Hi there! And welcome! I'm so happy to have you! I am so incredibly grateful for the growth my blog has had, and I've expanded to the point where I feel it necessary to add some helpful masterlinks to avoid anybody getting lost!
REQUESTS ARE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE!
GROUND RULES:
We are respectful in this house. I am open to constructive criticism, but I do not tolerate any forms of hate speech, homophobia, transphobia, racism, or sexism. Any violators will be blocked!
All ideas are good ideas! If you have a request, send it my way, and I will be happy to put something together for you!
I am an 18+ MDNI blog!! Kiddos, get the hell out of here! Please! And feel free to take a juice box on your way out and revisit me when you turn 18 :)
WHO I WRITE FOR:
Anyone from the Supernatural universe; male or female! I am here to make your fanfiction dreams come true :) I will write SFW and NSFW! Again, MDNI!!!
James Buchanan Barnes. What a fucking man. I write SFW and NSFW. SERIOUSLY, MDNI! When I open requests again, I'm open to any Marvel characters, honestly! Unless they're, like, a nazi. lol. I'm not Kanye.
UPLOAD SCHEDULE:
1. Any requests on Mondays at 3:00 PM, CDT.
2. Bucky Barnes one-shots/series (spoiler for what's coming lmfao) will upload on Fridays at 3:00 PM, CDT.
3. Supernatural Series Rewrite chapters upload Saturdays at 3:00 PM, CDT.
4. Marvel Series Rewrite chapters upload on Wednesdays at 3:00 PM, CDT.
5. Supernatural one-shots/series will upload on Tuesdays at 3:00 PM, CDT
****note, this is only if I have things queued. No guarantees I'll have uploads for any/all of these days!
Bucharest | Marvel Series Rewrite | Chapter 13: There Is a Light That Never Goes Out
But then a strange fear gripped me, and I just couldn't ask
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader
Warnings: HEED THESE WARNINGS EVERY CHAPTER. BUCHAREST IS VERY EMOTIONALLY HEAVY. mentions of CPTSD, mentions of torture, descriptions of abuse (physical/emotional), bucky is healing, non-sexy shirtlessness, scarring (from torture), sometimes i break my own heart, idiots in love
Word Count: 1505 (i'm sorry this is a shorter one!!)
Mobile Marvel Series Rewrite Masterlist
Bucharest Masterlist
Bucharest: The Playlist
The next morning, your usual coffee ritual left you feeling wired before you even poured your creamer into your cup. His lingering touch against your fingers as you passed his cup to him nearly set you on fire.
The rest of that day held such quiet yearning, too. Whether it be in the way you looked at him while he cooked or stole glances at him while washing the dishes after breakfast, there was an electric current both pulling you to him and pushing you away.
“Hey, Sarge.”
“Hey, Doc.” The words came off his tongue smoother than you’d heard them before.
“How are you feeling?” you asked, breath catching.
“Good, I think,” he answered.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
He tilted his head bashfully. “Yeah. For the first time in a long time.”
“That’s… that’s really good to hear, Buck,” you grinned. “What are some things making you feel good this week?”
He took a deep breath, trying to keep his eyes from reaching yours. “My birthday was actually pretty nice.” Bucky’s lips twitched up before falling again. “I just haven’t, y’know, been having a lotta horrible thoughts lately.”
Your shock remained unchanging. “Jesus. That’s amazing, really.”
Bucky just shrugged.
“Just when I think we’re making some progress…” you teased.
He just dropped his head to the side, trying to hide his smirk. Then, he became serious again suddenly.
“Where’d you just go?” you asked.
“I never told you what they did with my hair,” he realized aloud.
You looked at him expectantly, the crease between your eyebrows making another appearance.
“They kept it long on purpose,” he explained before clenching his jaw.
“Do you know why?” you asked, afraid of the answer you knew was coming.
Bucky couldn’t bring himself to look at you. “To… pull it.”
“Do you wanna cut it?” you asked in a whisper, the loudest tone of voice you could muster.
He shook his head a little. “Not… not yet.”
For what reason, you weren’t sure, but you dropped it immediately.
“They did the same thing they did to your face to my back,” he muttered.
“Bucky, you don’t have to bring yourself to a dark place. You’re doing good. I don’t want you to make things worse for yourself just because you feel like you’re doing too good.” You leaned forward to cover his metal hand with yours.
He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the space between your index finger and thumb. “No, I wanna talk. Promise.” He took a shuddering breath. “I’m sure I have scars all over me.”
“Can I… can I see them?” you asked, fearful of pushing him too far.
He thought it over for a minute before turning around. With his back now facing you, he pulled his shirt up over his head slightly.
Your fingers stretched forward hesitantly, recoiling when you considered you might scare him.
Still, when you finally noticed the various scars littering his back, you couldn’t help but gingerly trace your fingers along them.
Bucky stiffened briefly under your touch, trying to hide his shudder as you traced over them.
Some were raised, pink, and ridged. Others were paler than the rest of his skin and molded into it.
“God, Bee, I’m— I’m so sorry,” you whispered.
He pulled his shirt back down, still facing away from you. His shoulders slumped forward, and you could tell he was trying not to cry.
You started by gently placing your hands against his back, waiting for him to relax against you to slide them around his shoulders. You pressed yourself up onto your knees to be able to circle his much larger figure without him feeling like you were choking him. He just held onto your hands that were clasped over his chest with one of his.
You pressed a kiss to the junction of his shoulder with his metal arm, and he relaxed even further into you. “We’re done for the day, okay?” you whispered, giving another kiss to his scarred shoulder.
He just nodded, and the two of you remained like that for a while.
****
Bucky’s nightmares had become much more infrequent, but when they’d creep in, they were bad.
The agreement you had meant that you needed to get out of the bed if you woke up during his nightmares; he was still more concerned about hurting you than whatever he needed at that moment.
With your stomach churning and heart racing while you listened to his restless whimpers, you called his name. “Bucky? Bucky, wake up. C’mon,” you begged.
He seemed to be beginning to stir on his own, whispering, “N-Nnn,” all the while. Was he saying “no"?
“Buck, I’m right here. Wake up.”
He still couldn’t come out of it. You did the only thing you thought you could next, flickering the light on and off.
That finally got to him, and he shot upright in bed. As soon as he realized he was in your room, he pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in his palms.
“Buck—”
“Don’t,” he grunted. “Stay right there.”
You did as he asked despite every instinct pushing you toward him. Helpless, you watched as he shuddered and tried to calm himself.
Slowly, slowly, his breathing evened out.
When he finally seemed okay enough, you sat on the edge of your bed, holding yourself back long enough to make sure he was okay with you joining him.
Then, you placed your hand on his right arm. He flinched only slightly before realizing it was just you.
“Sorry, sorry, you’re okay,” he said. “I— I’m good.”
When the two of you finally laid back down, you just held his right hand in your left. The two of you stared up at the ceiling, comforted by the sound of each other’s breathing until you both fell back asleep.
****
The next month that went by was agonizing. Now around mid-April, there were so many words that went unsaid between you. Whether it was Bucky’s hand brushing against yours when you helped him cook dinner or the way his breath tickled your neck when you slept, he was torturing you. You weren’t even sure if he meant to.
You needed him to do something, anything to keep you from imploding.
“Bee,” you whispered into the darkness. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” he replied quietly. “Why’s your heart beatin’ so fast? You okay?”
“I’m scared,” you admitted, pushing the word out like it hurt.
“Why?” he asked, putting his metal hand against your cheek. The cold made your eyes flutter shut. “I don’t wanna ruin everything.”
Bucky went still.
Tears sprang to your eyes. “I don’t— I don’t wanna push you if the time’s not right.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, nudging your nose lightly. “I know,” he said softly. “Can I tell you something?”
You opened your eyes, almost nauseous from your worry.
“I’m scared, too.”
The crease between your eyebrows appeared, and he attempted to smooth it out with his thumb. You let out a laugh despite the emotion gripping your throat.
“I was telling the truth,” you murmured, settling your forehead against his again. “When I said I need you.”
You felt him nod against you. “I know. And it scares me how much I need you, too.”
Your eyes snapped to his, pulling away. “You… what?”
“I need you, Doc.” He had to drag his eyes away. “I have since I pulled you from the crash.”
You swallowed harshly, an overwhelming need to touch him making it hard for you to resist.
“I can’t promise you anything, you know that?” He shut his eyes, seemingly ready for you to reject him.
You put your hands on either side of his face, stroking his cheeks once with your thumbs. “I don’t expect you to.”
“You’re too fuckin’ sweet,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to hold himself back from you.
“When you were gonna kiss me,” you started bravely, “why did you stop?”
“Same reason I hear you stop in the middle of a sentence when you wanna call me ‘love’,” he replied simply.
You felt caught, but you knew what he meant. Every time, it had been fear of crossing a line. “We don’t have to do this,” you assured him.
“I know,” he muttered, voice low in his chest. “But I want to.” You felt him tilting his head toward yours.
“Don’t pull away,” you begged him, barely above a whisper. “Not this time.”
He just nodded, his lips barely brushing yours. You finally melted into him, keeping your hands on either side of his face while he pulled your waist closer to his. The kiss was searing but not lustful, passionate but kind. It said everything you didn’t have the words for.
When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead back against Bucky’s. “You ‘n me?”
Hey I'm the same ask of season 12's request, ignore the request I made like moments ago I just saw your requests were closed, I'm so sorry I didn't read the general masterlist I just read the rewrite masterlist :<
I'm so sorry to bother you, I feel ashamed lmao, take care and thank you for reading!
hi hunny! don't worry, i'm puttin ya on my requested episodes list you are all good!
Hiiii, how are you today? I hope you're doing well :)
I love your spn rewrite, you're so consistent with the narrative and it's nice to read it, I can really see how much you love to do your work and how much detail and effort you put into that, and I'm very thankful you're sharing your art with us <3
I don't know if it's too much for a request :< , but I'd like to ask if you're up to do a rewrite to season 12's episodes (21 and 22), maybe the one brainwashed is reader and not mary (or both at the same time lmao), I just think those episodes show dean's vulnerability so good, and him like suspecting something's going on with reader (maybe she's double crossing them since they took sam or later bc of the brainwashing idk) and fighting to bring her back, like, the yearning and angst moves me a lot, and I think you'd portray it so well
It's just a suggestion, you're free to ignore it and follow the regular order of those episodes, I still like them as they are, idk if I'm asking too much :(
(It can be just the final scene of episode 21 and episode 22 in one chapter, in order to not make you work that much)
Thanks for reading this, regardless you take this or not just wanted to say how much I love your writing, I'm just too shy to express it in public, but be sure I like and reblog almost everything you write, I'm just there luring in the dark hehe
Take care and be nice to yourself, thanks for everything! xoxo 💝
hi sweetheart!!! thank you so much for taking the time to write this to me! your words warmed my heart!!!
i certainly am adding you to my requested episodes lineup, and i do love this idea!
Warnings: disorientation, dissociation, religious trauma af, emetophobes beware, implied misogyny (honestly anything heavily Catholic is laced w/ misogyny), canon violence, canon gore, non-sexy nudity, mentions of smut (reminder this is an 18+ MDNI blog!!)
Word Count: 2701
A/N: Special shoutout to @shirtlesssammy their gifs have been so good throughout this series
Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist
Season 5 | Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist
Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist
Although there was a lot unresolved between you and the Winchesters, Dean caught wind of a case that served as a welcome distraction.
Apparently, a car had turned against its owner. It nearly decapitated him with the windshield in stark contrast to the force exerted during an eight-mile-an-hour collision. The only witness was a man named Jim who police were blaming for the incident.
“I was in the house when it happened, I didn't even see it,” Jim Grossman explained from behind the bars of his holding cell.
Dean shrugged, clad in his FBI costume. “For argument's sake, say we believe you.”
“Why would you?” Jim snorted. “The cops didn't.”
“Well, we're not your typical cops.”
He looked between the three of you for a moment before saying, “It's not what I saw, it's what I heard. Tires squealing, glass breaking. It was the car that did it.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “The car?
Jim couldn’t look at you. “I mean, I heard about the curse, but I just thought it was a load of crap.”
“Curse, what do you— what do you mean, curse?” Dean questioned.
“The car. Little Bastard.”
“The Little Bastard?” you asked, sharing a similar look of shock to the one on Dean’s face.
Sam shook his head. “Wait, wait, uh, what's Little Bastard?”
“James Dean’s car,” Dean replied. “The one he was killed in.”
Jim nodded. “Yeah, that's the one. Cal had been looking for it for years. I mean, hell, we both had. But he found it first.”
Dean leaned in close to your ear. “Oh, we are definitely checking this out.”
Had it not been for the grieving man in front of you, you were sure you would have melted from his breath tickling your ear.
While Dean inspected the car at the impound lot, you explained the many deaths that followed the car around to Sam. However, much to Dean’s dismay, the engine number didn’t match the real Little Bastard’s.
“Well, fuck,” Dean sighed, flopping down onto his motel bed. Sam had enough sense to grab a separate room from you and Dean, something you were both grateful for.
“I’m sorry, babe, I know you have a thing for cars,” you smirked, lightly grazing your nails over his torso once you sat down beside him.
“Hey, fuck off,” Dean replied playfully. He made no move to push you off him, though.
You leaned down to kiss his cheek.
He closed his eyes, sighing a little.
“You alright?” you asked, remaining close to him.
He nodded weakly, eyes still closed.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Those beautiful eyes flickered open, staring at you like he saw every piece of you.
“Hey,” you said, cupping his cheek. “I love you. You can talk to me.”
“I know,” he answered, smirking a little when he realized his inadvertent reference.
Thinking he wouldn’t say anything more, you got up from the bed and moved toward the shower.
Just as you reached the door of the bathroom, Dean huffed, “I just— I’ve had this… pit in my stomach since we got back from Zach’s summer camp.”
You snorted. “That’s one way to put it. But I get what you mean.” After turning on the water, you poked your head out of the room again. “You think this is something we should bring Sam in on?”
Dean immediately shook his head. “No, no. Things are rocky enough as it is.”
Nodding, you blinked down at the floor before retreating to the shower. Just as you washed shampoo from your scalp, you heard the shower curtain open.
A fully nude Dean stepped inside, and you froze, entranced by him. He smirked at the way you blinked up at him dumbly. Even with that flirtatious grin, he made it clear he just wanted to hold you.
The water pressure wasn’t the best, and it was beginning to grow cold; none of that mattered when Dean was holding you tight against his chest under the water.
His hands roamed your back, occasionally squeezing your ass in a way that somehow didn’t feel sexual. You laid your head against his chest, nearly fully relaxed into him. Whether or not he was the only thing keeping you upright, you weren’t sure. Either way, he was strong enough to keep you together in more ways than one.
****
The next morning, Sam rapped his knuckles against the door to your room bright and early.
“Heard you got another weird one,” Dean told the sheriff you’d been introduced to after the Little Bastard killing.
He was wringing his hands, trying to knit a theory together in his mind. “Uh, well, it's a—it's a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, uh… y’know, once you— you look at the facts…”
“William Hill died from a gunshot wound to the head,” Sam added gently. “No gun, no gunpowder, no bullet.”
Dean shrugged mockingly. “Nope. Nothing strange about that.”
“Well, there's gotta be a reasonable explanation,” Carnegie awkwardly chuckled. “There always is…” Then, he snapped his fingers, “...professional. CIA, NSA, one o' them trained assassins, like in Michael Clayton.”
