walking between lone and pack is never a balance it is just a way of life

Best Mistake - Part 1 - Smut

Originally posted by prettiestcaptain

Author: @dumbass-stilinski
Rating: NSFW 18+
Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Reader
Words: 2,347
AN: IDK I WANTED TO WRITE THIS DON’T JUDGE ME. There’s some Polish in here, I used Google translate so it may not be correct. I left the word meanings at the end. Thanks to @writing-obrien and @celestial-writing for being my pals. Also his hand looks so yummy in this gif. okay bye.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You sat and stared at the little white stick in your hand, the little pink plus sign mocking you. Your eyes swept across the floor to see the other discarded tests around your feet, all with the same result. You were pregnant.

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It Is What It Is-Part 1

Summary: The reader is going through a rough patch, denying that there is something wrong. Dean and Sam are worried to the core, Dean even more so because of an awful suspicion and his hidden feeling for the reader. Is Dean going to be able to fix what is seemingly not broken?

Characters: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester (fired and brother)

Warnings: mental health problems, depression, self loathing, swearing, death wish, please, pleas, please say away from this if this triggers you

Words: 2023

A/N: This is going to be a 2 parter. It has been a long time since I’ve posted, I’ll explain why in the next post and this already hints at what was going on. I am sorry for being away.

As soon as you felt those dark waves come crashing down around you, swallowing light, happiness and even dreams, you knew what was happening. Suddenly, at 3 in the morning, you could feel it: the nagging dark feeling of emptiness, hopelessness.

It was right then and there, in the bed that you now called your very own, that you wished you were asleep, or far away, or not alone or just simply not there. Because it had started again, after all that you’d been through.

Depression is a noun and defined as “feelings of severe despondency and dejection”. It sounds all so easy in those very complicated words, still so much easier than the truth. Because depression is more than just a few words on a page, it so horrifying that no words can live up to it.

But never ever, would you admit that what you were experiencing was depression. No that would never be the case, even though it wasn’t the first time this happened.

Like a blanket full of numbness, hurt and worthlessness, draped over your body. Fully covering you and making you to a whole other person on the inside. On the outside you put on a mask, showing what you wanted people to see. Playing the main role of your own life, you’d just pretend you were okay until no one was looking.

Not that anyone was looking closely. Being a hunter is a lonely calling; it isolates you from other people. Sometimes even from other hunters. So no one would look too close, no witnesses you lied to, no other hunters you crossed paths with.

There were no friends and family who were able to look after you, there were none. Just like most hunters, your own fait got you into hunting. A mother, father and little brother, all lost in one night. Gone. Forever. Leaving you behind. And there were no friends either. This life doesn’t allow any space for friends.

Or that’s what you thought.

Because one day, you came across people who taught you better. Sam and Dean Winchester. Dangerous. Feared. Hunters. Legends. And somehow also family to you, at least by now.

They came crashing into your life with raised guns, unfastening the ropes and knots that kept you prisoner. In some way those two brothers were special. Of course they were living legends and saved your life but there was something else too.

Being with them was easy and felt good. So uncomplicated that it was ridiculous. The only way to describe it was that it felt like meeting your best friend, who you’d known since you were two.

And somewhere between giving up a normal life, living in isolation amongst a world too full to ever truly be alone and suddenly meeting Sam and Dean Winchester, you found yourself in a bed. A bed that was your own, in a room that belonged to you as well, inside a bunker you called home. Another thing you thought you never have again, a home.

You should be grateful, you knew that. And you were, you thanked who or whatever was responsible for all these great things. Giving you a family of an Ex-Demon, Ex-Law Student and an Angel.  Giving you a good place to permanently live in. Giving you a family and a home.

But you couldn’t help what was happening. The feeling of losing balance as the floor crumbled beneath your feet. In realizing this, the slow tears started to fall. A spring somewhere deep in the woods, a silent and steady stream carving the features of your face like water once did with the Grand Canyon.

There would be no sleep tonight.

But you already knew that too.

