"I'm not afraid of dying; I just don't want to be there when it happens." -Woody Allen
It is dark in her room, the only light came from her laptop screen.
_I only like to read top!Dean. Sometimes, I'll read a switch story, but top!Dean's my favorite.
Mel frowns and shakes her head slowly as she reads the comment. "Some people," she thinks, rolling her eyes.
She types her own comment in the white square shaped space below it:
_Dean is most definitely a bottom. Every time you watch an episode he's always on the bottom. Yes, there are a few moments where he flips them over, but he's always on bottom. That, is with hetero relationships and Ok, so if you go in to Slash, Dean he would be a stubborn ass and try to always be on top, because he'd think it was the chick position.
She feels deep down in her soul that after Dean gets over his tentative approach to male on male sex that he'll let go and love being a bottom. His personality is a sub if she's ever seen one. 'Like' notifications start popping up underneath her comment and she smiles. Apparently, a lot of people agree with her. She grabs the can of Mountain Dew from the corner of her desk and it's cold beneath her palm. Moisture begins to run down her fingers and she blanches.
After taking a few sips she sets it back down and shakes her hand to try and get as much of the moisture off as she can. One thing she really hates is getting her hands wet. Well, taking a bath or swimming doesn't bother her. Mostly it's only a problem when a sudden wetness catches her off guard and she doesn't like having to take the time to dry her hand off so that she can use safely use her keyboard again. The last thing she wants to do is go find a towel. She roughly swipes the hand down the front leg of her jeans and feels the coolness on the skin beneath as it seeps through the cloth.
She makes sure that her hand is completely dry before she touches her keyboard again. Clearing her throat, she slides a index finger along the cursor until the arrow is hovering over the second tab she has pulled up. Djanga SLASH is a website that she and her best friend Eliot Djanga runs and it's usually always up for her to go to. They had gotten the idea to create it one night when they were I.M.'ing each other about Slash. She didn't remember most of the conversation, but their excitement had gotten so high that they'd decided that they were tired of all the drama centered around the Slash community.
They'd wanted a space where they could just create and enjoy slashy goodness. Destiel, Sabriel and especially Wincest were her favorite ships and she and Eliot both loved researching fics centered around them and coming up with stuff that people didn't write about. Like, doing Twilight/Supernatural cross overs or making John Winchester a proper good father in AU worlds. She always liked to write things in a way that were convincing.
Most Supernatural fans seemed to hate Twilight and they took it as a personal offense for a writer to go there. John Winchester was always written as a dead beat dad who ruined his children's life or he was written as a complete monster who beat and in some fics, even raped his children. Especially Dean. As much as the twisted part of herself liked to read these fics she still didn't like dark!John Winchester. Yes, he did force his kids in to the Hunter lifestyle, but his wife was murdered and when your mission in life is to exact revenge on the monster who killed the love of your life, then sacrifices were necessary.
Where feelings were concerned, Mel agreed with this assessment, but also thought that he still could have done a better job with his children. It was one of her soul missions in life to do things because she wanted to and ok, maybe she got a tinge of spiteful gratification by doing things that she knew people hated. Her mind smiled evilly. She'd admit it, she was complicated and had... issues. Djanga's design was minimalist.
A dark red strip was placed at the top of the page. Djanga SLASH was black and written in the Paranormal Scripts font. The letters curved sharply at the tips and there was just enough of a swirl to keep it from looking Gothic. It was playful and she agreed that it had been the right choice every time she saw it. Neither she nor Eliot liked regular navigation bars.
They had searched through Ink Art until they found a fully shaded circle to use instead. They decided that they wanted the circles to be black so that they could use the same dark red color from the heading strip to use as the text color. One circle took readers to her slash fics and one took them to Eliot's. She clicked on her link and the page quickly swiped to the left revealing a similar page in font and background. On this page there was no heading strip and black boxes started at the top of the page and continued downwards.
Each box had the title of a separate fic she'd written on it. She clicked the top box and it expanded revealing an almost finished sentence in red font.
It took a lot more energy than she wanted to admit to look up at his face...," the sentence began.