“Right.” Dean blinked.
“You're welcome to look around, but— but these guys don't leave fingerprints.”
The discussion Sam had in Spanish with the victim’s housekeeper made just about as much sense as the one you’d had with Carnegie. The sobbing woman claimed Abraham Lincoln killed her boss.
Back at the motel, you moved frame by frame through the video of Cal’s death on your laptop. “Oh, fuck,” you murmured, catching something reflected in the chrome of the car tire.
“What?” Sam and Dean asked simultaneously.
“That’s James Dean, right?” You flipped around your laptop and pointed at the reflection.
Sam gaped at the screen like a fish out of water. “Uh, yeah.”
“Yeah. Thought so.” You turned your computer back around and zoomed in on the frame in disbelief. “Freeze-frame in Jim Grossman’s video, by the way.”
Dean clicked his tongue. “So we got Abraham Lincoln and James Dean? Famous ghosts?”
“Maybe,” Sam replied.
“Well, that's just silly.”
“No, actually, uh, there is a ton of lore on famous ghosts. More than the, y’know, not-famous kinds. I'm actually surprised we haven't run into one before,” the younger Winchester explained.
“Yeah, but now we got two of 'em? Two extremely pissed-off ghosts?”
“Who are apparently ganking their fans,” you added. “Professor Hill was a Civil War nut. Obsessed with Lincoln. Cal was a James Dean freak, too.”
The older Winchester shook his head. “So you're saying we've got two super-famous, super-pissed-off ghosts killing their super-fans?”
“That's what it looks like,” Sam shrugged.
“Oh, you gotta be shittin’ me,” you sighed, dropping your head forward.
“What?”
“Wax museum.”
Dean furrowed his brow. “Wax museum?”
You turned your computer around. “Wax museum.”
Sure enough, both victims had frequently visited the wax museum. The owner even claimed to have real belongings of the famous people depicted in the exhibits.
Just as you were getting ready to leave the motel that night to go back to the wax museum, something in the air shifted around you. It felt like your spirit was moving outside your body; like you were moving through mud.
The strings of your jacket as well as the hood even floated around you as though you’d fallen into a pool of water. However, the motel room around you was unchanged.
Dean was still on the phone with Bobby in the bathroom, and Sam was still loading various weapons into his duffel bag. Soon enough, the brothers began to squabble about Dean keeping secrets from Sam, but it seemed they hadn’t noticed what was happening to you; almost like you weren’t there at all.
“Don’t worry,” a sweet voice told you. “You’ll return to them soon enough.”
You tried to turn yourself around like you would in a swimming pool, swishing your arms and legs like you were treading water. Only then did you come face to face with a beautiful woman. Her hair floated in tendrils around her, a heavenly glow emanating from her skin. Every so often, her image would change to that of a different beautiful woman; her hair flickering to dark coils or pin-straight blonde locks. Her skin changed with it, all the while still glowing softly.
“Faith,” you realized.
She smiled graciously and nodded. “It’s good to finally meet you, my dear.”
The image of the motel room around you faded until you were floating in a hazy, vast sea of nothingness.
“I was wondering when you’d show,” you said, tone guarded.
“I’m sorry about the delay,” she explained bashfully. “Mike and I weren’t sure how you’d take the news.”
“Wait, ‘Mike’?” you snorted, laughing callously. “That’s what you call him?”
She nodded, raising a brow at you. “Doesn’t everyone have an endearing nickname for their love?”
You shrugged. “Guess I just thought that wouldn’t apply to archangels.”
“We want the same things as everyone else, my love. This isn’t some… heavenly crusade. Michael and I… we just want peace.” Her melodic voice was almost hypnotic.
You bit the inside of your cheek. “Peace. That’s what you call half the world dying?”
Faith sighed. “Haven’t you learned casualties are an unfortunate byproduct of necessity?”
That pulled a laugh from you. “Gotta tell you, I’m not buyin’ what you’re sellin’. For someone with the angelic act as down pat as you, your motivations don’t quite match.”
“It’s not an act, my girl.” Her lashes fluttered. “I truly believe this is for the greater good.”
“Then you’re delusional,” you replied as evenly as you could manage. “Heaven’s ‘perfect vision’ for humanity is the faithful willingly lining themselves up to jump into a meat grinder."
To your surprise, her laugh rang out like a little bell. “No wonder you’re my perfect vessel. There’s a determination, a… conviction in you that comes only once a generation.”
“That’s… sweet of you to say, I think,” you retorted cautiously.
“We’re going to be great friends, child. I know it.”
Before you knew it, you were dropping from your place in the haze to the floor of the motel room. Pushing yourself up from the heap you were in, you looked around to find the sun streaming through the windows.
“What the—”
Dean cut you off by breathing out your name. It looked like he just realized you’d been missing. “Wh— Where the hell have you been?”
“Faith,” was all you could muster, feeling a migraine forming behind your eye. “What day is today?”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Thursday.”
“Fuck,” you huffed. “I got yanked on Wednesday night.”
Dean and Sam nodded blankly.
“To be honest, I didn’t even know you were gone,” Sam said.
“Gee, thanks,” you snorted weakly, still sitting on the ground with your arms braced beside you.
“No, no. It’s like… I didn’t even remember you existed until just now,” Dean explained, scratching his neck.
“Freaky,” you muttered, spacing out a little.
“Yeah.”
The room felt a little stale with apprehension as Sam and Dean continued prattling on about the case that you hardly remembered. In fact, you remained so out of it that Dean insisted you not come with them to kill the monster.
“I don’t want you getting hurt,” he said. “You’re not on your A-game. Let’s not push it, y’know?”
You nodded, eyes still having trouble staying focused on his face.
“Jesus,” he murmured, looking you over. “I’m not gonna leave you for long, okay? Just… stay put.”
You nodded again, sitting down on the bed in your syrupy haze. Then, you immediately had to stumble to the bathroom to vomit your guts up. When the boys returned hours later, you thought it’d been mere minutes.
Normally, you’d leave as soon as a case was closed. However, Dean was insistent on not leaving until you got proper rest. He carried you back to your room and away from Sam, refusing to let you leave his line of sight even as he got ready for bed.
“She really did a number on you,” he sighed.
“ ‘M sorry,” you spoke for the first time in hours. “I’m tryin’ to be better.”
“Sweetheart, it’s not your fault. C’mere.” He helped you into one of his shirts to sleep in and laid you down on his chest. You wound your limbs tightly around him, as though he was sand you were trying to keep from slipping through your fingers.
“I really love you, y’know that?” you sniffled, suddenly feeling like crying for an unknown reason.
He picked your head up from his chest gently to give you a once-over. “Yeah, baby, I know.” He kissed your head and brought it back down to his chest.
****
A little before sunrise, you blinked, feeling completely refreshed. Somehow, you’d had the best sleep of your life and no longer felt an ounce of the goo you had the day before.
Dean groaned, feeling you stir against him. “Mornin’. How you feelin’?”
“Still not great,” you informed. “I don’t know why.”
“This is gonna keep botherin’ you until you figure it out,” Dean stated.
“Yeah,” you said again.
He chuckled, though there was no life behind it.
Sam insisted it was time to leave pretty soon after, and Dean exchanged some parting words with the sheriff over the phone. When he hung up, he said, “Danielle's gonna be all right. She's sworn off The Simple Life, but other than that…”
“Glad she’s okay,” Sam acknowledged.
Dean clicked his tongue. “It gets better. Sheriff's putting out an APB on Paris Hilton. That oughta be good.” He opened the trunk of his car for you to put your belongings inside.
“Wait… Paris Hilton tried to kill a girl?” you asked, voice distant.
Dean gave you a worried look. “No… we told you, sweetheart, it was a god. Took on the form of celebrities at a wax museum.”
“Oh.”
With one more look over you, he took a deep breath and turned to Sam. “Hey, listen, I was thinking about what you said yesterday. About me keeping too tight of a leash on you. Hell, maybe you're right. I mean, look, I'm not exactly ‘Mr. Innocent’ in this whole mess either, y’know. I did break half the first seal.”
“And I broke the other half,” you shrugged, somehow lucid enough to pick up on that part of the conversation.
“You didn’t know,” Sam replied softly, glancing between the two of you.
“Neither did you,” Dean insisted. “I'm not saying demon blood was a great way to go, but you did kill Lilith.”
Sam added, “And start the apocalypse.”
“Which none of us saw coming,” you reminded him.
“Exactly,” Dean nodded. “I mean, who'd have thought killing Lilith would've been a bad thing? Point is, I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn't see what it was actually doing to you. So, for that, I'm sorry.”
“Thanks,” Sam replied a little bashfully.
“So, what now?” you asked.
The younger brother took a deep breath. “The way I see it, we got one shot at surviving this. Maybe I am on deck for the devil, maybe same with you and Michael and you with Faith; maybe there's no changing that.”
“That’s encouraging,” Dean snorted.
“But, we can stop wringing our hands over it. We gotta just grab onto whatever's in front of us, kick its ass, and go down fighting.”
You licked your teeth, and Dean pursed his lips in thought before saying, “I can get on board with that.”
“Me, too,” you nodded.
“Okay, but we’re gonna have to do it on the same level,” Sam insisted.
Dean’s lips twitched upward. “You got it. I say we get the hell outta here.”
“Hell yeah.”
Just before Dean made it to the driver’s seat, he stopped to look down at the keys. “You wanna drive?” He held them out to Sam.
The brunet raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” he trailed off, “I could, uh— I could use a nap.”
Sam smiled a little, grabbing the keys and getting into the driver’s seat. You shared a brief look with Dean, silently assuring him by the fierceness in your eyes that you were with him all the way.
Bucharest | Marvel Series Rewrite | Chapter 12: Rocket Man (I Think It's Gonna Be a Long, Long Time)
In fact, it's cold as hell
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader (eventual......,,;pl[[l.,p ;) )
Warnings: HEED THESE WARNINGS EVERY CHAPTER. BUCHAREST IS VERY EMOTIONALLY HEAVY. mentions of CPTSD, mentions of chronic pain, nerve damage, amnesia, we are still slowly burning
Word Count: 2013
A/N: just learned sebastian stan and annabelle wallis had their baby and i am full of jubilation 🥹🥹🥹the man who gave us this character is a father!!! and GRACE SHELBY IS MOTHERRRR
Mobile Marvel Series Rewrite Masterlist
Bucharest Masterlist
Bucharest: The Playlist
Bucky’s dog tags became a permanent staple for him, even when he slept.
On a particularly cold night, the sound of the dog tags clinking together alerted you to Bucky’s presence by the door. “Can I come in?” he asked.
“Uh, sure,” you answered, scooting over in your bed to make room for him.
Bucky laid down in your bed for the first time since you’d moved in together, stiffening when he was finally horizontal. “This is much higher up than I normally sleep,” he murmured into the darkness.
You laughed. “Bee, you’re allowed to get under the blankets. You know that, right?”
“Oh,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Right.”
You laid down facing him, and he continued to stare up at the ceiling. “Nightmare?”
“And cold.”
You nodded, although you weren’t sure he could see it. “Have your nightmares gotten any less frequent?”
“Still have ‘em most nights.”
You deflated a little. “I’m sorry. I wish I could make them stop.”
He turned his head to face yours. “You do. Sometimes.”
“Is it when we sleep together that they go away?”
Despite how tired he was, he managed to scrunch up his nose playfully. “That makes it sound dirty.”
“I know, I know, I couldn’t think of a better way to phrase it,” you chuckled softly, shoving his chest lightly.
He recoiled despite how gentle your touch was.
“Oh, shit, nerve pain?” you asked.
He nodded, wincing.
“God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright, you didn’t know.” The man before you was night and day from the one you met almost two years ago.
“You wanna… go back to sleep now?” you whispered.
He nodded, rolling his head back to facing the ceiling.
“Goodnight, Buck,” you said, turning to face away from him.
“G’night, Doc.”
****
Winter wasn’t kind to Bucky. Whether it was the temperature itself reminding him of the stone against his naked body as he shivered in his cell or the namesake associated, he’d revealed to you through words and actions just how deeply the hurt ran.
As mid-February rolled around, though, the thawing snow and rising temperatures brought promise.
“(Y/N)?” he called.
You poked your head out of your room. “What’s up?”
“Memory,” Bucky replied simply. “I know your name and my name. But I know I’m forgetting something.”
After stepping fully out of your room, you met him on the couch. “Okay, let’s go over everything you know. Tell me your full name and the nicknames I call you.”
“James Buchanan Barnes. You call me ‘Bee’ ‘cause only my ma calls me James, and you didn’t wanna just call me Bucky. Sometimes, you call me ‘Sarge’ or ‘Buck’,” he explained. “You’re Dr. (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I call you ‘Doc’.”
“Good.” You offered a small smile. “The man on the bridge, do you remember who he was?”
Bucky nodded.
“Tell me about him,” you requested.
He sighed. “His name is Steve. We grew up together, but when I knew ‘im, he was a lot smaller. He got the Super Soldier Serum and became Captain America.”
He actually remembered more than you thought he would.
“Do you remember anyone named Natalia?” you tried. “Maybe you called her ‘Nat’?”
He took a moment to think before shaking his head. “I feel like I should know that name, though.”
“This wouldn’t happen to be a situation where you just forget everything Hydra-related, right?”
“No, ‘course not,” he deadpanned. “All that’s still up here.” He tapped his head with his right index finger, looking down at the floor.
Bucky followed you around aimlessly that day, using you like an anchor. You were happy to oblige him, enjoying his constant presence more than anything. That night, he followed you to your room.
When you noticed him lingering awkwardly by the doorway, you asked, “Do you wanna stay here tonight?”
Something in his subconscious seemed to have told him that he’s never started the night in your room before, only ended up there halfway through. Despite his trepidation, he wordlessly shut the door behind him.
Bucky’s hesitance seemed to have disappeared with his memory, because he immediately settled into bed beside you. His flesh arm held you against his chest, and he gently played with your fingers with his metal ones.
He noticed the notebook on your nightstand. “You kept it?”
“Of course,” you replied, looking up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He didn’t respond, just kept staring at your intertwined hands.
Eventually, you fell asleep against him, the warmth of his chest and rhythm of his heartbeat soothing you.
When you woke up at five-thirty the next morning, the two of you stayed in almost exactly the same position. The only difference was the way his head had tilted to rest against yours.
You wished you could turn your face up to his to see the peacefulness in his normally stoic expression.
It was then you noticed the way his metal hand was lightly holding your wrist against his stomach. You smiled, stroking his abs with your free thumb.
****
That night, even though his memory was a million times better, he still chose to sleep with you. It became routine for him to join you at the beginning of the night, but you never had to explicitly address it. It was just what you did: you and him.
He seemed to have decided to abandon his mattress on the floor, opting for the plush pillows and quilted comforter of your bed.
“Y’know, if we keep this up, we could get a one-bedroom,” you suggested one night in late February.
Bucky went still beneath you.
“We don’t have to—”
“No, no,” he cut you off. “I’d like that.”
You picked your head up from his chest to look at his face. The words were just on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say them. Not yet, anyway. You merely settled your head back onto his chest, allowing yourself to drift off to sleep.
****
In the days leading up to Bucky’s ninety-ninth birthday, you were giddy. He noticed, too, commenting several times on the bounce in your step and the way you were doing more for him than you already did normally.
“Doc, you don’t have to do all that,” he told you, watching you fuss about the apartment.
