“Der Soldat,” Scott announced, dread heavy in his voice.
It took a second for Stiles’ own dread and preemptive fear-logged brain to realize those words meant nothing to him, and the confusion was enough to knock it free for a second from its constant stewing in foreboding predictions of doom.
“Der Soldat,” Scott repeated, like that was supposed to mean anything, and judging by his tone, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything good. “The Dread Doctors had him. That’s where I’ve smelled this, in their lab.”
Stiles still didn’t know what that meant, but now he really didn’t want to know. Anything involving the Dread Doctors and by extension their lab was something he wanted nothing to do with.
The foreboding predictions of doom were coming back full force.
“Theo told me me about it,” Scott explained, “the Doctors had an alpha werewolf in this huge tank. They were using him to keep them alive, extracting some kind of fluid?” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “He was some German soldier from World War II, so they called him Der Soldat—The Soldier.”
Stiles’ nose dropped out of the wrinkle and he just straight up gaped, his left eye twitching involuntarily. His doom detector was going crazy—flashing red lights, screaming alarms, full immediate evac advised.
“A Ger—there’s a Nazi werewolf in Beacon Hills?” Stiles was yelling now, he couldn’t help it, because what the ever loving fuck was their lives. “A Nazi were—an alpha Nazi werewolf.”
“That’s what it sounded like, yeah.”
“And you’re just mentioning this now?” He was still shouting.
“I thought Chris handled it. He said he would clean things up.”
“Well clearly he didn’t because the alpha Nazi werewolf is on the loose, Scott. Just—take a second and let that sentence sink in. Alpha Nazi werewolf.”
Scott stared at him a moment, then his eyebrows turned concerned. “You’re freaking out.”
“Of course I’m freaking out! It’s an alpha Nazi werewolf.”
My alternate sixth season minus the memory business and plus Sterek is done. Finally. Good lord.
Transcript: It’s getting harder and harder to keep track of the days…Day and night are meaningless in space…A year is merely the motion of one rock around one star…Even my seconds are longer, but by how much? If only I knew how fast I was heading away…But all I know is that I’m getting older. Still, even if I could count the days, I wouldn’t. Because I know he’s counting them too.
Hey. All of a sudden, I’ve been on E for six months. I don’t believe I’ve ever posted pictures of me pre-transition on here, but I was thinking the other day about how much I looked at photo sets before I came out, so I figured I’d do something like that. Here’s me. Two years ago, one year ago, six months ago, and every month since. It’s amazing what this is doing for me, and my eyes are so much happier than they were.
Dean x Sister!Reader Sam x Sister!Reader Bobby x Reader (fatherly)
Bobby, Sam, and Dean all stared at the headstone, the freshly disturbed dirt standing out in the fall leaves that lay on the ground. It was never supposed to be this way, never like this.
Bobby cleared his throat and ran his hand over his beard, trying to figure out what he could say to make this better, but he knew there was no way to make this better. Looking between Sam and Dean he nodded his head and walked away.
Sam stared at the headstone for another moment before he couldn’t take it any longer. He muttered a few words that Dean couldn’t understand before shaking his head and joining Bobby near the impala.
Dean sighed and walked over to the headstone; taking a shaky breath he lightly touched the engraving on the marble stone before saying,
“Happy Birthday Sweetheart, I sure as hell miss you.”