#Bone Marrow's artwork

[boneasin]

Baby Dark Choco and his dad, Dark Cacao! ngl I used a Minecraft screenshot for help for the background-

Also drawing this has made me realize how horrible I am at drawing flowers bc there was supposed to be a vase full of flowers but I got so annoyed with drawing them that I just didn't add them to the finished drawing-

[matchavellichor]

Warm Blood on Cool Marble

dark!Sebastian Sallow x f!MC - Angst - 2.2k words - ao3

A/N: I saw this lovely artwork by @tamayula-hl SO long ago and it's been living in my head rent-free ever since. Enjoy the terribly dark word vomit!!!

Summary: Casting an Unforgivable on his friend one fateful night in Slytherin's Scriptorium awakens something ravenous inside of Sebastian.

Tags: !!Violence!!, Sadism, Cruelty, Sebastian is not Nice, Dark Magic, Blood Rituals, Rough Kissing, Deliberate Use of Crucio, Minor NSFW

Pain spreads in tendrils under her skin. White-hot. Burning scorch marks into her bones, then underneath—into the very marrow, until it seems as much a part of her as the fibers of her soul. It swallows her whole with the intention to devour. 

Time easily escapes her under the influence of the curse, seemingly eternal. Only when it abruptly lets up is she distantly aware that it must have only been a few seconds. 

Despite this, her nerves ache with the memory—muscles twitching, breath coming in heavy pants against the flagstone floor she’s bracing herself against. 

Ominis has just enough time to kneel beside her before she’s retching onto the stone, agony still a broiling mess in her stomach. He holds her hair back and she can feel the anxiety in his clammy hands, in his hushed words she can barely make out over the ringing in her ears.

Sebastian is deadly silent.

She composes herself enough to blink back the stars dancing behind her vision and glances up to find he’s deadly still, as well. Frozen in place. Staring.

His wand is held loosely in his hand, his lips parted just enough to suggest surprise, as if a revelation of some sort has been made. A revelation of what she isn’t sure, as she’s certain it isn’t his first time experimenting with this specific Unforgivable.

Ominis is still fretting over her condition right beside her, his hands squeezing hers as if he can wring the trembling out of them, siphon the pain out. Her focus is drawn elsewhere. Magnetized to the expression Sebastian’s features are pulled into.

There’s a glint in his eyes, dark and pooling like warm blood on cool marble. A look that’s somehow familiar, that she tries to press down on with her thumb. Keep still long enough to decipher.

He takes a sharp breath, his irises catching the dim light of the wall torches, and it’s like they flash scarlet for a brief moment. Amber morphs into garnet right before her very eyes, gone as quick as she catches it. 

She does catch it though.

Right there, is a vicious kind of yearning. Violent, greedy desire. Something grasping, clawing, gnawing. Avarice, in all its sheer, ugly inhumanity. 

It burns bright in his eyes and knocks all of the wind out of her lungs. She staggers back and dry heaves and Ominis is on her again, blanched with worry. 

“I’m taking her back,” he says as helps her to her feet, and his tone is clipped, angry. Infuriated with Sebastian’s apparent indifference. “Explore your dearly coveted scriptorium alone. I hope it was worth it.” 

She wishes she could tell him that Sebastian is anything but indifferent at the moment, but her throat can’t get any words out. The clarification wouldn’t do him any good, anyway. She knows that apathy would be worlds more comforting than the rapacity that burns in his eyes now.  

She lets Ominis sling her arm around his neck and help her out of the chamber. When she glances over her shoulder, Sebastian has moved already, disappearing into the opened vault. He doesn’t turn to look back at her. 

//

She isn’t sure who is avoiding who. If it’s the simmering fear inside her that instinctively keeps her away from him or if it’s he who intentionally hides himself. His absence shouldn’t eat away at her as much as it does, and yet it tears her apart from the inside out, swallows her whole.

Ominis is more livid than she is, holding a bitterness that causes him to push Sebastian away just as ardently as the brunette isolates himself. It’s unhealthy, especially as she considers what he must be spending his time doing now that he’s had access to Salazar’s writings. Either Ominis lacks the foresight or simply the energy to try to dissuade him any further.

Concern wracks her nerves. Despite her efforts, she’s only afforded brief glimpses. Any time she approaches him working in the desolate corners of the library, he tucks his notes away quickly, refuses to meet her eyes. 

She wishes she could pretend his aversion to her is a product of remorse. She can’t. Rejection digs sharply in her chest, until it hurts more than the fear she still subconsciously harbors for him. 

Only then, does she follow him.

//

The Feldcroft Catacombs are dark and frigid. She stumbles through scattered bones with the faint light of her lumos, picks her way through cobwebs and corridors. Nearly impales herself with a snapped femur she falls on top of. She wipes off her scraped palms and continues on, determined. 

Eventually, pain-stakingly, she reaches the chamber he’s in. It’s barren, save for the glowing light of his wand and the stone dolmen in the center of the room. 

The stench of dark magic is so heavy she nearly gags from it. It permeates her senses and she can almost feel it sink into her very being, wear down her soul just from proximity. He stands hunched over the stone table, back turned to her, working fervently. 

Her shoes scuff against the stone floor and he turns quick as lightning, wand outstretched, a curse on the tip of his tongue.

His eyes burn when he catches sight of her. She ignores the instinctive, primal, screaming urge inside of her to run. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” There’s more desperation in his voice than she would’ve anticipated, and if she stretches it, hazes her perception, she could almost pretend he sounds remorseful.

Her eyes comb over the runes drawn in scarlet on the table, the glowing artifact in his hands. There’s blood dripping down his forearm, oozing from the cut on his palm. Blood magic, she catalogs briefly. Something obscure and archaic.

Her heart seizes violently in her chest when she lets her eyes drift up to meet his again. “What have you done?”

“What I had to,” he whispers, and his tone is resigned. “There’s no use in trying to stop me. It’s already completed.” 

She takes a step closer and he reciprocates a step back, presses himself against the stone mantle. It’s ironic, how he almost seems scared of her. Jarring. She tilts her head and studies him. 

“Leave,” he seethes, so vicious it’s startling. The words bitten out through clenched teeth. Still, she notices the lilt buried deep beneath it. The waver in his voice. The tremor in his hands. She’s never seen Sebastian so terrified.  

“You know I won’t,” she says, and takes another step closer. He tries to inch away again, but there’s nowhere for him to go so he only glares at her, tightens his grip around his wand, stiffens his position. 

She stalks towards him until his wand digs into her chest and he’s staring down at her with widened eyes. She turns her gaze to the artifact in his hands. 

“Let it go, Sebastian,” she says, gentle, like she’s cornering a scared animal. With blood dripping down his palm and his eyes round saucers, he truly looks like something savage. Unfettered. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to you? Please. We’ll destroy it together.”

He shakes his head fervently and holds it farther out of her reach. “Don’t you dare. Don’t come near it.”

There’s a moment frozen in the air between them. Caught in the live-wire tension, swirling in their shared panting breaths. She isn’t certain of anything other than the fact that she needs to put an end to this.

She lunges for the relic. 

It tumbles out of his hand with a dull clatter, and she immediately dives for it, sinking to the floor. He doesn’t follow her down. 

Her fingers are barely able to brush the jagged edge of it before debilitating pain sears up her nerves and white explodes behind her eyes. 

Immediately, she jerks back sharply, her body curling into itself as she writhes. She’s distantly aware of the fact she’s screaming herself hoarse. 

This… this is different than before. 

Infinitely more intense, more intentional. If she had ever known passion before—by any definition of the word—it pales miserably in comparison to the zealous onslaught she feels now.

She can feel the way the darkness around them feeds into it, entwines itself with his magic, stokes the flickering flames of his cruelty until it’s all-consuming. Until she’s certain she’ll be reduced to ash when he’s done with her. 

When he finally relents, he’s hovering over her. His eyes are fixed on her face, and she catches that glint there again. How voracious he is, utterly starved. She tries to move her muscles but they feel like they’ve been flayed, tendons and sinew cut away for him to prod and gawk at.

“How did it feel?” he whispers, voice feverish with fascination. There’s an unrestrained quality to it, something deranged seeping through the cracks. 

He moves over her when she tries to squirm away, straddles her hips. His eyes are still drinking in every drop of her, trained on her face, on the faint twitching in her arms. She takes too long to blink back to full lucidity and he squeezes her cheeks in his hand, gives her a shake. Blood streaks her chin and she nearly becomes sick from it.

“Get yourself together,” he grits, tone dripping with appetent impatience. “Tell me. Tell me how it felt. Or has it already escaped you? Do you need a reminder?”

“No, no, please—”

He grins then, teeth bone-white and all knives.

“You don’t have a clue, do you?” he murmurs. “How beautiful you sounded screaming for me. Writhing under my wand. My magic.”

He’s close. She feels his breath on her lips and it smells like copper, makes her gut twist violently.

“It was even better than in the scriptorium. God, how I despised myself for enjoying it so much then,” he leans in until his lips ghost the shell of her ear, voice lowered to a whisper. “For touching myself to the thought afterward.”

He shifts his hips against hers and she feels it— the stiffness pressed to her stomach, equal parts dizzying as it is nauseating. His hunger for her is in every possible meaning of the word, wolfish, insatiable. 

His breath is hot at her temples, words scorching. “Tell me, did you feel me then? Feel me inside of you, as strongly as you did just now?” The fervor in his voice is thick, palpable, so much so it’s a miracle she doesn’t choke on all the vigor of it. “Through the searing pain, did you feel nothing but me?”

Tears burn a path down her cheeks before she can stop herself, but she’s too sore to feel properly mortified by them. Just as quickly as they marr her skin, they’re swiped away. 

Replaced with the wet drag of a tongue. 

She whimpers, squirms away, but he holds her steadfast. Rambles more insanities, voice scathing against heat-flushed, saliva-slick skin.

“You know, I thought that once I saved Anne, I would be done. I would leave this all behind. But now,” he chuckles, rasping deep in his chest, something maniacal. “There’s so much overwhelming beauty in it all. So much rapture. How could I ever give it up? How could I ever let this go?”

She forces herself to blink away the stickiness in her lashes, to meet his eyes, see him for what he really is. The glowing relic fallen just out of reach casts his face in an incandescent indigo, portent and foreboding. 

Through the deep blue, his eyes glint blood-red. 

Not a flicker, but something permanently changed, something intrinsic to him now. The sight nerves her to her core, sends a shudder up her spine. 

He surges forward and swallows whatever gasp she intended to let out.

His lips on hers are vicious, punishing—and she wonders if he’ll ever be able to be anything but. He licks into her mouth with long, hungry strokes, runs his tongue along her teeth, bites mercilessly until he tastes metal. Her mouth pools with scarlet and he doesn’t bother soothing it, instead groaning deeply in triumph. 

The shock of it all dislocates something in her, makes it so easy for her to offer up whimpers against his mouth, for her to let him brutalize her so wholly. He takes it as permission to tear her open, grope bruises into her skin with his wandering hands.

He squeezes her chest so roughly she chokes on a sob, rakes her nails down his forearms. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as if the sound makes something heavy inside of him twist. Ache. 

When he finally breaks away from her he’s grinning. Lips kiss-bruised and swollen, pink-tinged saliva on his chin. He stares for a drawn out moment, as if committing the way she looks to memory. 

As he unmolds his body from hers, she struggles desperately to catch her breath. She’s still dizzy, even after he’s collected himself, even after he’s on his feet tucking his notes back into his satchel and the relic’s safely back in his hands. 