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Soundtrack of Us (Part Three) - You Get What You Give/The Flashback

Originally posted by demondetoxmanual

Word Count: 2600+ words

Pairing: AU!Dean x musician!reader 

Characters: Reader, Dean, Sam, Ellen & Jo Harvelle, Castiel Russell (OC), Dan (OC)

Warnings: Character Death (not main), marijuana and alcohol abuse, angst, little snarky reader and Dean, kinda fluff, more angst

Summary: Y/N is a local artist with standing gigs at a coffee shop and a bar in a small town in North Carolina. She’s run from some things at home, but life has finally fallen into place in Asheville. Music is her life and her only worry in life, until she meets a pair of hypnotizing green eyes.

Author’s Note: Bare with me, y’all. This one is kind of a rollercoaster. What happened with Russell? Do Dean and reader get a chance??? You’re about to find out guys. 

Flashback italicized, song lyrics bold and italicized.
Song used: You Get What You Give - New Radicals (I like the cover by the Maine as well!)

“Thanks for hanging out, guys,” you spoke into the microphone at the end of your set, “have a good night and drink safe.”

You scurried off your stage and hid yourself in the thick of the crowd. You didn’t want to talk to Dean. Not here, not now. You made a lot of tip, you loved the drunk money-blowers who would accidentally drop twenties instead of ones. You deserved some shots, you thought.

You spotted Jo and made your way to her with lemon drop shots in hand and balancing a beer between your chest and your forearm. When you spotted her, she was listening intently to the voice of a clean cut brunette. He had beautiful blue pools in his eyes and scruff that could have only been a few days old. He wore a khaki trench coat which made you cock an eyebrow, but his looks were more than enough to let it slide. Jo was mesmerized by the man. You knew this because this conversation was different; she was always the one who did the talking, never the listening. She glanced past the man and looked at you, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. That was your sign to keep distance, she was working him up to take her home. Go, Jo. Two shots for you. Go, you.

You aimlessly walked around the bar with the stout that Sam served you. It was getting warm and unbearable to drink, but you needed a buzz through all the small talk and compliments on your singing that the bar goers threw your way. You especially needed the buzz when you saw a pair of bow legged jeans make their way towards you.

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TItle: Baby girl

Pairing: Wincest / Weecest

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 3,380


Sam propped a foot up on the cold porcelain lip of the bathroom sink. He had considered the bathtub, and promptly dismissed it. The tiles were grimy and mildewed, and honestly it looked like it hadn’t been scrubbed in ages. Besides, he might get a better angle for this half standing on one foot with the other lifted up on the sink. He could use the mirror, too, although that seemed more difficult to coordinate than was worth it. 

He hoped Dean was going to be out for a while. Although this was kind of for Dean - ok mostly for himself - he still didn’t want his brother to see him actually doing it. The end result was what he would show Dean, but his brother didn’t need to see Sam wobbling on one foot for his balance while he soaped up his leg. 

Dean was probably just out for groceries. That’s what he had said. Although sometimes he staid out a little longer than was necessary. Their dad had been out of town for a few weeks. Sam wasn’t even sure when he was supposed to be getting back, much less when he actually would get back. 

It was a Saturday night. All the other boys in the high school Sam had been attending for a few  months were probably out at a party or a football game, maybe some of them were studying or playing D&D in a basement. Sam still wanted to be like them. He still wanted to be normal. He had tried - he had really, really tried - for a long time to be like the other kids. Sometimes it worked, he could go over to their house and meet their parents and watch shitty movies and eat pizza. But he was usually just the new kid, the poor kid, the nerd kid. 

The way his family lived, what his father did, that wasn’t even really the weirdest thing about him though. Sam knew he was a freak. As hard as he tried not to be on the outside, he was. He knew it. What other seventeen year old boys were shaving their legs in a motel bathroom to surprise their brother. 

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Your Kind of Birthday

Rated: PG- only for a little language
By: Lyndsaybones
Notes: For @txf-fic-chicks Birthday prompt! I banged this little bugger out pretty quickly and I don’t have a beta so forgive me for any spelling/grammar issues.

Set in season 6 post Tithonus

Autumn has been late coming this year.  But when it finally arrived, it came in cold and crisp. The frosty air clung to her throat, making every breath feel like the edge of death.

