Warnings: it’s Loki the god of Mischief. You bet your sexy ass it’ll be the most NSFW of all of them
@dark-night-sky-99 requested: Hey!! I love your writing, and absolutely love how you take conscious of us curvy girls, not many care so thank you!!, I was recently reading your Curvy hips and pretty lips series and I know it’s closed but I was wondering if you could do something similar with Loki since he’s my favorite character and I’ve never read about him and a curvy reader before.
A/N: Let me know if you want to be tagged HERE. Comments appreciated and welcomed. This is the first time I write for Loki so be kind :)
Summary: you try your best to explain your past, and have a little run in with a super soldier
Pairings: Dean x Reader, Bucky x Reader
Word Count: 998
“Whose Dean?” Bucky asks gruffly. He hadn’t spoken to you in months, doesn’t look at you, eyes trained firmly on the floor. His muscles are tense, a curious look on his face as he worries at his lower lip.
Your heart sinks as you realize how badly you had destroyed your friendship, how it could never be the same between the two of you. If only you had kept your mouth shut, but you had taken a chance, the one you had not taken with Dean.
Dean had been too good, too pure for you, just as Bucky was.
You destroyed everything you touched, ruined the beauty in the world. You were nothing, merely a shield to be used by those around you, your mutation affording you near invincibility.
“(Y/N)!” Steve snaps, drawing your attention to him.
Groaning out loud at the look on his face, you know there was no getting out of this one.
He wouldn’t let you get away without an explanation, not this time. “Who was that? And who’s Dean?” he asks, His Captain America persona coming out in full swing.
You sigh heavily, not knowing where to begin or how to explain, end up floundering for a second before settling on the truth. “Cas is an angel. Dean is… was a friend,” you reply, not daring to meet his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t believe the vague explanation.
Steve snorts in disbelief. “You don’t react that way to a friend, Shadow. Tell me the truth,” he demands, Bucky nodding vigorously at his side.
Sam offers you a look of sympathy coated in curiosity. “She said Angel? Ain’t anybody gonna comment on that? No?” he says, trying to divert the attention away from what was obviously a touchy subject.
“We fought Aliens,” Steve deadpans.
“I’m a brainwashed ex-assassin,” Bucky adds.
“(Y/N) absorbs the power of others,” Steve continues.
Sam deflates, shrugging his shoulders in a defeated “I tried” motion.
Clenching your jaw and squeezing your eyes shut, you breathe heavily in through your nose, willing away the memories Cas’s unannounced visit had stirred up, the heavy realization you would have to do better than the bare minimum settling uneasily in your stomach. “Cas is an angel and my friend. We hunted together with two brothers. They were my family,” you answer, keeping your voice neutral, masking the pain the memories have conjured.
“And?” Steve prompts.
Annoyance flares at his persistence. “And nothing, Cap. I don’t see how this is any of your business!” you snap.
His eyes go wide briefly, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of your ire. It softens his demeanor marginally, seeing how upset this is making you, but when Steve makes to speak Bucky cuts him off.
“He’s an ex?” he asks bitterly, his eyes finally meeting yours. The blue sucks you in, holding you captive.
The familiar butterflies that stir when he looks at you flap in your stomach. Your hands’ bunch in your hoodie as you break his gaze. Confused and angry you rise from your seat. “Again, I don’t see how this is any of your business, Barnes,” you spit angrily, stomping in the direction of the kitchen with the intention of making yourself a cup of tea and retiring to your bedroom for the evening, ignoring the heavy footfalls of a certain soldier behind you.
“What do you want?” you finally ask, turning to face him, hands on your hips, face set in a deep scowl.
Bucky’s face falls, he shakes his head sadly “What happened to us?” he asks quietly, the heartbreak in his voice so tangible, so heart-wrenching, you have to suppress a whimper. “I’m sorry,” he says as he raises his oceanic blue eyes to meet yours. “I’m sorry I hurt ya.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, revulsion at yourself rising steadily in your throat. “Bucky,” you sigh, taking a step toward him cautiously. Abandoning all caution you rise on your tiptoes and wrap your arms around him. “It’s not your fault. You can’t help how you feel. It’s my fault and mine alone,” you reply earnestly as Bucky clutches you firmly to his chest.
