in this story,

they've always been on borrowed time. years ago, it'd been stolen kisses, shared minutes, motel rooms with late checkout. trying to figure out the finite; trying to avoid the inevitable. in some way, she thinks they both knew that. running stop signs and red lights, fighting against the sway of the wind just to find one another in the middle. wanting what-could be, knowing what-wasn't. those days, he was all crooked grin and leather jacket and a spare wink before he'd let her go— but these days, he's nowhere. nothing. a spare piece of history in her phone, haunting her silhouette in the rearview mirror.

such is life. dean winchester was never the type of man to stay, mari dai was never the girl who'd ask him not to go. or, at least, she wasn't— but times change, so does she, and three a.m feels like a secret both of them can keep. or, maybe, a time that doesn't need to be a secret at all.

the phone sits against the hollow of her cheek, a spare hand cradling a drink that's more than halfway gone. her eyes are shut, drunken and tired and spattered with images that could feel like yesterday, if she tries. the click of the receiver halts the ringing, and mari's mouth opens before she can think.

university's been the kind of place mari shows up to and forgets herself in. she loses charms, keys, the back end of a bracelet. misplaces her heart, her mind, the answer to last week's quiz. people only know what they can google about her. her friends only know what they see of her. drunken at her first class, slumped through her last, still reading her father's obituary in the library. she's odd, in the way that she's ill, and in the way that everyone but her can see it.

but ishtar's different. ishtar doesn't look at her as if she's got death wedged between her teeth, like she's got blood stained on her hands— she doesn't glance over mari's shoulder (at least, not noticeably) when she decides to google her mother's release date for the sixth time that morning. it's nice. it's kind. it's friendship, or fondness, or something far below and somewhere in between. or, rather, that's what mari's decided to call it.

dean likes to play hero.   a knight in leather armor, prince charming on impala wheels, he's all sweat and muscle and skin like a bad batch of men's weekly—   hot off the press.   when the heat turns up, the guns go ablazing. when a damsel's in distress, he's the first on the scene. he guts the ghouls, gets the girl, and this equation would work neatly    ...   if the girl in question wanted to be saved.  

see, mari's a swiss army knife and any sharp edge calls her name. she's a lesson in duality, an instrument against fate    ...    and when the first shot's fired, she'd rather be the bullet than stay behind the gun.   so, dean says wait outside, and mari's halfway 'round the back. dean says stay put, and she's busy breaking in. dean plays savior, mari plays survivor, and both parties meet in the middle—   weapon to weapon, gun to knife.

mari knows most people don’t like their job, but she’s found ways to make it interesting.

it starts small.   everything’s shrunken to the world around her, miniature in comparison to life, and standing in the midst lies hints for only one pair of eyes to see.   (the earbuds are the finishing touch. looped into his jacket, pulled into his pocket, decorated in the tiniest of detail. she spends too long on it, truthfully, but time passes and clocks tick and when mari clocks in, she’s happy to waste company time.   it’s a win win:   she gets her kicks, the job gets its product.)   charlie takes approximately a week to notice. she watches the stutter in his movement, the pause when he adjusts a car.   something clicking into place in his mind.   two seconds, then he moves on.

blood is blood is blood,   until lineage means nothing.   underneath skin, beneath open vein, lis and mari could be mistaken as family.   twins in their mirrored interest.   heart-to-hearts bleeding red;   friendship as a festering wound—   together, they pair like knives to a slaughter. wolves in sheep's clothes.  yet, tonight, they appear unmasked. unpeeled and ridden with rotten fruit of conversation.   mari sips at her drink, lis splays on the couch;   inevitably, one of them shares more than they should.   such is the nature of their dynamic:   trust for trust, truth for truth, honesty presented as mundane.   mari's learned to appreciate that more than she used to.

naomi has a familiar face.  (a poster of a d-list movie, the centerfold of some no-name magazine, the back cover of a sears catalogue—)   naomi has the kind of face little girls ache for.   green eyes, blonde hair, features that dance and play with the light as if its something to control.   she's tall. she's beautiful.   she's empty.  a glass not-quite-full. a blank page of a journal. the beginnings of a story never finished, handwritten in script that feels too much like a font.   naomi is familiar, in the same way that she's palatable, in the same way that she's easy   ...   because whoever she is, wherever she goes, she becomes what you believe of her.

god, in the moonlight of her chapel. killer, in the depth of the blood. model-like, barbie-blonde, undeniably beautiful   —   rather, undoubtedly fake,    because faith or frenzy aside,   naomi is nothing beneath the surface.

it was hate and fuck and rage,  pin and push and pull.   people who weren't quite people, humans who were capable of inhumane. a couple that exchanged kisses like cruelty.  (barbed wire, teeth, dog-faced grins.)   before, when things were still loose and fast and playing by no rules at all, mari knew that charlie was temporary. he'd flare and fade just like everything else,   dead-man-walking into a grave of his own volition.   their relationship was outlined in corpsehood. their bodies were half-living. their love wasn't love at all.  

now, she's not sure what she knows.   there are moments,   small, permissible seconds,  where he passes a hand over her hair  / clutches the sleeve of her jacket, and says nothing.   truth is, he doesn't need to say anything.   it's a silent exchange. a secretive admission. some quiet trust, followed by understanding. followed by sight.   (i see you, you see me, we'll always come home by morning.)  

she doesn't know what to call it. she's spent weeks, months, maybe even years, contemplating the existence of this tenderness. this kindness. the acceptance of her,   whole and full and flush against her chest,   yet weightless.  

freedom, mari thinks, might feel something like this.

she has that thought often.   on board game night, on aquarium tuesdays, in arguments that end with compromise that neither would call compromise at all—   mari looks at charlie, charlie looks back, and for once in her small-short-past-its-expiration-date-life,   someone doesn't look away.   blank-faced, monotone, strange and silly and sometimes stupid, he keeps staring.   as if she isn't something awful. as if she isn't someone monstrous. as if wild, bitter, contradictory and chaotic aren't adjectives that deter him. as if he loves her anyway.

maybe he does. maybe he doesn't. those aren't the kind of words they exchange, regardless of what their actions say.   like a burned cd on his side of the bed, printed images of moray eels inside an envelope. like tiny, nigh missable moments that collect to the back of both of their minds.   (are you hungry? are you thirsty? are you okay? are you okay? are you okay?)   like his hand intertwined to hers. her fingers combing through his hair. like softness, like sweetness, like consideration,   despite everything that tells them to do otherwise.

she doesn't know when it changed.   but here, now, with her head against his chest and his book on the same page and them in the dim lighting of a bedroom that's theirs,   she supposes it doesn't really matter.  mari's lashes flutter, blinking down at the words that haven't moved in a solid five minutes. her fingertips drift over his wrist, trailing along to his hand, and then drop away to rest upon his stomach.   "i can hear your heartbeat."   she states, blunt. there's little romance to it, just a statement of fact. a tilt of her head up, gaze drifting over his jawline and up to his eyes.    light and dark, simple and complex, all at the same time. she blinks, then rests her head against his chest once more.   "it's loud."

"you are so weird sometimes."   —   @graveflwers, as charlie álvarez.

his voice is low, as it always is. not harsh, not biting, not even irritated. this is the change she means:   the shift in what they do / don't / will allow.   a twitch of her lip, fond, and she settles into his side an inch further.   "you're the one wh — who's been staring at a page for five minutes."   she retorts, but there's no heat to it. just a response, as transparent as it is plain, all while her fingers skim the bottom of his shirt. mindless. second nature.