I'll be updating as I write. This are the characters mini-masterlists an the ones I really love to read and write about, so if you have any request or fic-recs, please let me know in the comments.
More coming soon! <3
(Yes, I draw that. It's my first time drawing and I loved it!)
Original works:
To Love, with love: Someone broke my heart. These are some of the letters I've written because of that. Maybe this way, love will finally listen to me...
Supernatural:
Sam Winchester
Dean Winchester
Marvel:
Steve Rogers
Bucky Barnes
Peter Parker
Series & Movies:
Frank Langdon—The Pitt
Patrick Jane—The Mentalist
Din Djarin—The Mandalorian
Clark Kent—Superman (2025)
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Summary: Frank and Tex are tearing the ER apart, and the whole hospital is waiting for the crash. But Robby sees the look in their eyes that the odds are missing—and he’s about to make his move.
Word count: 3.4 k
Warnings: I kinda went heavier on this one, sorry. After S2. Mentions of recovery and rehab (Langdon's on pobation), anxiety, work related verbal abuse and harsh language, humiliation, forced proximity. Contains graphic descriptions of medical procedures, I tried to stay as medically accurate as possible. A car crash is mentioned with a minor involved. Slow burn, unresolved tension, and a very very fed up Dr. Robby. She is referred as Tex, but has no description whatsoever (it could be you my dear). Long ass A/N and taglist at the end!
<<<The 'Frank Langdon' Masterlist
Dr. Michael Robinavitch—known simply as "Robby" to the entire ER, and the rest of the hospital for that matter—had spent twenty years at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, ten of them as Chief of Service. He had seen students cycle through their rotations like clockwork, and seen hardened residents either cross the finish line into emergency medicine or finally snap, surrendering to the relentless grind of the stress.
But never, in two decades of professional experience, had he witnessed a rivalry as mind-numbingly stupid and utterly draining as the one unfolding before him.
He didn’t regret pairing them up... yet. Tex was easily one of the most promising first-years he’d ever mentored. Fresh out of med school, she was bright, bold, and perceptive, with a memory so precise it made Robby’s own feel dull by comparison. But for all her brilliance, she lacked the edge—that raw instinct—and it showed in the way she’d second-guess herself during high-stakes procedures. She had the textbooks and the treatment algorithms memorized down to the last comma, but it was painfully obvious how anxiety would claw at her under pressure, leading her to make the kind of rookie mistakes that shouldn't happen on his floor.
Then there was Langdon. Frank was... well, he was Langdon. The best and brightest resident Robby had ever taken under his wing. An addict? Yes, a fact that had left Robby’s trust in him—and his own pride as a mentor—nothing short of decimated. He cared for the guy so deeply that the betrayal had felt like a physical blow to the gut. Firing him from his service had truly broken his heart. He still blamed himself for failing to spot the signs, for not stepping in to help him sooner. Yet, as much as it frustrated him to admit it, he couldn't deny that Frank was a phenomenal doctor. He was more guarded now, a sober, cautious shadow of his former self, but still an indispensable link in the hospital’s life-saving chain.
That was why he’d made them a permanent team. She would gain the experience she lacked and so desperately needed; Frank would be forced to reclaim the self-confidence he’d lost a year ago; and Robby would end up with a lethal trauma unit and a somewhat quieter conscience. It was a chance for Langdon to prove his worth, to the hospital and to himself. Forgiveness, served up Robby-style. A win-win for everyone involved.
At least, that was the theory. And yes, their results had been nothing short of spectacular. But never, in a million shifts, did he imagine their dynamic would result in a headache this monumental.
To say he was 'fed up' was the understatement of the century.
He watched them over the rim of his glasses from across the nursing station, standing with Dana—the head nurse of the morning shift—at his side. Both had their arms crossed, mirroring each other’s skepticism. The tension between the residents was thick enough to choke on, even from where they stood. The young resident was gnawing on her lip as if physically restraining herself from throwing a punch at Langdon. Stress and irritation seemed to radiate from her very pores as she sat at her monitor, her leg bouncing with restless energy. Langdon, meanwhile, sat with his shoulders hunched and rigid, jaw locked tight. He was staring at her with an intensity that could have bored a hole through her skull, yet there was a flicker in his eyes that Robby couldn't quite place.
Robby let out a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“Those kids are going to turn your hair white,” Dana remarked. “Are you sure pairing them up was actually a good call?”
Robby didn’t even turn to look at her; his tired eyes were fixed on the administrative satisfaction report Gloria had requested—the one he’d been putting off for three days. He gave a noncommittal shrug. “They function as a team. They get results.”
Dana gave a dry laugh. “That doesn’t necessarily mean it was a good idea.” She watched them with a hint of amusement, clearly enjoying the chaos more than she should. “You know there’s a betting pool on them, right?”
That got the attending’s attention. He arched a brow at her. “Oh, really? And what the hell are they betting on? Who chokes whom first?”
Dana shook her head, giving him a playful smile—the kind of look that only comes from years of shared shifts and genuine friendship.
“More like whether she’ll shoot him down or not when he inevitably confesses his love.”
He nearly choked on his coffee, staring at her as if he’d just been told the Steelers were moving out of state.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, utterly skeptical.
“Dead serious. The 'yes' is a long shot—it pays out triple,” the head nurse doubled down.
The doctor raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “And whose brilliant idea was this?”
Dana shrugged. “No clue, but it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened since the blackout on the Fourth.” That comment made him let out a huff. That had been the worst Fourth of July he’d ever had, and the worst shift since the Pittfest shooting.
Robby turned his gaze back to the residents, his brow furrowed. The tension was still there. Langdon exhaled sharply, looking over a chart with pure exhaustion, while she didn’t even acknowledge him, focused entirely on her medical notes.
He didn’t consider himself a Sherlock by any means, but he was observant—especially when it came to his residents. And it was becoming impossible to ignore the way she looked at Frank. It wasn't with hate. Never hate. It was a look of resignation for being stuck in this mess—courtesy of her attending—but there was something deeper, too.
Something that, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, her eyes betrayed. At times, they glimmered with something like expectation. Robby could bet there was a trace of pain mixed with something else beneath that mask of frustration she wore whenever she was with her partner.
Still, he wasn’t entirely convinced.
He buried himself in his work again, scoffing.
“It’s a useless bet. It’ll never happen,” he said. His tone was a bit too forceful, his voice a bit too pensive, to truly believe his own words.
“So, you’re not in?” Dana asked, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Because my money’s on her telling him to get lost.”
The doctor sighed. He was about to reply, about to tell Dana she was wasting both her time and her money, when the ER doors swung wide. Two ambulances sat outside, sirens still wailing.
Two patients on stretchers in critical condition. One was a little girl.
He stood up instantly, walking with a hurried pace but never running—never running. He swept past the pair he’d mentally dubbed 'Chernobyl.'
“Langdon. Tex. With me.”
He didn't even wait for them to react, rushing toward the paramedics.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded.
One of the paramedics looked up, the one manually bagging the woman he assumed was the child’s mother. “Some idiot on a motorcycle ran a red light. They swerved and slammed right into a light pole.”
“And the biker?” Langdon spoke up this time. He was already at the side of the stretcher, snapping on his gloves.
“In the second ambulance. He just has a broken leg and a guilty conscience. He’ll be fine.”
Robby nodded. “Fine. Get them both into Trauma 1. The girl is conscious; we’re not separating her from her mother.” He jerked his head, signaling the two residents to take the lead.
As they moved down the hallway, the contrast between them was glaring. Frank looked confident, hungry for another trauma—he hadn't had many chances lately, with Robby exiling him to Triage more often than he liked. He was in his element. Tex, on the other hand, was a complete bundle of nerves. Ever since Langdon had chewed her out in the middle of the ER two weeks ago over a suturing technique, she’d been on edge. She was drowning in the constant anxiety of feeling like she wasn't enough for the hospital, or for medicine itself.
Robby didn’t even need to ask to know what she was feeling. He’d been in those shoes more than once. Anyone who calls themselves a doctor has been there.
They burst into the room where both patients were being held, helping the paramedics and nurses transfer them to hospital gurneys. The girl, no more than six or seven, was calling out for her mother in a weak voice while a nurse started an IV. The interns—Whitaker and Javadi, inseparable as always—were trying to keep her calm enough to perform a neuro exam.
Robby focused on the mother, letting his residents take the lead. “Langdon, pupils.”
“Non-reactive,” Frank responded, tucking his penlight away. “Glasgow of three. We need to intubate.” His voice was steady, commanding. Robby watched as he stepped toward Tex so she could tie his surgical gown; she assisted him without a word.
