ivestoodinathousandstreetscenes:

eddeha:

one-family-under-the-sun:

“The 10th doctor becomes evil and it’s up to the 9th and the 11th doctor to save the universe.”

Do not scroll past this. you have to watch this. Now.

^Thank you for making me watch this one

AU Ellie/Devon, Ellie gets the Intersect, and Devon is secretly an evil operative (like originally planned) who was sent to get close to the Bartowskis

[Made for the It’s Hard to Say Goodbye ficathon. Come play!]

boazpriestly:

The nurse wearing Lucifer’s face just calls you sweetie as you hold onto her left shoulder and squeeze. She asks you what you’re doing and you just shake your head and let go. 

“I’ll come back in a few hours,” she says, touching your face. 

You nod, but keep quiet.

“Nice trick, think it’ll work?” Balthazar asks you as he sits on the desk top. There’s a circle of blood on his chest that oozes as he eats lobster off the plate sitting next to him. 

You lay down and curl up on the bed, your back to him. 

——

A woman named Betty comes by one day and brings a friend. She says his name is Anthony and that he’s just like you. You stay facing the window because she’s young and naive and doesn’t know what you really are. 

“He’s got people in his head too,” she tries to comfort. 

Raphael is sitting behind you, leaning his back against yours. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. 

“He’s just here for the pills,” Raphael states and rips your bed sheet into strips. He’s been making a noose for days now and he swears that he’s almost done, that you’ll like his gift. You don’t think you will, but you lean back onto him, silently telling him you agree with him about Anthony. 

Eventually Becky and Anthony leave and you fall asleep against your dead brother. 

——

The next time you grab someone’s shoulder, it’s Dean. He’s laying on the floor of your room, choking on his own blood and wheezing around the gash in his throat. You don’t mean to grab him the way you do, but your hand in on his shoulder right over the handprint you left him with. 

You call his name over and over, begging him to just look at you and swearing that you’d fix this somehow. And when his eyes meet your there are tears streaming down his face as his body trembles in your arms. 

“You should give him mouth to mouth,” says Jimmy Novak as he crouches down next to you. “Like a kiss of death or something. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To just pucker up and plant one on the oldest Winchester?” 

You ignore him as best you can and try to focus on Dean and how to take away his pain. But Jimmy is rocking on his heels and you can feel his breath on the side of your face. 

It’s then that you realize the way you’re holding onto Dean, the way your hand fits almost perfectly over the scar; nothing is happening. You take your hands back and move away, sitting on the concrete floor. 

“S’wrong?” Jimmy asks, looking at you and then back to Dean. “Why’d you stop?” 

But you just close your eyes as tight as you can and count to a hundred slowly. 

When you open your eyes, Dean and Jimmy are gone. 

——

“You know,” Lucifer says as he throws pieces of lettuce onto your lap. “You’re kind of boring. I mean, at least Sam reacted when I did something to him. You just sit there and stare like you’re waiting for someone.” 

You glance at him for a moment and brush off the food from your pants. 

“They aren’t coming,” he tells you for the three hundred and fifty second time. “It’s been months, Castiel. Face it, they left you and moved on.” 

You look away from him and turn around to face the window. Lucifer sighs behind you and tosses the entire sandwich at your back. 

——

Claire Novak has dyed her hair. It’s dark like her father’s and she’s wearing a brown sweater that’s been fashioned to look like the overcoat you and Jimmy used to wear. She sits in the chair next to your bed and plays with her cellphone. 

She never talks you when she visits, and you prefer it that way. 

You wouldn’t know what to say if she did. Wouldn’t know how to answer all the questions you know she’s begging to ask. 

So you just sit in silence with her and listen to the soft clicks of her fingers on the tiny keyboard as she texts for hours until it’s time for her to switch with someone else. 

——

“They aren’t coming,” Adam whispers in the dark and he lays beside you in the too small bed. “I waited for years and years and years and…” His body shakes and you hear the tiny sob escape his throat. 

You reach for his hand and hold his fingers between your own.

I’m sorry, you try to say; but you haven’t used your voice since you took Sam’s pain and you aren’t sure you even remember how to. 

Adam squeezes your hand, though, and looks at you. “Me too,” he says. 

——

“Cas,” the voice calls to you, soft and melodic, nothing you haven’t heard before. “Cas can you hear me?” 

