So I Wrote Maybe 1000/1500 Words, But I Don't Think I'll Be Able To Finish It Tonight So I'm Going To

But once he is gone who will I have?

tiktok / icarly / unknown / @/mothman / An Oresteia: Agamemnon, Aiskhylos / Bumble Ardy, Maurice Sendak / icarly / A Little Life, Hanya Yaragihara / The Fall Of The House Of Usher, Steven Berkoff / A living Chattel, Anton Chekhov

DAY 10: Did It Hurt When You Fell From Heaven? (Like A Bitch)

Castiel is learning to be human. It hurts. In more ways than one.

Why is Castiel so hard to write? I have a lot to say about him and his character but he's so self-unaware that it's impossible to write. I love him but he's very frustrating. Fandom: Supernatural Character(s): Castiel Words Count: 1,317 Triggers Warnings: - Glaring Self-Esteem Issues - Minor Blood and Injuries (at the end) No. 10: BLOW TO THE HEAD Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | "I can't think straight."

The cashier sighed heavily and Castiel looked up long enough to offer a small, embarrassed smile before continuing to count the coins in his hand. The credit card Dean had given him had stopped working and was requiring Castiel to enter the PIN. But Castiel didn’t know the PIN, it was written on a post-it note and hidden in a book in his locker. He hadn’t had to enter the PIN in the few weeks since he’d left the Bunker and had simply used the “contactless payment” but now the “contactless payment” wasn’t working.

Embarrassed, Castiel set the money down in front of the cashier, the coins falling from his open hands like a waterfall and clanging against the metal counter. Behind him, the line continued to grow as the supermarket’s customers grew impatient in hushed tones.

“Is that enough?” Castiel asked.

“Dude, seriously?” complained the cashier.

With a glare, the cashier began counting the coins, much faster than Castiel could have. He was an angel (not anymore) , he had been an angel with all the knowledge of the world, past and present, but he couldn’t count a few coins.

Being human was much harder than he could have imagined. The world was both brighter and dimmer than it had been. He no longer heard the prayers of Humanity but heard the birds singing when dawn broke; he no longer saw the invisible forces of this world but saw animals forming in the clouds.

He also had to sleep and eat and wash and relieve himself and it never ended. It was exhausting .

The experience gave him a whole new appreciation for humanity—for Dean and Sam.

(Castiel didn’t know if he could do it.)

(Castiel didn’t know if he wanted to do it.)

A feminine hand rested gently on his shoulder and Castiel resisted the urge to fight or flee as his skin quivered from his shoulder to his heart (a blade cutting into his flesh, the buzz of a drill approaching his eye, the cracking of his bones under a punch) . Castiel calmed his pounding heart and turned, staring into deep green eyes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the stranger smiled. “Do you need help?”

“Oh no, it’s fine—”

“There’s not enough,” the cashier cut in impatiently. “Twenty dollars short.”

Humans only had two eyes, but Castiel could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on him, as heavy and terrible as the forces of Heaven. Castiel didn’t know until then that he could be embarrassed.

“Oh, I’ll go put some items back in then,” Castiel replied.

“I can take care of the difference,” the stranger intervened behind him.

Castiel didn’t have the chance to refuse, the cashier practically snatched the bill from the stranger’s hands and signaled Castiel to make room for the next customer. Castiel put his groceries in his bag and waited for the stranger, wanting to thank her and reimburse her.

“Thank you for your generosity, I can reimburse you if you so wish,” Castiel offered.

“It won't be necessary,” the stranger replied kindly. “You needed help and I was able to give it to you.  A little help and kindness can go a long way.”

(Castiel couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had blood—that of his enemies and that of his friends —on his hands.)

(Castiel couldn’t remember a time when he’d been kind .)

“But if you want, you can help me carry my groceries to my car. I hurt my wrist last week,” the stranger explained. “My girlfriend’s going to scold me again for moving heavy loads.”

“Of course,” Castiel replied, carefully taking the bags from the stranger’s hands.

“Thank you very much,” the stranger smiled. “My name is Claire, I’d shake your hand, but it looks like your hands are full.”

“Steve, nice to meet you,” Castiel said, his throat tightening inexplicably.

But the hardest thing about his new humanity was the guilt , the memory of all the people he’d hurt. How did humans function when they felt so much? On the best days, Castiel felt like he was going to shatter under the weight of his emotions.

“Are you new around here?” Claire asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“It’s only temporary,” Castiel replied, knowing he was lying to himself.

