Author's Note: Hi, everyone! This is my first story for the SPN fandom. I wrote this before the rest of s10 aired, so a lot of what takes place here isn't canon. Quick disclaimer: I don't own Sam, Dean, Charlie, Cas, or the rest of the familiarities from Supernatural. I do own Jenna, the OFC in this fic, and the plot of this particular story. I also don't own any of the lyrics you see in the story or in the title, which are from the song "Finding North" by The Civil Wars.
If you read, please review! I'd love to hear what you think.
my head is full of lonely harmonies
and questions no one's asking me
who's gonna take my hand, show me the way?
how long will i have to wait for someday?
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Dean knows he shouldn't have come, but he needs to be away from his brother, and from… from Charlie's body. He needs… he doesn't know what he needs.
(No, you know you need her, his mind supplies)
His mind is moving at a million miles per hour and he can't stop thinking that everything that's happened is all his fault. He is angry, and part of him that is affected by the Mark blames his brother for what happened tonight, but he can't think about that now. If he thinks about it, he'll think about how he got his best friend killed because she was trying to save his life. He doesn't want to think about that. He wants to remember her the way she deserves to be — the badass computer programmer who was braver than anyone ever gave her credit for. A stifled tear makes it's way down his cheek as he thinks about her.
He is stumbling on his feet, dead tired, but he keeps going, keeps moving until he sees the door of the apartment he's looking for. Glancing around to make sure he isn't being followed, he knocks abruptly on the door, the noise loud and unnatural to his ears. He isn't okay; he knows he is minutes away from breaking down, but he can't be alone right now, can't stand the thought of going home to a bunch of empty rooms.
When she answers the door, he wants to weep. Jenna Harlan looks exactly how he remembers her, her auburn hair long and tumbling over her shoulders, a crease appearing in her forehead when she lays eyes on him. "Dean-" She says, but stops herself, opening the door wider so he can come inside. He watches as she glances down the hallway, ever watchful, and he would laugh in any other circumstance. She mistakes his lingering look for one of suspicion, and turns to face him. "The whole place is warded, and I've still got the rock salt under the floorboards. Are you..." she takes a step closer to him, probably noticing the bags under his eyes, and her voice gets impossibly quiet. "Dean, what happened?"
His head drops and he lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Normally he would never let anyone see him like this, not even Sam, but right now he is at his wit's end. He can't do this anymore, not alone, and when he opens his eyes again he finds that she's even closer, her brown eyes looking golden in the dim light of her apartment.
"Dean."
"I'm... I'm so fucking tired." He says, and his voice is gravely, unrecognizable even to his own ears. "I just needed... I can't go back to the bunker right now."
"Is Sam...?" She trails off, not wanting to finish her question.
"He's fine. I'm fine. It's... It's Charlie. She's..." He can't say it. He can't finish his sentence because he still can't believe that this is real, that he's actually telling her this.
"Oh, Dean..." She says, and her tone is not pitying, but full of sorrow, and he doesn't hesitate when she moves forward to wrap her arms around him.
He melts into her, and she holds him tightly, rubbing his back and murmuring nonsensical words into his ear. He struggles to catch his breath and hold back his tears, and he buries his face in her neck to stifle them. He pulls away from her suddenly, inhaling sharply, trying to reign in his emotions. He needs to be stronger than this. He needs to have control over his grief, even when he feels like he's spiraling out of control in every other area of his life.
"No." He says harshly, pushing away. "No, I can't do this. I can't lose it right now."
"What can I do?" She whispers, "Tell me what to do."
"I just..." He takes a deep breath, trying to get control of himself before he hyperventilates, "I want her back. I want my little sister back."
"Dean," Jenna says, her voice cracking as tears fill her eyes. She knows what Charlie meant to him, knows that he let himself get attached to the redheaded girl with the big heart, and she's the only one who probably knows what he's feeling. She's lost people too, too many people (it's why they met, after all), and he can't do it anymore.
"Sam... Sam got her caught up in researching some stuff. He kept it from me, and these people found her..."
"Shh, don't," she tells him, ushering him over to the plush couch in her living room. He sinks into it gratefully, all the grief he's consumed with seemingly weighing him down. "Don't move. Just… wait right there."