Watching them was like watching a ballet—perfectly choreographed and coordinated. These were the moments where you could truly appreciate that, despite the friction between them, they were an elite team.
Unfortunately, and much to the attending's chagrin, that calm wasn’t destined to last.
Robby glanced at the monitor. Blood pressure 140/100. “Tex, the patient is hypertensive. What does that tell you?” Robby asked, slipping into "professor mode" with his arms crossed.
The resident looked up from behind Langdon’s back. “Intracranial pressure... could be a hematoma forming, given the rapid loss of consciousness. I heard the paramedics say she was still talking in the ambulance.”
Robby nodded. “What are you ordering?”
“Emergency CT as soon as she’s tubed.” She frowned, snapping on her gloves. “If it’s an epidural hematoma, we need to call neurosurgery for an urgent decompressive craniectomy.”
Robby nodded again, a ghost of a smile tugging at his serious, weary face. He felt that familiar spark of pride in his chest—the one he got every time a student nailed a question.
“Very well. Put in the CT order and get pre-op labs started now; better safe than sorry. Langdon, intubate. Have Javadi assist you.”
He stepped back into a corner of the sterile room, noticing how the fourth-year student’s face lit up at the prospect of assisting—or if Frank was feeling generous, perhaps even attempting—the procedure.
He watched Tex input the orders into the system. Her hands were trembling slightly—a byproduct of exhaustion and far too many hours on shift, likely without a meal. For a moment, he felt a pang of concern; that paternal instinct he felt whenever he saw his young doctors worn thin, their eyes shadowed by sleep deprivation.
He also noticed how, once she finished her task, her gaze drifted back to Langdon. There it was again—that look that baffled the old doctor. It made him think back to that stupid betting pool and how he should probably put some money down. He did, after all, need a new pair of Serengeti sunglasses for his bike.
The procedure went off without a hitch, and once she was hooked up to the ventilator, a wave of collective relief washed over the room. It wasn’t total—they still had to wait for imaging and notify the family—but it felt as though a thin, invisible veil of tension had been lifted, allowing everyone to breathe a little easier.
That lasted only until Tex spoke up again.
“Shit, she’s pulseless…” Her voice peaked with a hint of panic. Her gloved fingers were pressed to the patient’s neck, her eyes nowhere near the monitor. “Starting compressions! Someone get the crash cart in here!”
Robby’s head snapped up, his brow furrowed. He watched her movements—hurried, erratic, insecure.
He glanced at the monitor. There was a pulse. Faint, but there. She’d been too fast; she’d checked far too quickly. But before he could say a word, Langdon cut in.
“What? No, wait,” Frank said, stopping her before she could start. He verified it himself, his hand on the patient and his eyes locked on the screen. He let out a sharp, annoyed huff. “It’s sinus bradycardia, not asystole. She doesn’t need CPR; she needs a pacer. Perlah, prep the transcutaneous!” he barked, directing the nurse without so much as a glance at his partner.
Dr. Robby remained silent, ready to intervene if things escalated, but too invested in how this would play out to move a muscle.
Tex frowned in confusion. “But I checked. I checked twice—”
“Then you checked wrong,” Langdon cut her off, his tone like flint. “You felt for the jugular; if you’d gone for the carotid, you would’ve known instantly. Did you actually attend med school, or did you just breeze through with your eyes closed?”
That one even stung Robby. It was completely out of line. Still, he kept quiet; his craving for conflict outweighed his desire for peace in that moment.
When she spoke again, her voice was far too weak and unsteady for the attending’s liking. “But I felt for it and there was nothing, I was sure that—”
“Oh, for the love of—!” Frank interrupted again, exasperated. “You were ready to jump in and start breaking her ribs after five seconds! Five! You could’ve made her ten times worse than she already is.” Langdon took a step toward her, pointing a finger, refusing to let her speak. “You don’t check; you just guess. You act like a reckless amateur instead of stopping for one second to think and do your damn job.”
A deathly silence fell over the room, broken only by the rhythmic huff of the ventilator and the agonizingly slow beep of the heart monitor.
Robby shot Frank a warning look, but the resident ignored him entirely. He didn't stop the verbal onslaught; the words leaving his mouth were like daggers aimed straight for her chest, each one cutting deeper than the last.
“You’re careless and you’re arrogant, and that’s going to get a patient killed sooner or later. Do yourself a favor and quit now. Stop wasting everyone’s time, because you aren't cut out for this.”
Tex’s breath hitched. From his corner, Robby could practically feel her desire for the floor to swallow her whole as every eye in the room turned toward her. She was completely and utterly humiliated.
In the two months they’d been working side-by-side, Langdon had never spoken to her like that—and he’d certainly never told her to quit.
And if there was one thing Robby couldn't stand, it was someone being belittled just for their lack of experience.
“You are such a goddamn son of a bitch—”
“That’s enough. That is enough,” Robby finally intervened, cutting her off mid-sentence. In three long strides, he’d placed himself between them, establishing a much-needed distance. “Both of you. Hallway. Now! Out!”
The two residents locked eyes for one last defiant second before heading where their boss had ordered. Robby couldn’t ignore the way her eyes shimmered, glassy with unshed tears after Langdon’s outburst; nor could he miss the way Frank swallowed hard, looking nervous and—Robby assumed—already haunted.
As they filed out, Robby let out a long, irritated sigh. He turned to the rest of the staff in the room, who were slowly drifting back to their duties. “Whitaker.” The intern looked up. “It’s your lucky day. Go find Garcia; tell her I said she’s to show you how to set the pacer.” With that, he headed for the hallway, leaving a dazed but ecstatic Dennis with the patient.
A few minutes later, he found them leaning against the wall of the empty corridor. Tex was gnawing on the inside of her cheek—a nervous tic he’d picked up on during her very first week—with her palms pressed flat against the wall behind her back. Frank had his arms crossed, staring at the floor as if it had personally offended him.
There was something between them; Robby would swear his life on it. It was something more than frustration, something far more complex and deep-seated. It was all in their eyes.
It was in the way Frank watched her when she spoke to patients with that sweet, empathetic tone he so sorely lacked. It was in the way she looked at him whenever he’d slide a coffee across the desk for her in the mornings, never saying a word, just noticing when she was too exhausted to function. It was in how Frank’s posture relaxed whenever her name came up, and in how she looked at him with pure admiration, her eyes fixed on his expert hands as he sutured a wound.
And there it was, right now, in that hallway—the heavy silence, the stubborn tension, and the refusal to even look at one another.
They both looked up as Robby came to a halt in front of them, arms crossed, determined to finally put an end to this entire disaster.
“Listen up,” he began, his voice carrying that trademark weary rasp. “I’ll be brief. I am officially done with you two. You’re acting like spoiled brats and, frankly, I can’t stand it anymore. This—” he pointed between the two of them, “—whatever the hell this is, ends today. Right now.”
Neither of them spoke. They just stared back, brows furrowed, trying to figure out where he was going with this.
Robby sighed at their silence before laying out the plan he’d been mulling over for days—a 'break glass in case of emergency' plan that, given the recent fallout, was now very necessary. It also happened to align perfectly with the bet he now intended to win.
“You’re staying late today. You’ll be in the records room, filing charts.”
It didn’t take two seconds for the protests to start.
“Excuse me?! I can’t—”
“I’m not staying anywhere with this idiot—!”
“Silence! Both of you! Shut it!” Robby barked, and they snapped their mouths shut instantly. “This isn’t up for debate. You’ll stay in that room until you either fix this situation, or you fall asleep. But I am exhausted from playing babysitter and making sure you don't maul each other like rabid dogs."
The attending continued, rubbing a hand over his face with a weary sigh. It was rare to see him this fed up. It was common knowledge that he was always stressed, but for him to react like this meant they’d fucked up. Badly.
“You,” he said, looking at Tex. “You shouldn't be getting dragged into this kind of drama. You’re smarter than that. And you,” he turned his gaze to Langdon. “You’re still on probation after that little stunt you pulled a year ago. So you both better start behaving. Once you walk out of that room, I don’t want to see you arguing ever again—not in front of me, and especially not in my ER. Don’t make me file a formal report. Are we clear?”
The look they exchanged was so comically dramatic that, if the situation weren't so infuriating, Robby would have burst out laughing. The kids—because that’s what they were to him, young, naive, and immature kids—simply nodded.
“Good. Now get the hell out of my sight before I drag you there myself.”
