Miss K I gotta tell u more about the soft daddy thing bc Iâm just in a funk đ„ș I want a daddy who as soon as I walk through the door cuddles me close, and letâs me just breathe. Maybe tells me how hard Iâve been working, âbabydoll you gotta let me take care of you, just sit back a little, let somebody else take the reignsâ. Letâs me cry it out a little, rant about whatever Iâm upset about, talks to me real soft and gentle. Cuddles me close, maybe letâs me nap while dinner cooks, pets my hair to calm me down, makes sure I eat enough and take a warm shower before weâre both cuddled up in bed relaxing, never pushing me to talk but always ready and comforting, just an absolutely Daddy đ„șđđ„șđđ„șđ
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summary: Claire Novakâs fathers are dead. And sheâs going to burn the entire world to bring them back. (Canon compliant to 15x20, from a certain point of view.)
her eyes open. itâs been over a decade since she burned with the grace of a seraphim. now the voices of angels are ashes in the wind and castiel no longer answers her prayers.
(âhe is gone,â sam tells her in the same breath as he says âand dean--â)
her fathers are dead.Â
the flame inside of her is waning, a ghost of what it was, and she is cold, so very, very cold, shivering in the absence. and she will stop at nothing but to give the flame what it needs -- oxygen, kindling, fuel. she will bring them all back if only to feel warm again.
*
kaia holds her close, and her warmth helps but does not heal. âyouâre angry,â she says.Â
âiâm going to burn the whole world to--â
âyouâre angry, but that doesnât mean you have to fix it. it doesnât mean you can fix it,â she says.
(it doesnât mean it needs fixing, a whisper says)
âitâs wrong and itâs not fair and what if they never knew--âÂ
she weeps, fat tears hot on her cheeks and damp on her shirt. kaia clings tighter.Â
she doesnât say: i wish i wasnât this body, wasnât human, wasnât meant to be locked in this useless flesh. if i was an angel, i could--Â
*
if i was castiel again, i would--
*
sam lets her in the bunker, lets her research on her own -- heâs paralyzed by grief, unable to stay, unable to point her in the right direction. he is keeping secrets, lying by omission. but his grief is real; she can taste the soot in her mouth.Â
so she prays. there must be an angel alive, there must be something that can help her.Â
her fingers run along the carving of castielâs name in the wood. help me, she prays. you canât be dead, you canât be.Â
*
she dreams of a lake, a big broad expanse of water and reeds and fish and sand. it smells fresh and green, alive and welcoming. she could sit on the pier and dip her toes in, or wade out for a swim, or just listen to the gentle sound of water and wind. but she knows, somehow, that this is theirs. she is trespassing on something special, sacred. this is deanâs, she thinks, and castiel stood here, often. watching. this is a place that holds memory. holds something akin to love. the sun overhead is warm, and she can feel it on her skin.Â
Father, she says.Â
hello, claire, a voice says. and her eyes fly open.
This Mrs. Evans story is told from Chrisâs point of view, a change from other stories in the series
Author Note:  Iâve been sick A LOT lately, which accounts for several of my stories lately being about sickness and the healing powers of Mr. Evans.  When I had to get a breathing treatment done, I remembered a family moment from long ago that had slipped my memory⊠ with authorâs license for embellishing a few details, this is really the tale of how my Hubs got Kid to take his breathing treatments.
*******
Through the crack in the door, Chris listens to the cough in the little boyâs chest and it pains him to hear it. Â His big Daddy heart just canât take it when the boys are sick, but he knows itâs even harder on his wife, so he steps up to the plate.
He steps into the room and asks, âWhatchya doinâ, Bud?â
He knows she hates that nickname, always telling him the child and the dog cannot have the same nickname. Â But itâs too late to get rid of it now. Â
âJust colorinâ, Daddy. Â Nonna Lisa brought me a new coloring book this morning.â
âOh, she did; that was nice, weâll-â
âYea, yea, Dad; I already thanked her,â he rolls his blue eyes, already trained well in the art of appreciation from his mother.
Chris holds in his laughter. Â âOk, then. Â Hey, son, do you know why your mother sent me up here?â Â
The little boy throws the covers over his head and snuggles down under the blankets. Â ââCuz I was bad and itâs time for more medicine.â
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Pasha ducked his head, immediately after the question had been asked several memories began to surface. His ears dropped as the sound of a child's laughter floated through his head. A sharp grin followed closely by bright green eyes. He swallowed uneasily.
"My friend I, I do not have many fond memories..."