Her hands hovered over the keyboard as she squeezed her fingers together to work out some of the tightness in her joints. The flood of relief she felt when she relaxed her fingers was immediate. She hesitated a few more seconds as she fought against the surge of different emotions clawing at her guts. This happened every time she tried to work on this. She always felt fear and dread and saw blood in her minds eye. All attempts to mold it in to something else, something fun or at least not heart wrenching sad, had failed.
This idea was something of it's own and it wouldn't be beaten in to submission. At her lowest of times she would glare at the screen. She would seethe as her blood boiled in her veins. It was at these times that it seemed to mock her. It was like it was pointing it's finger at her and laughing. Because of the emotions behind it and because of the visually stimulating representation that her brain had conjured up this idea had morphed in to the only thing in her whole life that she had ever called her own personal living nightmare.
She wasn't used to ideas that stuck around and physically affected her. If it hadn't of been just an idea it would have scared her. As it was, it was just an idea. She rolled her eyes before sighing and closing her laptop. She didn't know why she kept trying at this.
The next morning started like every other morning. She woke up, stumbled to the kitchen for coffee, took a shower, then dressed for the day. Since she'd started taking writing seriously, which had begun three years ago when she'd written out a small idea for a story and found the process invigorating, she always officially began her morning by pulling out her notebook and doing a new prewritten title of Writing Practice. She'd found the idea when she'd started researching material on How-To-Be-A-Writer. The title Writing Practice wasn't a universal term, but that's what it'd been called on this colorful hippy chick's blog and until this day she still referred to her page for any thing from How To's to Inspirational Reader's Love Notes.
It was one of her favorites. The author of Radiant Life was created and run by a bubbly Australian chick who Mel found adorable. Even if she stopped sharing awesome information, she'd still go back just to watch her bubbly videos. She loved seeing someone that was so blissfully happy with their life, but it was more than that. The woman was real. She told about the bad as well as the good in her life.
For Writing Practice she always used cheap spiraled notebooks. The one she had right now was a one subject that she'd nearly used up. The cover was yellow with thick black dots on it and on one side there was a little smiling bee. She flipped the cover over and used the bookmark to flip back the pages she'd already written on. She folded them over and her bed gave a little creak as she scooted back in to the middle of the comforter.
The title for today's Writing Practice was TRAVEL. The point to writing practice was to let your thoughts flow and to keep your hands moving. You weren't allowed to edit or slow down to think. The point was to write. This was an exercise that was supposed to get you in the habit of finishing things. Like chapters, for instance.
She'd spent a lot of time in online writers groups and one of the main complaints that she'd read about was that people always had the problem with finishing things. She'd like to think that even if she hadn't of read all of those What-To-Do's and What-Not-To-Do's when she'd started writing regularly that the 'don't edit as you write' rule would have naturally made since. Most people were so hard on themselves and the others made excuses.
"Well, I want to perfect it so that I don't have to go back over it. Blah..."
"Well, I just can't help myself. *Fake nervous laugh - Blah..."
If you wanted to do something and do it right you had to freaking do the work. Making excuses, procrastinating. She rolled her eyes. Being serious and simply claiming that you wanted to be a writer were two different things. She was serious and didn't have the time or the inclination to listen to people complain because they couldn't do something that she very well knew that they could.
Sure, when it came to writing she never had any intentions of trying to get published the traditional way and the thought of becoming famous freaked her out, but her writing was still important to her. It had become more than something that she did. It was who she was. The phrase 'aspiring writing' seriously got on her nerves. How exactly did you aspire to be a writer? You either were a writer or you weren't. You didn't aspire to be one.
If you thought like that then you'd never amount to any healthy level of expectation. You'd constantly live in the mind set that you were moving towards becoming the thing that you wanted to be with out ever getting there.
She cleared her throat and pressed her pen to the page. "Travel," she said slowly. She repeated it a few more times and let the feel of each syllable roll over her tongue. Taking slow deep breaths she started pushing all of her thoughts to the back of her mind. A low level of calm washed over her muscles and she closed her eyes. She ran her tongue over her lower lip to moisten it. When she felt ready she opened her eyes and made her first stroke on the paper. The thin tip of the pen she was using moved easily across the paper as she wrote 'I remember I remember I remember'.
