Is there a thing Hinata does that’s not epic? Quite frankly the answer is no. There are so many moments and I’m sure I’m gonna end up leaving out so many of them, but these are my favorites:
1. “I’m Hinata Shōyō, and I sprouted from the concrete. I’m going to beat you and go to the nationals”. My son literally takes no shit, especially from Ushijima Wakatoshi. I clapped SO HARD. (plus Kageyama reaction here is everything)
2. The match point against Aoba Johsai. Simply the most iconic point ever scored, I think not even the last point against Shiratorizawa has been that intense. Not to mention Hinata’s face right after, he wasn’t even incredulous, he was just…proud. :’)
3. The feint. The epicness of this moment is painted on everyone’s face, even on Bokuto who was actually the one who taught him that move. I just ADORE it with my whole self.
4. Spiderman Hinata. Who…actually…does….something like this??? and acts like nothing happened??? like he didn’t just jump off a wall like that??? WHAT THE HELL HINATA
5. When he intentionally spiked at Oikawa. The fact that he didn’t even looked at the ball once while doing it its probably even more epic than the spike itself and than the fact that he purposefully smashed the ball right beside him…literally the fist time he met him. That definitely set up the mood…
No it’s not a typo….yes it’s a pun!These graphic tees are not for the feint of heart, so don’t buy one for your grandmother. Inspired by @budgie2budgie‘s Poster Tees I took some of the advertisements made for City Living and slapped em on a t-shirt. I hope you like them! Backyard Stuff Required
Context: all of use have experience as players, two of us as DM, but tonight a player wanted to be behind the curtain. None of us are sure what to expect, specially since we have a Trickster Domain Cleric
Genasi Sorcerer: ooc - well im dead after that failed roll
Cleric: running over to his body I shout out to me god “This man has not lived ling enough to drink, party, lay with women, and just be a fun guy! Dont let him pass!”
Moments pass with no answer and we gather up to leave the room.
DM: you all hear a gasping sound across the room as the Genasi begins to breath. A feint whisper at the back of your mind, Cleric, says “and you thought I was ignoring you hahahaha”
The table lost it as the Cleric was tricked by his own god.
Summer: Waking up to golden light streaming through your barely closed curtains, the sound of birds chirping, nestling yourself deeper into the few white sheets that cover you. Enjoying the longer days in the sun, the warmth and the earthy smells. Spending hours playing silly, child-hood games with your friends or sitting on the front porch with a cat curled up on your lap. Sipping at chilled, lemon tea, and the sound of the soft chink of ice cubes against the glass. frantic water fights, tag-teaming against your other friends. Then watching as the last rays of sun sink beyond the horizon. The pink glow of the dusk filled clouds. Then finally settling back into bed, with a warm cup of tea and a book, while you listen to the cicadas through the open window. A light breeze sending you off to sleep.
Autumn: Waking up with a few more blankets piled on your bed, most fallen off from the still warm nights. The sun still starting to come up and the air slightly crisp. Mist laying on the distant hills.The sound of the kettle as you make tea, drinking it quietly in your warm bed. Sleeping a few extra hours, snuggling deep in your blankets. Walking through trees, laced with red, yellow and brown. Disturbing piles of freshly racked leaves, collecting a few rare beauties as you go. Stocking piling acorns like a squirrel for no reason, then feeling sad when you accidentally drop or lose one. Roasting chestnuts over an open fire. Watching as the days grow shorter and the trees deader in preparation for winter. Watching the rain pour down from the ledge near the window, nestling into a newly brought jumper. Indulging yourself in the seasonal treats. Trick or treating with your friends even though you know you’re already too old. Falling asleep under growing layers of blankets , to the feint sound of trickling rain.
Winter: Experiencing your first frost. Waking up colder than you wished. Burrowing deeper into your blankets to warm up. Eventually crawling up to make yourself a hot cup of tea while still being wrapped in every blanket you own. Feet crunching through frozen grass to get the mail. Puffing out balls of steam, pretending your a dragon. Watching as the snow begins to fall silently. Having brutal snow ball fights with friends and making snowmen and snow angels. Warming your feet up in front of the fire and drying your snow covered clothing. The sweet smell of steam in the warm air. The smell of wood smoke. Setting up the Christmas lights and the Christmas trees. Wrapping paper littering the floor. Smells wafting in from the extravagant Christmas feast. Waving your friends and family goodbye, feeling content. The sound of the kettle as you search for your long lost hot water bottle. Preparing for the cold night a head. Watching as the sun goes down early, the last blankets off snowing drifting peacefully. The dozens of blankets piled on your bed. Snuggling in deep, feeling like a badger or hedgehog. Falling asleep to the warmth of your hot water bottle.
Spring: Waking up to the fresh noise of bird song. Shoving off your blankets as the days get warmer. Snow melting and plant life is popping up everywhere. The fresh, crisp scent, like the morning after a storm. Yellow Daffodils nodding their heads in the soft breeze. Soft rain showers. Green everywhere. You pick bunches of Daffodils, and make daisy chains for all your friends. You watch as you cat turns another year older. You celebrate Easter with more chocolate than you need, feeling sick by the end of it. You watch as the days, once again, grow longer and warmer. You dance around, making dandelion wishes. Picking plums from trees and eating the sweet fruit. Making over sweet Jam with the leftover plums. Watching as sky lines appear more frequent in the deep blue sky. The silent droning of passing planes, that seem a life time away. watching as new born lambs learn to walk and prance around, giddy to explore. Feeling happy as the world feels reborn. Playing on an old chain swing, tied to a small oak. watching as the sun sets slowly. Prolonged, as if it is reluctant to see the new season’s first day die. You boil up a cup of tea and settle in bed, listening to another shower of spring rain. You sip at your tea, as your cat curls up on top of your covers. You fall asleep, dreaming for the next Summer, Autumn, and Winter.
Summary: The reader, distraught over not having a date to her sister’s wedding, considers asking one of the Winchesters to pretend to accompany her; will Dean manage to save the day and play pretend for two weeks, or will his feelings get the best of him?
A/N: I’m a sucker for these “fake relationship” stories ;))
Y/N pulls the phone from her ear, her frustration drawn out in the creases in her brow.
“Well?” Dean asks, sat opposite her at the library table. Before him lies an open lore book, on a page about Nordic gods and how to kill them, and his cup of coffee sits dangerously close to the irreplaceable relic. With Sam out doing some shopping, it’s just the two of them at home, trying to dig up some info that might be useful for future use.
Pinching her brow, the young girl shakes her head, waving a dismissive hand. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
“Yes.” She says, trying to sound convincing, but its of no use, because the elder Winchester has known her long enough to see past her facades.
Living together for nearly five years now, calling her his best-friend even feels like an understatement. They got to know each other a while back through a hunt involving a Tulpa in California; Y/N’s kill, but the boy’s happened to jump in on it and help out. Surprise surprise: a friendship sparked, and ever since then, the relationship has flourished greatly.
