- INTRODUCTORY SCOOP -

Basically, I’m feeding short prompts into a bot, it was given a nice upgrade on November 5th and kicks serious ass. 

Even though it’s going to look like shit, I’m bolding the lines that I’m feeding it - it will only kick out a certain amount of characters/words, so I’m going to have to prompt it each time, and I’m going to give it about three lines in order to steer it in the direction of a coherent plot. I have a feeling it’s going to fight me, though. 

But I won’t fight back too much. For the most part I want this to be, all at the same time, tropey and cliche and still better than what any of us have read and/or written lately. I welcome our matrix overlords. I will use my best judgment and might combine elements of 2 separate runs (I give each prompt three or four because it will occasionally kick out nonsense) to keep it cohesive. I mean, I *am* the co-author, after all. And if it leaves me a fragment of a sentence at the end that will keep the flow going, I’ll just feed it that fragment. 

Oh and if I have to change a word - like, in the first paragraph I changed “girl” to “woman” - then it’ll look like what you see, with a cross out and bold. I won’t change any whacky grammar or anything, though. I’ll split scenes with a black line.

Tell me if you want me to do some sort of special divider for when the updates happen so all you have to do is scroll til you see it.

Let’s roll.

~ "The Lone Survivor" ~ 

Dean stared at her, trying to gauge her sincerity, and after a few moments he lowered the gun. And then suddenly, in three long, quick strides, he was standing in front of her. And then he kissed her, taking her breath away. The kiss was tentative, not quite daring, not quite confident, not quite desperate. It was a warm, passionate kiss. The girl woman tried to pull away, and he kissed her again. And again. And again. 

Eventually the kiss became intense, and he thrust his pelvis forward, pushing her against the wall of the shower stall, making her stumble. He moved her hips to meet his thrusts, making her gasp and moan in pleasure. And he was moving her-----

Dean awoke with a start, sweaty and gasping. He could still taste her on his lips. The dreams were getting more intense. More violent. As if in response to his desperate cries, the room seemed to darken as the walls were covered in darkness, the darkness filling his eyes as he closed his eyes in desperation. He heard a low and guttural voice inside his mind. "You are not dead!" the voice shouted as it became more and more loud, it had the audacity to claim it was his, as if it was the last thing he heard before he died. It sounded like someone who couldn't stop himself from laughing. Suddenly, he heard footsteps behind him and the room went black.

Dean sat straight up in bed. Now nightmares were following the dreams. He was beginning to wonder if it was a curse or some other supernatural thing, lulling him with her, then striking when he was vulnerable. The dreams made him feel ill, and his stomach would flip up like a leaf. He would scream and writhe and throw the sheets aside. The nightmares and the sickness in his stomach were making it hard for him to concentrate, hard for him to think straight. He would lie there and try to ignore the thoughts that would come to him, trying to ignore the pain. 

But Dean was good at ignoring pain, and so that’s what he did. He took a shower, got dressed, and by the time he entered the kitchen, he had his typical casual demeanor in place. His brother was seated at the table, and as he passed by on his way to the coffee, he spoke.

“Mornin’, Sammy.”

Sam didn't turn to look at Dean, just continued eating his breakfast.

A few minutes passed before Dean spoke again. "Okay, Sam, why are you here again?"

Sam swallowed a mouthful of his breakfast. "Well... we're not going to talk about it for a while. We'll talk when the time comes. Just wanted to know if... um... if you had a date for tonight. If it's okay."

"I do not have a date for tonight," Dean said without looking up from his plate, "and I don't plan to."

"Oh, fine." Sam turned and went back to his breakfast.

It was just before noon by the time Dean came down the hallway and into the library.

"What's happening?" asked Sam. "That girl?" Dean asked, not sounding bothered by the question. "The one you brought out for lunch? Is she alright?" "She was with some girls from school, but there's no real reason for her to be with them at all," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean made a note in his head. "Why would they bring her here anyway?"

"I'm not sure," answered Sam.

"I have a theory," said Castiel as he entered.

Sam frowned. "You're serious?"

Castiel looked around, taking in the scene. "Yes. I believe that the presence of an angelic being in this area is something of a… concern to the powers that be. Perhaps to the archangels themselves. It would seem likely that they want to use you as leverage."

"What do the angels have to do with those girls?" asked Dean.

"They have a lot to do with it."

"So, what is it?"

"It's not a game."

"The hell it isn't," Sam snorted. "So, let me get this straight. You're saying it's just the girls we need to worry about?"

"We need to be able to recognize the spirits."

"You mean, just girls?" Dean growled.

"No, they are very different from girls," Castiel clarified.

"Oh, yeah, well, then we don't have to worry about them. You just need to figure out which one you're dealing with."

"They're not girls. They're angels."

"You're lying."

"They are a different species. Angels don't have vaginas."

"What?!" exclaimed Dean and Sam at once.

Just then, Sam's phone vibrated - it was a text, from Whyenne, and she said:

Hey, I'm sorry, but I've just got some work to do. I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can.

Dean sighed - he knew why - then looked at the time: 5pm. That wasn't good.

Sam was at his usual place, on his laptop, and it seemed like he hadn't seen him in like five minutes.

"Sam." Dean's voice sounded so different. Like he was really worried for him. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be at the bar if you want to talk. Come on."

Sam nodded, still trying to process what had just happened. He knew he'd have to make the first move. "Okay. That's cool, Dean."

Dean went back to his room to get ready to go to the bar.

Dean walked into the bar and scanned the room. It was noisy and crowded - and in the crowd he happened to spot Whyenne. Dean's first thought: she had lied to Sam. Then he remembered she had been drunk. It was too late.

"Oh shit," Dean muttered.

He pulled off his shirt jacket, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. 

Whyenne looked at him. "Do you want a drink?"

Dean shook his head.

"Okay."

They walked down the block and into another bar. Dean had his back to the door and Whyenne was leaning against a wall.

"So what happened to your face?" Whyenne asked.

Dean looked up at her and smiled. "Oh yeah, I got a face full of a bullet."

"A gun?" Whyenne laughed. "That's crazy."

Dean laughed too. He looked at her carefully, wondering if he should confront her. He decided he should.

"Why did you tell Sam you were working tonight?"

"I needed to be in the right place at the right time."

"And that's why you went to this club tonight?"

"I knew that you'd be there here. And I wanted to make sure you he wouldn't be here."

"You have to take responsibility for your own actions, or else you'll never learn your lessons."

"I was drunk and stupid and I'm paying for it. So are you."

"I am."

"I was under the influence of alcohol. Sam is not a drinker."

"That's a lie."

"Oh, I see." She frowned.

"What did you think of the dance tonight?" Dean asked, trying to change the subject. 

"The dancing was good. It was more fun than I thought it would be."

"It is, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"And what were you thinking about?" Dean pressed.

"Sam was so cute."

"He is. And what did you think about me?"

"You're sexy, Dean."

Whyenne's voice was thick and full of lust. It immediately caused Dean's mind to go back to that night, the night of passion they shared after a hunt. It was before she and Sam had even kissed, but they'd sworn to keep it a secret.

"I know you. I know what kind of girl you are. I just don't think you're all that interested in getting laid tonight."

"Dean?"

"It's not you, sweetheart, it's me."

"What about you? Are you in any way, shape, or form interested in getting laid tonight?"

"I can take care of myself," Dean said.

And with that, Dean walked off without even a backward glance.

The next day, Sam and Dean were following up on Castiel's lead, about the group of girls who were supposedly angels. Dean had a nightmare-free sleep for once, so he was happily singing rock songs under his breath as he drove down the road. But of course, Sam brought up Whyenne.

"I sent her a text earlier but she hasn't replied," Sam said with a sigh. "I don't think this is going to work."

Dean didn't respond.

"That's okay," he said. "I'm used to it. I'm used to not having someone I can always talk to."

"We should try and make more friends," he Dean said. "I know they'll keep us safe."

Sam nodded. "That's why I keep doing what I do," he said.

"I think you're a good person," Dean said, pulling into a parking space and turning off the car; Sam immediately opened the door.

"Thanks for believing me," Sam said. He got up and walked away.

He didn't want to talk to anyone after that.

Castiel was correct - those college girls were angels, but he was incorrect in that they did indeed have vaginas, Dean and Sam checked each one----- er, that is, they checked with each of the ladies, who assured them their human vessels were intact.

