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beaststhattalk · 2 years

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You Gave Me Reason

3,132 words | Post-The Last Battle | Find content warnings on ao3

Professor Digory Kirke had a short will. He had no children, no siblings, and was his parents’ only child. He’d had an aunt and an uncle, neither of whom spread the branches of their family tree. That is how Susan Pevensie finds herself with stacks of old books on God and history and art. They’d been meant to go to Peter, which spared them from the museum donations and auctions that swallowed up the rest of the contents of that mysterious house.

The funeral was a year ago. And what a funeral it was: so many guests. The young Scrubb and five Pevensies were all bid goodbye and buried in the same ceremony. Susan had agreed on it with her aunt and uncle. None of them wanted to drag things out with one funeral after another, especially when most of the attendees would be the same. It would’ve begun to get difficult in terms of preserving the bodies, as well, and Susan refused to let that become something she had to consider.

The priest had asked Susan if she’d like to speak. For each person, she spoke as truthfully as she could.

Six is too many, Susan thought, to waste time recounting happy memories. More than that, she was not inclined to wring her hands over which smiles to include—which hugs mattered, which inside jokes represented them all best. How was she supposed to take a family and whittle it down to a single moment? Who could sum up a life in a handful of stories?

Nor was Susan eager to weed through the memories she and her siblings argued about to find the ones they might agree on. It’s my chance to get the last word in, she’d thought one night, eating bread in the dark on the kitchen floor (she couldn’t bring herself to eat all day, and the hunger pangs sent her stumbling out of bed). Susan wanted her siblings’ side of things to be what people remembered. Since she didn’t understand their side of things, it was best to leave memories out entirely.

Instead, Susan stuck to what she was certain of. Things that everyone in attendance—her aunts, uncles, and grandparents; Peter’s, Edmund’s, Lucy’s, and Eustace’s school friends; her parents’ work friends; Father’s war friends—ought to know:

Lucy was a kind and hopeful girl who never let anyone suffer alone.

Edmund was clever as a whip and wise beyond his years.

Peter was studious and responsible and would’ve done so much with the years ahead of him. Whatever he would’ve accomplished, though, he deserves the credit for bringing three children through a war.

Mother loved people so dearly that she still had tea with friends she’d made when she was only three years old. And she loved her children well enough to send them away when, more than ever, she wanted them close to her.

Father built toys for his children, homes for families in England and America, and risked his life for all the people in the world during the war. If any of Susan’s siblings put others before themselves, it was because their father taught them how.

Susan only saw Eustace in visits every few years, and every time she saw him, he was taller, and smarter, and wiser than his old self. No one will ever be able to say what a wonderful man he would’ve become, given the time.

These were the words she scrawled in her journal a week before the funeral. After hours of crying, each blink felt like scraping gritty, dried mud off of one’s skin. It hurt like hell to swallow. However, she’d dried her face with rough hands, sat at her desk, and written one word after the other like climbing a hill. Over the following days, Susan did what she could to be more sentimental, more eloquent, more fair. She finished Edmund and Lucy’s last. She couldn’t even bear to say their names aloud, those first few days.

A year later, it is dreadful still. But in a quieter, duller way. The days are gray and slow. The sun feels either cold or loathsomely humid. Every Friday at 3pm, if not more often, Susan goes out with friends. They don’t ask about her life. Susan suspects that they are nervous to get a sad answer and turn the whole moment awkward. She thinks this is the best course of action for everyone. She sits with them at cafes, listening to them talk about their schoolwork and boyfriends and summer plans (none of which Susan has anymore). She asks questions and makes comments and teases them, as she’s always done. These visits go as they always have. Susan doesn’t laugh as often or as brightly as she used to, to be sure, but it’s the best remnant she has of a normal life.

When they all say goodbye, Susan’s four friends head off in separate directions, their sheets of silky hair bouncing as they walk away. Susan usually walks home feeling empty and cold. However, the days don’t bleed together quite so much, afterwards.

Her school offered her a year off, and with aunt Alberta’s firm support, Susan accepted. On the days she leaves the house, whether to do shopping for Eustace’s parents (who have taken her in) or to go to town with her friends, Susan dresses well. She puts on lipstick, curls her hair, and meticulously chooses shoes and nylons and clothes. She does it solemnly, always with the sharp light of dawn. More often than not she is observed by a cup of tea growing cold on the vanity. Making the tea is essential: another pattern for her body to learn and inhabit. Pouring whatever is left in the bushes below her window seems only appropriate. Susan feels that every morning, with everything she does, something is forsaken—put down, given to the earth, forgotten. Only after this is done can she walk out of the house, silently announcing to the gray sky or humid sun that her life still has somewhere left to go.

The Scrubbs go to church every Sunday. They go on Saturday and Friday evenings, too, when they have the time. They have become quite close with the priest—Alberta knows his sister by first name. Susan tried for a month or two, but gave it up. Sitting in a pew and hearing songs about beauty only served to agitate her.

Once, fairly early on in the big picture of things, the priest invited Susan for a walk. She accepted. She hadn’t yet heard anything from her friends except for condolences, and was ready to speak to anyone about anything.

They walked from the city into a park, where flowers were crawling with bees and flocks of birds turned bushes into chimes. The priest talked to her about peace and heaven. Susan politely agreed. He asked her, quite knowingly, if she believed a word he said. She responded that they were beautiful words, and she admired him for coming up with them. She admitted that that’s how she saw all the holy books, too: beautiful words, written with great skill and imagination. The priest agreed with her. He urged her, though, to consider them with an open mind. If she indulged the chance of their reality, they might speak to her more than she imagined they could.