To Dean, Y/N is family, just like Cas or Charlie or any of the other members of their little rehabilitation program they’ve picked up over the years. And with that, he knows—well enough—that despite her efforts to dismiss it, something is nudging at her mind.
“Obviously not. You seem like you’re about to explode. What is it?” He shuts the book and leans forward. Y/N still looks exasperated; still tries to act like she isn’t, and fails terribly. When she finally lifts her gaze, her expression is that of defeat.
“It’s my sister.” She says mournfully. “She’s calling me about her wedding coming up this month, and wants to know if I’ve been signed up to the family news letter that allows me to see all the updates on things like which floral arrangement we’re going to have. Surprise surprise—I’m not.”
“Damn.” Dean says plainly, still not seeing the reason behind her chagrin. Y/N rolls her eyes at him, trying to look annoyed, but the smile that she suppresses says otherwise.
A sardonic laugh escapes her. “Yeah, damn indeed.” She rises from her seat, downing her coffee. Dean glances at his, then stretches it across to her. She finishes it in a single glug.
“So….what now?” He leans back in the chair. “You don’t know the floral arrangements? Doesn’t sound so bad.”
“I don’t know anything about this wedding, Dean. I don’t know where it’s gonna be, I don’t know who’s gonna be there, and—until I few seconds ago—I didn’t know I’m going to have to be in Boston next week. S/P/N mentioned it in the newsletter but….” Her voice drifts off and she folds her lips into a straight-line, shrugging.
“What’s in Boston?”
“The wedding, apparently. Who even gets married in Boston? Yuck.” Y/N scowls.
“Your sister, apparently.” He almost rolls his eyes. “Right, so…go to Boston. Show up for the rehearsal, see your family, have fun, and then get back here once everything’s done.”
Dean explains it like it’s so easy. To him, it is. Wedding prepping can’t take more than three weeks, can it….? He wouldn’t know. He’s never had the chance to even be part of a wedding, but he assumes that that’s an appropriate estimate.
But, from the way Y/N bites her lip and averts her gaze to the floor, a look teetering between guilt and embarrassment on her face, maybe he’s wrong.
“Yeaahhh….” She draws out, skeptically. “Uhm…about that. It’s not as easy as it sounds…”
“Uhm…?” He quirks an inquisitive brow.
“I…sorta…told them that I have a date to the wedding and,…” Y/N gestures in the air, but doesn’t finish her sentence.
Dean watches her with a knitted brow, waiting for an explanation that doesn’t come, until realizations strikes. His eyes widen and his mouth forms a little “o”.
“Yeah…” Her cheeks are dusted with a feint blush and she looks away.
Dean doesn’t want to say it, but he can’t help but think how cute it is—really cute. The only thing that can compete, he thinks, is the way her eyes disappear into her cheeks when she smiles.
As embarrassing as it is, he has almost an entire list like that about Y/N; things he thinks are adorable about her, things like her laugh, to he way she’s so awkward around big crowds, or how she has an undeniable obsession with space. Little things. Cute things. It goes on and on, infinite and growing each day, the more and more he gets to know her…but he’ll never admit that.
Because he can’t.
Because Y/N is family, and she’s just a friend.
“Well…is it like a must to bring one along? You could always just tell your family that you guys…broke up? Maybe he cheated. Maybe the love fizzled out.” Dean offers, shrugging.
Y/N looks at him with an un-amused expression. “Great thing to mention right before a wedding.”
“God, I don’t know.” Getting up from his seat, he rolls his eyes. He shuts the book and a gust if dust billows from it, then fixes it under his arm.“You’ll figure it out. It’s you.”
Y/N doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she looks to the floor, arms crossed over her chest.“Well,…there is something I thought about doing, but—God, I don’t know. What if, like—” She finally looks up.
Dean waits for the bombshell he knows she’s about to drop with a cautious, furrowed brow,
“—I asked Sam?” She finishes, her expression hopeful; her eyebrows are pulled together and she’s squinting slightly. The elder Winchester feels the wind get knocked out of him at hearing this.
His eyes widen. “Sam?”
“Not to actually be my date!—just to fool my family for the two weeks. Do you think he’ll go along with it?”
“I don’t get it—why don’t you just—“
“I can’t tell them I don’t have a date, because I already told them that I do. Going back on my word now will just make me look ridiculous, Dean. Just…”Y/N sighs and shuts her eyes. Dean can read the desperation in her features. He bites his lip, contemplating Y/N’s offer.
Sam, going on a date with Y/N. The idea is so ludicrous, so unbelievable that it sounds completely silly, like imagining pigs fly or anything of the nature. He can’t bring himself to even picture the two of them together, but…
He then feels something stir in his gut at the thought, a warmth, a….jealousy?No. Hopefully not. It’s been ages since these feelings have managed to surface. Now is not the time for a return. The elder Winchester quickly suffocates the feeling and averts his attention back onto his friend.
Before him she stands, imploring y/e/c eyes, a sweet smile stretched across her face and hands clasped together. She looks like a little girl, so young, so desperate. The elder Winchester doesn’t want to say no. Even if he did—with puppy eyes like those—how can you?
“So you have to have a date to this wedding?”
Dean thinks for a moment, raking his eyes over Y/N’s face that speaks mountains of uncertainty.
“You think he’ll say no, huh?”
“I’ll do it.”
“What?” Confusion floods the young girls face as she unclasps her hands. They fall to her side. Dean gulps trying to level his voice to a more confident tone.
“I’ll be your date to your sister’s wedding.” He repeats, hoping he sounds more sure than he feels. His hands go cold, throat tightening.
Y/N’s face speaks volumes of surprise. “You’d…do that?”
“You’ll really do this?” She asks eyes wide. “A whole two weeks in Boston? With my family?”
Dean shrugs. For some wild reason, his heart is pounding in his chest and his palms are sweating, and he tries to stave off all the anxiety that begins to bubble within his gut. “Yeah. Why not?”
“Dean,” Y/N’s voice is stern all of a sudden. You can tell that she’s just as taken aback by the proposal as he is, but is trying not to show it. “If you say yes to this, I don’t want you to half-ass it? This is a real big deal for me, you know?”
“Look, do you want a date to this wedding or not?”
Y/N then bites her lip, contemplating. The elder Winchester’s eyes never leave her as he watches, waiting for response, until she finally agrees.
“Okay.” She says. A small smile then twitches on her lips, and Dean can see she’s trying to suppress.
“ Okay. Awesome. I’m gonna call S/P/N and see if there’s anything more I need to know yeah?” She asks. He nods.
“Sure.” Dean says. “It’s fine with me.”