His grip is almost crushing, like letting you go would be physically painful. “Can we go back to what we were? I miss you.” His fingers dig into the flesh of your back with bruising force.
You linger in the embrace, knowing this would be the last time you would hold him this way, the last time he would voluntarily embrace you, or look at you. Choking back the sob threatening to spill out, squeezing him tighter, burying your face in his chest and taking a deep breath the ever present smell of snow fills your nose. Clean and fresh, you savor it, ignoring the wetness of your cheeks. “No,” you say quietly.
Bucky stiffens, a mixture of a whimper and a snort leaving his throat “Why?” he asks emotionlessly.
You step away from him, putting much-needed distance between you. “Because I love you,” you state.
He sucks in a harsh breath, his mouth falling slack at your words. “I… you what?” he asks dumbly.
Shaking your head sadly, you smile tearfully at him. “I love you and will not drag you down with me. I’m no good for you, friend or something more. Stay away from me, Bucky. You deserve better.” Turning away from him, you march toward the gym hoping to find Wanda or Vision, anyone, to spar with to help you forget, to numb you against him, to erase the look on his face from your memory because you knew how much damage you had just caused.
You knew the implications of your words, you knew how badly Bucky would react to you pulling further away from him. At this point, you could only hope Steve would forgive you for doing more damage to his friend. But, better to cut it off now, at the knees, before you broke Bucky permanently.
Tags: Under the cut (I hope I got everyone if not please send me an ask and ill add you)
Summary: Bucky drops a bomb, We get a little peek at the past
Pairings: Dean x reader. Bucky x Reader
Warnings: Angst, Smut with a plot? how does one describe this? NSFWish pic
Word Count: 1340
Dean roughly kicks the door closed behind him, crowding you into a wall, blood, and bits of werewolf coating you both. He fumbles with the buttons of his stone washed jeans, freeing himself from the confines of his underwear.
You yank your own pants down, and he grabs you by the back of the thighs, lifting, slamming your back into the wall. No words are spoken as he enters you. There’s no need. You know what he wants, what he needs from you.
He growls as he sets a bruising pace, your bodies in sync with each other. He claims your lips in a bruising kiss, and you gasp into his mouth as he hits that perfect spot inside you. The dingy motel bathroom echoing with the sounds of skin hitting skin, he moans low in his throat, nipping at yours, an action that’s uncharacteristically affectionate.
You throw your head back as he fucks into you roughly. All words were stolen from you as he plays your body expertly, bringing you closer to the edge with every thrust, with every soft touch. “Dean,” you moan.
His hips falter at your words, a garbled “Fuck,” leaving his lips as he shifts places, moving you on the counter. slowing his pace and cupping your face in his hands, he kisses you softly, lovingly. He pulls away, yanking your shirt over your head, cups your breasts reverently. His green eyes dark and hooded, clouded with emotion that isn’t just lust. “(Y/N),” he whispers, eyes meeting yours as he pushes your thighs wider, his hands grabbing at every piece of flesh he can, his plush lips leaving marks and bruises as he kisses a path up against your neck. He enters you swiftly, sheathing himself deeply inside you, filling you so well, the feeling so euphoric you’d give anything to keep him here with you, to take you over and over until you’re writhing whimpering mess underneath him, on top of him, however, he wants you.
“Please!” you beg and he pulls you closer, grinding into you deeply, barely pulling out, his hips swiveling as he hits your spot perfectly, pubic bone grinding onto your clit, creating a sensation so mind numbing you can only whimper.
He knows your body, your soul, intimately, all your secrets, you were his completely and he knew it. In these moments he knew how much he meant to you.
