#i'd need to come up with tags (and/or a backstory for some) but yeah

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! :3

[spaceorphan18]

The Lady Whistledown Papers : 1x01 - A Diamond of the First Water (Part 3)

Hi! Welcome back to The Lady Whistledown Papers, where I'm taking an in-depth look at Penelope Featherington and Colin Bridgerton's character arcs and romance within the show Bridgerton!

For previous issues, follow tag : The Lady Whistledown Papers

Girls Like You

Jumping back in, we start off with a montage of suitors for both Daphne and Marina set to Maroon 5's Girls Like You. Usually, I have some great thoughts on the use of music within shows but this one feels... just like a fun little pop song to put to a montage? Most of the lyrics involve -- needing a girl like you -- and -- yeah yeah yeah. It's not the most profound song, but it works nicely for the montage.

Also, I love when they match the Featherington girls' dresses. I'd love the backstory as to why Portia is obsessed with citrus fruits.

As a nice touch, when the LW voice over starts, the camera pushes in on Penelope. I kind of love all the hints they give that LW is Pen -- it's incredibly obvious once you start looking for them. Anyway, Penelope is so devilish here. She loves the attention Marina is getting - not only because she finds Marina a nice person, but because it's pissing her mother off. I love that the LW narration is Pen's way of throwing salt in her mothers' wound. It's a bit wicked. And delicious.

What's somewhat wild, though, is that LW goes after the Queen about her choice of Daphne as a diamond. THE QUEEN! Like, that is bold, Pen. Incredibly bold. She even throws shade at King George, like wow. It's no wonder the Queen is obsessed to track her down. Pen's playing with fire here. But I wonder if she doesn't realize, yet, that there can be consequences to her words? I mean - right now, LW is almost like her journaled words being published -- unedited thoughts that aren't necessarily filtered, but are done so anonymously. The only reactions she's really getting are her mother's frustrations -- which she delights in.

It'll be interesting to watch the LW development as the show continues...

Courting I

Awww, it's our first real Polin scene of the show! And it's... like ten seconds long. But! Still plenty to dig through.

Colin's decided to call on Marina - I'm assuming he's the one (or one of the ones really) who brought her flowers. And during one of the suitor's atrocious poems, Colin's throwing Pen (and you could argue Eloise) looks. Like, can you believe this guy? Seriously?

But, no, I love that there's this layer of non-verbal communication right off the bat. Colin isn't just some random dude Pen has had a crush on from afar. They have an established relationship from the onset (which I'll talk about more in a sec) and how many times -- cutting through the ridiculous nature of the society they live in, do they shoot each other knowing looks.

They grew up together, and while Colin probably very much thinks of her as an additional sister at this point -- there's a comfort there that he can express how he's feeling over the situation to her.

A quick second about the dog - it took me a sad amount of times to realize that one of the suitors had brought it as a gift. It also doesn't show up after this episode (I think) so I really hope it's safely living at a neighbor's house after Portia decides to get rid of it.

Anyway... I was thinking about Eloise in this scene. Why is she even in this scene, she doesn't need to be. Well, actually, in a way, she does! First of all - we can appreciate Claudia Jessie's fantastic comedic skills (Btw - anyone else up for a buddy comedy with Claudie Jessie and Nicola Coughlan? Because I sure am here for it).

Secondly, it helps reestablish that Pen and Eloise are bffs. Which helps establish why Colin would otherwise randomly come up to talk to her after calling hour is over. This is the first episode of the series, and all of these relationships are being established. And it can be done without dialogue having to confirm it. It's all subtle, but it's better than the trap of over explaining things in expository dialogue.

Anyway, I want some backstory... How often do Eloise and Pen sneak over to each other's houses? They were children when they met - how often did Pen play over at the Bridgerton house? It's interesting that children are allowed some freedoms that once you get older, aren't allowed anymore. I have to wonder - if one reason that Pen and Colin are so free with each other later on is that because they they were children together, and probably played together as kids, they don't feel as bound by society's rules because they didn't have to when they were younger.

And now I just have all of these headcanons about a much younger Colin chasing his sister(s) and Pen who is visiting around the house in the way siblings do. And Eloise deciding she wants to take revenge, and she and Pen coming up with plots to play pranks on her brother(s). Think of Gregory and Hyacinth at the beginning of the episode, running around causing havoc. And I can just imagine that Eloise and Colin are a lot like that, too. And of course, Pen, who wanted to be away from her own family, from her own sisters who treated her like a disease, would want to be a part of it as much as she could.

Before I get into their exchange, a small, but important detail is what Portia says a moment before -- she encourages the young men to acknowledge her other daughters in hopes that someone will notice Prudence or Phillipa. But the way she includes Penelope's name -- "or even Penelope" -- it's an after thought. It's like, oh yeah, I have a third child I guess if you really want to acknowledge her, go ahead, but meh, who cares. It's so sad, really that Portia thinks so little of her at this point in time.

But then here's the kicker -- not one of these suitors even takes a glance over in Prudence or Phillipa's direction. But Colin takes a moment to full on have a short aside with Penelope. He makes it a point to go over to her to share a laugh -- because they'd probably been rolling their eyes at each other during all of this suitor business, and now that the official courting moment is over, they can have an exchange.

The fact that Portia is so blind to what goes on with her youngest daughter is the reason LW works. Penelope is left to really be on her own - and while that's devastatingly lonely, it also allows her a freedom that other women her age and place in society don't get.

Anyway, back to Colin -- and the fact that the first thing he does is seek out Penelope. He could address his own sister, who is sitting right there, but he doesn't. Because Eloise probably usually ignores him. Penelope doesn't. She latches on to pretty much everything he says, and that's gonna be a big deal for Colin (but we'll get there...)

Their exchange is only a couple of lines, but they're able to be witty with each other. Penelope mentions that the suitor is no Lord Byron (and -- guys, as an aside, if you want a wild time, look up the life and times of Lord Byron and the Shelleys. It's just... a good time...) Anyway, Colin's face subtly shifts in this moment. Her wit and intelligence is impressive, and he clocks that. It's why he keeps coming back to her - because they can share similar thoughts - but also she's deeply amusing on top of that.

And, oh, dear Penelope... Her eyes never leave him. She is just so, so gone. Not only is she just over the moon that he comes to stop to talk to her, not only is she gazing adoringly up at him during the quick exchange, her look lingers as he leaves. Of course, part of this is visual storytelling to show the depths of her feelings. But, we're beyond crush stuff here -- this girl has got it bad.

Seriously -- how does Eloise not notice all of this? I mean, plot purposes, yes, and the fact that Eloise is usually caught up in her own drama to really notice other things. But you'd think you'd notice your best friend being moony for brother after a while. Because, Pen, girl, you wear your heart on your sleeve...

Courting II

Before we get into the meat of this short, little moment - I have to mention the transition. In the scene before, Simon and Anthony were talking, and Anthony mentions that he's not worried about taking a wife because he has brothers... And we cut to this scene where Colin is courting Marina. And, I think it's a neat little transition because - we see Colin doing something that Anthony is actively not doing. Looking for a wife. (Or at least a romantic partner)

That's the thing about Colin -- he is a romantic. Unlike Anthony, whose position is different because he is the oldest and therefore there's more responsibility there, and therefore he'd rather not deal with it at all (and who has a ton of trauma going on in addition) and unlike Benedict, who is kind of caught up in finding himself more than anything, Colin (who is young still at this point) likes the idea of a wife and a partner and a domestic home.

It's one (of many - I'll get to it) reason he is so quick to propose to Marina. It's why he doesn't fuck around ages later when he figures out his feelings for Penelope. It's actually something Colin and Penelope have in common -- they both have a shared love of romance.

Okay, so onto this moment, I want to note the blocking of the scene. Notice how Penelope is on the floor, playing with the dog? It's purposeful! It positions her to reflect that she's still a child, or at least a child when compared to Colin and Marina on the couch, deep in their courting moment. It highlights the chasm currently between them -- something Marina will bring up later, that Penelope is still a child, a younger sister, not serious marriage prospect in Colin's eyes.

There's Lady Whistledown narration going over this scene -- where LW proclaims that Colin might be rewarded with the prize of Marina. And we see Penelope watching with a mix of emotion.

Penelope was having fun with all the suitors back when there were a ton of them and they were spouting bad poetry. But now that it's just Colin and Marina, the knife twists a bit in Pen's heart. She's playing with the puppy, as a way to pretend she's not that interested, but she's dutifully watching. And yes, a small part of it is her LW ways. A bigger part of it is to watch the development of this particular courtship. And, a third part of it is that there's a twisted sense of -- I may hate every thing about what's happening, but we're still in the same room together. She doesn't miss opportunities to be near Colin whenever she can.

The LW narration is somewhat brutal and almost petty. Pen is mocking Marina through the guise of carefully placed compliments. (Note - Julie Andrews doesn't oversell it the narration, but the hint of sarcasm is there.) Again, they did a great job at layering the narration over Pen's face, so we literally are hearing what she's thinking.

Here's the other thing about the narration :: 'It has come to my ears that Mr. Colin Bridgerton will win the grand prize when he sweeps Miss Thompson off her pretty, little, slippered feet.'

There's a lot in that little sentence. Pen is watching Colin and Marina laugh together. And that is hard for Pen -- because we saw it even in the first scene they have together. They laugh, have in-jokes, seek each other out and share cute, sweet little moments. Sure -- we know (or will be told) that Colin is flirty in general, he cracks jokes, makes people seem at ease, and is genuinely kind to everyone. But Pen has taken a lot of those interactions for herself, has buried them away as something special between the two of them.

Colin flirting out during promenades (or whenever) is kind of a distant thing. Pen having a front row seat to watch Colin lay his natural charm at a serious romantic partner is something else entirely. She hates it. And that's why she turns away, because it's a bit too much. And yet, she doesn't leave -- because she can't.

Also, ALSO! The - sweep her off her feet - comment in the narration. Marina will find Colin a bit fun, but it's a nice connection. And I do think she likes Colin. But she's not really swept off her feet. Pen was the one who got swept off her feet. I just... think they did a great job keeping up the duality of having LW be her own thing and having it really reflect Pen's inner thoughts.

So on that angsty note... one more post about the first episode to wrap it up, then we can move on!! See -- I told you there's a lot in this first episode!

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Tag Game: Writerly Questionnaire

Thanks to @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver and @agirlandherquill for the tags!

Rules: Answer the questions!

Long post incoming!

About You

When did you start writing?

My earliest attempts at writing books are from when I was about 9 or 10, scribbling in a sparkly pink notebook something that was in essense video game fanfiction. It will never see the light of day again. The WIP I've had for the longest, The Watcher and the Thief, I started when I was 12 and writing a backstory for my human ranger in Dungeons and Dragons.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

I love reading fantasy and I love writing fantasy, specifically high fantasy and portal fantasy. I'm always looking to expand my reading taste and go outside my comfort zone but fantasy fiction is my jam and always will be.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared?

Honestly there are so many authors that I'm obsessed with that I probably subconsciously emulate and would be absolutely honored to be compared to including but not limited to Brandon Sanderson, Robert Jordan, Brandon Mull, Leigh Bardugo, Weis and Hickman, uh yeah probably others.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.)

I've done most of my writing in the living room of my house, sitting on the couch closest to a plug for my laptop charger with one of those lap desks and said laptop on my lap. It's either that or sitting on my bed or hiding in the basement if my housemates are too distracting (rare). I have also been known to write on my phone from time to time when I have the time but not the laptop.

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse?

Go on a walk or a car ride with one of my WIP playlists playing. I also brainstorm while waiting to fall asleep in bed.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

I mean my mom was the one who kindled my love for fantasy books, but otherwise I don't think so.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

There seem to be a lot of wanderers, whether seeking something or on a mission or traveling aimlessly. Draven and Octavian post-THtMatC, Jas and Killian, the ToS crew. Most of the aforementioned people are also willing to go out of their way to help someone in need or their mission centers around providing aid.

Your Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.)

Of all time, Octavian de Silv. I go into further detail here. Otherwise I can't really choose because I love my ocs for different reasons.

Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life?

I think I'd be friends with Jas or Reese. With Jas it would be the classic case of an extrovert adopting an introvert, and with Reese we'd bond over our love of reading.

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

Obviously any of my villains, and if I ever met Draven I would get annoyed with him real quick. I don't get on well with people irl who share his personality.

Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters.

Well, I usually start with a slot to put a character in a story. Then I throw an appearance on them, usually traits that might stand out to a POV character upon their introduction. Then I decide a name and personality. All of this is subject to change at literally any time. All of it.

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

Including what I've said before... a lot of the protagonists exhibit some of my own traits like stubbornness extreme perseverance and creative problem-solving with violence.

How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.)

I picture them in my artstyle as I have doodled and drawn and such, I also use picrews to help me better visualize their appearances, although those obviously do have limits.

Your Writing

What’s your reason for writing?

I love flailing about my characters in different ways, including Problems, Situations, Shenanigans, etc. I have plots and stuff but I write because I love my characters so so much.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

Any comment (that isnt hate) is a good comment :) I do love when people *cough, cough* @fourwingedsnake make funny comments regarding the characters or a line or the situation in general

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.)

Storms I dunno I just want people to like my writing/my characters/my worlds

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Creating memorable characters and also accidentally forming new magic systems

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

I've noticed that people really like my ocs so y'know win there, other than that I've never been to my memory explicitly told

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.)

I feel like I've improved a lot over the last year or so, and prompt events/posting on Tumblr has got me in the habit of writing every day, even if it's just a brainstorming session. I definitely feel more confident in my own abilities and more comfortable showing my writing to people (still hesitant about showing my irl friends/family for obvious reasons)

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

Yeah???? I write first and foremost for me and it would definitely help me cope with the loneliness of being the last person on earth. Maybe the next dominant species will figure out English and read it.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

I for sure write what I enjoy. If readers don't like it they don't have to read it, and if I don't like it I won't finish it even if others enjoy it. My writing my rules deal with it and if you can't the unfollow/block button is right there

Tagging @faytelumos @fourwingedwriter @thewritingautisticat @stargazer-luna @phoenixradiant @pluppsauthor @pluttskutt @elizaellwrites @gamerkats @happypup-kitcat24 and open tag! :D

About You When did you start writing? Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write? Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared? Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.) What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse? Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about? Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all? Your Characters Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.) Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life? Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them? Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters. Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters? How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.) Your Writing What’s your reason for writing? Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers? How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.) What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer? What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others? How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.) If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write? When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence

[akechi-stole-my-heart]

my favorite persona 5 fics

a while ago i made a post that listed all the fics i'd read over the course of my first year in the persona 5 fandom that i enjoyed. i've been thinking about making a post of all the fics i've read since then, but i actually decided to do something different this time. if you want a complete list of every fic i've read and enjoyed, check out my bookmarks on ao3. this, on the other hand, is a list of only my absolute favorite fics. i will continue to update it as i read more fics that i love.

these are the fics that occupy my thoughts to this very day and changed my perception of these characters. that made me cry and laugh and changed me forever. in no particular order, without further ado, these are my favorite p5 fics of all time.

Daredevil, You've Hit the Wall

A Persona 5 Strikers rewrite with Sumire and Akechi. Cookie is a phenomenal writer, and she'll be showing up on this list at a later point. Her characterization of both Akira and Akechi are absolutely godly, and their arcs in this fic are incredibly satisfying for someone who loved Strikers but was left disappointed by the lack of Akechi.

Read this if you like Akira angst, want to see Akechi improve himself and befriend the Thieves (and all the complications that come with that), like Strikers (or don't like Strikers), or love akeshu. I promise you won't be disappointed.

Love is a game (and I only play to lose)

The worst possible outcome to the Interrogation Room. This one is Dark, but the akeshu is absolutely phenomenal. Definitely heed the tags, this one isn't for everyone, but I was hooked from beginning to end. While I don't normally read Hurt No Comfort, I am very glad I gave this one a chance.

watching all the stars burn out

Are you in need of some incredible Royal Trio polycule fluff and angst? Would you like to read some of the most in-character fic I've ever read? Are you in need of a good cry today? Well, then have I got a fic for you!

This is a beautiful, heartwrenching, very sweet Royal Trio polycule fic that takes place during the final week of January when Akechi tells Sumi and Akira about his impeding demise early. It's so good. I cried. You will too. And if you're scared, I promise there is so much fluff here too. My babies,,,

Interminable Ballistics

Time loop of the interrogation room scene. Akira and Akechi are Not Okay. This fic makes me go hnnngh it's so well written the prose is beautiful and everyone is so in character it hurts. I love my bois please someone get them therapy.

goro akechi's waxed asshole

Ehehehe yeah well. This one is nsfw, but it doesn't actually have a whole lot of sex. It's more of a character study than anything, and despite the title and crack concept, is actually really beautiful and sweet? If the title doesn't scare you off please check it out I promise it is incredibly good.

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

AKESHU PIRATE AU!! Goro is a prisoner at a lighthouse and Akira is a pirate. The ways the author plays with their backstories in this AU is fascinating. I'm obsessed with this version of Akira and Goro and I really really wish a sequel existed that explored Sumire because my god-

If you like AUs, pirates, angst, and themes about self loathing and redemption, then check this one out. I think about it constantly.

Flight through fall

Okay....this one is probably the heaviest of all the fics on this list. Severe trigger warning for suicide, self harm, and medical stuff. It's...a lot. But it is also very very good. Akira is Not Doing Well after the events of Royal, and Akechi showing up in his life only makes things worse. This fic is not for everyone, but I personally found it very cathartic and poetic, to the point where I read it two times in a row.

Once More, With Feeling

Another akeshu timeloop, but this time, it's the day of the engine room scene. (I really like timeloop stories.) And then halfway through it also becomes a Palace fic (I won't say whose for the sake of spoilers). I love the characterization of Akechi and Akira here. The way they both handle the time loop is so very Them. It explores ideas of redemption, guilt, and finding a way to move on. I love this Akira so much please someone give him a hug <3

Falling Up

This is one of the only short one shots that have made such an impression on me to make it to this list. Akira and Akechi in the third semester. Akechi has...Feelings about having killed Akira. I don't want to say too much else for fear of giving too much away. Please read this. It's short and powerful and beautiful.

why don't we spin the wheel

Sae Niijima has a cognition of Akechi, and he's really fucked up. Please make sure to heed the warnings, this one's pretty violent. The exploration of Akechi is phenomenal and I think about the ending (and the rest of it) all of the time constantly.

When it's over, you're the start

Everyone starts to forget Akechi ever existed. This longer one shot made me fucking cry. It's so mean, incredibly mean, but don't worry, it has a happy ending. Nothing can erase the power of akeshu.

Please Don't Take My Sunshine Away

A what-if Mamakechi didn't die, but instead was kidnapped by Shido and her suicide faked? The characterization for Misato (Mamakechi) is sooo good, and while this fic does travel some dark places, it ultimately does result in some heartwrenching comfort for both Goro and his mama. I love this fic so fucking much, Misato is such a fantastic interpretation of Goro's mother and the the angst is sublime.

the first step to find your way is to mark where you have been

The best Akechi Palace fic I've read by a landslide, to the point where it's inspired my own Akechi Palace fic quite a bit. I had my kink awakening thanks to this fic (while reading That Scene in the middle seat on an airplane. Sorry, strangers). It's mostly an Akechi character study and an incredibly good one at that. I wish it existed as a game. It did what p5t did with Toshiro with Akechi and it did it so incredibly well. This fic makes me insane. Read it.

Fools Rush In

Akira speedruns Akechi's confidant in a day. This is one of the first fics I ever read, and when I did, I went "this is it. this is Them." The characterization is *chef's kiss.* I'm running out of new ways to compliment incredible writing help-

Pleasant Boy

This fic should be required reading for all Goroboys. No one is allowed to have an opinion on him (especially in third sem) before reading this fic. Akechi is actualized by Maruki in third sem, and Akira hates it. I love this fic so much. It heavily inspired code violet and changed the way I look at and think about Goro forever and ever I love it so much read it read it read it

it takes a village

Or, as I like to call it, The Akechi Fic. I legit had a major hyperfixation on this fic to the point where I read it three times in a row. It's more or less a NG+ where everyone remembers except Akechi. It is quite literally everything you could ever want from an Akechi redemption fic. After reading this I wondered if I ever needed to read another fic about him in my life because everything I ever wanted had already been delivered. There are so many moments in this masterpiece that make me go completely insane. This is my favorite fic of all time. Read it. Read it read it read it Please

[graffitistars]

OOh I'd love to see more of your OCs!! Do you have a tag for them so that I can peruse what's there? 👀 And also which of your OCs have you been paying the most attention to as of late?

I usually just tag them as "ocs" or their names tbh

My new vampire (who is yet to be given a name) is who I've been paying the most attention to behind the scenes, recently. They're very much inspired by wwdits; being very much out of the times and still dressing like it's the 18th century. I'm still building on their backstory and personality, so I won't ramble about them just yet.

However!

These four are probably the ones I give the most attention to on here!

More info about them under cut because idw spam dash

I could talk a lot about all four of these fools. Maybe I'll try and tag them more in things and draw/talk about them more often in the open, but usually with my ocs, most of their development comes from rps with friends. Still, I'm always down to ramble if anyone ever asks :'))

--

Mena and Kayden

Kayden and Mena are both devils, or demons, whatever you prefer to call them. They make formal/informal contracts with people to reap their souls, sort of like a business for Hell. The more souls they reap, the higher their social status in Hell gets.

A bit of a backstory ramble:

Mena has been around on Earth for a fair few centuries and is quite high in the business at this point. They're siblings with Kayden who they adopted back when he was but a poor little orphan boy wandering the streets, after losing their own baby brother under unfortunate circumstances.

The two of them were pretty inseparable in their youth until Kayden was grown up and Mena decided to move abroad, which caused a little bitterness between the two.

Tbf Kayden has always been quite independent, but sees the world and everyone in it quite narrow mindedly. Growing up, his whole world was himself and Mena and so that's all he cared about; no one else mattered to him. Mena, being broken over the loss of their previous brother and in a very toxic mindset, encouraged this behaviour in Kayden. They didn't want Kayden to trust others in case it led him to harm.

When Mena left, Kayden changed his name to get more with the modern age, he was on his own now and so his world became that little bit colder - but it's okay because he has hellfire in his blood to keep him warm :)

After a century or so, Mena returns, but the two of them are very different people now and Kayden has little interest in reigniting the past. His bad habits have gotten worse and he's not the most honest when it comes to contracts; he'll find a loophole to get what he wants without having to wait it out, so people need to be very careful with what they sign with him.

Mena, on the other hand, has gone up in the world(s)! They've seen more of Earth and have learnt to find love in the smaller things. They're now actually higher than ever in devil society, only taking contracts from those who have something to give aside from their soul. Mena is living the high life; having bought themself a penthouse apartment in a nice part of town and got engaged to their rekindled ex-lover, Rosie. However, that's not to say they're perfect and wonderful now. They can still bring out some nasty claws when they're pushed to a limit.

But yeah, that's the general gist of Mena and Kayden's backstory together. I have aus where the two of them are human, but their story together stays surprisingly fairly similar.

I'm currently working on another plot with Kayden, where he's unwillingly helping out a girl who summoned him to bring back the soul of her dead brother. It's pretty fun!

--

Radio and Alistair

More siblings! I'll spare you another detailed backstory with these two though.

So this version of Radio is deoncelerised from 2016 Weehawken. He's in his mid-twenties and, despite being deoncelerised, is still tormented by his mother. He's the middle child and very much a people-pleaser. His nickname comes from high school, where he did the school announcement and ran his own little school radio show over lunch; he was "the radio station kid", which eventually just turned into "Radio" for short.

He's a good lad. Runs his own independent show in his free time and works at the local radio station, working his way up the ladder. He's surprisingly anxious for a guy who speaks to hundreds of people, but I guess it's easier to talk when you haven't got all those eyes staring at you. He'd probably do himself a favour if he didn't drink so much coffee in a day, but he's gotta keep chugging by somehow!

His hair is in a constant state of needing a trim and brush, but it was the only thing about his appearance he had control over when he was still living at home, because he grew too tall for his mother to reach with a pair of scissors. He'll give himself a sensible haircut one day.

Alistair is Radio's older brother. He originated from an uncomfortable au, back in the days of SSU blog rps, which is why he's so edgy. Now he's the ex-prodigy eldest son with too short of a fuse to stick with being told what to do.

Alistair's around 5 years older than Radio and despite the two being like chalk and cheese in many ways, they get along quite well! Alistair looks out for his little brother and encouraged the rebel in him when Radio was still living with his mother. He's had his own obstacles to overcome in life, but he's come far and in most universes has his partner, Garrick, by his side.

The universe that the brothers are most developed in is one where they're werewolves! Alistair loves being a werewolf, Radio not so much, but they live together in a pack, inside a big old gothic mansion in that universe. It's actually the same universe that Mena and Kayden come from, so I guess that's why I end up talking about the four of them more than most of my other ocs.

Rosie belongs to Litzi

Garrick belongs to Casey

[cfr749]

Next week's episode, I imagine, Tim will end up learning to let people in and accepting help. Another character growth for him, while Lucy isn't even allowed to really feel the emotional consequences of her near fatal shooting. It's already as if nothing happened and she's over it, nothing comes back to haunt her.

To me, the biggest turn off of this show/ship is this unbalance of storylines and depth between the character, the female one always getting the short end of the stick.

Hi anon!

