#thank god my dad was home because he was willing to kill and dispose of them for me

[beanmaster-pika]

My mom nixed the lemons so now I’m gonna smell like cinnamon for the rest of my life (<- exaggeration)

[whatdoyouthinkmyjobis]

Hunters on the Hellmouth

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AN: More gory than typical canon. Torture. Takes place a week after chapter 30 and GND 11.

Chapter 31: Christmas on the Hellmouth

Dean pushed the cracked door open and caught Sam lying in bed reading A History of Slayers, Volume I. How the Slayer came to be and what fueled her was his latest obsession ever since he learned she was a vessel.

Dean didn’t like this track at all. They’d argued about it weeks before. “God dammit, Sammy! Why won’t you let me be happy for once?”

“I’m just curious, Dean! This has nothing to do with you and Buffy.”

“And if something stinks, what then?”

But it was Christmas Eve, and Dean didn’t want to have that fight again. He pulled the bedroom door closed and knocked so Sam could pretend he was reading something else.

“Come in.” Now Sam held one of the battered Goodwill paperbacks he kept stacked on his dresser.

“Can I grab one of your extra blankets? Dawn’s cold.”

“Sure, go ahead.” Sam’s girlfriend, Jada, was always freezing, and had filled his bedroom with what Dean estimated to be a hundred different blankets, each for a very specific temperature.

Dawn, who had been livid when her sister said she was spending Christmas Eve at their apartment, was nested on the Winchester’s couch staring at the small Christmas tree on the coffee table. “I still can’t believe you decorated,” she said, adding the purple fuzzy blanket to her pile.

Dean leaned against the arm of the couch, shifting his weight off his broken ankle. The tree, small and squat with little red balls and enough light to speckle the walls with stars, was very pretty. “Jada decorated before she headed north. She thought it would cheer us up.”

“I’m glad. I didn’t think I’d get a tree this year.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. Santa ain’t leavin’ any goodies under there.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. Buffy, an expert-level eye-roller herself, found this annoying and disrespectful, but he delighted in getting a rise out of the girl. “Dean, I’m sixteen. I don’t believe in Santa.”

“Got everything you need?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Dean hobbled back to his room, already fantasizing about finding a naughty Mrs. Claus in his bed. Not that he was in any condition for sex. Moving from his bed to the bathroom meant the agonizing choice of putting pressure on his foot or his ribs. Moving his arms hurt. Laying flat hurt. Broken bones on top of Buffy’s busyness with the Potentials meant their sizzling sex life had started to fizzle.

Dawn called after him, “Hey, thanks for letting me come! Buffy was just a big wall of no.”

“You’re family, kid. Why wouldn’t you be here for Christmas?”

A flush rose to her cheeks, and she pulled the blankets up to her shocked eyes.

Waiting on his bed was something better than a vixen in red lingerie. Buffy, with a smile on her lips and sleep creeping into her eyes, had made herself comfortable in his red plaid shirt and nothing else. By her side, was a green box topped with a white bow.

“That took longer than I thought,” she said.

“Your sister wanted another blanket.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “You have a broken ankle! I could have gotten it for her.”

Crawling into bed beside her, he planted a quick kiss on her cheek. “You said no presents.” The phrase boyfriend test flashed in his mind, but she didn’t look at him like he’d failed.

“No presents. Not really. This isn’t for you to keep. I just thought bows were festive, and I sort of need the distraction.”

His lingerie dream revived, he unwrapped his not-present. “A book?” It was burgundy with a stamped gold trim.

Buffy removed it from the box as he leaned against his pillow pile. “I ask you to tell me stories all the time, so I thought I’d tell you some of mine.”

It was a photo album. On the first page, an orange-tinged Polaroid of a young woman with large, deep set eyes and blonde, deflated Farrah hair in a hospital holding a baby. Beneath it Baby Girl Jan 19, ‘81. “My parents fought over what to name me, but the hospital wouldn’t let them leave until they decided. Dad wanted Jennifer, but mom said I was too special to have the same name as every girl on the block. Mom got Buffy on my birth certificate while Dad was out celebrating.”

“Smart woman.”

“She was.” Buffy grinned. “She would have liked you.”

Dean had been caught off guard when Buffy said she loved him, but the idea that her mother would have liked him was shocking. With his heavy drinking, gambling, scars and tattoos, he didn’t think of himself as the take-home-to-mom type; but then, he’d never been a there-in-the-morning guy before Buffy either.

The next few pages were a blur of a blonde baby, usually smiling, often in ruffle-butted tights. Dean secretly loved babies. They were innocent and joyful. The end of the world meant being hungry or needing a change. Suit their needs, and they’re laughing again. He tried to suppress the now familiar blonde-haired, green-eyed girl who met him in his dreams.

The baby gave way to a toddler. In every picture, she gazed at her father with complete adoration. Soon, little Buffy was ice skating and dancing. Blowing out birthday candles, heading off to school, and holding a baby sister. The Summers family went to Disneyland, had barbeques, and stuffed presents under the Christmas tree until it overflowed. Once the round-cheeked, homecoming queen version of the Buffy he knew appeared, the album ended.

“We, uh, moved to Sunnydale a little after that.” That’s when monsters became real.

“What do you think Buffy Anne Summers would be doing if she hadn’t moved to Sunnydale?” he asked.

“I don’t know. She’d be entering her last semester of college. Probably would have spent too much time partying. Sorority for sure. She’d probably be dating some popular guy because he was popular and everyone said they were cute together.”

“Doesn’t sound like you,” he said, knowing how much brushes with the supernatural changed a person.

“Popularity is a strong drug,” she said.

