AUTOPLAY

INDEPENDENT / SELECTIVE / PRIVATE / OC FRIENDLY / DEAN WINCHESTER, written by ASHLEY. TRACKING: RXBCURN NO SCROLL BAR

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

Hey guys, I've moved Dean over to @rxnaascxncx. It's a multimuse blog where all my lil bbys can be together under one URL. I'm gonna archive Deano, but I hope to see ya'll over there! Love you guys!

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

blindednephilim

  When people started dying in a small town, residents noticed, especially if those deaths were in strange and unusual ways. Rumors and speculations traveled fast until everyone had a theory. As an outsider in any town he visited, Griffin was often the subject of those theories. That normally let to less than favorable encounters with police which had Griffin fleeing town before things could escalate. Sometimes he was lucky and heard about the deaths before he became the target of suspicion. Most times, Griffin didn’t even know someone had died until he was being interrogated in a parking lot.

  It made it difficult to avoid hunters that way.

  So when Griffin realized he was being followed, there was a split second where he considered running, but the idea of getting tackled into the ground didn’t sound too appealing if it actually was just a police officer behind him. Slowly, Griffin turned around.

    “Whatever you think I did, it wasn’t me.”

    IT SEEMED TOO OFTEN, as of late, that cases involving mysterious and unexplained deaths and disappearances landed themselves across Dean’s lap. Nothing seemed to jump for his throat, nothing invited his pulse to quicken or his blood to thump, loud and heavy, in his ears. But a case was a case, and Dean would be damned if he let himself sit if he thought there was even an INKLING of something demonic or paranormal. So old routines remained the same; ironed suit was donned, and fake badge pocketed. He’d make the rounds; laugh through the stupid jokes, and smile through the shitty coffee- all of it, if it meant he caught something worthwhile. 

    THREE DAYS IN, AND DEAN found his name inside everybody’s mouth- and his own hands in even more pockets. The rumor-mill ran deep; roots woven deep within social circles and deeper still within the privacy of kitchens and living rooms. Everybody had a lead on somebody else- could have sworn they’d “seen so-and-so” with “that guy” who just looked like “they were trouble,” and by the end of the week Dean was too slap happy to give much of a damn. He was exhausting his supply of booze, and wasn’t too keen on making another trip to the store so “Old Lady Jeanie” could tell him he “could use some sleep” and “should smile a little more”, so when someone brought up Griffin’s name on Dean’s way out of a rinkydink ma’ and pa’ deli he figured he might as well follow up. 

    FORTUNATELY, THE KID didn’t take much time to dig up. Apparently, anybody that knew anybody knew exactly where he was because he was just. so. damn. suspicious. it made their heads spin and the little hairs on their arms stand straight up. A few questions and a few more pinched noses lead Dean to exactly where he needed to be in order to keep himself behind Griffin just long enough to be noticed. He wanted to cry when they finally stopped walking to acknowledge each others’ presence. “Yeah, Shaggy, I’m sure it wasn’t.” And Dean can FEEL the sigh that has been consistently begging for permission to leave his mouth- he’s convinced it’s his this town’s form of the plague, and he’s been exposed to the: I-don’t-give-a-fuck disease. “Nobody in this town knows a damn thing.” Arms overlap to secure themselves ‘cross Dean’s chest, posture configuring into something between pissed off and nap time. “But they sure as hell know you.”

[penguinpositivity]

@rxbcurn

[mxtamcrphcsis-a-blog]

I felt terrified. And then I felt powerful.

PRIVATE | SELECTIVE | INDIE | WILL GRAHAM penned by ashley

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

“You die, I die.” { From Sam }

HEARTBREAK SENTENCE STARTERS // ACCEPTING

    EYES CUT LEFT as words tumble forth from trembling lips. Disbelief radiates from wrinkled visage, creases slicing deep through the mid of Dean’s brow. The room is cold; lifeless where the warmth from their souls had departed. And of all times, Sam would pick now- would create sentiment in a space where distraction proved FATAL. “C’mon Sam, don’t-” They’d been through this before, hadn’t they? They had stared down the barrel of their misfortunes, and they had shot blanks every time. “-not now.” And his voice is laced with a tone of exasperation; hands closed around the handle of his weapon. “We’re not goin’ anywhere.”

