#papers everywhere. wall to wall reports and writings and his own ramblings

[whoredmode]

endlessly intrigued by what all troy ended up like. writing. when it came to the reports on the events in 2006.

like how many things did he rewrite or omit completely? when the SPD was moving buildings between 2006 and 2011, how many reports or files or profiles did he “accidentally” lose track of? what’s still in his possession? what did his investigative process look like? i did a whole comic about how i think he wrote anteros’ obituary and anteros finds it, but i’m so interested in what else he has. i just know he has an insanely messy home office. keeps it locked. surely that’s not a metaphor.

[mlovesstories]

Their Promise Part 2

Warnings: death, cheating, language, stupid people

Summary- Dean and YN get used to married life in the public eye, but John causes issues.  

Words: 2055

AN- Here is Part 2! 

Their Promise PART 1

Six Months Later

“I’m really trying here, Dean.” YN shrugged.  “It’s just hard adjusting to all of the rules and expectations.  I’m not used to this level of criticism, I guess?”

“I know it must be an adjustment.” He rolled over in bed and wrapped a strong arm around her.  

“Every time I go online, I ‘didn’t follow a royal rule’ or I am ‘not good enough’.” 

“Yeah.  What we do is posted everywhere, and there isn’t anything we can do, unfortunately.  I hear what you’re saying.” Dean kissed the back of her neck. 

“People are just mean.”

“What do you say we go to the farm this weekend? We don’t have any engagements.” 

“Oh, that would be great.  I haven’t been there yet!” 

“It’s one of my favorite vacation places we can go without security everywhere.” 

“Thank you, Prince Dean,” she turned and smiled before kissing him on the lips. 

“You’re welcome, Princess YN,” he grinned.  

“This place is beautiful!” YN grinned as Benny pulled up the driveway.  

“We used to come up here all the time.  I can’t wait to show you around.” Dean took her hand and exited the SUV.  Charlie walked ahead of them and unlocked the door.  Benny followed behind with their bags.  

“The house is so pretty.” YN watched Dean’s smile grow as they entered.  “Did your mom design it?” 

“How did you know?” 

“The look on your face.  And it looks like her from what you’ve told me.”  

YN was looking for an electrical plug next to the bed.  She maneuvered the side table away from the wall.  She saw a piece of paper on the floor.  YN picked it up and turned it over.

“Dean, I found a love letter!” YN exclaimed.  “It’s from your dad.” 

He exited the en-suite bathroom and reached for the piece of paper.  

“Dear Lovely,

I’m so glad I found you.  You give me a love I have not experienced.  I can’t wait to be with you forever.  

Love, John

May 2015”

“What? 2015?” YN looked to Dean. 

“He never called my mom by that nickname. Ever.” Dean gritted his teeth.  

“Oh, no. Dean, I didn’t realize.” 

Dean crumpled up the letter and ripped his phone from his pocket.  

“Did you know?” Dean screamed at Sam over Facetime. 

“No, I didn’t.  I’m just putting two and two together.  He was acting weird.  And you know how Lyra has been hanging around? He called her lovely the other day.”

“DAD CHEATED ON MOM! WHAT THE HELL?” Dean yelled.  

“Dean,” YN said softly, reaching the bottom of the stairs, entering the living room where Dean sat.  The princes said goodbye to each other, and YN nestled into Dean’s side on the couch.  “I’m so sorry. I thought it was for your mom.” 

“You wouldn’t have known.” Dean huffed. 

“I’m sorry I ruined our vacation.” YN looped her arms around Dean’s right arm.  

“It would have been found eventually.  I just can’t believe he did that.  My mom was so amazing, and he did that while she was alive! I guess it’s one thing if she were deceased, but they seemed happy! What did she do to him for that to happen?” He put his head in his hands.  

“I don’t know.  Are you going to address it with him?” 

“Hell yeah.” 

“Why don’t we have a relaxing evening before we go back to the palace tomorrow? Then you can talk to your dad once we get back?” 

“I think I need to go for a drive.” Dean sighed.  “Would that be okay with you?  I need some time to think.” 

“Absolutely.  Please take Benny with you, no disappearing.” YN smiled.  He nodded.  “Benny?” She somewhat shouted so that the security guard could hear her from wherever he was in the house. 