Burning down her high school’s gym had no doubt ousted her from her typical social circles. Much as Dean hated Buffy being tied to the Slayer until it killed her, he was grateful it had put her in his path.

“And what would Dean Winchester be doing out of Sunnydale?”

He rubbed her leg, not wanting to confess that had Cas never brought him here, he’d be drunk and scared in a no-tell motel trying to plan a Hail Mary against Heaven and Hell. “You know me, darlin’. I’m gonna be hunting evil sons a bitches wherever I am.”

“I guess you didn’t have a lot of time before...” Her voice trailed off.

“I remember a few things,” Dean said. “I played t-ball. Dad coached. We lost every game. I was pretty obsessed with rocket ships and war games. Dad always made me the general and he was a sergeant.”

“Sounds tough,” she said through a smile.

“Tough as nails. I mean, I fell down, didn’t even cry until I got home.”

He opened his nightstand and pulled out a brown, leather book. Tucked under the journal’s jacket was Dean’s entire collection of family photos, creased and foxed from being touched so often.

“This is before the fire. I think Sammy was only a month old,” he said, holding up a small picture of four happy Winchesters in front of their blue house in Lawrence.

Buffy stared at the picture, hovering her fingers over Mary. “Your mom was very pretty.”

“Yeah, she was. Sweet woman. Total badass.”

“That’s your dad?” John smiled in the picture, his arms encircling Mary and Dean, nothing on his mind but family. “I think you take after your mom.”

He only had a few pictures from his childhood. Some with his mother. Some with his father. A couple with Bobby. All of them with Sam.

“Whatever happened to those pictures we took in San Francisco?” Buffy asked.

“They’re still on my phone.”

She blushed. “Not the sexy pictures. The other ones.”

The disposable camera was in his dresser, images of the two of them enjoying themselves still trapped inside. “I haven’t gotten them developed yet. It’s been a few years since that was a thing.”

“You should. We need more happy pictures.”

Christmas evening, most of the Potentials were piled among their pillows and blankets, watching It’s a Wonderful Life on a small television while self-appointed snack-fetcher Andrew popped a third batch of popcorn.

Dani leaned against the kitchen counter and tapped Willow’s foot with hers. “Wanna join us? It’s a Christmas tradition, and what’s more traditional than a couple of lesbians heckling Jimmy Stewart?”

“Rain check,” Willow said, taking another wet cup from Buffy. “We officially have more people in the house than dishes.”

“Your loss,” she said, biting her lip and walking away.

“She’s friendly,” Buffy teased.

“Yeah, she is. But this has already been my most Christmasy Christmas. Don’t feel like topping it off with more festive,” said Willow as she refilled the cabinet with cups.    

“Sorry!” Buffy cringed. The madness from The First had started in the middle of Hanukkah.

“It’s okay. My parents went out of town to visit old college buddies anyway, and Xander even lit the candles for me while my eyes were covered. I just tell myself everything’s closed because it’s Anti-Capitalism Day, not the celebration of Santa’s birth.”

“That’s festive?”

But the look on Willow’s face as she stared at water droplets on the tumblers was anything but celebratory. Last year for Winter Solstice, she and Tara had celebrated by holding hands in the pitch black house and willing the hundreds of tealights they’d spread around to spring into dancing flames. It was beautiful, like the floor was covered in stars. This December, she’d been in and out of the hospital with her own injuries and those of friends, close to losing her best friend less than a year after losing her girlfriend.

“How are you doing, non-holiday wise?” Buffy asked.

Willow rested her head on Buffy’s shoulder. “The other day, I caught myself longing for a simple vampire patrol, like how we used to with just you, me and Xander. It seemed downright quaint, and vampire patrol quaint? I’ve gotten so nostalgic for not-now that you could sprinkle a little snow on a fresh corpse and I’d find it all Norman Rockwell.”

“Picturesque. Why aren’t you making the decisions about holiday stamps?”

“I know!”

Squabbling rose in the living room.

“They can’t stay here forever,” sighed Buffy. “Either we all die horribly, or we save the day and have a dance party at The Bronze, the three of us, like old times, less the high school drama.”

“I’ll take high school drama. Getting shoved in locker is majorly preferable to nearly being blinded by an ancient evil.”

Buffy dried her hands and drew her friend in for an embrace. Willow wasn’t alone in wishing for simpler days, and time with friends -- the close friends a person could be quiet with for hours -- was sorely needed.

They released each other as a clamor of footsteps filled the house. Molly, Andrew, and Vi, a spacey redhead in a perpetual beanie who’d arrived the prior morning, searched the kitchen for snacks. “Why are all the good Christmas movies so depressing?” Vi asked. “Jimmy Stewart’s trying to kill himself. Then there’s the one with the mountain goblin invading everyone’s homes and robbing them blind. Don’t get me started on Rudolph--”

Buffy’s cell phone rang. Since everyone but the Winchesters was at her house, she headed toward her room, hoping to hear Dean’s deep voice on the other end asking what she was wearing.

Instead Dean screamed, “Buffy! Sam! They took Sam!”

Giles sped toward the Winchesters’ apartment, as Buffy called out directions. “Turn left!” she cried, causing him to squeal around a corner.

They took Sam. Dean had said nothing else before disappearing from the phone. She had no idea who took Sam or if they’d taken Dean too. He’d just stopped talking. Buffy’s heart was trying to climb out her throat.

“Stop!” she screamed, opening the door before Giles could slam on the breaks a few blocks from the apartment. On the sidewalk, a bloody, nearly naked Dean stumbled away from them.

“Dean, I’m here!”

Not seeming to see or hear her, he pressed on.

Buffy stood in front of him and shook him by his blood-slick arms. He was sweating yet cold to the touch. The gashes on his arms looked painful, but survivable. The gushing stab wounds on his shoulder and stomach made her dizzy with worry. “Dean, stop!”

