Oatmini

Coming soon for the @destielaureversebb: “Red String Rosary” 

Author: scifiromance @scifiromance7 Artist: @oatminart

Rating: Teen and Up Archive warnings: None Length: 42,500 words Tags:  Alternate Universe: Red String of Fate, Psychic Dean Winchester, Hunter Dean Winchester, Priest Castiel, The Men of Letters Relationships: Dean/Castiel, Brief Dean Winchester/Ash, Pamela Barnes/Ellen Harvelle, Past John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Henry Winchester/Millie Winchester, Mary Winchester/Arthur Ketch

Summary:  

Red Strings of Fate touched everyone in one way or another, but only Dean Winchester could see them. Every day of his life, everyone he'd ever met. His own solitary thread trailed after him on every hunt, every research expedition to his grandfather's libraries. His premonitions of danger had saved him time and again, but he refused to follow a thread he knew held no guarantee of lasting love.

Skipping out on the Men of Letters' latest intrigue, however, led him to a church haunted by something much holier than ghosts, and an enigmatic priest who would push him to confront fate once and for all. 

Excerpt: 

Pamela's expression remained icily unimpressed, freezing the flames of anger licking up his spine. "You're an asshole."

He laughed mirthlessly, "I could always be a bigger one."

"And yet, I'd still be upset if you ended up on a pyre just because you refuse to use the eyes on the back of your head."

"Occasionally getting a feeling for which step is going to creak on a stair isn't the same thing as having eyes on the back of my head," Dean protested, even though just such a feeling had stopped him from alerting a ghost more than once. Then there were all the times he'd turned around at just the right moment, or the multi-car pile ups he'd missed because he'd been seized by the need to use a back road instead of an Interstate, or vice versa.

Pamela snorted, throwing her hands up. "Come on, Dean! If you tell me all your near misses are luck one more time—!"

"Maybe it's more John Winchester instilled paranoia than luck," he admitted grimly.

Pamela's righteous anger deflated. "Fuck, way to take the wind out of my sails," she grouched.

"It's a gift." He drained the last of his drink.

"You keep telling yourself that." She pursed her lips and for a split second, he saw another flash of her aura, an fiery orange halo around the red of her strings. God, how did she put up with, presumably, seeing those auras all the time? He'd trained his eyes to skip over the threads— or it was a work in progress to do so— as if they were just someone's unfortunate choice in tie dye jeans or something. "Just tell me what knocked you off your game with that shifter."