The way your hands would clutch at him tightly, the way you would call his name like a prayer, the way your eyes would follow him during a hunt, always having his back, patching him up more times he could count. You were his rock, his anchor, he would tell you things he couldn’t tell Sam. You knew exactly what he needed before he did, never denying him, opening yourself to him whenever the nightmares came.
He claims your lips once more as you come, pouring every ounce of feeling he has into the kiss, groaning as your spasmodic clenching triggers his own release. He swallows your moans eagerly, running his fingers through your hair, an action which both soothed him and you. Coaxing you back to him, worshipping your lips, you were his, only his. These stolen moments, heated quickies in seedy bars and grungy motel rooms, stolen kisses, and loaded looks were what he lived for. It was the only thing that kept him from the brink of madness. He closes his eyes and savors the taste of your lips, just a little longer, just a bit more.
He pulls away from your lips, and you sigh in disappointment. He chuckles at the look on your face, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles at you masking the guilt he feels. “Sam will be back soon,” he says as he tugs at the ends of your hair.
You purr at the feeling. Sighing softly, you cast your eyes downward. “Will you ever tell him?” you ask hopefully.
His heart drops into his stomach as he wraps your hair around his hand, pulling backward, forcing you to look at him. “Why do you need him to know?” he asks defensively, his face pinched into a frown.
“I’m tired of sneaking around, De. I just want a little normal.”
He sighs, kissing you passionately, stealing the protests from your lips. “I know,” he says as he pulls away from you. “I don’t want to share you, sweetheart. It’s just…” he trails off, his eyes begging you to understand.
You shove down the rejection, the rising repulsion you feel at yourself. Instead, you smile lovingly at him. “I understand.”
He smiles beautifully at you, melting your heart once again. With a wink he’s pulling out of you, turning his back on you, grabbing some toilet paper as he pulls up his pants. He didn’t want to see the heartbreak on your face. He didn’t want to see what his selfishness was doing to you. He hands it to you, gracing you with a last wink as he exits the bathroom, leaving you alone.
“Hey,” you call out, stopping Bucky in his tracks.
His shoulders tense, fist clenching at his sides.
You frown, thoroughly annoyed at his distance over the last few days.
He barely looked at you, barely spoke to you.
You had no idea what you had done wrong, how you had messed up this time, but you were done wondering. Jogging toward him, you come to a stop behind him tapping him on the shoulder. “What’s up with you?” you ask angrily.
His shoulders sag as he turns toward you.
You stifle a gasp at his appearance.
Heavy bags frame his eyes, his skin pale, eyes red rimmed, lips chapped from biting them.
“Bucky?” you breathe, “What’s going on?” you ask worriedly. Stepping closer to him, you entwine your fingers with his metal ones and he seems to sigh with relief.
Relishing your touch, his eyes closed, the frown smoothing off his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confesses, causing confusion to sweep through you, and you opt to remain silent, to let him speak. “I need you…” he says, the inner turmoil plain on his face, “I don’t know if it’s friendship anymore. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I… don’t know!” he says ripping his hand from yours.
Your eyes go wide, hope and fear mingling into a hot ball in your stomach.
“Why?!” he yells, pulling himself to his full height, looming over you. “Why did you have to tell me you loved me? Ya have me in knots, Shadow! I can’t think, I can’t sleep. All I think about is you, and I don’t want to!” he says as he throws his hand into the air.
“Calm down,” you reply quietly, not daring to move in case you set him off. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, B. You’re gonna need to explain.”
He huffs, chuckling dryly, shaking his head. “That’s the thing, (Y/N), I don’t know. You’re a part of me. The only woman I’ve trusted in a long time. My friend,” he replies in a voice devoid of all emotion, “Now I can’t stop thinking about ya. How Ya feel in my arms, how your smile lights up a room, and I don’t know if this is friendship anymore. I don’t want it to be more. I just want ta be your friend!”