Thank you for the meaty, thoughtful ask! Definitely some thoughts here that are right up my alley.

I'm going to start by saying I have genuinely been surprised by and happy with this season so far. Season 6, at least for Chenford, has felt like a return to the to the show's earlier roots of being truly character-driven. And I mention that simply because I still see a LOT of potential for Lucy's storyline this season.

This is the first time in YEARS we've had a multi-episode storyline seeded for Lucy, and I'm over the moon about it. With that said, the show still has its issues, and I completely get what you're saying.

While the moment with the radio was sweet and I can appreciate the sentiment, I agree that it was actually quite strange that we went from Lucy being devastated by the idea of almost killing someone to Tim framing something that will forever remind her of that moment and them smiling and laughing about it. I think in the show's attempts to deliver fan service, there isn't always someone asking: is this actually something a normal person with human emotions would do? 😂

So yeah, in making that choice, it did seem like they'd swept the shooting storyline under the rug and were moving on.

That said, I will be completely flabbergasted (and legitimately outraged) if there's not more to come in terms of Lucy's broader storyline, including her having to come to terms with her feelings about all of the challenges she's faced this season. We're coming off of multiple episodes that were very focused on Lucy's emotional state around the detectives exam and the aftermath, so I understand why they've shifted to seeding a storyline for Tim for a little bit, but I'd argue that as much as this episode gave us some (tbh kind of convoluted 😬) backstory for Tim, it was just as much about how Tim's actions impacted Lucy.

I'd argue that it was WAY easier to empathize with Lucy this episode than it was to with Tim (minus Eric's teary-eyed "Understood" that was an act of violence against us all). And tbh I'm not sure if that was intentional, but I'm more than okay with it.

For me, this was one of Lucy's best episodes in a long time -- this is the badass, take no shit woman from Seasons 1 and 2. She loves Tim dearly, and we know it must have killed her to ask him to leave, but she still found the strength to stand up for herself. She knows she deserves to be treated as an equal partner, and she demanded that Tim either provide that or go. And for her to be able to do that amidst everything else her character has been through in just the first 4 episodes of this season was IMO phenomenal (and so, so painful but absolutely needed) to see.

I couldn't agree harder though with your broader point -- the show has seemed very lopsided in terms of giving Tim lots and lots of backstory and multiple opportunities to grow and evolve, and then can't even be bothered to keep track of Lucy's parents names😭. It genuinely sucks. And they have so much to make up for.

They've given Lucy plenty of screen time and they've put her through tons of shit. I just think they haven't seemed to have had much interest in really exploring the actual impact on her character in any meaningful way, until now (I hope!).

And to be clear, I have zero interest in seeing Lucy simply tag-along on Tim's story for the rest of the season. I love that they are going to be together; I love that they are getting to support each other, but Lucy needs (and deserves) a fitting conclusion to her own story.. And if they don't give her one...

Thanks for the ask anon!

[astralisbelle]

Silk For Armor 1 - The Crime Lord and the Dancer

Silk For Armor Masterlist tags: dancer!reader, singer!reader, reader has backstory, s3 not canon, diverges around TBOBF, half fix-it fic, half super self-indulgence, original locations and lore, eventual reveal of reader backstory, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, eventual smut

chapter summary: In search of a replacement for his beloved ship, the Mandalorian ends up on an Outer Rim planet. WARNINGS: language, sex work, drug mentions

note: Hi y'all! I'm having a teeny bit of Writer's Block for Snow White atm so I thought I'd upload the first chapter of this one. I hope to get back to the other one soon, but in the meantime, please enjoy the first installment of this fic!

Once again, Din Djarin finds himself all alone in the galaxy.

Then you are no longer a Mandalorian.

He replays the words in his head over and over, unable to protect himself from the sting against his chest and head. What a fool he was for thinking that he could come back and pretend that nothing happened, that he wasn’t automatically an apostate for removing his helmet.

But he did it for Grogu. He did it for his foundling, for the one most precious to him in the entire galaxy, and in that, he cannot say he regrets it.

As he stumbles away from the covert, underneath the darkness of the night sky, he hears a beep from his belt signaling an incoming transmission. Din hesitates in answering, unsure if he is in the right head-space for anything of the sort, but he decides that he could use the distraction; it beats spiraling into despair when he thinks too hard about what he wants to do next. He retrieves the device from his belt and holds it in his palm, clicking a button. From the small screen, a hologram of Peli sits on his hand, her hands on her hips and a grin on her face.

“Hey, Mando!” she calls, waving. “I’m so glad you picked up! Boy, I’ve got great news for you.”

He doubts it. “What is it?”

“Remember how you asked me about finding you a replacement for the Razor Crest? Well, I found one!”

“You did?” This could be good — finding a new ship might just be the perfect distraction right now. If he dwells on the looming realization of his solitude, he might descend down the wrong path. Yes, this can work. “Should I come to Tatooine?”

“No, no.” Peli waves her hand. “No need. I just received word from a contact on the planet Tebin Ramm.” Din’s fist clenches. Tebin Ramm is a wretched hive that made the old Nevarro seem like Coruscant. “Told me his boss-man would be willing to negotiate with you on a fair price for a Razor Crest.”

“I doubt I’d get anywhere near a fair price on Tebin Ramm. They’re more likely to rob me than speak to me.”

“Yeah, I knew you’d say that. Well, that’s the price of a Razor Crest.” She points back with her thumb. “Of course, if you just need a ship, I do have something right here that I can fix up for you. She’ll make any dusty old Razor Crest look like a bantha cart!”

Din sighs, taking a moment to think. “You trust this contact?”

“Never steered me wrong in the past. But hey, I get it, no one likes to go to Tebin Ramm. Which is why, if you want a guaranteed deal, I can fix that baby I’ve got–”

“I’ll go meet this contact.” Peli slumps over. “Where can I find them?”

“Really? That didn’t work? Pssh.” She rolls her eyes. “You and your Razor Crest. Okay, fine, I’ll send you the information and let him know you’re on your way.”

“Thanks.” The transmission ends and he pockets his device, standing in place to think. Tebin Ramm is the last place he wants to go, but since he doesn’t have to worry about escorting anyone else, he should be fine. As long as he keeps to himself and spends the least amount of time there as possible, he can walk — or fly, rather — away from this with a Razor Crest.

Finding passage to Tebin Ramm is something of a challenge for him. No commercial flights dare venture close to that section of the Outer Rim, meaning he has to bargain with some smugglers to let him hitch a ride back to their base there.

It is a lawless planet if he’s ever seen one, and he has seen plenty. Nearly every hunter in the guild refuses to take jobs in Tebin Ramm and the ones that do are rarely ever seen again. All he knows is that the planet is a hive for gangsters and criminals, with different dons and lords running their sectors how they please. As soon as he steps off the smugglers’ ship, a chill runs up his spine.

The streets are dimly lit only by the gaudy neon signs of the tall buildings and a sort of fog permeates throughout the area. Rough-looking people of all races and genders walk around with blasters openly placed on their hips. They yell at each other from across the street, harass others that pass them by, and overall cause ruckus. He sees people spilling drinks from bottles underneath the hazy signs. Bracing himself and adopting his usual intimidating walk, the Mandalorian ventures forth into the streets.

He gets looks and stares, which is to be expected. Many of the thugs he passes give him a once-over, as if sizing up how many credits they can swim in if they took his beskar. Others turn alluring eyes towards him, one woman even licking her bottom lip in plain view. Just keep going, he tells himself. Unfortunately, he knows it’s about to get worse. Peli’s information tells him he has to turn the corner and step into the sleazy alleys of a red-light district. Women leaning against the buildings instantly turn their attention towards him, bending over to show off their cleavages, pulling up their dresses to tempt him with their thighs. They call him, beg him, reach for him but never make contact. On the balconies of the buildings he walks in between, even more half-naked women dance and beckon the patrons on the street.

In one instance, he can clearly see one of them pressing her hands against the window while a customer uses her from the back while she keeps her lips firmly shut. Din shivers, keeping his face forward. Now, he almost wishes that there is no Razor Crest.

Tucked away in the red-light district is a small theater, marked only by the neon. From the outside, it doesn’t seem impressive, but Din clocks the two bouncers at the front that suggest otherwise. Din approaches them, keeping his hands clear.

“I’m here to see Kaslur Vandor.”

The two bouncers exchange glances before they nod and step aside, granting him entrance. Din braces himself once more and crosses the threshold. The theater isn’t as grand as some of the other ones he knows are in this place, having only a few round tables around the stage. It’s more intimate that way, he supposes. One of the bouncers points him towards the table right at the end of the stage’s catwalk, the one surrounded by thugs with a very prominent man sitting at its center. A thin layer of sweat forms on Din’s brow — Peli’s contact was a big shot? He supposes it has to make sense, considering who is likely to have Razor Crests in this day and age. Steeling himself, he saunters over. Immediately, every man at that table stands up and forms a wall between him and Kaslur, staring him down.

Without looking at Din, the large man still sitting waves his hand, his fat fingers sporting multiple rings. “Let him sit.” The man closest to Din shoves him in a rickety chair next to Kaslur, who ignores him for now in favor of scooping clams and sucking on their meat. “So, you’re the Mandalorian? I gotta say, it takes a lot of balls to walk in here wearing as much beskar as you do.”

Din lets silence fill the air for a few uncomfortable seconds. “I hear you have a Razor Crest.”

Kaslur laughs. “Business already?” He turns to Din, letting him get a good look at his greasy over-comb and scarred face. “You need to slow down, Mando. The show’s about to start.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Ohoho.” Kaslur’s grin is anything but welcoming. “You don’t gotta be. But I’m warning you: you keep quiet during her performance.” He points a dinner knife towards him. “If you talk to me or even dare to clear your throat, you’ll leave here without one, got it?”

Din glares at him, his eye twitching but thankfully masked by the helmet. “...Got it.” The lights dim and the spotlight shines against the red curtains. Immediately, the rest of the audience, including Kaslur, applaud until the sounds of a single drum quiets them down. Din crosses his arms and expects some ill-dressed girl to come out and disrobe even more… not his idea of a great performance.

The curtain parts and the first thing he sees is a foot coming forward. A woman steps forward in time with the drum, golden jewelry adorning her ankles and wrists. Her legs peek through a slit-skirt with coins around her hips that jingle with each step. The small top that wraps around her bosom exposes her midriff. And finally, her face is covered with a veil, showing only her piercing, hypnotic eyes.

She lifts her hands and assumes a dancing position, feet pointed, wrists crossed. Then, when an exotic sounding horn and more percussion begin, she sings. Din’s eyes widen when he hears her voice, so pure and strong. The woman is mystifying as she dances, twirling around and removing pieces of scarf and tulle from her skirt. She uses them in her routine, her moves sensual, but not raunchy. His vision tunnels as he focuses on her, hearing her beautiful voice, watching her take off pieces until her legs are completely bare. Strutting down the catwalk, she baits the men that sit near her feet, blowing kisses and swiping herself away from their reaching hands. When she reaches the end where they sit, she falls to her knees.

Din stares right in her eyes as she focuses entirely on Kaslur, singing right to him. She reaches for him, cupping his cheek as a giddy and hungry look overtakes him. It’s in this moment that she briefly breaks eye contact with Kaslur and her striking eyes meet the dark T of the Mandalorian’s visor.

And time stands still. He cannot see her mouth, but her eye makeup betrays how wide they go. She stares for a moment as she holds her note, and Din cannot help but keep her gaze.

Then it ends. She turns back to Kaslur and slides back, her touch fleeting. Standing back up, she twirls again during the music’s swelling finale. As the horns and drums play together, she falls to her knees again with a dramatic flourish, the song ending with a large strike from the instruments. The theater is dead quiet for just a second before it erupts into a standing ovation. The men whistle and rave, pounding their tables and spilling their drinks.

She elegantly stands back up and turns on her heel to walk back down towards the curtain. Before she disappears behind it, she glances over her shoulder and Din swears she looks right at him. As soon as she is gone Kaslur sits back down with a thud and chuckles.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he asks Din. “That’s my girl.”

“Your…?” Normally, Din doesn’t give a womp rat’s ass about anyone personal relationships, but something about this one strikes him as odd. Though he could not see her face, he knows that she has to be beautiful, especially from her eyes. A singer and dancer as talented as she is somehow with this mobster? It would make sense if she were a common escort or dancer, but she is neither of those things.

“That’s right. So don’t go making googly-eyes at her, got it?”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says. “Now, about the Razor Crest.”

“Alright, alright.” Kaslur sighs. “Yeah, I’ve got a Razor Crest.”

“When can I see it?”

“You can see it when you’ve paid up.” Din tilts his head in a way that shows his disapproval. “Trust me, Mando. I wouldn’t drag you to this shithole if it wasn’t legit. Besides, scamming is a poor con man’s job.” He leans back in his chair.

“So… credits?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m not a poor man. While I would appreciate your credits, you’ve got something more valuable.” Din’s ready to hear him ask for the beskar. “You’re a Mandalorian. I wouldn’t need five fucking bodyguards if I had a Mandalorian.”

“...You want me to work for you?”

Kaslur waves his hand. “I want you to do one job for me. One measly little job and the Razor Crest is yours.”

Din knows better than anyone that one measly little job is never as temporary as it seems. One job lead him to Grogu. One job upended his life and catapulted it into a completely different trajectory. But, to get a Razor Crest for doing one errand is a bargain; he knows it and Kaslur knows it too. “What’s the job?”

“Need you to find a guy for me.” Kaslur takes out a puck and slides it over. “You can bring him in dead or alive, doesn’t matter to me. What does matter is this.” He leans in. “He stole something from me. A precious necklace made of the finest jewels money can buy.”

“A… necklace?”

“I know.” Kaslur puts a hand over his heart. “I’m a sentimental guy. What can I say?” Somehow, Din doubts that. “That little weasel has it. Or, maybe he sold it already. Bring me him and the necklace and the Razor Crest is all yours.”

The Mandalorian taps his finger on the table, weighing the options in his head. Guy would be easy to find. Necklace less so. If the guy was smart, he would have separated it and sold the jewels, so Din has to pray that he’s stupid.

Finally, he nods and takes the puck. “Deal.”

Din leaves the theater, his footsteps slower and his eyes heavy. He needs to find someplace to rest for the night… that isn’t one of these regular hotels. In this planet, he may be better off sleeping in his armor wherever he chooses to stay. He keeps his eyes forward, not inviting any of the escorts on the boulevard to call him.

Just before he turns the corner, a woman’s voice yanks his attention. “Congratulations!” A Twi’lek woman with purple skin jumps in front of him. “You’ve won a free night with one of our most popular girls. C’mon!” She pulls on his hand, but he doesn’t move, his feet planted firmly in the ground.

“Not interested,” he says, pulling his hand back. When he takes a step forward, she blocks him again.

“Uh. Please, sir? W-We’d really appreciate it—”

“No thank you.”

Her jubilant expression falls into one of worry. “Please, wait.” Her voice drops low. “Sir, she really, really needs to talk to you. And this is the only way.”

“Who does?”

“I…” She glances around. “I can’t say it here. He has eyes everywhere.” The Twi’lek pleads with her eyes. After dropping the act, Din has a hard time saying no to her. Something is strange and though he knows that he should move on and focus on his job, he caves.

“Fine,” he sighs. “This better be just a conversation.”

Instantly, the Twi’lek smiles. “Of course.” When she pulls his hand again, her voice is louder. “Oooh, we’ve got ourselves a lucky, lucky man!” Stars, he hopes that this is just a cover. If it’s not, then he’s leaving immediately.

She leads him into a den with lighting even worse than the theater. People around him wore exotic clothes, some bound in leather, other hidden behind feathered masks. The smell of drugs wafts through the air, accompanied by light chatter in the dark corners. They stare at him as the Twi’lek weaves him through the crowd towards the back where there are various rooms. Din hears screams and moans, he hears whips and slaps. What the hell has he gotten himself into?

He follows her up a few flights of stairs that are considerably quieter. Some of the doors are open, showing parlor rooms where patrons and escorts talk and flirt. Finally, in the back, she gestures for him to enter. Din gives her a lengthy pause before he steels himself and opens the door.

The room is small, having only a plush, purple love seat and a decorative chandelier above. There is someone there: a woman, but she isn’t dressed in the way he would expect the women here to dress. She wears a cloak over her shoulders and plain clothes of earthy tones underneath it, her hair tied back. The door closes behind him.

“You came!” she says. “Oh, thank the Stars. Please, sit.”

“I’ll stand.”

“O...kay.” She nods, taking a step back.

“Who are you?”

“Who… oh, you don’t recognize me?” She smiles at him. “We… well, we didn’t meet, but you saw me dance earlier.” Din’s brows lift. This was the dancer? When he looks further into her eyes, he recognizes them now without the makeup. He sees the rest of her face and his chest tightens. What a transformation between the sensual dancer — and amazing singer — he witnessed earlier and the humble woman that stands before him. She bows her head and tells him her name, just her given one. “I apologize for the choice of venue, but I had little options.” She crosses her arms and turns her head. “Kaslur has eyes and ears nearly everywhere.”

Din steps back towards the wall, leaning against it with one shoulder. “You don’t want to be seen talking to me?”

“He’s rather… possessive, let’s say.”

“Sounds like you need a new boyfriend.”

The dancer laughs. “Boyfriend? Is that what he told you?” She sighs. “Trust me when I say that I would rather have my throat slit than even kiss that man.” Her brows furrow together in disgust. “Why are you here on this awful planet, Mandalorian?”

He crosses his arms. “I could ask the same thing of you.”

She chuckles and takes a seat on the couch. “You could. But unfortunately, we only have so much time.”

Din purses his lips. “I’m going to do a job for Kaslur. In exchange, he’s going to give me the Razor Crest.”

“The Razor Crest? Oh, that old thing. I haven’t the faintest clue why you’d want it, but to his their own.” To Din, it’s extraordinary that her voice is melodic, even as she talks. At least he can confirm that there is a ship to begin with. “But in any case, that’s good. Great, even.” She stands and takes a step towards him. “And then I assume that you’d be planning to leave, correct?”

“I would.” Where is this going?

She stops in front of him, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. Biting on her bottom lip, she holds her hands and twiddles her fingers. “If that’s the case, then I… I must ask you of something. When you get the Razor Crest...” She drops her hands on his arms and he flinches, pushing himself off the wall. “Please.” The desperation from her voice gives him pause. The dancer squeezes his forearms and locks in on the darkness of his visor, as if she can see past the black and right into his dark eyes. “Kidnap me.”

[little-peril-stories]

Character Backstory Playlist Tag

I was tagged in this post by @mysticstarlightduck. Thanks for the tag!

Rules: Pick 5 songs you feel represent/inspired your OCs' backstories, or just otherwise fit their past's vibe/aesthetic. Choose as many or as few OCs as you want.

I'm leaving this an OPEN TAG - please play if you want, and let me know if you do! 💕

So I did once make a playlist for The Prince of Thieves (find it here), but it is a typical WIP playlist - not backstory-focused. (I *did* steal a few songs from there, though.) So this was a fun challenge!

Will and Jamie Wardrew

Tough to be a Dreamer by Felix Hagan & The Family

I built my castle on broken dreams, and as time goes by, I must admit it seems that I was sold a lie.

In the Meantime by Randall Kent

You’ve got a friend when times get mean; yeah, in the meantime, I’m on your team.

Same Suit, Different Tie by The Maine

All done up in my hand-me-down clothes, shaking off the dust and assuming a pose. Well, these threads are so old, but they'll never know. No one will ever know.

Is It Really You? by Loathe and Sleep Token

Face away, deal with the pain your own way.

Some Days by Brent Morgan

Some days I'm overwhelmed. Some days I'm lost inside this hell.

Bree Cooper / Breanna Hatchett

Sleepless Nights by Faber Drive

Put yourself in her position; all she needs is recognition. Love's not enough when you say it. Don't you know you gotta mean it?

Because of You by Kelly Clarkson

I will not make the same mistakes that you did; I will not let myself cause my heart so much misery… I was so young; you should have known better than to lean on me.

Running Away by Midnight Hour

I'll never let you find me; I'm leaving you behind with the past. No, I won't look back.

All I've Ever Known from Hadestown

I was alone so long, I didn't even know that I was lonely. Out in the cold so long, I didn't even know that I was cold.

(Un)Lost by The Maine

And you are not allowed to be anybody else. Control what you can and confront what you can't, and always remember how lucky you are to have yourself.

Colette Meunier

Boulangerie by Recent Rumours

She's gone, she's gone, she's gone; she's not coming back.

The Man by Taylor Swift

I'm so sick of running as fast as I can, wondering if I'd get there quicker if I was a man.

mars by YUNGBLOOD

She can't be herself when she's somebody else... Do you feel like you're irrelevant?

Perfect by Simple Plan

Hey, Dad... Did I grow up according to plan? Now it's just too late, and we can't go back. I'm sorry I can't be perfect.

Safe by All Time Low

Gotta take your time, find your space.

Geoff Marks

3 Hours of White Noise

Bonus Songs

Jamie & Will: I Steal Everything from Twisted: The Untold Story of a Royal Vizier

Want food, but got no money? I’m screwed, or so it would seem… That’s why I came up with this brilliant scheme! Just steal everything!

Bree & Colette: What the Hell by Avril Lavigne

All my life I've been good, but now I'm thinking, "What the hell?"

Will: I Will Follow You Into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie

In Catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule, I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black, and I held my tongue as she told me, "Son, fear is the heart of love," so I never went back.

Will: Where Dreams Go to Die by The Downtown Fiction

Teacher thinks you're rude, says, "I don't like your attitude." Well, maybe you're just condescending. But bring us up to follow rules and throw us all in cubic rooms - but we're not gonna sit by idle.

Breanna H: According to You by Orianthi

According to you, I'm stupid, I'm useless, I can't do anything right

Me begging my sisters for song recs because I had NO CLUE…

[jay-aro]

For ask game: 8 and 12

8. what are some of your favorite arospec characters? this can include characters from popular media or OCs.

ooo i wanna spotlight isaac and twitch from val and isaac!!! val and isaac is an awesome webcomic that i like to describe as "a slice of life comic about badass space mercinaries." if you like gay people, sci-fi, really good characters, and laughing, i highly recommend you check it out!

isaac (as you may have guessed from the comic's title) is one of the main characters, and twitch is his friend from wizard school that was introduced a few years into the comic. they are both aroace, and it doesn't come up too often, but there are a good amount of comics that involve their aspec identities! (my favorite instance of that was the backstory comic that showed how they became friends, i was pleasantly surprised to see that the plot did involve them being aroace!)

anyways i absolutely love this comic from the 2021 valentine's day post

source

isaac was confirmed as aroace in 2019, from this comic! (from the post's tags: "#isaac is aroace") (though there's a handful of previous comics with him that give off aroace vibes imo)

source

anyways read val and isaac, it's sooo good!!! it's really cool to casually see aroace characters, and there's a lot of other queerness- queer romance, Trans Icon Space Dread, etc

to read all the comics in order, you can use this link to go through the tag in chronological order (note: i don't think this works on moble app): https://tredlocity.tumblr.com/tagged/val%20and%20isaac/chrono, or go on the desktop site (on mobile browser: change page to desktop site) of https://val-and-isaac.tumblr.com/, and use its theme to navigate the comics

you can also just ping pong around random comics lmao (but there are a good deal of multi comic arcs)

12. are you romance favorable, positive, neutral, or repulsed? or is your relationship to romance more complex/complicated than these terms can fully explain?

i'd say neutral/indifferent. i do enjoy a good amount of romance in media (though my tolerance for forced and unnecessary straight romance is NEGATIVE), though i'm also just a big fan of delving into character relations in general- it really frustrates me how romantic relationships keep getting all the focus.

and for other people in real life, seeing them engage in romance/romantic gestures doesn't bother me (tbf i also engage in a good amount of traditionally romantic gestures with my qpps)

but romance for myself? yeah, no.

.....though that begs the questions of "what is romance?", "is there a meaningful difference between these actions one does in a platonic context vs those same actions in a romantic context?", "where is the line drawn, what is the line, does it exist at all?". and y'know what? idk! and i don't exactly need to know. all i know is that friendship is extremely important to me, and i really care about my friends and qpps, and i will be affectionate with them in ways that everyone involved is comfortable with. and that's enough for me!

arospec ask game

[tresradiossolis]

✨Shipping✨

I love shipping. I wanted to just jot down some quick things that might be useful to know when writing with me and shipping ever enters your mind.

[I'll be talking about romantic shipping here, I love platonic stuff and pm Anything goes there you can absolutely do platonic stuff with me go nuts.]

I do not ship robots with humans, it just ain't my thing. My human AUs are Very present on this blog though, so things can always be arranged...

I am multiship! ANYBODY can ship with me, I'm not exclusive with anybody. You got a multimuse and you wanna ship 2 characters with the same muse? We'll AU that shit no sweat!

I do not do polyam-ships with more than 1 blog, not because I have an issue with it, but I've just had a bit too many bad experiences where the communication between muns was poor and people ended up feeling left out, myself included.

ALL my muses are shippable, as all my muses are of age or. yknow. robots. I am however slightly hesitant to ship bot!Elio with just Anybody, as while she is a bot, yes, she is very childlike and vulnerable, and if you're going to ship with sol, I'd prefer a... Size-similarity, as well as Very good communication with the other bot he'd be shipped with. Don't be creepy or weird, please.