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

I realize that I’ve been gone for virtually 1000+ years and never mentioned a Hiatus, of sorts, and I deeply apologize. I am fine, everything is alright- I’ve just been going through some things and had little to no motivation to be anywhere but my bed after the workdays. I am hoping I can pick back up where I have left of here, if you would all be gracious enough to have me.

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

icameasiam

     Eyes usually vacant of emotions are filled with understanding as verdant hues linger over his features. How unsettling, to feel the dismay and uncertainty that currently radiates from him. Somehow empathetic to his anxieties, to what seems to be crippling him from moving on with his life. A life he sometimes seemed far too willing to give up on. Could he be blamed?He had been a fighter since the day he was born. A weapon to be used by God - a threat to be rid of by Lucifer. What he was to her, was still unknown even to her. Was he a means to an end? Was he the silent hope she somehow still had lingering deep inside her tainted and tarnished soul? How many times did she have the opportunity to end his life? Countless at this point - never taking the chance to do so because it wasn’t what she wanted. Why would she want that? She had left the door to hell open for the angels to save him. A traitor to her kind, her hatred for them greater than her pride. She had never desired this to be her life or lack of. To be claimed by Lucifer himself, an innocent soul stripped of humanity and hope. Meant to be a weapon, meant to bring men to their knees - a slave and nothing more. Only she didn’t fall in line, she didn’t kneel for her king. Lucifer declaring death would be too easy of a release. Enclosing her behind the walls of hell. Ultimately, hell encountered itself without a true king, demons scurrying like cockroaches. And then Dean Winchester sold his soul. A domino effect of absolute hell following soon after. Her dormant body released from those very same walls upon Azazel’s death. No Lucifer to claim her as his yet again, or to extend her torture and suffering. Hell looking forward to the one thing they knew could lead them to Lucifer’s rising - the death of Dean Winchester. His soul taken to hell being the first of many seals to be broken and kickstart Lucifer’s return. She hated every moment of being in hell. The uncertainty of how long she would truly survive with so many of Lucifer’s loyal servants as close as they were. Hell was never known for its peace after all. Surviving was nothing new to her, and surviving was exactly what she did. Aligning herself to Alastair for one reason - his interest in Dean Winchester. Keeping her own intentions hidden, Dean Winchester would not spend an eternity in hell. She had made it as easy as she could for angels to intersect through hell, killing her own kind just to assure the release of Dean Winchester. Her own escape from hell following suit to his. Hiding from the demons and angels who would be more than glad to assure her life ended, making herself known to him after Castiel’s appearance. A hostile relationship ever since.

     She detested him, at least she wanted to hate him. Loathing should be something that comes easy, for so long it’s all she had felt for her kind and herself. Yet hate was the last emotion felt when it came to Dean Winchester. Admiration, something she secretly encountered herself experiencing for the hunter. He was a fighter, yet always fought for others and not himself. He wasn’t holy - he knew darkness and had revealed such darkness during his time in hell.Yet he was unlike any human she had ever encountered, even during her own time as a human herself. She encountered moments such as these happening more often than perhaps either of them would like admitting to. The moments where it was just the two of them, where a slither of who they genuinely were would be openly expressed. He was perhaps the only person to see her in such a pacifying and open way. Just as she knew he only expressed such an ache in her presence. Perhaps because they were meant to not care for one another, easier to reveal such a side when it came to someone of little importance. Or perhaps it was because there was a silent understanding between them both, similarities even. His life had been obscured by darkness at a young age, just as hers was. The loss of a mother, the first heartbreak. Fighting to protect, surviving because others depended on them to be strong. Giving up their souls for someone they loved more than themselves. Only her story went untold, and in his eyes, she was nothing more than a monster - just like every other demon he had encountered. He wasn’t wrong, her life as a demon had been one bad choice after the other.Blood staining her hands, the blood of innocents. Her lack of control far too great, her soul darkening more and more with each act. Losing the most human parts of her, the innocence and hope. Refusing to admit just how much she truly did feel still. Refusing to admit that the solitude, fear, and emotional suffering was far more crippling now as a demon than as a human.

     Ruthless, treacherous, and corrupt. Just some of the various things she’s supposed to be because of what she is. Yet as she stands across from him, there’s an ache where her heart is meant to be. The rot and decay meant to be a part of her becoming less focused on her soul when she stands near him. When her eyes take sight of him; when their bodies come in contact with one another. She’s not supposed to feel anything for him, for any human. He reminds her of what it’s like to feel human again, to feel the comfort of a human touch instead of feeling numb. She wants to hate every second of it; she wants to hate him for shifting something inside her that hadn’t been moved in centuries. She wants to be violent against him, instead, she finds herself protecting him to the best of her abilities. In ways, she would never tell him.