You suck in a breath, not daring to hope, not daring to feel, to let yourself dream of a future with him. Reigning in your emotions, you wrap your arms around him, ignoring the way he tenses under your touch. “It’s okay, Bucky. We don’t have to be more. We can be just this. I promise,” you whisper as the tension leaves him.
He tentatively wraps his arms around you, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you.”
Your heart sinks. You’ve done the right thing your conscience screams, but you can’t help but feel you let your one and only chance with him die.
Tags: Under the cut. Strikethrough means tags aren’t working. If you aren’t tagged, it’s because of the smut.
Thanks so much for another thousand followers! I did a writing challenge when I hit two thousand, and I decided to do it again when I hit four. I really loved the last one I did, and I’m hoping this one can be even more amazing than the last!
[note: not all these prompts were my original ideas, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless! I might end up adding more if these are taken quickly.]
Warnings: Sort of angsty. I don’t know what to file this under. I guess some humor?
Summary: “Did you just stab me?”
A/N: This is for @bladebarnes 4K celebration Writing Challenge. CONGRATS DARLING :) :) :) Permanent tag list is closed. Sorry! Bucky tag list is nearly closed. Others are still open so let me know if you want to be tagged and what you want to be tagged in HERE (in anything but the permanent tag list).
Hot boiling anger. It sets your skin on fire, pulls at your nerve endings. A curious tingle spreads over the surface of your skin, the tiny hairs raising with the force of it. You can’t contain it, can’t control it, it takes shape and morphs into Dean. Into Bucky. Familiar yet shapeless faces swim with it, a tide that ebbs, flows, turning into a tsunami threatening to wipe out everything that lays in its path. It steals your breath, constricting your lungs painfully. Years of regret, longing, abject horror and rage swirl into a single emotion so strong you cannot hope to repress it.
You stop in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the raised voices drifting from the communal area. Leaning against the wall, your head thunking against the concrete as you attempt to suck in air, you can’t afford to lose it now, you can’t afford to let it consume you. Sliding down the wall, your grip on reality slipping, you hug your knees to your chest, getting lost in the endless pit of emotion. The endless well of pain seems to be ever present nowadays. You let out a silent sob, and let yourself feel, feel for the first time in what seems like an eternity, digging your nails into the flesh of your knees as some sick sort of anchor, anything to drag you out of the dark.
You sigh heavily, raising your head and opening your eyes. Time to face the music. Scrubbing your hands over your face, you shove down every bit of feeling you have, lock down every emotion but one, putting them in a box which shakes and rattles in your mind like a box of angry bees.
You shuffle into an upright position, closing your eyes briefly, searching for the anger, your armor against further hurt, against further attack on your battered heart. You wipe your eyes and fix your hair, throwing your shoulders back, striding confidently toward the yelling in the lounge. Rounding the corner you take in the hell that is currently the living room.
Wanda is keeping her distance from an irate Dean whose dangerously close to Steve, jaw tight, ready to swing at any second. Steve to his credit is not rising to the bait, his hands raised in surrender as Sam tries to calm his brother.
“Who the fuck was that?” Dean yells. “And why the fuck is he acting like she’s property?” he adds as he shrugs Sam’s hand off his shoulder.
“C’mon Dean, enough,” Sam urges.
You can tell Steve is close to losing his patience. “Listen to your brother, pal. This isn’t going to end well for anybody otherwise,” Steve replies.
Fucking cavemen, you think harshly to yourself as you move forward, nodding slightly at Wanda who inclines her head in silent agreement.
She steps between Sam and Dean. “Let me show you to your room,” she says in her soft, accented voice. It seems to startle Sam who flounders for a moment before his eyes land on you.
His mouth snaps shut and he nods at her, letting go of Dean and following Wanda out of the room. He glances back once, eyes darting to you. Shaking his head, Sam walked away.
“Steve, go find Bucky,” you command softly.
He deflates, stepping away from Dean, who’s staring intently at you. “Ya sure, doll? I can hang around…,” he asks gently, his eyes soft, full of silent understanding.
