#Beta OMC

[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--"

[hansensgirl]

☠️ — 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

summary. | Steve Rogers and his wife have a precarious arrangement in which she can have as many affairs as she likes, as long as she doesn’t ask for a divorce. But a man like him only has so much patience. And there you are, his child’s babysitter, too sweet to resist.

pairings. | Dark!Steve Rogers x baby-sitter!fem!reader, Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter (brief), Peggy Carter x numerous OMCs (implied/mentioned).

warnings. | NON/DUB-CON (leaning more towards dubious consent), smut, age gap, Halloween celebrations, deceit, manipulation, Steve is mean to his wife, obsession, possessiveness, implied murder (not the reader), mentions of masturbation (m), fingering (f), kissing, nipple play, Sir kink, mild Daddy kink, creampie, dirty talk, power dynamics/imbalance, praise, mild degradation, pet names (sweetheart, sweetie, honey, baby, love), missionary, rough sex, mentions of exhibitionism, mentions of riding, and more. 18+ MINORS DNI!

word count. | ~4.8k

author’s note. | hello! happy belated halloween! i know i’m a bit late—i’m sorry. here’s the dark!steve fic i was talking about. it’s a Deep Water!AU. please enjoy and heed the warnings! thank you @cuttlefjsh for beta-ing and putting up with me! let me know what you think. thank you for reading! taglist: @hansensfics. MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY

The leaves fall apart underneath the pace of his feet. The hill slopes downwards, and the branches snap and hit the ground. Steve keeps pushing—keeps running even though he’s long devolved from a jog. The burn in his lungs is beautiful. He’s breathless.

For once, he doesn’t have to think about little Sarah and her mother. He doesn’t have to worry like a housewife, even though he was once the man of the house.

Millions in revenue. Two vacation homes. Endless income. But it’s never enough for her.

When Steve reaches the creek, he stops. The Apple watch on his wrist clocks in an unhealthy amount of steps. Unhealthy for everyone else, at least. He’s always been above average, and now he’s just like the rest.

Another greying head in the sea of a crowd. Another typical client his shrink has with the same old problems—a cheating wife, a midlife crisis.

His phone buzzes, and Steve half-expects a reminder he doesn’t need. But it’s better—so much better than he could ever predict.

It’s you—your name with a heart. His spouse doesn’t even have that—she’s just got her entire government name with “wife” in parentheses.

Hi, Mr. Rogers. Hope you enjoyed your weekend! I wanted to confirm that I’m coming tonight. I texted Mrs. Rogers yesterday, but I haven’t received a reply yet. Sorry to be pushy. I just need to know in time. Thanks, and Happy Halloween! 🎃

He sighs. He’s never understood why you always go to Peggy first, even though you’ve seen her incompetency more than you do your own family. He’ll have a talk with you tonight—while Peggy is out on a date with her latest suitor.

Hey, honey. I hope your weekend is as wonderful as you are. Yes, we’re still on for tonight. Don’t worry about my wife. From now on, just come to me, okay? Be here by 7:00, please. Thanks. Happy Halloween! 👻

Steve replies a few minutes later, but you read his message immediately. The timestamp makes him smile. Soon, the ‘typing’ icon pops up and following it is your message.

Great, thank you so much! See you then :)

You even leave a ‘heart’ on his text message; he does the same to yours. A sigh escapes the older man’s chest. His heart has returned to its regular rate, and the sweat on his back has cooled.

The scene before him is gorgeous—but doesn’t even hold a candle to your beauty. The thought of you is more addictive than any illicit substance. It calms him down when he needs to and riles him up at the worst times.

Steve says it’s not fair. Peggy shouldn't have all the fun with her boyfriends—even when her husband gets rid of them quicker than need be. It’s exhausting to deviate from law enforcement for a woman who doesn’t care about her own family.

She gets to devise grand schemes and say mean words to him. She doesn’t bother with her own daughter. She doesn’t lift a finger or pay for a thing with money she earned. Steve has to live in the shadows—and he’s tired of it.

The almost 50-year-old man follows his usual trail back home. Sirens pass behind him, heading toward some emergency that he undoubtedly has nothing to do with. Not this time, at least.

He feels like a dog in the manger. Everyone can have Peggy (to a certain extent), but he can’t have anyone himself.

Fake cobwebs and pumpkins sit outside houses on each side of the road. It’s the spookiest night of the year, yet you have no plans. No parties to attend with some stupid little boyfriend who wouldn’t know how to fuck you the way he would.

When Steve unlocks the front door, he finds his wife’s heels strewn on the floor and his daughter watching cartoons in the living room. He kisses Sarah’s head and ensures she’s eaten the entirety of her breakfast. He tried his best with ghost-shaped pancakes, though they turned out more like blobs than anything. She doesn’t mind at all.

Sarah’s a brainiac, her new hobby being those kits that teach you how to hook wires into potatoes and other vegetables. Steve applauds her creations every time she shows them off, noting the little technological genius in her that he must’ve contributed to.

That is, if he’s her biological father.

The television screen plays her choice of cartoons, with a Halloween theme for the special day. He smiles when she laughs before heading upstairs.

Peggy has the largest room with the nicest furniture. She spends little time there unless she’s getting ready to go out or recovering from a hangover.

Steve knocks on her door. Despite there being no answer, he unlocks it and lets himself in. His wife is wide awake, eye makeup smudged a bit, but she’s wearing her signature jeans with a tank top.

She turns around and smiles at the sight of him. “What do you think?” she asks, gesturing to the costume she has laid out.

It’s a vampire—that’s as much as he gathers. The little voice in his head tells him how fitting it is—Peggy has sucked the life out of him for the last seven years.

“Perfect,” Steve tells her, giving her his most forced smile, and they both know she sees right through it.

“Good. And what are you going as?” she questions, turning her back to him. He genuinely contemplates this for a second.

For the last few years, he’s always worn a cheap cape and said he’s a superhero. But he’s tired of the same thing all the time.

“I’m not sure. I’ll come up with something, though. What time are you leaving?” Steve asks. “Oh, probably around six. Don’t wait up for me. You’ll take Sarah trick-or-treating, right?” Peggy smiles, unwilling to take ‘no” for an answer.

Steve says nothing and simply leaves. He takes his phone out of his pocket—sleek screen and a photo of you and Sarah as one of his wallpapers—and pulls up his conversation with you.

Hey, hon. Do you mind coming a bit earlier? 6:30 will do.

He doesn’t even have to wait for your reply.

Sure! Do you want me to stay the night, too? I don’t mind.

Always diligent. Always a sweetheart.

Please do. The door will be unlocked.

You give his message a thumbs-up, and he sighs.

Tonight will be the night. Tonight, he’ll finally get what he wants, and no one can stop him. Not even you.

You give the door a knock three times, even though you’re more than welcome to simply enter. It feels wrong, though. Too familiar, too casual.

Halloween is one of your favourite holidays. It’s a day full of excitement and creativity, and the month leading up to it is terrific. The turning leaves and the cold weather that lets you wear your coziest sweaters. The candy is the cherry on top of the entire delicacy.

You’ve never been on for extravagant costumes due to your procrastination. Tonight, you’re an angel. You don an all-white get-up; a lace dress, sheer tights, and matching shoes. You have a borrowed halo on your head and floppy wings on your back. It’s the best you can do for now.

Steve opens the door a few moments later, and he’s wearing a black suit. His hair is gelled, and he has a toothy grin—a change from his usual scowl. You smile at the sight of him.

“Happy Halloween!” you cheer, and he laughs. “Happy Halloween, sweetheart. What are you supposed to be? The devil?” he jokes. “Hardy-har-har. I’m an angel. But what are you? A CEO?” you ask, raking your eyes up and down his body.

The older man basks in your attention, his ears burning red.

“Actually, I’m a groom. Something different from the superhero thing, you know? It was the only thing I could come up with,” he sheepishly admits, and you wave his shyness away. “I love that! I never see anyone do something simple yet unique. But no decorations?”

You glance back at his front lawn and see nothing but withered flowers and yellow leaves from the neighbour’s over-arching tree. His porch simply has a bowl of candy with a threatening “TAKE ONE (1)” sign, assumingly written by Sarah.

“Nope. But there’s always next year!” he reassures. You giggle and nod your head. Your cheeks burn from smiling so much. Do you find him amusing? Or is it forced? Steve has numerous questions running through his mind, some exciting the butterflies in the attic that is his stomach, and some boiling his blood.

“C’mon in. No jacket? You must be freezing. You’re better than that, honey,” he chides like the father he is. He locks the door behind you—chain and all. “I didn’t think it’d be this cold,” you admit, removing your shoes. Steve takes them from you and places them on the rack where Peggy’s usual ankle boots would be.

You note the absence of her items and the lack of noise from the television. You don’t pay them much mind.

“Ah, rookie mistake. If you want, you can borrow a jacket from me,” he offers, picking up a stray black feather from the floor. You set your small backpack on the bottom step and follow his lead.

“So… What’s Sarah’s costume? She kept talking about being a minion, and then a cow, so I’m not too sure,” you laugh, and Steve does the same. “Peggy wanted her to be one of those Mario characters, but you know Sarah. Tonight, she’s Albert Einstein. Including the wig, of course.”

When you enter the clean living room, you expect to see her adorable face dressed as the notorious physicist. But she’s not there—and neither are the family photos.

“Um, sir, where is she?” you question, and he gestures to one of the sofas. You take a seat and wait for his return. He comes back with two drinks and hands you one of them. “Sarah is at her grandma’s. Peggy is at one of those parties she always goes to,” Steve coolly explains.

“Oh, are we going there? Or do you want me to stay back and give candy out?” You take a sip of your drink—a cherry limeade you once raved about to him. The sparkling water fizzles on your tongue. “No, she’ll be going trick-or-treating with her cousins.”

There’s a beat. A moment. And it lasts for a while.

