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"Dean, I can fix that." "No no no. No. No. It's fine, Cas. Besides, I had it coming."
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44/327
S2E22, “All Hell Breaks Loose: Part 2”
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when a character is written inconsistently because nobody thought about it that hard and you're like it's time for me to get in there.. and think about it that hard
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Damage Control - 2x03 Bloodlust
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They end up in separate places that night. Sam stays at the motel, where he properly cleans and bandages the wound on his arm and then sits down to annotate Dad’s journal with their newest findings. For some reason, he felt drawn to Lenore, and it’s important to him to note down that not all monsters are monsters. That their monstrous nature is only part of who they are and can be held in check. As he told Dean, in the end, it doesn’t come down to who you are, but what you do.
When confronted with the smell and sight of Sam’s blood, Lenore’s fangs had come out and her vampiric nature had urged her to bite and drink. But she hadn’t. She’d fought the hunger. She’d said “No!” Her fangs had retracted. Her human side had won. It hadn’t been her choice to become a monster. But it had been her choice not to act on it.
For a little while there, Sam had been worried about someone else’s bestial urges.
He’d known that Dean was ruthless when it came to killing monsters. Their father had drilled his own hate for anything supernatural into both of them, but while Sam had always felt a certain disgust with every kill he had to make, Dean had always felt comfortable with it. And today, beheading that vampire with a fucking chainsaw, Sam had seen a cold thrill on his brother’s face that chilled him to the bone. Dean had not only been okay with killing the vamp, he’d enjoyed it.
And then there was the way his brother had latched on to Gordon. Back in the bar, Dean and the other hunter fraternizing as if they’d known each other for years, Sam could’ve chalked his foul mood up to mere jealousy - after all, he’d clearly been the fifth wheel and Gordon had been more than happy to see him leave. And Sam admitted that he had been jealous. For months now, it’s only just been Dean and him and nobody else, and Sam realizes what a close-knit unit they’ve become. Saving each other’s asses from getting killed by monsters will do that, apparently. 
But it had been more than jealousy. Driven by hate and revenge, Gorden reminded Sam of his father. He lived for one purpose only: to kill the monster that had killed his sister - and, unblinking, take down every other supernatural creature that crossed his way. John Winchester had been driven by the same vengeful thirst, and it was no wonder that Dean felt inexorably drawn to Gordon, unconsciously looking for the father he‘d lost. 
But where their father had still had the remnants of a moral compass and shreds of humanity, Gordon only had a black hole for a conscience. Thank God Dean had realized that at the very last second. Thank God Sam had been able to pull his brother back from that brink. And yet, without Sam’s interference, Dean would’ve taken an innocent life, and without hesitation. 
It’s a cold thought, a frightening thought, and Sam clings to the fact that Dean, in the end, had put his blade down and let the vampire girl go, turning against Gordon instead. Something horrible had almost happened, but it didn’t. He could’ve lost Dean to a crazed hunter who was more of a monster than most of the creatures they killed.
Shaking his head, Sam tries to refocus on his notes and drive the chill from his heart.
We’re okay, he tells himself. Dean’s okay.
xxx
Dean is not okay. And it’s not just his bruised cheek, blackening eye or his split lip that hurts like a bitch every time he sips from his glass. He’s slouched over a bar, peanut debris littering the scratched wooden top, and he’s half into a bottle that has no business calling itself Scotch. 
The bartender - a lovely brunette a few years older than him - had very quickly assessed the situation and left the entire bottle to his own disposal rather than refilling his glass every few minutes. However, she‘d kept an eye on him while catering to the other patrons.
“You’re not intending to drive, are you?” she asks him now, into the burn of another shot going down his throat. 
He coughs, wiping his mouth. 
“No”, he lies with a straight face. She doesn’t know his high tolerance for alcohol, and he’s not going to give up the keys to the Impala. Not after a day like this.
“Good,” she says, sounding skeptical. “Let me know if you want me to call you a cab.” Then she motions at his face. “Or if you need some ice for that cheek. Not that it’s any of my business, but you’re swelling up pretty nicely there. Got into trouble?”