Bot!Asterope is Very flirty, and will most likely flirt with your bots a Lot. This is NOT me consenting to a ship, nor is it me Pressuring you to ship with me. Asterope is just Like That, he is very lonely, and Fazbear Entertainment has crammed him full of knowledge of various plays, dramas and musicals. If you've seen Wall-E, you know what this does to a robot.

Human!Sunny is gay. Self-explanatory, you wanna kissu you gotta be a boy.

I am open to suggestive roleplays, but I don't think I'll end up writing anything explicit on here. Not because I want to keep this kid-friendly, considering putting up an "18+" on the blog honestly... But 1: Most other blogs don't seem to be down with it and that's okay, I don't want them to feel like they have to dodge my threads, 2: I am not always in the mood honestly, I am ace and my desire to write smut is very up and down tbh, and 3: I have performance anxiety LMFAO, and tbh it might take a good while before I even feel comfortable writing it unless we Really vibe. I don't need all of Tumblr to see my stuff... But yeah I'm down for suggestive stuff, just DM me or get my discord for more-

I love toxic shit. We are all adults (if I put up that 18+ thing-) and we understand the difference between reality and fiction. If you wanna write dark or unhealthy relationships with me, then that's totally fine. We might just have to arrange a few tags to make sure everyone on dash feel safe.

Get my consent. Pretty self-explanatory. Don't push a ship onto me without making sure I'm open to it, and don't keep going when I'm telling you you're going too far. Just... Practise respect.

I do not see my Suns as related to any other Daycare Attendant. First of all, they are robots, and if they meet anybody Else, I consider them having been made Separately. The trio is like a little family (which is why I don't want to ship 2-3 of them with the same person in the same universe). Don't assume relationships with them, they've been through their own lives and have their own relationships. Also don't assume that if I ship with a Daycare Attendant that there's some kind of familial relation between them, because there isn't. I will adjust universes for our interactions, placing them in different pizzerias/plexes if needed, we'll figure it out together.

The human!Suns are not related to your human!Daycare Attendant, unless we Really vibe with that angle and we've plotted it out extensively. Aster, Sunny and Elio are stand-alone characters with their own lives and backstories, just like their bot-versions.

With all that said, come at me let's write a romance <3

[oh-three]

2, 11, 20, 32, 35, 58, 65, 81, 94, 96

2. talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “fuck your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.”

Hah, okay, this one is actually fairly recent. Spoilers for later in the Cobb Vanth fic:

In the end, it takes Zart raising his voice over the crowd and turning to Cobb- the stranger he had so graciously offered his trust to- to silence his people. And Cobb sees again the respect they hold of him, the confidence, the side of the boy that’s so alike himself. He’s not sure that he’s ever been so proud of someone in the moment that the kid volunteers himself to have his chip removed first. His heart swells, and Cobb wonders if this is how a father feels when his son becomes a man.

Yeah, about that post about Cobb adopting half the galaxy...this literally came out of nowhere lol. Came up with that last line and went fuck, now I have to have Zart go with him.

11. what’s something neat you’ve learned while doing research for something you were writing? also, how much do you worry about doing research in general?

I only really do research about topics I've not really invested time into researching before, or when I have a very pressing question that needs to get answered to help my story move forward. I have a whole document dedicated to slavery research for a PotC fic I wrote a couple of years ago.

A lifetime of labor began as early as age four (life expectancy= 36)

20. what is your favorite trope to write?

Tragic backstory, no contest. Just look at Quizzy and Cobb Vanth.

32. do characters influence your writing style?

Sometimes. I usually end up picking up the MC's character voice and accidentally writing even the non-dialogue stuff like it's something they'd say. Oops? (Ex: Silence is A Lonely Country, and the Cobb Vanth series)

35. tell us about a character who’s very different than you who you love a whole lot

Quizzy. Lmao. I love him, but holy shit. Some of the things he does 😂

58. what is the last thing that a fic made you google when you were writing it?

does weight loss change your voice

No comment

65. what is your favourite title for a fic you’ve written?

The Impossible Question™

Hearts Bound In Gold is a favorite. It's meant to symbolize the innocence of the younger generation in the Jedi Temple, echoing the fic's theme of why the Guards are so strongly bound to their duty. But it can also be seen as a window into the perspective of a Guard, of seeing how they think while on-duty. Either way, I love the dual symbolism with it.

81. if you could go back in time and give your younger self a piece of writing advice specific to you, what would it be?

Younger me was...not the best at characterization. And I also kept writing characters I knew nothing about. So...? I'd tell that younger me to do my research and to rewatch lots of source material. But yeah, I've come a long way.

94. do you prefer dialogue or description?

I love writing both, but if it came down to it and I could only write one in a fic? I'd definitely choose description over dialogue. Because it's not that difficult to sum up a conversation without dialogue, and I have a pet-peeve for lines without dialogue tags. I'd lose my mind if I wrote a dialogue-only fic.

96. romantic/social sideplots: interesting or irritating?

It just depends on what mood I'm in and why I clicked on a fic. If I'm enjoying it enough, I'll be able to put aside the irritation toward a romantic sideplot and come to even respect it. But I'll confess that I have given up on fics for unexpected romantic sideplots.

[captainseamech]

[4, 8, and 9?]

Questions for muns

8. do you expect your answered memes/asks to be turned into threads? regardless of answer, what’s your reasoning?

In my opinion I think it depends on what kind of meme/ask. But in general, I don't expect much about most of the time because well... either I just end up writing a drabble whenever it's a prompt/starter or, in case someone turns the ask into a thread, I don't feel like going further with that topic. Again, it depends of my muse and my inspiration at the time, but most of the time I keep my expectations low.

9. when you look at a new blog, what is it that makes you press the follow button? is it the muse, the aesthetics, the writing–?

Being honest with you, I'm what people calls 'your friendly neighbor' so I try to go and support as many new rpers as I see and can! Of course I do look at things like rules page, about character and if the person tags their posts accordingly. But yeah if I see a possible interaction with our muses in general, I gently slap that follow button and even offer some help if they need!

//okay so... I replied to these out of order because question number 4 accidentally turned into a ramble of mine, which is of course under cut. There's a very small f.naf mention in the first paragraph but you can safely skip to the second one if so desired.

———————

4. which muse of yours is your all time favorite? if you stopped writing them: why?

Well I mean, I have quite a good variety of muses (not counting with my deadass multi) but in general, I love all of my babies equally! But I do have a certain muse that I had some fun for a while which is M.onty from F.naf, I sadly stopped writing him because the fandom kind of... killed him for me because they kept calling the character a villain etc etc (which is just because of a stupid theory curse you MatPat) and... yeah.

But to keep myself within the fandom of this blog, High Tide has been my very first muse for years now. I love that we kind of grow together and I learned to write more about him occasionally, but his muse is... kind of quiet all of a sudden. I mean sure it happened before and that led me to dip from the internet for like, 2 years. Sure it can happen again but I have to say that I have a small concern that his muse goes radio silent again all of a sudden because I do want to write him with my mutuals, being them old or new, but my scaredy ahh keeps making me think that I intervene or ask for too much attention. Not to mention the fact that people constantly annoying my mutuals because of my 'main ship' (even though I declared myself multi-ship) saying that he'd probably steal a different ship's partner is just... yeah. Demotivating not gonna lie.

Not to mention that I feel like my headcanons are unintentionally forcing people to follow that part of what imagined of his canon (like saying that he was friends with TFP Megatronus in his Gladiator era for example) and this... sort of counts as god-modding for me and I honestly don't want people to feel forced to follow my canon. That's why I mostly do silly headcanons regarding his actions or his daily routine instead of going too deep with his backstory because I have this sense that a secondary/background character shouldn't have that much lore in a single rp blog. I rarely bring his lore up for the reasons mentioned before sooo yeah I think that's why I stopped writing him that often, even though I love him dearly and I'd do anything for him...

And I also feel like I make him way overpowered strength wise, another reason why I never brought the topic about his full strength up in public. Anons are probably just waiting for me to make an 'OP move' with him to start their ramblings or saying that I'm unfair. That's why I almost never do fighting threads, I know that I may or may not have done High Tide extremely strong and I don't want people to come here and say that I'm buffing him up. Not to mention the rare instances of me mentioning his gladiator arc and almost immediately regretting bringing this up.

I feel like he's slooooowly going inactive again, but that's part of life I guess. If he does go inactive, I may try to go absolutely radio silent about his past and even discard the headcanons about him being a gladiator, his strength and all and just keep the trauma of having to lose his partners since they're somewhat close to canon giving the nature of the whole franchise.

[bigmouthlass]

Title:  Finding The Groove

Series: Holler Me Home, part 6

Author:  BJ

Fandom:  Supernatural

Rating:  Mature

Pairing:  Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: A case gone strange . . . stranger than usual, and Alpha Dean and Omega You learn some difficult things about each other in the process.

Tags:  Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, AU, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Arthur Ketch, OMC, OFC, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha Arthur Ketch, Beta OMC, Beta OFC, Torture, Hallucinations, Drug Use, Backstory

AN:  DOPE is Data On Previous Engagements. Apologies to Ohio State fans; this You is a Michigander to her fingernails and there are certain requirements. Cheer for the Lions no matter how much it hurts, talk smack about out-of-state drivers, and loathe the Ohio State Buckeyes with every fiber of your being.  All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

You take a deep breath in and let it out, slowly.  Smooth and still, those are the name of the game.  Windage nil, temperature 7.2 degrees Centigrade, stationary target, you're lying in the prone position with your TAC 50 socked into your shoulder.  A voice recorder sits on the ground next to your DOPE book.  "Test firing custom-tooled silver rounds, 500 meters."

The rifle kicks into your shoulder, one-two-three.  Three holes appear in the target.  You shake your head.  "Shitty grouping."

"Better than mine," Dean notes.  He's seated Indian style next to you, examining the target through a set of binoculars.

"That's because all your engagements happen at pistol distance," you say.  "You and Sam need to make it to the rifle range more often."

You uncap a pen with your teeth and record the shots.  Out comes the magazine.  Dean hands you another one, loaded with standard copper-jacketed ammunition.  "Yeah, freezing my balls off in a snowbank-- good times."

"I can say from firsthand observation," you say, stretching back into position, "your balls will be fine.  Control firing standard rounds, 500 meters."

These shots are better.  Not great, but better.  You sigh.  "Still need more practice."

"What're you kidding?  You're a fucking surgeon with that thing," Dean says.

"How well and sincerely you lie," you say.  "And we're still not sure if angel blade bullets would even work.  Cas said they were disabling and hurt like hell but it didn't kill him."

"Hey, I'll take hurt like hell," Dean says.

"True, it's an improvement," you say, "but the only source of the material is angel blades.  I know we got half a dozen kicking around the bunker, but melting them down into bullets would be a waste of the material unless we could get kill shots.  And the only way to get good experimental data on whether or not they'd work for that is in the field.  Firing standard rounds, 500 meters."  Three more shots, about the same grouping.  "Shit."

"I'd be fine with that," Dean says.  "You're a dead shot."

"Friendly fire casualties happen Dean."  You write down the data on the shots with standard match-quality rounds.  "I'm not willing to risk hurting your or Sam.  Or Cas, neither.  Especially if I'm using the Big Bad Motherfucker."

"Point taken."  The Big Bad Motherfucker is your Barrett .50 caliber anti-material rifle.  It's designed for use on armored targets.  You'll admit, a big part of you wants to machine some .50 bullets out of angel blade metal and see the results.

"If we could get our hands on a reliable source of angel blade metal," you muse out loud, "I'd love to make some frag grenades out of the stuff.”

"Grenade launcher with angel grenades," Dean picks up your idea and runs with it.  "Awesome."

"The fun of being our own weaponeers.  One of the reasons we have the best job ever," you smile.  "Standard ammunition, 500 yards."  One-two-three.  This grouping's better.

---

Dean's quiet as you head back to the RV.  He settles into the navigator's seat, cupping his hands around the Is There Life Before Coffee? mug you got him for Christmas.  “What’s on your mind, Winchester?”

“Oh I don’t know,” he says.  He lifts a hand and makes a fist.  “My hands ache.”

“Dude, you’ve broken your fingers how many times?” you ask.  “My hands hurt in cold weather too.  Getting old sucks.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment.  “You really think we got the best job ever?”

“It has its upsides,” you shrug.

“Yeah but . . .” Dean hands you your keys and you start the RV.  “You don’t ever wish you could do something else?”

“What, be normal?  No.”  Carefully you guide the RV out of the parking lot and up onto some two-lane blacktop.

“Normal isn’t so bad.  Hell I lived normal for most of a year.”

“Way I heard it,” you say, “you spent most of that year up to your eyebrows in lore trying to figure out a way to jailbreak the Cage.  And I bet you weren’t exactly sober for most of it.”

“Yeah, maybe I should’ve appreciated it better.  Instead my best friend’s a fallen angel who likes Cookie Crunch cereal and my girlfriend’s a bigger badass than me.”

“And that’s bad?” you ask.  “Dean, ‘normal’ for most Omegas is living paycheck to paycheck with a dozen pups trying to make not enough money and not enough love stretch to cover everything.  And being normal wouldn’t magically protect us from anything.”  You shrug.  “Maybe I’m the wrong person to ask.  I wanted to be a goddamned Marine.”  Replaying Dean’s last sentence, you say, “You really think I’m a bigger badass than you?”

“Well yeah,” Dean smiles.   “You picked the life, and you’re good at it.  Really good.”

“Aw, you’re making me blush,” you smile back.  “And I didn’t pick the life, exactly.  I just kind of lucked into it.  I’ve been lucky too-- the bad guys haven’t considered me enough of a bother to go after my folks.”  You think of the last letter you got from Janey, gushing with news of your nieces.  “I don’t know what I’d do if that happened.”

That's a lie.  You do know.  God willing, Dean never will.

---

“Hey.  How’d the test firing go?” Sam asks as you and Dean clamber down the curved bunker stars.

“’Hi Sam, did you miss us?’  ‘Yes, absolutely, the bunker’s been so empty without you,’” you move into Sam’s arms and lay your head on his chest, fluttering your eyelashes up at him.

Sam rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, uh . . . got something that might be a case."  He turns and your attention falls to his open laptop.  "Mickey Albrecht, died a couple days ago, but get this-- he was found with a puncture wound behind his left ear and his brain was quote-unquote ‘raisined into a mass the size of a wadded-up Kleenex.’”

"That's . . . descriptive,” Dean notes.

“Sounds like a wraith   Shriveled brain,” you say.

“Yeah,” Dean says.  He makes a face.  “Just got home too.”

“Let me go get my other duffel, I haven’t had a chance to do laundry,” you say.

“Sure.  Roll out in twenty,” Dean says.

“Ten-four.”  You’re halfway down the hall, the boys trailing you on the way to their rooms, when your phone starts droning the theme from M*A*S*H.  “Shit.”

About ninety seconds later, you disconnect and look up into two worried faces.  “I’m sorry guys, I gotta be in Columbus tomorrow afternoon.  Looks like you two’re a duet on this one.”

“Shit.  That was the doctor’s office again wasn’t it?” Dean asks.

“Yeah.  And I’ve already rescheduled twice.”  At Sam’s blank look you explain about the study, and about how the clause in your contract with them was your ace-in-the-hole in case of emergency.  “It’s why I’m so careful about not getting picked up by the cops-- the college agreed to pay all my medical expenses, which includes shit like getting my ass beat by poltergeists.”

“How do you explain all those injuries?” Sam asks.

“Car wrecks, muggings, stray dog packs.  The truth, very occasionally.  There’s only so many times ER docs working the night shift can hear the same stories about animal attacks before they start putting things together.  It’s practically an open secret in Miami-Dade Medical Center and in New Orleans.  Vamps and ghouls love swamp country.”

“Yeah,” Dean says.  He smiles.  “Even thought about homebasing there for a while.  There’s plenty of work, good food, friendly women--"

That gets him a smack upside the head.

---

You park your “borrowed” Honda in the garage next to the generic office cube in downtown Columbus, feeling the usual prickly dread down in your belly.  A look at the snow-silver clouds and you sigh.  God you hate Columbus.  On top of everything else, a Michigander should not be anywhere near the heartland of the fucking Buckeyes.  Your aunt, rest in peace wrapped in her U of M flag, must be turning in her grave.  You hit the button for the eighth floor without even looking.  With the clinical trial reduced to collecting follow-up information, what once took two floors now takes a wing, secured behind a door labeled SECONDARY SEX RESEARCH CLINIC.

The psychologist grad student who usually gets stuck working reception's not at the desk.  "Long time no see," sneers Scott, the Omega RN they have on staff for male Omega patients.  He loathes you, and he isn't discreet about it either.

You cuss to yourself.  "Hi Scott.  Where's Shelley?"

"She graduated.  Care to explain why you rescheduled your appointment twice?"

"Not to you I don't."  Not to anybody you don't, you think.  You're pretty sure that at the time of your last appointment, you were in a bathtub with Dean doing things that did not involve washing.  Things that, come to think of it, made the whole bathing part of bathing rather moot.  God knows Dean’s language had been filthy.

Your mind skips back to Dean’s remarks about a normal life.  You know he didn't mean it that way, but you can’t help but feel a little . . . cheap.  Dean’s little black book’s about the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica and you are, by far, not the most attractive entry.  A disproportionally hot boyfriend; it’s enough to make a girl feel a little insecure.  Like he wanted the cute -- what had she been, a fitness instructor? -- and the little boy and the beautiful house and the career with benefits.  Instead he got the job and the Apocalypses (Apocali?  Apocalypti?) and living with his kid brother and the world's worst Omega who could pass for a dude in dim lighting--

A rap of a knuckle on drywall breaks you out of your woolgathering.  “Hey!”  Scott snaps the clasp on the clipboard.  “If you’re done daydreaming some of us work for a living.”

“Yeah, sorry.”  You pull your worn ID card from your pocket and wave it over the door sensor.  The lock on the inner door buzzes and you go through to the nurse's station, hanging up your jacket and stepping on the scale.

---

Dr. Jon -- the MD in charge of the study, a tall fellow with sleepy eyes and hair that's shading from iron to salt'n'pepper -- shuts the exam room door behind him, greeting you with a smile.  But before you can get out much more than hello, he comes in close.  "Holy moley.  Has it finally happened?"

"Huh?"

He takes a sniff and you do your best to relax.  Dr. Jon's a Beta and his faint scent is neutral.  Everybody's born with pheromone glands and scenting organs.  Alpha and Omega scenting organs keep growing and developing throughout your lives.  Beta organs don't.  Their scenting abilities disappear when they're kids and the organs themselves go dormant after adolescence.  For some reason Dr. Jon's scenting ability developed instead of fading away.  His nose is more sensitive than yours.

He grins, singsonging, "I smell Alpha on you."  Your face gets hot and you avoid Dr. Jon's gaze.  "Happy Alpha too," he adds, huffing through his nose.  "But--" his fingertips pull the neckline of your exam gown to the side, revealing your unmarked neck.

"We just haven't gotten around to it," you try to brush off.

"Kiddo," Dr. Jon says, sitting on his rolly-stool and flipping back the cover on your chart, "there are three people in life you never lie to--"

"Your preacher, your lawyer, and your doctor," you finish the line with him.

"Right.  So don't keep me in suspense.  Who's the lucky Alpha?  Wait-- is that why you kept rescheduling?"

You sigh.  Guilty as charged.

"You know I'm not in the judgement business.  Neither is anyone else here.  And we need your follow-ups."

"Why?  The drugs didn't get past approval," you snap.

"We didn't think it would," Dr. Jon says, exasperated.  "There's another compound starting trials next year.  That's how science works.  I explained that to you at the first interview.  Now quit trying to change the subject."

"Was there a subject?"

"Knock it off.  According to this," he does that speed-reading thing, "since you met Mister and/or Miss Right, your cycle's settled down and is behaving more or less normally.  That's not just good news.  That's significant data.  Whoever they are, you're very compatible."

"Dean says we're true mates," you say, and wish you hadn't.

"I'd have to see the two of you together before I have an opinion on that," Dr. Jon says.  "Don't suppose he'd consent to--"

"No!"  Dr. Jon raises an eyebrow at you but you clam up.  He's entitled to know a lot about you -- not even Dean knows your body that intimately -- but telling him about Dean would mean opening up about Hunting, and Dr. Jon's also entitled to his illusion of safety.

Sighing, he sets your chart aside and pushes the call button for Kanika.  You turn to lay flat on the table, and even after all this time you still flinch when you hear Dr. Jon slide out the stirrups.

---

Dr. Jon meets you at the checkout desk.  "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

The fact that you struggle to say no to male authority figures who show you even a scrap of affection is a weakness you should probably meditate on someday.  For now you follow Dr. Jon past the exam rooms and into a dark cave of an office.  You nod at the mahogany and leather decor, noting Dr. Jon's forgone the Ego Wall in favor of landscape paintings.  There's a portrait of his wife in a brilliant blue sari hung on one wall, a garland of flowers in her dark hair.  Small and cozy, not what one might expect from one of the leading experts on secondary sex presentation.

Dr. Jon sits behind his desk, waving you to one of the chairs.  Through your apology for the reschedules he just looks at you, his expression unreadable.  You sigh.  "What did you want to talk to me about?  I'd kinda like to get started on my usual post-pelvic blackout."

"I took a minute and pulled your old charts," he says, pointing to a stack of boxes on the credenza behind him.  "Since your first exam, you've presented with--" he consults a pad, "broken arm twice, broken wrist once, broken leg three times, bruised and/or cracked ribs six times, concussion once, broken fingers four times, scars that look an awful lot like leftovers from animal attacks, and three gunshot wounds you won't admit to."

"What's your point?" you ask a bit coldly, tamping down hard on a wave of terror in your belly.

"Just data," he says.  "Spread out over twelve years.  Now if you were a basketball player, I'd expect you to present with sprained fingers and wrists on a regular basis.  If you ran I'd expect bone spurs, if you were a cook I'd expect cuts and burns.  But all these injuries don't add up to anything.  Nobody's this accident-prone, kiddo."

"Still not seeing a point."

Dr. Jon just looks at you for a minute.  "What's with the tattoo?  That's new."

"Oh, um--" shit, you don't have a cover story prepped for this, the anti-possession stamp over your hip.  "It's Wiccan.  Luck charm."

"Uh-huh.  Nice Methodist girl meets an Alpha and suddenly she's skipping appointments and getting inked with pagan charms?  It’s fresh, too.  Maybe a few weeks old.”

You spread your hands.  "What do you want me to say?  I've already apologized, like, twice."

"When I went through my pathology unit," Dr. Jon says, switching tacks, "the professor and I got to be good friends.  He passed away last year.  Lincoln Turner, good guy.  I ran into him one night at a bar when I was teaching an in-service in Boston."

"Bombed?"

"Blasted.  When I got him home he showed me something," he opens a desk drawer.  Your mouth drops open when he pulls out a long, shining, triangular-bladed--

"Jesus wept.  Where did he get this?" you demand, all the blood in your body pulling to your midsection.  Spots fly across your vision, for just a second you think you might faint.

"Said it was found with a body.  Stab wound through the third and fourth ribs on the right side of the spinal column matched the blade.  'Damndest thing,' he said to me, 'the body was burned from the inside out.'  Then he told me the ghost stories he liked to tell in class were real.  'How you tell a real M.E,' he said, 'is find where they keep their stake.'  Then he mumbled something about his dick brother being right all the time and passed out.  When he died most of his estate went to his kids, except this.  This he left to me.  But I'll be damned if I know what it is or what to do with it."

Your mind makes a connection and you blurt, "His brother's name wasn't Rufus was it?"

"I don't know-- I think so."  His eyes on you are sharp, but there's a pity there that makes you want to cry.  Or hit him.  Coin toss.  "That wasn't a pit bull that put all those bites on your right leg was it?"

Looking at the angel blade laid out across Dr. Jon's desk, you make a decision and shake your head.  "They're called Black Dogs.  Spirit hounds summoned for revenge."  You mime a claw swipe over your flank.  "Werewolf."  Tap your bicep.  "Harpy talons."  Point to your back.  "Ghoul bite."  Pat your thigh.  "Stained glass window.  The bruised ribs are from a ghost throwing me against a mausoleum wall a couple of weeks ago."

"Holy shit.  The pellet marks in your other leg?"

"Not pellets, rocksalt.  Peg was aiming for a poltergeist.  I dived the wrong way."

"A poltergeist," Dr. Jon echoes.  You can see it in his eyes, the scale tipping towards I Am Speaking To A Crazy Person.

You rack your brain a moment.  “You have access to the records if I get admitted to the hospital anywhere, correct?”

“Yeah . . .” Dr. Jon says.

You give the date, when you spent two weeks in a coma healing from a skull fracture.  “I was hunting a thing called a balan-balan-- it's a sickness monster that feeds on infants.  It," you hit yourself in the middle of the chest, "hit me hard enough to smack me into a set of metal shelves.  Cracked my sternum and my skull.  Lucky it happened in a hospital or," you cut yourself off.  "Remember at the time I told you it was a car accident?"

Dr. Jon doesn't say anything for a long moment.  "This is insane.  You know that, right?"

"Insanity doesn't leave scars.  Not like this."  You point behind your right ear, at the thin line of scar tissue lined with tiny holes, the remains of the surgery done to set your skull back together.�� "The shelf hit me right," you gently hit the side of your head with the blade of your hand, "here.  Still got the bitch thought.  No more crib death at that hospital."

