Warnings: Sad, swearing, kinda cute ( if you squint)
Dean x reader , Sam x Reader
The three of you were losing this fight. In all the years you’ve been with the boys, you’ve never been this terrified that all of you weren’t going to make it out of this battle . You try to pick yourself off the ground, but the deep Claw wounds down your side stop you. You watch as the boys are taking just as bad of a beating from this pack of wolves . There was only suppose to be 5, but the pack was larger , there were 15 of them and only three of you . The three of you managed to take down 10, the last five are the issue .
You finally get up , pulling your backup gun from your ankle and shooting two of the 5 in the heart with the silver bullets . Sam takes down another , leaving two left . One is holding Deans arms back, while the other goes to claw out his heart . You use all your strength , launching yourself to tackle the one Infront of him to the ground . As you do, Dean breaks from the others hold , moving out of the way while Sam plunges his knife into it . The last monster stands , his hand flying to your neck and lifting you with him .
You struggle to breath as he applies more pressure to his grip, squeezing your airway almost completely shut. He hears Dean approach him from behind, he drops you to go after Dean before he can stab him . You fall to your knees, gasping for air . The black spots disappear from your vision , making the sight In front of you scarily clear . There is another wolf, one that must of been hiding until the perfect moment, appear behind dean; with one of the boys guns .
You’re off the floor in a second , bolting towards Dean, pushing him out of the way . You hear the sound of the gun being fired 3 times , and felt three different bursts of pain jolt through your body .
You hear another shot , looking up you see the wolfs body hit the ground . Your legs give out, sending you backward into sams arms .
“ Y/n hold on , we are going to get you out of here!” Sam tries to reassure you . You look down, seeing blood soak through multiple spots on your shirt .
You send him a lazy smile ,
“It’ll be okay Sammy.” You slur , the blood loss and pain hitting you like a train .
“ Y/n hold on or I swear to god .” dean threatens . You feel pressure being applied to your wounds, but you know it wont stop what’s going to happen . You slowly place your hands over Deans on you abdomen,
“ I wouldn’t do anything different. I love both of you.” You say quietly as you watch the tears fall
From their eyes . Dean leans down , gently kissing you. You’ve waited years for this moment, and of course it would happen now.
You let out a dry laugh,
“ I waited years , and you do this now? Great timing Winchester.”
You don’t get to hear his response , you slowly close your eyes , thinking it’ll be for a moment ; only it wasn’t . Your world faded out, and that was the last time you saw your boys ; well while you were alive at least .
You stare across the table , locking eyes with you he grinning Winchester in front of you .
“ See something you like Sweetheart?”
You roll you eyes , kicking him under the table . He winces, giving you a ‘wtf’ look.
“ Behave yourself Dean . ” you warn .
“ if you two are done , we’d like to eat our dinner without your gross , weird foreplay. ” Sam states , his infamous bitchface firmly set over his features .
“ Sam let them be, just because you aren’t that cute with me doesn’t mean you have to rag on your brother.” Jess says as she follows you she follows your example , kicking Sam from her spot across from him. Thank Goodness for this girl . You let out a small giggle along with her , clinking your wine glass with hers .
“ you boys better treat your girls right , I raised you better than to do them wrong.” Their father warns , making both sons mumble in response . You watch as Mary enters the kitchen leaning down to kiss Johns cheek. Her long blonde hair cascading down her shoulders . These boys really got the best combination of genes .
After dinner you and Dean volunteer to do dishes; well you do, Dean groaned as the words left your mouth . You place the last dish into the washer, as get it closed a pair or arms encircle your waist .
“ well hello beautiful .” Rolling your eyes as Deans lame line , you decide to turn in his arms ,
“ your getting awfully lame Dean Winchester.” You taunt as you wrap your arms around his neck , right as your lips are about to touch his , a voice interrupts ,
“ Y/n.” What the hell?
You look over Deans shoulder , seeing The familiar face of Chuck Shirley .
“ Chuck? What are you -”
“ I’m here to bring you home .”
Your face scrunched in confusion
“I am home? ”
“ you’re in heaven Y/n . It’s time for you to come back down .”
Dean is gone from your arms , the kitchen you were just in fades to black ; leaving you staring wide eyed at Chuck .