     She moved closer to him, standing only inches from him. Alastair dead, triggering him to confront all he tried to push deep inside him. The truth of what he had done in hell to survive to the best of his abilities. She knew the truth, understood what he felt - how he didn’t always hate what he did. How he despised himself more for admitting it to himself, to her. The way she looks at him isn’t cold or distant. She knew this feeling too well, not knowing who you were anymore because of the actions that were taken. Believing yourself to be a monster. What would happen next? What did that make him? The questions she knew he was asking himself. “You’re not weak, for doing what you did to ease your pain. Nobody… Nobody can comprehend what you went through. No matter how many details you give, no matter how many examples. Nobody but you knows the extent of the torment and pain felt.” She understood, better than most. Yet it wasn’t the same. Her pain wasn’t his, and his paint wasn’t hers. “You should not blame yourself for what you had to become to survive… No one will be condemning themselves for what they did to you. Nor do you have to apologize. You survived, rightfully so.” There’s an aggressive tone to her voice, wanting her words to penetrate into his mind and heart. Wanting him to believe in them, because they contained honesty. “You did as you had to, you did it to survive because what you went through should have never happened to begin with. God, Lucifer… Angels and Demons, it’s all the same. They all worry about themselves, look out for number one. Then the human, the good… The ones who fight to better this world, have a price to pay for such kindness. You paid that price. You have many times. I am sure you will continue to pay it until your last breath.” There’s a slight squint to her eyes as she observes him closely. “You’re not a monster, Dean. You’re not… Me, nor are you Alastair or like any of us. The proof is in the regret your heart feels, the depression you like to pretend doesn’t exist. The countless nightmares that haunt you.” Her gaze is averted as she speaks, eyes focusing on the wall as her jaw clenches.

     No part of her desires this for him, if she could take it from him she would. How human of her, or perhaps pathetic. Dark hair cascades past her shoulders and rests against her back as she turns her back towards him. Eyes shutting as she feels a burn in her throat. Emotions, the burning behind her eyes as she feels the need to cry. She can’t remember the last time she cried, or the last time she felt as much as she currently did. “You’re afraid of what others will think of you, monsters don’t give a damn. But you do… You care about what Sam will say… What the angel will think. They’re significant to you.” Her eyes remain closed as a hint of jealousy — want — hits her. The knowing of being unimportant to him unlike them. Of being as alone as she had always been. At the end of the night, he would go to them, his night would end with those he loved and wanted to protect. Not with her, someone — something — he most likely still wanted dead. There’s a heaviness in the air as she falls silent, a silence that doesn’t last as she directs her attention towards him. “You want to know what happens next? You forgive yourself. You find a way to do so. It will be hard, it will seem impossible. You forgive yourself, and when you’re reminded of that darkness, the darkness you believe is a part of you. Remember the good you’ve done. Remember the sacrifices for not only your family and friends but for a world that doesn’t even know who Dean Winchester is. For a world that doesn’t believe in demons or even angels. You remember that. You remember the children you’ve saved, you remember the losses you have mourned. The losses you believe could have been stopped if you just tried a little bit harder or done something differently. Why do you remember those? Because a monster would not care the way you care. A monster… Takes and takes until there is nothing… Nothing left.” Verdant eyes are filling with tears, though a wicked smile appears on crimson-painted lips.  A smile to hide the pain. “A monster admires the bloodshed, finds strength in it. A monster… I’m a monster, Dean. When you have doubts, look into my eyes and see you are nothing like me.” She means it because she sees herself as the monster he’s frightened of becoming.

     There’s a twitch to her fingers as she stops herself from allowing her hand to come in contact with his neck. She can’t allow herself to show more weakness than she already had. “You’re not a monster, Dean Winchester. You’re a good man who has done things he isn’t proud of. A good man who, perhaps not now but at some point, will find it in himself to forgive himself. I hope it’s soon. I hope you find that strength. I can’t give you that… God can’t either. It’s just another fight you have to struggle through and win.” Eyelashes flutter as she holds back the tears. “You tortured the same demon that tortured you. You witnessed your brother’s powers… You’ve had quite a long night. Shower… Cleanse yourself of the blood… Allow yourself to rest.” It’s taking everything in her to not let the tears escape, her gaze avoiding his own as she moves away from him.

