Coincidence Series

A/n: I finished the Series. A huge thank you to @anticipate1003 for beta action through the whole process. And a special thanks to @joseyrw for the sweet fanart above. I am working on my next piece so buckle up. ;)

Part 1 - Meeting the Winchesters

Part 2 - Tell me about your past

Part 3 - Have you met my brother?

Part 4 - I need my coffee to function

Part 5 - DoReMi and Edelweiss

Part 6 - The one with the Dream

Part 7 - What’s in the box?

Part 8 - Follow the piece of paper…

Part 9 - All work and no play..

Part 10 - The Hunt

Part 11 - Blood and Tears

Part 12 - Wake up

Feel free to share :)

@anticipate1003 @trexrambling @torn-and-frayed @wheresthekillswitch 

2 years ago I posted this... can’t believe how long it has been

Desperados Under the Eaves

A/n: song request from anon. Desperadoes Under the Eaves by Warren Zevon. How did you know this was my jam?

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: Pre-season one. Sam breaks Dean’s heart. Stanford-era.

Warnings: sad Dean, day drinking, feeling a close kinship with a fly

Desperados Under the Eaves

The cheap whisky had quit burning his throat hours ago, so he takes another pull, just to prove he has beaten it. Late afternoon and the sun is shining in angrily through the west-facing windows of the run down motel bar. Drinking alone on a Wednesday. The picture of health. An old window unit air conditioner rattles away in the background. Might as well turn it off for all the good it was doing. The fly that had been buzzing around for the last half hour or so lands on Dean’s thumb where it was helping to grip the lowball that’s his lifeline. He watches its oil-slick colors dance as it jerks in its fly-gait back and forth on his finger. ‘Hello, friend,’ he thinks as he watches it with blurry eyes.

The fly jolts suddenly and sets off to continue its futile attempt at escaping the bar. Dean watches it bounce off the hot, sun scorched windows. ‘Keep tryin’, little buddy,’ he thinks at the insect, knowing what it’s like to feel trapped. His head is swimming. Partly because of what he had seen and partly because he knew he had defied a direct order and an ass whooping was gonna be in store when he met back up with his dad. These days he was confused about what his job actually was. His whole life it had been, ‘Take care of Sammy, Dean. I’ll be back in a few days.’

His very soul balked at the thought of leaving his brother behind. Felt wrong in the same way that what he was doing now felt wrong. Everything was wrong and he didn’t know how to right it. Tossing back the remainder of his drink, he signals the bartender for another. He watches the amber liquid fill the glass as he listens to the hum of the air conditioner and the thunk thunk of the fly hurling itself against the glass in futility.

Seemingly of its own accord, his hand wanders to the bronze pendant that hangs at his chest. Gripping it so tightly that it bites into his fingers, he closes his eyes and says a silent prayer. To who, for who, he didn’t know exactly. Maybe to his brother, his light, his responsibility. Maybe to his father, his owner, the one he obeyed and the one whose trust he was maybe breaking right now.

‘He left us, Dean. He left you. Doesn’t understand how important this life is. But you do, son. Don’t you?’

Dean had simultaneously cowed and inflated at his father’s almost-praise. The only thing that he had ever truly wanted for himself, he had thought. But now Sammy was gone and he didn’t know what to do. Every morning he woke up in his post-sleep haze to check on his brother, as he always had, and his stomach fell through the floor. He would start sweating and his hands would shake until he got that first shot mixed in with his coffee. Dad noticed, but never said anything, pain an expected part of bearing the Winchester name.

John was up in Windom, Minnesota now. Working a case with an old Hunter buddy of his. And he had left Dean at some rundown motel in Nevada, saying he could handle this one on his own. Stitched him up and reset his remaining son’s shoulder before he left, though. That last hunt was brutal and Dean was glad to have a respite from being the bait. Seemed like John was throttling it all the way into the red since Sam had left. He sat alone, nursing his wounds for two days before he had tried to call his brother, just needing to hear his voice and know he was ok. Hoped he was happy.

The number twenty seven was swimming in Dean’s head. The number of times he’d gotten Sam’s voice mail. ‘This is Sam. Leave a message.’ He couldn’t take it anymore after the twenty seventh time. Had to see for himself that his brother was ok. Tired of making mac and cheese for one, he’d driven to Stanford, hoping that his brother had that same hollowness in him, knowing that his father would be volatile.

Arriving on campus, Dean got out of the car that had been their home, a sense of peace washing over him, knowing that his brother was close, superseding the uneasiness swirling in his gut over having disobeyed. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his father’s leather jacket and punched in the numbers he knew by heart. Lifting it to his ear, he heard the familiar sound of ringing that was soon accompanied by a similar sound across the commons area where he was standing.