Her tennis shoes beat steadily on the concrete as she plowed through the last of the fallen leaves littering the sidewalk. So brown and dry, they disintegrated under her feet.

She peeled out of her sweaty shirt and sports bra when she arrived home. Kicking out of her shoes, she hissed at the red stain on the heel of her foot. She pushed too hard, too long. Dying and then not dying has had that effect on her.

She became a runner in the last year. A RUNNER. All caps. She’d found herself concerned with her pace, her running shoes, her form. She wanted to slice a minute off of her mile. She was training for a marathon.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was still healing from the damage done by Peyton Ritter’s magic bullet. Her surgical scar was an angry red line with a bumpy pucker in the dead center. She wondered if that was what Mulder was glancing at in that stupid decon shower. The idea that he would appraise her body for anything more seemed a little ridiculous. Not because she did not think herself an attractive woman. She knew she was. Same as she knew the periodic table or the Pythagorean theorem. She was proportionate and while not a bombshell in the conventional sense of the word, she knew that she was on the alluring side of pretty. She simply didn’t believe that he saw her that way, or if he did, he didn’t care to act on it.

The water was just slightly hotter than she could tolerate, running down her sore muscles, stinging the blisters on her heels. She never let them heal over, just kept on running and tearing them open again. If that wasn’t a proper allegory for the current state of her life, she didn’t know what was.

She padded around her bedroom stark naked, letting the late fall sun filter in and bounce off of her milky skin. Her phone shrilled as she dug through her drawer for underwear and she paused to answer it.

“Scully,” she said, knowing it was him, no else deigned to call her at 7 in the morning. She sat down on the end of her bed.

“Hey Scully, it’s me,” he said, sounding a little out of breath himself.

“What’s up, Mulder?” she asked as she ran a finger across her scar. There was nerve damage, so she couldn’t even really feel it.

“Pack a bag. I’m on my way over,” he clipped.

She closed her eyes and fought to keep the sigh out of her voice. They’d been at odds lately. The spaces they used to fill with witty repartee are now pregnant with silent aspersions. She didn’t want to make it worse.

“Where’re we headed?” a hand kneading at the naked flesh of her left thigh.


“London? Mulder what the hell-”

“Missouri,” he completed with no amount of humor in his voice. “London, Missouri. It’s about 2 hours outside of St. Louis. VCU is calling in a favor. They’ve got a couple murders there that they think might be connected to a string of homicides in Kansas and Colorado.”

“Oh, okay then.”

“I’m about 10 minutes away.”

“I just got out of the shower,” she said as she got up and headed back to her underwear drawer. “I’m not even dressed yet.”

“Oh, well, uh…I’ll stop and get some bagels or something then. Wouldn’t want to catch you in your birthday suit.”

She almost laughed. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Huh?” he said, sounding distracted.

“Nothing…nothing. I’ll hurry up and get ready.”

London proved to be nothing like it’s namesake. Of course. It was cold and wet though. She fumbled for her ringing cell phone as she slid the latest victim back into cold storage.

“Scully, it’s me. Did you find anything?”

“Yeah, actually. I went back and reviewed the other reports and noticed something. All of these women are fairly tall.”

“Yeah, I saw that too. So?”

“Well, judging by the ligature marks and tissue damage, I’d say your strangler isn’t…at all.”

His strangler. His case. His division. His files. His life’s work. That post in Salt Lake may not have been such a bad idea after all.

“Huh, Napoleon complex maybe.”

“Napoleon was actually average height you know,” she corrected.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

“I do. Anyway, these women were all between 5’10” and 6’ tall. Looking at the initial bruising, your guy is probably 5 feet, 5’5” at the most.”

“5’10” and taller. Guess you’re safe, then,” he said with a little acid on his tongue.

Fuck you, Mulder.

“I suppose so,” she said instead.

“Okay, well I’ve got a couple more hours here. Can you get back to the hotel on your own?”

“Of course.”

