post civil war era (ish), pre-established relationship
notes: im so sorry in advance. one of the saddest things i've written probably. building off of that hc i posted earlier this week
warnings: mentions of death, mentions of the winter soldier, disassociation, depersonalization/derealization disorder (dpdr), just pure angst, probably me projecting lol, not proof-read, no use of y/n
length: 1.3k words
lmk what you think and, as always, ty for reading <3
Most days, when he looked in the mirror, he couldn't tell who was staring back at him.
If it was the ghost of Sergeant Barnes, who commanded his fleet, his band of brothers, who should've died in the ravine, surrounded by the banks of soft snow and the metallic smell of his own blood.
If it was the remnants of The Soldier, The Asset, Soldat—whatever name you wanted to slap on the abomination that was the mindless killing machine—who should've carried out his last mission and been terminated on sight.
If it was Bucky, who'd died sometime during the war, somewhere between watching his fellow men fall to enemy fire and realizing he might never come home.
If it was James Buchanan Barnes, with wide, innocent eyes and a boyish, lopsided grin, front tooth missing and two feet shorter, whose entire being, when his mother died, went right along with her.
Whoever he was in the mirror, whoever's piercing blue eyes were boring into him, was tired. The kind of exhaustion sleep doesn't touch, but it's not like he slept much anyway.
Maybe he was doomed to die in every universe he lived in, in some way, shape, or form. Mind, body, soul—or perhaps all three—cursed by the God who didn't hear his cries and ignored his pleas for peace. Was peace death? Was death peace? How could he be sure when he felt like he constantly toed the line between this life and the next?
Most days, it's like he wasn't anyone at all. Just a brain and four limbs—one metal, a reminder of what he, someone, had lost once—going through the motions until somebody said stop. Until the body gave way under the stress and fell into a comatose-type state. On days like that, he'd sit for hours in his living room, apartment pitch black except for the faint glow coming from whatever movie he'd thrown on as a means of "distraction".
He pulled away. Shut the door and kept it locked tight and called it healing.
You knew something was off the second you stepped foot in the door after a particularly long shift at work, and were met with darkness. Bucky’s boots were still on the floor, his jacket slung over the back of the couch, the travel mug you’d gotten him for his birthday sat filled and cold on the counter.
You’d been gone nearly 8 hours, and everything was exactly how you’d left it.
“Buck?” You called out, slipping your shoes off and placing your bag on the kitchen island. “You home?”
An eerie silence followed. Not the kind you and him would share in the security of your shared bedroom, both of you reading quietly and enjoying each other’s company. This was heavy, thick, unsettling nothingness.
You found him on the edge of your bed shirtless, back turned to the door, head in his hands. The room was dark and the air was cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the distance between his mind and his body.
“Baby?” You tried again, nudging the door open just enough to walk into the room. With hesitant steps, you made your way over until you crouched down in front of him. Shaking hands resting on his wrists, you gently tugged his hands away to see his face.
Even with the barrier removed between you two, Bucky kept his eyes glued to the ground, gaze fixed and hollow. His normal baby blues swam grey with guilt and grief, longing for times he could never get back, and times he never wanted to relive.
Despite the lack of physical separation, he felt so far away from you, from this room, from himself—but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how to get back. With a shuddering breath, he spoke, so quiet you'd miss it if you breathed too loud:
“I don’t know who I am.”
The admission took you by surprise, eyebrows furrowing as your frown deepened. You brought a careful hand up to his cheek, letting your thumb brush over the scruff he hadn’t shaved yet.
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head, his first movement in God knows how long, and leaned into your palm. “I…I just–“ His throat tightened. “I look in the mirror and I just don’t know. Don’t know who it is looking back.”
Your heart just about fell out of your ass, but before you could prod any further, he cleared his throat.
“I’ve been so many people and I don’t even recognize them,”
“I know,”
“And I feel so... so... detached. Like maybe none of this is real, like maybe none of it ever was real.”
“It was real. You’re real. You’re here," you soothed softly, chasing his gaze until you could hold his eyes. "You're here."
Loving Bucky wasn’t difficult at all; in fact, it came so easily and naturally to you that it was almost scary. You knew he had ghosts, hundreds of skeletons in his closet, and stories about dark times you’re sure you’d never hear, but he loved without knowing how and gave himself to you expecting nothing in return.
He let go of a shaky breath and let his forehead tip forward until it rested upon yours, then closed his eyes. Thumb still stroking his cheek, you allowed both of you to just exist in this space for a moment. His shoulders were tense, every muscle in his body coiled tight, waiting for just the right moment to release the tension.