So, Susan spent a lot of time—all those days that she didn’t put on her lipstick or her nylons or curl her hair—sipping tea and reading. Her uncle joined her on the weekends. They sat in silence, Susan with a bible or one of the Professor’s old books, her uncle with a newspaper. He always used his big chair near the window, but Susan moved about: sometimes the couch, sometimes the dining room, sometimes the small tea table by the window to the backyard. After all, this house was not quite home to her, yet.

Whether or not her uncle was home, reading was when Susan felt as if she were really speaking to someone. She never spoke truthfully to her friends or neighbors. She was rarely honest with her aunt and uncle. And, even then, it didn’t seem to strike anything true. Susan would tell them what was on her mind, yes. But all the meaning seemed to die as her thoughts left her mouth in the shape of chosen words.

Indeed, for the past few years, she didn’t feel like she’d even been speaking to her family.

Mother and father thought her interest in clothes and makeup was silly. Father insisted—always as if he were dealing with a fool and not his oldest daughter—that Susan was pretty enough without red coloring on her lips and cheeks. Peter and Edmund teased her, as Susan figured any boys would tease their sister, but it seemed to be more than just that. Really, it was the time they didn’t spend teasing Susan that troubled her. If she counted the hours, her siblings spoke in pairs or in a group so often that Susan barely factored into their lives at all. Even when she was in the room, they talked about fairy tales and childhood games with great seriousness, all without a glance at Susan. Eustace, surprisingly, seemed to be a part of it when he visited. Even without the particular silliness of fantasies, none of them seemed all that interested in practical matters. Peter and Edmund spent hours on end debating the fine details of philosophical texts. Whenever Susan tried to spark up a conversation about the goings on of Europe or Parliament, or even the local farms, her brothers looked at her with solemn eyes. As if they were sad she cared about things that had a tangible place in their lives.

Edmund was more blunt than Peter.

“Can we not spend all day talking about this?” Edmund complained one afternoon at their aunt and uncle’s. Susan and Eustace had been discussing an article about advancements in radio technology.

“I guess you’d rather talk about useful things, Ed,” Susan replied, “like how best to polish a unicorn’s horn.”

Edmund rolled his eyes. Then, Susan could’ve sworn he muttered: As if a unicorn can’t polish its own horn.

Lucy was not nearly so rude about it all, but Susan had felt furthest from her. Lucy spent nearly all her time outside of school at church or on walking paths. Susan could at least join in with Peter and Ed in discussing those old authors they loved, though she preferred to focus on how the writers’ real lives shone through their texts. Lucy, though, was beyond Susan’s reach.

They took a walk together at the beginning of summer, just a month before the accident. The two had been having a simple, meaningless chat about Lucy’s upcoming visit to the Professor's when Lucy spotted a rabbit at the edge of the path. Susan had hummed in acknowledgement, but Lucy stopped dead in her tracks. They spent minutes standing there, watching the rabbit nibble the grass. With each small shuffle of its paws Lucy had gasped with wonder.

After one of many moments of silence, Susan commented: “He must be used to humans. That’s the trouble with towns growing out into the wilderness, I suppose.”

Lucy had nodded, not taking her eyes away from the little animal. “It is, it really is. I wonder how it all shall end up.”

Finally, Lucy seemed to have had enough, and the sisters kept walking. “Goodbye, little fellow,” Lucy had whispered excitedly to the rabbit, and—this was what Susan found quite unbearably silly—waved at it as they passed by.

“Hmm,” Lucy had smiled when she at last looked away from the creature. “I hope he has a good life ahead of him, whatever it is he will do.”

The only thing Susan had genuinely thought when she saw the creature was, Oh, it’s only a rabbit.

So, Susan reads. She doesn’t enjoy the Professor’s books, but she is determined to understand. She will find out what it was that Edmund and Peter loved to talk about, what Lucy was thinking about when she gazed star-struck at the creatures of ordinary life. Susan reads the bible, and the annotations at the bottoms of the pages, and the difficult, stuffy translations of Plotinus and Boethius and Aquinas. She does what the priest told her and looks past the lack of scientific basis, the lack of practical knowledge. She opens her heart to the idea that Goodness is a specific thing that exists and the human soul is something higher than the human body. Susan gets frustrated and angry at every turn. It feels quite as if she is in conversation with a man who won’t let her get a word in. But, at the very least, she is finally in on the conversation.

Susan sits at the tea table by the window to the backyard, a full cup of cold tea next to her, Augustine’s The Confessions on the table before her. The window is at the end of a hallway on the second floor. On her left, bedroom doors interrupt the vine patterns on the wallpaper. The staircase, marking the other end of the hallway, lets in light from the living room below. Susan has a pen in one hand. The margins of the book are filled with her words, though not her opinions. The neat, black cursive contains her attempts to track down what this man meant. She knew a little more about this one going in, which helped her feel a lot less like a castaway at sea. Edmund had been quite fond of The Confessions.

“It’s because he can’t do it alone,” her younger brother had said one afternoon.

Ed was sitting in a reading chair. Peter was opposite to him, lying down on their family’s green flower-print couch, his feet on Susan’s lap.

“His will is divided,” Edmund said. “His desire for God is there, and he’s used his reason to discover that God is the ultimate good. But he still has his bodily desires. He’s not strong enough to bring those two parts of his will together. That’s why reading the book is the moment that he is changed—God’s strength unites his will.”

Edmund was leaning forward, pinching his fingers together in the air while holding intense eye contact with his older brother. Susan had seen her maths teacher acting the same way when explaining calculus. Susan remembered sitting in that class, thinking, How can anyone care so much about equations?