Dean squints at her through the rising fog of inebriation. “No, thank you, I’m fine. And you’re right - it is none of your business.”
She lifts her hands, one of them holding a dish towel. “Just trying to be nice, cowboy.” She smiles appeasingly, and it’s a pretty smile. “And wondering if there’s gonna be cops storming into my bar for an arrest or something. Or a jealous husband.”
Her twinkle-eyed humor lays a soothing hand on Dean’s hard edges. His face, though hurting, softens into a lopsided smirk. “No worries, lady. Ain’t got no one coming after me. ‘Sides, I was the good guy in that particular story.” 
Jeez, he’s drunk. And he hopes he’s right. Hopefully, Gordon still is tied to that chair, with a monster headache and a bladder filled to the brim. No one wants that obsessed maniac coming after them. And is Dean the good guy? In his opinion, that remains up for debate.
“Alright.” The bartender tilts her head, brown curls bobbing about her face, and nods. “I believe you. Just let me know if you change your mind - about the cab or the ice for your face.” 
Dean raises his shot glass, toasting to her. He’s in automatic, semi-drunk flirt mode; he just can’t help it. “I’ll do that. Although I can think of other ways to ease my pain.” He raises a suggestive eyebrow. 
The woman huffs, but in a friendly way. Dean can tell that she’s too seasoned to fall for a drunk patron, but she’s not completely immune to his charm. “Rein it in, cowboy,” she chastises him, still smiling. “Or you’ll have to take this to go.” She points at the half-empty bottle in front of him.
Dean’s turn to lift his hands. He knows when he’s got to admit defeat, but he had to at least try. Especially on a night where booze might not be enough to take the edge off.  “No problem, ma’am. Just sittin’ here mindin’ my business with my friend.” He reaches for the bottle to top off his glass.
“You do that. Slow down a bit, though. Can’t carry you to that cab.”
She winks at him and moves away to cater to another patron at the other end of the bar. 
Nice hips, Dean thinks, and then: I’m such a shit.
He’s terrible. Terrible with women. Terrible as a hunter. Terrible, period. Today was proof. If Sammy hadn’t pulled him back from the ledge, Dean would’ve killed an innocent girl. She was a vamp, yes. But she’d never harmed a soul, and Dean almost chopped her head off. 
Gordon had fucked with Dean’s head. His clear-cut worldview - monsters vs. humans - had appealed to Dean. One simple rule: Kill the monster; save the people. It had reminded Dean so much of his dad. A simple order: Identify. Execute. 
Only the world wasn’t that simple. And maybe he wasn’t the good guy. Maybe Dad hadn’t been, either. Ever since Sam had come back, with his questions and grey areas and - good God - the secret Dad had whispered into Dean’s ear at the hospital, Dean’s world had become unstable. Certainties had shifted. Rules no longer applied. The very ground he was walking on had become unsteady - and it wasn’t due to the alcohol pulsing through his veins tonight.
Without Sam’s interference, Dean would’ve crossed a line tonight that nobody should cross, and it scares him. Just as it scares him what his father said about Sam. What darkness was his brother carrying to heed such a warning? What darkness were they all carrying? What curse lay on his family?
Dean empties another glass, the alcohol washing over his confusion and fear. It’s not enough to calm his racing thoughts entirely, but he doesn’t know what else to do. His vision becoming softer, he studies the pretty bartender who’s filling beer glasses from the tap, talking to a female patron who appears to be single.
A bit clumsily, Dean grabs his bottle and glass and slips from his bar stool. He has to focus to keep the room around him still, but he manages to walk in a straight line as he swaggers over to the two women. 
No harm in tryin’ again, he thinks hazily as he pulls a charming smile onto his face.