    HE DETESTS THIS- THE REALITY OF HIS INFLICTIONS. Dean Winchester, a man repelled by the very nature of his own self-image. A worthless, inferior, hollow man; a human by constitution- a flawed creature, GOD’S PERFECT MISTAKE -but a savage by trial. A strong body, sculpted through metal and clay; pliant and sturdy all at once- skin a wash of marble, smoothed over by soft hands and lacquered nails; WORN DOWN FROM THE SCRATCH OF CALLOUSED PALMS AND JAGGED CLAWS. The palace inside his mind promised self-destruction; the walls crumbled where the foundation shook; glass littered the stone where windows shattered as oak doors flew open and slammed shut. And this ruin, this... this wreckage was his own doing. The blood on his hands was his own- AND THEY WERE STAINED, AS HIS SINS HAD WILLED IT. Dean Winchester brought this ruin upon humanity; bled his curse down to the very core of the Earth, and now he was killing himself for it. He let himself go in Hell- and he brought that darkness with him. IT CLUNG TO HIM, THE HATRED. It was a permanent stink- a practiced curl of perfect lips; a measured tilt of the head; an attempt to overlook the impurities of what had once been Holy.

    BUT THIS PAIN, THIS HURT... IT’S DIFFERENT. It’s deep seated; rooted to his very gut- because he gave himself for this. He sacrificed his own soul to protect those that he loved- BUT WHERE DID THAT LEAVE HIM? What more could he give, now that his all wasn’t enough? A life for a life; a resurrection for a resurrection; a success for a failure. A promise kept for the idea of devotion- a weakness for a weakness. And the Heavens, Those Below, and all those in between knew the very extent of it. One Winchester was nothing without the other; one Winchester would bring death and destruction without the other; one Winchester would become the very thing he hated, without the other. AND DEAN, JOHN’S PERFECT BOY, HAD DONE IT, HAD LET HIMSELF GO- HAD TURNED HIS SELFLESSNESS INTO COWARDICE. 

    AND DEAN KNOWS THE DEMON IS AWARE- every smokey eyed abomination was. But Dean did not expect her sympathy; momentarily touched by a sentiment he did not know her to possess; shaken by an understanding he had not shared before. So eyes cut left; green sloping down the curve of painted lips; tracing the hem of cotton near the base of pale neck as melodic voice made fabric shift. SHE WAS CAREFUL, THE WAY SHE SPOKE. Compassionate, but mechanical. Angered, but poised. She was death, cloaked in veil of elegance; eyes that pierced the soft flesh of your belly; hands that pulled you apart with wicked fingers; a mouth with a venom tongue; a body designed to eat you alive. But here she stood, righting the wrongs of a man conceived to strike her. A BELIEVER STANDING WHERE A HERETIC SHOULD. She preached a new gospel; she positioned herself before Dean Winchester as an Idol of the Unholy and she unleashed the very truth ‘pon him- and he heard her, but he did not believe her.

    HIS EYES ARE EMPTY WHERE HIS LIFE HAS LEFT THEM; a heart full of grief and despair where self-loathing has made itself content. “Yeah, yeah Sam and Bobby matter. What they see, matters. What I do- the things I do to people, MATTERS. I’m not proud of what I’ve done; not here, not down there... I tortured people to save myself. I CHOSE to get off that rack. I CHOSE THAT. And I come back and, and Sam isn’t... Sam. I come back, and I find out that this apocalypse, the whole end of the world CRAP, is because of me. Because I was selfish, because I couldn’t let Sam go.” BECAUSE HE’S AFRAID TO BE ALONE; AFRAID OF HIS OWN THOUGHTS WITHIN HIS MOMENTS OF SILENCE. “And now this- you can’t look at all of this and tell me that I’m not a monster.” And if the weight of his realization hadn’t crushed him before, it broke him now. The emptiness that consumed him as the truth fell from Alastair’s mouth had only tightened its grip ‘round his heart- DEAN WINCHESTER WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE BEGINNING OF THE END. His name would forever be tarnished by his own atrocities, and he would forever live knowing the blood beneath his nails would never come clean. “So don’t... don’t tell me I’m a ‘good man,’ because I’m not.” And he never would be.