“Mhm.” He knows he is, because the smile that breaks through Y/N’s authoritative face then is something definitely worth the decision. Her cheeks indented with dimples, she smiles, shaking her head, and then walks out to make the call. On the way out, she makes sure she butts her shoulder into his, just for fun. Dean lets out a nervous chuckle.
She’s gone. The empty library is silent, and that’s when his heart starts to thud.
Over and over, like a vicious doldrums. The silence only accentuates the sound of his rapid heartbeat, as the elder Winchester allows in a deep breath. His eyes flutter shut, and the anxiety begins to melt away gradually.
(this may or may not ever turn into something, so I thought I’d leave it here as the product of my procrastination.)
Obito gets lost on the way back
to the afterlife.
It sounds like the start of the
worst joke ever, like something Kakashi would mock him for forever after finding out about it, but it is, Obito admits to
himself with great reluctance, actually true. This is definitely not the Pure
Land, Rin is definitely not waiting for him, and he is definitely alive,
because apparently using Kamui to skip out on your path to the afterlife leaves
you alive even when you don’t want to be.
The worst part is, Obito can’t
even regret it. He’d make the same decision again, because Kakashi needed his eyes so he wouldn’t just
stand on the sidelines like a useless lump or throw his life away trying to
take a hit. With Kamui, Kakashi has a chance at getting them a victory against
Kaguya. Without it—
Without it he’s dead, and Obito
doesn’t need the blood of any more teammates on his hands.
Cursing quietly, Obito pushes
through a particularly tight net of tree branches, trying to figure out where
he is. Another dimension, he can tell that much—Kamui gives him a good sense of
such things—but unless he wants to kill himself with chakra exhaustion he can’t
teleport back out of it. He could try it to get back to the afterlife that way,
or just use a kunai, but—
Obito is a stubborn bastard. He
was fine dying to save his friend, because there was no other choice and he was
dead at the end of the war anyway, but if he’s alive? Yeah, fuck that, Obito is
going to survive. It’s what he’s always done, and even if it’s against the
world’s best interests, Obito is going to keep it that way. He’s alive, and no
one can take that away from him.
The forest thins out up ahead,
the spaces between the tree trunks widening as the ground grows rocky, and
Obito makes for it, hoping to find some higher ground so he can at least get a
look at his surroundings. The earth is covered with old leaf-litter, soft and
silent underfoot, and Obito feels like he should know it, like this whole area
is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.
He rounds a thick stand of
trees, pushes through a thicket of brambles that curl away from the touch of
his Mokuton, and hears—
War. War like the one he just
left, the one he started, but without
the monstrous roar of the bijuu or the overwhelming lash of chakra from shinobi
with no concept of human limits. The earth trembles beneath his feet, the air
rings with shouts, and there’s a clang and crack of weapons meeting. Fire
roars, the smell of scorched cloth and flesh rising in its wake, and there’s a
A familiar cry.
Obito reacts without even
thinking. He dodges around the last copse of trees, chakra already surging
within him, and bursts out onto the battlefield just as there’s a flash of
Years of learning how to craft a
plan, how to alter it on the fly, how to act and react and take advantage of
every skill he’s managed to cultivate—that’s enough to let him take in the
fight in one swift glance, ignoring that fact that it should be impossible.
Senju on one side, heavily armored and fighting desperately; Uchiha on the
other, backs bared because their stupid pride won’t let them wear armor, but pushing
the Senju back. Two sources of chakra brighter than the rest—one on the far
right, two heads with long black hair, a dragon made of wood, a familiar gunbai
and a curl of scorching flame. The other is at the far end, almost dead-center.
A fading glow of gold, black hair, Uchiha symbol, and he’s turning but it won’t
be fast enough.
But Obito has faced a man who’s
even faster, and he can make it in time.
It’s nothing conscious that
drives him—the connections are simpler than that. Half a moment to judge,
another bare fraction of a heartbeat to let Kamui whirl to life, and there’s a
beat in Obito’s blood that sounds like the
cause the cause the cause. Nothing solid, nothing certain, but trained
instinct and denial working in tandem as he whirls off the battlefield. A
portal into the Kamui dimension, and almost before he fully materializes he has
another forming, leading right back out, and he snatches up a staff from a pile
of stored weapons and is gone. As soon as he’s through he shifts his body
sideways, back into the other dimension as he phases through the man—no armor,
just robes, and fuck but Obito can’t
believe he’s part of a clan filled with such arrogant assholes, thinking
they’re too good to wear armor in a fight—and brings the shakujo around.
A sword collides with it in a
flash of yellow light, and red eyes framed by white hair go wide.
Obito snarls, in no mood to call
for a truce here and now, and plants the butt of the shakujo in the ground. He
leaps, using it as a pivot, and slams a foot into Tobirama’s armored chest with
all the force of his chakra behind it. The future Nidaime goes flying, and
Obito lands lightly, yanking the staff up as he turns.
Uchiha Izuna rounds on him with
a victorious laugh, red-and-black eyes bright with triumph, and opens his
Obito sweeps his feet out from
under him, dumps him on his ass, and buries him in grasping roots that drag him
to the ground and pin him there. “When the hell is it ever going to be enough for you bastards?” he snarls
right in the man’s dumbfounded face. “How many innocent people need to die in
this stupid fucking war before you finally decide that you’ve had enough
There’s no answer, only blank
gaping, and Obito growls, pivoting on his heel. Several knots of fighting
shinobi are watching him with one eye, clearly wary, but not enough to stop
their own battles. It’s not going to be enough to save them, because in a split
second Obito has made up his mind. It’s a stupid decision, probably the worst
he could come up with, but if there’s a chance in hell of stopping all of this
before it starts, Obito will take it.
“Stay there,” he growls at
Izuna, leveling his shakujo at him, and then turns. A burst of speed sends him
hurtling right at a Senju kunoichi with her hair in a topknot and the
ponytailed Uchiha she’s fighting, and he shoves right behind them, knocking the
woman into the man and pinning them both with Mokuton. The Senju lets out a
startled cry, but Obito is still moving. Branches and roots erupt around him,
grabbing for shinobi without discrimination.
Those in Obito’s path don’t have
nearly as much of a chance to fight back; Kamui makes him a ghost, and even
when he’s tangible his speed leaves him all but untouchable. He plows through
the ranks separating him from the other fighting pair, drives forward with a
wave of Mokuton subsuming everything behind him. There’s a snarled knot of fury
growing larger and larger in his chest, a twist of something that’s very close
to grief, and he’s had enough.
With a shout, Madara shoves
Hashirama away, then whirls in, sword sweeping down. Hashirama catches it on a
thick burst of wood, shoving him back, and in the same moment Madara’s eyes
flicker up above Hashirama’s shoulder, taking in the rest of the battlefield in
an automatic sweep.
Obito, barely three yards away
with his shakujo already swinging, catches his eye and bares his teeth in a
Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.