With that final, sharp dismissal, he returned to the chair he’d occupied before the whole fiasco started two hours ago, leaving the residents standing in the middle of the hallway, a mix of confusion, frustration, and resignation. The head nurse was still by the phone, chewing on nicotine gum to kick her smoking habit.
"How’s the betting pool looking?" he asked Dana, earning a mocking laugh in return.
"Well, after that little performance? The odds for a 'yes' just jumped from 3-to-1 to 5-to-1. Everyone’s putting their money on her original plan to ruin him."
He nodded, pulling two fifty-dollar bills from his wallet and sliding them across the counter to Dana. "Fine. Put a hundred on the long shot. I'm betting she says yes."
She stared at him, incredulous. "Do we need to get you a CT scan too? You’re throwing your money away, Robby. It’s a suicide bet. Langdon doesn’t stand a prayer."
His pager chirped. Trauma 3.
"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he said, hitting the mute button. "Duty calls. See you in a bit."
He walked away again. He was starting to make a habit of leaving people standing there alone, speechless.
Dr. Robby smiled to himself as he headed down the hall, already tasting the five hundred dollar win and thinking about the Serengeti sunglasses he was going to buy.
This is gonna be fun.
A/N: Soooo, this came out a little bit heavier than I expected. And I think I owe you some context, haha...
It is, in fact, a common mistake the one that Tex made with the pulse. It happened to me once. I checked the pulse but just for five seconds instead of ten, and being one of my first times giving CPR, well, the anxiety is real. And I somewhat confused a hypoglycemia, that makes the pulse extremely low when on shock, with a cardiac arrest (we didn't have enough equipement in the hospital so the patient wasn't connected to a monitor because 'fonds'). We ended up entubating, but unfortunately, they were very ill and didn't make it. It was a very grounding experience and a very eye-opening one. So yeah, this fic was drawn from a personal memory of mine.
Also, I wanted to explore a different perspective from the story, this time from Robby's eyes. I think he actually knows more than what we see he does on the show, and I wanted to play a little bit with his POV of this strange and tense rivarly they have going on.
But anyway, I hoped you enjoyed! Let me know what you think in the comments and if you want to be added to the taglist. As always, this was originally written in spanish so I just translated it.
Peace out, bitches! 8)
Sumary: It was supposed to be a boring desk job, but between Jane’s cryptic tests and his paper-folding habits, she’s starting to realize that "babysitting" is just a fancy word for joining the circus.
Word Count: 1.9 k
Warnings: None, just fluff, fluff, and more fluff... and really, really bad jokes. Based on that one scene of the Elvis stain. Third person narrator but she doesn't have a name (it could be you, my love). A/N and taglist at the end!
<<<The 'Patrick Jane' Materlist
“Wow. There’s a stain on the ceiling that looks like Elvis, but today it looks more like a... basset hound.”
Patrick Jane had a small, persistent habit of thinking out loud—mostly when he assumed he was alone, or when no one was actually listening. Sometimes, he simply pointed things out because a detail struck him, regardless of whether it was appropriate or even relevant. It was all part of his 'charm.'
He was currently sprawled across the camel-colored leather sofa in the bullpen, a piece of furniture he’d claimed as his sovereign territory since his first day at the CBI. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone—except for the new agent tucked away at a desk she was forced to share with Van Pelt until a proper space opened up.
By default, she had been tasked with 'Jane-duty.' Her job was to ensure he didn’t pull any stunts while the rest of the team was in the field, spring a trap for a prime suspect in their current case.
She let out a long, jagged sigh. It was the third time this week she’d been benched to watch him. And while she didn't exactly hate the man, she wanted to be out there, in the heat of the action, not buried under a mountain of paperwork with a man who, despite her silent prayers, seemingly didn't know how to shut up.
"And?" she asked, not even bothering to look up. Her voice was flat, draped in boredom.
Jane turned to her, looking genuinely offended as he propped himself up on one elbow. "And? What do you mean, 'and'? You can't treat such a delicate matter with a simple 'and'."
She exhaled. Here we go again.
"It’s just a stain, Jane. I don't see the problem."
"The problem is that it isn't just a stain; we’re talking about the King of Rock and Roll here," he said, falling back onto the sofa. He studied the no-longer-Elvis shape with intense concentration before adding, "Besides, it’s not just that he’s gone—it’s about what his departure signifies."
She frowned, finally turning to face him. "I don’t follow."
Patrick offered a satisfied smile, his eyes sparkling now that he’d successfully baited her into the conversation. He watched her from the comfort of his perch on the sofa.
"Well, you see... it’s not just about the change in appearance. It’s a personality test. If you see Elvis, it means you have a messiah complex and a secret addiction to sequins. If you see a basset hound... well, then you’re emotionally constipated."
She tried to make sense of the consultant’s words, finding herself significantly more confused than she had been five seconds ago.
"Let me see if I’ve got this straight," she began. "You’re telling me that because you see a dog today instead of Elvis... it means you’re practically dead inside?"
Patrick’s smile widened, clearly entertained by the agent’s confusion.
"Ah! The rookie is a quick study. But no—it means you are practically dead inside."
She faltered, completely lost. She opened her mouth as if to ask something, then snapped it shut in resignation, realizing her best bet was to avoid falling into the mental traps of the man on the sofa.
Suddenly, Jane sat up, breaking the silence. "Come now, you’re a state agent! You should be paying more attention. You know as well as I do that the devil is in the details."
She let out a scoff. "I’m a state agent, exactly—not a psychic." She glanced up at the ceiling where the supposed Elvis-stain lived—a ketchup smudge that, to this day, remained a bureaucratic mystery—, then back at the sofa where Jane sat. An idea flickered in her mind. "Besides, hasn't it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, someone might have moved your couch?"
"Moved my couch?!" Patrick exclaimed, looking at her with a horrified expression, as if she’d just grown a third head. "I’ll have you know this couch has been in the exact same spot for two years. In fact, I named her: Betsy."
She fought back a smile. "Well, I think Betsy is cheating on you. Why don’t you move her about three inches to the left? I bet you’ll have your Elvis back before you can even say... 'Presley.'"
She met his gaze with a defiant, confident smirk. Jane arched his brows, suppressing a smile that threatened to break through, secretly impressed by the girl's quick wit.
He wasn't going to say it out loud, of course.
"So, you think you're quite clever, don't you, rookie?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "I hate to disappoint you, but Betsy has been faithful to me all this time. And you doubt her because of... what? Three inches?"
She rolled her eyes. "Just listen to me. I know what I’m talking about."
It was his turn to falter. She looked so certain that he found himself doubting his own argument—and Jane never doubted himself. "And you’re sure this will bring him back?" he asked, purely skeptical.
She propped an elbow on her desk, resting her chin in her hand. "Humor me, will you? Just move Betsy."
Resigned, Patrick stood up and shifted the sofa exactly three inches in the direction she’d pointed out.
"There. Now what?"
She let out a mock scoff. "Now what? Lie down, genius. Elvis has entered the building."
He settled back onto the leather, squinting at his favorite spot on the ceiling once more. "Oh! Well, look at that. The King has returned." The smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a frown as he lifted his head just enough to catch her eye. "Wait. How did you know the sofa needed moving?"
She was already buried back in her paperwork when she answered, "It’s all about perspective. Besides, you said it yourself: the devil is in the details."
Patrick fell silent for a moment, thoughtful. It was rare to meet someone so observant. Not on his level, of course—no one was, in his mind—but someone who noticed things others missed. Like the fact that Betsy needed to move three inches.
He studied the young agent’s face: the way she moved with a slow, heavy exhaustion, the spark in her eyes, and how the midday sun streaming into the bullpen forced her to squint.
"Huh..." he drifted off, turning fully toward her, his gaze never wavering. "But you see, the problem with Elvis is that I’m no longer sure I even like him."
The agent let her head drop onto the desk with a little thud at Jane's indecisiveness, her forehead hitting the cold wood with a guttural groan of irritation.
God, this man's more stubborn than a mule.
"Would you be so kind to remind me again why I’m stuck here with you instead of out there with the team?"
"Because you’re the rookie, and Lisbon operates under the tragic delusion that I require a babysitter." Patrick shrugged nonchalantly. "Personally, I prefer to think of you as my protégée." He sat up abruptly, rising to his feet and drifting toward her desk. He plucked a stray piece of paper from the floor and began to fold it. "Besides, someone has to fetch my tea and marvel at my… eccentricities, after all"
She sighed again, the sound muffled by the wood of the desk. "Great. I went from state agent to babysitter and waitress. Fantastic..." she muttered sarcastically. She was exhausted, and truth be told, she felt pushed aside. She got along with the others, sure, but she was still the 'new girl,' the 'rookie,' the 'beginner.'
