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thecryptidbard · 3 days

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ALSO can we talk about Hetty’s reaction after Flower tells her “You’re a good friend”???

Think about where she was at this point last year—having also just revealed a massive secret, one that almost irrevocably ruined one of her oldest friendships. She’d admitted in Ghost Court that friends were not something she’d ever had in life—something she hasalso just reiterated moments ago to Sam and Isaac, that one of the reasons she felt so trapped and alone and without options at the end of her life was because she had no friends.

Think about how far we’ve seen her come; in season one, it’s huge growth for her that after Jay’s possession, she admits to the other ghosts that she missed them. Or season two, how in a very un-Hetty move she’s willing to swallow her pride and apologize to Nigel (even though she’s sure she isn’t in the wrong!) for the sake of saving her friendship with Isaac. Or even earlier this season, how closely she’s clinging to Alberta in so many of the episodes, because she’s so grateful she got her friend back after being so close to losing her that she doesn’t even want to be physically separated from her.

And then now, she’s just once again revealed a secret she’s kept for well over a hundred years, in order to save Flower. She’s kept this part of herself from everyone for so long, and the very second she sees that Flower is securely out of the hole, she turns her back to everyone to gather herself and then bolts.

Isaac and Sam make her see that, yes objectively she has people here for her now like she never had in life, but Flower coming in and thanking her is when she actually gets to see and experience the reality of how different her existence is now. “You’re a good friend,” she says, and it might be the first time someone has ever said that to her. And Hetty just looks up at Flower so surprised in that moment, and so heartbreakingly hopeful, because I genuinely think that until right then, she really hadn’t considered it like that before; she just knew that Flower was in trouble and that she had to help her whatever the personal cost, because not saving her wasn’t even an option.

So much of the ghosts’ relationships, especially early on, were transactional, and, especially in Hetty’s case, built around enforcing particular power dynamics: accruing a wealth of back rubs, extorting Pete’s TV time before signing Elias’s contract, or any of the countless occasions she brought up her status as ‘lady of the house’. So the fact that she makes this sacrifice that feels like a loss of power to her is in and of itself big; but Flower acknowledging that, and making sure Hetty herself sees it too, by calling her a good friend—it’s a whole different level of meaningful.

She doesn’t just thank Hetty. She makes sure that she sees what her actions mean to her. And Hetty is so taken aback by it, because Flower saying this to her and meaning it is a gift she was absolutely unprepared for; a “good friend” is not something Hetty has ever known herself to be, up until now. But she very badly wants for it to be true.

#cbs ghosts #hetty woodstone #yeah clearly I’m not feeling any emotions about this #idk if this is really even coherent but can’t stop thinking about Hetty’s face after Flower says it #and needed to try to form something tangible out of all that mental fixation #sorry for all the analysis posts on this episode but I mean. also not #this show does so much work on long term character arcs like nothing I’ve seen before #and I hope the writers know how much of it we notice and deeply appreciate #cbs ghosts spoilers #holes are bad #it speaks #honestly at this point I think I need a tag just for my ghosts analysis posts

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prettyflyshyguy · 26 days

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He's a monster, and he's hungry.

Wrote this over a few days because I'm. Not ok about this. It's on AO3, and under the cut cause it's a short one. Not super edited, just got desperate for more content exploring when Dean was a vampire and when I found none I was like "well alright. Guess I'll make it then."

“I can’t believe it.”

Dean paced the length of the hotel room, passing back and forth by the table where his brother sat, prowling like an animal in captivity.

“You just stood there and watched that freak turn me!”

He stared at Sam, hoping for a change in his reaction, a look of sympathy, an admission of guilt, some form of recognition that something fucked up happened in the alley. Sam’s face was blank, his heartbeat steady, and frankly he just didn’t seem to care. In fact, he hadn’t seemed to care about much recently. He was a cold, lifeless, empty husk and Dean was tired of it. His usual quips brought no frustrated response, no snappy replies, he was simply brushed off. There was no banter, no anger, simply complete and utter apathy no matter what he said. Sam had his moments, everyone did. Dean knew he had a tendency to push his luck, many people had told him this. But Sam was different, they were siblings. Sam putting up with him being an ass was just how things were, and would always be. At least it's how it should be. After everything they’d seen and done together… If Sam held any resentment, he’d have made it clear by this stage. He was a good liar, but Dean could always tell. They both knew each other too well. If he had any doubt something was off about Sam, it was quickly disintegrating as he stalked the room, watching him blankly staring up at him from the small table. Not even fidgeting in the slightest.