There. Nestled amongst a group of clean-looking kids was his brother, laughing with the blonde girl sitting next to him. Dean’s heart swelled with joy seeing that smile on Sam’s face. He could feel it’s twin stretching his own cheeks at their inevitable reunion. Watching as his brother reached into his ringing pocket, anticipating the glee he would show at discovering Dean had come all this way to see him, he bounced on the balls of his feet.

Sam pulled the phone out of his pocket, still laughing with the girl to his right, flipped it open, frowned, and sent it to voicemail.

As someone who has felt a helluva lot of pain in his life, Dean could definitively say that was the worst blow he had ever been dealt. Like taking a hard hit to the diaphragm, but worse, deeper. Some body part he couldn’t name had been injured beyond repair. He fled back to the car, trying to breathe. Needing something, anything, to counteract the rattling of the legos coming from the vents in the dash.

So, here he is. Made it the twenty miles to San Jose before he had to stop for a drink. Got a room for the night, but doesn’t know how he’s gonna pay for it. His shoulder aches and the stitches across his ribs pull when he leans over to pick up his glass. The phone in his pocket buzzes and he knows who it is before he answers, doesn’t hold on to any hope that it’s the one person he wants it to be.

‘Yes, sir,’ he says, ‘I’ll be there in six hours.’ At least he doesn’t have to worry about paying for the room. The fly is still beating itself to death against the windows, silhouetted against the dying sun and the shadows of the leafless trees beyond. He wishes it the best of luck, knowing exactly how it feels.

————-

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Masterpiece!! Where on earth do you got all that from? You got a little witch helping you out or something?

Fist Full of Rain

A/n: This was inspired by @hannahindie’s song request, Jolene by Ray Lamontagne. If you’re thinking of Dolly right now, you need to stop. This ain’t Dolly’s kinda rodeo.

Word count: 1.5k

Summary: Dean has turned to the harder stuff to cope. It even works for a little while.

Warnings: Hurt!Dean, drug abuse, alcoholism, depression, suicidal tendencies

Fist Full of Rain

The streetlight outside cast strange shadows over the table in the dark motel room. The empty lowball rested easy in the dark, sitting next to the plastic wrapper from a pack of smokes that held the remnants of his latest vice. He picked it up and twirled it between his fingers, feeling the weight of what was left. Tossing it back on the table, it came to rest against a tape case that once contained Zeppelin IV, but which now was a tool for his almost-addiction. Four neat white rows had graced its cover a half hour ago, obscuring the old man bent over by the weight of his heavy load. One row remained. Picking up the MasterCard that was supposed to belong to one Gerald Mason, Dean leaned over and cut the line of cocaine into two smaller ones, wanting to stretch this out. The rolled up twenty dollar bill became his road to salvation for the three seconds it took him to move the white powder into his bloodstream. He held his breath for a moment, waiting for the full body shiver to pass. Oh, look, the lowball was full again. He didn’t remember filling it, but it certainly was convenient.

‘Awesome,’ he said to himself.

And looky there. Half a carton of his favorite blue Marlboros. Sober Dean must have done that. Mostly he didn’t like Sober Dean, but this time he had to hand it to the guy for being thoughtful. Suddenly there was a familiar round shape being pressed against his lips. He inhaled the soothing mentholated smoke, not recalling lighting it. But there was the silver Zippo, lying unassumingly next to the old tape case. He picked it up and felt the weight of it. Flicked it a few times. Damn, that was a satisfying sound.

The wooden motel chair where he was sitting, legs stretched out, boot-clad feet swinging side to side like a metronome that had been wound too tight, suddenly was the most uncomfortable thing in the world. Dean shot out of it like he had been scalded. He paced back and forth between the empty double beds for a while. Felt like he was running a marathon under his skin. Thirsty. God, he was thirsty. The well-lit bathroom behind the Orange and yellow papered half-wall called to him. His cupped hands, carried the sink water to his lips and he drank deeply before he splashed his face and scrubbed it for good measure. Woah. Looking in the water-spotted mirror, he noticed his pupils were so large they almost obscured the green completely. Kinda wigged him out. Definitely not prepared to deal with black eyes.

He went back to the vice-loaded table and took the last line from the tape case, deciding not to look in anymore mirrors for a while. Maybe ever. Dean was restlessness. Pent-up. Needed to talk to somebody. Didn’t know if he could deal with the dwindling patrons of the bar next door. Needed somebody who would listen. Truths that needed to be said out loud while the dopamine was still tap-dancing in his brain and his feelings were as numb as his gums.