He watches her for another long moment and she’d almost mistake the look in his eyes for fondness. She catches herself. There’s too much voracity behind his gaze for it to be anything remotely tender. 

His breaths are just as ragged as hers as he leaves her there, on the floor, tremors still wracking her body. Before he slips out of the chamber, he stills. Turns to look back at her one last time. 

Strangely enough, it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. 

[kickingitwithkirk]

If I Gave You My Soul, Would You Wait Eternity For Me?

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Sam Winchester

WC: 8218

Warnings: Show Level Violence, Wincest

*Written initially for Wincest Reverse Bang 2023 *Inspired by the artwork A King and his Knight by @bluefire986 *Thank you to @mrswhozeewhatsis for being my last-minute Beta

Sam walks down the empty hallway feeling tired. 

Not the kind of tired one gets from the physical work of hunting, but a type from being one of heaven and hell's favorite chew toys for so long it has worked its way into the marrow of his bones.

He opens the door to Room Eleven and flips the lights on. He scans the scant possessions in his brother's personal space, illuminated by the antiquated lighting around the room, all having some meaning to Dean. Weaponry hanging on the walls, the antique furniture he can’t stop rearranging, his favorite Busty Asian Beauties magazines, and last but not least, a slice of discarded pie sitting on the telephone table.

Sam frowns at the representation of how much of a sloth his brother always was… is . Picking up the leftovers, he notices some photographs sticking out from under a scribbled-on notepad and pulls them out. He sits on the unmade bed flipping through them, each containing a distinct memory; some taken before he was old enough to remember, others throughout their years together. 

He pauses at the last one. Bobby had snapped the candid picture in his kitchen sometime between Death's restoration of his soul and Castiel breaking The Wall. Sam tries to remember the last time he’s seen his brother smiling like that. 

Leaving all but that one photo behind, Sam is determined to save Dean from damnation, no matter the cost.

****

Unbeknownst to Sam during his absence, Dean regains consciousness and, ironically, feels a helluva lot better. His blood feels more fevered than boiling and notices his flesh is no longer burning like it had been since Sam slapped the demon cuffs on him the other day.  

Manipulating his left arm, Dean bends his hand and hisses when the holy water-infused ropes sting his fingertips like a swarm of wasps. He quickly loosens the knot, slips free, then tackles the rest. Unlacing his left boot enough to toe it off, he sits it on his lap and removes the leather insert, fishing out the hidden lock pick and using it to release his cuffed wrist. 

Shaking out his hand, Dean feels the cuffs' inhibiting effects diminish, gets up, crosses to the painted edge of the demon trap, and comes into contact with the trap's front edge. It shocks him with what feels like a hundred cattle prods simultaneously. Growling, Dean backs up a bit and springs forward using his superior strength, forcing the invisible barrier to bow outwards like an overinflated balloon. It gives way when it hits the maximum curvature, and inertia carries him on until gravity grabs hold and drops him like a stone onto the concrete floor.

Dean lies there, momentarily breathless, and mirthlessly chuckles at what his little brother considered a brilliant idea, pumping so much blessed blood into him that it fooled the wardings’ capabilities. Climbing onto unsteady feet, he staggers for the door and traverses up the first set of the building's stairwells. The residual effects from the physical restraints finish wearing off and Dean fumes at Sam’s audacity. How dare Sam force a cure Dean didn’t want on him when he had been downright benevolent in offering to spare his life by walking away. 

Twice

But now Dean is free and pissed off. The Mark burns on his arm, screaming for The Blade and vengeance. Soon, it’ll finish overriding the bit of humanity that had struggled to return. Usually, Dean goes straight for the kill and heads for some no-name bar to drink and hook up with whoever caught his eye, enjoying their charms until he gets bored. 

But it was Sam . His too damn intelligent and resourceful little brother who’d flagrantly discarded his last request.

Sammy, let me go.

But no, Sam hauled him back to the bunker and forcibly injected that poisonous cure into his body, knowing he hates needles, knowing it’d never been successfully used on a knight of Hell.  

Yes, Dean had to teach his little brother a lesson. And there were plenty of implements of war and other things around the bunker to employ. 

Using his mortal self’s knowledge of how his little brother processes various scenarios, Dean runs through all known versions of Sam’s A-Z planning. In all versions, calling the angel would be step one. He knows he’ll need new tactics but doesn’t have much time to implement them before that dick in the trench coat shows. 

Even if he is running on borrowed grace, Dean isn’t ignorant that Castiel could still be a threat to a knight of Hell, possibly overpowering him now that that cure has temporarily sullied his blood. He starts formulating countermeasures while traveling the stairs toward the second floor and, upon reaching the level, goes straight to the lab in Room Twenty-Eight for a few items.

Part II

Sam returns with two more packs of the cure and slowly walks to the dungeon’s entrance, mentally guarding himself against the next barrage of verbal attacks from the demon, his big brother. He notices the door is open and feels adrenaline-fueled fear saturate his system. His heart races, standing in the doorway, finding the chair empty with the restraints dangling off the arms. 

Sam reaches into the back of his waistband, pulls out the demon blade, and scans his immediate area. Realizing his brother has moved on, he cautiously heads back up the stairwell toward the upper floors.

Clearing each is time-consuming, making Sam’s fear grow that the demon has escaped the bunker. It’s almost a relief when he hears a door open and quickly close, then footsteps moving up a back staircase to the main floor. 

Peeking around the map room, Sam stealthily crosses to a desk drawer where the master keys are stored and freezes at clattering in the kitchen. He quietly picks up the metal ring, hoping Dean can’t hear him. 

Sam heads downstairs as he hears Dean bellow, “Come on, Sammy! Don’t you want to hang out with your big brother? Spend a little quality time?” 

Sam reaches the electrical room and flinches with every jingle of the keys as he unlocks the door. He has to keep Dean from escaping or everybody Dean leaves behind will be blood on Sam’s hands. With a switch flick, the bunker turns dark, kicking on the red auxiliary lights as the claxon announces the lockdown and covers the sound of his steps.

“Smart Sam, locking the place down, doors won’t open. I get it, but here’s the thing. I don’t want to leave, not till I find you.” 

The relief Sam feels at knowing no one else will be hurt anytime soon is balanced by the spike of fear caused by the murderous tone of his brother’s voice. He’s heard it plenty of times, just never aimed at him . Refocusing on his goal, Sam quells his fear and quietly moves to find a place to hide, wait for Dean to show, and shut off the lockdown to silence the claxon so he can trail Sam’s steps again. Sam hopes this will be his chance to trap him and escape alive.

“Sammy, just making this worse for yourself, man. You can, uh, blame yourself for me getting loose. All that blood you pumped into me to make me human--well, the less demon I was, the less the cuffs worked. And that devil’s trap--well, I just walked right across it; it smarted. But still….”

Dean enters the hall heading into the electrical room and heads down the steps to the junction box. A flip of a switch powers the bunker up. “That’s more like it.” Dean says loud enough for Sam to hear as he slams the door shut from the outside.

Obviously unimpressed, Dean yells through it as Sam again tries reasoning with him to finish the treatment. He jumps at a loud, thumping noise from the inside and backs up when the wooden door splinters, sending pieces flying at him. 

“You act like I want to be cured.” 

Sam is shocked as more chunks burst outwards, revealing his brother's pissed-off face.

“Personally, I like the disease, ” Dean taunts, knowing how those words will bother Sam.

“Dean, stop that!” Shaking his hand, Sam lobs what they both know is a baseless threat. “I don’t want to use this blade on you!”

“Oh ! That sucks for you, doesn’t it? ‘Cause you mean that,” Dean sneers.

“Look, if you come out of that room, I won’t have a choice!’

“Sure you will!  And I know which one you’ll make. Isn’t that right, Sammy? But see,” Dean resumes his demolition, “here’s the thing. I’m lucky. Oh, hell, I’m blessed. ‘Cause there’s just enough demon lift in me that killing you ain’t no choice.” 

Knowing he has no choice but to run, Sam tears down the passageway as Dean finishes wrecking the door and walks through what remains. “Come on, Sammy, let’s have a beer, talk about it. I’m tired of playing. Let’s finish this game!”

Sam peers down the hallways Dean will have to pass through and finds them empty. He turns to double back but in his peripheral, catches a flash of red flannel and instinctively ducks. He feels the prongs of the swinging object snag longer strands of his hair before its momentum buries it in the concrete wall where his head was milliseconds ago. Sam swoops upright, placing the sharp edge of the demon blade against Dean's throat.

The chuckle that comes out of Dean is truly evil. “Well, look at you.” 

Sam’s hand trembles as Dean peers upward into his eyes and challenges, “Do it,” before tipping his chin downward and leaning into the blade’s edge.

“ It’s all you.”   

If Sam had a better poker face when lying to his big brother, he wouldn’t have given away that Cas appeared behind Dean, and what happened next would’ve been impossible. Sam watched, horrified, as Dean sliced his throat on the demon blade, the cut sparking orange and dousing him and the wall in a venous spray revealing a hidden sigil.

Time ticked in slow motion as Dean pushed Sam away, sending him sliding down the hall with unnatural force. He then smoothly turned toward the angel with demonic speed and did it again, sending Cas flying through the air. Sam watches as he swipes his left hand across the cut before slapping it on a now glowing sigil, dispatching the trench-coated angel to who knew where. 

Sam’s still-shocked brain immobilizes him long enough that Dean is on him before he can get up and run. He tries, but his bum shoulder gets in the way, leaving him floundering. Dean grabs the lapels of his flannel shirt and pulls him to his feet, instead. One evil, cocky smile, and Dean slams Sam and his head against the wall then leaves him to slide back down to the floor. Sam’s fading vision registers the knight of Hell squatting down and, before losing consciousness, hears his gravelly voice utter, “Should’ve picked that beer.”

Part III

When the first glimmers of consciousness return, the cold air rolling over his skin tells Sam he’s in the dungeon. He quickly figures he’s shackled and bound to the chair by the blessed ropes, wrapped in their rough embrace. He’s still doing an inventory of his position and possible injuries when a thirst hits him. 

Not thirst from the lack of hydration but that unique, unforgettable, insatiable craving Sam has vehemently resisted for years. This thirst was reignited by the higher-level demon's blood, making his body yearn for more of the substance that’s left a thick, rich coating, laced with a smoky aftertaste, on his tongue.

Horrified by his reaction, the little blood in his stomach rolls upwards, slipping past his lips onto his shirt, followed by copious amounts of foul-tasting, pink-tinged bile.

“You always were an over-sensitive bitch.” 

The gravelly voice bounces off the concrete walls to ricochet inside his skull. Struggling to open his eyes through the pain from the back of his head, Sam fuzzily sees the outline of his brother sitting with one hip hitched up on the edge of the table, suddenly smiling peculiarly. “I gotta hand it to you, Sam. You were this close,” he holds up a thumb and forefinger an inch apart, “turning me back. Know where you fucked up? Come on, take a guess. No? Okay, I’ll throw you a bone. Where’d you store that blood?” 

Dean smirks as the answer dawns on Sam. “I’d have put it on ice in a cooler. No wonder Dad never trusted you to do anything right.” 

Sam remains silent, partly not wanting to vomit on himself again as his head mercilessly throbs in time with his heartbeat. The other part doesn’t want to take the bait because the demon who is his brother holds all the cards.

“What? No pithy comeback? No, Dean, you’re wrong, blah blah blah?” The demon grabs a beer bottle by his hip and takes a swig.

 “That night I left with Crowley, he asked why not kill you and be done with it 'cause you’d never stop searching for us.” The demon chuckles. “Told him we had an agreement to do normal. And how do you repay my benevolence? You drag me back here, torturing me in ways far worse than Alastair ever dished out because you can’t let go!”

