back dry heaving sobs. Stoneheart releases Ladybug in front of Hawkmoth, her body drops like a sack of bricks. He can hear the thud. Hawkmoth reaches down. Cat Noir is stuck. Body heavy, tired. He can’t move, solidified to the ground as if he is part of it. He needs to save her. She’s hurt, she’s...about to be revealed. He has to… save her. He rises from the ground.

“I have to say, Cat Noir,” Hawkmoth drags out his words, as if he has all the time in the world, “You... are... loyal. Bring him to me.”

Someone, he doesn’t know who, lifts Cat Noir off the ground to drop him off at Hawkmoth’s feet. He buckles once more, pathetically. His knees are weak, and every muscle in his body shakes from exhaustion. Hawkmoth leans over and removes an earring from Ladybug’s ear. “No,” he attempts to scream, but his voice cracks instead. He wants to close his eyes, for her sake, but it’s too late. Her transformation slips off as Hawkmoth removes the second earring. Marinette. He thought about how he would react to this many nights before. What his reaction might be to seeing who his lady is. Would they see each other and have sudden epiphanies about how much they loved each other and celebrate with a dance atop the Eiffel Tower or the Notre Dame Cathedral? Together they could do anything. A joyful celebration of mutual love and respect seems so far away it might as well be a different universe. He sobs. He sees everything that she is. He loves her and didn’t save her. He didn’t stop this. He never ever wanted it to be this way. Quickly, pushing the hurt from his mind, he remembers where is his: on his knees in front of Hawkmoth. His sobs turn to anger.

“I can see it in you, Cat Noir. You’d do anything for her.” He’s tired and stiff, but can still retort with, “Including kill you.” If Ladybug and Cat Noir were balanced, and Ladybug was gone, what was he capable of?

“Bold words from someone who can barely stand. But you are missing the point. You and I, we are the same.” Ah yes, that thing villains love to do: pretend they are heroes after taking over the entire city of Paris.

“Don’t you ever compare me to you.” he spits at Hawkmoth’s feet.

“I would also do anything for the woman I love. That’s what this is all for. I lost my wife, and I intend to get her back.”

Then Le Paon walks out rolling a woman in a glass tube out onto the roof where they stand, then walks away again. Apparently she has better things to do. When he sees the encased woman, Cat Noir’s heart plummets. If it was possible to feel worse, kneeling next to Marinette’s limp body, he did. His mother. His mother is in that tube. My wife. Cat Noir retches.

“With the powers of the Ladybug’s and Cat Noir’s miraculous, I can bring her back to me. Nothing else matters. Nothing.”

“Not even your son?”

“What?”

“Tell me Hawkmoth, where is your son right now?”

Hawkmoth looks around, confused, “Who said anything about a son?”

“I did,” Cat Noir stands once more, leaning on the building if only to try to remove the sick, bitter feeling in his stomach. He replaces it with rages. Through gritted teeth, he says, “That’s Emelie Agreste. Which makes you Gabriel. Which makes me your son. Am I going too fast?”

“No, it’s not- it’s not possible!”

“Then where’s your son, Gabriel?” The blood drains from the villain’s face. The darkness in Adrien, the one the was almost required for someone to be Cat Noir, the miraculous of destruction, shows itself in the moments that he has lost everything, “Did you lose him in the chaos?” With the upper hand, he makes the choice to walk closer to Hawkmoth, “No, I think you lost him a long time ago. Yeah, around the same you lost her,” Adrien points finger roughly at his mother, “When we lost her. But no, there’s no we. There never was, was there, dad?” he spit the word so hard Gabriel looked stricken. Not a word, a bullet. “Now looks at this bitter irony, huh? Neither even realized it. HA! We never realized we were living under the same fucking roof as our sworn enemy!” he laughs in a scary, hysterical way that turns into a coughing fit, which causes a huge pang of pain throughout his body. Hawkmoth, stupid fucking Hawkmoth, stands there with a dumb look on his face.

“Adrien,” the word hurts him, “you can help me. You can help me bring your mother back. Just give me your miraculous!”

“Fuck you.”

“Adrien, I can fix everything! I can fix your mother! I can fix us! I can fix the whole world! Just give m--”

“Fuck. You. You’re delusional. You always have been! I thought it was some form of protection like you wanted to save me or something. But obviously it’s just so I wouldn’t stand in your way. Let’s send Adrien to this stupid charity event! Or this fucking photoshoot! Let’s keep him from the outside world completely and totally, that will keep him out of my hair! You are so stupid. You are so fucking dumb. And I WAS THE ONE STOPPING YOU! THE WHOLE TIME! HAHAHA. You wanted me out of your hair! HAHAHA” As his laughter crescendoed so did the pain. “Adrien, if you don’t give it to me, I will take it from you.”

