visions of tomorrow


More from @incorrectchampionsquotes!

The quotes never fail to make me smile and I love drawing new expressions on the characters! 

Here are the first two in individual posts so they’re more readable: [1], [2]

kaitrionabalfe  asked:

I'm in dire need of a fluffy scene where Claire tries to read the lines on Jamie's palm and she ends up failing miserably.

Liv says: So this isn’t fluff, so to speak—but I hope it’s still fun! Set about 2-3 years before puir Frank the Mailman died in the Three Witches AU. No worries if you haven’t read it. This one stands alone! :)

Intersection: A Three Witches Story

Claire knew this was against coven rules. Like, totally outside the realm of acceptable witch behavior.

To dole out one’s magical talents—particularly at the county fair—was a bit manipulative (in regards to the customers), a bit sad (in regards to Claire). Still, she liked to think she was working for a kind of greater good. Ensuring the happiness of all mankind! And that was almost admirable, wasn’t it? Giving hopeful glimmers of adulthood to the stork-like teenagers, comforting the mopey singletons who trudged around, heads bent? She’d offered such assurances as:

“A new man will come into your life. A handsome one—with a huge prick! His name…I think his name begins with a ‘T’.” (This to the recent divorcee, clutching her naked ring finger like a burn. She hadn’t known what a “prick” was but was no less forthcoming with her money.)

Or this, to the bucktoothed 16-year old picking at his acne scars: “You’ll be the coolest person in college. Captain of the ultimate frisbee team!” He’d been disappointed at that one, enormous chompers clamping over his bottom lip. “Ho ho ho there, young man!” she’d said then. “Ultimate frisbee is cool where you’re going. The coolest cool.” And then he’d smiled, a patchwork of teeth and holes, which Claire hoped someone might find endearing. A nice and wholesome blind girl, maybe.

And then this, to the both of them: “For just $5 more, I can guarantee it! All you have to do is buy this magical rock and carry it with you wherever you go.” Nevermind that said magical rock was actually from Claire’s backyard. Nevermind that several of them were speckled in bird shit. Maybe some cicada guts.

But that was the thing about desperate Mortals. Metaphorically speaking, their whole lives were a succession of bird shit plops and smeared bug guts. So they didn’t even notice when it was covering their $5, not-magical rock.

“Yes please! I’ll take two!” the divorcee had cried, handing Claire a ten dollar bill. (Did she think this would bring two men into her life? Because that’s not how Claire’s bird shit rocks worked.)

“Um. Yeah. That’s sounds pretty sick,” said Beaver Bobby. “I’ll buy a rock.” He’d paid in all quarters but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

If her best friend Gillian were here, she would likely call this “an exploitative farce,” two terms she would’ve picked up from her beloved Word of the Day calendar.

Claire,” she would hiss, “this is such an exploitative (Wednesday’s word) farce (last Friday’s word).” And then she’d pull out her Moleskin, update her word count with a self-satisfied tick. Her record, she claimed, was sixty words in a single morning, and Claire imagined a horrible plague descending upon their town, zombifying everyone until they could only grunt “verisimilitude.” Gillian thought an expanded vocabulary made her smarter but, really, it just increased her smart-assedness to a barely tolerable level.

Luckily, Gillian wasn’t here to offer one of her impressive synonyms because she’d bailed on their plans. If Claire could place money on it—and she couldn’t, with only $7 to her name, the very reason for this “manipulative/sad/exploitative farce”—Gillian was protesting GMO’s one county over. Perhaps arguing for the rights of beluga whales. Or, and this was the most likely, she was loitering at the Creamy Whip, breasts thrust at a very specific angle so that customers’ cones would find their shirts and not their mouths.

Psh! Now if that wasn’t an “exploitative farce” then Claire didn’t know what was. Gillian had mosquito bite boobs and a push-up bra more magical than her own powers.

But here was the thing: Claire wasn’t completely faking it. She wasn’t, so to speak, wearing a bra with three inches of padding. She could read palms, see futures unfurl, weblike, across strangers’ skins. Forks, divots, complex branches—each had such a distinct voice, that Claire had no doubt as to whether or not, say, Mr. Duncan over there would choke on a hot dog and die very suddenly. Or whether young Malva—that girl with the cotton candy and ruffled socks—would pop out a kid by the time she was 17. Claire, being a witch, knew precisely what would befall her clients by simply looking at their hands.