She sounded sweet on the phone. That kinda scratchy smokes-too-much voice asked for his address. Told him she had to be paid upfront. He still had Gerald’s left over cash in his pocket from buying the eight ball, so he told her, ‘No problem.’ It was true, he never paid for sex. Never had his whole life. But he needed something so much more valuable tonight. Hoped she’d understand. Fuck, he needed another bump, cut out four new lines from the white ball contained inside the translucent plastic.

The knock at the door had his pulse pounding. More than it already was from the shit he’d been inhaling. Looking through the peephole, she waved at him with a wink. Cute. Lots of curly blonde hair. Sliding the chain through its track and flipping the dead bolt, he opened the door, a big smile spread across his face, hoping she was the salvation he had been looking for.

She wasn’t. The minute he opened the door, three dark shadows appeared behind her and from somewhere outside of his body, he felt the bones in his nose break. Throughout his life all of these same bones had been broken before. He could name them as they went. Occipital. Sam-Lucifer. Middle nasal concha. Cas. Infraorbital foramen. Sam again. Mandible. Dad. And it felt so good. Like he deserved it and more for what he had done to the woman he loved so much. He begged for it. Relishing the blood streaming down his face. Maybe this was what he needed after all. Blood and snot and tears all mixing together. He couldn’t really feel it. ‘I hope they kill me,’ he thought. ‘So much easier. What I deserve.’

His subconscious gave him what he really wanted while he was face down in the dirty ditch where they dumped him. Her dark blue eyes. That smile that never failed to make him feel like a million bucks. She reached for him in his dreams. Kissed away the broken bones and broken heart and broken soul. When he woke to a face full of dirt and filth, her light nowhere to be found, Dean cradled his swollen, once-beautiful face in his hands. The loss of her light expounded ten-fold by his come down. But that knowledge didn’t stop the hollow sobs that wracked his body, kneeling there in the mud, tears freeing the dried blood to flow down his face once more.

A familiar but distant sound rumbled through his thoughts and brought him back to the present. A squeal and a bang and the sound of boots on pavement. His brother’s too-long hair ticked his nose as great snot-rending wails escaped Dean’s abused throat. Those solid, broad shoulders became his lifeline. He remembered a time when he had been the protector and not the perpetrator, shielding his brother as best he could from all the horrors in the night. Dean laughed-coughed-gagged at the thought.

‘It’s ok, Dean. I’m here. Everything’s gonna be ok.’

Dean nuzzled into the space between Sam’s shoulder and neck. God, how he wanted to believe that. Wanted to hang on all those words. But it wasn’t true, was it?

Sammy shut his eyes tight and sent out a prayer. They both knew who it was to.

‘I’m here, Sam.”

‘No!’ Dean let out a broken sob, waterlogged jeans the least of the things that were weighing him down. Felt like he needed to be back on Alistar’s wrack, paying for his sins. Couldn’t stand the fingers and blue light that healed his broken bones, cleared away the bloody mess that was his face.

He draped himself over his brother’s large frame like freshly laundered sheets hung out to dry. Clinging. For all that the angel had healed his wounds there was still a large, sucking hole right in the middle of him that could never be filled with angelic magic.

Cas slipped himself under Dean’s right arm and the two men in his life that should have been enough managed to shuffle him into the backseat of his car. And that was all wrong too. A low rumble of thunder rattled the Impala’s windows and the green soldier in the ashtray where he was staring. The driver door was wrenched open and Sam sat down in Dean’s seat, the growl of the engine driving away the sound of the temperamental weather.

Sam watched his brother with one eye on the road and one focused on the rear view mirror for miles and miles. Stock still, eyes glazed and unfocused, curled into himself. Hours passed with no movement in the back seat. Rain beating a steady staccato onto the black roof of the car.

Momentarily startled by the wet, windy sound of the rear window being rolled down, Sam watched as his brother dug in the front pocket of his still damp jeans. Found the treasure he’d been looking for. A crumpled photograph. Dean smiling his true-smile, all white teeth and freckles, arm around his girl. She was looking up at him like he was her savior. And maybe he had been in a lot of ways. Savior and executioner all wrapped up in one neat bundle.

A tear rolled down his brother’s face, hand gripping the well-used image, it moved to the open window. Rain ruining the last piece he had of her, he let go.

———————-

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I feel lost and broken! this is just the best writing!!!