She knew integration wouldn't be easy, but it had been two months and she felt like she’d contributed nothing to the cases beyond case rehearsals and analyzing dusty files from the dark ages that even her boss's boss would never bother to read. She knew she could do more—that she’d be more useful out in the field than rotting behind a desk. She was beyond frustrated.
Then, she felt a light tap on her hair.
She lifted her head, finding herself face-to-face with a small, delicately folded origami swan. She took it between her fingers with a tentative touch, as if it were made of glass, tracing the tiny beak with her index finger. A small smile, nearly imperceptible, flickered across her face, cracking the facade of irritation she’d been wearing.
Patrick noticed. Because he never missed a thing. Not a single detail.
He caught that tiny slip of a smile on her weary face. He saw the way her gaze softened at the sight of the little bird. He noted how, somehow, that one small gesture had caused her shoulders to finally drop.
He had to summon every ounce of self-control to keep from pointing out the shift in her posture. He simply smiled, watching as she placed the swan on her desk next to a pipe-cleaner flower—another of his creations from his idle moments between cases.
He’d realized she kept everything he gave her. It started with the first thing: an anonymous beaded bracelet, a chaotic mess of colors and shapes that she’d hung from her backpack zipper like a lucky charm, wearing a smile very much like the one on her face right now.
Since that day, making her smile like that had become his personal mission.
Which brings us back to the paper swan.
"Looks like I managed to make the grump smile," he said with a smirk, looking a bit smug and deeply satisfied with himself for having accomplished his mission for the day.
"I’m not a grump," she protested. "I just detest being the new hire." She let out a long breath before adding under her breath, "I’d be much more useful out there than in here."
A lightbulb seemed to go off in Patrick’s head as he practically jumped to his feet.
"Well then, what are we waiting for?" he exclaimed, his tone far too upbeat and his smile far too wide—and attractive—for her liking. He began striding toward the office exit.
"Wait, what? No!" She stood up so fast she sent her chair toppling over, racing to stand in front of him with her arms stretched and block the door. "No, no, no. We are not going anywhere. The boss told me—"
"Yes, yes, I know, but I don't care. You said it yourself: you’re more useful out there. So, let's go." He sidestepped her, heading straight for the elevator. When he realized she wasn't following, he called back, "Are you coming or what?"
She watched him go, half-incredulous and half-terrified of what the consultant was about to do. Because with him, you never truly knew.
At that moment, she felt she only had two choices:
Option one, call Lisbon to warn her that the devil was off his leash and wash her hands of the whole mess.
Or option two, follow the very charming but very impulsive mentalist to try to minimize the blast radius of the walking nuclear bomb that he is.
I don’t think I need to tell you which one she picked.
"Dammit, Jane..." she muttered to the empty air before anxiously rushing after him. This man is going to get me fired one of these days.
Jane couldn't help the private smile that touched his lips when he heard her hurried footsteps behind him. He knew she was worried; he knew she thought her job was on the line. But he also knew he’d be the one taking the fall later, happily claiming all the blame. He didn't mind. It was worth it.
Anything to keep her happy.
But that’s something the great Patrick Jane would never, ever, admit.
A/N: Damn, I'm on fire, haha. I've noticed there are not a lot of fics for Patrick Jane, so I decided to write one. This is my first time writing any type of comedy (if you can call it that way), so bear with me... please? As always, this was originally written in spanish so I just translated it. Let me know what you think and also if you want to be on the taglist. I hope you enjoyed it.
No sofas were harmed (or cheated on) in the making of this fic.
Peace out, bitches! 8)
This man deserves a lot more recognition. I love you, Mister Jane. Warnings and A/Ns are in each work individually.
<<< Main Masterlist
The Betsy Maneuver: It was supposed to be a boring desk job, but between Jane’s cryptic tests and his paper-folding habits, she’s starting to realize that "babysitting" is just a fancy word for joining the circus.
Sumary: A hallway half-lit by the morning sun and the heavy, lingering scent of things left unsaid. Frank Langdon is back, colliding with a mercy he didn't ask for and a girl who refused to be his collateral damage.
Word Count: 2.2 k
Warnings: Situated after S1 (haven't seen S2 so bear with me). Mentions of addiction recovery (he's back from rehab), divorce, legal custody issues, and medical-related stress. Kinda angsty. Self deprecation because of course he hates himself. Third person narrator but she doesn't have a name, just a nickname (it could be you, my love). A/N and taglist at the end!
<<<The 'Frank Langdon' Masterlist
By the time his first shift back after rehab wrapped up, Frank Langdon realized the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s ER had moved on without him. It had changed just as much as he had in those ten long months away.
Trinity Santos was a second-year resident now. Her mind was sharper, her tongue even more caustic—her attitude toward him was worse than he remembered, a jagged edge of resentment. He didn't blame her. He’d built that bridge just to burn it down.
Dr. Collins was gone—an attending at a hospital closer to home, the nurses whispered. She’d adopted a three-month-old boy the second he was born. The kid got a mother; she got the son she’d always dreamed of. He felt a rare, genuine spark of happiness for her.
Then there was King—sweet, incredible Mel King. She carried herself with a new kind of gravity, her confidence finally catching up to her knowledge. She was the only one who met him without a hint of judgment, welcoming him back with open arms. He didn't know what he’d done to deserve her, but he was goddamn grateful. At least he had one ally left in the trenches.
And Dennis Whitaker—yes, the same kid who’d killed a rat on his last day there and had to swap scrubs three times out of pure nerves—was an intern now. Confident. Faster on his feet. The new golden boy.
Dr. Michael Robinavitch’s new prodigal son.
Or, in plain English, his replacement.
He no longer fit. Not in the ER, and certainly not in the life he’d left behind.
He’d gone from being the reliable doctor, the perfect man, and the ideal father to a series of ugly labels: addict, divorcee, part-time dad. Now, his life was reduced to a court order that granted him custody of his son exactly one weekend a month.
Home was a bargain-bin apartment ten blocks from the hospital, with the dog he’d bought for Tanner—a gift they’d eventually shoved back into his arms—as his only company and his wedding ring, a gold plain band still circling his finger, as the only proof that his old life had ever existed. Evidence of a world he’d lost to his own stupidity.
He still wore it. Habit, mostly. But also as a penance. A cold, metallic reminder of what he no longer deserved to have.
A bit masochistic, if you ask me.
When the shift change finished and the patients were handed over, Langdon didn't linger. He didn’t bother stopping by the residents' lounge to talk, let alone say goodbye. He knew what was being whispered in the hallways; he didn't need to hear it out loud.
He went straight to the lockers, so buried in his own head that he didn't even notice the girl two stalls down, packing up her life for the day.
The screech of a locker door swinging open made him jump.
He snapped his head to the left, colliding with a pair of wide, luminous eyes. The same eyes that had been dodging him all afternoon, ever since he’d exploded at her during a messy chest tube insertion.
Great. The last person on Earth I wanted to see.
Frank closed his eyes for a second, pulling the scattered pieces of himself back together. When he spoke, he tried to reach for his old, reliable shield: sarcasm.
"Tex, you nearly gave me a heart attack," he muttered, forcing a ghost of a smile. "Is it that hard to announce yourself like a normal person, or do I need to buy you a bell?" His voice came out rougher than he’d intended. Sharper.
The first-year resident—everyone called her Tex for some reason, so he did too, even though he barely knew her—gave him a tight, guarded smile.
"Didn't mean to spook you, Doctor." Her voice was soft, carrying that faint Southern lilt that felt so out of place in the gray grit of Pittsburgh. Not that he minded it.
The "Doctor" part stung, though. Frank winced at the formality but didn't correct her. Why bother? It was standard protocol for interns, but after ten months in the wilderness and a forced repeat of his senior year, the title felt like a borrowed coat. Too big. Too stiff.
He was as new to this place as she was now.
He didn't feel superior. At least, not anymore.
He watched her take out her stuff from the locker with the mechanical precision of someone who’d been doing it for far too long.
He mapped the exhaustion in her features—the hollow circles under her eyes, the heavy, deliberate breaths that betrayed just how little sleep and how much caffeine was currently holding her together. Then he saw her hands. Her long, delicate fingers curled around her things, trembling ever so slightly. It was a tremor that hadn't been there during the procedure they’d shared earlier. In the OR, she’d been steady. Here, she was fraying at the edges.
A knot tightened in Frank's stomach. He knew he’d screwed up. Sure, he had to correct her—that was the job—but he had no right to skin her alive the way he did. Yet, he’d done it anyway.