“Yes, I do. You only turn ninety-nine once! I’m not letting you clean during your special week,” you insisted, wiping off the coffee table.
He feigned annoyance, his tone flat as he taunted you. “You’ve cleaned the apartment eight times since Sunday.”
“Because I know if you see a spec of dust, you’ll wipe it up just to spite me.” You jabbed your index finger at him.
“Probably,” he shrugged. “But fine. Will you stop cleaning if I promise not to touch anything?”
You considered for a moment. “Fine.”
He smiled lopsidedly.
****
On March tenth, you woke up before your normal five-thirty time to start baking for him. He’d stirred when you slithered out of bed but didn’t fully wake up.
He gave you a quizzical look when he walked into the kitchen. “You sure you should be usin’ all that?”
“I know, I’m an awful cook. On your birthday? I wouldn’t dare,” you promised. “I’m a pretty solid baker, though.”
Bucky chuckled. “We’ll see.”
You handed him his cup of coffee.
“Thanks, Doc.”
You felt his eyes on you through the rest of the time you prepared his birthday cake. When you’d gotten the layers covered in plastic wrap to put in the fridge, you turned around to see a look of such adoration in his eyes. The intensity of his stare was drinking you in, daring you to look away. You couldn’t.
Feeling heat rise to your cheeks, you bashfully tried to turn your attention to something that wasn’t him. “I, uh, I got you something.”
You felt his eyes were still on you.
“Hold on, it’s in my closet. Don’t move.”
Bucky held up his hands in quiet surrender.
When you came back, you held a bouquet of red roses, white lilies, and pink tulips.
“I know you’re big into floriography. I wasn’t sure if anybody had gotten some for you before, so I— here you go.” You extended them to him, a card tied around the bottom reading, “Happy birthday, Sarge.”
Bucky took them gently, an adorable crease forming between his upturned eyebrows. Instead of saying anything, he pulled one of your hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles.
It made your breath hitch; the kiss longer than needed be as just a polite greeting or simple thank you. When you finally caught your breath and he dropped your hand, he moved to put the flowers in the vase you left uncharacteristically empty on the coffee table.
As you decorated his cake once it’d cooled, you heard the first few notes of the Beatles’ “Rubber Soul” album play through the record player. You laughed softly to yourself, beginning to hum along to “Drive My Car” while you piped delicate shapes onto the nearly completed cake. Bucky grabbed your hand gently with his right one, trying to suggest you put down the piping bag.
“I’m almost done, Jay,” you told him.
He shook his head, pulling you to his chest. He then spun you around before gently bringing you back to him.
You laughed, trying to hold on to your fake annoyance. “What are you doing?” It came off as more of a statement than a question.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” The playful, young sergeant you’d seen in old photos seemed to return to him for just a few moments.
“You must really not wanna eat the cake I made you,” you teased.
“What? No, c’mon, just one dance,” he begged.
You pretended to think it over. “Fine. Not gonna deny you on your birthday. But I don’t think ‘Norwegian Wood’ is an ideal slow dance song.”
“That’s okay,” he said, putting his head on top of yours. “I know you like it.”
Your cheeks burned as you smiled lopsidedly against his chest. Something felt caught in your throat, and a pit formed in your stomach. You'd lost control of the distance between you, and you knew you'd never get it back.
He did end up thoroughly enjoying the cake you’d made him, and he’d said as much several times before you went to bed that evening.
“Honestly,” he told you once the both of you had settled into bed, “that was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
You could’ve cried. “I’m glad you had a good day.”
The smile he wore made you desperate to lean forward and kiss the tip of his nose. Instead, you opted to ask, “How’s it feel to be ninety-nine?”
He gave you a deadpan look, the slightest of playful glints in his eye. “No different than ninety-eight.”
“We’re gonna go even bigger for one-hundred—”
He groaned. “Oh, God—”
“Yep! I’m thinkin’ a fancy restaurant with those baby-sized portions you hate. Or maybe I’ll force you to eat my terrible cooking instead,” you taunted.
“Spare me,” he teased.
You propped yourself up to where you could face him as he laid back against his pillow and began tracing circles on his pec with your fingernails. “And then, we’ll watch a bunch of cheesy rom-coms that make you wanna vomit. Ooh! Or how ‘bout a trip to—”
Bucky flipped you to where he was leaning over the top of you instead. “Stop talking,” he said.
You would’ve laughed had you not become so acutely aware of his proximity to you, his dog tags swinging in your face. Your breath hitched.
He leaned forward, your hearts nearly racing out of your chests. Just as you tilted your head up to kiss him, he froze.
Your internal panic began. It worsened when he pulled away completely, the air suddenly feeling cold and clinical. You heard him roll away from you while you remained paralyzed against your pillow.
besties i don't know how to say this to you but one of the stories i'm working on probably won't have a happy ending i'm breaking my own heart i'm gonna shit and cry and throw up
Warnings: selficide??? (not quite suicide), canon violence, canon gore, general angst, implied dissociation, implied panic anxiety, mentions of illness, emetophobes beware, mentions of smut,
Word Count: 5288
A/N: this episode was a blast and a half to write. i hope y'all enjoy!!!
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Season 5 | Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist
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“We haven’t had sex in a long time,” you told Dean out of the blue as you walked into a sleazy motel. You passed a religious man handing out pamphlets and evangelizing the importance of rapture preparation, but the two of you paid him no mind.
Dean burst out laughing.
“I’m serious!”
He opened the door to your room for you, and you chucked your duffel bag into a corner.
“Well, do you wanna fuck now?” Dean asked.
You rolled your eyes. “Not now. Then it feels like an obligation. Like we’re only having sex because I said something.”
He didn’t seem to understand what the problem with that was.
You flopped down onto the bed, and your partner laid down beside you. The two of you stared at the ceiling with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed.
“Everything’s just fucked, Dean,” you noted, voice sounding a bit distant. “That’s all I’m sayin’.”
He turned his head toward you, an action you could see out of the corner of your eye. You turned toward him, too, and the look he gave you told you he knew what you meant.
Then, Dean’s phone rang. “Cas,” he mouthed to you when he answered. The result of that conversation was Castiel saying he’d join you in the morning.
Dean flopped into bed beside you, the scent of his mint toothpaste and the cheap, drugstore body wash he used surrounding you.
He pulled a half-smile from you. "Tired?" you asked monotonously.
“Don’t make fun,” he whined into his pillow.
“You’re such a baby.” You rolled your eyes and turned away.
Dean slipped his hand around your waist, pressing his hand to your lower stomach to pull you flush against him.
“This is nice,” you muttered, beginning to drift off.
Dean yawned behind you before kissing your shoulder. “G’night, sweetheart.”
“Goodnight, Dean.”
****
The sound of Dean’s phone ringing for the second time that night jolted you awake.
“Dammit, Cas, I need to sleep!” your partner grunted into the phone.
“Sam?”
You suddenly felt wide awake.
“It's quarter past four,” Dean scrubbed a hand over his hair, still half asleep. After another moment, he said, “Alright, alright. I’m puttin’ you on speaker.”
You sat quietly beside Dean while Sam explained his current predicament.
“So, you're his vessel, huh? Lucifer's wearing you to the prom?” Dean’s tone was slightly mocking.
“That's what he said,” Sam sighed.
“Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?”
The younger brother went quiet for a moment. “So, that's it? That's your response?”
“What are you looking for?” Dean sighed.
“I don't know. A- A little panic? Maybe?”
Dean scoffed. “I guess I'm a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point.”
“What are we gonna do about it?”
“What do you want to do about it?”
“I want back in, for starters.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. Realistically, that may be a good strategy.
“Sam—” Dean seemed to share your thoughts.
“I mean it. I am sick of being a puppet to these sons of bitches. I'm gonna hunt him down, Dean.”
Your partner scoffed. “Oh, so, we're back to revenge, then, are we? Yeah, 'cause that worked out so well last time.”
Sam sighed heavily. “Not revenge. Redemption.”
“So, what, you're just gonna walk back in, and we're gonna be the three amigos again?” Dean ran a hand through his hair.
“Look, Dean, I can do this. I can. I'm gonna prove it to you.”
“Look, Sam, it doesn't matter— whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me, we're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good.”
“Dean, it does not have to be like this. We can fight it.”
“Yeah, you're right. We can. But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us—love, family, whatever it is—they are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. Yeah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing, if we just go our own ways.”
“Dean—” you tried, a soft scold in your tone.
His head jerked toward yours, eyes widened.
You heard Sam swallow harshly. “Dean, don't do this—”
Without his eyes leaving yours, Dean murmured, “Bye, Sam.” He slammed his phone shut. “The fuck, (Y/N)?” He wouldn’t sit back down on the bed beside you.
“You were a bit harsh, don’t you think?” You quirked a brow, your tone not so much accusatory as it was matter-of-fact.
He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I thought we woulda been on the same page here.”
“It’s not that I’m not on the same page, it’s just—” you pinched the bridge of your nose. “I don’t know. Let’s just… go back to sleep, okay? We can talk more in the morning.”
Your coaxing managed to get Dean back in bed, his shoulders remaining tense until you kissed his forehead. When you settled on his chest, the tension eased a little more.
****
The next time you opened your eyes, sunlight streamed through the broken window.
“What?” You bolted up. “Dean.” You smacked his chest enough to jolt him awake.
“Huh? Jesus.” When he saw it was just you, he tried to settle back onto the… box spring? Certainly, there had been a mattress beneath you when you went to sleep.
The entire room was a mess, the bedside lamps piled atop one another in the far corner and the television smashed to bits on the floor.
Dean said your name as he stood by the window, staring out blankly.
“Wha—” you cut yourself off when you noticed the entire city outside your window was in just as bad of shape as the motel room.
Without any need to get dressed— you woke up in the outfits you'd worn yesterday— you and Dean headed out with weapons covering as many places as possible. Everything around you was broken, graffitied, or both.
Suddenly, Dean grabbed your arm and pressed his back against a grimy wall. You heard the same cracking and scratching sounds that he did, and you followed behind him toward the source.
Soon enough, you happened upon a little girl in an alleyway clutching a teddy bear.
“Hey…” You crouched, just far enough away from her to be defensive. “Are you hurt?”
She just stared ahead blankly, eyes landing somewhere past you.
Dean straightened up. “Y’know the not-talking thing is kind of creepy, right?”
Just then, you noticed blood dripping from the girl’s mouth.
“Dean—?!”
The little girl shrieked and attacked him with a shard of the glass you must have heard shattering.
It didn’t take long for you to put the girl down with a single shot to the head, the ease of doing so startling you a little. When you looked up, graffiti on the wall of the alley made your breath catch. In big letters, the word “Croatoan” stared back at you.
“Oh, crap,” Dean whispered.
Almost instantly, a crowd of people likely infected with the Croatoan virus came barreling around the corner of the alley. You and Dean took off, the stale air burning your lungs as you ran. The infected chased you until you were cornered between them and a chainlink fence.
Then, several soldiers on tanks arrived to shoot at the infected people.
While Dean hacked at the tall fence, you covered him by shooting a few ravenous infected before they could get within ten feet of you.
Dean grabbed your hand before you had the chance to reload your gun and yanked you through the newly broken fence.
Day faded to night faster than you expected it to. Without flashlights, you were reliant on dim streetlights around the fenced-in area to guide your path. A sign on the fence beside you made you stop, grabbing Dean’s jacket to halt him with you.
“Croatoan Virus: Hot Zone. No entry by order of Acting Regional Command, August 1, 2014. Kansas City.”
“Twenty-fourteen,” Dean breathed out.
“We went to sleep in two-thousand nine,” you said dumbly, expression blank.
“What the fuck.”
****
Bobby’s house felt like the only logical destination. With no cell service or radio stations, you and Dean drove in silence on autopilot in a car he’d managed to fuel up and hotwire.
You wheeled around to see him in the backseat of the car reading a newspaper.
“I thought I smelled your stink on this Back to the Future crap,” Dean grunted.
“ ‘President Palin defends bombing of Houston.’ Certainly a buyer's market in real estate. Let's see what's happening in sports. That's right, no more sports. Congress revoked the right to group assembly. What's left of Congress, that is. Hardly a quorum, if you ask me.”
“How did you find us?” you asked, malice lacing your tone.
“Afraid we had to tap some unorthodox resources of late… human informants. We've been making inspirational visits to the fringier Christian groups. They've been given your image; told to keep an eye out,” he shrugged.
“That fuckin’ guy outside the motel—” you realized.
Dean seemed to reach that same conclusion. “He, what, dropped a dime on us?”
Zachariah gave a self-satisfied grin. “Onward, Christian soldiers.”
“Okay, well, good. Great. You have had your jollies. Now send us back, you son of a bitch.”
The angel tsked. “Oh, you'll get back. All in good time. We want you to marinate a bit.”
“Marinate?” you and Dean asked in unison.
“Three days, kids. Three days to see where this course of action takes you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” your partner scoffed.
“It means that your choices have consequences. This is what happens to the world if you continue to say ‘no’ to Michael. Have a little look-see.” Then, he was gone.
****
Your journey to Bobby’s abandoned house brought you to Camp Chitaqua somewhere on the fringes of society. After you’d found Dean’s beloved Impala rusted and smashed to bits, a group of militants managed to get the jump on you. Then, it was lights out.
When you came to, you were covered with a blanket and laid on a mattress with one of your hands tied loosely to the leg of a chair above your head.
You groaned, trying to reach for your head with your tied hand. You heard Dean call your name hoarsely. “You okay?”
Blinking slowly, you saw Dean across the room from you handcuffed to a ladder.
“Yeah, I’m good, babe. You?”
“Fine.” He rattled his handcuff once before a familiar voice cut him off.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t gank you both right here and now.” That was Dean’s voice, but you’d been watching Dean the whole time. With your eyebrows knitted in confusion, you turned your head wildly around the room until they landed on Dean.
Not your Dean, no. This one looked a little older, a little more tired, and a lot more hurt. That toughness you loved and hated about him had hardened his heart and squared his shoulders even more.
“Dean?” you squeaked, unsure of what else to say.
Although you could tell he was trying to remain impervious to you, he couldn’t help the pained smile that threatened to twitch his lips upward. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“What’s… going on here?” you asked, looking between the two Deans.
“I’m wonderin’ the same thing,” the older-looking Dean said.
“Zachariah,” your Dean stated.
“Come again?”
“I'm you from the tail end of two-thousand nine. She’s… y’know, (Y/N). Zach plucked us from our bed and threw us five years into the future.”
“Where is he?” the older-looking Dean grunted. “I wanna talk to him.”
“I don’t know,” your Dean replied.
The other scoffed. “Oh, you don’t know—”
“He doesn’t know,” you cut him off, sitting up against the wall behind you. “We just wanna get back to our own year, okay?”
The other Dean stared at you, a longing in his eyes.
“What happened to me?” you asked quietly, searching his face for answers.
The other Dean shook his head. “You don’t wanna know.” He clicked a gun he’d been cleaning back into place before tossing it into a duffel bag.
“How bad?” you asked.
“(Y/N)—”
“How bad?” you repeated, firmer this time.
The other Dean slammed a gun onto the table, closing his eyes as if that would make you just disappear. “You’re still alive.”
You deflated a little in relief.
“You’re just not… you anymore,” he finished.
When he looked up at you, you held his gaze. “I got turned, didn’t I?”
“I tried, sweetheart. I really tried,” he explained, trying not to choke on the words.
“I know you did.”
“Where is she?” your Dean asked. “Where’s Sam?”