"What can I do for you, baby?" You whispered.
You thought he didn't hear you for a second, the silence stretching between you for a beat too long before he sighed. Sad. Defeated. Resigned to the fact that this was his life, whether it felt like it or not.
"Just... just stay. Please." It came out softer than he intended it to, the tenderness making him seem smaller than he really was. You knew Bucky well enough to know that stay meant hold me, and please meant you're all I have. The fleeting thought of a once-young James Barnes flashed through your mind; clinging to his mother and asking her to stay with a desperation no child should ever know.
You thought about Bucky's mother often. About what she would've looked like carrying her children, her grandchildren. If she would've liked you, had you not been born several decades too late. How she took her tea. What the word "James" sounded like as it escaped her lips. If she knew happiness, the kind that's all-consuming and pure.
"I can do that," you stood, pressing a soft kiss to his hair before climbing next to him on the bed. Resting a hand on his shoulder, you gave him a gentle nudge. "How about we lie down, yeah?"
To your surprise, Bucky nodded, brown shaggy hair falling in front of his eyes, and repositioned himself on the mattress so he was on his side. You slotted in next to him. After settling on the pillows, he immediately tucked you to his chest, arms tight around your waist.
Hours could've passed that you lay there for, but you didn't mind. Not as the rise and fall of Bucky's chest began to slow, not as he allowed himself to close his eyes and rest. You were determined to not let him forget how real this was, how real the two of you were; so even as his eyes fluttered with sleep, you offered words of security.
"You're here with me."
"You're safe."
"You're James—my sweet Jamie."
"You don't have to fight this feeling alone."
"I love you, no matter who you are."
"I'll remind you every day if that's what you need."
Bucky slept for the first time in a long time that night, your body acting as his means of grounding himself. He pulled you closer in sleep, the scent of you swirling around his head until all he seemed to consume in his dream was you you you, and all his subconscious echoed back was me, James, Bucky, me.
Reblogging again cause I tried this site last night and if you need background noise to focus this is perfect for that, I was locked the fuck in on a task. And it’s also just gorgeous to listen to
THE VERY LONG LIST OF AWESOME LADIES ON TV: Meg Masters 2.0 [Supernatural]
Look, I’m simpler than you think. I’ve figured one thing out about this world – just one, pretty much. You find a cause, and you serve it. Give yourself over, and it orders your life. Lucifer and Yellow Eyes – their mission was it for me.
summary: heaven or hell, dean will always crawl home to you.
warnings: brief mentions of hell, references to drinking, fem!reader
word count: 1.4k
a/n: i got a bit carried away with this one and it ended up a little longer than anticipated hehehe i had too many ideas. this song is so sickening and is so dean-coded in the very best way. i hope you enjoy <3
arj's 100 follower event
xxx
Dean awoke in a permeating blackness, blinking his eyes, unable to tell at what point they were open or closed. His first instinct? To draw in a deep, sharp breath. His lungs resisted him, hesitant to stretch and swell as if they had been sitting stagnant for months. They offered him no help in forming words, a call for help. It took him a minute to gather his bearings, but the next thought that came to his mind? You. And from that moment, his body took over. As he kicked his way out of the pine box and clawed his way through the cold and heavy earth, he felt almost animalistic. He didn’t know where he was, he hardly knew who he was, but he knew he had to crawl home to you. Wherever you were.
As Dean emerged from the ground, he gasped for air- clean, fresh air. It swirled around inside of him, exacerbating the emptiness of the cavern of his chest. He grappled with the earth around him, arms reaching out in a desperate fervor to pull him safely from the grave. There were sensations everywhere, almost screaming at him, so loud and foreign as if he hadn’t experienced them in… he didn’t know how long. The tickling of the damp grass against his arms, the hot sun beating down on his back, the heavy breeze settling behind him. It was you, he thought. It had to be your way of welcoming him back earthside- planting soft green kisses to his skin, wrapping him in healing warmth and light, and lifting him up to carry him home with the wind. He let his body push him to his feet, feeling every flex and release of his muscles individually, excruciatingly.
It was agonizing for Dean to will one foot in front of the other, trudging aimlessly in search of civilization. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the hunger, but he could see you right there next to him, clear as day, coaching him through each step of his journey. You floated along next to him like an angel, filling his emptiness and setting direction in his footsteps.
He thought back to the day your paths had been undoubtedly intertwined forever. You and Dean had known of each other for a while- hunters always did- but never exchanged more than a few cordial hellos in passing. That was until a vampire hunt in a small town drew the attention of more than just himself and Sam. When you showed up on the hunt, he couldn’t help but be enamored by you. The way you made hunting, something so dark and painful, into something so graceful, so elegant, so beautiful.