The angels also told Dean and Sam that they meant no harm, that they had been sent on a mission, and it was not to cause trouble with the archangels - they had been sent by the archangels. But their mission was a secret. They were not allowed to tell anyone, not even the Winchesters.  

The angels were told that they were not to tell anyone that angels were real, or that they had a mission. The demons were also told that they were not allowed to tell anyone about their mission, but the demons were told that they were not allowed to tell anyone else about angels, either. The demons were told that they were only to be used for the express purpose of destroying Sam and Dean. If they were able to kill the two of them, the demons were to be killed as well. The demons were also told that they could not tell anyone that they had been sent to kill Sam and Dean.

It was a very confusing case. 

And they could've used Whyenne's help. But she wasn't answering any of Sam's calls. Perhaps more concerning, she wasn't answering any of Dean's calls, either. So they went on with their work.

Once they got out of the clutches of the forest, they turned to find a woman. A woman with no arms, no legs. A woman who was completely human, all her organs, blood, and other bodily functions were present, but her spine was obviously deformed. However, since that wasn't really abnormal, it was probably nothing to be concerned about.

She informed Sam and Dean that there was a method to verify the aura that was emitted when the Goddess Aura Amara was released, the aura that was produced when she made her most powerful attacks. She also wanted to talk to them about the Slayer data on Dean's laptop.

Sam allowed her to talk to Dean on his behalf, but once they were back at the bunker and he sat down, Sam immediately noticed that Cas was fidgeting and nodding his head as he started talking about how Dean's vampire blood caused all this. Which made sense, because apparently they now not only had angels and Amara to worry about, but a vampire slayer.

"Cas, how do we find a slayer?" asked Dean. "I don't want her accidentally staking me."

"Don't you already have a tracker in your pocket?" asked Cas.

Dean shrugged. "A first aid kit."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"I've been sitting on it for a while now," said Castiel.

"A good while?" asked Dean. "Where?"

"Yeah," said Cas. "I think it's she's just around the corner."

The Winchester brothers' eyes grew wide. Just then, they received a group text from Whyenne, and it said:

"Meet me - I'm up at the street corner."

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Want more stories? My Master Post is linked in my profile, and it tells you about getting on the Tag List, too! If for whatever reason it gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to send an Ask and I’ll link you.

Re-blogs and feedback are fuel for a writer’s soul - please do let me know if you enjoyed. 😘

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Author’s Note #2: My prompt was: "Everything".

He’d successfully lulled the man whose body he’d snatched - no, that’s not right. He did not steal. Theft is sin. The hunter had agreed to act as a vessel, it was witnessed, and while there was deception involved, one in his position must think of the greater good. And it should be noted that he did exercise benevolence. Angelic vessels did not fare well, exponentially so for archangel vessels, and it was poor form to run through them quickly.  

He knew firsthand how his brothers handled their hosts. Raphael would woo the humans with promises of a glorious afterlife, then promptly expel their souls the moment he got a foothold. Gabriel would talk them into giving up the ghost voluntarily (as Gabriel could talk practically anyone into anything), in an effort to keep himself guilt-free. And as the fall crept closer, Lucifer took to keeping them wide awake, poking, prodding, picking, til slowly but surely the glow faded to embers, finally snuffing them out upon growing bored.

But not him. He was the best of them all, no sense in being humble. He was different, so he did things differently. He pushed the hunter to the farthest reaches of the mind they shared, threats to family quelling the belligerence surprisingly easily.

Are you plotting? he’d asked early on, receiving no answer; they both knew it was rhetorical.

As their time together grew, he’d talk to the hunter on occasion - not aloud, of course - when he marveled at the things he observed, breathing it all in. It had been ages since he’d walked the earth peacefully. It was wonder he felt, and he knew it, and it bothered him. He had been tasked with protecting them, once upon a time, and it was easier then, they were more readily awed, or maybe just malleable. He’d begun to consider if subtlety and manipulation might be ideal this go-round, effective as plagues and floods and annihilation had been, albeit temporarily.

He’d been raised by a vengeful God, the new redemptive version that came with the birth of the prophet never quite sitting right with him, but he was an obedient son, absence or no. He was his Father’s first son, he who was of God, the first angel there ever was, no matter what differing legends over the millennia might’ve said. The offenses the rest of the children, celestial-born and earth-bound alike, committed upon God’s creation wouldn’t have been tolerated back then.

Before. Before it all changed, right under his supposed watchful eye. Before he’d laid waste, in heaven and on earth. Before he’d gotten wrapped up in his plans, let his guard down. Before he lost all three of his beloved brothers in one way or another. Before he’d started paying attention again.

He wouldn’t miss anything else.

And so it was that on his fact-gathering strolls, more and more he found himself slowing his pace, pausing, coming to a halt, damn near freezing in place when something would catch his eye, or touch his ear, or invade his nose, the latter of which stopped him cold this evening, just as twilight eased across the buildings around him, and streetlights flickered on, up and down a nondescript street in a nondescript town on one nondescript walk amongst many.

He went further down the sidewalk, and up the block, and continued around a corner, and there it was, the answer to the question of what heavenly smell had wafted his way.

.

Hallowed Grounds French and Italian Coffees est. 1922

.

In his experience, the fates were indeed fickle. On the other hand, he’d done enough surveillance that week to allow for brief relaxation, be someone else for a spell. Seemed the rough-and-tumble hunter had smoothed edges made ragged from eons spent on another plane, made him fractionally more flexible. Teaching lessons could wait one more night, he told himself.

Meant to be, don’t you think?

There wasn’t need for food or drink, but the hunter was practically a junkie on both fronts, and the palate was wide. This body was stronger than most, better equipped for him, as tailor-made things are, of course, but he had not anticipated how demanding it could be, how it would crave indulgence. Undisciplined. Annoying. Distracting. It was for that last reason he’d give in, keep bites small and sips slow, and the moment there was a sense of satiation, off he - they - would go, back on mission.

African coffee was the best, this was not merely a belief but a fact; French he’d always found bland, somehow; Italian was tolerable. He ordered an espresso, tipped well, and the barista behind the former bar said they had servers milling about, one would be by to check in, see if he needed anything else. And despite knowing he’d swallow less than a quarter of the brew, he took a seat at a table, back to people-watching. Not a one was interesting in the least.

He’d noted the woman carrying the steaming metal carafe walking briskly in the direction where he sat, but had already let his eyes roam away by the time she’d gone behind him, and she only had cause to cross his mind when a loud CLANK hit the air, and the sensation of a third-degree burn called out from his lower right leg and ankle. Several gasps erupted from close-by patrons, someone moaned “Oooooh!” in sympathy, and then came the babbling.

It was the woman, the server, and she was alternating under-breath curses with self-deprecation - Such a stupid klutz! - Why’d I take this fucking job? There wasn’t an apology to be found, not a lick of repentance.

She had his attention.

As she made her way around, the carafe - retrieved, now dented and empty - was plunked on his table, causing the espresso to slosh, and she surveyed the mess on the floor, closed her eyes, rubbed them, took a deep breath, then exhaled it far too quickly for it to have been of any use. Her eyes popped open. They instantly lit on his soaked trouser cuff.

“Jesus,” she muttered, flat forehead going to a frown in a nanosecond.

And he frowned, too. Not that he’d been particularly impressed by or had much use for the prophet, nor had he bought into all the trinity talk - he’d found it offensive that any would be placed by the Father as an equal of sorts - but this was in the ballpark of blasphemy. Well, then. Another sinner joins the collection.

Now she’d dropped, and he arched an eyebrow as his head tilted down, feeling her rubbing - aggressively - on his shoe, sopping up the spilt coffee with a rag she’d had tucked in her apron’s waistband.

“That pot was still hot as hell, it didn’t get you, did it?” she asked, looking up at him from her kneeling position.

“No,” he lied.

“Oh, thank God. I’d have been… if you’d been burnt, I would’ve… I am so sorry, sir.”

Penitence looked lovely on her.

“You seem anxious, why don’t you sit, rest for a moment,” he suggested, and gestured to the empty chair across from him.

He kept his eyes locked onto hers; she gave him an odd look in return, but didn’t have time to answer. Another table called out to her, so she broke the stare, told him she’d check on him again later, see if he wanted a refill - anything he wanted, on the house, she added - before rising and leaving his side.

He took her up on it. He paid for the one that followed. And he waited until the patrons had nearly cleared and the lights were being dimmed and the brooms were coming out. Someone else was sent to collect the fee for the still-full third.