“Are you telling me that Dean Winchester, my brother, wouldn’t have gone to the ends of the earth if it’d been me? I don’t believe that!” Sam pushes down the pain. “You want a pound of flesh for doing the same thing you’ve repeatedly done for me?”

“Ohh, I’ve already got ideas running through my head.” His mood shifts, and presto chango, he’s Dean again. “So, I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

"Man, you hung out way too long with that low-rent Vito Corleone wannabe,” Sam snarks.

“Maybe. But I learned more about The Mark when he was in his cups, whatever that means. He admitted not telling me everything before I took it and related a little-known story. Cain couldn’t deal with what he’d done and committed suicide using the First Blade. But The Mark wouldn’t let him go, changing him into a demon.”

“Here’s the kicker, though.” Dean goes to a storage cabinet, removes an object, and then walks over to him. “What none of the lore, oral histories, or rumors say was that he became a demon with a soul.”

“Wha..what are you saying?” The scent of the rich blood under Dean's skin tortures him the closer he gets. “You’ve had your soul this entire time, and you still—” Sam broke off, the thirst clouding his thoughts.

“The Mark wants what it wants, but I’ve had time to figure out how to keep it appeased, and right now, my soul is the only thing keeping you alive.” Dean stops centimeters from the devil’s trap’s outer ring. “Here's my proposal. I’ll stay till you heal, care for you like I always have.”

“In exchange for what, Dean? I look the other way while you go out and slaughter people.”

“You returned The Blade to Crowley, so The Mark is pissed and wants your blood, which brings me to the second part. I need you to feel what I feel, see what I… Jesus Fucking Christ, I’m starting to sound like that wanker Crowley!” 

Dean moves around as he used to when shaking things off. “I need you to understand I want this, and the only way is to spend time with me as is. So, to wrap your big brain around it, I’m going to give you a bit of my blood every day, just enough to bring out that demonic side Azazel created.”

“You have lost your fucking mind, Dean! If you think I’d let you—”

“Before finishing that sentence, imagine me shutting the power on and off to watch you suffocate for the fun of it. Or locking down the bunker, letting you slowly starve. Remember, I also was Alastair’s most promising, and I can do things to your body without killing you, make you wish you’d never left the Cage.”

Sam doesn’t respond, so the demon crosses the trap smiling coldly. “It doesn’t work on me anymore.” He walks behind Sam and leans close to whisper, “Remember feeding from Ruby? How that warm blood slipped down your throat, heightening your senses, making you powerful? And she was just a common demon. Can you imagine what a higher-level demon, a knight of Hell, will make you feel like?” Dean holds up a mirror before his face, revealing Sam’s kaleidoscope eye colors are gone, now replaced by a liquid gold color, making him resemble the yellow-eyed bastard who’d destroyed his family.

“After all, Sam, you're foreordained to be the Boy King of Hell.” 

The demon's mood shifts again. “Well, I don’t know about you, but all this talk of blood and mutilation made me hungry,” his brother says, heading towards the door. “I’ll let you sit there while I run to town and grab some food, followed up with a slice of good old-fashioned murder.” 

Dean turns and smiles like his human self. “I’m kidding, Geesh; gotta work on that sense of humor, Sammy!” Flipping off the lights, he shuts the door.

“See you later.”

Part IV

“... the heat of the moment

Telling me what your…”

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” 

Sam’s eyes fly open as the room lights flicker brightly on, squinting at Dean stuffing the last bite of a burger into his mouth.

“...The heat of the moment showed in your eyes.”

“ Whooh , dude, you fucking reek!” Dean mumbles with his mouthful, dramatically waving his hand as the cell phone continues blaring that Asia song Sam hates. ”What is that smell?” He glances down at his brother's lap. ”Oh yeah, I forgot about bodily functions. Sorry.” 

The demon’s audacity to look contrite pisses him off. “You're sorry ?!” Sam hoarsely snaps, “You left me here for so fucking long that I pissed and shit myself like a fucking baby! Was that whole spiel about caring for me another one of your games? If this is your way of convincing me to accept anything you propose, fucking kill me now!”

“I said I was sorry!” Dean grumbles as he stomps over. “It's only been thirteen hours.” He curses while untying the ropes with his bare hands. Unlocking the demon cuff from the chair arm he snaps, “I’m not taking any chances.” Yanking on Sam’s cuffed wrist, he snaps the manacle to his slung-bound wrist, “So you’re keeping these on. Let's go.”

Dean drags Sam up the multiple levels to the communal showers. “Time to get yourself cleaned up.” Dean goes over to his brother's usual area and turns the knobs, warming up the water.

 “How am I supposed to do that? You just said I had to stay in these,” Sam inquires, jingling the silver manacles. “And my shoulder’s stiffened up so much there’s no way I’m getting my shirts off.” Dean momentarily frowns, then grabs the facility's rubbish bin and pulls out his butterfly knife. 

“What’re you..?” Sam begins, but then Dean slices through his flannel and T-shirt, pulls the strips off, and kneels to unlace his boots before reaching for the button on his jeans. Sam's weak protest of you can’t is met by the demon's black eyes and a growl of, “Knock it off!” 

Hooking his fingers into the waistband, he yanks them to Sam’s ankles, blinking in disbelief at his brother's emaciated body. Sam didn't take time to care for himself in the weeks since Dean died, and it made Dean’s eyes shift back into their normal chartreuse. Sam can’t look at this perverted version of his brother supposedly caring for him, so stares at the tiled wall. As he did when still a child, he automatically lifts each foot for Dean as expected, then cringes as his destroyed clothes violently slam into the bin.

“Keep your arm still.” Unsnapping the sling, Dean tosses it towards the bench, then backs him up till the warm sprays hit his back, running over it, cleansing off the days of filth. 

In his peripheral vision, Sam notices Dean stripping off his clothes. “What are you doing?”

The only response is a washcloth roughly scrubbing over his good shoulder and down his back. “Don’t think you can feign ignorance about starving yourself!” Dean snaps as he continues bathing him like when they were kids. “How much time have I invested in caring for you over the years, too? Once again, you’ve risked your health.” He squeezes Sam’s injured shoulder. “No wonder I was able to outthink and outmaneuver you.”

Part V

His buzzing alarm clock wakes Sam, and he gazes at his ceiling like every morning, or is it night? He’s lost track of time since his brother, the knight of Hell, got loose. While lying there, he rehashes what has transpired.

He’s tried several times to escape, and the demon kept his word. Sam involuntarily shudders at the muscle memory of those punishments, so now he does everything Dean instructs, including waiting in his room until Dean shows up with his “daily tonic”, the term he gave to the blood he makes Sam drink directly from his wrist. Thinking about it makes his mouth feel as dry as the Sahara Desert, so he switches his thoughts to compare all the changes he’s found in his brother again.

It’s funny how the demon is still, well, Dean. Retaining his childish humor but with a darker edge at times. His drinking habits haven’t changed, but the whole extended periods of not eating had taken a while to get used to. The biggest change is that the guilt that used to permeate his being is nonexistent; as if becoming a demon freed his soul, is now as he should have been all along.

He also knows Dean is up to something. There are strange phone calls when he thinks Sam has dozed off while watching TV, or the few times he’s unexpectedly left in the middle of the night when Sam has gotten up to go to the toilet or get a drink of water. Then there are the times he catches Dean looking at him. Sam would swear he was looking at him with desire if he didn’t know his brother was strictly into boobs.

Whatever’s going on, Dean will eventually slip up somewhere, and Sam will have the chance to get out. Until then, Sam plays the obedient little brother.

****

Sitting at the library table working on the archive database he created for easier access to the bunkers' collections, Sam searches for a file that has somehow disappeared, checking one place than another, and catches his brother with his feet propped up on the table's end watching him. Again.

Unnerved by the intensity in his eyes, Sam finds himself subconsciously fidgeting like he did when puberty kicked in and realizes his feelings for Dean were developing into the not-brotherly kind. His feelings had become so intense that it was the number one factor in his decision to go away to college.

During those years, and after returning to hunting, he watched his brother evolve from a twink to a very sexy guy and buried his feelings of jealousy when Dean used his perfect features to his advantage in and out of the bedroom. 

“How come I’ve never noticed you’ve got this hot, librarian vibe, little brother?” 

Sam snorts. “Because you're straight.”

 “I’m serious, Sam.”

“Yeah, whatever, dude,” he replies and gets up, resuming his search.

Dean purses his lips. “Spending this time here with you, not worrying about the rest of the world. I realize I’ve spent my life denying I’m Samsexual.”

Sam turns in shock and stares at his brother, unsure if the demon is playing him for malevolent kicks or if Dean is telling the truth, knowing he has to tread carefully. Perching on the other table, Sam asks, “What triggered this confession?”

“Seemed as good a time as any.”

“That’s not an answer, Dean. I know you are technically you and it’s still hard to be honest with me. But I’ve also seen your other side trying to be more open, so please don’t shut me out again. I’d like to know how long you have felt this way about me?”

Dean shrugged. “It was my job to take care of you. Hell, Dad said it often enough. Watch out for Sammy. Those words are ingrained into my bones, deeper than that Enochian warding etched on our ribs. Then you grew, changing from my snot-nosed brother into this wondrous creature, and how I felt about you became something twisted and ugly. Old me never wanted you to find out about my sick desires, so I buried it in those girls I fucked.”

Sam listens to his brother spinning his tale of how, as a teen, he thinks maybe he was born wrong because he’s in love with his baby brother, consumed by thoughts of wanting to touch, caress, and kiss Sam’s pretty pink lips when he smiles and his mind spirals back to those years. 

He thinks maybe he was just born wrong.

Those words trigger a long-treasured memory of Sam, being sixteen and in another nondescript motel room. He’s lying in their shared bed with just enough moonlight filtering in for him to make out the features of Dean's face so close to his. Sometimes, it physically hurts how beautiful Dean is. Broad shoulders and strong hands and gorgeous fucking mouth, and Sam can't release the ache in his chest with Dean's body pressed against him. Slipping a hand beneath the sheets, he starts stroking himself and trying not to think about Dean. But like always, he fails, and clenching his teeth, Sam comes silently. 

“I thought you'd hate me if you knew how much I loved you because I always thought I was what's broken. Now you’re saying you always felt the same? It's not all about wanting or sex or desire. It's just that we’ve never had anybody to care for except each other.” Sam bursts into a laughing jag and falls, landing heavily on the floor. 

Dean falls onto his knees and, in that moment of mutual clarity, says, “You are mine.”  Gazing into his brother’s eyes, he knows Sam's feelings and smiles.

Unrepentant.

Dean's fingertips brush his lips, and it feels like a gentle breeze. Sam leans in to kiss his brother's palm. At that moment, Sam hopes. He hopes, but he also subconsciously knows, that everything they want will come crashing down at some point. 

****

Sam’s flipping through the card catalog when he comes across one out of place. He’s positive it hadn’t been in this drawer the last time he opened it and not recognizing the number enters it into his database but doesn’t find it. His curiosity piqued, he heads for the garage to let Dean know he’ll be hunting down the mystery item in the archives.

Hours later, huffing in frustration, Sam tosses yet another book on the pile cluttering the table in the center of the room. Tracking a Wendigo through the woods is a piece of cake compared to the maze someone’s created for this item. He briefly closes his blurry eyes and rolls his shoulders, working the kinks out from sitting in one position too long. 