He kept walking. Staring at something on the ground, he muttered, “Took him. They took him. Gotta get him back.”

“Leave that to me, okay? You’re going to freeze to death!”

He kept walking, his gait uneven with his cast foot. Losing Sam was Dean’s biggest nightmare. As with other times when he couldn’t shake his nightmares, Buffy drew back and slapped him.

Dean looked at her with tear-filled, frightened eyes. “They took him, Buffy. The Bringers broke in and took Sammy.”

He didn’t resist as Giles placed his jacket over his shoulders and directed Dean to the idling car.

“I was in my room, and I heard this big bang. Before I could even get up, Bringers were crashing through my door and window. I could hear Sam screaming. Oh God, Buffy, he was screaming and fighting, and I couldn’t get to him. I could-I couldn’t--”

“Shh! I will get Sam back. Let’s get you stitched up first.”

They retraced Dean’s bloody footsteps to find his apartment door in splinters. A dead Bringer lay nearby, a broken bookcase on top of him. By Sam’s bedroom door, another Bringer, pieces of its head blasted against the wall. As she escorted Dean to the bathroom to sew up his wounds, she glimpsed two more bodies in his bedroom.

“How many of them were there?” she asked as she wiped the blood off his chest.

“Seven? Eight? I think Sam was sleeping. Hard to stay awake on all those drugs.”

“What would they want with him?”

Dean shook his head.

“Babe, I think we need to take you to the hospital. These stab woun--”

“No! Fuck! We have to get Sam!”

Buffy had seen people in the throes of loss, but this was the first time she’d seen someone out of his mind with grief.

“One of them is alive!” Giles called.

Dean bolted from the bathroom. The Bringer under the bookcase was still twitching. Dean yanked him from under the rubble and slammed him against the wall. “Listen up you filthy fuck, you’re gonna tell me where my brother is, or I’m gonna cut it out of you.”

The Bringer coughed, spraying Dean with blood. It smiled a twisted red grin.

Scooping a dagger off the floor, Dean dug it into the Bringer’s shoulder, letting its weight hang on the blade. As it opened its mouth to scream, they saw its tongue had been cut out.

The wound in Dean’s own shoulder gushed. His eyes were dark with hate, a snarl on his lips. He looked like a stranger.

Buffy tugged on Dean’s arm. “We’re not going to get anything out of him,” she said softly.    

With one swipe across the neck, Dean finished the Bringer. He stumbled back, slipped in a smear of blood, and crashed to the floor with a cry. Pale and sweaty, he began to shiver.

“Call 911,” Buffy barked at Giles.

“God dammit, Cas! Where the fuck are you?” Dean muttered.

“He’s stuck at the wrong airport. Travel’s a bitch.” A handsome middle aged man with black hair just starting to grey stood by the kitchen, a know-it-all smirk on his face. “Hell, I don’t think I could have snuck over to this fun new playground if it wasn’t for you two, always leading the blind, doomed charge.”

“Who--?” Giles didn’t need to finish his question.

Though she knew it was pointless, Buffy scanned the room for weapons. The man in front of her was dead, memorialized in Dean’s tattoos, which meant the man was The First, who they still didn’t know how to hurt.

Dean’s breathing turned short and sharp. “Dad?”

The apparition scowled. “Don’t blame me for your existence. I wanted all you muck-monkeys wiped out.”

Dean’s eyes went wide with fear. “You!” 

“Finally!” The First said with a clap as Dean tried to crawl away. “You know, I’m surprised little Sammy hadn’t figured it out yet. You? Well, everyone knows you’re an idiot skating by on good looks and charm.”

Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out. She couldn’t do anything about The First, but Buffy wasn’t going to lose the man she loved. Wrapping Dean in a purple blanket from the couch, she picked him up and started to head downstairs.

“This is adorable, by the way,” said The First. “Never thought I’d see Dean Winchester in puppy love. So cute. I’d root for you two kids if I wasn’t planning on torturing and killing you. For his sake, it would be kinder to let him die now.”

“No one’s dying today, asshole.”

“Dirty mouth! I see why he likes you. Well, I have go try on my new suit. You keep vainly trying to save everyone,” He raised his hands in a mock gun and fired at her with a smile, “and I’ll keep knocking them down.”

 After finishing his interview with the police, Giles rubbed his temples and joined Willow, Xander, and Dawn in the hospital waiting room. He opened his eyes at a rattling sound. Willow handed him a bottle of aspirin. “Can I use the entire bottle?”

“Save some for the rest of us,” said Xander.

They looked about the room blankly, needing to focus on something other than the reality of being in the hospital again, of nearly losing Dean again, of being attacked again.

The faint sounds of Buffy arguing with a nurse drifted down the hall. Despite her insistence, the doctor wasn’t going to let anyone see Dean for a few more hours. He had a collapsed lung, and had nearly bled to death. As soon as those pressing concerns were attended to, the doctors wanted more x-rays to determine if they would need to put pins in his ankle.

“Merry Christmas,” said Dawn.

Pouring himself a cup of spoon-eroding tar from the waiting room coffee stand, Giles downed four aspirin and mulled over the situation. First Spike, now Sam. The former had been The First’s pawn. Abducting him may have been a simple matter of keeping him quiet, though he didn’t doubt Spike was being used for more nefarious purposes. But Sam? Other than their fight over a week ago, he should have been unknown to The First. And why would the Bringers take only one brother, when It had left a bloody message about both? Judging from his desire to flee, Dean recognized The First as something beyond the image of his father. How did It know their father?

“What does The First want with Sam Winchester?” Giles asked.

They turned their tired stares to him.