You nod shortly, all your attention on the remaining Winchester. Steve grunts and leaves, and you take a fortifying breath, anchoring yourself to the anger like you need it to breathe.
“You’re gonna tell me what you want. No bullshit, no lies, Dean. Tell me and do it quickly before I throw your sorry ass outta here,” you hiss at him venomously.
His eyes widen marginally in shock. He takes a step toward you. “I came because I needed your help. And I need you,” he says simply. “I need you to come home,” he adds confidently, leaving no room for argument.
You let out a peal of laughter, devoid of humor, your body shaking with rage. “Are you fucking kidding me, Winchester? If you expect me to run back to Kansas with my tail between my legs, you have another thing coming, asshole!” you snap.
He snorts what he thinks of that. “You belong with us, and you know it. This…” he gestures at the living room, “is not you. It’s a band aid, a quick fix, something to hold you over until you have what you need. You’re a hunter, a warrior, Shadow, and you ain’t doing shit here, sweetheart, but wasting your gifts.”
“Fuck you, Winchester! You left me stranded in the middle of a field. Alone! Sam was dead as far as I knew. Cas was gone. All I had was you and you left me there for Lisa! You bailed! I am not going back with you!” you screamed. “You used me! I had only ever been with you, only loved you and you left. No explanation, no goodbye, no nothing! I searched for weeks, months until Bobby told me where you were.” Fighting back the tears you forge on. “So I drove all night. I found your perfect little house, with your perfect little family! Dean Winchester had left his fuck toy, his side piece, his whore for the real deal. I’m not going back to that!”
Dean’s face had drained of color during your monologue, his green eyes a striking contrast against the bloodless skin. “You were never, never any of that! You were everything to me! I only did what Sammy asked me to do,” he replies softly, gently like you might break into pieces, shatter at the slightest raise in his voice. “I love you.”
The ringing sound of flesh meeting flesh when you slap him swiftly across his face startles you both. Heavy breathing and a deafening silence fills the room.
His eyes are glossy, His heartache evident.
It’s no longer possible for you to feel bad for him. “You made me feel like nothing, Dean Winchester. You have no right to say that to me when you couldn’t even once tell your brother you and I were lovers. You have no right to look at me, to breathe the same air as I do, when you were so embarrassed by me you couldn’t even admit we were together. I want you gone. You and Sam. I want you to leave and never come back. Lose my number, Dean.”
He clenches his jaw. “We can’t. We need your help. Cas is in deep and we need you to help pull him out.”
Cas who you loved like family, the big dumb, too innocent for this world angel. “Fuck!” you scream throwing your hands in the air and turning around. Grabbing the first thing you can find, which happens to be a lamp, you hurl it at the wall. Breath ragged, the anger rolling off of you in hot waves.
It’s so typical. Such a Winchester thing. Break a heart, then come back seeking help.
You begin to laugh, a hysterical, maniacal sound that breaks Dean’s heart. He can see the madness fizzing underneath the surface, and it scares him, terrifies him to know he had a hand in pushing you this far. He had to help you, had to glue back the broken pieces of yourself back together. “Shadow.”
You turn back, eyeing him up and down. “I wanted you to fight for me like i kept fighting for you. Just once have you chase me, but you didn’t,” you intone softly, meeting his gaze. “I’ll help you find Cas, but then I want you gone. For good. Understood?”
He merely nods, and you grunt in acknowledgment, striding out of the room and leaving him alone, wishing with everything you had you couldn’t feel a damn thing. That your heart hadn’t jumped at his declaration of love. You needed space from him, from both him and Bucky. You had to survive them, survive this, for your own sanity.
As he watches you leave, he makes a silent promise to himself and you. This time around he would do it properly, give you what you deserved. “I was stupid, lost and broken back then when Sammy died, darling. I did what he asked because it was his last request. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell leaving you behind. But I’m through walking away from you. I’m gonna fight for you now, sweetheart. I need my Shadow back,” he whispers quietly to himself. He wasn’t going to stop until you saw sense, and if that meant laying a beat down on the metal armed menace, so be it. He was a Winchester, and they didn’t give up without raising a little hell.