But Peter sat up. He swung his legs onto the floor and pushed himself upright, as if he heard a jazz band playing outside and was just dying to run out and dance.

“Of course!” Peter exclaimed. “He needs His grace! Oh, right as always, Ed.”

Susan remembers the way her brothers had smiled at each other. Even then, that warmth between them—that pure understanding and closeness—left her feeling stranded and alone. Now, at the tea table in her aunt and uncle’s home, the loneliness moves from Susan’s throat to the center of her chest like a dark, heavy blade. As the sharp pain dissolves, windy coldness fills her stomach. Through the window, there is sunlight on the grass and birds in the trees. The Scrubbs’ cat is splayed out on the lawn. It all seems like a drawing in a children’s book. It’s stagnant and lifeless, even as the birds flutter and the cat twitches its tail. Susan can feel the heat through the glass, but it doesn’t feel like people say heat feels. It feels suffocating and sharp. Susan wishes she could revel in sunlight, but it just feels unpleasant, and all she can think about is whether or not she’ll get a sunburn.

She takes a deep breath, and sighs it out.

If You are really there, Susan speaks in her mind, then nothing is happening that You haven’t planned.

Susan’s hands are resting on the book. She realizes that she feels as if she’s not alone. Her aunt and uncle are both at work, but the pages, the tea table, the wooden floor, the walls with their vine-pattern…all of the history and theology, these centuries of certainty that Something is out there, seem to be with Susan at the end of the hallway. Whether or not it’s God, or simply the ideas of thousands of people that were so confident He exists, Susan feels she is being heard.

You made me exactly how I am. You made my life exactly how it is. If You really gave me a soul to desire Goodness with, You gave me reason to find it with, too. Well, this is where my reason has taken me: I wear nylons and lipsticks, Sir, and I don’t go to church, and I’m not interested in meeting a good Christian boy anytime soon. And if You really are so far above this bodily world, so much more than the human mind can comprehend, how can anyone be certain that this isn’t what You want of me?

Outside, the birds go on chirping. The cat goes on dozing. Susan looks at the wooden gate marking the garden, the white house beyond that. She looks up at that bright blue sky. Vast white clouds drift in from the southeast.

You gave me reason. And I’ll use it, no matter what they say You want me to do. I’ll use it even if You speak to me Yourself.

The hallway goes on being warm and quiet. Susan looks down at the table before her. She caps her pen, feeling she’s written all she will for a while.

After a moment, she reaches for her tea.

It’s cold. The string of the tea bag has dried and crusted up against the cup. Susan leaves the bag in for far too long, these days. As she takes a sip, bitterness floods her mouth. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she’d become. She swallows again, then again and again, breathing deeply through her nose, the strong flavor soaking into her throat. When she sets the cup down, the empty hall rings with the quiet scraping of the china.

The tea, however it tasted, seemed to even-out something inside of Susan. The room doesn’t feel so unpleasantly hot. Susan looks outside again. The fluffy tip of the cat’s tail moves back and forth, casting a shadow on the grass. Its front paws twitch. Two birds hop up and down a branch of the nearby tree, eyeing the cat. Susan brushes a strand of hair off her forehead.

Perhaps, she thinks, I might enjoy sitting outside for a spell. Before those clouds block out the sun.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the chronicles of narnia #narnia #narnia fanfiction #narnia fanfic #tcon fanfic #tcon fanfiction #susan pevensie #susan pevensie fanfic #susan pevensie fic #the last battle #the last battle spoilers #tlb #post-tlb #my first ever posted fic....

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jadedjxsung · 4 years

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| 2:13am - seo changbin - tw: swearing, blood (but not outright gore) |

you jogged down the street, one headphone in, quietly playing a podcast. some fictional one your friend had recommended to you, something about feuding funeral parlors and voiced by british people? you weren’t really listening. you were too pissed off at the moment to really care.

it was the middle of winter, too, so when you passed the street lights you could see you breath fogging as you lightly puffed. you didn’t want to run too fast, in case you slipped and broke something. your roommate wouldn’t be too happy with you if you called them at two in the morning because you broke a limb.

spotting your destination ahead, you quickened your pace slightly. the second story lights were bright through the large windows of the gym. it was unlikely anyone would be there at this time of morning, which made it ideal for you to release a bit of your internalised rage on the boxing bag or something.

opening the door, you lightly hop up the stairs, two at a time. opening the second door into the gym, you dump your small backpack on one of the many benches lining the wall, and when you turned around to see the empty-

not quite empty gym. there is one guy, by himself, doing some weights in the opposite corner of the gym. well, the boxing bags were hung in the other corner - you decide to ignore him. plugging your other headphone in, you wrap your hands in wraps to protect your hands and then went fucking ham on the boxing bags.

you completely unleash your rage upon the bag. imagining it was the face of your former boyfriend, who you’d discovered had cheated on you with your ex best friend. the face of your overly controlling mother who tried to get you to go to university instead of working to start your own business. the smug look on the many assholes at your minimum wage job that you currently had who, for whatever reason, liked to make you feel miserable.

you are so absorbed in punching the life out of the boxing bag that when you got a tap on the shoulder, you instinctively jump back and nearly smack the guy in the face, missing him by a few centimetres. it was the guy who was on the weights earlier.

“hey, uhh... your hands are bleeding?” he gestures to your hands. they’d bled through your wraps and you’d gotten a bit of blood on the bag too.

being out of your dazed frenzy for a few moments now, you slowly began to feel the sting. “cheers for that.” you peel back the wraps and wince. your knuckles are red and had split a few times - you’d fucked up your wraps somewhere and hadn’t wrapped enough around your knuckles, apparently. you went and sat down by your bag, and the guy appears again with a dark green first aid kit.