“Uh, so what am I doing here?” you query. “Sweetheart. I’m a bit disappointed. You probably think that’s all I want you here for, don’t you? C’mon, you’re more than a babysitter to me.”

Steve places emphasis on his last word. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers, but I really don’t understand what you’re implying,” you profess, downing more of your drink out of sheer nervousness. Are you being fired? Are they moving? Did you do something wrong?

“Oh, honey, c’mere,” he says, even though he comes to you. He moves from his position across from you—standing tall in his full, towering height. Steve sits down next to you and places his large, warm hand on your cold left thigh. “Don’t be scared. M’not gonna hurt you. You’re not in trouble,” he says in a low tone.

When he’s this close to you, you can see the details of his face entirely. Whenever you’ve tried to admire him from afar, it’s like he knows when you’re looking.

“You’re so sweet… So pretty. I bet you’re nice and soft, too, hm? And you’ll be a good girl for me?” he asks, and you furrow your brows. You open your mouth to say something to him, but you’re quickly shut up with a searing kiss.

Steve presses his lips against yours, and it’s better than anything he could have ever imagined. The fantasies he’s had during those late nights or showers with his fist wrapped around his cock don’t even compare.

He takes charge, pushing his tongue inside your mouth and exploring within. His strong hands scoop you into his lap, one of them holding the back of your head. You lean back as Steve’s forwardness dominates you. You’re not sure what to do, so you place your palms on his shoulders and use a bit of force to try to push him away.

The married man doesn’t budge. It’s getting hard to breathe, and you feel like he’s sucked the air out of your lungs. You sink your teeth down lightly on what you think is his tongue, and he hisses as he pulls away.

“Sir– We can’t do this. It isn’t right. I– I mean, you’re my boss, and you have a wife—and poor Sarah, she doesn’t deserve this–”

“Fuck Peggy. Do you really think she cares? I don’t love her, never have. I only love you, darling. Now, what you just di–”

“Love me? Mr. Rogers, I think you’re mistaken. Maybe it’s just because we’re alone, or you and Peggy have been distant, but you don’t love me, Sir. I won’t mention this to anyone, I swear. And I’ll find another job if you’d like,” you breathlessly explain, shaking your head.

Steve shushes you with a snarl. “You’re not leaving me.” His voice is stern, and his tone says it all—there’s no arguing. “Please,” you try to get off the older man’s lap, but he holds onto you tightly. “We’re perfect for each other, honey. Don’t you see? Sarah loves you, and you love her. And look! I’m your groom, and you’re my angelic wife,” he exclaims, pulling the halo and ripping the wings off.

You gasp at his strength and audacity. You’d try to fight him, but you know you’d end up more hurt than anything. “Please don’t make this difficult,” he demands, adding your name. The mention makes you flinch, as he rarely says it.

“Look at those eyes… All blown out. I bet you’re soaking, aren't you?” Steve asks, but you don’t reply. His blue irises seem much darker in the dim lighting. His pupils are wide, and it’s like looking at a man who’s been possessed. “You’re probably making a mess of your panties, and we’ve barely even started. Does that always happen when you’re around me? Gosh, I bet you smell so sweet.”

His words make you whimper, and he smiles. “Oh, and look at those perfect tits,” he hums, groping them. Your nipples are stiff as peaks, and the rough touch from Steve has you shuddering. “Pl– Please,” you beg as he pulls at the nubs. The pain teeters on pleasure, and you squeeze your thighs to put an end to the thrumming at your core.

“‘Please,’ what, sweetie? Hm?”

“Please, Sir,” you whisper.

The title makes him groan. “Fuck, you don’t know how long I’ve been wanting you,” Steve expresses. You don’t want to know. “Ever since we met… D’you remember that floral dress you wore? That you kept pulling up? God, I wanted to take you right there…”

You remember that day all too well. Seeing Mr. Rogers in all his glory was riveting, and the slight crush you developed lives on. Now—you’re not sure. Your brain is a mess, and you can’t think straight.

Your boss lifts you up bridal style, and he doesn’t let this go unnoticed. “See? We were meant for each other, honey. And we don’t even need a wedding.”

He sets you down on the bed in the room on the main floor. You’ve stayed here from time to time when Peggy likes to come out at two in the morning, and Steve is beyond worried for her.

Was it all a farce? You remember those times and how he never called her or insisted on picking her up.

Steve’s hands pull at your cheap dress, and he rips it down the middle. You regret your choice of not wearing a bra, but either way, it would’ve done nothing.

He cups your breasts, and you moan at the touch. He latches his mouth onto one nipple as he plays with the other. His mouth is skilled—his tongue flicking and teeth slightly grazing the sensitive skin.

Mr. Rogers’ fingers are just as talented. They pinch, pull, and twist at your other peak simultaneously. He switches eventually, and you’re a puddle beneath the imposing man.

Your back is arched slightly, and you’re practically pushing your chest into his face, and he chuckles. “So desperate. You need me so badly, don’t you?” he says, nodding his head and smiling when you mimic him for a split second. “Atta girl—so good for me.”

Steve pulls back, and you whine. He soothes you and pulls his jacket off. You can see the ripples of muscle beneath the white collared shirt. He unbuckles his belt with swiftness. You gnaw on your bottom lip despite its swollenness.

Soon, he’s back on you. Your boss hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, and he pulls them down your legs, admiring the strings of slick that break from the distance. He pushes the cloth into his pocket, and you clench when you think of the things he’ll do with it later on.

In your mind is a tiny voice that chides your every wrongdoing—how you haven’t fought back as much as you should. But there’s a louder one that was once lovesick over the married man before you, and it’s far more convincing.

Steve spreads your legs and curses at the sight of your sopping cunt. You involuntarily clench from the exposure. “You’ve got such a pretty pussy, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over you. One arm keeps him up, and the other bends your knees, giving him better access.

His fingers slide against your folds, collecting wetness as he caresses your lips. You let out a pleasured sigh, secretly wishing he would stop tormenting you and just get it over with. “So sensitive, too. I bet you’ll make such a mess on my cock.”

You never knew Steve could have such a filthy mouth—and God, do his words have your head spinning.

He quickly finds your swollen, throbbing clit and lightly touches it. The sensations on your little pearl are mild, but they’re enough to have you writhing beneath Steve. He draws light circles with the tips of his fingers. Your mouths brush against each other, and he teases you until you’re whispering pleas against his lips.

“Shh… It’s okay, love,” he reassures. Once he knows he has you worked up enough, Steve pushes the first digit into your pussy. The intrusion has you gasping, which turns into a whimper when he shoves another in. “Lookatcha, honey. You’re takin’ my fingers like a champ. This cunt is so tight, though. I’m really gonna have to stretch ya to fit my cock in there.”

The idea of his large cock barely fitting inside you makes your muscles involuntarily constrict against Steve’s fingers.

It takes a moment for you to adjust to the intrusion, though your walls welcome him like a familiar friend. His fingers are longer and thicker than yours, and with ease, he reaches that sweet spot most boys your age miss.

Eventually, Steve begins to fuck you on his hand. His digits slide in and out of you with ease as he picks up the pace. The skin glistens from your slick, and it’s a sight to behold. He creates a scissor motion with his two fingers every now and then, stretching you out while having you at his mercy.

It doesn’t take long for your moans to get louder while your face forms a frown of pleasure. The squelching sound of your cunt and that build-up just above your core are tell-tale signs that you’re about to come. “Oh, sir…!” you wail, and Steve picks up the pace.

“I can feel that cunt clenching on me, honey. God, you’re so beautiful this way. C’mon, make a mess on my hand. Come for me,” he rasps, rubbing his cheek against yours.

Your eyes squeeze shut when you come undone on Mr. Rogers’ hand. Your aching hole squeezes his fingers, and he makes you ride your orgasm out. Your back arches, and you let out a loud moan as pleasure shocks every nerve in your body. The lewd sounds of your cunt are noisy.

You find yourself immediately wanting more, even though you shouldn’t.

“Good girl—such a good girl for me,” Steve coos before slowly sliding his fingers out your channel. Your inner walls already miss the presence of his digits. You struggle to catch your breath, but in the midst of it all, you hear your boss pull the zipper to his pants down.

“I can’t wait to get inside of you, sweetie. I need you so badly it hurts,” he says while pressing kisses against the side of your neck. Steve climbs on top of you as he frees his aching cock from the confines of his boxers.

He grips himself by the base, his entire hand wrapped around his hardness. He gives himself a few strokes as pre-cum leaks from his slit, sliding down his bulbous head. His size is marvellous, a raging purplish-red with a thick base. Steve slaps the tip of his cock against your clit, and you flinch from the unexpected jolt of pleasure. “Fuck…” he curses.

“Are you looking, sweetie? This is such a special moment for us—I hope you remember it well,” he hums in your ear, and out of your natural obedient instinct, you lift your head to where you two are about to be connected. The sight of Steve’s cock makes you whimper. “Shit, what a good little slut.”

He drags the head of his dick through your dripping folds, and then he pushes in. The sudden stretch causes your skull to fall back against the bed. You try to close your legs, but Steve’s presence makes that impossible. He refuses to let you hide what’s his.

The older man completely sheathes himself inside your pussy. The squelching sound has you cringing in shame, but that quickly disappears when the feeling of fullness takes over. Steve’s balls touch your ass when he bottoms out, and your breathing is rapid from the sensuality of it all.

A hand wraps around your throat—though gentle, it scares you at first. Your eyes meet with Mr. Rogers’, and he looks at you with what appears to be adoration.

“You feel just like heaven,” he simply tells you. “I’m never letting you go after this—never was plannin’ on it, anyway.”

Before you can even process his words, Steve starts to fuck you. His pace is slow at first, and he hits your sweet spot with ease—a feat most boys your age are incapable of. Your moans are wanton and loud, teetering on the verge of pathetic for someone who was fighting against him at first.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimper, and your reaction makes Steve smile. “You love this, don’t you? Yeah, always knew you needed a real man to fuck this cunt.”