Take a hint.

He followed the advisement - whether it was the hunter’s or some sort of self-prompting, he couldn’t say - and exited, though he didn’t carry on with his reconnaissance, instead going down the tiny alley that led to the back of the building, leaning against a telephone pole that was partially in the shadows, settling in, keeping an eye on the side door of the coffee shop.

The hunter spoke up.

You suck at this.

Pray tell?

Trying to pick up a chick, get laid.

Orgasms are insufficient reasons for risking the creation of another abomination.

Go comb through my greatest hits, then we’ll talk about risks and rewards.

It took a half-hour of darkened silence before he began to grow irritable, and he stood from his lean, was straightening his overcoat when the door opened. She spotted him, pretended like she didn’t, so he took a few steps in her direction. He was just about to speak when she whipped around, jerking something from her pocket. She immediately squirted a caustic fluid onto him, which did nothing, save prompting a confused expression to come across his now damp face.

Oh, for crying out—-

Hush.

She coughed several times as a breeze carried the mist her way, though a subtle wave of his hand served to make it disappear, and soothed her stinging eyes and scratchy throat. He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the moisture coating his cheeks. She watched, not moving an inch, her mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

“That’s the strongest mace on the market,” she muttered. She looked at the tiny tube, sneered, then tossed it down the alley, where it hop-skipped out of sight. Turning her head back to him, she spoke again, this time warily. “You need money or something? You’re not dressed like you need money.”

He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, met her eye. “You think I waited here to rob you?”

“I don’t… well why are you here?”

“I enjoyed your company and hoped to extend our time together.” A pause, then he added, “I have no desire to have sex with you.”

“Gee, thanks?”

He began to respond, hesitated, then opted to go with, “I’m told I’m not… not very good at… this.”

“Making friends?”

“Mmmm.”

“Well, it’s… it’s late.”

He glanced at his watch. “So it is.”

“And I don’t even know your name.”

“Michael.”

“Michael. Okay. I have a brother named Michael. Mikey, if I want to piss him off.”

“Were your parents religious?”

“What?!” she exclaimed, though she chased it with an amused grin. “You ask the strangest questions. Um, no. Not really.”

“And your name?”

“I, uh… don’t give out my name to strangers.”

“Wise. But I need to call you something.”

“Hmmm… I don’t really…”

He waited.

She snapped her fingers. "My family nicknamed me Grace. The way they talk, I’ve been clumsy since the womb.” She rolled her eyes.

“That sounds cruel.”

She laughed, but it was short, clipped. “Nah. Annoying, maybe. But they didn’t mean anything by it. Your family not have a nickname for you?”

He shook his head. “No. They called one of my brothers the star. He… shone a little too brightly.”

She nodded. “I have a friend like that. Drama queen. Sucks up all the air in a room, as my mother would say.”

“May I call you Grace?”

She laughed again, the full version this time, and said, “I ruined your pants, so I owe you. Yeah, sure. Go for it.”

He walked her to her car, but they kept chatting - the coffee shop began as a speakeasy, he informed her, and a two-way mirror once hung over the bar so as to keep an eye out for the police. And the conversation drifted with them as they meandered down the street, ended up in a park, sitting in swings sandwiched between a slide and a sandbox, lazily letting their feet trail through gravel, him allowing her to think he was a history buff, her telling him how she’d been born in another nondescript town in another nondescript state. How as the years passed, it had started to feel like another world.

And when it was her turn to ask about the past, it called up from within him the desire to lie to her - protect her - for the second time that night. So he chose his words carefully.

“I had assignments. One that was the most… I was supposed to guard people. Defend them, when needed. And… and I did a good job for quite awhile. My commander was pleased. But then things… happened. I let an enemy invade. I wasn’t strong enough. Not enough to stop him.”

“You don’t have to go into detail if you don’t want to,” Grace said quietly. She laid a hand over his.

“People died.”

“Oh.”

“They saw me as a protector. There was a time when some practically worshiped me, thought I was worthy of it.” He made a scoffing sound. “I started to believe I was.”

He’d never had a single regret, never let himself fall into the abyss of memories. But even he could be brought - broken, more accurately - out of his routine. And the most immediate period of his existence had done just that, making times of calm a desire, while in the same moment making times of silence an irritant.

He looked down at their hands, flipped his, threaded his fingers through hers, and she didn’t stop him.

They sat, unmoved, no words, for several minutes; three-point-two-one-six, in fact, because he counted them. His mind never rested, even when the hunter’s did, but he liked how she didn’t feel the need to fill the emptiness with idle talk. Made for a touch of calm. Even with the silence.

It held a bit of irony - he was the silent type, everyone said so. He’d found it often communicated intent better than any words could’ve. And more descriptions piled on: Imposing. Intimidating. Towering. Threatening. Some had called him “Beast” long before it had been applied to their once-adored morning star.

So there it was - there’d already been a second lie, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” he told her, staring at her intently, but this time she didn’t look away.

“You said that already,” she replied, a solemn smile on her lips, not too wide, not too thin, just the right sort, and he hoped he reciprocated in kind. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, saying, “Michael… I mean, my Michael —–”

The hunter’s belly stirred.

“—– you know, my brother, he’s in the service. He’s a Ranger. He doesn’t tell our family a lot of stories from when he fought, but he’s told me some. So if it’s anything like that, then… I can understand. I can try, I mean.”

“I led the entirety of our legion.”

“You’re… you seem a little young to be… what would it be, a general, I guess? Or do you mean you led your division? Or squadron? I know some of the terminology, you don’t have to dumb it down for me.”

“I’ve offended you.”

“No, it’s… don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter.”

“It very much matters. How people treat one another. People can be vile, sadistic, horrible creatures.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I guess. But we’re the only ones here. And I’m not horrible, and you’re not horrible, soooo…”

“You’re right,” he lied for the third time, and with one of the hunter’s brightest smiles.

Which made Grace shine.

Go.

The hunter did as he was commanded.

Michael thought she tasted like sin.

“Okay. Tomorrow. I’m off work, but we can meet at the coffee shop, figure out what to do from there… around noon sound good?”

He nodded. “That sounds perfect. Thank you, Grace.”

She nodded in return, got in her car, and gave him a little wave as she pulled away.

Is this your plan, hunter? How you think you’ll undo me? Making me more like you?

Hey, I haven’t been driving for awhile now. Ass.

Hmmm.

You kissed her.

What makes you say that?

When you let me leave the bad boy corner, I could tell. Or else you’re putting strawberry lip balm on my—-

Apple.

Huh?

It’s apple.

He waited at her apartment, this time deep in the shadows where he wouldn’t be spotted, made sure she got inside safely, listened for the click that told him she’d locked the door. He began to leave, then thought better of it, decided to play guardian for old times’ sake, placed warding here and there to keep any would-be harm away. And back to walking he went, considering how to kill the hours til they met again.

May as well strike up a conversation.

Now that we’ve spent some time together, tell me - Why didn’t we do this sooner? What’s it been for you, about a decade?

You’re a douche.

Fine. But comparatively?

There’s not a douche scale, dick.

So I’m altogether irredeemable?

Uh - is there some universe where you aren’t?

Perhaps.

So prove it! Let me go! And LEAVE ME ALONE.

Fair enough.

If he were to put a not-so-fine point on his reasoning for not meeting her the next day, that about summed it up. He’d disappoint her, she’d disappoint him, and if she didn’t, that was no good. Probably worse. Better to keep unattached when it came to what the future… what he… would likely bring.

Even so, he found himself once more standing apart, likely imposing, always watching, this time through a window, across hallowed grounds, looking for his grace. He spotted her at the very table he’d been at when they met, scrolling through her phone, occasionally sipping on a latte. Then there’d be a sigh, a glance to the large clock on the opposite wall as five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed by.

What say after this, we head to the cage, check on that counterpart of mine?

This time, he received an unusually placid response.

Why?

To ensure he’s paying for what he’s done.

Like you haven’t been thinking of nuking this world. You’re still jonesing for your apocalypse. You know you want a do-over.

The world could use some cleansing, true. There’s reasons. But, no. That’s not why.

Then what?! How many times are you planning on dragging me over there, making sure he hasn’t popped the lock so you can keep up your stupid act? They’re gonna figure it out soon, Cas or Sam—-

I thought of all people, you’d understand.

Understand WHAT? It’s payback? ‘Cause the first thing *he* did was make a beeline to take you out?