The crazed smile on Cat Noir’s face drops suddenly, “Go for it. You ripped everything I love away, what’s one more, right? I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction of giving it to you, you better kill me first. Rip it off my cold dead hand. Kill your son to bring back your wife. Go for it, asshole.” Le Paon appears again, “That can be arranged,” and Adrien hears a gunshot. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adrien woke up in a comfy bed in a large room.

The first thought that crossed his mind was “Am I dead?” No, wait. Of course not. Why did he think that? There was a dream. A weird dream.

“Adrien, mon cher, wake up you’re going to be late for school!” a woman’s voice comes from behind the door.

“Oui, oui, mère, Je suis réveillé.” For a moment the word “mère” feels weird on his tongue, but that quickly passes. He dresses in his normal clothes and goes downstairs to find his mother and father sitting at the table with a plate of tartine waiting for him. Once again, something feels off, only for a moment. Maybe it was that dream? There was a sudden surge of hate and bitterness toward his father before pushing it away. It would be strange to feel angry for something his father did in a dream.

“You’d better hurry, darling, Gorilla’s waiting outside.”

“Yeah, I’d better go. Love you!”

A chorus of nonchalant I love you’s follow him out the door.

“Good morning, Gorilla, how are you today.”

“Monsieur Adrien, are you okay?”

“Of course, I am, why would you think otherwise?”

“Well, monsieur, you’re crying.” Adrien reaches up to his cheek to find wet trails down his face. How could he be crying? “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s almost, well, happy?”

“I see. Well, I’m glad you’re in such a good mood!”

“Right…” Adrien looked at his hand, perplexed by the wetness from tears he didn’t even realize he had. _______________

The feeling of wrongness followed Adrien all day. He didn’t know where it came from, but his stomach was just a little wobbly. His friends were there, Alya, Nino, Chloe. They talked in the hallway. Chloe had had a very weird dream and started on a tangent, “And this butterfly just comes up and possesses me…” Nino looked oddly interested, odd only because he’s never had any interest in Chloe’s weird tangents before.

But before he could dwell too long on Chloe’s dream, Marinette walked in. She was just AURATING with wrong. Everything about her. There was nothing different that he could see, her dark, black hair fell down to lay on her shoulders, she wore a black v-neck t-shirt, black ripped jeans with a blue jean jacket. Her lips tinted red. Beautiful as always, but still, something felt off. He was sort of getting sick of this feeling, but then he noticed to look on Alya’s face, who was looking straight at Marinette.

“You feel it too.” He interrupted Chloe.

“What?” Alya snapped out of her daze to look at Adrien’s concerned face.

“The feeling. It’s been following me all day,” Adrien ignored Chloe’s offended face at being ignored, but Alya’s eyes widened, in confusion or fear, Adrien didn’t know.

“What feeling, dude?” Nino pulled himself away from his own thoughts.

“The feeling of complete and utter wrong.”

“Like reverse deja-vu.” Alya said suddenly, “Like something should feel familiar but doesn’t.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you guys listen to me at all? That’s what I’m saying! This butterfly thing didn’t feel like a dream! It felt like a memory,” Chloe added, “That’s impossible, right?”

Nino looked down and said, “I think what’s more impossible is I had the same dream.”

They all turned to look at him.

“Ok, so what the hell is going on?” Adrien tried to reel himself in. It’s one thing to have a weird dream and a weird feeling, it’s an entirely different thing to have his friends experience the exact same thing.

“It’s probably a coincidence,” Nino said, “maybe we were watching the same YouTube video or some shit, the YouTube algorithms do that now.”

“Yeah, could be, or maybe that doesn’t make any sense at all.” Chloe thwacked his arm.

“Alya, did you have that dream?” Nino asked.

“I had one a little different. There was no purple butterfly but there was an arrow followed by a huge hateful feeling. It still felt weird though. What about you Adrien?”

“I did have a dream, I just… ugh, I don’t remember it as well. I just remember my father and the feeling of betrayal and a girl…I think she was dead, or unconscious or something,” He ran his fingers through his hair, “I just don’t remember it, but it sucked.”

“So we all had major crap dreams. What does that mean?” Chloe leaned against a locker, inspecting a fingernail.

“Well,” Alya considered, “Maybe let’s focus on the wrong feeling. We feel it more in different places, yeah? What feels wrong?”

“My entire house feels off,” Adrien thought about his big house, his mom, his father, the chorus of I love you’s. It felt nice. It felt happy. It felt wrong. As crappy as that was, his big happy house with the happy family felt so wrong it gave him vertigo.