“something really must’ve pissed you off to come to a gym at,” he glances at his phone screen as it lights up, “two in the morning and punch a boxing bag ‘till your knuckles bleed and not notice it.” unzipping the kit he gently takes your hands in his, and cleans them with some kind of wipe.

“yeah, but make that plural. some things have pissed me off.”

“care to elaborate?”

“found out my ex cheated on me with my best friend. my mother is being a control freak yet again and tries to get me to go to university despite me telling her what i am planning on doing. assholes at work. i couldn’t get to sleep.” you summarise. the male finishes cleaning you hands and carefully put a few bandages over the worst splits in your skin. “why are you here at two in the morning?”

“i like it. there’s no one else here, usually.” he adds with a small grin.

you shrug. “fair enough. follow up question - do you not have work in the morning?”

“well... yes. but i’m usually up this late even if i’m not working out.”

“so what do you do?”

“i’m a musician. more specifically, i rap and compose. what do you do?”

“currently? checkout operator at the department store. i’m starting up my business as a freelance photographer and artist.” when his hands leave yours, your fingers suddenly feel a bit cold. it was probably the injuries, right?

“oh, nice. well, best of luck for your business. maybe i could hire you to do an album cover.” he jokes, but you could tell there was some sincerity in his statement.

“thanks. can i find your music online?” you get up to disinfect the boxing bag, cloth in one hand and spray bottle in the other.

“uhh- yeah. spearb on soundcloud.”

you lips split into a grin. “ooh, a soundcloud rapper.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked incredulously.

“well, aren’t soundcloud rappers known for being..... subpar to actual rappers?”

“hey! i’m pretty decent if i do say so myself.” a smirk graces his features.

“alright, well i’ll listen to your music on the jog home,” you sling your bag over your shoulder. “thank you for... this.” you raised your hands.

“no problem. do you live far away?”

“it’s a fifteen minute walk.”

“do you want me to walk with you?”

“no, it’s good, thanks.”

you saw his brow furrow in concern. “are you sure? it’s nearly 3am, it’s not exactly safe this time of day.”

“what if i text you to let you know i’m home? would that make you feel less concerned?”

“y-yeah, sure.” you unlock your phone and pull up a new contact for him to add his number and name. he passes your phone back to you a few moments later.

“i hope we meet again, ‘good soundcloud rapper,’” you narrow your eyes to read your phone screen.

“me too. get home safe, yeah?”

“yeah. thank you.” you smile at him, going back down the small flight of stairs and opening the door outside. it was more bitter than before, somehow. maybe because you weren’t so bitter yourself.

you jog again to retain some warmth for about ten minutes. you listen to a few of spearb’s songs as you went - some were from a group called 3racha, which was apparently him and two other guys. he had quite a decent following, actually - definitely a good reflection on his work, because he seems to deserve it. you hardly knew him, but he seemed kind.

quietly unlocking the front door, you enter your shared apartment quietly, and shut it carefully. you quietly pad to your room, where you dump your bag in one corner and flop down on your bed. pulling out your phone, you compose a new text message.

you: i’m home, you don’t have to worry lmao

you: listened to some of your songs too. i retract my previous statement; you are, in fact, a good soundcloud rapper.

good soundcloud rapper: haha, thanks. would you be keen on getting a coffee sometime? not at 2am though

you: sure. how’s 3am?

you: i’m kidding. when are you next free?

good soundcloud rapper: 3pm friday?

you: sounds good. see you then :)

what an interesting 2am excursion - your hands still hurt, but you also had a soft smile on your face. perhaps, things were going to start getting better for you now, starting with a coffee at 3pm on friday.

#seo changbin #stray kids #changbin timestamp #stray kids imagines #stray kids timestamps #changbin #skz changbin #stray kids changbin #seo changbin imagines

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beanie-beebo-writes · 3 years

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Faith Pt.II

Category: Oneshot; genfic

Summary: Another life saved, another lost. Day in and day out it's the same for the Winchesters. Continuation of the episode from s1, Faith

In the life of a hunter, you couldn't have connections. Ties to the normal civilian life meant putting others at risk. Sam and Dean knew this, but nothing would stop them from feeling connected to the people they saved. Every once in a while, an opening would come up between hunts. Giving them the perfect opportunity to catch up on the lives of those they saved, however they could. Usually it was through local papers; it was safer that way. Calling meant the connection would still be there, and opened the possibility of a blossoming partnership.

One early summer afternoon, Sam and Dean had settled back into their chintzy motel room. Their previous hunt had consisted of nothing more than a measly vamp infestation, but still nonetheless grueling. It was enough to make Dean want to sleep for a few days after a nice, hot shower.

"I wish more hunts were this easy." Dean said, plopping onto the nearest bed.

"Yeah, you're telling me." Sam said, failing to observe Dean was on his bed. "Alright, I don't know about you, but I need a shower. I can still smell that last vamp we took out, perfume included."

"Bathroom's all yours. I need a breather, maybe a nap. Just don't use up all the hot water, Frieda." Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes before shutting the bathroom door with a huff. Dean gave himself an approving nudge on the shoulder and smirked.

"Dean 1, Sam 0." Dean muttered to himself triumphantly.

He momentarily began to doze, but it wasn't long before his thoughts got the better of him. It had now been almost two months since his father chose to sacrifice his own life for Dean. He still couldn't wrap his head around it all, of what exactly happened and why his father seemingly gave up so easily. He wondered exactly what could have been going through his mind when he did what he did. There were so many unanswered questions, ones he would probably never get the answers for. The likely deal his father made to save him was just as much of a knee-jerk choice as Sam going to that faith healer that one time. How desperate was his father to make such a choice?