He killed my brother. With my own sword, no less. And that above all, Dean, I will not abide.

Grace picked up her bag, left a few bills on the table, and as she walked out the door, placed a phone call.

“Yeah, he stood me up… no, no, I’m not… Seriously! I’m not mad, I’m just, you know… yeah. I thought he was different… No, you’re right, and I’m sure he had a good reason, and I told you he didn’t have a phone with him, right? So it’s not like he could’ve…. oh God, no he wasn’t lying, why do you assume every dude…. Anyway, maybe I’ll see him again. I think that’d be nice…”

Well, then. Not so predictable, after all. Not this one. At least, for now.

Teaching the world a lesson could wait for just one more day.

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Author’s Note #2: Per request, there’s a walkthrough on the inspiration for the title/plot points, the theology droppings, and the “clues” for the ending twist-a-roo, if you’re interested! Just look for this story on my Master Post (see below) and it’s linked at the bottom of the story.

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Several moments of near-painful silence went by, which Dean, naturally, broke.

“It was… look, this thing on the side… here… and the… is… it wasn’t my… then my hand, so… see?"

"Uh-huh,” I said, crossing my arms.

“I’m going to go. I think I should check on the bunker,” Castiel said to me as he backed up, sticking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Uh-huh,” I repeated, only seeing him out of the corner of my eye, as I was still focused on my target.

Dean frowned. “Nice, Cas, thanks a lot.”

“You’re most welcome,” Castiel replied, then promptly zipped away.

I was proud of him. That was some absolutely-on-purpose, right-back-atcha sarcasm. I was also glad he had 86′ed himself, one less thing to stand in between me and laying down that aforementioned ass-whooping.

Dean rolled his eyes, then warily brought them back to mine. Sam sighed and leaned over in his chair, getting a better look at the pieces scattered around Dean’s feet. He reached out.

“Nope! Don’t. You. Dare,” I said.

Well, possibly yelled. Could’ve been a shout. Either way he jumped back, held up his hands briefly as if I were going to arrest him.

“What is your problem?” Dean snapped.

My jaw dropped. “You. You, with the constant touching things and handling things and us having to watch you like you’re a four-year-old!” I snapped right back.

He glared, and I started pacing around, gesturing with my arms and hands, and I probably looked like a raving lunatic but I felt like I was dealing with a lunatic, so he deserved a little crazy dished back at him.

“I honestly don’t get it - I really don’t. Consider me boggled. With the knife spinning and the gun flipping like you’re in some movie, and then the behind-the-back shots, and the sliding over to some nasty or away from some creeper, like you’re on a damn baseball team, all those moves, and I just - how can one man have that level of coordination and still manage to fumble everything else? Huh? Can either of you tell me that?”

“You know, you’re being a real—”

“I don’t know how Sam survived childhood, with all the dropping him on his head you must’ve done, but hey - maybe by some stroke of luck you activated a hidden part of his brain and that’s how he ended up a genius.”

Sam grinned. “Thanks!”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean told him.

“The hours… the days…. the weeks… months… all wasted,” I went on. “There’s not another one. It’s one of a kind. Nothing else like it. You have single-handedly screwed me.”

Sam stood and walked over. I’d quit pacing, but my arms were still up and out. I brought my hands to either side of my head. I was muttering random sounds, essentially growling at no one in particular. Sam hesitated briefly, but then took me by the wrists and gently lowered my arms, sliding his hands down to hold mine, giving them a few good squeezes as he spoke.

“Listen, lemme just… if I can just move all of it to the table, get a real good look at the damage, maybe there’s something that can be done to fix it.”

“Sure, super glue should do the trick,” Dean said dryly. He was still hanging out on the side of the bed. I had to give him credit, though - he was holding onto what was left of it like it already had been coated in super glue, not making the first move to touch the rest.

I made myself inhale and exhale a deep breath before responding. “I appreciate that. I do. I wish you would let me do the moving. ‘K?”  

Sam nodded. “Okay. And we’ll go pick up some dinner, let you have some space, that sound good?”

“Good. Yeah.”

“What can we bring you?”

I almost said a time machine so we could all go back ten minutes, so I wouldn’t have left it with Dean, and so he wouldn’t have picked it up in the first place. But I didn’t - Sam didn’t deserve to be treated that way. His brother on the other hand…

Dean stood.

“Don’t move!” I exclaimed, pulling my hands from Sam’s and rushing away from him, dropping to my knees near Dean’s feet.

“I can step over—”

“Put— put it down on the bed, and please, just— please take it slow.”

He did so, but then I felt him staring at me as I surveyed the mess around us. I looked up, and I admit, the anger was fading and the panic was starting to set in. He must’ve seen it because his expression got a bit softer and there was actually a little sympathy in his eyes.

He glanced away for a second, then back. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“I know.”

“If I thought it would slip out of my hands, I would have—”

“Stop, will ya?” My head had already dropped again, as I gingerly picked up one of the larger pieces that was directly in his path. I leaned up briefly to set it on the bed, away from the edge, then back down I went. I grabbed the back of his calf, scooted myself to the side, then prompted him to lift. “Step clean over these smaller pieces, alright?”

I raised my free hand so he could steady himself. He responded with a firm grip and allowing me to guide the leg til his foot was planted, then we repeated the action with no problem on his opposite side. I let out a huge sigh of relief - so did he.

“We’ll be back in no time,” Sam told me, and I heard Dean fishing his keys from his pocket, but I was focused and didn’t acknowledge them. The door closed without any of us saying another word. And that was when the tears finally came to my eyes.

Here was the thing: the Winchester brothers had helped me over the last few hurdles in my quest to find it. I was more grateful than they’d ever know. I needed it to put a long-time cold case of mine officially to rest, and I couldn’t figure it out on my own, which had pissed me off to no end, but not getting the assist just wasn’t an option.

Sam had labored for countless hours over piles of clues and hints and other nonsense that had been tripping me up for years. Dean had been a champ out in the field, often checking leads on his own when their cases took them near some place that held promise, clocking who knows how many miles. We’d hung out socially a few times when they were in my neck of the woods, I’d spoken with Sam at least every-other-week, texted with Dean just as frequently, and well…

I considered us friends. Good friends. Maybe my only friends. MaybeI was their only friend, too.

And I thought about that, all of those things, as I stood over the table, staring down at what we’d worked so hard to find. Nothing was cracked or chipped, thin motel carpeting be damned. None of the pieces were tiny or crumbled, the smallest of them still taking up my entire palm.

It almost seemed… it shouldn’t have, really… it hadn’t felt like it…

Yet there were things about it I hadn’t noticed before, all these intricate details. Diagonal grooves on the piece Dean had managed to keep in his hands, along with oddly-shaped spaces that almost looked like they tunneled. I studied the smaller pieces - similar grooves. And on the sides that had faced internally, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, now that tears weren’t clouding my vision.

I was just starting to smile when the door opened.

“Hey that’s good to see,” Sam said. He was carrying our drinks and headed straight to the dresser - he knew better than to set them on the table with it.

“What’s good to see?” Dean asked. His arms were full of bags stacked atop a small box, so he kicked the door shut behind him.

I don’t know what came over me, but I rushed him, and the poor klutz would’ve likely dropped his cargo had I not pressed in so far as I put my hands on either side of his head and pulled his face in close, planting a quick kiss on his lips.

It was a toss-up, what I saw on his face - horror or surprise - when I pulled away and wide eyes stared back at me, but I couldn’t have cared less.

“Oh you beautiful man,” I told him, now smiling so much my cheeks hurt.

He blinked a few times, still startled. “I got you cupcakes.”

“What?” I asked.

“What?” he asked right back.

“What?” Sam chimed in. “I mean, what happened, why are you—”

I went to turn from Dean, but he wobbled, so I thought better of it. I grabbed the bags, leaving him with just the box. I mean, priorities and all, but I wanted those cupcakes. I answered Sam as I made my way to the dresser.

“He dropped it, but he didn’t break it - looks like it was supposed to come apart.”

“What?!” Sam exclaimed.

“We need to all stop saying ‘what’,” Dean said, and in a gruff tone, so I glanced over at him.

He met my eye, then immediately turned his back to me and started sorting out the food. I frowned slightly, but I didn’t have time to figure him out. I walked back over to the table where Sam was standing, taking a good look at it.