“I’ve not been around them enough to earn their confidence, but there is something about the Winchesters they aren’t telling us. Have they disclosed anything about their more bizarre interactions with the supernatural?”

Xander, his unsure eyes darting to the girls, started, “One time there was this cursed rabbit’s foot--”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Okay, another time a ghost just wanted someone to come to his birthday party-- ”

“Dear God, what have they been filling your head with?” Giles asked.

“In defense of all the guy-folk, we were usually pretty tipsy when these stories came out, so I may be hazy on the details.”

Buffy, her coat still smeared with blood, stormed into the waiting room. “Give someone a medical degree, and they think they know everything.”

The pounding of her pacing punished Giles’ throbbing head. “Please, sit down.”

“I can’t! I hate waiting like this! I need to either be with Dean or out saving Sam, but I don’t even know where to start!”

They didn’t know how to save Sam either, so they surrounded their friend with hugs. The edge in Buffy’s countenance softened as she drew strength from her friends.

Unfortunately, Giles could not spare her the moment of relaxation. “Would you like some coffee?”

She shook her head and slumped into a chair beside Willow.

“We were just sharing stories about the Winchesters,” Xander explained.

“Like how they’re wonderful and have made my life a thousand times easier?” Buffy pouted.

“Heaven sent, you could say,” Giles encouraged.

“Well, yeah, an angel brought them here,” said Dawn.

“And an angel brought Dean back from the brink of death.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Does no one find it odd that angels are so interested in them, and yet offered no protection against this attack?”

“Mysterious ways sure are gosh darn mysterious,” Xander said, clueless as to what Giles was driving at.

“It’s not just angels.” Willow’s eyes darted between Buffy and Giles. “I, um, I had a spell go wrong a few months back. It let me see in people, and there was something weird in Sam. Inside, he looked almost like Spike, a soul wrestling a demon. When I confronted him about it, he said the demon that killed their mom was, uh, it was feeding Sam demon blood.”

This was news. This was progress. Giles leaned forward. “Feeding demon blood to a baby. That could only be for a ritual of some kind.”

“That’s what I said, but he didn’t know anything else.”

“He doesn’t have voices tell him to do bad things, does he?” Xander asked. All three of the girls glared at him.

A chess board formed in Giles’ mind. On opposite sides, Sam and Dean, one moved by the forces of Hell, the other the forces of Heaven. Whatever the game was, it was still in play. “Buffy, I need to know the circumstances surrounding Dean and Sam’s deaths.”

“I told you: it’s private.”

“Dammit, Buffy! This isn’t about betraying privacy. It’s about saving Sam,” Giles snapped.

“How could anything that happened over there matter over here?”

“Because I think whatever was after them, followed them.”

Buffy fixated on Giles, her loyalties wrestling inside her. Finally, she whispered, “Sam was murdered right in front of Dean. Stabbed. He died in his arms...”

 Dean kept his eyes closed and took stock of his body. A dull throbbing in his ankle. A stronger pain in his side. It didn’t feel like his body. It was distant, like it was floating slightly to his left. Someone was rubbing small circles on the back of his hand with their thumb. He squeezed the hand and tried to open his eyes, only catching a flash of blonde before closing them again.

Sam. Sam surrounded by men in robes. Sam screaming, the bandage on his stomach blooming red.

A far away voice. “Hey Dean, your Girly’s here.”

The Bringers. A flurry of knives. He still slept with his .45. Shot the one who broke through the window.

The voice again. It was sweet, familiar. “I’m going to fix everything.”

Another one burst through the door. Took two bullets to the chest before going down. Sam was screaming. A crash. Sam was fighting back.

“Baby, I need your help. What’s after you?”

In the living room, he saw them carrying his brother out. Couldn’t shoot or he’d hit Sammy. White hot pain. He threw a Bringer off his back. More pain ripping through his body. Head shot. Quiet. Sam was gone.

Dean could barely keep his eyes open, but he knew he was in a bed. He couldn’t save Sam from bed. He tried to get up, but something pulled at his chest. Two hands pushed his shoulders back into the mattress.

“Dean, you can’t get up, okay? You need to rest.”

“Gotta get Sammy.”

“I know.”

He tried to get up again. Buffy shoved him back into the bed. He glared at her.

“Saving Sam is my number one priority right now, or don’t you think I can do it?” Buffy asked.

He knew she couldn’t. She could kill any beast Hell threw at her, but this wasn’t a hellbeast.

“You recognized The First, didn’t you? I need you to tell me how to kill it.”

They’d broken up, in part, because of lying. Since getting back together, they’d tried to be as upfront as two monster hunters could, but there were parts of his world too crazy to share. Rather than lie, he avoided them. Steered her away whenever she got close. The questions now sat under a glaring spotlight, and he couldn’t get away. “You think I’m keeping secrets.”

She looked away, biting her lip until it turned white. “It’s what you do.”

Buffy’s eyes usually sparkled with curiosity and fire when asking him questions. Not now.

“Go get Giles,” Dean said. “I only want to say this once.”

As Dean sipped his water, Giles examined him, looking as annoyed as Buffy did concerned. “Just say it,” Dean said.

“Who are you, and how do you know The First?” Giles demanded.

All of Dean’s anti-authority snark rose up. Were Giles a cop, he’d delight in giving him the run around. But he wasn’t. He was someone who also cared about Buffy, and they were both in harm’s way because of him. “Back home, we’re going through the Apocalypse. Not one of your generic baddies trying to end the world apocalypses, a bonafide four horsemen, seal-breaking war against Heaven and Hell.”

“Revelation?” said Giles in shock.