“Yes, ma’am?” Benny walked quickly into the living room.  

“Would you be so kind as to take Dean for a drive?  He said I could pamper myself this evening.” YN made an excuse for Dean. 

“Absolutely.  Prince Winchester? Shall we?” Benny narrowed his eyes to Dean, but he saw no emotion.  Something was wrong. 

“So… what happened?” Benny started the car.  

“Dad cheated on Mom.  Did you know?” 

“What? No, Prince Dean, I didn’t.” 

“I mean, how could he do that to her? She was perfect and amazing!” He rambled.  “I just don’t get it, Benny!” He hit the door with his fist.”

“WOAH! HANDS OFF THE MERCHANDISE SIR!” Benny yelled. 

“Sorry.” he put his head in his hands. 

The next day, Dean and YN arrived back at the palace. 

“Son, I can ex-“ John stood up as Dean barreled into the palace living room, knowing Dean was about to arrive.

“EVERYONE OUT!” Dean yelled to the staff.

“Son,” John tried to quiet the prince. 

“SAM! I’m home! Get down here!” Dean used his anger and shoved John off his feet and back onto the couch. “You sit there, and you listen, you scumbag.” He shoved a pointer finger in his dad’s face. Sam came down the stairs. He crossed his arms watching them interact. “Please do tell us why our father and the king of Genovia was writing love letters to Lyra when Mom was still alive? AT THE FARM!” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Mhmm.” Dean rolled his eyes. “I hate you.” 

“Dean!” Sam stepped toward his older brother. 

Dean put his hand up to stop him. Sam froze in place.

“Fine. Sam, you ask him about it,” he gestured toward their dad.

“Did you cheat on Mom?” Sam sighed, not wanting to believe it.

“Lyra’s already been excused,” John said. 

“That’s not what I asked. How dare you hurt us. Why?” Sam walked to stand over his dad. “And Mom! Did she find out?” 

“It wasn’t anything.” 

“Stop lying!” Dean shoved the note into his dad’s chest.

“She found out, that’s why Lyra was demoted around that time. Do you remember? Look, it’s over, I don’t need Lyra in my life. It was a mistake five years ago that I regret.” 

“Fine.” Dean stomped away.

“Dean, wait.” John stood to follow him. Dean stopped but didn’t turn around.“I’m sorry.”

Dean continued and walked out of the room.  YN paced in their personal chamber. She startled when Dean threw the door open and it hit the doorstop on the inside wall. YN followed him as he made a beeline for the bay window.  She caught up to him and wrapped her arms around him from the back. 

“Wait, slow down.” YN whispered. 

“Gah, I can’t even-” 

“I know.” She started.  “Shh…” 

 YN turned him around and pulled him into her arms. 

“Come on.” She led him to the bed where she guided him to lie his head on her lap. Running her fingers through his short hair, YN felt him relax. “I know this is a lot. I got you. You can get through this. I’ll be here.” She kissed his cheek. “I love you so much. Just breathe. Focus on breathing in and out.”

 Dean ignored his dad in private. Sam did the same. YN wanted to yell at the man, but she didn’t feel it was her place… yet. 

“Dean,” YN rolled over in bed. She saw him moving around in the bed, almost shrieking. “Dean, sweetie.  You have to wake up.” The prince groaned.  

“Sorry,” he opened his eyes.  Before he could continue, she kissed his mouth.  

“No need. I love you.” 

“You’re too good for me.” He sighed.  

“Nah.” She adjusted so that she was facing him.  “Your mom?” YN referred to his bad dream.  

“Just everything.  I’m okay.  I think I may see if Benny is on shift and take him for a run.” The prince sat up and moved the blankets away from him.  

“Sounds good.  I’m going to sleep in if that’s okay.” 

“You, my princess, can do whatever you like.  I’ll be safe.  Promise.” 

Dean and Benny jogged around the edge of the property, security along the perimeter. Someone ran up to the iron fence and took a picture. Security turned and forced the man away. 

“Dammit.” Dean growled. 

“Keep running, sir, you came here to relax.  Don’t let that guy ruin it for you.” 

“Let’s go.” Dean darted toward the house, tired of being seen.  

Dean hosted the gala again the next year as he always had since being old enough.  YN was proud to be by his side this time.  