But of course, teenage pregnancy and death by synthetic meat logs weren’t exactly good for customer satisfaction. And so Claire would read Mr. Duncan’s palm, and she would see Mr. Duncan’s red face, gasping on a particularly troublesome bit of hot dog, but say he’d live until he was 85. A little white lie for a happy client. And a happy client meant A) money, B) a potential second visit, and thus C) more money. The $5 rocks weren’t scams, just for-profit business cards.

So she was lying, but not, y’know, totally lying. She’d deal with the prevention of hot dog-induced deaths later, when it better benefitted her monthly budget. (Because just as she wasn’t a complete liar, she wasn’t a complete asshole either.)

The fair had died down to a trickling of stragglers: mostly drunks, a couple of junkies who’d staggered into Nayawenne County for cheap-rate smack. Sighing, Claire stood to begin packing up, turned off the moody sound effects, gathered Gillian’s stack of Tarot cards (all hand-painted variations of herself: man Gillian; tree Gillian; Gillian with bigger-than-mosquito-bite boobs).

In the five hours since Claire had arrived, she’d made $120. Not a terrible turnout if one compared it to last year’s fair, when an angry swarm of Bible-thumpers had tossed her earnings into the funnel cake fryer. Sally Bain—or, as Claire called her, Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence—had rallied her troop of Jesus warriors and thrust crucifixes into Claire’s face, chanting things like, “Begone Satan!” and “This is God’s land!”

Which was kind of funny when you thought about it. If God wanted to claim ownership of Nayawenne—out of every other place in the universe—then he was pretty damn stupid.

Fortunately, Claire had suffered no further Bible-thumping, crucifix-wielding disturbances. Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence had fled town once she’d discovered her husband had fucked the organ player up in the ass. And in the church rectory, no less. (Such irony! Claire’d had absolutely nothing to do with it. Ha.)

It had been a windy afternoon, and Claire’s crystal ball was now coated in a fine layer of dust. Though it was only for decorative purposes—for customer satisfaction!—Claire decided she ought to give it a nice shine, make it look at least halfway capable of revealing visions of tomorrow.

Witch Tip #1: Unbeknownst to Mortals, crystal balls were like kisses from a true love. Which was to say, not powerful in the slightest. The most a kiss could do was give you mouth herpes. And, at its highest power, a crystal ball would fly across a room, break a window and the pinky toe of an irritating significant other. Not that Claire had experience with either situation. Certainly not the mouth herpes.

Claire ripped off a paper towel and went to grab the Windex, only to realize she’d left the Windex at home. Had, by a stroke of poor planning, only brought the herbal tonic she sometimes had to spritz into her eyes when they got a bit cloudy.

Witch Tip #2: Seeing the future had its drawbacks. Your eyes would get all crusty if you did it too much. As if your body was punishing you with goopy morning blindness. Honestly, it was pretty gross.

Well shit, Claire thought. She spat on her hand and rubbed the ball, hoping the couple beside “Whack-A-Democrat” wouldn’t think she was, like, doing something sexual to an inanimate object.

But whatever the couple thought, they were watching her, whispering behind their hands and giving her darting glances. Oh God, Claire thought, Bible-thumper radar blaring. Did Sally Bain send them? Did she organize a sabotage via prayer? Was it possible to raise an army of vengeful Baptists an entire state away? (Claire wouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard of stranger things. Done some of them herself. See also: anally-fucked organ player before he was anally fucked.)  

But no, the couple wasn’t looking at Claire with the fury of God in their eyes—but fascination. The woman, a petite but sturdy thing, was shoving her partner in Claire’s direction. Making a not-so-obvious pointing gesture, like, Her. Her! that he seemed somewhat reluctant to obey. Still, he did, and soon he was striding towards Claire, long legs stomping up clouds of dirt dust, red hair matching the synthetic blood of a “whacked” Bill Clinton.

“Are you…” the man began, looking nervously over his shoulder. The woman pursed her lips, arched her brow like, Do it, you pussy. He shoved his hands in his pockets, defeated. “Are ye done for the day, lass?”

“I was just about to pack up, but I’ve time for another reading if you’re interested.”

“Aye…” he said, completely unconvincing. “Aye, I suppose I’m interested.”

“Well then, take a seat, Mr…?”

“Fraser. Jamie.”

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anonymous asked:

Imagine Jamie and Claire taking a horse ride with Faith (if she had survived) and Briana as young girls. Btw love your guys blog! (This is my first submission I hope I did It right lol)

Brian and Ellen AU

“Settle down, Faith.”