(A part of him hoped Dean would change his mind, that he could go back to the Winchesters. But now that he was no longer an angel, he was nothing more than a burden, someone they had to protect and who would slow them down.)

(He didn't want to cause them any more trouble than he already had.)

(Dean had already been kind enough to give him enough money for the first few months.)

"I hope you like it here then," Claire said pleasantly, opening the trunk of her car. "It's a quiet but nice town."

"Thanks," Castiel replied, putting the groceries in Claire's car. "Have a pleasant day."

"You too Steve,” Claire returned the sentiment. “It was nice meeting you."

Castiel greeted Claire and left the parking lot towards the gas station. He still had time before his shift but he didn't want to be late. This job was the last thing he had in addition to being his place to live. He couldn't afford to lose it.

The sun was warm against his skin and a cat was lounging on the hot tarmac outside the supermarket. Castiel crouched down to pet it, a small smile forming on his face. The cat was grumpy, not appreciative of being woken up, and its scowl reminded him of Dean. Castiel pulled out his phone to send Dean a picture but changed his mind at the last moment. He didn’t want to bother him.

(He didn’t want to know if Dean would answer him or not. Probably because he already knew the answer.)

Castiel straightened up, the heel of his shoe digging into his damaged skin. Even walking hurted and Castiel didn’t want to spend too much money on bandages to cover his blisters. He just hoped he hadn’t bled through his socks again. He couldn’t vanish the blood off his clothes with a wave of his hand anymore. 

(Humans were so fragile. Castiel wondered how they didn't die immediately.)

“Have a pleasant day,” Castiel said to the cat who curled up to resume its nap.

Castiel continued on his way, quickening his pace, and more than ever missed his wings. Not necessarily because he could cross the globe in a second if he wanted to—although that was very convenient—but because he couldn’t remember the last time he had flown just because he could.

(His wings had been clipped—by Heaven, by the Winchesters , by himself—long before his Fall.)

(His feet had not left the ground these days, not even in his dreams.)

(He had only himself to blame.)

.

He wasn’t the only one who thought that.

A sharp pain spread through his skull as a metal bar came down hard on the back of his head. Ears ringing in shock, Castiel dropped his groceries, his carton of tomato soup exploding as it hit the ground.

Castiel staggered, leaning on the wall to keep himself from falling. His head spun uncontrollably around him. He felt like he was falling off a building. But no one was there to catch him.

A warm liquid flowed from the back of his head to the back of his neck, his blood pulsing mercilessly in his temples. Silent tears ran down his cheeks as he fought back vomiting from the pain.

He couldn’t hear anything, he couldn’t see anything.

The pain clouded his vision, turning the world into a series of blurry, indistinct shapes. Every sound seemed distorted, like a distant echo, as terror began to overtake the pain.

Green eyes glowing menacingly were the last thing Castiel saw before he lost consciousness.

Dean.

Fun fact, the story with the credit card at the beginning happened to me when I was eighteen and got my first credit card (the part where I forget my PIN after only using contactless payment for weeks, not the part where someone pays for my groceries). So Castiel is going to experience my embarrassment too. Poor Castiel, he discovers that being human sucks. You have to sleep and eat and even worse you Feel Emotions. And that's not the worst thing that will happen to him later. Speaking of later, I have ideas in mind but given the number of stories I have to write, I think I'll only write it if you're interested. (Or in several months but it's not sure.) Let me know what you think.

What do you mean I have to study instead of writing silly little stories ?

DAY 1: Tick Tock Goes The Clock

Sam gets lost in the forest. This action has consequences.

First day of Whumptober, one of the few times I'll be on time too. It's Dean's turn today! Congrats to him (?) This was supposed to be a story about Sam getting lost in the woods and it ended up being a character study of Dean and his self-worth issues. I'm not unhappy about it. Triggers Warnings: - Mild Graphic Description of Violence - Mild Blood and Injury - Broken Bone - Dean's Canonical Self-worth Issues - John Being an Asshole Fandom : Supernatural (TV 2005) Character(s) : Dean Winchester Relationship(s) : Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester Words Count : 2,714 No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

Dean tightened his grip on his silver blade, listening for any sound. He was alone in the forest, the full moon visible through the treetops. Dean barely dared to breathe for fear of being heard, every crack of branches or wind through the leaves putting him on alert in the deathly silence that surrounded him.

He had been separated from Dad and Sammy hours ago, but Dean wasn't worried. Sammy was with Dad, nothing could happen to him. Now it was up to Dean to fulfill his duty. It was the last night of the lunar cycle. If he didn't kill the werewolf he was tracking tonight, it could run away and continue to hurt innocent people for another month.

