Summary: on they way to a hunt you get travel sick and your brothers take care of you.
Warnings: nausea, mentions of vomit, pills
Word count: 700
MASTERLIST ⋅⛤ WHUMPTOBER 24
⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤
Dean sped down the country roads a little faster that he probably should have. While Baby was in good condition, she was still a rather old car. And a luxurious one at that. She was built for roads, not winding country lanes where the car is fenced in my hedges. As Dean turned another corner, your head swam. You had been feeling ill for the last 20 minutes or so. Your head had begun to ache and you could feel yourself beginning to grow nauseous. You had tried rolling down the window hoping that the fresh air would help a little. It did not. And every twist and turn just served to make you feel sicker and sicker. You had even tried closing your eyes and resting your head against the cool glass of the window, but that didn’t help either.
While Sam and Dean talked, you were quiet in the back of the car. Any movement made your head spin and you were too focused on trying not to spill your guts to join in on the conversation. The worst part was you had at least two or three hours of the journey left. Lucky you.
Noticing your unusual silence, Sam poked his head around from the passenger seat. His forehead creased when he noticed that you were looking a little pale and a look of discomfort on your face.
“You alright kiddo?” He asked. At this Dean glanced up into the rear view mirror to look at you.
“You’re quiet.” Dean added.
“Headache.” You just answered rather bluntly. In truth it was more than that. But you didn’t want to go into specifics.
“Feeling car sick again?” Sam asked you.
You hummed in response. You had gotten car sick ever since you were little. Sam rummaged around in the glove box and pulled out a bottle of water, passing it to you. You unscrewed the cap and tooo a sip, savouring the feeling of it. “Thank you.”
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You need us to pull over?”
“No.”
Pulling over would just add to the time and the headache and nausea would just come back after you set off again anyway.
“You sure.”
“Yes.”
Dean made a noise as if he disapproved. But he carried on driving. He hated the fact that you were feeling ill and ignoring it. “We’ll stop at the next gas station and get you something for it, alright sweetheart?”
You nodded, regretting it immediately. “Thank you”
It felt like forever had passed before you saw the gas station. Lucky the roads his since smoothed out by then, but your head was still pounding and every movement increased the risk of you throwing up. You were so relieved when you stepped out of the car, stretching out the ache in your bones. The three of you stepped into the gas station, welcoming the cool air of the air con before grabbing some snacks.
Dean haphazardly chucked a packet of beef jerky on the counter along with some chips and a couple of bottles of water. He had also filled the car up with gas. He then picked up a packet of painkilllers and paid for the load, taking the bag before all of you bundled back into the car. Taking a sip of the fresh water, you knocked back a couple of pills, hoping that that would help a little. After a quick snack break and arguing over the music Dean pressed his foot down on the gas an sped off down the road again.
It took a little while but eventually your nausea did calm down. The pills and the water worked wonders on your head and the smoother roads with far less potholes that made your head rattle around helped to ease your stomach. Now you just had to sit through another few hours of Dean’s singing. You weren’t sure what was worse.
An accident leaves Natasha without her memories, without anyone to guide her, and the Red Room chasing after her, the odds are not in her favour… unless those that love her find her first.
Whumptober 2025: Day 3 - Isolation
Warnings: canonical violence
Word Count: 1.4K
Summary: Natasha fights with everything that she has not to go back to the red room, whilst Clint tries desperately to find any information on where might be.
Whumptober Masterlist/Masterlist of Fic / ao3
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LONDON / OCTOBER 01 / 17:23PM
Natasha pushes down the fear that alights into every cell. She throws two punches that land, and a third that misses.
Bodies try to restrain her, catching one punch and the other sweeping her legs.
They fight like a unit and she’s hopelessly outmatched.
She cries out, panic momentarily overwhelming her.
Struggling, Natasha flips her body up, kicking one and pushing the other against the wall.
“Fuck,” she swears.
The van rocks, three widows attack simultaneously.
The plan changes.
She can’t do this alone.
She needs to stop the van and wherever they’re taking her.
Quickly she disarms one, takes the gun and shoots towards the driver and again towards the passenger seat; just in case.
The car swerves.
She’s hit with a butt of a gun, and tries to shoot forward again.
This time her shot seems to reach its target and the car pitches forward.
Everyone is thrown, as the van crashes and tips onto its side.
The back doors fly open on impact, and one widow is crushed against the wall, knocked out.
She takes her gun on instinct.
Natasha lands on another, her elbow smacking into flesh.
She needs to get out.
Run.
Rolling to the side, she tries to get her legs underneath her. The fucking dress is fucking her up.
It’s three against one.
Too many unknowns.
Had she killed the driver? The passenger? Was there even a passenger sitting there?
The odds are not in her favour, and she only has two guns.
Out of the van, she runs; shooting one of her guns until it clicks; empty.
Natasha takes it as an opening, sprinting bare foot.
She runs towards the sidewalk, buildings rising up around her, the streets emptying of people as shots flying at her, miss by inches.
She ignores the burning in her chest, the rising panic; her feet smart against the rocky floor as she tries to find some sort of baring.
Pain hits her shoulder, sending her barreling into the ground.
“Fuck,” she whispers, scrambling to her feet again.
She’s not dying here, and definitely not being taken by the red room.
.
Clint waits in the family room, the operating theatre to his left, or maybe it was the recovery room. He’s not sure and there’s no medical staff around to ask.