His thrusts are a bit quicker now, and he pulls in and out of your wet pussy roughly. The sound of skin on skin is thunderous, nearly covering up the wet noises from your stickiness. His thick cock shines from your juices. Steve ruts into you like a starved man—because he is one.

His pelvic bone hits your clit every now and then, and his swollen, heavy balls are against the curve of your ass. He’s relentless in claiming you as his, sucking, biting, and licking at the skin on your neck.

“Oh my God—Steve–” you mewl, the pleasure blooming inside you almost too much to handle.

“What’s wrong, honey? Are you gonna come again?” Steve questions with faux pity. He punctuates each word with a thrust, fat cock pushing into your tightness. “What a pathetic little slut, making such a big mess on her boss’ cock. And I’m married too. You just can’t help it, can you?” he teases, and his filthy words have you squeezing his length from the filthiness. He lets a groan out from the feeling, and he keeps the fervour going.

That elastic band inside your stomach begins to tighten, and you can feel another orgasm build up quickly. “Go ahead. Make a mess on Daddy’s dick, baby,” he urges, and as if on command, you cream around his thickness.

Your back arches off the bed, but you don’t go anywhere far with Steve’s chest keeping you pressed down. Your hardened nipples rub against the cloth of his shirt, and the added friction makes your climax all the more breathtaking. The older man pounds into your cunt vigorously.

Stars appear in your vision until you come back down. Mr. Rogers doesn’t stop fucking you, forcing you to endure the overstimulation. Even with your legs shaking, he refuses to give up. “Good girl—such a good whore for Daddy,” he praises. The tip of his cock pummels against your G-spot continuously.

Your tits bounce with each push of Steve’s cock. Sometimes, he grazes your cervix, but the mild pain dulls away when he presses chaste kisses to your face and brutalizes your g-spot. “‘S too much,” you mumble, legs involuntarily trying to close. “Nu-uh—It’s enough when I say it’s enough. Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna fill up that pretty pussy real soon,” he says, and as if on cue, there’s a change in the way he pounds into your cunt.

His thrusts become more sloppy, but they keep the same passion and desperation that he started everything with. There’s an intensity you can’t describe because it just feels so fucking good. The hand on your neck moves and begins to caress the rest of your body. Your pulsating walls hug him, practically refusing to let go. Your skin is hot and sticky, just like his—if not more.

Wandering hands grope your body, going pliant underneath Steve. Guttural groans leave Steve’s mouth while you’re gasping endlessly. “Shit—you were made for taking this dick, sweetie. I’m gonna fill you up until you’re leaking down your thighs,” he promises, and the threat of it sounds terrific to your fucked-out mind.

“Be a good girl and soak Daddy’s cock one more time,” he orders. The blur between your previous climax and the one that takes you over now has your head spinning. You grasp the bedsheets from the overwhelming pleasure. A silent scream leaves your mouth, which Steve accompanies with a grunt followed by a string of curse words. “Fuck.”

You squeeze Steve’s length tightly, soaking him in your wetness. Electric shocks run down your spine and unto every nerve in your body. You feel like you’re floating for a split second. You’ve never come that hard—ever. It’s difficult to breathe, and Mr. Rogers is mean enough to make you take the euphoria he’s doling out.

Wetness stains the skin that surrounds where you two are filthily connected. Your ass is sticky, and some of your cream stains the trimmed hair at the base of Steve’s shaft. It’s a mess—one he intends on adding to with his semen.

His cock twitches inside your pussy, and with a final shove, he stills with his pelvis pressed against your clit. Steve’s balls clench, and he shudders as he reaches his own high. Ropes of cum spurt from the fat tip of the older man’s cock, painting your insides. The feeling makes you whimper as you’re filled to the brim with his seed.

For a few moments, Steve stays in that position, catching his breath while he recovers from his orgasm. Your eyes dance along his face, taking in the pinched yet relaxed look he dons.

Eventually, your boss resurfaces from the depths of his climax. You’re more than exhausted and have half a mind to fall asleep right then and there.

But the sound of the front door opening and closing shocks you from your stupor. Worry is written all over your features when Steve looks at you. “Aw, don’t worry, honey,” he hums, and though it may seem impossible, you can feel him get harder inside your pussy,

Whether it’s your evident fright or the thrill of getting caught, you’re not sure. Both make you dizzy.

Peggy’s notable accent slurs a call for Steve. “Think we should put on a show for her?” he jokes, grinding his cock further into your pussy.

You’re sure that no matter what you say, he won’t listen. And what will follow will be a nightmare you can’t escape.

But those thoughts ebb away when you hear your other boss curse a storm and abruptly leave, even though she hasn’t walked in on the pornographic scene that’s taking place in the guest room.

“Well, there’s always next time—if she’ll even make it,” Steve grumbles under his breath, but the words are too vague for you to dwell on them. “Think you’re up for round two, love? I wanna play with those tits while you ride my cock.”

For the nth time, your body betrays you and tells him your true desires. Either way, he still would’ve gotten what he wanted. Steve Rogers always gets what he wants.

[sidekick-hero]

Stranger Things Reverse Big Bang

Title: Emotional Motion Sickness

Word Count: 16,463

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating:  Explicit

Pairing(s): Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Character(s): Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, OMC (cameo)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), 90s steddie, Meet Cute, sort of, Porn with Feelings, Kink Discovery, Soft Dom Eddie Munson, Dom Eddie Munson, First time sub Steve Harrington, Sub Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington has a praise kink, Bisexual Steve Harrington, getting together, Body Worship

Summary:

"This is actually my first time in a gay bar and I had no idea it was a theme night, that people would be here looking for... for... leather and chains and whatnot. If I knew that, I wouldn't have come." It comes out in a rush, the words stumbling over each other in his haste to get them out as quickly as possible. Steve fights the urge to bury his head in his hands again, but part of him is glad he got it all out. Now he can only hope that Eddie still wants to talk to him, because he likes Eddie, and he may not be into the same things as him, but maybe... Steve doesn't know what he's hoping for, only that he doesn't want his night to end without at least getting Eddie's number. Maybe they can at least be friends. Steve really needs more gay friends, ones who don't send him to a bar without telling him they have theme nights. OR: Steve goes to his first gay bar after moving to New York with Robin and gets more than he could have hoped for.

Beta Reader: @acasualcrossfade, @thefreakandthehair and @starrystevie (you are all angels 💜🙏)

Art by @arimakes (leave them some love!)

Emotional Motion Sickness by @sidekick-hero

[steddieunderdogfics]

why don't you use it; try not to bruise it by bittersweetfool

@arkenstoned

Rating: Explicit

12,061 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Eddie Munson, Omega Steve Harrington, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, Knotting, Dirty Talk, Spit Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Squirting, misappropriating yoga for sexy purposes, Tattoo Artist Eddie Munson, oh theres some eddie/omc in here, it's brief but explicit, Light Dom/sub, Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Steve Harrington, the vaguest suggestion of pregnancy kink, like a sentence, Roommates

Summary:

“Oh,” Eddie says, voice strained and pitched an octave higher than it’s meant to be. “You’re not normally home.” Astute observation. Steve looks over at Eddie from over his shoulder, not moving from his position on the mat. “Oh hey! Yeah, the gym's closed for refurbs for the next month. Figured I could just do some workouts from home,” Steve says, easy as anything, barely any strain in his voice. As if he isn’t in their living room, legs spread and ass in the air. As if he hasn’t sent the blood meant for Eddie's brain rushing to his poor dick, leaving him entirely unable to think about anything other than what’s under those shorts. Wondering if his cunt is as pink as his lips, what it might smell like, might taste like— Steve straightens up, levels a concerned look at Eddie. Because he hasn’t said anything for a solid thirty seconds, has he? All of a sudden he’s glad he remembered to put blockers on this morning, or else the room would reek of horny alpha, and then Steve would know exactly what has him so distracted. “That’s not gonna be a problem or anything, is it?” and, fuck, he sounds a little unsure, which is the last thing Eddie wants. Yes. Yes it’s a fucking problem.

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Theme Weekend. The theme this weekend is Tattoo Artist AU.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[wolfpants]

harry potter's most miserable year - chapter one | a drarry bridget jones fic

Roll up roll up, it's the Drarry Bridget Jones adaptation no one asked for!

This concept has been living rent free in my brain for months. I just had to get it out. Thank you so much to my little team of readers and betas: @getawayfox @citrusses @oknowkiss, thank you for indulging my crazy ideas and allowing me to write this nonsense.

Harry Potter's Most Miserable Year | Chapter One

Rating: E Relationships: Harry/Draco (endgame); Harry/Theo; past Draco/OMC, Minor Dean/Ginny, Minor Ron/Hermione, Minor Justin/Ernie, Minor Luna/Neville Tags: Endgame Drarry, EWE, POV Harry, Quidditch, Quidditch Manager Harry, Quidditch Player Draco, Sports Journalist Theo, Romantic Comedy, Romance, Diaries, New Year's Resolutions, Human Disaster Harry, Buttoned-up Draco, (a lot of) smoking, (a lot of) drinking, Recreational Drug Use, Explict Sexual Content, Banter, Pubs, London, Friendship, Charity Balls, Romione's naughty children, Dinner Parties, life in your 30s, Lying/Emotional Deceit, Smear Campaign, Infedeility (but not between Drarry)

After running into Malfoy at a New Year's Day party and overhearing some choice opinions he has on Harry’s character, Harry decides to change his life for good. Quit smoking, drink less, dress better, excel at his brand new role as Puddlemere’s manager, and find a nice, adult man he can settle down with. Sounds easy, right?