As if he's going anywhere. He knows he's losing it. He didn't react like this often, and a tiny argument in the back of his head wanted to shout that he hadn't reacted like this when he thought Cas was dead, or all the countless times when he thought he lost his brother, but he knew it was different. He didn't have the Mark for all those times. He didn't have the extra voice in his head that's telling him that it was his fault, that everything that was going to happen was his fault. He didn't have the voice in his head that's telling him to be reckless, to go out and find the Stein's, and take everything from them.
He barely registers Jenna coming back into the room, a tumbler of whisky in her hand. She sets it down on the coffee table in front of him and takes a seat across from him in an overstuffed armchair, eyeing him warily. She doesn't anything else, and he's grateful for the few minutes she gives him to try and get his thoughts together. He can feel her gaze burning into him and he doesn't want to see the pity in her eyes. He doesn't want to see her concern either, because he doesn't deserve it. If she only knew the thoughts running rampant in his head… she'd be running for the hills if she knew what he was thinking of doing.
"I shouldn't have come here," he says, and he winces, not realizing he spoke aloud. "I don't want to drag you into this."
(Like Charlie, his mind practically shouts)
"Too late for that now, isn't it?" She asks, her eyes piercing through him. Damn her, he thinks, damn her for always being able to see right through him and not putting up with his shit. It's what drew him to her in the first place, when they met, when he kept trying to make up excuses for why she shouldn't help him and his brother fight the thing that killed her friends, and she slapped him across the face so hard he still swears to this day he saw actual stars. "You don't have to tell me what's going on. Just be here."
"I'm not… I'm not safe to be around, right now." He tells her slowly, trying to find the words to explain to her that he isn't sure if he can trust himself anymore. He's afraid that he's going to let the Mark get the better of him. No matter how many times he tells his brother that he has it under control and that he's dealing with it, he's not. He knows he's not. He takes the drink off the table and downs it in one gulp.
"You wouldn't have come here if you really thought that," she says, and she says it with such finality that he can't even think up a good argument. That's another thing he admires about Jenna — her ability to cut right through the bullshit and tell people how it's going to be. When he meets her eyes, he sees a lot of emotions there, mostly apprehension, but not fear. He doesn't think he'd be able to handle it if she was afraid of him. Not her.
"I'm losing myself." That one sentence rings out in the silence of the room, and he wants to shut his eyes again when he sees her move off of her chair and come to kneel in front of him, her hands resting on his knees.
"Dean." It's one word, just his name, but it's a plea and a reassurance all at once.
"You… you don't know what's been happening to me. You don't know what's been going on. I've been… I've done things."
"You don't need to justify yourself to me," she says, her hands reaching out to grab his, "So it's been a few months since we've talked." She shrugs, "So what? You're allowed to feel whatever it is you're feeling."
Dean feels little pieces of the armor he keeps around himself beginning to crack at the earnest look in her eyes. She's too good for him. She's so good, and she's more than he could ever hope to be, and he honestly doesn't know why she even bothered to let him into her home. He feels his hand shaking as he reaches up to tuck a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear, and is gratified when she shivers a bit at his touch.
They've been deeply connected from the minute they met, when she had just seen two of her friends die, and when she was a second away from hysterics as Dean and Sam explained to her that all of the things that gave her nightmares as a kid were real. The look in Jenna's eyes had changed from near-hysteria to determination so fast, and Dean thinks he was probably a goner right from that moment on. She was scared and didn't try to hide it, but fought through it, and that's why he still firmly believes she's stronger than him and his brother combined. It's one thing to bury your fear far from the surface and force yourself to be brave, but it's another altogether to face that fear and let it guide you.
They've never been intimate, but in a way, Dean thinks his friendship with Jenna is the most intimate he's ever had. She's able to understand him in a way that not even his brother can, and it means more to him that he thinks she realizes. He doesn't know if he's in love with her, but he cares about her, and he trusts her just as much as he trusts Sam. They've kept in touch in the months since they met, mostly just the odd phone call here and there, and a few texts, but nothing crazy. He hasn't seen her in person in 6 months.
That's why his first instinct told him to come here. He can't talk to Cas, he can't be around Sam right now, and the only one left is her.
(That voice in his head tells him that while she's the only one left to talk to, she's the only one period that he wants to see right now, the only person he can stand to let see him break down like this)
"Jen…" He trails off, not even sure what he was going to say, but needing to fill the silence.