Your chest aches as he says your name and you want him to just go away. You’ll take Rachel and her rage or Uriel with his guilt trips, you’ll even gladly let Alistair dissect you to see what color angel’s really bleed, but you don’t want Dean, not today. Not when you know there isn’t a chance of him really being there. 

So you don’t look kneels in front of you and says he and Sam found a way to fix you. You close your eyes when he touches your leg and tells you that they’re taking you with them tonight, that you’re gonna be okay - he promises. 

This is the cruelest think Lucifer has ever done to you and you want it to stop. Now. 

He calls your name again and you push him. Shove him back by his shoulders and scream in your head for him to just go away. But as you move him, you hold him, because he’s solid, his body hard. He feels different than the others and your eyes snap open, staring at the worried green that watches you. 

You lift your hand slowly and Dean traces your movement like a cat with spot of light. You only have this one shot, this last hoorah; if it doesn’t work, if this is just another game, you’re done. You won’t survive. 

But you touch his shoulder and your hand burns, cold fire searing your palm and bringing tears to your eyes. You let them fall as you lock your eyes to Dean’s and he’s just as shocked as you are. 

“They told me you weren’t coming back,” you finally say, your voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, but louder than anything you’ve ever heard. 

“Did you believe them?” Dean asks. 

“Not once.”

Dean smiles and then his arms are around you, hugging you tight. It takes you a moment, but then you grab fistfuls of his jacket just hold him. 

You don’t know how long you stay that way, but once you’re in the backseat of the Impala, with Sam and Dean in front, you turn to Lucifer who’s sitting next to you, a pout on his face. 

He glares at you and you smile. “I win.” 

iamthemagicks:

“What are you doing here?” Lisa asks with a sigh, Dean lingering just outside her door. No swagger this time, no cheshire grin and wet, pink lips. He looks lost; like he has been driving for hours, only stopped here by chance, and accident.

She rubs her stomach, the material of her shirt starting stretch out over her expanding belly. Not a lot, not yet; but there’s a definite curve, obvious. Dean has been MIA since she told him four weeks ago, when she still looked normal. No evidence of their bendy weekend besides her need to vomit. She never expected to see him again. She gave him the out.

He clears his throat, looks down at the ground. Wet pavement, his sneakers kicking at some gravel into puddle. “I wanna be here,” he says. Sounds lost too, his voice empty of that confidence he generally oozes. 

Another sigh and she rubs her temples; she’s been getting migraines lately, and craving Cheetos at all hours of the night. “I don’t need anything from you, Dean,” she says and it looks like he’s hurt by it. “I mean…” she clarifies. “I don’t want you sticking around because of some silly moral obligation.” She stands proud as she folds her arms. Her mother did it basically alone, so can she. 

“No.” He steps over the threshold, just into the apartment, encompassing almost all of her personal space. The smell of him is enough to make her knees go weak, to make the space between her legs ache for him. Leather and gun powder. Cologne and rain. She thinks she could cry, with Dean Winchester on her porch, looking as sad as he does, as lonely. 

He puts his hands on her hips and pulls her in, tight. Like he’ll never let go, like she’s the only thing keeping him attached to this earth. He breathes in her hair, reaches around to rest his hands at the small over back. “I wanna be here,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. 

Loosely, she rests her arms over his shoulders, lets him hold her tight. “If that’s what you want,” she manages to say, though she wants to laugh and cry at the same time, be giddy and wonderful. But she keeps calm, because this could snap at any second.

Dean pulls back a bit and looks her in the eye, really looks her dead on. But it’s only a second before he takes a hand from her hip and slips it under the material of her shirt to curve his hand around her stomach, his palms cold and fingers wet. And he answers, with positive awe in his voice. “I want this.”

ironnman:

idbelostwithoutmyblogger:

THEY’RE SMILING AT THEIR CHILD

CANNOT UNSEE

LOOK AT THEIR PROUD PATERNAL FACES

#Father, Dad… #I just wanted to tell you that I got an A* in that Chemistry exam and I’m getting my firearms licence soon #My teacher loved the colour of that chemical you helped me make Father #Oh and Dad, thanks for helping me practice my aim

“Dad? Father?” 