“I liked the compliment and all - but you are the genius,” Sam told me, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Did you see, on these, how on the inside they’ve got—”

“Yup! Think those might twist and turn and snuggle up all nice and cozy into these gaps?”

Sam grinned, pulled me into a huge hug, held so tight I almost gasped. “I’m really happy for you,” he said, and heaven help me, wrapped those never-ending arms even tighter.

Dean cleared his throat. Loudly. Twice.

Sam let go and I chuckled as his stomach growled. Loudly. Twice.

“Let’s dig in,” I announced, heading over to the spread Dean had laid out.

“You don’t wanna—”

“Nah. It’ll still be there when we’re ready.”

Dean was on his bed and I was on Sam’s, both of us propped against the headboards, a handful of cupcake wrappers tossed on the bedside table between us.

Sam didn’t join in on dessert, instead making a beeline for the table, and was currently in a chair, hunched over, working on the puzzle. He’d made good headway - I’d barely set in to my second cupcake when he’d already gotten three pieces back in place. In their new places, that is - because that was the key to my little mystery. It wasn’t supposed to stay the same.

“It’s looking good,” I told him. And it was - it was turning into a completely different shape, but one that seemed much more sturdy. Dean had noticed immediately.

“It’ll stand up now, on its own, instead of being wonky on bottom, won’t it?” he asked.

“Looks like,” Sam replied. “There’s still something that needs to go over here, to keep it steady, I think.”

“You sure you don’t want me to take over?” I asked.

Sam looked up, shot me a little wink, then shook his head. “No way. This is the fun part.”

“You’re the boss.” Then I looked at Dean, who had just killed off the rest of what had to have been his fourth cupcake, adding the wrapper to the pile. “For someone in a love affair with pie…”

“Pie understands me.”

“You know, at first I thought that was going to keep us from being friends.”

“Hmm?”

“My cake preference.”

“We all have our faults.”

“Truer words,” I replied with a laugh. I pushed myself off the headboard, made my way to a sitting position on the side of the bed, grabbed my boots and started putting them back on.

“What’re you doing?”

“Well, if Sam’s not gonna let me help, least I can do is make a beer run.”

“That’ll be great, thanks,” Sam said.

Dean watched in silence as I laced up, then grabbed my jacket off of the chair Sam wasn’t in. He waited til I’d almost had my hand on the doorknob before he got up, told me to wait a minute, he’d come with me. Then I heard his keys jingle.

“I’ll drive.”

“My car’s here,” I reminded him.

Dean all but shoved me aside when he reached for the handle, pulling the door open even though I was still partially blocking the way. I gave him a look.

“Well?” he asked.

I looked pointedly at his arm. He moved back so I could pass, and out into the parking lot we went. We were nearing the Impala’s driver side, but I waited to go around, instead turning so fast Dean stopped just short of running into me. The odd vibe that had been hanging over us for months had to come to an end.

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch earlier, I really am.”

“You had every right to be. Anyway, I tend to have that effect on women.”

I glanced down. The last quarter of his jeans and most of his boots were coated in a thin layer of dried mud, leftover from what he’d brushed off before getting into the car. I knew there must’ve been plenty of bruising on his arms and legs, too.

My mind went back to earlier that night, all the work he’d done to retrieve it from the abandoned, mostly caved-in mine out in the middle of nowhere. Sam was too big to fit through what little of an opening was left, and he’d physically held me back, fussing with me about the danger of a full-on collapse, when next thing we knew, we were alone. Dean had climbed down and started making his way inside while our backs were turned.    

I looked back up to find him staring at me, not making a move to go around me or rush me, remind me that the beer was out there all alone, waiting on us, needing a good, loving home, and I added that to the list of oddities.

“Still. I shouldn’t have. Being that close to something that… I’ve just been looking for it so long, to think it was right there and in one second…”

Dean nodded. “We’re good.”

I nodded as well, but didn’t budge. “I believe you. So can we… can we stop being weird?”

“Who’s weird?”

I gave him another look.

He gave one in return.

I let out a little huff.

The side of his mouth quirked up ever-so-slightly.

“It’s been… tense,” I pointed out. “Not just you making with the clumsy and all. I mean the past couple times we’ve been around each other. Then over this whole trip, we’ve been… Listen, I know what a basket case I’ve turned into, as we got closer to it, and I wanna make sure it hasn’t wrecked our friend—”

Dean planted his lips on mine just as abruptly as I’d done to him earlier. Only this was different. He’d shut his eyes. And he lingered.

He pulled away for a fraction of a second, I suppose to see how I’d react, and I didn’t give it much thought before I leaned in and kissed him right back.

It wasn’t what I would’ve expected. I’d seen him kissing other women. There was always this urgency to those kisses, like he was trying to speed through it to reach a finish line, to hurry and get it out of the way.

This, though… this was a slow burn, then just as slowly, his hands were creeping around my waist and slipping under my jacket, pulling me in, and I found myself following suit.

“See? Here you go again, with the touching…” I mumbled into his mouth.

“….and the handling….”

“….all the moves….”

He stilled, stopped another kiss before it really even started, though he didn’t move away. “But am I fumbling it?”

“Oh, this is a horrible idea,” I replied, my lips still brushing against his.

“Huge mistake,” he agreed, eyes shining.

We were kidding, sure, but there was truth behind it, and that was something we both damn well realized. And I realized I was probably the one who had to play the grown-up, so I let my hands fall away from him, stepped back. Not by much, though.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Liiiike….”

“Like you do at the chicks in the diners and the bars. That bartender last time we were all together -  the look.”

“And it’s how I’m looking at you, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm. It happened when you knew all you’d have to do was snap your fingers at her. Just like all of ‘em, when you’d know… ooooh.”

He hadn’t stepped into the space I’d created, just leaned, dropped his head to my neck, started planting barely-there kisses, and at that moment had landed on a nice spot just behind my ear.

“When I’d know what?” he asked, lazily kissing his way back around, under my jaw, then higher, to my cheek.

“Know you’d… how… it’d be a sure thing… that you were… you know… gonna get it.”

Dean brought his head around to look at me, and one of his patented, pleased-with-himself smirks was planted firmly on his face. “Well - I did get it.”

“Horrible idea and horrible jokes, I’m loving this whole thing we’ve got going.”

He dropped the smirk, turning it into something with a touch of sincerity. Something a breath away from being serious, and I didn’t quite know how to feel about it. About any of it.

“Not what I meant,” he said.

I drifted closer; he closed what little distance remained.

“That right?” I asked, and I couldn’t help it - it came out as a whisper.

And he whispered into my ear once he’d pulled me into his arms.

“Yeah, I got it. I’ve got it for you.”  

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Author’s Note #2: Several folks asked what “it” was, and so I made a post explaining - you can find that link on the original story post, via my master list.

Like I say - this is a repost leaving off links purposefully, so that’s why you’re not directed to it so if you don’t feel like looking but want to know the “secret”, just shoot me an ask and I’ll link you.

But now he found himself feeling charitable, completely against his nature, truth be told, yet it had been nagging at him, that kid - not an actual kid, anybody under 30 was a kid to Don. He'd seen the young man in town, though sparingly, and always exiting the drug store with armfuls of bandages, or at the grocery, bringing out bags of food and the occasional case of beer. He'd climb into the waiting muscle car, and one time Don had spotted the kid getting an earful from a man he assumed was the father, finger pointing, face red.

So while the location of their first real encounter surprised him - a dive bar on the county line where Don would stop after tending his crop, on his way back home - it didn't surprise him to find the kid perched on a stool, nursing a beer, a black eye on its way to surfacing. Don did note his knuckles were bashed to hell, hoped that meant he'd given as good as he got. Regardless, the sunk posture and thousand yard stare told the world he needed a break.

"Old man giving you trouble?" Don asked as he took a stool two down, not wanting to crowd.

The kid looked up, a slight frown on his face, and answered, "No. Why?"

Don shrugged. "Seen you two around." He made a motion, and the bartender came over, raised her eyebrows; Don nodded, then met the kid's eye again. "Looked to me like he's pretty tough on you."

If the kid was offended by Don's bluntness, he didn't show it, instead matching Don's shrug. "Nothing I can't handle." The statement was followed by a gulp of beer that might've indicated different.

"Oh I can tell that," Don replied, then extended his hand. "I'm Don."

As they shook, the kid said, "Dean." He noticed the dirt caked under Don's fingernails, then took in the overalls. "So what's your story? You a farmer?"

