#no lie i've been praying for this for fifteen years | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

topguncortez · 2 months

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“i’m worried that if we go there, and things don't work out... things might never be the same.” with rooster! please and thank you! :)

prompts list:) thank you for the request!

All of Rooster’s life he was told that everyone gets one “great love” in their life. His mother’s great love was obviously his father and the one reason why she never remarried. Rooster could remember when he was about 13 or 14, asking his mother why she never remarried. It had been over 10 years since his father’s passing and Carole had never so much as looked at a male the way she did Goose.

“Because it wouldn’t be fair,” Carole told her son, a sad smile on her face, “It wouldn’t be fair to marry a man knowing I couldn’t love him the way I love your father. He was my great love… and I’ll never find another one like that.”

Bradley wondered if towards the end of her life, when she was alone in the house for those last couple of years when he was off at school, if maybe, just maybe she wished she had someone there. He asked her again, on one of the last good days she had, if she wished she had found someone to spend her life with.

Carole again, gave him a sad smile, “It wouldn’t be fair. There’s only one person I’ve been praying about seeing again.”

Bradley hadn’t realized it at the time, but the older he got, the more he envied what his parents had. “A Great Love” that was as if it came straight from a romance novel. “A Great Love” that held steady for years, despite his father being deceased for more than half of it. “A Great Love” that seemed to come so easy to them but for Bradley, was nearly impossible.

Except, it wasn’t impossible.

No, Bradley did have a “Great Love”, in the form of the neighbor girl who lived in the blue house next door. The girl who used to make mudpies with in the backyard. The girl who teased him relentlessly when he got braces only to end up with wires on her own teeth a couple of weeks later. The girl who is his best friend… and is currently crying on his couch over her now ex-boyfriend.

“A-And he was saying stuff and I-“ You sucked in a deep breath, trying to will the tears to stop falling down your cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Ducky," Rooster said, using the age-old nickname, even though he wasn't in the slightest sorry. Sure, he felt bad that you got your heartbroken, but he was celebrating the fact that Douchebag Dan was finally out of your life, "You deserve better."

"I thought he was the one!" You sobbed, "He had me sending him ring options!"

And suddenly Bradley hated Douchebag Dan even more than he did fifteen minutes ago when you showed up at his doorstep.

"Hey," Bradley said shifting closer to you, his thigh touching yours, "You know what this means though, right," You looked up at him with big sad eyes and the most adorable wobble of your bottom lip, "Your great love is still out there."

You rolled your eyes, "I'm starting to think that's a hock of shit," You flopped back on the couch defeated, "I've dated three guys in my lifetime all for over two years and none of them have put a ring on my finger," You held up your hand, wiggling your ring finger, "It's just not going to happen. I don't have a great love."

"Sure you do."

"Where!?" You looked over at Bradley, "Where is mine?"

"Maybe, you're looking too hard for it. Maybe they're closer than you think," Bradley simply shrugged, reaching for his beer bottle on the coffee table.

"Yeah?" You quipped, "What about you? Have you met your 'great love'."

Bradley sucked in a breath, knowing he couldn't lie to you about this or hell, about anything, "Yeah," He admitted, "But she doesn't feel the same."

You felt a pang in your heart, causing you to sit up, pulling your legs underneath you, "Does she know?"

Bradley shrugged, "I think so. I mean, I-I've known her forever."

"Oh," You were trying to rack your brain of the potential girls that Bradley had his heart set on, "Do I know her?"

"Mhm," Bradley pursed his lips, taking another sip of his beer for he stupidly gave himself and his stupid crush away. A stupid crush that could mean the end of the longest, greatest friendship he has ever had. You were the one thing from his childhood that had managed to stick around. You were there when his mother died, when his dreams of following his father's footsteps came crashing down, when he got his acceptance letter to UVA, when he graduated flight school and got his wings, when he graduated from TopGun.

All the major memories that Bradley had, you were always right there. He couldn't let a stupid crush end that. He couldn't let his heart and his feelings complicate things. He couldn't-

"It's Phoenix, isn't it?"

Bradley spat his beer out of his mouth, coating the coffee table in sticky alcohol. Your eyes widened as he coughed and wiped the beer from his lips.

"What?" He choked out.

"Your great love," You muttered, "Is it Phoenix?"

"Hell no," Bradley shook his head, "That-that's crazy."

"Not really, she's pretty and you're around her all the-"

"It's you," Bradley cut you off.

You felt your heart stop in your chest as you stared at your best friend, "W-What?"

He sighed, hanging his head in shame, "It's you, Y/N. It has always been you. You are my "great love"."

"Bradley, I-"

Bradley shook his head, "I didn't mean to do this. Not when you're upset over Douchebag Dan, but. . .fuck, I can't take it anymore," He stood up from his spot on the couch, beginning to pace, "Watching you go with guys who have no idea what it means for you to look at them like they hung the fucking stars. To have you love them and kiss them and be with them day after fucking day. I love you, Y/N. I have been in love with you."

Fresh tears were in your eyes as you looked at the man who is your best friend, "Why didn't you tell me?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

"Because I’m worried that if we go there, and things don't work out... things might never be the same," Bradley's big brown eyes shone with unshed tears, "And you're all I have left. I can't lose you."

"You won't lose me," You stood up from your spot on the couch, walking over to him, "Cause I love you too," You grabbed his face in your hands and placed a kiss on his lips.

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scatteredthoughts2 · 2 years

Text

MY LIFE AMONG THE DEAD.

----------------------------

I've been dead now for fifteen years;

Departed from my life alone,

And in death we never count the years,

But the date is chiselled on my stone.

