Merry Christmas Eve Guys!!!!❤️❤️❤️

Tell me a story

Summary: Dean has trouble sleeping at night

Word count: 0.5k

A/n: I don’t use Y/n at all in this fic, and I am just trying to practice writing. So leave criticism if you want :)

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He felt restless. 

He was always moving, always hunting, always fixing something in this messed up world that he lived in. And boy did it tire him out. 

Dean was currently sitting in the ‘Dean cave’, an old Adam Sandler movie playing in the background as he tried to doze off. But sleep seemed to drift away from him every time he came close to the internal peace. 

He didn’t know what it was that kept him from this nights sleep. He tried all the tricks in the book to help him; warm milk, reading for five minutes an hour, and even shutting off all electronics so that his eyes wouldn’t burn from the blue light. But none of it seemed to work. 

Glancing at his watch, he read the time. 2:47am. “God.” Dean muttered to himself, he’d been trying to sleep since 10, and now four hours later he had yet to even come close to sleeping. 

A small knock came from the entrance to the cave, facing the noise he saw you standing beside the door frame. An old band T-shirt of Deans and a pair of your shorts were used for your PJs tonight, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes as you slowly walked into the room. 

“Dean?” You questioned, coming to stand in front of him as he never once moved from his spot on the couch. 

“Yes, princess?” He asked, sitting up. The blanket he had been using sliding down to the floor, chills slowly creeping up the back of his neck. 

“Why are you still up?”

Dean didn’t know if he should sugarcoat his answer or just tell you flat out, because either way he’d know that you’d ask questions either way. He let out a tired sigh, his hand rubbing his face before he answered you. “I couldn’t sleep, haven’t been able to for a couple of hours.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, you’d seen him go to bed hours ago. You’d honestly thought he was well into sleep by the time you had retired to your own room. You’d only been up because you were thirsty, and when you walked past the ‘Dean cave’ you were confused why the TV was on. 

Looking over your shoulder at the TV, you saw Happy Gilmore playing. The volume down low enough to not bother the only other sleeping resident in the bunker. You then faced Dean again a tired pout gracing your lips as you stepped in between Deans legs. Both your hands coming to rest in his hair. 

“Can I watch the movie with you?” You asked, giving him the best puppy eyes that you could muster. 

Dean let out a breathy laugh, his own hands coming to rest on your waist as he pulled you closer to him.  “Course, princess.”

Laying back down on the couch, Dean pulled you on top of him, your head resting on his chest as you listened to his steady heart breathing. A deep sigh fell from Deans lips as he pulled you closer to his body, if possible. 

With the warm body now on top of him, and light chatter from the TV, Dean slowly felt sleep seeping into his body. That’s all he needed, Dean thought to himself as he listened to your slow breathing. He didn’t need warm milk, or a book to help him fall asleep.

Instead all he needed was his favorite movie and his favorite girl to do the trick. 

MAMA (DAVID) A HORSE BEHIND U 🫵

Jon: *unbuttoning shirt* god it’s so hot in here…

Wonderboy!reader: I know that, but why are you unbuttoning my shirt?

It’s scented… right?

Summary: The boys help shop for all you feminine products while you are away

Word count: 0.6k

A/n: I really just needed to write, so, please injoy :)

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The buggy’s front wheel spun in quick circles, the squeaking irritating Dean the deeper into the store he went. Sam had two hands on the handle bar, leading them down various isles as he grabbed what was on the grocery list. 

“Did you get the milk?” He asked, glancing at his brother as he placed a bag of chips into the buggy. 

“No.”

“Why not? We were just at the dairy isle.” 

Dean shrugged his shoulders eyes glazing across the chips. “I thought you grabbed it.”

A huff left Sam’s lips. “Yes, because I’d grab the milk after I told you to do it.”

“I’ll get it later, ok.” Dean told him, snatching the grocery list from his brothers hands. “What do we need to grab next?”

“Tampons and a couple pads.” Sam answered, having memorized the list already. 

“Tampons and pads? I thought she had that.”

“No, Dean.” Sam muttered leading him and his brother to the feminine isle. “If she had it we wouldn’t need to get more.”

Cas made his way towards the brothers a case of beer in hand as he placed it into the cart. “All they had was light beer, so I hope that’s alright.” He told them, trailing next to the buggy. 

“That’s fine, Cas.” Sam told the angel. 

“Yeah, for you.” Dean mumbled, shooting a small glare at the alcohol. 

Taking another turn, the three wandered down the isle stacked full of female products. Each stoping beside one another as they took in all of the many items that filled the shelves. 

You’d asked Sam specifically to grab your feminine items, seeing as he’s the only one who’d lived with a woman before. It would have been a whole lot easier than asking Dean or Cas to do it. 

“So,” Dean began arms crossing over one another as he stood before the various pads and tampons. “What does she need? Yellow? Green? Purple?”

Sam glanced up from the list to look at his brother. “What are you talking about? Why are you naming colors?”

He nodded towards a tampon box. “They all have different colors, Sam, kinda like fruits.”

Cas wondered over to Deans side, his eyebrows furrowing. “These things have taste?” He asked, picking up a box to look at it more closely. 

“No.”

“Yes.”

Sam shot a glare at his older brother. “What?” Dean asked.

“Why would it be flavored?” He asked trying to reason with the man. 

Dean shrugged his shoulders, taking the box back from Cas and placing it back in the shelf. “Some guys like that kind of stuff, Sam.”

Sam scrunched his nose in disgust. “That’s disgusting.”

“But it’s not flavored, Cas,” Dean began, turning towards the angel. “Because it’s scented.”

“Scented?” 

“Dear god.” Sam mumbled to himself, running a hand across his face. 

Dean nodded, gesturing to the rows of boxes. “Of course they’re scented. Because blood has smell, and so girls have to cover it up with a better smell.” He snapped his fingers, an example coming to mind. “Like perfume.”

