✨god games✨

20 years old 🏳️‍🌈

[puppiegracie]

part of the ICE storyline was to show the helplessness of it all. saw a couple people yell at Robby for not doing more but genuinely, what COULD he have done? other than try to get them out of his hospital as soon as possible? all jesse did was try to stop them from hurting her and he was DETAINED. these people are volatile. these people are stupid and dangerous which is an awful combo.

[underwxrldqueen]

I have so many mixed feelings about the new HBO Harry Potter movies. Because on one hand, it does genuinely look good, and I’m excited for the kids who get to experience it for the first time.

But on the other hand, J.K. Rowling is a terrible awful person, and a massive transphobe, and the things she is going to do with the money from those movies is going to ruin the lives of so many people.

It’s so very frustrating because if she wasn’t such a terrible person, we could be excited about these films, but instead, we have to boycott them, and write things like these to spread awareness.

[underwxrldqueen]

Just watched Andor for the first time, and I will never recover. Knowing what happens in rogue one, and the ending, with Bix 😭 and her message for him omfg?!

I see why so many people loved this show. And I also get why the sequels make people so mad, after everything they did to destroy palpatine, he just comes back? Seriously pisses me off.

[jester-nonconforming]

People still tend to lump JK Rowling in with the category of ~problematic artists~ and I need everyone to understand that is not the problem with her. She is not comparable to anyone who wrote a piece of fiction you hate, or someone who made rude comments in 2015 and has since learned better.

She is far more like Elon Musk. She is a radicalized person with an extreme amount of social and financial power, and for YEARS she has been using that power to try to influence her government into hurting vulnerable people, on purpose. And she has succeeded. THAT is the problem with her, and THAT is why spending money on her books is so dangerous, not because her books aged badly.

Critiquing her work is fine, of course (I personally was never a fan so I really don’t care) but you NEED to understand that fiction is not the main issue here. And I truly think acting like she’s the same as the rest of any giant list of ~problematic creators of the week~ waters down how dangerous she is.

[decadent-trans-girl]

[casceth]

i have to reblog this again because i go insane when people act like the problem with her is "its cringe for adults to like kids media" or like "the books sucked anyways" like those are completely irrelevant and try to shift the blame and focus from the active harm. even the fact the books also have bioessentialism and antisemitism is a whole different conversation

[winterswake]

I don't care to die today. It may be that I've killed you with my lie. And if so, I'm sorry. I'm doomed to some kind of hell, I know. Likely one without wine.

HENRY ASHTON as prince Daeron The Drunken A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS 1x04 Seven

[underwxrldqueen]

The obsession I have with this man is unhealthy 😩😩

[jennalouisecolemans]

Based on this post

[whatisstevenabt]

Jane and Kali died in a hell dimension created by their abuser. Robin’s only arc this season was propping up Will. She got together and broke up with Vickie offscreen. The only thing mentions for Max in the ending is that she’s still with Lucas. No one looks out for Erica because she’s “tough”. You can’t convince me this show doesn’t hate women.

[swirlyvie]

karen stayed with her deadbeat husband & joyce also reduced to being hoppers wife

[nick-nellson]

The Sound of Music (1965) dir. Robert Wise

[underwxrldqueen]

You know, I do think Kathryn Hahn would be an incredible casting choice for mother Gothel, in the live action tangled. However, another incredible casting choice would be Helena Bonham Carter.

Like, the sass? The face card? The fvcking INCREDIBLE stage presence?

Omfg she would kill as Mother Gothel.

[underwxrldqueen]

I think we need to petition to bring back the tinkerbell franchise. Those movies are masterpieces, and the animation, music, and plot are almost always amazing.

Like, I have watched them at least once a year, just because. They never get old, I freaking love them❤️

Just… the beauty of the animation, the detail that so clearly went into it. The world building lding. Istg they could do SO MUCH with it.

[cowboystokes]

andy weir and his little space vloggers

[underwxrldqueen]

I’m so excited for Project Hail Mary you have NO IDEA 😭

[marwrite]

figure it out

summary: clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions… and then some.

clark kent x best friend ! reader

themes: soo much fluff. clark is hopelessly devoted to you, but you have no idea. you're a cutie who loves fashion. he is adorable, friends to lovers, funny, domestic clark always! barely proofread, but enjoy xx

You’re running late. Again.

For the fourth time this week, and it’s only a Wednesday.

It’s not your fault. Really, it’s not- nothing was going right to begin with, and the outfit you’d initially planned on wearing ended up hanging off your body like loose rags. You had to change three separate times, and still, you aren’t too pleased with how you look today.

The day is miserable- all rain and clouds and grey skies.  There isn’t an ounce of sunshine to be seen, not even in you, because your typically upbeat personality has been taken and held hostage by the city around you.

“Perry’s gonna kill you.” Clark greets you, umbrella clutched in his free hand that he immediately holds over you as you join him. He slings your bag smoothly off your shoulder, hooking it over his own instead.

Together, you walk in unison; quick, and sharp, your shoulder bumping into his arm due to the height difference.

“Then we better hurry up, Kent.” you say back, earning a chuckle from him.

You walk through the rain, and you don’t notice the way he ducks his head outside of the umbrella completely. How you don’t veer off the jagged path ahead even though it usually pains you to walk in a straight line, because his hand is hovering on your lower back, careful, steady.