"Holy shit."  Dr. Jon goes pale as his gaze goes inward.  "Saint Joseph Hospital in Denver.  There was this sudden rash of SIDS cases.  The CDC was about to send a team there to see if there was something like Legionnaire's disease going through the building.  But then the deaths just . . . stopped."  He stares.  "You're telling me that . . . Jesus Christ this is crazy."  He turns away from you.  "This totally fucks up my experimental data.  Undiagnosed paranoid delusions-- when's the last time you had a psych eval?  No wait, you probably lied through your teeth to get past the first one.  Do you have a family history of delusional disorders?  Shit-- you probably don't even know, you said your mother was adopted."

Dammit.  Judging by the thousand yard stare, your plan to clue Dr. Jon in as to the true nature of the world and your place in it has backfired.

Spectacularly.

---

"Ya think?"

You glare out at the thickening snowfall.  Winter wonderlands are a lot more fun when you're not stuck driving through them.  "He cornered me.  What was I supposed to do?"

"Gee I dunno-- lie?  Was lying an option?"

"For twelve straight years I've done nothing but lie to him.  Sooner or later he was bound to put everything together."  Thanks to occasional access to angel healing Dean and Sam don't look nearly as beat-up as they should.  On the outside at least.  "Look, it was a gamble and it busted.  It happens.  Now will you please get off my tits about it?"

"For the--  Maybe you forgot but it's not paranoia if everyone really is out to get you."

You shoot an apologetic smile at the security guard as you walk out of the building.  "You're not seriously still annoyed you and Sam haven't shown back up on Homeland Security's Want Your Ass List are you?  That's a good thing, Dean!"

"What're you talking about?  I'm not annoyed about that!”

"You totally are!  Sam--" you raise your voice, opening the Honda’s door and plonking yourself behind the wheel, "is he doing that flinch thing he does when he's lying?"

"I do not do a flinch thing when I'm lying!"

"Um . . ." bless Sam, he's trying to be tactful.

"So how did the case go?  Was I right about it being a wraith?" you ask over Dean's cussing.

"Yep," Sam confirms.  "Done and dusted-- he was hanging around this halfway house for recovering alcoholics.  Said he'd gotten a taste for wet brains."

"Bastard," you say.  "Meet you guys back at the bunker?"

"No no, sit tight, we're on our way to you.  There's a case in Buckeye Lake, just outside Columbus.  Three people dead, all missing body parts-- one of the bodies is missing eyes, heart and a bunch of muscle tissue, one's missing the kidneys, one's missing the liver and the pancreas . . ."

"How To Make A Monster, Baby?" you ask, a snatch of the Rob Zombie song curling through your memory.

"Seems that way.  We haven't been able to find anything in common between the victims.  Different genders, different ethnicities, different ages.  And if they were victims of opportunity we haven't been able to figure out what opportunity.  You got your laptop with you?"

"Yeah, shoot me what you got.  Meet me at a joint name of One Line Coffee."

---

Dean sets the coffee down in front of you and Sam.  "For the record I did not agree to this," he pokes at your mug, "free-trade guilt-free ten-times-the-price crap when we made that bet."

"Relax, kemo sabe, the bet expired."  You hand him a twenty.  "Keep the fucking change."

"All right, all right, don't get your panties in a bunch.  What're we looking at here?"

"Another body dropped," you say, turning your laptop so the boys can see.  "Tamikko Hoyt.  Missing most of her intestinal tract, from the duodenum on down.  Whoever this fucker is they don't mind getting dirty."

"Puts some weight behind the monster-making theory," Sam says.

"Yeah but the Stynes are history," Dean says.  His face goes tight with an expression you don't like.

"Doesn't mean there isn't anyone reading out of the same playbook," Sam says.

"Um . . ." you say, "this must be an adventure I missed.  Catch me up?"

"Yeah, sorry," Sam says, pulling your laptop around and spending several minutes accessing the Men of Letters online database.  "Couple years ago we tripped over the Styne family, aka,” he turns your laptop back around, “the Frankensteins."

"You are shitting me!" you exclaim, earning you some dirty looks from the cafe's other patrons.

"Wish we were," Dean says.  "Believe me."

“So the Mary Shelley book--”

“Lightly fictionalized,” Sam says.  “The Stynes were into hardcore body modification-- replacing worn out or damaged parts, engineering redundant organ systems."

“Yeah but they’re not the only ones.”  If anything, Dean’s face goes even grimmer.  “Remember that doctor guy who managed to come up with an immortality potion?”

You stare at the boys.  “Gee, suddenly my adventures with wendigos look downright fucking tame.  Anyway, if we’re thinking these Stynes are the players here--”

“They’re not.”  You don't like the look on Dean's face, and you like his tone even less.  “They’re all dead.”

---

"Bingo!"

"What?  What?" Sam asks, running a towel over his freshly showered hair.  You drew the short straw so you go last.  After your boyfriend drains the hot water like he always does.

“Okay, the vics have nothing in common, right?” you say.  “Except . . .” you can’t resist winding up a little, “all four bodies were sent to the same funeral home.  Rest In Glory Funeral Parlor.”

“Of course,” Sam says, his face lighting up.  “Perfect cover.  Nobody’s gonna notice or care if there’re some parts missing at the funeral.”

“And anything that’d be noticed, like the eyes?  I checked-- that body was cremated.”  Frowning, you think out loud, “It’s the perfect cover so why bother taking parts before the bodies make it to the funeral home?”

“Maybe whoever it is needs fresh,” Sam speculates.

You hesitate.  When it comes to Dean, the crawlers in his cans of worms tend to eat flesh.  “Sam what part of the Styne story are you guys not telling me?”

“It’s a long, and very ugly, story,” Sam says.

“And I am very patient, and have probably heard uglier,” you say, thinking of Peg’s war stories.  “Start with why Dean’s so sure the Stynes aren’t a threat.”

“Because they’re all dead,” Sam repeats.

“And you’re sure of that cuz . . .”

“Because I killed them all.”  Dean’s out of the shower, a towel tucked around his waist.  “That what you wanted to hear?  They killed somebody, somebody innocent.  Somebody good.  So I killed them all.”  He glares into your pale, shocked face.  “Twenty-nine in all, plus a kid who probably never hurt anybody.

“And you know what?”  Dean includes Sam in the glaring this time.  No compromises or pleas for understanding.  “I don’t regret it.  I’d do it again.”

With that, he grabs his duffel and vanishes back into the bathroom, slamming the door and making you jump halfway to orbit.

---

“Tell me again why I have to do this,” you bitch, kneeling outside the Employee entrance of the Rest In Glory Funeral Home.

“Because you’re fastest at picking locks,” Dean bitches back.

Having taken care of the security cameras, Sam tucks the can of spray paint back in his coat pocket.  The last tumbler clicks and you open the door.  “Gentlemen,” you wave them through.

Inside, the funeral parlor is cold.  Still, like a staging area for graves should be.  But with checkerboard tile on the floors and a pressed tin ceiling your mom would be really into.  You shake your head.  Not the time for woolgathering.

The three of you head downstairs.  “Let’s split up,” Sam says, clicking on a flashlight.  “I got the office.  You guys check the embalming room?”

You nod and head down the hall.  “Hey,” you say to Dean as you find the room with the long table and the canisters with pink fluid.  Pink like cotton candy or the pebbles of cheap chewing gum in bubblegum ice cream.  You paw through a rolling set of shelves and don’t find anything but spare needles and an airbrush set for makeup.

A grunt from Dean gets your attention.  He’s bent over a table.  “Check this out,” he says, pulling out a manila folder.  He opens it up on an anatomy class body outline, bits shaded in colored pencil.

“Hold your cards, folks, I think we have a Bingo here,” you say.  For a second you can smell cigarettes and industrial cleanser and dirty snow, see rows of silver and white heads bent over tables marking endless rows of numbered cards.  It’s so vivid it takes you aback.

You’re roused by Dean snapping your name.  “Sorry.  What’re we looking at?”

“A shopping list, looks like,” Dean replies.  He pages through the file and comes to a smudged list of body parts.

You take a closer look, and run a fingertip down the page.  The words smear under your skin.  “Who or whatever this thing is,” you say, “I’ll bet you a good steak dinner it’s a woman.  Or pretending to be one.”

“No bet.  That’s eyeliner pencil,” Dean says.  “This rules out ghoul.  They wouldn’t bother with paperwork.”

“Unless she’s a picky eater.”  Dean gives you a look.  “What?”

“Mortuary’d be like an all-you-can-eat buffet for ghouls,” Sam notes from the diner door.

“Yeah, but I doubt like hell we’re tracking a ghoul,” you say, turning aside to include Sam.  Because when it comes to the man you love you have to leave room for Sam.  “Find anything interesting in the manager’s office?”

“Yeah, I did,” Sam says.  “List of bodies, slated for cremation.”

“Cook ‘em well-done?  Philistine ghouls,” you say.

“Right?” Dean agrees.  “Rare’s the only way to eat.”

“Gross,” Sam says after a moment’s thought.  He shakes his head, like a horse tossing flies out of its mane.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks.

“Dunno,” Sam says, moving back to let the waitress whisk away the dirty dishes.  “My head just started hurting for some reason.”

“Yeah mine too,” Dean says, rubbing the bridge of his nose and yawning like his ears hurt.  “What about you?”  He puts an arm around your shoulders and kisses your temple.  “Your widdle head hurt?”

“Yeah a little,” you say.  “And don’t call me little.  I’m the big sister in this outfit.”

“Then how come you,” Sam asks, grinning like a brat, “got the kiddie placemat?”

You look down at the black-and-white line drawing on the table and pout.  “It’s not even a cool picture.  I wanted She-Ra.”

Dean pffts.  “Girl stuff.”

“Well yeah.  I know it can be kind of hard to tell but I am a girl.  You dick.”

“Well yeah, you’re definitely a girl.”  He kisses your neck.  “Generally,” he says against your ear, using that low voice that makes your hair stand on end, “I don’t want to kiss boys . . .” he kisses your ear, “all . . .” kisses your cheek, “over.”

“Get a room you guys,” Sam groans.

“Got one.  It’s on wheels,” you remind him.

“Very convenient,” Dean adds.  “Hey-- where’s the waitress?  Pie, it’s needed for the soul.”

“And the ass,” you add, pinching a nice handful of Dean’s posterior and laughing when he yelps.  “Pack up that placemat.  I wanna frame it when we get home.”

“Sure,” Sam says.

Something in the way he says it makes you take a double-take.  “Sam you okay?” you ask.

“Fine!  Peachy,” he says, smiling.  “’Cept for this headache.  Didja bring the crunchies Dean?”

“Aspirin,” Dean clarifies.  “Left ‘em in the car.  I’m sure the waitress will give you some if you ask her nice.”  Dean’s smile goes filthy.  “Might get lucky.  She smelled like an Omega.”

“She did?  I don’t-- you’re just scenting me," you say.

“Think I can’t pick your scent out of a lineup?” Dean asks.

“Shit, I can pick your scent out of a lineup,” Sam says.  “It’s a nice scent.”

“Thank you Mr. Winchester, you’re a gentleman and a scholar,” you beam up at him.

Then Sam goes down.

“Sam?” you ask, kneeling by his side.  His eyes have gone . . . strange.  Swimmy.  Glassy.  Like he’s feeling his first bong hit sinking into his brain, sinking, sinking.  You mull over the texture of the word in your head, sinking.

“Oh, shit,” you sigh.  Sam’s smiling up at the ceiling, blinking slow and catlike with his soft eyes.  Are they green or are they brown?  They’re blue sometimes, right?  Taking Sam’s arm you help him up.  He comes willingly, thank God, nobody and nothing moves a Sam doesn’t wanna be moved.  “Dean?”

You turn your head and Dean’s there, but the colors have gone pop-funky, like someone flooded your vision with white light then repainted Dean’s face like he’s shattering the spectrum; cyan background, marigold skin, flecks and tracings of magenta around his eyes and his mouth.  He’d look unbearably sexy in makeup, some shine on that pillow-soft lower lip, a hint of dark green to make those olive eyes sparkle.  Like stars.  “Put stars in your eyes,” you sigh.

“Stars!” Sam exclaims.  “Stars!  We gotta find the stars!  Before they go away!”

“Yeah!”  Sam hangs an arm across your shoulders and you wrap an arm around Dean’s waist.  It’s a nice waist and he shouldn’t feel self-conscious about his soft tummy.  “Like your soft tummy,” you tell Dean as you shut your eyes against the pop-funky light and drag your boys up the diner stairs.  Why aren’t you falling?  Of course, diners don’t have stairs.

“I don’t like my soft tummy,” Dean pouts.  You can tell he’s pouting, he’s not good at lies last more than ten minutes.

“Soft tummy,” you fondle his stomach, “hard knot,” Dean squeaks like a baby kitten as you cup him through his jeans.

“You’re gross,” Sam tells you.

“Not that I think yours is bad,” you hasten to reassure him.  “I mean, I’ve never seen it because gross.”

“Both gross,” Dean tells you.  “You fart in your sleep.”

“I do not!” you and Sam yell together.

“Do too.  SBD, Silent But Deadly.”

Somehow you’re outside, in the cold Columbus night and brittle frozen-over snow.  Sam puts a foot wrong and stumbles.  The three of you go down in a heap of legs and elbows.  It feels nice to be near though, so once you sort out whose bends belong to which people, the three of you stay there.

Dean’s behind you, bracketing your body with his thick legs.  Your head rests just below his heart, you can feel it stamping one-two.  Sam’s behind Dean, bracketing you both with his endless long legs.  Like Indians in a canoe but that’s a relic from your Let’s Do The Time Warp Again school days.  How’d you get outside?  Is there a ghost nearby, is that why your breath’s steaming?  “Need to check EMF,” you say.

“Nah,” Sam says.  “We found the stars, we’re safe.  See?” he points up.  “Orion the Hunter.  He caught the case.  We’re fine.”

“Frog’s hair,” Dean agrees.  He rubs a hand over your head, kisses the soft brush of growth.  “You’re not a frog are you?”

The light’s back to normal.  Better than normal.  You can see which stars are for-real stars, which ones are planets, which ones are the uncaring eyes of the architects of the cosmos.  Those are the prettiest.  “Ribbit.”

“I am in love with an amphibian,” he says, drawing out the sounds like he’s handling fragile things, like eggs, “and I’m okay with that.”  Pause.  “That’d make me the Bandit.  You can be Snowman, Sammy.”  Dean chuckles.  “Snowman Sammy.”

“You’d have to give up the Impala,” Sam points out.

“Survey says Hey-ell no,” you proclaim.  “’Sides, post-74 Trans Ams were crap.”

“How do you know?” Sam asks, a little obnoxiously.

“Double-nickel speed limits?” Dean says.  “Death of the great American muscle cars?  God Sam have I taught you nothing?”

“You taught me everything,” Sam says, his tone suddenly all quiet and subdued.  “Most of what I know about being a man’s because of you.”

Your eyes fill.  He’s so sincere, he really means it for true.  “You know how lucky you guys are?” you ask.

Sam’s voice when he speaks to you cuts like winter cold.  “How do you figure that?”

“My sisters closed me out.  Like popping a zit.”  You sniffle.  “That’s me, the family zit.  Little Clearasil and it’s like I was never there.”

“Fuck ‘em.  They ain’t family if they act like that, just a bunch of assholes with the same last name,” Dean says.

“They’re still kin,” you tell them quietly.  “I still miss them.  How fucked up is that?  My dad was ready to throw my life out onto Mom’s Peace roses and chase me off with a shotgun--”

“Jesus!”  They’re doing that thing again, when their brains find the same groove.

“People go their whole lives,” you say, seeing the starscape above you shape itself around your imaginings, “looking for a groove to share.  Like a river.  And you guys do it so naturally you don’t even notice you’re doing it.”  You point up and draw a line through the swirling stars.  “See?  That’s you guys, walking your groove.  Dean’s in front because you’re a quicker shot, there’s Sam one step back and a little to the left so’s he can cover your off-hand and shoot past you cuz he’s got a better vantage point.”

Dean puts his hand over yours and points at a spot between and to the side of his and Sam’s stars.  “What about that spot right there?  Someone to cover our asses.  Crack shot, quick reflexes.”

“Isn’t that where Mary goes?”

“Mom doesn’t need us,” Dean says.  “She needs her space.”  The stars scatter, leaving an empty midnight purple void.  “Spent her life running from the . . . life, except when she’s leaving the country to go play footsie with werewolves.”

You turn over to lay on your front, settling your head over Dean’s heart.  Without the stars, the tears leaking from his eyes are dark purple.  These two guys, always finding new and creative ways to break your heart.

“I mean,” Dean says, “she keeps saying she’s sorry, but what’s she sorry for?  Making the deal?  Or us?”

“Dean no, it’s not like that.  It can’t be like that,” Sam says, and you don’t know how but he’s become a big little boy.  Are the bad guys real Daddy?  That’s what I’m here for kittycat, I get the bad guys.

“Sam’s right,” you say.  Sam has to be right.  If he’s wrong, Dean will break.  Finally and forever.  His stars will go away.  “Just because she’s having a hard time doesn’t mean she repents anything.  And some people have to handle their hard times alone.”

“I can help.  I have to help.  The bad guys get us if I don’t help.  Like when you left us for school.”

“Huh?”  Sam’s even littler now.  You could almost pick him up and carry him.  You wish you could but your legs have died.  Any life in your body, you’re getting from Dean.

“That one time I tried to call, you asked why I didn’t just ditch Dad.  It’s cuz if I had Dad would’ve just disappeared.  We were the only reason he held it together long as he did.”

“That was holding it together?”  Sam’s back to grown now and it’s a little bit of a relief, maybe Sam can give Dean what you’re pulling out of him.  Like a lizard on a hot rock.

“Compared to eating a shotgun it was.”

Sam takes a minute to digest that, to chew it 32 times and swallow.  The things he likes to eat, the crunching sets your teeth on edge sometimes.  Like bone on gravel, that scar aches.   “I didn’t know it was that bad,” he finally says.

“Well you wouldn’t have.”  Dean’s crying in earnest, the sobs are being born right under your ear, from where his heart drips blood.  Your Alpha is always dripping blood.  The ground is red where he lies.  “You were happy-- you didn’t need me.  You never have.”

“I wasn’t,” Sam says.  Sam’s hands cross over Dean’s chest.  You shift your head to give him room.  “I kept looking for you and you kept not being there.  I kept getting mad at my study partner because she never mixed up the verbs just to make me laugh.  I barely slept the whole time I was waiting for the dorms to open, because you weren’t snoring in my ear.  I missed you, man, and when you called all you could talk about was Dad.”

“Dad needed me.  Except he didn’t, not really.  While I was practically losing my mind he was taking his other son out to fucking ballgames and going fucking fishing.”

“Jesus Christ,” you say, your head full of the smell of peaches.  “You guys normally get this maudlin when you get fucked up?”

“Are we fucked up?” Sam asks.  “I mean, I don’t get fucked up very much.  Having Lucifer try to kill me with insomnia doesn’t count.  I think.  I dunno.”

“There was that one time-- the wraith? the one that got all handsy with the huevos?” Dean says.

“Shit,” you say.  “Gotta go kill it.”  You roll yourself up to a sit, slowly, as the planet wobbles under you.  “Nobody gets to play with those but me.”

“Already nailed,” Dean tells you, pulling you back down where he’s warm.  “You should’ve been there.  Sam got so loaded he was swatting butterflies.”

“That’s mean, Sam.  Butterflies’re just looking for toast to butter.”

“Not my fault,” Sam says.  “It was Dean’s job to get the jellyworms.”

The mental image of winged butter and wiggly peach jelly makes you queasy.  “You don’t get to make breakfast anymore.  Bread bugs.”

“Beetle battles?” Sam asks.

“In a bottle?” Dean adds.

“What bottle?” you ask.

Slurring, your Alpha and the shining star of your life starts in on the 99 bottles of beer.  Sam covers his mouth with one hand, and like the persistinant little shit he is, Dean just yell-sings through it.

More of your body’s gone.  You’re down to just the parts that are touching Dean.  But he’s going away too.  You’re draining him.  Like a vampire.  Soon he’ll be gone.

You lever yourself off of him and scramble away.  “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to!”

“Where’d you go?” Dean asks, pulling Sam’s hand off his mouth and sitting up.  “We’re not going anywheres.  Right Sam?  Sam?  Ground Control to Major Sam.”

“Where are we Dee?”  Sam’s little again and you drag your dead body to him.  He’s really little, and he burns like a star in your arms until he fades.

“No!” you scream as Sam blinks to darkness.  There’s no ground, there’s no sky, there’s no life, there’s no family, it’s all dark and your body’s gone nothing.  I hear you talking but the words all sounding strange; one of us is crazy and the other one’s insane.  It’s so not funny all you can do is scream laughter into nothing.

---

Pain is what finally brings you around, every muscle in your body feeling overstretched and hurting like blazes.  Like the time your heat fever got so bad you had convulsions but worse.  Dean’s asleep in a chair next to the bed, his feet hiked up on the nightstand.  You try to sit up and moan as your muscles tell you they’re on strike until further notice.  The dingy old landline phone clatters to the floor as Dean kicks himself awake.  “Hey!  There you are!  You okay?  Talk to me.”

“Somebody get the license plate on that truck?” you ask, and holy hell your throat feels like you’ve been gargling barbed wire.  You gawp at the IV needle in your arm.  “Where are we?  Why am I needly?  How long was I out?”

"Ohio State East Hospital," Dean says.

"Oh.  Thought I recognized that Buckeye smell."  You used to come here quarterly, for complete physicals.  The lab rat completes the maze and gets the treat.

“Here,” Dean says, producing a bottle of PediaLyte and holding it up for you to drink.  Shit, you’re drier than Death Valley in July.  Dean feeds you a mouthful at a time until the bottle’s half-gone, speaking soothing nonsense.  “You were out cold for almost thirty-six hours.”

“Seizure?”

"Yep.  How's your stomach feeling?  Think you could eat something?  This place has room service."

"Beef broth and cherry Jello.  The invalid breakfast of champions," you say.  "Where's Sam?  Is he okay?"

"He's fine."  Glancing at the door and lowering his voice, Dean says, "He and Cas are taking another swing by that mortuary.  I don't think they're gonna find anything though.  If whoever's doing this has any brains they've blown town."

"God save us from bad guys with brains," you mutter, rubbing your throat.

Dean smiles and kisses you, soft and sweet.  He doesn’t even wince at your dragon breath.

"What's the cover story?" you ask.

"We went out drinking night before last and it's all a blank after we left the motel," Dean says.  "Cas found us outside the funeral home.  You were totally out of it and we were tripping balls.  Cas got us back to the motel room and Sam and me sobered up, but you wouldn't wake up."

"Peaches," you say.  At Dean's 'huh?' grunt, you say, "I don't know what it was but I kept smelling peaches."

"Hey!"  Sam sticks his head in the hospital room door, Cas trailing behind and smiling when he sees you.  "You're awake!"

"Well don't hang in the door like a cobweb.  Come on in," you groan as you try to raise your arm and wave Sam and Cas in.  Dean lays a hand on your shoulder, gently rubbing the sore muscles beneath.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asks, pulling up the other chair.

"Like I've been very lightly racked.  Even my hair hurts."  You rub your stomach.  "And that's gonna become a problem when the kidneys come back online."

Sam grimaces.  "Too much information."

"What about you Gamgee?  You're not exactly winning any beauty contests neither."

Sam looks over at Dean, a corner of his lip curled upward.  "She's fine."

Dean kisses your cheek.  "She's awesome."

"Flattery will get you . . . actually don't stop, I love flattery.  Hey Cas."

"Hey," Castiel replies.

"What did you guys find at the mortuary?"

"Squat," Sam says.  "Whoever the body snatcher is, they cleared out.  And one of the place's employees, Alma Wollstonecraft, hasn't shown up for work in over a week."

You shut your eyes.  "Oh fuck me 'til I cry."

"What?" Dean asks.

"Wollstonecraft," you say.  "As in Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley?"

Dean shuts his eyes.  "Oh fuck me 'til I cry-- you're kidding."

Sam groans.  "Right in front of my face and I didn't see it."

"Not your fault.  You're a genius, not God, and nobody can think of everything," you say.  "Let's rewind a little-- what happened at the funeral home that made us all turn off our minds relax and float downstream?"

"We did not find anything that would cause such a reaction," Cas reports, "and four funerals were held today as scheduled."

"Okay, so.  We got a body snatcher who isn't doing a very good job covering her tracks, she picks a pretty obvious alias, and when we get to her workplace we all start," you twirl your finger by your head and whistle the whoopsie-daisy.  "I'm starting to smell trap."

"Which means," Dean says, "she's either long gone . . ."

". . . or she'll try again," Sam concludes.

"It lends credence to the idea that she's a member of the Styne family," Cas notes.  "Someone who escaped the massacre and wants revenge."

"Not possible," Dean says.

"Dean, it is theoretically possible that--"

"Not," Dean snaps, glaring at Cas, "Possible."

Sam looks up and clears his throat.  Everybody falls quiet as a nurse comes in wheeling a cartful of instruments.  Sighing, you hold up your arm.  "Give it to me Nurse, I can take it."

"Okay," the nurse, a petite black girl with her hair in cornrows braided tight to her scalp says, "can you tell me where you are?"