The Damage Control Series - Masterlist
Read the whole series on AO3 here:
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Santiago Cabrera as Jorge Sanchez in The Cleaning Lady 3x01
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Cormoran Strike x Robin Ellacott: "Yet he liked her face. He liked her voice. He liked being around her." (Career of Evil, Chapter 40)
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From the US but i spell grey with an e because e just feels like a much greyer letter than a
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the good thing about getting back into supernatural is [HIGH PITCHED SCRZAMS] [CAR CRASH SOUNDS] [CARTOON RUBBER MALLET NOISES] [ANCIENT SUMERIAN CURSE]
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This was supposed to be a rough sketch but it turns out his face is wonderful to stare at and relaxing to paint so I got a bit carried away 🤷‍♀️
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Pssst- you forgot this one:
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Aramis in Space
THIS one is for all you Santiago stans out there
, here's reasons why I'm grateful to have watched merlin even though it ruined my soul, with captions provided by my broloved @aramisinspace ( <3 many affectionate headpats for you mellon nín)
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// Aramis //
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// Aramis in Camelot //
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// Lancelot in Paris //
(or haleths interpretation: more shirtless lancelot please and thank you)
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//Aramis in Current Times//
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(and the nearly forgotten but not forgotten)
// Aramis Almost in Space //
AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST!
The one where it took me half an hour into the movie to realise it was Santiago Cabrerra:
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// A very Aramis Christmas //
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Damage Control - 2x02 Everybody Loves A Clown
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When Bobby’s phone rings - his private cell, not one of the bogus agency phones lined up in his kitchen - and he recognizes Sam Winchester’s caller ID, he instinctively knows the shit must’ve hit the fan. He saw it coming: the totaled Impala and Dean in a coma; the ingredients from John’s list that Sam picked up last night; the spell Bobby knows they’re used for - this can’t be good. 
And it isn’t. Sam’s voice sounds strange on the phone - small, brittle - when he tells him that John’s dead. Not only dead, but burned already, the circumstances of his demise not clear to Bobby since Sam stops talking mid-sentence and all he hears is the choked-up breathing of someone trying not to cry. Then, after a pause, a broken question: “Can we stay at your place for a couple of days?”
Of course they can. 
When they arrive, the boys look as wrecked as the Impala that Bobby had towed into his salvage yard only two days ago. Although the injuries on Sam’s face are healing, he looks worse than before, puffy and red-eyed. He’s got one steadying hand around Dean’s bicep and, Christ, the kid looks like a ghost - pale and stony, purple bruises under his eyes, a row of stitches zig-zagging down his forehead.
Bobby’s seen them hurt or sick before. John had dropped them off now and then when they were little, with stomach bugs or strep throats that interfered too long with his hunting, and later, when their own hunting injuries needed more than a motel room and an ace bandage.
But he’s never seen them like this.
“Come in, you two boneheads.” 
He waves them inside, taking a heavy duffel bag and backpack from Sam so he can steer his brother into the study and sit him down on the worn-out couch. Bobby’s itching to learn what happened, but if he knows one thing about the Winchesters it’s that prying will only make them clam up - Dean in particular. What they need, what these boys always needed to open up was a safe space, time and patience. 
“I made up your old room for you,” Bobby says, pointing upstairs with his thumb. “Beds may be a little small for you now, but more comfortable than the couch and the floor. And you-” he looks at Dean “-need to lie down and heal.”
“Nah. I just need a beer.”
Bobby almost flinches at the sound of Dean’s voice. Hollow steel. He sounds like something died inside of him. Probably did. He was close with his dad. The kid’s heart must be in pieces.
“Dean!” Sam raises exasperated, too-big hands. “You just came out of a coma. You can’t drink—“
“You’re not my mom, Sammy. Or my dad.” He scoffs darkly. “Fact, both of them are dead now. I can do what I want.”
Sam’s mouth stays open like gobsmacked.
Bobby sighs. Cynicism. Dean’s always had a knack for that, even as a kid, and now it’s spilling out of him like tar. From experience, Bobby knows it won’t cover the hurt. 
“You wanna be an idjit and drink yourself back into the ICU, be my guest.” He waves at the kitchen. “Enough booze in the fridge to kill whatever brain cells you got left in that cracked noggin’ of yours. But I’m not sure your brother’s in the mood for another Winchester funeral right now.”