It's a date I should remember;

When existence ends and death begins,

On my stone is etched September,

When they buried me with no mourning friends.

--------------------------

I had no friends in life,

To mourn my passing now that I'm gone,

I leave no siblings, no grieving wife,

No son, my name, to carry on.

No one comes to tend my grave,

No one calls with nice words to say,

No priest will pray, my soul to save,

No rising up on judgement day.

---------------------------

But in this graveyard when the night comes down,

When the owls are hooting at the moon,

We dead all rise and walk around,

And gather in the Last Saloon.

We drink ghost liquor and shoot some pool,

We play poker and darts the whole night long,

We laugh and we fight and we act the fool,

While the banshees dance to a bawdy song.

---------------------------

So there's worse things in life than being dead;

Being alive had its moments which we soon forget,

For life was a constant pain in our heads,

And now that it's past we have no regret.

So I drink ghost whisky and play ghost games,

And when the barkeep says " it's time ", I'll go,

I'll walk through the graveyard in the dawn's cooling rains,

And be back in my coffin before cock-crow.

----------------------------

And tomorrow night we are having a party;

There's this guy who's been dead for a hundred years,

And despite being dead he is hail and hearty,

And he laughs so hard that his skull leaks tears.

So death is not the end you see,

We don't lie in our caskets and moan and groan,

When I was alive no one called upon me,

But now that I'm dead, I am never alone.

-----------------------------

@Ambrose Harte

@@Scattered Thoughts

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 3 years

Text

Green is My Favorite Color Ch. 5

Pairings: Dean x Fem!OFC (eventual)

Explicit 18 +/Warnings: None in this chapter. Sadness. Talk of a major character's death. Eventual fluff.

Word Count: 4,805

Series Summary: Dean has been her hero from childhood, can she ever get him to be more?

|| Series Masterlist ||

Chapter Summary: Dean is gone. It's been 4 months. What is Julie doing to cope?

A/N: The fifth chapter in a longer series. I’m figuring about 10 chapters. (At this point, anyway.) It’s what I’ll call cannon adjacent. It will follow the general storylines through the seasons, but I’m creating my own offshoots. 😊

4 months later (Or 40 years for some)

Sometimes, in the mornings, she could lie awake in her bed for almost a solid minute before it slowly seeped back into her consciousness. It would take nearly a full sixty seconds for her to figure out why there was a hollow pit in her stomach. Where did it come from?

And then she would remember; Dean was dead.

Sometimes, throughout the day, her brain would be so focused on the task at hand, stripping, cleaning and reassembling the weapon in her lap for instance, that her mind would get quiet. The repetitious nature of the chore would occasionally clear her mind enough that a kind of merciful numbness would pervade for a few minutes, sometimes giving her up to fifteen minutes of respite.

But inevitably the last metallic click would sound on the pistol and it would be clean and in one piece again, and as though she took out a set of earplugs the noise in her mind would come rushing back in.

It was the same noises over and over. Just questions, dozens and dozens of questions repeated on a loop in her mind.

Where was he exactly? What was happening to him right now? What were they doing to him? Who were they? Was he afraid? Was he in pain? Was he alone? Did he remember them? Did he remember her? Could he see them? Was he hungry? Was he cold? Was he burning? Were they hurting him? How were they hurting him? Were they torturing him? If she spoke to him would he ever hear her? Did he miss her? Would he really be in that place for all eternity?

On and on the questions swirled, sometimes in a long line, sometimes repeating the same question over and over again. But always accompanied by horrible flashes of possible answers, images that made her feel a continuous kind of nausea.

And always with one particular question circling in amongst all the others; why didn't he tell her?

He was dead, he was in hell, and he hadn't said a word to her, hadn't even said goodbye. Not really. Not properly.

Julie's mind had been endlessly circling for nearly four months, since the day Bobby had shown up at her apartment door.

"Bobby!" she'd cried, beyond surprised he was there.

He never came to her see her in the tiny apartment she shared with Eliza. It didn't make sense. She always went home to South Dakota to visit; always happy to walk through the door and smell the mixture of old books, car oil, and baking that permeated the house. It was a unique combination of smells and always welcomed her back and made her feel happy to be home.

So as she hugged Bobby and ushered him into the tiny space, a small kernel of dread began to curl in her stomach. Why was he here now?

She brought him a beer and sat facing him from the end of the couch. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, instinctively and unconsciously shielding herself.

"What's up?" she asked, smiling at Bobby and praying he'd say he just happened to be nearby on a job.

But of course he didn't. He stayed silent for a minute and as the seconds ticked by, Julie's heart picked up its pace, beating loudly in her ears.

Finally Bobby looked at her properly. His face looked suddenly older, much older.

"I've got to tell you something. I wanted to tell you before. Really, I did. So did Sam. But he made us both promise not to." Bobby said, his husky voice low but ardent, as though he was desperate she understand him.

It was apparent who he was talking about, but Julie clarified anyway.

"Who, Dean?"

Bobby nodded.

"What did he make you promise not to tell me?"

Bobby closed his eyes. "I'm just gonna tell you quick, darlin'." he said, clearly steeling himself.

Julie felt her stomach clench and somehow despite the impossibility of it, she knew a second before he opened his mouth, what Bobby was going to say.

"Dean's gone." He paused and when he spoke again, the word was a quiet creak from his throat. "Dead."

Julie just stared at him, slowly shaking her head, looking at him as though trying to understand a riddle he was giving her.

"I don't...know...no." Julie concluded, her mind providing her the only comfort it could - denial. "I don't understand what you're saying."