Hashirama must see something in
Madara’s face—either that or his instincts give him warning, but Obito likes
the idea that Madara’s dumbfounded expression serves as warning enough. The man
ducks, rolling to the side, and the ring of the shakujo sweeps across the space
he just occupied. It just misses Madara as he leaps backwards, a fireball
bursting from his lips, but Obito phases right through it, landing lightly and
spinning the staff through his fingers.
Madara feints left, but this is
man who trained Obito to begin with, almost a century younger and far less
skilled, and Obito easily spots the misdirection. He lunges the opposite way,
catches Madara’s sword when he reverses directions, then twists past the blow,
drives an elbow into Madara’s gut, grabs him by his long, thick hair, and uses
it as a handhold as he spins, knocks Madara’s feet out from under him, and
drags him down to the ground.
From above and behind him,
there’s a cry, and Obito wrenches the sword from Madara’s hand, keeping the
other man pinned with the shakujo against his throat, and half-turns to level
the blade at Hashirama. It taps the Senju’s chest as he pulls up short, eyes
wide, and Obito snorts.
“One move and I’ll happily put another hole in this waste
of space,” he growls, seeing the way Hashirama’s eyes flicker from him to
Madara and back.
Hashirama stares at him for a
long moment, then nods and takes a careful step in retreat. One half-glance
around them and he says very quietly, “You have Mokuton.”
Madara makes a sound like a
pissy cat dropped into a pond. “You have the Sharingan,” he spits, as though this personally offends him.
“You’re an Uchiha.”
“And that fact has been
responsible for pretty much all of the misery in my life,” Obito retorts, and
for a breathless, terrible moment he’s back in that clearing under the full
moon, a handful of seconds too late to save Rin from Madara’s manipulations. One
blow and he can stop all of that here and now, can prevent so much of the pain
that might come.
Hashirama must see something of
that in his eyes, because he takes a quick stride forward, only to pull up
short when Obito snarls and levels the blade at his throat again. “Please,
don’t!” he insists.
“Get lost, Senju!” Madara snaps
at the same time. “This is an Uchiha matter, I will handle—”
“Clearly it is a Senju matter as
well,” Tobirama says coldly, coming to a halt a short distance away, but his
eyes are on Obito’s sword where it touches his brother’s collarbone.
“I don’t think so,” Izuna
counters, equally chilly and just as biting as he edges closer, Sharingan eyes
narrowed and wary. “Just because some Senju bastard couldn’t take no for an answer when it was coming from
an Uchiha kunoichi—”
Instantly Tobirama whips around,
offended rage written clearly across his face, and he grabs for his sword, only
to be pulled up short when Hashirama reaches back and grabs his wrist.
“But—” Tobirama starts to protest.
“Izuna,” Hashirama says,
carefully even, and he doesn’t look away from Obito but there’s a spark of
tightly contained fury in his dark eyes. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”
Izuna flicks a glance between
Hashirama and Tobirama, swallows, and takes half a step away from them. “Brother,”
Madara gives Obito a dark look,
but he doesn’t try to move. “You wouldn’t stand for such an insult to our clan,
Izuna,” he huffs. “Don’t expect the Senju to have any less pride.”
Narrowing his eyes, Obito
presses the shakujo in a little more firmly. “Don’t bother taking that high and
mighty tone, Madara,” he bites out. “You’re the one I hold responsible for
all of this, and I’m going to fucking take it out of you hide.”
Red-and-black eyes go wide, and
Madara almost flinches away from him, hands rising in something like surrender.
Obito doesn’t want surrender, though. He wants to rip
into Madara the way he wasn’t able to before, wants to get a hand in his chest
and tear the heart right out of him, pay back every bit of pain that Madara
inflicted on the world, through Obito and through Zetsu and by his own hand as
well. Wants to rip and slash and hack away until this monster is nothing but a
pile of bloody flesh, unable to hurt anyone ever again. It overwhelms him for
the space of a breath, white-hot rage the only thing inside of him, and before
he can think to stop himself he tightens his grip on his shakujo and—
Big hands grab him, one arm
around his waist and the other around his chest, and with a jerk he’s hauled
right up off of Madara, dragged back against a broad chest as dark hair tumbles
around him. “No,” Hashirama says,
halfway to a plea, and his grip tightens enough to force the air out of Obito’s
Obito freezes, stiff and stunned
at the touch of another human. Years,
it’s been, since anyone touched him to do anything but inflict pain, and his
muscles go tense and tight in anticipation of a blow.
There isn’t one, though. No hit,
no pain, no kunai slid into his kidneys to gut him and leave him for dead.
No pain, just—
A trickle, wet and hot, against
the back of his tattered robe. Blood, by the smell, and since Obito doesn’t
bleed anymore it has to be Hashirama’s, has to be from when he knocked the
sword aside to save the man who will eventually kill him.
It’s too much. The thought of
it, the reality of standing here over Madara, able to end everything before it
begins, and Hashirama is the one to
What Obito did, the people he
killed—that’s on his head. But it’s on Madara’s too, on Zetsu’s, on Kaguya’s. Uchiha
Obito should have died in a cave-in when he was thirteen, but he didn’t, and
the reason for that is right in front of him. The reason he didn’t carved a
seal into his heart, killed his best friend, and gave him a twisted, broken
vision of the world as an illusion, and then set him to unmake it.
Obito is responsible for his own
actions, and he knows it all too well. But Madara was the trigger. If Obito was
the sword then Madara was the hand that forged and wielded him, and that has to
mean he bears at least a part of the
blame from the hell of the past few years.
“No,” he snarls, and though he shoves backwards to loosen
Hashirama’s grip and get away he doesn’t reach for Kamui, doesn’t try to hurt
the man (again, again, something in
him whispers, hurt him again you mean). “Let go of me! He deserves
whatever I do to him!”
Hashirama’s grip isn’t harsh,
but it is immovable, and he’s as solid as an oak as he drags Obito back another
step. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the way.”
Naruto, Obito thinks, guilt and grief and regret and anger all
wound up and tangled together. He curls his fingers into fists, takes a breath
that vibrates with anger, and does the hardest thing he’s ever managed in his
obvious that Bitty’s misjudged the weight. As soon as it’s more than half off the shelf, the bowl tips down into Bitty’s outstretched hands, and the dough inside slips precariously toward the lip.
“Hello?” Bitty calls out, desperately hoping Jack’s out of the shower. “Jack? Can you come here please?”
He turns his head to try and peer down the hallway which is a bad move. The bowl drops another half-inch.
Just as he thinks his fingers are slipping, a body presses up behind him. Unfortunately, his fingers slip off before Jack is quite there. The bowl flips as it drops, and the dough slips out to arc through the air, thankfully over Bitty’s head.