Summary: As the news of the King’s death spreads throughout the land, lords and ladies from the nearby countries swarm the castle to offer condolences to the queen and her son. As the prince mourns his father, he is met with the reality that he must now choose a wife and begin his reign.
A/N: I’m still shit at summaries. It’s more interesting I swear. Congrats @sherrybaby14 on your 2K :) :) This is for her 2K Villain Challenge. This’ll probably be a short series. Let me know if you want to be tagged HERE.
P.S. I’ll do the tags tomorrow. I’m really tired right now.
Summary: You lose control of your power, and Bucky shows up at your door in the middle of the night.
Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Dean x Reader
Warnings: Angst, the tiniest amount of fluff
Word Count: 877 (Oh, this is super short)
Striding into the gym, the tears pooling in your eyes threatening to spill and obscure your vision, your ragged breath coming out in short harsh pants causing you to clench your fists at your sides. You were desperately ignoring the little voice in your head screaming at you, berating you, hurling profanities, begging you to go back to Bucky and throw yourself at his mercy.
Holding on by a thread, you search frantically for Wanda or Vision. Finding no one to distract you from the horror happening inside your head you finally let out a sob. Crumpling into a heap on the gym floor, you cry out your pain. The anguish of the last few years pour out of you as you curl yourself into the fetal position, ignoring the shattering of glass when the usual iron clad control you have on your powers slips. The walls begin to vibrate, chunks of floor hovering in the air as you begin to wail. Rising to your knees you stretch your arms to either side of you and push. The walls implode outward, bits of debris whipping past your face as you destroy everything around you; gym mats disintegrate, mirrors shatter, equipment bends and groans as it’s morphed into twisted hunks of metal.
Slowly you come back to yourself, the crushing emotion you felt moments ago lifting with the destruction you caused. You drop your hands to your sides, panting heavily as you regain control of yourself. Squeezing your eyes shut you let yourself sag, giving yourself a moment before you raise your arms once again, taking a deep breath before you pull, quirking your fingers toward yourself. Time reverses like a video tape being rewound. You permit yourself to smile as the usual euphoria fills your soul, soothing the wounds on your scarred heart.
Opening your eyes, you scrutinize your handy work. Not a thing out of place. The gym was pristine. Sitting back on your haunches you wipe your eyes, suck in a breath and stand, smoothing the creases from your clothes. You stride out of the gym, head held high, ignoring the twinge in your heart as Bucky’s face swims in your mind once more.
You groan as you turn toward the clock on your nightstand. It blinks accusingly, informing you that it was, in fact, 2 am, and whoever was at your door needed a serious talking to, or beating, whichever came first. Tiredly throwing back the covers of your bed, you stand unsteadily, lugging yourself to the door and opening it as quietly as you could only to come face to face with Bucky.
His eyes were red rimmed, tear streaks down his face. His usual immaculately kept hair in complete disarray.
Your heart flutters painfully, fingers itching to smooth the tresses from his face. “Bucky?” you ask worriedly. When he merely grunts in response panic grips your heart as you yank him into your bedroom. You usher him gently to the bed as he stares vacantly at you. You hesitated briefly before you drape yourself over him, crooning softly as you run your fingers through his hair, uttering words of reassurance.
His body relaxes slowly beneath you, his breathing evening out. He wraps his arms around you and buries his head in your hair as he begins to cry, his body shaking violently.
You know better than to ask, it wouldn’t make sense anyway judging from the garbled words leaving his mouth.
He rolls you onto your side, arms tightening. “Don’t leave,” he says between sobs. “Please, please don’t leave!” he cries and in that moment you know, you know how badly you had hurt him, how deeply you had scarred him if his current state was anything to go by.
You had shattered what little security he felt he had. Swallowing down the revulsion at yourself, you whisper softly, placing a kiss to the top of his head, “I’m right here, B. I’m not leaving.” You tip his chin upward, forcing him to look at you.