Bobby swallowed deeply. "About a year ago...Sam died."

Julie reeled back, her jaw dropping open. Somehow this information seemed to make the situation completely ludicrous in her mind and she gave a broken laugh, like this was somehow part of a silly joke...

Two brothers walk into a bar - they both walk out dead. Ba dum bum!

"What? When?" Julie paused, then shook her head hard. "What?" she repeated.

"Please, darlin'" Bobby pleaded. "Just let me say it all - quick."

Julie bit down on her tongue and nodded, wanting to hear what Bobby had to say so she could explain to him why he was mistaken. He was obviously misunderstanding something.

"A year ago, Sam died. Killed. During a...a mission I guess you could say. Not surprisingly, Dean was pretty messed up about it. I mean, you know Dean, felt it was his fault, thought he should have protected him, thought Sam's life was worth a lot more than his."

Julie felt panic begin to set in slightly. That was exactly how Dean would react, the ludicrous story was starting to have a ring of truth.

"So, he made a deal. To bring Sam back. His soul for Sam's life and one year to live."

Bobby paused and Julie watched him rub a rough hand across his face, scratching his fingernails through his beard. Julie realized he was fighting tears and that was the thing that finally convinced her frozen mind that this was real. This was true. She'd never seen Bobby shed a tear, not once in almost twelve years.

If he was crying, it was real. This was real.

And if this was real, Dean was dead. Dean was dead. The words rattled around in her head as bile rushed up from her stomach and tears spilled hot and fast down her cheeks.

"How...how did he..." a thought crashed into Julie's mind, suddenly catching up with Bobby's words. If Dean sold his soul then...

"He's in hell?" She said, practically screaming. "He sold his soul? Then..." Julie shook her head again. "Sold it to a demon? Like to the devil? He's in hell?" she asked again, trying desperately to sort it all out in her mind in a way that led to a different outcome.

Bobby just nodded. "We tried everything we could to get him out of the deal, but we just couldn't. The hellhounds came for him." Bobby looked as though he was instantly sorry he'd shared that last piece of information.

Julie buried her face in her knees, her arms coming up to wrap around the back of her head, all of it just too much. It was too much information at once, too much damage to her heart.

Hellhounds. She'd never heard of them, but did they really need explaining? What else could they be but demonic hounds who came and ripped away people's souls. Killed them? Mauled them? What other explanation would fit the word hellhound?

Julie felt an agonizing pain slice through her chest and for one wild moment she really thought she might be having a heart attack. But the pain wasn't physical; it was a tear in her soul.

Now four months later, that tear was still bleeding. She'd found no way to patch it up; though she'd tried.

After nearly two weeks of numbness and a kind of mental paralysis, she woke up one morning and decided suddenly and inexplicably that she needed to talk to Sam. She needed to know what he was doing. She thought she remembered Bobby saying that Sam was worrying him a little because he seemed determined to "bring Dean back."

Julie had let that information just wash over her, as she had all Bobby's words over those first days. She wouldn't admit it to him or even really to herself, but she was angry at him. Angry at all of them. Dean had made the decision not to tell her, but they had abided by it. Bobby and Sam had allowed him to get dragged to hell without even telling her it was happening.

Deep down she knew they weren't really to blame. She even knew Dean was just trying to protect her in his own idiotic way. But that knowledge couldn't stop her anger, or her feelings of resentment.

So she called Sam a hundred times until she eventually guilted him into meeting with her. He was a mess. She was pretty sure he was drunk, at least a little. He wasn't making a lot of sense. He kept saying he was going to try and pull Dean out through the gate, that he was going to open it.

"What gate?" Julie had asked, but Sam continued his mostly one-sided conversation.

"That's how Dad got out. That's what's gonna get Dean out." He nodded as though it was a sure thing. Julie had left his motel room more worried about him than Bobby had been.

Over the next few weeks she'd hounded him like a woman on a mission. She tracked him down again and again, showed up at his different motel rooms and played on his protective nature to make him open the door to her.

"Okay, Sam. I guess I'll just sit out in this poorly lit parking lot all night. I'm sure no one will come to bother me. Or rob me. Or kill me.

Or gobble me up!" she finished on a shout.

She was being dramatic of course and the look of death that Sam leveled at her as he wrenched open his door told her he knew it too. But he was worried enough that something really would happen to her, that he let her into the room.

And so it went, over the next while. She would track Sam down like a bloodhound and force him to teach her things about hunting. He was completely against it to start with, giving her the same argument Bobby and Dean had.

Being a hunter was hard...it was no kind of life...she deserved better.

Finally she had shoved his hungover ass backward so that he sat down hard on the chair behind him. For once she could actually look him in the eye since he was nearly as tall sitting as she was standing.

"Listen to me, Sam Winchester. I am going to learn to hunt. I am so finished with sitting at home, wringing my hands and worrying myself sick while the menfolk go off to war. So, either you can teach me some of what you know or I'll go out and learn it myself."

Sam scowled at her. She scowled back, her gaze steady and unwavering.

It may have been Sam's hangover that made him capitulate so easily. He didn't seem to have the energy or the verbal capabilities to argue with her.

So, as the months passed Sam taught her the life of a hunter. He started with weapons, how to make salt rounds, how to clean and assemble both pistols and shotguns. He taught her basic lore as well, most of which she'd already gleaned over the years, but it was still good to verify it.

After a while he began to teach her hand-to-hand combat. He moved slowly through the motions of a fight, teaching her how to land a punch with all the weight of her body behind it.

