#that occured in the bathroom of this fine establishment not even twenty minutes ago

[deansmom]

this is a draft from some time in s12 with background established deancas, tattooed!dean and mary getting to know dean. (ao3)

The first time Mary patches Dean up after a hunt, he tries not to squirm. 

He’s sitting on the motel bed in Cas’ running shorts and nothing else because he’s got a huge gash across his chest and twenty minutes ago he had a knife sticking out of his shin. Vonnegut is staring up at him from his thigh. 

Dean’s had worse. Hell, he’s stitched up worse on his own - but this time his mom was there.

Mary comes out of the bathroom and freezes in the doorway, blinking at him.

He offers her and awkward wave and winces at the movement.

It seems to snap Mary out of it because she shakes her head a little and walks over, “Sorry, I just...” 

She makes a noise that Dean thinks is supposed to be a laugh.

“I didn’t know you had tattoos.”

Dean smiles a little bit to himself, amused, “You’ve seen the protection sigil.”

Mary rolls her eyes and sets the first aid kit on the bed next to him, “Yeah, I’ve seen the protection sigil but I didn’t know that you had Vonnegut on your thigh.”

Something in Dean’s chest clenches and melts all at once and the sudden rush of emotion knocks all the wind out of him.

He licks his lips and has to clear his throat to get any words to come out. His voice cracks, “You like Vonnegut?”

Mary laughs quietly as she pours the vodka from the trunk over the stab wound. Dean sucks in a breath and grips the mattress, biting his tongue to keep from yelping. 

“He was one of my favorite authors,” she explains, dabbing the wound with some gauze. “Slaughterhouse-Five is one of the only books I read after graduating.”

Dean hisses, not sure what to say.

Mary finishes cleaning the wound up and out and sits back against the other bed while she gets the bandage, gauze and tape together. 

“It’s... beautiful.” 

Dean looks up, surprised and a little embarrassed. It’s nothing special. It’s old and faded now and it needs to be touched up soon. Some random kid the year he dropped out of high school threw a party and his older brother had a tattoo gun. Dean gave the kid his last twenty bucks and got a pretty solid, but still shit tattoo at sixteen.

John wanted to kill him.

He tells Mary as much as he leans back on the bed, “He didn’t see it until we were on a hunt when I was eighteen. I thought he was gonna hand me over to the vampires we were hunting.”

She doesn’t say much, just lets Dean talk and tell her about how angry John was and all the awful stuff he said to their son.

Mary can see some other tattoos peeking out from under Dean’s shorts and on his lower calf. They’re all older and faded, and she feels like she’s stumbled onto something she’s not supposed to see. 

She finishes bandaging up his shin and pats the other knee gently, “Ok kiddo, you ready for me to clean up your chest?”

It takes her a moment to get off the floor, using Dean’s good knee as a brace to do so. He offers her a hand but she just waves him off, “I’m fine, you’re the one who looks like shit.”

Dean laughs, a genuine laugh, before moving to lay fully on the bed.

“Gee, thanks mom. That makes me feel better.”

Mary pokes his armpit as she sits next to him, reorganizing the first aid kit. She catches a glimpse of another tattoo near Dean’s armpit and spends half a second too long staring at it.

Dean shifts a little bit on the bed, “You’re gonna give a guy a complex.”

She shakes her head, laughing at herself, “Sorry, sorry, I just -”

Mary looks at him again, trying to broadcast acceptance with her expressions and body language. 

“I’ve been around you for a while now Dean and I had no idea you had tattoos.”

She smiles tiredly and looks away quickly, grabbing the vodka again. 

“Just seems like something a mom should know.”

The room goes quiet again while Mary works on cleaning Dean up. The tick tick ticking of the old clock in the kitchen fills the silence of the motel room.

In the room next to them the TV is blasting some infomercial. There’s a car in the parking lot that has their bass turned all the way up and if Dean closes his eyes, he can almost feel the bass.

Dean opens his mouth to say something, anything, and Cas opens up the motel door with dinner in hand. 