“She’s locked in the basement. Sam…” He swallowed. “Heavyweight showdown in Detroit. From what I understand, Sam didn't make it.”
“You weren't with him?” your Dean asked, an accusation in his voice.
“No. No, me and Sam, we haven't talked in— hell, five years.”
Realization struck you. That phone call must have been the last time the two spoke.
“We never tried to find him?” your Dean pressed.
The other Dean cast a look at you out of the corner of his eye. “We had other people to worry about.” He zipped his duffel shut harshly, the weight in his shoulders coming through every gesture with his hands.
“Where you going?” your Dean questioned.
“I got to run an errand.”
“Whoa. You're just gonna leave me here? Leave her here?”
The other Dean wheeled around. “Yes. I got a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors out there with an apocalypse hanging over their head. The last thing they need to see is a version of The Parent Trap and someone they think is dead.” He choked a little on the word. “So, yeah, you stay locked down.”
“Okay. Alright, fine. But you don't have to cuff me, man.”
Other Dean gave him a look.
“Oh, come on. You don't trust yourself?”
Other Dean grunted, “No. Absolutely not.” He left, boots thumping against the ground.
“Dick,” your Dean murmured.
Then, you heard scratching coming from below you.
“That must be me.” Bile rose in your throat.
“Hey, look at me.”
Your bottom lip trembled as you looked up at your love.
“I’m not gonna let that happen to you,” he said.
Your lips twitched upward breifly. “I’m sure her Dean said that to her, too.” You nodded down at the floor below you.
****
“You stayed,” the other Dean said as he entered his cabin.
You sat up, your hand still tied to the chair leg behind you. “I did.”
Other Dean closed his eyes when he saw the handcuffs dangling from the ladder a few feet away from you. “Dammit.”
You simply shrugged. “He’s never been good at following orders. You of all people should know that.”
The other Dean stared at you wistfully for a moment. “Why haven’t you untied yourself yet? I know you know how.”
You shrugged. “I’m more concerned with you trusting me right now.”
“Why?”
“If we’ve got three days in this hell hole, I don’t wanna spend it with you unable to look at me.”
Dean shook his head. “Sweetheart, I was never gonna be able to stomach lookin’ atcha, but for a completely different reason.”
You nodded. “I know. Still. I wanna make this as easy for you as possible.”
The older Dean came over to the mattress he’d laid you on and untied your wrist. He’d tied you so gently you probably could have slipped out of it without untying it at all. For a moment, he just sat on the edge of the thin mattress holding your hand like it was his only lifeline. You allowed him to play with the tips of your fingers while he stared at them like he couldn’t believe they were real.
“I’m sorry you lost her.”
His green eyes looked a little more brown in the dim light of the cabin as they flicked up to you. “I should be apologizing to you—”
“No. You shouldn’t,” you insisted.
He rolled his eyes. “You weren’t even here—”
“And I don’t need to be to know you did everything you could,” you continued, voice a little louder than his. “I need you to let me do something, though.”
His eyes widened, a crease forming on his forehead. “No,” he pleaded.
“Dean, please—”
“You’re all I have—”
“What’s down there isn’t me anymore.” You squeezed his hand in both of yours. “You have to let her— let me— go.”
He tipped his chin forward, refusing to meet your eyes as tears undoubtedly sprang to them.
“I know it’s too late for you. And you know it, too. But maybe… maybe in another life, my Dean and I can fix this—” you pleaded, running your thumbs over the backs of his palms.
“I can’t.”
“Let me do this for you. For us. So maybe we both can be free?”
Dean’s jaw trembled slightly when he looked back up at you. He nodded once, and that was all the permission you needed.
Somehow, it was worse than you thought. Blisters had formed a second skin over half of your forehead, growing down toward your chin. Your complexion had turned paler and grayer, and your eyes had sunken further into your face. Blood— whose, you weren’t sure— dripped from your lips just as it had from the mouth of the little girl back in the alleyway.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured, watching the infected version of you snarl and scratch at the cement walls of your makeshift cell.
The blood trickled from the gunshot wound you’d given her forehead just as it trailed down her lips. Seeing yourself lying motionless in a puddle of your own blood, you puked on the ground next to you.
****
You couldn’t focus on the conversation happening around you, too consumed by the image of your corpse lying on the floor of Dean’s cabin.
It wasn’t until 2014’s version of Castiel gently tapped your shoulder that you managed to snap out of your trance.
The two Deans bickered, but Castiel made sure he properly reintroduced himself to you.
“What happened to you, Clarence?” you asked, looking at the disheveled angel in front of you.
“Too much,” he chuckled.
You ducked a little to meet his eyes, cinching your brow together. “Are you— Are you high?”
Cas pursed his lips. “Generally, yes.”
You licked your teeth in annoyance, the sound drawing the other Dean’s attention away from his conversation long enough to diffuse some of the tension.
The other Dean took a deep breath. “We don't have to find Lucifer. We know where he is. The demon that we caught last week? He was one of the big guy's entourage. He knew.”
A girl you hadn’t caught the name of scoffed. “So, a demon tells you where Satan's gonna be, and you just believe it?”
“Oh, trust me, he wasn't lying,” the other Dean replied.
“And you know this, how?”
Cas cleared his throat. “Our fearless leader, I'm afraid, is all too well schooled in the art of getting to the truth.”
“You’re torturing again?!” you scolded, your chest burning.
The other Dean shot Cas a hard glare.
“Torture?” Dean laughed mockingly as you shouted. “Oh, so, we're— we're torturing again. No, that's— that's good. Classy.”
Castiel laughed, making the other Dean glare at him again.
“What?” the angel continued chuckling, “I like past you.”
The other Dean cleared his throat. “Lucifer is here. Now, I know the block and I know the building.”
Cas sighed. “Oh, good. It's right in the middle of a hot zone.”
“Crawling with Croats, yeah. You saying my plan is reckless?”
“Are you saying we, uh, walk in straight up the driveway, past all the demons and the Croats, and we shoot the Devil?”
“Yes.”
Castiel sighed. “Okay, if you don't like, uh, 'reckless', I could use 'insouciant', maybe.”
“Are you coming?” The other Dean rolled his eyes.
“Of course,” Cas sighed. “But why is he? I mean, he's you five years ago. If something happens to him, you're gone, right?”
“He’s coming,” the other Dean asserted. “She is, too. We're loaded and on the road by midnight.”
“Alrighty.” Castiel bounded out of the room with the woman hot on his heels.
“Why are you taking us?” your Dean asked, crossing his arms.
“Relax,” the other Dean said bluntly. “You'll be fine. Zach's looking after you, right?”
“No, that's not what I mean. I want to know what's going on.”
“Yeah, okay. You're coming because I want you to see something.” A muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched it. “I want you to see our brother.”
Dean blinked. “Sam? I thought he was dead.”
“Sam didn't die in Detroit. He said 'yes'.”
“Fuck,” you muttered.
“Sorry, I don’t follow.”
You looked up at your Dean apologetically.
He looked between you and the other version of himself frantically. “Wh— Why would he do that?”
The other Dean shrugged. “Wish I knew. But now, we don't have a choice. It's in him, and it's not getting out. And we've got to kill him, Dean. And you need to see it— the whole damn thing, how bad it gets— so you can do it different.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wants you to say ‘yes’ to Michael,” you explained, voice quiet.
Both Deans looked at you incredulously.
“She serious?” Your Dean pointed at you, glaring at the older version of himself harshly.
The other Dean nodded once.
“That's crazy,” your Dean grunted. “If I let him in, then Michael fights the devil. The battle's gonna torch half the planet.”
“Look around you, man!” the older Dean gestured around. “Half the planet's better than no planet, which is what we have now. If I could do it over again, I'd say 'yes' in a heartbeat.”
“So why don't you?”
“I've tried! I've shouted 'yes' till I was blue in the face! The angels aren't listening! They just— left; gave up! It's too late for me, but for you—”
Your Dean shook his head. “Oh, no. There's got to be another way.”
“Yeah, that's what I thought. I was cocky. Never actually thought I'd lose. But I was wrong. Dean. I was wrong. I'm begging you. Say yes. For her sake, if no one else’s.” He nodded toward you.
Your Dean looked at you with one of his classic unreadable expressions.
“But you won't.” Older Dean clicked his tongue. “ 'Cause I didn't. Because that's just not us, is it?”
****
Dean and Cas traded friendly banter as the older Dean drove toward the location he said Lucifer would be at. Through their talking, you learned Cas wasn’t an angel anymore, and something about that made your heart break a little further.
You followed behind the other Dean watching him closely, and he almost couldn’t stand to look at you.
“Hey, uh, me,” your Dean called. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
The two Deans stepped aside with you in tow.
“Tell me what's going on,” your partner demanded.
“What?” the older version scoffed.
“I know you. You're lying to these people and to me. To her.”
The other Dean couldn’t look at you. “Is that so,” he challenged.
“Yeah. See, I know your lying expressions. I've seen them in the mirror. Now, there's something you're not telling us.”
The older Dean crossed his arms. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Oh, really? Well, I don't seem to be the only member of your posse with some questions, so, uh, maybe I'll just take my doubts over to them.”
You moved to follow your partner, but older Dean grabbed your wrist gently. “Okay, whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait.”
“What?” Dean turned back around.
With one last shameful glance your way, the older Dean began, “Take a look around you, man. This place should be white-hot with Croats. Where are they?”
“They cleared a path for us. Which means that this is—”
“A trap,” you cut him off.
“Exactly,” the older Dean nodded.
“Well, then we can't go through the front.”
“Oh, we're not. They are.”
The other Dean’s casual tone made your blood run cold.
“They're the decoys. We're going in through the back.”
“You mean you're gonna feed your friends into a meat grinder? Cas, too?” your Dean scoffed. “You want to use their deaths as a diversion?”
The older one looked away.
Dean shook his head. “Oh, man, something is broken in you. You're making decisions that I would never make. I wouldn't sacrifice my friends.”
“You're right. You wouldn't. It's one of the main reasons we're in this mess, actually.”
“These people count on you. They trust you.”
“They trust me to kill the Devil and to save the world, and that's exactly what I'm gonna do,” the other Dean argued.
“No,” you said firmly.
“No?”
“I don’t know what’s happened to you, but you— you weren’t— you would never—”
The other Dean reached for you.
“No.” You shrugged yourself out of his grip. “I’m not gonna let you.”
“Oh, really?” he scoffed.
“Really.” You crossed your arms.
“Okay, then.” Other Dean slugged yours in the face, knocking him out instantly.
“Dean!” you cried, dropping to your knees beside you. “What the fuck?!” Your eyes shot daggers up at the other Dean as he towered over you.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s for the greater good.”
Before you could argue or follow after his retreating form, you were surrounded by a blinding white light followed by a clap of thunder.
The light disappeared only for you to still be outside the sanitarium, still crouched beside Dean, who was starting to regain consciousness. You couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but it was enough for the older Dean to be held down to the ground by a tall figure dressed in a sharp white suit with matching shoes.
Even from the ten foot distance away, you could hear the other Dean’s neck audibly snap as the figure applied more pressure to his throat.
“No!” you screamed, trying to run toward him.
Your Dean grabbed your arms, clutching you against him.
Hearing your cry, the man turned toward you. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of you as your haze of grief cleared enough to recognize Sam. Well, not exactly Sam; it had to have been Lucifer.
“Oh. Hello, (Y/N),” Lucifer smirked coldly, the warmth Sam’s brown eyes usually carried completely gone. “Dean. Aren't you a surprise.” There was a chilling lilt in his tone, a brutal sophistication unlike anything Sam ever embodied.
Thunder and lightning continued to crash around you as Lucifer teleported behind you. “You've come a long way to see this, haven't you?”
“If you’re gonna kill us, kill me. Leave her alone.” Dean tried to sound demanding.
Lucifer raised his brows. “Kill you?” He cast a look toward the older Dean’s corpse. “Don't you think that would be a little… redundant?”
Dean continued to posture protectively in front of you, discreetly reaching for your hand.
Lucifer sighed. “I'm sorry. It must be painful, speaking to me in this… shape. But it had to be your brother. It had to be.” He reached for Dean’s shoulder, but he pulled it away. “You don't have to be afraid of me, Dean. What do you think I'm going to do?”
“I don't know. Maybe deep-fry the planet?”
Lucifer fluttered his lashes the way Sam would often do, but it didn’t carry the same sweetness you’d come to know from the younger Winchester. “Why? Why would I want to destroy this stunning thing? Beautiful in a trillion different ways. The last perfect handiwork of God.”
He let his words ruminate for a moment. “You ever hear the story of how I fell from grace?”
“You loved him,” you couldn’t help but reply, a bit like a reflex.
Lucifer and Dean looked toward you, a little surprise on both men’s faces.
“God asked you to love humanity more than him, and you couldn’t. You didn’t want to,” you finished.
Lucifer nodded, a sneer forming he was hardly able to hold back. “And for that, God had Michael cast me into hell. Now, tell me, does the punishment fit the crime? Especially, when I was right? Look at what six billion of you have done to this thing, and how many of you blame me for it.”
“You're not fooling me, y’know that,” Dean grunted, “with this sympathy-for-the-devil crap. I know what you are.”
“What am I?” He had an amused look on his face.
“You're the same thing, only bigger. The same brand of cockroach I've been squashing my whole life. An ugly, evil, belly-to-the-ground, supernatural piece of crap. The only difference between them and you is the size of your ego.”
Lucifer smiled. “I like you, Dean. I get what the other angels see in you. Goodbye. We'll meet again soon.” He turned to walk away.
“You better kill me now!” Dean shouted after him.
“Dean, what—!” you tried to silence him.
Dean held a hand down by his side to tell you it was alright.
Lucifer froze and turned back around, shoulder bristled. “Pardon?”
“You better kill me now. Or I swear, I will find a way to kill you. And I won't stop.”
Lucifer smiled his horrible, mocking smile. “I know you won't. I know you won't say yes to Michael, either. And I know you won't kill Sam. Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up… here. I win. So, I win.”
“You’re wrong.” Dean’s voice cracked around the words.
“See you in five years, Dean.”
Lucifer was gone.
****
After Cas helped you narrowly escape Zachariah, you were on the road again. This time, Dean found a new confidence in his conviction.
“Sam,” Dean said, pulling out Ruby’s knife.
Dean had invited Sam to meet up with the two of you again. The younger brother looked down at the knife nervously, but Dean held it out to him, handle first.
“If you're serious and you want back in, you should hang on to this. I'm sure you're rusty.” He had a slight smirk on those lips you loved so much.
Although he took the knife, Sam couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes.
“Look, man, I'm sorry,” Dean sighed. “I don't know. I'm… whatever I need to be. But I was, uh, wrong.”
Sam’s puppy-dog eyes looked up at his brother. “What made you change your mind?”
“We’ll have to fill you in on the road,” you stated, grit in your voice from how long it’d been since you last spoke.
“What she said,” Dean nodded, and his eyes remained trained on you for just a moment too long. “The point is, maybe we are each other's Achilles heel. Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other, I don't know. I just know we're all we've got. More than that, we keep each other human.”
You nodded, though you weren’t really processing what you were agreeing too.
“Thank you. Really.” Sam smiled weakly, trying to keep his emotions at bay. “Thank you. I won't let you down.”
“Oh, I know it. I mean, you are the… third-best hunter on the planet,” Dean smirked.
You raised your eyebrows, trying to gain some of Dean's levity by participating. “Oh? Who’s the first?”