He showed her defensive moves and how to block strikes, panicking when he accidentally landed a blow she should have been able to block. He'd only been moving at half speed and strength but it still made her nose bleed.

"Jesus, Julie!" He'd cried grabbing a motel face cloth to staunch the flow. She was sitting on the hard-backed chair beside the table and he squatted in front of her to press the cold, wet cloth to her face. "This is ridiculous." He'd whispered, almost to himself, clearly doubting he was doing the right thing.

She reached out and yanked on his long hair, making him grunt. "Hey! Don't start. I'm fine." After a minute her nose stopped bleeding and she stood up, throwing the cloth into the sink.

"Show me that again."

Time passed and she learned things, she improved. Eventually she just started traveling around with Sam in the Impala, wedging herself into his life without giving him much choice. They didn't do any traditional hunting, since she was still a newbie and Sam was focused only on finding and killing the demon who had sent the hounds for Dean. Lilith. Her name and the fact that she often possessed little girls was all she knew about her. Sam's face got cold and scary any time she brought her up. So, she didn't.

Sam seemed to be improving too, sort of. He'd stopped drinking as much, anyway. He was very focused and more serious than ever. She missed his deep-dimpled smile.

He would sometimes take off for long stretches at a time and at first she thought maybe he was going off to be with someone. Now that she was always around, like an annoying little sister, it had to be cramping his love life.

Eventually, though, she began to suspect it was something more. For one thing, he was gone more often and for increasingly long intervals, and she was sure nobody needed to get laid that often. But he also began to change, he was more confident, more full of purpose. She just wished she knew what the purpose was.

But she tried to give him his space and privacy since he was allowing her to tag along everywhere and continuing their lessons whenever he was with her.

She checked in with Bobby fairly regularly, not angry enough at him to let him worry about them unnecessarily. He was still mad as hell that she was choosing a hunter life instead of going back to school.

They'd had a big argument over the phone a few weeks ago, when September rolled around and she told him she wasn't going back to college. Ever.

It was the biggest fight they'd ever had, arguments having been few and far between for them through the twelve years she'd been with him.

There was a part of her that felt guilty and like she was letting him down, like she was being ungrateful for the life and security he'd provided her all these years. But when she felt that way she just reminded herself that as much as she loved Bobby, her life was hers alone and she didn't owe her choices to anyone else.

A few days after the fight Bobby had called to concede defeat.

"You win, kid." He said, and Julie felt her throat tighten at the exhaustion in his voice. No matter what truths she told herself and how sure she was in her decisions, she hated that she was hurting him, making him worry.

"You're right. I can't live your life for you. You gotta do what you gotta do, I guess." Bobby continued. "It makes me feel better that Sam is the one teaching you things, he'll do everything he can to keep you safe, so..." Bobby cleared his throat. "And it's good that he's got you there too."

So things had settled into a sort of routine, Sam training with her for half the day and mysteriously disappearing for the other half. She checked in with Bobby every day or so and read as many books on lore and hunting as Sam could get her.

And through it all, through every day and every task, the never-ending parade of questions persisted like a hum in the back of Julie's mind.

Was he bleeding? Was he screaming? Was he crying? Would they ever stop? Would she really never see him again, even in heaven?

Why didn't he say goodbye?

She worried sometimes that, one day, she would be driven mad by the endless litany in her head. The ache in her chest never let up, and she was sure it never would.

But it did; the day he walked back through the door.

***

"Hey! I'm back. Finally!" Julie called out as she walked back into the room she and Sam were sharing at the Astoria Hotel.

"We definitely have to find a different diner." She continued as she jostled around the three bags of food and tray of drinks she carried, trying to lock the door behind her. She ended up holding one of the bags in her teeth as she turned the deadbolt and slid the chain in place.

"Dere wasz hardly anyone dere and it shtill took forever!" She said, words garbled by the paper bag in her mouth. She took it out and delicately tried to spit out the fibers of the bag as she turned around.

"Their food definitely isn't - " Her words ended abruptly as she watched Dean walk slowly out from around the corner.

The bags and both drinks crashed to the floor, soaking the hideous red carpet as Julie's arms went numb.

Her mind couldn't take in what she was seeing. She looked quickly to where Bobby and Sam stood, desperate for confirmation that she wasn't just completely nuts and hallucinating the man in front of her. Both men nodded, and Bobby gave her a small, encouraging smile.

Dean approached her and she felt like she couldn't take him all in. He wore a long-sleeved olive green shirt over a darker, army green t-shirt and jeans. His hair was short and styled in his usual spiky, militaristic cut. He looked like Dean. Exactly the same, he was exactly the same, which was of course, impossible.

As he got closer she tilted her head up to keep eye contact. She felt a kick to her gut as she feared momentarily that she was dreaming again. She didn't blink, sure that if she did he would melt away like he had in a thousand dreams before.

"Hey, kid." He said, his voice quiet but deep and full of grit.

Julie blinked up at him as tears welled up and fell over her bottom lashes. "Why?" She asked, her voice choking. "What were you...? How did...? How could you...?" No matter how she tried she couldn't get out a sentence, one thought just kept crashing into the next.

He smiled at her and seemingly of its own volition, her hand reached up and smacked him sharply across the cheek.

Surprise flooded Dean's face as he raised a hand to his jaw. "Ow." he said, and it was part statement, part question.

She raised her small fists and hit his chest, not at all in the way Sam had taught her to punch, but like a little kid throwing a tantrum. "You...just left...why wouldn't you..." her voice was cracked and raw, the heartbreak and pain of the last four months crashing over her and through her.