Jack is not so lucky. Bitty gasps, catching the empty bowl. He turns around slowly. The mixture is splattered across Jack’s chin, neck and shoulders.
Bitty looks into Jack’s wide eyes. “I am so sorry, honey.”
A large chunk of sticky dough travels off Jack’s chin and lands on his shirt.
Jack reaches up to wipe off dough from his neck. He stares at the mess on his fingers, then puts in into the bowl Bitty’s still holding.
“Bittle,” he says.
“Yes?” Bitty gulps.
Jack scoops another glob of dough off his chest, and before Bitty can register what’s happening, wipes it down Bitty’s cheek.
Bitty splutters, and Jack cracks a wide smile, eyes alight. “There. Now we’re even.”
Jack looks so delighted that Bitty has trouble holding his irritation, that is, until Jack pulls more dough off his shirt and goes straight for Bitty’s hair. Bitty manages to duck out of the way, and spin around to the other side of the kitchen.
“No, no, stop. You’ve already got me.”
Jack shakes his head and comes around the kitchen island. Bitty counters, grasping the bowl in front of him like a shield.
“I only got you a little bit.”
“You said we’re even.”
“I changed my mind.”
Jack feints and Bitty doesn’t expect it. The next thing he knows, Jack’s wrapping his arms tightly around Bitty and starts rubbing his filthy self all over Bitty’s back, spreading gooey dough out between him. Bitty can feel his shirt stick to his shoulder blades and down his spine.
“Jack,” Bitty whines, trying to get away from his hold.
Jack laughs in his ear, then starts pressing kisses to his neck. Bitty sighs out and relaxes into Jack’s arms, waiting until Jack spins him around, which Bitty is sure he will. When he does, Bitty kisses him. Jack’s hands move up to Bitty’s hair, and Bitty takes his chance, smearing the remaining dough up beneath Jack’s shirt and over his stomach.
Jack gasps against Bitty’s lips and curls his body away from Bitty.
Bitty blinks innocently up at Jack through his lashes and slips his hand out from under Jack’s shirt.
“You cheater,” Jack whispers, hands still in Bitty’s hair.
“Like you’re any better, mister.”
Jack narrows his eyes at Bitty. Bitty dances away from Jack and puts the bowl into the sink.
“You know what I think?” He turns around and runs his eyes over Jack.
“What?” Jack replies with still narrowed eyes.
“I think you need another shower.”
Bitty walks over to him, and wraps his fingers around Jack’s wrist. “And I think I need one too.”
Requested by anon: “How about the reader sees Matt [Murdock] without glasses for the first time (maybe he is telling them about his abilities?). Bonus: the reader says something about how pretty his eyes are (Charlie Cox’s eyes slay me they are so pretty.)“
A/N: I love Charlie Cox as Matt Murdock he’s perfect! Hope you love this <3
To say you were nervous was an understatement, even this being your fourth date with Matt it was still nerve wracking. He’s so handsome and you can’t help but feel so bleh sometimes.
“Why are you nervous?” he asked, sitting across from you. Snapping your head up to meet his shaded eyes. “How do you do that?” you laughed, he only smiled and shrugged. “Attorney’s intuition?” offering up an answer.
“Eh I don’t buy it” Chuckling as he reached across the table, signaling he wanted your hand. You complied meeting him halfway. “You’re beautiful” running his thumb over your knuckles.
“How can you know that?” A bashful smile gracing your face. It’s like he could sense that you were feeling insecure.
“I don’t need to see you to know you’re gorgeous” Feeling a feint blush spread to your cheeks. “How do you tell then?”
“The sound of your voice, the way your hand feels in mine. There are little tells that I can pick up on that allow me to form a mental image of you” His hand squeezed yours gently. “You’re sweet” smiling at him. “I have my moments”
After eating and talking about random things you both stood to head out. Him taking your arm with one hand and his cane in the other, leading him out of the restaurant.
You both laughed while walking the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, not a worry coming from either of you. Matt is really something else, so kind and caring. Even after everything he’s lost, his sight, his father. Everything and he’s still so amazing. How’d you get so lucky to have a guy like him?
“Yeah but we’re seriously discussing making t-shirts, ‘Nelson and Murdock Avocados at Law’“ he joked making you giggle beside him. “I’d wear it”
You both laughed before noticing three guys smoking outside a building. “Hey sweetheart” one of them eyed you as you walked by. You just ignored them, “Who was that?” Matt asked leaning toward you, even though he could hear the three heartbeats.
“Just some low lives” you whispered passing by them. He nodded in understanding. “Not worth an argument?” he chuckled making you laugh. “No, not really”
“We’re not worth your time huh?” They quickly cut you both off, making you tug Matt back some. “Look fellas we don’t want any trouble” Matt rested his hand on his cane.
“Well we’re looking for some trouble, teach you both some respect.” the man in the center growled, before his two buddies grabbed you and the middle one pushed Matt into an alley.
“MATT!” You yelled lurching forward but pulled back by the thugs. “Hey hold on their sweet cheeks we’ve got plans for you too” their hands roaming your body as they held you back. “Let me go!” Screaming and trying to get away.
You saw one of the thugs kick Matt to the ribs. “Leave him alone!” only leading the guy to punch him. You watched as Matt spit out some blood before adjusting his glasses and standing up.
Shocked to see him land a precise right hook to the mans jaw. Knocking him out. The other two dropped you before running at him. He swiftly dodged nearly every punch, getting clipped only once or twice. One of them he took out by throwing him against the wall and the other he pushed himself off the wall gaining more momentum in his punch to knock the man out.
He was panting heavily before coming toward you. Still in shock you only stared at him before his knees gave out. You caught him, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Helping him to his nearby apartment.
Getting him inside you sat him down on his couch before running into his bathroom. Finding a first aid kit, warm water, and some washcloths. Returning to the couch he stayed silent.
You took the warm washcloth and began to clean up the cuts on his face, starting with his busted lip. Pulling away to re-wet the cloth he spoke up, “[F/n] I’m sorry” You stopped in your movements, looking up at him. “I should’ve been more honest with you.”
“How did you do all of that?” asking as you returned to wringing out the cloth.
“I may not have my sight but all of my other senses are inhumanly heightened.” he answered. You hummed signalling you understood slightly, “Are you..?” trailing off, but picking up the unspoken though “The devil of hell’s kitchen? Daredevil?” Gently dabbing the rag to his scraped cheek.
He was silent for a moment. “I am”
A silence hung in the air between the both of you. He wasn’t sure what to expect from you, until he felt your hands on his glasses. He allowed you to remove the lenses, hearing your heart speed up. Probably looking at his eyes. “Your eyes they’re…. amazing” a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
But it turned to a somber expression, “I understand if you don’t want to stay with me from now on. I haven’t exactly done the best things with my abilities. If you don’t want to be with me I won’t hold it to you. Do you want to leave?”