“Bingo. It’s just skirmishes now. But when the players are big enough, skirmishes wipe out cities. The angels ain’t doin’ so hot. I think they bit off more than they could chew when they triggered the whole thing.”

“The angels started the Apocalypse? I thought they were supposed to be on our side.” Buffy so wanted allies. After his miraculous healing, she’d asked Dean daily questions about Castiel.

“With a few exceptions, angels only care about angels. Right now, Heaven’s biggest concern is bringing God back.”

Everyone’s eyes went wide. “God?”

“Story is, he went awol after Lucifer tricked Eve. Left the archangel Michael in charge.”

Giles removed his glasses and slipped into a nearby chair, his face buried in his hands.

“Thing is, they can’t really settle the fight until Michael and his brother Lucifer have a brawl.”

“Lucifer, like, the devil?” Buffy asked. “We’re talking about a red, horned guy with bad facial hair?”

“Lucifer, as in the fallen archangel with a grudge against humanity,” Dean grumbled.

Giles took a deep breath. Part of Dean thrilled at seeing the Watcher so spun by the news. “What happens if this ‘brawl,’ as you call it, takes place?”

“If Michael wins, the angels are guessing half the planet dies. If Lucifer wins…” Dean shrugged, confident they could imagine that outcome.

“What’s stopping them? They’re archangels. Can’t they do whatever they want?”

Dean set his cup back on the side table and tapped his fingers before continuing. “Remember what I told you about demon possession where we’re from? To carry out any work on Earth, angels need to possess someone, but angels are different than demons. I mean, these are beings you can’t even see without losing your eyes, and that’s just the bottom rung. They can’t possess just anyone or they’ll blow their vessel.”

“Vessel?”

“The person they’re possessing. So only a few people fit, and those people have to give the angel permission.

“Archangels have an even rougher time finding someone who’ll fit. Essentially, they have to use the Cupids--”

“Cu-cupids?” sputtered Giles. “You mean with the,” he mimed a bow and arrow.

“I mean fat naked guys who trick people into falling in love, yeah. See, they get two people who can be possessed by angels to have a baby, then make their kid fall in love with other possible angel vessels until they breed an ultra strong, dishwasher-safe, microwavable kid to keep on standby in case they want to sully their holy feet with Earth muck.

“Heaven was patting itself on the back, ‘cause they got two vessels for Michael.”

Buffy, her eyes unfocused, silently dropped into the other chair.

“Dear God,” muttered Giles.

“Only Hell wanted a vessel for Lucifer.” Unable to bear Buffy’s response, Dean stared at his hands. “They snuck into Sam’s nursery. Fed him demon blood. Claimed him and several dozen other kids for Hell. But they took a special interest in Sam. Couldn't resist the whole brother versus brother angle.

“Whatever Cas did to get us here left enough room for the Devil to squeeze through. So I gotta save Sam as soon as possible. Who knows what hell they’ll put him through to get him to say yes.”

 “Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP, SAMMY!” Cold and stiff, Sam opened his eyes to see Dean standing over him. Sam was lying on the stone floor of a fire-lit chapel, his feet and hands in shackles.

“Dean, where are we?” he whispered as he tugged at his bonds.

Unbound, Dean crouched beside him, a satisfied grin on his face. “We’re in my playroom, little brother.” Then Dean shoved his hand into Sam’s chest, setting of a small, painful series of shocks to his heart.    

Trembling, Sam pushed himself away, but his irons prevented him from a comfortable distance.

Dean’s warm, familiar face -- the face that had calmed Sam’s fears his entire life -- morphed into a man with deep set eyes and blistered skin.

“Lucifer!”

“I would say, ‘In the flesh,’ but I’m having a teensy problem there, Sammy. See, this world, whatever it is, is short of even inadequate vessels. All I can do is appear as the dead, which ironically includes you and your brother. I’ve had to recruit minions.”

Lucifer whistled, and two Bringers dragged in a barely conscious Spike leaving a trail of dark blood from the stump at his knee. Following close behind, was a Turok-Han. The Bringers dropped Spike at his feet and bowed before leaving.

“It’s nice to find people who share your vision for ending the world. This one,” he said as the Turok-Han kicked Spike in the ribs, “was the first creature I found here. He was stumbling through the street whining about his soul. I offered him purpose. I offered him his heart’s desires, and he didn’t deliver. He is the only creature I’ve found here that I could use, and he refused to be my vessel. Couldn’t kill your brother or the little souped-up whore he’s fucking. Spike’s still useful though.” One by one, the Turok-Han bit off Spike’s fingers while his screams filled the cave.

“Either of you say ‘yes’ and it stops.” Lucifer grinned.

Spike laughed, spending a spray of blood from his lips. “My exes are better at torture.”

“Isn’t it hilarious?” Lucifer said. “As long as we keep his head attached, the parts just grow back. He’s like an etch-a-sketch of pain. Get comfy and soak in the show, Sammy, because when my pet is finished learning the vampire’s limits, it’s your turn.”

Yes, Amends. Addressed in a future chapter.

Read Giles’ dossiers on: Dani    Molly    Vi

next chapter

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine Valentines Challenge - “You Don’t Know How Lovely You Are” (Rated NC17)

After dinner, Kurt and Blaine go to Blaine’s apartment ... (2163 words)

Written for the Klaine Valentines Challenger prompt day nine "Be My Forever"

Chapter 3 of the story “Come up to Meet You”

Chapter 1 - Come up to Meet You

Chapter 2 - Nobody Said It Was Easy

Read on AO3.

They’re not drunk.

They barely drank enough alcohol throughout dinner to get tipsy.