(There were five of them in the woods, all thinking they were the predator. But only three of them would get out of here alive.)

A shadow, lit by the cold, metallic light of the moon, shifted on a trunk and Dean turned abruptly. Good thing he did. The werewolf he thought he had been following for the past hour jumped at him, sharp claws aimed at his face. With a practiced reflex, Dean protected his head with his arm holding his blade, throwing himself out of the werewolf's path with agility.

Not fast enough.

A claw hit his arm, tearing through flesh as easily as the fabric of his jacket, drawing blood onto the forest floor. In pain, Dean let go of his silver blade, sending it a few meters away from him. He clutched his arm to his chest, quickly assessing the damage. For a terrifying moment, he could no longer remember if a werewolf's scratch was enough to infect a human.

(If it did, what would he do? What would Dad do? Dean couldn't imagine his father accepting a monster as a son. And Sammy? It didn't matter, Dean would rather die than hurt an innocent.

Dean killed monsters indiscriminately, no matter who or where they came from. That was what he had always been taught. Hunters killed monsters. Dean knew what he would have to do.)

Calm down and think, idjit!

Dean forced himself to breathe through his nose. A scratch wasn't enough to turn someone into a werewolf, only a bite could. Easy, Dean could avoid being bitten by a dirty mutt.

The werewolf snarled, drool dripping down its chin, yellow eyes flashing wildly in the night. It was getting impatient and the adrenaline that was pulsing violently in Dean's veins would soon fade, leaving him to face all the pain of his wound.

Dean had to get his hand on his weapon. And fast. He mentally calculated the distance between him, the werewolf and his knife. But the werewolf noticed the direction of his gaze.

"Oh no!" the werewolf threatened, its words chewed in its rage.

The werewolf threw itself at Dean, but this time Dean was ready for it. Using his opponent’s momentum against him, he kicked the beast in the sternum, deflecting its course and sending it into a thicket of brambles. The werewolf struggled through the brambles, howling in anger, giving Dean enough time to lunge for his silver blade. His fingers closed around the handle, a sigh of relief and comfort escaping him. 

A hand grabbed his ankle, claws digging deep into his ankle, cutting through tendons. Dean fell, his chin hitting the ground hard. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He tried to grab roots, clawing at the ground to keep the werewolf from pulling him towards it, thorns digging into his skin. Dean struggled and kicked, ignoring the searing pain, to force the werewolf to let go of him. But the monster held firm, twisting his bones as it laughed in satisfaction.

A guttural cry escaped his lips, tearing through his dry throat.

“A fighter, I like that,” the werewolf mocked. “I don’t usually turn men, but I might make an exception for you. You’re pretty enough.”

“Go to hell!” Dean spat, choking on his blood.

Dean forced himself to turn his torso to face the werewolf, straining his bruised muscles. He swung his knife in a wide arc in front of him and sliced ​​the monster across the face, damaging one of its eyes. The werewolf cried out in pain and finally let go of Dean, bringing a hand deformed by claws to its face.

Dean stood up quickly, putting as much distance between himself and the werewolf as he could. He spat on the ground, a mixture of blood and dirt, and grinned victoriously, his teeth tinged red. He gripped his knife in his left hand, his entire body on alert.

(He had practiced using both hands, but his left hand was still his weakest. This would have to do.)

Dean had never wanted a gun more than he did now. But they had only managed to get one single silver bullet and giving it to Dean who had a better chance of missing his target would have been a waste. It had made sense for Dad to take the gun, he wouldn't miss. Still, sticking a standard bullet between the werewolf's eyes would have reassured him, even if it would have barely slowed it down.

"I take it back," the werewolf growled. "I'm going to enjoy tearing you apart and eat your heart. And when I'm done hearing you beg, I'm going to hunt down your delicious little brother and take him with me. That is, if my friend doesn't kill him and your demon of a father first."

Dean's ears twisted and his vision went red. Sammy .

"Stay away from him!" Dean growled, his voice as animal as the monster in front of him. 

The werewolf smirked and Dean knew he had made a mistake. He had just revealed a weakness, something precious to him and the predator in front of him had smelled it. Dean's determination only grew, he couldn't let the werewolf go now that it had so clearly threatened his little brother.

( Sammy, he had to protect Sammy. )

With his good foot, Dean kicked the dirt at his feet, creating a protective screen of dust and blocking him from the werewolf's sight for a few seconds. It wasn't enough, not when all the senses of the monster in front of him were heightened but it was something.