“What’s he like, then?” Ron asked a second later, suddenly at Harry’s side, plate piled high with turkey curry and rice.  Harry patted his pockets for his cigarettes. “A dickhead.” Ron laughed heartily. “Ha. I was right.”

read chapter one on ao3

[larrysballetslippers]

Would You Love Me? (for all that I am) by Kikiberoski16

@larrysballetslippers

Harry/Louis/OMC | 6,9k | Explicit | Kinky Poly Relationship

“What?” Andrew turned his head up, his eyes were still showing shock. Louis wanted to embrace him, but that wouldn’t fix things.  “Yes, a scene. It’s a lovely evening, and we all need to relax. Nice and easy, nothing complicated?” Louis knew that a relaxing scene would calm him down and let Harry feel good about himself. No hours of kink, just a nice short scene before bed. “Harry, you’re in?” Or, Harry and Andrew haven’t been feeling like themselves and their dom tries to cheer them up.

Part of the @1dastroficfest

Part 11 of the For My Lovers series. I want to thank my wonderful beta @milliondropsofwater for helping me with this fic. I couldn't have done it without you!

[oknowkiss]

fic claim: à bon chat

written for @moonflower-rose & @hd-erised 2023!

Pairing(s): DRARRY, past Harry/Ginny, past Draco/OMC Rating: E Wordcount: 35K Read on AO3 here!

Tags: Art Thief Draco, Crime Scene Investigator Harry, Divorced Harry, Paris, Heists, Cat & Mouse, the Insatiable Pursuit of a Thrill, Enemies to Colleagues to Lovers, Moral Ambiguity (he's a thief, so...), Gawain Robards Loves Penguins, Just a Whole Lot of Impressionism Summary: Draco Malfoy didn’t intend to lead a life of crime after the war. It’s just that being good had turned out so incomprehensibly boring. Now he's thirty-five, a fully redeemed member of society, the darling of the wizarding social pages, and a newly minted consultant for Gawain Robards' Investigative Research division. In his spare time, he enjoys good whisky, casual sex, and moonlighting as an art thief. His biggest score yet is fast approaching and he's got everything planned down to the minute. Everything, that is, until the unexpected appearance of a newly-divorced Harry Potter. Now that Potter's in the picture, Draco's no longer certain if he's the pursuer or the prize.

rosie!!!! SURPRISE!!!! this was so much fun to write, and tbh it was even more fun pretending i didn't write it directly to your face. ;) but seriously, writing for you was an absolute delight. your prompts gave me so many amazing fun things to sneak in (thigh holsters?! please!!). here's to gifting you many more things in the future!! thank you so so much to @citrusses for the incredible beta, and to everyone who has read and commented and shared throughout the fest. it was truly such an honor to participate in erised's 10 year anniversary. finally: - draco's first steal is this painting - the paintings in the Big Heist are this series - the monet lilies room at l'orangerie is here - you can find my fic inspo playlist here: spotify - the banner above is from the 1915 silent film serial Les Vampires, and was the image that first inspired this entire story.

[flamencodiva]

Prologue

Description: Dean Winchester is slated to be the next Alpha of his pack. As with all Wolves, Dean is waiting to see who his mate is at 18. But when he doesn't find her within his pack, he wonders if he will ever have a mate at all. On the brink of going feral, Dean is sent away from his pack to search for his mate. He can only return once he's found her, or he must take on a chosen mate. Y/N is the daughter of the current Moon Goddess, Selene. Hidden from the mortal realm after an attack on the moon kingdom, Y/N has heard a lonely howl for the past ten years since she turned 18. When unexpected circumstances force her to leave her current home, will she be able to find the lonely wolf and help heal him?

Pairing: Shifter-Wolf!Dean Winchester x Shifter-Wolf!Female!Reader

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Benny Laffite, Castiel, Garth, John Winchester, Mary Winchester, Bobby Singer, Henry Winchester (in flashbacks), Nick (Lucifer), OMC Luke, Jack, OMC Zack, and many more!

Word Count: 2105

Warnings (For entire fic): Violence, Language, Sexual Content (Smut of all kinds).

This A/B/O is more werewolf centered than A/B/O-centered. I hope you all enjoy the world I have created through this fic. All characters, unless stated otherwise, are shifter-wolf. It is a world/lore that I stumbled upon and found myself wanting to write.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

The full moon was high in the sky as it shone down onto the pack gathering below. Sixteen year old Dean Winchester stood with other his age as their bodies bagan to shift. His bones began to break and rearrange as tufts of shiny grey fur began to appear. He groaned in pain as his family stood near him and encouraged him to not fight the change. 

‘Just breath son,” his father, John Winchester soothed. 

“Just take deep breaths and let your wolf take over, Dean.” 

His mother, Mary Winchester, had instructed. He could only nod as his face began to change. His nose and jaw elongated to grow a snout and he found himself on his arms and legs as they changed into paws. It didn’t take long before he competed his shift and allowed his wolf spirit, Shadow, take control. 

‘Woah,’ Dean said as his vision sharpened. 

“Let us celebrate our children and the emergence of their wolves!” John’s voice roared as everyone sexteen asnd older began shifting. 

The entire pack ran as one through the forest that was a part of their territory. Dean was at the lead with not just his parents but with the rest of the adults that made up his father and mother’s Alpha and Luna units. His best friend Benny Lafeitte was slated to be his Beta. Castiel Novak was to be his Gamma and the one to help calm and keep him intune with his Luna. And lastly Garth Fitzgerald III who would take on the Delta position.  

 The Silver Moon pack was one of the proudest and strongest packs in the area. John and Mary Winchester watched as their son rolled around in wolf form, playing with their second son, Twelve-year-old Sam. 

“The pups are growing up fast,” John said as he looked at his wife. 

“They are,” she sighed, placing her head on his shoulder, “do you think they’ll find good mates?” 

“I think so.” 

“Dean will have to start training with you as an Alpha,” Mary reminded him. 

“He’ll make a great Alpha, my love,” John turned his head to kiss the top of his mate’s, “look at how he is with Sam and his friends. He will make sure our Pack stays strong.” 

two years later, 

Dean fixed his hair again. Today he would find his mate. When pack members turned eighteen, they would be brought together at the pack house to find their mates. Essentially it became one big party. 

‘Gotta find mate,’ his wolf Shadow whined. 

“We will,” Dean chuckled, “besides, who knows, it might be that we already found and sampled our mate,” he wiggled his eyebrows. 

‘No mate, not yet. Can’t sense her,’ Shadow huffed. 

Dean rolled his eyes before turning to the door to see Sam leaning against the frame. 

“How come I can’t go!” he whined, “I mean, I know I haven’t shifted yet but why can’t I find my mate?” 

“Sam,” Dean placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “you have plenty of time. Besides, it’s only four more years. What’s your rush?” 

“I know, my mate,” the young teen said, shrugging his shoulders. 

“You do?” Dean raised his eyebrow at his brother, “who?” 

“Jessica Moore,” Sam whispered, lowering his head in embarrassment. 

“Jess? Your mate is Jess? How do you know?” Dean asked. 

“Swift could sense it.” 

“You know you can’t know for sure until you’re 18, Sam.” 

“But Dean, I’ve read in some of the books that some mates can sense they are mates before they’re 18. It’s not all that uncommon.”

“Sam,” Dean said giving his brother a warning glare. “You know the rules. You have to wait until your first shift and on the full moon of your 18th birthday to know for sure.” 

“Fine,” his little brother grumbled and threw himself on the bed. “Can you feel your mate near by?”

“No,” Dean admitted. “But who knows, she might have been hiding from me. Or, it just takes me and shadow the full moon to feel them.” 

Dean sighed as he watched his brother through is mirror as he continued to get ready. He couldn’t help but feel jealous. His brother’s wolf had already found his mate before he was eighteen. It wasn’t fair. Here he was, the future Alpha, and his mate had not surfaced. Or at least he couldn’t sense her in the pack. 

Meanwhile, his brother, barely of legal age, could already sense his mate. He couldn’t help but feel jealous. His wolf let out a whimper before Dean shook his head. 

“Then, in four years, you and Jess can make sure you belong together,” Dean cleared his throat, “this is a rite of passage, Sam. So hopefully, my mate is out there, and the Goddess Selene blesses me tonight.” 

With that said, Dean gave his brother’s shoulder a soft pat before making his way down the stairs of the packhouse. He could hear his mother ordering people around to prepare one of the large rooms. 

“No, no,” he heard her cry in frustration. 

“The food needs to be placed in the next room. The main room is for dancing and mingling.” 

“Mom,” Dean made his presence known, “don’t you think this is a bit… much?” 

“Nonsense,” she dismissed him, “not every day your eldest is of age to find his mate. Besides, you know I do anything for you boys.” 

“You really think I’m gonna find my mate tonight?” Dean huffed. 

“Why not? I saw you and Cassie were together three summers ago,” she pointed out as she continued to direct older pack members around the house to help set up. 

“But that doesn’t mean she’s my mate,” Dean shrugged, “how did you know dad was yours?” 

Mary blushed and turned to her son, “I just knew. And so did your father. Our wolves just felt this connection given to us by the Goddess.” 

“What if my mate isn’t here?” Dean asked, his fingers playing with a loose thread on his shirt. 

“Then she will find her way to you,” Mary placed her hands on either side of her son’s face, lifting his gaze to hers. “You will find your mate Dean. You just have to trust that the Goddess has a plan.” 

Dean nodded before taking her hands in his and giving his mother a kiss on her cheek. Turning away from the planning, he noticed Sam near their father’s study, his brother giving off a low growl. 

“What’s wrong, Sammy?” Dean whispered. 

“Dad’s got the council in there. I heard something about rogues near our border.” 

“What?” 

Dean stepped closer to the door, his senses tingling as he tried his best to use his wolf hearing. Much of what was being said was muffled, but he could make out a few words. He and many of his friends are mainly undergoing extra training in the next few weeks. 

“Do you think it’s Lucifer?” John sighed. 