“The news. Ladybug feels wrong.”

“Lady..bug?”

“Yeah, she was wreaking havoc all over again.” Yep, that definitely felt wrong.

“What feels the most wrong?”

“Marinette.” Alya’s eyes grew distant. The four of them collectively turned to Marinette, Who was talking to Kim as they entered the classroom. The pit in Adrien’s stomach got bigger and emptier.

“Adrien? Are you okay?” Nino glanced over at him. This wasn’t the first time he’s been asked that today, but it felt so much worse than earlier. This was heartbreak. Love and loss. It went away as suddenly as it came, but Nino had caught it, “You’re crying.”

So he was. The first time had been of joy, but this was a wave of brokenness. He needed to find out what the hell was going on.

“I hate this. I hate this guessing game. Why do we feel like this? WHAT. IS. GOING. ON.” he slung his backpack over his shoulder and marched inside the classroom and slammed his hand in front Marinette. She barely looked up at him. Wrong.

“Blondie.”

“Do you feel it?” Now she looked up.

“What?”

“Do you feel what we feel?”

“Are you crazy?” He felt a little crazy, but goddamn this day was the thing doing it. Marinette was the one doing it. She looked at him straight in the eye.

“The feeling that something...is wrong.”

“HA!” The laugh was bitter, “No, Adrien, I don’t feel what you’re feeling.” She rolled her eyes. Wrong.

“Um, Adrien, maybe not.” Alya pulled his arm away from the desk.

“Yeah, maybe cut her some slack.” Nino’s eyes looked sympathetic. Even Chloe looked like she just saw Adrien kick a puppy. They pulled him into the hallway.

“Maybe approaching Marinette like that after what happened to her parents isn't such a good idea, Adrien.”

“Her... parents?”

All three of them narrowed their eyes and furrowed their eyebrows in concern.

Alya started slowly, “Ladybug was involved with an attack on the Dupain-Cheng bakery.” Chloe pulled the news article up on her phone and showed him.

Oh right, Adrien didn’t remember until he did, if that made any sense, Marinette’s parents died 3 months ago.

Wrong. Wrong, so very wrong. The feeling made his tongue swell and his stomach into a pit. As Alya said it, her face twisted.

“Adrien, why do you seem more affected by it?” Nino mused, “You seem to “remember” less, you know? What else do you not remember?”

“How the hell am I supposed to answer th-” Adrien was cut off by a rumbling through the floor, “What was that?” The rumbling turned into straight-up shaking. Then the sound. It was deafening. Everyone in the class started screaming at once. There was screaming from outside. The rumbling lasted for what seemed like minutes and then trickled to a stop. Chloe frantically searched her phone but it didn’t take long to find out what had happened; she gasped at her phone, horrified. “Chlo?” The phone fell from her grasp and she buckled, “Chloe?” Alya and Nino rushed to her aide asking if she was okay, but she burst into tears. It wasn’t until Adrien picked up her now shattered phone that he saw what she was looking at: A live feed of the news played faintly from the speakers as the famous Parisian Hotel Chloe called home collapsed.“Oh my god.”

Chloe wailed from the floor as the rest of the class asked what happened, they must have seen the horror on Adrien’s face as everyone continued to panic.

“Adrien, what’s going on?”

“What happened?”

“Was it Ladybug?”

Adrien took a shaky breath and exhaled slowly, “Le Grand Paris collapsed.” Alya’s face went slack.

“WHAT?”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN COLLAPSED?”

“WHAT COULD HAVE DONE THAT?”

Everyone seemed to have questions that already had an answer, it was Ladybug, obviously, she had caused the building to collapse but it was Marinette who asked the question that really needed asking: “How many people were inside?”

She looked distantly on the floor, numb from the events that had already happened in her life. This world, the wrong world that it was, was a war zone. Ladybug vs Paris. And Ladybug was winning.

The class went quiet, the only sounds heard came from Chloe on the ground, fetal position, dry sobbing, her voice scratched all the ears in the room. Adrien looked at his phone for more headlines only to see the same thing:

“SUPERVILLAIN STRIKES AGAIN AT LE GRAND PARIS”

“INVESTIGATION ON THE COLLAPSE OF PARIS HOTEL, IS LADYBUG INVOLVED?”

“WILL LADYBUG’S REIGN OF TERROR EVER END???”

“THE MAYOR OF PARIS, ANDRE BOURGEOIS AND WIFE CONFIRMED DEAD ON THE SCENE”

Marinette stood, the only one to seem to have her wits about her, and moved to Chloe.