“ how the hell are you doing this ? A prophet can’t possibly do this!”
“ that isn’t something to worry about right now, you’ll get an explanation soon .”
This isn’t the same , shy, set doubting Chuck you met before ; he’s more confident now , oozing more power than before .
In a blink of your eyes , you’re in an unfamiliar kitchen . It’s very plain , metal pots and pans hanging above a shabby wooden counter . A simple stove and slightly small kitchen table are also present in the room .
“ chuck where the hell -” you stop when Chuck is no where in sight . Sighing you lean against the counter , dropping your face into your hands ; three minutes ago you were with the man you love , the family you adored in a perfect world .Now your sitting in a strange kitchen , confused and crying , wondering what the hell you were just placed into . You hear a door open the fall shut, and a pair of deep voices echoing down the hall .
I rip the tapped note from the metal door , sending Sam a questioning look. I begin reading it out loud ,
I know I haven’t exactly Been around , but you two seem to have things under control . Well, as under control as you can manage . Hopefully this gift will help, and also make your days and faith in me a little brighter .
- Chuck .
“Does he think he can just pop in whenever he wants ?” I grumble , crumpling the note in my hands.
“ Dude, he’s God. I think he can do whatever the hell he wants” Sam says with a grinds he continues and walks in front of me .
“ what kind of gift -” sams voice trails off & he stops dead in his tracks ; making me run right into his back .
“ warn me before you do that, your like a freaking brick wall.” I rub my forehead that smacked into his back, stepping around him only to have my eyes nearly pop out of by head .
Both of us are staring at the girl in front of us ; the girl that we watched die years ago . Her beautiful long (y/c/h) is the same as I remember , falling around her in loose waves . Her eyes are glazed over, tears rolling down her pink cheeks . Her lip is caught between her teeth , and I can tell she is barely holding herself together . Sams speaks before I do, any and all words getting stuck in my throat .
This is a potion that when drank, totally calms you and puts you in a peaceful and relaxing mood. Best used when fired up over a frusterating situation.
You will need the following items for this potion:
Milk (skim, 1%, 2%, whole, lactose free… Any will work)
Honey (or banana)
A wooden spoon
A cup for afterwards
Set the pot on the stove and fill it with 1 & ½ cups of milk (you can use more or less, you’d just have to equal out the ingredients). Turn the stove on low, and let the milk start to just slightly bubble a little bit.
Then you poor 1/3 of a cup of brown sugar into the pot and stir for about 15 seconds, Now pour ¼ cup of white sugar in and stir for another 15 seconds. Then you pour in some honey (however much you want or think you need)or if you don’t have honey, you can substitute for 1/3 of a banana (If you use the banana, make sure it’s mushed up and stirable, but still just a little chunky).
Let it sit for about a minute and then turn the stove off and let the potion cool. After it’s a little cooled off but still warm, pour it in a cup and say this spell before drinking:
’’Calm me down, safe and sound Bring me peace, so my mind’s at ease As I say so Mote it Be.“
Before taking a sip, be sure to thank the God and the Goddess. After you swallow, imagine pure peace flowing through your body.
“As a child, that’s your little space within the house," said James Mollison, a Kenyan-born, England-raised, Venice-based photographer whose 2011 photo book, Where Children Sleep draws attention to a child’s "material and cultural circumstances” and offers a remarkable view on class, poverty, and the diversity of children around the world.
“I hope the book gives a a glimpse into the lives some children are living in very diverse situations around the world; a chance to reflect on the inequality that exists, and realize just how lucky most of us in the developed world are," said Mollison.
Nine-year-old Dong shares a room with his parents, sister and grandfather in the province of Yunnan in southwest China. His family owns just enough land to grown their own rice and sugar cane.
Eight-year-old Alyssa lives in a small house in Kentucky, heated only by a wooden stove. Alyssa’s father works at Walmart and mother works at McDonald’s.
Unable to go to school, Alex spends his days begging on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, and sleeping on whatever he can find at night — an empty bench, an old sofa, or the pavement.
Living with her parents in a small apartment in Tokyo, 4-year-old Kaya’s bedroom looks like every little girl’s dream room. All of Kaya’s dresses are made by her mother — who makes up to three a month — and she has 30 dresses, coats, pairs of shoes, sandals and boots, and multiple wigs.