Pepper is apparently in one operating theatre, and Tony in the other.
“They’re going to be okay,” the nurse had assured him, but it’s not what Clint wanted to know.
No one has seen Natasha.
Steve had sent a skinny policeman to find him; to hand him a phone and a message.
“She’s not here, and no one’s seen her.”
This was taking too long.
Clint paces up and down, wondering if he’s better off spending his time elsewhere.
He’s tried her phone but it’s not even ringing.
He thinks likely her phone blew too.
The hospital is chaos.
So many casualties, and now all the family members are coming in droves.
He feels wrong somehow.
He should care but the worry for Natasha is overwhelming.
“Happy,” he greets, finding the older man standing watch by the door.
“Ah.. Ummm,” Happy looks at him, and Clint knows he can’t remember his name.
“Clint,” he offers.
“I know, I know.”
Clint nods.
“Any news?”
Happy shakes his head.
“No one will tell me anything.”
“Me either,” Clint tells him, looking to the door.
“Happy, when Tony is awake, can you call me?”
Happy looks at him, a studying look.
Clint looks at him pleading.
“Yeah,” Happy replies, “I can call you.”
In a momentary decision, Clint decides to tell him everything.
His worry for Natasha, how she’s missing, and how Tony or Pepper might know.
“I’ll be here as long as they are,” Happy answers.
Clint nods.
“I’ll ask them when I can,” Happy assures him.
There’s a shared understanding, and Clint claps him on the shoulder. They exchange numbers and Clint sighs looking back once before walking out of the hospital feeling very, very alone.
.
The gun in her hands shoots behind her.
She needs to get away, run and hide.
Get backup.
She’s alone and hunted and shot.
Blood drips from her shoulder wound; staunched only by her ripped dress she’s made into a makeshift splint.
She can’t think straight.
If they have back up she’s unsure how she’s going to make it out.
Natasha knows one thing, she’s not going back to the red room.
She can’t.
She won’t.
Two are dead now, of that she’s sure.
Three to go.
They’re somewhere.
The building she’s in has four floors.
The stairwell had provided cover; enough to bottle neck whoever was coming.
An old trick, but a good one.
One way up.
Two floors up and the pain and disorientation threaten to overwhelm her.
A shot rings above her head.
They’re behind her.
She knows they’ve split up and she knows that they’re hunting her.
Natasha pauses, allowing herself to gasp at the pain and worry that radiates through her body.
Clint.
Tony.
Pepper.
Keep moving, she tells herself.
She needs to check they’re okay; but first she needs to make it out of here.
Alive preferably.
She leans against the wall and sighs; checking her gun.
Only four shots.
The office building must have something she can use to stop the bleeding, a first aid kit or something.
Leaving the safety of the stairwell; she ventures into the closed building.
Evening light peers through the window; casting a soft glow.
Natasha runs to the nearest door, and tries it. Not locked. The office is bare and so unhelpful.
She spots a kitchen in the middle of the hall.
They’ll be on her in moments, but she has no choice but to move towards it.
She opens all the cupboard doors; smiling as she finds a kettle, chemicals, knives.
She’s not helpless.
The kettle goes on; and the knives are sheathed, the chemicals get mixed - all in the space of seconds.
Footsteps approach.
From the left, a taller widow nears the kitchen; her mask still on, but the widow that comes from the right is bright red from running up the stairs behind her. She must have discarded her mask somewhere.
Natasha doesn’t want to kill them.
She throws a knife into the woman’s shoulder, wincing as she feels the bullet in hers imbed further.
The distraction works and Natasha is on them both, thing the chemicals towards them to make a smoke bomb.
The red faced widow pounces, and kicks Natasha into the kitchen away from the smoke.
She fights dirty, pulling at hair as Natasha bites back; thankful that the kettle is whistling.
She feels a needle piercing her skin and she thinks it might be a sedative.
She’s running out of time.
Pulling it out of her skin, she throws it to the side, ignoring the panic of unknowns of what’s inside.
Fuck this, Natasha thinks, throwing another knife and shooting her own gun twice; this time it’s lethal.
The tall widow raises her gun at the door, pausing at the death of her companion.
The kettle clicks off and boiling water flies through the air, alongside a knife.
She shouts in pain and then there’s silence.
Another kill shot, but in the moment Natasha doesn’t care.
Kill or be killed.
The last widow approaches, shadows in the hall as the sun dips lower.
Natasha slides forward, grabbing the tall widow’s mask, putting it on in hopes to distract her, as the last widow approaches.
The sight of her in the mask give her pause and she cocks her head.
“If you wanted to be one of us, why fight? You could just come home.”
Her Russian accent is strong.
The screen in the mask Natasha wears lights up, and corroborates the movement in the room and alerts her to gun being raised.
She dives left, picking up a dead widow’s gun, she shoots forward; missing.
The glass of a window blows out behind her and she shoots to cover herself.
A shot hits the woman in the neck and she cries out; allowing Natasha to close the distance between them.
Natasha grabs at the wound, forcing her into hand to hand combat and the widow replies by grabbing Natasha’s shoulder.
Both cry out in pain.
“Traitor,” the woman hisses.
Natasha pulls her gun, as does the woman.
In synchronised movements, both guns come up, Natasha kicks forward, her head tipping to the side as both shoot for each other’s heads.
anyone have recommendations on books, video essays, sites, etc etc that can help me get into and learn more about greek mythology? it's a topic i'm generally very interested in. thank you!