The need to apologize hit him suddenly, regret gnawing at his gut like a physical ache.
"Hey, I..." he started. His voice came out thinner than he’d intended, stripped of its usual armor, revealing too much of what he was actually feeling. "I’m sorry. For earlier. For the shouting."
Short. No excuses.
She looked up, eyes wide with genuine shock. She clearly hadn't expected an apology this soon, let alone one that sounded so real. She swallowed hard, giving a small, stiff nod before she found her voice.
"It’s fine. I get it."
Her response mirrored his: short, clipped, and leaving everything else unsaid.
Langdon’s brow furrowed. "You get it?" he repeated under his breath, a mix of confusion and irritation bubbling up at her dismissive shrug. "Oh, come on. Give me a break. I barked at you in front of everyone, hell, practically humiliated you in public, and you’re telling me you just get it?"
She didn't even look at him. She just shrugged again, eyes fixed on her task at hand.
"I screwed up, and you corrected me. You were doing your job. There’s no need to apologize for that," she replied. Her voice was flat, exhausted, and to Frank’s ears, she sounded like she was already done with this conversation before it even started.
He stood there, stunned, watching her shove things into her backpack with a terrifying lack of emotion. He was more lost than he’d been five minutes ago.
"So, let me get this straight," he started again, desperate to make sense of her. "I yell at you in the middle of the ER, I dress you down in the worst way possible, and you’re just... fine with it? You forgive me?" His head was spinning. He couldn't wrap his mind around someone being that detached.
She let out a short, dry laugh. "Yes, Langdon. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Is it really that hard to swallow?" She finally turned to look at him. Finally, he thought. Her eyes were sharp with sarcasm as she continued. "What were you expecting? For me to scream back? To pin a photo of your face to my door and use it for target practice?"
He scoffed at her retort. "No, obviously not. I just expected you to defend yourself. To push back a little. To not take this so... lightly."
"And what good would that do me? I have to look at your face tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that. Do you really want me to hate you?" She shook her head, her exasperation finally bleeding through. "Look, I just needed the apology. The rest? It doesn't matter to me. It’s in the past."
A knot formed in Frank’s throat, tight and suffocating.
It’s in the past. Four words that hit him harder than he was willing to admit. Because since the second he’d stepped back into this building, all anyone had done was drag him back to it, reminding him of the massive mistake he’d made, of how he’d let them all down. And here she was, talking about the past as if it were some forgettable thing you could just blink away.
It made his blood boil. He couldn't help the low, bitter laugh that escaped him.
"You really are naive..." he muttered, more to himself than to her, though he didn't much care if she heard.
The metal-on-metal bang of her locker door echoed through the sterile, silent hallway. "Excuse me?" she asked, bristling. Her arms crossed over her chest, her backpack slung over one shoulder as she glared at him.
"You heard me," Langdon snapped back, feeling the heat of frustration crawling up his spine. He took a predatory step toward her. "You’re naive if you think it’s that easy. That an apology fixes everything and the past just stays buried. Well, I’ve got news for you, darlin'—people don’t forget. Life’s a bitch that stabs you in the back the second you let your guard down. So I don’t buy that 'no hard feelings' fairytale for a second. That’s not how the world works."
The words were barely out of his mouth before regret hit him like a physical blow. He felt like an even bigger idiot than before—exploding at her again when all she’d done was accept his peace offering. He was projecting; he knew it. He was so used to his family and his colleagues throwing his failures in his face, nursing their grudges like a hobby, that he couldn't wrap his head around the girl standing in front of him.
He couldn't believe she’d just... let him off the hook.
The silence grew heavier, thicker with every passing second. The harsh overhead light flickered twice before dying out completely, leaving only the pale morning sun bleeding through the cracks of the staff exit. The hallway was left in half-shadow, bathed in a hazy, golden glow.
A single beam of light caught her face—the resident he’d just snapped at for the second time today. He was so close now he could see the light dancing in her eyes, which were beginning to glass over. It traced the delicate lines of her features and caught the sheen of her hair; it appeared so soft under that halo of light that Frank had to choke back a sudden, strange urge to tangle his fingers in it, just to see if it felt the way it looked.
She stared up at him, her breath hitching, lips parted. For a fleeting moment, they looked redder to him, flushed and inviting. He realized then just how much smaller she was compared to him. If he were to pull her into his chest right now, his chin would rest perfectly on the top of her head. He’d finally be able to drown in that scent—the faint vanilla mixed with burnt coffee and stale tobacco that had been clouded his senses since the moment she walked up to the lockers.
She looked beautiful. And he felt like a total prick.
He swallowed hard before breaking the silence, his nerves shot. When he spoke, his voice was softer than he ever thought himself capable of.
"Listen, I—"
"No, you listen," she cut him off. Her tone was low but deadly serious, dropping every ounce of formality. Frank caught the slight tremor in her voice. "I don’t know what happened to you to make you feel this miserable, Frank, but don't you dare take it out on me."
Hearing his first name on her lips tasted bitter, but it felt so right that he never wanted her to call him anything else. She took another step forward, closing the gap until the distance between them was so thin it would have been effortless to lean in and...
He had to physically restrain himself from doing something stupid.
"It’s not my fault you think life is shit," she continued, her eyes defiant, challenging him. Frank’s heart hammered against his ribs at the mere sight of her. "It’s your choice to see the world that way, but don’t you dare drag the rest of us down with you."
All he could do was nod. He was paralyzed.
"Good. I’m glad we understand each other." She glanced at her watch. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go."
She brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his arm. The contact sent a jolt through him, making his skin prickle.
"Wait!" His mouth moved faster than his brain, calling her out before he could stop himself. She paused, turning just enough to look at him, waiting. "I— look, I just wanted to say—" Damn it, Langdon, just say it. "Thank you... for forgiving me. You know."
He waited for the fallout. He expected her to laugh, to mock him, to throw it back in his face. But she didn't. She just gave a weary, resigned nod.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
And with that, she vanished through the door towards the staff lot, leaving him alone with the fading trail of her scent and a heart beating so fast he thought it might burst out from his chest.
He closed his eyes, letting his head hang forward as he tried to catch his breath alone in the hallway, frustrated by his own reaction and trying to process the wreck she’d left behind.
Frank couldn't tell if he was shaking from the cold air that had swept in when the door opened, or from the conversation itself.
But one thing was certain.
That woman was going to be one hell of a headache.
A/N: Hey there. :) This is the first time I write for Langdon and let me tell I had so much fun with it. Writing his thoughts and how he would maybe act with a new resident is something I wanted to explore since they announced season 2. I wanted to take a romantic approach at first but didn't feel right, at least not in that moment, so it came out more of as an introduccion for the characters rather than a romantic fic. This was originally written in spanish so I just translated it. Let me know what you think! Would you like to read more about Frank and his journey to find self forgiveness while dealing with the menace Tex is? Write it in the comments, and let me know also if you want to be on the taglist. I hope you enjoyed it.
Peace out, bitches! 8)
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My favorite med addict (sorry House). Warnings and A/Ns are in each work individually.
<<< Main Masterlist
The 'Tex' Files:
(See what I did there? no? okay...) A compilation of independent fics following the medical drama between a very anxious and annoyed new first-year resident and a somewhat insecure and explosive ex-addict.
Morning Grit: A hallway half-lit by the morning sun and the heavy, lingering scent of things left unsaid. Frank Langdon is back, colliding with a mercy he didn't ask for and a girl who refused to be his collateral damage.
Long Shot: Frank and Tex are tearing the ER apart, and the whole hospital is waiting for the crash. But Robby sees the look in their eyes that the odds are missing—and he’s about to make his move.
Sumary: A girl has been appearing in his dreams. Sam knows she's real, and he needs to find her... fast.
Word Count: 1.6 k
Warnings: +18. Dark themes. Minors DNI. Mentions of SA, physical and mental abuse (implicit, still read with caution). Nudity... kinda. Cursing. Series typical violence. Angst with a little fluff towards the end. Also, I describe some of the MC features, so I do not consider this an insert reader, but it can be read as such as I do not mention her name. A/N at the end!
<<< Previous
It's been weeks.
They started by making the list of reported missing people like Dean suggested, at least of the past few months. But God Bless America, there where too many.
Too many women disappearing or taken or abducted or... dead. The list was 15 pages long of just names from the past two months. But none of them was her.
He wasn't sure if it was because she was okay or because he hadn't been able to find her picture in any of the government database.
In any case, Sam kept digging.
Then, she stopped visiting him.