And the little they did drink, they burn off laughing and cuddling in the taxi on the way home, making out in the stairwell on the way up to Blaine’s apartment, fighting with the front door because Blaine’s hands shake too much to get the key in the lock the first five times, slow dancing in the living room while they kiss some more, stripping off each other’s clothes to the rhythm of the music, eager to get to bed but not ready for this to end.

To prolong it, they converse while they dance and kiss and undress, exchanging little nothings, a background breath of conversation so it doesn’t seem like they’re there just for sex.

“You know, I love your apartment, Blaine,” Kurt murmurs while he undoes Blaine’s bowtie. “I love all this space. It’s rare that you find someone willing to commit to a two bedroom apartment just for themselves.”

“Well, it helps when you have a ridiculous amount of disposable income.” Blaine chuckles bashfully, working at the buttons on Kurt’s shirt with less success than he would like. “With the market the way that it is, sometimes I feel bad having a spare room just to store my instruments.”

“Are you kidding?” Kurt helps with the buttons, relocating Blaine’s hands down to his belt to speed things along. “I’d kill for my own sewing room.”

“But your loft is huge!” Blaine nibbles Kurt’s earlobe.

“And cold …” Kurt gasps when Blaine’s teeth lightly graze his skin “… and damp. I can’t leave any of my fabrics lying around. Everything would end up moist in the morning. It’s also in a scary neighborhood … and kind of lonely …”

“Oh, Kurt …” Blaine pauses between kisses to look in Kurt’s eyes “… I don’t want you to be lonely.”

Blaine found out on their third date that he and Kurt had a tremendous amount in common aside from being from Ohio. They were both in show choir in high school. They had both been bullied for being gay. They both moved to New York with dreams of someday performing on Broadway.

And they were both lonely.

Blaine lived alone by choice, but it wasn’t something he was used to. He’d gone from living with his mom and dad, to attending boarding school, then one plane ride later, he was alone. He doesn’t regret his decision not to live in the dorms. There are benefits to having his own apartment that far outweigh the benefits of rooming in a dorm. But he’s made one or two stupid decisions because of loneliness.

Decisions he’d rather forget.

Kurt moved to New York with his best friend – a plan they had conceived their junior year - but shortly after, she scored a role on Broadway, which segued into her own TV show. The show was canceled after the second episode, but she had moved to Los Angeles to film it and, since she had an agent finding her work, decided to stay.

She didn’t come back for the rest of her stuff. Kurt had to pack it up and send it to her.

As happy as Kurt was for her, he was sadder for himself. He had lived the dream of moving to New York with his bestie for a grand total of about six months before it ended.

But now Kurt and Blaine had each other. And if Blaine had his way, Kurt would never feel lonely again.

When they’ve gotten as far as they can removing clothes without breaking apart from one another, they stumble into the bedroom to sort out the rest. They trip over pant legs and hop to grab socks, chuckling and giggling and outright guffawing when Blaine’s misstep over Kurt’s feet lands them in a tangle on Blaine’s bed. They kiss and touch and whisper and smile, and all of the anxiety from earlier which caused Blaine’s subconscious slip of the tongue bleeds into obscurity.

Dating Kurt has been so easy. They meld together seamlessly. They complement one another effortlessly.

But making love to him is even more simple. It’s being alive, in all its vibrancy - in its bright colors and its soothing, muted shades; its symphonies and its lullabies. Kurt knows what he wants. It surprises Blaine how much. Blaine fumbles only a few seconds asking, “Did you know how … I mean, did you have an idea of how you wanted …?” while Kurt wordlessly produces a condom and rolls it down Blaine’s length, then a bottle of lube seemingly from nowhere.

It’s like a magic trick, but then everything Kurt does seems magical.

Kurt isn’t shy about asking for what he wants, another surprise considering a confession from days earlier where Kurt mentioned feeling like the sexual equivalent of a baby penguin back in high school, how he felt like puberty didn’t really kick in for him until his second year of college. He guides Blaine’s hands, commands gently, “Touch me, Blaine … there, please … no slower … yes, yes, just like that … now, kiss me …” so that there’s no doubt in Blaine’s mind, no question that Blaine can please him. Because he is, simply by following Kurt’s lead, and Blaine can’t get enough of him. He can’t get enough of kissing him and caressing him, figuring out the speeds and angles that make him beg, make him moan, make him fight to remember words that make sense, and make him forget how to breathe.

Blaine watches Kurt in amazement as he slides over him; watches the faces he makes that revolve around a single, blissed-out smile; watches his eyes as they lock on Blaine’s eyes, becoming more black than blue as he climaxes, full of Blaine’s body and beneath his weight.

“Oh, Blaine.” Kurt mutters the only phrase he can that means anything for the moment. And the sound of Kurt’s voice whispering heavy in Blaine’s ear, its deeply entrenched meaning expressed succinctly using only two simple words, makes Blaine shudder. Blaine had forgotten that something as wonderful as this existed in the world.

He’s so thankful that Kurt came along to remind him.

Blaine slowly sinks in to Kurt when his orgasm builds to the point that muscles start to become useless and cognitive thinking begins to fail. He wraps his arms around Kurt’s torso so he can be as close to him, as one with him as he can be. And even as he starts to fear that he may be crushing Kurt, his weakening thrusts driving into Kurt’s hip bone, he feels Kurt’s arms weed around him and hug. One hand slides down his spine to his ass to push in and hold, and that’s when Blaine lets go.