Dean caught her fists easily and she ended her tantrum by crashing into his chest and wailing, "You're such an asshole!"

She wrenched her hands away from him to wrap her arms tightly around his waist, fists now clenching and unclenching in the back of his shirt. Her sobs wracked her and she was slightly embarrassed by her lack of control as she shook in his arms, crying so hard she began coughing.

"I know I am, sweetheart. I know." He said gently as he ran both arms up and down her back. "Shh." he whispered softly against the top of her head as she sobbed into his shirt, soaking it. He moved one of his hands into her hair and let his hand run soothingly through the long strands.

After a few minutes Julie's sobs turned to shuddering breaths. Dean pulled back and looked into her face, wiping away the tear tracks that trailed down her cheeks with his thumbs.

"What are you doing, here Jules? Why aren't you in school?"

Bobby cleared his throat and Dean turned his head to look back at him.

Bobby shrugged, "Sam's been teaching her to hunt."

Dean's head swung back around to face her like it was spring-loaded. His hands dropped to her shoulders. "What?" he asked, voice low and hard.

He turned away from her quickly to face Sam and repeated himself, much louder this time. "What?" he asked, glaring at his brother.

Sam raised his hands. "Don't get mad at me! What was I supposed to do? Have you ever tried telling her no?"

Julie frowned at their discussion of her as though she wasn't there.

She didn't need to explain herself and she wasn't about to feel guilty yet again for living the life she wanted. "Enough." she said, pulling on Dean's forearm to get his attention back. He scowled down at her beside him.

She shook her head. "That is so not important right now."

She took a deep, still shuddery breath and ran her hand up his arm, resting it on the thick, round curve of his shoulder, marveling at the vitality and strength she could feel beneath her fingers.

"How are you here?"

Dean looked like he wasn't going to drop it, but Bobby stepped in. "Come on over darlin' and sit down." Bobby handed her a beer from the coffee table in front of him. "Might as well add your ideas to our pile of guesses."

***

Hours later they were on the road, heading down the interstate toward a psychic Bobby knew, hoping she could give them any kind of answer.

Sam was laying in the back seat as stretched out as his tall frame allowed, snoring softly. She sat beside Dean in the front, her mind still reeling and constantly worrying she was going to wake up.

She looked over at Dean behind the wheel and her breath caught in her throat.

God he's beautiful. She thought.

It seemed to hit her even harder now. Perhaps it was simply that she'd been living with the ghost of him for these last months, and now here he was, strength and power rolling off of him, even when he was just sitting, relaxed against the comfortable seat.

He ran his hands along the steering wheel, caressing it, obviously so glad to be in the driver's seat again. She watched his hands move lightly over the hard leather covering the wheel and couldn't explain why the sight caused her breathing to pick up and her cheeks to flush.

She stared at his profile, tracing her eyes along his straight nose and down over his mouth as he sang along softly with the AC/DC song playing quietly on the radio.

She knew she'd stared too long when she saw his mouth quirk up at the corner.

"I'm not gonna disappear, you know?" He turned his head towards her. "Promise."

He turned his eyes back to the road and Julie was grateful to be able to hide her blushes at being caught staring.

"Right." she whispered. She looked down at her lap before looking back at him.

"How are you?" She shook her head. "That's a stupid...is that a stupid question?" she asked.

Dean squinted against the headlights of an oncoming car. "No, it's not stupid."

He glanced at her. "I'm fine." He said easily. Too easily.

Julie nodded slowly. "Uh huh." she said, her voice unbelieving. "Sure. Just spent four months in hell and got pulled out by some force none of you can even guess at, but yeah, you're...fine."

Dean gave her a look of annoyance. "Well, I don't remember hell or how I got out, so...what is there to bother me?"

Julie stared at Dean's profile, silently evaluating for a moment before she spoke. "Well, even if you don't remember hell -"

"I don't." Dean said again, vehemently.

Julie nodded and looked back out the wide windshield. "Okay. But you still died, still got dragged away by rabid invisible dogs. You're still back on earth with four months lost. That has to be strange and scary. Certainly something more than 'fine'."

Julie saw a muscle jump in Dean's jaw, but he just reached over and squeezed her knee. "I'm good."

Completely distracted by the lingering heat left behind by his massive hand, even after he moved it back to the steering wheel, Julie let the matter drop and they descended into silence.

A few minutes later Julie broke it. "I'm sorry I slapped you."

Dean grinned wide and the sight of it made muscles clench low in her belly and a lump form in her throat.

God he's beautiful. Julie thought again.

He glanced at her. "I'll survive, I think."

He reached over with his right hand and squeezed her bicep between his thumb and forefinger.

"Although, you gained some muscles, kid."

Julie tilted her head toward him and told him with her eyes how funny she thought he was.

He chuckled lightly. "Seriously though, Sammy says you're good."

Julie was surprised. "He does?" she always assumed Sam thought she was one good punch away from getting herself killed.

"Yeah." Dean said. "And that's no small compliment."

Julie blushed a little. "Well, he's a good teacher."

"And this is..." Dean took a deep breath. "You're determined to hunt? There's nothing I can say to sway you, nothing I could offer you as an alternative?"

Julie shook her head. "No, Dean. Nothing."

Again she saw the muscle jump in his tight jaw and she almost reached up to run her fingers along his jawline, fascinated. Thankfully she came to her senses before she gave in to her bizarre impulse. But she also had a sudden desire to scrape her nails gently against the rasp of scruff on his cheeks. How would it feel against her fingers...against her lips.

She jerked her attention back to reality when Dean turned to look at her. Judging by the expectant expression in his mossy green eyes, he'd said something and was waiting for an answer.