[angelusxdiesxjovis-deactivated2]

Sleep Well, My Angel ||closed||

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

angelusxdiesxjovis

Castiel should have learned by now that when things at the bunker remained quiet for a few weeks, it only meant something big and terrible was happening. He should’ve been on alert, looking for any signs of trouble anywhere he could find him. But at the end of the day, he wasn’t. He only enjoyed the peace and quiet and the fact that Sam and Dean had time to themselves to sleep, eat and act like normal people.

Castiel had taken to watching more TV in his downtime, keeping up with various news stations and finding new shows to watch by flipping through channels. That was how he stumbled across the bulletin. A child kidnapping, in a town he was very familiar with. And a child he knew very well.

He was up and out the door to his room before the broadcast was even finished. Practically sprinting through the bunker and throwing on his trench coat, he managed to run into Dean sitting at the war table and reading a newspaper, a half empty beer bottle in his hands.

“Dean…” He said, slowing to a stop, before quickly heading towards the stairs once more. “I have to go. There’s been an emergency. I have to get to Idaho, now.”

    IT WAS A BLESSING, LIVING IN PEACE THE WAY THEY ALL WERE. Morning showers and black coffee; homemade breakfast in socks and slippers; afternoon burgers and beers. Nothing came their way: no monsters, no creatures, no ghosts, demons, angels- IT WAS ALMOST AS IF THEY NEVER EXISTED. And Dean should have been restless; should be climbing the walls for something, anything, to get his hands on. Should be pacing the floor with an open book; should be reclining with a laptop and a glass of bourbon- but it felt right for once. But the harmony didn’t last long; the music died that day, when the television came on. AND IT WAS THE HEAVY FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING HIS CORNER THAT MADE HIS BODY TENSE. A panic where calm had settled; agitation and hysteria soured the alcohol in his stomach- it was a curse, living in conflict the way they all were.

    IT’S SLOW, THE WAY HEAD DECLINES TO PEER AT THE REMAINDER OF HIS BOTTLE. But Dean is quick to speak; knees bending to push away from the table he’s had himself seated. A roll of wheels atop the concrete; a slap of a hand against polished wood; a whisper of cotton across denim jeans. “I’m in.” And perhaps he shouldn’t be, what with the way the lager rolled from his breath. “What’s the case?”

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

I'm sorry I've been so absent lately. I've been going through a lot lately personally and work wise. I'm hoping to try and pick back up soon- but the time away to recollect was sorely needed. I hope to write and talk with everybody again soon!

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

   EXHAUSTION CREEPED THROUGH WEARY BONES; the desire to settle this dispute a heavy burden now. The air thick with unspoken word; two souls hanging on the very breath of confrontation- and LORD, WAS DEAN PREPARED TO STRIKE FORTH INTO THE OPEN HAND OF OPPORTUNITY! Breath was quick, tone not to be taken lightly with its marriage of expression and pithy speech. “Look, you can bring a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.” And his sigh is a force of its own; a hurried push of stale air; a hint of beer near the end of his tongue. “I can’t keep givin’ you handouts and expect you to just get it.” EYES GIVE THEMSELVES AWAY AS LASHES LIFT; a golden glow over a splash of green. “I’m here to solve a case without the local Five’O get their freakin’ meaty hands all over it, and the more you talk at the station the worse we look.” The last thing Dean needed was another hit to the record he knew was out there. “So next time, keep your DAMN MOUTH SHUT before we’re both stuck in a cell while SOMEBODY ELSE gets their ASS handed to ‘em by GOD KNOWS WHAT!”

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

vvenator

Margot chose to ignore the short comment. Though, it reminded her of how here, they could still be children. The guilt of having a homestead, not matter how run down, to return to always brewed in her belly.  Few others in their line of work had such a luxury. The familiar creek of the porch stairs filled her chest with warmth. Memories of running through the cottage and down those same steps glimmered through her mind. Margot shuffled for her keys and soon let the sound of the front door squeaking open surround them. “Thanks, make yourself at home. There’s a bathroom upstairs and you can have first pick of the two rooms.” They were nearly identical but manners mattered here.