"Ohio State."  You wrinkle your nose.  "Buckeye country."  You give the date.  "Other than being massively sore, I feel fine.  Alert.  Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

"Excellent!  Relax a minute."  You breathe deep and even as the nurse takes your blood pressure and temperature.  "I can give you some Tylenol 3 for the pain."

"That sounds great, thank you.  Throw in a couple cough drops?"  You tap your throat.  "Hurts."

She smiles.  "I'll see what I can do."  Her gaze settles on Cas and lingers, her smile deepening just a little.  "Be right back."

"Did she just give you the eyes?  She just gave you the eyes," Dean teases.

"Knock it off.  Cas is a cutie-pie," you say.

"Well . . ." the Angel of the Lord smiles bashfully.

The nurse is back surprisingly quickly, bringing drugs, more PediaLyte, and one Dr. Jon Dykstra.  You cringe into the mattress at his angry glower.  Dean feels it and you can practically see his hackles rising.  Sam feels it too, and he subtly puts a shoulder in between you and Dr. Jon.  "Who're you?" Dean asks.

Dr. Jon introduces himself.  "Just wondering what the hell my test subject is doing taking massive amounts of sedative-hypnotics and passing out in snowbanks."  His nose twitches.  "Oh.  Which one of you is the lucky Alpha?"

You and Sam point at Dean as he jerks a thumb at himself.  "She didn't take anything," he says.  "We don't know what happened-- we went out drinking a couple nights ago and my brother and I woke up feeling like we got hit by a train.  Not that it's any of your damn business."

"Dean relax," you say, putting a hand on his arm.  "Dr. Jon's the closest thing I got to a personal physician."

"And I need to speak with my patient.  Privately," Dr. Jon says.

"Anything you need to say to me they can hear," you say.

"And that's what we need to talk about."  Dr. Jon reaches as though seeking a rolly-stool and looks a little bit lost when he can't find one.  You roll your eyes at Dean's amused little smirk.  "I really don't feel comfortable discussing this with unrelated people in the room.  You need help kiddo.  I want to talk to you about--"

"Let me guess," Dean says.  "Three days in a psych ward, get her on some meds, work on convincing her she dreamed almost dying when a vampire fed from her leg?  Not happening."

"Cool it Dean," you tell him.  "He doesn't have grounds for an involuntary committal."

"If I thought it was in your best interests," Dr. Jon says, "I could make that happen.  I should've made it happen sooner.  Hanging around people who feed your delusions isn't helping."

"She is not delusional."

Dr. Jon turns and meets Castiel's hard glare.  "I'm sorry, but who the hell are you?"

"Dr. Jon Dykstra," you say, "this is Castiel, an Angel of the Lord."

Cas sticks out his hand, and probably on pure reflex, Dr. Jon shakes it.  The light Castiel actually is starts to shine, Grace beaming in his eyes.  The skeletal remains of his broken wings cast shadows on the walls around him.  Dr. Jon's eyes bug out.  He staggers back and falls on his butt as his knees buckle.

"Is everything okay in--" the door opens and the nurse pokes her head in.

Castiel stares into her shocked eyes.  "Remember nothing."

The shock drains from her face and the nurse leaves without another word, closing the door behind her.

The light fades as Castiel reins it in, shrinking back into his vessel.  Sam gets up and helps Dr. Jon to his feet.  "You okay?  I know it's a lot to take in."

"I don't believe in you, you know," Dr. Jon says to Cas, ignoring Sam completely.  "I'm a nontheist and my wife is Buddhist."

"Your belief is immaterial to the fact of my existence," Castiel says, "and one need not believe in the existence of the Host to ascend to Heaven."

"Fuck me, Heaven's real too?" Dr. Jon says.

"Yes," Castiel says.  "You experienced it briefly when you died."

"I died?!?"

"You died?" you blurt.

"Oh God.  I was ice fishing with my dad and fell through some thin ice.  I almost drowned-- strike the almost, I guess."  Dean pulls his flask out of a pocket and tosses it to Dr. Jon.  Dr. Jon catches it and takes a long gulp.  "I . . . you . . . Heaven, the literal Heaven."

"Yep," Dean says.

"Look, Doctor," Sam says, doing that thing he does when he's trying to impose some order on the chaos, "the bottom line is, she isn't crazy.  Everything she told you, about monsters and demons--"

"Demons?  Fucking demons?  Who the hell are you people?" Dr. Jon cries.

"You know I'm getting real sick of people asking me that," Dean says.

"Simmer down Winchester, Dr. Jon's one of the good guys," you tell him.

"I'll take your word for it.  You know him better than I do," he concedes.

"Look," you say, "after a while belief kind of exits the equation.  I believe in angels and demons the way I believe in rocks, trees, and taxes.  They're real, I've seen them.  I've met them.  Hell, I've had coffee with them."

"Angels drink coffee?"

"I enjoy the molecules," Castiel says, "and the heat is pleasing in cold weather."

"I'm not crazy," you wind it all up, "and if you try and have me committed I'll just break out.  I've done it before."

"Really?" Dean asks.  "When?"

"Phantom case," you say, "just after Peg died.  Long story."

"I can't--" Dr. Jon fades back.  "I have to go."  He turns and all but runs out the door.

Dean lifts his hand.  "He's got my flask," he grumbles.

"Well," you say into the silence, tossing back the little cup of pills and swallowing them dry, "that was fun.  Did you bring my clothes?"

---

You sit cross-legged on the hood of a junked-out Oldsmobile, a flashlight clamped between your front teeth, reading through pages of hardcopy records on the Styne family.  You're on stakeout, watching a dilapidated tract house set on a No Outlet road.  Moonlight makes the shadows look alive, predatory.  "Loving the locale," you bitch.  "Got a very Silence of the Lambs, Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibe to it.  You sure the place is empty?"

"There are no demonic or angelic presences within," Castiel says, sounding a trifle annoyed.

"I'll take your word for it," you sigh.  "I'm sorry Cas, I didn't mean to be rude.  I’m just trying to get my head on straight.”

“’Head on straight,’” Cas repeats, tasting the phrase.  “Of course.  Your muscles are probably still badly inflamed, particularly around the neck and cervical spine.”

“No that’s not what I meant.”  Though now that he mentions it, you do still feel massively sore.  The Tylenol is helping, but that's all it's doing.

“Here, let me take care of that,” Cas says, reaching out with his first two fingers.

“No that’s okay, I’m all right,” you brush his hand aside.  “I’m just achey-breaky.”

“You are wounded, and I can help.”

“It’s healing, I don’t need help.”

"It's not a question of need," Cas says.  "You're in considerable pain."

“I can handle it.”

“I am not questioning your fortitude.  That would be ridiculous.”

“That’s not the point,” you say.  “I shouldn’t be draining you just because I have an owie.”

“The power it would take is negligible.  It would not ‘drain’ me.”  Cas pauses, studying you.  “Apart from your very strong sexual attraction you seem to share that aspect of your personality with Dean.”

You're sitting on a piece of shit car listening to one of God’s warriors deconstruct your sort-of trial almost-bonded relationship.  One of those Dear Lord Jesus How Is This My Life? moments.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You both shun certain types of assistance, even when it’s freely offered and costs nothing.”

“Nothing comes for free Castiel.  It’s basic physics.”

"'Energy can neither be created nor destroyed,' yes.  It was a difficult lesson, learning that humans cannot be expressed through simple equations or behavioral models.  Bees are far more straightforward.  With humans, almost nothing is,” Cas hunts for the word, “untangled.  Dean more so than most.”

“Cas why is Dean so sure we’re not tracking a Styne?" you ask after a moment's thought.  "Stripping bodies for parts is right in their wheelhouse.”

Cas goes stiff.  Ramrod stiff.  Inhumanly stiff.  "I don’t know if that's something I feel comfortable discussing."

"I'm sorry," you say automatically, your mind reeling at the thought of Castiel feeling uncomfortable.  "I didn't mean to . . . I don't want you to feel weird around me."

"It's not that.  That was a particularly difficult time, for all of us."

"So he wasn't kidding.  About killing them all," you say, a part of you going still at the thought.

"No.  But it was beyond killing.  I watched him commit cold-blooded murder.  The youngest of the Stynes, barely a child, uninvolved in their nefarious activities.  Dean shot him in the head.  No hesitation, no remorse.  And then--" Castiel shudders.  He actually shudders.

You leave a pause.  "He hurt you didn't he?"

"He nearly killed me," Castiel admits after a moment.  "He said, 'Next time, I won't miss.'"

The Alpha that sang about falling bottles of beer and waited by your bedside with soothing touches.  The awful part is, you don't doubt Cas's version of events at all.  You've always known Dean was capable of that.  And worse.  You don’t like imagining the damage he could do if he ever really and for truly lost his shit.

You fold up and put away your dark thoughts when you hear Baby's engine.  Dean pulls her in beside the Olds.  "Score?" you ask Sam as he gets out.

"Score," Sam confirms, popping the trunk.  He hauls out a couple of firefighter's face masks and air tanks.  "If whatever knocked us out is airborne, these should prevent us from breathing it in."

"Right.  I'll head in--" you start.

"Like hell you will," Dean cuts you off.

"Knock it off Winchester," you say.  "If things go fucky again, I'm the easiest one to carry.

"She's right Dean," Sam says, handing you one of the masks and holding the tank as you strap it to your back.

Your knees almost buckle under the weight.  "I'm good, I'm good," you say, like every muscle you have isn't screaming at you to knock it the fuck off already.  You don the mask.

"It's a demand system," Sam explains, checking the seals around your face.  "It feeds air in as you breathe.  Can you feel the air coming in?"  You give him a thumbs-up and check your weapon as Sam does the same with Dean.

"This is a bad idea," Dean grouches.

"This outfit runs on bad ideas, dumb luck, crappy coffee, and bottom-shelf booze," you say, pulling a chuckle out of Sam.

"The coffee is usually of acceptable quality," Cas notes.

"Focus, people," Dean says.

"All right," you say.  "Should we synchronize watches?"  All three men give you A Look.  "What?"

---

"Find anything interesting?" you ask.

"Yep," Dean's voice confirms.  "A shitload of bodies.  Emphasis shitload.  It smells like a Tijuana toilet down here but worse."

"I'll take your word for it.  There's fresh food in the fridge," you say, closing the refrigerator door.  "Whoever's living here hasn't been gone long, and they need regular human food."  You peek in the freezer and recoil.  "Fuck!"

"What?!?  What?!?" Dean snaps.

"Sorry, sorry.  I think I found the missing eyeballs.  And one of those gallon pails of strawberry swirl ice cream.  Heading for the bedrooms."

"Yeah, go ahead and sweep the ground floor and meet me by the stairs."

"Ten-four," you confirm Dean's instruction, your pistol out, finger off the trigger, flashlight in your other hand.

The first door off the hallway's your standard stuff closet.  "Well if she ran," you say, "she left in a helluva hurry.  Her winter coat's still in the hall closet.  And it looks like," you say, taking a closer look at the coats, "she was cohabitating with somebody.  There's a men's sized overcoat in here."  You take a closer look.  "More than one other person.  There's a pair of ten buck boots next to some custom-made Moroccan in here.

"Check for ID?" Sam asks.

"Doing it.  Not finding any," you confirm, going through the coat's pockets.  The next room, the second bedroom, is a bare box.  Writing in what looks like blood drips all over the eggshell-white walls.  "We are officially in Hinkeyville," you say.  "Blood on the walls, a shitload of Enochian-- Cas can you come up here and take a look at this?  I can't sight-read Enochian."  You holster your weapon and get out your phone, snapping pictures.  "The blood's been here a while.  More than a few days."

"Check.  I found this chick's secret torture dungeon.  Looks like it's seen some use."  Dean cusses.  "Ugh.  Found her walk-in cooler.  "I don't even know how many bodies' worth of parts I'm looking at.  I think I'm gonna puke forever."

"Shut your eyes and think of pretty trees, Dean," you advise, checking the bathroom.  Standard tub/shower, sink, and potty.  Could use a good scrubbing but no blood here.

"Pretty trees," Dean says dreamily.  His tone firms, gets back to normal.  "Thanks sweetheart, I needed that."

"Anytime handsome," you say, opening the last door and shining your flashlight on a completely normal master bedroom.  "Do me a favor.  Knock on the ceiling where you're at-- I have an idea."

"Uh, hold on."  A moment later you hear a tap coming from under the bed.

You open the closet on hangers of business casual and regular street clothes.  "Can you hear this?" you stamp your heel down on the floor.

"Yeah, do that again."  You stamp as you gently probe the wall behind the clothes hangers.  It jiggles.  You feel around and find it, a gap in the wall paneling.  A hard tap of your fist in one corner and something clicks.  Shoving the clothes aside, you open the loose panel and find a shaft going down, a ladder on the opposite wall.  Looking down, you see a beam of light and a moment later Dean's air-masked face pokes in and looks up at you.  Even through the mask you can see the light of his smile.  "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"You're correct, the writing is Enochian.  It's a summoning spell," Castiel says.  "The portion naming the specific demon has been obscured."

"Yeah, why make our lives easy?" Dean asks.

"I think this leads up to the attic," you say.  "Come on up with me?"

"Yeah."  You test the rungs and start climbing, into a roof crawlspace dark as the inside of a mine shaft.  You pan your flashlight beam around and jump halfway out of your skin when it reflects off a frightened pair of eyes.

Swearing, you tiptoe on the wooden planks set overtop the puffy flats of ceiling insulation.  The eyes belong to a skinny girl dressed in a grimy rag, all the knobs of her joints poking through her bloodless skin.

“Cas get in here!  We got a live one!” you say.  Setting the flashlight aside, you gesture behind your back.  Dean grunts his understanding.  “You’re gonna be all right.  It’s okay,” you say.  In the indirect light you see the girl’s lips move.  Badly chapped and the flesh below looks gray and dry.  You take your scratched-up canteen off your belt.  “Can you move?  Are you hurt?  I’ve got some water here.  Christus miseracordiae!” you throw a jet of holy water and the girl comes alive as it hisses into her skin.

Snarling, enraged, inhuman, the ‘girl’ stands.  The chain wrapped around her neck falls away with a tug.  “I almost had you,” the demon riding the emaciated girl said with a smile full of white teeth.  “I thought so sure you’d fall for it again.”

You go stiff.  The barn in Texas.

“We had such a grand old time,” she purrs.  “I have particularly fond memories of the IV bags.”  The house layout, are you in the right place?  “Made that little girl’s blood boil.  It was exquisite.  You know her parents never stopped looking for their pretty girl?”

“Stop it,” you whisper, choking up.  Tiny fingers and so much blood.

The girl’s corpse grin widens and she creeps closer.

“What’re you talking about?” Dean asks.

“Oh of course she wouldn’t tell you.  Her handsome boy.  Not exactly fitting subjects for pillow talk--”

You lunge, grab the girl, twist, and fall to the right.  Together you crash through the ceiling insulation and land square on the bed in the master bedroom.  Castiel’s right there going for the closet.  “Cas seal it in!” you grunt, but before he can the girl in your arms screams out a thick plume of black smoke.

---

Castiel touches his fingers to your forehead, and the head-to-toe bruises and strained muscles just . . . stop.  The ringing in your head goes silent and your vision snaps back into place.  “Woaholy shit.”

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yeah.  Thank you,” you tell him, stretching.  No ache, not even a little bit.  “How’s our guest?”

“Sam and Dean have her.  Her real name is Darlene Styne.”  Castiel hands you a tablet and you page through an impressively complete dossier-- a birth certificate, a high school diploma, photostats of two driver’s licenses, one issued by the state of Louisiana and the other by Ohio.  They both show the same blandly pretty face and collar-length brown hair.

“Alma Wollstonecraft,” you read, and cuss.  “Cas were you able to count how many people--"

“In the basement?  Altogether, I counted fourteen bodies.  In . . . varying states of disassembly.”

“Jesus,” you breathe.  “This is good work Cas, thank you.”

A small, bashful smile curves Castiel’s mouth.  Then it disappears.  “It appears this girl was away from the family estate when Dean . . .” he trails off.  “This was apparently a trap.”

“Yeah,” you say.  “For me.”

Cas does a double-take.  “What do you mean?”

Carry your heart with you, Peg speaks from your memory, but know when to put it away.  You put your heart away.  “Where are they keeping her?”

---

“Styne, Darlene Mariah,” the skinny girl is saying as you walk into the house's garage.  Woman, you correct yourself.  She’s not shaking, she’s not emaciated, and she’s not scared.  She might be seated on a throne instead of chained to a metal chair.  “Born April 13th, 1995--"

“To Monroe and Chrysabella Styne.  Born at home, at the family estate in Louisiana.  Yeah, we heard you the first,” Sam thinks a second, “seventeen times.”

“What were you doing with all those bodies?” Dean asks.

“Shopping for a new spleen.  They come in assorted colors you know,” Styne smiles at Dean.

“You know, I shot your baby brother in the head,” Dean says, leaning in close.  “Think I’d have a problem blowing you away?”

“I know you wouldn’t, honey child.”  Styne crosses her legs, relaxes back like a lady to the manor born.  “Styne, Darlene Mariah.  Born--”

“Eighteen,” Sam sighs.

“Guys would you excuse us for a second?” you ask.

“I think we got this,” Dean says.

“I can go all night, boy,” Styne singsongs.

“I don’t care about you,” you tell her.  “Dean can grind you into beneficial mulch for all I care.  The demon that was riding you, you called it.  So not only were you killing people for parts,” you say, “you were prostituting yourself to the forces of evil.  Then I suppose you had . . .” you trail a finger over her cheekbone, “practice.”

Styne’s perfect poise cracks.  There’s a pulse of real anger in those brown eyes.

“Yeah.  You don’t exactly fit the model of human perfection,” you say.  “Asthmatic, untalented, and no way your good looks’ll hold much past twenty-five.  That leaves a very short list of career options for a girl in a family of eugenicist fuckwits.”

“Is this what you did to break that little girl?  She was even younger than me wasn’t she?” Styne fires back.

“No,” you shrug.  Your heart is put away and nothing this subject can say to you matters.  “That was a sewing kit and some IV bags.”

“This outta be entertaining.  Dean Winchester’s breeder’s gonna try and take a crack at little ol’ me,” Styne says, grinning a shark’s grin.

"The last of the Stynes, who I’m pretty sure got her bony ass demoted to child mistress, is judging me," you say.  "Hilarious."

The smile falls off her face.  “We,” she says, “are gods.”

“I’ve met Gods,” you say.  “Most of them are sad little shadows of what they once were.  Clinging to a world that doesn’t want them.  Your family was fine with using you like a whorechild but your baby brother?  He got loved.  The good kind.  The kind that says, 'Nobody better lay a hand on my precious boy.'  Like the old saying says, 'Sons are your blessings, daughters are a curse.'  And a Beta?  Least if you were Omega you might've been useful."

“You’re jumpin to a lotta crackpot conclusions bout my family.”

“Name rank and serial number's passé when it comes to obscuring information," you say.  "Your full name and birthdate gets me your medical history.  You’ve gone to the hospital five different times to get treated for UTIs and yeast infections.  You were expelled from two different schools for violent outbursts; specifically, you attacked your classmates’ faces.  Had your first penicillin series at twelve, I’m guessing for chlamydia.  Got you started early.”

"God," Sam says.

“It’s so obvious it’s kind of sad.  Probably trained you to enjoy it too.  Families like yours usually do.  My point is,” you continue, “you have a decision to make.  You can answer our questions, and we’ll kill you.  Or you can not, I disfigure you in ways no surgery can fix, and we lace you into a straitjacket and leave you at the nearest cop shop.  Fourteen dismembered bodies?  Sam does Ohio have a death penalty?”

“Yes but-- but the last time anybody was executed was in 1963,” Sam says.

You shrug.  “Life in prison with no hands, no feet, no eyes, and no tongue?  That’s even better.”

“Wow,” Styne drawls.  “That’s almost as good as some of the tricks you came up with in Hell, Dean-o.”

“Think I’d keep her from doing it?” Dean asks.  “Want to hear what I did to your little brother?”

“Cyrus was just a kid.”  The crack in her cool’s nice and wide now.

“Yeah and I was in a hurry then,” Dean says.  “Right now, I got time.”

“Do you?” Styne smiles.

“Whose coats are hanging up next to yours?” you ask.

“Sometimes, the demon, well, she likes to switch bodies.  Like shoes.”

“No wonder she slipped your PayLess ass,” you retort.

Sam winces.  “Whoa!”

“Harsh,” is Dean’s judgement.

You think a moment.  "Wait.  Can demons reanimate the dead?"

"Why?" Dean asks.  "Demons don’t need permission to possess somebody.  They just do it."

“No but angels do,” Sam says.  “But-- but what if . . .”  He turns his attention on Styne.  “You were running experiments, right?  Where’re your lab books?”

Styne rattles the chains on her arms.  “Let me go.  I’ll take you right to ‘em.”

"This isn't a negotiation," you say.  From your pocket you pull out a little zippered case, and from the case you pull out a syringe, a fine-bore needle, and a vial of clear liquid.  "Lidocaine.  I figure a hardcore surgery addict would have a pretty high threshold of pain, so peeling your skin off and setting it on fire would be entertaining, but a waste of time."

"So just kill me already," she snaps.  "What're you waiting for?"

"Hold her arm still, I need to get at her hand," you tell the boys.  Dean gets behind her and wraps his arms around her chest, while Sam snaps one huge hand around her forearm.  Styne jerks her hand around as much as Sam's grip and the chain on her wrist will allow.  All it does is make the injection sloppy.  You've had a lot of practise with a needle.

"What're you going to do to me?" she asks, sounding legitimately nervous for the first time.

"It's terrifically clichéd," you say, " but we're doing the Kill Bill thing.  I'm going to start asking questions.  And every time I don't like the answers, I'm going to cut something off."

"I can replace anything you take away," Styne growls.

"Did you miss the part about your next stop being the Ohio State Police?" you ask.  "You're never going anywhere near a scalpel again."  You tap Styne's hand.  "Should be nice and numb by now.  Let's start with," you click open your pocketknife, "the thumb."

---

It takes a while.  Living tissue is tough.  Resilient.  Fingers, one by one, drop to the garage's cement floor.  Then toes.  The boys, looking paler and more ill by the minute, clench their jaws and follow your terse instructions.  Styne starts screaming when you figure her dominant eye, and gouge it out with a hard hook of one thumb.  The texture of an eyeball as it bursts is a sensation all its own. 

Eventually, she coughs up a name and your blood runs cold.  "Unbelievable," you say.  "This dumbass bitch was trying to summon Lythalia."

"Who?" Sam asks.

"Asthear, Guide to the Infernal Realms," you say.  "The story goes God created Adam and Lilith as the first humans.  When Lucifer fell--"

"Yeah, he corrupted Lilith and turned her into the first demon," Sam says.  "Lucifer's corruption of free will.  His Fuck You to God."

"Right," you nod.  "That was only part of the Fuck You.  The bigger part is Lilith was pregnant when she was corrupted."

"What?" Sam and Dean bark, together, and in harmony.

You nod.  "Lucifer claimed all three as his own.  They became basically demonic demigods.  Lilith the Queen of Hell, the incarnation of Temptation, Lythalia, and the incarnation of Torment--"

"Alastair," Dean finishes.  "Why would you summon something like that?  Straight up revenge not enough for you?"

"Not revenge," Styne pants.  "Justice, you infected sore."

You backhand her and blood goes flying.  "Words have meanings.  Why that demon specifically?"

"Because of the meaning of the word justice."  Styne sneers, her one eye rolling to include all the good guys.  "The only difference between you people and my family is the hair shirts you wear.  You wanna hear about all the crimes against humanity your family's committed?  The Campbells didn't leave Ireland-- they were chased out.  And the Winchesters?  Hah."  Even maimed, Styne has the fortitude to curl her lip.  "The people who almost brought on the end of the world are going to kill my kinfolk and call it justice?  If God's too lazy to damn you, I'll do it for him.  Lythalia's got big plans for y'all."

"Yeah well, maybe you hadn't noticed," Dean says, low and menacing, "in the Us Versus Them, we killed her mother and her brother."

"Using demon powers you no longer have," Styne retorts, and Sam pulls in a breath. 

"Where there's a will there's a way," you shrug.  "Now about those lab notes."

---

Styne -- or what's left of her -- can't scream.  She can only make a deranged sort of hooting noise, as you bundle her into a rusted out Pontiac and park it at an abandoned Gas'n'Sip somewhere very dark and very empty.  "If it's any consolation," you say, getting your bag and flicking open your pocketknife, "I lied."  You slit her throat, soak the seats with gasoline, jog a few yards away, and strike a road flare.  The Impala pulls up and Cas opens the door.  You toss the flare, jump in, and Dean's already half a mile up the road when the fireball blooms.

---

"I think we picked up a nail in the tire," Sam says thirty uncomfortable minutes later.

At a glance in the rearview Dean says, "Yeah I see it.  Don't look around."

You reach into your pocket and pull out a pressed powder compact and a tube of lip balm.  A quick look through Baby's rear windshield in the compact's mirror as you moisturize your lips and you see it too-- a man in a dark sedan, his face mostly covered by a scarf and his head covered with a stocking cap.  "Yeah, nobody in this neighborhood's got a reason to be cruising around in a Jag.  Turn left at the next light."

"All right, are you going to tell us what's going on?" Dean asks.

"Uh . . . are you on the rag or something Beavis?" you say in your best Butt-Head.

"Can it.  That demon talked like it knew you," Dean says.