“Let’s raise some money!” He lifted his class of sparkling water and cheered with the crowd.  Dean walked down the steps to meet YN at the bottom.

“You look so handsome, Prince Dean,” she grinned at him.  

“You look beautiful, princess.” He would have kissed her, but there were rules about PDA for royals.

They enjoyed their evening together, YN watching Dean work his magic on the crowd. YN saw something in him she hadn’t seen in a while. With his dad not in attendance, she noted the calm and charismatic Dean that she knew he was. Instead of a clenched jaw, she saw her husband smile, ask how others were, and meant his caring responses. She waited off to the side as he worked the room and thanked the guests. A dignitary asked for a dance, and she looked to Benny for approval. He nodded. She accepted and was led to the dance floor. As they danced, YN stiffened. Benny saw her become uncomfortable. The man’s hand went lower than the small of her back. She used her safety signal and Benny was next to her before she could say anything. 

“Princess, the prince would like to escort you as he makes his exit for the evening,” he gritted his teeth at the man. 

“Right, thank you.”

Benny took her arm and looped it through his. 

“And if you EVER touch a woman inappropriately again, I will personally smash your face,” he snapped at the dignitary.

The man’s eyes went wide. 

“Go tell him you’re tired, Princess.” Benny winked. 

As the evening’s festivities came to an end, they bid the crowd goodnight. 

“Did you have fun?” Dean looked to his wife. 

“Very much so.” YN smiled. “You seemed to enjoy it.”

“John was not there,” he shrugged. “It was fun to do my own event.” 

“I saw how at ease you were.”

“Let’s get you to bed,” he took her arm and led her out of the ballroom. 

“You were you tonight.” YN smiled as she climbed into bed. 

“It was fun.” Dean smiled to himself and followed her. He wrapped an arm around her middle. 

The next day, YN saw something on the news that stopped her in her tracks. 

“DEAN!” She screamed toward the en suite. 

“What?” The prince ran into the room, wrapping a towel around his bottom half, dripping wet from a shower. 

“Look!” She unpaused the TV. 

The King of Genovia has been seen with Lyra Link, a former aide to his leadership team. It has been reported previously that he has cheated on his now deceased wife, the queen. 

“Dammit! I quit the royal family!” Dean yelled at the TV. “You think this is funny, Dad?” He pointed st his father’s face on the screen. Dean picked up a small side table and raised it above his head. 

“DEAN!” YN shrieked. The prince stilled. “Baby, take a breath before you do anything you don’t mean to,” she said calmly. 

“I’m sorry!” Dean put the table in its place.

“Come here,” YN opened her arms to him as she sat on their large bed. She made a V with her legs to create space for him to lean on her. 

Dean immediately climbed onto the bed and lied his head on her chest. 

“I’m so sorry.” He started sniffling. 

“It’s okay. Let it out. Just let go, babe.” YN rubbed his back as the sniffles turned into cries. She kissed the top of his head gently. 

BREAKING NEWS: The king has not only been seen with Ms. Link, they have been killed.

The news person gasped as she read her screen to her audience. 

“What?” YN turned back to the TV. “Dean, listen!” 

“We are getting reports that the King and Ms. Link were targeted outside of one of the royal properties.” 

“Oh my- ” Dean’s legs went out from under him.

______

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[the-magnus-archives-archiver]

Hive

Case: 0142302

Name: Jane Prentiss Subject: A wasps’ nest in her attic Date: February 23rd, 2014 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

I itch all the time. Deep beneath my skin, where the bone sits, enshrined in flesh, I feel it. Something, not moving but that wants to move. Wants to be free. It itches, and I don’t think I want it. I don’t know what to do.

You can’t help me. I don’t think so, at least. But whatever it is that calls to me, that wants me for its own, it hates you. It hates what you are and what you do. And if it hates you, then maybe you can help me. If I wanted to be helped. I don’t know if I do. You must understand, it sings so sweetly, and I need it, but I am afraid. It isn’t right and I need help. I need it to be seen. To be seen in the cold light of knowledge is anathema to the things that crawl and slither and swarm in the corners and the cracks. In the pitted holes of the hive.

You can’t see it, of course. It isn’t real. Not like you or I are real. It’s more of an everywhere. A feeling. Are you familiar with trypophobia? That disgusted fear at holes, irregular, honeycombed holes. Makes you feel that itch in the back of your mind, like the holes are there too, in your own brain, rotten and hollow and swarming. Is that real? 

