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last sentence game ✶⋆.˚
thank you to my love @thecreelhouse for the tag!
from hunter!gator supernatural au #2 ˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
“Gonna tell me now?” Gator asked, settling himself down beneath the sheets.
“Yeah,” you said, sitting down on your side of the bed, keeping a foot of space between you.
. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦ ˚ .˚ . . taggies: @loveshotzz @bearwithegg @djob00bies @lofi-fics @s111ut @cakedupkeery @cha0ticstranger @insomniacpen @zinainblue @yeah-iveheardofbears
SuperPhantom Week 2026, go!
What: A week to celebrate the bestest crossover — Danny Phantom / Supernatural (TV 2005)! Fanfic, fanart, playlists/music, other multimedia or crafts, whatever you want, are all welcome! There are themed prompts for each day, so try to include it and more or as little as you want!
When: September 7th, 2026 - September 13th, 2026
Day 1: Sept. 7th - Creep Day 2: Sept. 8th - Memory Day 3: Sept. 9th - Rest Day 4: Sept. 10th - Illuminate Day 5: Sept. 11th - Deal Day 6: Sept. 12th - Haven Day 7: Sept. 13th - True Form / Free
*I will catch up on what I've missed in the following week to the best of my ability, but can't guarantee any swiftness. Submissions may show up the day after their prompt as I queue them up.
Sentence prompt for the week:
“I know what you are.”
How: Post your works on Tumblr with the tags #superphantomweek2026 and #superphantom. I’ll reblog them here! Submissions to the week can also be added to this Ao3 Collection!
You can also fill for last year's prompts: 2024, 2025, if you'd like and submit to those collections!
Just want everyone to have fun with this old little crossover here, so be free and be merry!!! <3
Below are extra details and information for each day.
The Grace of Kings Preview
Ted Lasso was not supposed to be here.
Roy stared at the screen, utterly bewildered at the coach sitting at the center of a chaotic press conference.
He had been watching Theodore Lasso for many lifetimes—hell, before Ted was even a forethought.
There were billions of souls that came and went. There were billions of brilliant, incandescent people Roy had watched over from his post as a low-level angel in the high bureaucracy of Heaven. He had cataloged the quiet dignity of Albert Einstein, the gentle, timeless wanderings of Keanu Reeves, and countless others who had sacrificed themselves in the dark corners of the earth for humanity.
Yet, for some reason, he had become anchored to Ted.
Ever since he had first touched the man's soul eons ago—cradling it between his celestial hands like something impossibly warm and precious—he had felt an invisible tether stretching from the very tips of his wings down to his core. He had spent centuries watching Ted’s life unfold, or rather, what was supposed to be Ted’s life.
It was precisely why he had been cast out. He had grown dangerously, obsessively attached, losing sight of the divine detachment required of his station. He had abandoned his post, forsaking the main quest of Heaven’s ledger-keepers just to linger in the quiet hum of Ted’s orbit.
But luck—or perhaps a wry, bureaucratic mercy—had intervened. A weary angel, taking pity on his stubborn devotion, had offered him a loophole. Instead of enduring a full, agonizing descent into a screaming pit of damnation, he had been permitted a quiet, mortal rebirth.
And that’s how Raziel became Roy Kent.
It wasn't until a couple of years ago that he had managed to claw his grace back out of the ether, aided by arguably the only celestial in existence who truly understood what it was like to ruin an eternity for a human: Castiel, wearing his rumpled trench coat and carrying the weight of a broken universe on his back.
And having his grace back was a relief. It made him feel whole again, even if it came with a few frustrating catches. He could no longer taste the rich, grease-stained perfection of a proper pub Sunday roast, and his grace certainly didn't make him invincible. His knee was still fucked to hell and back from his playing days; he just happened to have the capability to soar through the clouds if he felt like bruising his ribs against an updraft.
But his eternal destiny—and every divine script he had ever memorized—never led him here.
He had seen Ted’s life chart out in front of him multiple times, neat and orderly like a well-drawn tactical map. He was supposed to be a phenomenal American football coach, have a kid, live out a quiet, dangerous double life hunting the things that crawled out of the earth alongside the Winchesters whenever their paths crossed, and eventually grow old. He was supposed to live a full, happy life in the Midwest, surrounded by cornfields and quiet dignity.
Roy had come to terms with that path during his angel teenage years. The same way he had come to terms with Ted eventually dying of old age. He’d seen all of it and rewatched it like his favorite sad movie.
None of those projected timelines ever featured Ted in London. Ever.
Which was why he was entirely glued to the pub television. Sam Obisanya was glued to the screen too, though mostly because he was buzzing with youthful, naive excitement about the club's future.
Roy had skimmed Sam’s celestial ledger too, of course, though he hadn’t been nearly as obsessed with it as he was with Ted's. Still, the ledger didn't lie: Sam was destined for greatness, even if he didn't know it yet.