"You're okay. You're going to be okay." She says softly, her hands reaching up to frame his face, and he leans into her touch, soaking up the warmth that emanates from her like a furnace.
He doesn't know how long they sit there like that, but he knows she must be losing all the feeling in her legs, and his thoughts are confirmed when he pulls her to her feet and watches as she winces. "You should get some sleep. It's the middle of the night."
"That's rich, coming from you," she says, her tone harsh, but her eyes soft. "When is the last time you slept?"
He can't remember.
He can't remember the last time he slept a full night without nightmares, or crippling insomnia.
"That's what I thought," she says dryly, "follow me."
She pulls him by the hand into her bedroom and he wants to protest, but he's so, so tired. She rifles through her drawers as he stands awkwardly in the center of the room, and when she straightens again, she's holding a pair of sweatpants that look about three sizes too big for her. He feels his chest tighten as he wonders where she got them from, but shakes the thought off as soon as it appears.
"Thanks." He says when she hands them to him, and he goes into the bathroom to change, not wanting to make her uncomfortable in her own bedroom.
He avoids looking at himself in the mirror, not because he's afraid of what he'll see, but because he already knows. He knows he has bags under his eyes, knows that he's pale and looks sick. He is sick, really. The Mark is taking its toll on him and even though he denies it, he knows it's true. He spares a thought for what Jenna must see when she looks at him, but he doesn't want to think too hard about that.
When he comes back into her bedroom, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of her. She's curled on her side, her back to him, in a nest of blankets. Her hair forms a halo on the pillow underneath her head, and she tilts her head slightly in his direction at the noise of the bathroom door closing behind him. He feels his breath back up in his lungs when she reaches for the opposite corner of her duvet, pulling it back in clear invitation. He knows deep in his heart that he should leave. He knows he's not good for her, not good for anyone, but he also knows that there's a huge part of him that wants nothing more than to sink into these blankets with her and sleep for the next two days.
In the end, his heart wins out, and he pads across the room to her bed, sliding in between the sheets with her, sighing when she molds herself to him instantly, reveling in her warmth and the familiar smell of her. "Thank you," he whispers, and she doesn't say anything, but she burrows closer to him and takes his hand. When she begins rubbing small circles on the back of his hand, moving over his knuckles gently, he feels his throat tighten again at her tenderness. He freezes when her hand moves up his arm, and before he knows it, she's tracing the outline of the Mark on his forearm. "Jen," he chokes out her name, trying to remove his arm from her grasp, but she shushes him and only grips him tighter, her fingers soft and gentle against the raised skin on his arm.
"Let me take care of you," she says, and he wants to let her, he wants to lay here with her and let her make him forget about how shitty his life is, how terrible he is becoming. He wants to let her do all those things, and wants to promise her that he'll be here in the morning when she wakes up, but he knows he can't. He can only give himself one night.
"I have to leave in the morning," he says, "I have to get back and figure out what to do about Sam, and we have to…" he trails off, swallowing hard, "… we have to have a funeral."
She turns in his arms, her eyes full of something he can't name (not sympathy, not pity, and for that he's grateful). "You can go whenever you want, Dean. I want you to stay, you know I always want you to stay, but I know you have a life that you can't just walk away from. I would never ask you to do that. I just want to make sure you're taking care of yourself before you go and take care of everyone else."
He looks at her for a long minute after she finishes speaking, awed once more at the way she's able to cut to the truth of everything so quickly. He's hurting and he's grieving and he's angry, and he showed up at her apartment without a moment's notice after not speaking to her for nearly six months, and she's still worried about him and taking care of him. He doesn't hesitate to pull her closer and kiss her, because what else is he supposed to do when he's feeling so many things? How else can he show her what she means to him? How else can he make her see that if he could, he'd stay here with her for the rest of his life?
She kisses him back with equal fervor, one hand in his hair and the other still a gentle weight on the Mark on his arm. Her mouth opens to him easily, this kiss feeling like so much more than a first kiss. It feels like they've done this a hundred times before, and he thinks that it's probably because he's dreamed about it so much, wanted her so much. He doesn't allow himself to get this emotional on a regular basis; knowing that his heightened emotions are only going to get him in trouble in the long run.
