#ofangelsandmooses

                                                               -- I'm sorry I tried to shoot you."

[ lowering his eyes somewhat sheepishly, dean glances around at the area surrounding them. it was mere luck, rare for a man like him, that his aim was bad enough that the bullet barely grazed the other guy's arm. trust him to shoot before he even blinks -- or rather, trust him to have a gun in his hand in the first place. with a small sigh, dean worries his lower lip between his teeth, eyes sweeping up and down the man opposite him as he considers what to do next. ]

“11-80. I repeat 11-80. Semi and Car involved. West 9th Street and Vermont Street. Passenger Ejection through windshield. Ambulance in route. “

Ten Weeks. They’d been married for ten weeks before that night. She dragged her feet, convincing him to take her to the next showing of Star Trek. Honestly, she wasn’t completely sure why he wanted to go out to see the movie. Then again, she knew he’d do anything for Sammy. It was bizarre that they came this far, really. Meg refused to complain. He showed her more than the life her parents planned her out for, and though the two of them have a silent agreement of ‘We’re Married The Sappy Shit Ends There’, she won’t deny that she’s not looking a gift horse in the mouth where he’s concerned.

Memories are fragile things, really. When given, they can be taken away. All of her best memories have him or his hand in them. All of the things that make her who she is can be shrouded in darkness. There’s a give and a take. No matter who you are, you’re tested. There’s things you won’t get back, and there’s even more you won’t redo.

They’d met 5 years before at K.U. It was obvious he was only going to please his little brother, and she was ‘following the family line’. Neither of them were content with their warpaths, but they were happy enough to appease the people who wanted him them. Saying they bumped into each other would be pretty damn literal. He’d been looking past her (which wasn’t hard; she was 5’4 and he 6’1), and she had her nose in some stupid Psychology book that made no sense to her. Stammered apologies and a few awkward back pats and hooting of friends on his part, Meg was convinced he was the biggest asshole in the state of Kansas; until he stole her book and her phone, and insisted he that she ‘let him make it up to her’.

She had a dinner demand with one Dean Winchester.

He was cute enough, in his attempts to figure her life out. Honestly, he wasn’t far off with her story. Where he was wrong, his insistent game of 20 questions and shots when I’m wrong made up for it. He was, something else; Kansas bred with a little brother who’s going places and no clue what he’s doing in college. She found it a little funny at how different they actually were, with her being a Manhattan girl, only child with loaded parents, and no choice of a future for herself.

For five years, three changes in major, two small apartments, and impromptu trips between Boston (for her Mother) and California (For Boy Genius, Sammy), they made it work. She became the artist she dreamed to be, and he became a mechanic and opened a restoration shop for classic cars, with her support.  He proposed, without her parent’s blessing, during her first opening Gala in Chicago. She bought him a 1970 Cutlass to go along with his 1967 Impala.

These are the memories she cherished, until that night. They’d been in the Impala, virtually snowed in when she unclipped her seatbelt to turn properly to look at him. The roads seemed deserted, and sue her for being one for spontaneity.  As she leaned over the bench seat to cup his jaw and press gentle kisses to his jaw in amusement, Meg hummed softly.

“You know, we should probably revisit the topic we had about starting that thing I wanted.” She sat back on her heels as the headlights of a snow plow met taillights of the Impala, and everything went black.

She’s not sure where she is or why she’s there when she comes to. Machines are beeping and warnings blaring as her eyes slowly crack open. Someone’s holding her hand; someone she doesn’t know. Slowly, feeling as though her limbs are filled with lead, she locks eyes at the green eyed man in the chair beside her.

The NSFW Meme List

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The Vow

Lucifer's going through your bag right now, tossing everything onto the floor. And he's been singing 'Stairway to Heaven' for about an hour.