“Me, duh,” he replied arrogantly.
“Shut up—”
Sam cut you off. “So, what do we do now?”
“We make our own future,” Dean nodded.
The younger brother’s chest deflated a little. “Guess we have no choice.”
Summary: Set in St. Peregrine, a small town bordering the bayou an hour east of Grand Isle you won't find on any map past 2005, Dean Winchester's beloved Impala breaks down and is in serious need of some fixing. When he notices the Impala needs an overhaul with supplies he doesn't have on hand, he finds a particularly interesting member of the St. Peregrine population: you. You're reserved, sharp, dry, and mature; everything Dean believes he isn't. When his interest is piqued by you, he is temporarily distracted from the horror slowly unfolding around you: a town that is rotting from the inside out.
Summary: After breaking Zemo out of prison and the chaos of Madripoor, Bucky Barnes finds himself needing to go after New York's fabled "Jersey Devil"; an almost mythical crime lord with a rap sheet that rivals the Winter Soldier's.
Warnings: TBA
Lacy | Masterlist | Coming Soon
Summary: After being orphaned at fourteen, you were sent to live with a foster family in upstate New York. Now, after seven years of working as a farmhand, you return to Brooklyn in search of your oldest friend, Steve… and maybe his best friend, too.
Bucharest | Marvel Series Rewrite | Chapter 11: In My Life
I know I'll often stop and think about them
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader (eventual.....;,;,',',;;,,;)
Warnings: HEED THESE WARNINGS EVERY CHAPTER. BUCHAREST IS VERY EMOTIONALLY HEAVY. non-sexual need and a lot of it, the yearninggggg, holidays, angst, mentions of CPTSD, bending therapist/patient dynamics, implied sexual assault, mentions of torture (physical/emotional), implied brainwashing, mentions of dehumanization, mentions of grief, angst, whump, it's christmas in july, y'all
Word Count: 2339
Mobile Marvel Series Rewrite Masterlist
Bucharest Masterlist
Bucharest: The Playlist
“Hey, Sarge.”
“Hey, Doc.”
“How are you feeling?”
Bucky pursed his lips. “Okay, I guess.”
"Do you know what day it is?" you probed gently.
"December sixteenth. Couldn't forget if I tried." Bucky’s face remained stoic, a slight regret tinting his expression.
You took a shuddering breath. “What is it about the Starks that stays with you?”
His eyes flickered to yours, only for a moment. “I think you know.”
You did but needed him to verbalize it anyway.
“You, dammit,” he finally grunted.
"Bee I’m not upset with you," was your simple reply. Plain, honest, and brutal.
He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, looking away from you.
You let the silence pass, praying he’d say something; praying he’d let you in. When he didn’t, you asked, “What’s on your mind? What specifically about me and that day is keeping you stuck?”
The muscle in his cheek twitched when you asked. “I shouldn't've taken you.”
“How do I make you believe it wasn’t your fault?” you practically pleaded.
“Aren’t you the shrink? Aren’t you supposed to know?!” he grunted mockingly. He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to steady himself. “I’m— that was mean.”
“It was,” you agreed. “I’m still not mad. I never will be.”
Bucky looked like he wanted to run out of the room like it was on fire, but he must’ve seen the brokenness you desperately tried to hide behind your eyes. His body seemed to relax as much as he’d allow it to back into the couch, and you were just trying to keep your heart rate under control.
“I don’t regret following Howard’s car,” you muttered finally.
The two of you faced the television across the room; the air between you felt too thick to stare through it.
Bucky blew out a puff of air through his nose, and you could practically see the way you knew his shoulders slumped forward and eyes closed when he did.
“It fuckin’ sucked being at Hydra. You know that,” you continued. “But if I hadn’t been there, would you have taken me from the Insight crash? Would we be here? Would you be making as much progress as you are with me?”
Bucky swallowed hard enough for you to hear. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t change it for the world,” you swore.
You saw Bucky’s head tip further forward out of the corner of your eye, and you immediately looked over at him. He had his right hand on his forehead, hiding the crease that had formed between his eyebrows from scrunching them together.
You instinctively reached for him, hesitating only when you realized his metal hand was the free one. Not that you had a problem with touching it, you just didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did.
Instead, you opted to scootch closer to him, hoping the heat radiating from your body could provide him some form of comfort. The closer you got, the more you could hear the cries he was trying to stifle.
You couldn’t take it anymore. “Shh, shh, shh.” You knelt on the floor in front of him, wedged between his left knee and the coffee table. Your faces were inches away because of his hunched over position, and the man shook his head when he realized how close you were. Still, he didn’t move, despite you giving him every opportunity to.
With a look to your eyes that conveyed words he couldn’t say, he hesitated before pulling you up with his metal hand. Fully sitting up on your knees, you were finally able to wind your arms around his neck. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, clutching you desperately while trying to stifle his tears.
“I got you, Bee, it’s alright.”
****
Bucky left you yearning for his presence in the days that followed. It seemed he couldn’t bring himself to even be in the same room as you like he had when you’d first moved in together. And for the first time, he kept his door shut all day.
Your chest would clench slightly when you saw he’d left your mug with hot coffee in it exactly the way you liked on the countertop each morning. It would hurt again when you found he’d made you lunch while you were out getting groceries for the week— against his wishes— and again when he left your laundry folded in a basket by the door.
He was killing you.
You rested your forehead against his bedroom door, knowing he’d already heard you approach it. There was no turning back now.
“Bucky,” you pleaded, voice already cracking more than you would like. “You’ve been very sweet to me the past three days, but—” you swallowed harshly. “Can you come sit with me? Please? We don’t have to talk, we don’t have to do anything, just— please. I need you.”
The words coming out of your mouth didn’t even feel like you were the one saying them. They were so honest, it felt like they were being pulled out of you.
Just when you feared you’d made a terrible mistake, the door shifted slightly beneath you, almost like he knew you were leaning against it. When you picked your head up, he opened it fully.
Your breath shuddered when you laid eyes on him, and it felt like you were seeing him for the first time all over again.
Then, he did something he hadn’t before. Instead of moving to the main room like you thought he would, he stepped back, inviting you into his.
You felt your eyebrows raise slightly, and you sniffled, stepping into his room. He shut the door behind you. That was even more surprising.
You stood in the center of the barren room, and Bucky laid back down on his bed. The indent of his body in it told you that was likely where he’d been the past three days.
Bucky laid on his metal arm behind his head, using it to prop himself up slightly. He just watched you as you took in the room; you’d never really focused on it before.
You crossed your arms over your chest, almost like you were hugging yourself, as you faced him. “I don’t wanna seem too clingy—”
“You’re not,” he answered, gravel in his voice after not having talked for several days.
You just nodded, still standing there awkwardly.
Bucky patted the bed next to him.
“Are you sure?”
He repeated the motion.
You obliged, sitting on the edge of the mattress slowly and slightly afraid of relaxing too soon. Then, you laid down stiffly.
Before you could settle in, Bucky opened his arm for you.
You stared at it. “You sure?”
He nodded.
At first, you kept your touch feather light. Bucky could probably feel how tense your muscles were, and he smoothed his arm over your bicep in an attempt to relax you. Your left hand was tucked under your chin, your right slowly creeping across his stomach. You were sure you looked silly tucked up so small against such a large, broad man.
“You need me?” he asked finally.
You nodded against him.
Neither of you said anything for a while after that.
****
Christmas Eve didn’t have a sense of joy surrounding it and hadn’t for a long time. You’d been staring at the wall since three-thirty that morning trying to will yourself out of bed.
At exactly five-thirty, you counted down from five and forced yourself out of bed by the time you got to one. Then, you went to the bathroom to brush your teeth before inevitably moving to the coffee machine. As usual, Bucky followed behind you.
This time, you didn’t take a sip of your coffee black before adding creamer. Instead, you moved for it immediately.
“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked.
You froze.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was a little firmer this time. He crossed his arms. “Rule number one, Doc.”
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “This is… my December sixteenth.”
Bucky seemed to understand instantly. “When you escaped.”
You nodded.
He walked over to the couch, and you followed. Although you could tell thinking back was paining him, too, he still asked, “What do you remember?”
“Everything,” you let out, as if the word was hurting you to hold back. “Do you remember anything?”
He nodded. “This is about you.”
You licked your teeth as your eyes fluttered to the floor. “If I’m saying too much, you stop me.”
“What specifically are you thinkin’ of?”
“Karpov,” you answered. “The hooks from the whip.” The one he punished you with for losing fights against Bucky. “The way he used you like a fuckin’ human shield.” He’d held a gun to Bucky’s neck and made him fight off the five other Winter Soldiers they’d made the two of you fight.
Bucky hesitated before eventually asking, “Did they keep you from sleeping, too?”
You nodded. “Any time I’d doze off, they’d sound an alarm. Kept me naked.”
Two things in Bucky’s eyes deepened: his understanding and guilt.
“I knew about the showering,” you sniffed. “ ‘S why I was so okay with helping you when you took me from the Insight crash. They’d keep me in my Hemlock suit they hadn’t washed when I wasn't in my cell.”
The look in his eye said he knew what you were referencing.
“They had bigger plans for me.” Your lashes fluttered as your breath shook. “I think they would’ve given me much of the same treatment they gave you. Knowing you had to go through all that and more…”
Bucky shook his head and screwed his eyes shut. “This isn’t about me, Doc,” he tried.
“It is and it isn’t. It’s the same way December sixteenth is about me,” you explained, swallowing hard.
His eyes fell to the ground, but you knew he understood.
You took a deep breath to steady yourself. “Thank you.” You swallowed again. “For listening.”
“Always.”
****
You survived Christmas Eve, and the heaviness disappeared on Christmas morning. Although you felt a little fatigued, you were excited to give him his present.
The record player sang old standards while Bucky made breakfast. You waited anxiously for him to sit down, unable to even focus on what he was making.
“You’ve got a look,” Bucky murmured, not looking away from the stove.
“What? What look?” you asked, uncharacteristically nervous.
“Wow,” he snorted, “you’re usually a much better liar than that.”
“Okay, fine, you caught me,” you sighed dramatically. “I’m just excited.”
As if on cue, Bucky set two plates down on the kitchen counter, and then, your respective coffees. “About what?”
Bucky made a feast of a breakfast, complete with waffles and fresh fruit. “Holy shit,” you groaned around the first bite. “It’s annoying how good of a cook you are. You’re just good at everything.”
He rolled his eyes but the small smile on his face gave him away.
When you were finished eating, you dashed toward your tiny Christmas tree to get his present. The box was small and wrapped with a pretty bow, and you sheepishly handed it to Bucky after he sat down on the couch.
The look in his eye conveyed how touched he was. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Open it,” you smiled lopsidedly, still standing next to the coffee table and rocking back and forth nervously.
With one last look to you, he did as you asked. A dazed, wistful look formed in his eyes when he got the box open.
“I got ‘em made for you,” you explained. “I figured Hydra probably destroyed your original ones.”
He immediately slipped the shining, silver dog tags hanging from a chain around his neck. The chain hit just between his pecs, allowing him to look at them even while he wore them.
The chain read, “James B. Barnes, 32557038 T41 42 C,” followed by your first initial, last name, and the apartment address. “How’d you find all this?”
Your lips pulled into a sad smile. “I worked under Peggy Carter when she was director. She had a copy of your dog tags in her desk, and I took them as soon as I found out you were the Winter Soldier in ninety-one. It was something I knew I wanted to give to you one day.”
Bucky’s eyes welled with tears as he stared at you, and he did his best to hide them from you. “God, Doc, I don’t even know what to say.” He shook his head, staring down at the tags. “Thank you.”
Next, it was his turn to give you your gift.
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” you reminded him.
“Yeah, I did,” he replied softly, handing you something he’d shoddily wrapped in newspaper. It was nowhere near as delicate as the wrapping you’d done on his present, but it was Bucky. And that was enough.
A hand flew to your mouth when you realized what it was: a tabbed notebook you’d only seen in his backpack, not the one he scribbled in daily. Scrawled on the cover in sharpie, it read, “In my life, I love you more.”
Each page was filled with something he’d noted about you; whether it had been a memory he recalled after a session or a song you put on he liked, it was all there.
“I didn’t really have a use for it anymore; all the pages are full.” He scratched the back of his neck. “If you don’t want it, I’ll—”
“You have no idea how much that means to me,” you cut him off, launching yourself into his arms.
He caught you around your waist, and you could feel him smiling into your shoulder.
Ack! Sorry guys, completely forgot to add the taglist before publishing. Tags for this series are open!!
Free to Be You and Me | Supernatural Series Rewrite
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Warnings: general angst, canon violence, canon gore, religious trauma vibes, misogyny, sexual innuendo
Word Count: 3142
Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist
Season 5 | Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist
Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist
Dean lay rolled away from you, the musculature of his back pressing into your bare stomach. The heaviness that had settled over him and the tightness in his chest rolled off him in waves.
He stroked your arm wrapped around his chest with his thumb absentmindedly.
You knew better than to ask if he was okay. “I’m sorry,” you murmured.
Dean twisted slightly to face you.
“Why don’t you call him?” you asked.
It’d been two weeks since Sam left, and you and Dean were two hunts deep.
He sighed your name.
“No, Dee, I’m serious,” you cut him off. “You don’t have to not be upset with him, and it wouldn’t mean you think he should come back to hunting. There’s nothin’ wrong with asking how he is.”
Dean huffed. “I don’t like it when you’re right.”
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, almost like the words hurt to say.
“What?” you snorted. “What are you sorry for?”
He couldn’t meet your eyes. “For… everything. For gettin’ you stuck in the middle of me ‘nd Sam. For the fact that we haven’t had much time for… y’know, us recently. And the fact that I can see you hurting.”
You scoffed. “Who says I’m hurting—?”
He gave you a deadpan look. “I know you. You are. Don’t lie to me.”
That immediately shut you up. “I don’t like when you’re right, either,” you relented.
Dean kissed your forehead, his lips lingering a little longer than necessary. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You know it’s the fuckin’ angel bullshit,” you answered quietly.
“And?”
You blinked at him.
“C’mon, just say it—”
“I don’t like me anymore, Dean,” you said quietly, the words hardly above a whisper. “I haven’t liked me since Uriel. And I’m just getting worse. I’m getting mean. I don’t— I don’t care about the stuff I used to. I hardly even care about Sam anymore—”
Dean cut you off. “That’s not true. You’ll always care about Sam; even when he’s makin’ you mad.”
“You didn’t see me, man. I wasn’t lyin’ when you fought at the motel, and I told him I’d shoot him if he didn’t leave. I meant that. Wholeheartedly.”
Dean went quiet while you searched his face. His gaze held a weight that made you feel scrutinized. “You were protecting me.” He meant it but didn’t sound completely convinced.
You scoffed. “I think that takes it a step beyond ‘protection’.”
“You’re not mean, sweetheart,” he promised gruffly. “And he was out of line. And guess what? Still love you.”
“Just ‘love me’?”
“C’mere.” He rolled over completely, holding you to him by your waist. He settled against your chest with his nose buried in your neck. Even as he laid against you, his breaths deepening as he fell asleep, you still couldn’t find peace.
****
The next morning, you startled awake. “Jesus, dude!” you exclaimed breathlessly, clutching your chest.
“Don’t do that,” Dean scolded, having bolted up, too. “Cas, we've talked about this. Personal space?”
The angel stood over Dean. “My apologies.” Bobby had apparently told the angel of your whereabouts. “Where's Sam?” Cas asked.