When they break apart, he's unable to open his eyes, not wanting to see her for fear that it will only make it harder to leave when the morning comes, if not sooner.
"Dean," she says, and she's breathless and it hits him like a punch to the gut, his eyes flying open against his will. Her pupils are blown wide and her lips are swollen, and he lets out an audible groan before capturing her mouth again, feeling her body slide against his softly as he pulls her tighter against him, reveling in the shiver that goes through her entire body at his touch.
He moves to roll her underneath him, one of his legs sliding between hers, and his eyes fly open again when he feels her hands slide under his t-shirt her touch igniting a fire in his veins. "Jenna—" he gasps when her nails scratch lightly down his spine, and he arches against her involuntarily. She grins wickedly at him and the thrumming of his heart increases tenfold at the sight of her, her hair spread wild around her head and her body warm and soft against him.
"This isn't exactly what I meant when I said I'd take care of you, you know," she tells him, and his heart almost stops until he registers the teasing tone of her voice. When he glances down at her she's still grinning, and a smile comes across his face against his will.
"So does that mean I'm taking advantage of you?"
"I think you'll find I'm the one taking advantage of you," she corrects him, before surprising him with her strength as she hooks a leg around his, flipping them over so she's on top of him, creating a delicious friction between them that has them both sighing in satisfaction. When her mouth finds his again, he loses all sense of time, and the only thing that exists is the two of them.
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Dean is surprised when he opens his eyes and sees that it's morning. He hadn't intended to stay this long, but when he glances down at the woman next to him, he can't say he has any regrets about it.
The night before was incredible. He doesn't throw around that word lightly, but he knows that he needed her, even if it's only for one night. He reaches a hand out and brushes the hair out of Jenna's eyes, grateful that she doesn't stir even when his fingers graze her cheek. He waits for the regret to hit him, waits to feel the bittersweet ache to take over his body that he shouldn't have done this, but it never comes.
He knows he needs to leave. He needs to get back to the bunker, back to Sam… back to take care of Charlie. There's a lump in his throat at the thought of it and he wonders what Sam would think if he brought Jenna back to the bunker with him. He feels like he could get through having to bury his friend if she was there with him. He shakes off the thought almost as soon as it comes, however, knowing that having her there would only result in her being in danger. He can't let that happen.
"You're still here," he hears her say, and looks down to see one of her eyes cracked open, a small smile on her face. "I thought you would have been gone hours ago."
He clears his throat, "I slept, I guess." He says uncomfortably. "I can't remember the last time I slept through the night."
She's smiling at him again, a gentle, understanding smile, and he wants to hit something because he's going to have to leave her at some point. He's going to have to leave and he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to leave the comfort she brings with her behind him. He doesn't want to leave the security of knowing he won't have nightmares as long as she's right there sleeping beside him.
"You're thinking too hard," she chides, her forehead creasing as she frowns.
"Can't help it," he admits, shrugging. "Got a lot on my mind."
She leans in and kisses him before he can say anything else, and he lets out a muffled groan against her lips at the feeling of her soft, warm body pressed against his. He wishes things were different for the thousandth time. His heart lurches at the thought, and he knows he needs to leave before it gets too hard.
"I need to go. Sam will be waiting for me," he says, but his voice is weak and he can feel the lump in his throat start to reappear when he thinks about what he's going home to.
(A funeral, a funeral for a girl who should have never been involved in the first place, a girl that he was supposed to save)
"I want to come with you." It's not a request, it's practically a demand, and Dean opens his mouth to protest, but she beats him to it. "Dean, you need someone right now. Whether you want to admit it right now, you're not okay, and you need help."
"I'm not— Sam and I, we're not—"
"I'm not going to try and force you to talk to your brother. I just want to be there for you. For both of you."
He curses under his breath because he knows that he could never say no to her. "Wear that talisman I gave you. Don't take it off." He says, and even though his voice is grim, she smiles softly at him. "I'm serious, Jen."
"You're always serious," she says, rolling her eyes, "I'll be careful. Plus, I've got you to watch my back, don't I?"
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They get to the bunker sometime in the late afternoon. Dean is tense, every line and muscle in his body pulled taut as he pulls the Impala into the garage and shuts off the engine. Normally he would be itching to show this place off to Jen, but he's so filled with dread that he can barely move.