Reopening them, he notices the mortar around some of the bricks in the wall next to the shelves he’s been scanning has a different patina. He crosses to the wall and runs his fingers over the area when one gives. He pushes on it and the front of a book-filled steamer trunk sitting next to the wall pops open. Squatting down, Sam can see warding inside and removes a cloth-wrapped item. He feels something sinister emanating from it and sets it on the floor. He reaches to unwrap it, but hears Dean's boots echoing down the hallway and quickly shoves it back in shutting the compartment. 

“Hey, I’ve been calling. Dinner’s ready.”

“Ahh, guess I was in the zone, sorry.”

“Geek,” Dean teases. “You’ve been down here for hours. Find that wherever it is yet?” 

Sam stands. “No, I’ve searched everywhere but it must have been misplaced at some point. What’d you pick up for dinner?” 

Dean's demeanor shifts and Sam knows he’s picked up on the item's lingering essence and comes in. His peering around the shelving makes Sam so nervous he starts fidgeting with one of his cuffs. 

Dean warily eyes him. “I cooked. Made that chicken fettuccine you like.” 

Sam seizes the opportunity to distract him. “Look at you, going to all that trouble, making my favorite. How am I ever to repay you?” He bends and kisses Dean, relaxing when his brother leans into it.

Completely distracted, Dean murmurs against his lips, “Dessert first, and you're on the menu.” 

****

Sam has lost all concept of time.

Mostly, he finds he doesn’t care anymore, whether it’s from the small amounts of blood sating the craving that never goes away or being the center of Dean's universe again. For his birthday, he surprises Sam with a cupcake and they celebrate as if time rolled back twenty years, except for the phenomenal sex they have afterward. 

Sam’s concluded that he’s found contentment, albeit in a completely different way than he ever imagined. He deserves it and doesn’t want it to end. 

Of course, it’s not perfect.

He can sense that item hidden in the trunk, even with demon cuffs inhibiting his blood-fueled abilities. By his brother’s reaction, he knows it's important. Much to Sam’s chagrin, Dean tossed the archives room several times, leaving him to straighten up the aftermath. He’ll have to be patient and wait for the right time to unearth it again. 

****

Sam unwraps the mystery item and feels his heart rate accelerate, realizing what it is. 

The Book of the Damned. 

An ancient manuscript created from flesh and blood containing various dark spells to break curses. Flipping through it, Sam understands some of the obscure Sumerian dialects, remembers a footnote about an encrypted codex, and searches for it. 

Placing both books on the table, he ignores the evil emulating from them and concentrates on finding and translating the spell needed to remove The Mark. 

****

Something made by God, but forbidden to man:

The Forbidden Fruit.

Something made by man, but forbidden by God:

The Golden Calf.

The caster's heart: The life of the thing the spell caster loves most:

Dean.

“This can’t be,” Sam says out loud, staring at the ancient tome. “This can’t be the only way.”

He’d give up his soul without a second thought to talk to Bobby mirthlessly chuckles, knowing Bobby would call him an idjit after everything Dean’s done to get it back. Wearily running his hand over his face, Sam frowns. He’s had energy to spare with Dean feeding him small doses of his demon blood, only needing short naps every few days.

So why the hell is he so exhausted?

Sam goes to the nearest bathroom and looks in the mirror. Sure enough, liquid gold eyes stare back as they have since Dean splattered him in blood. Absorbed in his pondering, Sam walks back to the archives and discovers everything he’d been working on is missing except a folded piece of paper. Picking it up, his heart pounds reading the message.  

Following his brother's instructions to meet in the library, Sam finds him with his feet propped up, a beer in one hand and the book in the other, reading. Squaring his shoulders, Sam sits in his usual place and waits for Dean to acknowledge him. Instead, he continues, occasionally referring back to the codex. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he says, “I gave you a taste of what it’d be like, being together, unburdened by our reality and this is how you repay me.”

“I wasn’t going to let you sacrifice yourself again!”

“It’s different this time! I turned you back into a blood junkie so you’d get some understanding that my remaining a demon is what I need! It’s helped me believe not everything in this fucking universe is my fault, that I’m not 90% crap!”

“I know I’ve done things over the years that’s made it difficult to trust me but to be with you like this, it’s gone against everything I believe in!” Sam gets up, pacing around, and runs his cuffed hands through his hair when Dean gets up, too. 

“Still amazes me how gullible you are Sammy. Those cuffs are strong enough to restrain me but you, with the powers you possess? No way in hell they’d ever actually work.” 

Sam’s brow furrows at what Dean said. 

“You became so absorbed in this that you never noticed I stopped giving you my blood months ago.” Dean closes the distance between them and peers up. “It’s been all you, Dumbo.” Ruby had said something similar: he didn’t need the feather to fly, he had it in him the whole time. 

Dean continues. “My carrying The Mark is the only foolproof way to stop The Darkness from destroying the universe.” 

Sam dreads his brother’s answer but still asks the question. “What are you talking about? What is The Darkness?”

Dean recounts during one of his middle-of-the-night excursions being summoned by Death. The horseman told him a story about God and the archangels imprisoning The Darkness with a mystical lock and key. God gave it to Lucifer, but it corrupted Lucifer so badly that God cast him out. The fallen angel eventually passed it to Cain and so forth.

“For us to end the cycle of Heaven and Hell using us, you gotta accept this is the only foolproof way of averting another one of their apocalypses.” Dean taps the book. “Stop trying to turn me back!” 

His brother is the strongest person Sam has ever known, and as a knight of Hell, a higher-level demon, Dean could carry the burden that came with the curse. Sam’s eyes shift back into their kaleidoscope array, and closing the distance between them, he places his hand over his soulmate's unbeating heart.

“This is it, then?”

Sam's voice is so broken, and his face, nothing has changed since infancy. His baby brother always was the ugliest cryer, almost making Dean cave. Instead, he grips his hand and leans in, touching his forehead to Sam’s.

“Now, I need you to give you what YOU want, Sam. I know you want an ordinary life that I can’t give you. Maybe you'll realize where you truly belong once you’ve had it, get out of your system.”

“Dean….” 

Dean's strong hands cup his face and Sam flashes to the smell of his sleep-warmed skin, to his sweat and his breath and the feel of him, so close and all he wants is Dean to take the upcoming hurt away but knows he won’t.

“Don’t worry Sammy, I will behave, mostly. Now, walk away and live that ordinary life and when it’s time, I’ll be back for you, little brother.” 

Part VI

One year later

Sam locks the door to his apartment and heads down the building’s exterior stairs, abruptly stopping when he hits street level. His hunter senses engaging, he automatically reaches for the back of his waistband, palming the demon blade. He scans the immediate area, looking for something or someone out of place but finding nothing.

He subtly flips the weapon around so his jacket hides it and proceeds down the sidewalk toward his place of employment. As he approaches the door, he slips the blade back into his waistband, enters, ducking under the clanging brass bell, and smiles as Mr. Clark pokes his head out from the store room.

“Hey Sam, perfect timing. We got a delivery needing unpacked.”

“I’ll get on it, sir,” he says, pulling off his backpack and jacket and stashing them under the counter. He grabs his apron and heads to the storeroom, stopping to see what’s on top of the cellophane-wrapped pallet.

An oversized cupcake with a lit candle reminds him of last year’s birthday, the last one he’d ever spend with Dean.

“We weren’t going to let you skip your birthday,” Mr. Clark says. “It’s your favorite, spiced applesauce, and I’m taking you home for dinner.” Sam tries to interrupt but Mr. Clark talks over him. “ I know you use your dinner break to study, but we’re closing early tonight, so you don’t get behind. Marianne is whipping up that vegetable lasagna you like and….” 

Sam doesn’t hear the rest of Mr. Clark’s plan for the evening as the memory of his last birthday replays in his mind. He feels unshed tears prickling, hearing in his mind the whiskey-roughened voice he sorely misses.

“Sammy, make a wish.”

“Don’t have to; it’s come true.”

Laying on Dean's bed curled against his big brother's flannel-clad side, they split Sam’s birthday cupcake like when they were kids, He sighs in contentment as calloused fingers trail down his cheek, and he turns, wrapping his arm tightly around Dean's waist, reiterating, "I love you."

Dean pulls his head down for a slow, sensual kiss, then murmurs, "This is good, right?"

Sam speaks against his lips. “We’re together; that’s all I need.”

***

Sam places the leftovers in his fridge, grabs a beer, sits at the kitchenette table, fires up his laptop, and begins rereading the last paragraph he’d written for class. Sometime later, his phone vibrates. Glancing at the lit screen, Sam sees it’s 11:59 PM. His heart rate speeds up when he recognizes the number. It stops, but then the screen flashes again, and he picks it up.

“Hello?” There’s nothing but silence on the other end. “I know it’s you. What do you want?” The line goes dead. 

Sam gets up and walks to the window, and there she is, her black and chrome exterior gleaming in the streetlight's glow.

Baby.

Sam scans the street but doesn’t spot her owner. He grabs the demon blade and unlocks the door cautiously stepping onto the top step to find a four-pack of Margiekugels lager, minus one. The Impala’s engine roars to life and he watches her peel out, disappearing into the darkness.

With that offering, they start their new yearly tradition of celebrating Sam’s birthday.

Epilogue

Decades later 

11:59 PM

“Come on, Sammy, where are you?”

Something is off. Sam is always punctual for his annual visitation. Dean crosses his arms as he leans against his latest borrowed vehicle and frowns as a strange emotion crawls up from deep inside.

He’s antsy, a thing he hasn’t been in decades. He knows something is wrong when his watch beeps on the hour.

Pushing off the fender, Dean does the one thing he promised himself not to do all those long years ago and walks toward the house. 

Getting closer to the two-story home, it dawns on him that the warding he usually senses surrounding the structure is lessening. As he places one booted foot on the front porch's bottom step, someone opens the front door but remains inside, shadowed by the light cast from another room.

Dean climbs the steps and cautiously crosses the wide porch to the threshold. He’s not greeted by his younger brother but, for the first time, he comes eye-to-eye with his namesake. Dean feels pride that the younger man shows no fear as they study each other.  

His nephew resembles their late father, John, and has his mother's dark eyes. All the golden-hued skin and that hair , though —right down to those stupid flippies at the ends— is all Sam.

“Dad’s been agitated all night. I’m glad he remembers what today is.”

The demon ponders his words, watching Dean Jr. pick up a flathead screwdriver and hammer, squat down, and pry up the threshold to reveal a solid salt block that looks like it’s been under there for years. He starts to use the implements on it when Dean interrupts. “Don’t be stupid, kid. You know what I am, right?”

“Yeah, a knight of Hell.” The kid pushes up his sleeve, revealing an anti-possession tattoo in the same spot where Dean carries the Mark of Cain. “Dad taught me about the things that exist in the dark.”  

Crossing his arms, the demon watches his nephew knock a piece loose, wondering what game he’s playing. 

The kid stands up and places the items on a small table. “Please, Uncle Dean, I know Dad wants to see you.” He turns, leaving the door open.

The prickling from the warding within the house's walls stings but doesn’t stop Dean from crossing the threshold into the foyer. He suddenly becomes overwhelmed by the presence of his Sammy, as if his essence has adhered to the home's structure.

A rhythmic beeping pulls Dean out of his wonderment and, venturing further inwards, he peers around in curiosity. The wallpapered rooms have various patterns but the same theme running through them: some variety of sunflowers, Kansas’ state flower and Sam’s small way of honoring their birthplace.

He follows the beeping down the hallway, hearing it suddenly speed up, then his nephew's voice carries out of the room. Low and soft, the kid says, “Dad, I’ll reestablish the warding afterward. I wasn’t going to let you miss his visit.” 