You stared at him, a bit astonished by his statement. You leaned forward so your lips were just ghosting over his, “Does this answer your question” whispering before closing the rest of the space. The kiss was soft but was filled with trust and love.
He pulled away, a smile forming on his lips “I’m glad you’re staying”
You giggled, “Thanks for having me” before he connected your lips again. Now learning that he’s not just kind and sweet, but also a hero.
The reader, distraught over not having a date to her sister’s wedding,
considers asking one of the Winchesters to pretend to accompany her;
will Dean manage to save the day and play pretend for two weeks, or will
his feelings get the best of him?
Word count: almost 4k
A/N: yo this blew up way more than i ever thought it would thank you so much for the support <3
Friday arrives much faster than anticipated. It’s a warm, brisk
morning, the sunlight raining down and painting Massachusetts with a summery essence. Fallen
leaves litter the yards of suburban homes and a canopy of those that remain is
spread across the road, only a few dots of light peering through.
“Textbook illustration of the apple-pie life.” Dean remarks
as he steers the car down a long strip of tarmac. “God…it’s making me sick
“Hold it down. You know I don’t want you throwing up on any
of my family members.” Y/N admonishes, letting her gaze avert from watching the
houses roll by and unto the elder Winchester; today, despite her attempts to
persuade him, he’s still settled on
wearing his usual hunter get-up—jeans and a plaid (obviously)—and his chin is
adorned with a feint patch of stubble. His eyes are set on the road, focused,
but she don’t miss the way his mouth quirks up at the remark.
Sam laughs as his eyes follow the array of little homes. “Noted.”
He says. “Anything else Dean needs to know should probably be voiced out right
now. You don’t want him making a fool out of himself around your family
“We talked about this already last night.” The elder
“No cussing around my mom, no crude jokes, saying the grace
is a must, and—“
“And be sure to talk politics with your dad. Yes, I got all
of that the first hundred times you told me.” Dean, rolling his eyes, makes a
turn for the left and Y/N heaves a sigh of relief. They pass a group fo
teenagers walking to school (way too late).
“Okay.” Y/N sighs, then raises her finger for emphasis. “Oh—also,
be sure to try and interact with all my brothers. They love that.”
“We’ve met your family before, Y/N.” Sam’s eyes never leave
his screen as he twiddles away at his phone.
They had; at the
birth of her hunting career with the boys, years back, Y/N had had to make trip
down to Massachusetts to handle a siren case that the Winchester’s provided
extra muscle for. Their time in town had been spent at her parents’ home.
“I know, but this is different.” She defends. “Dean is….”
She pauses, eyes skittering over to the elder Winchester for not so much as a
second before they return. “….my boyfriend. Or pretending to be my boyfriend.
There’s going to be a lot of pressure.”
“Your folks don’t seem like the type.”
“I just want to rub it in their faces that I’m.”—she raises
her hands in finger quotes—“not single anymore so that they’ll get off my case.”
The elder Winchester nods slowly, pulling a face. “Makes
“Shut up, Sam.”
The younger Winchester finally lifts his head from his
phone. His gaze bounces from Y/N to Dean. “What did Cas say, by the way?”
“About tagging along?” Dean casts a brief glance into the
backseat. “Not much. He said that he doesn’t see why we need him there anyway.
I told him Y/N’s sister was getting married and she gets to bring a couple of
friends, and seeing as we’re the only ones she has…” He trails off. Y/N then smacks
him on the shoulder, earning a satisfied smile. “I’m kidding. Kind of. I told
him that we want him to come with.”
“And he said no?”
Dean shrugs and continues to drive. The conversation ends
there for a moment, and once a silence spreads throughout the car, Dean tunes
the radio on and Y/N turns her head to the window.
Trees and houses and roads oh so familiar from her childhood
escapades through this tone roll by. Streets, cafes. Although vast and very
busy, she knows this place like the back of her hand; the local pool where
their family used to go on weekends, the private schools she bounced between.
Just down the road, wedged in the valley nearby are the woods where she
encountered her first monster at the tender age of sixteen.
So many memories. So much attachment. Y/N hates Massachusetts
more than anything; because it reminds her of how idyllic her life was before
she started hunting. It reminds her of people and of places and everything the
rest of her peers experienced that she didn’t get to; hunting whisked her away
from her life, stripped her of a regular teenage hood. But then again, she’s
She chose this life.
She chose Sam and Dean. She loves Sam and Dean. You can tell her that the sky
is red and that pigs fly and she’ll still believe all that first before she
believes that they boys are anything but her family.
Boston is a few kilometers off the highway, down a winding
road lined by thick trees and shrubbery, and with a few residential buildings
scattered around. Despite being a large neighborhood dotted with mansions and
the like, it’s a lot quieter. The rumble of the Impala’s engine is evident as
Dean, instructed by Y/N, steers his way through. The outline of the city is
painted against the canvas of the bright blue sky as they approach. The
traffic, taken the time of day, is minimal and so they manage to get to the
hotel in time.
In the parking, Dean kills the engine immediately, and then,
heaving a heavy sigh, turns to Y/N.
His face speaks no ounce of nervousness, which only makes
the young girl’s stomach coil into a tighter knot. She wants him to be nervous.
One of them has to, and Dean’s placidity leaves room for only her own anxiety.
“So…” She replies, trying to ease away her own nerves. Her
hands feel clammy and the back of her neck is hot. “Just don’t be nervous, yeah? My parents are
like predators—they can smell your anxiety a mile away.”
“Not supposed to.”
“I feel like I should be telling that you, Y/N.” Dean
remarks. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“No, I’m not.” She is. It’s a terrible lie and very
evidently so, but thankfully none of the boys say anything. Instead, however,
Dean reaches out and envelopes her hand in his. Y/N then stills, and feels the
color drain from her face.
The contact is warm,
assuring. Her hands slides perfectly into his and their fingers intertwine,
palms pressed flat.
“We’re gonna kick ass.” Dean says confidently. Y/N doesn’t
hear him—she’s looking at him, staring him dead in the eye, but the words enter
one ear and fly out the other because her hand is in his and it’s nice.
They’ve never held hands before, not like this. Dean guiding
her through a dark path on a hunt, Y/N pulling him with her as she runs from a
vampire. Their hands have definitely touched before, and their skin has definitely
grazed before, but this is so alien to Y/N, because it feels nice and like
everything that it’s not supposed to.
Dean stares into the young girl’s gaze as he tugs on her
hand, offering a brief smile. “Come on.” He goes to open the door. “We’re gonna
Once his hand leaves hers, it’s like her trance has been
diminished, like spell once cast over her has been broken. She floats back to
reality. Sam is hauling their bags out from the trunk, she realizes, and Dean
is trying to fit as many weapons into his luggage (just in case) as he can. She
quickly gets out. The hotel, adorned with a very tropical theme, is down a
strip of cobbled path with a few plants at the sides. Y/N follows the
Winchesters, trying to keep the pace, when she hears Dean call to her.