The three-year-old squirmed in the saddle ahead of her mother. “But Mama-”

“Hush, a nighean,” Brian interjected, nudging his horse alongside Claire’s. “Ye’ll be back on the ground soon.”

Faith huffed but obediently remained still, her small body thumping back against wee Brianna, slung tightly across Claire’s chest. Five months old now - old enough to make a prolonged journey from home, now that spring had arrived and icy winds no longer blew between the Highland mountains or across the estate’s fallow fields.

“There it is - do ye see it?” Ellen - at Claire’s left - shifted the reins to her right hand, pointing at the croft in the valley below.

“I see it!” Faith exclaimed. “Is he really there?”

“Aye - he should be.” Brian carefully eased his horse down the steep incline, followed by Claire and the girls, with Ellen bringing up the rear. Flanking their daughter-in-law and granddaughters. Protecting them. Keeping their word to Jamie.

Brianna let out a cry as the horse’s hoof struck a rock and jostled the younger Fraser women. Claire settled the baby closer to her chest, cooing to her. Faith twisted to face her sister and lay a chubby hand on Brianna’s back, patting her gently, as Mama had shown her.

Seas, Bwee,” she said softly. “I miss Da too.”

They reached the bottom of the hill and clopped slowly toward the farmhouse. Claire could feel Faith almost vibrating with excitement as they steadily moved closer. Once the door swung open to reveal her husband, Claire ignored Ellen’s pleas and kicked her horse into a gallop, focusing on Jamie’s smiling face, holding tight to a giggling Faith.

Claire pulled the horse to a stop - and Jamie was right there, hoisting up Faith with one hand, helping Claire dismount with his other - kissing Brianna’s red fuzz - and then claiming his wife’s mouth, heedless of his wriggling daughters and his parents’ admonishments.

“I know we’re aways from civilization, but can ye no’ even cover yer red heid when ye’re outside?”

Jamie sighed against Claire’s lips and looked up at his exasperated father. He briefly touched his mouth to Claire’s in apology before stepping back and boosting Faith onto his shoulders.

“It’s just for now, Da - the patrol passed two days ago - there’s nothing to be worrit about,” he replied over Faith’s gleeful giggles. Carefully balancing his daughter - whose tiny fists had now anchored rightly in his hair - he walked to Ellen, helped her out of her saddle, and began untying the basket strapped to the horse’s rump. “What have ye -”

Ellen almost knocked the wind out of him as she seized her son in a bear hug, holding onto him tightly.

“Mam? What?”

“Two months wi’out seeing ye is too long, a bhailach,” she whispered in his ear. “Ye canna be away from us for that long - not when the lassies are so small.”

He sighed, collapsing into her, letting her hold him close as if he were a bairn again. “Dinna think it’s easy for me,” he replied, voice muffled in her soft, knit shawl. “I must be out here for a while yet. I canna risk being so close to the house - canna put you and Jenny and Da and Claire and the girls in danger.”

Faith kicked her wee legs against Ellen’s shoulders, and he slowly straightened, holding his mother’s weathered hands. “Let’s just enjoy this day - and tonight, hmm?”

Ellen could only reply with a rueful smile as Brian - now dismounted - clapped Jamie on the back and led the three horses away to be hobbled.

Jamie turned to face his wife - so beautiful, so radiant as she gently rocked Brianna, quieting her fussing. She felt his eyes on her and looked up at him. Their gazes locked - and time stopped.

Only to be interrupted within seconds by his very inquisitive daughter. “Grandda took the horses away, but do ye think me and you and Mama and Baby Bwee can ride together tomorrow?

Visions of holding wee Faith before him in the saddle - and eating as a family beneath the shade of an oak tree - and Claire’s luminous skin as he loved her while the girls slept - darted through his mind. Gently he rubbed Faith’s tiny foot, snug in her wee boots. Claire smiled a secret smile - his secret smile, so full of promise.

“Aye, a nighean. As soon as we can.”

