#where dean wrote him a letter he never got | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mind-empty-just-fictional-people · 2 months

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Poems

main masterlist | supernatural masterlist

summary: dean searches your room when you’re missing, and the love letters he finds break his heart

pairing: dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 1.9k (1.5k excluding poems)

warnings: reader goes/is missing, language,

author’s note: please don’t make fun of my “poetry”, i know it’s not good that’s why i don't write poems lol

“Hey Dean, I’m working a case near Wichita so I’ll probably be back home by the end of the week. See you soon, bye.”

“That’s the last I heard from her,” Dean told his brother after playing him the message you left. “It’s been over a week, I’m gettin’ worried here!”

“Do you know what kinda case she was working?” Sam asked, Dean shook his head. “Okay, well I’m sure she’s fine, Dean. Let’s call the hospitals around where she is and ask if she’s there.”

“You do that, I’m gonna head to Wichita,” Dean replied.

“I think we should call the hospitals first, Dean. She said she was near Wichita, she could be anywhere from here to there!”

Dean sighed but agreed with Sam’s plan.

The boys had no luck with any of the hospitals so they decided to head over to Wichita and look for you. They searched for a few days before heading back to the bunker, hoping you might be there waiting for them. You weren’t, of course, and that only made their worry grow.

You’d been missing for nearly two weeks!

Dean thought there might be some kind of clue in your room and decided that searching it was next on his to-do list. Though he knew he was grasping at straws, he did it anyway.

Opening the door to your room, he smiled at the poster near your bed. It was the one he’d gotten you for Christmas last year. It was a kind of gag gift—it was his favorite band. (His real gift had been much more thoughtful.)

He began his search at your desk, digging through the mess of papers splayed out on the wood surface. His brows furrowed when he found one paper in particular. It looked like… a love poem?

The way your hair looks in the morning

The way your laugh adds life to moments boring

The way your breath hits my neck when you’re standing just behind me

Reaching over to grab something off the table

A lore book, of all things to be

And the way your eyes light up when you look into mine

I swear I almost see a hint of love

Behind those piercing starlights

Your lips on mine is what I need

Did you hear me?

I said kiss me, you fool!

We’ve not got much time

In this line of life

And I need you at my side.

Dean didn’t know if the poem would be considered “good” in the public eye, but he knew it made his heart clench. You were in love? But… with whom?

To him, the words were beautiful, and the thought that you wrote them about someone else broke his fucking heart. He knew there were no clues to your whereabouts in the next poem, but of course, he read it anyway.

I think of you when I drive and spot a classic car

I think of you when I eat a cheeseburger

And I’ll turn it upside down when I’m missing you

I think of you when I hear a Zepplin song

And I turn the music up when I’m not with you

I think of you when I see anyone wear flannel

Or a leather jacket that’s clearly a size or two too big

And I love to think of you

It just makes sense to me

I love to picture you beside me

At night when I can’t sleep

Or when I get scared of what I’m facing

I think of what you would do

Day or night

Night, day, or noon

I always think of you

Whoever this mystery person was, they were fucking lucky. Dean had never felt so jealous in his entire life. He always thought you two had a “will they won’t they” side to your relationship but at that moment he realized it was completely one-sided. The fun, flirty side to all your late-night conversations had just been friendly. Two friends playfully talking as if they both wanted to be more.

Of course Dean wanted to be more. Of course he knew he wanted to be with you. But now? Now he knew he’d either missed his chance or he simply never had one.

You were in love with someone that wasn’t him. And the love you’d been writing about wasn’t the kind someone gets over. It’s the kind that sticks—for life. The kind that people write songs about, the kind that people fight wars over, and the kind that makes people go crazy in the best way.

He knew he’d found that love when he first fell for you, but it turned out you had found that love in someone else.

“Anything?” Sam asked, walking into your room.

“Uhm,” Dean cleared his throat, hoping his eyes didn’t look as cloudy as they felt. “No, nothing important. Just some love letters or something.”

Sam furrowed his brows and picked up one of the poems off the desk, one that Dean had not read yet. As the taller Winchester read what you wrote his eyes grew wide, practically popping out of his head as his mouth fell open.

“Oh my fucking god!” Sam exclaimed. “Y/n’s in love with you?” He looked at his older brother in shock.

“Me? No, these poems are about whoever she’s been seeing recently, they aren’t about me. We’re just friends.”

“You haven’t read this one yet, have you?” Sam asked with a small smile before handing it over.

You asked me today; “what’s your favorite color?”

And I just shrugged; “I don’t know, blue?”

Cause how could I have said the truth?

The color I love most in the world

The color that brings me nothing but joy

In this sad, awful little life

Is the green and hazel of your eyes

The emerald diamonds that shine

When you look into the sun

The soft hazel that looks over at me

When we’re reading in the library

How can I tell you all of this

When the question is so simple and plain

How do I go into such specific detail

About the color I’m in love with

Without freaking you out

Or scaring you away

Or making you laugh at me

Because I know your favorite color

And I know it’s not the color of my eyes

“You…You think this is really about me?” Dean asked his little brother, hoping Sam was right.

“Dean in all my life I have never seen anyone but you eat a burger bun-side-down,” Sam chuckled a little having read one of the poems Dean had read earlier.

“Oh my god.” Dean furrowed his brows, looking back down at the paper in his hands. “We’ve gotta find her, Sammy, I gotta tell her!”

“Tell her that you went through her stuff while she was gone? Don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“No! Tell her I’m in love with her! Tell her that the color of her eyes is my favorite fucking color too! And every time her favorite band comes on the radio I turn it up, and every time I see a woman wearing her type of clothes I think about her. Tell her that all I do every waking moment of every day is wish I was with her, wish I was holding her in my arms so I could never let go.”

“I think you just told her.” Sam smiled, nodding to where you now stood at your door. Dean turned around quickly. Tears of joy stung your eyes as you looked at him and smiled.

“You love me?” you asked.

“More than anything,” Dean admitted as he hurried to you. He wrapped you in a tight hug, kissing your temple quickly before he tucked your head under his chin. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call, it’s a long story,” you mumbled. “When vampires ban together with twisted humans, they’re a lot harder to kill.”

“We were really worried about you,” Dean admitted. “Like…fucking terrified.”

“Is that why you decided to dig through my personal shit?” you asked. You were one hundred percent kidding, but Dean was still nervous.

“Yeah…sorry,” Sam cringe-clenched his teeth, “it was my fault.”

You and Dean pulled back from the hug, but you took his hand in yours as you narrowed your gaze at the younger hunter.

“I know your tell, Sammy,” you said. “But it’s sweet that you’re trying to cover for Dean.”

“Yep, all Dean’s fault,” Sam admitted before heading for the door, giving his brother a pat on the shoulder on his way out. “Good luck.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to invade your privacy, I swear,” Dean told you quickly. “I was looking for something that might tell me where the hell you were.”

“How many did you read?” you asked.

“Three,” Dean sighed, still thinking you were pissed at him.

“So…you know, then? That I’m hopelessly in love with you? And you think I’d be mad at you for looking through my stuff?”

“I mean, I know you value your privacy.”

“Dean,” you started, putting a hand on his cheek and turning his face to look down at you, “would you please just fuckin’ kiss me already?”

He seemed almost surprised by your question but he quickly smiled as he bent down and kissed you. His one hand stayed clasped in yours while his other went to your waist and then trailed to your lower back. The hand you had on his cheek went to the upper back of his neck so you could tangle your fingers in his hair. The smiles on both of your faces only grew before you both pulled away.

“Wow, I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Dean mumbled before he let out a short, breathy laugh.

“Me too,” you replied.

You’d been back home for a few days now and you had explained the whole missing situation to the brothers. You told them how the simple vampire hunt turned sour quickly when you realized the small-town’s sheriff was in on it and helped the vamps with making humans just disappear. They’d made you as a hunter instantly and held you hostage for a few days before you killed your way out.

Dean never left your side so when he saw a new poem on your desk his brows furrowed. Curiosity got the better of him as he sat down to read it.

My god aren't I lucky

Now that you're holding me at night

And that first time we kissed in the doorway

I could’ve sworn I was kissing pure sunshine

When your lips hit mine it was better

Then I could’ve ever imagined

And the love poems I've written became

Manifested words of affirmation

The butterflies in my stomach fluttered

And the blood rushed to my head

Think I could stay like this forever

Won't overthink it, I’ll just go and kiss you instead

“Well, well, well.” You came up behind him, and put your hands on his shoulders before you trailed them down and clasped them together over his chest, leaning your chin on his shoulder and kissing his cheek. “Look who’s digging through my shit again.” You smiled against his skin. He turned his head and placed a deep kiss on your lips.

“I’m not even sorry this time, because I think this might be the best thing I’ve ever read.”

“I love you,” you said and kissed him again.

“I love you so fuckin’ much,” he mumbled back.

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deans-queen · 26 days

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Love or Die 💜🔪

Mini Series

Paring: Dean Winchester x Female Reader (Y/N)

Plot: Reader (Y/N) can’t stand Dean Winchester and everything about him, but she has a secret and that is: she’s madly in love with him.

Inspired by the song: Can’t Hold On Forever by Laura Marano

Warnings: SMUT, p in v (wrap it up kids),mature and sexual language.