He lets out a breath and smiles, some of the tension in the room and most of the tension in Dean’s body dissipates.

“Burgers? You’re awesome.”

  Once the case is done and they make it back to the bunker, Dean finds Mary in the library. She’s flipping through one of the big tombs. 

Sometimes Dean thinks it’s funny just how much of his mom he sees in Sam. If Mary had brown hair and was freakishly tall, they’d look identical in this moment.

The air switches on and the clank of the old metal startles Mary, making her look up at Dean. “Oh, hey.”

Dean offers her a small smile, “Hey.”

He’s nervous. He hasn't’ been able to stop thinking about what Mary said in the hotel room - things that a mom should know about her son. 

It’s not a big deal, it really isn’t, but... it is. His tattoos are all small and objectively bad, but they’re little pieces of who he is. They represent all the different parts and important people of Dean’s life and they’re... personal. 

“I, um,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a couple tattoos.”

If Mary’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. “Oh,” she says. “Ok.”

“The Vonnegut one, you saw...” Dean clears his throat and shifts on his feet, “And uh, I have dad’s dog tags - that’s what was by my armpit.”

He raises his arm just enough so that Mary can see the edge poking out of his sleeve. She lets out a small breath and gets out of the chair like she wants to walk over to Dean.

He interrupts her before she can say or do anything else, “And, uh, I have the opening chord progression from Hey Jude on the other thigh. Cause...” Dean shrugs kinda helplessly, “Y’know.”

Mary looks like she wants to cry.

Dean coughs, clearing his throat, “And, uh, Sam’s birth and death days on this side of my ribs.” He pauses for a beat, something occurring to him, “I should probably update that one.”

That startles a laugh out of Mary, “Yeah, probably.”

He hesitates for a moment, suddenly nervous to tell her what the other two are.

They’ve made a conscious decision to never hide their relationship, but they don’t go around parading it either. And for one terrifying moment, Dean wonders if his mom knows that he’s in love with his best friend who’s also an angel. 

“Um,” Dean clears his throat, his voice going deeper all of a sudden. “And uh - this one.”

He pulls his jeans down just about an inch on his left hip to reveal a line of enochian in white ink. It’s the newest one Dean has even though it’s already a couple years old. It’s beautiful small, fragile line work with some red outlining to make certain letters pop. 

Mary steps closer, about to lean down to look at it before realizing what she’s doing.

Dean laughs nervously and shrugs, “It’s fine.”

She smiles and gets close enough to just look at it, but not touch, “It’s beautiful.”

The compliment makes Dean’s heart swell a little bit, “Thanks. It’s my favorite one.”

Mary stands up fully, meeting his eyes with a kind smile, “What’s it say?”

The frankness of the question catches Dean off guard for a moment, but it shouldn’t. It also steals the wind out of him for a moment, because, well -

“It, uh,” Dean clears his throat, tucking his shirt back in. “It says beloved.”

Before Mary can say anything, Dean clears his throat again, trying to make himself sound normal and not like he’s freaking out. “And, uh, the last one is just... a C.”

It’s another white ink tattoo and it’s fading, always fading, but Dean loves it. It’s on the webbing of his ring finger.

The library is quiet for a moment, the only sound filling the room is Cas and Sam in the kitchen. The air kicks off, making Dean jump this time with the old metal settling.

“So,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at his mom. “Yeah. I just - I... y’know.”

Wanted you to know, he wants to say. Thought you might care, he thinks. 

Mary smiles and sets a hand on Dean’s forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Dean looks up again, meeting her eyes and smiles nervously, “S’no big deal.”

She opens her mouth to say something else, but is interrupted.

“Dean!” Castiel pokes his head in the doorway, smiling at them, “Hello, Mary. Dinner is ready if you’re hungry.”

Mary can’t help but notice the way all the tension leaves Dean’s body again, but she doesn’t dare say anything about it.

It’s not her place. It’s no more her place than if they were two strangers at a gas station.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean offers, a small private smile on his face. “We’ll be in there in a minute.”

Castiel nods and leaves without preamble.

Mary still doesn’t know what to make of him.