Prena, a 14-year-old domestic worker in Kathmandu, Nepal works 13-hour days as a domestic worker, earns $6.50 a month, and sleeps in a tiny, cell-like space at the top of her employer’s house. She goes to school three times a week and dreams of one day becoming a doctor.
Living with 13 other women in a tea house in Kyoto, Japan, 15-year-old Risa is a ”maiko“ — an apprentice geisha. She sleeps with five other women in a room that doubles as a dining room and a tea room.
Living in a top-floor apartment on Fifth Avenue in New York, 9-year-old Jaime likes to play the cello, kickball, and study his finances on the Citibank website. His parents also own luxury homes in the Hamptons and Spain.
An orphan and refugee from war in Liberia, this 9-year-old anonymous boy goes to school in Ivory Coast for ex-child soldiers and lives in a concrete shack with some of his classmates.
Often accompanying his father on hunts, 11-year-old Joey owns two shotguns and a cross bow and made his first kill, a deer, at age seven. He lives with his parents and older sister in Kentucky and "is hoping to use his crossbow during the next hunting season as he has become tired of using a gun.”
Living with her parents, brother and sister near Kathmandu in Nepal, 7-year-old Indira works at a local granite quarry where she has worked at since she was 3. She also attends school and shares a mattress with her siblings. Their house has one room, one bed and one mattress.
Four-year-old Jasmine (“Jazzy”) lives in a big house in Kentucky with her parents and three brothers. Her room is filled with crowns and sashes that she won in beauty pageants. Having entered more than 100 competitions so far, Jazzy enjoys being treated like a princess and would like to be a rock star when she grows up.
Ryuta is a champion sumo wrestler and has been competing for seven years. He lives in Tokyo with his parents and younger sister and is also a member of the boy scout movement.
This 4-year-old Romanian boy sleeps with his family on a mattress in a field on the outskirts of Rome. After begging for money to pay for tickets, his family came from Romania by bus. With no identity papers, his parents clean windscreens at traffic lights since they cannot obtain legal work. None of his family members have ever been to school.
Living in a favela in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 14-year-old Erlen is pregnant for the third time. She usually sleeps on the floor but her mother has swapped places and allowed her to sleep on the bed during the later stages of her pregnancy. Erlen was 12 and 13 years old during her previous pregnancies, but lost both babies shortly after their births. If her new baby survives, she will be a single parent and will have to drop out of school.
Six-year-old Bilal’s family are Bedouin Arabs living in a one-room shack they built themselves besides an Israeli settlement at Wadi Abu Hindi in the West Bank. Bilal does not go to school yet but helps take care of his family’s 15 goats.
Nantio is a member of the Rendille tribe and lives with her two brothers and two sisters in a tent-like dome made from cattle hide and plastic, with little room to stand, in Lisamis, Kenya. She went to the village school for a few years but decided not to continue and is hoping a “moran” (warrior) will select her for marriage.
Eight-year-old Roathy’s home sits on a rubbish dump swarming with flies on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, where he sleeps on a mattress made from old tires. At 6 a.m. every morning, Roathy and hundreds of other children are given a shower and breakfast at a local charity center before he starts work — scavenging for plastic bottles and cans, which are then sold to a local recycling company. Breakfast is sometimes the only meal of the day.
Rhiannon lives with her parents and brother in a terraced house in Darel, Scotland, in an area plagued with heroin addiction and gang violence. She and her family have become used to abusive behavior from people in the neighborhood. Sporting a mohawk like her parents’ ever since she was six, Rhiannon and her family and friends are part of a punk subculture and have formed a community of support where they all look out for each other.
omg i just can’t get over my new apartment! i can’t wait to move in. it’s like a fairy tale? there’s winding pathways with bushes taller than me on both sides filled flowers and they smell amazing. i have a stone porch that overlooks them… wooden floors, a gas stove, big french doors! and i’m adopting a kitty soon after i move in! AAAAAAAAAAAAAH
Will wakes in stages, lying in bed for
sometime after. Slowly he begins to distinguish between the sounds in
his dreams and those in the waking world–the whistle of the wind
outside and the gentle creaking of the house, the ticking of the clock
on the wall, and Hannibal moving around in the kitchen.