When he was able to convince you to stick around and celebrate after finishing the hunt, Dean felt both his heart leap and his stomach sink. As he drove, he kept glancing up into his rearview mirror to catch a glimpse at you, following behind him in your own car. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with conversation topics like he was rubbing together stones trying to create a spark. He was so excited to have you around, yet so nervous- an accusation he defended against when Sam taunted him on the ride over to the bar.
“I don’t get nervous, Sammy. I- I don’t know, man. There’s just something about her. Can’t put my finger on it.”
His eyes flickered back up to the rearview mirror as he spoke, catching you singing along to whatever song you were listening to. His heart fluttered- he wanted to know you, to memorize your favorite songs, to hear his inner thoughts spoken in your voice. In the here and now, where he was trekking through the woods, he smiled at the memory and let it instill in him a surge of motivation. He picked up his pace, humming your favorite song as he went, half to keep him grounded in the moment and half to help his mind wander back to you.
Still thinking back to that first day, he remembered getting to the bar and admittedly, letting his nerves get the best of him. He threw back shots and tipped back beers in the hopes of quelling his anxieties, suppressing the parts of him that weren’t useful and drawing out his confident, personable self. Sam had left early, as usual, leaving the two of you alone, sat at a table in the corner of a crowded bar. The surface was a graveyard littered with empty bottles and glasses, very few of which belonged to you. You had been nursing your drinks, sipping slowly as Dean downed and gulped. So when he got a little out of hand, you were there to carry him home.
When Dean woke alone the next morning, he was sure you had been a dream- too perfect to be real life, or his real life, anyway. His head pounded as he glanced around the unfamiliar motel room, noticing the single bed and feminine belongings that clued him he wasn’t in the room he had rented with Sam. He sat up, grasping at his head, trying to piece together where exactly he was. There was no way he had gone home with you. He remembered the way he had acted the night before, and how sober you had still been. You must have dumped him with a random girl to take him off your hands. His heart sank to his stomach- if he had messed up his chances with you, he wouldn’t forgive himself.
Before he could linger in this fear for long, he heard two separate laughs nearing the front door. When it swung open to reveal you and Sam, chatting and clutching coffees and paper bags of breakfast food, Dean let himself flop back down to the bed in relief. Wishing him a good morning, you tossed him pain relievers and a water bottle, setting a coffee and a breakfast sandwich down on his- no, your- bedside table. You briefly recounted the night before for him, noting how you had brought him back here when Sam didn’t answer his phone. You didn’t dwell on his actions, didn’t poke fun, didn’t complain or criticize. Your presence was light as a feather, your body and voice floating around the room as you tidied things up or nibbled at your breakfast. Sam shot him a knowing glance that would later be supplemented with verbal approval. I like her, Dean. Don’t mess this up.
Back in reality, Dean had finally emerged from the woods, stepping from the dense tree cover onto a dusty road. There wasn’t much to see- no buildings or signs of civilization in any direction. The breeze picked up and whistled through his ears in the form of your voice- keep going, Dean. So on he went.
As he walked, sometimes his image of you would flicker and fade like a ghost and his thoughts would plunge back down to Hell. There were a few moments along his path where he would pause to hinge at the hips and dry heave in a desperate attempt to purge the memories from his body alongside the dust in his throat. It made him sick, what he did in Hell. At a few points, when he got too caught up in his thoughts, he’d come to a full stop. In those moments, he didn’t care if he lived or died. His heart ached for you, but he didn’t deserve you anymore. You were the only pure goodness in the world that he had ever known, and now, he was tainted beyond repair. But then would come the breeze. This time, it smelled sweet- miraculously, as there was nothing but dirt road and baking heat to scent it. It was beckoning him, calling him home. It was washing him of his sins. You didn’t care, you never would. Always kind, always forgiving. That was his baby. Sweet as can be. The journey ended in your arms. At times, he thought it never would. He thought he was trapped, imprisoned on a long dirt path, being taunted with the promise of you like a carrot on a stick. But he found a car, found a map, found his way home. You didn’t believe it was him at first- why would you, when a long list of monsters seemed so much more plausible? But if Dean’s first act of repentance had been his passage home, his second act was proving himself to you. That it was him, here and now, real and resting in your fingertips. All Dean knew was Hell. It was real, he had lived it. But when you reached out your arms to embrace him, Hell was just a word that dissipated into space the moment it left his lips. This must be Heaven. You must be heaven.
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