Dean still remembered the look on Sam's face when he found out his brother had drawn the short straw, from that hunt not too long ago. He never was good at hiding how he really felt, not from Dean anyway. The hurt shone brightly in his younger brother's unshed tears, and it was obvious the only reason Sam brought him to the faith healer was out of desperation. But deciphering his father's true intent was like trying to focus a laser on a minnow in murky water.

Had Death whispered in his ear, or was he really so far out of options? Dean paused as the image of the reaper coming after him in Nebraska came to him. He shuddered as the memory clashed with his father's final moments.

Dean opened his eyes and sat up, suddenly feeling sick. A knot formed in his stomach for a completely different reason as a face wedged itself to the front of his mind.

He almost reluctantly opened up Sam's laptop and went through Ford City's past few obituary sections in the local papers.

There had been so much going on, he hadn't recently checked in on any previous hunt survivors. Guilt seeped deep into his heart. Last time they had talked, she had months left to live.

Sure enough, in the second most recent newspaper was Layla's face, sticking out like a sore thumb.

"Layla Rourke; beloved daughter, niece, granddaughter, and friend to many passed away Thursday, June 29th 2006. Services will be held Friday, July 7th at Munderloh Funeral Home from 1pm to 3pm and 5pm to 7pm."

Dean's stomach dropped. Another name to add to the list of the people who he didn't save, once again. He almost wanted to laugh, the last conversation they ever had, involved faith. Where was this so-called God now? Where was He whenever good people needed it most? It was easier to believe that a God never existed than to get his hopes crushed every time a life drained away, at his stupid expense nonetheless. Yet, the people who still believed, got their hopes crushed in the end. Dean only wished he knew how to feel.

"Hey, you okay?"

Dean turned around to a fully dressed Sam, fresh out of the shower.

"Uh, do you remember Layla? The chick who was at that faith healing session?" Dean asked.

Sam huffed in amusement. "Yeah, I definitely remember. Why?"

"She uh, her funeral is this week." Dean said.

"Oh.." Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wow, um. I'm sorry to hear that."

"I think I'm gonna head up to Nebraska, you good for a few days?" Dean asked.

"You sure you don't want me to come with? I'll be fine, but I know how much that last conversation…" Sam trailed off.

Dean clenched his jaw. "I need to do this by myself, Sam. I'll be fine."

"Alright, just let me know if anything comes up." Sam said. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but-"

"You're always there, blah blah. I know. Enough touchy feely crap, I'm headed out." Dean retorted.

"And Dean?"

Dean turned around, a hard glare set in his eyes.

"Just be careful."

Dean slammed the hotel door behind him in frustration, roared the Impala's engine, and sped off towards Ford City.

Dean pulls into a decent sized parking lot, thankfully while all the other grievers seem to be heading away for intermission. He takes a swig of whiskey and exhales roughly before heading inside the nearly empty funeral home to pay his respects. After finding his way to the correct viewing room, he comes across a shorter woman standing by the casket, blocking his view of Layla. He hangs off to the side out of sight, waiting until she is ready to leave the room.

"You can come up, if you wish. I won't be too long." She says.

"It's alright. You take your time." Dean says.

"You're not bothering me, hun. I don't bite." She responds.

He takes up the invitation; Dean figures it probably wouldn't hurt to give her some company.

"She really was something, wasn't she?" Dean asks.

She sniffles lightly. "Layla truly was one of a kind. One of the brightest souls I have ever had the blessing to come across."

Dean nods, taking in Layla's peaceful presence.

Brief pause. "How did you know her?" The woman asks.

"Layla.. She was kind to me even when I didn't deserve it. Even when I was for some reason chosen to be saved over her, she never held it against me. I think she even had faith for me."

"Yeah, that sounds like Layla. She didn't have a mean bone in her body. I'm Jamie, by the way; Layla's aunt."

"Nice to meet you; I'm Dean. Sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, same to you."

Another brief silence.

"You know, I may not know you, but I can tell you're worth more than you think." Jamie says.

"Sorry, but you are highly mistaken." Dean replies.

"Layla, she was a person of good faith. She only kept you around, if she felt your intentions were good. She may have been kind to everyone, but if you knew her, you also knew she wasn't one to condone ill intentions. If she had faith in or for you, you are a good person."

Dean didn't have an answer; his eyes focused on Layla.

"Did you come far?" She asks to break the tension.

"Uh, yeah," Dean finally glances back into Jamie's direction momentarily. "I was originally working in Jersey this weekend."

"Hm, now if you weren't a good person, then why did you come all this way for her?"

He stares at Layla's portrait next to the casket. He knows Jamie was trying to make a good point. Although, that point didn't condone everything he had done.

"It was nice meeting you Dean, take care." And with that she walks away, leaving Dean alone with Layla.

For a few moments, he didn't even know what to say. What could he even say? One of the last times they had been together, he stopped her from being healed. He felt so dirty, standing here when he clearly felt he shouldn't have been. It's not like his brother couldn't kill Azazel without him. Yeah, Sam would be broken without his brother, but not incapable. He would have Bobby at least. Sam survived college without him, he could have survived Dean pulling the short straw.

"Hi Layla.." Dean's voice begins to waver. "I bet I'm the last person you wanted to hear from, but.. I'm here anyway. I couldn't not say goodbye.."

Dean plays with the denim of his jeans awkwardly.

"Listen, about what happened months ago.. I need you to understand, I never wanted this to happen to you. The reason I was healed...wasn't God. Although, I'm sure if you were here, you would say so anyway. My brother brought me to Roy because... he was desperate. And.. He made a mistake. I mean, I guess if he didn't find Roy, we never would have met and I would have never saved those people.."

