Keith and Lance have to get married because Lance accidentally told his mother they were engaged and Keith would rather die than disappoint Rosa Sanchez
“too bad this is all fake” he thinks sadly, “Lance doesn’t actually love me like that this marriage is just,,,, u know,,,, as a friend,,,, very platonic,, ,,,,,,, Im sure there’s no way he has f e e l i n g s for me”
They’d had a long day - both got sunburned in the hot midwestern afternoon, both pushed themselves a little too hard on the hunt, both towed themselves through the door of the motel room like they were moving through golden syrup. Dean let Cas climb into the tiny shower first, and then headed in himself as soon as Cas was out - and by the time he was done with rinsing the bubbles out of his hair and scrubbing himself all over with the motel’s cheap body wash, Cas was flat out on the bed.
He looked calm and peaceful, his cheeks pink with the sunburn and his hair still a little wet. His lips were ever so slightly parted, and he had his head down at the bottom corner of the pillow, like he always did. His fingers were softly curled like ferns, or like feathers, their tips barely kissing his palms.
As Dean watched, Cas’ eyes twitched ever so slightly. In the dim, shabby light of the motel room, he was stunning; he was still the most beautiful thing that Dean had ever seen, all long tanned legs and strong bare arms and with an aura of peace - power, at peace - that made Dean’s heart want to leap right out of his chest.
After all those delicious tidbits about s12, I couldn’t help writing a ficlet. Tortured!sassy!sorta-suicidal!Sam and a surprise visit from a familiar face. 1,200 words of damaged reckless sassmaster because I needed to.
Sam’s head hangs, eyes burning and blurred with his own sweat and blood.
The Men of Letters and their ever-curious minds and their endless questions—what worth is it to answer, to save his own life? Dean is dead. The world is safe. Perhaps they’re right: maybe his and Dean’s presence does endanger the world. Maybe it will be safer with both of them gone.
Perhaps he’ll see Dean in the Empty.
He’s brushed fingers with death enough times to know that he’s close. His body is tired, laboring harder than ever to do less than it should. His fingers and toes are cold. Blood loss, probably. Maybe shock, from the burns. He’s been shivering for a while, can’t seem to stop. Infection?
Sam has known tortures worse than anything they could possibly imagine. This is juvenile in comparison, tentative and clumsy.
They didn’t like it when he told them so. They cannot deprive him of sleep or force him into any painful or degrading position for longer than he’s done in the Cage. Their attempts at sensory deprivation are pathetic in comparison. He even has all of his internal organs more or less in the right place.
Improper wound care, blood loss, and infection from the shot she should never have had to fire will be the death of him rather than their heavy-handed attempts at information-gathering.
They really don’t like it when he critiques their technique. He can’t help it. He has to have some way to pass the time, and he hasn’t found a single one of these people with a decent sense of humor.
It’s a solemn business, torture.
He’ll find his laughs where he can.
They don’t need him alive, anyway. They certainly didn’t take to the idea that they’re on the same side. The information they’ve tried and failed to glean from him is more of a footnote to their real purpose. As far as he can tell, they need him gone because they think his absence will make the world safer. He’s happy to go.
He doesn’t hear the heavy door swing open, but he is suddenly, electrically aware of another presence in the room. Failing eyes travel across the blood-slick floor and to a pair of impeccably clean black boots and dark jeans.
“Hey, Sam.” Deep and melodious, like there’s a joke in there he isn’t catching.
He recognizes the voice even though he doesn’t have the strength to lift his head. His lips curl up, voice raw when it forces its way from his throat. “Billie,” he says. “I started to wonder what was taking you so long.”
Do you know any good, well written Stydia AU's that I could read?
You just made me go back and search for my favorites. Consider the below list my top pick Stydia fics. UGH it’s making me want to binge read all of these beautiful stories. Seriously, you know these are good when it’s been months since I’ve read fanfiction and these automatically come up in my mind.
Also, feel free to read any other stories by these authors because all of their work is flawless and will make you fall in love with Stydia all over again. Trust me.
Some of these are definitely classified as AU’s, and some others are sort of AU and some are not AU at all - but I promise all of these are so worth a read:
You sat across from Wanda in the
small shop, sipping on your steaming coffee from Starbucks. The past few days
had returned back to normal and you had resumed your normal lunch outings with
Wanda and staying late at the office for your boss. You and Wanda were on
lunchbreak, going the usual route of stopping by Starbucks for you to grab a
coffee and then settling at this café for a small lunch—catering to Wanda’s
Wanda poked at her chickpea salad
with her fork and sighed, “T’Chakka is starting to let people go at the office
and I’m not exactly in his good graces like you are.” Her gaze flickered up
from her food to where you sat across from her.
“Wanda,” you reassured, “I promise
you don’t have to worry about being laid off. T’Chakka has always been
knowledgeable about who’s good for the company and who isn’t. You get your shit
done at the end of the day and that’s what matters.”
The brunette smiled and laughed
softly, sitting back in her chair and glancing around the bustling café. She
shook her head and pointed her fork at you, “You make everything sound so much
better than it is. Anyway, I want to know about Stripper Steve. What’s he been
good with this, right? We can change the scene.” Jensen was taking in all your
movements and reactions to being back on set in the bunker dungeon for the
first time. You’d been filming for about a month now, but you hadn’t had a
scene on this set until now. You’d stayed away from it on purpose. You had
decided, on advice from your therapist, to do a walkthrough of the set on your
own with just Jensen to see how you’d react.
kind of have to be good with it.” You answered, walking around with your hands
across your chest, holding your emotions inside. “I can’t just avoid it
forever…” He watched your eyes trail across the room, settling on the spot
where you’d killed your stalker. For a split second you were back in that
moment, reliving shoving the knife into another human’s chest and his cold eyes
staring back at you, laughing at you. Able to shake yourself out of it, you
grabbed Jensen’s hand and pulled him out of the room.
night you were getting ready for bed when you glanced into the mirror,
screaming in terror when you saw Eli’s face staring back at you. “What
happened?” Jensen damn near busted the door down when he stormed in the
bathroom, finding you clutching the sink and hyperventilating. “You’re ok.
You’re ok. Come on.” He hesitantly reached out and grabbed your hand, sighing
in relief when you didn’t pull away. He guided you to the bed and wrapped you
up in his arms as tight as he could, rubbing your back and shushing you.
Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader (or… anyone x reader, or anyone x reader??) Word Count: 650 Warnings: DUDE SERIOUSLY IT’S JUST SO SAD AND I’M LEGITIMATELY SORRY FOR MAKING YOU READ THIS Author’s Note: Based on the song Let It Go by James Bay.I definitely wrote this whole depressing ordeal with Dean in mind, but when I finished, I realized I never used his name, just ‘he’ pronouns. And instead of Reader’s POV, I used ‘she’ pronouns. So really it could be anyone, if Dean isn’t your cup of tea. First time in a long while that I’ve posted anything on this blog! Please give me feedback. I crave validation.
He can remember when things were good.
He can remember when talking to her was easier than
breathing, when the words seemed to rush to the surface and leap from his
throat as if they, too, wanted to be as close to her as possible.
He can remember a time when he was nervous to touch her—as
if she wasn’t real, as if it were all just some wonderful dream that he was
bound to wake up from eventually.
He can remember getting drunk together for the fun of it;
staying up ‘til the sun was rising, finally falling asleep when their bodies
were so tired that they could no longer stay upright.
He can remember waking up next to her so many times; much
too warm, limbs all tangled up in each other, the smell of her surrounding him,