Dean moves closer, eavesdropping on the conversation, and can’t help smiling at his brother's response. While sounding faded and worn, he still has an edge to his words. 

“I remember Dad saying that to you, Sammy. Never thought I’d hear it from your lips,” Dean recalls, stepping into the doorway quickly suppressing his shock.

Sam, his ginormous little brother, the obsessive health nut who jogged every day and drove him batshit crazy with his lectures about unhealthy habits while chomping on salads like a rabbit, is lying on a hospital bed. He looks so…fragile.

He watches Sam’s eyes quickly shift to his son, then back, using the pleading, puppy dog expression he’d always used radiating from them. “Dude, calm down before you stroke out! I’m not going to try anything. Remember our deal?” 

Sam’s eyes narrow slightly, conveying loud and clear, shut the fuck up, Dean!  

Their silent conversation makes the kid blink. “Wow, those books weren’t exaggerating. You two do that whole secret communication thing.” Gently laying his hand on his father's arm, he says, “And I know you two made some kind of deal years ago. Mom told me I wasn’t to interfere, no matter what.”

Sam sighs and smiles fondly. “Your mother somehow always knew things.”

“That’s because she was a witch,” the kid jokes. “I’m going to give you guys some privacy.” He sets a phone on the medicine-laden table next to the bed. “Text me when y'all finish.” 

They stare at each other as the front door closes and the porch swing begins creaking. Sam points his long finger toward the adjacent dining room. “You want a drink?”

“Nah , I’m good. So how long,” Dean asks, waving at the medical equipment.

“Doctors transferred me to hospice a few days ago and said it could be anytime now. And would you sit down,” Sam huffs. “It hurts my neck having to look up nowadays.”

“Sorry.” Dean sits on the chair by his bed. “So, what you got?” His eyes widen, and he drops a hand to cover his lap. “It’s not…testicular cancer?”

“Oh my god, Dean, seriously? No!” Sam spits out in his exasperated tone, but his eyes contain amusement, looking pointedly at his hand. “Remember when we didn’t think we would make it past thirty, let alone get old?” Dean nods, and Sam exhales tiredly. “All those years of hunting finally caught up with me.”

The feelings of sadness and elation simultaneously slam Dean. His soul is mournful that Sam’s mortality is ending, but the demon is gleeful that he will soon become what he was originally destined for and rejoin him for eternity.

Sam turns his head toward the fireplace, looking at the photographs of memories they shared and new ones created after they separated.

“I’ve had a good life. Some experiences I definitely could have done without, but in the end, it was worth all of it.” They sit silently, like they used to, neither needing anything more than each other’s company.

“What was her name?” Sam asks out of nowhere. “Made you try on her panties?” Sam’s lips twitch at the unasked question flashing across Dean's face, then answers. “Cas. He never could keep a secret when he drank a liquor store.”

“That dick ,”  Dean harrumphs, then says, “Rhonda Hurley. They were pink. And satiny. I kinda liked it.” Dean decides turnabout is fair play and asks, “Did you let Becky punch your V card on your wedding night?”

The brothers continue their teasing reminiscence until Sam starts fading. Dean texts his namesake, enters the dining room, pours himself a drink, then goes outside to sit on the porch swing. Sipping on the whiskey, he hears Sam’s son.

“Dad. It’s okay. You can go now.”

****

His shifting makes the Impala's leather creak loudly as the scant images from his dream dissipate with consciousness.  He hears his brother moving about but doesn’t open his eyes yet. 

“Dude, I had the weirdest dream,” Sam drowsily says, stretching out his long legs and freezing, his brain screaming something isn’t right. He hasn’t been able to fully extend his legs across the backseat since he was fifteen and shot up three inches in as many months.

Opening his eyes, Sam stares at a ceiling that isn’t Baby’s roof or the popcorn kind commonly found in the dingy one-star motels they frequent. He sits up, figuring out the creaking is from a medical bed, gazes around, and his memories come rushing back. He turns his head, finds Dean sitting in the dining room with his boots on the table, and gives him bitchface #104. 

‘Sorry,” Dean apologizes and removes them from the antique table. 

Sam examines his hands, rubbing his skin and flexing his fingers. “Dean, how…?”

“Remember that witch bitch Rowena?” Sam’s brow furrows at the name. “Turns out she’s Crowley's mother. I discovered she created a resurrection spell and persuaded her to tweak it to include de-aging you back to 2015.”

Sam slides off the bed. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if she didn’t set it to 1995 for whatever you did to get it from her.” He pauses and finds the house is too quiet. “Where’s my son?”

“He said he couldn’t say goodbye twice and decided to visit Claire and her wife, Kaia. I’ve arranged to have everything straightened up before he returns.”

Sam closes the distance between them and, wrapping his large hand around the back of Dean’s head, bends down to kiss him in thanks.

“If that’s my reward for hiring a cleaning service, what do I get for bringing you back? Fifth base?” Dean asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Sam ignores the question and takes his brother's hand, entwining their fingers and tugging for him to follow. Dean grumbles, “I’m not a thirteen-year-old girl,” but follows Sam like always. 

Leading his brother to an outbuilding on the back of the property, Sam opens the door and gallantly says, “After you, mi’lady.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean sees a familiar shape under a draped canvas and turns back to Sam. 

Happiness exudes from his yellow eyes and he’s smiling so hard that those dimples Dean sorely missed are on full display. “I kept her in the exact condition when you gifted her to me.”

“Had to do something monumental for your fiftieth birthday,” Dean says, ripping the canvas off and strolling around to inspect the Impala. “You did a decent job caring for her. Not as good as me, but, you know.” Running his hand up her polished fender and over the roof, Dean asks, “Did you miss me, Baby?” 

“If you two need a minute,” Sam snarks, and Dean flips him off, continuing to examine his — their— car, halted by a calling he hasn’t felt in decades.

“What…?” Dean instinctively catches the keys tossed to him. 

“Under the seat,” Sam replies, watching with glee as his brother, the last remaining knight of Hell, unwraps the cloth from around the old jawbone. 

“You gave it to Crowley. How’d you…?”

“Locator spell I concocted.” 

Dean appears confused.  Wasn’t the whole point of their separation that Sam wanted normal?

“Turns out I had a talent for spell work. I couldn’t get it myself, and finding someone powerful enough to retrieve it took a long time. But they owed me a favor, so,” he nods to Dean's hands.

“Speaking of owing, I’ve got a big ass list of those who’ve screwed us over and over,” Dean says, going to the trunk. He unlocks it, lifts the hidden compartment, and reveals their monster-hunting arsenal. It’s grown since John Winchester first put his guns and ammo inside. During their active years, his sons continued adding items to the collection. Dean drops the First Blade next to the Demon Blade as his brother joins him. Gazing into the trunk, Sam reaches up for the lid.

“We’ve got work to do.”

Finis

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx  @lyarr24 @flamencodiva   @lassie-bird  @nancymcl @spnbaby-67 @leigh70 @b3autyfuld1sast3r @elmolovesw33d

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2  @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

Tagging if interested: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @strawblueberrys  @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @kazsrm67 @deans-spinster-witch

[lorei-writes]

Crimson Roses

Cyran x MC Angst/Hurt/Comfort ~1.5k words Prompts: determination, love, loyalty

My entry for Wish Upon an Aide Creation Challenge & the collaboration with none other than @wordycheeseblob ! Saki prepared the artwork -- the story is inspired by it.

To view the full artwork, visit @wordycheeseblob !

The clacking of high heels called order in the halls. The maid leaped off the sill and onto the floor, hands smoothing out any real and imaginary creases present over her uniform. Mildly embarrassed, she lowered her head. “Do you know where Cyran is?” Emma asked. “The word has it that Sir Rose has not returned.”

“Did you hear? Prince Clavis returned tonight, just before the dawn,” a maid chirped, vigorously polishing one of the tall windows lining the hallways in the residential wing of the palace. Not quite ladylike, she stuck out her tongue and stood on her very tiptoes, the cloth in her hand coming just short of reaching the upper end of the frame. She put her knee up on the windowsill.

“Truly? No, no, I wasn’t aware, no. And…?” her companion mused. “This is rather disgraceful, dear.”

“It is not like anybody is going to see.” The girl pushed herself further up, to eventually stand rather steadily, one pristine hand pressed against the wall for stability. A single stray strand sneaked out of her updo and fell over her forehead, perhaps challenging her to blow it back into place. “Besides, that’s not important.”

“That is youngster’s naivete,” the other sighed. “Well, what was it that you heard then?”

Hooks were undone and knobs were turned. The white apron billowed on the wind as a handful of rowdy gusts rushed inside, more than ready to rummage through the princely chambers and other kingly dwellings. “So you are curious!” She winked. “Apparently he was beaten all black and blue, so he won’t make any appearances for a while… And the word has it that his first knight, Sir Rose —”

The clacking of high heels called order in the halls. The maid leaped off the sill and onto the floor, hands smoothing out any real and imaginary creases present over her uniform. Mildly embarrassed, she lowered her head.

“Do you know where Cyran is?” Emma asked.

“The word has it that Sir Rose has not returned.”

***

Sir Rose has not returned, Emma was told by what felt like a hundred of mouths.

He hasn’t made it home.

He had to stay back.

They were supposed to meet up at an inn, but…

… but there was nothing following that “but”. Angered or desperate, or perhaps both, so thoroughly dissolved in each other that they ceased being either, she stood before Clavis’ room. The oaken door stared her down, old dark knots furrowing their grain-brow. A guest uninvited, Emma turned and pressed and pulled and pushed at the brass knob – and although it replied each time, be it with a bzzzt or a whoop or a snap, the door did not budge.

“Prince Clavis?” She knocked. Emma took a step back, anticipating some sort of explosion, or a contraption, concoction, trap… Something, anything, to befall her.

Nothing had.

“Prince Clavis?!”

Nothing.

“Clavis, goddammit!”

Not a thing, regardless of how hard her fist struck. Thinking it was just a cruel joke, a tactless prank, Emma let her feelings pound away at the wood, impact shaking her down to her very bone marrow. Hinges rattle-cackled, laughing only louder the longer she fought. As futile as it was, Emma did not lack in persistence. No, far from it – her will was a rock, only solidified by the gossip still churning in her mind.

It was only when the afternoon sun tinted the corridors in vibrant vermillion, so very familiar, that Emma regained some of her reason. She hid her bruised hand in her skirt, head hanging low.

“Clavis?” she called one last time, her voice rasp. To no answer, of course. Defeated and deflated, Emma turned away from the door, dreading being swallowed and digested by the ever-present silence.

***

Follow me —

Emma burst out of her room, carried forth and entrapped by the winds still lingering in the halls, little different from a gale herself. A force petrified with uncertainty, she clutched the letter to her chest. Her body did not hurt; it was the motion that found her, pulled her through the gaps between the hastily jotted down lines, made unstoppable by the sliver of hope setting her thoughts ablaze. She didn’t want to oppose it. Not when the singed paper fit in her palm so warmly, so crumbled and mistreated it could easily fall to dust. The previously dreadful corridors, overly long staircases, the dewy gravel and the shivering afternoon – it sped by her. Emma simply ran.

Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies.