Dean pauses and glances behind him, making sure he was still alone.

"My brother and I, we hunt things..Unnatural things. I'm not going to explain everything but, if you were to follow us for a day, maybe you would understand. And what healed me, was something.. not natural. And God.. He wouldn't condone what it was. Now, I know I couldn't save you. But there hasn't been a day that has gone by, that I haven't regretted that. Hell, if anything, I would have traded my life for yours in a heartbeat."

Tears begin to sting his eyeline.

"Layla I.. I wish things could have been different for you. I'm sorry." He sniffled. "I know your Aunt Jamie was saying all these things about me being a good person, but.. If I was a good person, I would have let you be saved, even if it was unnatural. But me being me, I hunted the unnatural thing before you could get that chance."

Dean pauses to collect himself.

"Yeah.." He whispers to no one in particular.

He gives her a final farewell, shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, and somberly heads outside. Just after he walks out the double doors, a paper smacks him in the face causing him to flail briefly. After gathering himself, he holds out the paper to observe.. a poster appreciating the troops. "Thank you, for putting your life on the line. You are our hero."

Suddenly he looks up, feeling as if he has eyes on him. Standing across the parking lot in a beautiful, rose colored dress is Layla, smiling. Before Dean could think of what to do, she disappears.

Dean/Jensen tags: @akshi8278

#spn #supernatural #spn s1 #spn 1.12 #spn 1x12 #spn faith #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #spn gen #spn genfic #supernatural genfic #dean winchester #dean #layla rourke #classic supernatural #spn oneshot

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beanie-beebo · 4 years

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Oneshot: Dean pays respects to an old friend.

A/N I know I never really write like I used to, but I do come up with a few good things now and again. Enjoy. ❤

In the life of a hunter, you couldn’t have connections. Ties to the normal civilian life meant putting others at risk. Sam and Dean knew this, but nothing would stop them from feeling connected to the people they saved. Every once in a while, an opening would come up between hunts. Giving them the perfect opportunity to catch up on the lives of those they saved, however they could. Usually it was through local papers; it was safer that way. Calling meant the connection would still be there, and opened the possibility of a blossoming partnership.

“I wish more hunts were this easy.” Dean said, plopping onto the nearest bed.

“Yeah, you’re telling me.” Sam said, failing to observe Dean was on his bed. “Alright, I don’t know about you, but I need a shower. I can still smell that last vamp we took out, perfume included.”

“Bathroom’s all yours. I need a breather, maybe a nap. Just don’t use up all the hot water, Frieda.” Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes before shutting the bathroom door with a huff. Dean gave himself an approving nudge on the shoulder and smirked.

“Dean 1, Sam 0.” Dean muttered to himself triumphantly.

He momentarily began to doze, but it wasn’t long before his thoughts got the better of him. It had now been almost two months since his father chose to sacrifice his own life for Dean. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it all, of what exactly happened and why his father seemingly gave up so easily. He wondered exactly what could have been going through his mind when he did what he did. There were so many unanswered questions, ones he would probably never get the answers for. The likely deal his father made to save him was just as much of a knee-jerk choice as Sam going to that faith healer that one time. How desperate was his father to make such a choice?

Dean still remembered the look on Sam’s face when he found out his brother had drawn the short straw, from that hunt not too long ago. He never was good at hiding how he really felt, not from Dean anyway. The hurt shone brightly in his younger brother’s unshed tears, and it was obvious the only reason Sam brought him to the faith healer was out of desperation. But deciphering his father’s true intent was like trying to focus a laser on a minnow in murky water.

Dean opened his eyes and sat up, suddenly feeling sick. A knot formed in his stomach for a completely different reason as a face wedged itself to the front of his mind.

He almost reluctantly opened up Sam’s laptop and went through Ford City’s past few obituary sections in the local papers.

There had been so much going on, he hadn’t recently checked in on any previous hunt survivors. Guilt seeped deep into his heart. Last time they had talked, she had months left to live.

Sure enough, in the second most recent newspaper was Layla’s face, sticking out like a sore thumb.

“Layla Rourke; beloved daughter, niece, granddaughter, and friend to many passed away Thursday, June 29th 2006. Services will be held Friday, July 7th at Munderloh Funeral Home from 1pm to 3pm and 5pm to 7pm.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. Another name to add to the list of the people who he didn’t save, once again. He almost wanted to laugh, the last conversation they ever had, involved faith. Where was this so-called God now? Where was He whenever good people needed it most? It was easier to believe that a God never existed than to get his hopes crushed every time a life drained away, at his stupid expense nonetheless. Yet, the people who still believed, got their hopes crushed in the end. Dean only wished he knew how to feel.

“Hey, you okay?”

Dean turned around to a fully dressed Sam, fresh out of the shower.

“Uh, do you remember Layla? The chick who was at that faith healing session?” Dean asked.

Sam huffed in amusement. “Yeah, I definitely remember. Why?”

“She uh, her funeral is this week.” Dean said.

“Oh..” Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow, um. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I think I’m gonna head up to Nebraska, you good for a few days?” Dean asked.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with? I’ll be fine, but I know how much that last conversation…” Sam trailed off.

Dean clenched his jaw. “I need to do this by myself, Sam. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright, just let me know if anything comes up.” Sam said. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but-”

“You’re always there, blah blah. I know. Enough touchy feely crap, I’m headed out.” Dean retorted.

"And Dean?”

Dean turned around, a hard glare set in his eyes.

“Just be careful.”