“Yes Greg?” John smiled slightly at his son as he approached the table. Sherlock leaned back as he read through the paper, a knowing smirk already spread across his lips. Gregory Holmes was seventeen, tall, and had by far the sweetest smile that John had ever seen on a child his age. You would never know he was adopted.

“I just wanted to let you know, I got an A on my Chemistry exam,” Greg murmured with a huge smile, making Sherlock look up from his reading with a proud gleam in his eyes. He didn’t say anything though, simply smiled, looked at John, and looked back down at his paper. 

“Good job,” John said happily, patting his son on the back with the same wide smile that had appeared as soon as Greg had made his announcement. “Have you thought any more about the military?”

Truth be told, and both Sherlock and Greg knew this, John didn’t want the boy to go into the military. Didn’t want him anywhere near the middle east or an M16, or camouflage uniforms. Sherlock’s free hand crept onto his husband’s knee as Greg sat down though, calming John so that they could talk civilly.

“Well,” Greg started, pouring himself a cup of tea, “I think I’m going to join the police force instead. Uncle Greg said he’d help me study for the tests. And you’ve already taught me how to shoot a gun.”

“Well thank god Anderson’s been transferred,” Sherlock said with a derisive snort, sitting his paper down and taking a drink of his own tea. “I wouldn’t want him lowering your IQ - he did quite a number on your dad before he left.”

“Sherlock!” John reprimanded with a hint of a smile on his face, before looking back at their son. “Well, if your Uncle Greg already said he’d help you study I don’t think I have any room to argue. What do you think Sherlock?”

“Lestrade isn’t as stupid as Anderson and Donovan, so I suppose I’m not adverse.”

John covered his mouth as he tried not to laugh, watching Greg do the same. 

“Father, all three of us know that everyone is stupid compared to you,” Greg laughed, taking a drink and leaning back in his chair. 

Sherlock smiled a bit. 

“Not the two of you.”

rrrowr:

aburninggiraffe:

#sometimes i think about someone writing the fic where sherlock is actually someone that john created to ease his loneliness after the war #in fact everyone is just a figment of john’s imagination #and it’s one of the reasons why we never see sherlock eat #plot bunnies

well fuck you too. it’s not like I would live and breathe fic like this if it existed or anything

It’s why no one visits Sherlock’s blog. It’s why Mrs. Hudson suggests that he might not need the second bedroom. It’s why John is walking through an empty building in the first episode, but then enters the perfect room to see Sherlock and the taxi driver in the building across. None of the crimes actually happen. It’s just John standing around in mostly unpopulated areas.

fanfictioncatalogue:

You can always request, suggest, or ask or even share to help us fill out our catalogue :)

IT’S HARD TO SAY GOODBYE; a chuck comment ficathon @ lj
prompt, write, promote and just generally spread the chuck love!

strawberrybeatle:

At first there was nothing but the drip-drip-dripping of milk spilled from the bag of shopping, now slumped and forgotten on the floor. Sherlock did not wait for others to speak, as a rule, but this was John. John who had saved him. John who had run beside him. John who had defended him, put up with him, marveled at him. John who had befriended him.

John who he hadn’t seen in years.

“Sher—” John tried. “Sherlock?” He seemed to start forward, then changed his mind and planted his feet once more. Sherlock was fixated upon the unreadable churning in his eyes. Unreadable. That was new.

“But you— I mean… it’s been three years.”

“John…”

“Three years.”

Sherlock shifted nervously. “John, I am so…”

“Three bloody years!”

The anger in his old friend’s voice sent a thrill up Sherlock’s spine. It was as if he had once again neglected the shopping, or mussed the kitchen so thoroughly that John could no longer take it. Hearing that snap, he could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that nothing more had happened than the usual domestic trifle. However, such a pretense could never hold.

“I fear any apology I could make would be insufficient.” He could barely meet John’s eye; he would look away if he weren’t so afraid that if he did, the scene would disappear entirely. “Shout, if you like. Or punch me. Hard as you can, I won’t blame you.” He was prepared for this eventuality.

John approached him with something like caution; perhaps he thought it all to be some vicious trap. He raised a hand and Sherlock steeled himself for the blow, but it did not come. John’s palm pressed against Sherlock’s chest for just a moment. The weary detective’s heart skipped into it as John’s storming eyes flooded. His voice came again without a hint of the edge it had held before.

“I missed you.”