Dean scowls at him, bruised eyes blazing green, but when he turns his head to look at Sam, his sharp edges soften a bit, seeing the hurt on his little brother’s face. 
“Fine.” Dean slaps his thighs. “I’m gonna go upstairs and rest.” He spits that last word out like it’s poison. “You two can hug it out or whatever.” He heaves himself up off the couch, slapping away Sam’s helpful arm, and stiffly limps toward the stairs. 
As Bobby sees Dean drag himself up the steps, he suppresses the urge to help. Sam had told him about the severity of Dean’s injuries, and Bobby has no idea how he’s even on his feet (although he has an inkling that John meddled with things he shouldn’t have meddled with, the goddamned fool.) The kid should be in a hospital. He certainly shouldn’t be walking up a flight of stairs by himself. 
But Bobby knows that, when Dean’s like this, he can’t be touched. He can’t have anyone in his personal space. Dean deals with weakness and pain the way an injured cat does: He hides away, on his own, until it’s either passed or killed him. Of course, Bobby won’t allow the latter to happen. But he’ll give the kid his space for now and check on him later. 
When he hears the door to the boys’ room fall shut upstairs, he turns around to Sam. 
The younger Winchester is a mess. He’s pacing, fidgety, face scrunched up, looking like he’s about to burst. Now that Dean’s out of sight, the dam seems about to break.
“Sam?” Carefully, Bobby steps closer. “What’s going on, son? What happened?”
Sam stops in his tracks, all 6’5 of him just standing there, a tremor rippling through his lanky body. Then, unexpected, he takes two long strides and his arms sling themselves around Bobby. His stubbly, sweaty face burrows into his shoulder with a wet sob. Bobby sways a little under the assault. 
But this is Sam. Little Sammy who always loved climbing into Bobby’s lap with a book; whose clammy, plump hand had fit so naturally into Bobby’s calloused one; who’d followed him around like a puppy as soon as John had pushed him inside the door and turned around on his heel.
“He’s dead, Bobby”, Sam sobs. “He’s gone and I can’t—“ The rest dissolves into tears.
Bobby wraps his arms around Sam. It must be looking awkward - he’s half a foot shorter and his old, thinning arms can’t even reach around the boy’s broad back. But he puts all the warmth and comfort into the embrace that he has in his bones, and Sam clings to him like someone who’s drowning. 
“I know, son,” Bobby mumbles, fighting back tears of his own now. “I know.” 
It’s true. Bobby knows about grief and the shock of sudden loss. He’s been there. It’s molded him into who he is today. But he was older than Sam and Dean when the death of a loved one cut into him, and these two boys have been through it twice now. For Sam, it may even feel like the first time. He was only a baby when his mother was killed and has no active memory of that time - or of his mom. He cannot remember his life getting turned upside down back then. Dean can, and Bobby shudders at what this is doing to the boy, hardened as he is already, his armor so heavy he can barely carry it anymore. 
For Sam, their father’s death must feel like a stab wound - sudden, sharp and breathtaking. After the initial, surreal shock, the pain finally comes, and it’s found him now, in Bobby’s study, overwhelming and all-encompassing. At least he’s letting it out. At least he’s crying. At least he’s letting himself be held, and that’s what Bobby does, silently and patiently, until Sam is done. Until he unlocks his arms and steps back, wiping his nose on his sleeve, red-eyed and embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, Bobby,” he mumbles, voice still thick. “I- I didn’t mean to- … I’m alright.”
“Balls.” 
Bobby reaches into the pocket of his worker vest and pulls out an old-fashioned, folded cotton handkerchief that he gives to Sam. 
“Leave the ‘I’m fine’ BS to your brother. No one’d be alright after what you boys went through. Now sit down before you fall over.”
He herds Sam to his sagging old couch and sits him down. While the kid wipes his eyes and blows his nose, Bobby fetches a bottle of Scotch and fills two glasses. He hands one of them to Sam.