“Oh, God,” Blaine moans, cumming inside Kurt’s body. (In a condom, but still. It might lessen sensation, but it doesn’t block out Kurt’s heat, or his tight squeeze.) “Oh, Kurt. Oh ... God …” Blaine mumbles into the soft skin of Kurt’s neck, breathing him in and breathing out moans of his name. “Oh, Kurt … Kurt …”

“That’s it, baby.” Kurt massages the nape of Blaine’s neck, laying kisses against skin whenever it comes within reach of his lips. “Oh, Blaine …”

Blaine buries his face into Kurt’s collarbone, breathing fast against his chest as Kurt continues with soothing strokes up Blaine’s back, kneading twitching muscles till they begin to relax. With each breath, Blaine loosens his grip and raises his head. God, that was good for him - better than he remembers it being with anyone else, and sure as hell better than masturbating at home alone. But he needs to know …

“So …” Blaine pants, hoping that the words he wants – suave words, romantic words – will come. But, unfortunately for Blaine, unless he’s singing, words are rarely ever his friends “… what did you think?”

Kurt looks at his anxious boyfriend, calms his own breathing. His smile, which had been blinding before, becomes blasé. He shrugs. “It was fun.”

Blaine’s jaw drops. “Just … just fun?”

Kurt’s mouth twitches in the corners. “Fun’s not a bad thing, per se.”

“I …” Blaine suspects he’s being teased, so he doesn’t argue. He tickles. Kurt squirms to get away, but Blaine’s on top of him, weighing him down.

“Blaine!” Kurt cries, throwing his head back with laughter.

Blaine takes advantage of his exposed neck, not just with kisses, but with zerberts. “Just fun, huh?” Blaine remarks between Kurt’s squeals. “That’s all?”

“No, no, no, I was joking! I was joking!” Kurt exclaims. “It wasn’t just fun. It was amazing. You’re amazing, and incredibly sexy, and completely mind-blowing.”

Blaine stops his assault. He lifts up on his hands and knees. “Really? You’re not … you’re not just saying that?”

“I’m not just saying that,” Kurt says, pulling Blaine’s body back down. “I swear. You’re wonderful and awesome and talented and … and …” Kurt’s attention is suddenly pulled by the sound of Blaine’s phone buzzing on the bedside table, wondering how and when it even got there “… you’re getting a text message, I think.”

“Hmm …” Blaine reaches over, not budging an inch off Kurt’s body in order to get it. He looks at the message on the screen and groans. “Oh, give me a break.”

Kurt scowls. “Is it him?”

“Yeah. Dammit! I told him to stop texting me.”

It didn’t take long after meeting Kurt for Blaine to figure out how his catfisher might have gotten his phone number. The week prior to him receiving the text messages, he’d put up a notice on the student bulletin boards at school trying to sell a few old guitars. That was the only way he could think that anyone could get his number. He didn’t even have it listed in the student directory.

Unfortunately, Blaine couldn’t change his phone number without throwing his life into a huge upheaval. Besides, he still wanted to sell those guitars. He’d have to put his new number on the notices and, if the catfisher was persistent (which they seemed to be by the amount of new Please, text me back, Blaine. We need to talk messages he got in a week) they’d still be able to get a hold of him.

Blaine went to the police. They said they would look into it if they had time, but that more than likely they wouldn’t be able to help him. They recommended he block the number and report it to the donotcall registry as well as his service provider. They also told him to record any incident of further contact just in case.

The officer assured Blaine that catfishers rarely ever come after their victims in real life. The odds of anything but a few annoying text messages coming from this were slim.

If Blaine ignored them, they should just go away.

It was the lengthy verbal equivalent of a shrug.

Blaine did as they suggested, blocked the number and reported it, but that only stopped the messages for a couple of days. Soon they came back from a different cell phone number.

Blaine has been ignoring them, but they’re still frustrating.

“Here. I have an idea.” Kurt holds out his hand for Blaine’s phone. “May I?”

“You may.” Blaine hands Kurt his phone, no idea what he has planned.

Kurt switches it to camera mode. He scoots closer to Blaine and puts an arm around his shoulders. He raises the phone up, adjusting until they’re both in frame. “Say cheese!”

“Cheese!” Blaine smiles wide for the camera.

Kurt snaps the picture. Then he attaches it to a message and sends it on its way.

“There. That should give whoever-never a clue that you’re mine now.”

“Let me see.”

Kurt hands Blaine his phone and Blaine checks the sent messages. There he sees the picture. It’s a really good picture, if he does say so himself, even if the two of them look like they’ve just run a marathon, hair sticking out, faces flushed, obviously naked even though all he can see is their bare chests. Underneath the picture, Kurt had typed:

Don’t contact Blaine again. He’s very, very busy making love to his devoted boyfriend so kindly fuck off. Hugs and kisses, the real Kurt Hummel.

Blaine nods in approval. “I think so,” he agrees, setting his phone aside. “Devoted boyfriend, hmm?”

“Absolutely.” Kurt rolls over onto Blaine and kisses him sweetly. “Hopelessly devoted.”

“Hmm, I like that,” Blaine says.

“Me, too.”

“So …”

“So …?”

“Your message did say that I am very, very busy making love to my boyfriend.”

Kurt wiggles his eyebrows. “It did say that, didn’t it?”

“It did.”

“Well, then. We’d better get started,” Kurt suggests, eyes dark, smile even darker, “but this time, I get to be inside of you.”

“Oh, God,” Blaine moans, Kurt sealing his intentions with a kiss.

[theoccasionalthoughtaboutlife]

Needing other people sucks fucking ass

Fuck me. It sure is exhausting putting so much effort into your friendships and getting just barely the bare minimum in return.

Honestly though. Like, you put so much effort into making sure they are doing okay (mentally, emotionally, physically), and doing your best to make sure that the parts of your personality that clash with theirs don't impact them, and consider their feelings in everything you do that might even remotely impact them, and do little things all the time just because you know it will make them smile even for a moment, and they can't even ask you, "hey, how are you handling life?"