"Sort of," Don answered, then gave the bartender a wink when his whiskey was placed in front of him. He didn't offer any more explanation, and he wasn't asked for it. That alone made him like the kid immediately.

They sat in silence as Don sipped and Dean guzzled, but when the younger man was finished, he didn't reach for his wallet or move to stand. He simply stared at himself, rigid, unblinking, in the mirror behind the bar. He went from looking like fresh twenties to hard forties in one exhausted sigh.

"You wanna try something a little stronger?" Don asked, but before Dean could commit, he'd spoken to the bartender, who'd just come to retrieve the empty mug. "I'm about to need another, and set one up for him, too."

"Thanks," Dean said.

Don moved down a stool. "What's your story? I'm a good listener."

Another shrug. "I'm just stressed out."

Don waited. The drinks were brought. Sips were taken. Don kept waiting. Then finally Dean cleared his throat.

"I, uh... my dad, he's a... bounty hunter. We're only here so long as the job lasts. I help him."

Don nodded, but it was a crock of shit. The stress, he believed. But it wasn't a big town, he'd have heard if someone shady had been lurking. Most news they'd had in weeks was from a legit farmer, elderly man who'd been ranting about wolves trying to come and eat his heart. Don's wife was a nurse at the ER, said they'd kept him on a psych hold, but not much to do after that. He'd promised he'd swing by to check in on the nut. But he had some time to spare, given the worthy cause in front of him.

"Anyway, thanks."

"You already said," Don pointed out. "You're welcome."

They drank without any further conversation, but when the bottoms of the glasses were reached, Dean was no less tense, and Don scooted down one more stool, receiving some side-eye when he did.

"Listen, kid----"

"Dean."

"Right. I don't usually do this----"

"Uh, hey, man - you ain't my type."

Don grimaced. "I'm not--- I'm not hitting on you! Jesus!"

"Well what am I supposed to think when----"

"Look, I had a real sumbitch of a father, too. And I don't like the thought of you going back to whatever shit motel you're holed up at, walking into whatever else he's figured out to blame you for, especially when you're wound up like a tick about to pop."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "I don't get it."

Don leaned in closer. "If you want, we can step out back, and I'll roll you a joint."

"I've never tr---- I mean...." Dean paused briefly, then regrouped, backtracked. "It's not my thing. Besides, I only have enough cash for my beer."

Don considered this - a complete stranger who was also a novice who also had no money. More rules out the window. But rules were made to be broken. So Don stood, gave Dean's shoulder a clap, then pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket that made his new friend's eyes widen.

"Don't worry about it," Don said, and tossed several bills onto the counter. "Come on. You look like death. So live a little."

It started about a quarter way into the joint.

Don watched as Dean paced around the alley when he wasn't still enough to take a puff, telling stories that would've blown the hair back on every camper around a fire, some things that would send even the most stoic horror movie aficionado bolting from the theater, and when Don didn't react in an astonished enough manner - which, in his defense, he was just trying to keep up - that was when the insistent tone and rapid-fire babbling ratcheted up a notch, with some paranoia on top.

".....and could be anywhere, Don, I'm telling you. A-ny-where!" Dean lowered his voice to a whisper. "Even here, like, just around that corner!"

Dean had gestured wildly with the hand holding the joint, causing smoke to drift into Don's face, which he brushed away, his eyes tracking Dean as he returned to pacing, taking another puff as he went, now hell-and-gone from hesitation.

Through a hearty cough, Dean advised, "You gotta watch your back. I mean it. Do you carry a gun? A knife? Something? Anything?!"

Don held out his hand, and the joint was passed. "Chill out." Then he took his own advice, took a deep drag, exhaled slowly. "I keep a shotgun at my shack, by my little rose garden. And there's a piece in my glove box. Always got a pocket knife. And my lighter, but I'm not packing the real heat - what'd you say, salt? And silver? Iron? No-go, my man."

"I can make you some bullets. Well, no, I can't, not here - but I can give you some----" Dean reached around, pulled a pistol from his waistband where it had been hidden by his jacket "----if it's your caliber, I mean, what's in your car? Let's go see if----"

"Are you nuts?!" Don hissed, glancing around them. He ran a hand through his hair, closed his eyes for a moment, trying to not be pissed at how the kid seemed determined to ruin a much-needed high. "Will you just sit down? Let that kick in? It's my best stuff to date, brand new blend - no way you don't feel something. I mean, do you feel any better? At all?"

Dean sat. And he thought. And he stared at his hands. Then he stared at a dumpster. Then he stared at Don.

"Well?" Don prompted.

"I think I'm hungry," Dean said.

Don smiled at the sight of the glazed-over eyes. Finally. "If you're done with your tall tales, then what say we finish this joint, and I point you in the direction of the nearest burger joint?"

"Is it in walking distance?"

"You walked here?"

Dean nodded.

Don cursed under his breath - what kind of father let his son, he didn't care how old, wander around a town he wasn't from, carrying a gun, hardly any money, and with no transportation?

As if Dean read his mind, he pulled a phone out of his pocket. "I can call my----"

"The hell you will, put that away," Don told him, but gently.

Dean nodded again, did as he was told.

A few tokes later, and the joint was gone.

"All right," said Don. "Let's go get you fed." A pause, a bit of consideration. "And me, too."

They'd just climbed into the truck when the glove box - that is, Don's phone - began ringing, and he answered while pulling out of the bar parking lot, but not before rolling his eyes at how Dean had set into slowly... very slowly... replacing a few rounds in the glove box gun with some of his own, transferring them at snail speed, like he was performing a very delicate surgery.

"Y'ello," Don said.

"I have been calling you for hours!"

Don sighed. "Sorry, hon. Got caught up, picked up a stray."

"We're not taking in another dog," his wife said, "and speaking of dogs - have you not gone out to Wally's yet? Because he was expecting you, and now he's called me, frantic, talking about wolves again!"

"We don't have wolves out here," Don replied calmly, because he was calm, tips to toes. He could've been on fire and all he would've done was glance around for the closest pond, then done the backstroke, look up at the stars for awhile. He actually got lost in the thought, til he picked up on the fact that Dean had begun mumbling to himself.

"Knew we didn't get 'em all... knew it was a bigger pack, but does he listen? Nooooo...."

"Hon, lemme let you go, I'll head out there now," said Don, then exchanged goodbyes with his wife. After he tossed the phone onto the dash, he said to Dean, "What's that about a pack? You think you saw some wolves? Were you and your dad hunting for his bail-jumper or whatever in the woods?"

"Not actual wolves. Werewolves, Donny. Were-wol-llllllves," Dean replied, and instead of putting Don's gun back where he found it, he set it on the seat between them. Then he looked over with a smirk and half-mast eyes. "Let's roll."

"Roll... where?" Don asked, taking the opportunity presented by a stop sign to turn in his seat to face Dean. "I'm dropping you off at the diner, then I got to go run out to check on an old senile coot so I won't have to deal with my wife, and then I'm going to put my fat ass to bed."

"I'm going with you. It could be the straggler we missed." Dean pointed up. "Full moon tonight. They're tougher to deal with then."

“What do you mean ‘then’? I thought that was werewolves’ whole deal, the full moon.”

“Donny, I have a theory that they can change whenever they damn well want,” Dean said, looking a bit smug as he tapped the side of his head; but then his expression changed to one that was - if Don had to name it - forlorn. “But Dad never listens.”

"There are no such things as werewolves, you do know that, right?" Don asked, and in what he hoped was a careful tone - after all, a high, paranoid, armed, possibly crazy person was about a foot away. Though, if the kid didn’t kill him, his wife would, so the distance may've been a plus; aiming straight was not something Don would've bet his substantial savings on.

"What did he say?" Dean asked as reply.

"What did who say?"

"Whoever saw it. Did they say anything about hearts?"

"We talking cupids now?"

Dean made a face. "No. Cupids aren't real."

"Oh, forgive me, that was a stupid----"

"Werewolves will open up your chest and take your heart in ten seconds flat."

Don stared at Dean til a car pulled up behind them and honked their horn - and as he accelerated, he realized this was a no-win situation. "Fuck. Fine. You're coming with."

"Because you believe me?"

"No, because I guess I'm breaking all my rules tonight."

"What's the rule?"

"Never make decisions when I'm testing out a new blend."

"What're the other rules?"

"Does it matter?"

