"God has purpose for you," Ivan tells her. For what it’s worth, he says it gently, as if she’s meant to find comfort in the words. 

"Matt’s," she takes a shuddering breath, thinks of how to phrase it. "He’s—demon blood? And fucking—fucking Ruby, god, I knew she was a cunt,” she spitsand Ivan looks distinctly uncomfortable though his face is as impassive as ever. Amy’s gotten good at reading him.

"Yes," Ivan says, "Your brother is meant to host Lucifer. I am…sorry, Amelia. I know you care for him. But God has need of you now."

Fuck,” she wheezes, and she can’t breathe right now, she can’t breathe at all, and the scar on her shoulder throbs in distinct sympathy. She wants—something, indistinct, something she hasn’t had in years. 

She doesn’t want purpose.

"I," Ivan starts, and there’s a gentle sound as he shifts. "Is there something—" his question trails. Amy almost laughs, because damn him but he’s trying. He’s trying just like her and Matt, but God has purpose for him too.

In the end, they’re all fucked together.

You guys can all blame Blue for giving me the motivation to finally put this down on paper.

Alfred and Matthew Winchester.

Canada you look like a lumberjack 8T

No glasses because I don’t give a fuck *flips*

And the Canmulet is a cross between a maple leaf and a star.

I need to stop before I cast everyone else.

England is for sure Crowley.

Because I love bastard!England.

Blame goes here:

To my Hetalian/Supernatural fans...

So, for some Hetalians, you’ve played RPG games like HetaOni and While England’s Away and all that jazz, yeah? And, if by chance, you’ve seen a Supernatural/Hetalia crossover fanart or fanfiction, and you squeal and wish this were a thing. Like American and Canada as the Winchesters would be awesome. 

If you are interested, please come and send me an ask or something.

I had a dream last night where Denmark was Dean and Prussia was Sam and it was the first episode so Hungary was Jess and the Woman in White was Fem!America and oh my god it was the best dream ever well until Hungary burned on the ceiling yeahhhhh.

It slips out somewhere between Des Moines and Lincoln. Matt’s complaining, looking through dad’s journal at all the stuff on Yellow-Eyes and saying, I don’t get it, why me, why I was chosen, why, why, why, and Amy’s trying, she is, trying to listen to Robert Plant sing but Matt’s such a little bitch sometimes, and it just slips.

She says, “You’re special, everyone knows that. That’s why Dad always—” and she stops herself there, but Matt’s giving her that look, where his eyebrows knit down like he’s confused. Cro-Magnon brows on little Mattie, seriously.  “Nothing. I don’t know.”

"Amy, what did you mean by that?"

"Nothing," she says again, gives Matt a tight smile. Her hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel. "I didn’t say anything."

"Are you saying—are you saying Dad loved me better or something?" Matt asks her incredulously. 

"What? He did." And it’s something she’s always known, has always thought to herself, but somehow the words hurt more to say out loud. "It’s not a big deal."

"Amy," Matt starts, working through the words patiently as if explaining a big concept to someone very small and very stupid, "we always—we always fought. Me and Dad. You know that, you were the perfect—"

"I was the perfect soldier, Mattie. You were the perfect kid. There’s a difference."

Amy says, “I made a deal.” She’s got one hand curled around the steering wheel, the other drumming its fingers tunelessly against her thigh, and all Matthew can hear are her words on repeat, I made a deal.

He clears his throat. Tries to find the words somewhere and struggles around them. There’s the sharp sting of bile at the back of his throat and a distinct burning to his eyes. His back throbs dully—from where a knife had passed through it, he remembers. “You sold your soul, you mean.”

Amy shrugs. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Her lips curl into a humorless smile and softer, she adds, “It was worth it.”