DREAMY SUMMER - Listen on 8tracks

a collection of dreamy, sun-soaked songs that should be listened to in the car on full volume with all the windows rolled down while on a road trip with all your friends ~✿~✿~✿~

Postcard Radio - Froth | Donut - Jaws | L.S.D. - Skegss | Free - Tomorrows Tulips | Sunlight - Yuno | Honey - Swim Deep | Drag - Black Sea | Cherry Picking - Girlpool | Party At Sunday - Cosmonauts | Blue - TELE/VISIONS | Lust For Life - Girls | Out In The Way - Beach Fossils | Beach Rats - The Growlers | Blister In The Sun - Violent Femmes | Sure As Spring - La Luz | Had Ten Dollaz - Cherry Glazerr | Daydream - Beach Fossils | Before The World Was Big - Girlpool | Sea Lion Goth Blues - The Growlers | Single Fins & Safety Pins - Japanese Motors | Saccharine Sunshine - Froth |  Alison (Slowdive Cover) - Beach Fossils | Catamaran - Allah-Las

***please do not remove playlist // not my photograph (property of black sea)***


*** Sorry it’s up so late ❤️ I hit major writers block halfway through and rewrote it 4 times. 😫😤I think I’m going to make this a short one, probably just one or two more parts. ***

“Look, all I’m saying is that I would like it if you could call me and let me know you’re okay. I’m not asking you to make me a letter in fucking Braille, I just want a simple text to let me know that you’re alive!” You threw your hands up into the air at the last word and then let them drop down by your sides, defeated. Kozik winced and stood up, trying to reach out for your hand but you pulled it away. He rolled his eyes at the gesture and stood up, about to say something but you cut him off. “Does it really annoy you that much that I love you and want to check up on you?” “I have a lot of shit on my mind alright? There’s this thing with the Irish, the Mayans are pissed about their guns, Niners ain’t too happy with us either. I have shit to do. I can’t just be calling you all the time, we’ve been over this. Im so sick of fighting with you over the same stupid shit. I forget ok, you don’t have to be up my ass about it.”

You laughed sarcastically and nodded. “Oh ok. So me worrying about my Old Man is stupid shit? Me wanting to know you’re not dead in a ditch or warehouse somewhere is stupid shit? Forgive me for caring.” You blew out an angry breath, trying to stop the tears from falling. His face softened a bit as he saw your eyes water but he still had that cold and angry stare. When he was angry, he was stubborn, even more so than usual. “I’m tired of talking about this.” You nodded tiredly and crossed your arms, your eyes closed. “So am I. Why don’t you just sleep at the clubhouse tonight.” You turned around with a deep sigh, tears of frustration blurring your vision. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” With that, you walked out of the bedroom and into the living room, sitting down to watch tv and relax, your body drained after your hour long argument.

Within a couple minutes, Kozik came out of the room too, dressed and with his kutte on. He walked past you and said nothing, walking out of the front door and slamming it shut behind him. You sighed to yourself and closed your eyes for a moment, unable to believe that such a big fight had resulted out of you just asking him to check in with you more. You didn’t mean to be nosey or in his business, you just wanted to know how he was throughout the day. You knew he was on edge because of club shit so you figured the best thing would be to stay separate tonight and talk tomorrow when you’d both had time to calm down.


You tossed over again for the millionth time and huffed. You couldn’t sleep without Kozik. You’d been laying in bed for the past hour but sleep had yet to come and you were beginning to get restless. Finally you sat up and grabbed your phone, dialing Kozik’s number. You sat there while it rang and rang, going to voicemail. You called a couple times more but got the same result each time and stood from the bed, ready to go over and apologize. Kozik was really all you had and even as upset as you were, you realized that you’d rather have him pissed off and next to you than have to sleep in a cold and empty bed. You quickly changed your clothes and slipped on some shoes, leaving the house and heading over to the clubhouse.

When you got there, there were a couple of people hanging out outside drinking and smoking but you couldn’t see Kozik there with them and realized he must’ve been inside. You hopped out of the car and walked across the lot, into the clubhouse but noticed he wasn’t there either. You walked over towards the bar and smiled at Miles who was cleaning some glasses. “Hey, have you seen Kozik?” He stayed looking at you and said nothing, his body language showing he was uncomfortable. “Uh, I think he’s in his dorm.” You nodded and thanked him, turning towards the dorm hallway but he stopped you and quickly walked around the counter to you. “Why don’t you wait here, I’ll go get him for you.” You smiled and shook your head. “That’s ok, I want to talk to him in private. Thank you though.”