I’m sorry, I know I’m meant to be telling you what happened. What brought me to this place. This place of books and learning, of sight and beholding. I’m sorry. I should. I will.

I... I haven’t slept in some time. I can’t sleep. My dreams are crawling and many-legged. Not just slithering and burrowing,. though it is the burrowing that draws me. They always sing that song of flesh. I hope you will forgive me for such a rambling story. I hope you will forgive me for a great many things, as it may be I do worse. I have that feeling, that instinct that squirms through your belly. There will be great violence done here. And I bleed into that violence.

Do you know, I wonder? As I watch you sitting there through the glass. Eating a sandwich. Do you know where you are? You called me “dear”. “Have a seat, dear.” “You can write it down, dear.” “Take as much time as you need, dear.” Can you truly know the danger you are in?

There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. A fat, sprawling thing that crouches in the shadowed corner. It thrums with life and malice. I could sit there for hours, watching the swirls of pulp and paper on its surface. I have done. It is not the patterns that enthral me, I’m not one of those fools chasing fractals; no, it’s what sings behind them. Sings that I am beautiful. Sings that I am a home. That I can be fully consumed by what loves me.

I don’t know how long the nest has been there. It’s not even my house, I just live there. Some sweaty old man thinks he owns it, taking money for my presence as though it will save him. I used to worry about it, you know. I remember, before the dreams, I would spend so long worrying about that money. About how I could afford to live there. Now I know that whatever the old man thinks, as he passes about the house with brow crinkled and mouth puckered in disapproval, it is not his. It has a thousand truer owners who shift and live and sing within the very walls of the building. He does not even know about the wasps’ nest. I wonder how long he has not known. How many years it has been there.

Have you ever heard of the filarial worm? Mosquitoes gift it with their kiss and it grows and grows. It stops water moving round the human body right, makes limbs and bellies swell and sag with fluid. Now, when I look at that fat, sweaty sack, I think about it, and the voice sings of showing him what a real parasite can do. 

How many months has it been like this? Was there a time before? There must have been. I remember a life that was not itching, not fear, not nectar-sweet song. I had a job. I sold crystals. They were clean, and sharp and bright and they did not sing to me, though I sometimes said they did. We would sell the stones to smiling young couples with colour in their hair. I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely. Not with lust or affection or contempt, but with sadness. Such a deep sadness. And once with fear. It didn’t matter, because no-one in the shop wanted to hear about the ants below it. I tried to tell them, to explain, but they did not care. The pretty young things complained and I left.

That was when I still called myself a witch. Wicca and paganism, I would spend my weekends at rituals by the Thames. I wanted something beyond myself, but could not stomach the priest or the imam or pujari of the churches. I knew better. I knew that it was not so simple as to call out to well-trodden gods. I never felt from my rituals anything except exhaustion and pride. I thought that those were my spiritual raptures.

I wish, deep inside, below the itch, that they were still my raptures. I have touched something now, though, that all my talk of ley lines and mother goddesses could never have prepared me for. It is not a god. Or if it is then it is a dead god, decayed and clammy corpse-flesh brimming with writhing graveworms.

When did I first hear it? It wasn’t the nest, I’m sure of that. I never went in the attic. It was locked and I didn’t have a key. I spent a day sawing through the padlock with an old hacksaw. My hands were blistered by the end. Why would I have done that if I didn’t know what I would find? The face of the one who sang to me dwelling within the hidden darkness above me. I had seen no wasps. I know I hadn’t. There are no wasps in the nest. So how else would I have known that I needed to be there, to be in the dark with it, if it had not already been singing to me?

No, that’s not right. The nest does not sing to me. It is simply the face. Not the whole face, for the whole of the hive is infinite. An unending plane of wriggling forms swarming in and out of the distended pores and honeycombed flesh. The nest is nothing but paper.

Was it the spiders? There were webs in the corners, around the entryway into the attic. I would watch them scurry and disappear in between the wooden boards. ‘Where are you going, little spiders?’ I would think. ‘What are you seeing in the dark? Is it food? Prey? Predators?’ I wondered if it was the spiders that made the gentle buzzing song. It was not. Webs have a song as well, of course, but it is not the song of the hive.