"And do you usually skip straight to dismemberment when you're questioning people?" Sam asks.  "That was kind of unpleasant to watch."

From Sam Winchester, who did hard time as Satan's cellmate, that's saying a lot.  "I don't know if it's the same one or not," you admit.  "Demons gossip like retired fishermen.  I had a case in West Texas that I seriously screwed up.  I've had demons throw it back in my face a few times."

"What happened?" Dean asks.

"Do we have to talk about this right now?"

"Yes.  What happened?"

You put your real self back into that iron box under your heart, next to the necrotic pieces of your soul that died in Odessa.  "This idiot kid found a summoning spell in an old Apocrypha.  God knows where she found it.  She offered her little sister as a meatsuit.  I killed the summoner and bound the demon in a devil's trap in an old horse barn.  Or so I thought.  I didn't paint one of the binding sigils correctly.  The demon let me torture it most of that night, like I was really torturing a little girl.  Except near the end, it slipped out of her and I didn't know it.  She died screaming."  Mami por favor ayúdame! shrieks out of your memory.  "She was seven."

Your real self comes back out of the box, and the silence in the car makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear.  Anything not to have any of these men look at you with the contempt you deserve.

After a supply run at the Meijer's, Dean parks the car at the motel and the four of you pile out.  "You got the groceries?" Dean asks, getting his 1911 out and covering the sound of the hammer clicking back by grinding his heel into the frozen slush on the asphalt.

"Yeah," you say, opening Baby's trunk, rifling the plastic bags, and closing it back again.  The supplies will keep in the cold.  Right on cue Sam leaps to your defense and he and Dean start irritatingly bitching about the proper role of women and Omegas even when said woman Omega is armed to the teeth.  On cat feet, you sneak around the back of the building, force open the unlocked and greased bathroom window, and climb through.

The bathroom door is hanging open, and you see a dark shape sitting on Sam's bed.  You pull your Glock and, the click-click loud as a gunshot itself in the silence, work the slide.  The shoulders of the phantom stranger go stiff.  "Bugger me," you hear a voice whisper.

"Come on in guys, I have him," you call.  The 'argument' outside ceases and the boys come in.  Sam flips on the light, and even from the back you recognize the set of the spine.  It's the taller British Man of Letters from that empty highway in Colorado, the one that set your teeth on edge.

"Fuck me," Dean says.

"You're hardly my type," the Man of Letters sarcasms back.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

The man turns to look at you.  "Please allow me to introduce myself-- Arthur Ketch, Men of Letters."  You don't speak, you don't move, and you keep your pistol aimed right at his upper lip.  Ketch sighs, turning his attention back on Sam and Dean.  "All right.  We happen to be working concurrent lines of inquiry.  The Stynes as they exist today are no longer a threat and the old men were content to ignore them.  Then reports of very precisely dismembered bodies started showing up and Mick dispatched me to look into them.  I arrived in town to find you taking care of the problem-- with, I might add, a truly impressive degree of sadism."

The boys all look at you.  You don't return the look.  "The Stynes were an issue in Europe and Russia for a good seven hundred years at least, and the Men of Letters are just now getting around to doing something about them?" you ask.

"Yes well, previously our mandate, as you must know, was strictly observational in nature and there are not very many of us in the United States yet.  Which is why Mr. Davies is working so hard on his recruitment drives," Ketch says, in that condescending growl that says you'd have to do a lot more than get the drop on him for him to see you as anything other than Dean Winchester's Omega slut.  Right about then, you mentally take Mick Davies's business card and pitch it.  "I suggest we check into some more . . . hospitable surroundings, get a good night's sleep, and if we're quick about it we can complete mop-up by tomorrow afternoon."

"Do we hafta?" you whine, just a little.  "I mean, the room's already paid for and I don't want to pack up all our shit and move for, what, maybe three hours of rack time?"

"Yeah," Sam says, yawning.  "How 'bout we meet you for breakfast?"

"As you like," Ketch says, standing.  "I'm staying at the Sheraton at Capitol Square, room 618.  He glances back at you.  "Madam."

"Mr. Ketch."  You keep right on aiming at him until you hear his car door open.  Everybody takes a deep breath when he starts up and he pulls out of the motel parking lot in a crunch of frozen slush.

---

The nice thing about having an angel on the payroll is not having to set a watch.  After painting devil's traps at every access point and salting the door and windows, the three mortal people hit the rack and Castiel sits next to the door with his angel blade on his lap and a shotgun within easy reach.  It makes you feel secure enough you relax into sleep.

Until you wake up from a nightmare.  Dean dodges as you swing your switchblade, backing up out of reach.  "Sorry!" he whispers.  "You were moaning in your sleep."

"What time is it?" you ask, groaning when Dean tells you and falling back on the cot.  Being the smallest, you always get the cot.  You and Dean made the decision right off the bat to never share a bed on the job.  False sense of security, sleeping in Alpha's arms.  And not fair to Sam to make him listen when the inevitable happens.

Dean looks like he wants to say something, hunkered down next to the cot.  He glances at the bed where Sam’s stirring and up at Castiel.  The Angel of the Lord's watching with the total absorption of a fan watching a ballgame.  Closing his eyes, he sighs and the moment’s gone.  "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, levering yourself upright and reaching for your duffel.  "Dibs on first shower."

You’re not okay but you can function, and functional is what’s called for.

---

"Good morning," Ketch greets the four of you.  Add this to the dislike list; Ketch has your aunt's gift of communicating intense disapproval without moving a muscle in his face.  You square your shoulders and lift your head just so.  A queenly carriage and impeccable manners are your weapons when it comes to passing in spaces for which you are severely underdressed.  Casual dress code your ass.

Dean's approach is completely the opposite.  His normal bowlegged amble turns into a full-on swagger and he's the only man you know who can somehow slouch with a perfectly straight back.  He even nicks a toothpick from the little dispenser at the host's station.  Ironically, Sam looks the most out-of-place of any of you, self-conscious of his ragged work clothes in a way you and Dean aren't.  Castiel is just Castiel-- eternal, unchanging, and not quite fitting in anywhere.

"They want how much for extra bacon?" Dean squeaks when he gets a look at the menu.

Ketch sighs.  "Room and meals whilst in the field are expense-able.  My treat."

"Oh well in that case--"

"Right, to business," Ketch says after the orders are in.  "This is the most recent version of the Styne family tree we have available."  He unfolds a legal-sized sheet of paper and hands it to Dean.  "I'd like you to take a look at it, cross out anyone we haven't already confirmed dead."

You take a marker out of the little pouch on your belt and hand it to Dean.  Dean uncaps it with his teeth and scans down the page, putting big black Xs through most of the pictures.  "That's all I remember."

Ketch's eyebrows take a trip to his hairline.  "So . . . it's true, then.  You singlehandedly wiped out the family's leadership.  Impressive."  Dean doesn't say anything, and something in the stony silence makes Ketch back off.  "Yes, well, based on that, there are only two people left who potentially have access to the Styne family fortune, along with the locations of their magical items."  He takes the paper back from Dean and uses your pen to draw circles around two pictures.  "Fraternal twins, Bernard Styne and Bella Styne-Davion.  Both of whom were living abroad until roughly six months ago when they met in New York and disappeared."

"When you say 'family fortune,'" Sam asks, "how much of a fortune are we talking about?"

"Legitimate assets total roughly eight hundred million dollars US."  You cuss.  "That's without factoring in the value of esoterica such as the Blood Grimoire or the Book of the Damned."

"Has anyone come forward to take control of the estate?" you ask.  Dean shoots you a look and you shrink a little in your seat.  Omegas are like children and should be seen and not heard, says that look.

"No.  The estate is still in the hands of the courts," Ketch says, directing his answer towards Dean and not you.  Good.  Stephen King calls it being dim, when you're there but people's eyes just sort of glide over you.  To a certain stripe of Alpha, Omegas aren't people; you're props.  "Both of the remaining Stynes being human and apparently uninterested in the family legacy, they didn't rate more than occasional surveillance."

"Cas when did Darlene Styne start working at that mortuary?" Sam asks.  "Okay, figure a few weeks job hunting.  When did the other two come to New York?"

Ketch gives the date.  "About the same time.  Coincidence?" Dean thinks out loud.

"Doubtful," Castiel notes.  "The Alma Wollstonecraft identity was very convincing."

"She would've had to pass an employment background check," Sam says.

"Can I see that family tree a second?" you ask Dean as something occurs to you

Dean takes it back from Ketch and passes it on to you.  "What're you thinking babe?" he asks, low.

"Bernard and Bella are pushing sixty.  Ethics usually go by the boards when you get a diagnosis like heart failure or cancer.  I'd bet you lunch at my favorite sushi place that's why Darlene suddenly got into body snatching," you say.

"That's good baby," Dean touches your arm and leans in to give you a kiss.

"Don't overdo it," you whisper through your teeth.

"You neither," Dean whispers back.

"Well if that's the case, we may be lucky and both the remaining Stynes are in the area," Ketch says.  "The old men want them captured alive and shipped back to headquarters for interrogation."

"Can we prove they were in on Darlene's body snatching?  I mean, if-- if they haven't killed anybody and they're not into the family's dark magic--" Sam starts.

"It'll be up to the old men to sort out guilt or innocence; my orders are to capture them alive," Ketch overrides Sam.

"Good luck with that.  Why should we care?" Dean asks, speaking for the good guys.

"It's up to you," Ketch shrugs.  "I can certainly manage on my own.  I should think, however, you would have a deep interest in ensuring the Stynes' extinction.  They have very good reasons not to like you, and there's the small matter of whatever demon the dead Styne was trying to summon."  Yeah, that.  You'd hoped Ketch would overlook that.  "The Stynes traditionally worked without the patronage of demons; it would be useful to know why this one broke pattern."

"On her own, deep undercover-- maybe it was a contingency plan.  Break Glass In Case Of Emergency," Dean says.

Ketch shrugs, taking another bite of his grapefruit.  "Well?  Can I count on your assistance, gentlemen?"  You shut your eyes and entertain a brief fantasy of spiking Arthur Ketch's eyeballs out.

"Why should we?  We didn't exactly get off on the right foot with your bosses," Sam points out.

"That's understandable," Ketch concedes.  "As I said, this is merely a convergence of mutual interests.  The Men of Letters do work with independent contractors on a temporary basis-- I can see to it you're compensated for your time."

"Now you're speaking my language," Dean says with a mercenary's smile.

---

"I need a shower," you say once you're all piled into the Impala.  "Like an all-day radiation exposure shower.  I fucking hate playing submissive Omega."

"I think he bought it," Dean says.  "After last night I wasn't sure he would."

"Why are we working to deceive Mr. Ketch?" Castiel asks.  "His opinion of you really doesn't make any difference."

"It might someday, and I'd prefer he underestimate me," you say.  “Anyway, did either of the Stynes’ IDs ping anywhere local?”

“Nowhere I can see,” Sam says, head bent to his tablet.  “Course doctor’s office records aren’t always online.  Some smaller practices still use hardcopy charts and we still have Styne’s lab books to go through.”

You heave a sigh.  “Who gets to stay behind and help me read the mad science?”

Dean looks at Sam.  Sam looks at Dean.  Two fists rise into the air.

---

“Did he have to do the happy dance?” Sam asks as the Impala pulls away, leaving you behind in a stack of Iron Mountain documents boxes.

“Come on, let’s see if the body-snatching bitch was as least decent about her record-keeping,” you say, opening the first box.

She was.  To the point Sam has to excuse himself to go outside for some air.  “Can we at least narrow down a diagnosis?” he asks as he re-enters and puts down a fresh salt line.

“Not really,” you say.  "Okay say she really was taking live tissue for transplant.  That’d require specialty supplies-- anti-rejection meds, blood and plasma for transfusions, heavy-duty antibiotics.”

“Drugs for deep anesthesia,” Sam says, picking up his laptop.  “Let’s make a list, figure a catch-basin of 100 miles centered on Columbus?”

“I’ll start with that.  Can you hack the national donor registry?  If the twins were trying to distance themselves from the rest of the family they might be trying legal channels.”

You and Sam have been at it -- mutually turning your noses up at lunch -- for a few hours when Sam’s phone chirps.  “Hey, Dean.  You’re on speaker.”

“Hey guys.  How’s study hall going?”

"I may never eat meat again," you say.

"Blasphemer.  You love bacon more than I do."

“I’m sure we’ll kiss and make up.  Anywho, so far, nada.  Did you guys find anything interesting?”

“Maybe.  Ketch found a bunch of surgical supplies.  Gas canisters, intubation kits.”

“Did anything have labels?” you ask.

“It looks like she swiped the stuff from that college hospital, Ohio State East.  Ketch is on his way there, see what he can see.”

"Yeah, good idea.  Nurses gossip and up until a couple years ago I was something of a frequent flyer there.  I'd be recognized."

"Maybe we could use that.  Do you know anybody on staff that might give us access?"

"Well since Dr. Jon thinks I'm nuts, not really."  You sigh at Sam's look.  "Guys I spent most of my time trying to forget I volunteered to be a fucking lab rat."

"Okay, okay, just asking."

"Well I'm not coming up with anything in the national donor registry.  Did you find anything at her place that gives any hints how she was picking her victims?" Sam asks.

"Nah, bupkes.  Cas is inside now trying to find if there's anything hidden in the walls or if there's something dug out under the foundation.  Oh hold on-- find anything?"

"Yes.  Dean, you'd better come and take a look at this," you can hear Castiel's gravely voice a few yards distant.

Dean's bootheels crunch over snow, go quiet over carpet, clock down stairs.  "Jesus fucking Christ-- sorry Cas."

"I found a section of the cellar wall that'd been freshly repaired," Cas explains.  "I believe it's one of the missing Styne twins-- the male, Bernard."

"What's left of him," Dean chokes.  "From the smell--"

"He's been dead at least two weeks.  Possibly longer.  The frozen ground would have inhibited decay."  God bless Castiel's absolute calm.  It's something you can take your cues from.

Or so you think until Cas suddenly blurts a word that makes all three human slobs gasp.

"Jeez Cas, you kiss God with that mouth?" Dean asks.

"I would not-- never mind.  The runes upstairs and the condition of the body-- we need to find Bella Styne.  Now."

"Cas what's going on?" you ask.

"I believe the Stynes are attempting a spell.  The Sacrifice of the Twins."

The strength falls out of your body.  "Oh my God."

"What does the sacrifice do exactly?" Dean asks.

"It's powerfully evil magic," Castiel explains.  "If it's done correctly it creates a Devil's Gate."

"There's not one already here?" you can't resist snarking.

"Not funny," Sam says.

Asking your name, Castiel says, "Do you know of a supplier nearby?  We need to make hex bags."

"What for?" you ask after giving him directions to a botánica you know off I-70.

"Cas is right-- before we go anywhere near this bitch we need to make sure she can't Jedi Mind Trick us again.  We got lucky all it was last time was a bad trip."

You frown at Sam.  "How bad?"

"Pretty bad," he admits, rubbing his hand like he's working out an ache.

"All right, sit tight.  Cas and I're going to the store to pick up the ingredients we need.  Call if you get any hits on Bella Styne."

You don't say anything right when Sam hangs up with Dean.  'Pretty bad,' by Winchester standards boggles the mind; you need a minute to put your racing thoughts in order.  Something's tickling at your awareness.  Like holding the last lens of a telescope in your hand and if you could only put it in the right place, everything will snap into focus.  "God damn it, what am I missing?" you mutter.

Sam looks up from checking the salt line by the door.  You hold up your hand, and Sam goes still.  "Peaches," you say.  "Why do I keep smelling peaches?"

"Smelling peaches or scenting peaches?" Sam asks.

You do a double-take, but force yourself to take his question seriously.  Because there's a difference, between smelling a fragrance in the air and scenting pheromones and drawing an association.  Dean and Sam both scent like apples to you -- Dean sweet like a baking pie and Sam tart like fresh off the branch -- because they're related and you associate apples with good things, homey things.  "Scenting them," you say, half to yourself.  "Like my mom's kitchen when dad was hauling fruit one summer.  The whole house stank like cooking peaches."

Sam's staring off into space, like he's struggling with his own focus.  "Yeah.  I thought I was crazy, but-- but I kept thinking I was scenting peaches because," he swallows, "because that's what Jess scented like to me.  Peaches and those animal crackers with the pink icing."

"Fiancée?" you ask.

"Not quite, but almost," he says, sadly.  "I was shopping for a ring when--" he clears his throat.  "When our Dad dropped off the map hunting Azazel, Dean came and got me to help find him.  It was the first time I'd seen him since I left for Stanford."

"Not exactly a happy family reunion I take it?"

Sam chuckles.  "Wrestled each other to a draw and spent five minutes watching him mentally undress my girlfriend.  I felt like I'd stepped into a time warp.  We trailed Dad to the case he was working when he disappeared and after we'd cleaned that up Dean dropped me back at our apartment.  If we'd gotten there an hour sooner, I could've saved her.

"The place smelled like cookies.  I remember . . . I was tired and head-to-toe bruises but . . . it felt really good, seeing Dean again.  Even working together again.  I mean, I was thinking that maybe things were going to be okay."  Sam needs a minute and you give it to him.  This is something you need to know.  "I remember laying down, and something dribbled onto my face.  I opened my eyes, and there she was.  Pinned to the ceiling with her stomach split open.  Her blood was raining down on me.  Fire just exploded out of her.  I-- I have no idea how but if Dean hadn't been right there-- my clothes were smoldering when he dragged me out."

You get up and cross the room to him.  Sam stiffens when you wrap him in your arms.  "I'm sorry."

"You wanna know something?" Sam asks you, pulling up a chair.  You sit on top of the table.  "When Cas found us, while you were out?  I don't know what Dean's trip was like, but-- but mine was like this whole alternate history.  Jess and me were married, Jess was finishing her residency.  I had a good job, and-- and we just found out Jess was pregnant.  I wanted Dean to know.  More to rub his face in it, I guess," he says, his lips twisting in one of his cheer-free smiles.  "It took me weeks, running all of his and Dad's old aliases, before I gave up and called Bobby.

"Bobby didn't take my call.  He just hung up.  The next day I got a text from an unknown number.  Burner phone.  It was a picture of a newspaper clipping.  Dean's mug shot, and an announcement that the cops in Detroit found him at the Detroit Salt Works.  Shot in the head."

"Oh God," you whisper.

"That wasn't even the worst part," Sam says, not looking at you.  "The clipping was a good five years old."

You go rigid.  The obituary tucked into your battered file folder, in the locked drawer of your desk back at the bunker.

"I mean, I tell myself no, there's no way that would've happened, that I didn't throw Dean out of my life that much, when I went to school.  But-- but-- I never called him.  Not once.  Dean called me, I found his number in my call history a few times.  But even that stopped after my sophomore year.  And-- and he doesn't talk much about when he was Hunting alone, but you've been there, you know how that gets after a while."

"It drives you crazy," you say.  "Big difference between being alone because you want to be alone and being alone because you don't think you're welcome anywhere."

Sam looks at you like you're Moses delivering wisdom from on high.  "Yeah."  Another one of those humor-free chuckles.  "Doesn't make me feel better."

You think a moment.  "Sam you were a kid.  Nobody's perfect and don't you dare tell Dean I said this, but from what little I know of him your Dad made a lot of bad judgment calls when it came to you and Dean."

"I get most of them now."

"Like I told you the other day," you say, "that doesn't mean you give up the right to be mad about what got lost.  It was on your dad to be enough of a man to put you and Dean first.  No matter what, because that's what you do when you have pups."

"By that standard," Sam says, "Dean was more of a man when he was six than Dad ever was."

Aware that the ground is shifting and sliding under your feet, you squeeze Sam's shoulder.  "Want some coffee?"

Sam laughs, a real one this time.  "I think if I have any more caffeine my nerves will leap out of my body.  I'm good."

"Okay.  When that happens," you rifle through the grocery bags and pull out your secret winter weapon-- hot apple cider mix.  "Hit this with some extra cinnamon.  I don't know about you but my blood sugar's in the deep freeze."

"Not a bad idea," Sam says.   As he gets to his feet he knocks over a stack of file folders and a pad of paper flops out.

Your heart stops.  You know that pad of paper.

Cussing, Sam bends to pick up the mess.  Moving like you're underwater, you squat and separate that pad of paper from the main bulk.  Copy-proof paper, dented with traces of a ballpoint pen.  If you shut your eyes you can see the gold stick held in between long fingers, writing endless prescriptions for endless drugs and endless supplies.

Sam sets the files back on the table.  He spies you still hunkered down, and shaking.  "What?"

You hold up Dr. Jon Dykstra's prescription pad.

---

"This is Dean's other, other cell, so you must know what to do."

"Dean call me.  Right now," you say, sticking your phone in your pocket.  You and Sam are moving through the parking lot of the Quality Farm and Fleet about half a mile from the motel.  Sam picks out an obnoxiously clean Grand Cherokee, pulls the alarm wires, and off you go.

Your phone rings as you hit the highway.  "What?  What's going on?"

"When we were going through the records we pulled out of Darlene Styne's place we found Dr. Jon's prescription pad," you explain.

"That's impossible.  I would have sensed if he was possessed," Castiel says.

"You said Lythalia's a master of illusion.  What if she can cloak herself, even from angel senses?" Sam says.

"Cas?" Dean prompts when Cas doesn't answer.

"It's not impossible," Cas admits.  "We never fully understood the range of Alastair's power and Lythalia's even more of an enigma than he was."

"I'm texting you an address," you say  "Meet us there."

"Understood," Castiel says.  "If you get there first do not engage.  Alastair couldn't be killed with the demon knife--"

"We're not killing Dr. Jon," you say.

"Dr. Jon's already dead!" Dean says, with that clench to his voice means he's fighting to keep traction-- his Baby's a handful on snowy roads.  "Any demon'd just tear him apart while you watch--"

"That's not why," you say, biting the words off like they taste nasty.  "I've been seen with him within the last few days.  Dr. Jon's not some drunk in a bar skipping out on back alimony.  He teaches at Ohio State, he gives lectures, he's got patients.  He disappears, people will notice, and my happy fat ass will be the first name on any suspect list.  And if the cops find me, they find you."  And if a demon's possessing Dr. Jon, it means they have access to your real identity, including your family’s names and locations.  So far that includes your dad, four sisters, three brothers-in-law, six nieces, a nephew with a Caf-Pow addiction, and your youngest sister's fiancée-- and all that is just the immediate family.  "Cas, is smiting an option?"

"Problematic," he says.  "If Lythalia's abilities are in any way comparable to Alastair's or Lilith's, she can burn me out of my vessel."

"All right, last resort."  You cuss as you look up and realize you missed the exit.  "Do we know if a straight-up exorcism will work?"

"The Rituae Romanum?  I don't know.  It didn't work on Lilith," Dean says.

"We usually use the shortened version," Sam says.  "The full rite calls for," he tics his fingers as he counts off, "a rosary, holy water, a Bible--"

"Yeah we got all that in the trunk."

"Make Baby dance, Dean," you tell him.

"Will do."

---

The lights are on inside the tasteful brick two-story set back from the road in the middle of a stand of oak trees.  The driveway's flanked by a couple of old-style lamps lit with yellow incandescent bulbs.  You remember Dr. Jon telling you once that his botanist wife grew roses.  "Her roses win prizes.  They don't dare not."

"There's a garage," you report, sweeping the property with your binoculars.  "We can paint devil's traps in front of the front and side doors.  I checked and Dr. Jon's making hospital rounds.  We've still got time before he gets home.”

Sam starts to nod but cuts himself off when a little roadster pulls into the driveway.  From the silhouette, you’re guessing Missus Dr. Jon.  “Dammit!” he hisses.  “Now what do we do?”

“We need to intercept Dr. Jon before he gets inside.  The last thing we need is a hostage situation.”

“Yeah.  Agreed,” Sam says, opening his door.  “Grab the spray paint.”

The Dykstras’ driveway’s been plowed to the bare asphalt.  You and Sam paint a trap just up the drive.  “You sure this’ll work when Dr. Jon’s driving?” you ask.

“No, but I don’t have a better idea,” Sam admits.  He tests the paint with his finger.  “Dry.”

You blow your breath out in a white cloud, slide your hands up your head.  The pragmatic Hunter’s not coming to the fore like she needs to.  If the worst happens . . . Lythalia can’t be allowed loose.

Your phone rings.  “Yeah where are you?”

“You’re not gonna believe this,” Dean says as Sam comes up next to you.  “There’s an overturned salt truck up ahead.  I have no idea how long it’s gonna take to clean up.”

“Salt truck?  Huh,” Sam says.  “Ironic if you think about it.”

“Hilarious.  Look, plan’s still the plan.  Lock the bitch down and wait for us,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” you agree.

“I mean it,” Dean says.  “Nothing stupid.  Either of you.”

You look up when lights flicker up the road.  “Just get here.”  You hang up as you take cover with Sam behind a tree.

A silver Lexus slows and turns up the driveway.  As the driver’s side sweeps into the trap, you burst from cover waving your arms.  “Stop!  Stop!”

The car jerks to a stop.  Dr. Jon, wide-eyed, shows his bare hands.  “Get out of the car!” Sam barks, pulling his pistol.  “Nice and slow!”

“Okay!  Okay!  Cooperating!  Keep the car!  My wallet’s in my--” Dr. Jon’s eyes pop wide.  “What in the name of Barishnikov’s toe shoes are you doing here?”

“Just stay put and do not speak,” you say.  “Dr. Jon, if you can hear me, hang on.  Help’s coming.”