Cas let out a small hum, his attention returning back to the products. Dean glanced over at his brother, his voice dropping down to a whisper. “It’s scented… right?”

Sam shook his head. 

A small ‘oh’ fell from the older man’s lips, face ever so slightly heating up on how wrong he truly was. Facing the shelves one last time Dean had begun to pluck and pull a good many boxes from their previous spots. “We’ll just get one of everything,” he told the others, placing the items into the cart. “Better safe than sorry.”

A sigh fell from Sam’s lips as he watched both Dean and Cas place multiple box’s into the buggy, before wandering away to the desserts isle. Leaving the poor man with the over loaded cart full of felmine products. 

“I’ll handle it, y/n,” he mumbled to himself, trailing after his brother and angelic friend. “I know what to get you, trust me.” Sam leaned his upper body against the handle bar, glancing over all the items that they’d gathered. “We won’t need to get more for another year or so now.”

Decided to draw Marko Last night, lowkey like this drawing style.

(Please ignore that his jacket is just squiggly lines)

Bucky Barnes incorrect quotes P.1

————————————————— Bucky: Y/n... 

Y/n: I can tell by the tone of your voice that you are disappointed. Alas, I must further disappoint you by affirming how little I give a fuck.  —————————————————

Y/n: Why did you guys dress up as each other for Halloween?  Sam: Bucky is the scariest thing I could think of! 

Bucky: Sam told me I should pick the dumbest costume possible

————————————————— John: Do you guys hear something?  Y/n: I hear the sound of you shutting the fuck up.

Bucky & Sam: Burn

—————————————————While the Avengers is in a battle* 

Bucky, trying to warn about the location of an enemy: To the left! 

Y/n: Take it back now y'all! 

————————————————— Sam: *cooking* 

Y/n: *kicks down door* 

Y/n: *grabs knife from Sam's hand* 

Y/n: WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR? 

Sam: 

Sam: What. 

Bucky: They're trying to tell you they want to cook.

————————————————— Y/n: I think it’s time I get my life in order. 

Bucky, narrating: But they did not get their life in order. In fact, they got drunk last night and fought a raccoon.

Rocket in the background: And I won.

Y/n: you fucking liar.

—————————————————

Bucky, holding an antique bottle: Is this whiskey or perfume?  Y/n: *grabs and chugs the entire bottle* 

Y/n: 

Y/n: It's perfume

—————————————————

Y/n: If I didn't know better, Bucky, I'd say you were scared.  Bucky: Heh, scared? 

*absolute silence* 

Bucky: DID YOU HEAR THAT?!  —————————————————

John: Can you be quiet?! I'm trying to think. 

Bucky: Don't worry. Doing anything for the first time is difficult —————————————————

Sam: So... who's the big spoon and who's the little spoon? 

Bucky: We're chopsticks!  Sam: Well... that's cute! 

Sam: Does that mean you two snuggle together perfectly?  Y/n: No, it means that if you take the other away, the only thing the other is good for is stabbing.

————————————————— Bucky: Name a more iconic duo than my crippling fear of abandonment and my anxiety. I’ll wait. 

Y/n: You and me! 

Bucky: *tearing up* Ok.

Bucky: Y/n you can’t just proclaim me as you boyfriend

Y/n: oh yeah well eat my shorts then

Bucky: eat your, what?

Y/n: Steve banned me from from cussing

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; II

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: another day in santa carla, and it's already stranger than the first. conflicting feelings surface when you encounter the punks from the boardwalk again, and a challenge ends with you seeking help from the kind man running the video store.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, sexual harassment, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), non-consensual touching, teasing

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: original word count was 4861, new word count is 6050

[1] … [3] … [8] [9]

You tuck a well-loved novel into your makeshift bookshelf, muttering a quiet, "Don't look at me like that, Bowie," to the stuffed snowy owl Grandpa deposited last night. 

Bowie didn't reply, but you swear his blue-and-green eyes gleam with judgment. 

"If you don't like it, then don't read," you remind him, pushing another racy novel behind his perch. 

Is it pathetic to talk to a piece of taxidermy? The jury's out. As of right now, he's your only friend. Somehow, both Sammy and Michael have made connections. Even Mom made one in the two seconds you weren't with her. 

Maybe you're doomed to be like Grandpa? A curmudgeonly hermit who loafed around the house in a bathrobe and soggy slippers. 

Talking Bowie means you were halfway there. 

You turn the owl around with a shudder.

You continue your chores softly humming with the Mamas and the Papas when someone knocks on your door.

Mom ducks her head in, wearing an apologetic look for disturbing the peace.

"—Well, I got down on my knees, (got down on my knees) and I pretended to pray!—"

You turn the sound down on your radio, "Yeah?"

"I wanted to check in with you. I'm heading to the video store—you can join me, if you like?" She shrugs. "You don't have to stay the whole time. Michael and Sam are heading to the beach if you'd rather join them."

You note the lack of choice: it's either/or, not neither. 

You could hem haw around—Gee, Mom, that sounds great, but I'm having so much fun unpacking!

Yeah. Not happening. She wants you to go out 'like old times,' but you don't have the heart to explain that 'old times' are meant to stay in the past.

And as much as you would love to cling to your mother's arm, you're not a child, and you want to give her a chance to explore this newfound something she formed with the Video Store Man.

"I'll go to the beach with Mike and Sammy."

Mom smiles, relieved. "That's great, honey. We can meet up at the boardwalk after my shift is over and get something to eat."

"Sure."

She blows a kiss and leaves. You hear her melodic voice float up the stairs as she tells Mike the news. He groans—probably complaining about how his bike can't fit three people—but Mom shuts him down by saying he can drive Grandpa's pickup. 

Michael barges into your room minutes later.

"Knock first!"

"Shouldda been born first," he fires back. Mike braces his arm on the door frame with a huff. "Listen—we're leaving in ten. Be ready by then."

"Fine—shut the door!"

He doesn't.

Asshole.