His eyes seem bluer, hope shining fiercely in them. “Promise me,” he whispers, his grip tightening on your hips, he draws you closer to his chest, whispering “Promise me,” over and over in a sick mantra that gives you goosebumps.
You swallow thickly before nodding. “I promise,” you finally reply, and he sags with relief or exhaustion you don’t know, but he goes quiet.
Plastering himself against you, legs entwining with yours, the heat radiating off him brings a sense of calm and security. His strong arms and steadily beating heart lulling you into a false sense of home you could only wish were real.
You can’t find the will to keep distancing yourself from him, to keep hurting him, so you cave, relaxing into his embrace as he sighs happily drifting off into sleep. “Oh, Bucky,” you whisper. “What have I done to you?” You smooth the crease of his brow with your fingertips, placing a loving kiss on the skin. “I’m so sorry,” you say sadly, dropping your hand to his arm, running it up the cool metal, coming to a stop just before the scarring. You sigh, closing your eyes and letting sleep overtake you, not daring to wonder what morning will bring.
He had grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet hidden on the far side of the lounge, and contemplates commandeering the couch to drink himself into blissful oblivion. It was something he would do at the bunker, but a nagging thought at the back of his mind had him hesitating. He could smell the danger, feel the corrosive quality of despair in the air. It was something he was intimately acquainted with.
Loss, heartache, anguish.
He takes a swing from the bottle, the amber liquid burning a comforting path down his throat, extinguishing the roaring fire in his chest. The hole you left was filled to the brim with alcohol and regret. He knew he didn’t deserve a second chance, hell, he hadn’t deserved the first chance with you. He was Dean Winchester, hells favorite toy and heavens favorite scapegoat. He broke everything he touched. People died when they got to close, it was a family trait.
Dad, Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Aileen, he begins to list before he cuts himself off, not having the strength to go down that particular rabbit hole. He gulps down another swallow, the persistent feeling something had gone balls up making his skin crawl. He scans the room quickly, fingering the butt of his gun that’s tucked safely in the waistband of his jeans. It brings a modicum of comfort.
His shoulders relax and he shrugs it off, chalking it up to a new place, new surroundings, new people. He strolls down the hallway, coming across a roof access sign, peers up the stairs, making out faint yelling coming from the roof. His hunter instincts kicking into full swing. He races up the stairs, the whiskey bottle crashing heavily to the ground as he runs, his heart beating wildly with adrenalin as he reaches the top.
It shudders and nearly stops in his chest as he takes in his surroundings.
The super doosh is back peddling, yelling desperately at you to calm down. He’s begging and pleading, not knowing how to handle a full Shadow melt down. It’s the sight of you that does his head in.
The anguish on your face breaks his heart, the pain conveyed in your muscles sets his teeth on edge. Your hair whipping around your face, a broken, prolonged scream leaving your lips as you hover a few feet in the air, chunks of concrete vibrating dangerously threatening to punch a hole through someone’s head. Your features are dulled and blurred, not a speck of discernible humanity can be found. Your pain has taken form, the air around you is dark and menacing.
A feeling of deep unbounding sorrow leaks into him, settling in his bones. He sucks in a breath, taking a step forward only to be yanked back by the super doosh. “You wanna lose the other hand, too?” he snaps at Bucky his eyes planted firmly on the flesh hand of the super soldier.
“She’ll tear you to pieces!” Bucky yells, almost frantic with panic.
“Super soldier or not,” Dean says calmly, “I will shoot you in the face if you don’t let go.” He rips his hand out of Bucky’s grasp when it loosens, striding forward confidently. It wasn’t the first time he had pulled you back, he just hoped you still felt enough for him for his plan to work.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, placing a single finger on the inside of your wrist.
Your head snaps toward him, a dull flicker of recognition in your eyes.
“It’s okay, baby, you’re okay,” he says as he draws the finger up, slowly making his way toward your elbow.