He had been dreaming about her every day since that first time. Sometimes she was in the lake, others he saw her in that creepy ass basement tied up again. Sometimes he talked to her, sitting together, hearing her voice. Others, he was screaming at her desperate, trying to reach her. Sometimes he admired her: beautiful, flawless, angelical. Others she was... well, let's just say he woke up barely holding his guts in his throat storming towards the bathroom, not bearing the sight of her state.
So when she went radio silent, he nearly lost it. That was five days ago.
What brings us to now.
The Winchesters didn't stop working, but they attempted to take cases that didn't need to much of their time. A ghost here, a rogue vampire over there. Simple. Easy. Fast. That way they could keep looking for the mysterious girl that was keeping Sam awake at night.
They were packing after finishing a wendigo case in some small town in Alabama when he saw an announcement in one of the posters outside the coffee shop he was exiting with one carton cup of that black elixir on each hand. A poster that read 《Missing: Have you seen her?》, in big black letters. There was a name, and a contact number below the black and white photo.
Her photo.
Sam ripped the poster and ran as fast as he could. He had a call to make.
...
Dean nearly died of a heart attack seeing his brother entering the motel room stumping and panting.
"Jesus! At least knock before—"
"I found her", Sam said, with little to no air in his lungs.
"Wait, what?", Dean straighted up on the bed, turning the TV off, "where?"
"I don't know yet, but take a look at this". He passed Dean the ripped paper.
"Huh... well, we now know what the name of our Jane Doe is. Pretty, by the way", Dean said reading the bold letters. "So, are we gonna talk to the family?"
"I already tried, she doesn't have any, the contact number is from the Sheriff's department".
"Alright, well, what about the people that put up the posters?"
"Volunteers", Sam replied, sitting in the other bed across his brother, still trying to catch his breath, "the deputy told me that they were worried about her. Apparently, she is well known here in town, being a waitress at the local Diner and all that. And according to him, she arrived not to long ago, alone".
"So, she was running". Dean deducted.
"Probably..." Sam replied. He stared into space, a grimace of sadness and guilt started to appear in his face.
"Sam—"
"Dean, what if..." Sam mumbled, with cristal eyes, "what if it's too late?"
"Why would you say that?", Dean asked back.
"I didn't tell you but... I stopped dreaming about her".
"What do you mean you stopped?"
"She's been silent, for five days now. Since the day she—"
"Since the day she disappeared", Dean finished, eyes locking with the ones of the girl in the picture. "Do you remember any detail from the basement? Any smell or the type of material it was made of?" He asked his brother again.
Sam froze mid-breath, his gaze turning inward as the 'nonsense' of his night-terrors suddenly aligned into a perfect map, every forgotten detail now screaming a coordinate. His eyes widened as the pieces fell into place. He stared back at his brother.
"Wait—yes!" Sam rose to his feet, "Dean, you are a genius!"
"I know but, what did I do?"
"God, I could kiss you right now!", he exclaimed, ignoring his brother.
"Please don't", Dean rushed, standing up himself, "will you tell what is going on?"
"It's a cabin", Sam answered, reaching for his laptop. How did I missed that? "The basement? It was made of wood mostly. It was dark and it wasn't my main focuse...", he shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to erase the image of the girl beaten nearly to dead. Joke's on him, it was already engraved in his soul, "...but there was also this smell, like wet soil".
"Near a lake, maybe?".
"Yeah, that... that makes sense", Sam said at his brother’s words, while the hazy landscape of his sleep surged forward, snapping into a sharp, geographic reality.
"Okay then, what are we waiting for?" Dean said, grabbing his gun and his car keys. "Let's hunt this son of a bitch down".
...
There it was.
After all this weeks and sleepless night, there it was. He found the cabin.
He found her.
It was empty when they got in, guns and lanterns in hand. They searched every corner, every room until they found the basement.
He entered, hands trembling, afraid of what he would see. He descended carefully.
The staircase creacking under his weight.
One step.
Then another.
Then a sound. A whining. A quiet plea muffled by a piece of fabric.
Sam kept going.
And then he saw her.
She was wearing only a shirt, to big to be hers but to small to cover her legs, laying on the floor over one side, wrists tied on her back, messy hair over her eyes.
God, what did he do to you?
He run towards her, dropping his gun somewhere in the ground.
"Hey!" He said, approaching her. "Hey, Hey... it's me", she flinched at his foreign touch. He winced, unable to imagine all the suffering you had been through in just five days. He untied her and removed the homemade gag from her mouth as gentle as he could. Then he took his jacket off, putting it over you, covering the most skin as posible.
He brushed her hair away from her eyes as he pulled her into his arms, and saw her fluttering them open, squinting by the little light from the corridor that the door let pass through. And when she saw him, silent tears started running down her dirty cheeks.
With a trembling hand she caressed Sam's face, and with raspy voice she said just three words:
"Sam. You came". And she blacked out.
In the floor above, a single gunshot.
Then, silence.
...
She winnowed her eyes open, squinting as the first silver of consciousness returned. She surrendered to the bright white light, letting the shapes of the room take form. A baby blue ceiling, off white walls. A TV hanging on the corner on her left, a beaping sound on her right. A monitor, she assumed, conected to her chest now covered in a hospital gown, a white sheet over her legs.
She nearly missed the touch of the man that was sitting beside her.
He had one arm under his head, facing towards her, leanimg on the mattress. Strands of brown hair falling over his eyes, not completely covering them. He was sleeping.
He looked pea mceful, pretty, even more than in her dreams.
His hand was over hers.
She tried to move, when a pulsing pain spread from her core to all over her body. She chased the memories away, too tired and too dehydrated to shed even a single tear.
A sound came out from the lips of the handsome man as he straightened in his chair, waking up. He blinked twice before he stared at her.
"Hey, you're up" He said with the smoothest tone she has ever heard.
"Hey...", she replied, trying to sit up just to be pulled back to the mattress by the pain on her ribcage.
"Whoa, easy there. You're still healing", he said, putting a gentle hand over her shoulder.
She stared at him, curious.
"You are real". A statement, not a question.
"Yeah, I am". He answered anyways.
"How did you find me?"
"How do you know I was the one who found you?", Sam asked, intrigued.
"I... dreamed it". She whispered, "but how did you?"
He thought of it for a moment, then he simply replied:
"I dreamed it too".
All that psychic bullshit can be talked another time.
She scoffed... relieved, would be the best word to describe it. She searched for his eyes, locking in with each other.
"Thank you, Sam". She mumbled, squeezing him hand. He was about to ask again how he knew his name, but she beat him saying, "we are big dreamers I guess".
"Yeah, I think we are", her name rolled out his tongue, and it was the most beautiful sound she ever heard in a long time.
She didn't have to say much more after that. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or perhaps the dreams they have shared for the past two months, but he instantly knew.
He knew he needed to stay.
There, with her hand in his.
There, with her eyes on his.
There, by her side.
There will be plenty of time later for them to talk properly about this, to explain her everything, but for now, he won't give her another reason for her to dream about him.
He will have to stay for a couple of weeks more, though.
But Dean sure would understand.
Right?
A/N: Yes!!! Finally!!! After two years I finally finished this. Omg writing was hell this past two years with university and graduation and all but I did it!!! It came a little more platonic than I originally intended to, but because of the nature of the story I think is best to keep it that way. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it.
Sooooo... this is my masterlist for my baby Sammy. I just love him so much, and a lot of my work has been in my drafts for a lot of time so bear with me, it's been a while. Warnings and A/Ns are in each work individually.
<<< Main Masterlist
Safe place (1) (2): A girl has been appearing in his dreams. Sam knows she's real, and he needs to find her... fast.
I just read what I wrote last time. God! A lot can change in such a short time.
I finished college, can you believe that? It was a very hard year but a very good one in so many ways. Lots of sacrifices but very rewarding ones.
I met a guy. A really good man. I've been with him for almost nine months.
I didn't think I was going to find you again in him, but I see you now. In the way he smiles at me, in his eyes when he laughs at my silly jokes, when he kisses me... when he makes love to me.
I thought I was done with you, but I guess you reappear when we less expect it.
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To be honest, I feel it's getting harder to write to you. I don't know, I feel lonely...
Empty.
Yeah, that's the right word... empty.
I don't know if I have the strength to keep looking for you. No matter how hard I try, it doesn't seem to work out. And I try to convince myself that maybe– just maybe– I'm looking at you in the wrong time, in the wrong place, in the wrong man... but I keep failing.
I wanted it to be him, I wanted him to love me so bad.
But he keeps seeing me as a doll, a toy he can play with.
I thought he would change this time, but he still sees me as that girl he can just kiss and fuck and leave whenever he wants.