Dean attacked from the right, the side where the werewolf was blinded by the wound Dean had inflicted on it. But the werewolf abruptly turned to Dean, having sensed him coming, and met him head-on with a punch to the stomach. Dean's breath caught in his chest for a moment, bile rising in his mouth. He doubled over in shock and the werewolf grabbed his hair before yanking .

Dean kneed it between the legs, forcing the werewolf to let go of him and sank his blade deep into the werewolf's ribs. He brought his knife up to the werewolf's heart, puncturing its liver and lungs.

The werewolf grabbed his wrist, crushing his bones and twisting Dean's arm until Dean let go. A sickening crack echoed through the forest and his arm went limp in the werewolf's grip, broken mid-forearm. Dean couldn't help but cry out in pain and fear.

The werewolf grinned wickedly and, straining on Dean's broken arm, sent him into a tree. Dean's head hit the trunk hard and he fell to the ground, his broken arm beneath him. He staggered to his feet, slower than he would have liked, the world spinning indescribably around him.

"I'm going to kill you," Dean slurred, pointing his broken knife at the werewolf.

Dean realized a second too late that the blade of his knife had been separated from the handle, still inside the werewolf, just below his heart. A few inches more and Dean would have succeeded. Oh well, if he had to shove his hand between the werewolf's ribs to retrieve his blade and finish the job properly, he would.

The werewolf looked at him in horror, coughing up blood. The wound wasn’t fatal, but there was no way it could get the blade out of its body. With any luck, it would die from its injuries without Dean having to do anything. But Dean had stopped relying on luck years ago. He alone was in control of his destiny, and he couldn’t give the werewolf a chance to hurt someone— to hurt Sammy .

The werewolf took off running.

In the direction Dean had left Dad and Sammy.

Dean gave chase, excruciating pain shooting through his nerves every time he stepped on the ground. He couldn't take more than three steps before he collapsed, tears streaming down his cheeks and leaving trails in the dirt and blood.

"Dad!" Dean screamed as he tried to get up. " Dad!!! "

God, he was so useless.

His scream tore through the night, Dean not caring if he lured the other werewolf to him. The icy panic in his veins wouldn't let him think, he had to warn Dad. Sammy was in danger. Because of him.

"DAD!"

Dean finally stood up, his throat dry and every nerve ending in his body on fire. But Sammy was more important than him. He started running again, branches whipping at his face, following the werewolf’s tracks. A shadow appeared at the edge of his vision and barreled into him, pinning him in its arms. Dean struggled fiercely, trying to free himself.

“Dean!” the shadow snapped.

Dean relaxed instantly, recognizing his father. He could have cried with relief at the sight of him. If Dad was here, it meant Sammy was okay. Even if Dean had screwed up again, Dad would be able to help him.

“Where’s Sammy? We need to get him out of here,” Dean said, panicked.

(A part of his brain recognized that he was still in his father’s arms. He couldn’t remember the last time Dad had hugged him.)

“What? I thought he was with you!”

Dean’s heart stopped for a second.

This time, his tears were filled with despair.

“No, no, no,” Dean cried, shaking his head. “He was supposed to be with you. Safe .”

“Dean, tell me what happened,” Dad ordered calmly, his hands on Dean’s shoulders, but Dean could hear the urgency in his voice.

“I didn’t manage to kill the werewolf, he ran away. And he said he’d turn Sammy if he found him,” Dean explained, recognizing an order even through his visceral fear. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Dad clenched his fists in anger, his eyes stormy and his posture dangerous. But Dean didn’t know who his anger was directed at.

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeated. “Please, Dad.”

(Dean didn’t know what he was asking his father to do, to take him back in his arms, to help him, to forgive him, to save Sammy.)

“Apologies won’t help, Dean,” Dad said abruptly. “We need to find Sammy. Fast .”

Dean stopped himself from apologizing again and straightened up, waiting for the next command.

“It’s hurt,” Dean added, forcing himself to ignore his pathetic outburst of emotion. “My silver blade is stuck in its ribs under its heart and he can’t use its left eye.”

“Good,” Dad replied, deep in thought. “It’ll be to our advantage. And you, are you hurt?”

“No,” Dean lied, almost by reflex.

“I don’t have time for lies, Dean!” Dad shouted out of patience, making Dean flinch. “Your brother may be in danger and every second you waste could very well be vital.”