    THE CLINK OF METAL TORE DEAN FROM HIS REVERIE; the dull thunk of key punching through lock; the cry of old hinges on a well-used frame reminded him of simpler times. The warmth that crept forth from the interior brushed along exposed wrists; face aglow with heat from invisible palms. A HOME WHERE HIS HAD BEEN DESTROYED. It felt like another trip to Bobby’s; another welcome stay in a place he, too, would curse. And the weariness settles within himself as Margot steps beyond the threshold; his movements slow as he follows her- but the floor is sturdy where his doubts are not. “Margot-” IT’S OVERWHELMING, THIS WASH OF GRATITUDE; eyes close as breath is taken in, a slow inhale as breath is momentarily held. “-you don’t have to, you know... this is your place.” First come first serve, the way he’s always lived it. “You don’t gotta take care of me.”

[epidoted-blog]

psa. if we’re mutuals, we’re automatically friends. u don’t need to say things like “sorry to bother” or “sorry im annoying” bc ur not. ur my friend. u can come to me for anything. u need help? im here. wanna chat? hmu. just wanna gush abt your muse? go for it. we’re friends. ily.

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

continued from this post with @boomstck

    IT’S THE UNWAVERING SUPPORT THAT HURTS THE REMNANTS of Dean’s fractured soul the most; it’s the push-back- the stubborn want of another man to protect somebody like himself floors him. The will to know what goes on inside his head; the want to learn his troubles and his sorrows- the ability to look into the eyes of a killer and, STILL, wish to bring him salvation. So Dean does not flinch when another body nears his own; he stands there, DROWNING IN THE FORGIVENESS HE HAS BEEN GRANTED. The mention of alcohol could be deemed somewhat of a slippery slope; it could be perceived as the greatest escape for the temporary- but it was a hell of a lot better than standing beneath a street lamp near the waning hours of the present night. Tongue wets the swell of lips before words are formed; the heat of held breath a faint puff against the chill of the late air. “Yeah.” It’s unrecognizable, the sound of his voice; it breaks in his throat, as though he were just a boy. And the next audible phonetic feels too loud for this reunion: THE SCRATCH OF HUMILITY AS THROAT IS CLEARED. “Yeah, we can do that.” 

    “WE”... AN UNFAMILIAR CONCEPT OF TOGETHERNESS- a closeness easily forgotten given the nature of their work. Sure, Dean was close with others, but it was through years of torture and neglect; romanticized only by the give and take of their souls. You couldn’t get much closer than that- but here Ash was, having never sacrificed pieces of himself for Dean, but understanding everything whilst knowing nothing. What could one call that? What could Dean Winchester identify that as, within the emptiness of himself? What could he do with it? Time would tell. “Is that an invitation?” And the first smile teases the corners of his mouth; forced in nature, but LORD WAS IT TRULY FELT! A lame attempt at lightening their atmosphere, but an attempt nonetheless.

[belladoesrpmeme]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 !

For the tough-hearted who wants incredible angst that could fit either a platonic and/or romantic scenarios. Feel free to change the pronouns / sentence structure according to your preferences!    TRIGGER WARNING:  Mentions of deaths.

i. leaving / left.

“Wait, you’re leaving…?”

“[Name] just told me. You’re gonna leave?”

“…where are you going?”

“I didn’t wanna believe [Name], but you’re really leaving, huh.”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me sooner.”

“I don’t know what to say, do you want me to wish you good luck or something? ‘Cause I hate this. I hate every part of this.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to let you go.”

“Please don’t go.”

“Why can’t you stay?”

“Is it because of me? Am I not enough?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“You have to let go of me.”

“No, no, just — just one second longer, please. Let me hug you for one more second—”

“No, don’t tell me it’s okay, it’s not okay, you’re leaving me!”

“…will you be gone long?”

“You won’t come back, will you?”

“There’s the train / plane / taxi. I — I gotta go.”

“You’re really not saying goodbye?”

“All you left me was a letter, saying you’re sorry. You’re pathetic.”

“If you love me, please don’t go.”

“I’m really trying not to put my abandonment issues on you, but I’m fucking scared, okay? I’m scared you’ll leave. And you are.”

ii. dying / died.

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on. Hold on. This can’t be real, can it? You can’t be… You can’t be dying.”

“This is some sick joke, right? You’re not really sick. This is some kind of prank? ‘Cause— cause this isn’t funny, [Name], you can’t—”

“No, no, no, I love you, please — please come back.”

“No, please, no. Don’t fall asleep. No, open your eyes, come on, look at me—”

“I wish we had more time.”

“Every day I come in here knowing that one of these days that damn bed will be empty and every time, I feel like screaming and wishing I could tell the universe to take me instead, but they won’t. It’s you. They’re taking you. So tell me how I’m supposed to live with that?”