“Hey, Chloe, come here.” She wrapped her arms around the blonde, who reciprocated. She let her cry. They had hated each other for years and years, but now was not the time for past rivalries. It hadn’t been since Mari’s parents… Well, there were far more important things. Far worse things.

Alya stood too, “Adrien...does it say anything about the other survivors?”

“It’s all too new, they… they only started investigating.”

“There’s no investigating to be done. It’s Ladybug. It has to be.” Alya clenched her fists. Nino put his hand on her shoulder.

“Well, yeah, but unless you can capture a supervillain there doesn’t seem to be a lot we can do.”

“WHERE IS THE GODDAMN TEACHER?” Alya slammed her fist on a nearby desk, “Aren’t there supposed to be some fucking adults here? Why are we dealing with this by OURSELVES?” It was a good question. They were in a room a 16-17 year olds, this was a national tragedy. Where was everyone?

At that, the class seemed to come out of their stupor and went to work. Max started setting up a live feed of the news on the projector, Kim and Alix ran to other classrooms to check if they were alright. No teachers there either, turns out. The rest got on their phones to see if their loved ones were ok. Adrien finally called his dad.

“Dad? Are you and mom okay?”

“We’re fine, are you with Chloe? Is she okay?”

“No, she’s not, but we are helping her.”

“Okay. Adrien, your mom says to stay inside, it’s a war zone out there, alright?” Adrien glanced out the window, debris and ash flooded the sky.

“Yeah, we’ll stay here.”

“Good, love you, son.”

“Love you too, Dad.” Adrien didn’t have time to dwell on the foreign feeling from the conversation. Suddenly the feeling in the pit of his stomach had virtually nothing to do with his dad and entirely to do with Ladybug. More students gathered in their classroom and Max’s live feed came onto the screen.

“Updates from Le Grand Paris, officials are pulling survivors from the wreckage, but so far only a few of the hundreds in the hotel seem to be alive. Among the dead, the mayor of Paris and his wife Andre and Andrey Bourgeois, rockstar Jagged Stone and many many more. Among the survivors are most of the kitchen staff, who had been in kitchens in the basement during the collapse.” Alya tried to hold in her relief, especially surrounded by so much tragedy, but hearing her mom is likely alive was the best news she received all day. “It is advised the people in Paris, especially within 4 miles of the hotel stay inside for the time being. The air is currently not safe to breathe due to ash and debris.”

After a few hours of painstaking waiting, Adrien decided to do something, it wasn’t the right time or place, but it seemed as though there was no other option, “Nino, Alya, Chloe, Marinette. Can I please talk to you in the hallway?”

Chloe had stopped sobbing a little while ago, too exhausted for more tears. Now she looked distant and numb, like Marinette had when the Le Grande Paris collapsed.

“Chloe, actually, if you don’t want to be a part of this--”

“Don’t, Agreste…” she threw her hand up to stop him from suggesting that she should be anywhere other than right here and stood, “Now more than ever, I know that something is very wrong. We need to fix it. And that starts with her,” Chloe pointed a thumb at Marinette.

“What? What does that mean?”

“Come on,” Adrien put his hand out to help Marinette off the floor. She’d been sitting with Chloe the whole time. She didn’t accept his hand, and stood herself.

“I don’t know what you guys think I’m responsible for but I’m not. Please just leave me out of it.” Marinette didn’t really look him in the eye, and futzed with her bangs.

“Mari, please.” The nickname made her squint at him, but his face was so pleading and panicked that she relented pretty quickly. He wasn’t alone in his resolve to look for a solution, a real solution that apparently no one else in Paris had, and all the people that did were crushed under Le Grand Paris.

Marinette followed Adrien out of the room to find Alya, Nino, and Chloe suddenly hush their conversation.

“Alright, what are you talking about?” Marinette crossed her arms.

“At most, solutions, at least, answers.” Nino shrugged.

“What makes you think I have them?”

“What all had weirdly eerie dreams last night, very similar to each other.” Adrien was talking softly, tiptoeing around her and possibly Chloe, like they were fragile. It pissed Mari off. Mari had come to realize Chloe as one of the strongest people she knew, bookended by these past few hours and right this second. She had lost her parents, and while surely still grieving, pushes for answers and solutions. She wasn’t fragile, not ever.

“Listen, Agreste, I didn’t have a dream last night, or the night before, or the night before that. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Honestly, Marinette, neither do I."

#tw major character death #tw #ml #miraculous ladybug #tw death #marinette dupain cheng #alya cesaire #adrien agreste #nino lahiffe #chloe bourgeois #tw trauma #tw parent death #ml fic #ml fic have another go at it

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