“Is that what Nicks's runt is calling himself,” a voice called out, “Idjit.” 

Dean recognized the voice as Bobby Singer, one of the pack’s elders. Bobby had come to join their pack around the time his father, John, was just a young pup. He remembered his dad talking about Bobby being one of the best warrior trainers he had ever seen. Dean heard stories of Bobby having a son once, but the elder never liked to talk about it.  

“The rogues seem to be from Nick’s pack, and Luke seems to be leading the charge,” John sighed, “but all we can do is double that guard. Whatever he’s doing, we will need to find out.” 

“We need to beef up training, John,” Bobby sighed. “I’m too old for this.” 

John chuckled, “my dad trusted you, and our warriors are strong because of you. Benny is set to take over for Hypolite.” 

John’s heavy footsteps could be heard from the other side of the door. Dean could tell his father was worried. He only paced in his office when he needed to think of a solution to a problem. 

Dean and Sam continued to try and eavesdrop on the conversation when the door cracked open. 

“You know,” their father’s voice started them, “if you wanted to know what was going on, Dean, all you had to do was knock.” 

Dean stood up and gave his father a sheepish smile. 

“Well--” 

“Samuel,” John huffed, “you know better than to sneak around. If I wanted you to know, you would know.” 

“But dad! How come Dean gets to go to all the Alpha meetings? I’m an Alpha too!” 

John placed a gentle hand on his youngest son’s shoulder, “Dean is going to be Pack Alpha one day. He is of age. He’s been training for this just as you have. Right now, I need you to be a kid and enjoy not having to worry about his” 

“No fair. I can fight and be helpful!” Sam growled. 

“I know you can, pup,” John ruffled his youngest son’s hair. “I promise when the time comes, you can help. 

Sam frowned and stomped his way up the spiral staircase to his room, grumbling along the way. 

“He’s trying to grow up too fast,” John sighed. 

“He’ll get over it once he gets back into training mode,” Dean assured his father, “is it serious? The rogues on our borders?” 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” John dismissed, “tonight you find your mate.” 

“Yeah,” Dean sighed as his father walked away, “if she’s even here.” 

The guests arrived with Dean hanging out with his friends, Benny Lafitte, Castiel Novak, and Garth Fitzgerald III. 

“Excuze me, Boyz,” Benny said as he pulled away from his friends, “seem’z Red and I have zeroed in on our mate.” 

“Already?” Castiel huffed, “how the --” 

Dean watched as Cas stopped talking and turned towards the front door. 

“I, um… I gotta--” 

Garth and Dean watched as Benny and Cas walked toward their mates. The couples seem to fall into easy conversation. 

“Don’t worry, Deano,” Garth gave the Alpha a slap on his back, almost making him choke on his drink, “I’m sure the next girl to walk in will be your--” 

Dean covered his face with his hands as Garth clumsily tripped over his feet at the next female that walked in. Garth had stumbled into not just the table the boys were standing by, but the following tables lined up with the front door. 

“Sorry, my bad!” Garth called out as he stumbled his way toward the female. 

As the night went on, Dean watched as his friends and peers paired off with their mates. It hurt that his own mate hadn’t shown herself yet. By the end, Dean was left alone, his head hung low as he walked towards the balcony overlooking the valley. 

The moon shone so brightly that its rays illuminated every corner of the pack's territory. Dean finished off the last of his drink before turning his gaze to the moon. Shadow could feel Dean’s pain. After all, he and Dean were one and the same. Their pain resonated so profoundly that Dean let Shadow take over as a mournful howl echoed through the sky. 

‘Goddess hear my plea,’ it seemed to say, ‘let my mate find me soon.’ 

Little did Dean and Shadow know that in the realm of the Moon Goddess, the goddess herself had heard his cry. 

“Dean Winchester,” she said, her voice a whisper as the howl echoed in the halls of her palace. “When the time comes, your mate will find you,” she said to the wind. “Strong heir of the Silver Moon Pack, your trials are just beginning. My Conor’s sacrifice to keep our daughter safe will not be in vain. I hope you can be patient.” 

She walked to her room, away from the enormous mirror in her chambers, where the reflection of Dean sank. 

This was to ensure the safety of her daughter, Y/N. The wolf, who claimed the name Lucifer, was no match for Conor's valiant efforts. The death of Selene's mate was ultimately felt by her. Her first concern was ensuring the safety of Y/N. Meeting Dean was still too soon for her. The young Alpha had to face his own struggles as her daughter trained. 

A second reflecting pool was entered by the moon goddess's palm. With her light, she extended her hand into a room that was otherwise dark.

Whispering to her daughter, "My little Y/N," she delicately gathered the stray hairs and placed them behind her ear. "For as long as it takes, I will shield you from harm. I can only pray that the web of destiny does not end in sorrow."

Chapter 1

Tag List: Tag List is Open and has room for more. (note: Everything means everything from M/M to OFC)

Dean (Female Pairing Only) 

@440mxs-wife

@virgosapphire79

@deans-spinster-witch

@sandlee44

@waynes-multiverse

@cookiechipdough

@magssteenkamp 

@akshi8278

Dean Everything 

@sexyvixen7

@kickingitwithkirk

@deandreamernp

@holylulusworld

@roseblue3733

@stoneyggirl2

@hobby27 

@stixnstripesworld

[darkspicyevanstan]

Welcome to a Dark & Spicy Evanstan Fest!

This event is dedicated to top!Chris Evans/bottom!Sebastian Stan and the various characters they've played over the years. Get your dark & spicy fix here! 😈

The fest will be an ongoing, low pressure, event where you can choose from all sorts of prompts to inspire your next piece of fiction.

The prompt lists will be continuously updated so be sure to check those out.

More information available below the cut!

⚡️ Rules ⚡️

→ No minors allowed due to the explicit/mature themes that will be featured in participating works.

→ This event will focus on any top!Chris Evans character paired with any bottom!Sebastian Stan character. Yes this event will include Real Person Fiction (Actor RPF, MCU RPF, etc.). Switching and polyships are not allowed here. Ex: Steve/Bucky/Sam, Lloyd/Reader/Nick, Chris/OFC/Sebastian, Ransom/OMC/Max, etc.

→ There are no content restrictions in this event. Yes, this includes all manner of dark fiction and dead dove themes. As long as everything this tagged appropriately, you can write whatever you want.

→→ If you come across a fic with themes you don't like, simply click away.

→ No word minimum or maximum.

→ One prompt per chapter/oneshot.

→ "Choose not to warn" fics are allowed. Once again, make sure anything triggering is appropriately tagged.

→ Make sure that the submission you're using for this event is completely new. However, a new chapter/piece in an already in progress fic/series is acceptable.

⚡️ Challenge Mode ⚡️

→ Double Challenge mode: 1 AU + 1 Trope

→→ Triple Challenge mode: 1 AU + 1 Creature + 1 Trope

→→→ Quadruple Challenge mode: 1 AU + 1 Creature + 1 Literary Form + 1 Trope

⚡️ Posting ⚡️

→ Make sure to tag the blog using @darkspicyevanstan and #dark and spicy evanstan fest so your works can get reblogged!

→ If you use platforms outside of Tumblr to publish, you may post your works to the AO3 and Squidge collections!

⚡️ Format ⚡️

As long as the requirements below are somewhere in your tumblr posts, your submissions will be reblogged!

Title of Submission Pairing Rating Warnings Prompt(s) Used Link

⚡️ Masterlists ⚡️

If you would like a masterlist of your work to be posted onto the blog, separate them by months. This way, it'll be easier for organization purposes.

→ Masterlist Submission Form

⚡️ Masterlist Format ⚡️

Title of Tumblr Post: Dark & Spicy Evanstan [Month] Masterlist

Title of Work [Insert Fic Link]

- Prompt(s) Used

Once again, as long as the information above is on your masterlist it will get posted onto the blog.

⚡️ Memo ⚡️

→ Cross-posting with other events is allowed and encouraged.

→ If you'd like to use a beta reader, feel free!

This event is meant to be fun and inspiring, so please enjoy yourselves! Feel free to send an ask if you have any questions.

Dark & Spicy Mod

[princessmisery666]

Fake fic title: Wild Flowers at Sunset

Summary: Bucky uses an inopportune time to let you know how he feels about you.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: confident reader, Bucky being cocky (that’s a warning), sex work mentioned, prelude to smut, love confession. 

W/C: 1,134.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, you, OMC.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

A/N: thank you @justagirlinafandomworld for the inspo (even thought it took a while to kick in 💟)

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: made by me on canva.

Master Lists: Made Up Fic Titles // Bucky Barnes // All The Fandoms

“You’re doing great,” Bucky talks into his glass, taking a sip of the amber liquid that is never going to get him drunk. “Guy’s putty in those beautiful hands of yours.” Though he’s sitting across the bar, you're wearing an earpiece. He has a clear view of you and sees the corner of your mouth quirk up slightly. Then he can’t help himself. “God, this dude is a loser,” he sighs, “He hasn’t even asked one question about you. No wonder he has to pay for it.”

There’s that half smirk again, hiding behind a sip of your Appletini - which he knows you hate - but your date insisted on ordering for you. 

“Head of a tech startup company,” Bucky scoffs, “that’s code for I’m a keyboard warrior living in my Mom’s basement.” 

You splutter around your glass, and your date, Oliver, has the sense to offer you a napkin. “Sorry,” you say to your date, voice as sweet as your drink, but the finger you use to scratch your cheek flips Bucky off, and then he’s the one laughing. 

“Sorry, doll.” Though he really isn’t. He’s bored as hell and knows you are, too. But he signed up for this to make amends, help the police and all the other agencies with letters, and some without, to bring down the bad guys.