“You die, I die.”

“I don’t think I can go home knowing I won’t see you around anymore.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be okay. You’re just a little cold. Right?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do much before. I would’ve taken you everywhere. I would’ve loved you right.”

“I wish you could’ve just broken my heart in the normal way. At least you’d be alive.”

“I’m telling the nurse I’m staying by your side tonight. I don’t care if it’s not allowed, I’ll fight them.”

“We’re running out of time.”

“Anything’s better than this. Than you, gone. What am I supposed to do without you, huh?”

“Listen to me, you are the most important person in my life. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this…”

“If you must die, die knowing your life was my life’s best part.”

“Maybe in another life.”

“The doctors said I don’t have much time left. I - I’m sorry.”

“I just saw you. You were — you were laughing. You can’t be gone.”

iii. separating / separated.

“So, this is it, huh?”

“…for all it’s worth, I loved you. So much.”

“I’m sorry for what I did.”

“You deserve better. You always have.”

“Tell me this isn’t you breaking up with me.”

“I still remember the first time I saw you…”

“Please don’t cry, please, I—”

“C’mon baby, don’t — don’t make this harder than it is.”

“Don’t cry with me, stupid. I thought this was mutual.”

“I can’t believe you’re breaking my heart like this.”

“We had a good run, didn’t we? We really loved each other, right?”

“IT’S OVER, DO YOU HEAR ME?! WE’RE DONE!”

“If you show your face around me the second time, I will kill you.”

“Who would’ve thought we’d ended up here. Hating each other.”

“We were… we were so in love.”

“It’s not even about the other person, it’s us okay? It’s us. We’re a problem.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you. Not more than this. I’m sorry.”

iv. miscommunication.

“You fucking ignored me. You didn’t even tell me why!”

“So now that you’re in deep shit, you suddenly remember me again? How convenient!”

“Fuck you! FUCK YOU! I NEEDED YOU! AND YOU WEREN’T THERE!”

“I don’t know why we stopped talking. I wish you would just tell me.”

“You won’t even look me in the eyes anymore.”

“Did I really hurt you that bad? I didn’t know.”

“You never said anything! Every time you’re angry or sad, you just kept it in!”

“I never knew what you were thinking.”

“I’m so tired of reaching out only to realise I’m grasping on thin air.”

“Why can’t we just talk like we used to?”

“Things were so easy back then.”

“You’re not the same person I knew.”

“…I still care about you, you know.”

“You just left. I didn’t why. I didn’t know what happened.”

“I wish things were different.”

“You’re giving me the cold shoulder again. How typical.”

“You know what you did wrong? You didn’t believe me.”

“I just wanted you to be there. I just wanted to know that I wasn’t alone. And you failed.”

“Look, can we… can we not talk about this now? Please?”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you, but it’s like I’M TALKING TO A BRICK WALL!”

v. betrayal / betrayed.

“I trusted you.”

“You trust me? Honey, that’s your fault.”

“You’re looking at me like I’m your biggest mistake. I already know I am.”

“You fucking manipulated me. You made me believe you.”

“So all those times we spent together? That was, what, for show?”

“I thought… I thought we were friends.”

“I thought we had something special.”

“You were like a brother to me!”

“I never really had anybody before. But then you came. I shouldn’t have known even you would screw me over.”

“SCREW YOU! DON’T EVER SHOW YOUR FACE TO ME AGAIN!”

“You’re not even moving. You’re THAT shocked that I did this to you? You must’ve really trusted me.”

“I — I didn’t want to. But I had to.”

“It wasn’t easy, you know? I… I really liked you.”

“Oh, stop playing victim. You had this coming.”

“You’ve always treated me like shit! And now you’re surprised I would do this to you?!”

“It wasn’t all fake, what we had. You were just not my endgame.”

“I can’t believe I shared my food with you. Turned out, you’re just a scheming scumbag, like the rest of them!”

“It’s my fault. I put my faith in you. They warned me not to.”

“Believe you? Yeah. The last time I did went SO well.”

“I’d rather walk into an ongoing traffic than to trust you again.”

“I let you into my life and you did this…? I should’ve known.”

“Please tell me this isn’t true. You wouldn’t do this to me, would you? Would you?”

vi. misc scenarios.

[Text] I hate you. 

[Text] I keep calling you hoping you’d pick up. Or text you, hoping you’d reply. But I know you won’t.