They’d been pushed to their limits before, and Sam was always the first to speak up when something was wrong.

“Dean.”

His lip curled at the sound of his name. It was so hollow. So static. It reminded him of school, when his teacher would check the roll call. It was an obligation and a requirement, not something done out of genuine care.

He decided to push a little harder.

“I mean what the hell was that all about Sam? Revenge? To get me back?” he growled.

“You know you’ve talked so much shit about me taking risks, is this all just some master plan to show me the error of my ways? A jab back at how you still, somehow deep down, think I’m Dad’s perfect son?”

He stood still, observing for a change in reaction. Dean desperately wanted to find a tiny shift in body language, a subtle twitch in his eyes or mouth, that sad glint in his eyes.

He breathed out slowly as Sam once again stared back with soulless eyes and a steady heart.

Not enough, Ok, he thought. He was an expert at this. Maybe Sam had steeled up after all these years.

It wasn’t a completely unreasonable possibility.

“I almost hurt Lisa and Ben, Sam! I came so close, I could have killed them and no one would have been there to stop me, but you were!”

He took a step towards Sam as he spoke, the venom of the accusation lingering in the air.

Sam breathed out and shuffled in his seat. Finally, a response.

“Dean, you need to calm down.”

You calm down.

He took another step closer, noting the slight increase in pace of Sam’s heart. Progress, hell yeah. A smile tugged at the edges of his lips though Dean’s eyes were as cold as Sam’s.

“Oh, that's rich coming from you! That’s easy for you to say when you’re not being assaulted by noise like you went to the movies and an intern did the mixing.”

He took another step closer.

The thrumming beat increased in speed once more.

“Dean.”

“S’matter of fact,” Dean slid his fingers across the tabletop, tracing the grooves in the rough wooden surface, “you’re exceptionally calm given I’m now stuck doing a bad David Boreanaz impression for an indefinite period of time, with no guarantee this Campbell special will even work.”

He looked up from where his hand slid along the table to match Sam’s unwavering gaze. His brother tilted his head to look up at him as Dean hovered above, adjusting in his seat. Sam slipped his left arm over the backrest of the chair.

Dean’s expression turned cold once more.

“And I’ve been thinking, Sammy. It’s ironic. Between that creep, you just standing there and watching, and…” jabbing his thumb back towards himself he gestured “... me…”

Dean slammed his hand back down on the table, leaning in closer. The headlights of a car flickered through the slim gap in the middle of the window curtains drawn behind them. It reflected off of Dean’s eyes for a split second, making Sam flinch. It reminded him of the animals on the side of the highway, peering at them through the bushes before darting away when they drove late at night.

“Begs the question,” Dean continued. “Which one of us is the real monster?”

Sam swallowed. The first real visible sign of him showing some nerves. He’d finally cracked him.

“Since you can hear my heartbeat,” Sam spoke slowly, “what does it say about me now?”

His tone was outwardly calm, but Dean could hear through him.

“It says you’re shit scared, Sammy.”

Sam waited for a few seconds before opening his mouth to respond. Whatever he said, Dean didn’t seem to notice, as his gaze began to shift from Sam’s face down to where the light of the window caught the curve of his exposed bare neck. A pang of hunger swelled in the pit of his chest as the noise and light and intensity of the room faded away until all that was left was the steady sound of the beating, beating, beating.

A sharp, intense pain stung the side of Dean’s neck breaking him free of the trance as he collapsed to the ground groaning and twitching in pain. Through fading vision he looked up to see Sam still sitting on the chair, slouching back, but holding a syringe in his left hand. The contents empty.

“You… sonof-abich…” his words formed a slurry as his body went limp.

“Nice of you to join us Samuel.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Sam’s showing me what all those years of boy scout training taught him to do.”

Dean sat on a chair, his legs, arms and chest bound with thick twine rope. Smiling at Samuel for a moment, he motioned with what little mobility he had in his hands to indicate. Samuel glanced at his brother with a questioning look.

“You did this?”

“He shot me full of dead man’s blood, and I gotta say, that’s one hell of a drug.”

Dean’s tone was dry and unimpressed. Samuel assessed the room, looking as though he wanted to ask more questions, but decided against it.

“Anyway you said you were getting something to help?” Dean’s voice broke the silence.

“This is help.”

Samuel pulled a glass jar out of a brown paper bag, setting it on the table. The contents was dark and viscous. It had sloshed around in transit, coating the airgap at the top of the jar. The light pierced through the clear glass and bright red light danced across the varnished wood tabletop.