Death of a Bachelor

A/n: This is for @anatheweirdo. Her song request was for Panic! At the Disco’s Death of a Bachelor.

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: Dean has an existential crisis and uses some old coping mechanisms to deal.

Warnings: strong language, alcohol, self doubt, the barest hint of smut.

Death of a Bachelor

He was wearing his tuxedo. God, it’s been years since he squeezed into this thing. It’s uncomfortable and itchy, but necessary for the task at hand. Dean looks at himself in the mirror and adjusts the black bow tie. Chuckles a little remembering Bela’s offer so long ago when he’d worn it last. His laughter catching in his throat as he remembers her fate. Hellhounds ain’t a pretty way to go out. Dean’s still not sure if she deserved that, fifteen grand in lottery tickets notwithstanding.

The mirror in the less-than-five-star motel they were staying in reflected a much different picture than the one he had seen then. Leaning closer, he eyed himself critically. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. God, were those gray hairs at his temples? I mean, what did he expect, the life he’d led? He was surprised he didn’t look like the crypt keeper by now. Still, Dean had always relied on his good looks and the image that he carried of himself in his head looked a whole lot more like twenty six and a whole lot less like pushing forty. Running his hands down his face, he sighed and exited the dingy bathroom.

Sam, of course, was there to reinforce all of his worst fears.

‘Dude, you look like a hungover Sean Connery. Like, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Connery, not Untouchables Connery.’

‘Fuck you, Sam. Do I look like this goddamn benefit is real high on my bucket list?’ he leaned against the cheap motel table where Sam was doing his research and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘We’re gettin’ old, Sammy. You ever wonder how much longer this shit is gonna last?’ He asked, gesturing dramatically at his upper body.

‘What shit?’ Sam didn’t look up from the laptop screen.

‘Never mind,’ Dean tugged on the cummerbund resting snugly around his waist and sighed. ‘Why do I gotta be the one in the monkey suit?’

Sam looked up at his brother, the expression on his face a mix of amusement and exasperation.

‘All you gotta do is dance with her once, dude. Boost the stone, then you’re outta there.’

‘Fuck. We’re never playin’ that dumb ass game again,’ Dean said as he stomped out the door to his car. Hinges squealing, he got behind the steering wheel, willing this to be over before it had begun.

The gala was extravagant. The old bat had spent a helluva lot of money on this poor excuse for a show of wealth. He hung around the back of the ballroom for a while before making his way to one of the small round tables clustered just off the dance floor. He ordered a whisky, neat, when the waiter came round, and was now nursing it in quiet contemplation.

The big band up on stage was playing all the hits from the thirties, brass section in full swing. Glen Miller, Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong. Made Dean feel like he was somewhere outside of himself, time traveling again. He signaled at the waiter to keep ‘em coming.

By the time he was draining his fifth glass, Dean had lapsed into something of an existential crisis verging on panic attack. He was staring at his hands, contemplating the things he had used them for. How long could this go on really? For forty years just one bloody mess after another. Feeling a lot like Moses wandering the desert, Dean scrubbed at his face. He remembered losing a hand of poker to a witch once, trying to win back years that Bobby had lost. Fuck, he was closer to that reality than he was to the sauntering youth that had ripped his brother away from a normal life at Stanford. Forty years of fucking shit up and letting people down. Images started flashing through his mind like the world’s worst slide show. His brother’s lifeless body stretched out on a table, the smell of fried chicken and death. A blue baseball cap with a bullet hole in it. A trench coat leaking pond water into his trunk. The white porcelain of a motel bathtub splashed with red, the bloody end of one of the only three women who had ever told him she loved him.

He blearily looked at his own black clad shoulder and took in the strange hand that had come to rest there. Burgundy nails to match the lace dress of its owner. Taking in the stranger’s face as she held out her hand and asked him to dance, he felt like he had been thrown a lifeline. Pulled from his own personal hell, this time by the hand instead of the shoulder. Red lips smiling as she looked him up and down.

Swirling around the parquet dance floor, they both knew where this was going. Dean could remember a time when something like this had been a normal occurrence. Hell, it had been his thing, part of his persona. When had he lost that part of himself? His cocky self-assuredness. Digging down deep, he couldn’t find it anymore. Only an aching in the pit of his stomach that needed validation. The song ended and her beautifully manicured hands curled into the short hairs on the back of his neck as she pulled him close to whisper in his ear.

It was quick and brutal, executed in the coat closet down the hallway. All smeared red lipstick and ripping lace, grunts muffled by the surrounding remnants of mink and rabbit and fox. Later, he wouldn’t be able to recall her name or her face, just the way her hair smelled and the feel of her dress as he had gripped her hips with his guilty hands.