Like, at this point, I'm pretty sure my supposed best friend would never make any effort to see me if it wasn't for the convenient fact that her boyfriend is my roommate. I had to go to the hospital I was so sick this week, and I called her asking for a ride; she couldn't because her boyfriend had taken her car to work. That's fine. I understood. What hurt was her offered solution of "well, you could get a taxi and go, and then I could probably go pick you up when (the boyfriend) gets off work (3+ hours later)." If I just wanted a ride to the hospital (I didn't feel comfortable driving myself because of how out of it I felt), I would have called a fucking taxi. What I wanted was my best friend with me because I fucking hate hospitals, felt miserable, and didn't want to be alone (which she should know at the point, 6 years of friendship later when all these things are big personality points for me, especially when I'm sick). I have made huge concessions to help with her comfort in the past, for many different scenarios, including making the time/finding a way to help her when it was really hard to do so, and she couldn't even offer, "hey, want me to take the bus and meet you there so you don't have to be alone? Or I could bus to you and drive us with your car?" When she had nothing to do. It would have cost nothing but time she had to kill anyway.

There have been so, so, so many points, over the last year especially (coincidentally since she got a boyfriend), where I have noticed the vast difference in the effort we both put into this friendship, and it hurts so fucking bad.

I didn't even get a "hey, how are you holding up?" text on the one year anniversary of my dad's death. Fuck, she barely checked in on me the month after he died and she was constantly at my apartment hanging with my then roommate, went to my uni, and lives 15 minutes away.

I have been so mentally not well over the last, fuck, at least two or three years now, and it hurts more and more everytime I get worse, and I know it shows in how I interact with everyone, and she doesn't even blink. There are some moments when it's great, and for those few moments where we laugh at an inside joke, or reference a memory, I feel like I have my best friend who knows me better than anyone again. But those moments are so few and far between anymore.

And then my other best friend for well over a decade, who's brothers kids call me aunty, who's mom I call mom, barely communicates with me. I barely see her anymore now that I've moved away to university, but I make every effort to see everyone and drive home to see them. She's on top of communication when she's single. Hell, even now that she's in a serious, moved in with him relationship, she's on top of communication with everyone else. But it takes three days to answer any of my texts. She's great when I see her in person, but fuck do I feel like trash any other time.

My roommate and I had a conversation about how said living arrangement was going, on he had a list of complaints. I should have spoken up about mine, but I didn't because I put his needs before mine (not that he even enquired about my half of it). One of his big ones was that he felt like he was a disposable friend to me, he was jealous of the friendship his girlfriend and I have, and that he wanted us to form a more meaningful relationship. I told him the reason we hadn't was because it takes time and effort; both things we haven't had the time for yet because we have opposite schedules, but both things I was willing to make the effort for because he is my friend and I wanted us to be closer. This was around a month ago now, and I finally found a big way we could bond; we could watch season 2 of stranger things together, because we are both into it. Great idea, right? He said that would be awesome. I come home tonight after an event I didn't want to go to because of how shitty I felt (re: previously mentioned Hospital trip yesterday morning [that was put off till then because I ended up not going the night before because, again, I hate hospitals and don't like going alone, thus waiting till my mom could make the hour drive the next morning to come with me before going to work late; thank God she works in the same city I live in]), but couldn't get out of because tickets were expensive and this was planned months ago, only to hear what I'm 99% positive was the sound of stranger things season 2 coming from my roommate's room. Guess I'm the only one who's supposed to put in effort there.

And there's also the fact that I realized today at work, while talking to the first best friend that I mentioned (we work in the same Mall) that while I am always respectful and listen attentively to her stories, and if I need to say something to someone else who's there, I wait for a pause in her story to quickly say to them before turning back to her because she's my best friend and I want to listen to everything that she has to say, she doesn't return the same courtesy. I was mid story, mid sentence, and she straight up interrupted me to say some legitimately random thing to her co worker, and just continued to talk to her. Didn't turn back to me, didn't look at me for the two minutes I stood there, didn't portray a lick of guilt as I did that humiliating "trail off into silence as I realise no one is listening," didn't even glance as I finally walked away once it hit me what had happened. And I realized it wasn't the first time she had done that to me. And that she wasn't the only one who had done it to me. Wasn't the only repeat offender either.

Is it me? I know I can be clingy, especially considering the amount of times I've been the one 'left behind' (one of the reasons the first mentioned BFF and I bonded in the first place btw), so is it because of that? Do I talk too much? Do I cling too much? Do people pity me, and avoid saying they don't want me in their life outloud in the hope I'll get the subtle message of "go the fuck away" and I'm just too fucking obtuse and idiotic and pathetic to actually pick that up?

I literally think about how much easier it would be to just...not exist, every damn day at this point, and I keep finding fewer and fewer reasons why that's a bad thing, and that scares the fuck out of me. The most important person who consistently sees me hasn't noticed anything wrong (I think it's obvious), or if she has, she obviously doesn't care to ask. In everything she does, she shows me how easy it is to throw six years of close friendship out the door as soon as she gets her first boyfriend, and makes some more university friends. It's not like I need to be the most important person in her life, I get that there are more important roles than Best Friend, it would just be nice to know that I am important to her in some way. Fuck, I can't even remember the last time we did something together that I wasn't the one to initiate it. I really honestly can't remember.

My chest feels heavy, and it's hard to breath, and I just want to stop feeling all together. I wish with all my heart that I was an introvert, and that I didn't need other people in my life to make me happy, because I've yet to find anyone who will put in as much effort as I will and it never stops fucking hurting. And when I take a small moment, like writing all of this out, and really put together all the small hurting moments, it just...fuck. It makes me want to pack up the essentials, take all my money, have one last hurrah and then say fuck it all.

I'm just so fucking tired.