Your eyes flickered to Dean who looked uncharacteristically vulnerable still sitting with the sheets around his waist. “We’re takin’ separate vacations for a while… so…” he trailed off, attempting to recover by saying, “You find God yet? More importantly, can I have my damn necklace back, please?”
“No, I haven't found him. That's why I'm here,” he explained. “I need your help.”
Dean scoffed. “With what? God hunt? Not interested.” Your partner laid back down and held onto your hip, hiding his face against it.
Cas’s eyes never left him. “It's not God. It's someone else.”
“Who?” you asked, carding your fingers through Dean’s hair.
“Archangel,” the angel replied gruffly. “The one who killed me. His name is Raphael. I've heard whispers that he's walking the earth. This is a rare opportunity.”
“Check the sewers,” Dean muttered.
You smacked his shoulder. “Not the time, Dean.”
He smiled against your skin.
“No offense, Clarence, but I’m a little concerned about assisting with any angel business,” you told him.
“I need this information,” he argued impatiently.
Dean pulled back from you just enough to make his voice heard. “So, what, you think you can find this dude, and he's just gonna spill God's address?”
“Yes, because we are going to trap him and interrogate him.”
Dean laughed mockingly, burying his face against you once more.
“You’re serious,” you deadpanned.
The angel nodded once.
“And you need us… why?” You quirked an eyebrow.
“Because you’re vessels. No one will dare to harm you,” Castiel answered simply.
Dean sat up again. “Whoa, what? Since when are both of us vessels?”
For once, you were taken aback, too.
Cas cocked his head to the side. “Zachariah hasn’t approached you yet?”
“We haven’t really given him much of a chance,” you snorted despite the tightening in your throat. “Who the fuck am I a vessel for?”
“Divine— but— Uriel— uh… that wasn’t in the Bible, Cas,” you droned, unsure of what else to say while your vision blurred. It felt like you couldn’t focus on any one thing.
“I believe Mark neglected to write it down.”
You scoffed. “God really does have a sense of humor.”
“So we’re your bullet shields,” Dean grunted.
“I need your help because you are the only ones who will help me,” he replied, a desperation in his blue eyes. “Please.”
You and Dean exchanged looks, and you gave a small nod of your head.
Dean sighed. “Alright, fine. Where is he?”
“Maine. Let’s go.” Castiel reached for yours and Dean’s foreheads.
Your partner leaned away. “Whoa. We’re not even dressed yet.”
“I’ll fix that on our journey,” the angel replied, reaching for you once more.
“No, no.” Dean batted his hand away this time. “Last time you zapped me someplace I didn't poop for a week. We're driving.”
****
Once you got to Maine, you and Dean took the lead on your investigation. Castiel trailed awkwardly behind, his oblivious nature not doing him any favors as you spoke to a deputy sheriff about Raphael.
The deputy sheriff explained he needed you to talk in his right ear only; his hearing had gone in his left ear from an all-out brawl at a local gas station.
“You mind just, uh, running us through what happened?” Dean prompted, seated beside you in front of the deputy’s desk.
“A call came in. Disturbance out at the Pump and Go on Route four. Would not have believed my eyes if I hadn't seen it myself. We're talking a riot. Full scale.”
Dean shifted in his seat. “How many?”
“Thirty, forty, in all-out kill-or-be-killed combat?” the deputy nodded, leaning back with his arms crossed.
“Any idea what set them off?”
Before the man could answer, Castiel piped up from behind you and Dean. “It's angels and demons, probably.”
The man gave Castiel a strange look. “Come again?”
“Demons, you know, drink, adultery,” Dean chuckled awkwardly. “We all have our demons, Walt.”
Framingham chuckled. “I guess.”
You cleared your throat. “What happened next?”
“Fucking explosion, that's what. They said it was one of those underground gas tanks, but, uh, I don't think so. Wasn't your usual fireball. It was, um—” He searched for the words.
“Pure white,” Castiel finished.
Framingham gave him another strange look. “Yeah. Gas station was leveled. Everyone was... it was just horrible. And I see this one guy, kneeling, real focused-like, not a damn scratch on him.”
“You know him?” Dean prompted.
The deputy nodded. “Donnie Finneman. Mechanic there.”
“Let me guess, he just, uh, vanished into thin air?” your partner asked hesitantly.
The deputy chuckled. “Uh, no, Kolchak. He's down at Saint Pete's.”
The man the deputy mentioned was catatonic in a wheelchair at a hospital.
“I take it that's not Raphael anymore,” Dean murmured.
Castiel nodded solemnly. “Just an empty vessel.”
“So is this what I'm looking at if Michael jumps in my bones?” Dean’s sarcastic tone did nothing to mask his fear.
Castiel shook his head. “No, not at all. Michael is much more powerful. It'll be far worse for you.”
****
Later that night, Dean and Castiel had gone on a brotherly adventure to a brothel bar in an attempt to get Castiel laid on his “last night on earth.”
When Dean returned to your motel room, he had a wistful look on his face.
“You… okay?” you asked.
Dean shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it. “Yeah. Just… yeah.”
You stared at him for just a moment. “How’d Clarence’s heavenly romp go?”
Your partner chuckled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Told a girl named Chastity it wasn’t her fault her dad left.”
“Holy shit,” you snorted. “He didn’t get punched, did he?”
“Almost.” Dean kicked off his boots and shrugged off his jacket before going about his regular nighttime routine. You followed suit, watching Dean continue to carry the heaviness on his shoulders he’d had when he first walked in. “You sure you’re okay?” you tried.
He sighed. “Can’t get out of my head. Can you just…” he cleared his throat awkwardly. Then, Dean wordlessly laid in bed beside you, rolling onto his back to rest against your front. You clung to his broad shoulders ridiculously. Finally, though, you felt him relax into you.
****
The next day, you were in charge of pretending to be Donnie’s sister to get into his hospital room. After the nurse had completed her morning rounding, you snuck Dean into the room and locked the door behind him.
Castiel appeared beside you, nearly making you jump. Without a word to you, he poured a sacred oil in a circle around the mechanic’s wheelchair. “When the oil burns, no angel can touch or pass through the flames, or he dies.”
“Okay, so we trap him in a steel cage of holy fire, but one question. How the hell do we get him here?”
Wordlessly, Castiel stooped beside Donnie’s ear. After whispering something in Enochian, the angel said, “I'm here, Raphael. Come and get me, you little bastard.” He quickly stepped out of the oil circle.
Dean looked like he was going to explode if he didn’t ask the question in his mind. “Just out of curiosity, what is the average customer wait time to speak to an archangel?”
“Be ready,” was Castiel’s simple response. He then dropped a match onto the oil, making it burst into flames.
You waited. And waited some more. But Raphael never came.
“Well, that's a day I'll never get back,” Dean scoffed as you entered an abandoned house to sleep in for the night. He opened the door, only to have Castiel attempt to rip him back.
“Dean, wait!”
A bright light flashed through the cabin, revealing an impressive shadow of wings on the wall behind Donnie. Lightbulbs popped and flickered around you; the energy this angel carried was much more powerful than Uriel’s or even Castiel’s.
“Castiel,” the angel greeted.
“Raphael,” his brother replied.
Dean shielded you with his body, seemingly subconsciously. You gripped his hand to reassure him.
Dean squeezed your hand in response, saying, “And I thought you were supposed to be impressive. All you do is black out the room.”
“Shut up,” you whispered harshly.
“And the Eastern Seaboard,” the angel delivered monotonously.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the shadow of his wings once more.
“You’d do well to listen to the girl,” Raphael nodded at Dean before turning to Cas. “It is a testament to my unending mercy that I do not smite you here and now.”
“Or, maybe, you're full of crap,” your partner grunted. “Maybe you're afraid God will bring Cas back to life again and smite you. By the way— hi, I'm Dean.”
“I know who you are. And now, thanks to him, I know where you are.”
“You won't kill him. You wouldn't dare.” Worry bled through Cas’s tone.
“But I will take him to Michael.” Raphael cut his eyes at Dean. "And her to Faith."
“Well, then. Sounds terrifying. It does. But, uh, hate to tell you, I'm not going anywhere with you.” He casually grabbed a beer from the six pack in your hand.
Your eyes stayed glued to Raphael.
“Surely you remember Zachariah giving you stomach cancer?” The archangel raised his eyebrows. “Well, he doesn't have anything close to my imagination.”
The older Winchester chuckled. “Yeah? I bet you didn't imagine one thing.”
“What?”
“We knew you were coming, you stupid son of a bitch.”
You dropped one of Dean’s zippo lighters on the oiled circle on the ground, and the holy oil caught fire in a circle around Raphael. He refused to peel his eyes from Dean, and you refused to step back from the flames nearly licking your cheeks.
“Don't look at me, it was his idea.” Dean smirked and nodded at Castiel before taking a triumphant sip of his beer.
The blue in Castiel’s eyes burned. “Where is he?”
“God? Didn't you hear? He's dead, Castiel. Dead.”
Castiel jolted slightly. “You're lying.”
“Am I? Do you remember the twentieth century? Think the twenty-first is going any better?” Raphael scoffed, his stance unwavering. “Do you think God would have let any of that happen if he were alive?”
“Oh yeah? Well then who invented the Chinese basket trick?”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
“Careful,” the archangel growled. “That’s my father you’re talking about, boy.”
“Yeah, who would be so proud to know his sons started the fuckin’ apocalypse.”
As opposed to scolding Dean, you focused on the heat on your face and the smoky scent filling the room.
“Who ran off and disappeared,” Raphael corrected. “Who left no instructions and a world to run.”
Dean tsked.
“This is funny to you? You're living in a godless universe.”
“And? What, you and the other kids just decided to throw an apocalypse while he was gone?”
Your heart raced in your ears as you watched Raphael’s shoulders slump slightly. “We're tired. We just want it to be over. We just want… paradise,” he said.
“What is that ‘paradise,’ exactly?” you asked.
All eyes turned to you, the only sound the whooshing of the fire.
“I mean, you know this only ends one way: most of you and all of humanity will be gone. What does that leave? Nothing. You’ll be just as alone in the universe as you were before.” You kept your voice completely even through your pragmatism, refusing to break eye contact with the archangel.
Raphael simply snapped his eyes back to Castiel, anger burning in your chest. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Lucifer raised you? Think about it. He needs all the rebellious angels he can find. You know it adds up.”
Your eyes flicked to Cas, watching as he planned his next move. “Let’s go,” he finally grumbled.
“Castiel, I’m warning you.” Raphael’s shoulders bristled once more. “Do not leave me here. I will find you.”
Cas paused at the door, his neck bent despite the conviction in his voice. “Maybe one day,” he said evenly. “But today, you’re my little bitch.” Without giving the archangel a chance to answer, he left the cabin.
You followed behind Dean, who stopped where Castiel once stood. “What he said.”
“Girl!”
You froze, eyes squeezing shut. It was rare an angel would ever dignify you with your name. Although the sting eased after so long dealing with Uriel, the ache of being reduced to a thing remained.
Still, you refused to turn to face Raphael. “What do you want, pig?”
“What happened to your obedience? I was told you no longer bite the hand,” he snarled.
Your heart seized. You wanted to say something, anything, but your mind went blank with white hot rage.
“You should know Charity wanted to be here for this meeting,” he continued.
You nodded in understanding. “Faith, Hope, and Charity. They’re all angels.”
“Precisely,” he affirmed, condescending in his tone. “Made as the perfect counterpart to each of us: myself, Gabriel, and Michael. Carved from each of us as Eve was from Adam.”
“Why tell me that?” you asked.
“You understand a woman’s purpose better than any one of your… friends… do,” he replied coolly. “You’d do well to remember it and your place.”
With one last scornful look over your shoulder, you followed Dean and Cas to the car.
****
Hours stretched on as the night sky deepened, stars appearing and disappearing as you drove from rural areas to busy cities. The stars became the only thing you could focus on without feeling sick.
“You okay?” Dean asked.
At first, you thought he was asking you. You picked your head up from its spot in your hand resting on the passenger side window only to see Dean eyeing Cas in the rearview mirror.
“Look, I'll be the first to tell you that this little crusade of yours is nuts, but I do know a little something about missing fathers,” Dean continued, having gotten no response from Cas.
“What do you mean?” the angel grunted.
“I mean there were times when I was looking for my dad when all logic said that he was dead, but I knew he was still alive. Who cares what some ninja turtle says, Cas, what do you believe?”
Silence choked you for a moment before Cas answered, “I believe he's out there.”
“Good. Then go find him.”
You reached across the bench seat for Dean’s hand. He immediately pulled it to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles.
“What about you?” Castiel asked after a moment.
“Honestly, I'm good. I can't believe I'm saying that, but I am, I'm really good,” he breathed out. With his heavy breath, some of the tension dissolved from his shoulders.
“Even without your brother?” You saw Cas’s eyebrows purse upward in the rearview mirror, the blue in his eyes shining.
“Especially without my brother. I mean, I spent so much time worrying about the son of a bitch. I mean, y’know, I've been so chained to my family, but now that I'm— hell, just having (Y/N)? She… she…” He trailed off and shook his head. Although he sounded convicted, he couldn’t mask the guilt on his face.
A sad smile overtook you. When you looked to the backseat, though, Castiel was gone. Dean’s smile faltered.
“Where you think he went?” he asked.
You pursed your lips to the side of your cheek. “Not a clue.”
Silence blanketed the two of you now; nowhere near as suffocating as before.
“That’s okay, though,” you finally said.
Dean glanced over at you one last time before focusing on the road again.
Bucharest | Marvel Series Rewrite | Chapter 10: Back to the Old House
Are you still there? Or have you moved away?
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader
Warnings: HEED THESE WARNINGS EVERY CHAPTER. BUCHAREST IS VERY EMOTIONALLY HEAVY. descriptions of PTSD, mentions of amnesia, self-doubt, mentions of torture (mental and physical), descriptions of grief, canon violence, canon gore, mentions of poverty, mentions of binge eating (just one episode)
Word Count: 2567
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Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of Bucky rapping his fingers against the doorframe of your room. Just as you were about to get out of bed to help him settle back into his, he stopped you.
“Don’t wanna go to sleep yet,” he murmured.
“Okay,” you replied, sitting up against the headboard with your blankets around your hips.
He lingered awkwardly by the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Do you wanna sit down?” you asked, scooting to the right side of your bed.
He hesitated briefly before sitting down beside you on top of your blankets. The room stilled, the only sound your respective breathing.
“Nightmare?” you finally asked.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky nod.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
He shook his head.
“That’s okay,” you responded.
You spent a while thinking of everything and nothing, unsure of how much time was passing. At some point, you’d criss-crossed your legs, your knee mere inches from his outstretched ones. Just as you’d finished thinking of what you’d cook for breakfast in the morning, you felt Bucky’s right hand graze your forearm. He hesitated there for a moment until he felt you weren’t pulling away. You allowed him to interlace his fingers with yours, pulling his hand into your lap.
Your thumb stroked slow circles over his, and your right hand joined your left in playing with his fingers.
“I think I’m gonna go,” Bucky muttered finally, although he didn’t withdraw his hand from yours.
“Okay,” you replied, running your fingertips against his.
He waited another moment before slowly taking his hand from yours. “Thanks, Doc. G’night.”
“Goodnight, Sarge.”
****
“Hey, Sarge.”
“Hey, Doc.”
“How are you feeling?” you asked, as always.