“Oi! If I don’t hear silence, I’m gonna start punching dicks.”
On screen, they watched as Ted completely fumbled his introduction, cheerfully admitting to the room of ravenous journalists that he didn't have the faintest clue how football worked.
“For fuck’s sake,” Roy cursed silently, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why are you here?”
“Don’t be so hard on him,” Sam nudged his shoulder, offering an encouraging, bright-eyed smile. “You didn’t know anything about this place either when you first rolled up. None of us did.”
That wasn’t what Roy meant, though.
He watched Ted radiate a relentless, baffling optimism—the exact trait that had drawn Roy to him in the first place, centuries ago. Ted had ten thousand legitimate reasons to be miserable, anxious, or bitter, yet he consistently chose grace.
And then he watched Trent Crimm of The Independent absolutely humiliate Ted in front of the entire country. A violent, white-hot spike of rage surged through Roy’s chest. He wanted to bash his head straight through the table.
It was yet another reminder of why he had been voted out of Heaven in the first place: irreconcilable, volatile anger issues that didn't mix well with a choir of pacifist seraphim.
The crowd erupted into a chorus of jeers and mocking questions, demanding Ted name players and clubs he’d never heard of in his life. Even Richard was shouting rapid-fire French from the back of the room.
“No one can understand you,” Roy said plainly.
He could, though. It was both a blessing and a curse left over from his grace. He could understand every human language spoken on the globe, ancient or modern, and speak them with native fluency.
The eternal problem was that most of the time, Roy Kent actively did not want to understand what people were saying.
Especially when it was directed at Ted.
Roy saw Ted falter. He spotted the micro-expression—a subtle tightening of the jaw, the split-second widening of the eyes—that he knew all too well. The blinding optimism acting as a fragile shield against the panic attacks clawing at the man's throat.
And then Rebecca Welton stepped in, cutting the slaughter short. But at this rate, with the entire future violently unraveling off the rails, Roy couldn't tell if she was going to be Ted’s savior or his executioner.
Roy leaned forward, resting his heavy elbows on his knees, staring intently at the glossy flat-screen. His wings—invisible to the mortal eye, folded tight against his shoulder blades—tensed, a phantom ache rippling through his spine.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
The future wasn't supposed to change.
In every ledger, every prophetic timeline, and every celestial scroll he had poured over during his centuries as an angel, Rebecca Welton’s soul was dark with a specific kind of bitter vengeance. She was supposed to hire a bumbling, catastrophic disaster of a coach to intentionally tank the club. Rupert Mannion’s beloved Richmond, burned to the ground out of pure spite.
And then, eventually, she was supposed to feel guilty, sell the team, and fade into a quiet, lonely remorse.
Ted was never meant to be the pawn in that petty war.
He was supposed to keep coaching American football in Kansas while moonlighting as a quiet hunter, keeping the Midwestern plains clear of things that crawled out of Hell whenever the Winchesters rolled into town. He was supposed to raise Henry. He was supposed to grow old under a wide, open sky. He was—
Roy's stomach dropped into his boots.
He stood so abruptly his boots screeched against the linoleum.
Every head in the vicinity snapped toward him.
"Roy?" Sam asked, blinking in surprise.
Roy ignored him.
No.
No, no, no.
If Ted wasn't in Kansas...
Who was protecting Kansas?
And if Ted wasn’t in Kansas?
Who was protecting Ted?
The television continued to chatter behind him.
"Well, y'know, if you're lucky enough to coach one football team, why not coach another? That's kinda my philosophy—"
Roy couldn't hear him over the roaring blood in his ears.
His mind was already violently flipping through every hunter he knew was still kicking around the mortal coil.
Bobby Singer. Alive. Good.
The Winchesters. Somewhere in the Midwest last he checked. Probably alive. Hopefully not dead this week.
Jody Mills. Garth. Jo...
No.
Not Jo.
Wrong timeline. Wrong variables.
His mind raced through decades of hunters like an encyclopedic Rolodex spinning out of control. Because Kansas wasn't just a state. Kansas was a cosmic crossroads. It always had been. Supernatural predators drifted there like iron filings drawn toward a massive magnet.
Ted had unknowingly held that defensive line for years, keeping the local horrors at bay through sheer, stubborn force of will and an uncanny knack for stumbling out of danger's way just in time.
Not alone, obviously. He had friends and family.
But he'd always been... there.
Like one more candle keeping the darkness back.
If Ted had left...
Who filled the gap? And who was watching over Ted now that he was entirely defenseless in a foreign country? When did they stop watching over Ted?
"She's going to destroy him," Roy muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble vibrating with suppressed thunder.
Sam looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Rebecca? Nah. I mean, she looks scary as hell, mate. Like a Bond villain who wears really expensive heels. But she’s just trying to save face after hiring an American who thinks offsides is a type of cheese."
Roy let out a sharp, humorless exhale through his nose. If only you knew, mate.
