Prompt: AS REQUESTED BY ANON: “hamilsquad x reader where reader gets into a car accident and suffers brain damage and kinda resorts to a child like state and the hamilsquad have to try and take care of her”
Paring: Could be interpreted as Hamilsquad with some Laurens X Reader or Poly!Hamilsquad (Whichever sweetens your tea)
TW: Car accidents, swearing, loss of a loved one, abusive father figure, suicide attempt, reference to depression, suicidal thoughts, regression, trauma, panic attacks, nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety, breakdowns, refusing to eat, temper tantrums, mute, robbed, temporary character death, ambulances, vivid description of car accident/blood?
A/N: Thank you so much to the anon who requested this! I hope this is what you had in mind and I really hope you enjoy this! I hope this meets your standards! As always, thank you for all of your love and support! I love y'all! If you want me to tag something, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! Please enjoy!
Word Count: 6140
You were fifteen when you got your first car. She was a blue, 2004 Hyundai Sonata, and you called her Sonya. Your father had driven her for a few years before you’d gotten her, and he took the new car. You didn’t mind though, you loved her. She had a few flaws like a busted air conditioner and cracked motor mounts-so she shook sometimes and rumbled when it was cold out-but you didn’t mind that. In fact, you loved her flaws. You found the rumbling of the engine soothing on the cold mornings. And Sonya had the fastest defrost you’d ever seen. You loved your car.
After first dance my first year:
k that was cool...idk what was with that american pie song tho......
Post fourth year third dance:
*MUFFLED SOBBING* THEY WERE SINGING *SNIFFLE* BYE BYE MISS AMERICAN PIE DROVE MY CHEVY TO THE LEVY BUT *CHOKES* THE LEVY WAS DRY THEM GOOD OLD BOYS WERE SINGIN THIS'LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE, THIS'LL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE*COLLAPSES*
So bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singing this’ll be the day that I die, this’ll be the day that I die
It’s the same day that Will receives his letter from Samwell telling him he’s got a full ride that Will’s life as he knows it ends. His parents praise him, his ma cries and presses wet kisses against his cheeks, and his dad looks on, proud but manly and unemotional, and Will knows that it’s how he’s supposed to show emotion. They throw a party for him, inviting all of his friends from school. Will tells his best friend, Liam, the news in the quiet privacy of his bedroom and they share another secret without speaking, just reading by feeling the cracks in one another’s lips like blind men seeking knowledge with a thirst that only those who know darkness can crave light and it would have been a beautiful end to a day that started out perfect.
Then the unexpected happens, though one could say it was perfectly predictable, and the broken lock on Will’s door is opened and his shared secret with Liam is revealed and his mother runs from the room crying like she was this morning but they aren’t happy tears and Will wonders at how happy tears and sad tears would look the same if it wasn’t for how he felt about them. He tells Liam to run and packs a bag with everything he can fit in it- skates, a picture of his family from two years ago on the beach, a stick, shirts, his phone, his wallet and keys, pants, the keychain his little sister made him for his birthday last year, underwear, the card he was plaining to give his dad for father’s day- and he just remembers to grab socks when his dad shows up in the doorway with murder in his eyes.
Will gets by him with just a black eye, a bloody nose, and a split lip, the hands that held his as he learned to walk and the hands that taught his own how to punch leaving scars in their wake as they grab angrily for the son they no longer have. Will runs through the party, seeing nothing and hearing music, and inexplicably the song American Pie is playing and he can’t help but remember how this song always used to make him cry. He runs out of the house, now hearing Never come back, faggot! in the tune of Bye, bye Miss American Pie and he remembers the pie he tasted at Samwell this year, made by the tiny forward with the big smile.
Will jumps into the truck he got from his uncle, who got it from his dad before him, and starts it up. He pulls away from the house he grew up in and doesn’t stop driving until he reaches the beach where he kissed a girl for the very first time and then he goes a little farther down to the hidden alcove where he kissed a boy for the very first time and he cries until he can’t tell the difference between his tears and the sea.
Will stays in town until his graduation, gets his diploma dressed in clothes he hasn’t washed since May out of fear of seeing his mom at the laundromat and he doesn’t look towards the spot his parents sat in for his older brother’s graduation once- except he does because he can’t help it and it’s as empty as Will’s smile when he poses for a picture with the principal, a picture he knows he’ll never see. He doesn’t stop to talk, doesn’t look Liam’s way because he’s angry that Liam still has a home, and he gets in his truck and drives to the state line and walks barefoot in whatever water he can find.