"Both my arms and my ankle," Dean answered quickly. "And my head."

"Damn it, Dean, I thought I had you better trained than this," Dad swore. "But I could use you. So stay with me. But if I tell you to run, you run. No protests. You'll only get in my way anyway."

"Yes, sir!"

Without another word, Dad started walking, handing Dean his silver blade. It was caked in blood and Dean wiped it on his pants before testing its weight in his hand.

"How are you going to do without a weapon?" Dean asked, following his father.

"I still have the bullet," Dad replied, patting the gun strapped to his thigh. "Now shut up, I don't want the bastard to hear us."

Dean lowered his head, concentrating on keeping up with his father's fast pace. He didn't want to be any more of a burden than he already was. Dad would never forgive him if Sammy died tonight. And he wouldn't forgive himself either. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain, each frantic beat of his heart feeling like a countdown to his little brother's death, a bomb waiting to explode.

(Dean was nothing without Sammy, he couldn't lose him. Not his little brother.)

They didn't have time to waste.

XXX

Dean and Dad had walked for what seemed like hours, searching for Sammy. The werewolf’s tracks had finally disappeared around a bush, as if they had never existed. The full moon setting on the horizon should have been a relief, the end of a long night, but it was only a mockery.

They were running out of time.

Reluctantly, Dad had agreed to let them split up to cover more ground. Every second that passed was like a stab through Dean’s heart. It was his fault, it was his negligence and weakness that had allowed the werewolf to escape, that had put Sammy in danger.

The adrenaline that kept him upright had worn off, and Dean struggled through the forest, limping like a newborn fawn. He was dehydrated, having not had a drink of water in hours and having thrown up even more times. His head was killing him, blood pulsing violently in his temples. But Dean welcomed the distraction of the pain, anything to avoid thinking that he might find Sammy’s heartless corpse with every step he took.

(He resolutely forced himself not to look at the inhuman shape of his arm—flaccid, shapeless, and in two pieces—or the bleeding, festering cut on his other arm.)

Dean didn’t let it slow him down, despite his body begging him. He would rest when he was dead.

At the end of a path, Dean could see the edge of the forest and beyond it an abandoned hunter’s cabin. He stopped, hesitating for a moment, and tried to think like Sammy. A cabin like this was a good shelter to wait out the full moon. Dean knew he'd regret it if he didn't at least check it out. But it could also be a waste of crucial time.

What would Dad do in this situation?

You're a smart kid. Follow your instincts.

Dean changed direction toward the cabin.

A branch snapped behind him and Dean spun around abruptly. His knife stopped inches from his father's jugular as he raised his hands in the air in peace.

"Sorry," Dean apologized sheepishly, relaxing his arm.

"Don't be," Dad replied gruffly. "That was a nice reflex you had there."

Dean was too tired to appreciate his father’s rare compliment and let his arm fall back to his side. But Dad stopped him, gently grabbing his wrist and examining the wound on his arm.

“That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there,” Dad said. “You’ll need antibiotics, I’ll call Bobby as soon as we find your little brother.”

“It’s not important,” Dean refuted, trying to pull his arm back. “Sammy’s the priority.”

Dad stopped him, looking almost sad for a moment.

“Your well-being is important. You’re important,” Dad said with a hint of desperation, as if he really meant it. He looked like he was going to say something else but thought better of it, his gaze drifting toward the cabin. “You wanted to go take a look?”

“That’s the kind of place Sammy would hide,” Dean said. “He’s smart like that.”

“Good thinking, wait for me here,” Dad ordered, finally letting go of Dean's arm.

“What? No!” Dean protested fiercely.

“Dean, I don't have time for this,” Dad snapped.

Dean didn't listen to the end of his father's sentence. A blood-curdling scream shattered the quiet of dawn and Dean rushed towards the cabin, stealing the gun from his father's hand. Dean knew that voice, he knew it better than his own.

(It should never have contained so much pain and fear.)

“ Sammy !”

Sorry for the cliffhanger (or not). I actually combined two days in this story (and played around a little bit with the prompts too) so you will have Sam's POV and the end of this chapter on the... (drum rolls please) 19th! (Also, it's my first time writing whump so I don't know if it's enough hurt. Feel free to give me your opinion on the matter.)

I need the people's opinion, tonight do I study or do I write something for Destiel Day?

“I'm on Team Winchester now,” Meg explained, filling two shot glasses with vodka. “Or at least Team Kick-Crowley’s-ass-and-give-Sam-his-soul-back.”