The message was unnecessary; it had branded her mind the moment she’d first read it. A fresh burn, it sizzled and it howled, each of its whines revealing a fragment of the path. Like through a haze, Emma ran, faster than her legs could carry her. She skipped over the road leading to the town in a flash, the wicked buildings and their convoluted streets sprouting seemingly straight from the depths of the ground to entrap her. Not a single familiar path remained in place, trade signs playing the game of tag and rearranging themselves. The capital drowned in a mist conjured by the voice of a siren-heart, the cafes, restaurants, stores, all somehow bearing the familiar flickers of red hair, phantom figures moving behind the glass displays, playing out stories of days long lived through. Echoes of laughter coiled around her legs, the sweetest doubts weighing down her heart.

Emma ran.

Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will —

He would.

So she had to meet him there.

Emma tore away old nostalgia strings. She averted her eyes from the coffee shops, forgot about the happy pair that once sat by the door and drank tea as golden as her eyes. She let go of the memory of the dark cherries, of her love’s delight, of the feeling of his hand over hers, of his lips and their timid caress. Cast away, they shattered under the heels of her shoes, the shards being swept under the hem of her skirt. She could collect them later, put them back together, smelt them anew if time allowed…

… if there was still time.

Emma ran.

Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will meet you there after midnight strikes.

The town ceased, plains opening to greet her to then turn into hills. Completely in their domain, winds broke off the leash, trickster gusts pushing at her back while gales took her hands and pulled her onwards. Through the sea of swaying grass, past thorny blackberries, prickly thistles with their purple crowns and grooves and rivulets and other scrubs – Emma ran, out of breath despite having become the air personified. Stumbling as she did, she reached the clearing. Their clearing, although then it was already occupied, an all too familiar sword protruding from the ground. Scarlet blade stared at her, basked in the last of bloody sunlight.

Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will meet you there after midnight strikes. I promise.

Red roses reeked of sweet decay as Emma took a shaky step. Abandoned by the strength of elements, she could all but crumble on the spot – yet even in that, she chose to crumble onwards, dragging her pained feet until she faced the dearly beloved sword properly. She set her hands on the hilt and sat on the ground. Accompanied only by the hooting of the owls, Emma closed her eyes, waves of desperation that led her thus far easing into a state of calm.

He promised, she repeated to herself. He promised, so he will come.

***

Brilliant sunlight had begun to flicker over the horizon line by the time Cyran made it back to the hill. Beaten and battered, still encased in the constraint of his military garb, he dragged himself through the winding path hidden among scrubs. A broken branch there, an odd clearing here – he did not notice anything. Not until he saw the carmine hue of Emma’s skirt, a rough scrap hanging off the raspberry branch, hardly different from the ripe fruit surrounding it.

Cyran run.

Metallic thudding banished exhaustion from his limbs, thunderbolts lending him their speed. The world ceased in a blur, light tore its way into the diminishing dark – and it was only after he entered the clearing that he was robbed of his might. Cyran forced his body to oblige to his demands, the woman he longed to see sleeping while sitting upright, hands propped on the hilt of his sword.

“Emma?” he whispered, not believing his eyes. She must have been soundly locked in her dreams, however, for she did not reply. As if cocooned in the fabric of the night, Emma swayed lightly, perfectly in sync with the crimson roses blooming around. Petals fluttered, few discarded ones lifting off the ground, huddling towards her to settle in her hair. Still just as surprised, Cyran sat down behind Emma, pulled her frame into his arms. She was a feather when she fell against his chest, so very light he feared his hands may be too rough to handle her. Nevertheless, he found his courage again and swept her hair aside, his fingers brushing against her cheek in reverence as he unveiled her visage. His touch descending to her neck, his arm reached to free her from her duty at the hilt —

“Cyran?”

He kissed her nape. “I’m back.”

His forehead pressed against her shoulder, Cyran prayed to always find her safely there, enchanted where the crimson roses bloomed under the clear skies.

--

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather @tele86 @rinaririr @keithsandwich @cheese-ception @bis-enti @claviscollections @queengiuliettafirstlady @sh0jun @lucyw260 @starlitmanor-network

Tell me if you'd like to be added to my tag list :)

[ms-scarletwings]

Every Dredge Aberration (2024), part 14

Over sea and sky raced their hideous, cacophonous sound.

Industrial din, siren’s wail, and earth’s quake,

at once was joined by a dragon’s wake.

Lo! they call, see it winding their false island around.

Hear it threaten to punish their folly if found.

Over waves rang a crescendo warning for the final chain’s break. ₊˚.༄

Crawling Instar ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #181

Aberrant form of Opabinia

Description:

Folds of flesh contract in rhythmic waves, roving ceaselessly towards its target

Comment: Do you understand what an “instar” is? It’s a term to describe an insect or other arthropod still on a path of multiple molts to achieve its mature form. This above, like itself before the ooze’s touch, is still a larval stage of something greater.

How to catch: For this specimen you will have to be switching back to shallows-appropriate advanced gear. Return to the mangroves and surrounding jungle graveyard. You can easily guess where you’ll be looking for a harvesting spot by now.

Boreal Shell ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #182

Aberrant form of boreaspis

Description:

A cold wind blows through a skelatal frame, condensed into the light of a ghostly aurora.

Comment: Ironically, it’s construction scratches better an itch for something I previously didn’t know how badly was missing in the Stellar Basin, or the Pale reach- The signature beauty of their nights wrapped into a cruelly clever play on the boreaspis’s name. Nonetheless, it is still so wrong and unbelonging to the warm and vibrant swamps. A treasured find for the record.

How to catch: An infused coiling rod is the sole tool to drag through the thickness of sinister ooze and twisted tangles of the bog both.

Broken Arapaima ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #183

Aberrant form of arapaima

Description:

Scales plucked from skin turned leather. Eyes paled from the agony of knotted muscles. Bones unset and set untrue.

Comment: Warped bodies as powerless before the elder presence as any other. The flesh must either embrace the change, bend with the current, or it will be broken so easily. We would be foolish to believe we are any stronger.

How to catch: As above ^^^

Primordial Shadow ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #184

Aberrant form of Xiphactinus

Description:

Whispering purple plates orbit and lock around a shadowy core. Shapes of darkness fill the spaces between.

Comment: Not even before I’m done in my bewitched appreciation of the boreal shell, this other living artwork comes into clutches. Did you plunge too far into that darkness, ancient fish? What I don’t have a clue of is whether this new shell is an organic or salvaged one.

How to catch: ^^^

Effigy Crab

Encyclopedia #185

Aberrant form of horseshoe crab

Description:

Wisps of yellow light flicker within this ghastly shell, a screaming skull with a spinal tail.

Comment: I wish I could just dissect the little mutant to find out exactly what's ticking inside that bone armor. Whether flesh, gem, or fluid, the whole animal will be needed as one of the pigments making up the Golden Treasure paint selection.

How to catch: Simply set crab pots about the Twisted Strand, specifically at water no deeper than 10 meters.

Mire Screecher

Encyclopedia #186

Aberrant form of giant mud crab

Description:

A lashing yellow tongue whips around a mouth of flattened teeth. Two humanlike eyeballs burst between dripping claws.

Comment: When a wise man once remarked that he had fought mud crabs more fearsome than you, perhaps he had been referring to these. Take one of them down to Little Marrow to complete the requirements for a beautiful new paint job.

How to catch: With enough space, these are probable to also turn up in the same pots as your horseshoe crabs, but their full depth range runs between 5 and 25 meters.

Wretched Nipper ˚.༄

Encyclopedia #187

Aberrant form of nipponite

Description:

Blunt teeth and a forked tongue test the flanks of passing creatures. A single loosened scale is enough.

Comment: For just a moment, I mistook this atrocity against natural law for one of those office staple removers. Retaining some of the knotted oddness of the original mollusk, it boasts very openly its poorness as a swimmer, likely preferring to simply wait in ambush.

How to catch: Release your own waiting jaws- being a crab pot trap- into the ink blooms about the Twisted Strand. 0–50 meters is their possible range, so most optimal recommendation is to place at further than 25.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Artwork by Lucy Campbell

* * * *

"Through endings, leave-takings, loss, and grief, we develop an intimate relationship with the death goddess as she leads us to our darkest caves. By touching down into death and reclaiming the bones of our losses, we emerge knowing what it takes to survive. What we took for injury, weakness, vulnerability or shame becomes the doorway through which incredible gifts can enter: resilience, creativity, strength, and a renewed sense of faith in our own mysteries. Endings and loss are absorbed into our marrow, and we are remade."

Kristen Roderick, Excerpt from online course Blessing Our Secret Sorrow.

[The spirit that moves me]

[creativecuquilu]

I have discovered that, apparently, I like vampires. What’s weirder, I like them better than werewolves. (I’M LOOKING AT YOU, TWILIGHT READERS)

Could be due to The House that Dripped Blood? Let’s be honest, vampire Pertwee is really astonishing. And that was while he was the Doctor, in 1971!

Anyway, I shall present to you - my own representation of Count Dracula, with a few inspirations from the forementioned movie…and the Gilligan’s Island episode Up at Bat.

And some of my own mythos as well:

· This version is pretty much younger. He’s got more hair and a very healthy yet athletic bodytype, but he’s white as plaster, and has the darkest circles known to man.

· The woman with him in bat form is his servant and partner. Her name is Fiorentina (Fiora, for the pals), but she’s no vampire. Dracula found her skin so pretty looking, he thought her yugular might as well taste terrible. She instantly fell for him, and of course, she was aware he was not a human being. The blue gemstone hanging on her bosom is Dracula's gift from when she accepted to serve him.

· He dozes inside a large coffin with white memory foam padding, and red felt cover. Said box has a few holes for breathing and has a light door for easier opening. If the morning is extra cold, Fiora brings him a fluffy comforter made of rats’ fur. He also wears a long, frilly nightgown to bed (mostly like my headcanon to the 3rd Doctor's sleepwear)

· Garlic makes him nauseous, he’s allergic to sunlight and holy water and also wears a thin metal plaque on his chest, just in case those puny priests land a staque on him.

· Not only that, the Bible gives him nightmares. Thankfully, Fiora is here to comfort him with some gory, foul-worded metal music to put him to sleep.

· Although he can turn into a bat, he also floats. However, the floating thing is only in necessary cases, such as reaching an object from a tall piece of furniture.

· He does not speak in a Rumanian accent, neither does Fiora.

· When there are no people to prey into, he just snacks on rats. He’d rather not chew, because he may inevitabily bite himself with his fangs. He pretty much despises the taste of his own blood, and Fiora’s.

· Then again, he often raids blood banks and blood donor offices in hospital. It’s quite tasteless and cold, but it does sustain him.

· He also eats clots, scabs, veins, arteries and capillaries. He’s thinking of trying a heart and a bone marrow as well, but due to his diet and fangs, he may not like the texture.

· He blends surprisingly well with the bats. If you see one somehow turn into a person, you’re in for trouble.

· Sometimes he feels lonely, for his bites do not turn his victims into one of his own. Because he just can’t help but drain the marrow out of them!

· In order to test if his teeth are sharp, he bites into large chunks of raw meat (another one of his snacks). If the marks aren’t deep enough, Fiora has high-tech dentist’s drills in order to sharpen his fangs.

· Unfortunately, newly sharpened fangs mean a bloody mouth, so he spends about a week biting some wood.

· Finally, of course. You can meet him in Transylvania!

And well, that's how I envision Dracula.

Hope you like it!

Artwork © @CreativeCuquiLu

WATCH IT - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=daPku8D7oq0

[stealingyourbones]

Bone-thief! Do you like the taste of bones? I may or may not die from choking on a bone in the future (I just really like bone marrow, and gnawing on things, and then suddenly I have a sibling laughing at me because I ate the pork steak and like half of the bone, and just asking if his cooking was that good (yes)). One of these days I will get a proper bone marrow soup, until then I will tide myself off with stews made with meat still on the bone and other good stuff. What about you? Are you more interested in the taste of bones, bone collection like assembling a skeleton, or items carved out of bones, or something else?