I'm done. With him and with you.
I can't let you break my heart again, and I don't think I could still believe in you after this.
The worst part is that I'm not even mad at you, I'm... disappointed.
Summary: A girl has been appearing in his dreams. Sam knows she's real, and he needs to find her... fast.
Word Count: 2.9 k
Warnings: +18. Dark themes. Minors DNI. Mentions of sexual, physical, and mental abuse (not explicitly, but there are some light descriptions. Please read with caution). Nudity... kinda. Cursing. Series typical violence. Angst. Also, I describe some of the MC features, so I do not consider this an insert reader, but it can be read as such as I do not mention her name. Super long ass A/N at the end!
Next >>>
Where am I?
That was the first question that crossed Sam Winchesters' mind the moment he opened his eyes. He was in a park with tall, abundant green trees that let just a few sunrays pass through. Far ahead, he could see a lake reflecting the orange sunset of the sky.
At the skirts of the lake, there was a bench. And on that bench, there was a girl.
Who is she? Was the second question he asked himself. He got closer to see her: long brown hair waving at the pace of the wind, a beige nightgown falling just above her knees caressing her skin, she was sitting on the bench with her hands on her lap, eyes closed, enjoying the sound of the waves, the birds, the quiet. She was beautiful.
Then, she talked.
"Hey, Samuel," she said on a light whisper, snapping him out of his reverie, and opened her honey eyes.
How does she know my name? Was the thought that came to his mind, she didn't even look at him, how did she know there was someone there? He had been walking slowly, doing barely a sound. Instead of saying any of this, he greeted her like she was an old friend, yet a confused tone in his voice.
"H-Hey..." he replied with caution.
She turned around, and full lips smiled at him. But it wasn't that type of smile that reached her eyes, no... it was nostalgic, like she was missing something.
"C'mon, sit" she said tapping with her hand the spot next to her. Hesitant, he sat a little too close to her. Not on purpose, the bench is really small, although deep down he knew what he was doing. He had been having this tingle in his hands since he saw her up close; he wanted to touch her, he wanted to know if this was real, he wanted to make sure this wasn't some sort of trick from his mind, a product of my imagination, maybe?
"I'm not" she said out of nowhere. What?
"Sorry?" He asked confused, "you're not what?"
"A product of your imagination, of course".
"How did you—?" He stopped himself. This was officially out of his paranormal knowledge. She laughed a little, and the moment he heard it, he knew he could for the rest of his life. "If you are not, then how did you know who I was?"
"Oh, silly! Don't you know where we are?" She replied like it was the most obvios thing in the world.
He denied.
"This is your mind."
Sam frowned, skeptical.
"What—? How—?" He tried to insist, but the words weren't coming out. He was shocked with what was going on, it was the first time he had a dream like this. She laughed again.
"Don't ask, Sam, just listen" she said giggling, turning her head towards the lake. He followed her gaze, but quickly looking at her again, mesmerized by her big open eyes admiring her surroundings, and her face that lit up like it was her first time seeing it.
"What am I supposed to be listening to?" He asked, although he didn't want to. She looked so concentrated on the view he didn't want to intrude.
"This," she made a pause, "the silence, the calm... it's so peaceful."
"What? My mind?" He asked in disbelief.
"Yes, your mind! It's beautiful."
"Yeah, well, don't get used to it" Sam argued in a more serious tone "it's rare for it to be like this." He picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could towards the center of the lake. It reminded him of how he used to play with his brother, to see who would throw better so the rock would come back again when their father left them alone or when they didn't have any jobs to do. He smiled wistfully; Dean was always the good one at that.
It was one of those memories that made him feel as if his family had always been normal, as if he had always been normal.
She smiled at him again, sadness on her face like she could sense his emotions or his mind; she said nothing about it, though.
"It is nice anyway". She said, ending the conversation.
They sat in silence for what it felt like hours, but only a few seconds had passed when he talked again.
"Who are you?" He asked out of the blue.
"Hm?"
"I mean, I know you are not a creation of my mind, but I don't know if you're real" He continued not noticing how she looked away and her eyes watered, "I just want to know what I should call you."
"My name?" She asked.
"Yes, your name." He reaffirmed.
She swallowed anxiously. She wasn't sure if it was smart to tell him something so private, yet he inspired her a type of confidence that she had never experience before. She swallowed and started, hesitant. "My name is—"
It all muted. He saw her moving her lips, but he didn't hear a thing, "What?"
"It is—" Again, muted.
"I can't hear you!" He shouted, but it did nothing.
Instead, he saw her face turn into pure anguish, tears falling from her eyes screaming desperately. She tried to reach him, but it looked like the more she tried, the more he seemed to get away, and the scenario changed completely.
In front of him was a gagged girl with her eyes blindfolded, crying and trying to scream for help, to get free from the ropes that tied her to the thick wooden column of a damp and dark basement, wearing only her bottom underwear with a torn red shirt trying to cover the little remaining dignity she had left.
Just as he was going to yell at her, the door upstairs opened slightly and a pair of dirty boots began to descend slowly, prolonging the girl's suffering as she tried to get as far away from him as the ties would allow. Sam tried to stop him, but no matter how hard he tried to yell, not a single sound came out of his mouth. The guy pulled out a knife and held it to the girl's neck as he unbuttoned his pants, spitting out insults and threats that Sam couldn't quite comprehend.
Then... it all went dark.
...
When he woke up, he was soaking wet. He sat on the bed panting and gasping for air, grabbing his chest with trembling hands; his body ached as if he had been run over by a truck.
What in the actual fuck—?
"Hey Sammy, you okay?" Sam flinched at the sound of his brother. Dean was already dressed and packing up his things to continue the trip. He was cleaning his gun when his brother woke up, looking at him unimpressed about the fact that he was drenched in sweat. Since Jessica's death, Sam has been having nightmares, and Dean has been by his side in every single one of them; some where premonitions as he learned later, others where just bad memories of her late girlfriend o mother.
This one was different, though, and he was sure of it. Damn, he knows Sammy better than he knows himself after all those years hunting together. He is his brother for Christ sake!
"I... I think so... yeah..." Sam answered, standing up grunting from the position he has been sitting.
"You sure?" Dean insisted, Sam just nodded, "another premonition, maybe?" Sam looked throughout the window of the motel, looking for something to entertain his mind in a desperate attempt not to think about what he just dreamed. "Hey! Earth to Sam!" He said louder, snapping him out of his train of thoughts.
"Sorry, uhh, no" he said defeated, "I think it was something else." He paused for a second or two, "anyway, not important" I think, "do you found a job or somethin'?" Sam asked, changing the subject. Dean wasn't very happy about it, but humored him nonetheless.
"Well... I'm not sure if this is our thing, but it could be. Look," he turned the laptop screen to his brother, showing him a headline of a local paper from Texas: 《19 year-old girl found dead floating on the shores of Lake Travis.》
"'Fourth death this year'?" Sam read, "Dude, we're barely in february."
"Looks nasty, doesn't it?"
"Do you think we could be dealing with another water spirit?"
"Well... there's only one way to find out, right?"
Sam nodded. "Wait by the car, I'll be ready in ten."
...
Sam...
Her voice echoed in his mind.
Sam...
He was standing in the middle of the lake, water knee deep, with no signs of the owner of the voice. Though it was very similar to–
Samuel...
There she was, calling him again, the sweet voice turning into a loud crying. He turned around desperately trying to identify where it came from, failing miserably.
Then, a pair of lips brushing his ear, whispering softly.
Wake up, Sam...
"SAMMY, WAKE UP!"
"Ahhh!" Sam screamed, "The fuck, Dean?! You wanna make me deaf or what?" He scolded his brother, touching his ear, "You scared the shit out of me," he mumbled.
"Well, you earned that, I called you seven times. If I didn't know better, I would've thought you were just moving in with the creator, " he bited back. At the confused look of his younger brother, he added, "And you snore in your sleep. It's annoying."
"Yeah, right." He said dryly, stepping out of the car, "remind me why are we here again?"
"The alleged water spirit?" Oh right, the Lake Travis girl, he thought. Wait, she isn't her, is she? "Can I see the picture of that girl again?"
"Be my guest, the lap is in my backpack, 'think it still has some battery on it."
Sam hurried inside the motel room and opened the computer on the same article they left it and scrolled down until a face appeared: a portrait of a blonde girl with pale skin and gray cloud eyes was shown next to a text that read: 《Young Amelia Burton was found dead at Lake Travis' shore. The autopsy report states cause of death by drowning and no signs of abuse; there were no witnesses due to the hour of the event, yet her parents are still looking for those responsible since they affirm that she was going to attend a diving national competition next month, insisting it was homicide》.