“I don't buy it,” Jo retorted acidly. “You've whored yourself to Azazel and Lucifer. Why not Crowley too?”

There was a flicker of surprise in Meg's eyes, her memory of Jo probably no longer matching the woman before her. But Jo had died and been reborn, all sharp edges and broken angles. Full of anger and grief.

“Because I have morals, even for a demon,” Meg replied, brushing her fingernail across Jo's cheek. “Also, he tried to kill me. Multiple times. Call me difficult, but I don't find that very attractive in a leader. In a lover, on the other hand—”

“ You’ve tried to kill me,” Jo interrupted her, grabbing her hand in hers and twisting her wrist to keep it away from her face.

“And I'm very glad I didn't succeed,” Meg replied with a smirk, her eyes roaming over Jo’s body.

And also, because I'm nice like that, here's a snippet from tomorrow's story 👀:

Dean and Dad had walked for what seemed like hours, searching for Sammy. The werewolf’s tracks had finally disappeared around a bush, as if they had never existed. The full moon setting on the horizon should have been a relief, the end of a long night, but it was only a mockery. They were running out of time.

So, I did a thing. I decided to try Whumptober this year. Decision made on September 18th so I'm not as far ahead as I'd like. But it also means I can be persuaded to change my mind if you want to see a particular character for certain days :)

Feel free to suggest your characters to me!

As usual I couldn't decide between One Piece and Supernatural so I did both with about the same number of stories for each.

I don't want to put any pressure on myself with this, just a fun way to challenge myself with prompts I wouldn't have thought of otherwise. That's all.

Last thing, I'm going to post on AO3 but would anyone be interested in me posting them here as well?

Happy (?) Whumptober and if you decide to spend some of it with me, thank you very much and welcome aboard!

Long time no see, my love🥀

a little comic for one of my favorite songs from the op soundtrack. and also because the ocean is so endlessly cruel in the most loving of ways, for everything she takes she gives tenfold.

“Hey Lulu, I'm sorry it took me so long to come back,” Sabo, Fake-Sabo, Sabo said softly, all the affection in the world hidden in his words.

And suddenly Ace was ten years old again and he and Sabo were coming home from a hunt in the forest without Luffy and Luffy was crying because he thought they had abandoned him and Sabo was consoling him with kind words Ace wasn't capable of and all was right in the world.

The room was silent, everyone stared at Luffy and Sabo/Fake-Sabo, trusting Luffy's judgment.

“It doesn't matter, you're back”  Luffy replied, taking Sabo in his arms and smiling like the idiot he was.

Sabo, still chained, patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, his arm bent like a T-Rex.

“I'm back,” Sabo said and his words sounded like a promise.

“Forgive my vocabulary but what the fuck ?” Trafalgar asked, his sleeve still smoking. If he didn't want to kill Ace before, he definitely did now. Ace cowered before his glare.

“Ace, Ace, look, Sabo is still alive!” Luffy exclaimed, turning to Ace.

Ace approached Sabo cautiously, like someone would approach a wounded animal or a disappearing mirage. Only, he didn't know which of them was which. When he was close enough, Ace reached out his hand towards Sabo. Like a mirror reflection, Sabo copied his gesture until their fingers were only millimeters apart. Time stood still for a moment as Ace held his breath.

It was Sabo who took the first step towards, Ace making the first contact. Their fingers intertwined, hesitantly at first. He could feel the warmth of Sabo's hand under his leather gloves, surprising Ace who was expecting the cold touch of a ghost. It didn't take less for Ace to throw himself into Sabo's arms, crushing Luffy between them. Sabo staggered under the weight, and collapsed to the ground, his brothers in his arms. The red-haired woman took a step to the side to avoid being swept away with them.

Sabo was there, Sabo was really there.

Ace buried his face in Sabo's shoulder, covering his shirt with tears. Sabo laughed, still in disbelief, and the vibrations of his laughter resonated through Ace, warming his core all the way to his toes. Stuck between the two of them, Luffy stretched out his arms and wrapped them around his brothers, pulling them even closer to him. A missing part of him came together, completing a puzzle whose pieces he thought he had lost.

“Okay, can someone explain to me what's going on?” asked Trafalgar.

“I don't care, yesterday I had no brothers and today I have two,” said Luffy. “Ace and Sabo are there, that's all that matters to me.”

“I give up, you can all die for all I care. It doesn't concern me anymore,” declared Trafalgar, throwing his hands in the air, as he left the room.

At The Dawn of Time, ASL Reunion