Dean slammed the hotel door behind him in frustration, roared the Impala’s engine, and sped off towards Ford City.

~~~

“You can come up, if you wish. I won’t be too long.” She says.

“It’s alright. You take your time.” Dean says.

“You’re not bothering me, hun. I don’t bite.” She responds.

He takes up the invitation; Dean figures it probably wouldn’t hurt to give her some company.

“She really was something, wasn’t she?” Dean asks.

She sniffles lightly. “Layla truly was one of a kind. One of the brightest souls I have ever had the blessing to come across.”

Dean nods, taking in Layla’s peaceful presence.

Brief pause. “How did you know her?” The woman asks.

“Layla.. She was kind to me even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was for some reason chosen to be saved over her, she never held it against me. I think she even had faith for me.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Layla. She didn’t have a mean bone in her body. I’m Jamie, by the way; Layla’s aunt.”

“Nice to meet you; I’m Dean. Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, same to you.”

Another brief silence.

“You know, I may not know you, but I can tell you’re worth more than you think.” Jamie says.

“Sorry, but you are highly mistaken.” Dean replies.

“Layla, she was a person of good faith. She only kept you around, if she felt your intentions were good. She may have been kind to everyone, but if you knew her, you also knew she wasn’t one to condone ill intentions. If she had faith in or for you, you are a good person.”

Dean didn’t have an answer; his eyes focused on Layla.

“Did you come far?” She asks to break the tension.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean finally glances back into Jamie’s direction momentarily. “I was originally working in Jersey this weekend.”

“Hm, now if you weren’t a good person, then why did you come all this way for her?”

He stares at Layla’s portrait next to the casket. He knows Jamie was trying to make a good point. Although, that point didn’t condone everything he had done.

“It was nice meeting you Dean, take care.” And with that she walks away, leaving Dean alone with Layla.

For a few moments, he didn’t even know what to say. What could he even say? One of the last times they had been together, he stopped her from being healed. He felt so dirty, standing here when he clearly felt he shouldn’t have been. It’s not like his brother couldn’t kill Azazel without him. Yeah, Sam would be broken without his brother, but not incapable. He would have Bobby at least. Sam survived college without him, he could have survived Dean pulling the short straw.

“Hi Layla..” Dean’s voice begins to waver. “I bet I’m the last person you wanted to hear from, but.. I’m here anyway. I couldn’t not say goodbye..”

Dean plays with the denim of his jeans awkwardly.

“Listen, about what happened months ago.. I need you to understand, I never wanted this to happen to you. The reason I was healed...wasn’t God. Although, I’m sure if you were here, you would say so anyway. My brother brought me to Roy because... he was desperate. And.. He made a mistake. I mean, I guess if he didn’t find Roy, we never would have met and I would have never saved those people..”

Dean pauses and glances behind him, making sure he was still alone.

“My brother and I, we hunt things..Unnatural things. I’m not going to explain everything but, if you were to follow us for a day, maybe you would understand. And what healed me, was something.. not natural. And God.. He wouldn’t condone what it was. Now, I know I couldn’t save you. But there hasn’t been a day that has gone by, that I haven’t regretted that. Hell, if anything, I would have traded my life for yours in a heartbeat.”

Tears begin to sting his eyeline.

“Layla I.. I wish things could have been different for you. I’m sorry.” He sniffled. “I know your Aunt Jamie was saying all these things about me being a good person, but.. If I was a good person, I would have let you be saved, even if it was unnatural. But me being me, I hunted the unnatural thing before you could get that chance.”

Dean pauses to collect himself.

“Yeah..” He whispers to no one in particular.

He gives her a final farewell, shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, and somberly heads outside. Just after he walks out the double doors, a paper smacks him in the face causing him to flail briefly. After gathering himself, he holds out the paper to observe.. a poster appreciating the troops. “Thank you, for putting your life on the line. You are our hero.”

Suddenly he looks up, feeling as if he has eyes on him. Standing across the parking lot in a beautiful, rose colored dress is Layla, smiling. Before Dean could think of what to do, she disappears.

#supernatural fanfic #spn fanfic #spn #supernatural #gen fanfic #spn gen fic #oneshot #spn oneshot #dean winchester #winchester #sam winchester #Don't fear the reaper #faith #season 2 #season 2 supernatural #faith supernatural

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pixiemunsons · 5 years

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It's Hard To Love An Addict Like Ariana Did. I Know Because I Do.

I know this isn't my regular post type, but I'd really appreciate if you gave it a read. Thank you.

Rapper and singer Mac Miller died on Friday the 7th of September of a suspected drug overdose in his Los Angeles home. He was 26 years old. Since his death, both the music and fan community have been rocked, with tributes from the likes of Drake, Liam Gallagher and Elton. Self-proclaimed “mumble rapper” Lil Xan has gone as far to get a face tattoo in memorial of his fellow musician. However, Miller’s death has also opened up discussions on social media about the circumstances surrounding what would appear to be a sudden, tragic downfall, with his previous drug habits and recent break up with pop singer Ariana Grande in particular being suspected by fans as causes for his untimely demise.

Miller stated in multiple interviews that he was addicted to a variety of drugs, in particular a drink consisting of promethazine and codeine usually made with cough syrup and prescription drugs. The drink has been linked to a number of other deaths in the rap community; DJ Screw, who died of a codeine overdose in 2000; Pimp C who was found dead in 2007 after ingesting the mixture in a hotel room; Fredo Santana, whose death was only eight months before Miller’s, is believed to have been as a result of kidney failure induced by lean; and Lil Peep, who in 2017 died of a fentanyl overdose but was found with codeine in his system after years of abusing the drink. Miller is another in a long line of drug addicted rappers – so why are we blaming Ariana?