You change clothes, having spent all day in your PJs. You throw on a thin waffle knit sweater that used to belong to Mom and a gauzy skirt. You don't intend to get in the ocean, but pack a few books to pass the time. 

When you get downstairs, Sam and Michael are packed and ready, wearing wetsuits and sunglasses. 

Sam scrunches his nose when he sees you. "Where's your swimsuit?"

"Not wearing one."

"What? Is it shark week or somethin'?"

You flick him in the middle of his forehead. "No, you dweeb. You'd know if it were."

Sammy shudders. 

The drive to the beach is pleasant; plus, Grandpa's radio works. Michael tries to get in on the fight for control, but after getting slapped one too many times, he gives up. 

Berlin's Take My Breath Away crackled over the speakers, and Michael groans. "Turn this shit off."

"It doesn't make you think of a certain someone?" Sammy teases.

"Oh, that's right," you say. "You were stalker boy last night, weren't you?"

"Shut up."

Sammy piles on, "It's never gonna happen."

"No, never," I add, "your ugly mug's probably what scared her off."

Michael turns the channel.

When you reach the beach, the sky is a murky orange. The sun'll be setting soon, but according to Mike, this is one of the better times to surf. 

The boys do all the heavy lifting, and you lay out a towel; you situate yourself far enough from the water so you won't get wet, but not so far that you're on the hot, loose sand. 

You watch idly as your brothers paddle out but quickly lose interest. You crack open a book—one of your favorites—and immerse yourself in the story.

When you look up from your book and notice that the sun is halfway down the horizon and the beach is almost empty; Sam trudges up the sand and throws his board to the ground.

You raise an eyebrow. "Had enough?"

"I'm sick of falling off," he grumbles. He spreads his legs, hogging the towel. "Plus, those terrorists wouldn't leave me and Mikey alone."

Sammy juts his chin toward the ocean, and you follow his gaze. Michael is easy to spot—he's the one surrounded by surfers. One of them comes a little too close to Mike, and he, in an attempt to swerve, falls off his board. 

Sam sneers, digging through your beach bag for a snack. "What a waste of space."

You peer over the edge of your book. "He's not gonna give up, is he?"

Sam deadpans. "What do you think?"

Michael clamors onto his board. The 'terrorists,' as Sam so eloquently named them, paddle toward him for another go. You roll your eyes and snatch a handful of Bugles from Sammy's bag. You're in for a long night.

Forty minutes later, the sun is completely gone, and dusk overtakes the sky. You give up reading and instead toss M&Ms into Sam's mouth (which is actually harder to do in the dark than read). Michael jogs out of the ocean, frustrated. A little ways behind him, the surfer group terrorizing him laugh. Your stomach churns and you would've thrown a seashell at them if the wind wasn't whipped into a frenzy.

Instead, you toss Michael a towel, and he dries off. His cheeks are pinkish-red, though you don't know if that's a sunburn or embarrassment.

"Let's get outta here. Mom's probably wondering where we are." He jerks his head to Sam. "Help me pack the boards, will you?"

Sammy whines, "I just wanna go home—can you drop me off, Mike? I promise I won't take too long…"

Mikey grabs the scruff of his neck and drags him to the parking lot.

You take your time packing up and sigh. Hopefully, Mom will be happy. You've done your due diligence and made sure Michael and Sam kept their nose clean. You even got some sun. If that doesn't count as socialization, you don't know what would.

It's only when the group of surfers approach that you wish you'd followed your brothers.

Before you can take a step, a wet, slimy hand smacks your ass. You jerk, stumbling over a mound of sand as you try to distance yourself from the offender.

"Hey!"

"How ya doin', beautiful?"

He's an ugly son of a bitch. You don't need sun light to tell you that. His hair is black with a white stripe, like a skunk's. The surfers close rank around you. They're still soaked from the sea, reeking of saltwater and cigarettes.

You think about running, but you won't make it; the six of them will catch you before you clear the dunes. Your stomach flips.

Ass-grabber snickers at your distress. "Why's a nice girl like you hangin' 'round chumps like that?"

The stench of beer and sweat leaks from his pores.

You level a glare, "They're my brothers."

Ass-grabber shares a look with his lackeys. "Your brothers can't surf for shit. All they know how to do is wipe out."

"Yeah," you say, "you tend to fall when you're crowded like that."

They ooo, and your false bravado takes a hit. A few hushed, nasty comments are thrown your way and you out manuver a pair of wandering hands. They're drunk. Drunk and fixated on you. Might as well, right? You're the only Emerson they haven't antagonized.

"You got a mouth on you," says ass-grabber. He closes the distance between you in one stride, snatching your wrist. He pulls you close; his wetsuit soaks your sweater; his disgusting lips brush the shell of your ear. "I'd like to see what else it can do."

"Get off," you plea.

"'M gonna."

"No, get off!" You shove his chest, and he staggers.

"She's not interested, Greg."

The new voice startles you. You free your wrist and come face to face with a black leather jacket. Then, familiar blue eyes. Your lips part (to say—what? One look and he stole all the words from your mouth.) and you search his face.

It takes you a second to place him—and it comes from a shadow of a memory from the night before. The punks from the boardwalk.

You should be scared, but you're not. You see it in those captivating blue eyes of his, he doesn't want to mess with you. He's here to help. For now, at least, you let your guard down.

Greg glowers at the interruption. "Get off my beach."

The punk rips his gaze from yours with a shit-eating smirk. "Last I heard, the beach was public property, ay boys?"

He exchanges a glance with the rest of the boardwalk punks—one full of mirth and … something else. Something that you can't place, but it makes you uneasy. You take a step back lest you involve yourself in an Outsiders-esque rumble.

Greg gets in the leader's face. "I'll fuckin' kill you, man. Don't test me." You step back again, using the punks as a shield. You've never gotten in a fight before and you won't start now.

Greg's eyes flit between you and the group. And then—the strangest thing happens. He takes one look at the boys, and his eyes widen. The wind howls, but you swear you hear a growl. It's probably a passing car, but it chills you to the bone.