You drop a few feet lower, your eyes begging, pleading for something, anything to make it stop.
Dean grits his teeth against the emotion he finds there, the brokenness of your soul crying out to his own battered one.
You shut your eyes tightly, almost vibrating with power.
He ducks as a piece of debris when it flies past his face. “You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe. Open your eyes. Come back. It’s okay. It’s over now. You’re okay. Wake up. Please wake up. Don’t do this to me. C’mon, baby. Fight! Don’t do this to me! I love you so much. Come back!” he begs, moving in front of you, grabbing both of your hands in his.
Your eyes fly open, your mouth falls into a silent scream as the power seems to drain out of you. Floating lightly to the roof, the clunking of concrete hitting the ground goes largely ignored as you gasp for air, like you’ve been winded, tugging your hands from Dean’s so you can place them on your knees. You suck in a last breath, and the tears begin to fall once more.
“I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!” you whimper, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I didn’t mean too! I couldn’t control it! I’m so sorry!” you yell rapid fire, the words so garbled he can barely make it out. You’re nearly hyperventilating with the speed of your breaths, your chest rising quickly as you attempt to rein yourself in. Your eyes are wild, hair a mess, shaking violently with guilt.
Having seen enough, Dean sinks to his knees in front of you, and rests his head on your abdomen. Gently, almost reverently, his hands wrap around your slender ankles as he waits for you to come back. Your breathing seems to even out some at his touch, and he thanks Chuck, and Cas, and anyone who’s listening that he could still bring you back.
“It’s been seven years, and I still regret what happened at the field that day. It was never suppose to play out that way. We were never supposed to play out that way,” he says slowly, enunciating every word so you would hear and understand him. “Next to Sam, you and Cas are the closest thing I have to family. I’d do anything, anything to take it back.” Ignoring the burning tears in his eyes, he jumps slightly as you sink to your knees and wrap your arms around him.
You bury your face in his neck, crying noisily, the tears soaking into his red flannel shirt.
“I’m so sorry, baby, so sorry. I fucked up. Forgive me? Please say you’ll forgive me!” he says softly, stroking your hair. “I know the hurt I caused, I know the pain, and I’m sorry,” he continues. “Lisa wasn’t who I wanted, wasn’t who I needed. I did it for Sam. The dying wish of my brother. I was stupid to leave. I should have told him, should have made you mine,” he adds, his voice cracking with the weight of his guilt. “I regretted it the instant I left, the moment you disappeared from my rear view. But I felt like I couldn’t take it back. You deserved better than me, sweetheart, better than a Winchester. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m asking for it anyway.”
When he gets no response, he does the only thing he can. He begins to sing.
The song that started it all.
I can tell by the look in your eye I can tell by the way you sigh That you know I’ve been thinking of you And you know what I want to do
Your whimpers begin to quiet, your body relaxing slightly as he croons softly to you, feeling the spark of hope igniting in his chest as he continues to sing.
When you smile I see stars in the sky When you smile I see sunrise And I know you’ve been thinking of me And I know how you want it to be
When you sag completely, he picks you up bodily from his crouching position. You wrap your legs around his waist, his hand never leaving your hair.
He turns to face a solemn Bucky, and Dean shoots him the most venomous, hate filled look he can. Not bothering to speak to the Super Doosh, he walks past him, solely focused on you, and your wellbeing.
I can tell by the things you say I can tell that you know the way And I know what you want me to do Oh, I’ve got hearts and flowers for you
He takes the stairs carefully, moving down the hallway, hoping he would run into someone who could tell him where you slept.
You needed time, you were a mess, needed comfort and by the looks of it, a couple of years of sleep and a tumbler of Whiskey.
If you leave me you’ll make me cry When I think of you saying good bye Oh the sky turns to a deeper blue That’s - that’s how I’d feel if I lost you
Whether forgiveness would be forthcoming… he would have to wait and see. For now, he was happy just to be taking care of you again, and keeping you away from the tin man.
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