She filled up three lines with this until a memory popped in to her head. It was a warm day and she remembered how the sun raise had been golden against the tree tops. She'd been standing on the large screened in porch that her dad had built. She smiled as she thought about the detail of the design. It had been a type of criss-cross pattern on the lower part of the wood just below the screened in part.
The screened in area was large squares that made it possible to see the entire yard with out having to get out of your chair. She blinked as another memory suddenly popped in to her mind, completely covering the one she'd been writing about. The parking lot was dark, but illuminated brightly from the Winn-Dixie outside lights. There were cars all around her. There was a black car that clearly screamed 'this is a man's car' with it's thick bulky build and the matte flavor of the paint job.
She remembered that the air had been moist from the rain a few hours ago and she had been bored, looking forward to going home, but still content as she had waited in the back of the car for her mother to come back with Milk, Bread and some sandwich meat. Different parts of the memory flipped through her mind rapidly and she quickly scribbled down each one of them. She'd been sitting in the passengers side seat. Her arm had been propped up on the open window. She'd had one leg bent and propped up on the dashboard. She'd glanced over at the drivers seat imagining what her mother would look like when she plopped down in to it. She'd imagined her smoothing the bottom of her dress before completely sitting down, the seat would make a woosh sound as her weight pushed the air out of it, the sound of the familiar dinging when she turned the car on.
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip again and pulled back from the memory. As good as a memory as it had been she'd also been on edge that night. There was something about that had made her tense and anxious and she'd really really just wanted to go home. Even now thinking about it her shoulders were threatening to ache. She inhaled deeply and shook her head. As she pushed past the anxiety she began to write 'What I really meant to say' and when no memories pushed through her mind at the end of it she began to swirl her pen along the paper.
The fluid motion was soothing and it helped her push the last bit of lingering anxiety away. She wasn't sure how much time had passed before she felt good enough to write again, but eventually memories began to flit through her mind. She kept swirling her pen around, being sure to make the designs she was forming small enough to not feel the entire page. She concentrated on keeping them to the sides and bottom of the page. Her mind felt completely open and her muscles felt loose and she felt completely content.
This was the mind space she always tried to get to when she wrote and it was so easy. As long as she remained focused. A conversation began to push through her mind. Two men. She smiled as she recognized them. Last week she'd started a Wincest fic and apparently a new conversation was revealing itself to her.
Sam was throwing his arms around, his long long arms. She smiled wider at the image that statement conjured. Sam's arms grew longer until they looked ridiculous hanging loosely almost down to his feet and he continued to yell at Dean about something. She caught a few words here and there.
"I'm more like a ninja..." - Dean
"That's not funny..." - Sam
Ok, this conversation wasn't a new one for her to write down. It was from the episode where Gordon was turned in to a vampire and Sam is mad at Dean for trying to get him to stay behind while he goes and tries to kill him. A growl that only a person that big is capable of. She thought the episode was from Season Three. The one where Sam is upset and angry.
That was the one where he was having his psychic moments or at least the ending of all that or the continuance of the after math of all that. It was also the one where he was having his cold hearted moments and Dean was wondering rather their was something wrong with him or not, because of him dying and coming back from the deal he made with the Crossroads Demon. Her pen went still as the glass of her bedroom windows began to shake. Her brows furrowed as she turned her head to peer out the window behind her. "Weird," she whispered.
There were no landing strips or military bases any where around their town, so that shouldn't have happened. She thought about any thing that could possibly have caused it. The only thing she could come up with was that her Dad may have brought a new man toy to play with. He loved his toys. "Hmmm..."
She pursed her lips for a few seconds as she waited for the shaking to happen again. When it didn't happen she shrugged and went back to her paper. She didn't even get the chance to press the pen down before the whole room lurched to the side. Her back hit something hard and she groaned as what ever she landed on tipped over suddenly. There was no warning at all before the world tipped over even more and she was propelled in to a fast roll.
She wasn't sure if her body was rolling or if it was the world around her and she was just trapped in the middle of it.
/
A huff pushed out of her mouth as Mel's back hit something hard. The solidity of the hardness suddeny gave way and she was falling... again. Damn it. She winced and hissed through her teeth as she landed on bright red, hard carpet. Thankfully, the world wasn't tilting any more.