Greg's fear vanishes in a flash, and he scoffs. "You don't deserve my time."

The surfers trickle away one by one until they're just pinpricks on the sand, but the punks stay.

Finally, they face you, and you cradle your bulging tote bag like an iron shield. You're disgusted, you feel violated, and you're tempted to lose your cool on the punks, but their arrival prevented a worse outcome. For that, you're grateful.

Reluctantly, you admit that.

"Thank you." You push your hair back, holding it in place as the wind picks up. "I appreciate your help."

"No problem, baby." The taller blond smiles, capturing his tongue between his teeth.

There it is again. That long, drawn-out bay-bee. You clench your jaw. Maybe you should've run off.

These guys make you uncomfortable, but not like the surfers. No, it's a different sort. A discomfort that you've never felt before. It's all warm and awkward, like fluttering in your stomach.

As if he could sense your apprehension, the leader speaks. "Believe it or not, those guys are bigger assholes than us."

You scoff a laugh and his lips twitch.

He continues, "What are you doing out at this hour? Don't you know there are weirdos around?"

"I'm here with my family." They deign to look around the beach, but it's empty. You blush. "They're packing the car."

"Wasn't smart of them to leave you alone. This isn't exactly a safe place, you know?"

"Yeah," says Curly. "Just last week a bunch of body parts washed up on the shore. They dunno if it was a murder or a shark."

You frown. "You're kidding, right?"

Curly's grin is sharp enough to bite. "Why would we lie about something like that? Do you think we like scaring innocent girls like you for fun?"

"Uh, yeah."

The leader cocks his head, sizing you up. You swear his gaze burns you from the inside out, like hellfire. You resist the urge to shudder. 

"You left before we could introduce ourselves," he says, referencing last night. "I'm David. That's Paul—" bay-bee boy "—Marko—" Curly "—and Dwayne." The pretty brunette.

You try not to look interested (because you're not) and nod. "Well, have a nice night."

"You're not gonna tell us yours?" Marko asks.

You start to tell him 'no,' but you get the feeling he won't quit until you admit it, so tell them your first name. "I have to go."

"What? Can't hang, baby?" Paul snickers, ruffling your hair. You smack his hand away.

"It's not that—I have people waiting for me." You glance over the ridge again, praying your idiot brothers haven't left you. "Plus, I doubt I'd be much fun."

Your words elicit a new wave of laughter. Paul slings his arm over Marko's shoulder, "I think we'll be the judge of that."

Your face burns, and you stammer, "That's not what I meant."

God, they're disgusting. You hug yourself, willing your stomach to stop flipping. 

"I dunno, Paul, that seems like the only way to take that," says Marko. He pinches your nose. "You're cute when you're flustered." 

"I'm not—"

A hand reaches out—too fast for you to identify which boy, but you assume it's one of the terror twins—and snatches your glasses from your face. 

You react a second too late. "Hey!"

"Wow—" Paul, you think, "—You're pretty blind. How can you see?"

"I can't, you jerk! That's why I wear glasses!"

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Marko thrusts his hand in your face. 

"Give them back!" You lunge at where you thought he was, but he vanishes into thin air. 

You stumble into a chest. A pair of hands curl around your biceps. "What's the magic word, baby?"

Paul.

You bite your cheek. You refuse to cry in front of them. "Please?"

"Actually, it's da—oof!" Someone punches him before he can finish.

Paul vanishes from behind you, and you sniffle; you're pissed, you're embarrassed, and you wish that you were standing in quicksand. (Better yet, you wish they were standing in quicksand.)

"Here."

Someone presses your glasses into your hands. You put them on quickly, ignoring the fingerprint smudges on the lenses. 

You blink up at your savior—the gorgeous brunette. The one who, until now, hadn't said a single word. Dwayne, maybe?

"Thank you," you whisper, wishing your voice was stronger.

There may be a decent one among them, after all.

He smiles, and your heart stutters. This man could be on the cover of a romance novel, Jesus. You quickly look down, but that was the worst choice because he's shirtless under that leather jacket. You pinch your lips together and look literally anywhere else—there's a seagull, an abandoned kite, some trash...

"Don't tell me Dwayne makes you nervous," says Marko. "He doesn't bite, do you big guy?"

Dwayne shrugs, "Not hard."

Killing you would have been kinder. You’re a pile of goo, your face burns (but you tell yourself it’s from the sun), and if they keep this up you don’t know what will become of you.

"Do you want a ride?" David asks. "Seems like yours ditched you."

Michael. Sam. 

Fuck, that's right.

"No, they're just waiting for me," you say again.

On cue, Michael peers over the dunes, shouting your name. "C'mon! What's taking you so long?! Sammy's about to have an aneurysm."

A squeaky "Am not, Mike!" follows.

"Coming!" You burst through the boys but stop halfway up the dunes. "Um, thanks again, I guess."

David tilts his head, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "The offer still stands."

But you pretend you don't hear him and jog to the waiting truck.

Michael waits for you with a frown, eyeing the boys. "Are you okay?" 

You don't want to get into it, so you say, "Let's go."

Mom is anxiously waiting when Michael pulls into the lot. She greets you with a hug and a kiss. "Where's Sam?"

"Home," says Michael. "He's beat."

"Okay." She eyes his bike and squeezes your hand. "How was the ride over?"

You scoff, "At least he didn't crash this time."

Mike takes offense. "That was one time."

You stick your tongue out. One time and one ER visit too many in your book.

"Well, I'm starved." Mom rubs her hands together, smiling. "What do you say we go out to eat? I saw a great little place over there…"

Michael shrugs. "I think I wanna look around for a bit."

"Oh. Well, that's okay."

"I'll meet up with you later," he says, disappearing into the crowd.

"I guess it's just you and me, kiddo. What do you say? You wanna go home and make some pasta?"

"Yeah," you say, but your voice is an octave too high.

Mom sighs, but she's not disappointed. "What do you really want to do?"