Julie shook her head as though she was a dog shaking off water. "Sorry, what?"

Dean's eyes shifted to her lips for just a second, his mouth slightly open, tongue pressed lightly between his teeth. His eyes moved back to hers and she wondered if she was imagining the heat she saw there.

He cleared his throat. "I asked if you'd be okay with me teaching you some stuff too."

A blush lit up Julie's cheeks as her mind was filled with "The Things Dean Winchester Could Teach Her".

She bowed her head, clearing away her inappropriate thoughts. When she raised her eyes back to his, she was beaming. His acceptance of her decision meant a lot to her. "Of course. Dean, I would love that."

Dean nodded. "Good. I'll teach you all the dirty fighting tricks I know. There's no such thing as a fair fight when it comes to monsters. You take 'em out any way you can. And I can teach you how to hustle pool and scam credit cards too, cause hunting doesn't pay crap."

Julie smiled wide and scooted close to him on the seat, leaning her head against his bicep. He was tense beside her for a moment but then he raised his arm so she could duck under it and press right up against him.

His body was hard and warm and being this close to him again, close in a way she had never expected to be again caused tears to start falling, she couldn't help it. She shuddered against him and he squeezed her harder into his side, his arm a heavy weight across her shoulders anchoring her to the reality that he was really here beside her, safe for the moment and home.

Her tears dried slowly on her cheeks and she turned her head to lay her cheek against his chest.

Bon Scott's slightly nasal and gravelly voice sang Ride On quietly in the background.

(Ride on) gonna change my evil ways

(Ride on)

One of these days

The deep base of the song thrummed along with the ever present hum of the Impala moving smoothly along the black top to form a lullaby that slowly sang Julie to sleep.

She jerked awake barely two minutes later with dread in her stomach, her subconscious sure she'd dreamt all of this.

But Dean's arm was still there, his breathing was steady and soothing beneath her cheek. He turned his head slightly, and Julie looked up at him.

"I'm here, Jules. For real. I promise." He sealed his promise with a gentle kiss. His lips were unbearably soft against hers and she breathed out a sigh as he pulled back. He pressed another kiss to her forehead before he turned his attention back to the road stretching out in front of them.

For the first time in four months Julie's mind was truly quiet, not numb, not distracted. Just quiet.

And the lullaby played on.

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @foxyjwls007, @b3autyfuldisast3r, @myloversgone, @kazsrm67, @fangirlxwrites67, @kickingitwithkirk, @charred-angelwings, @hopefuldreamers-world, @siospins, @deanwanddamons @deandreamernp, @my-sherlock221b, @jensensgotyoudean @lyarr24, @akshi8278

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shanastoryteller · 5 years

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Saw your post mentioning reading your favorite poems and I was wondering what they were? I've never really liked poems but I really liked that one by Emily Dickson you put in the front of that teen wolf fic so you probably have really good taste in poems, and I've been trying to find some to like.

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.Life is short, and I’ve shortened minein a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,a thousand deliciously ill-advised waysI’ll keep from my children. The world is at leastfifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservativeestimate, though I keep this from my children.For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,sunk in a lake. Life is short and the worldis at least half terrible, and for every kindstranger, there is one who would break you,though I keep this from my children. I am tryingto sell them the world. Any decent realtor,walking you through a real shithole, chirps onabout good bones: This place could be beautiful,right? You could make this place beautiful.

Because I could not stop for Death (479)

Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses’ HeadsWere toward Eternity –

this one is an old nursery rhyme:

One bright day in the middle of the night, Two dead boys got up to fight. They turned their backs and faced each other, Drew their swords and shot the other. One was blind and the other couldn’t see, So they chose a fool for their referee. A mute eyewitness screamed with fright.A cripple danced to see the sight. A deaf policeman heard the noise.He came and shot the two dead boys.A paralyzed donkey passing by,Kicked the copper in the eye, And knocked him through a rubber wall, Into a ditch and drowned them all.If you don’t believe this lie is true,Ask the blind man. He saw it too.

She swearsshe will nevergive birthto a daughter.Won’t evenplant a garden.— Adira Bennett

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

My mouth is a fire escape.The words coming outdon’t care that they are naked.There is something burning in here.

— Andrea Gibson

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weepI am not there; I do not sleep.I am a thousand winds that blow,I am the diamond glints on snow,I am the sun on ripened grain,I am the gentle autumn rain.When you awaken in the morning’s hushI am the swift uplifting rushOf quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

Never regret thy fall,O Icarus of the fearless flightFor the greatest tragedy of them allIs never to feel the burning light

— Oscar Wilde

Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POEIt was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

self-parodies & psalms for shit-scared twenty-somethings by gyzm

is perhaps my favorite poem and just gut punches me whenever i read it but they are a tumblr person who’s poem deserves more attention so please reblog/comment on their poem directly :)

most of what i’ve learned in the first half of my twenties is to embrace statistics i’m not smart enough to verify; theones about black holes and how much of the universe is justempty space: between atoms and from one planet to another.it makes it easier, to stare at my overcrowded sink and thinkthat to get from the floor of this filthy kitchen to the neareststar would take more lifetimes than i could borrow or steal.maybe there is a single withered raspberry molding beneath every single plate i own but in the scheme of things that’s insignificant, a non-event in the life of a non-event, and so canwait until tomorrow, when this hangover is gone.