You don’t even question why, when you finally get through those double doors, Clark’s curls are almost soaked and you’re bone-dry.

The elevator ride to the top is comfortable, like it always is with Clark.

“How was your evening?”

“I ate ice cream for dinner,” you tell him absentmindedly, “And I rewatched The Devil Wears Prada.”

His eyebrow quirks up, “Must have missed my invite.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you not in a different city last night fighting an intergalactic threat?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I watch the news.”

Clark smirks slightly. Never arrogant or cocky, just knowing. “I still would have come.”

You don’t say anything, busy straightening your shirt and wrapping your coat even tighter around you. When the elevator finally reaches the top of the skyscraper, you’re the first to step out, Clark directly in tow.

Your heels clack against the linoleum floor with a precision that can only come from someone with something to prove; in this case, the fact that you’re late for a good (nobody has to know the truth) reason. Lois looks up for a split second, nodding at you in acknowledgement.

Beside her, Jimmy grins. “What time do you call this?” he jokes.

“Got held up,” Clark lies. You smile inwardly, knowing he was perfectly on time; it was you who couldn’t decide on what to wear this morning, on what rings to pair with what necklaces.

You’d told Clark to go on; I’ll be like, thirty more minutes. I’ll just see you there! You’d said, but of course he refused to listen.

Someone barks your surname. They also bark Clark’s. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“Sorry, Perry.” You and Clark say in unison, his cheeks flushed crimson, yours still cold from the wind. Thankfully, Perry White seems to be in a good mood today; he just shakes his head in exasperation, a small mutter akin to tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum leaving his lips as he places another cigarette between them and turns around.

Clark pulls your chair out for you, waiting for you to sit before he does the same.

“Close call.” he mumbles, and you stifle a laugh.

It’s a busy day; one that stretches for far too long. You type until your eyes blur and you drink coffee until you can’t even taste the bitter burn of it anymore, but you’re focused.

You’re a great journalist, and you’ve chalked that down to be the very reason why Perry gives you so much grace. Why being late is a bump in the road instead of a fireable offense like it is for most people.

It’s Clark you have to thank for that; being his best friend certainly has it’s perks. He knows better than anyone how to charm the Planet’s infamous grump. Over time, you’ve learnt how to mimic him; be bashful when confronted about tardiness, especially by someone like Perry White, and you’re good to go.

After a couple hours of head-down, zipped lipped quiet, he finally breaks the silence.

“How you holding up?” Clark asks you, head hidden behind his own screen. You can’t see him, but you can envision his lips parting as he speaks, eyes trained on whatever word document he currently has open.

“Surviving. You?” you mumble, fingers wrapped around a yellow highlighter that has yet to land on the page. He lets out a chuckle.

“Counting down the seconds until lunch.”

“Are we going out today?” you pop your head around your monitor then, and Clark doesn’t skip a beat before doing the same.

The sight of him- especially after a long 121 minutes without it- makes something flutter dangerously in your stomach. His curls are unruly, piercing blue eyes only the slightest bit red as he looks at you.

You blink the feeling away, willing it to disappear and not come back for at least a little while.

“You want to? Or I could just grab us those bagels you like from the place ‘round the corner?”

“I can come with you,” you offer, but Clark shakes his head, the corners of his mouth upturned.

“No need. I’ve got you.”

You nod, a thankful smile spreading across your lips as you turn back to your desk. Of course, Clark does the same, and under the table you feel the tip of his shoes nudging against your foot.

Your smile only widens, though you try to hide it with a purse of your lips and a clench in your jaw.

It’s not that you have a crush on your best friend- absolutely not. Crushes, you’ve always believed, are for high schoolers; teenagers in faux love who believe that big, ugly bouquets mean romance, and cheesy, outlandish prom-posals equate to a lifetime of happiness.

No, you’re a little more pessimistic than that. And you’re a lot deeper in than that, because unfortunately for you, Clark Kent continues to be a shining example of the world’s most perfect boyfriend.

Minus the kissing. And the holding hands. Also the freakier stuff like sharing a bed, and hugging each other regularly- who ever said being in love was rational?

He’s kind. He’s patient. He waits hours for you to get ready and doesn’t even scold you for wasting his time, just smiles and stares at you like you’ve already done him the biggest favour by simply existing.

He knows your coffee order off by heart, grabs you a couple of sugars every time even though it’s sweet enough- just in case, he always says. He knows you like your bagels from Leon’s on Tuesdays but every other day, it’s Liberty’s or nothing.

Clark remembers. He cares. So deeply.

He is also in love with someone else.

“Just waiting for her to realise, I guess.” he’d told you once, when you asked him why he hadn’t dated anyone since Lois- all while holding a box of Christmas baubles you were picking from.

And he'd told you that he didn't need to date, not unless it was the person he wanted to be with forever. Clark Kent didn't do casual. To him, time was precious, and he simply had no interest in 'playing the field'.

Though even you had to admit; no matter how big the field, it would be very difficult for anyone on Clark’s future roster to compete with the brilliant Lois Lane.

“What if she never does?” you asked, gesturing for him to pass you another bauble to add to the tree.