Leaving that night, to the swinging melody of a dead man’s genius, Dean felt a little lighter. A little more like he had a hold on reality. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the way that she had looked at him, hungry. But the poisonous thoughts that he had been drowning in receded. At least for a while.

The soothing rumble of his constant companion aided in calming his nerves. He ripped the now-hanging bow tie from his neck and held it out the open window, letting the wind take it as he roared back down the road to the motel where his brother was waiting for him.

He fumbled a little getting the key into the lock and opening the door. Shedding tuxedo pieces as he passed by his brother, still sitting at the table, he only had eyes for the double bed by the window. Dean flopped, face first, onto the questionably-clean sheets.

‘Did ya get it?’ Sam’s question felt like a gnat buzzing in his head. ‘Dude,’ he felt himself being shaken. ‘Dean!’

Grunting, he rolled over, the crook of his elbow shielding his eyes from the too bright light. ‘Get what?’

‘The stone, Dean!’

Yup. He was getting too old for this shit.

—————–

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❤️just pure gold this one!! I love it so much. a pure mix of humor and blunt reality. Well done!!!

The Guardians

A/n: This is a very short story with a hell of a lot of content. Also, I have no idea where it came from, but here it is. I hope you like it. It’s a bit different.

Word count: 1k

Summary: The true nature of our beloved boys is revealed.

Warnings: badass Winchesters, blOooD, deathish for a main character?, seriously, I think there’s only one cuss word (wtf is wrong with me lately, right?) possible warning for overly poetic prose. Oh, and complete bastardization of biblical lore. For anybody who knows enough to notice, I apologize. (Lookin’ at you, Nash.)

The Guardians

Fatal was the word that flashed brightly, hotly in Dean’s mind. His eyes grew wide as if trying to perceive some flaw in the truth that lay before him. Sam’s large hands flew to his mangled throat, trying to stem the arterial spray, blood streaming from his lips and nose. He made a great, wet sucking noise and fell to his knees, the straw on the floor of the barn already permeated with too much of his essence. Baphomet laughed, his terrible horns sticky and dripping with the evidence of his kill.

A bomb of emotions detonated inside of Dean. Numerous and complicated and interwoven. Foremost were despair, love… and rage. Looking around at the company of demons surrounding and restraining him and at his beloved brother choking out his last garbled breaths in the dirty, waste ridden straw, he made up his mind. No, this was not where their story ended. An unnamed strength uncoiled itself inside him. He thought of his Sam. The boy that he had stolen bread for. The tiny body that he had held in his arms on nights that they worried their dad wasn’t coming back, stroking his too-long hair and whispering soothing words while tears soaked through Dean’s t-shirt. That lawyer’s mind, so big and always thirsting for knowledge, only dwarfed by the mighty heart that sat beating in his chest. No, the goat-headed demon and his disgusting followers did not deserve to be the ones who took down the Winchesters.

The old gray wooden doors to the barn flew open then. Castiel, even without his grace, was an imposing sight. But Baphomet was a formidable demon, and Cas was no match for the demonic army who followed him. But where the Winchesters went so did he, chosen family more important than all of the battalions of Heaven. Even unto the end.

Dean’s tear-muddled gaze fixated on his brother, dead on the ground, and then on his angel, remembering the night that Castiel had revealed himself for the first time. The shadow of his huge wings had spanned the walls of that barn, so similar to the one they found themselves in now. The depth of the eternity that Cas had given up for the fleeting life of a human hit Dean hard. He locked eyes with his friend and let out a whimper-groan, struggling in the demons’ grasp.

Angel blade drawn, Castiel smiled a sad smile, knowing what was to befall them that night.

The angel’s gravely voice cut through the din of the demons’ snarls to caress his heart. ‘I’m here, Dean. Come what may.’

The demon horde moved towards the angel that had fallen on behalf of two brothers. He stood his ground, ready to take out as many of them as he could before the inevitable. Always happy to bleed for the the Winchesters, he gripped his blade and faced them.

‘Nooooooo!’ Dean let out a bellowing, desperate plea. He struggled fruitlessly against the clawed hands that held him. Angry tears ran down his face and he felt the impending loss in the pit of his stomach.

And then something broke loose inside him. Something so deep that the Mark of Cain hadn’t touched it, it was the thing that made the demon in him sing karaoke instead of slaughtering the masses. The thing that made him keep fighting. Something that he had always been. The Righteous Man. The Michael Sword. A Winchester.