“Wh- what is that?”

“Cows blood.” Samuel said curtly.

“That’s help?”

“It’ll keep you alive.”

As he twisted the lid open Dean’s eyes flicked between the jar and the two men.

“Well can you at least untie me first?” he pleaded, his voice straining.

The rope dug into his wrists and the thought of being spoon fed cows blood was sending his mind to a dark and violent place.

“Dean, it's just a precaution.” Samuel attempted to be reassuring.

Dean clenched his jaw. Precaution for what. You weren’t even here to see Sam attack me.

“Oh cut the bullcrap!” Dean spat, pulling against the rope binding his arms and legs. “C three P O over here was a bit too cautious back in the alley and look where it got us!”

Samuel stared at him tensely. Dean winced as a spike of sound ringed in his head from a car horn outside.

“Look I’m fine, Samuel. Really. Just untie me.”

The older man hesitated.

“Please?” Dean cracked a smile that usually got him whatever he wanted.

Usually.

Samuel watched him carefully while he placed the jar lid on the table. The unmistakable smell of iron, meat and death began to waft through the room. He leaned into the scent as he realised just how hungry he was. How dry his throat was. How much the deep, dark red called out to him.

“Samuel I will kill you if you try and hand feed that shit to me.”

The older man raised an eyebrow in response, unimpressed, and picked up the jar.

“Wait!”

Dean grimaced and hissed through gritted teeth as Sam called out from the other side of the table.

“One drop of human blood is enough, are we sure that cow’s blood is clean?”

“Oh you gotta be fucking kidding me Sammy…” Dean groaned.

Samuel paused, running it through his mind, blinking a few times, he contemplated the risk and the chance. Looking back, Sam shrugged silently.

“Sam has a point. If any human blood, from a cut or a scratch, got into this at the abattoir, you’re done.”

Dean ignored him and glared at Sam.

“God I can’t listen to you right now.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Sam blurted in frustration.

“Your fucking heartbeat man! It's so loud, it's so monotonous it’s killing me! Look, Samuel, just cut this fuckin rope and hand me the fuckin jar.”

Reluctantly, and cautiously, he pulled out a hunting knife from a holster on his belt. Staying as far from Dean as possible, he nicked part of the rope on Dean’s right arm just enough for him to wiggle it loose. Waving it in the air and stretching the fingers, Dean looked back to the two who were eyeing him off.

“See that wasn’t so bad now was it.” Dean’s tone was sarcastic and he tapped the armrest with his index finger.

“C’mon guys don’t look so nervous. You can just drug me up again, it’s not like that's off the cards is it Sammy.”

Sam glanced away at the mention of his name, Samuel grunted in frustration as he reached for the jar and took a step towards the chair. In an instant the background thrum of his heart filled Dean’s mind, it was faster, full of nerves and fear compared to Sam’s horribly persistent flat tone. As he approached holding the jar out, Dean felt something shift under his lip.

“NO.”

His voice boomed as he jerked back in his seat, the legs scraping against the floor. Breathing sharply, he tilted his head down avoiding the stares of his associates.

“Get away from me.”

Grunting and breathing through gritted, sharpened teeth, he glanced up.

“Sammy, drop the machete.”

They’d both instinctively reached for their weapons. Brandishing them high, already poised for a clean decapitating swing. Dean growled and heaved deep breaths of air, flexing the remaining restraints. He could break free, if he wanted to. With one arm loose, he could easily rip the remaining rope off. He contemplated the thought, reveling in how powerful it made him feel.

“Dean?”

Samuel’s voice snapped him back to reality. He’d placed his machete back on the table, Sam had lowered his but still gripped it.

Dean extended his free arm out and flicked his hand towards the table.

“Just hand me the fuckin jar already.”

Samuel was quick to oblige, and quicker to back away once Dean had it in his grip. He tried to not dwell on the way his companions looked at his mouth instead of his face. He could feel the second set of teeth against his lips, his tongue. The smell of blood was suffocating him now, a mixture of alluring coppery tones and the stench of raw stale flesh. He wasn’t sure which was making him feel more ill. The pungent aroma or the fact he liked something in it.

“So you two just gonna watch like this is some sort of peep show or what?”

Neither responded, still fixated on his every move. Pulling a face, Dean limply held the jar up as it to toast before bringing it to his lips. Taking a tentative sip, he recoiled as blood spilt down his chin. Groaning and sputtering he violently spat it out.

“Augh, god this tastes disgusting–”

“I promised you help, I didn’t promise it’d taste nice. Now drink it.”

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