Part 3 - Reader’s P.O.V (Final Part)

I was laying in my bed with Dean, looking up at him.

He was asleep peacefully, his chest rising up and down slowly.

I couldn’t believe what had happened….. I had been dreaming about this moment for months.

I was in pure bliss.

I was lost in the moment until the alarm on my phone went off. I shut it off and Dean slowly started to wake up.

He was groaning and stretching out his arms, I couldn’t help but giggle.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” I said to him.

“Morning sweetheart.” He planted a kiss on my cheek.

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost 8:00.” I replied while getting up.

I walked into the bathroom and started to freshen up.

As I approached the sink to brush my teeth, Dean came behind me and snaked his arms around my waist.

He nuzzled his head in my neck and began planting kisses there.

“Keep it up sir and we’ll have to go for round 2.”

“That’s what I was kinda hoping for…” he mumbled into my neck.

“If we spend all day in bed, we will never solve this case.”

“Fine”, he grumbled, as he gave me a peck on the lips. “But you owe me later.”

After we all got dressed and had breakfast, we met at the table in the front room of the bunker. We called it the “meeting room.”

Sam called us and told us some pretty big news.

“So basically to break it down, I know who killed Lillian.”

“Wait, I thought she killed herself, she was murdered?” I said, surprisingly.

“Yeah, but it was made to look like a suicide.”

“But why?” Dean asked.

“Because we know her and Master Turner were not allowed to be together, so someone had to kill her off. And you’ll never guess who.”

“No wait, don’t tell me the butler did it?” Dean said.

“Yup, Mr. Ramsay.” Sam said. “He tried to tell Master Turner it wasn’t a good idea but he didn’t listen. He felt betrayed after all he had done for the master's family. And, check this out: he even wrote a fake letter to make it look like she killed herself.”

“What a bastard.” I said, shaking my head.

“So where can we find his remains?” Dean asked.

“It will be tricky cause he’s buried in the cemetery behind the house.”

Sam pulls out a map out of the house and points to the cemetery.

We came up with a plan to try to sneak by the ghosts, it was going to be tricky but I knew we could pull it off.

After we took care of that bum butler’s ghost and reversed the curse we all headed back to bunker. It was a hell of a fight.

Sam and Dean got a bit banged up, and I got slashed on my side, it hurt like hell.

Once we got there, Dean scooped me up and brought me to the medical room of the bunker.

He set me down softly on the bed and began to wipe the blood off of me.

“Dammit, baby you’re bleeding out!”

“Make it stop Dean!”

“I’m trying…”

Sam rushed into the room and Castiel was with him.

“Dammit Cass you could have showed up awhile ago.” I said, wincing in pain.

“Sorry, but don’t worry I’m here now. I heard Dean's prayer.” He said.

Awe, he prayed for me.

His hand began to glow and he placed it on my side, healing my wound completely.

He then touched Sam and Deans foreheads to heal them too.

“Thanks Cass,” we all said to him.

“My pleasure.” He said, then he disappeared.

I got up and went back to my room, needing a minute to breathe about everything that just happened

Knock knock.

“Baby it’s me.” Dean called out. “You okay?”

“I’m fine Dean, no need to check on me.” I said, calling out.

He opened up the door then closed it behind him, sitting on my bed next to me.

“No I don’t think so, I’m always going to check on my girl when she’s upset, hurt or whatever it is.”

I looked at him and I couldn’t help but smile, touching his cheek.

“My girl?”

“That’s what you are right?”

“Yes, I just have to get used to hearing that. All this time I was secretly crushing on you and now I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

He smirked while biting his lip, looking up and down at my lips.

We both leaned in slowly and our lips touched. Feelings of electricity ran through my body, giving me goosebumps on my skin.

We deepened the kiss, as our tongues collided. I began to lay back on the bed and Dean crawled on top of me. He kissed along my neck and down to my collarbones, all while undoing the buttons on my shirt.

Once my shirt was unbuttoned, he grabbed a hold of my boobs, massaging each one gently.

“Fuck Dean, you’re turning me on already.” I moaned softly

He reached down and undid my jeans and began to stick a hand down my panties and began to rub my pussy, feeling my wet folds.

“You’re so wet for me baby girl, are you ready for me?”

“Yes Dean please! I want all of you. I want your body against mine, I want your thick hard cock inside of me….take me please.”

Once I said that, he really started to heat things up.

Before I knew it all of our clothes were off and the only thing that was on our body’s was the sweat and ecstasy from the moment.

He teased me at first, before I begged for him to put his dick inside me.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as he began to thrust in and out of my pussy, he was so perfect for me.

My nails clawed down his back, leaving marks, I could feel the moment coming….I was gonna cum. I wanted it and I needed it.

He thrusted faster and faster while grabbing my ass and my hips, we were rocking the bed and moans filled up the room.

“Dean I’m so fucking close, make me cum for you.”

“Fuck baby girl, I’m close too, get ready…” he groaned in a husky voice.

And then it happened, we both reached our climax and filled each other up with our sweet juices.

We both breathed heavily and looked into each others’ eyes.

“I….I love you Y/N.” Dean said, softly

Omg….I can’t believe I’m finally hearing these words. I've waited so long to hear them.

“I love you too, Dean.” I said, while kissing his cheek.

And then we both fell asleep, enjoying the romantic moment while it lasted.

Authors Note:

Hope you enjoyed this story!

Feel free to let me know what you think!

Like & follow for more !! Xoxo

Check out my other stories!

Masterlist 📝

Tag list: if you would like to be added LMK 🫶🏻

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 18 days

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LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

March 31, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

APR 01, 2024

On Wednesday, President Joe Biden issued an executive order instructing the National Park Service to “highlight important figures and chapters in women’s history.” “Women and girls of all backgrounds have shaped our country’s history, from the ongoing fight for justice and equality to cutting-edge scientific advancements and artistic achievements,” the announcement read. “Yet these contributions have often been overlooked. We must do more to recognize the role of women and girls in America’s story, including through the Federal Government’s recognition and interpretation of historic and cultural sites.”

In a time when American women are seeing their rights stripped away, it seems worthwhile on this last day of Women’s History Month to highlight the work of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who challenged the laws that barred women from jobs and denied them rights, eventually setting the country on a path to extend equal justice under law to women and LGBTQ Americans.

Ginsburg was born in Brooklyn, New York, on March 15, 1933, in an era when laws, as well as the customs they protected, treated women differently than men. Joan Ruth Bader, who went by her middle name, was the second daughter in a middle-class Jewish family. She went to public schools, where she excelled, and won a full scholarship to Cornell. There she met Martin Ginsburg, and they married after she graduated. “What made Marty so overwhelmingly attractive to me was that he cared that I had a brain,” she later explained. Relocating to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for her husband’s army service, Ginsburg scored high on the civil service exam but could find work only as a typist. When she got pregnant with their daughter, Jane, she lost her job.

Two years later, the couple moved back east, where Marty had been admitted to Harvard Law School. Ginsburg was admitted the next year, one of 9 women in her class of more than 500 students; a dean asked her why she was “taking the place of a man.” She excelled, becoming the first woman on the prestigious Harvard Law Review. When her husband underwent surgery and radiation treatments for testicular cancer, she cared for him and their daughter while managing her studies and helping Marty with his. She rarely slept.

After he graduated, Martin Ginsburg got a job in New York, and Ginsburg transferred to Columbia Law School, where she graduated at the top of her class. But in 1959, law firms weren’t hiring women, and judges didn’t want them as clerks either—especially mothers, who might be distracted by their “familial obligations.” Finally, her mentor, law professor Gerald Gunther, got her a clerkship by threatening Judge Edmund Palmieri that if he did not take her, Gunther would never send him a clerk again.

After her clerkship and two years in Sweden, where laws about gender equality were far more advanced than in America, Ginsburg became one of America’s first female law professors. She worked first at Rutgers University—where she hid her pregnancy with her second child, James, until her contract was renewed—and then at Columbia Law School, where she was the first woman the school tenured.

At Rutgers she began her bid to level the legal playing field between men and women, extending equal protection under the law to include gender. Knowing she had to appeal to male judges, she often picked male plaintiffs to establish the principle of gender equality.

In 1971 she wrote the brief for Sally Reed in the case of Reed vs. Reed, when the Supreme Court decided that an Idaho law specifying that “males must be preferred to females” in appointing administrators of estates was unconstitutional. Chief Justice Warren Burger, who had been appointed by Richard Nixon, wrote: “To give a mandatory preference to members of either sex over members of the other…is to make the very kind of arbitrary legislative choice forbidden by the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment” to the Constitution.

In 1972, Ginsburg won the case of Moritz v. Commissioner. She argued that a law preventing a bachelor, Charles Moritz, from claiming a tax deduction for the care of his aged mother because the deduction could be claimed only by women, or by widowed or divorced men, was discriminatory. The United States Court of Appeals for the Tenth Circuit agreed, citing Reed v. Reed when it decided that discrimination on the basis of sex violated the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution.

In that same year, Ginsburg founded the Women’s Rights Project at the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU). Between 1973 and 1976, she argued six gender discrimination cases before the Supreme Court. She won five. The first time she appeared before the court, she quoted nineteenth-century abolitionist and women’s rights activist Sarah Grimké: “I ask no favor for my sex. All I ask of our brethren is that they take their feet off our necks.”