"At least it's not her..."
"Her? Who's her?" Dean said stepping inside with a bag of Cheetos in his hand.
Shit, shit, shit.
"Err, no one, just uhh..., thought she looked familiar," Sam stuttered, clearing his throat, hoping his brother bought that little lie he invented. Fortunately, he was to busy eating to notice.
"Dude, you're weird." Sam rolled his eyes at his comment, he then added, "want some?"
"Uhh, no" Sam said, "I don't like those."
"I confirm: you're weird" Dean replied, "I'm gonna go see what I can find about our victims, see if they have something in common." He said grabbing his gun and his fake IDs.
"Okay, I'll stay here, see what I can find online."
"Alright, call me if you need anything."
"Yes, daaaad" Sam said, sarcastically. His brother looked at him, "What? You sound like him... oh my God..."
"What?"
"You're old." He realized and laughed.
Dean turned around, stepping outside and closing the door behind him "...bitch".
"Jerk". Sam bit back, smiling.
And he was all alone again.
...
There he was again. The same lake, the same bench. He didn't know how he got there, but he was already sitting on it. He scanned the landscape, looking for her. She had to be there somewhere, he was sure of it.
The lake, he thought, remembering the past dreams. He stood up and ran barefoot towards the shore, he saw her at the distance, knee-deep in the water looking at the horizon.
"Hey!" He called a few feet away. She turned around at the sound of his voice, and the sight left him paralized: she looked skinnier, paler, puffy eyes and tears running down her cheeks. But the worst part was when he notice the bruises and hand marks on her arms, her face... and her legs.
What happened to you? He thought. She looked at him with desperation in her blurr eyes, at the edge of tears again, as in ready to escape from him.
"Hey, hey, easy..." he whispered when reached her.
"Sam?" She responded softly with hoarse voice.
"Yes, I'm here... I'm here." He tried to assure her, but the rage he felt inside wasn't helping. He was angry, furious. He wanted to punish the monster who did it, "Talk to me, what happened?"
"I..." She started between sobs. Sam caressed her face with shaking hands whipping her tears away. She flinched at first, but relaxed instantly at the touch of his palms. It was sutil, but he noticed, making him angrier, "H-He's... evil, cruel, he's gonna do terrible things," she cried.
"Wait, he's gonna? It hasn't happen yet?" He answered, with hints of hope in his voice; she nodded as she bursted into tears. She was hurting, helpless. "Hey, it's alright, I–"
"No, it's not! He's bad, Sam, he's... If he finds me I'm dead, I'm not gonna make it this time"
"What do you mean this time?" He was trying to stay calm, but the mere thought of her being punished like this was enough of a reason for him to kill that motherfucker. "Hey, hey! Look at me, breath." He said, calming her down, "I'm not leaving."
She was still shaken. But at least she's not crying anymore.
"Better?" She nodded. Sam continued, "Alright, I'll need you to tell me your name."
"What?"
"Sweetheart, I wanna help, but ya' have to work with me on this one. C'mon, just tell me so I can start looking for you."
"I... I don't remember..."
"...Sorry?"
"I don't remember, Sam. I don't even know who I am." She put her hands on her head, pulling her hair anxious. "Sam... Help me, please..."
He woke up screaming, again.
...
Dean wasn't buying it.
They have been in Texas for almost three weeks now. It turned out the Lake Travis case was just another vengeful spirit, or, as Dean said, a very pissed ex-boyfriend.
It was an easy case. It would have been faster if his little brother hadn't been sleeping during the majority of the case. His excuse: fever. So yeah, he wasn't gonna believe in that crap.
"So..." he said.
"So...?" Sam answered.
"Are you gonna tell what the hell is going on? You've been sleeping a lot lately and still looking like shit," Dean exclaimed, "Plus, you wake up screaming 11 out of 10 times."
Sam looked surprised, "What are you talking about?" He replied, trying to get away from the conversation.
"Thought I wouldn't notice? I your brother goddammit! It was just a crappy ghost, but you almost died out there."
Sam sighed. He really didn't want to engage in this discussion, but he knew he had no choice. This dream situation was getting out of his hands and he-even if he didn't want to recognize it-needed his brothers help, especially if he wanted to find out who and where she was.
So, he told him. About he lake, the first meeting, the basement, everything he remembered from what had happened till that moment.
And Dean was more than intrigued.
"Okay, let me get this straight" He begun, "this girl, whose name you don't know, has told you she is in danger".
"Correct".
"But you don't know where she is or what is she hiding from, right?"
"Yes and no", Sam said, he had just realized something, "Dean, I don't think she is in a paranormal type of danger", his brother gave him a look as in saying go on, "I think she is actually being kidnapped by someone, a human".
"Ok, but" Dean continued, "Sam you know this is not our type of job, we don't hunt humans".
"Yes, seriously, I've been thinking about it" Sam was starting to freak out, "and I know it is not our problem, but you have to understand, these were not normal premonitions. I talked to her; I nearly touched her-"
"But how are you so sure?!" Dean claimed.
"I DON'T KNOW!"
There was a dead silence between them, neither of the two knew how to react at that moment. They just stared at each other looking for an answer, a place to start. Sam sighed and sat on the edged of the nearest bed, head in his hands. I'm sorry, he thought, trying to reach her through mind, I don't know if I can help you. He felt the same thing as when Jessica died: powerless and small.
Dean just watched. He knew his brother was struggling, but he did not imagine it was that big of a deal. He was not good at comforting people, but Sam is his little brother, he at least could try. He sat next to him and sighed defeated.
"Listen," Dean said, "yes, we don't do this kind of jobs, but we can try looking for her".
Sam looked his brother, "Really?"
"Yeah, I mean we don't know anything yet, but we can begin doing a list of reported missing people and see if we can find anyone with the description you gave me". Sam was amazed at Deans' words. He knew his brother rarely accepted jobs with this little information, let alone jobs that had nothing to do with the demon type. So, he was relieved when he herd his brother saying those worth.
He was proud of him, he never disappointed.
With a calmed yet enthusiastic voice, Sam agreed.
"Alright, then. When do we start?"
Next >>>
A/N: Hey! Brenii here. So this is my first time actually publishing anything and I had this plot just sitting there at the back of my brain shouting "WRITE ME!" at me every free time I had. It turned out a little long so I divided it in two, but I'm really proud of it!
So yeah, I wanted to write it for one of my favorite fandoms, and also wanted to try it out cause I've been on a creative block for years now and I think it is finally over. Also, my first language is not english, so if you see an error or anything like that, it was not me, it was Google Translator, but pleaseeee let me know!
Also, this is just part one, so let me know what you think. Will they find her? But more importantly will they find her in time? Stay tuned for part two!
Thanks to everyone that read 'till the end, and if you really liked it, don't forget to reblog!
Someone broke my heart. These are some of the letters I've written because of that.
Maybe this way, love will finally listen to me...
A/N: These are some letters that I have been writing in a therapeutic way to cope and overcome what I am feeling.
If you're reading this and feel the same way, I hope it helps you too.
(They don't have an specific order nor a plot, so you can read them individually or follow them as a story. Maybe I'll put memories of past relationships, who knows?)
Also I write these when I think I need to personally, so these doesn't have a real schedule, but I will be updating this masterlist every time I write a new letter. If you like them, feel free to comment, like and reblog!
It's been a while since I last wrote you. And a lot of things have happen that I really don't know were to start.
I've finally moved on, and it feels... liberating, a little nostalgic but that weight I had on my shoulders is gone, and this time for good. I can't believe it took me so long to get rid of that sensation, but I finally understand what I'm worthy of, and that was not it.
In other news, remember that guy I talked to you about? Well, it didn't work. It's fine though, it wasn't ment to be anyways.
I'm happy, I really am. I feel everything is "OK" with my life right now; I have my moments, yes, but it's part of the process, it's part of living.
The road will never be perfect, it's bumpy and has holes in it, but that is what makes the trip interesting, right? We never know what's waiting for us at the end of it.
But whatever it is on the other side I know, deep in my heart, it's worth it.
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He was with another girl, facetiming her like we used to.
And I realized he has moved on. He met someone else, someone he'll maybe share those little moments of happiness we once had. Someone who maybe will be by his side for a long time, even longer than I was. He has found someone else in a really short time...
I haven't.
All those memories, all those moments we shared together, all that time we spent talking, laughing, kissing, loving... I'm not ready to let them go.
To let him go.
But I'll be, someday. And I will find that person... just as he did.