Dean clears his throat, the deeply awkward feeling settling in around them, “I, uh… I know that you’re, y’know.”

He cringes before he can stop himself, “Not entirely comfortable. But I just…” Dean harrumphs, his arms coming up to wrap around himself, “I don’t know. You’re… my mom.”

Even if he’s not her Dean, which he understands, he still wants her to know him.

And he thinks she wants that too. To know them as men, as people… to just be a friend.

Mary just squeezes his elbow gently, too scared to say something that will fuck up the moment.

Dean gets it.

“Come on.” He offers her a smile, his head inclined towards the kitchen, “Let’s get some food.”

#spndeancas #dean and mary #destiel text #deancas fic #mackenzie attempts fics #personal #otp: cursed or not

[rayfollowsfromhere]

Sapphic September Day 2

The prompt today was Eerie, so our murder mystery takes a fun turn.

-.-.-

If it were social acceptable, Eleanora would proudly proclaim her hatred for small town America. The gossip, the forced community, the fact that you can't hide your bad haircut under a ball cap without everyone knowing. Yeah… big cities were just better.

Plain. Simple. Anonymous.

Odora was slightly larger than she expected. It had it's own bus station at least. Her hometown had only ever had a single stop on the Greyhand route. Odora also had more than one street, which probably explained it.

"I hate you." Eleanora said as she stepped off the bus. Dominique Davies stood on the sidewalk in her usual attire - pressed pants and tiny locks pulled up into a twisted bun. "Seriously, Davies, it's four a.m. Could you at least have the decency to look like it?"

Domi raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"I hate you." Eleanora repeated as she walked towards the woman. Domi's lips quirked up and if the two didn't have a long standing tradition of not laughing at each other's jokes it might even have turned into a smile.

"Come on," Domi nodded her head towards her car after Eleanora grabbed her bags from the bottom storage bins. "My parents have agreed to let you stay in their guest room."

Eleanora collapsed into the passenger seat, "If it has a bed, I'm down." The engine turned over and the two settled into silence as Domi drove through Odora and then through the county roads.

The Davies had a an easy dozen acres, though Eleanora had never been great at measuring those, and a traditional ranch home settled about a mile off the closest county road. It was blue, with white trim, and an idyllic weather vaine on the left side of the roof.

Eleanora didn't say she hated Domi this time because she might actually mean it.

She turned her eyes from the house to the fields. That's where she saw her. Oriana Davies. Eleanora had seen pictures of the girl as she'd grown up. She'd died a woman of 22, but she looked younger as she stood in the field.

Maybe she was. Eleanora had met more than a few spirits who'd taken on a younger likeness to themselves than when they'd died.

"She died here, huh?" Eleanora turned her eyes from one sister to the other. Domi's knuckles turned white as her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

"Yeah." Domi nodded sharply. Her voice had gone an octave higher. Eleanora didn't speak again until they were inside. Domi tossed her a set of keys, "My mom said you could use her car while you're here."

Eleanora could feel the grief pouring out of the hallway. It flooded the whole house really, but she had an inkling that the source was the master bedroom. It was…not quite surprising.

Domi's emotions were wrapped and sealed tightly within herself. A notable gap in the emotional fabric of the universe. Even now, Eleanora couldn't sense a thing from her. Usually things like that were handed down, strategies taught from a very young age, sometimes purposefully.

"You coming?" Domi didn't huff at her so much as growl. A very quiet growl. Since Eleanora had stopped in the entryway for several minutes she figured Domi had earned that growl.

The Davies home was just as big as it had looked from the outside. Big great room, big kitchen, all the boxes checked for the realtors. Two hallways branched off from the main area and Eleanora followed Domi down the left one to a room with southern exposure.

"This room is bigger than my apartment."

Domi chuckled, "The hall bathroom is bigger than your apartment." She bobbed head to the right. "It's next door."

"Gotcha," Eleanora plopped one duffle bag on the floor by the dresser and the other on the desk. The one on the desk clanked against the wood.

"What's all that?" Domi eyed the desk warily even as Eleanora flopped over the bed.