Nominated to the Supreme Court by President Bill Clinton in 1993, she was confirmed by a vote of 96 to 3. Clinton called her “the Thurgood Marshall of gender-equality law.”

In her 27 years on the Supreme Court, Ginsburg championed equal rights both from the majority and in dissent (which she would mark by wearing a sequined collar), including her angry dissent in 2006 in Ledbetter v. Goodyear Tire & Rubber when the plaintiff, Lilly Ledbetter, was denied decades of missing wages because the statute of limitations had already passed when she discovered she had been paid far less than the men with whom she worked. “The court does not comprehend or is indifferent to the insidious way in which women can be victims of pay discrimination,” Ginsburg wrote. Congress went on to change the law, and the first bill President Barack Obama signed was the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act.

In 2013, Ginsburg famously dissented from the majority in Shelby County v. Holder, the case that gutted the 1965 Voting Rights Act. The majority decided to remove the provision of the law that required states with histories of voter suppression to get federal approval before changing election laws, arguing that such preclearance was no longer necessary. Ginsburg wrote: “Throwing out preclearance when it has worked and is continuing to work to stop discriminatory changes is like throwing away your umbrella in a rainstorm because you are not getting wet.” As she predicted, after the decision, many states immediately began to restrict voting.

Ginsburg’s dissent made her a cultural icon. Admirers called her “The Notorious R.B.G.” after the rapper The Notorious B.I.G., wore clothing with her image on it, dressed as her for Halloween, and bought RBG dolls and coloring books. In 2018 the hit documentary "RBG" told the story of her life, and as she aged, she became a fitness influencer for her relentless strength-training regimen. She was also known for her plain speaking. When asked when there would be enough women on the Supreme Court, for example, she answered: “[W]hen there are nine.”

Ginsburg’s death on September 18, 2020, brought widespread mourning among those who saw her as a champion for equal rights for women, LGBTQ Americans, minorities, and those who believe the role of the government is to make sure that all Americans enjoy equal justice under law. Upon her passing, former secretary of state Hillary Clinton tweeted: “Justice Ginsburg paved the way for so many women, including me. There will never be another like her. Thank you RBG.”

Just eight days after Ginsburg’s death, then-president Donald Trump nominated extremist Amy Coney Barrett to take her seat on the court, and then–Senate majority leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) rushed her confirmation hearings so the Senate could confirm her before the 2020 presidential election. It did so on October 26, 2020. Barrett was a key vote on the June 2022 Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization decision, the Supreme Court ruling that overturned the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision recognizing the constitutional right to abortion.

Ginsburg often quoted Justice Louis Brandeis’s famous line, “The greatest menace to freedom is an inert people,” and she advised people to “fight for the things you care about, but do it in a way that will lead others to join you.”

Setting an example for how to advance the principle of equality, she told the directors of the documentary RBG that she wanted to be remembered “[j]ust as someone who did whatever she could, with whatever limited talent she had, to move society along in the direction I would like it to be for my children and grandchildren.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #history #women's history #women #Ruth Bader Ginsburg #women's rights #US History

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nordleuchten · 9 months

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24 Days of La Fayette: December 21st - Michel Capitaine du Chesnoy

Michel Capitaine du Chesnoy (1746–1804) was a French officer who had served in the French army as a geographical engineer and lieutenant in the Regiment d’Aquitaine. He was among the first group of officers that traveled with La Fayette onboard L’Hermione to America. He was promised the rank of Captain by Silas Dean on December 1, 1776.

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 1, December 7, 1776–March 30, 1778, Cornell University Press, 1977, p. 18.

Despite the promising start to this adventure, Capitaine’s luck soon turned. One of his compoaniogns, Du Rousseau de Fayolle (who was featured on day 3) noted in his travel journal:

We endured abominable heat in South Carolina, and to refresh ourselves at the end of each day we had to accept horrible lodgings and detestable water. Further, one of our band fell sick at Charlotte, the second town we came to. It is one of the worst places imaginable. We found a doctor, however, who took great care of the sick man. He took him, as well as us, to his house, and I did not leave there until the sick officer was out of danger.

The illness on its own was dreadful enough, but it got worse. Capitaine convalesced in an inn in Salisbury … and he was somewhat forgotten there. The rest of the group pressed on to Philadelphia, there to meet with the Congress and to get their commissions confirmed. But he was never sent for. La Fayette wrote to Henry Laurens on November 18, 1778:

As I have seen just now a letter from the same Mr. Capitaine dated Salsbury the 28 october Where he seems very much concerned to be left by me since five months in a inn at a very great expense and therefore engaged in many debts, without receiving any order, and any direction, I incline to believe that some thing was misunderstood in it.

To Capitaine’s misery, it was not only La Fayette who seemed to have forgotten him, but Laurens’ also did forget that La Fayette had written him on that matter. He replied to the Marquis on December 6, 1777:

I have taken the liberty of obtruding this prolix detail in order to account for my tardiness & in some measure to plead my excuse, especially for my neglect of your intimation relative to Monsr. Capitaine, which has been with me nine days, yet I have not at all interfered in the business-the Subject important as it is, had wholly escaped my memory. Let me incur your censure Sir, in preference to the reproaches of my own mind, or an attempt to insult you, which would follow a fallacious apology. But Sir, before you will have an opportunity of Superceding the power you have vested with me, I shall have Set myself so heartily to the discharge of that trust as will render it unnecessary for you to employ another Attorney & I am not without hope of regaining your confidence. Be assured Sir I will not lose Sight of the Subject until I have done everything that shall be practicable for accomplishing your desires.

Things began finally to lock up for Capitaine in early 1778. Laurens wrote to La Fayette on January 28, 1778:

I have taken such measures as I think cannot fail to bring Monsr. Capitaine & the Baggage forward. Major Polke who left the Army last Week has engaged not only to deliver my Letter but to exert his utmost endeavors that my direction & requests shall be duly executed.

Laurens had asked his friends Matthew Locke and Matthew Troy to settle Capitaine’s accounts with his own money and to arrange for the Frenchman to travel to New York. So far so well, but now that Capitaine was on his way to finally join the army, new problems arose for him, as La Fayette wrote to Henry Laurens on April 10, 1778:

You remember, sir, when I arrived at Philadelphia that I have alwai's mentionn’d a french officer of my family Mr. Capitaine of the rgt. of Aquitaine, who on account of his being sick had been left in Carolina when I came through those states, and for reasons too long to explain was never sent for till this moment. ’Tis to you, sir, that I have the obligation of his being in York. The engagement he has made with Mr. Deane was to be A capitaine whose commission and appointements would run since October 1776. When those engagements didnt meet with the approbation of Congress it was promised that Mr. Capitaine would be looked on in a different light. I leave entirely to the Congress what they will think proper to do for him, but beg leave to observe that officers who have no more seen the fire of the last campaign have been promoted to much higher ranks.

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 2, April 10, 1778–March 20, 1780, Cornell University Press, 1978, p. 23.

On the same day he wrote to Laurens, La Fayette also wrote to Horatio Gates, who served as President of the Board of War. Gates replied on April 15, 1778, that Capitaine had been recommended for a captaincy – which was confirmed later that same month. The date of the commission was December of 1776. His first assignment as a geographical engineer was to map the expedition on the Susquehanna River. But La Fayette had other plans for Capitaine, as he wrote to Henry Laurens on April 25, 1778:

(Betwen you and me) I schould have been happy had Mr. Capitaine been left to me for drawing the last campaign as far as possible and for to begin the next one — but if he is thaught useful any where else I have no objection to his going, and am very glad he is employed if no other can do the business. However I want him be considered as mine because he was given to me by the Marshal and Count de Broglio — to whom he was belonging before they attached him to me as a present. Such a gentleman will be very useful to me when the business of the Susquehana schall be done, and by the same reason to the common wheale. As his expenses have been very high Congress will pay what they think proper and if not all I schall pay the remains.

While La Fayette’s sound rather possessive in this letter, his interest in Capitaine’s skills was understandable. Have a look at the map Capitaine drew for La Fayette of the retreat of Barren Hill:

La Fayette repeated his desire for Capitaine to serv under him in a letter to Henry Laurens from July 23, 1778:

There is a thing I now particularly Reccommend both to the president and to my friend. Mr. Capitaine one of my family has got the commission of a captain of engeneers. He has since been useful to the country by his Drafts of the Susquehana. You Rembember that I did object a little to his being made an engeneer because I foresaw what would happen. The corps du genie can’t help considering him as an officer of theyrs who is to do duty with them. Mr. Capitaine was in the Marshal of Broglio’s family, they made me a present of him and I attach’d him to serve to me not only in America and in war but also to stay in the family in peaceble times. Such an officer I ca’nt spare, and I will employ him to make plans of our positions and battles for Gal. Washington, for me, and also for the king who will be glad to have an exact draft of Gal. Washington’s battles. The only way of getting him out of the engeneery is to have for him a commission of Major in the line; he is now in my family but I want to have him entirely my supern-aide de camp. I do’nt speack to any body about that affair, and as I have it more at heart than any other business of that kind I want to have that obligation to your frienship. I Even confess I wish to have it soon done to avoid any compromise.

La Fayette eventually got his way and Capitaine remained his aide-de-camp and map maker until the Yorktown campaign. La Fayette also managed to get Capitaine a brevet commission as major on November 5, 1778.