She turns. “Huh?”
“Give me your bag.” He says, his hand open as they walk. Y/N
stares at him for a moment, eyes glazed over. She’s still a bit dazed. Looking
at Dean now feels alien and almost unreal, like she’s looking in one of those
funny funhouse mirrors. Maybe it’s just the stress of this wedding, or the
heat, she thinks, trying to brush it off
“I got it.”But before she can speak, Sam plucks the rucksack
from her and hoists it up on his back. Dean scoffs.
“Wow, Sam.”He rolls his eyes as they approach the hotel. Towering
above them, it’s a giant of a building, quaint balconies perched up on room, it’s
years and history written out in the way vines climb in slender tendrils along
the stone walls. Inside, the ceiling climbs so high one might think it reaches the
“Maybe Y/N should have asked you to play her boyfriend
instead.” Dean remarks as they stroll in. The place is packed; an eclectic
cloud of people roams the room, all with their luggage in hand.
Sam smirks. “Maybe she should have.”
“The reception’s over there.”
Y/N points to the desk ahead. Shuffling through the crowd,
the trio makes their way over to the counter, the receptionist smiling at them.
She’s young, probably older than them, but still her skin is taut and plump and
her brown eyes gleam as she speaks. She types something into the computer and
in a moment heir rooms are assigned, all courtesy of her family. Sam has agreed
to carry everything upstairs and meet them at the lounge, so Y/N and Dean
decide the time alone can be used to go over their ground rules again.
They wander over to the bar, a noticeable distance between
them. The room is ambient, lit up by little warm lights suspended from the
high-set ceiling despite it being day. Slow jazz music floats through the
crowded room. As soon as they settle down, swarming like locusts in a field,
the waiters come over, all trying to fix a menu in their faces until Dean
ushers them away and says that they’re not hungry. Y/N is a little bit
disappointed—she hasn’t eaten all morning—but says nothing, instead focusing on
the man before her.
“Can I cuss around your sister?” Dean asks as he leans back
in his seat.
Y/N nods vigorously, her expression saying that the answer
is quite obvious. “S/P/N’s got a mouth like a sailor. A little profanity won’t
hurt. Not around my parents though.”
“Not around your mum…?”
“Not around either.” She says. “They hate it, think it makes
you look delinquent.”
Dean nods thoughtfully, then goes on asking various
questions. Time seems to drift by unnoticed, the conversation bouncing from one
end to another like a ball in a tennis court.
“Can I drink?”
Y/N wrinkles her brow in uncertainty. “You don’t smoke.” She
says; it’s a firm statement, a proclamation rather than a question
“But if I had to?“
“Fine.” The young girl lets out an exaggerated sigh. Dean chuckles. The sound is precise and brief
but still manages to bring a shy smile to her face. Moments later, the table has quieted for some
reason, so Y/N lifts her gaze to Dean, regarding him curiously. She knows that
look—it’s hard not to when she’s seen it so many times, with Sam or Cas, or
even first hand. Gaze set on the floor, his lip is tucked between his teeth and
he runs his tongue over his lips, his contemplation evident until he finally
“So,” The elder finally allows their eyes to meet. “What
about us? You know…our boundaries, instructions. Do’s and don’ts. What do we
say if we get the stereotypical how did you meet quiz?”
matter.” She waves a dismissive hand and then leans back in her seat. The fiber
of the backrest presses into her back, crackling quietly. “My parents already
know we met through hunting, but we could always just use some other cover with
my other relatives.”
“So we lie?”
She quirks a teasing brow and smiles. “You have no problem
lying that you’re an FBI agent basically every day. Lying that you met me on
vacation or something can’t really be that hard…?”
“Where was our vacation to?”
“So we’re settling on the vacation-thing?”
Dean shrugs. “Any other options? I’m sorta just following
here. It’s your plan.”
“Don’t say it like that. We’re a team, Dean.”
“Right, almost forgot that.” The elder Winchester chuckles
and shakes his head. “Okay. What if we met on unconventional grounds? Maybe I
nearly ran your dog over and you got pissed, so you tried flagging down my car
and threatened to press charges. You didn’t, of course. My good looks and wit
managed to persuade you into changing your mind and just having dinner with me
Y/N rolls her eyes at the green-eyed hunter, her mouth
quirked upwards. “Is that your definition of romance? It sounds like bad
Dean pouts, then folds his arms and leans back in the chair.
“Whatever.” He grumbles. “You think something up then.”
“Vacation it is.”
A wide grin stretches across Y/N’s face and she revels in
the victory, when Sam walks up. He comes up from behind her, the only
indication of his arrival being the way Dean’s eyes dart to the space past her
“You guys aren’t eating?” He asks, pulling out a seat from the table nearby.
He sits and turns to Dean.
“Do you want to?” The elder Winchester looks to Y/N—he’s
Opening her mouth to speak, she’s about to decline (because
they don’t have time to sit and eat anyway), but the grumbling in her stomach
reminds her of her hunger. The sound is embarrassingly loud. Her mouth instantly
shuts, and Dean’s eyes widen.
“Shut up.” Y/N chastises as her cheeks are swarmed with
pink. The elder Winchester doesn’t listen. He begins to howl with laughter,
clasping his stomach, and Sam snickers along with him.
“Whatever.” She turns her head, scowling, as his laughter
begins to melt away. Leaning back in his seat, little bubbles of laughter
escape him, and he lifts his hand.
“Waiter.”He calls. A
few feet away, with long curly blond hair, one of the servers from earlier
turns. Dean’s ruddy face smiles at him as he calls him over. He scuttles over,
a polite smile on his face.
“What do you want, Y/N?” Dean’s voice is ribbing and smug.
“Shut up.” The young girl rolls her eyes and turns her
attention to the waiter. He’s young and his face is dotted with little pink
spots of acne. She orders a chicken salad, just like Sam, and Dean goes for
stake. Moments later, the food arrives, hot and scented with herbs and spices.
They eat and then, stuffed and satisfied, head up to their
rooms to get cleaned up. Y/N just got a call from her parents asking where they
are, that they’ve been waiting on them for a while now and everyone is already arriving
when they finally get to their room, Sam waiting out in the hallway, she and the elder Winchester hurry to get ready. Y/N curls her hair and throws on some mascara while Dean runs a quick shower.
“Okay, this is it.” She says, standing by the bed; the light from outside floods the area, bringing out the very delicate
and chic design: the walls, painted mocha brown, are adorned with little
trinkets and the bedspread is a light toffee color. There’s a potted palm in one of the corners, candles
practically everywhere, and the wooden floor is warm beneath her bare feet.