They’ve been living off a lot of simple, easy to assemble meals.
Salads and sandwiches, scrambled eggs and toast. Will runs into town
once a week for groceries and usually picks up a bunch of canned soup
and frozen vegetables, instant mashed potatoes and rotisserie chicken.
Hannibal turns up his nose at it all, but he isn’t really able to stay
on his feet for more than a couple of minutes at a time, so his cooking
is out of the question.
And yet, Hannibal is clearly cooking now. Water running, something hissing over the heat of the stove, the rhythmic snicksnicksnick
of a sharp knife against the chopping block. Whatever it is has a rich,
savoury scent that permeates the room, and it smells delicious.
Rolling onto his back, Will blinks his eyes open and gazes
blearily out the window. There’s no saying what time of day it is. The
sky is a dark steel, snow flurries falling and melting on the gazebo
roof outside his bedroom. His limbs feel heavy and his head full of fog.
Right now Will wants nothing more than to roll over in his warm cocoon
of blankets and go back to sleep, but now that he’s awake he can’t
ignore the pressure in his bladder.
He shoves aside his sheets, sucking in a sharp breath at the cold
air hitting his skin, and grabs his robe from the foot of the bed,
hurrying to wrap himself up in it. When he stands, he is gripped by a
wave of dizziness and has to catch himself on the post of the bed.
There’s that familiar, unpleasant disconnected feeling that comes from a
head cold, as though he’s floating above his own body.
After breakfast he laid down, oddly fatigued and with just the
beginnings of a tickle in the back of his throat. Over the course of his
nap it’s exploded into a full on sore throat, clogged sinuses, pounding
headache. He stumbles into the bathroom, leaning against the wall as he
relieves himself. When he catches his reflection in the mirror over the
sink, he winces. His skin is sallow, dark circles under his eyes, nose
Just his fucking luck. He’s finally starting to feel human again. The
stitches in his cheek have dissolved, and he’s able to move his arm
again without screaming in agony and now he’s got the fucking plague. He
blows his nose, and it doesn’t seem to do a whole lot to relieve the
pressure or allow him to breath again, just makes his head throb and
vision go white around the edges.
Fucking great. He searches through the medicine cabinet and finds a
bottle of cough syrup that has miraculously not expired yet, and doses
himself before making his way into the kitchen.
“Smells good,” he mumbles, voice rough. He’s so stuffy he can’t
really discern what it is he’s smelling, but whatever is, it’s making
his stomach grumble.
Hannibal stands at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the
contents of a saucepan. He glances at Will over his shoulder, and
doesn’t seem surprised to find he looks like death warmed over. “It will
be ready in a moment, if you would like to take a seat.”
Will gathers his robe more tightly around him and pulls out a chair
from the table, sliding into it. “You’re not supposed to be cooking,” he
says. He has to clear his throat. “You’re not even supposed to be
standing unless absolutely necessary.”
“As the attending doctor, I feel adequately capable of assessing my
condition,” Hannibal murmurs, bent over a mug of steaming liquid. “I
have not overexerted myself, and I had guessed, rightly so, that you
were feeling under the weather. Drink.” He places the mug in front of
Will on the table. “Licorice root tea with chamomile and honey.”
Will takes a sip and pulls a face. “I usually rely on the healing power of bourbon.”
Hannibal quirks a small smile, and Will looks down at the dark
liquid, chest tight. “Perhaps I could be persuaded to prepare you a hot
toddy later this evening. But between your pain medication this morning,
and the cough syrup you’ve just taken, it is best not to further tax
“How–” Will begins, scowling, and Hannibal reaches out, knuckle
brushing against the corner of his mouth and coming back bright orange.
Will licks his lips reflexively, rubs the back of his hand over his
mouth, and takes a hasty drink. “Whatever. The tea is fine. I mean–it’s
nice, thank you.”
Hannibal dips his head in acknowledgement and goes back to the stove.
Will doesn’t miss the way he favours his left side, the way he holds
his right arm close to his body. His shoulders are rounded forward, no
sign of his normal perfect posture. “I could have just heated something
“Nonsense,” Hannibal scoffs. He sounds morally offended, and despite
himself, Will feels his lips curling upward faintly in fond amusement.