Capitaine accompanied La Fayette during the Marquis’ first return to France and maps drawn by him were presented to the King’s ministers. La Fayette was further accompanied by two of his other aide-de-camps, Gimat (day 19) and La Colombe (day 20). He endorsed promotions for all three men and Capitaine was made a Captain in the King’s Dragoons in June of 1779 and his salary was increased in March of 1780.

Upon their return to America, Capitaine remained in La Fayette’s service. While he was principally employed for his skills as a geographical engineer, we also have several letters that Capitaine copied, translated, or wrote for La Fayette. He also delivered messages between La Fayette and Rochambeau.

Capitaine served at La Fayette’s side until December 1781, when he sailed to France, never to return to America. Despite this, he kept his rank in the American army until he was honourably discharged in November of 1783. As part of the French army, he served with the troops intended to sail from Cadiz with d’Estaing.

Capitaine, as well as the Marquise and Marquis de La Fayette and others, was invited to Benjamin Franklin’s Independence Day celebration in 1783. He wrote to William Temple Franklin, with whom he was friends since 1779, on July 3, 1783, that he could not attend since he was busy assisting La Fayette with some business.

By August of 1783, Capitaine was still owned 1600$ as pay for his service in America. Richard Peters was nominated on August 20, 1783, by Benjamin Franklin to receive the money due to Capitaine. Concerning this matter Peters wrote to Thomas Jefferson on October 1, 1786, more than three years later:

I hope your Friendship will induce you to excuse the Trouble I give you in negotiating a little Affair for me. I recieved 930 Dollars for a Captain Capitaine which has been lying in our Bank for a long Time as I could not pay it before I recieved a proper Power of Attorney from Mr. Capitaine to make a Settlement of his Accounts. Having now recieved it and got thro’ the necessary Forms I have troubled you to find him out and pay him the Sum mentioned in the enclosed Bill taking his Reciept therefor of which I beg you will be pleased to inform me. Be assured of the most respectful and sincere Esteem with which I am Your obed hble Servt., Richard Peters He was Aid to the Marquis de la Fayette who will inform you of the Place of his Residence.

“To Thomas Jefferson from Richard Peters, 1 October 1786,” Founders Online, National Archives, [Original source: The Papers of Thomas Jefferson, vol. 10, 22 June–31 December 1786, ed. Julian P. Boyd. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1954, pp. 416–417.] (07/02/2023)

Capitaine served as an assistant on the French army general staff until 1790.

At least one of Capitaines drawings of the American War garnered great interest in Paris as an engraving.

To end this post, let us have a look at a few more maps that Capitaine produced:

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 3, April 27, 1780–March 29, 1781, Cornell University Press, 1980, p. 198.

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 4, April 1, 1781–December 23, 1781, Cornell University Press, 1981, p. 11.

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queen-of-deans-booty · 1 year

Text

Everybody Hates Hitler: Part Two

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2k

Warnings: canon angst and violence

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated.

There aren't any more entries because the last entry was made by your mom. This journal only dates back to the late 1700s, but you know that you come from a line of witches dating back much further than that. Was your mom a Men of Letters as well? You've gotten so much use out of your magic, you can't imagine a life without it. Since you're technically next in line to become the Sapphire Witch, there aren't any other entries after your mom.

It says that the Sapphire Witch can utilize Order Magic, allowing mastery of spells capable of manipulating and/or reconstructing reality and the very fabric of existence, and bring about order to the cosmos. The Sapphire Witch is a being capable of spontaneous creation. She can shape and manipulate this magic for different effects, such as forming tangible constructs of energy or cast spells without incantation.

Basically, you're a badass who doesn't need spells to do magic.

The rest of the journal does go into great detail about the capabilities the Sapphire Witch has, but they're all rumors since no Sapphire Witch has achieved that level of power before. Apparently, the greatest Sapphire Witch can warp reality however she sees fit, and she can create small zones in which reality follows her wishes and rules. If you achieve this, you can create pockets in the real world where the laws of physics don't apply to within the pocket you created.

The Sapphire Witch can create life where there was none previously, can teleport, can manipulate the weather as well as all four elements. All these things are rumors, but no one has ever been able to do it. That kind of gives you a challenge to work towards, but you know you may never actually reach it.

You're nowhere near being the most powerful you can be, but with a lot of practice, you can get there. This journal now belongs to you, and you hope that one day, you can add to it and make your own entry to pass onto Joanna, Maryann, and any other daughters you may bear.

"I can do anything," you whisper, staring at the journal in front of you.

Knowing the brothers have to see this, you get up and bring the notebook with you on your way to the twins' nurseries. Joanna is in there helping them build the cribs since that's the last thing that needs to be done. They've been working so hard the past week, you're grateful to have them in your life.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Dean asks when he sees you.

"Check this out. I found this book all about the Sapphire Witch. Henry said that I was supposed to become one. The stuff each witch wrote about in here is amazing. I can't believe it." You tell them everything you found, and they're shocked to say the least. "I'm a fucking badass. I mean, my only limit is my imagination."

"That you are," Dean chuckles. "Alright, we deserve a break."

Sam and Dean do deserve a break, and Dean's version of that is to take a long ass shower. Can you blame him? You took one the first night you got here, and the water pressure is amazing. Sam, on the other hand, went to check out the library since he didn't get a good look at the books. Joanna and Zeus follow you and Sam to the library where you take back your seat at one of the big library tables.

Thirty minutes later, Dean walks back into the room wearing one of the gray bathrobe and slippers left behind by the previous occupants. Sam managed to create his own library on the other table based on how many books are laid out around him.

"The water pressure in the Letters' shower room is marvelous."

"Yeah. I still can't figure out how we even have water... or electricity."

"Yep. I am putting that under the 'ain't broke' column. Listen, little brother, let's not go all geek on this stuff, okay?"

"Geek?" you and Sam ask at the same time.

"Yeah, I mean, don't get me wrong," Dean lifts a scimitar, which is a very long and pointy sword that's on display, "this stuff is awesome, and it looks like they ran a real tight outfit here, but I'm just saying, you know, don't think that they knew some big secrets that we don't know."

Dean strikes a pose with the scimitar while Sam's back is to him. He doesn't think anyone is watching him, but you are, and you have a wide smile on your face. As Sam turns, Dean quickly straightens up and pretends like he wasn't having fun.

"Dean, they were a secret society."

"Which means that they made shit up and wore fezzes and sashes and swung around scimitars. They probably didn't even sharp--" Dean runs his finger along the blade and cuts himself, stopping him from finishing his sentence. "That's very sharp."

"You're an idiot," you roll your eyes.

Dean replaces the scimitar back on the stand before he hurts himself more or someone else.

"Dean, look, I think we might have something here--something that could help us and help humanity. Henry certainly thought so. I mean, you know damn well we could use a break. What if we finally got one?"

"Are you gonna take off the dead-guy robe?" you ask, briefly changing subjects.

"No."

Week Two

"Are you ready to see your new room?"

"Yeah!" Joanna says happily.

You got her everything she asked for which meant you spent a lot of time in the princess section of the store. Everything in her room is pink, white, blue, and stocked with princesses and stuffed animals. You open the door to introduce her to it, but she is too excited to hear what you have to say. She screams happily and runs inside, giggling at how pink it looks.

"Happy?"

"Yeah!"

"Good."

You let her bask in the glory of her new room alone as you head across the hall to where the twins' room is. You used your magic and helped finish the room, so you already know what it looks like. This is everything you could have ever wanted, and nothing could ruin this moment. The room next to Joanna's room is her playroom where all of her toys and games are, and since it's only your little family, you're not worried about taking up some of the extra rooms. Speaking of taking up the extra rooms, you made Dean knock down the wall separating his bedroom and the bedroom next to him so that you two could have a master bedroom of sorts. If you two were going to share a room, you'd need something bigger than what they had.

Ever since reading the journal, you've been practicing with your magic in ways you've never used it before. It's taken some effort, but you're able to change objects into something that's different. For example, you're able to take the queen bed that's normally inside the bedrooms and turn it into a California King. Your bedroom also consists of a walk-in closet that you absolutely love.

Dean deserves to have his own space as well, so you're also using one more bedroom for either one of you if you ever need some time apart from each other. Zeus doesn't have his own bedroom, but you did make him his own little corner in the library. You can keep him here in the air conditioning while you go out and hunt without worry that he is going to run away.

It's a nice little setup you have got going on here.

You're seven months pregnant now, so this is a perfect spot to wind down in and get ready for the twins' arrival. Dean is out right now getting more food for the house since you've been here for two weeks, and Sam is still nose deep in all the books. You and Joanna are sitting near Sam playing a tea party. Sam doesn't mind since he gets to hear the little giggles coming from his niece.

Soon, Dean comes back with food, and he sets his duffel bag on the table next to where you and Sam are.

"Hey, how's Kevin doing?" Sam asks.

"He's okay, I guess. He's in his corner, hacking out his Da Vinci code--nothing actionable yet. Garth says hi, by the way. Anything from Cas?"

"No, not a peep. Why?"

"He's not answering."

"Right. Well, uh, so I have been trying to chart out the Letters' network of hunters, their allies, and affiliated groups they worked with prior to 1958. Most are dead or defunct, but others, I'm not so sure. There's this one that you should definitely check out."