“I’m okay, I guess.”
You smiled slightly. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Oh, God,” he muttered.
“C’mon, I’m serious,” you tried.
He gave you a look, although he allowed you to ask anyway.
“I found your enlistment picture,” you smiled wistfully. “It must’ve fallen out of your backpack.”
Bucky’s face drained of all color.
“I put it back, don’t worry. I just… I wanted to ask you a question.” You blew out a puff of air. “Tell me to stop if you need to.”
Bucky shifted in his seat. “(Y/N), spit it out.”
“Your teeth look different,” you noted. “In the picture. Versus what they look like now. Do you know why?”
He nodded wordlessly.
“Can you tell me?”
His jaw clenched, the muscle in the side of his cheek twitching. “They broke." He let you sit in the heavy silence before continuing, "A couple got punched in. The rest broke in the chair.”
“Fuck.” You’d clenched your jaw impossibly hard on the mouth guard they shoved in it when they used the chair on you. You imagined they’d only added the guard after Bucky’s teeth were gone.
“ ‘S nothin’,” he tried.
You certainly weren’t convinced but knew what he meant. Compared to all the other things he’d gone through, losing his teeth was light.
“They don’t… look bad, do they?” he finally asked.
“Not at all. I like your smile: before and after,” you affirmed, looking down at your hands in your lap.
A blush dusted Bucky’s cheeks.
“Do you feel okay to keep going?” you asked hopefully.
He nodded, still unable to look up at you.
“Talk to me, Bee.”
“I’m fine,” he replied, voice a little sharper than you knew he meant it.
“Can you tell me what happened after Steve took you back from Hydra in forty-three?” You kept your probing gentle to avoid him pulling away.
He shrugged, trying to stay focused despite his mind pulling him in different directions. “Every once in a while, I’d get nerve pain. Nothin’ huge.”
“That sounds like what happened to me. They must’ve given you a half-dose of the Serum,” you thought aloud.
Bucky swallowed hard, trying to pull his mind back to the present.
“What about emotionally?”
He snorted humorlessly. “Now that I know what I do, that wasn’t anything.”
“But you did feel something.”
“Of course, I did,” he muttered.
You let him think; his eyes were wild as they searched the ground for something to ground himself with.
“I could still function, though,” he added finally.
The crease between your eyebrows appeared once more.
“Could still talk to people. Didn’t feel so heavy all the time.” He didn’t look up at you for even a moment.
“What do you mean by ‘heavy’?” you prompted.
“C’mon, (Y/N), we talked about this,” he sighed.
“Tell me again, please.”
He took a deep breath, apparently doing his best not to glare at you too hard. “M’ chest is tight. All the time.”
Bucky swallowed hard, face twitching into a slight grimace. “Get nauseated sometimes.”
“Do you notice a pattern to when you feel nauseated?”
He shook his head.
You nodded while the wheels in your head turned. “Does anything make it feel better? Anything make you feel lighter?”
To your surprise, he actually thought about it for a considerable amount of time. Then, he nodded once.
“Do you think you could tell me?”
He shook his head. “Not now.”
“That’s okay. Is there a way you could incorporate more of whatever that thing is into your day?”
He tilted his head from side to side as if to say “maybe.”
You smiled proudly at him.
****
Bucky had gotten much better at tolerating his migraines and aphasia episodes. The few times they did occur, he’d managed to function just fine. As much as you wanted him to take it easy, you knew you probably wouldn’t listen to you, either.
You could tell he appreciated the concern, though, and it was getting easier to manage when or when not to push him.
“I never ask you how you are,” Bucky said to you out of the blue.
You walked out of the bathroom with your toothbrush in your mouth. “What?” you asked around it, peeking into his room where he sat on his mattress.
“You’re always… I don’t know, carrying me, and I never do the same for you.”
“Bee— hold on a second.” You went back into the bathroom only briefly to spit out the toothpaste suds and rinse your mouth. When you turned back around, he’d somehow teleported to the doorframe of the bathroom. “Oh, hey,” you said, almost to yourself. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
He rolled his eyes. “But it is.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“I'm not doing this with you," you deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. "If you’re that worried about it, ask me now.” You opened your arms and looked down at yourself, almost like an invitation.
A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “Hey, Doc.”
Your lopsided smile mirrored his smirk. “Hey, Sarge.”
“How are you feeling?”
You mocked a “deep in thought” face. “I’m good.”
“Rule number one, (Y/N).” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m not lying!” You feigned offense. “Seriously, Bee, I’m good. I’m… happy, actually.”
He seemed genuinely shocked. “You— You are?”
“Yeah, I am.” Your chests were inches apart, separated only by his crossed arms and not nearly enough air. “Are you?”
His face fell a little.
“Hey,” you whispered, stooping to meet his eyes that had travelled to the floor behind you, “that’s okay.”
Bucky shook his head and closed his eyes. “You’re too fuckin’ sweet.”
“Meh, you’ll get over it.”
****
A few days later, you and Bucky were folding laundry with a movie you’d already seen playing quietly in the background.
“So I was thinking—”
He cut you off immediately, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “That’s dangerous.”
“The holidays are comin’ up," you continued, giving him a playfully scolding look. "I’m treating it like your first official holiday season since, y’know, we weren’t really talking during the last one.”
You felt his guard come back up almost instinctively, attempting to pacify him by saying, “It’s not a bad thing! I know you didn’t trust me yet. I wouldn’t have trusted me, either.”
The energy immediately shifted back to relaxed.
“Is there anything you remember doing during the holidays that you’d wanna do again? Or even something new. I’m open to anything,” you finished explaining, tossing a pair of his underwear at him.
He caught it with one hand, folding it and putting it in its proper pile. “I barely remember the holidays, honestly.”
“Why's that?"
A small, fond smile appeared on his wistful face. “By the time I was old enough to really remember ‘em, it was the thirties.”
“Oh,” you realized. “I didn’t think about it like that.”
“You didn’t think of something? Shocking,” he snorted.
You just rolled your eyes.
“Things were just… different, is all,” he shrugged.
“I get it.” A sad laugh escaped you as you thought back to your own experiences with the holiday season. “There’s a movie called National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. It came out after my parents were long gone, and I just remember thinking how much they would’ve loved it. Our holidays were always a fuckin’ disaster,” you laughed.
“Aren’t everyone’s?” Bucky returned, his dry tone possessing a sympathetic edge.
“That’s exactly what that movie’s about,” you replied. “I think you’d like it.”
He nodded, giving you a peculiar stare.
“What’s that look for?” you asked.
He immediately recoiled. “What look?”
You just smirked at him. “Keep your secrets, Barnes…”
Bucky threw a shirt at you, which you caught with a laugh. A few minutes went by with nothing said between you.
“I wish I could remember more,” he muttered, and you almost thought he was talking to himself. “I remember Becca really wanted a tree to decorate one year. I took ‘er out to the middle of nowhere— of course, dragged Steve along— and we cut one down. My ma was pissed about all the needles the thing dropped, but… it made Becca happy. That was what mattered.”
You were practically beaming at him with admiration. “Did she make garland outta popcorn?”
“Cranberries, actually.”
“Creative.”
Bucky chuckled, looking away from you.
“My mom was always a stay-at-home,” you began. “My dad didn’t make much, but it was enough. We always had just enough money to go out to dinner on Christmas Eve, and then, we’d drive around and look at the lights in the rich neighborhoods.”
Bucky snorted.
“I never had a particularly big family. When my grandparents were alive, we had ‘em over for dinner Christmas Day, but… it was nice just having the day to myself.” You could practically see your mother fussing over the sweet potatoes while your dad dried the hell out of the turkey in the oven.
“What about Halloween? Did you ever do anything then?” you asked, turning your attention back to Bucky.
A smile grew across his face. “Why do I get the feeling that’s your favorite holiday?”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” you teased, shrugging.
“Steve and I just tried to stay outta trouble,” he replied.
“Yeah, ‘Black Halloween,’ and all that. That was… 1933, right?” you questioned.
He scoffed. “You know better than I do.”
That drew a smile from you. “I’m gonna think of something to do for the holidays, I promise.”
“I’m holdin’ you to it,” he replied sincerely, his voice hardly above a murmur.
****
The first snowfall of the year came on December 16, 2015. This date was one scarred just as much on your mind as it was on your face. When you woke up at five-thirty that morning, you found Bucky staring out of the window in the living room with his arms folded over his chest.
“Mornin’,” you murmured, walking up beside him.
“Hey,” he replied quietly, unable to draw his eyes from the softly falling snow.
“If it’s still snowy when the weekend rolls around, I can go get groceries by myself—”
Buck immediately cut you off. “No.”
“I was just—”
He looked over at you with a somewhat stern look on his face. “I know. But you don’t have to.” He went back to the window. “Thank you, though.”
“Always.” You set up your record player to quietly hum old holiday standards while you began your morning coffee ritual. “How am I supposed to get you a Christmas present if you’re always with me?”
He saw the smile in your eyes, returning it. “You’ll figure something out.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. Then, you handed him his warm cup. “I’m surprised you’re not tryin’ to stop me from getting you a present.”
“If I did, would you even listen?” he deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s fair.” You took a sip from your mug. “How’ve the holidays been treating you?”
“We’re not in therapy right now, are we?” he snorted.
“No,” you replied dryly. “I’m not allowed to ask how you are outside of it?”
“I’ll allow it.” He feigned annoyance, but there was the smallest of glints in his eyes. He took a sip of his coffee, the warmth seeming to soothe him. “I don’t know.”
“I hardly ever know how they’re treating me, either,” you shrugged. “Holidays are rough. Even when you’re not, y’know, us.”
He huffed out a small laugh. “What was your first Christmas off ice like?”
You felt a warmth spread through you even with as much as you tried to suppress it. “Extraordinarily rough. I spent it alone stuffing my face with grocery store red and green cookies.”
“And with our metabolism, I’m sure you coulda killed a box,” he joked, a lopsided smile forming on his face.
“Oh, try three. It was awful.”
Bucky agreed to make breakfast while you set up the DVD player with Christmas Vacation. You took your usual seat at the kitchen countertop while Bucky set to work, occasionally needing to brush a stray hair out of his eyes.
He brought your plates over to the coffee table instead of the counter like he usually did.
You nearly moaned around the first bite of food after sitting down beside him. “Man, I’ve never been able to make eggs like this.”
“ ‘S just eggs, Doc,” he chuckled. The sound of his laugh was so rare.
“I know! And I still find a way to fuck them up!” you snorted.
The opening sequence played while you and Bucky ate in silence, the only sound between you the clanking of your forks against the plates.
“I haven’t eaten this consistently in a long time.” Had you not known him better, you would’ve thought he was talking to himself. You turned your eyes back to the screen so as to not make him uncomfortable.
The movie played on, and Bucky couldn’t help the smile or chuckle that would occasionally escape him. You were a mess by the time the credits rolled, needing to wipe away tears that formed in the corners of your eyes from allowing yourself juvenile laughter. “You liked it?” you sniffed, trying to regain your composure.
Bucky turned to you with a smile, watching you carefully. “I did, actually.”
You feigned offense. “Did you doubt me?”
He nodded once, smirking.
“Fuck off,” you laughed, tossing the decorative pillow behind you at him.
Warnings: general angst, religious trauma vibes, canon violence, canon gore, reader mentions her sexual trauma
Word Count: 3924
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Something wasn’t right. There was a nagging feeling in the back of your mind telling you that Dean being the “Michael Sword” was only the tip of the iceberg.
Between hours in Bobby’s hospital room trying to figure out how to heal him and staring at the news with a pit in your stomach, there wasn’t much time to devote to thinking.
The street below the window you sat in front of on an uncomfortable canvas chair wasn’t as busy as usual. It gave the blustery afternoon an eerie feeling. Bobby sat beside you in his wheelchair just as silent as you, and you pulled your jacket tighter around your shoulders against the cool air.
The first thing in hours to bring your attention away from the window was Castiel coming through the entrance to the hospital room.
“Cell phone, Cas? Really? Since when do angels need to reach out and touch someone?” Dean scoffed.
“He hid us from all angels, remember?” you piped up. Your voice was a bit hoarse; you couldn’t remember the last time you actually spoke.
“Enough foreplay,” Bobby grunted. “Get over here and lay your damn hands on.”
You looked between Castiel and Bobby.
“Get healing. Now.”
The angel looked ashamed. “I can’t.”
Bobby turned his chair around to face him. “Say again?”
Castiel approached you and Bobby. “I'm cut off from Heaven and much of Heaven's power. Certain things I can do. Certain things I can't.”
“You're telling me you lost your mojo just in time to get me stuck in this trap the rest of my life?”
“I'm sorry,” the angel said. You knew he was being sincere.
“Shove it up your ass.” He turned back to the window.
Dean whispered to Sam, “At least he's talking now.”
“I heard that.”
You stared at the side of Bobby’s head, but only for a moment. It was apparent he was doing his best to keep from crying, and anything you said or did wouldn’t help him in the moment.
Castiel moved back over to Sam and Dean. “I don't have much time. We need to talk.”
Dean cast a glance over to you, and you returned his confusion. “Okay.”
“Your plan to kill Lucifer.”
“Yeah. You want to help?”
“No. It's foolish. It can't be done.”
Your partner scoffed. “Oh. Thanks for the support.”
“But I believe I have the solution. There is someone besides Michael strong enough to take on Lucifer. Strong enough to stop the apocalypse.”
“Who's that?”
“The one who resurrected me and put you on that airplane. The one who began everything: God.” You nearly bolted up from your chair as Castiel continued, “I'm gonna find God.”
You huffed a laugh while Dean shut the door.
“I’m not sure what I said was funny,” Castiel said monotonously.
You shook your head. “It just seems kinda… moronic.”
He cocked his head to the side as he often did, nearly making your blood boil.
“Your god let me get raped.” Fire burned behind your eyes as you stared at him.
“He is out there, (Y/N),” the angel insisted calmly.
You clicked your tongue. “Then he’s a coward.”
He glared at you, eyes piercing straight through you. “Enough. This is not a theological issue. It's strategic.”
You shook your head. “Everything with you is ‘strategic’—” you sneered.
He talked over you. “With God's help, we can win.”
“It’s a pipe dream, Cas—” Dean spoke up.
The angel advanced on Dean. “I killed two angels this week. My brothers. I'm hunted. I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you, and you failed. You, and (Y/N)—”
Your spine straightened, hairs on the back of your neck standing up at the mention of your name.
“—and your brother destroyed the world, and I lost everything, for nothing. So keep your opinions to yourself.”
You crossed your arms. “What do you want, then, Cas?”
“An amulet.”
Bobby seemed intrigued for the first time in weeks. “An amulet? What kind?”
“Very rare. Very powerful. It burns hot in God's presence. It'll help me find him.”
“A god EMF?” Sam snorted.
Castiel nodded.
“Well, I don't know what you're talking about,” Bobby huffed. “I got nothing like that.” He returned his attention to the still unusually quiet street.
“I know. You don't.” The angel turned his attention to Dean, then down to the necklace he wore, then back up at him.
Dean looked taken aback. “What, this?”
“May I borrow it?”
“No.”
“Dean, give it to me.”
Your partner took a moment to think it through. Finally, he rolled his eyes and took it off. “Alright, I guess.” When Castiel reached for it, he pulled it back. “Don't lose it.”
Castiel took it, his eyes conveying that he wouldn’t.
Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Great. Now I feel naked.”
“I'll be in touch.” The angel disappeared without another word.