London was a small town, rating a 5 on their Podunk scale. The scale was something they’d devised during their many hours in nondescript mid size sedans. Every town started at 0 and lost or gained points based on what it did and did not have. With its lone Wal Mart, lack of Chinese food and toothless gas station attendant, it merited a 4, but she gave an extra point since it had a hospital with decent morgue. Said morgue was about 10 blocks from their hotel. With her current running pace she could get there in about 3 minutes.

But she had no intention of running. The day had been long and disappointing on a number of fronts. She hadn’t even bothered to change back into her suit. She walked with it and her coat stuffed into her bag and nothing between her and the cold drizzly night but her threadbare scrubs.

She was shivering by the time she got to her room. Off with the shoes, scraping open the red wounds on her heels.

“Well, great,” she grumbled, realizing that she’d bled through her socks and didn’t have an extra pair.

She flopped belly first onto the bed, groaning softly. She wanted nothing more than to melt into the bed and sleep for a year.

She didn’t even realize she’d let herself drift off until she woke to the steady knocking on her door.

11:50 pm.

“Scully, it’s me,” he called. “Open up.”

Rumpled and worn out, she found him on the other side of her door with a pink bakery box balanced on his left palm.

“Mulder, what’re you doing?”

“I’ve got 10 minutes left to do this,” he said as he brushed past her and into the room.


“Make that 9 minutes.”

He opened the pink box to reveal a little round layer cake with white frosting and a lone red candle in the center.

She felt a sudden rush of something…gratitude? Whatever it was, it softened her, dropping her shoulders and tipping her head to one side.

“What’s this for?” she asked, appraising the cake.

“It’s for you. Make a wish.”

She humoured him and blew out the candle, looking up at his proud little smile. She couldn’t help but smile herself. He pulled a plastic fork from his back pocket and handed it to her, still grinning. The smoke from the candle trailed upward and the smell reminded her of being a little girl again.

“I don’t understand. It’s not my birthday,” she said as she took seat in front of her little cake.

“Yeah, it kinda is though,” he said as he sat across from her.  “You were declared ‘in remission’ on November 9th.”

Her heart literally skipped a beat. Had she been standing, she would have needed to sit. She couldn’t find a word for what that meant to her. There wasn’t one. She covered her mouth and fought the tears stinging at her sinuses.

“Shit, Scully. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to…I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I just…I don’t know what to say, I guess.”

“I know things have been,” he paused, looking down at the cake, “off, with us lately. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“This is nice, thank you.” She carved a little bite out of the little cake.

“I’m just sorry you had to spend your kind of birthday in a 4 town.”

“Hm,” she replied past the morsel of sickly sweet cake. “I bumped it to a 5 cause of the not terrible morgue.”

“Might have to make it a 6 for having a cake available in the middle of the night,” he said as he took a bite.

“Thank you, Mulder, really.”

“I should have…” he seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. “I almost lost you…again.”

“I’m still here,” she answered softly.

“I couldn’t…if you…” He was staring down at the table, like he could bore a hole through it if he just looked hard enough.

She reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Hey,” she said, trying to catch his eyes. “It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked her in the eye and she saw him. The bitter, frustrated, distracted Mulder seemed to fall away and she saw the man who looked at her with as much wonder as he did lights in the night sky.

There you are, she thought.

He seemed to recognize her too. A quick little nod and half smile from him and the moment passed.

“I was gonna go for a run in the morning,” he said, mouth full of cake. “You wanna go?”

“Yeah, I wanna go with you.”

It Is.
I apologise for the grammar mistakes and everything else in between.  -  It’s being on the tour bus and almost losing your balance because your foot tripped over a random sock or soiled towel in the middle of the floor. And you immediately go ‘oh come on, Tom!’ because you just know they belonged to him. 

It’s the mixed feeling you get when you’re damn annoyed at the fact that you’re not old enough to drink and you have to drag them back to the hotel all intoxicated. But then feeling a sense of satisfaction that you managed to put them all to bed and you have a big smile on your face cause you had a really fun night off with the lads. 

It’s being backstage, falling asleep on the couch in the dressing room, to the sound of a ping pong ball being hit back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. You’d ask who’s winning but you’re too comfortable to move much (but mostly because you don’t want to face the wrath that is Tom and Max). 

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