[Text] I’ve still got your stuff. What should I do about it?

[Text] I wish I could say I hate you, but we both know I’m lying.

[Text] I don’t wanna fight, I wanna see you.

[Text] I know we’re not talking, but I miss you.

[Text] Dumbass. I’ve always loved you. Leaving you was the hardest thing I ever did.

[Text] I wish it didn’t end the way it did.

[Text] I’ll always have your back. Even after everything, okay? Always.

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

shinyblackchevrolet

She can feel his violence burning in her own blood almost like she’s breathing it in, fingertips itching with it more and more with each inhale of the sweat-heavy air. God, she wants it. This isn’t her role, she’s not the instigator, she’s the one who catches him when he falls back, pulling him away, pulling him home. But, god, she wants it. A split in the lip, a bruise splattered on broken skin, blood dried on the first four knuckles. She tastes it like smoke in the air that’s on fire between them. A half-second hesitation before she lunges forward, shoulder slamming into his chest as she hooks one arm behind his knee and pulls, driving him to the ground. It sparks an immediate release, almost relief, the tension in her body abating for just that one second, even as she swings in sharp for another hit.

    SHE’S FAST WHERE DEAN DOES NOT WHERE HER TO BE; she is violent- knowing what she wants, knowing where to strike. Knowing that he, Dean Winchester, may pour acid down her throat where it should be rain. Aware that this Man of God may send her to wherever the fuck she believed her soul should belong- the possibility of death probable. OH, BUT DOES THE THOUGHT MAKE CURSED BLOOD BOIL! A rolling thunder beneath marked skin; an eruption of things most unholy; a scream in the dark where the world stilled. And his head spun- not with impact, no -his mind cleared as his body fell- his RAGE prompted reaction where it was unwanted. Head moved where fist aimed to strike; hands pulled her arm forward, keeping their bodies close. And it is here that he speaks; forked tongue hissing through grit teeth. “Stop.”

    DEAN WINCHESTER, PLEADING FOR IT ALL TO END- hot breath curling around the sweat beading at Im’s neck; the snap of his teeth near her ear; the security of his hold protecting her from him. He could keep her here, should he want to, or he could force himself around her; could hook leg around neck to push her down into him. Hands could grab for her arm, fingers pressing at the wrist to bring muscle and bone taut so hips could buck; so body could force her to break- BUT WHERE WOULD THAT PUT THEM THEN? The snap of bone; a spray of spit as throat opens to shout. Dean Winchester would destroy the very being that lived and loved and breathed in the same ways he does. He would wear down the beauty of her soul until she was nothing more than an empty shell. Until she was nothing less.

[boothewriter-deactivated2018122]

and you know what?

it’s okay if you didn’t write today

it’s okay if you didn’t outline either

it’s okay if you prioritized other things

it’s okay if you didn’t update others on your progress

it’s okay if you haven’t been active

it’s okay if you haven’t reached your intended word count

it’s okay if you haven’t been feeling your best recently

it’s okay if you haven’t been creating as much as you used to

it’s going to be okay. you’re going to be okay.

[rxbcurn-a-blog]

maniacollision

“redemption,” she answers first. from the books, the history that have painted her the villain. “peace.” to not be hunted for being who she is. to not be challenged or forgotten. “do i not deserve my own happiness? what makes this world’s survival more important than mine? i was here first.”

    AND IT’S THE SIMPLICITY OF HER SPEECH that seems to beg for trial and tribulation against those who had once abandoned her in their quest for power; a family that SEALED HER VERY FORM to dispel the stink of their fear. And it is that same tone that would turn body cold beneath layers of cloth and leather; a word that would bring peace for the only woman that believed herself worthy. She would DESTROY EVERYTHING IN ORDER TO CLEAR HER OWN NAME- “Redemption.” And Dean sees it- he understands it all. A flash of lightning; the howl of wind between the reeds; chains beating against their stone enclosure. “Peace.” Each word spoken with chilling clarity; a dubious echo between two bodies too intimately connected. “Yeah, and I was around before Sam, but I don’t go runnin’ around and screwin’ shit up every time he slips.” And whatever happened, whatever she did, it would fall back on him; the weight of her destruction would haunt him; for he had FREED THE UNHOLY FROM HER HEAVENLY PRISON! and all her deeds would be done with the name Dean Winchester falling from her painted lips.