It was mid-November, and a random chill in the air had you fixated on getting your decorations up ASAP. Naturally, Clark agreed, even playing pack-mule with you in the store as you collected everything caked in artificial frost and tinsel- even a brand-new tree that he held tucked under one arm as you ran up and down the aisles.

Clark simply smiled, eyes holding a shine as he watched you examine a fragile looking ornament, fingers twirling it in the light.

“She'll figure it out. She always does,” he’d said confidently, “One day.”

“What if she takes forever?”

Clark remained unfazed, “Then I’ll wait.” you just raised an eyebrow, dropping the topic immediately and trying to forget how deliciously romantic he sounded right then and there.

That, was six months ago.

And Clark has yet to introduce you to this mystery girl, has yet to even give you her name; you don’t even know what she looks like.

You supposed it was for the best. For now, you were happy living in blissful ignorance. Just until you got over this silly little love-crush of yours. Or, until you pushed yourself to finally start dating again and could finally forget about this whole thing.

You continue typing, the words blurring together incoherently. By the time 12:30pm comes around, your stomach is grumbling and it’s only the noise of everyone packing up for lunch that breaks your concentration.

Clark is already standing up from his desk, stretching those muscles of his that never go stiff, yet he does it anyway because it’s what everyone else does.

You lock eyes with him as he makes his way around the edges of the table.

“The usual?” he asks. You nod with a grateful smile.

“Please. Take my card-“ you’re already fumbling for your wallet, but Clark shakes his head firmly.

“No need. I’ll be back in ten.” He tells you, and before either of you can register what happens next, he leans down. Smoothly.

And gives you a peck on the lips.

It’s quick. It’s over within a split second. But it still happens; and when Clark pulls back without so much of a stunned look or an apology on his face, you swear you can still feel the plush skin of his lips on yours.

“Text me if you think of anything else you want.” he says coolly, as if he didn’t just short-circuit your entire being.

And he’s gone.

Just like that; he turns on his heel, nods goodbye to a gobsmacked Jimmy Olsen, and heads for the elevator. Leaving you; stunned, shocked, baffled, detonating in your seat.

You don’t move. For a long while, Jimmy mimicks you, eyes wide as his gaze darts between the elevator where Clark was and your desk, where you currently still are. And probably will be for days to come.

Eventually, he wheels his seat over to you.

“What was-“

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he-“

“I don’t know,” you swallow, and with a disbelieving shake of your head, you turn back to your desk, palms flat out on the table as a way of anchoring yourself to it. For a long while, Jimmy doesn’t speak, silently begging you to.

But you can’t. You physically can’t. Because it may have been an accident- it’s not unusual for Clark to give you a kiss on the forehead, an occasional one on the cheek if he’s feeling extra gratuitous. But on the lips?

Maybe he missed. Maybe, you turned your head without even realising it- and maybe, right now, he’s on his way to Liberty’s trying to come up with ways to end your friendship because he definitely knows now, if he didn’t before.

He knows, and he’s disgusted, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he came back with your bagel in a bag and a stern talking to about how you shouldn’t move your head when people lean in for cheek-kisses.

You decide you will never eat another bagel ever again in your entire life. You will be bagel-less and Clark Kent-less and best friend-less for the rest of time and it’s all because you couldn’t control yourself.

But you know you’re being stupid, because Clark is many things. Superman being the most important one of them- he catches rolling pencils before they can fall to the floor, nudges you gently out of the way when rain falls off outer stall canopies so you won’t get wet. He has reflexes that the normal man doesn’t. If you were to turn your head, he’d know, and he’d stop.

So why didn’t he stop?

You’re still frozen by the time he gets back. He has your bagels in their usual printed takeaway bag and he’s flushed from the cold, tie slightly crooked, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose.

He forgets to steady them, the grin on his face pointed so directly towards you that it distracts him completely.

Your eyes widen, hand shooting up instinctively just as they’re on the cusp of clattering to the floor. You push them up for him, the tip of your middle finger barely brushing against the bridge of his nose.

He smiles, crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Jimmy’s jaw on the floor.

“Thanks,” Clark says softly, and because your heart is going a million miles per minute, you just nod a reply back.

He sets the bagels on your desk, pulls his chair around to sit next to you.

“So,” he starts, getting the food out like he always does. You, first; he unwraps your bagel, sets your sauces out, and drapes a tissue across your lap. “What ice cream did you have last night?”

You tell him, carefully at first, reluctantly, like it wasn’t just vanilla and caramel. But Clark doesn’t catch on.

He just nods, attentive as always. He laughs when you make a joke, tells you in a hushed tone about his new friend in Gotham, Bruce Wayne. He’s an alright guy, bit serious though. And he wipes the corner of your mouth when you get a bit of ketchup on it. But he doesn’t bring up the kiss.

So, neither do you.

Clark keeps kissing you.

And you, well- all you can do is keep pretending you’re not actively malfunctioning every single time it happens.

At first you assume it’s a one-off. A strange, meteorological anomaly- like those fish that sometimes fall from the sky. Weird, very rare, and inexplicable.

But then he does it again the next day.

It’s the same routine: lunch break, Clark grabbing the food, you offering to pay, him refusing like always. Except now there’s a new beat to the choreography; one that involves him leaning in, cupping the side of your elbow like you’re made of spun glass, and giving you a very deliberate, very real peck on the lips before leaving. It’s gotten deeper since the first, you realise.