****
Rufus called Bobby no more than an hour after Castiel left. Immediately, you and the Winchesters were on the road to help him.
For whatever reason, Rufus chose River Pass, Colorado out of all the other demon-infested small towns. Although the surrounding mountain scenery was beautiful, Rufus wasn’t a “vacation” guy.
Dean pulled the Impala to a stop just short of a sudden break in the bridge on the only road into and out of the town. You got out of the car and peered over the edge of the dismantled bridge while Dean kicked a rock down below. You counted the seconds as the rock fell before you heard it hit the otherwise silent creek below: four. It was about a three-hundred-foot drop.
With no cell service and Sam carrying a duffel bag over his right shoulder, the three of you climbed down the steep cliff and over to the other side of the creek. Dean offered his hand to pull you up the last few feet once he’d landed on solid ground on the other side of the bridge.
“What ‘re you hummin’ for?” Dean asked, chuckling.
You cocked your head to the side. “Huh?”
“ ‘Spirit in the Sky’. You’ve been hummin’ it at least ten minutes now.”
“Dean, stop fucking with me.”
He gave you a strange look. “You stop fuckin’ with me.”
“Sam, have I really been humming?”
Sam stood a few feet away staring in the direction of the town. “Uh, yeah. ‘Spirit in the Sky.’ For ten minutes.”
You tried to laugh it off. “Nice, guys.”
“What?” Dean asked, following you as you walked down the road.
You didn’t say anything else.
“See! You’re humming!”
You stopped dead in your tracks.
“Dean, swear to me you’re not lying,” you said, pressing your lips together.
“Sweetheart, I’m not. I promise.”
A sense of unease settled over the rest of the walk. Down the main street of River Pass, various cars were flipped over, some with corpses hanging out of them. Windows of shops were smashed in, and blood ran in rivers toward the storm drains. Although you were accustomed to sights such as these, your breath caught in your throat for a reason you couldn’t explain.
Dean looked over at you, concerned.
“Something is really wrong,” you told him.
Clutching your shotgun, you approached a tan vehicle with its doors flung open and engine running. The radio played “Spirit in the Sky” through a staticky haze. You looked over at Dean, breath quickening. Even he seemed unnerved.
Sam turned the engine off, and the song stopped with it.
Seemingly in an attempt to distract himself, Dean admired the only car on the street in a normal state: a gleaming, cherry-red Mustang parked in front of a house with its sprinklers still running.
Suddenly, a gun cocked behind you. Arms raised with one holding your gun, you turned slowly to see Ellen.
“Hello, boys.” She looked over to you with a small smile on her face and nodded. “(Y/N).”
Dean and Ellen lowered their respective guns while the woman walked closer.
“Ellen, what the fuck’s going on here?” Dean asked.
Ellen splashed Dean in the face with holy water and tensed her shoulders.
Dean looked unamused, and you couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. “We're us,” he assured her monotonously.
Ellen cocked her head in the direction of a church in the distance. She guided you through the heavy wooden doors with a Devil’s Trap laying just beyond the threshold. Salt surrounded every doorway, and you were careful not to disturb it while walking over.
“Real glad to see you three.” She gave Dean a hug before pulling back and slapping him. “The can of whoopass I ought to open on you.”
“Ow!” he whined petulantly.
“You can't pick up a phone? What are you, allergic to giving me peace of mind? I got to find out that you're alive from Rufus?”
“Sorry, Ellen.” He looked genuinely ashamed.
“Yeah, you better be. You better put me on speed dial, kid.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Ellen looked him over for another minute before leading you further inside.
“What’s going on, Ellen?” he urged.
She replied simply, “More than I can handle alone.”
“How many demons are there?” Sam spoke up for the first time.
“Pretty much the whole town, minus the dead people and these guys.” She stopped at a closed door and turned around holding her breath. “So, this is it, right? End times? It's got to be.”
You pursed your lips. “Seems like it.”
“I used to love that song,” Ellen nodded at you.
Your cheeks heated, and you looked to the floor in a slight panic.
“Whoa, it’s okay, kid, you don’t have to be embarrassed—”
Dean cut Ellen off. “She doesn’t realize she’s humming, Ellen.”
The older woman looked between the three of you. “How long?”
“Since we got across that bridge.”
Although she seemed unnerved, she proceeded to lead you inside the room someone unlocked for her. The few survivors consisted of a pastor, men and women of various age ranges, and a pregnant woman being shielded protectively by her husband’s arm.
Ellen introduced the three of you to the room, each reaction varying stages of skepticism and disinterest.
Hardly able to focus on the conversation Sam and Dean were having with Ellen, you wandered around the room.
“Do you mind?” someone grunted beside you.
You turned to face a man leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and stroking his chin. The shiny wedding band on his hand caught some of the light and made you jerk back to avoid the glare.
“What?” you asked.
“The- The singing. Could you stop?” he asked impatiently.
Your heart sped up again. “Was I singing or humming?”
He gave you a quizzical look. “Humming…?”
“What song?” you asked.
“I just lost my wife. I don’t have time for your games, lady—”
“No, please, just tell me. I don’t realize I’m humming, I swear—”
The confused look on his face remained unchanged. “ ‘Spirit in the Sky’.”
You dropped your head back, closing your eyes. “Fuck.”
To avoid annoying anyone else, you headed back out of the room to the main hall of the church. Although Dean cast a worried glance after you, you assured him you were fine.
When Dean and Sam emerged from the room, you bolted up from the pew you were sitting in. Dean tossed you your shotgun, and you looked at him hopefully. “Am I still humming?”
The looks on Sam’s and Dean’s faces told you all you needed to know.
You sighed. “Where ‘re we goin’?”
“Sports’ shop on the main stretch,” Dean nodded. “Speaking of—” he turned to his brother, “why don’t you just let us go?” He gestured between you and himself.
“What? Why?”
Dean shrugged. “Somebody's got to stay here and start giving them ‘Shotgun 101’.”
Sam gave him an incredulous look. “Yeah. Ellen.”
“No no no. It's gonna go a lot faster if you stay and help, okay?” Dean tried again, grabbing Sam’s sleeve to keep him from leaving.
“While you two go get guns and salt and look for Jo and Rufus? That's stupid.”
“We can handle it.”
Sam clicked his tongue. “You don't want me going out there.”
A pang went through you. Yes, Sam was a liability, but so were you. You’d become cold, detached. Perhaps that wasn’t as dangerous as Sam’s erraticism, but it still made you feel hypocritical.
“I didn’t say that,” Dean shook his head.
“Around demons.”
Dean’s tone became firmer. “I didn't say that.”
Sam shrugged, “Fine, then let's go.”
You gave Dean a look as if to say, ‘you good?’ He gave you a nod before following his brother out the door.
****
“Which one of you is gonna be the least annoyed by my incessant humming?” you asked, looking between the two brothers as you stood in the street.
“You should go with Dean,” Sam told you. “He’s gonna need more help carrying rifles than I will carrying salt.”
His attempt at a light-hearted joke seemed to upset Dean, but neither brother said anything. Dean just turned on his heel toward the sports’ shop with you in tow. You turned over your shoulder one more time at Sam entering the Quick-Mart.
“You think he’ll be okay?” Dean asked hesitantly.
You turned back around to face him. Although you weren’t confident yourself, you offered a small smile. “He’ll be fine.”
****
Sam had apparently had a run-in with a few demons at the Quick-Mart, but it didn’t seem like he’d had anything to drink.
You stayed outside the room with the survivors inside in the main hall of the church once again. Dean, Sam, and Ellen were supposed to be helping the survivors learn how to use a shotgun.
Something about churches— specifically Catholic ones— always felt foreboding. The ornate decor and dozens of pairs of eyes staring down at you from statues that held a moral superiority made you feel uneasy; the tall columns and pitched roofs made you feel small. How your mother ever found churches and their hard pews comforting, you’d never know.
Then, the lyrics of “Spirit in the Sky” popped into your head. You shook them away, but they persisted like a fever you couldn’t sweat out.
The hall felt cold and drafty, even through the zip-up hoodie you stole from Dean. The pit in your stomach deepened when you considered you could still be humming and not even knowing it.
Just then, you heard a stair creak somewhere ahead of you. Instantly, you dropped to the floor and pointed your shotgun over the top of the pew where your head was just barely peeking over.
“Whoa,” Dean held his hands up in surrender. “Just us, GI Jane.”
You breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed your shoulders. “What’s the plan?”
“We’re gonna help Ellen find Jo. Maybe Rufus, too, if we’re lucky,” Dean explained.
“Where’s Ellen? I thought she was meeting us up here,” Sam asked, looking back down the stairwell.
“She is,” Dean replied.
“Why are you being weird?” Sam asked accusatorily.
Dean sighed. “I just— I think just me and her should go with Ellen. Y’know, maybe you shouldn’t go out there again.”
“Crap doesn’t hit the fan with coffee breaks, Dean; I think you’re bein’ a little ridiculous,” Sam scoffed. “It's fine. You two just… stay here, get 'em ready. I'll cover Ellen.”
Dean shook his head. “Why's it got to be you?”
The brunet rolled his eyes and mocked, “Oh, that's right, I forgot. You think I'll take one look at a demon and suddenly fall off the wagon, as if, after everything, I haven't learned my lesson.”
“Sam…”
Both brothers turned to look at you. A fury burned in Sam’s eyes you’d only seen directed at you once before; the night you’d had to pull a gun on him.
“I can’t fucking believe you two. If you actually think I—” Sam cut himself off, chest heaving as he tried to contain his anger. He turned back down the stairs without a word.
****
Ellen and Sam had left almost three hours ago. A bit of unease was rising in your chest, but not for fear of them being gone too long. Truthfully, you expected them to be gone for at least another two.
Maybe it was the fact that it was too quiet; the angels’ inability to find you meaning you shouldn’t be getting any calls, but a paranoid part of you was worried they still would.
You instinctively reached for the knife on your belt loop at another creak of the stairs, but you relaxed when you heard Dean’s voice. “If I hear that guy say ‘the Lord is my shepherd’ one more time….”
You found it within yourself to snicker.
“So… how’s it hangin’ up here?”
You shrugged. “I think okay. I mean, as good as I can be.” That stupid song was still playing in your mind.
Dean sat beside you on the pew and instantly slumped against your shoulder. Using your opposite hand, you ran his hair between your fingers and turned to give him a gentle kiss on the top of his head.
You saw Dean’s eyelashes flutter closed. “Comfortable?” you asked.
Dean picked his head up from your shoulder and cupped your chin, leaning forward to kiss you gently. A warmth bloomed in your chest, and you felt real comfort for the first time in weeks.
A smirk appeared on Dean’s face.
“What?”
“You stopped hummin' when I kissed you,” he replied.
A genuine laugh burst out of you; one you hadn’t mustered in a while. “I promise, if I could stop, I would.”
His expression softened. “I know.”
Just then, the heavy door to the church swung open to reveal Ellen.
Dean immediately stood from the chair. “Where's Sam?”
Ellen shook her head.
“They took him?” you breathed out.
“Everybody sit tight. I got to—” he cut himself off just as he started for the door. “Dammit. We need to get a plan together. Tell me everything.”
Ellen explained all of the strange happenings. Between Jo’s anti-possession charm and her calling Ellen a “black-eyed bitch,” nothing made sense.
Then, something dawned on you. “Cherry Mustang,” you remembered from the main street. “War. Dean, War.”
“I don’t follow,” Ellen replied after a moment.
“Yeah, I don’t either.” Dean shook his head.
“The Four Horsemen. Precursor to ‘em is a falling star that kills a bunch of people. I bet you that’s what got Rufus here in the first place.”
Ellen snapped her fingers. “Now that you say that, he did mention something about one.”
Your breath quickened. “Fuck— the Four Horsemen—” then, you ran a hand over your hair. “That must be why I’m humming!”
The large door to the main hall of the church swung open, the man who’d been twirling his ring earlier panting like a dog as he burst in. “I saw them, the demons. They know we're trying to leave. They said they're gonna pick us off one by one.”
Dean scoffed. “Wait, wait, wait. What? Where did you go?”
“I thought someone should go out and see what's going on!”
Your heart hammered against your ribs as you narrowed your eyes at the man.
“Where did you see the demons and what did they say exactly?” Dean asked, his shoulders subtly bristling.
“They're gonna kill us unless we kill them first.”
“Hold on. Hold on— Slow your roll. This is not a demon thing.”
“Show’s over, man,” you deadpanned.
War dropped the act instantly. “Worth a shot.” A wicked smirk stretched across his face when he noticed the crowd of people that had emerged from the basement to see what the fussing was about. He raised his right hand and twisted his ring once more, pointing at the three of you. “Look at their eyes! They're demons!”
You sneered at him, your patience having quickly waned. Just as you went to lunge for War, the pastor from downstairs cocked a shotgun.
Dean yanked your arm back and forced you forward.
Truthfully, the fight was much longer and more confusing than you would’ve liked. It took far too long to convince Rufus and Jo you weren’t demons, and even longer to put all of the fighting dogs War had on his side down. At long last, you approached War aside his red Mustang.
With Sam back by your side, he pulled Ruby’s knife.
“Whoa. Okay,” the Horseman chuckled. “That's a sweet little knife. But come on, you can't kill War, kiddos.”
Dean grunted, “Oh, we know.”
Sam immediately hacked all four of the Horseman’s fingers off, the ring clinking down on the pavement. You picked it up and shoved it in your pocket.
Dean gave you a look.
“Better with us than him,” you reminded him. The ring felt like it was burning a hole through your jeans.
He eased off.
Having said your goodbyes to Ellen, Rufus, and Jo, you headed out with Sam and Dean again. At the first mountain rest stop, Sam asked you to pull over.
Dean shoved his hands in his pockets before sitting back at a nearby picnic table. “So, pit stop at Mount Doom?”
Sam had been quiet until that moment. “Dean—”
Dean closed his eyes, sighing heavily. “Sam, let’s not.”
“No, listen,” Sam demanded, “this is important. I know you don't trust me. Just… now I realize something. I don't trust me, either.”
Dean held his brother’s stare, and you cast your eyes to the ground as you listened.
“From the minute I saw that blood, only thought in my head— and I tell myself it's for the right reasons, my intentions are good, and it- it feels true, y’know?” Sam swallowed harshly, his voice getting caught. “But I think, underneath… I just miss the feeling. I know how messed up that sounds, which means I know how messed up I am.
"Thing is, the problem's not the demon blood, not really. I mean, I, what I did, I can't blame the blood or Ruby or… anything. The problem's me. How far I'll go. There's something in me that— scares the hell out of me, Dean. In the last couple of days, I caught another glimpse—”
“So, what are you saying?” Dean asked, voice rough around the edges.
“I'm in no shape to be hunting. I need to step back, 'cause I'm dangerous. Maybe it's best we just… go our separate ways.” He trailed off, and you looked up at him. Sam couldn’t meet yours or Dean’s eyes.
“What?” you asked, the wind feeling knocked out of you.
Sam just nodded while the back of your throat burned.
“Well, I think you're right,” the older brother said finally.
“I was expecting a fight.”
“The truth is I spend more time worrying about you than about doing the job right. And I just… I can't afford that, y’know? Not now.”
Sam nodded. “I'm sorry, Dean.”
“I know you are, Sam.”
Sam stood up, and Dean cleared his throat. “Hey, do you, uh, wanna take the Impala?”
“It's okay. Take care of yourself, guys.” He offered you a small smile.
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