"C'mon," she says quietly, opening the door and forcing him to do the same on the other side of the car. She moves to stand next to him and takes his hand, squeezing it lightly. "You can do this."
Dean isn't so sure, but he takes the first step forward, still clutching her hand like a lifeline. They make their way into the bunker, and the silence that greets them is overwhelming. For a moment, Dean is worried that something else has happened, but he knows that despite their differences right now, Sam and Cas would have called him if anything serious was going on. He freezes when he sees a spare sweatshirt of Charlie's hanging on a peg near the door, and shuts his eyes tightly, willing it to disappear.
"Dean." His brother's voice comes from the doorway to the kitchen, and when Dean looks up, he sees Sam, looking worse for the wear, looking at him with a mixture of sorrow and fear on his face. To Sam's credit, his eyes only briefly stray to Jenna before they land back on him. "I didn't know where you went and you weren't answering your phone…"
"Sorry," Dean says, and though he's surprised at the coldness of his voice, it doesn't surprise him that he can't quite figure out what he's feeling while he looks at his little brother. He doesn't know where to begin. He's still so angry, but it's tempered since he's been with Jenna, and the weight of her hand in his is an anchor, keeping him from lashing out like the Mark desperately wants him to.
"Dean, I'm— I don't…" Sam starts, stuttering, his eyes glazed over with grief, "I don't know what to say. I don't know how to fix this."
"Nothing to fix, Sammy," Dean says, almost flippantly, but he stops when he feels Jenna squeeze his hand in warning.
"Dean." She says his name slowly, quietly, and Dean feels like a child who has been scolded. He knows he shouldn't lash out. He knows that nothing good can come from him blaming his brother for Charlie's death, or for being angry with him, but he feels the anger like a living thing taking residence inside of him. "Sam," she says, "I'm so sorry about Charlie." Her hand slips from Dean's then, and she moves towards Sam, gathering him up in a hug.
Not for the first time, Dean marvels at her capacity for love and for compassion. When Jenna pulls away, there's relief on Sam's face. Gratitude also.
"We need to have a funeral," Sam says quietly. "I know you're angry and you blame me… and I'll never— I'll never forgive myself for what I let happen to her. The least we could do is make sure she's put to rest."
Talking about Charlie in the past tense is a punch to Dean's gut and he's grateful when Jenna takes the reins, asking Sam what they need to do to get prepared, and Dean feels as if he's on auto pilot. He's shaken out of it when Sam leaves the room, and he realizes Jenna is in front of him, her eyes wary as she looks at him. "Come on," she says softly, and they follow Sam out into the wooded area behind the bunker.
They all stop when they get to a clearing where Sam has clearly already been at work. There's the beginnings of the pyre, and the body. He doesn't want to call her by her name, doesn't want to acknowledge that the bundle on the ground is his friend. Bringing her body back home after they found her had been hard enough, and he's still not sure he can go through this. He know she deserves it, he knows that she was as much a hunter as any of them, but the thought of what they have to do is almost as bad as when they had to do the same for their Dad.
"I couldn't find anything nicer, all we had were these old sheets, and I'm—"
"It's fine, Sammy." Dean says, and Sam's gaze snaps to his, noting that for the first time in what feels like days, there's no trace of malice in Dean's voice. "Let's just… let's just get the wood."
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won't someone wake me up, open these eyes?
won't someone even try?
At the end, when it's all over, Dean is barely holding it together, and he knows Sam is no better, considering all the things Dean had said to him. He can't even remember what prompted it. He remembers feeling Jenna trying to grip his hand and pull him away, trying to get him to calm down, but he had ignored her, just feeling all the grief and anger coursing through him trying to release itself all at once. He doesn't think he'll ever forget the look on Sam's face when he told him that he should have been on the pyre instead of Charlie. Jesus, what had he been thinking?
(You're not thinking, you're letting the Mark think for you, a voice in his head tells him, and he's inclined to believe it)
The door to his bedroom opens, and Jenna comes in, looking exhausted.
"Jen…" he starts, but shuts his mouth just as quickly, not knowing what to say.
"I don't know what to say to you right now, Dean." She tells him, and he winces, swallowing past that ever growing lump in his throat. "Sam is… Sam is not okay right now. Really not okay."
"I didn't… I don't know what happened."
"You're angry and grieving and you took it out on your brother," she says, not pulling any punches. "He didn't deserve that."