And every single time, you just sit there like someone unplugged you from the wall.

Jimmy has stopped pretending he isn’t watching. He mostly just gasps now. Out loud. Very dramatically.

Thursday, Clark arrives with two macchiatos and a cinnamon walnut pastry you mentioned liking once. You’re about to thank him when he dips forward and presses- there it is again- a warm, soft peck to your lips.

“Be right back,” he murmurs, like that is the casual part of this exchange.

This time, your confusion is so loud it actually echoes. Beside you, Jimmy drops his pen, and it rolls for three desks.

By Friday, you try to mentally prepare. You puff your cheeks out, slap them lightly, tell yourself that if he does it again, you will absolutely ask him what on earth is going on.

But of course, you don’t. You don’t ask your best friend anything.

Because the second he leans down and those soft lips brush yours in that infuriatingly tender, maddeningly gentle Clark-Kent way, your brain promptly ejects itself out the window.

He walks off, humming, as you slowly rotate in your chair like a malfunctioning Roomba.

Your head is foggy, filled with so many unanswered questions that somehow, feel so far from being said out loud.

Nothing’s changed, oddly enough. Clark still walks you home. Still hovers over your desk, helping you with rewrites and amendments. He still brings you lunch and spends Wednesday evenings watching re-runs with you in your apartment.

He just… kisses you, now. Pecks you, more like, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And before you know it, days pass. Days turn into weeks, and naturally- predictably- it gets worse.

Or better. Or whatever this is.

Because now- now, Clark starts doing it not just before lunch. He no longer limits himself, and you still say nothing.

He kisses you goodbye when he heads home for the night.

Kisses you hello when you meet at the elevator in the morning.

He kisses you when he hands you a report you asked for.

And, he even kisses you when you complain about the printer.

Tiny, sweet, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pecks. Like he’s testing you. Like he’s waiting; for what, you don’t know, but what you do know is that you are very close to the brink of explosion.

By the time a whole month passes, your confusion has reached clinically concerning levels. Your Google search history is comical, an amalgamation of confusion and shock before you swiftly swapped to incognito;

do best friends kiss on lips??

signs of short term memory loss

am I hallucinating long-term?

long term hallucination symptoms

group long term hallucination

do kryptonian people greet each other with kiss

You search with a slight hunch, your entire body covering your phone screen in both fear and shame of someone seeing. You’re desperate; completely at your wits’ end, and Clark seems to be none the wiser.

But then, comes the moment everything changes.

It’s late. Everyone else has gone home, and the newsroom is buzzing only with low lights and the distant hum of the city outside.

It’s just you and Clark, finishing up an article he’s been helping you with.

You’re buried in revisions, your brains working in sync as you push through the exhaustion of the last few weeks. You and Clark had gotten better about leaving on time, but with deadlines closing in, staying late wasn’t really optional tonight.

You’re tired, very much so- to the point where pretending like you’re not bothered is a feat in itself. Clark is focused, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans over your shoulder to point at something on the screen.

And then- like it’s the easiest thing in the world- he tilts your chin gently with two fingers and gives you a slow, lingering kiss on the lips.

Not a peck this time. Not a blink.

A kiss.

A real, life-altering, friendship-make-or-breaking kiss that injects electricity in your veins and brings all your dead senses back to life. It’s wonderful. It’s passionate. And above all, it is scary.

You freeze. But instead of pulling back like he usually does, Clark stays there, lips pressed softly to yours, patient as ever. Waiting. Wanting in silence, for you to respond.

So, you do.

Your body moves before your brain can protest, before any part of you testifies against the very notion of giving in- your hand curls into the front of his shirt, you tilt upward, and suddenly you’re kissing him back.

Your lips are slow as they move together; at first, awkward. Then, the awkwardness melts into something familiar, something warm.

And finally, it turns absolutely, heart-stoppingly illegal.

Just waiting for her to realise, his words play over and over- incessant, like a broken record- in your mind.

One day.

You fit together perfectly, you and Clark. Your lips do all the work while your minds fight to catch up. He makes a tiny noise- a surprised, happy sound- and you swear you can feel his smile against your mouth.

You pull back first, breath uneven, eyes wide and stunned in a way you can’t even hide. Your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt like you forgot to let go.

Your grip doesn't loosen on the fabric, too afraid to disrupt the moment you’re both suspended in.

Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you, chest rising slowly, hope written all over him. You can't speak, so you don't.

But something in your face- the shock, the realisation trying to break through and finally shake some sense into you- makes him smile.

It softens as he looks at you, folding into something heartbreakingly tender.

“I told you…” Clark murmurs softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. His eyes graze your lips again, already hungry for more, “that you’d figure it out.”

i have a problem with overexplaining things and i really tried not to w this fic - tried something different!! hope you liked <33

[underwxrldqueen]

This was incredible, I was giggling the whole way through😂

[sarahs-delights]

Rizal Badar's beautiful fanart for Wicked: For Good.