You have wonderful taste. Bone marrow is so very tasty but I am more interested in collecting bones. I will go walking in the woods and find bones that I’ll later clean. Heavily debating making little artworks with them out of wood and fake moss and flowers and stuff to sell. I don’t collect roadkill but I do find the remains of animals that hunters leave behind and take them so the bones don’t go to waste rotting.

If I do see me a good hunk of bone marrow tho, you bet your ass I’m slapping that sucker on some bread and consuming it with feral abandon.

[clown-stripe]

So like. I got diagnosed with *yet another* chronic illness two days ago. Doctor says I have fibromyalgia, which is what has been causing the constant full body pain that makes me feel like every inch of my skin is a bruise being pressed on 24/7

Which makes sense, and I’m glad to know that I’m not just crazy, because I’ve been in pain literally since I was born, to the point that I don’t have a single memory where this pain wasn’t present, at least in the background. So I really thought it was normal, and that everyone felt like this until it got a lot worse in the last few years that I’ve been dealing with flare ups of Crohn’s and lupus, but neither of those can explain the constant pain I feel underneath every inch of my skin

It’s a relief to get a diagnosis, because for a couple years now, since it started getting worse, I thought this feeling was just what people talk about when they say you reach your late 20’s and can’t neglect good habits anymore without feeling it. That this pain was just bundled alongside the feeling of getting sore + stiff from not exercising/sleeping well enough. I have wondered on several occasions how the hell everyone lives full lives with this kind of pain, or why more people don’t kill themselves upon finding out that they have to feel like this for decades??? Because sometimes I can’t bear the thought of feeling this pain every day for the rest of my stupid little life. I’m not strong enough to bear that burden when I’ve already lived 28 years with it and I feel tired all the way down to my fucking bone marrow from carrying this pain with me everywhere I go, even in my sleep, in my dreams I feel it because I’ve never *not* felt it and I have no idea what it feels like to not be plagued it.

But now that I know what’s wrong and there are treatment options to try? Maybe I’ll finally get to know what it’s like to not be in pain.

So the doctor gave me a new medicine for it to try that will hopefully make my nerves feel less, and I can actually do things again instead of just being in bed thinking about how bad the bed hurts against my skin and how gravity is a curse because I can’t just float so nothing is touching me and making my skin hurt. And all the ideas for various art to make I’ve been saving up for when I’m capable of sitting up and holding a pencil again can be worked on. I can finally take the drive out of my old busted laptop to get all of my concept drafts off of it because I only managed to save the most important/almost finished artworks on it before the battery swelled (and my fav version of photoshop too, because I’m an idiot and don’t commit which one it is to memory so I can just pirate it again, I just keep transferring the program files to install it again lmao)

Maybe I’ll actually get around to coming up with a permanent pseudonym to start posting my art under, and finally start sharing it outside of Snapchat where it disappears in 24 hours

[etes-secrecy-post]

Hi, before I explain my post, I want to say something important.

• What you see my blog has become a major overhaul. And despite the changes, I decided that my 2nd account will be now my artwork blog with a secret twist.

⚠️NEW RULE! (W/ BIGGER TEXT!)⚠️

⚠️ SO PLEASE DO NOT SHARE MY 2nd ACCOUNT TO EVERYONE! THIS SECRECY BLOG OF MINE IS FOR CLOSES FRIENDS ONLY!⚠️

• AND FOR MY CLOSES FRIENDS, DON’T REBLOG IT. INSTEAD, JUST COPY MY LINK AND PASTE IT ON YOUR TUMBLR POST! JUST BE SURE THE IMAGE WILL BE REMOVED AND THE ONLY LEFT WAS THE TEXT.

⚠️ SHARING LINKS, LIKE POSTS, REBLOG POSTS, STEALING MY SNAPSHOT PHOTOS/RECORDED VIDEOS/ARTWORKS (a.k.a. ART THIEVES) OR PLAGIARIZING FROM UNKNOWN TUMBLR STRANGERS WILL IMMEDIATELY BE BLOCKED, RIGHT AWAY!⚠️

😡 WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT EVER LIKED & REBLOG MY SECRET POST! THIS IS FOR MY SECRET FRIENDS ONLY, NOT YOU! 😡

Okay? Capiche? Make sense? Good, now back to the post…↓

Take a Taste: with La Prato Stakehouse [Recorded: Apr 10th, 2023]

Hello! It’s time for another “Take a Taste”! The series is about delicious food with my two paper dolls.

And today, I’m reviewing another restaurant that we went to on Monday for my father's advanced birthday! 🥳🎉👨 An affordable steakhouse resto called "Beef Plate"! Mmmmm... 😋🥩🍴 But, how’s it taste? Let’s find out! 🤔

If you haven’t seen my previous episode, then please [CLICK ME!].

So, without further ado, let’s get started:

1st to 6th Image(s): ↑

• We're kicking this off with the outside & inside of the resto! Decent urban-style restaurant w/ the tree in the middle if not unique, but hey, it's a good place to eat (I suppose). 🙂👌

7th & 8th Image(s): ↑

• After we order, a waiter offer us a free broth soup & a plastic cup of water. 🥣🥛 My paper dolls love soup, so I let them taste it, and it's pretty good. *sipping with a broth soup* Yeah, I could agree more. 🤤🥣👌 However, what I don't like is serving a plastic cup of water instead of the glass format for the customers. 😕🥛❓ Are they rang out of glass (or aluminum) formats or something? Who knows? It's strange, that they used wasted cup ware for consumers at this establishment. I mean, when is the last time we've encountered this? I don't know, but I can't explain though.

BTW: I forgot to picture their menu... Oops. 😅 But don't worry, because there's an online menu was uploaded on their official page → [CLICK ME!]. 🙂🌐🧾

9th to 11th Image(s): ↑

• Anyways, let's move on to the main meals! This is what I ordered, a sizzling porterhouse stake w/ gravy & garlic rice! Yum-yum! (Price: ₱149) My paper dolls wants to taste it, too! Heck yeah, go ahead! 🥩🍚😋🍴

12th to 17th Image(s): ↑

• [12th to 15th Images] Now, time to set things up before we open our months. Mmmmm, delicious! 🤤

• [16th & 17th Images] Other meals that we've tried is this Beef Mushroom w/ Bone Marrow (mom's meal) (₱ 199). We've already tried the beef bits, and its delicious, too. 🤤 Except the bone marrow (because of colesterol reasons). 😅

18th to 21st Image(s): ↑

• [18th & 19th Images] You know, a single garlic rice wasn't enough, so we ordered another round of garlic rice to satisfy our tastebuds. 🍚🍚😁🍴 If only they include "unlimited white rice" on their menu, then we'll be more satisfied. ➕🍚🙂

• [20th & 21st Images] Another delicious meal that we've tried is the T-Bone steak (₱ 129). Here, you two, have some! 🤤

22nd & 23rd Image(s): ↑

• Ahh... Our plates we're empty 😋🍽️, with only cup of water left to quench my throat! *cheers* 🥛☺️ Our stomachs are fulled. ☺️

Overall:

• It was a decent place to go night dinner at this restaurant for my father's advanced birthday (Happy Birthday, papa! We love you, by the way. 🥳🎁🎉👨❤️🥰). However, a few tweaks like improving their urban atmosphere & switching their wasting plastic cups to washable glass or metallic cup ware for restaurant standards. The meals, on the other hand, I'm enjoying, but quite decent taste, to be honest. And, I understand with their normal signature taste, but they also offered a premium steak at their reason (fair expensive) price. So, I suppose we want a try their premium steaks, too, someday. So, is it worth it? A decently "Yes". We would love to eat again at this cheap steakhouse establishment. 😊👌🥩🏠🍴

Well, that’s all for now, If you haven’t seen my previous episodes, then I’ll provide some links down below.↓😉

Take a Taste:

○ 2021 Food Reviews: ○

• Popeyes U.S. Spicy Chicken Sandwich [Dec 6, 2021]

• Jollibee Chick'nwich & Crisscut Fries [Dec 21, 2021]: Part 1 [CLICK ME! #1], Part 2 [CLICK ME! #2]

○ 2022 Food Reviews: ○

• Mini Stop Chicken Fillet XL Sandwich [Feb 7, 2022]

• Minute Burger Cheese Burger(s) [Mar 1, 2022]

• Pepper Lunch Teriyaki Beef Pepper Rice w/ Egg (& Honey Brown Sauce) [Mar 5, 2022]

• Bacsilog’s Sulit Combo Bacon-Tocino & Samgyup Day’s Pork Herbs [Mar 12, 2022]

• Burger King Whopper w/ Sides & Drink [May 6, 2022]

• Marshmello’s Limited Edition Coca-Cola Zero [Aug 26, 2022]

• Cheesy Burger McDo with Lettuce & Tomatoes Meal [Recorded: Sept 16, 2022]

• Mcdonald’s PH McSpicy & Apple Pie (featuring their World Famous Fries) [Nov 14, 2022]

• Mcdonald’s McCrispy Hamonado Sandwich [Dec 31st, 2022]

○ 2023 Food Reviews: ○

• Foods from Delicious Restaurant & 1919 Grand Cafe [Jan 8th, 2023]

• Homemade Churros by my lil’ bro [Feb 12th, 2023]

• Lugaw Sisig from Mang Boy Alfredo Lugawan Restaurant [Recorded: Feb 18th, 2023]

Tagged: @bryan360, @carmenramcat, @leapant

[northwestofinsanity]

If I didn’t have a test with 46 hours worth of lecture content on it tomorrow, I would have finished my artwork for it, but today marks two years since my cousin’s cat had her “Not Today Day”, so Team Diana is two years strong against Precursor Immune Mediated Anemia, and just two weeks ago, she turned 4.

She has lived double her life since the second opinion and trial-and-error treatment my boss gave her, after the emergency vet gave her an untreatable diagnosis and two days to live. (It involves a lot of technical terms I won’t bore the non-bio science followers with, but he gave her a drug to stimulate her body to make red blood cells faster, which, if she’d had what the emergency vet thought she had just based on bloodwork numbers, wouldn’t have worked, because she would have no longer had the machinery in her bone marrow to make blood cells… but, just after the one dose she got on this day in 2022, she had a very high regenerative response, and once she got out of the hole, she’s been maintained on immunosuppressive therapy and being the average mischievous cat, attacking her sister, watching birds out the window, and begging at the table).

I just think that’s the coolest thing, and it’s something when I get through vet school I’ll always remember as not jumping to the most likely thing based on the numbers, for the chance -even if it’s a small one -that there might still be something worth trying that could completely change an outcome.

[boneasin]

I think Dark Cacao is the one who did Dark Choco's painting and I will die on this hill.

[noisycowboyglitter]

"Spread Holiday Cheer with Christmas Oncology Hematology Nurse Squad Tees"

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Our Christmas Oncology Hematology Nurse Squad Tee is more than just apparel; it's a symbol of unity, camaraderie, and the unwavering commitment to patient care. It's a conversation starter, a morale booster, and a perfect way to show appreciation for the incredible work done by oncology and hematology nurses.

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The field is dedicated to improving survival rates and quality of life for young patients through advancements in research, treatment protocols, and supportive care. Peds Hemonc teams often collaborate with other specialists, such as pediatric surgeons, radiologists, and nurses, to deliver optimal care.  