Sam places a file with the Aquarian Star symbol on it over to Dean.

"The Judah Initiative?"

"It's a European team. They were active during World War II."

"Really? Hunters fighting in a war? That's cool," you shrug.

"Not exactly hunters and not exactly fighting. They're Rabbi's."

"Wait, really?" you ask, suddenly interested.

"The Letters' file on them is sketchy, but they were hard-core saboteurs. So, I ran a search on the Initiative's entire roster, and I got a hit on Rabbi Isaac Bass. He was seventeen years old when he joined the Initiative and eighty-five years old when he died two weeks ago in a college town back east."

"What happened to him?"

"He was there doing research, and according to eyewitnesses, he spontaneously combusted."

"So, this is a case?" Dean asks, and Sam raises his eyebrows at him in confusion. "I just got back."

"If I have to go, you're going. Come on, Jo, let's go get ready."

"Okay, mama."

After getting ready, you leave Zeus at the bunker with more than enough food and water to last until you can come back. Sam is stuck on research duty, so you have him and Joanna at the campus library while you and Dean head to the local campus pub to talk to some of the students about the professor who died.

There were some kids who didn't want to talk to you, but two young women took one look at your husband and decided they wanted to spill the beans to him. You're not jealous since you're getting the information, but you do make it known that you're clearly married to him and pregnant. Dean smirks when he sees you showing off your ring, but he doesn't say anything about it.

"He was a really nice old kook," one of them says.

"Kook? How so?"

"You know, he'd talk a lot to us, to himself, or to anyone who'd listen. He was always talking about this secret war that nobody knew was going on."

"Conspiracy stuff. He was obsessed with Nazis, but he said they were 'Special Nazis'. You know, necromancers."

"Necromancers?" you ask, raising your eyebrows.

You happen to look behind the two girls and see a bearded young man carrying a fruity drink with a pink umbrella. He sits down at a high table and watches you and Dean. You've actually seen him a few times around campus, but you thought he was just a student.

"Yeah, like from that world of whatever-craft that my little brother is always playing," one of the women says, bringing you back into the conversation.

"Nazi... necromancers," Dean says, looking at you.

"It's sad that old people go so crazy sometimes."

"I know, it's sad."

The bearded young man at the high table catches your eye again, but this time, he's looking at Dean. He smiles and raises his hand at him flirtatiously. That throws off both you and Dean, but you try to ignore him.

"I'm sorry. You both saw the accident?" Dean shakes his head.

"I can still hear his screams. It was like the fire was alive, like it was attacking him."

"It was like watching the most awful movie of the most terrible thing you could possibly see."

It's clear the man at the table isn't going to stop staring at you, so maybe he has some information that might be useful to you. You excuse yourself from the two women and get up, following Dean over to the man. He sees you two coming and suddenly gets shy, looking down in embarrassment.

"Special Agent Bolan and Recker," Dean says, flashing his badge at him.

"Oh, really? Wow. I thought you were like a headhunter or something," he laughs.

"This is the second, maybe third time I'm seeing you today? Why are you following us, Gingerbread?"

"Oh, so we, um... we didn't have a thing back there, huh?"

This is the last thing you thought he would say, and you burst out laughing at the thought of this man thinking he had a romantic connection with your husband. You look at Dean to see his bitch face, and you quickly cough to cover up the fact that you were laughing.

"Sorry. I am his very pregnant wife," you say to him.

"I'm sorry, man. I thought we had a thing back at the quad, you know, a little 'eye magic' moment, and I saw you here and I figured I'd wait until you were done with your meeting. I can see now that it's not going to happen."

"Even if I wasn't married, this is a federal investigation."

"Is that supposed to make you less interesting?"

"We should go," you giggle.

"You two have a good night."

You and Dean got up, and thankfully, Sam called his phone. The man makes Dean nervous, so Dean turns to respond, but he ends up knocking into the table behind him.

"You have a--okay." Dean quickly leaves the pub, and as soon as you're outside, you burst out laughing again. "Shut your mouth."

"I can't, that was so funny," you laugh some more.

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

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hms-tardimpala · 9 months

Text

@hurdygurdywizard you asked me to say more, and it got out of hand and way too big for the comment section so here's what I wrote:

But Wiz, if I say more it's going to become tangible and I'm scared I'll write it! I have a thing for sad gay stories set in the trenches of WW1, that's a fact. I've read and written some stuff, and I am not entirely devoid of knowledge, it's true. So, just for the fun of kicking the ball around:

the front of WW1 is perfect for exploring several themes. I can subtitute class divide (private/officer) for the angel/human dynamic, for ex

the trenches are a place where (gay) men are taken away from the heterosexual society and expectations that weighed on them (such as marriage) and at the same time driven to the human extremes in a homosociety where everything hinges on repression (of the self, of trauma, of pain, of FREE WILL)

Cas can be landed gentry escaping a marriage of convenience and given an officer rank because of his social rank/his father's status (his father is of course a very intimidating and god-like figure) despite not having the skills (Dean despises him)

Dean can be a lower-class man enlisting for a steady pay/to escape an abusive father/to protect his absolutist little brother. He throws himself into the war with skill and rage to stop himself from thinking too much about ~things~ but it only make him more Not Okay. His superiors take advantage of his skill to use him for increasingly dangerous missions (a parallel between one officer in particular and John Winchester could be made here) but his constant covering for his brother/the rule violation he has to engage in to protect him keep him well in the lower ranks.

this is as close to fitting in Dean has ever been, and yet he could be shot at the first sign of desire for another man. He happens to be surrounded by men, bonding with them, and goig through the most harrowing things possible with them.

thanks to his brother being the breadwinner before the war, Sam was able to stay in school and educate himself longer. He has political beliefs, refuses to die in a war for his government and tries to convince other soldiers they don't have to. His letters home (to Jess? Eileen?) are systematically censored.

queer desire everywhere, slow burn possible and even mandatory

I can be as french about it as I bloody want!!!

the only issue is the female characters, but I can use what little there are to give a perspective on how things are at home, and the role women have to take on during the war, with burgeonning women's rights ideas.

preliminary inspiration sources: Maurice, How Many Miles to Babylon, the Absolutist, the british poets of the Lost Generation.

Shit! I REFUSE to write it! I'm good at concepts, but not at writing, and I would never finish it! AFDHMJKHKhji

#writing #<- this is for classification reasons okay? I'm not writing it okay?!

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hekate1308 · 2 years

Text

Fictober 2022, #19

Prompt: "Do we have a deal?“

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: G

Pairings: Drowley

Some years the Market arrived early.

Some years the Market arrived late.

Some years the Market didn’t arrive at all, or for one day only.

But every October, there was the possibility – every year, people stood still for a moment or two and listened to the wind, felt the air, tried to guess whether or not the tents would come.

And without fail, parents would warn their children to stay away. Too dangerous, no one knew what those people would ask for their wares, et cetera. Dean had heard it all a million times.

But he was all alone, because Dad had once again gone off to God knew where, and Sammy was sick, and he’d just turned eighteen, meaning he was now off age and could make deals if he chose.

And the doctor didn’t know how to help Sammy.

He didn’t care what happened to him. He was scared, and alone, and he could feel that the Market was about to start.

So, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he left Sammy all alone and went to the Market.

At first, he was almost overwhelmed by the colours and sounds and the sheer realness of it all – how those people laughed and shouted and sang at each other, everyone seemingly important as a member of the community no matter how strange or solitary, whereas, thanks to Dad and his drinking, he and Sammy had been isolated in the village for years.

Here, though… he’d barely set his foot inside the enclosure when people called out to him; more than one offered him food since “You look pinched darling.” When he explained why he was there, they looked reluctant but pointed him towards a stall.

There was a man with a beard looking at him. “Well, how can I help you?”

He shuffled his feet. “I want my brother to be okay.”

“Really? That’s all?”

He nodded. “Do you want my soul?” He knew a demon when he saw one. He had listened to the stories.

But he shook his head. “Oh no – I’d ask for something else.”

“What?”

“You’ve got five years left in your village. After that, on the next Market… you come with me-.”

What? Go with a demon? Follow the others, maybe go from Market to Market? How could he –

"Do we have a deal?"

This was about Sam. Dean did the only thing he could do – he nodded.

He didn’t expect Crowley to pull him into a kiss, or if he had, he wouldn’t have expected the kiss to be good, but so it was.

“Your brother is waiting for you” was all Crowley said.

Dean went back home and he was, fit as he could be.

The years passed. He didn’t think he’d hear from Crowley, but soon, letters started arriving, telling him things about this different life he’d sign up for, of people and places he had never heard of.

He always wrote back – his answer was gone the next morning, eve though he never knew how.

The villagers continued to ignore them, even more so after Sam had gotten better, because it had to be witchcraft. He tried his best, but he couldn’t do a thing to change their minds.

Although, ever since their deal, October had been different.

He went to every Market, but Crowley was nowhere to be seen – biding his time, perhaps, or maybe he had had enough as he had hinted at and gone on to other Markets. Anyway, Dean got to know the others there and their ways, and quickly came to be accepted by and seen as one of them.

They all knew about his deal with Crowley, and some looked at him with curiosity and some with pity, but they still all did their best to make him feel welcome, even if that meant offering an eyeball to him (for the record, he always politely declined).