The demons restraining him let out a hiss as they shrank away from their captive, releasing him from their hold. A white light emanated from his green eyes, illuminating the dingy barn. He turned to the demon-beast, a smile spreading across his tear stained face.

Castiel watched Dean in awe, his jaw hanging slack as he realized the truth of his friend. Why he had always been drawn to protect and love these brothers. And he understood, with great clarity, that any demon or angel or monster or god who had ever feared these men, had very good reason to do so.

Dean crouched down in the bloody mess next to his brother and laid a hand on his shaggy head.

‘Get up.’ He commanded.

And so Sam did.

He stood, that same white light flashing underneath his wounds and healing them before ending in his eyes, mirroring those of his brother. He felt strong, pure in a way that he never had before. The light burning away all the traces of the darkness in him that he had fought down for so long.

Baphomet gasped in horror, blood still dripping from his twisted horns, ‘Anakim! It cannot be!’ He lowered his goat-like head in submission. ‘I did not know! Have mercy, Warrior.’

It was Dean’s turn to laugh. A terrible rumble that scratched the walls of that old barn. His white-hot gaze travelled to the man standing shoulder to shoulder with him. The brother that he had once damned his soul to Hell for. Dean’s baritone voice reverberated through the building with a resounding, ‘Fuck you.’

Dean flexed his muscles and the light of The Righteous Man fell onto the demons. They screamed in agony as they burned to ashes, atom by atom. He basked in their torment.

When the demons had been reduced to nothing more than dust, mixing with the filth on the ground, Sam gasped, ‘Dean, what did you do?’

Cas answered, with wide blue eyes taking in the scene, ‘I always knew. Always knew you boys were more.’ He shook his head, a smile appearing on Jimmy’s chapped lips. ‘You are Gibborim. Shemihaza. The appointed, the bound. The mighty men of old.’ He shook his head.

‘Long ago, before the angels were set to be the guardians of Man, there was a race of giants, Anakim. God intended for them to protect humanity. And they did. Until a group of kings decided that they wanted all the earth. Wanted to be the most powerful beings. They decimated the giants, the guardians. Rephaim in Ashteroth Karnain, the Auzim in Ham, the Emim in Shaveh Kiriathaim, and finally, the Horites in the mountain of Seir. Og, king of Bashar, was the lone survivor. It was thought that his line ended with Goliath. But now I see….’

Castiel reached out and laid a hand on Dean’s stubble-lined jaw, the other on Sam’s broad shoulder. The elder Winchester leaned into it, finding comfort in the touch of his friend. They came back to themselves, then. Forgetting the death and the demons, the white light diminished and the boys returned to themselves.

‘I now understand what God meant when he said that humanity had the two of you to protect them. Why he felt like it was ok to leave us. Why you both were brought back time and time again. You are the Guardians.’

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Oh my Goodness! if this is not the best explanation for the last 13 years I don’t know what is. Read and cry kripky!! Love this so much!!!

Burn it Down

A/n: Y'all, I’m not gonna lie, this is angsty as hell. If angst ain’t your thing, just keep on cruisin’. I’ve never written angst before and probably wouldn’t have posted this if it weren’t for my lovely friend, @justme-noonebutme, giving me this feedback: “I am in tears! I haven’t been touched by a story like that in forever! You rocked that angst like you lived it! Honest to Chuck and all that is holy, you are a fucking genius!” So how could I not? Anyways, let’s not kid ourselves, this fandom loves some man-pain. If you read it and like it, please leave me some feedback. It helps me get better!

Summary: Dean is not coping well with a recent loss. Sam doesn’t know how to fix it.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: suicide, muchly with the blood and violence, but also Sammy on a giant unicorn pool floatie, cussin’- but not that much, surprisingly

Burn it Down

The door slammed in his face and he heard the Impala roar to life on the other side, tires squealing as his brother escaped the only kind of fight he wouldn’t run headlong into… the emotional kind.

“Dean!” Sam shouted at no one. “Why are you like this??!!” He knows better than anybody on Earth (or heaven or hell or purgatory) why his brother does the things he does. Doesn’t make his heart break any less.

Dean is spiraling. Serious tailspin with a side of nosedive. He’s never taken loss well, holding it all in until he cracks down the middle and turns the nearest piece of furniture into kindling with his bare hands. This time is different, though. The sheer and utter horror of the thing. And it was Sam’s fault. It’s always Sam’s fault. Goddamnit, how many times is he gonna let his brother down? He remembers, once, sitting in a broken down and abandoned church, confessing his greatest sin to whoever was up there listening. He remembers, ‘Ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.’ He remembers feeling his big brother’s light shining on him, so much stronger than the one emanating from his hands, and feeling something akin to redemption. That was all gone now, though.