You walked in and stopped in front of his door, grabbing the handle and twisting it. To your surprise though, it was locked and you furrowed your brows. He never locked his dorm door. You jiggled the knob again and then knocked when it wouldn’t budge. “Hold up.” You heard his voice on the other side and waited a couple seconds, the door suddenly opening a crack. You smiled gently at him and we’re about to apologize when you noticed the light sheen of sweat on his body, the hickey on his neck, his hair messy and his mouth smeared with pink lipstick. You looked up to his eyes to find them wide and glassy as they looked down at you. It was obvious that he was drunk but it didn’t soothe the ache you felt consuming you.

“Babe…” You didn’t wait to hear what he had to say and briskly walked away from the dorm and down the hall. When you made it out to the main room, you saw Miles hurriedly talking with Chibs, who both quickly stopped talking when they saw you. Chibs started to make his way towards you but you ignored him and tried to walk past him, just trying to get out of there. He could see how upset you were and pulled you to him, his hands on your cheeks. “Hey, hey now, look at me lass. Look at me, breathe.”

You tried to slow your rapid breathes but couldn’t and Chibs pulled you into his chest, hugging you and smoothing his hand over your hair as you cried. He whispered to you softly and tried to soothe you but it wasn’t working and you pulled away, running out of the clubhouse and to your car. You could see that Jax and Tig who had been sitting at the outside table were standing now, alert after having seen you run out crying. They were making their way towards you’re car but you didn’t feel like dealing with any of them and peeled out of the lot, tires screeching. Charming was a curse and you were going to get out of it.

Disability, Quality of Life, and the Hypothetical Cure

“But if you could’ve been born sighted, wouldn’t you have wanted to?” 

“But if they could cure you vision tomorrow, wouldn’t you do it?” 

 Any time I talk about disability politics and ableism, this question is sure to come up. And yet, I’m always sort of surprised by it. For one thing, it seems a bit personal. But for another, it comes with the assumption that the answer is easy. I can always tell that those who ask are expecting a certain answer. They assume I’ll say, “Of course I would.” In reality, that’s not the case. 

 For one thing, hypothetical questions like this are far more complex than the asker often realizes. Because disability isn’t just physical for me. It’s part of my identity. In many ways, were I do be born able-bodied or to “cure” my disability tomorrow, I’d be losing a part of myself. Being disabled has shaped who I am in many ways. It’s shaped how I learn, how I approach challenges, how the world treats me and how I treat the world. It’s not just the ability (or lack there of) to see, but also a fundamental part of my growth. I literally have no idea who I would be today had I not been born as a blind person. 

 I also find the question perplexing because it assumes that my disability is the “problem.” That it’s the area causing me the most trouble. And while some disabled people may feel this way, I see things very differently. 

 Personally, I think society disables me far more than my eyes do. 

 Let me explain. My physical ability is rarely an issue for me. I use a cane or a guide do to stay mobile. I’ve adapted ways of doing most daily tasks (often using touch) so that I don’t need vision. For me, the trouble doesn’t come from my eyes but rather from society’s assumption of ability. As a disabled person, I live in a world that is literally not made for me. It’s a world that is crafted for the sighted, for those who can walk, those who can hear, those who are neurotypical, etc. It is built for one type of person – the Norm. 

 My day to day struggles do not come from my lack of vision, but rather from a society that presumes everyone has vision. A society that looks down on, pities, discriminates against, or – in some cases – fears those who are not the Norm.

This is all still a bit vague, so let me give an example. 

 Recently, I was watching a YouTube video about ableist veganism. In some animal rights communities, being ableist (a la Peter Singer’s definition) is seen as rational. As a vegan myself, I have a lot of issues with this, but I’ll save that for another time. In this video, the question was posed: if you could have the whole world born with one leg or born with both, which would you choose?

 Now, the answer seems easy, right? Obviously you’d choose both? Let everyone have both legs? 

 Only, if the entire world – all of society – is going to be born the same way, then the answer doesn’t actually matter. Because if everyone was born with one leg, society would build itself around that norm. People would adapt to this reality. Our homes, vehicles, games, etc would all be crafted with the assumption that everyone has one leg. 

 So, in theory, someone born with two legs into this world would struggle far more, because everything is crafted with the assumption of one leg. Making the two legged individual, for all intents and purposes, disabled. 

 This could apply to vision, too. If the entire planet was born blind, society would build itself around this. Print would not exist, mirrors would not exist, etc. Art, technology, social etiquette, and every other part of society would be crafted for a world without sight. Therefore, those living on this theoretical blind planet would not be disabled or have a lower “quality of life” than the planet where everyone is born sighted. Their societies would just be structured differently. 