That’s how he’d met you, an undercover agent for the FBI. He felt like he’d lucked out when they’d introduced you as his handler. He didn’t like that word, and the grimace on his face must have said as such because you’d piped up - “We’re partners, Mr. Barnes. We have each other’s back. No one’s handling anyone,” you stated, looking directly at your boss. But as soon as you’d turned back to Bucky and winked, “The handling comes after hours,” he knew he was in for a wild time. 

This Oliver guy is wanted in connection with a series of missing escorts. Back in Bucky’s day, no one cared about a missing prostitute, but times have changed, and the price has certainly increased. An intimate encounter with one of the ladies from “The Girlfriend Experience” - a very exclusive and high-end escort service - is upward of three thousand dollars for a few hours. 

“So, roughly a thousand dollars a minute,” you’d shrugged, smirking cheekily.

“I’d get way more than my money’s worth,” he countered, tongue slipping out to lick at the flirty smile he gave you in return.

You’d sauntered closer, pressed your body into his, and whispered, “Oh, I’d let you take a turn for free.”

So here you are, on a date with Oliver, earning his trust and waiting for him to either A-say something incriminating (which was likely given his affinity for talking about himself) or B-offer you money for sex (a criminal offense). 

But damn, this man is a drip. Watching paint dry would have been more entertaining, and Bucky felt deeply sorry for you having to fake a smile and flirt with such a wet blanket of a person.

“Go to the bathroom,” Bucky says. 

You subtly shake your head, eyes never leaving Oliver’s, hanging on his every word. 

“Just want to remind you, all of this is being recorded,” he grins, sees your eyes flick to his in the mirror, and lifts his brow, silently making his request again.

You look back to Oliver, lean in closer, place your hand atop his on the bar, and gently stroke your fingers along his skin. Bucky can feel the burn on his own skin, the scrape of your nails as your fingers trail higher with every delicate caress. Oliver grins widely. He thinks he’s got you, hook, line and sinker. 

But Bucky knows better. “Hey Doll,” he says cheerily, “remember our first date?” 

You give him nothing. 

“I took you for a picnic on the beach. I wore that blue suit you like, and you wore the lilac dress that hugs you everywhere. I was worried you’d get cold, but I shouldn’t have. By dessert, we were as naked as the wildflowers dancing to the sunset…”

You abruptly hop off the bar stool, “Excuse me, Oliver. Need to use the ladies’ room.”

Bucky knows better than to be smug about getting his own way; he’ll pay for it later in some form or another, but he looks forward to his punishment. 

“Pausing comms,” Bucky says, “bathroom break,” for when the brass listens later even though it's obvious what’s going on, but he doesn’t care as he taps the device in his pocket. 

He counts forty-five seconds after you pass through the door toward the bathrooms and then follows after you. All three stall doors are closed, but only one of the dials shows occupied. Before he can lift his hand to knock, the door opens, and you yank him inside.

“You’re pushing your luck, Barnes,” you warn. 

He surrenders, arms up, palms out. “It was the only way I could get you in here.” 

“For what?” 

“This.” His fingers pinching your chin are soft, but the kiss he delivers is anything but. He’s famished, as if he hasn’t tasted you in weeks when, in reality, it’s only been a few hours. But that’s how you make him feel. With every beat of his heart, he’s wild and aching and destitute until he has you in his grasp.

The Appletini is still heavy on your tongue, and he washes it away with hungry sweeps of his whiskey-laced one. His hands slip down your leg to the hem of your skirt, hiking it up with every squeeze and grope of your soft thigh.

Your hands roam under his shirt, nails digging into his stomach, before slipping down to the waistband of his jeans.

He holds back a groan when he reaches your inner thigh and finds no more material between his hand and your heated core. 

You pull back, a wicked grin revealing your teeth, and as he opens his mouth to tell you that you’ll be the death of him, you stuff your panties into his mouth.

You step back, readjusting your dress, “You can get me as naked as those wildflowers again later.” You wink. “Right now, we have a job to do.”

With that, you breeze out of the door and back to your date. 

He waits sixty seconds after you leave, stuffing your panties into his jacket pocket and giving his cock a chance to realize his punishment came earlier than expected before he follows after you.

He settles back into his barstool, catches your eye in the mirror, and the feeling tingles from the very tips of his toes to the top of his head, serenity, calm, absolute, unwavering belief. He mutters, “I love you,” into the coms.

Oliver ends up wearing your Appletini.

Master Lists: Made Up Fic Titles // Bucky Barnes // All The Fandoms

Tags: @alexxavicry / @b3autyfuldisast3r / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 / @imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library / @nancymcl / @stoneyggirl2 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox / @dempy / @kmc1989

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💟Alternatively follow my library blog and turn on notifications. I only post my fics. @princessmisery666-library

[ellorypurebloodculture]

Me wishing I was in PC 'verse where there are well known and consistent rules for romance instead of in the land of is-this-person-flirting-with-me???????

In honor of the eclipse, for TT: a total eclipse of the heart (😂😂😂)

🤣🤣🤣

I couldn't resist. Hati Greyback (OMC)/Luna Lovegood.

Alpha Hati Greyback can't believe his luck in successfully Catching the moon, as was foretold in legend. Beta Luna Lovegood has agreed to be his mate.

[lcdrarry]

LCDrarry 2023 Master List Part 2: Fic

Dear lovely Participants, Creators, Alpha and Beta Readers, Cheerleaders, Readers and Fans of this fest,

The 5th installment of LCDrarry has come to an end, and I'd like to thank you all for taking part in this fest, for creating so many amazing new Drarry works for us all to enjoy, for commenting on your favourite creations, for sharing and recommending the LCDrarry gems with your friends and blog followers, and for making this fest another amazing experience for everybody!

Fests would not exist without their participants or readers! You're all amazing! And I'm so happy that you chose this fest in the vast and wonderful offerings of HP and Drarry events.

You can find out under the cut who created what ;D

~Your LCDrarry Mod Tami (@celilasart)

PS: Please have a look at the author notes and tags on AO3 for additional information and more detailed warnings. Thank you! PPS: As always, reblogs are very much appreciated! PPPS: If you're interested in fest statistics, have a look at the Fest Wrap-Up Post. PPPPS: You can find all the lovely podfics and art works in the 1st part of our LCDrarry 2023 Master List.

Enjoy!

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Fic and Art

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Brighton

Prompt: "San Junipero" (episode) from "Black Mirror", 2016 Author: Sniper_Jade Word Count: 24,156 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: BDSM Scene, Shibari, Voyeurism, Alcohol

Summary: Harry Potter finds Draco Malfoy somewhere he never would have expected. It leads him to question everything he has ever thought about himself and his life in the hopes for something better. Something that he never knew he wanted and now can’t seem to live without.

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The Flame Between Us

Prompt: “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”, 2022, Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre Author: AvenueofESC Artist: Bubblegumhead Word Count: 33,060 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: marriage of convenience, open marriage, consensual infidelity, D/s undertones, terminal illness, blood curse, implied mpreg, canonical character death, angst with a happy ending

Summary: The rumoured engagement of one Mister Draco Lucius Malfoy and Lady Astoria Sofia Greengrass has been the talk of Wizarding Society. My dear reader, this author can confirm that the rumours are true.

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This Life Now

Prompt: "Sweet Home Alabama", 2002, Andy Tennant Author: palendrome Artist: S3anchaidh Word Count: 38,295 words Art Medium: Digital Rating: Mature Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Mentions of Divorce, Alcohol, Minor Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter & OMC Friendship, Draco is involved with/engaged to Blaise while separated from but still legally married to Harry

Summary: This close up, Draco can see the differences that have occurred over the years. Harry's hair is longer, although it's as unruly as ever; his forearms are well-muscled and decorated with ink; and there are small lines by his eyes that look like they would crinkle if he were smiling. Which, at this moment, he most definitely is not. He looks like he's worn the same clothes for three days and just rolled out of bed, yet Harry's so unfairly gorgeous it makes Draco's heart ache. "What do you want, Draco?" Harry asks, his voice resigned. The question snaps Draco out of his reverie. "A divorce," he proclaims as he opens his bag.

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Fic

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Do I Know You?

Prompt: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer", 1997, Episode "Tabula Rasa" Author: use_it_well Word Count: 13,488 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Memory Loss, Light Dom/Sub

Summary: Harry knew better than most just how many dangerous items one could come across at Hogwarts.

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Of Stars in Infinite Universes

Prompt: "Everything Everywhere All At Once", 2022, Dan Kwan & Daniel Scheinert Author: lily_winterwood Word Count: 21,792 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: Suicide ideation, passive-aggressive homophobia (aka not explicit hatred, just concern-trolling about ~continuing the family line~), mild body horror

Summary: Harry Potter is asked to find a missing Draco Malfoy. (Or: Draco Malfoy is hiding from an omniversal entity. In searching for him through their other lifetimes together, Harry Potter begins to wonder what his former archenemy truly means to him.) (An Everything Everywhere All At Once AU.)

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see the steeple (trace to the spire)

Prompt: "God's own country", 2017, Francis Lee Author: Olena Word Count: 33,857 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: None

Summary: Harry’s sure about it being Draco’s fault, just like he’s been sure of any other part of his life. Harry wants to spend a week assisting with the birth of a rare magical creature. He doesn’t want to spend a week at Malfoy Manor assisting Draco with said birth. It’s been seven years since Draco was sentenced to house arrest without magic and now he’s running a farm. A week isn’t a long time, but Harry finds himself distracted by this Draco who is so different from the one he used to know.

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The Piano

Prompt: "The Piano", 1993, Jane Campion Author: shushu_yaoi_lj Word Count: 37,585 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: angst with a happy ending, elective mute Draco, PTSD, mention of canonical child neglect, mpreg

Summary: He arrives on a boat during a particularly stormy day. Harry knew Astoria Greengrass had sent for a husband, someone to keep her company on the particularly dreary and dark winter days on this remote island. Harry didn’t know who it was she had arranged to be sent here. All he knew was that the weather was horrid today, and the Portkeys had never properly worked in this remote corner of the North Sea. The island was special, its magic working in odd and surprising ways. The last person Harry expects to find on the beach is Draco Malfoy.