“My God you really are insane,” Dr. Jon sighs.  “Look, it’s not too late.”  He reaches for you.  “I can take--”

Sam grunts and Dr. Jon freezes.  “Not another word.  We’re just gonna stay cool--"

Lights hung in the trees snap on.  “NANDITA HIDE IN THE BASEMENT AND CALL 911!!!” shrieks Dr. Jon.

“Jonny!” screams a woman’s voice.  Ignoring your shout to stay inside, Mrs. Dykstra dashes out into the yard.  She sees Sam holding Dr. Jon at gunpoint and screams, covering her face with her hands.

“Mrs. Dykstra go back inside,” you say.  “We have the situation under control.”

“Don’t you hurt my husband.  Please.  We-- we have money, anything you want, just don’t, please,” she starts to cry.

Crying his wife’s name Dr. Jon lunges.

“Don’t move!” Sam yells but he’s too late.  Dr. Jon catches Mrs. Dykstra just as her legs fail.

“Get away from her!” you snap, getting out your flask of holy water.  Sam’s eyes pop wide and he says your name.  "I said," you snarl, uncapping the flask, "get AWAY from her!!!"  You fling the water and Dr. Jon cries out.  Steam rises and something sizzles.  "Run!" you bark at Mrs. Dykstra.  She stumbles to her feet--

Sam grabs your arm as you go for your pistol, a knife, something, anything.  "Look!" he snaps.  "His skin's not burning!  Look!"  He shakes your wrist and more holy water lands on Dr. Jon's face.  "He's not possessed.  It's not him."

"What?  Of course I'm not possessed!  You people are fucking crazy!" Dr. Jon says, going for his pocket and pulling out a phone.

You slap it out of his hand, your mind doing the pinball machine TILT thing.  "What the fuck?" you ask Sam.

He holds up a hand.  "Okay, everybody calm down a second.  What's the last thing you remember?" he asks Dr. Jon.

"What are you talking about?" Dr. Jon asks.

"Answer the question," you tell him, feeling yourself taking hold.  Because something made your holy water sizzle and it wasn't the snow.

"I remember you throwing water on me after trying to jack my car," Dr. Jon says.

"Christo," Sam says.  No reaction.  "It's not him."

"Wait," you say, because you just got one mother of a bad idea.  Sam gets it too, and you both turn to look at the terrified Mrs. Dykstra.

"You stay away from her," Dr. Jon says.

You shake your flask.  "I'm empty," you tell Sam.

"Jonny help!" Mrs. Dykstra shouts as Sam goes for his flask.  Snarling, Dr. Jon lunges for Sam and you go for Dr. Jon.  The three of you go down in a heap of thrashing limbs.

"Look!" you snap, grabbing Dr. Jon by the cheeks and forcing his gaze up to his wife.  "Christus miseracoriae!" and Mrs. Dyskra flinches, her eyes going to the solid whites.  Dr. Jon freezes.  Sam wrenches his arm free and the splash of holy water from his flask sears into Mrs. Dykstra's face.

Mrs. Dykstra straightens up.  No fear, no tears.  "That's twice," she says.  "They really do get smarter as they get older."

"Let her go you whore," you snarl, and stars explode across your vision as Dr. Jon decks you.  You fight free as Mrs. Dykstra turns a neat pivot and strolls back to the house.  Sam's yell for you to wait goes in one ear and out the other.

---

You realize your mistake when you open the door on the Dykstra's tasteful home and cross the threshold of the big distempered farmhouse where your dad went to go drink with his friends.  Your older cousins would come over and the bunch of you would try and find whatever fun you could in five acres of fallow farmland and empty barn, as your dads drank beer and told ethnic jokes.  "If you're gonna fuck with my head,” you say as you creep through the entryway, “maybe pick something a little less obvious.”

"What're you talking about?"

You breathe a sigh of relief when you see it's Dean.  "Christo."

He pulls aside his T-shirt collar and shows the tattoo.  "All me in here.  Wanna tell me where we are?"

"My Uncle Wes's place," you say.  "Dad used to come here to get drunk on the weekends."

“My kinda guy.”

“Good God I hope not,” you say.  "Where's Sam and Cas?"

"Back door.  They'll meet us inside."

You nod, your head full of the smells of elderly beer and rotting wallpaper and cigarette smoke.  Oh Christ, you'd forgotten that stink.  You'd give anything to put your face against Dean's neck and just breathe, let his Alpha scent clear your head.  "If dad had a scent this is what he'd smell like," you mutter to yourself.

"Scent," Dean mutters.  The next thing you know your arm's twisting in a very counterintuitive direction.  "Who are you?" he snarls at you.  "Answer me!"

Crying out, you ragdoll.  Dean's not falling for it-- why would he?  Even when he's not trying to, he's watching you.  Cataloging you.  A part of Dean's brain is stuck in threat assessment mode even with people he trusts.  Because you never know when evil picks faces you love.  "Dean scent me!  It's me!  Please!"

Your shoulder joint fails and you gray out.  When you come to, you're on the floor.  Your left side's one big wail of pain.  You test your shoulder, gritting your teeth hard enough to crack something.  Strained, badly, but not dislocated or broken.

"Baby?  Oh my God-- are you okay?" Dean's here, and his touch is gentle.  "Answer me.  Talk to me."

"It's not bad," you wheeze.  "The demon-- it's riding Mrs. Dykstra."

Dean nods as he helps you to your feet.  "Why the hell didn't you wait for me?”  He seizes your face and gives you a brief, hard kiss.  "Come on, we gotta get outta here."

"What?  What if the bitch smokes out?  We're gonna be looking over our shoulders until Judgement Day or thereabouts!" you stutter as Dean drags you . . . somewhere, not towards the door.  "Let go!  You're going the wrong--"

"Shut up," Dean snarls and your mouth snaps shut.  He opens a door and--

"No."  In the real world, that door led to a ground floor bedroom with a set of bunk beds and a crib.  You remember waking up on an air mattress thrown on the floor more than once, when dad got too bombed to drive and you'd have to overnight.  The furniture is gone; instead, there's a metal bed frame stood on end in the middle of the floor.  Handcuffs dangle from the corners.  There's blood everywhere, puddled on the floor, splattered on the walls.  There's a rolling cart, instruments neatly lined up and ready for use-- pliers, forceps, a speculum, syringes, hoses.

"Are we prepared?"  The hands trapping you aren't Dean's any more; they're Peg's.  Dean's standing over the instrument cart, and looking at you with eyes gone terrifyingly blank.  No evil, no pleasure, no feeling.

"Yeah.  Bring her here.  Let's get started."

You fight every inch of the way but Peg knows you, knows your every move and trick.  Wrangling subjects -- never people, always subjects -- in for questioning is what she does, and she is very good at her job.  The handcuffs ratchet closed around your wrists.  "Dean!  Dean, listen to me!  This isn't real!  Peg died when her appendix burst!"

Peg buries her fist in your side, just under the ribcage.  Pain explodes throughout your body.  Aim for the kidneys, not the balls, you remember Peg lecturing.  The kidneys are harder to protect, no?  You cough and gag and try your damndest not to start crying.  Then Dean turns and oh God, the nothing in his eyes.  "Not real.  This isn't real."

"Not real," says a new voice, and Mrs. Jon walks in, "but completely true."  She steps up to Dean's side and takes his arm.  A light grip, a lover's caress.  You growl and bare your fangs, and Mrs. Jon -- Lythalia -- smiles.  "The Righteous Man lives for torment.  His own, and others'.  Such a vulnerable soul, yet such a deep capacity for pain.  And your mentor, well," the demon's smile deepens, "you only know a fraction of what she's capable of.  My brother would have enjoyed her."

"What do you want from me?" you demand, pulling at the handcuffs until you can feel them biting into the tender skin of your wrists.

"Who says I want anything?" she counters.  "I don't particularly enjoy being incarnate.  Corporeal.  Bodies are so . . . demanding.  But then the Styne whore called begging for help to-- what was the word she used?-- annihilate the Winchester brothers.  She begged so sweetly, I just couldn't say no.  And when I found out that you were slutting it with this fine specimen," she runs her fingers up into Dean's hair, "well, that's just delicious."

Dean picks a scalpel up off the table.  He cuts the collar of your shirt and uses his hands to rip it down the middle.  All the little tricks Peg taught you go by the boards and you shut your eyes tight like a little kid trying to unsee a horror movie.  Dean's hand palms your jawbone, slips up the back of your head.  You can't escape.  Dean's your safe place and if he's there with a knife that's tasted your blood safety has no meaning any more.

"Monsters are outside of mercy," Peg says.

We are not the same as the things that we hunt, that same voice speaks in your memory.  The Second Commandment, right behind Christ's order to love one another.  We are not the same, and must fight, every minute of every day, to never become so.

You open your eyes.  "Dean listen.  Listen to me.  This isn't you."

"Of course it is," Lythalia says.  "One doesn't warrant my brother's special attention if one doesn't have a genuine feel for the work."  She traces the back of a knuckle under Dean's jawbone.  "My brother knew genius when he saw it."  More caresses.  "He's ours.  He's always been ours."

"Bullshit," you refute flatly.  Illusions, temptations.  You won't give in.  You refuse. 

"It's the truth.  Oh, he turns his monstrousness back on his own kind, but underneath?  He is nothing but a bringer of pain.  He turns everything he touches into meat and raw nerves."

"Bull.  Shit," you repeat.  It takes a lot out of you, but you meet Dean's eyes.  Force yourself to confront the nothing in them.  You know that nothing, it's the place you have to go to get the job done when the job scrapes against your basic sense of decency.  And in Dean's eyes it scares the living hell out of you.

Scares.  "It's not real," you tell yourself.  "It's just shit I'm scared of."  You start shaking as more of your clothes are cut away.  "Not real.  Not real.  It's not real!" you scream, slamming your eyes back shut.

"Open your eyes or I'll cut your eyelids off."  Not Dean's voice.  Yours.

Somehow you're dressed and free and holding your pocketknife.  The instrument tray's been replaced by a simple sewing kit, one with a faint maroon smear staining the nylon lining.  There's blood on the blade, blood on the floor, blood on your clothes.  You said that.  You did this.  The body hanging from the handcuffs is small, so small.  It's barely recognizable as human.

A shrill scream pierces straight through your head.  You pivot, bringing the knife up by reflex.  It's your oldest little sister Amanda.  You haven't talked to her in person in years.  She hasn't spoken to you since--  Her face is chalk white and stretched wide in shock and she's clawing at her face like she wants to dig her eyes out.  "Mandy--"

"Stay away," she says, shaky, and the wound on your heart cut when you had to leave home starts to bleed.  You and Mandy were tight as . . . as . . . almost as tight as Dean and Sam are.  Mandy was one of the things that kept you sane, those black years after your Presentment.

"Filthy breedwhore."  Dad's eyes are full of horror and disgust as he pulls Mandy close, lets her hide her face in his chest.  That chest meant safety to you too, once.  "You slut yourself for monsters, you cut up little girls.  Too bad I know your mother doesn't have an unfaithful bone in her body.  I wish to God you weren't mine but it's too damn obvious to anybody with eyes."

Rage flares up and you grab onto it like a lifeline.  "Fuck you bitch."  You drop your knife.  "This shit ain't nothing dad hasn't said to me before.  I ain't playing."

"You look at me when I'm talking TO YOU!!!"  Monsters and demons might as well exist, in a world that allows this.

From the deep recesses of your mind, something bubbles up.  Worth a try. "Da upreknet tebya Gospod satana-- Tot, Kto vo slave voznessya na nebesa k Ottsu Svoyemu, vossedaya--"

A harsh bark of laughter interrupts your recitation.  "You really think that weaksauce prayer's gonna send me packing?  Me?"  You open your eyes and the dilapidated farmhouse is gone, the improvised rack is gone, your father and sister are gone.  You're in an elegantly furnished sitting room, with a small fire burning in the fireplace.  The air reeks of Hell stink and peaches.

“Dr. Jon never mentioned his wife was an Omega,” you say.  “That’s why I kept scenting peaches isn’t it?  That’s why he specialized in secondary sexes?”

“It tears him apart to watch his wife go through her heats.  Knowing he can’t satisfy her the way an Alpha can.  He lives in fear of the day she meets her true mate.”  Lythalia smiles with Mrs. Dykstra’s face, wide and toothy.  “They both do.”  Lythalia closes Mrs. Dykstra's eyes, inhaling like she's taking in the aromas of a glass of wine, or savoring the scent of a lover.  "She goes to Chicago every few months, because there's an Alpha escort she pays to knot her.  She stares at a picture of her husband the whole time."

“Why doesn’t she just get a hysterectomy?” you ask.  You see something moving, through the archway into the foyer-- it's Sam, Dr. Jon close on his heels.  Keep her talking, buy some time so’s they can trap the bitch.  “I mean, Mrs. Jon can’t be more than a few years from menopause.”

“Exactly.  They’re waiting it out, hoping their marriage doesn’t die first.  It’s so sad.  Knowing for a fact the person you love more than anything in the world has a priority other than you.”

You give her a look.  "If this is you telling me Dean’d pick Sam over me every time, that’s not news to me."

"And that doesn't bother you?  It doesn't make you insane, knowing your soul's chained to a man who considers you disposable?"

"Of course it fucking bothers me-- what kind of a question is that?"  Come on guys, you think to yourself and hope like hell Lythalia's magic powers don't include mindreading.  "The good stuff outweighs the bad."

"Oh darling," Lythalia sighs.  "You only think that because you have no idea how bad the bad stuff truly is."

"Isn't that what that little demonstration was supposed to show me?" you ask.  "You can't expect me to get horrified that someone being tortured in Hell turned into something dark.  That's what Hell is for.  Dean put himself back together from that, and there's nothing you can say that'll convince me otherwise."

"My dear sweetness," Lythalia says, "you only think he did."  She makes a sweeping gesture and you and Sam both go flying.  You slam into a bookcase and knock your head, hard enough to make bells ring.

"Hi Sam," you say.

"Hi," he greets you back.  "Why the hell did you run in without me?"

"Oh, you know me-- Miss Adrenaline Junky," you snark.

"Sam knows a little better, what his Righteous brother became," Lythalia goes on.  " Dean fought so haaaard when that angel came to drag him away, when I heard he gave Michael the finger I hoped he wasn't putting all that God-given talent to waste.  But then I get topside and what do I fucking find?"  The cheer slips out of the thing's expression and out of nowhere she swings a fist and shatters a delicate wood carving of the three Graces dancing in a ring.  "He's gone SOFT!"  She waves and you double over as that invisible chopping hand clotheslines you through the middle.  All the tender parts below your ribs bruise and tear.  "He meets you and all of a sudden he's Mister Happy Alpha handing his balls over to you in a little jade box!"

You choke out a laugh.  "I don't got Dean by those or anything else.  Sam might, I don't."

Sam gives you a look.  "You're gross, you know that?"

Howling at you to shut up, the demon puts her hands together and whips her arms wide.  You take off one way, Sam takes off another.  As you shake the stars out of your vision, you see Sam squashed flat against the wall, the bones in his left arm bending to just the point of break.  Sam's white as a sheet but his eyes are clear and sane and very fixedly not looking at you.

You glance over to Dr. Jon but he's gone.  Probably hiding somewhere.  That's good, if things go bad he shouldn't have to have a front row seat to his wife dying.  Unfortunately your eyeballs are the only thing on you that move.  The demon's got you cold even if it's not paying attention right this second.  It's thinking out loud, musing on how it's going to make Dean maim and kill you both.  Not that he's ever going to get the chance.  You'll kill yourself before putting Dean through that.  Shit way to go but it's not like there's many good--

You gasp as the hold on your body vanishes.  The demon cries out.  Steam rises from Mrs. Jon's body, you can see the bare skin of her midriff starting to blister as Dr. Jon lashes out with a rosary like some kind of half-assed whip.  "Get out of my wife!"

"Wife?"  Lythalia cackles in delight and Dr. Jon's eyes bug out and go blank.  "See what she really does in the dark.  Don't take it so hard, Doctor.  You can't satisfy an Omega because it's not in their nature to ever be satisfied."

"Exorciamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas omnis incurso infernalis adversarii," you chant.  Sam picks up your thread and gets out his flask, throwing holy water all over the place.  Lythalia sneers and Dr. Jon cries out, awareness returning to his eyes.  "Omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.  Ergo, omnis legio diabolica--" Mrs. Jon's possessed face twists, "adiuramus te, cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae perditionìs venenum propinare."

Snarling, Lythalia raises Mrs. Jon's hand and clenches her fist.  You drop to your knees, blood bursting from your mouth.

Sam picks up the verse, "Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis."

"Chant in all the languages you want," Lythalia grins with all the cheer of a feeding shark, "I'm not going anywhere."  Her fingers twist into a claw and Sam cries out.

"Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge," your jaw drops as Dr. Jon reads from a notebook, reciting the rite in painstakingly pronounced Latin, "invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt."

Lythalia jerks Mrs. Jon's body and Dr. Jon screams his wife's name.  "This isn't over!" the demon shrieks.  "He's coming and when he does we will watch you all burn!"

"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine."  You speak the last phrases with a tongue that feels like lead between your teeth.  Your throat is full of slimy blood.  "Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire," you have to cough the last couple of phrases, "te rogamus, audi nos."

With a long, throat-shredding howl Lythalia pours out through Mrs. Dykstra's mouth and sinks through the floorboards.  Mrs. Dykstra collapses like a marionette with cut strings.  The strength falls out of your body and you collapse.

Next thing you know, Sam's gently touching your back.  "Hey, hey hey-hey-hey-hey-hey-hey.  Are you okay?"

"Nandita?"  Dr. Jon hasn't taken any notice of either of you.  Every atom of his attention's focused on his wife.  Slowly, he kneels by her side.  She's breathing, but that in and of itself doesn't mean anything.  Demons can do pretty much anything to their hosts during a possession.  You saw one once that got off on causing pinprick strokelets and leaving their victims in permanent comas.  "Honey?  Talk to me."

"Jonny?"  Her eyes flutter open, awake and aware.  "Where am I?  Why do I hurt so bad?  Why am I so hungry?  What's going on?  Who are these people?"

"It's okay, you're all right," Dr. Jon says, pulling her close and kissing every part of her he can reach.

Sam -- bless him and his beautifully conditioned hair -- clears his throat.  "Eagle Eye Security, ma'am.  You had a break-in."

Dr. Jon gives you a gape-mouthed look; you give him a glare back and hope he has enough sense to defer to the professionals.  "If you'll excuse us--"

"Of course, of course.  Thank you."  He waves you aside and his arms tighten around his wife, speaking softly into her ear.

Sam pulls you to your feet and you groan.  Everything from the breastbone down hurts.  The strength you need to pull your legs straight, support your weight, balance into walking-- it's not there.  "Sam?" you say as sensation does something fucked up under your skin.

Sam looks down at you.  Shock drops his face a foot.  "You're bleeding."

"Don't feel good," you mumble.  It's getting hard to breathe, like your lungs are shrinking.  Numbness rises through you like freezing water.  Somehow you're horizontal, Sam's big hand supporting your head as he lays you down on a table.  There's an awful lot of yelling, you think, it's getting hard to hear.  You scream when hard hands palpate your abdomen, it hurts.

"You got a knife?  Gimme your knife!  NOW, goddammit!"

---

It's cool in Dean's room but warm under the blankets.  You're drifting in the peaceful place, not quite awake but not really asleep.  One or the other of you forgot to set the alarm.  You'll have to get up and face the day.  Eventually.  But not now.

Dean's barely awake too.  His fingertips follow the long lines of muscle down your back.  He makes an adorable sleepy little purr.  An animal nature doesn't always have to be a bad thing.  His heart thumps under your ear, slow and strong.  Alive.  For once, he's not running his everlasting mouth just to hear it go.  Warm and safe.  For just a few minutes, it's genuine peace.

---

Air shoves its way into your lungs and you convulse.  Your eyes fly open and holy shit when did light get this bright?

"It's okay, you're okay, holy hell," Dean's on one side and Cas is on the other, each with a hand under one shoulder helping you sit up.  "Deep and slow, baby, deep and slow."

"Fuck off," you cough.  On a neck that feels like a rusty hinge, you sweep the room and count noses.  Dr. Jon's pressed flat against the wall, and his hair is literally standing on end.  Mrs. Jon's on her knees, picking up debris from what looks like a first aid kit.  "Sam!  Where's Sam?  Is he okay?"

"Is he okay?" Sam squeaks from behind you.

You look down at yourself.  Your shirt's missing and there's blood all over the place.  "My blood.  That is a lot of my blood," you note.

"You were bleeding internally," Castiel reports.  "Dr. Dykstra was attempting to find and stop the source."

"Kiddo," Dr. Jon manages, peeling himself off the wall and trying to pull himself together, "your heart stopped.  Your big friend here was keeping my wife from calling 911 and yelling for Castiel.  He--" Dr. Jon's throat works on a gulp.  "He threw me halfway across the room, laid a hand on your chest, and bingo.  Incision gone."

"Oh my God," you manage.  For a moment you don't see anything, not your family's anxious faces, not the bloody rags and instruments.  Death was here, and turned away.

Dean pulls you back to Now with a rib-cracking embrace.  "What the hell happened?"

"Ruptured kidney," Dr. Jon says.  "The-- the demon that was possessing my wife, it--" Dr. Jon stutters on the T sound a moment, cuts himself off, takes a deep breath.  "Sorry."

"She must've torn a blood vessel while she was throwing us around.  You passed out and your blood pressure crashed," Sam finishes for him.

You try and take a breath and fold over on a fit of coughing.  "How long was I gone?"

"Two, maybe three minutes," Dr. Jon says.

"Not so far gone I couldn't bring you back," Castiel says.

"Can I go insane now?" Dr. Jon asks.  Very reasonably.

"Not unless I can come with you," Mrs. Jon says, her real voice low and lilting.  "And Crazy is somewhere warm."

---

"How long?" Dr. Jon asks, as he follows you all outside to where Dean parked the Chevy.

"How long what?"

"How long have you all been--"

"Hunting?  Since I was eighteen.  These two," you gesture to Sam and Dean, "since they were kids."

Dr. Jon pulls in a deep breath.  "I owe you an apology," he says, formally.  "I'm sorry.  I should've known better than to think you'd lie to me."

"It's okay," you accept the apology on everybody's behalf.  "The truth's a lot to take in."  You turn to Dean, who's obviously putting his rant away for later.  "Do we have any spare anti-possession charms in the trunk."

"Yeah, I think so."

"Well don't go and get 'em for me or nothing," you mutter when Dean doesn't move.  "Gimme the keys."  You snatch them out of Dean's hand when he digs them up and head for Baby's trunk.  They're in with the ritual supplies.

You can hear Dr. Jon's jaw drop when he catches sight of the arsenal.  "Jesus Henry Tudor King Of England Christ."

"You okay in there Doc?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," he says, taking another deep belly breath.

You find the little medallions.  "Here," you hand them to Dr. Jon.  "Wear these at all times."

He peers at the flaming pentagram etched into the gray metal.  "That's why you got a tattoo?  It keeps demons out?"

"Yeah.  Possession's something of an occupational hazard," you say, "especially hanging around this crew."

"Why?"

"That's a long story," Sam understates.

Dr. Jon looks between the boys, at Castiel.  "If you don't mind my asking, what's an angel doing hanging around regular human people?  And why do you look like my accountant's nerdy nephew?"

Cas looks down at himself, in his usual attire of navy suit and tan overcoat.  Come to think of it you've never seen him wearing anything else.  "Angels are incorporeal.  This," he pats down his tan overcoat, "is a vessel.  As to why I'm with Sam and Dean, they are my friends.  And we share a common duty."

"Duty?" Dr. Jon asks you.

This one, you know the answer to.  Cheesy as it sounds on the surface.  "I think I told you I wanted to join the service before I Presented Omega, right?"  Dr. Jon nods.  "I do this because people like you have a right to feel safe from the fucking uglies.  Because I don't want a world where everyone has to walk around armed to the teeth and throw holy water on their neighbors and stab them with silver to make sure their kids live long enough to have kids of their own."

"She's right," Dean says, and you don't realize how bad you needed to hear him say that until he does.  "I've seen a world like that, and it's not a world you or anybody would ever want to live in."

"Okay," Dr. Jon says.  He sticks out his hand.  "Jonathan Dykstra.  Pleasure to meet you."

You take it and shake, introducing yourself with a smile.  "These are my friends and business associates, Dean Winchester, his brother Sam," each brother shakes Dr. Jon's hand in turn, "and Castiel you know."

"Doctor," Cas nods.

"Look," you say, "do you have your phone?"

Dr. Jon gives you a dirty look.  "You broke it."

"Uh . . . oh yeah.  Got a piece of paper?"  Dr. Jon pulls out a memo pad and you start dictating.  "Emergencies only.  Most monsters react badly to exposure to silver, so it pays to keep a silver pen set handy," you say.  "Letter openers are a good cover too.  Tea sets, serving trays, stuff that's not out of place around the house or in the office.  Demons flinch when they're hit with holy water or they hear the name of Christ."

Dr. Jon snaps his fingers.  "That's why you kept yelling Christus miseracordiae."

"Yeah.  Christo works too," Sam says.  "I don't know about Eastern religions.  I don't know enough about Buddism to know if there's a blessing that'll make demons flinch the same way."  He makes one of his thoughtful faces.  "Might be worth finding out."