Damnit. She's good.

Sheepishly, you tell the truth, "There's a bookshop around the corner, and I'd really like to check it out."

"Aw, sweetie." Mom squeezes your arm, pulling you into another hug. "I want you to have fun. You're not going to hurt my feelings by saying no, I promise."

"Yeah, but…"

"No buts. Go look at books. I think I'll head home. Are you okay riding with Michael again? I know how you feel about…"

She gestures to the bike.

You cringe at the offending metal. "We made it here in one piece. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Okay, honey. Enjoy yourself, alright? And you have Grandpa's number if you need it?"

"Yeah."

"I won't tell you not to stay out too late because you're a big girl, but be safe."

You smile, "I'll be home before midnight. I promise."

She relaxes ever so slightly, and it warms your heart. It almost makes you change your mind.

She waves goodbye, heading for the Land Rover. You square your shoulders and head back into the masses.

The bookstore is overcrowded tonight. 

Well, it's not, but you spot a few unsavory characters (namely Greg and his surfer douches), which makes you rush back to the parking lot. You're not ready for round two. 

Luckily, Michael's bike was still there, otherwise you would've been screwed.

You sit on the Death Trap (the name you gave Mike's stupid motorcycle a few years back) until you see Michael heading your way. You almost call out ...

... until you see he's with a girl.

"Shit," you whisper. 

Michael's puppy dog grin diminishes when he spots you. 

He looks ... different. He's wearing a leather jacket with the tag sticking out of the shirt sleeve. He's even combed his hair back. He looked like an off-brand version of David and his gang.

The girl eyes you warily. Michael rubs the back of his neck, glancing between you and her. 

"Um. Star, this is my sister."

You wave. If you were in a better mood, you would have teased him, but after the day you've had, ribbing Michael is the last thing on your mind.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd have company and Mom ... took off, and I'm... I'm sorry."

You've never felt more shitty in your life. For all the crap you give him, Michael's a decent guy. There's no way he'd choose a random girl over his sister.

But at the same time, you don't want him to make that choice. It's not fair.

"It's fine," he says. "We'll work this out."

Star readjusts her purse, "Maybe we should do this another time."

"Star," Michael starts to say something, but it fizzles out. 

Before he can try to salvage the evening, the roar of engines rips through the air. You jerk out of your seat as four stripped-down bikes corner you. Driving the beasts are four familiar faces, so familiar that you almost say, What? Are you guys stalking me?

But you don't because David beats you to the punch.

David raises his eyebrows. A dangerous aura overcame him—an aura that made you feel small and insignificant. "Where ya going, Star?"

Oh.

Apparently, they're not here for you. It ... stings, if you're honest.

She set her jaw. "For a ride. This is Michael."

David's gaze jumps to your brother. He sizes him up and smirks. It's like you're not even there.

He turns back to Star and says, "Let's go."

Star hesitates, and you wonder—why? Clearly, there's something there. Their history is palpable; regardless of whether it's romantic or platonic, you don't care. But the look on Michael's face crushes you.

Subtly, you insert yourself in between her and Michael. The last thing you need is for some girl to string him along. 

"Star," David says again, impatience seeping into his lazy drawl. 

She makes a face, but David doesn't budge. He stares her down as if daring her to challenge him. Reluctantly, she chooses David, draping her arm languidly over his chest as she climbs on. 

You expect David to burn rubber. He's got his girl; he's made his point. Now's the time to peel out and leave the Emersons in the dust. 

But he doesn't. 

Finally, David looks at you, and that weird feeling returns. You cross your arms, but you can't look away.

David doesn't want you to, though. And even though he speaks to Michael, he doesn't stop staring at you. "Do you know where Hudson's Bluff is, overlooking the point?"

Michael's confidence falters. "I can't beat your bike."

David revs his engine. "You don't have to beat me, Michael. You just have to keep up."

There's a pause, and it breaks the spell David held over you. Michael shifts his attention to you, Star, and the gang. You know your brother—your idiotic, competitive brother. He's considering it. There's one surefire way to get under his skin: challenge him. David, whether he knows this weakness or not, is exploiting it. 

But Michael holds back. He nods toward you. "I've got my little sister with me..."

"You can bring her," says Marko. "We don't mind, do we, baby?"

He winks, snickering as Paul whispers in his ear.

"Don't talk about her," Michael snaps.

You hold your hand out, "Mike, don't."

"Yeah, Mikey." Paul grins; you don't like what it does to you.

David says your name, and you instantly react. He gives you the same look he gave Star, goading you, commanding you. It's an invitation as much as it's a demand. 

Again, he says, "The offer still stands."

You swallow hard and say, "I shouldn't." 

David frowns. 

You turn to Michael, keeping your voice soft. "I know you want to go."

Michael grits his teeth. "I'm not going to leave you here."

"I'll be fine."

A beat of silence. He purses his lips. "Are you sure?"

You're not. You're scared shitless at the thought of being left alone on the boardwalk, but you can't tell him that. You won't. You see the way he grips his handlebars. He wants to impress these guys—impress that girl.

Michael is annoying, but he's your brother, and you refuse to hold him back even if he will make stupid choices.

You can't be his voice of reason when he'll tune you out.

So, you say, "I'll figure something out. Maybe that guy from the video store will know something?"

Mike relaxes. "... Fine."

You go to leave, but David catches you. His grip is gentle—barely there. He slips his hand from your wrist to your cheek, forcing you to look at him. 

He's touching you.

Your skin tingles. 

"Last chance," he says.

No sits on the tip of your tongue. It's the comfortable answer—the only answer—but saying yes is tempting. It dangles from your lips like a snake's hiss, your yes, your acceptance of David and everything he offers. 

You can picture it perfectly: climbing onto their bikes, feeling their leather jackets against your skin.

Skin on skin, chests crushed against each other. Hot, deep kisses that leave you breathless.

Hands trailing over your body—up your sweater, down your skirt, around your waist, over your breasts.

Tongues exploring every inch of your skin. 