You grabbed a towel off the rack and hastily tied it around yourself, forgetting how long you must’ve stayed in the shower. Who knows if there’s a water bill for this place. You opened up the door and looked right, just in time to see Dean walking towards the door. “I was just about to check on you” he said, a plate of cake in hand. “Who showers for that long?” he asked and you stepped out the door fully and he raised a brow. “I’m getting deja vu” he chuckled and you secured the towel, blushing. “All you need is a dead rat” he said and you joined him in laughter. “I’ll go change” you said and he nodded, sticking his finger in the icing. You smiled at the childlike gesture and shut the door behind you just in time to watch him lick it off his finger. Quickly you changed into sweatpants that were two sizes too big, and an old tank top from the bottom of your duffel. The bunker was huge, so you tried to get back to the library from memory, running your fingers against the wall absentmindedly as you did. The tiled walls seemed cool to the touch. “Dean?” you shouted. “In here” his deep voice bellowed through the halls and you turned right, and straight towards a couple steps you hopped down. With a towel in one hand you ran it through your hair, messily shaking your wet locks. “Hungry?” he asked and you nodded, taking the plate right from his hands. This had to be the best burger you’d ever eaten, and your face showed it. “I make a mean burger, huh?” Dean asked, smiling proudly. “You made this? You cook?” you asked, looking at the bruised and bloodied man. “Yes I do, and pretty damn well” he said cockily, and you watched him take a bite. Both of you sat in a content silence, occasionally stealing glances at one another. Dean wanted to tell you so badly that you had a crumb on your lips, but that would mean he was staring at your lips and you’d know it. And you wanted to tell Dean that he got a swipe of ketchup on his thumb but that would mean you’d been staring at his hands, and he’d know it. Once he finished he tossed his napkin into the plate like one would at a diner, and you wondered how often it was he had a home cooked meal. “How about we stay in tonight?” you suggested, “No diner food, no bar drinks. Just hang out. Isn’t that what normal people do?” you asked, giving him a hopeful smile. “Sounds good” he agreed and grabbed your plate. His arm brushed over your shoulder, a small touch that normally wouldn’t leave you tingling. But there you sat, a stomach full of butterflies and burgers. Sam came in moments later, you heard his bite crunch into an apple. He motioned if you also wanted one and you politely declined. “What’re you doing?” you asked, pulling your feet up and under you. “Research” he said in-between bites. “We just got off a hunt!” you exclaimed, crossing your arms. “I don’t know what kind of hunters you think you are, but I know we all need sleep” you said, swiping a crumb off the table and onto the floor. “We’re Winchesters” he said, and you tilted your head. The name sounded so familiar, you knew you heard it before. “How do I know that name?” you said so low, it was almost a whisper. “What?” Sam asked. “Nothing, never mind” you smiled, “Excuse me” you said and he nodded, but never looked up from his laptop. With bare feet you padded down to the kitchen where Dean was cleaning up. He was in the middle of washing dishes, so you grabbed a dry towel and began drying the ones on the rack. “Hey” he greeted and you smiled, standing on his right side as you cleaned. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, on the contrary - you enjoyed it. The stack of dry dishes became taller as you worked, occasionally grazing Dean’s arm, or grabbing a dish the same time he was putting it down without noticing. Your hands worked automatically while you thought, and Dean noticed how spaced out you were, smiling to himself. He occasionally glanced at you, wondering what it was you were thinking about. Maybe it was him. Maybe it wasn’t. You knew though, you knew that you were thinking about how he was nothing like you first thought he was. A rugged hunter, that he was; but there was something else there. As the water stopped you snapped out of your thoughts and Dean took the towel from you, hanging it over the towel bar. “Dean?” you asked suddenly, almost unaware you were about to. “Yeah?” he answered as he turned around, biting his bottom lip slightly while his brows were up. “How about I run and grab those beers you promised?” you asked, reaching your hand out for car keys. “Oh no, only I drive baby” he said, crossing his arms. “Baby?” you asked and he nodded. “Fine, you drive” you said. Dean chuckled and then looked down at your feet. You half ran back to your room and slipped on your sneakers, meeting Dean back outside. You sat in the passenger seat, stretching your legs out for a moment. “What? No music?” you asked after he drove out about half a mile. “How about some-“ you started, reaching for the station control. “Hey-“ he shouted, shoving your hand back down. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts her cake-hole” he said and you laughed, resting your head back down. Dean decided he loved the sound of your laugh, and that worried him. He pressed the cassette to play from where he left off last, forgetting it was that same old song. You reached forward and winded it back, letting it play from the beginning. “And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those people dance. And maybe, they’d be happy for a while” you began singing, swaying slightly to the song. Dean gave a low chuckle, amused at how you sang off key. He didn’t notice though, that he actually had been happy for this while with you, and this was your chance to make these brothers dance. “You have to sing, Dean!” you shouted over the music and he refused. “Please!” you begged, pouting your lips. “The day the music died…” the said quietly, looking over at you and he saw you huge smile. “So bye bye, miss american pie! Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry!” you sang loudly, and Dean nearly wasn’t able to sing the next line due to the huge smile plastered on his face. But when he began, damn did he get into it. “And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye, singin’, this’ll be the day that I die” he sang, and you joined in. “Did you write the book of love?” you asked singing and he laughed, “Do you believe in rock ’n roll? Can music save your mortal soul?” Dean asked the questions back, trying to keep an eye steady on the road. “And can you teach me how to dance real slow?” you sang, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder without realizing. Dean looked over at you, and you were singing with your eyes towards the road, shaking your head as if you were at a Metallica concert. He couldn’t help but drum on the wheel to the beat as your voice filled the car that’d been so quiet for years. Sammy did sing occasionally, but mostly the car was a home for the two boys who never spoke of the things they saw. Your voice seemed to break every brick they built up around this car. Before you knew it, Dean pulled up to the small convenience store. “Let’s go” he said, swinging his door open. You followed him inside, grabbing a small wire basket. You filled it up with chips and popcorn, Dean watched how carefully you chose your snacks. “I got the chocolate!” you shouted across the aisle, walking backwards as you prepared to go into the next aisle. You bumped into an old lady, who seemed shocked by the stumble. “I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed, dropping your basket and helping her collect her things. Dean watched how sweet you were, helping her collect her things and apologizing hundreds of times. “It’s fine, dear” she smiled up at you while you crouched with her on the floor. You handed her the basket once you were back on your feet. “That boy of yours is lucky to have you” she smiled, pointing to Dean. “Oh no, no- we aren’t-“ “Don’t be shy!” she said in a loud voice, and Dean turned around. She laughed to herself and walked around you, towards the cashier. “What was that about?” he asked. “Nothing” you answered too quickly, but a beautiful crimson came unbidden onto your cheeks. “Let’s grab the beer” he said suspiciously and you followed him towards the shelves. Finally you lifted everything onto the counter, and reached into your pockets, pulling out a crumpled twenty. “That’s all I got” you said and shrugged. Dean tossed a ten, and with that you left the store, hands full of plastic bags. Dean was so busy looking and thinking about you, he forgot to buy pie. Once you arrived at the bunker you saw Sam passed out in the chair, his head hanging back as he snored lightly. But once you turned your head, another man was in the bunker. “Dean!” you shouted, “DEAN!” you stood there weaponless, and Dean came running in. “What!” he grabbed your shoulders, moving you back. “Son of a bitch” he muttered and let his hands run down your arms as he let go. “That’s Cas” he said, and you followed him down the steps. “Cas?” you asked, approaching the man in the trench coat. “Yes” he answered in a deep voice. His eyes were absolutely entrancing. “I’m Castiel, an angel of the lord” he greeted, sticking his hand out awkwardly. “Angel?” you asked, taking his hand warily. He tilted his head and gave a small smirk before the bunker went dark. Dean rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as wings painted the walls of the bunker. Sam immediately woke up, and paid no mind to the angel. “Holy shit” you whispered, and Castiel gave a low laugh. “Why are you here?” Dean asked, annoyance dripping off his voice. He took a step in front of you, and you furrowed your brows. If this man was able to get into the bunker by himself, obviously Dean trusted him, why would he be annoyed at him? A small part of you wondered if that was jealousy sparking out from Dean, but another part of you just shoved the thought back down into the abyss it came from. “This doesn’t seem to be a good time. I’ll come back in an hour” Castiel said. “What? No-“ Dean said, but he disappeared from before your eyes. “Damnit, Cas” he muttered and began unpacking the bags. “How did you befriend an angel?” you asked as you put the beer in the fridge. “Long story. Before you go trusting angels, it’s only this one that’s nice. The rest are all dicks” he said as if he knew too much. “Seriously? Don’t they just play their harps?” you asked and he chuckled, popping open a beer. “There are some serious wars going on in heaven right now” he said and you nodded, watching as he took a swig. “Well in that case, I’ll stay down here” you said and tossed the bags into the trash. “Ready for the movie yet, gorgeous?” he asked and you rolled your eyes. “Yes, gorgeous” you mimicked his tone, remembering the first time he had said it to you. Dean watched as you walked back towards the library, your step lighter than it was before, as if you too were feeling the same euphoria he was. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he knew that it was something to worry about. Dean lead a hunters life, and that never ended well.