"With any luck," you say, "you'll never need to call us.  With anti-possession hardware you stop being targets for demons and monsters tend to go for easier targets of opportunity."

"My God," Dr. Jon says.  "How many monsters got written off as serial killers?"

"Well--" Sam begins, his eyes lighting up with somebody-shares-my-obsession glee.

"Not now Sam, I'm freezing my ass off out here," Dean complains.

"What, I'm just supposed to go to work tomorrow?  Like nothing's changed?" Dr. Jon asks.

"Yeah," you say, because some truths it doesn't pay to sugarcoat, "because nothing has."

---

Everybody's quiet in the car.  When you get back to the motel Dean doesn't get out.  Instead he says your name.  "Get up front.  We need to talk."

In other words, your ass-reaming was only deferred.  You settle into the warm hollow Sam's body left behind, as Sam and Cas disappear into the motel room.  They both give you concerned looks on the way.  You wave them on.  This ass-reaming is earned and you'll take it like a grownup.

Dean drives a ways away, takes an exit ramp, parks in the half-full parking lot of a Dunkin' Donuts.  He cuts the engine.  The ensuing silence is . . . uncomfortable.  Dean's handsome face looks like someone chopped it out of a rock.

"Please keep it short.  I'm exhausted and my blood sugar's bottoming out," you say.

"What do you want me to say?" Dean asks.

"That I was an idiot?  That I put your brother in danger?  That I went in without backup or countermeasures or common fucking sense and that's unacceptable?"

"It is."  Dean sighs.  His hands curl around Baby's steering wheel.  Like, you imagine, they want to curl around your stupid neck.  "What happened?  Walk me through it.  Like I'm five."

You walk him through it, up to when you realized who Lythalia was using as a host.  "I managed to get her to lay off the illusions when I spat some Russian prayers at her.  Sam and Dr. Jon were able to get the drop on her and read an exorcism.  She wasn't in a trap at the time though.  She might've smoked out on her own.  Current whereabouts unknown."

"Crowley might know."

"And what're the odds he'd be honest about something like that?"

"Crowley's a control freak.  He doesn't like it when demons are doing things he doesn't know about," Dean notes.

"You know him better than I do," you concede.

Dean doesn't reply.  He just keeps looking at you.

"This is the part where you say we can't work together if I'm gonna be so careless with your brother," you prompt, your heart breaking a little at the thought.

Dean's brows draw together.  "That's what you think this is about?"

"I'm not blind Winchester.  You and Sam are Us, everybody else is Them."

"That's not true."

"Course it is," you rebut.  "I was stupid and I put Sam in danger--"

"Stop."  Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.  "You think I don't think of you as family?  Yeah.  I'm pissed.  I'm pissed because you put yourself in a bad position.  You know better than that!  Goddammit, you almost fucking died!"

"Coming from you that's hilarious, Mister We Were Already Dead," you retort.  Maybe you're not as over that as you thought you were.

"That's not the same thing and you know it," Dean punts your attempted deflection aside.  "If I don't get to quit on you, you don't get to quit on me either."

"I made a mistake!  What do you want me to say, I'm sorry?"

"That'd be a start!" Dean snaps back.

"Fine!  I'm sorry!"

"All right!"  Dean takes a breath, takes hold.  "And as far as not being able to work together, that's crap.  You're one of the best in the game, which is why it frustrates me when you make dumbass mistakes."

"You're being suspiciously reasonable right now.  I expected an ass-reaming.  Hell I deserve an ass-reaming."

"I'm trying, okay?" Dean says.  "I'm your boyfriend not your boss."

"Not quite true," you say.  "This is you and Sam's rock'n'roll show, I'm just the flunky along for comic relief."

"Stop it."

"Yes sir."

"I mean it-- knock it off."  Dean pulls in a breath.  There are times when he's a neon sign, and there are times -- like right now -- when you'd have better luck reading the Sphynx.  "What did the demon show you?  Sam said when he got into the house you were screaming."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"She showed you me, didn't she?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

"Tough.  What did you see?"

An unamused little chuckle huffs out of you.  "You're a real fucking hypocrite sometimes you know that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, whenever I try to talk to you about what you might be thinking or feeling-- it's like talking to a wall.  But you get your undies in a twist whenever I tell you something's none of your fucking business."

"Oh for Christ's sake--"

"Sam said when we all passed out outside the funeral home he had a bad trip and saw you dead.  What did you see?"

"This conversation is over," Dean says.  He puts his hand on the Chevy's ignition.

"Come on Dean.  I'll tell if you will."

Dean doesn't say anything.  He doesn't move.  Outside, a snowplow scrapes along the frozen asphalt of the parking lot.  What time is it, for God's sake?  Dead ditch of night, when time doesn't matter and the only things awake are the shadow people and the things that feed on them.  As a Hunter, you know this time.  Dean does too.

A honk and you both startle.  It's a rent-a-cop in a battered Ford Focus, glaring at Baby like she offends him somehow.  Scowling, Dean starts the engine and drives.

---

"I found Bella Styne.  Live capture," Ketch's voice is coming from Sam's cell phone when you open the door to the motel room.  “So far she isn’t talking.”

“How did you find her?” Sam asks.

“A camera at a petrol station caught her refueling.  I caught up with her on the Interstate heading towards Chicago.  She’s on a flight to London along with two of our better agents.”

“Did you check and make sure she’s not possessed?” Dean asks.

“Do remember you’re dealing with a professional, Winchester.  Of course I did.”

“Awesome.”

“Thanks for calling to let us know,” Sam says.

“No trouble at’tall.  Well as it is hideously late and I have an after-action report to write, I really must say good night.  You’ll be mentioned in my report.”  The line clicks shut.

“Dick,” you say.

“He’s right about it being late,” Sam yawns.  “You wanna get a few hours shuteye before we hit the road?”

“Not really,” Dean says.  “I’m too wired to sleep and I wanna get the hell out of Columbus.  I think I hate Columbus now.”

“I second that,” you say.

“I’ll stay in the area,” Cas says.  “Someone should watch over the Dykstras, in case the demon returns.”

“Fuck,” you say.  “Near the end of the exorcism, Lythalia said, ‘He is coming.’  Do you think she meant the nephilim?”

“I’d say that’s a reasonable conclusion to jump to,” Sam says.  “Which means it’s a race.  To who finds her first-- us, Crowley--”

“Because he’s definitely in the hunt,” Dean says.

“--the angels, or Lythalia,” Sam sums it up.

“And that still begs the question of what do we do when we do find her,” you say, feeling that dread again.  “I mean, we’re talking about killing a pregnant woman.  Not even the lower animals do that.”

“That is not absolutely true,” Castiel says.

“My point stands.”

“We’ll worry about that once we find her,” is Dean’s final word on the subject.  “Pack us up.  We leave in fifteen.”

---

Once you get back to the bunker, you go through your post-case routine.  Unload and clean your weapons.  Take a shower.  Write the case up, describing the target and any facts and impressions.  File the report.  Ignore the way your hands are shaking as lack of sleep catches up.  Somehow process the fact that you fucking died.  Keep ignoring the shakes.  You can deal with the shakes on your own.  Next door you can hear music, with the faint crackle that says turntable.  One of the things you and Dean share; when in doubt, go for the Silver Bullet Band.

The bottom line is, as you stare at the bed you haven’t plucked up the wherewithal to turn down and get into, you can’t bear to be alone right now.  Not with an empty-eyed thing wearing Dean’s face waiting in your dreams, to finish what it started in that farmhouse.

Dean’s light is on and his door’s ajar.  He’s laying on his side, curled up a little like a kid.  He’s awake though, you can feel it when you slide behind him.  "You're a beautiful audience-- good night!" Seger yells from Cobo Arena in 1975 and the record player’s needle rises and hooks itself back on the stand.

That’s okay.  Better, actually.

“She did show me you,” you confess.  “I was handcuffed to an old bed frame, and you-- you were getting ready to cut me--" the shakes get worse, like an earthquake under your skin.  “I know, when you were in Hell, you tortured.  You came back from that, you made yourself whole again.  I know that.  So why can’t I stop shaking, shaking is weak, I am not fucking weak.”

“No.  You’re not.”  Without turning over, Dean says, “When the hellhounds came for me . . . time moves different in Alastair’s Keep.  He can make seconds feel like years.  He and his apprentices . . . they, they stretched me out, and cut.  Carved.  But I wouldn’t die.  I was already dead.  And Alastair-- he would tell me things.  About Bobby getting torn apart by demons.  About how Sam left the life and got married and was glad I was gone.  About how people we saved didn’t stay saved-- collateral damage’s a bitch, he kept saying.  And then when there was nothing left-- I’d be whole again.  No pain.  I’d be clean.  You know how awful it is when you can’t be clean?  I don’t mean like dirt, I mean-- I don’t know what I mean.

“Alastair would be there.  Sometimes he’d cut himself.  Pain fascinated him.”  Dean’s voice takes an odd lisp.  “’Very interesting, to feel the skin split from the inside.’  And he would tell me, that I could make it stop.  Any time I wanted to.  All I had to do was do to someone else, what he was doing to me.  Thirty years, I told him to shove that razor of his up his ass.  Thirty.  Years.  Then,” he says your name, the rasp in his voice so deep it sounds like his throat’s been packed with rocks, “I just couldn’t take it any more.  I broke.  Like a piece of shit glass.  I picked up the knife.  And I used it.  And I liked it.  It felt good.  I’ll never forget it, and God knows I’ve tried.

“At first I could rationalize.  Almost.  Say to myself, ‘Hey, these are damned souls.  They deserve to be here.’  But then Alastair started giving me people who’d sold their souls for other reasons.  Like this one dude, his Omega was gonna die from pregnancy complications.  So he sold his soul, saved his life and the litter he was carrying.  Three healthy pups.  Alastair slid right up next to me and said, ‘He left his mate, and their seven little pups, alone.  In a world that’s . . . unkind to widowed Omegas.  They live in squalor, and neglect.’

“I don’t remember what I did after that.  I just remember . . . I cried, when it was over.  Alastair, he fucking held me.  He just held me, like I was a baby.  Comforted me.  And . . . and, I’m sorry, I can’t--”

“Dean.”  You come up close but you don’t touch him.  Instead, you reach around his head, offering your wrist to scent.  Dean takes a deep breath, you can feel the wind of it.  “Come back.  You’re not there any more.  You’re here, with me.  It’s safe here.  It’s okay.  Come back to me.”

Dean doesn’t turn over.  But he does take your hand.  Soft lips kiss your wrist.  The shakes start to ease.  For a long moment, all is quiet.  Then out of nowhere, he asks, "You tracked me down when I was a demon didn't you?  I remember seeing you a couple of days before Sammy caught up to me."

"Yeah," you say.  "I didn't believe what I was seeing.  I mean, yeah, you looked like you but you didn't smell like you.  Like, at all.  I called Sam and he clued me into what was going on and told me he had it handled."  And like an idiot you'd believed him.  The next day, Dean was gone and by the time you heard the news Sam had him cured you'd been somewhere very much else.

"When Sam and I were tripping, I saw myself . . . what I might've done to you if you'd tried to take me down.  Thank God you didn't.  Because--" you hear him choke up.

"Stop," you say.  "You weren't yourself then."

"I was though," Dean rebuts.  "I mean, that's what Allastair would've turned me into if Cas hadn't rescued me.  Why . . . why are you even here?  I mean, I shouldn't even be touching you."

"Shut the fuck up," you tell him, and Dean freezes.  "That.  Was.  Not.  You.  If it was," you say, "I wouldn't be here in the first place.  The thing that was, it wouldn't have cared what I wanted or how I felt.  It would've just broken down the door and took what it wanted, and I wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing about it."

"That's not the point," Dean says.  If there's one defining characteristic of your Alpha, it's his inability to give himself the benefit of the doubt when he feels truly at fault about something.  "I wanted to.  I wanted to-- you don't wanna know all the things I wanted to do."

"That is the point.  You didn't do them.  My mother told me once," you say, "there's our first impulse, then there's what we do.  What we do is where we reveal who we are, and you, the real you, always put me first."

Dean's fingers tighten in yours.  “Can-- can you just stay with me?  Tonight?  Just sleep next to me?  I’ll totally get it if you can’t.”

You close the distance and press against Dean’s back.  You press a kiss to the spot where his neck becomes his spine, take in his scent of leather and apples and chocolate fudge.  “Just try and kick me out, Alpha.”

"I'm such an idiot, you’re in shock, fuck,” Dean rolls over.  His eyes are tear-burned, so full of pain.  His hand cradles your face.  Dean has beautiful hands for a guy, strong, capable of such gentleness.  You’re safe, under those hands.  To your relief, that rock-solid conviction is unchanged.   Despite Lythalia’s mind-fuck, despite Dean’s long and dark history of violence.  If you died . . . you remember Cas telling you once, Heaven is a peaceful place created of a soul's most cherished memories.  Dean's your peaceful place.

You put your hands on his face and kiss him.  Deep and soft.

“Baby not tonight, I’m too tired,” Dean tries to pull away.

“Not sex,” you tell him.  “Just . . . pretend I’m a girly wimp for a while and hold me, okay?”

“Not a wimp.  You’re the farthest thing from a wimp I know,” Dean tells you, winding his arms around you.  The warmth of his body eases the last of the shakes and you finally fall asleep.  Later, when you start to dream, you can feel Dean’s there.  Protecting you, watching your back.  The image in your dreams has no power.  It slips away and you dream instead of lying on the beach next to Dean under a blazing summer sun.

---

AN2: Spanish, "Mommy please help me!"

Russian, "May the Lord rebuke you Satan, He who ascended in glory to Heaven to his Father, seated--"

[bemusedlybespectacled]

hi :) what are your favourite ofmd fanfics? i need recs

OH BOOOOY HOW MUCH TIME DO YOU HAVE

Okay, I am being careful here and only recommending completed fics – I do have some that are ongoing but I hesitate to rec anything that isn't finished. I'm also not giving all my bookmarked fics, just some of them, otherwise we'd be here all day. For all of these, I am going to stress that you should mind the tags for these fics because my tastes tend to run violent.

STEDDYHANDS - Stede/Ed/Izzy

A Pirate Triptych by ewelinakl: Hands down my favorite fic in this fandom, of all time, a fucking SAGA that's intricately plotted and emotional and SO WELL WRITTEN, FUCK.

Luck of the Devil by @itsclydebitches: A fic that was written in response to a prompt of mine on the kink meme (which was "we need more near-drowning whump this is a disgrace") and absolutely knocked it out of the fucking park. Actually, while we're at it, let's just say "anything of Clyde's is a fucking banger" and leave it at that.

Above All Else by kaelleid - Another fic for a prompt of mine (which was "have Izzy sacrifice himself, maybe an 'I'm Spartacus' thing?"), this one also fucking excellent.

x marks the spot by @second-hand-heaven: The fic that got me invested in this ship in the first place (it's Nova's fault that I am this unhinged) plus another fic that's more a prequel.

couldn't good be good enough? by RarePairFairy: This is the one fic I absolutely refuse to spoil because it took my breath away the first time and is still fucking sweet.

revolting displays of intimacy by givemebaretrees: This is another author where just everything they write is a fucking delight, but this one in particular is my favorite.

a little backup (in case the scene gets nasty) by oopshidaisy: They have a bunch of other fantastic work, but I like this one because it's self-contained and somehow both really romantic and tragic and fucking hilarious.

gimme gimme gimme (a man after midnight) by vvorm: Unhinged Stede meets fucked up masochistic Izzy and it's AMAZING.

wine-dark seas by Juniperly: Come for the Steddyhands, stay for Izzy getting in a very cathartic bar fight with Calico Jack.

BLACKBONNET - Stede/Ed

i don't know anything (but i know i miss you) by @andillwriteyouatragedy: Made me cry actual literal tears, even during rereads, and that is extremely rare for a fic. They're also just an excellent author and everything they post is brilliant, but I'm gonna give a second shout-out to through quaking, through crazy because 1) unhinged Stede gives me life and 2) it somehow manages to have the OT3 without actually having it.

O happy living things by tiptory: I think this might be the first fic I ever read in this fandom, period, but even if it's not, it's really, really good. Love me that anxiety shit.

OTHER SHIPS

sacrament that should be taken kneeling by holograms: It's Stede/Lucius, and I'd go so far as to call it aro-allo in that they spend a lot of time developing the friendship between Stede and Lucius and then they have non-romantic sex and it's fascinating.

i'd talk with the devil but i wouldn't know what to say by anirondack: Ed/Izzy, but the main draw of it for me is the whole developing-Blackbeard-the-myth as backstory. It's AMAZING.

...yeah. I have a lot. And this isn't even all of them.

[urne-buriall]

Is there any chance we get a Dean /Cas Wedding in the

time is ours verse? 🥰

my real life attitude about marriage and weddings is lacklustre, but when it comes to Dean and Cas I just. yeah. those men WANT to be married to each other. and I want it for them. and I have made a habit of one or the other of them bringing it up in my fics because it deeply satisfies something in my hindbrain. in "young hearts" present-day Dean, after dating Cas for a week, tells Sam: “I’m gonna marry him. Proper.”

so while I never went so far as picturing a wedding, the desire is there for both Dean & Cas and Teen-Dean & Past-Cas. and weirdly I think each pair would want the other couple in attendance if it were at all possible. I like to imagine very time-confused family visits over the years, where Young Dean is an exhausted 27-year-old dad relieved to collapse into a folding camp chair at Jody's yearly barbeque while mid40s Dean and Cas bicker over whose turn it is to hold the baby.

so while I do see a wedding happening, twice, I don't know what they'd look like!

this is where I always say if you have ideas about how things would shake out, tell me in a message or tag me in a post because there are no wrong answers. it's all fair game and I'd be excited to hear

and, for some bonus content on this topic, a scene from Chester, California (World 2) on Wednesday, November 27, 2002:

backstory: Sam's brought Jessica to Dean's for Thanksgiving, but he left out an important detail about Dean's life-mate house-mate Cas.

Cas was outside in his garden, staking out his plot so that he could cover the plants and spare them from the frosty temperatures expected later that weekend.

Dean approached and stood at the edge of the garden for a moment. Cas continued his work.

“Can you pass me those two stakes?” Cas said, first to break the silence.

Dean picked up the stakes, stepped carefully between the rows of the garden, and handed them over. Cas’ fingers traced against the edge of his hand as he took them.

“Cas,” said Dean.

Cas looked over his shoulder, kneeling as he pressed one of the stakes securely into the ground. Anyone else might’ve needed a hammer to do it. “Yes?”

“Sam didn’t tell Jessica,” said Dean. “She doesn’t know we’re together.”

Cas tipped his head at an angle, like he didn’t see the problem yet. He likely cut through to the easiest solution. If Jess doesn’t know, then tell her. Dean sighed.

“He doesn’t know if she’ll be cool or not. And now they’re here, doesn’t seem like the time to spring it on her, I guess? Like it’d be unfair to her. Like it isn’t unfair to us.”

Cas pushed the second stake into the ground, then stood. “We don’t let her know we are romantic,” he stated, making sure he grasped what Dean wanted to say.

Dean nodded. He looked up from the ground to Cas, his green eyes clear as glass against the grey of the sky.

“Don’t look sad,” said Cas. “When you look sad I want to kiss you.”

Dean laughed, glancing away. “What about the rest of the time?” he said.

“Then, too,” said Cas.

Dean didn’t want to be made to smile, not when he was pissed, but Cas knew the trick of it.

“We pretend to be friends when we visit with Rick and Janice,” said Cas. “And with Corey, Kyle, and Brent. And in town, in public.”

“It’s different at our own house,” said Dean. “I wasn’t planning to be all over you in front of them, but I didn’t think we’d be keeping secret.”

“Future-Dean and Future-Cas didn’t have to hide,” said Cas. “When does that change?”

“I think we’ve got a long way to go,” said Dean. “Did you know gay marriage was legal where they were? I didn’t ask when it happened. I should’ve.”

“They weren’t so far in the future.”

“Far enough. Not all of us have your scale of time, Cas.”

“I don’t need to marry you,” said Cas.

“Oh,” said Dean. He looked down at the ground. It hurt, weirdly, even though Cas wouldn’t have intended it to sound like that. He tried to joke, “I see how it is. Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”

Cas frowned. He still had difficulty with metaphors. “I don’t need to marry you to understand how I love you,” he clarified, unsure if that agreed or disagreed with Dean’s abstraction about cows.

“I love you too, Cas,” said Dean, still looking at the leafy potato plants between them. “Course I do. Still wanna marry you, though.”

“What would it change?” Cas asked, sincerely.

Dean shook his head. “Nothin’. Only, it’s a nice thing to have.”

“You deserve to have nice things,” said Cas.

“So do you,” said Dean. “I’d be a real fucking good husband to you, Cas.”

“Is it… Do you think that if we married, we’d no longer have to pretend?” said Cas. “Is that it?”

“Maybe,” Dean said, gaze lifting but still not finding Cas, looking at the mountains around them like he was trying to stay detached. “Nobody can argue with you when you’re married by law, right? Nobody could tell you you’re wrong.”

It was a fantasy, but it wasn’t one that Cas would seek to shatter with practical commonsense.

“It would be an honour to marry you,” said Cas.

Dean folded his arms over his stomach, holding himself in tightly. “You know, sometimes it actually hurts to stay away from you?” he said. He looked over his shoulder at the house, where Jessica might not even be looking out. “I don’t know how I’m gonna make it.”

[kira-the-whump-enthusiast]

hey hi, no intentions to intrude but i saw you reblogged one of my posts tagging it as #oc isaac! I don't mean to be rude, but I'd like to hear about him, if you're willing to ramble (i like listening to people talk about their OCs). if not, then that's okay! have a nice day ☆

Holy shit. This isn't intruding at all holy shit I love talking about my OCs. Especially Isaac he's literally my favorite OCs. I'm literally so happy right now like this is hard to express in words. I am typing at the speed of light. I love asks about my OCs please everyone send me asks about my OCs.

Anyways! Ahem! A little bit of infodump on my favorite bastard!

Oh yeah. CW for like. Serial murder. Cannibalism. Torture. Failed executions. Solitary confinement. Starvation. Excessive amounts of suffering. So, so much trauma. That kind of stuff! There's probably more that I might be forgetting.

Longggg infodump under the readmore btw. If anyone reads it all I adore you also.

Here's some art of him! My friend made this for me <2

So, Isaac! He's like one of my favorite types of fictional character: unhinged arrogant men who are incredibly broken. Isaac has like two main motivations: he wants power and control, and he doesn't want to be hurt. And these are also very influenced by incredibly excessive amounts of hubris and anger.

A little bit of backstory: Isaac is an immortal shapeshifter, and he was born in like 1600s France (or the fantasy equivalent depending on the universe I put him into). He's transgender, which very much sucked for him in 1600s France, because 1. he was not allowed to live as his true gender and 2. people seen as women were not treated very nicely in 1600s France. Isaac was going to be married off to someone he didn't choose- so he ran away instead. And almost immediately afterwards he got into a duel and almost died. A last-minute deal with a deity saved his life, because he received his immortality and shapeshifting powers. The cost was that everyone he knew forgot about him- so he just went to the woods and lived there for like 150 years. Eventually he returned to society tho. However during that period of time in the woods, Isaac was completely isolated, and that warped his worldview very much. He thinks that he's above like all humans because of his powers. Combined with deep-seated resentment at humanity because of the restricted life he once led, Isaac decides to take it out on people by like. Murdering them. And then cannibalizing them afterwards. He looks down on people so much and he's desperate for a feeling of power and control, and murder and cannibalism gives him heaps of that. And then after like 50 years of that he gets caught. And his captors attempt to execute him, but it doesn't work since he's immortal. And they try everything. Hanging, beheading, drowning, immolation, garroting, just about everything. Isaac was alive and conscious for every one of them. So yeah, trauma! And eventually they decided to immure him (lock him in a cell, brick up the wall, and leave him to die), because he'd have to die eventually, right? Well, he didn't, and he spent about 200 years in a cell. A dark cell in a basement, with nobody else inside. His first escape attempts were futile, and eventually he lost the strength to even try escaping. Isaac may be immortal, but he still needs food and water to function normally. So it was just torture for him. He suffered even more knowing that he was there because he was subdued. Isaac knew that nobody would ever come to save him. He feels ashamed that he ever wanted someone to save him. Eventually he escapes because the prison above gets demolished. It takes him a while, but after finding food and water and getting to rest, Isaac does fully recover physically. His powers ensure that he'll never even have a scar. He returns to killing people anyways, because Isaac will never learn. Being left to rot in a basement cell changes him quite a bit, ofc! He's incredibly angry that he was bought so low, and he takes it out extra on people by committing more murder. And he's incredibly afraid of people and how they could hurt him now, although he'll never admit it. Isaac tries to pretend nothing ever happened to him, but he still sleeps with the lights on, and he hides food in his clothing, he's always eating or drinking something, and he flinches when someone gets too close to him. He's gone through so much shit, especially cuz of his own actions, but his pride prevents him from doing any self reflection, so he will keep digging his own grave further and further and further. Isaac does not have the ability to swallow his pride and reconsider what path he's taking, or seek help, and he doesn't try to be a better person cuz he doesn't think he needs to be.

And yeah! That's the Isaac infodump. It's just about every piece of information about regular Isaac. Should I reveal this in my writing instead of a tumblr ask? Probably. Will I post this anyways? Absolutely.