Winged_Avenger
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Summary
Junkrat is saved by Mcree after a rouge sniper gets in a lucky shot. Can his distaste of Overwatch be swayed by a gunslinger's charms or will Roadhog step in to remind him what's most important?
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While Sam is out of town on a hunt, Dean and Castiel are left behind at the Bunker cleaning and cataloging a couple of storerooms. When Dean goes to collect Castiel for a lunch break, he finds a blue-eyed toddler staring up at him instead.
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- Part 11 of Year of the OTP 2023
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The Life Span of a Rat (and how it's longer with a little help) by kennedy01
Fandoms: Overwatch (Video Game)
23 Dec 2024
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Jamie was leaning on his flesh arm, looking at Mako, who had long since fallen asleep. Watching his chest and big belly rise and fall filled him with a certain peace and safety. Knowing he was here next to him, on a real bed of all places, in a base for fucking superheroes filled with other people who also cared for him.
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How Jamie came to see good in the world through Roadhog and (eventually) Overwatch.
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Roadhog is a one-man apocalypse, a feared enforcer, a dangerous outlaw, and also too old for this shit. He isn't used to feeling like this, whatever this is, and doesn't like it one bit. Junkrat being the world's worst wingman doesn't help much either.
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Mako Rutledge was supposed to have died years ago. He left Roadhog, a man fueled by bloodlust and destruction, behind to weather post-apocalyptic Oz in his place.
Roadhog had been traveling with Junkrat for a year. Remnants of his past, of a man he had decided was dead, kept coming back: feelings, emotions, actions that he no longer thought himself capable. He knew that this was bad, but it didn’t feel wrong. It was then that he realized that Junkrat was bad for Roadhog.
Good for Mako, in a way he didn’t even want to consider, but bad for Roadhog.
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The feeling started when they reached the edge of civilization.
Junkrat wasn't familiar with the twisting sensation in his stomach, the constriction of his chest, and the tingling of his fingers when he held onto the belt of the man driving the motor bike. He knew it wasn't fear, or anxiety, as he often did experience. It wasn't the thrill and delight he feels when he blows something or someone up.
This kind of feeling was... Nice. Warm. Nauseating. All at the same time. It grew more sure as the bike accelerated and he held on tighter, the barren landscape blurring passed them, the dust and wind blowing through his singed hair, the roar of the engine ringing in his ears. He tried to brush it off. He tried to forget about it.
Business, it's only business, he reminded himself. Nothing more. Never will be.
Oh, how he tried.
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