I used to pick at my skin. It was a compulsion. I would spend hours in the bathroom, staring as close as I could get to my face to the mirrors, searching for darkened pores to squeeze and watch the congealed oil worm its way out of my skin. Often I would end with swollen red marks where it had become inflamed with irritation or infection. Did I hear the song then? 

Was it when I was a child, such a clear memory of a classmate telling me a blackhead was a hole in my face, and if I didn’t keep it clean it would grow and rot. Did I hear it then, as that image lodged in my mind forever? Or was it last year, passing by a strip of green they call a park near my house, after the rain, and watching a hundred worms crawl and squirm to the surface.

Perhaps I’ve always heard it. Perhaps the itch has always been the real me, and it was the happy, smiling Jane who called herself a witch and drank wine in the park when it was sunny. Maybe it was her who was the maddened illusion the hides the sick squirming reality of what I am. Of what we all are, when you strip away the pretence that are there is more to a person than a warm, wet habitat for the billion crawling things that need a home. That love us in their way.

I need to think. To clear my head. To try and remember, but remember what? I was lonely before. I know that. I had friends, at least I used to, but I lost them. Or they lost me. Why was it? I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned. No idea why. The memories are a blur. I do remember that they called me “toxic”. I don’t think I really knew what that meant, except that it was the reason I was so very painfully lonely. Was that it? Was I swayed and drawn simply by the prospect of being genuinely loved? Not loved as you would understand it. A deeper, more primal love. A need as much as a feeling. Love that consumes you in all ways.

You can’t help me. I’m sure of that now. I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand. And now I stare at it and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that I itch. Because ‘itch’ is not the right word. There is no right word because for all your Institute and ignorance may laud the power of the word, it cannot even stretch to fully capture what I feel in my bones. What possible recourse could there be for me in your books and files and libraries except more useless ink and dying letters? I see now why the hive hates you. You can see it and log it and note it’s every detail but you can never understand it. You rob it of its fear even though your weak words have no right to do so. 

I do not know why the hive chose me, but it did. And I think that it always had. The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.

Archivist Notes: 

This is... uh...

Excuse me, reading that was, um... hmm. While I am pleased that we have... found the statement that Prentiss gave the Institute, it answers far fewer of our questions than I would have hoped, and gives us little new information about her than we had before, save for a snapshot of her mental condition before her hospital admission. We were already aware of her religious history, and her breakdown over an ant infestation that apparently led to her termination from her work at the Good Energies spiritual supplies shop in Archway.

The wasps’ nest is interesting. The paramedics report claims that when they and the police responded to reports of screaming at Miss Prentiss’ flat on Prospero Road, they found her in a loft space, passed out, with her forearm buried up to the elbow in “pulped organic matter”. This could indeed have been a wasps’ nest, I suppose, but no nearby residents reported to have seen any wasps in the area. Unfortunately, it could not be examined further, as later that night there was a fire that completely destroyed the flat and killed the landlord, Arthur Nolan. The fire service determined he had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette, due to the fact that he was found sitting in the remains of an armchair, with no sign he had made any attempt to escape.

Miss Prentiss was taken to the Emergency Department at Whittington Hospital, but she was already showing signs of the... infestation that would characterise her later appearances. Six hospital staff were attempting to treat and sedate her, when many of the worms were violently expelled from her body. They quickly burrowed through the soft tissue of the medical personnel – eyes, tongue, et cetera – and into the brain, killing them after roughly a minute and a half. She then walked calmly out of the door to A&E. A nurse attempted to run, but in his panic he tripped on the stairs and broke his neck. Then she was gone. The Institute was consulted, as apparently during her admission she had claimed that she was being possessed, but it was decided the situation was medical in nature and our involvement was dropped in favour of, what I can only describe, as a cover-up. If we’d known about this statement, perhaps things might have been different, but here we are.

Still anyone who’s familiarised themselves with her file could tell you this. We still don’t have any evidence that Prentiss is actually paranormal. It could just be an unknown, aggressive parasite. There are weird things out there that are perfectly natural. It’s not, though. I know it’s not natural. Somehow I... I feel it. I’m sorry, my academic detachment seems to have fled me. Something in this statement has got to me a bit. I’m... I’m going to go lie down.

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 31 First Hunt)