She remained motionless as she waited a few seconds for it to start again. When nothing happened she sighed and dropped her head to the carpet, which she instantly regretted, because it smelled horrible. She lifted her head instantly and started to sit up. Her eyes went wide as a very loud, very familiar clicking sound came from some where over her head. She froze.
There was suddenly frantic sounds of movement from the same direction and she gulped. The sound had been a gun cocking. She remained motionless as she conjured up what little courage she could. Even still, she couldn't help but hesitate as she lifted her head. The first thing she saw were a pair of large black work boots and a pair of even bigger tan work boots. They were attached to two separate sets of jean clad legs and the material of the jeans suggested that who ever was standing over her was male.
She gulped again and slowly raised her head the rest of the way. She had to adjust the way she was sitting so that she could look all the way up. Her eyes widened even more as she saw exactly who it was standing over her. This was impossible. She must have fallen and hit her head.
Maybe she was still asleep and this was all a very vivid dream. She didn't turn her head or shift, because even if she was entertaining the idea that this was a dream she still didn't want to take the chance that it wasn't and end up getting shot. She looked at Dean's face, then at his gun, then over at Sam as she waited for something to happen that would confirm that this was a dream. Most of her dreams were flowy like the images were clouds taking on the shape of every thing around her. More often than not there were an array of colors all around her.
A building could be flickering with neon green or the ground could have a vein of purple and red running through it. None of this ever seemed weird to her while she was dreaming and most of the time she didn't remember most of the dream and because it was her dreams she never cared enough to think 'Hm.. that was weird.' Dreams were dreams, fantasy, escape from reality. She especially liked the dreams where she flew or had some kind of awesome super power. She'd once had a dream that she was some sort of leader in an alien invasion and she'd lead her troops to the alien eggs that were stuck to cement blocks at a secret facility that was made out of concrete.
That had been one of the dreams she'd been able to remember and enjoy and she'd never forgotten about it. Her dreams also had a tendency to be fast paced. Different scene would snap in to focus and they'd be so bold that the dream before that dream would be completely forgotten. It was like taking on different unlimited adventures. Yeah, she liked dreaming. She was immediately shocked back to reality as Dean demanded, "Who are you?"
His voice was gruff and she was relieved to hear a slight tinge of hesitance in his voice. So he wasn't so suspicious of her that she was going to get shot in the next few minutes. She took a deep breath and froze as her mind was suddenly flooded with panic. What if they started asking pointed questions that led back to her world and the fact that there Supernatural was a show? She couldn't tell them any thing about that. Oh, God.
She also couldn't pretend to be a psychic or any thing resembling a future teller. That was a good way to get herself in to even more deep shit than she already was. She shook her head to clear the half thoughts that were already formed in her brain. She needed to focus. She cleared her throat.
Sam shifted slightly. It was weird that he didn't have a gun aimed at her. He was just standing there. He kind of looked like he was frozen in place. Not like super stiff, but just... she wasn't sure.
She focused her attention back to Dean. His expression hadn't changed. His brows were furrowed, eyes hard, lips set in a stiff line and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were tight.
She swallowed, then said, "My name's Mel and before you ask I have no idea how I got here."
"Yeah," Dean demanded. "How's that?"
She shook her head slowly. "Seriously, I was sitting on my bed writing when the world suddenly tilted and I didn't see any thing until I fell out of your closet."
"Right and we're just supposed to believe that," he bit out.
She ground her teeth together. This was a very frustrating situation. Was this what all of the people they questioned felt like? Of course, most of them were lying and a bigger percentage of those liars were usually monsters, but still. She'd told him the truth. What else was she supposed to say? She sucked in a breath through her nose, then exhaled it slowly. "Honestly, you can believe it or not. It's the truth and there really is nothing else to it." Actually, there was. "Well..."
Dean's right shoulder shifted back before returning to it's original position. She winced and her heart fluttered in panic at the abrupt movement. "My window rattled first. I thought maybe my dad had a new tool. You know, men and their tools."
She laughed nervously as she remembered that duh, they were were guys and that statement could be taken offensively. Crap. To her surprise Sam let out a little huff of amusement. Her eyes snapped to his. He actually looked genuinely amused. There was even a tiny smile on his face.