“Operation Wedding Crasher is in pursuit.” Y/N says to Dean
Standing in the bathroom, he’s just gotten out of the shower and is trying to
fix his hair, running his fingers through it and muttering profanities beneath
his breath. She’d insisted that he changed—taken how many outfits he’s recycled,
she’s pretty sure he wore that very one years ago when he first met her
“Roger that.” He takes one last look in the mirror, checking his stubble
and hair, then walks over to the bed where his shirt sits.
Y/N tries not to stare at his bare-chested form as he
quickly slips on the shirt, the front undone and exposing his caramel-colored
skin. Instead, she clears her throat and turns away. This is the only way; if
she doesn’t, she’s going to end up drooling a puddle on the floor or letting
her gaze linger for too long, and that’s the last thing she needs right now. As
if things weren’t awkward enough back in the car.
She then looks down at her hand, once encased in Dean’s, the
marks from her battles with monster’s still there. There’s a little crescent shaped
scar sticking out in her palm that speaks of a hunt years ago, a hunt with a
rugaroo that ended in tears and blood and Y/N clasping onto Dean’s shirt for
dear life. It’s hard to forget. She can recall getting it, can remember the
pain of having to kill that young girl because of the abomination she had come,
can still taste the blood on her tongue and feel the pain in her hand.
This life has left
her with various moments like that. It’s a packaged deal when you’re a hunter,
a sort of terms-and-conditions scenario, to have at least one hunt that has
managed to strip you of normality. Something that took you over the line that
separates you from the regular world—that was it for Y/N. She was it. That girl
couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Having her blood on her hands had
definitely been the initiation into the hunter’s game for Y/N.
She has been through so much in her time as a hunter and it
shows; on her face and on her body. On her hands. She runs a finger along the
tissue, watching it intently. Dean is speaking in the background, saying
something to her that she can’t decipher because she forgets to for a moment,
until the memory nudges at her conscience once more. The rugaroo hunt. Her
It had been Dean to help her that night. It had been him and
his nobility to carry her out of that house before she could bleed out; it had
been him and his care, his selflessness, that got her to the car parked miles away
from the woods they were in; it had been Dean to stop the bleeding and the
tears that seemed to rain from her eyes after she killed that young girl and it
had been his hands to cloth the wound in her own.
It had been and it will always be Dean, because Dean is her
“Y/N?” He says, pulling her from her reverie.
The young girl immediately looks up and whips around, facing
the elder Winchester who is already dressed and ready to go. Y/N’s eyes widen;
she doesn’t say it, but the outfit change was definitely a good idea.
Her eyes rake up and down the green-eyed hunter’s structure,
taking in the sight of his crisp burgundy button up and dress pants—he looks
stunning. He always looks stunning. It’s not weird for Y/N to say because it’s
Dean and everyone notices his attractiveness upon first encounter, but this is
a whole different case. It’s still him, of course. His eyes are still vibrant
green, breaching into a hazel-gold, and his hair is still chestnut brown and
his smile and his heart and everything Dean Winchester is still evidently
there, but it’s just…different, like looking at the same thing but from a
“Uhm…” He draws out after a while.
Y/N looks back up to
his eyes; her face then flushes and she swallows. “Sorry, uh” She stumbles,
clasping her hands together and trying to regain her composure”—you were
Dean is smirking. “I look that good, huh?”
“Oh, shut up.”
He chuckles. The first few buttons of his shirt are popped
and you can see a patch of caramel-tinted skin peering out at you, a feint scar
on his collarbone adding some extra touch. “I was saying that we should get
going. Sam’s already waiting up for us.”
“Right. Uhm, so we’ve gone over everything, yeah? You get
“Yes. Act like we’re dating.”
“Act like we’re in love.” Y/N corrects as she grabs her
satchel from the bed and goes to Dean at the door. She stands, body facing him.
“There’s a big difference. My parents are going to be all over my case for
these two weeks if they see that you and I don’t have any chemistry.”
“We already do, though.” He defends.
“Whatever. Then let’s amp it up—mega chemistry.”
“Mega chemistry, huh?”
“Yeah.” She smiles; it’s goofy and a bit shy because, God,
did she really just say that?
But Dean doesn’t seem to mind, because his lips turn up to
and he shakes his head. “Dork.”
Y/N goes to open the door, her hand hovering right above the
knob when Dean cuts in.
“Can I hold your hand?” He asks.
The young girl then stills and her hand floats away from the
door. She stares at him; his voice is calm and collected, like he’s asking her
what’s the time or how she is.
“You…want to hold my hand?” Y/N’s uncertainty is evident.
Shrugging, he pulls a face, an expression that says no duh, why not.“Yeah.” He answers. “We are trying to portray that
mega-chemistry, aren’t we?”
She feels him reach out, like it’s happening in slow motion,
like she can’t do anything, and take her hand in his. Their skin grazes and
fingers lace. His hand is far bigger than hers, rougher, too, but it’s a
satisfying contrast as the butterflies in her chest are roused.
Dean’s smile is ribbing and smug and Y/N’s heart is in her
as she feels her palms clam up. He opens the door and they step out into the
hallway, the heat immediately smacking onto them. Sam is leaning against the
wall, typing away at his phones, and he looks up when he notices their
A smile twists at his lips. “There’s the happy couple.”
“Shut it.” Dean says, smirking as they begin to saunter down
the strip of corridor. Y/N is trying to
mollify her feelings, rinsing them away, trying to rationalize why they’re even
here in the first place. They shouldn’t be. She shouldn’t be getting so worked
up over something like this, but it’s hard to. The past few days, with this
wedding situation overhead, have been nerve-wracking—could that be it? she
wonders. Could those anxieties be the cause of her frazzled emotions?
But she doesn’t have time to ruminate. The elevator takes
them to the ground floor and they shuffle out once the doors open, Sam and Dean
talking about how weirdly excited they are about meeting Y/N’s family as they
walk through the ballroom and then out into the garden. . Picnic benches are
set up across the expanse of greenery and evergreen trees sprout from the
ground all around. There are cobbled paths through and fairy lights (currently
off) strung up between branches willows. She remembers this place from when her
dad would bring her along on workshops and send her out here to play.
Y/N notices her mother first.
Her hair is an ashy
blond, curled into a bob, and she’s wearing a white caftan and jeans. She’s
smiling, laughing at the table cluttered with familiar faces. Only about two or
three people are strangers to her.
Then, as if instinctively, she clutches Dean’s hand tighter
in hers. He then casts a brief glance at her, one of caution, worry, almost,
and Y/N meets his gaze.
“I’m nervous.” She admits, visibly gulping.
His eyes regard her curiously. “Why?”
If only she knew. But she doesn’t, so Y/N only shrugs and
looks back ahead. When they’re a few feet away from the table, that’s when
S/P/N notices them because, gleaming like the sun in a salmon colored dress,
she rises from her seat and welcomes them with a smile.