Miller and Grande met when recording song “The Way” in March 2013, during the video of which they kissed. Whilst at the time both were in long-term relationships, in July of the same year Miller referred to Grande as being “like an angel, she’s very nice, she’s a sweet girl.” In August 2016, Miller became involved in producing a remix of Grande’s hit song “Into You,” and later in the same month the two were spotted cuddling and kissing at the MTV VMA Award after party. This was to be the start of an almost two-year relationship, which whilst seemingly perfect on social media has been slammed by Ariana as “toxic”. Within two months of her and Mac splitting, Grande was engaged to SNL star Pete Davidson, which many of Miller’s fans believe led to his May 2018 collision with a lamppost whilst driving under the influence of alcohol and drugs. Grande fiercely denied the accusations on Twitter, calling their relationship “toxic” and stating that she is “not a babysitter or a mother and no woman should feel that they need to be.” She also described Mac as having an “inability to keep his shit together,” believed by many to be a reference to his drug addictions and sobriety issues. Of course, Mac was dead four months later, and the comments on Grande’s Instagram page show that many attribute this to their break-up; Grande has been described as “lowkey evil” and has been told by fans that she “killed” Miller with her actions. Grande’s Instagram comments have been disabled since Miller’s death.

I, for one, understand exactly how Ariana feels. The addict in my life is neither addicted to hard drugs, nor is he my significant other. He is my father, and he has been a drunk since before I was born. My struggles with my father have, on many occasions, forced me to withdraw contact. Once, when I was 16, I returned from an eight-hour shift at midnight to find him almost unconscious under his tipped-over sofa, three empty bottles of wine surrounding him and what appeared to be spilt drinks and cigarette ash ground into the carpet despite smoking indoors being both against his rent agreement and the rules I had set into place if I was to continue sleeping at his house. I slept at my uncle’s that night, and when I went back to my father’s house to confront him with his brother, he was asleep at 3pm and couldn’t remember the events of the night before, during which I had screamed bloody murder at him and he had called me a dozen times in a drunken attempt to win favour. My sister, two years younger than me and yet, even at 14, disturbingly aware of my father’s alcoholism, had stayed at my uncle’s house the night before when he came to drop her off after a day out and, despite it being only 4pm, discovered an empty bottle of wine at my father’s feet.

Like Ariana, I made multiple attempts over the years to discourage my father’s drinking in many ways. I begged, cried, pleaded and, eventually, screamed at him in order to pt across my feelings; that he, like he always had, was putting drinking above my feelings and my sister’s. His drinking was one of the main reasons my mother had left him when I was ten years old, and I was determined that even if my relationship with him broke down the same way his marriage had, his relationship with my sister was going to be resolved, attempts of mine that have failed as she has grown to resent him as I do. Despite my best efforts, my father’s addiction appears to be unsolvable. I have pleaded with him to enter rehab, yet his own mother, my grandmother, is so protective of her youngest son that she refuses to acknowledge his addiction, creating a route for my father to live in denial of his problems and to blame me for the issues in our relationship. Miller’s friends, since his death, have stated that no one attempted to help Mac as much as she did, with friend Shane Powers stating that “there couldn’t have been anybody more supportive of him being sober than Ariana.” I can only hope that my father’s family, and my family, understand my reasons for cutting off fatherly contact.

My father’s addiction is set to a backdrop of familial secrets and issues, hidden by the primary and central members of his extended family; first his father’s mother, then his aunt, and now his own mother. My family is riddled with disease and addiction, a taboo in the eyes of the elders, yet pressing issues for us in the next generation who are forced to deal with the after effects of these secrets. Huntington’s disease, a terminal genetic disorder which effects the nervous system and kills its’ victims young, is rife in my family; out of my grandfather’s nine siblings, five – including him – have or had the illness. It kills young, and my own grandfather died at 65. My father is now 47, and yet his own disease is progressing faster than usual; his cousins of the same age are just now starting to exhibit symptoms, whilst my father is coming to the end of his ability to walk. I now realise that this is likely a result of his drinking yet, in a sad twist of fate, my father began drinking to deal with the pain of his own father’s diagnosis. This sad fact affects many I know; just last year, my father’s cousin died at 52 from a heroin overdose following years of substance abuse. Just like the rap community, my regular, suburban family is followed by a crisis that no one dares speak out about, no matter how many deaths take place. There are many Mac Millers’, and almost as many Arianas’, cousins of mine in my exact situation. We are all aged from 14 up to 30, and our parents and uncles and aunts refuse to discuss with us the issues we face, so we talk in secret. Weddings, christenings and, more and more often, funerals, have become places for hushed whispers in corners, each of us telling stories; drugs, drinking, illness and affairs created by the unusual backdrop of our upbringings. My boyfriend frequently comments on how unusual it is that no discussion takes place regarding negative subjects in my family; that life appears to be perfect, when in reality it is a dream world created by my older relatives to save face.

I know exactly how Ariana feels because I have tried for many years to get my father sober, and have never been able to succeed. I also know that, even as I have cut my father off just as Ariana finished her relationship with Miller, I will be as devastated by his death as she was by his, and will likely receive the same backlash from my own family as she did from her own fans. I’ll likely be young, as she was – I am only 18 now, yet my father is more and more ill by the day. And yet, despite all of this, I can relate to Ariana for one reason more than any other; we have both loved addicts, and it was the hardest thing either of us has ever done.

#ariana #arianagrande #macmiller #mac #tw; alcohol #tw; addiction #mine #ariandmac #tw #trigger warning #pixiehollands

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