He comes back to the table, bowl in each hand. One before Will, one at
the place across from him, where Hannibal takes his seat. “Spicy Garlic
Will stares down at the bowl of creamy-looking soup, sprinkled in
fresh cilantro and garnished with a slice of lime. He toys with the
spoon, turning it idly through the soup, picking up a spoonful of soft
onion and diced chicken, and lets it drop back in the bowl with a plop.
He puts the spoon down and rests his hands on the table top.
Hannibal looks at him from under his fringe, bent over his bowl,
paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Is there something the
Just inhaling the soup from this close, Will can feel the snot
loosening. He can actually breathe through his nose for the first time
since waking, can smell the tang of the lime and the umami of the
garlic, along with the sharp burn of some sort of hot pepper. He can
almost taste the richness of the butter. “It smells good,” he says
“It will taste even better,” Hannibal says. He looks more concerned
and curious and less like he’s admonishing, but Will bristles
nonetheless. “The medicinal ingredients will help soothe your throat and
clear your sinuses. Garlic and onion have antiseptic and antibacterial
properties, and the vitamin C in the chilies and lime juice will hasten
“Awesome,” Will says, tone dry. He considers nudging the bowl away,
just to get his point across, but then reconsiders, because there’s no
call for childish behaviour. All the same, he can’t help but conjure to
mind the last time Hannibal served him soup.
Hannibal makes a small ahh noise, and when Will chances a
glance, he looks far too astute. “I assure you, I have no intention of
eating any part of you this evening.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I can sleep easy.”
“This particular soup would not make a very satisfying marinade, at
any rate,” Hannibal says. Will snorts and rolls his eyes. Hannibal’s
words are playful, but there is something hesitant about his expression.
He is uncertain, and the discomfort it causes him becomes Will’s
discomfort, watching him.
Will is being foolish. He knows it. He needs to pick up his spoon and
eat his goddamn soup, and not get into this this evening. He’s not
ready for this conversation. He’s not sure he ever will be. He gets as
far as the picking up the spoon part, but the rebellious voice in the
back of his mind just won’t allow him to bring it to his mouth.
“Were you just going to…scoop out my brains?” he asks, surprising
both of them. So they are going to discuss it, then. Will bites his lip
against a muttered curse and closes his eyes. When he opens them,
Hannibal is regarding him, face shuttered. He puts down his own spoon
and folds his hands together in his lap.
“I could have taken only enough to taste,” Hannibal says. “You could have survived that way.”
Will narrows his eyes. “But you wouldn’t have.”
Hannibal gives a curt shake of his head. “No,” he says,
matter-of-fact. “I would not have allowed you to continue to merely
exist in that condition.”
Will lets go of his spoon and it falls against the rim of his bowl
with a clatter. Hannibal looks up sharply. “Am I supposed to be grateful for that, Hannibal?”
“I cannot travel back in time to correct my mistakes,” Hannibal says, “as you know all too well.”
“Mistake,” Will echoes. He means to be scathing, but his anger is
already dissipating. He takes too much effort to stay angry at Hannibal
for any length of time. His own mind is constantly betraying him,
forgiving far too easily, and right now he just doesn’t have the energy
Hannibal splays his hands, a helpless gesture encompassing so
much–guilt, sorrow, regret, and, above all, inevitability. “I can only
care for you now as you deserve, and hope that in time, I can earn your
forgiveness and your trust.”
Will sighs deeply and closes his eyes again, for a brief moment. Then
he picks up his spoon, scoops up a mouthful of soup, and shoves it in
his mouth without allowing himself to think about it any longer. He
doesn’t really taste that first bite, but he says, “It’s good.”
They are both silent for a time, eating their soup. After a few
bites, the spiciness clears up his sinuses that he can really taste it,
and Will has to grudgingly admit to himself that it actually does taste
good. In between bites, he sips from his tea, which goes slippery down
his throat, coating and soothing.
“Thank you,” he says, barely more than a whisper. In the quiet of
their home, it is rings out with all the things Will isn’t ready to say
Hannibal’s smile is a soft, incongruously shy thing, and heat blooms in Will’s chest. “You’re welcome,” he says.