It would be easy to say yes. You ... You want to say yes. 

Michael says your name, and you snap back to the present. You blink, rapidly clearing that perverted vision from your mind, your thoughts evaporating like smoke. 

You step away from David, letting his hand drop.

"Like I said," you murmur, "I wouldn't be much fun." You turn to Michael, plastering a wholesome grin on your face. "Be safe, Mikey."

"Tell your little sister bye-bye, Mikey," Paul jeers. 

Knowing you'll change your mind, you can't make yourself look back. So, you thrust yourself into the crowd and embrace the chaos.

By some miracle, you don't spot Greg or the surfers again when you reach the video store. A rush of cold air kisses your sweat-slick skin when you cross the threshold. Soft music plays overhead, and a handful of customers browse the offerings hung on the wall. It's a brightly colored dreamland, everything neon and glittery, designed to catch your attention.

In the center of the room is a counter, and behind it stands a tall, broad-shouldered man. He passes change to his customer and greets you with a smile.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

"Are you Max?" His eyebrows twitch inward, but he nods, still smiling. You give him your name. "I'm Lucy's daughter."

"Lucy's—of course you are! What can I do for you on this lovely evening? Did she forget something?"

"Yes and no." You readjust your glasses. "My ride bailed and I was looking for a phone to call her. You don't happen to have one, do you?"

"By all means!" He pulls a sleek, rotary phone from beneath the counter. "Have at it."

"Thank you."

You dig through your purse and withdraw a neatly-folded piece of paper with Grandpa's number. Everything's going to be fine, you reassure yourself. You tuck the receiver under your ear and dial. The line rings ... and rings ... and rings.

Nothing.

You try again, consciously aware of Max watching you from the corner of his eye.

The phone rings again. No one picks up.

Shit.

Did you write the number wrong? You don't have a phone book or you'd triple check, but you swear you did that before leaving the house.

"Is everything okay?" Max leans against the counter, concern coloring his face.

Defeated, you hang up and push the phone toward him. "I'm sure it is."

"Did someone pick up?"

"No." You bite your cheek to keep the panic at bay. "No, uh, they didn't. Thank you, anyway. I'll figure something out. Maybe hitch a ride, or ..."

"Have you hitched before?"

You strain to smile. "There's a first time for everything, right?"

Max doesn't smile. "No, I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Santa Carla isn't the wholesome place it used to be and I cannot, in good conscience, have you go out alone. I'll drive you."

Eyes wide, you backpedal, "Oh, no! You can't, you're in the middle of work and I just, I can't."

"Nonsense. Maria!" He motions for the pretty cashier to come closer. "Can you handle the store for a little bit? I have an errand to run. It shouldn't take more than an hour."

"Not a problem."

Max slides out from behind the counter and parrots Maria's words. "See? Not a problem."

"I don't want to get you in any trouble..."

Max chortles. He lays a hand on the small of your back and guides you out of the store. "My dear, I own the place. Although, if it makes you feel better, I'll reprimand myself when I get back."

Max has a nice car. Like, a really nice car. It has air conditioning that actually works and a stereo system that's out of this world. Plus—you can crank the windows up and down without them getting stuck! It's nothing like Mom's car, and everything like your father's back in Phoenix.

But Max isn't anything like your dad, which is probably why Mom loves him.

He makes light conversation in between you giving directions.

"Your necklace is pretty."

"Oh, thank you." You wear it so much that you barely think about it anymore. It's simply a chunk of quartz on a cord. You touch it, feeling its weight in your palm. "It used to be my mom's, but I took it so often she eventually gave it to me."

When you were younger, you used to think it was a magic rock that could grant you wishes. Now, you feel naked if you don’t wear it.

"Do you like crystals?"

"I guess so, yeah. They're pretty."

Max hums, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "What's your favorite?"

"Um, well, I like quartz, but I think my favorite is obsidian."

He nods, "Remind me, which one is that again?"

"It's black. I don't know why, but it's always been my favorite."

"There's a shop on the boardwalk, somewhere around the theater, I think. I never go that way, myself, but I have met the owner during the occasional meeting. She's a nice woman. Has a big selection of crystals, if I'm right. You might like it."

His thoughtfulness strikes a cord with you. You can see why Mom likes him, he's charming.

"I'll have to check it out," you say. "Maybe I'll find my mom something to replace this old thing."

Max chuckles. "That's very generous of you. Most people think of themselves first. You have a giving heart—just like your mother."

"Oh, I don't know about that. She makes it easy."

Max turns the corner, and picks a new thread of conversation. "How do you like Santa Carla so far?"

"It's okay. We used to come out here a lot during the summer, but we haven't in ... almost a decade, I think?"

"It's a wonder we never met until now."

You shrug. "There's a lot of people in Santa Carla."

"That's true." Max turns the dial. A new radio station sifts through his speakers, and though it's not a genre you like, you don't mind. It's not like you're listening anyway.

To fill the void, you keep talking. "My dad never liked it here. He always cut our visits short. I can't remember even coming to the boardwalk back then."

"And your father, he's ...?"

"Back in Phoenix," you say. "They're divorced."

"I see." He keeps his tone light, but you can tell he's secretly glad to hear that. "It must be tough for you. You've uprooted your entire life."

"I’d do it again if it helped Mom, but if I’m honest? I feel like an outcast here. Everything is so different."

"Do you not like different?"

"It's not that I don't like it, I'm just not used to it." You laugh at yourself, adding, "I'm not the adventurous type. Mike and Sammy, they're outgoing, but I'm ... not. I tried, but it's not for me. I'm a homebody."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"You'd be the first to think it."

Maybe that's not fair to Mom, but it's true. She doesn't get it. You know she means well when she sends you out with your brothers, and you'll suffer through if it makes her happy, but you'd rather be at home. Even now, you're kicking yourself for not going with her.

Max glances at you. "Home is where the heart is, as they say."

"The heart is Mom," you say, not-so-subtly implying that Santa Carla isn't home. "I'm just ... there."