 I put “quality of life” in quotes because, in my opinion, the notion of determining someone’s quality of life is a fallacy. It’s subjective, for one thing, and difficult to measure since we all only get one life. It might seem easy to point to someone disabled and assume, if you are able bodied, that they have a lower “quality of life” than you do. But how do you know? Many disabled people are happy, successful, financially stable and socially active individuals. You could just as easily argue that they have a higher “quality of life” than some able-bodied individuals. 

 I wouldn’t make that argument, however, because “quality of life’” is entirely subjective with regards to disability, and too often I see it used in these hypothetical arguments (and in fiction about the disabled). And how do we really measure a life’s “quality”? Is it based on happiness? There are many disabled people who are happier than some of their able-bodied neighbors. On health? There are many healthy people who aren’t happy or satisfied with their lives. 

 Or is it, as it appears to me, based on how well a person is able to fit in and adapt to the current social construct as determined by the Norm? 

 If my “quality of life” is lower than a sighted person’s, it’s not because I can’t see, but rather because our culture says that you have to see to fit in. Because it erases those who don’t. 

 So, going back to the questions that started this post. Would I like to “cure” my disability? From a physical perspective, not really. I’m not bothered by how little I see. I’ve adapted. This is normal to me. And, in some ways, I even fear that gaining full sight at this point would be overwhelming and stressful, even as it gave me access into parts of society I’ve been left out of before. 

 But fixing my vision would only be helping me conform to a world that expects us all to have the same abilities. Instead, I’d prefer an inclusive world that didn’t assume a Norm at all. 

 I’m much more interested in inclusion than in being ‘fixed.” 

 (Author’s Note: I only speak for myself. Like with all marginalized groups, disability is not a monolith. Neither is blindness. I’m sure there are many within my community who view these issues differently. This is just my take on the subject and o the questions I’ve personally been asked.)

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow.
—  Melody Beattie
Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow.
—  Melody Beattle
Raising a Kid in a Hunter’s World (mini-series)

Title: I can’t raise a kid in a hunter’s world 

Author: luciferiswriting

Fandom: Supernatural / reader

Characters: Dean, Sam, Lucifer, Gabriel, Castiel

Words: 2588

Warnings: None I think?

Summary: You come back from a hunt to find two archangels watching over your niece, one that you haven’t seen for about a year, and you unload all your worries. You might not have the answers to all your worries, but a promise that is made, makes you realise a few things. It might not be all bad after all.

Originally posted by misha-collins-angel-of-thursday

Originally posted by dontcallmebabe-ok

Originally posted by deatheatergeek

“It was only a Salt n Burn Y/N!”

“Well, I’m sorry Dean, but the details you had weren’t accurate! The body wasn’t buried in the cemetery like you had said they were! I now need to rip this damn farm field apart for it! I’ll have it done tonight and will head back”

“Well how long is that gonna take!”

“It’s gonna take as long as it takes Dean! I’m doing this by myself, I’m not some frigin’ superhero with x-ray vision! I’ll be home tomorrow night the latest”

“Ugh, we can’t wait that long there’s another hunt few states over and we can’t take the kid!”

“Can’t you ask Cas to watch her till I get back or something? Anyone? Just not Crowley!”

“Ugh, I’ll figure something out. Just don’t chew my head off if Crowley is the only one left!”

“Just make sure Crowley is the last option then! There’s gotta be someone who isn’t him or his mother! I gotta go, see you in a few days and good luck on the hunt!”

Dean sighed heavily as he hung up the phone, just as Sam walked into the library with Ashley. Ashley was Y/N’s niece and the only blood family she had left.

“How’s she doing with the Salt n Burn?” Sam asked Dean

“Oh, she’s farming for it cuz it ain’t in the cemetery. She reckons she won’t be back till tomorrow night, the latest. So we need to find a babysitter. And it can’t be Crowley.”

“Oh, well what about Cas?”

“He’s got stuff going on in heaven” The brothers stood in an awkward silence, thinking of another option. But it was soon broken as Ashley started to cry.

“Oh, come on!” Dean hissed “You were fed like 5 minutes ago kid!” Ashley’s cries started to grow louder, by the minute. Sam tried to calm her down by rocking her back and forth, but she was not settling.

“What on earth is tha- oh please tell me you Winchesters aren’t reproducing!?” Lucifer asked as he walked into the library.

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