Every year when the Market left he felt bereft, but at least with October over, new letters started arriving, although Crowley continued never to mention the Market or their deal.

Dean’s replies grew longer and longer, telling the demon things he had never dared tell another soul.

Sam turned eighteen and left. “We’ve each got our own life, Dean. Let’s stop pretending that we can be happy here.”

And for the last year of the five, Dean was even more isolated than ever before.

And then, one day, he woke up and felt everything was different.

The five years were up.

Another letter.

It’s up to you whether you come or not.

Nothing else. Not even a signature.

Dean read it through once, twice, understanding that he had been given a way out, that he didn’t have to if he didn’t choose to –

And then he thought of the last five years.

He bore Sam no ill will – he’d done it once, he’d do it again – but his brother had been right; they had different lives.

And his own…

He carefully cleaned their hut. He packed up a few clothes, Mum’s small angel statue and the amulet Sam had given him back when they were children.

He locked the door behind him and hung the key next to him.

And then, without looking back, he went meet the destiny he’d chosen.

#fictober22 #my writings #spn #drowley #dean winchester #crowley

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caraleedixon · 2 years

Text

Its on my shoulders no one elses

Clare sat in her room at the bunker, She held her face in her hands and stared at the blank piece of paper in front of her. She knew if she wrote this letter and left that it would kill Dean... But she had to do this. She couldn't handle it, after everything Deanmon had done to her.... She needed to find God and make sure that the mark of Cain would go and stay gone. Clare sighed as she picked up her pen and moved the sheet of paper to write the letter that she knew her boy would hate to read.

My Dear De,

I know that when you were a demon it wasn't really you, trust me lover I know that. But what the demon side of you did.... to Sam... Cas.. me...I need to make it go away so that it never happens again. I'm going to heaven to find where God is. I'm a nephilium and I will be able to find him. I'm am going to get that mark off of your arm if its the last thing I do. Hell, it might be the last thing I do as we both know how God feels about my kind.

De I don't blame you for what the demon side of you did to me, I dont blame you for any of it please know that.

If I do return I hope you don't hate me too much and I hope that we can go back to us. I love you De, I have since I was six years old. That is why I'm doing this. I'm not having my soul mate become a demon again.