please, god, don’t let me die before i turn thirty. i’ve heardthat that’s when it all comes together, and i know those’re allfish stories, probably, the lies of those who need to pretend justlike me, but hell, i choose to believe. because the thing is, god, if idie tomorrow, a few years from now, i can pretty much guarantee it’ll be in torn underpants, on a bad hair day, in a bra that doesn’t fitthe way i’d like it to; please, god, don’t let me die before i work outhow to drag myself out of bed in time to dry my hair every morning. i’vebeen promising myself for years i’d learn to get off the couch on monday nights and do laundry, god, okay, i don’t mind living in dirty jeans but i don’t want to die in them, i’m begging, i thank you, i’m sorry, amen.

there should be a page at the back of every baby book thatsays “baby’s first moment of cold realization that they are an gigantic shitheaded asshole.” it’s important, as milestones go. iknow it’s not as glamorous as a first word or a graduation but i’dargue that developmentally, it means at least as much — god knows i put more thought into the bleak portrait of myself at two a.m., staring haggard out from the filmy surface of my mirror, than i did in my ham-fisted infant attempts to say my father’s name. it would benice, is all, to have a warning, to flip through pages of childhood accomplishments and see that placeholder, at the end; to know that the future was coming, inevitably, to make dipshits of us all.

don’t put liquid soap in the dishwasher. don’t put your vibrator in the dishwasher. don’t forget that your mother is coming over until fifteen minutes before she shows up and put every scrap ofevidence that you are a disaster zone living underneath a veneerof overdone eye makeup and slapdash dreams of better tomorrowsin the dishwasher. don’t put your grandmother’s china, that vase you bought at the flea market, a bowl half-full of aged guacamole,in the dishwasher. on the mornings that will keep coming — when the shower does not seem like enough, when you can feel your long history of mistakes pockmarking your face and oozing out from beneath your armpits — don’t put yourself in the dishwasher.

the human body replaces skin cells so quickly that two weeks from now, every part of me will be brand new, and i will still feel as though i have spent my first quarter-century on this planet touching both too much and not enough. that feels profound atthis moment but the human body replaces humiliations fastereven than skin; two weeks from now i will remember saying this,stare at the ceiling above my bed and think: no one has ever been as big of an asshole as you are. there are billions of stars in our galaxy and billions of galaxies in our universe and my ceiling is the only clean part of my apartment. i know it’s a fish story, but c’mon, god, okay — i’m just asking to believe i’ll make it to thirty better dressed; less selfish.

#poem #a poem is just an undirected prayer #you know i read a short book of poems in middle school written from god's pov and one of them was about him/her being pissed that everyone #assumed they were a guy #and i've been thinking of it for 13 years but i have no idea what it was called or what the book was called #anon #asks

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thinkingisadangerouspastime · 5 years

Text

to be selfish

(in which plans are ruined, sparks fly, and selfish, selfish choices are made)

based on this prompt by @alltheprettygirlsintheworld!

id also like to thank @alltheprettygirlsintheworld for always reblogging my writing and leaving kind comments!! your support means the world to me 💕 i hope this fic is at least somewhat like what you were looking for!

~*~

Everything that could have possibly gone wrong had gone wrong.

Luck of the devil, Crowley supposed, though by that he meant he had the worst luck in history.

The picnic had been rained out, the Bentley had broken down, and even after miracling the poor car back into shape, Crowley and Aziraphale had gotten stuck in a line of traffic that hadn't moved whatsoever in the past fifteen minutes.

Worst of all, Crowley's plan had also been completely and utterly ruined. 6000 years of waiting washed down the drain. Quite literally, too.

Damn thunderstorm.

Needless to say, the demon was not in a cheerful mood.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale murmured. An open book was resting on his lap, though even out of the corner of his eye Crowley could tell the angel wasn't reading it.

He sighed. "Not your fault. Last I checked, angel, you can't control the weather."

"I'm not talking about that. I mean, I am sorry it rained." Aziraphale closed his book after tucking a bookmark between the pages. "I'm sorry you're so disappointed, my dear. I know how much effort you put into planning this. Finding the right spot, and preparing the food yourself and all." His chewed on his lip. "Is there anything I can do, or say to - to cheer you up?"

Crowley chuckled, leaning back into his seat and turning to offer the angel a soft smile. Traffic wouldn't be moving anytime soon. He could afford to take his eyes off the road for a few seconds. "You can agree to come on a picnic with me whenever it's not raining."

Aziraphale beamed at him, and Crowley's heart jumped into his throat, as it so often did when his angel smiled. "That sounds lovely, my dear. I'd be delighted to join you again."

Crowley absentmindedly tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the conversation passed. He frowned. "You do know, angel, that you don't have to apologize for anything. I should be the one saying sorry for not checking the weather report before we left."

A tiny smile crept onto Aziraphale's lips. "I suppose we're both apologizing for things we don't need to, then."

"I guess we are."

Silence fell between them. The Bentley inched forward as rain pattered softly on the roof. Lightning flashed a brilliant purple in the sky, followed by a deep echo of thunder.

Aziraphale finally said with a huff, "Oh, just spill it, Crowley. It is not like you to be so - so mute when it comes to a few cancelled plans. Especially something like this. What are on Earth are you not telling me?"

Crowley's grip tightened on the steering wheel. This was not a topic he wanted to discuss. Not now, at least. Not without preparation. He didn't dare turn to look at Aziraphale. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"My dear, you are radiating dejection. It's almost smothering! Why can't you just be honest with -" Aziraphale cut himself off with a shuddering sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was even. Gentle. "Please. Tell me what's wrong."

Crowley's gaze remained steadfast on the road in front of him. "Nothing's wrong. I would tell you if there was a problem."

"Oh, please. You wouldn't. You never talk about your feelings. Not with me."