Dean leaned back and closed his eyes as response - but his gun remained clutched in his hand.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, but it was most decidedly broken upon arrival at the farm. The door was busted in, looked like the wood was practically shredded, and Don saw it from the driveway, before they'd even gotten out of the truck. He picked up his gun.

"Stay here, kid," he advised, but Dean reached for the handle - so Don planted his free hand against his chest, shoved him back. "I mean it."

"Ooooookay, jeez," Dean replied, rolling his still-glossy eyes.

Don had surveyed the yard as he walked, saw nothing amiss, and now on the porch, he slowly eased open what was left of the door. "Wally?" he called out. 

Floorboards creaked from somewhere down the hall. 

"Wally? It’s Don. You okay?" he tried again, making his way cautiously toward the bedroom at the end, the only closed door, glancing into the open rooms as he went.

It was dark, not a lamp on in the house, but the moon was so bright it was cutting through the windows and their ancient, threadbare curtains, which  - once he became aware of how sticky his footsteps sounded - let him see the blood trail. Don instinctively reached to his pocket, for his phone, then mentally cursed himself when he realized he'd left it in the truck. And perhaps if he weren't still feeling a bit mellow - after all, the geezer probably went and cut himself while making dinner or some such, right? - he'd have high-tailed it out of there, called the cops. But he was, so he didn’t.

And he didn’t have his gun up when he turned the knob, nor when he opened the bedroom door, and he nearly dropped it at the sight of a quite dead Wally laid haphazardly across the bed, and Don knew he was dead - if it weren’t for the blood and the way his chest was opened up and his ribs pulled apart and the lack of a heart, the fact that said heart was lying on the floor would’ve tipped him off.

Don made the sign of the cross, and likely backwards, because he hadn’t been to church since he was a boy, and also because he wasn’t Catholic.

“Told you.”

Don jumped, turning, gun raised this time, and there was Dean, leaning casually against the door frame. Then Dean casually reached out and pushed on the barrel of the gun, and Don lowered it. And then, still casual, Dean’s eyes sluggishly cut over to the closed louvered doors across the room.

“We interrupted. Bet he’s in the closet,” Dean whispered, at least, in what he thought was a whisper.

“Huh?” Don whispered back.

“You wanna give it a try?”

“Huh?!” Don asked again.

Dean pointed at Don’s gun with his own. “Loaded you up with some silver.” 

(Later, Don would swear that the man who came out of the closet just then was laughing. Don would also swear that his eyes were glowing and that his teeth were bared and that the rumbling growl that came from him was anything but human, but the cops chalked it up to Don being high - the chief was one of his best customers - and the murderer being on PCP or whatnot. Regardless, the rest of story of what happened was plausible, and that’s because it was what actually happened.)

Don turned when the closet doors slammed open, and barely had his gun raised by the time Dean had stepped forward and fired a shot.

All parties froze. Then the werewolf looked over his shoulder. The bullet had gone straight past him and into the wall. 

Dean frowned, drew back the hammer, fired again.

Miss.

The werewolf stared. “Aren’t you one of the Winchesters?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said, defensive tone in check.

The werewolf glanced from Don, to Dean, to Don, then back again. His eyes narrowed as he studied Dean’s. He sniffed the air. “Are you... are you high?”

“No!” Dean exclaimed, but he took a step back, glancing around like he expected more werewolves to ooze out of the yellowed wallpaper.

“Oh, for... shit,” Don muttered.

The werewolf advanced a few steps. “And here I thought I was dead meat. Maybe if it was your daddy----”

Dean kept backing into the hallway, and Don backed toward the bed, accidentally knocking the heart under it with his boot, cringing at the sound of the organ smacking against a bedpost.

“Oh YEAH?!” Dean shouted, and fired off his last round, which - wrecked hand-eye coordination be damned - did manage to land in the werewolf’s upper arm.

“Nicely done, idiot,” the werewolf said with a sneer. “Not that it matters - what kind of hunter tries to shoot a wolf with regular bullets?”

Dean blanched as he realized he must’ve loaded all the silver into Don’s gun instead of just a few, then put the standard rounds - a lousy three - into his own. “Uh, hey, Don?” he said nervously.

“HEY, DON, WHAT?!” an irritated Don shouted back.

The werewolf snickered, still backing Dean down the hallway. “Thanks for bringing me the extra snacks, that other heart’s gonna be ice cold, and I was really looking forward to a hot meal.”

When Don looked down the hallway not a second later, the werewolf had leapt, sending the both of them into the den, Dean now pinned on the floor by the sofa, legs kicking, and just as Don saw a clawed hand raised, poised to rip Dean’s face off-----

POW!

Dean and the werewolf both gasped. The shot had gone through the werewolf’s hand. And they didn’t have to wait long for Don to have another go.

The werewolf actually howled when the next round hit his back, and while it wasn’t a through-and-through, it must’ve come close because blood was beginning to show on the right side of his shirt. But that didn’t matter. The werewolf now had his injured hand around Dean’s neck, raising the other in preparation to strike.

“Left, Don, LEFT! HEAAAART!” Dean managed to choke out - and then he let out a grunt as the werewolf collapsed onto him following what would be Don’s final shot.

While they waited on the cops, they poked around, and in the basement, Dean let out a low whistle and Don’s eyes got wide: the walls were covered in just about every weapon he could’ve imagined, and some he never would’ve.

Dean walked to the long worktable against the back wall, ran a fingertip across a bullet mold. “Your friend Wally is - was - a hunter.” 

“Holy shit,” Don breathed out. He thumbed through a small journal as he stood at the other end of the table. Every page he turned made his head spin more and more. Sketches of fairy tale monsters. Notes covering the margins on abilities, weaknesses, appearance. He raised his eyes to Dean’s. “The hell, kid.”

“He was just too old to kick its ass. Guess it’ll happen to all of us eventually,” Dean said solemnly. “Hey, and, uh - speaking of kicking ass... thanks.”

“None needed, standard Thursday for me,” Don replied wryly. He took another look around the room. “I got no idea what they’re gonna say about all this.”

Dean reached out and took the journal from Don’s hands. “So long as we take this outta here, they’ll just think he was a crazy old man.”

The two men looked at each other in silence for several minutes before Don spoke.

“I’m never smoking again.”

“This wasn’t a hallucination. And I’m the one that’s never smoking again.”

They heard footsteps above them.

“Don?” called out a voice. “Don? Where are you?”

"We're down here, we're fine," Don called back. Then to Dean, he said, "Never say never, kid."

"Well, I'm never taking another joint from a guy named Don."

Don grinned. "Good rule. Now, let's go on and give our statements----"

"What should I----"

"Tell 'em the truth."

Dean let out a brief huff of a chuckle. "'The truth'," he repeated. "I guess I'm trying two new things tonight."

They parked down the road from the motel, and as Dean was just about to climb out, Don asked him a question.

"You got anybody to talk to? Anybody to... I dunno... share this burden with?"

Dean thought for a moment, then said, "My brother's got his own life, at college. He's probably happy."

"Probably?"

"We haven't talked in awhile."

"Figure out an excuse to call him, or go see him - don't take the joints, fine, but take advice from this guy named Don, huh?"

The corner of Dean's mouth turned up. "Yeah. Yeah, all right. I'll think about it. But, uh... we head out tomorrow."

"Where to?"

"Not sure. We got wind of something in California, and something else in New Orleans."

"Hope it isn't werewolves."

"Same. So are you okay covering with the police? One of their witnesses disappearing?"

Don waved him off. "I got it. You just take care of yourself, kid." A pause. "Dean."

Dean nodded. "You, too, Don."

Don waited til Dean entered the motel room that had the muscle car parked right in front of it. Then he dug in his work bag, pulled out some of his stash, more than ready to burn one - but as he was leaning back up, he noticed Dean had left Wally's journal in the floorboard. And as he leisurely drove toward home, he pondered on what all was out there going bump in the night.

It'd be a bitch, gathering the supplies and weapons, not to mention spending what would likely be some serious research time at the library. But he smiled. He'd just have to make room in the shack for more than fertilizer, and learn to balance his old hobby with his new one.

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

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The sounds of the people chatting loudly above her and around her and beside her made her ears throb, the smell of food and cigarettes on their clothes as they brushed by her face stung her nose, rolled her stomach, and how their bodies bumped each other, jostling her around, their weight pressing into her - it brought up an emotion she’d not yet experienced in her young life. It was the panic of abandonment. She was surrounded, but alone.