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Show your appreciation for your child's teacher with a thoughtful Christmas gift. From personalized items that add a personal touch to practical presents that cater to their everyday needs, there's something for every educator. Consider their interests and style when choosing a gift. A heartfelt message or artwork from your child can make any present extra special. Practical options like cozy blankets, gourmet coffee or tea, or gift cards to their favorite stores are always appreciated. Remember, the best gifts come from the heart and reflect your gratitude for their dedication.

[athomewiththecicadas]

5th Sword 6/18/24

To clear up confusion in regard to fifth sword enumeration.

The PT requirement is a 2 minute mile with 80lbs, totalling $22.4 million.

Regardless of which account the enumeration is rewarded, the physical fitness standard was fulfilled.

First, it's important to note, that you understand that you "can not" run a 2 minute 1/2 mile, qualifying the degree of the first sword.

But the fifth sword must qualify the physical fitness standard as described.

And for the function of publication, support from religious leaders is not inappropriate. Considering that the Sorcery of fiction often materializes in circumstance such as these.

But physical fitness standards can also be associated with munitions. And if you have not qualified the Traditional Physical Fitness Standards, the physical fitness standard may be applied in regard to munitions regulations.

In the Holy Bible, this was recorded as Moses and the 10 Commandments. Where the inequity of the Traditional Standard may be absorbed equivalent to a standardized munition.

And one way or another this will include radiology.

And because we are referring to a scientific standard, exposure to radiology would be equivalent to a 2 minute mile, carrying 80lbs, for 11 miles.

Which I think still times somewhere between 4 minutes or 3 minutes per mile. Off the top of my head it was a 3 minute mile, which is still the full sprint of anyone who can't run a 4 minute mile right now, carrying no less than 80lbs, for no less than 11 miles.

And when you consider this, Moses' hair in pictorial descriptions had turned white. Where the radiology burned his hair follicles. But as far as fantasy depictions, artwork describing magical summonings of powers. Making reference to radiological exposure.

If a fifth sword was actually issued for "in combat," then most likely there was a physical conflict that resulted in the exposure to radiology to the described degree. Which would theoretically create radiological exposure to bone marrow. Thus creating injury for the discrepancy between immediate physical fitness level, and the inequity of physical fitness required. But for a fifth sword to be enumerated, exposure to the described radiology was met. Which is lethal exposure to even "youth," less the immediate Physical Fitness enumeration the individual had presented, extending the survivability of the individual that was exposed.

And as far as artwork and pictorial descriptions, the forces that are applied, leaves enough room for regulated artworks to fulfill the description to the occurrences, to a reasonable degree of accuracy.

And they are referring to events that actually manifested summonings of Sorcery.

The difference between the fifth sword and the seventh sword in a nonlinear scale is nearly twice the lethal exposure.

When you are referring to economic risks associated with shareholders, you are referring to the enumerated "expectations" of these lethal exposures.

And for example, Perseus, would represent the risk of the Seventh Sword. Where the "Self Made Man," would represent the 5th Sword. And Atlas referring to the 3rd Sword.

And this is where conflicts arise. Where leadership is exposed to risks, that carry these higher values, and those that do not qualify the expected credit rating to assume these risks, are often exposed to the term "rebellious."

And you can see that the demands we place on the markets, requires someone to assume the appropriate risk. And those that won't comply are viewed as rebellious. But in these circumstances, they "are not" considered a burden.

For those that have not complied to the enumerated risks placed on the markets, they can be exposed to these risks, because they are acting "too rebellious."

Minimum Wage Law in the United States is set at a 4 minute mile. And we are witnessing how risk is being restructured from merely the first implementation of the new Multiple Independent Processors (MIN-P) and Multiple Execution Side Porting (MESP) technologies that started last October.

Sergeant Major Nathan Marksmith, North Wales Militia, Joint Militia Detachment Brigade (Virginia Militia Association)

[erasinglines]

his heart clenches at her words, feeling as though she’s reached into his chest and gripped it tightly with her own hand, as if her own sentiments echo there, right there in his own. he wishes she knew, that he could articulate, the depth of his regret— the way he often dreams of her in the small apartment they once shared, her laughter echoing off the walls, the nights he would read aloud to her his terrible first drafts, memories of her artwork scattered across the floor like confetti from a celebration they hadn’t had yet. he wishes she knew how often he’s picked up his phone to call her, just to hear her voice, to hear her breathe, only to remember the distance that had nudged its way between them, the wedge that separated them. he wishes she knew how his heart plummets, still, right into the depths of his stomach, when he considers that she’s truly moved on, that he’s nothing more than a ghost of her past, the subject of her artwork, tonight— was this all an attempt to finally let him go? his stomach drops at the thought, but when he looks at her, just as they are now, holding hands in the middle of her gallery, surrounded by remnants of their love that was never meant to be forgotten, not even by them, he finds it hard to come to terms with. it’s safe to say that he wishes tonight was entirely different, also. but, none of that matters, not when he’s holding her hand, not when he’s listening to her voice, feeling her warmth beside him. that is, until, her words fall, own heart echoing her words, pounding in his chest like a symphony of regret and longing. the air around them feels thick with unspoken truths, a silent crescendo of emotions painted vividly on the walls. she couldn’t be further from the truth, that he’s moved on, that he’s happy with things being the way they are— but he’s given her no reason to believe otherwise, has never let her know all he wants is the chance for them to rekindle, for everything to go back to normal, between them, to return to the happiest time of his life, too. he brings her hand to his chest then, pressing it there as the pad of his thumb brushes against her knuckles, feeling the erratic thud of his heart there, within his chest. his voices drops, thick with emotion. “ i wish it could’ve been like that too, for us— i never imagined that i’d have to watch it from afar. so, i am sorry that i couldn’t be there, in the way you needed me to be. that i became the reason i couldn’t be, ” that he wasn’t there for every brushstroke, every sleepless night. wasn’t able to see her create the artwork that now surrounded them, a tapestry of moments frozen in time, every line and colour a piece of their souls intertwined, a whisper of their shared past. and as he looks at her now, the gravity of their lives settling into the marrow of his bones, the warmth of her hand in his a comforting ember, a silent reminder of the fire that once blazed between them, committing to memory the way she looks at him, like she’s searching for a hint of the same longing he felt, miller knows that he can’t keep going on like this. “ i’m sorry, too, because i don’t think i’ve been entirely honest with you, either, ” the one thing they’d always been with each other. “ and i know it’s not fair, not for either of us, but i— ” begins as a whisper, filled with a painful truth that’s been buried for so long, festering away into regret. “ i’ve never stopped missing you, lov— ” loving you, not for a single day. words catch in his throat, however, when he senses they’re no longer alone.

her eyes instinctively begin to glitter with tears at his admission that yes, he loved their life together, too. doesn’t know why it tugs at her so heavily, why it feels like her insides threaten to unfurl, but maybe it’s just hearing that it was real for him too, that they both considered the life they once had together worth loving, worth remembering with fondness. it doesn’t help that they’re surrounded by memories of it, at her own hand— it’s only further entrenching her in the past, in how it used to be, between them. back when things were less complicated, when it felt like they could accomplish anything with each other by their side. when she could kiss him whenever she wanted, when it was okay to be holding hands like they are now, without any tiptoeing around carefully culled boundaries. still, she can’t help but think about that last trip they embarked upon, when he told her he moved on, that she should too, because that there was no future for them, no use in continuing to wait. and so she tried, desperately. pretending to be happily in love with fletcher, acting as if it all felt right when none of it did. and frankly, if this exhibit said anything, it was that she hadn’t really moved on— that she might never move on, despite her pretending. she’s failing desperately at it, now, turning to face him as his lips skate against her hand, lips parting to exhale, to feel the electric shock that runs up the entirety of her arm. it all does feel different, but this, the effect he has on her, remains the same. voice is barely above a whisper, as she looks up at him. “ just like i’ve always loved hearing you read to me, ” or watching him write from across the room, trying desperately not to interrupt yet failing miserably, arms wrapping around him from behind to read over his shoulder, unable to resist kissing any soft spot she could find. god, she shouldn’t be thinking about that, and yet, there’s something about being here, about reliving all of this that has her mind wandering to the past. “ you don’t have to be sorry, though. ” it wasn’t his fault, it felt like this. if anything, he’s the reason even a fraction of this night feels real. “ i mean, i wish it wasn’t, either, i wish… ” and maybe she shouldn’t say the words waiting on her lips, teeth biting at her cheek to stop them from spilling out. but, it’s as her fingertips of her free hand begin to skate up his arm that she knows, inherently, that she’s fucked. “ i wish i didn’t have to watch you walk in here tonight, looking at me like that, with a bouquet of my favorite flowers, knowing i can’t kiss you, ” a beat. “ and i wish i could’ve held your hand all night instead of staring at you across the room like a freak whenever i felt panicky, ” she chuckles, shaking her head. “ i know i shouldn’t say any of this, because you’ve moved on, and that’s okay, i just… i want you to know that even though it’s different than i thought, you were the best part, of all of it. of my life, too. it was the happiest i’ve ever been. ”

[mcbrownartapp]

Virtual Sketchbook #1

1.) Five facts about Jackson Pollock and his work Autumn Rhythm No 30:

Jackson Pollock made his first “drip” or “action painting” in 1947, where he lays the canvas on the floor and used multiple methods of applying paint including drips, splatters, and brushworks from above.

Another one of Pollock’s paintings (No. 5, 1948) became the world’s most expensive painting of that time selling in May of 2006 for 140 million dollars.

Pollock had a movie Oscar winning movie made about him titled, “Pollock”.

Autumn Rhythm No. 30 was bought for $20,000 from Pollock’s estate following his untimely death at the age of 44 in 1956.

Autumn Rhythm No. 30 is currently at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

My first thoughts when looking at Autumn Rhythm was that it seemed chaotic and a little overwhelming. Having little exposure in art and not fully comprehending intentions when it comes to abstract work, I felt like I wasn’t understanding what the artist was trying to convey. But the more I looked at it, I began to see the flow and movement in the patterns of paint. After researching the art piece and its creator, Jackson Pollock, I have come to learn that what I first saw as chaos is the opposite. Pollock purposefully and intentionally made each stroke, splatter, and drip the way that he wanted, making the abstract painting a uniquely beautiful piece or artwork.

Autumn Rhythm (No. 30) Jackson Pollock

2.) This is from a picture from a coloring book my mom finished while she was receiving treatment at Moffitt Cancer Center. She had just undergone a bone marrow transplant that required a very potent dose of chemo that left her unable to talk, walk, stand or do much else. She was, however, able to create the picture. She was fighting for her life and was still able to put bright, hopeful colors into it. This was an incredibly difficult time for my family and despite the odds, my mom pulled through and beat leukemia. I have this up in my room as a reminder of the strength it took to get through that time and to always try to look on the bright side.

3.) My name is Mary. I am a 29-year-old Caucasian female (recently turned 29, 30 is still aways away 😊).  I am from Fort Wayne, Indiana. My family used to vacation in Siesta Key and always dreamed of living in Florida. We finally were able to move to North Port in 2018. My favorite thing to do when I don’t have much going on is puzzles. My friends call me an old lady because I would rather stay in doing puzzles than go out most times. I have been a bartender/server since I was 19, which is long enough. I am very ready to finish college and begin on a new career path. A unique part of me is that I aspired to be a professional photographer, specializing in landscapes, architecture, and animals. My original major at SCF was Digital Photography, but after I became pregnant with my first child in 2022, I decided to switch to a more stable profession in the medical field. I hope taking Art Appreciation will allow me to learn more about my creative side and I can continue pursue photography as a hobby.

4.)