Sam didn’t know. Sam couldn’t remember his own past life as a celestial observer before he, too, took the plunge into humanity. Most reincarnated angels had their memories erased—a cosmic mercy to keep them from going mad. But Roy’s grace had snapped back into place like a rubber band stretched too far, thanks to Castiel’s strange, trench-coat-wearing intervention a few years back. He remembered everything. Every timeline. Every predetermined fate.
And right now, the timeline was bleeding out on live television.
On screen, Ted was flashing that ridiculous, blinding mustache-smile, deflecting a barrage of insults with folksy platitudes about tea tasting like hot brown water. It was classic Ted. The armor he wore to keep the world from seeing the panic attacks clawing at his throat.
Roy’s fists clenched, knuckles turning white. His grace hummed beneath his skin, hot and volatile. It would be so easy. Just a flick of his wrist, a whisper of celestial wind, and he could shatter the lights in the ceiling, clear the room, or throw Trent Crimm out the nearest window.
“Deep breath,” he reminded himself, echoing the advice Castiel had once given him over a cup of coffee.
“You’re human now, Roy. Mostly. Act like it.”
"You're doing that thing again," Sam said, waving a spoon at him. "The glowering eye thing. You look like you're about to murder somebody."
"Shut up, Obisanya," Roy snapped, though the edge was gone from his voice. He rubbed his bad knee, wincing as a sharp throb reminded him of why flying was so much better than walking. "I'm just... processing."
"Processing what? The bloke's a walking cartoon." Sam turned back to the TV just as Ted cheerfully promised to teach the stern English press the magical wonders of karaoke. "Okay, wait. That's actually pretty brilliant."
"He’s a madman," Roy murmured, his eyes locked on Ted's face.
He watched the way Ted's shoulders dropped just a fraction of an inch when the press conference finally ended—the exhausted slump of a man carrying a universe on his back. Ted didn't know it yet, but he was standing on the edge of a cliff. Rebecca was waiting at the bottom with a knife, and the entire city of Richmond was holding a match.
And yet...
Roy felt that tug again. That fierce, magnetic pull right in the center of his chest where his grace lived.
Fate had derailed. The tracks were smashed to pieces. Ted Lasso was in London, walking straight into the lion's den with nothing but a whistle and a heart too big for his own good.
"I need to meet him."
"The coach?"
"Today."
Sam blinked, his jaw dropping slightly. "Training starts in twenty minutes, mate."
"I don't give a fuck."
"The new coaches are gonna kill you."
"I've been killed before."
Sam stared at him for a long, quiet moment. "...That is simultaneously the coolest and most concerning thing you have ever said."
Roy was already grabbing his jacket.
If destiny had changed...
If something had changed Ted's path...
Then there was only one explanation.
Something else had interfered first. He'd seen demons alter mortal trajectories for sport. He'd seen rogue angels rewrite destinies when it suited their hidden agendas. He'd even seen Heaven rewrite memories when it suited them.
But this...
This felt older.
Like reaching into a river you'd known your entire existence and finding the water suddenly flowing uphill.
It made every feather along the invisible span of his wings itch.
He hadn't felt that sensation since—
His blood ran cold.
The Garden.
Not the Garden.
The last mission he'd flown before he fell.
The mission where he'd last touched Theodore Lasso's soul.
Back then, Ted had only been a newborn. Roy had held the tiny, impossibly bright soul in both hands while another angel read the Book of Life.
He remembered every word. "This one must remain untouched."
Not protected. Not guided. Not tempted.
Untouched.
At the time, Roy had thought it odd.
Now...
Now he wondered why Heaven had been so agonizingly specific about it.
Because somebody, somewhere...
Had broken the seal. They had touched Ted Lasso's destiny. And from the look of that shimmering, tangled web of grace wrapped tightly around the coach's soul—
They weren't finished yet.
I will 1000% make this a thing if it does good lol.
For the Evil Dead x Supernatural cross over
Welcome to the prompt suggestion form for SuperPhantom Week 2026! This will be a week to celebrate the best crossover ever — Danny Phantom
SuperPhantom Week 2026, yippe ki-yay!!!!
Danny Phantom / Supernatural (TV 2005), what a funny crossover... let's do this again. Fanfic, fanart, other multimedia or crafts, whatever you want, all are welcome. But I need help with prompts, so let me hear them!!!
Even if you only have a few suggestions please do make them! You do not need to fill out every day <3
the tags for this event will be #superphantomweek2026 and #superphantom
I neeeeed a Supernatural and Creep (2014) crossover. Can you imagine?
Sam and Dean investigate a series of murders around Crestline, hear rumours about a "wolf-man" and go down a wild rabbit hole of different monsters it could be until they come face to face with Just a Guy in a Wolf Mask.
You all knew me as the Soldier Boy x Castiel girl.
This isn’t optional.
It is my duty to repost this. Consider it done.