Eleanora raised her face from the lavendar scented comforter, "Do you want the honest answer?"

"My room's across the hall, two doors down." Domi ducked out of the room quickly, closing the door with a snap.

With a smirk, Eleanora rolled off the bed. Her boots hit the ground and she stood. There was a floor length mirror beside the dresser that Eleanora ignored when she passed it.

The duffel on the desk was filled with investigative tools. A cushioned satchel filled with camera lenses and scopes. Ammo. A couple of guns. A crystal ball. A few candles. And…

Eleanora pulled a metal box from the duffel. It was rusted, with a broken lock. Eleanora crossed back over to the dresser to open the bottom drawer.

With that settled, she pulled a lighter from her back pocket and a bundle of cedar tied with a red string from the duffel's outer pocket. It took twenty minutes to expunge the grief that had soaked into the walls. Another five to establish a firm barrier.

"I'm gonna need cinnamon if I stay here too long," Eleanora dropped the cedar back into its ziplock and shoved it into the duffel beside her .45.

-.-.-

Eleanora only waited until 7am to go see the sheriff. Mostly so she could take a nap afterwards and partially because she wanted to catch the man offhanded before word spread that she was here. Given the narrowed eyes he was leveling on her, she had succeeded.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man's hands moved to his hips.

"Name's Bond. Eleanora Bond."

His hand twitched towards his gun, but didn't touch it. Eleanora smiled at that. Here she was sitting in his chair, in his locked office, and he didn't pull a gun. She appreciated that sort of restraint in law enforcement.

"I'd like an honest answer." He growled the words. A real growl. Teeth bared and everything. He had very white teeth.

"Who's your dentist?"

His eyes fluttered for a second before closing. He took a breath. The worry lines on his forehead smoothed out, "Ma'am."

"Eleanora Bond is my real name, Sheriff Jones." She swung her feet off his desk and stood. She gave him her card, "I'm here about Oriana Davies' death."

Watching a six-foot-two-inches former defensive tackle scrunch up his nose at her pink card was the highlight of Eleanora's day. Nothing would top it, she was sure.

"And why is a P.I. from Nashville looking into a death in Odora?" Eyebrows were raised, eyebrows were lowered. The sheriff couldn't seem to decide what to do with them. "A death that only occurred two days ago at that.

"Three, technically," Eleanora sat on the front edge of his desk. "She was found two days ago, but she was murdered the night before."

He growled again. Eyes closed. "Ms. Bond-"

"I have a thing for brunettes," Eleanora interrupted him, her lips spread wide in a grin as she focused in on his face. "My girl, Sera, she's Domi's best friend."

One eye twitched. His lips pursed. "So…you're one of those…uh…" Eleanora raised one of her brows as she waited for him to finish that sentence.

"Lesbians, dad." A voice cut through the air with sarcastic glee. It was quickly followed by a teenage boy with floppy hair and an even floppier baseball cap. "They're called lesbians, and don't be an ass."

Eleanora perked up as the kid lifted an arm to rest on his father's shoulder. The sheriff's shoulders lowered.

"Right, sorry," The sheriff cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose that makes sense. Domi probably doesn't have much confidence in my investigative skills."

"I think she just doesn't like you," the kid drawled, grinning, "Mom says you use to a thing for her, got real weird about it."

Eleanora watched the sheriff take a breath, long and slow, before kicking his son out of the room. She waited till he turned back around to her, "I like him."

"I suppose someone has to," the sheriff sighed, but his eyes crinkled. Eleanora dropped from his desk. He startled back a step. "Ms. Bond-"

"Eleanora is fine, Sheriff." She smiled at him, patted his shoulder on her way to the door, "I just came to introduce myself. I know how small towns are about new people."

She winked at the teenager pouting at the deputy's desk. The kid perked up and Eleanora felt his satisfaction trailing after her as she left the office. A bubbly bit of emotion that buoyed her through the Davies house before she got to her room.

#sapphicseptember #sapphicseptember2019 #the life and times of a writer #daily writing challenge #writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writblr #murder mystery