"If he would have just stayed out of it like I told him in the first place, Charlie never would have been—"
"You told your brother you wished he was dead!" She nearly shouts, her eyes wide and her chest heaving. He's never seen her angry at him before. "I know you're going through a lot right now. I know you're dealing with things that you haven't even told me about, but Dean… you're all he has."
Dean sits back down, putting his head in his hands. He takes a shaky breath before turning to face her, "This is why I didn't want you to come with me. I didn't want you to see… I'm not a good person, Jenna," he tells her, his voice cracking. "You should go."
"You don't get to do that." Her voice is fierce, and he looks up in surprise, seeing her not feet front him, a finger pointed in his direction. "You showed up at my apartment looking like…" she trails off, swallowing hard, "I haven't seen you in six months but I let you in, and I let you stay, and we… we—"
"I know, Jen—"
"Do you? You came to me when you needed someone, and I came here for you, for you and Sam, to try to… to try to help you! You don't get to turn me away when you suddenly decide you don't need me anymore."
"That's not what I'm doing—"
"Yes it is. You might think its for my own good, or that you're trying to protect me, but that's bullshit, Dean."
"I can't do this right now." He says, making like he's about to leave the room, but she stops him with a hand on his arm.
"Don't let this thing make you someone you're not. Don't push me away. Don't push your brother away."
They're both quiet for a long time, and Dean absently rubs at the Mark on his arm as he tries to think of what he could possibly say that would make her understand what he's feeling. He isn't quite sure he can put into words what the Mark is doing to him.
"I know you're struggling," she says, as if reading his thoughts, "and that's okay. You don't have to be super human all the time, Dean."
"I don't know how to be any different," he tells her slowly, the words feeling like they're being dragged out of him, "I don't know how to do anything other than protect people, and I should have protected her. I promised her I would keep her safe."
"She knew what she was doing, Dean. Sam told me that Charlie emailed him a file right before she…" Jenna trails off, swallowing hard, "He told me what she said to you on the phone. She loved you," she continues, her voice soft as she gets closer to him, "she loved you so much she was willing to put her life on the line to save you, and she would want you to believe that you're worth that."
"I'm not, though." He whispers, "I'm not worth it. I'm not worth her life!"
He feels like they're talking about more than just Charlie now, that somehow this is morphing into a conversation about the two of them instead of about him and Charlie and Sam. He doesn't want to bring it up, doesn't want to make the conversation hurt more than it already does.
"When I first met you, you saved my life," she says softly, her voice coming from right beside him now, "You saved my life and you would barely look at me when I thanked you."
"It's my job—"
"You're deflecting, Dean. You're a hero to people. Don't you know that? You're a hero to your brother, to those countless people you've saved… to me."
She's right, that he can barely look at her as she tries so hard to get him to see what he's worth. He's never been comfortable accepting praise or thanks from people, and she's so sincere in her gratitude that it's hard for him to even look her in the eye, especially when all he can feel is guilt.
"You're too good for me." He tells her, and she rolls her eyes.
"I'll be the judge of that, thanks."
"Things are about to get messy," he tells her, a warning, "I can't guarantee what I'm going to do."
She shrugs, "Nothing about your life is guaranteed, Dean, but I have a good feeling about you. The world isn't done with you yet." She leans over to press a kiss to his cheek, "Neither am I."
He exhales and feels a weight lift off his shoulder at her silent promise. He isn't sure what the next few days are going to bring. He can feel everything they've been dealing with coming to a head, and he knows he's not in the best headspace to deal with it all, but he needs to do it. He needs to get rid of the Mark. He needs to make amends with his brother. He needs to find a way to forgive Cas for being in on the entire thing and keeping it from him. He needs to find a way to keep Jenna around without spending every waking second terrified for her safety.
He's a work in progress, but he thinks that with her, the job might be easy, at least for a little while.
it's not the sky i'm asking for
i'm just having trouble finding north
i've gone as far as i can go
trying to find something that feels like home
who's gonna take my hand, show me the way?
how long will i have to wait for someday?
fin
There you have it, friends! I hope you enjoyed this! If you did, please leave me a note! Reviews are so great and as a writer, they really help keep me inspired to keep writing. Also if you'd like to chat, you can find me on Tumblr .com - Thanks!