“Drink.”
Obediently, Sam does. Technically, Bobby knows booze isn’t the best for someone recovering from a concussion, but it’s been two days since the accident, and Sam isn’t nearly as injured as his brother. He figures that, by now, it’s medicine.
Sam sips, then nervously starts turning the glass in his hands. Even cried out, he’s still twitchy and unable to sit still. One knee is bobbing in high frequency. His mouth is in constant motion, biting and twisting his lips. 
“Okay,” Bobby says, calmly and invitingly. “You wanna tell me what happened?”
And then it all spills out of Sam like water from a burst pipe. 
xxx
Half an hour later, Sam is shoveling a plate of Bobby’s famous kitchen sink chili into his mouth. No idea when the kid’s eaten the last time. Must’ve been awhile. Hopefully not the PB&J Bobby forced on Sam when they’d towed the Impala to his salvage yard.
Bobby trudges up the stairs to check on Dean and stops in front of the boys’ room, listening. No sounds drift out the door, no snoring, no running tv. No sobs either. There’s no answer when he knocks softly, so he quietly steps inside. 
Dean’s on his side, turned to the wall, comically big in the single bed, his still figure softly illuminated by the old nightlight Sam had always needed and that Bobby never bothered to remove from the room. It’s hard to believe that Dean’s asleep. If he is, it’s only due to the exhaustion his injured soul and body are forcing on him. Usually, with his hunter’s instincts, he would have woken up as soon as somebody entered the room, unannounced. In truth, Bobby had half expected to have a weapon pointed at him. 
Asleep or not, Bobby steps closer and leans over the older Winchester brother. He’s in a t-shirt, sheets slipped down to his waist, and as far as Bobby can tell in the semi-darkness there’s no fresh blood staining the grey cotton fabric. Good. At least his stitches are holding.
Sam had told him that, while Dean’s internal injuries had miraculously vanished, the slashes on his torso and the surgery incisions were still healing, like the stitches Bobby had seen on Dean’s forehead. Knowing Dean, Bobby was pretty sure those wounds were overdue a bandage change, and there was probably an unopened pill bottle somewhere in his bag. Of course, he’d left the hospital against medical advice, and Sam, off his head in the wake of their father’s sudden death, hadn’t been able to keep him from walking out. Somehow, the two idjits had managed to steal John Winchester’s body from the morgue and found a remote spot to burn it. 
“Why didn’t you call me then?” Bobby had asked Sam downstairs. 
Sam, face still wet, wringing his large hands, had shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”
But Bobby knew. They were Winchesters, taught by John to keep family matters close to their chest, just like pain. 
Now, seeing Dean’s young, marred profile in the semi-darkness, his chest twists with sorrow. They’ve been through so much in their twenty-something years, and Bobby, in fits and spurts, had to witness them losing their innocence and their trust in a world that seemed to mean them nothing but harm. John had exposed them to the darkness. And Bobby hadn’t been able to shield them from it. 
Sighing, he reaches out and - carefully, stealthily - touches his hand to Dean’s forehead to check for a fever. He’s a little warm, but not alarmingly so. The boy stirs a little, brow furrowing, a small sound escaping his parted lips. To Bobby’s surprise, Dean leans into his touch, eyes closed, before he stills again, dropping back into deep sleep. 
His stupid old heart overflowing, Bobby remains like this for a prolonged moment - his hand cupping Dean’s forehead, the boy’s spiky hair soft against his calloused palm - until his back starts to twinge and he has to straighten back up. Tenderly, he pulls the sheet back up to Dean’s shoulder. 
“I gotcha,” he grumbles softly before leaving the room and quietly closing the door.
The damage Control Series - Masterlist
Read the whole series on AO3 here:
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Wait, what?! Why did nobody tell me this was a thing?!😍
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Although, after “The Three Musketeers - Milady” never made it to German movie theaters, I’d be surprised if this one made it to the big screen here.
I WANT TO SEE THIS! Pretty please?!🙏
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