Crowley stiffened so sharply at the angel's words that he nearly snapped off part of the steering wheel.

"Good Lord!" Aziraphale exclaimed, startled by his abrupt reaction. "What was that all about?"

Crowley didn't respond, praying the angel wouldn't connect the dots.

(Then again, since when had God ever listened to his prayers?)

"Feelings," Aziraphale murmured. He blushed. "I'm going to make an educated guess, my dear, that you were planning to talk about... Our relationship."

Crowley bit back a sigh. Now it wasn't even worth trying to change the subject. "Maybe." He shrugged. "Not like it matters anymore." A lie. "Don't know if you noticed, angel, but whatever I might or might not have planned has gone to shit now."

Aziraphale chuckled. "It's not that bad." He reached over, gently cupping Crowley's cheek before slowly turning the demon's head to face him. "Look at me, my dear."

Crowley was distinctly aware of how red his face had to be. Extremely embarrassing. "But traffic -"

"- won't be moving for another hour. We both know that."

He hated it when the angel had a point. He sighed, reluctantly taking his hands off the steering wheel and turning so his body also faced Aziraphale. "Okay. I'm looking at you."

"Now tell me what you planned to say at the picnic."

Crowley exhaled, though it sounded more like a hiss. "I can't."

Aziraphale frowned. "Why not?"

"I just can't, angel!" he snapped. "I don't know what the hell I was going to say." Not entirely a lie. He didn't have a speech prepared or anything. All he'd wanted to do was hold the angel's hand and - and see what happened after that.

He couldn't risk going too fast.

Aziraphale softened. He had an uncanny way of knowing when the demon was being honest. "Alright. Then I'll tell you what I planned to say."

Calling that an unexpected reply would have been an understatement. Crowley somehow managed to nod in response.

Aziraphale fiddled with his pinky ring, taking a deep breath before he began. "I know that you love me, my dear, though I also know you would never allow yourself to admit that out loud. I can feel your love. I've felt it since - well, since the beginning, I suppose. But I have never said that I love you, dear boy. And since there's no time like the present..." He bit his lip. "I love you, too, Crowley. So very, very much. And I have for far longer than I dare to admit."

Inside, Crowley was already aware of this. He couldn't detect love like angels could, but he was no idiot. And Aziraphale had never been good at hiding his feelings. Eyes were windows to the soul, after all.

"And - And I'm sure you're wondering why I waited so long to say anything," Aziraphale continued. "But I was afraid, Crowley! Afraid of what Hell would do to you if they ever found out about - about us." He stared at the demon, and Crowley's heart clenched as he saw tears glistening in the angel's eyes. "For me... I knew that if I Fell, I Fell. So be it. But for you the only consequence would have been complete destruction! I couldn't risk that something horrible happened to you because of my - because of my selfishness."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Your selfishness?"

Aziraphale managed a weak laugh. "Yes. Me, selfishly wanting to be with you. To be able to love you without worrying about any of the consequences. Just... Us."

Crowley didn't know how to respond. Or maybe it was the lump in his throat that prevented him from speaking. Either way, he was silent.

"But I've had enough of the - the bullshit from our head offices. I'm allowed to be selfish every once in a while! And I don't care if that makes me unangelic!" Aziraphale reached out to take Crowley's hands in his. "I'm ready to go as fast as you want, Crowley. Anywhere you go, from Earth to Alpha Centauri, I will be there. With you. Even if that means you end up driving this blasted car a hundred miles over the speed limit."

Crowley chuckled, squeezing the angel's hands. Everything he'd ever wanted to hear was finally being said, but now that the moment had come, he could hardly process it. "Angel," he finally whispered, "I think... I think I might be in love with you."

Aziraphale laughed, freeing one of his hands to reach up and wipe away tears trickling down his face. "Think? My dear, I know you are."

Time stood still as Crowley took off his sunglasses and tossed them into an empty cupholder before slowly leaning towards Aziraphale, his head tilted, eyes shut, and his lips parted ever so slightly -

Then he hesitated.

There is no "our side"!

I don't even like you!

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

He couldn't do it.

"Dammit," he muttered, letting his head fall and come to rest on the angel's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," was Aziraphale's reply before he lifted Crowley's chin and closed the distance between them.

The kiss was gentle. Tender. And hesitant, neither wanting to rush the other. It was a kiss filled with patience and 6000 years of waiting, a kiss burning with passion and 6000 years of longing. Perhaps there was even a bit of temptation.

(Who was doing the tempting, well, neither could say.)

The kiss was broken when the car behind them blared its horn, startling the both of them.

"Bastard," Crowley muttered as he drove the Bentley less than a car-length forward. "As if moving up five feet really makes a difference."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Humans always have places to be and things to do."

"Yeah, well, if he really needs to be somewhere, he might as well get out of his car and start walking."

"I suppose we're lucky we don't have plans."

Crowley snorted. "You may not have plans, angel, but I do."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Really? What plans do you have?"

Crowley smirked. "I was planning to convince you to be selfish and kiss me again. Preferably more than once."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, though Crowley didn't miss the small smile dancing on his lips. "Oh, you're ridiculous."

"Mm. I know. And you love it."

"Well..." He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose I do."

(Although, as it turned out, his angel didn't need much convincing. It was also no coincidence that the Bentley started to play "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" on repeat - and refused to stop. Some things, it seemed, were simply fated to be. A little selfishness never did harm anyone, after all.)

~*~

#me? inspired by fruits basket? it's more likely than you think #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #anthony crowley #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #amy writes #to be selfish #this was so soft™️ to write

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