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I don’t read angst.  I loved this.

What a fucking complement. Thank you so much. I am humbled.

I stand by it! You are a fucking genius!! I love this so much!!!!

It’s not random. It’s not chance. It’s a plan that is playing itself out perfectly. Free will’s an illusion, Dean. That’s why you’re going to say yes.

Just shivers!!!

To be young and innocent

Summary: Young Dean Winchester tells reader about what is lurking in the darkness 

Pairing: Young!Dean x Reader

Warning: tiny bit angsty more cute though ;)

Word count: 581

A/n: This is for @percywinchester27’s “Ana’s PJO quotes Challenge”. Thank you for letting me be part of your challenge! I have chosen the prompt 50 “Myths are simply stories about truths we’ve forgotten.” with Dean x Reader. As I am new at this whole writing thing I really hope you like and would love to get feedback. As always I want to say a huge thanks to @anticipate1003 for being such a trooper during the writing process.

To be young and innocent

“Tell me exactly what you saw,” Dean’s voice was calming your current state of mind. You had rushed into your parents house, Dean following you close behind, thankful that he knew they were out for the weekend. He closed the door of your bedroom behind the two of you and stood with his back to it as you frantically paced the worn down carpet floor. Even though he had only turned 14 a week ago he seemed more grown up than your older brothers who were already in college. When you met him in the library, just four days ago, you had no idea that bumping into this kid would change your life for good.

Weiterlesen

Crazy (as told by Dean)

Summary: Dean tells you the story of how he met the one girl he could never get out of his head.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: angsty and fluffy, cussin’ up a storm as usual, kinda almost a suicide attempt by jay walking

A/N: A while back I wrote this story from the girl’s perspective. I was thinking about going back and adding to it, but this came out instead. I think you might enjoy this fic more if you read the other one first (I’ll repost it, ‘cause it’s hard to find on my blog and I’m shit at technology and don’t know how to make a masterlist) but it can be read by itself and make sense. Thank you, @bamby0304 for inspiring me to write again. This is my entry for her 1000 follower challenge. And dedicated to my sweet friend, Inga over at @justme-noonebutme.

Dean’s perspective:

You ever have one day, not even a day, just a few hours, that you keep in the back of your mind and think about from time to time to remind yourself that maybe, just maybe, your whole life hasn’t just been one big shit show after another? That there was at least one tiny bright light, one moment you felt whole? Felt like maybe I­t­ was gonna be ok someday? Probably wouldn’t really admit I­t­ out loud, but I got one a those. I don’t think about that night all the time, but when I really need a win and it’s feelin’ like my last night on Earth, I let myself remember her. Reach way back in that place in my heart where I keep the things that get me through.

Weiterlesen

Read this!!! it is sooo good!!

Wayward Sisters

I may not have had a sister,

to share in my youth.

I didn’t get to share,

in all my joys and sorrows.

But a sister isn’t always,

related by genes.

I have found so many ladies,

Who share with me their life.

We don’t always live close,

but they are standing beside me.

My Wayward Sisters are special,

and our family doesn’t start or end with blood.

But I will love them,

and stand by them,

because they are my sister,

and my family.

@atc74 @sis-tafics @ellen-reincarnated1967 @delisp @quivers2k

Awwwww so sweet. And echoed from the great north as well. May I add @iwantthedean @just-another-busy-fangirl @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @pinknerdpanda @hannahindie @ellen-reincarnated1967 @sis-tafics @paintrider13-blog @wheresthekillswitch and so many others!

I love this.

@arryn-nyxx @emlostinwonderland @pinknerdpanda @trexrambling @hannahindie @masksandtruths @anticipate1003

@anticipate1003 @percywinchester27

Tic Tac Toe (Part-33)

Word count: 3.6k

Pairing: Sam X Reader

Warnings: Angst, blood and injury, medical stuff.

Series Summary: The reader shifts into a new city after being offered a dream job by a big firm. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect after an ugly break-up with a douche-bag Ex. But things turn out not as dreamy as she’d want them to be and the only thing that keeps her smiling is a totally coincidental game of Tic Tac Toe.

A/N: This one was hard to write, like really hard.

Beta: @sdavid09 and @deanssweetheart23. I love you so much and I don’t deserve you. At all <3

Please consider leaving some feedback! Pretty PLEASE?