I get really sad sometimes. When I get really sad I think about my two options: 1. Fake my own death or 2. Cause my own death When I was 14 I would bang my head against a wall because I couldn’t remember what the square root of math was to me, Pi equaled 3.14 seconds of time it would take to eat an actual pie. It equaled apples, peaches, pumpkin, chicken pot pie, cutie pie, pie hole, bye bye Miss American - pie It made zero sense to a zero like me. If I am greater than X, than Y did we break up? “Just solve the equation!” the teacher cries And I try to think in digits but instead, it turns into The number of nights we ran into the ocean, screaming. The number of times I fell in love with girls The number of times we fell into each others arms, with our chins on each other’s left shoulders “because” she said, “that way our hearts can touch”. The number of seconds it took for our blazing bodies to collapse onto grass, or sand, or mattress Fingers in mouths, fingers in noses, fingers in toasters, fingers inside everything but text books. The number of days she stopped looking into my eyes, The number of times my parents were “disappointed” in my behavior. The number of pills I took to stop banging my head against the wall because I was so sad about numbers.
About a year and half ago, I got really sad again. People on the internet “hurt my feelings” and I let them. While my “friends” IRL were out feasting with kings I was left alone, a knight in a cave, knees shaking. I always thought I was sad about numbers but now words? Out of nowhere, this shrewd oppressor, Billy Bully, reaches out from my monitor and sucker-punches me right in the jaw He then grabs me by the collar of my shirt & says “listen to me, girl. you’re dirt.” As it turns out, the negativity has a face, and in that moment it was my own twisted grimace. I had been gazing into a mirror of contempt and insecurity that became valid because I heard things like “I just wanna bend her over my lap like the slut she is. That girl sounds a lot better on mute. She’s getting so fat. This girl is dumb. Get a nose job, get a boob job, get a better job. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. They say Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can never hurt you. That’s not true. Words are what made me pick up a knife, and I held it to my throat in a moment of weakness. And I imagined those faceless people, the ones that were tearing me to shreds, and I thought Who hurt them this badly? This was never even about me! Why are we all so nauseatingly affected? When the knife falls to the floor, barely missing my bare feet, I blow kisses to my reflection, because all I’m missing is balance. Instead of reaching for something to hurt me, I reach for something to help me, and sometimes, pills do because maybe some of us are wired differently, I refuse to hide my sadness, I’ll wear it as a badge of courage in my fight for happiness, and it’s okay if a Prozac a day keeps the monsters at bay because when I’m sitting alone at a coffee shop and I look up from my book, I think, wow, this is what normal feels like. Words, both callous or cordial, are just words. and, you know, numbers aren’t so bad either! Like the number of times she simultaneously held my hand and the steering wheel
The number of times my parents told me how proud they are of the woman I’ve become. The number of laughs my sister and I shared as we ate pie straight out of the garbage can at 1am. “So, what’s the problem?” the universe asks. I reply with this: The left side of my brain departed from the station traveling at a speed of 65 miles per hour. Later, The right side of my brain departed from the station traveling in the opposite direction of the left, it was going 75 miles per hour. After the left side had traveled for one thousand seven hundred and eighty days, it was only a few miles away from the right side. How long did it take for both sides of my brain to man up and get back on those pills? The answer? Asking “are we there yet” when we hadn’t even left the driveway.