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Peep Show

Prompt: "Friends", 1994, TV Series Author: kbrick Length: 10,120 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: None

Summary: Auror trainees Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are maybe-possibly-sort-of friends. When Harry moves into the building next to Draco's, they become neighbors, too. Actually, Harry can see directly into Draco's flat from his window. And as it turns out, Draco gets up to some interesting things at night.

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Let it in

Prompt: "Cherry Magic! Thirty years of virginity can make you a wizard?!", TV Series/Show Author: deliciousblizzardshark Word Count: 11,654 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: None

Summary: "Thirty, huh?" Pansy asked. “My cousin told me that Japan there’s this urban legend called ‘cherry magic’. It’s basically that if you turn thirty without, you know, popping your cherry, you get magical powers.” “Pans, I don’t know how to put this to you, but we already have magical powers,” Draco said. Pansy laughed. “No, you dolt. New ones. Apparently the legend goes that you become a mind reader.” Draco shivered. “Sounds awful.” “Anyway, it won’t happen to you, will it?” she asked. Draco shifted a little uncomfortably. “Of course it won’t,” he said. “Because you just said it’s an urban legend.” “I meant, it won’t happen to you because you’re not a virgin.” Draco laughed.

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Harry Potter vs the World

Prompt: "Scott Pilgrim", 2010, Edgar Wright Author: zeddmarker Word Count: 13,943 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating/Infidelity, Relationship between a 21 year old and a 17 year old (not endgame)

Summary: A year after the worst breakup of his life, some could argue that Harry is still struggling—dating his best friend's ex-girlfriend's sister. But when Draco Malfoy appears in a dream and then corporeally in front of him, Harry's life is turned upside down. The only thing standing in between Harry and the literal man of his dreams are seven people out to destroy him.

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Hole to Feed

Prompt: "The Menu", 2022, Mark Mylod Author: newskyillusion Word Count: 34,436 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Self-Harm, Blood and Injury, Fiendfyre, Explicit Sex

Summary: Draco tunes them all out, watching as they fly through the water, when familiarity on his glass catches his eyes. The writing – because it’s writing, he realises, when he brings the glass closer – is barely there, blink and you'd miss it. But he would never miss it: the writing is in his dreams, under his fingernails, in his blood. It’s runes. OR The Malfoy-Black Foundation is celebrating its 25th anniversary. But why does the whole staff consist of Hogwarts graduates? And why does Chef Evans seem familiar? Harry Potter meets The Menu (2022)

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Through His Eyes (I Am Set Free)

Prompt: "In Your Eyes", 2014, Brin Hill Author: Shewhxmustnxtbenamed Word Count: 134,034 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Threesome, vouyerism, minor character death

Summary: Harry and Draco have a telepathic connection that remains unexplained in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. Draco is assigned a mission by Voldemort to locate and capture the Boy Who Lived-- the trouble is that they don't know anything about him. While Draco struggles to gather information on this mysteriously absent hero, he and Harry start communicating again for the first time since they were kids. Harry continues life as normal until he discovers information compels him to abandon his ordinary Muggle life with the endeavor to rescue and emancipate his only friend-- even if that means bartering with his own life.

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The Breakfast Club

Prompt: "The Breakfast Club", 1985, John Hughes Author: peachpety Length: 7,827 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: None

Summary: Draco Malfoy is forced to endure a Saturday detention with four other students, including the Golden Bad Boy himself, Harry Potter. Over the course of the day, and under the watchful eye of Filch, the seemingly disparate group form a budding alliance and discovers that they have a great deal more in common than they thought. And Draco discovers that sometimes, he can not only get what he needs, but he just might also get what he wants.

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The Rifts that Reveal Us

Prompt: "The Notebook", 2004, Nick Cassvettes Author: bluesyquill Word Count: 8,539 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: None

Summary: Harry wrote to him. For 365 days. Today, Draco visits him. But learning why Draco didn't write back is just the beginning.

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A Different Kind Of Attention

Prompt: “Yuri on Ice!”, 2016, TV Series/Show Author: Clueless_Pigeons Word Count: 10,706 words Rating: Mature Warnings: Alcohol Use, Drunkenness, Off-screen Pet Loss

Summary: Last year's Grand Prix Final hadn't been easy for Harry. And France's top skater, Draco Malfoy, hadn't made it any easier. This year, however, Harry is determined. He wants that gold medal! But things don't ever go to plan if it comes to Harry James Potter, do they?

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Deep Dive

Prompt: "Heartstopper", 2022, TV Show Author: chxrlieweaslxy Word Count: 13,448 words Rating: General audiences Warnings: None

Summary: When fourteen-year-old Harry Potter returns to Hogwarts for his fourth year, he learns that the school will be hosting the first-ever European Wizarding Student Cup. He is excited for a year of just Quidditch, without Voldemort or any mortal danger. But it doesn’t take long before an unexpected connection with a competitor complicates what was meant to be a worry-free year.

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I Couldn't Love You More

Prompt: "P.S. I Love You", 2007, Richard LaGravenese Author: Ladderofyears Word Count: 73,706 words Rating: Mature Warnings: MCD, grief, mourning, AU- No Voldemort, drinking alcohol, brain tumor, five stages of grief, dead dove don't eat, sex toys, sad moments, unrequited love (not Draco), Draco shares brief kiss with another man, bars and pubs, Harry is dead before the fic begins, he doesn't come back to life.

Summary: Their plan had been a simple one: to stay together for the rest of their lives. When Harry and Draco met, their attraction was instantaneous. They couldn't be without each other and eloped to marry as soon as they could. They wore each other's clothes. Finished each other's sentences. They were going to be together until they were old and grey. None of their friends could imagine one without the other. But, on Valentine's Day, 2010, Harry died. Draco was left devastated. The only light in the darkness is ten letters that Harry has left, labelled with the remaining months of the year. As the letters are opened, Harry shows Draco that life goes on and that he is much stronger than he ever knew. With a lot of help from his friends. Draco realises that, while his life might be very different from what he'd planned, it can still be special.

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0 + 0 = 1

Prompt: "Taskmaster", 2015, TV Show Author: Albuss Word Count: 2,895 words Rating: General audiences Warnings: None

Summary: Harry and Draco go on Taskmaster. That's it. That's the plot.

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A Boesky, A Jim Brown, and the biggest Leon Spinks ever.

Prompt: "Ocean's Eleven", 2001, Steven Soderbergh Author: tsundanire Word Count: 12,030 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: None

Summary: Harry and his group of friends formulate a rather ambitious plan to re-acquire a rare diamond from the clutches of an old enemy—Theo Nott. Along the way, he's hoping to catch the attention of his ex—Draco Malfoy—who is now dating Theo. “What have you heard?” Harry half-whispered. “Rumours are going around that it’s the Starlight Diamond.” The guest half-whispered in reply, excitement practically vibrating out of the man’s pores. “Starlight Diamond?” He feigned ignorance, flicking his glance between the guest and Ginny. “Oh, right, I’m so sorry Mr. Potter. I often forget you didn’t grow up in our world.” Harry twitched, fist clenched. In another life, he probably would have decked the guy for being a prick, but that was the kind of person this sort of event attracted. The old money and the nouveau riche, both looking to flaunt their means and gossip.

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Welcome to Kreb

Prompt: “How to Train Your Dragon”, 2010, Chris Sanders and Dean DeBlois Author: Nelween Word Count: 24,037 words Rating: Mature Warnings: injuries, broken bones, vomiting, killing

Summary: Harry had always been obsessed with dragons. It was one of the reason he had studied them. And when the opportunity came to study draconic creatures in the wild on a deserted magical island with his mentor Charlie Weasley and his friend Neville Longbottom, why wouldn't he take it? If only he knew what he would encounter on his journey...

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The Decision

Prompt: “Fleabag”, 2019, TV Series Author: MurderGrandma Word Count: 5,369 words Rating: Mature Warnings: transphobic slur but don't worry she gets revenge, miscarriage, general horrible person

Summary: Love is awful. Draco Malfoy is dreading helping Pansy Parkinson plan her wedding. That's something horrible people dread, and perhaps that makes her a horrible person. She's determined to behave, until old connections and an increasingly surreal and intolerable dinner party get the better of her.

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The Dying of the Light

Prompt: “Dead Like Me”, 2003, TV Series Author: camomiletea Word Count: 20,078 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Death themes, Implied Infidelity (not between Harry/Draco), Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Notes: “Life sucks, and then you die… And then it still sucks.” – Georgia Lass, Dead Like Me. The biggest thank you to our fabulous Mods for LCDrarry 2023! This community has been an absolute joy to be a part of and I couldn’t recommend it enough to others. And to my beta (R) who (once again) aided my whale call for assistance in the very final stages of submission. This fic would be a mess without you. You're the absolute best. x

Summary: Everyone dies. That’s just the way it is. And then there are the unfortunate few who get promoted.

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Palm Springs

Prompt: "Palm Springs", 2020, Max Barbakow Author: Kittycargo Word Count: 20,137 words Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Time Loop, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary: Harry collapsed into the chair next to him. “What is happening?” “One of those infinite time loop situations.” “What?!” “You know. Yesterday is today. Today is today, tomorrow is today.” “But how do I stop it? I don’t want tomorrow to be today. I want tomorrow to be tomorrow!” “Yeah, that’s understandable.” Malfoy said calmly. “Do you like tacos?”