[underwxrldqueen]

This is stunning holy shit

[juniper-petunia]

they should make a version of socializing that doesn’t make you feel like you’re still the weird 12 year old kid that doesn’t know why she’s not normal like the other kids

[valtsv]

the worst thing about writing or any kind of craft is having an idea you're really excited to make a reality but then you sit down and realize how much work it's going to take to get to that point and suddenly you feel like those two little gay guys in the mountain in the lord of the rings

[valtsv]

do you remember how good it was in our head mr frodo

[underwxrldqueen]

😭 honestly why can’t crafts be easy but also fulfilling, it would be so much more fun

[underwxrldqueen]

loml

Pairing: dean winchester x florist!reader

wc: 4.2k

cw: death, trauma, depression, excessive drinking, Dean being emotionally constipated, angst, tiny bit of fluff, a lil bit of john winchester hate

summary: you were the love of his life. and the loss of his life.

a/n: so I randomly got the motivation to write while I was watching supernatural, so enjoy this messy, barely proofread, heart-crushing fic. its giving wife that dies at the beginning of the movie, and i'm kinda living for it

Dean has never been good at emotions. Ever since he was a kid, his dad cussed him out for crying after a nightmare and waking him up. He's been taught to “push them down, boy” and hide them, and that if he ever lets them slip out, he'll get punished for it. Even with Sam, whom he’s more open with than anyone, he can barely cry in front of, let alone tell him about all the inner workings of his mind, and if he did, what would Sam say?

Probably do his signature puppy dog eyes and comfort him, but what good would that do? It doesn’t change how he's feeling; it only changes who knows how fucked up and pathetic he is.

No, it's much easier to hold it all in.

Maybe not the healthiest.

He hears your voice in his head and stutters out a laugh.

He's been hearing your voice in his head a lot more lately, probably because it’s coming up on the anniversary. And at the thought of that dreaded date, he clutches his chest, as if he’s in pain. And physically, he isn’t.

His mind, however, is another matter. The number of times he's had to stop himself from laughing out loud at remembering a memory, or stop himself from sobbing at the more difficult ones.

“The days leading up to it are always the worst, y’know?” he hears Sam’s voice from behind him, and nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus, man, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Dean grumbles, quickly composing himself and sitting up straighter,

“Maybe knock next time?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Sam responds, but he doesn't look particularly regretful,

“But you heard what I said?” Dean raises his eyebrows in mock confusion, then rolls his eyes and nods.

“Yeah, man, I heard it, thanks.” he turns away from Sam, getting up and grabbing his jacket,

“We have a case to research, let's go,” he feels Sam's hand on his arm and turns around.

“You can't avoid talking about it forever. It's gonna catch up and it's all gonna come crashing down,” he scoffs and lets Dean's arm go,

“God knows it did for me. With Jess. I didn't talk about it for too long, and it blew up in my face. You were there, man, you know how bad it got.”

And Dean does. He had been there, on that case, when they had found the 3 girls all tied up in a vamp nest.

2 of them were barely alive, and the last one…

She had been blonde, with similar features, and the wounds on her body were so similar to the ones Jess had had. And Sam had lost it. He massacred the rest of the nest by himself, and then went back to the motel and raged for 2 hours. Then cried for another hour. He had been so angry at the world, but mostly angry with himself.

Dean remembers it like it was yesterday, because he remembers the choked words leaving Sam.

“It was my fault, Dean. I know you said it wasn't, but it really was. I should've just told her everything. Or come back sooner. Or done - done something.” He had looked more pained than Dean had ever seen him, and it had been one of the few times that Dean had very nearly broken down in front of Sam.

Because Sam in pain was one of the worst things he'd ever seen.

And then you happened. And he realized that pain is a spectrum, and sometimes it hurts more when it's in the heart.

A choked breath leaves Dean, and he nearly breaks, but then he steels himself and rises.

“I know how bad it was, Sam, but I'll be fine. I'm handling it,” he gives a fake smile and heads for the door, swinging his keys on his finger,

“You coming, or not?” he raises his eyebrows, and Sam sighs and follows him, seemingly resigned to Dean's continued ignorance.

As Dean reaches the Impala, a memory flashes in his mind, a moment in time.

“Y’know, you are a terrible flirt, Winchester!” you giggle, your fingers toying with the top of the car as the wind dances in your hair. Dean's hand rests on your thigh as you drive down the highway.

“Oh, I know. It's one of my best personality traits.” Dean responds, turning his head to look over at you. For a moment, he's blinded; the light shining off your face might as well be the sun for how brightly it glows. You're smiling over at him, your hair blowing in front of your face, his heavy leather jacket draped over your shoulders.

He thinks you might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“I love you, you know that, right?” he says, not a hint of joking in his voice.

“I may not be great with saying it all that much, but I really do,” you beam over at him, and intertwine your fingers with his.

“You do say it. In all the ways that matter.” You bring your intertwined hands up and kiss his,

“You get me flowers every time my old ones die. You remembered my favourite band and got me tickets to their show. In two towns over. After I mentioned them once. You,” you giggle a little,

“You got me my favourite candies after I mentioned I was craving them.” Dean looks bewildered,

“Isn't that what any good boyfriend does?” You bite your lip, loving him even more.

“Not all boyfriends will drive to 12 different stores trying to find them. That's definitely showing your love.” You lean over and kiss his cheek.

“So yes, I know you love me. I love you too, dumbass.” But you're smiling as you say it, and Dean is smiling back, and everything feels perfect.