"A home needs a heart, a mother; that much is true. But a home also needs a solid foundation, something to hold it steady, something that makes sure it doesn't sink or shift. Now, some people might say that's the father's role, but not always. You strike me as that kind of person."

You're thankful it's dark because you fluster when he speaks. "That's kind of you to say."

"It's just an observation from an old man."

You snort. Max isn't old. "I guess I'm an exception to the middle kid stereotype—you know, how they're supposed to be wild and all that." You tried to be that a long time ago. You were that way, but ... "Mom's always needed a friend, especially this last year with everything. She does her best, but sometimes she needs help. I don't mind doing that."

Max softens, fondly glancing your way. "I wish my boys had someone like you around. Maybe you could knock some sense into them."

"You have sons?"

"Oh, yes. They are," Max whistles, "they're a handful, that bunch. I try. I've given them everything, but they're reckless. As untamed as wild horses."

"I'm sure you do fine."

"They would disagree with you," he laughs. "What they need is something they've never had: a mother. Now, I can give them discipline, but they need that-that heart. Or, a foundation, for that matter." He winks at you conspiratorially. "I hope they get that one day before it's too late."

You smile awkwardly, but words evade you. The conversation took a strange turn.

Max pulls up to your house. The totem poles tower over his sleek car like grim sentinels welcoming you back to the pit. But, Max doesn't unlock the car.

"Look, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I have to ask," Max says. "I like your mother very much. She's ... She's unlike any woman I've ever met. I know I haven't known her long, and I understand you all are going through a difficult transition ..."

You gently cut his ramblings short. "She likes you, too, Max."

"Really?" You nod. Max exhales, running his hands through his perfectly coiffed hair. "Then ... you wouldn't mind if I ask her on a date?"

"You seem like a great guy. I think she would love that. But it's up to her to say yes," you remind him.

"Of course! Thank you—your consent means more to me than you know."

He unlocks the car and you hop out. "Thanks again for this."

"Any time. Have a good night, my dear!"

You wave goodbye and head inside.

Everyone's asleep by now. The house is dark, save for a lone lamp Mom must have left on for your arrival. You wander into the living room and snatch the phone off the wall. But, instead of the dial tone, you're met with silence.

Damnit, Grandpa. What's the point of having a phone if it doesn't work? If you hadn't found Max, you would have been in serious shit tonight.

You don't remember until later that you stopped giving Max directions at some point.

That night, you dream of David, Dwayne, Paul, and Marko. They flight through your window one by one wearing jackets made of animal fur and leaves and dance on the ceiling.

"Can I come with you?" You watch them with awe, wishing you could fly, too. "Please?"

David extended his hand. "All you had to do was ask."

They lift you out of bed and you soar through the sky. You're not afraid, not as you touch the stars or do loops around the boardwalk rollercoaster. You find comfort in their company. They give you freedom when you hold their hands.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning," Marko jokes.

They take you to their hideout in the trees and lay you on a bed of moss. They stroke your nude body. You can't remember losing your clothes, but it's okay. You like it when they touch you. It feels different. It feels good.

Hands turn into mouths; tongues lick your flesh, mouths suck your nipples, your neck, and lower. Much, much lower.

"Join us, wendy-bird." Their voices warp, whispering, overlapping over one another. "Be our lost girl."

Be ours.

The pleasure intensifies. Your surrounding blur, but you see their faces with perfect clarity. They're beautiful. You want to tell them this. Why haven't you?

Be ours.

They laugh. They moan. They take turns lavishing you with their attention until you're drunk on them.

The dream ends the moment one of them tries to penetrate you. It was so vivid, so real, that when you wake the next morning you're ... disappointed?

Yeah, disappointed. Not that you'll admit it outside of this drowsy state, warm, yet, alone in your bed. You're disappointed in yourself, and disappointed in your imagination, but most of all, you're disappointed that you didn't tell David yes.

Strange human emotions

Summary: Castiel has been experiencing some rather strange emotions, especially ones that revolve around you.

Word count: 1.7k

A/n: No one really writes about Cas, and it’s a shame because him, Sam and Dean are my absolute favorite. But I hope you enjoy ;)

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He could feel it coming up again, that same burning feeling in his chest that keeps him up deep into the night. Not that he can sleep to begin with, but still the feeling invaded his every thought as he waited for you and the brothers to wake up. 

Cas didn’t know how to explain it, these strange human emotions that he had learned over the years, he didn’t understand them. He knew the ones that you and the boys had taught him, how it helped him learn to express how he felt to others. And he was truly grateful for it. 

But, the ones that he was never taught always worried him. Like when he could feel when someone is staring at him, even though nobody is in the room with him. Or even worse when you are near, or when you touch his shoulder when you walk past him, or how about when you speak to him so beautifully that he feels his stomach churning into a weird fluttery feeling. 

There must be something wrong, Cas would conclude, pacing the bunker’s library in the dead of night. Maybe you had been taken over by a shapeshifter and this was the universes way of warning him. 

Yeah, that had to be it, but how would he tell Sam and Dean that? For Chucks sake you are one of their closest friends, how could he tell them that they would need to kill you?

No. No, he couldn’t kill you. He just needs to figure it out a bit more by morning, he couldn’t just go on a killing spree. It wouldn’t be right. 

But if you were in danger or you are the danger then he would need to speak to the brothers about this. But, how?

Cas sat across from you and Dean, Sam to his right of the booth as he stared out the fogged window. The falling snow momentarily capturing his attention, the way each flake was built uniquely different from the other. 

It amazed him how something so beautiful could end up in a world like this. 

“Hey, Happy meal.” Dean suddenly spoke up, dragging Cas away from the window. “You gonna focus, or are we gonna have to tell you while we fight the sons of a bitches?”

“I’m focused.” Cas told the older man, his hands coming to rest in his lap. 

“Mhm, yeah sure.” 