Catch up: Tic Tac Toe Masterlist

Sam’s POV:

Sam was sitting in his usual seat, right next to Y/N, like he had last night and all of today. The only difference was that he was in a clean shirt now. Phil had been thoughtful enough to pick a shirt for him from his apartment. Ironically, he had picked the one that Y/N had slept in two nights ago, before Sam had pulled it off her. It must have been lying on the bed.

It still smelled of her.

Weiterlesen

Sooooo good

Tic Tac Toe (Part-32)

Word count: 4.3k

Pairing: Sam X Reader

Warnings: Angst, blood and injury, medical stuff.

Series Summary: The reader shifts into a new city after being offered a dream job by a big firm. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect after an ugly break-up with a douche-bag Ex. But things turn out not as dreamy as she’d want them to be and the only thing that keeps her smiling is a totally coincidental game of Tic Tac Toe.

A/N: This one was actually gonna get delayed, but I couldn’t do it to all you lovely folks, someone of whom are actually counting hours for this to be posted. It’s mind-boggling to me.

Beta: @sdavid09 and @deanssweetheart23. You girls are Godsend. I love you so much <3

Please consider leaving some feedback! Pretty PLEASE?

Catch up: Tic Tac Toe Masterlist

The sirens behind them were blaring louder now, the voices shriller, Sam’s hand resting on Y/N’s chest however faltered.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Dean huffed.

But Sam refused to meet his brother’s eyes, hugging Y/N tighter against him, as his voice cracked. “The- then why isn’t she breathing?”

“She’s alive, Sam,” Jody said, patting his cheek to get him to look at her. “You heard what the paramedic said. Her breathing was shallow because she had inhaled a lot of smoke. The lungs tend to contract, so less smoke goes in.”

Weiterlesen

A must read!!!

Tic Tac Toe (Part-31)

Word count: 4.6k

Pairing: Sam X Reader

Warnings: Angst, Kidnapping, Graphic violence, blood and injury.

Series Summary: The reader shifts into a new city after being offered a dream job by a big firm. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect after an ugly break-up with a douche-bag Ex. But things turn out not as dreamy as she’d want them to be and the only thing that keeps her smiling is a totally coincidental game of Tic Tac Toe.

A/N: It’s taken a lot of effort to both write this chapter and post it. And not just by me, but by both my betas too <3

Beta: @sdavid09 and @deanssweetheart23. You girls are a blessing. Despite being so busy, thank you for reading this at the last minute, Shanna. And Athina, I just hope you get better soon, thank you for reading this despite being unwell. This one is for you girls <3

Please consider leaving some feedback! Pretty PLEASE?

Catch up: Part 1, Tic Tac Toe Masterlist

Sam’s POV:

Sam was sitting on the couch, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped in front his face. His lips rested on his intertwined fingers, a silent, desperate prayer continuously leaving from them.

The moment Sam had asked Phil to call Jody, Phil’s training as a skilled bodyguard had overtook him. He’d scanned the whole house up and down, ripped curtains and moved furniture.

But Sam? He’d known something was wrong the minute he’d seen that game. The phone conversation hadn’t made anything better.

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Just marvelous storytelling!!!

Tic Tac Toe (Part-30)

Word count: 4.9k

Pairing: Sam X Reader

Warnings: Angst, Kidnapping, Graphic violence, blood and injury.

Series Summary: The reader shifts into a new city after being offered a dream job by a big firm. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect after an ugly break-up with a douche-bag Ex. But things turn out not as dreamy as she’d want them to be and the only thing that keeps her smiling is a totally coincidental game of Tic Tac Toe.

A/N: So, FINALLY! Finally we’ll know who is and how it was done. Ready? ;)

Beta: @sdavid09 and @deanssweetheart23. This wouldn’t have been possible without you girls. And, I love you SO MUCH!

Please consider leaving some feedback! Pretty PLEASE?

Catch up: Part 1, Tic Tac Toe Masterlist

“Just hand me your phone, will you?” You put your palm forward.

He reached out for his back pocket and pulled out his phone. Unlocking and handing it to you.

You clicked on the call log, and showed the screen to him, scrolling through all the names in red.

“2 Missed calls from Sherry,” you read out randomly, names that were somewhat familiar to you. “ 3 Missed calls from Dad, 2 from Pamela, 1 from Bobby Singer, 3 from Jody Mills, 1 from Dean, 1 from Rick… The list goes on Sam.”

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Oh my freaking goodness!! You are killing me @percywinchester27!!! I can not take this tension any longer!! Don’t kill her, please? I love this character so much!!!!!