Even if the smile wasn't the normal big one that people got when they found something highly amusing, it was enough to make her feel better. A little less threatened. Dean's expression doesn't change. He doesn't say any thing else. She wonders what's going on in his head.
*"Dean considers her words." Oh, no. "The information seems plausible..." She clears her throat as nonchalant as possible. Dean doesn't react, so she figures she pulls it off.
Now was not the time for her writers brain to wake up. Sometimes, it's so annoying that she wants to claw it out or scoop it out. On days when it's especially annoying she imagines herself picking up a white plastic spork from a thick table clothe, which is always on a round table, and the fantasies focus is always on her arm doing all this. The arm picks up the spork, the table clothe is always a different color. It raises up and she always edits the vision to mimic the act of clawing out brains instead of allowing the gory details to come through and it's a satisfying bemusement.
She's not sure why a Spork is her weapon of choice. Maybe, it's because she finds them amusing. She thinks that it's the name. Spork. Spoon and Fork.
It's an awesome invention and she likes plastic silverware. There have been many times in the past where people have called her weird for her strange likes and dislikes. She always used to refer to her odd tastes as peculiar. She had liked that word back then. Labeling herself had made her feel special.
At least, that's what she'd told herself for a long time. Eventually, she'd realized that the fact that she labeled herself really bothered her. She'd analyzed current situations when she'd told people what she was and noticed that doing this made her feel highly uncomfortable. It also made her angry and she'd remembered how guilty she felt every time she'd done it. It made her even angrier because she allowed people to make her feel like this.
Through out her entire child hood and teen age years she'd always been too aware of her mind and sense of self to blame any one else for her actions. People could say what ever they wanted to say, but she was the one that had to look at herself in the mirror. She could also say what ever she wanted to say. The question that she had used to change her life back then was the same one she still used today. She used it to make every important decision.
She was lazy by nature and needed a powerful incentive. Is it important enough? That question had opened a door way in her. She knew what it felt like to be enlightened and she felt comfortable enough to call it that, because only enlightenment could change your life in an instant. Was it important enough to speak up for herself? Yes, she'd realized.
It was. With that revelation cemented in her mind she'd also realized that she didn't want to be rude about it. Just because someone said something that insulted her didn't mean that they meant it to. Most of them didn't know better and it was mostly because their way of communicating and thinking had been learned from their parents or some type of paternal figure. She says this because not every one has actual parents in the typical Mom and Dad together and married way. Some people were orphans.
Some people's parents had passed away or had never been a couple. Then there were those horrible cases where the kids had run away from home, because their parents were too horrible to be around and they had to raise themselves.
Instead of being rude about it she'd simply stopped trying to justify herself and started saying things like, "You know you like it." Or "You love me because of it." There were times when she just shrugged and said nothing. On her grouchy days she didn't comment at all. She allowed the accidental insults to sizzle through her like acid in her veins and she remained a passive observer.
When she was grouchy she found that it was possible to endure more than she normally did. It was like her hard headedness or her lack of contented resolve to be nice morphed in to something else. She liked to think of it like she became dragon scales. Powerful and impenetrable. Even though admitting to the fact that the insult feels like acid in her veins means that it clearly points to the opposite. She's a walking contradiction. At least, she made since to herself.
As long as she understood herself, then she could survive any thing that was thrown at her.
"Sam," Dean said.
*"Dean clipped."
Shut up brain. Clipped was not an appropriate description. At least, not like that.
If it was 'Dean said in a clipped tone', then it would work. She resisted the urge to shake her head violently. She needed to focus. Dean was moving backwards and her eyes snapped shut as drops of liquid landed on her eye lashes. As the shock at the abruptness of something splashing her in the face began to wear off her skin processed the fact that the liquid was luke warm and she wrinkled her nose as a few lines of it ran down the neck of her shirt.
A dampness began to form between her breasts as the liquid soaked through her bra. She pursed her lips in annoyance, because she should have saw that coming. Slowly, she opened her eyes and had to blink a few times to see straight as the water on her lashes went in to her eyes. Thankfully, it was just holy water and not salted holy water.
*That would have been most unpleasant.