She could still call up the feel of her small hands pressing into her ears to drown out the noise, and the sensation of the collar of her pink chenille jacket against her face when she ducked her head, wanting to hide and be seen in the same moment. She’d clenched her eyes tightly once she’d managed to make it to a barely-there corner just to the side of the staircase, and it worked well enough. But clearest of all in her mind was the flashing and the buzzing.

One of the overhead lights at the bottom of the stairs had been flickering its last, sending out a death rattle at a pitch that snaked into her head no matter what she did, its pulse vacillating between hardly a shimmer and something like the sun, cutting through her eyelids. The feeling would never leave her, the sense that there was little she could do if the world was conspiring against her. The sense of being caught in a maze, struggling to find the one turn that would mean freedom, only to realize the exit was actually a trap.

The Cage had done its homework. The number of stairs, and the myriad cracks in the tiled walls were exact, the rounded entryway to the platform the precise shade of yellowed-white, and while there was no ceiling to speak of, just a boundless void, it did arrange for some ambiance via scant buzzing and muted flickers, despite the lack of the overhead light. One thing, however, was different.

A bright but pleasant glow was coming from around the corner, from the platform and the train, the effect waxing and waning, as if the Cage were calmly inhaling and exhaling - a prodding from her host, a not-so-subtle Come this way. She had such recall, it didn’t matter, not the light, not how dark it was in the stairwell, nor that the void was trailing lazily behind. The whole of it could’ve been a starless night, and she still would’ve known the way.

Initially, when the current task fell upon her shoulders and before she was fully briefed, she’d expected to find a winding catacomb of sorts, filled with nightmare-inducing imagery, God’s very own memento mori for his fallen star; then she’d been told the Cage was different for everyone. It was adaptable, solid and fluid all at once, balanced but unhinged, exacting yet scattered. A real oobleck oubliette.

The stray thought caused her to break form, a corner of her mouth tilting a bit despite the circumstances, but she sobered right up when the non-existent light cut out with a sharp pop that sounded - to her ears - like the shatter of the camera’s lens when it hit the concrete floor, the day she’d first been here. She’d dropped it at the initial shock of being lost. Lost, and to her heart, forgotten. And every person in that loud, smelly crowd were oblivious to her precious camera getting kicked around, to how their stomps ground the plastic and glass into powder, a crunching she could hear, even over her sobs.

The present crunch beneath her boots was more resonant, filling the space, but she’d learned how to do some ignoring herself as time went by. She didn’t want to know what it was, she didn’t bother to imagine what it was, same with the nearby scritching and distant growls, and she’d have told the Cage it could do better than that, but it would’ve been a waste of breath. It could, it would, and it did.

A lifetime ago, when she was maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, she’d gotten separated from her parents as they were all rushing to anywhere and everywhere, and she distinctly remembered the entirety of the incident, the entirety of the day when her life changed course The conviction she’d felt when she’d decided on the how and the when and the where, the apathetic manner in which she wrote and signed the note, and the curiosity, after, when she was hovering in the corner of her bedroom, hearing her father make some sort of inhuman sound as he dropped to his knees, the note falling with him. She watched the stoicism he’d carefully cultivated in himself as he’d grown older, grown bitter, fall away, too.

Then, later, the curiosity had persisted. She was still just out of sight, it seemed, since her sharp-eyed mother looked right through her on the repeated trips to and from the closet, fussing over what outfit was appropriate for the viewing, even though there couldn’t be a viewing, which was obvious, which was why it was curious. And most curious of all was the last thing they did for her, a gesture she’d not seen the likes of in many years, one not afforded to her, certainly not to each other. She’d been standing in the shadow cast by the thick trunk of a tree, unnoticed, when they’d placed a small photograph atop her casket; not one of the three of them, she hadn’t smiled in those for years. This was her favorite picture, and she hadn’t thought they’d known.

It was the one-and-only she’d taken with her camera, en route to the subway and the promised ride to the most wonderful place she’d ever been. The photo was of a pigeon who’d been toddling along a brownstone’s porch, caught just as it had begun to flap its wings, preparing for launch. It was off-center, and blurry, and messy, and perfect. The captured memory had been salvaged from the dropped camera, the film roll bruised but not broken, because in truth, they’d found her quickly that day. They’d scooped up the pieces, lifted her high off the ground, took her away from the chaos. She’d remembered this part far too late.

That was the most curious of all - the clarity. Some things couldn’t have been helped, but plenty could’ve. No convoluted reasoning, no one thing on which to hang understanding; she’d reached her limit, the end. Walked out the door, straight to the subway, same line from the way-back-when, even, and kept a steady pace right off the edge. Pity no one can testify to those who remain about the crushing regret that kicks in approximately one second into taking the leap, how it invades the brain right when the point of no return arrives, how its friend clarity disappears the current, once-perfect plan, and the list of solutions to previously unsolvable things steps in to take its place.

She remembered the brief joy of the realization that the impossible just might be do-able, live-able, before she came to an abrupt halt. And she knew exactly what she would say if she could speak to those who remained: I thought you gave up on me. But that’s not really why I left. I left because I gave up on me. That’s the catch when it comes to the deals offered to folks in her position: you can only remember what you want to forget.

Because she knew this already, it was surprising that her custom-fit cage didn’t. There was enough hazy illumination drifting about as she passed by the tracks for her to have seen the stopped but still-vibrating cars, though the Cage didn’t bother with the screech of the brakes, or the onlookers’ screams, none of the pounding footsteps of their escape, didn’t even go the extra mile and splash around any blood. Like the last time she’d found herself in this spot, she paid no mind to what surrounded her, and her pace didn’t slow, and she didn’t falter as she went over the edge, but on this occasion she hopped, landed solidly on her feet, proceeded down the tunnel, even walked atop the rail for awhile, executed an occasional gymnast-worthy spin, until, she supposed, the Cage had given up trying to pitch its hopeless sale.

She’d already bought hopelessness once, kept the receipts, and returned it long, long ago.

The room where she found him had three walls, no door, she simply went from the tunnel’s uneven gravel to the smooth wood flooring of the strange diorama. It was here she opted to peek over her shoulder - this she had to see, if the Cage was actually going to have once last go, if it would, if it could, and it did, though the effort was half-hearted, so to speak; the wall that had appeared was easily punchable plaster. No chance she couldn’t tear it down. And if what she’d been told was accurate, if she’d succeeded in navigating the maze, the exit - the real exit - would be right on the other side when it was time to leave. In her mind, that moment had arrived; as for him, she couldn’t be sure. Stay long enough, even a tomb can start to seem like a home.

It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t light. It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t quiet. There was no torture, but there was no peace. It just was. Unnerving little nook, she’d freely admit it. And then there was its occupant: he was an unmoving figment, a breath away from being out of sight, the kind that would vanish in the time it took to blink.

She’d prepared her mind, practiced the how, done her homework on the when and the where, all the things one does when readying themselves for a difficult task, yet now that she’d pushed through to the end, when it was almost finished, she didn’t have the first clue as to what to say. What do you say? There weren’t enough apologies, never could be, and who’d care? She was a stranger, and on purpose, just some a-hole on a holy mission. She wasn’t anyone who owed remorse. She wasn’t anyone who owed love. She was no one to him, no one at all.

So they stared at him, she and the Cage, had the feeling he was staring right back, watching as the walls began to warp, and her weight shifted from foot to foot, one or the other occasionally tapping as she pondered, the floorboards creaking as the Cage did the same, and just when the shadow started to slink away—-

“Hey, Adam…”

The retreat was halted. The weakened walls began to crumble. The soft smile she seldom showed made a one-night-only appearance as she extended a hand.

“…let’s go take a ride.”

Want more stories? My Master Post is linked in my profile, and it tells you about getting on the Tag List, too! If for whatever reason it gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to send an Ask and I’ll link you.

Re-blogs and feedback are fuel for a writer’s soul - please do let me know if you enjoyed. 😘

Author’s Note #2: She/You can be whatever “thing” you want her to be. Truly. I’ve had a “plot bunny” for awhile now - related to supernatural stuff but not related to SPN, per se -  that persons who die by their own hand—

[And not meaning in a, like, I’m-gonna-take-out-all-you-f*cks-with-me way, and conversely not in an I’m-willfully-giving-my-life-for-XYZ way, or in a this-is-a-terminal-disease-and-I’m-going-out-on-my-own-terms way, I mean specifically, those who - like her - are at their limit for whatever reason]

The Nashooligan Forevers....