And Dean is jolted back into the present by Sam slamming the car door, the emptiness returning. He gets into the car, and he thinks Sam asks if he's okay, and he thinks he says yes, but all he can really think is drive. Drive and drive and never stop, because if he stops, this overwhelming crushing feeling will catch up to him.

And he's not sure he can survive it.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

By the end of the day, Dean is exhausted, frustrated and prone to biting Sam's head off. They found exactly one lead in their case, but unfortunately, that one lead turned up dead 3 hours later, so they're back to guesswork. As they're driving back to the motel, Dean catches sight of a bar that looks relatively empty, and decides he wants to get drunk. He pulls into the parking lot and stops the car.

“Let's get a drink, Sammy. I think we both need one,” he gets out, and Sam follows suit, looking a little wary.

“You sure that's a great idea, Dean? You're already pretty fired up.”

“Yeah, that's the point. It’ll dull the senses!” Dean shrugs his shoulders, locks the car, and heads for the doors, already planning to get completely smashed. If that doesn't make him forget, nothing will.

“Dude, I really think-”

“Can you just let me cope in the way I know best? Please?” Dean's voice cracks slightly as he turns back to Sam.

“I just wanna drink till I can't remember why I was upset. I get that it's not the best, but it's the only way I can think to deal with this right now. So just-” he waves a hand at Sam and turns back to the door,

“You can go. I'll walk back to the motel. I don't wanna bother you with my shit.” He doesn't hear Sam's reply as the doors of the bar shut behind him, and he doesn't hear him follow, so he must have left. Dean lets out a breath as he sits at the bar and signals the bartender to get him two whiskeys. It's gonna be a long night.

2 hours later, Dean is 5 whiskeys in and feeling slightly less insane when he feels a hand on his arm.

“So, you're new around here,” a sultry voice says, and he turns to see a short, perky, raven-haired woman, exactly the type of woman he used to hit on in bars without blinking.

Until you. Until everything went to shit, and he lost the one person he fully opened up to, and all the progress he made fell apart.

“Yeah, I sure am,” Dean replies, not looking at her and downing another whiskey.

“Having a bad day, are we? I can help make it better,” her hand trails up his arm, and then onto his chest. Dean's hand shoots out and pushes her arm off.

“Sorry, sweetheart, not interested. I hope you have a great night, though.” Then he turns away, assuming she got the message.

But apparently not, because he feels her fingers trailing up his back.

“C'mon, baby, I’m sure whatever it is, I can make it better. My name's-” he cuts her off before she can finish the sentence.

“I don't care, I’m not into you, and I never will be.  There's only one woman for me, and she's-” his voice cracks slightly,

“She's fucking gone,” He shuts up after that, definitely not intending for that to come out.

He shoves her off of him and drops some cash on the bar, muttering,

“Keep the change,” to the bartender, and without even looking at the women, leaves the bar. He doesn't stay to hear the bartender muttering to the woman, or to the whispering of the few people who were left in that shitty bar.

As he steps outside, the feeling of the wind hits him, and he groans, his feet stumbling a little from the many drinks he's had.

“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, turning the collar of his jacket up and starting the short walk to the motel.

Most of the town is asleep at this hour, lamps lighting up the empty streets. There's a few cars parked along the sides of the road, and he's admiring a nice one, trying to keep himself from falling over, when he sees it.

A little store, crammed in between two bigger ones, but of course, he'd notice it. He approaches the window, his fingers trailing on the glass.

Flowers, of every colour and kind. Roses, daisies, lilies, but the ones that caught his eye are right at the front.

A beautiful bouquet of perfect, blooming dahlias. And he's hit with another memory.

The smell of a million different scents hit his nose all at once as the door of the florist's opens and he steps inside. He feels entirely out of place, with his stained jeans and ripped jacket and many scars. This feels like a delicate place for people who don't hunt monsters on the weekends. He hears a bell jingle as the door shuts, and takes a few steps inside, when he jumps at the sound of a throat clearing.

“Can I help you, sir?” a soft voice says, and he whips around.

There you stand, in all your glory, with your beautiful hair tied back, a soft green apron tied around your waist, a dahlia perfectly placed behind your ear. He bets you smell just like the flowers you work with every day, and he wishes he could just breathe it in. A smile cracks your lips as you realize who it is.

“Dean! I didn't realize you were coming by today!” You immediately run to wrap your arms around him, and his hands find your waist, lifting you to twirl you around. You giggle, and the sound breathes life into him.

When he places you back down, it only takes a moment for his mouth to find yours in a long, breathtaking kiss. You feel him smile against your lips, and suddenly you're both laughing softly.

“Hi,” he says softly, pulling back to look at you, one of his hands coming up to cradle your face.

“Hey,” you say back, grinning up at him,

“I missed you. I’m glad you came by, but I thought you were busy today?” he shakes his head, his face hurts from how much he’s smiling.

“Nope, I finished up everything I needed to pretty quickly, and I wanted to come see my girl.” His hand is still on your waist, and he pulls you back in for another, slightly more heated kiss. It takes everything in you to pull back, but you do.

“Dean, I do have to work…” You trail off as his hand makes its way into your hair, tilting your neck as he leaves a couple of soft kisses there, breathing in your lovely scent. You sigh a little and then shake yourself.