I'm sorry and I love you so very much De

Your Angel

~~~~~

Clare folded the paper up and placed it in an envelope, writing Dean's name on the envelope and going to place it on Dean's pillow. She looked around the room and stopped as she saw her favorite picture of her and Dean together.

Clare smiled slowly as she looked at their photo together. She loved Dean more then anything in the world and that is why she was going to do this.

Clare sighed before disappearing with her duffel bag and archangel blade as she heard the Winchester boys walk into the bunker.

"Clare! Angel we're back!" Came Dean's voice as he walked through the bunker. After a few minutes of not finding his girl he walked back through the bunker to Sam. "Hey did Clare message you saying that she was going out?" He asked slowly, Sam pulled out his phone and checked it before shaking his head. Dean took off looking through the entire bunker before running into his room and seeing the envelope on his pillow. Dean stopped short before reaching for the letter and opening it slowly as Sam walked into his room. "It's a letter, from Clare..." Dean said, his voice hoarse as he began to read the letter. He slowly slipped down on his bed as he continued to read it.

As Dean finished reading the letter from his beloved angel, he wiped the tears from his face. "She's gone... She left... went to heaven to find God to get this damn mark off of my arm.... God's gonna kill her.... it was a rule.... Angels cant mate with humans"

Sam watched his brother before sitting down next to him, "Clare has survived all the angels coming after her, She's survived Hell.... all these years of hunting. I'm sure she's got her blade. She'll come back to you, she always does"

Dean sighed before looking over at their picture. "Lets go Sam, We'll call Jody and Cas. She's family Sam, She's a Winchester, We are going to find her and save her ass... Just like she's saved our asses all these years."

"Saving people. Hunting things. The Family Business" Sam chuckled, "And most importantly, we do anything for family"

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wolfpants · 2 years

Note

Hello lovely! I just wondered if you could talk through your fic outlines in more detail? Newbie writer over here. Thank you for all your advice! You're amazing x

Hi there!

YOU are amazing! And I firmly believe that anyone can write, if they want to. All you have to do is want to do it, and trust me, the words will come. You just need to start!

I wrote a little about outlining in this anon ask.

But if you want something a little more detailed I will try my best, and I'll use my process for writing Pages of You because it's fresh in my mind and I still have all of the plans written out.

And I'll also preface this by saying again: I'm not an expert. I've only been publishing fic since August. Some more seasoned writers might have better insights than I do, but here's what I did for this particular fic:

The first thing I do when planning a story is create a folder for it on my Google Drive: this way, all of my "bits" stay together, from my chapters (I use one doc per chapter) to my outline doc itself, to anything else I include there (picture collages, links to websites I might use for research, that sort of thing; I also rewatched You've Got Mail for inspiration and wrote a bunch of notes to refer to).

Speaking of You've Got Mail - that was my step two. Because I knew I wanted to pull out some influences and scenes from this film, I picked out a few things I knew I wanted to include, including the infamous scene where Tom Hanks's character eats all of the caviar at the dinner party (Draco eats all of the macarons at the business mixer). So I laced these ideas together, made a note of them, and this is where I started my fuzzy outline.

While I left that to simmer, the next thing I did was write 2 short biographies for Harry and Draco, so I knew where they would be at during the start of the story:

... god, I actually used the word yuppie!? Anyway, moving on...

Once I got a feel for who these boys were in this world (including putting some work into how they look: see my Harry mood board), I started drafting out my chapter plans. I always think it's a good idea to think of chapters as mini stories within themselves: they have a beginning, a middle, an end. They don't always have to have a resolution, but I find it helpful to make sure they tie up in a way that a) leaves something answered that was questioned earlier in the chapter, and b) opens up a hook for the beginning of the next chapter, or a continuation.

For example, here is my original outline for Chapters 1 and 2, and this is how I usually sketch them out - by listing what I want to happen:

In writing them, I don't always stick to everything as planned, but I make sure I at least hit all of the major events I wanted to cover: like, Dean and Harry hooking up; Harry getting his summer job; sequence of the letters; Malfoy's opening sign and the family's reaction to it.

And I tend to write all of these out until I come to the end of my story. I will rarely start something without knowing how it ends, but that doesn't mean I don't add little bits and pieces here and there, such as:

speech and dialogue that pops into my head (often while out for a run)

bits and pieces of desktop research (for example, I listened to a podcast series about queer life in the late 70s/80s to get an idea of what club life would be like for Harry, when on his trip to York)

character development

Dean was never supposed to have as prominent a role as he ended up having; I extended out and included some additional chapters to involve him more, and more interaction with Harry via the telephone calls. And Regulus was never meant to have his own chapter either, or much of a part to play really other than the role of the snarky Uncle figure. But he had such a strong voice as I was writing him, and he became really parallel to what Draco was, who he was growing up to be, so it made sense to flesh him out and also take charge of Draco's living situation when Draco was disowned by Lucius and Narcissa. I actually really love this part of the story, and it was never in my original plan.

So that's how I outlined Pages of You. It's not a cut and dry formula; my plans never are. They take lives of their own as I write and I end up forming more chapters as the story flows, but as long as I know where my protagonist(s) starts and then ends up within the story, I feel confident to begin writing.

I hope this helps. I have tons of other meta on Pages of You if you're interested in scrolling through the tag.

#writing #my head is kind of like Alton Towers though everything is all over the place #if I could invite you in here I would #no height restrictions at Theme Park Wolf #pages of you

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gargoyle-doyle · 4 months

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Death at the Duke of Buckingham

but not the one we normally discuss.

The death of Edward 'Fred' Charles Woodward (25) -which sounds like JK Rowling need to name a carpenter when you consider his name is Ed-wood wood-wood - and Mary Anne Elizabeth Prescott (26).

Now prior to being dead, they actually had a lot going on, as most people would. Except Mary had a lot a lot, seen as she was married and living with her husband Charles (who conveniently has less names than everyone else), and her 6-year-old daughter, Amy. But Charles worked on a boat (because of course he did as there's nothing else going on in Pompey), leaving Mary lots of time to carry out an affair with Fred throughout various pubs, where they were said to always leave separately, and buy their own drinks.

But Fred was obsessed. Writing to his friend he said "Forgive me for this rash act of mine, but really I could not bear it any longer. I take the girl I love with me. God bless her. [cont. but in red ink for a bit of theatrics] Let us be buried together.'

So, on the night of July 8th 1905, Fred took his letter, his gun, and his infatuation with him to the Duke of Buckingham Pub. Not to confront Mary but with every intent to kill her. He shot her first, and then himself; pub patrons found him alive, though he died shortly after.

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

However, this is a super fun time to point out that the same author whose book I read about this in, Dean Hollands, wrote a book in the Secret History series 'Secret Maidstone'. Coincidentally, the series features a 'Secret Portsmouth' by Steve Wallis in which he labels the Shannon wrong, which is astonishingly hard because there is a metal trophy on top of the Shannon so that anyone with sight can look at it and go 'ah yes, this is the Shannon monument because it says Shannon on it and has a great big massive blue trophy on top,'. (Further relating to how the media is trying to obscure the obelisk in any way it can) Steve Wallis count your days.

This does actually beg the question of this really happening. It's very hard to do a quick google search fact check of 'murder at the Duke of Buckingham pub' because FUNNILY ENOUGH the Duke of Buckingham got murdered AT A PUB - something i have never ever mentioned before on this blog ever. its also immensely difficult to search anything like 'Mary Prescott' 'Edward Woodward' with death/portsmouth/various keywords as they are beyond common names.

(i will clarify i spent about 0.004s fact-checking because its 10pm on Christmas Day <3)

Whatever, completely true or not, its a cool story. Unless of course you are the carpet of the Duke of Buckingham pub, Mary Prescott, or various pub-goers troubled by the event. And most probably her husband Charles and young daughter. So contextually not too cool. But I'd like to imagine at least that theres a legacy of Summertime assassinations in the Dukes name. Pompey tradition. Who's next?

--------

Oh and also for reference the Chesapeake monument looks like this, and not in the slightest like the Shannon.

#w.b obelisk observer society #wb obbly #w.b obbly #obelisk posting #obby #obelisk observer society #duke of buckingham #Dean pls site your sources or i am going to kill you (affectionate)((i loved your book))

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sarah-dipitous · 8 months

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Hellsite Nostalgia Tour 2023 Day 220

There’s No Place Like Home/Listen

And we’re back!! I’m 36, I cannot be staying up til 4am hoping that and then celebrating that a singer will announce an album three time zones away. It completely fucked my everything for DAYS. I’m gonna have to do three days in a row with two episodes…it’s fine. This is fine.

“There’s No Place Like Home”

Plot Description: after Sam stumbles across a video of Charlie Bradbury attacking a district attorney, the brothers track her down to find out why she’s back from Oz

Would I Survive the First Five Minutes??: I guess so? No one died…and I wouldn’t do anything to make Charlie mad like that

Dean, do you really think drinking green smoothies instead of eating burgers is going to fend off the effects of the mark?

OBSESSED with Dean wanting to go clean so as not to draw the attention of the mark but then still adds a blade to his personal arsenal. Are you kidding me?

Oh…this has to do with the accident that took Charlie’s parents from her

Dean’s so miserable on this diet

Wt ACTUAL FUCK has happened to Charlie??

HELLO?? A duplicate Charlie?? Mmm, this is her literally unleashed dark side

Sam, did you not hear the part where she’s all good Charlie? She can’t hack into someone else’s bank account

This feels like a bad plan…Dean’s a bit of an unstoppable and unstable killing machine, I can’t really trust that he’s not going to be able to refrain from slicing and dicing bad Charlie (which WILL hurt good Charlie)

I like this reasearch side plot they have Sam and good Charlie doing into fixing the key to go back to Oz. Hope it’s not all for nothing!!

UM. RUDE. You can’t tell how much money a person actually has by the clothes they choose to wear

I don’t trust bad Charlie, and I DEFINITELY don’t trust her handing Dean YET ANOTHER blade (even if she doesn’t know the effect it could have)

Yeah, I could have told you she’d stab him or at least find a way to kill the drunk driver

Excuse me?!?! The Wizard of Oz is this old Man of Letters dark side version?? This show is ridiculous

So…both bad and good Charlie are allowed to kill people?? And like blah blah greater good blah blah he forgave her but….she still very much killed him. That happened. Even if you don’t subscribe to a religion that follows the ten commandments, it’s still very much against the law for GOOD REASON.

Yeah, Dean forgot if you hurt one Charlie, you also hurt the other. Yeah, Dean. Think about how, even though she’s not dead, you literally have Charlie’s blood on your hands

Uggghhhhh the fact that she’s now scared of Dean is an unfortunate turn. It’s completely understandable but it SUCKS

Ok…she kinda got over that a little fast. But she also knows that Dean’s not gonna forgive himself for this

“Listen”

Plot Description: Ghosts of the past and future crowd into the lives of the Doctor and Clara

Doc, you need to get Clara back on this spaceship time machine. You’re going a little mad all by yourself, sweetie. Though, I suppose you’re not ACTUALLY all by yourself…SOMETHING wrote “listen” on that board

Omg this date is so awkward. You know…this should be a sign to never date someone you meet at work, but that’s like…all I’ve ever done, except once

Oh. This was a mistake. Watching this this close to bedtime…the whole what if you’re never really alone? What if there really is something living under your bed? What if everyone has that dream because it actually happened? But I know what’s under my bed. Storage bins with t-shirts and purses and the like

DOCTOR…why are we bringing Clara to meet herself since it could be so catastrophic?

Ah…it’s not her we’re meeting, it’s Danny, her coworker who she went out on a date with and was trying to call her when she was having her memories scanned by the TARDIS

This is a weirdly heavy handed episode…

Time travelers stop interacting with the child versions of your love interests challenge: impossible

Since when can the Doctor put people to sleep by touching their forehead???

Are people really that interested in what they look like from the back?? Clara just did it, it happened in a movie in [fandom redacted].

Ooooo now Clara’s striking out on her date with Danny…as the Doctor calls…you know, what if it’s not the Doctor?? Um what?? Ok, it wasn’t the Doctor but it WAS a descendant of Danny’s coming to collect Clara FOR the Doctor

Terrifying that the entire universe is dead but something out there still scares Orson

The Doctor’s “people skills” are “rusty” while asking Clara about her date

I was about to fall asleep (I’m still very tired)c but then something started knocking on the door to this time machine and/or space ship so omg I hate this so much. I don’t like feeling this scared. This is such a primal fear

Fuck. Flu away. Vworp vworp NOW.

Well NOW how far back did you go??? And why are you now …….. um what?? You’re now under the Doctor’s bed when he was a child?? Clara. You just became the reason everyone has that dream?? Are you kidding me?!?!

Holy shit. The barn Clara is meeting the Doctor as a child in is also the one where the War Doctor, Ten, and Eleven save Gallifrey in???

#hellsite nostalgia tour 2023

