Miss K I gotta tell u more about the soft daddy thing bc I’m just in a funk 🥺 I want a daddy who as soon as I walk through the door cuddles me close, and let’s me just breathe. Maybe tells me how hard I’ve been working, “babydoll you gotta let me take care of you, just sit back a little, let somebody else take the reigns”. Let’s me cry it out a little, rant about whatever I’m upset about, talks to me real soft and gentle. Cuddles me close, maybe let’s me nap while dinner cooks, pets my hair to calm me down, makes sure I eat enough and take a warm shower before we’re both cuddled up in bed relaxing, never pushing me to talk but always ready and comforting, just an absolutely Daddy 🥺💕🥺💕🥺💕
summary: Claire Novak’s fathers are dead. And she’s going to burn the entire world to bring them back. (Canon compliant to 15x20, from a certain point of view.)
her eyes open. it’s been over a decade since she burned with the grace of a seraphim. now the voices of angels are ashes in the wind and castiel no longer answers her prayers.
(“he is gone,” sam tells her in the same breath as he says “and dean--”)
her fathers are dead.
the flame inside of her is waning, a ghost of what it was, and she is cold, so very, very cold, shivering in the absence. and she will stop at nothing but to give the flame what it needs -- oxygen, kindling, fuel. she will bring them all back if only to feel warm again.
*
kaia holds her close, and her warmth helps but does not heal. “you’re angry,” she says.
“i’m going to burn the whole world to--”
“you’re angry, but that doesn’t mean you have to fix it. it doesn’t mean you can fix it,” she says.
(it doesn’t mean it needs fixing, a whisper says)
“it’s wrong and it’s not fair and what if they never knew--”
she weeps, fat tears hot on her cheeks and damp on her shirt. kaia clings tighter.
she doesn’t say: i wish i wasn’t this body, wasn’t human, wasn’t meant to be locked in this useless flesh. if i was an angel, i could--
*
if i was castiel again, i would--
*
sam lets her in the bunker, lets her research on her own -- he’s paralyzed by grief, unable to stay, unable to point her in the right direction. he is keeping secrets, lying by omission. but his grief is real; she can taste the soot in her mouth.
so she prays. there must be an angel alive, there must be something that can help her.
her fingers run along the carving of castiel’s name in the wood. help me, she prays. you can’t be dead, you can’t be.
*
she dreams of a lake, a big broad expanse of water and reeds and fish and sand. it smells fresh and green, alive and welcoming. she could sit on the pier and dip her toes in, or wade out for a swim, or just listen to the gentle sound of water and wind. but she knows, somehow, that this is theirs. she is trespassing on something special, sacred. this is dean’s, she thinks, and castiel stood here, often. watching. this is a place that holds memory. holds something akin to love. the sun overhead is warm, and she can feel it on her skin.
Father, she says.
hello, claire, a voice says. and her eyes fly open.
This Mrs. Evans story is told from Chris’s point of view, a change from other stories in the series
Author Note: I’ve been sick A LOT lately, which accounts for several of my stories lately being about sickness and the healing powers of Mr. Evans. When I had to get a breathing treatment done, I remembered a family moment from long ago that had slipped my memory… with author’s license for embellishing a few details, this is really the tale of how my Hubs got Kid to take his breathing treatments.
*******
Through the crack in the door, Chris listens to the cough in the little boy’s chest and it pains him to hear it. His big Daddy heart just can’t take it when the boys are sick, but he knows it’s even harder on his wife, so he steps up to the plate.
He steps into the room and asks, “Whatchya doin’, Bud?”
He knows she hates that nickname, always telling him the child and the dog cannot have the same nickname. But it’s too late to get rid of it now.
“Just colorin’, Daddy. Nonna Lisa brought me a new coloring book this morning.”
“Oh, she did; that was nice, we’ll-”
“Yea, yea, Dad; I already thanked her,” he rolls his blue eyes, already trained well in the art of appreciation from his mother.
Chris holds in his laughter. “Ok, then. Hey, son, do you know why your mother sent me up here?”
The little boy throws the covers over his head and snuggles down under the blankets. “‘Cuz I was bad and it’s time for more medicine.”
Click here to read more....
Reader tags under the cut... IF YOU WANTED ADDED TO THE LIST LET ME KNOW. IF YOU WANT OFF THE LIST LET ME KNOW! It won’t hurt my feelings!
Pasha ducked his head, immediately after the question had been asked several memories began to surface. His ears dropped as the sound of a child's laughter floated through his head. A sharp grin followed closely by bright green eyes. He swallowed uneasily.
"My friend I, I do not have many fond memories..."