Thank you brain, she thinks, her annoyance rises a few notches. When the Winchesters came in to focus she Sam looks expectant and Dean's expression isn't as hard as before, but he still looks unhappy and highly suspicious.
"Satisfied," she asks through gritted teeth. The flesh underneath where the holy water had soaked through her bra is starting to itch and she barely resists the urge to stick a hand down her shirt to scratch at it. Sighing, she lowers her hands and flattens them on the carpet. She shifts forward to push her self up so that she can stand and freezes when Dean suddenly tightens the grip on his gun.
"Whoa whoa whoa," Dean barks.
She gulps , then lifts her head to look up at him. "Um..." Seriously, how long did she have to sit here on this nasty carpet?
"Move slowly," Dean commands, his tone was lower, but there was no less of a warning in it.
*Move and I will . .face," she thought and she purposely made her thoughts speak in Crowley's voice. She wasn't ashamed to admit that the man was suave... and attractive, but that last fact was irrelevant in this case.
"Feelings," she thought, still using Crowley's voice. She managed to resist grinning, but she couldn't stop the involuntary twitch on both sides of her lips. Dean's brow furrows even more and she purses her lips. Slowly, she pushes off the floor and stands up. "Ok, what else do you want to know," she asks.
Dean remains quiet for a few seconds before he asks, "Where did you come from?"
Crap. And begins the questions that are going to make things... weird-er than they already are. The first response that popped in to her head was 'Earth', but that was stupid. Sam and Dean was also on Earth. It was so weird to think about explaining that she had come from...
She pauses, having to think hard. Is she from a different dimension or did it count as an alternate reality, because technically Sam and Dean existed in her world. Jared and Jensen are there counter parts. She feels giddy for a second, because it's awesome to think that they actually did exist in her world. It's kind of off putting when she considers that Jared and Jensen are the ones that play the part of the Winchester's, so with out them Sam and Dean wouldn't exist at all.
In reality, when you think about it like that Sam and Dean didn't really exist. TV characters weren't a part of the whole dimension and alternate reality thing at all, because they weren't real. All of those masterful thoughts are laughable due to the fact that they are standing right in front of her. By now, she's convinced that she isn't dreaming.
It was too real, too solid, and it had gone on way too long with out a single abnormal shift in any thing. The atmosphere isn't swaying, the colors have remained normal, the scene hasn't suddenly snapped to be replaced by any thing else. No, she really is here and this is happening. The only thing she can do is tell the truth.
Where Dean is concerned with his emotional comprimisation it would hurt the situation more to lie. "I'm from another..." She purses her lips again. "Alternate reality or dimension. I'm not sure what description works here."
/
She wasn't surprised when Sam took to the whole different dimension/alternate reality thing with interest. Dean was skeptical.
"I mean, come on," he said. "Demons are one thing. Monsters are another, but alternate realities? Different dimensions. Please." He snorted in the back of his throat and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were sparkling in amusement as he gave her disbelieving smirk.
She ground her teeth for a few seconds before she cocked an eyebrow and asked, "You can believe in monsters and demons, which have supernatural abilities, but you can't believe in different worlds, which also has to do with the supernatural?"
He sniffed. "That's just a little..." His eyes widen and he raised his hands. "...out there. Don't you think?"
She rolled her eyes, hating the fact that she actually had to have this conversation. Was it possible that this was how Chuck felt all the time? At this moment, she thought that knowing things ahead of time was definitely a curse and not a gift. Gifts made you happy and gave you hope. She was feeling pretty damn hopeless right now.
What else could she say? What was she supposed to do? If they couldn't help her then she was shit on her luck and there was no freaking way she was leaving. She'd hide in their trunk if she had to, but she knew for a fact that if she walked outside it was possible she would get shot in the parking lot. If she went completely away from them she would most likely be killed by some kind of monster and shit fuck shit, if she stayed with them she would most likely die any way.
The only way she was going to live through this was to get home as fast as possible and even that wasn't a guarantee.
"Aaaand the game is a-foot!"
Yes, thank you brain. And shut up! Sherlock references in Supernatural aren't allowed.
"Make me."
Really?
"I know you are, but what am I?"
... She was so screwed.
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