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agegapandtckindoflove · 9 months

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Grabbing a Drink with R

I’m not sure how long most people have been here who follow me but you might remember a very long time ago now (like 5 years when I first started my tc journey) I wrote about R who was a professor, and still is a professor at where I am now going to be teaching, and how he was an older man who is just a really goofy guy and there’s no TC feelings there whatsoever.

Well, ever since I saw him walking around the University where I got my Masters, and yes he also teaches some classes there too, we have been trying to get together for a drink. Well, I let him know that we are now going to be co-workers and that I needed to go to the city where the college is to do HR paperwork things, and he told me to pick a place and time on that day for us to go get drinks.

I met up with him and we each got a pint of, well me a cider because I can’t stand beer, and him a light beer because he showed up hungry and the brewery I chose unfortunately didn’t sell any finger foods. We talked a lot and it was really nice especially because we discussed our marriage issues because he has had issues within his marriage and he was giving me some advice on how H and I are having issues and he basically told me to not make the same mistake he did and to leave if I think it is what is going to be the best thing for myself in the long run.

We also talked about one of the professors who used to work at the college who I was worried about being there, he had given me VERY creepy vibes. Luckily for me I was given the tea, and he will probably never be hired at the college again because he basically screwed over our department dean twice by accepting positions elsewhere and not informing the dean within a few weeks of the semester beginning.

Anyways... I haven’t had the chance to see J yet, we have texted a few times and I am supposed to write an email to give him information so he can write me a letter of rec., but I haven’t had the chance to yet.

I’m nervous to see him again... I have gained a little wait (which I know is just a part of life) but I am also nervous about what he will think of my tattoos. I know he wont care, but I think it will be a shock to him. *shrugs* but oh well right I guess it’ll be more of a shock for me if now since I have tattoos he treats me different and just help me realize that I am in love with someone who I don’t really know, right....? Right.

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seraphaem · 3 years

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@moonwoken asked: things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear (from dean)

HE SIGNS THE paperwork and walks away a free man. He’d written his life away on a dotted line more than twenty years ago, and today on a dotted line he gets it back. He walks off the parking lot in jeans and a t-shirt, having left his flight suit with supply as instructed. His weapon, his boots, his PT gear. All gone and now someone else’s burden. And his jet. Waiting on the deck for another soul with her silver wings. Before he gets into his car he pulls out his phone. He digs through his history to find the unlisted number, the one he knows by heart. The one that hasn’t called him in months. It might not even be Dean’s number anymore, for all he knows. He hopes it isn’t. They haven’t spoken since the night he left. They haven’t spoken since Cass gave up his pride and pleaded, implored him to wait just a few months, begged him to hold out just until he returned from his last rotation. The end was in sight. They could be together after, truly. Dean had raged, green eyes flashing. He refused to see sense, refused to accept that the only thing he’d have to do was wait. Not long at all. Just wait. He could have been standing on the tarmac when Cass’s flight from Germany landed. Cass could have kissed him there. But it all ended because Dean was afraid. It ended and here Cass is, digging his phone number out of his call log from months ago, hitting the dial button and praying it goes to voicemail. It does. ‘You could have been waiting for me,’ he bites into the receiver, white knuckles and a curled fist at his side. ‘I wanted you to be waiting for me. I lived, you asshole. All that fear over nothing. ‘I’m out. I’m done. I turned in the rest of my shit this afternoon and signed the documents. I’m retired. The guys are even gonna have a party tomorrow to wish me well, send me on my way. You could have been there. ‘You could have been there because nothing’s stopping us anymore. I’m not an officer or a pilot. I’m just a man who’s in love with you, and nothing is stopping us but you.’ A pause, pulling the phone away from his mouth to swallow around the lump in his throat and blink back the moisture welling in his eyes. ‘Coward.’ He hangs up, throwing the phone into the passenger’s seat before he turns the key in the ignition and drives away.

#moonwoken #answered.#before you go (verse)#i played off the ask you answered for me.#where dean wrote him a letter he never got #after they'd fought about him leaving #i imagine that's where they left it.#aND IT HURTS SO GOOD

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americanmoths · 3 years

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all our scars are love letters

Draco is weary and battered when Harry sees him again, with a left arm that hangs limp and a constant tremor from overexposure to the Cruciatus Curse. But when he speaks, it’s strong and clear, exactly as Harry remembers.

“You look like shit. Anybody that sees you is going to think you haven’t discovered showers yet, not that you’ve just finished killing a megalomaniac.”

“Yeah, well, nobody’d see you and think spy, so maybe we shouldn’t put much stock in first impressions.”

“That’s the entire point of being a spy.” Draco rolls his eyes and kicks some of the rubble of the Ravenclaw common room. They’re standing in what was Hogwarts until around ten hours ago, when it became a battleground, and then a place for celebration. Everyone’s in the main hall now, dancing and drinking firewhiskey and trying to figure out how to balance mourning with triumph. Harry slipped out to find Draco when Seamus and Dean started a teary rendition of Weasley is our King.

“You’re a little to blame for the fact I made it through.” Draco says. “I mean, you’re also completely to blame. You did off the fucker. But specifically, every time things got really bad, I’d put my hands in my pocket and feel your love letter and —” Draco shrugs. “I mean I’m here aren’t I.”

Harry wants to kiss the blonde bastard, who one time told him he didn’t much care for romance, except — “Draco, I never wrote you a letter.”

“I didn’t say you wrote me anything.”

He presses a sliver of paper into Harry’s hand. It’s a receipt from the last time they saw one another. Six butterbeers, one order of fish & chips. They had gotten drunk enough that they hadn’t noticed when the polyjuice wore off, and when they had, they stayed anyways, together, as themselves, in a back booth at The Three Broomsticks. “It was proof you didn’t mind being seen with me in public. That you might even be willing to be seen with me in public again, if I kept going, if I kept working toward making a world where that was possible.”

Unlike Draco, Harry’s always been a romantic; he knows these kinds of confessions are best done in pairs. He’s never been good at this kind of thing, but for Draco, he’ll try. “When I killed him, I saw your face.”

“What.”

Fuck.

“I mean — This.” He gestures to the crumbling walls; the smoke, still billowing; the war, in general. “It was all for you. The whole time, I was doing it so I could get back to you.”

It’s not what he wants to say. It’s not large enough. But Draco’s eyes soften, and he pulls Harry close. They craft the meaning together: a kiss; a homecoming; a love letter to their past endurance and all the future versions of themselves that are happy and away from here.

for @drarrymicrofic prompt: love letters | on ao3

#sometimes i don't use the prompt that much but lol i kinda feel like i used it tooo much this time ?#drarry microfic #drarry #Draco Malfoy #harry potter #drarry squad #100 moths trying to write hamlet #drarrymicrofic

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billiewena · 3 years

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since I never made a post for these, here are all of MY ideal endings for sam (and how I would do them) that I spite-wrote after a coworker told me about how perfect his finale was <3

HUNTER NETWORK ENDING: Sam establishes an official network for the American hunters, leading a new generation of hunters as the antithesis of John Winchester. One of the final shots is a montage of all the hunters working and saving people all across the country, proving the Winchesters are no longer alone in the world.

SAMWITCH ENDING: Sam becomes a full-fledged witch thanks to all the magic supplies he inherited from Rowena and blends hunting/witch shenanigans. He can still be powerful but now he gets to choose where that power comes from. Okay this is basically Goldenrod Revisions, leave me alone.

SEPARATE WAYS ENDING: Sam and Dean both alive but living / hunting apart, going their separate ways like a parent and child who is finally leaving the nest. Sam gets the independence he always wanted while also getting to keep his brother in his life, because this is the ultimate proof that Dean trusts him. For the first time, they can move on without the reason being the other is dead. They no longer doubt they will always be there for each other even if they’re not living under the same roof anymore. The episode ends with Sam breaking into Dean’s [insert post-finale residence of choice here] in a callback to the pilot, saying he was in the area for a hunt. The last lines are Sam asking if he wanted to reunite for the hunt for old’s time sake and Dean saying “looks we got work to do.”

PODCASTER ENDING: Sam starts a podcast about the supernatural discussing urban American legends, myths, and mysteries that also helps viewers know what to look for and maybe even teaches them to defend themselves. Some take it as fiction, some use what he tells them to save their lives. It hits the top of the paranormal/mystery charts. The Ghostfacers, whose attempt to get into podcasting failed, ARE livid.

THEY BOTH DIE AT THE END: Sam and Dean both die in a blaze of glory, sacrificing themselves to defeat Chuck and bring back the rest of the world. They both get a moment to say an emotional goodbye to Jack and to each other. The two get a massive hunter’s funeral where all the past hunters come to mourn them and talk about their impact. Jody’s speech probably makes us cry. They get to Heaven at the same time, where they are greeted by all their past friends and family at the Roadhouse. On Earth, they live on forever as urban legends and heroes.

SAM & ROWENA ENDING: Sam says #FuckHeaven and spends his afterlife in hell as the consort to Queen Rowena, drinking margaritas all day, living his best life and stopping any demon uprisings in their tracks. Anytime they give him a hard time, he reminds them that he was Azazel’s boyking and they’re just Random Demon #489. What are THEY doing with their life.

SAM & EILEEN ENDING #1 - MARRIED HUNTER LIFE EDITION: Sam and Dean both survive and continue to hunt / live together, except now Eileen and Castiel are around and live in the bunker with them too after Cas was saved in [insert Empty rescue scenario of your choice.] Sam has some deja vu to the vision he had of all four of them living together in 15x09. He realizes that this is actually real and not a vision; that they are actually together, at peace and beat Chuck. The episode ends with them going to have the movie night that they never got to have in the vision. As Eileen takes his hand to go to the movie room, you see two engagement rings on their hands. Sam realizes that his journey may have started with losing Jessica but he found love again, and that while once upon a time all he and Eileen wanted was revenge, they’ve finally both found peace.

SAFE HOUSE ENDING: Sam starts a trauma center/safe house situation for hunters and ex-monsters to recover and heal, dedicating his life to proving that no one is beyond saving and everyone can redeem themselves and defy fate like he had. Mia Vallens, the shapeshifting grief counselor, is on payroll.

SAM IS THE AUTHOR NOW ENDING: Sam narrates the finale the same way Chuck did for the original series finale "Swan Song", further proving that they are now in control in their story. We get Sam's POV as he tells us what happened to all the other hunters and side characters, as well as him and his brother, with flashbacks from all fifteen seasons and young Sam & Dean growing up together. The episode ends with the reveal that Sam actually finishing the journal entries for the Winchester family's edition of the Men of Letters Bestiary, putting the finishing touches on some monster entries and his own personal anecodotes. He treats the Bestiary like a journal, in a callback to After-School Special where Sam almost became a writer and wrote about his and his family's hunting stories.

BABY JACK ENDING: Sam raises Baby!Jack after he is de-aged and “falls” to Earth in the same fashion the angel Anna once did. Baby!Jack wears overalls that don’t say his name in giant letters because Sam is a good parent who would never do that to his child. The two have a happy life as an adopted father/son duo who defied everything Lucifer and Heaven wanted them to be.

SAM & EILEEN ENDING #2 - EUROTRIP EDITION: Sam going on a year-long vacation around the world now that he has a cool Irish girlfriend who is not afraid of planes, leading to a fun exploration of the supernatural in foreign countries. Who is Dean.

DOG SHELTER OWNER: Sam owns a dog shelter and gets to walk at least ten dogs a day. Jack helps out and Miracle is the HBIC. Life is good.

CHUCK WINS ENDING: Sam lives and Dean dies, Sam throws a funeral for him that no one attends but him and a dog, and moves to the suburbs to live a generic white picket fence life with an unidentifiable wife. As a montage of Sam’s life plays, the camera pans away what looks like a computer and Chuck’s old office. A string of quotes can be heard in the background (“we’re just hamsters running around in a cage” “what would you rather have: peace or freedom?” “I can do anything...I’m a writer” “We will never give you the ending that you want / We’ll see”). The final shot is Jack, dressed in Chuck’s clothes and glasses and using his mannerisms, typing away at a typewriter. He writes “The End” but punctuates it with a question mark instead of a period. His computer screen and our TV screen both go black.

#if you saw this in my yockeynatural uquiz already no you didn't <3 #credits to sammyblep for the dog shelter ending tho that was is a new one and not from the uquiz but he's so right for that one #anyways the moral of the story is here..both the writers and y'all could get more creative about him lol #not gonna tag this in the actual sam tag so if you see it you see it!#saileen #samwena #ntjdmakesthings #long post #these are obviously all the more canon friendly ones btw.. like if we're talking pipe dream endings than number one is magda is alive again

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

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