“No, Dean,” you push him back, but keep one hand on his jacket,

“I have so much to get done. But I want to see you after work. Okay?” You almost melt as he does puppy dog eyes, nearly as successful as Sam's are, but you hold your resolve.

“I’m gonna see you later, okay? We’ll get shitty diner food and make out in your car for a few hours.” his eyes light up at the prospect, but he drops his head onto your shoulder and groans lightly.

“You're killing me, woman.. I have to wait,” he checks your watch,

“3 whole hours? I’m gonna die!” You roll your eyes at his dramatics and leave one more quick kiss on his lips.

“We’ll see each other later. I promise.”

The force of it hits him all at once, and his breaths leave in gasps.

He remembers every single second of that day. Every mistake, every choice he made. He's mapped it out in his mind every which way, trying to figure out if he could’ve prevented what happened.

Sam has told him before that there's no point worrying about it now. Thinking won't change the past. But that doesn't fix what he feels. That doesn't fix the crushing hole of guilt in his chest where you used to be.

The ringing of his phone wakes him from his stupor, and he grabs it instantly.

“Hey, baby, you finished work early?” The sound of you gasping and sobbing over the phone has him shooting up, reaching for his jacket and gun.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“There was someone behind the store, Dean, but he's not normal,” you sob into the phone; he can practically feel your hands shaking.

“Dean, he's got, like, black eyes or something. He killed Amy, threw her against the wall and her-” the sentence is cut off by a loud bang. And the sound of you scrambling.

“Her neck snapped instantly. Jayson is out there trying to fight him, and I don't know…” Dean's heart breaks at your scared voice, his heart stopping at the mention of demons.

“What do I do, Dean? I called the cops, but they're so far away.” Dean grabs his keys, shakes Sam awake from where he's lying on his bed, and heads for the door.

“I’m coming, sweet thing. Just stay hidden, I'm coming to get you. Stay hidden, you hear me?” You whisper a yes, and then the call cuts out. He races for the car, filling Sam in as they jump in and drive.

The place is a wreck when they arrive, chairs broken, cracked windows, and worst of all, blood. And lots of it. His heart stops, and he's running through the broken front door shouting your name.

“Where are you? Answer me, sweetheart.” he doesn't get a response, and his heart sinks even further as he follows a trail of blood with his eyes. It leads from the open back door all the way to the back room, and all the breath leaves his lungs as he sees you, lying on the ground, not moving. You're not moving.

The memory is going through his mind, like a runaway train that never stops. He sinks to his knees in front of the store, body shaking with the effort of holding it all in.

“Baby, wake up. Please wake up!” He's shaking you, screaming your name, and Sam is beside him, and tears are rolling down his cheeks, but Dean doesn't notice that. He doesn't notice anything except the blood still running from the hole in your chest. The hole where your heart used to be, where Dean's was too.

And he feels a part of him break.

He doesn't cry. No. Dean isn't someone who deals with these things the normal way.

No, Dean gets revenge.

For the next month and a half, Dean manages to track down every single demon that was responsible for your death, slicing and beating and strangling until every last one is dead. Before he kills the last one, they leave him with one final parting blow.

“Y’know, your girl? She never would have died if you'd just stayed away. We only killed her to hurt you.”

The sound of screaming follows before Dean stabs the demon in the heart, seeing red.

Dean can feel everything coming up, every single emotion he's held back for the past year, and he tries to claw it back down, to force it back into the box in his mind where it can't hurt him, but that just is not how it works, is it?

No, it isn't, Dean. He hears your voice again, and that nearly does him in. He knows what you'd say in this moment. He always does.

Crying is healthy, Dean. Crying with someone else is even better. It's like an orgasm for the soul. I do it all the time.

You'd told him that a month after you’d started dating, and he'd nearly choked on his burger at the words. You'd blushed a little after saying it, but he had found it hilarious.

If you never share your feelings with anybody but me, it's never gonna get easier. You have to open up a little to heal.

He closes his eyes as he pictures your sweet voice scolding him, smiling slightly.

He can still picture your face, your beautiful smile, the freckles that dotted your nose and cheeks. The sweet, melodical sound of your voice, and the way you always had paint stains on your clothes.

C’mon dean. Be brave, for me.

Dean lets out a shaky sigh. Standing from where he was kneeling on the pavement, he heads for the motel, the alcohol still in his system just enough for him to make himself have this conversation.

Sam is still awake when he arrives, typing away on his computer, and his head snaps up when Dean enters. He gives him a nod, then goes back to his research, but he does a double-take when he sees Dean's state.

“Dude, what happened? Are you okay?” He stands up and heads for Dean, but he puts up a hand to stop him.

“Just- give me a minute, okay? I’m… working up to this.” Dean looks at the ceiling, willing himself to be brave. Because for you, he will always be brave.

“Working up to… what exactly?” Sam says, looking confused, but when Dean sits on the bed and puts his head in his hands, Sam sits beside him.

“This-fuck, I’m not good at this, okay? You know that. But …” he sighs and lies back on the bed, groaning,

“You're right. I’m not okay. I’m fucked in the head, and I’m not coping, and I’m not talking to you about it. And I’m sorry for that,” he glances over at Sam, who looks surprised but relieved.