Sam cleared his throat, turning his computer to face the others as he began to explain the current case to them. “So, Sophia Cocklen had reported her husband missing, nearly a month ago. And as of three days ago both her brother and eldest son have disappeared as well.”

“Has to have something to do with the men,” you spoke up, dipping a French fry in your ketchup before popping it in your mouth. “Because Sophia’s sister, mother and two daughters hadn’t been touched at all over the past month.”

Sam nodded, clicking on another tab as some police reports popped on screen. “That’s what I thought as well, but the thing is that none of them have any bad records on there name. And…”

Sams voice seemed to drift off, running farther and farther from his ears as the same burning feeling began to arise from his chest. He glanced at you for a quick second, the way you looked at your work and took it seriously. The way your eyes seemed to have a small sparkle in them when you spoke. 

And especially the way your hair slightly fell in front of your eyes, hiding that sparkle that made his stomach erupt. It made him want to reach over the table and push it out of your way, just so he could catch another glimpse of…

You pushed your hair out of your face, halting Cas’s thoughts completely. Why was he thinking that? What were you and the boys talking about? Why did his body’s vessel feel so warm and sweaty? Was it getting hotter? What if you had turned evil? What if this was your way to slowly kill him off?

Him. Castiel, an angel of the Lord. Struck down by a woman that was more than likely possessed by a monster. 

“Cas?” You questioned, facing the angelic being who seemed to be almost in a trance. “You alright? You look like your sweaty.”

Cas pulled at the collar of his trench coat, the feeling of sweat sliding down his neck. Boy, did he hate how the human body can physically act when you don’t need it to. 

“Yes,” He told you rubbing his hands against his pants legs. “Yes I’m fine it’s just a little warm in here is all.”

“Really?” Dean asked, taking a quick sip from his lukewarm coffee. “It’s pretty cold in here to me, what about you Sam? Y/n?”

“Dean.” 

“I’m just saying, you gotta focus in, Cas. You’ve been acting real edgy for the last couple of weeks.”

“I’m fine,” Cas told him, trying not to drag the situation down the rabbit hole. “It’s probably just… allergies.” 

The boys and you shred a quick look with one another, knowing well enough that angels don’t have allergies. “Cassie?” You questioned leaning forward onto the table. “You don’t get allergies.”

Cas felt his face warm up, “That was just the first thing that came to mind.” He told you, his fingers fiddling with one another. “That’s what you all do.”

Dean smacked his lips, letting out a quick ok before continuing with his conversation. “As I was saying we need to go and search every place that these men where last seen at. And normally I would say go by ourselves to save them, but I’m not so sure what we are up against just yet. So Sam and I will head down to the bar the brother was last seen and Cas, you and Y/n can go and search the junkyard.”

Everyone agreed to Deans order, quickly finishing up their lunch before they need to head back out. Well almost everyone agreed. Cas sat there in his seat, pondering if he should pull Dean or Sam aside and ask if these feelings he is getting about you is bad or good. Because he does not want to harm others but at the same time he didn’t want to hurt you either. 

He wanted to beat his head against the table, the thoughts that raced through his mind aggravated him. But what could he do about it? Wait… you and him were going to the junkyard to search for clues of the missing family members, he himself could interrogate you there. But, how?

༺═────────────═༻

At the junkyard, you and Cas kept you voices low, barley speaking a word to one another as you inspected the place. Your flashlight shined about the place, scoping out any and all items that could appear useful for the case. 

“So, Sam said that the dad and son used to work here. Almost like a father-son business, you know?” You told him, shining the light in the angels direction, mindful not to blind him in the eye. 

He nodded, unable to stop the fluttery filling the further he walked with you. It was killing him, he wanted to ask you what you were doing, because he knew for a fact it was neither of the boys. But, at the same time he didn’t know how to bring it up. 

On one hand he could slowly bring up the topic, have a simple conversation before he would ask you. Though, on the other hand, he could just flat out ask you if you were trying to kill him. Because, that’s what it surely felt like. That you were killing him slowly and purposefully.

Cas came to a quick decision, he would hold a conversation with you then ask you. Simple as that, no harm no foul. 

“Cassie?” You asked, that soft voice of yours causing his chest to burn and his stomach to twist into knots. What the hell were you doing to him? “Are you alright-“

“Are you trying to kill me?”

You were shocked by his sudden question, his straightforward tone and seriousness catching you off guard completely. “… No?”

“It sure doesn’t seem that way.” He continued to accuse, folding his arms over his chest like he’d seen Dean do plenty of times before. “Would you care tell why you are trying to kill me?”

“But, I’m not?” You told him, voice uncertain and slightly laced with worthy. “Why would you think that?”

Cas glanced around the junkyard, almost as if the answer was somewhere written in the piles upon piles of junk. “My chest has been burning every time you come close to me, or how about when my stomach make me feel like my vessel is going to induce vomiting. When I know for a fact that I don’t eat anything to make it do so.”

You stood silently, letting the words sink deep into your skin. His chest burned? His stomach felt like he was going to throw up? Why the hell would he have thought that you were trying to kill him? It honestly just sounded like his vessel was sick, or maybe he—

You cut your thoughts short, and it suddenly clicked in your mind. A sly smile gracing your lips as you walked towards the angel. “Oh, Cassie~” You sang out, free hand coming to play with the sleeve of his trench coat. “Do you have a crush on me?”

Cas furrowed his brows, eyes dancing across your face as you came closer. “…No? At least I don’t think so.”

A chuckle left your lips, standing up on your tip toes you gave the angel a quick kiss on his check. Watching as a light blush crept upon his cheeks. “I like you too, Cassie.” You turned back to the junkyard, flashing your light at an empty bathtub and broken mattress, leaving the poor angel stuck in his spot. 

Cas lifted a hand to where you had kissed him, the ghost of your lips making his heart stutter in his chest. Damn you, he thought to himself. Damn you and these strange human emotions. 

Nothing. And I mean NOTHING. Can ever out hot the carousel scene from The Lost Boys