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Double Trouble

Prompt: "Alias", 2001-2006, TV Series Author: multiverse_of_fanfic Word Count: 57,440 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: possible tw for torture (non-graphic incarcerous)

Summary: Four years after the War, Draco is stuck in a dead-end job, paper-pushing his life away. Until one day, after a security breach in the Ministry, he receives an offer he can’t refuse. Thrown back into a world he thought he’d left behind, Draco must wrestle with his Death Eater past as well as his inconvenient — and forbidden — feelings for an annoyingly level-headed Harry Potter. Will he manage to come out unscathed like he has most of his life, or will it all come crashing down?

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An Angel, A Demon, and The End of The World

Prompt: “Good Omens”, 2019, TV Series Author: DrWhoIsGinnyHolmes Word Count: 3,844 words Rating: Teen and up Audiences Warnings: Religious imagery and references

Summary: Armageddon has come to Earth and enemies Demon Harry and Angel Draco are forced to come together to figure out how to halt it. They had become rather fond of Earth in all their years upon it, and don't wish it a tragic end. Plus, oh dear, the Antichrist has gone missing.

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Champions of Karlstad

Prompt: "Borg v McEnroe", 2017, Janus Metz Author: Dexiha Word Count: 18,310 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: mention of blood, injuries and ice hockey-typcial in-game violence

Summary: Draco signs a contract with Färjestad BK, one of the top ice hockey clubs in Sweden. Draco's long-time rival, Harry Potter, refuses to play with Draco, but still chooses to follow him to Sweden, signing with another Swedish club. Is screwing with Draco's life all that Potter really cares about, or is there some other intent behind his annoying behaviour?

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A Mist That Appears (For a Little Time)

Prompt: "Sweet November", 2001, Pat O'Connor Author: DodgerKedavra Word Count: 22,490 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: This is a sickfic with mild blood and sickness!

Summary: “Give me November, and I’ll teach you to be happy. There’s only one condition. You must swear on your magic that you won’t fall in love with me.” Harry’s so tired. His whole body hurts. If Malfoy can teach him how to be happy, then... “Okay.” Harry is working himself to death. Draco only has November to help him. Falling in love is strictly against the rules.

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You've Got Owl Post

Prompt: "You've Got Mail", 1998, Nora Ephron Author: slyth_princess Word Count: 50,407 words Rating: Mature Warnings: Questionable Use of Canon

Summary: After discovering muggle romantic comedies during winter break, Pansy Parkinson and Luna Lovegood decide to launch an ambitious project called You've Got Owl Post which matches up students through an enchanted notebook so they can send letters to each other without knowing who is at the other end. It is an instant hit. Harry, without his friends knowing, is one of the first to join. And he rapidly finds a kindred soul on the other side of the pages. In real life, however, he is once again plagued by Draco Malfoy. After fighting in class, McGonagall has had enough. So, as punishment and a lesson, she assigns them the running of that years dueling club. Everyone, including Harry and Draco, assumes it will be a disaster. However, sometimes the people you think you know the best are the ones who can surprise you the most. A story of letters, bets, friendship, love, forgiveness, and discovering who you really are.

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You can find all the lovely podfics and art in the 1st part of our LCDrarry 2023 Master List.

As always, reblogs here on tumblr are very much appreciated to promote all the wonderful works of LCDrarry. But of course, please also shower our creators with comments and kudos on AO3 ;D Thank you! Read you next year ;)

[wolfpants]

harry potter's most miserable year - chapter six | | a drarry bridget jones fic

A thousand thanks to my patient and hand-holding betas/cheerers @oknowkiss @getawayfox @citrusses! We're nearing the end! Just one chapter left after this one. It's been a ride!

Harry Potter's Most Miserable Year | Chapter Six

Rating: E Relationships: Harry/Draco (endgame); Harry/Theo; past Draco/OMC, Minor Dean/Ginny, Minor Ron/Hermione, Minor Justin/Ernie, Minor Luna/Neville Tags: Endgame Drarry, EWE, POV Harry, Quidditch, Quidditch Manager Harry, Quidditch Player Draco, Sports Journalist Theo, Romantic Comedy, Romance, Diaries, New Year's Resolutions, Human Disaster Harry, Buttoned-up Draco, (a lot of) smoking, (a lot of) drinking, Recreational Drug Use, Explict Sexual Content, Banter, Pubs, London, Friendship, Charity Balls, Romione's naughty children, Dinner Parties, life in your 30s, Lying/Emotional Deceit, Smear Campaign, Infedeility (but not between Drarry)

After running into Malfoy at a New Year's Day party and overhearing some choice opinions he has on Harry’s character, Harry decides to change his life for good. Quit smoking, drink less, dress better, excel at his brand new role as Puddlemere’s manager, and find a nice, adult man he can settle down with. Sounds easy, right?

“This is… for me?” Harry asked. Cautiously, he pried the lid open and peered inside, immediately hit with the scent of sweet fruit and rich butter. Malfoy nodded. He walked over to Harry’s sideboard. He looked at the cup for about a millisecond before he started fussing with Harry’s tea set, grabbing a couple of fine china teacups and flipping them over.  “Weren’t you listening when I said I have something for you, Potter?” He twisted the champagne bottle’s muselet, tossing it onto the table. “It’s galette,” he said primly. He winced as he popped the champagne, holding it at arm’s length. “I made it last night.” Harry frowned. “You made me a galette?” “You catch on quick, don’t you?” Malfoy drawled.

read chapter six on ao3

[larrysballetslippers]

Gushing On Nights by Kikiberoski16

or @larrysballetslippers

Harry/Louis/OMC | 3,7k | Kinky Poly Relationship

Harry wants to write a poem for the dungeon's poetry night but can't get it right. Sometimes experiencing what you’re trying to write about helps the creative mind.

@wordplayfics 7.1: Poem

Part 8 of the For My Lovers series. I want to thank my wonderful beta @milliondropsofwater for helping me with this fic. I couldn't have done it without you!

[cr-noble-writes]

Title: Vicissitude Series: Virtue and Volatility Fandom: Mass Effect Rating: Mature Characters: Jackson Shepard, Garrett Coats, Warren Mills (OMC), Steven Hackett Relationships: mShepard/Coats Tags: pre-canon, Elysium, The Blitz, canon-typical violence, implied sexual content, Outsider POV, PTSD, Drinking, trans male Shepard, renegade Shepard Word Count: 7171

Summary: Vicissitude- a variation in circumstances or fortune. Elysium, the Blitz, and choices that change the course of Jackson Shepard's life.

Notes: So, Jackson is a study in contradictions, and even more than in Verisimilitude, I discovered while writing this fic how god damn difficult in can be to demonstrate the emotional state of a guy who flat out refuses to be aware of his own emotional state lol

Anyway, I hope you enjoy learning more about Jackson. I enjoyed writing this, even the darkest bits. Also, I've done a thing I don't normally do, which is attach a song to each chapter because they're just songs that I hard associated with the chapter while I was writing it. I'll be putting them in the chapter notes as I post.

Just like Verisimilitude, this fic is complete, and I'll be posting once a week on. It is important to note that while I don't have any *super* detailed descriptions of what happens, this fic does have some darker themes.

Thank you to @rotschopf-thedrow for batting this around with me constantly for the last like... month and for alpha reading for me! And thank you to @ad-astra13 for beta reading for me <e

Special thanks to @swaps55, @bioticbooty @mallaidhsomo for helping me flesh out some of my ideas!

Read Chapter 1 Here

Excerpt:

“What the fuck is that?” His voice shakes.

“That is a batarian ship,” Shepard mutters, eyes narrowing as he looks up at it. “Probably not the only one either. How the hell did they break atmo without an alarm going up?”

Warren can’t breathe. Five minutes.

The acrid smell of burning plaster and worse overwhelms him, and his stomach rebels, emptying its contents onto the floor. He’s going to lose his job over this. If he’s lucky. Explosions sound in the near distance. He can feel them vibrating through the ground, but they’re far enough away not to be a danger to him.

They’re under attack. People are dying. His eyes flick to the bakery. People are dead. He’d just wanted a cup of coffee. “There hasn’t been a raid here in years.”

Shepard shakes his head. The orange and yellow flicker of the city burning around them plays across his calm, focused expression. “They’re pirates, not idiots. They don’t target capital cities for raids.”

[firstprince-ao3feed]

I wish youd talk talk (just talk to me)

by mardotcom “I..” He trails off, pushing at Zach’s chest. “I’m sorry, I think I need to find my friend. I don’t feel very well.” Henry shivers, the heat he’d previously been feeling coming now in flashes. Zach’s grip on him only tightens painfully as he reaches to grab the hand Henry is holding his cup with, placing the solo cup back down on the counter. “Don’t worry about that, Baby. I’ll take care of you.” Zach whispers, and Henry feels himself being shuffled out of the kitchen. He recognizes that something is drastically, horrifically wrong, but he’s feeling so much so rapidly worse that he can’t do much other than shake his head and shove at Zach with all the strength of a newborn doe. “Oh god,” Henry hears himself moan, his head spinning and his stomach turning over. His front half tips over, legs shaking as he struggles to support himself. A second ago he was fine, and now he feels like hell froze over. This isn't good, he needs out, he needs away from Zach.   Or..   Henry gets roofied at a party, and Alex comes to his Rescue. Words: 2704, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Red White & Royal Blue (2023) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alex Claremont-Diaz, Percy "Pez" Okonjo, Nora Holleran, June Claremont-Diaz, Original Male Character(s), Beatrice Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Percy "Pez" Okonjo, Alex Claremont-Diaz & Nora Holleran, David the Beagle & Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Additional Tags: Drink Spiking, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, those go first cause they’re important, Frat Bro Alex Claremont-Diaz, Alternate Universe - College/University, OMC is a dick, Alex bridal carrying Henry !!, TA henry, Protective Alex Claremont-Diaz, Pining Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Loves Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry self sabotages a little, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Alex Claremont-Diaz is Obsessed with Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Law Student Alex Claremont-Diaz, College | University Student Alex Claremont-Diaz, College | University Student Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Movie heights, no beta we die like.. something via https://ift.tt/y7gAsuJ