“And I really wish I were better at this kind of stuff, but I'm not. I was getting better, until…” he trails off, but Sam knows how that sentence ends.

“I know. I could tell, y’know? I mean, you were definitely more open with her, but you were getting better with communication in general. Bobby and I noticed. And I’m sorry that all of this shit happened, but that doesn't mean we'll stop being your support system. You just have to ask.”

“I know that. Really, I do. It's just the asking part that's hard.” Dean groans and sits up, hands laced behind his head,

“And you're right, I was never much good at this stuff except for with her,” he smiles softly,

“She helped me. A lot. And when she died…” his voice cracks a little, and he can feel a wave. A tsunami of emotions rising up, as he finally, finally, opens up.

“It fucked me up, Sam. She was good. And kind. And pure. And she didn't deserve the end she got, not one bit. And if I hadn't met her, if I'd just stayed away, she never would have died.” The breaths are leaving him in gasps again, and his shoulders are shaking.

Good, Dean. Feel it. It's the only way you'll ever get over me. He can practically hear the smile in your voice. He lets out a shaky breath, and then the dam breaks. Tears begin rolling down his cheeks, and he cracks.

Sam holds him through it, and later, when they head back to Bobby's, Bobby does too.

“You know, I think even if she had known the life you lived, she still would've wanted in,” Sam says, startling Dean a little. He sits up, wiping his face with his hand.

“What? O’course she wouldn't. Did you see the kind of person she was? She would've lost it!” Sam shakes his head.

“Nah, she may have seemed like a delicate flower on the outside, but she had a fondness for all things creepy and crawly. Remember,” Sam laughs a little,

“Remember that day she was working, and she came by after with an entire box of those ugly little caterpillars? She said they'd been eating the flowers, and she was supposed to kill them, but she felt so bad for them that she took them all home instead.” Dean laughs a little at the memory, remembering the look on your face, and you told them about the many details of the bugs.

“And she was a badass. You can't deny that. She wasn't exactly helpless, Dean. I think she would've found our life intriguing, at the very least. And I don't think anything you said would’ve changed her mind about you.” Sam squeezes him before letting go, and Dean shakes himself a little. Then Sam tilts his head at him.

“What made you want to talk, anyway? It's pretty out of the blue.”

“Out of all things, it was flowers,” he shakes his head,

“I was walking back from the bar, and there they were. Dahlias. The same kind she was wearing the day she…” he cuts himself off, and Sam nods, understanding.

“Well, I think it's probably good you got all this out. It's not gonna fix everything, but it's a step, Dean.” he nudges him with his shoulder,

“A big step. And I’m proud of you. And she would be too.”

Dean sniffs and runs his hands through his hair.

“She’d probably tear me a new one for taking this long to talk to you, though,’ he laughs a little,

“She always said I needed to open up, share my emotions. That if I just got over my fear and talked to you about shit, we wouldn't have nearly as many problems.” Sam shakes his head, but he's smiling.

“She was probably right. And honestly? You may be shit at dealing with your emotions, but I’m not much better.” Dean scrunches his brows in confusion.

“The hell are you talking about? You're Mister touchy-feely, heart-on-your-sleeve guy, always have been. You're the one always trying to get me to talk!” Sam smiles softly.

“Yeah, maybe that's true. That doesn't mean I was totally honest with you about how I was feeling, though. I was when it came to Jess, after a while, but when everything happened?” Sam's face crumples a little,

“Dean, neither of us did a great job of showing how we felt, but I think if I'd been more honest from the beginning, it would've saved us a hell of a lot of trouble. Her death messed me up, too. Maybe not as bad as you, but we were close. Close enough that when she died, a part of me just… couldn't process it. But instead of shoving it all down, like you did, I pushed and pushed for you to be honest, as if that would somehow make it easier for me.” Sam sighs, and Dean sees some of the brokenness that has been inside him.

“I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry that I didn't take better efforts to help you. To help the both of us. But I’m gonna do a lot better now, I promise.” Dean sees the pained expression on Sam's face and nearly breaks again.

“It's okay, Sam. It's not your fault,” Sam scoffs and goes to argue, but Dean cuts him off.

“No, Sam. I mean, it's not entirely your fault. Sure, you should have communicated better, but I should’ve too. It's always been a fatal flaw of mine, and I swear I’m gonna work on that.” his hand lands on Sam’s shoulder, making eye contact,

“I am. But honestly? If we keep blaming ourselves, it's only gonna feel worse, so I say we stop doing that. Now.” Sam nods, and Dean feels the gaping hole inside of him stitch over a little.

It may take months, or years, or forever, but he’ll heal. Slowly but surely.

[underwxrldqueen]

Every single time I watch supernatural I get reminded as to why I hate John Winchester so much. That man was possibly the worst father I’ve ever seen, he treated his sons like soldiers and barely cared when they nearly died.

I’m on the season finale of season 1, and I’m sitting there watching, and John is scolding Sam for NOT killing him while Dean is barely alive in the backseat, trying not to bleed out.

I will never understand John apologists who say that he was just like that because he was grieving, or he missed his wife, or whatever. Sam lost his almost-fiancé, and you didn’t see him treating his family like shit, did you?