#never succeeded just like they couldn’t make Dean straight no matter how hard they tried

[thenameisgul]

Tumblr had me so convinced of dean and benny’s tryst in the forests of purgatory, that I didn’t even know they tried to make the gay southern vampire who was in love with dean, a straight guy until I watched the show 😂

[cleighwrites]

Sucker Love

SPN Fanfic

Characters - Sociopath!Sam x serial killer!Dean 

Summary - Sam and Dean were raised drifting from town to town, left to their own devices regularly by their father who left them to hunt and kill monsters. Little did he know that he was raising two monsters himself. In his own way, Sam is in love with his brother, who has his own ways of dealing with their life. John starts to act suspicious of Sam, but Sam isn’t about to let anything come between his brother and him, not even their own, worthless, father.

Word Count - 1,397

A/N - Beta’d by the amazeballz @impala-dreamer. This part fills my Dark Fic square on my @spnkinkbingo card. 

Warnings - sociopathic tendencies, incestual feelings, murders, audio-voyeurism, pseudo underage (Sam is 16, no sex...yet)

~Sucker love is using someone for sex until you get bored of them~

“Sucker love a box I choose

No other box I choose to use

Another love I would abuse

No circumstances could excuse” - Placebo, Every You Every Me

“Mmm, yes, Dean. Yes!” the slut screamed from the other side of the door.

Dean had kicked Sam out about forty-five minutes ago so he could ride their current town's bicycle. Sam had brought his science book outside with him to work on his homework, but he didn't make it past their motel room's window before he stopped and sat down. As jealous as he was of all the girls Dean fucked, he could never pass up an opportunity to hear the moans and grunts of his big brother as he came inside of them. Sam was a romantic like that.

Dean was his first kiss, for educational purposes only, of course. Dean was the first one, other than himself, to jerk him off. As far as Sam was concerned, Dean really was the only one. The only one that mattered anyway.

Their father had started to get suspicious of their time spent alone together. Maybe he had caught Sam staring one too many times as Dean would be getting dressed after a shower, or maybe he had woken up to Sam wrapped around Dean as they slept. None of that bothered Sam, but the way their dad would fight with him was becoming an issue.

Dean, ever the obedient little soldier-boy, would do whatever it took to appease the man, but would try to keep them from fighting. Sam was never quite able to put anything before his brother, which had grown to include their predominantly absentee father.

“Sam's old enough to stay on his own now; you should be coming with me. Help me on this hunt.” John had been looking directly at Sam the entire time he was talking to Dean.

“Dad, he's still in school, people will notice if he's living by himself in a motel room,” Dean had argued.

John had only glanced at Dean before fixing his gaze back on Sam. Sam gave as good as he got, his glare never wavering, nor the smirk that accompanied it.

“It's just a salt and burn, you don't need me anyways,” Dean had added in an attempt to break the mounting tension in the room.

John couldn't argue that, so he placed his hand on Dean's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye as he delivered his warning, “Watch out for Sammy.” Then he was gone.

That had been two days ago. Dean had been a little more distant than usual with Sam after their dad left this time. He slept in the other bed, closed the door to a crack when he showered, and didn't hack the TV to pick up porn their first night alone like he typically did. Their dad had put a rift between them; Sam had to fix it before it was too late and he lost Dean for good.

The sound of choking called Sam's attention back into the room and his dick stood at attention as he strained to hear the struggle he knew was going on. The scrape of nails on the cheap motel sheets, the soft drumming of fists on hard, toned skin, the final grunt of Dean's orgasm, and finally, the limp thump of a lifeless arm on the mattress.

Knowing it was safe for him to reenter the room, Sam folded his papers and pencil into his book and stood. Before he could open the door he heard the water running, then the unmistakable sound of the Impala down the street.

Sam burst into the hotel room, holding back his scream, “Dean!”

“Sammy, what the-” he stopped himself, listening.

“Dad,” Sam hissed, turning to the bed to find the bicycle laying haphazardly across the mattress, arms splayed out, legs still spread open. “Dammit, Dean.”

Dean's face went chalk-white as he stared at Sam, eyes as wide as saucers. “Fuck, Sammy.” He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at the girl's body. “Fuck!”

The Impala pulled into the parking lot and Sam sprung into action. He ran to the bed, picking the slut's clothes up as he went, throwing them on top of the girl before pulling the discarded comforter over her and turning her head on the pillow; she could be sleeping.

Dean's eyes looked like his heart was going to break, just like his voice did, “Sammy.”

There wasn't time for anything else as the motel room door swung open and their father stepped in. Dean stood ramrod straight, wide eyes glued to his commander. Sam had taken a seat in one of the chairs at the table and opened his book back up to where his homework was still waiting to be finished.

John's eyes scanned the room and landed on the girl tucked into his own bed. “You boys have a party while I was out?” He leveled his gaze on Dean.

Dean tried for a guilty grin, but failed miserably. “I met her down playing pool last night.” Truth, “We didn't get a lot of sleep; I didn't have the heart to wake her up.” Lie.

“Yeah, well, you should know better than to do that sort of shit with Sammy around.” John took a step toward the bed and Dean shot a panicked look to Sam.

“I'm sixteen, not twelve. It's not like I've never seen boobs before,” Sam sneered, succeeding in drawing their father’s attention away from the fresh corpse.  

“That's not the point.” John's voice was hard, and his eyes dangerous when they turned on Sam.

“Dad,” Dean interjected, as always trying to take the brunt away from Sam, which unfortunately, was becoming a regular occurrence.

“What are you even doing here, need a shower before you hit the bar?” Sam was seething, matching John's tone.

“You watch your mouth, son,” John yelled. He jerked as if he'd done something wrong, then turned to look at the girl.

Sam winced, knowing that anyone would have stirred at their outbursts, drunken slut or not. The girl remained unmoving. Dean took a step forward when John reached out to put his hand on the girl's shoulder.

He barely laid his hand on her when he knew that she was gone and jerked it back. He looked to Sam and then launched himself at Dean. “How could you do this?” Sam heard the crunch of bone as John's fist made contact with Dean's face.

“Dad!” Sam yelled from the other side of the room.

“You fucking killed her! Sammy's here!” Punch after punch landed on Dean's bloody swollen face as John pummeled him.

Dean wasn't even trying to fight back, and Sam couldn't take anymore. He dug through his father's army duffel and pulled out his own handgun. It had been his birthday gift that year, but John didn't trust him to keep it himself. The metal was cold in his hand, and the white marble handle shone in the little sunlight that was streaming in through the tacky motel curtain. With practiced hands he checked the cartridge, cocked the barrel, and took aim.

“Stop!” His voice was steady, and he had thankfully not cracked when he said it; his voice still in the process of maturing.

John stopped mid-swing, turning his head to see the gun aimed at him, and let go of Dean. Sam spared a quick glance as he watched his brother slump to the ground, spitting blood from his busted-open lips.

John turned slowly with his palms up, facing Sam. “Now, Sammy.”

“Don't placate me!” Sam's voice was full of rage, but his hands were steady and his aim was true.

“Just think about what your doing, son.”

Dean groaned from his place on the floor as he tried to crawl away. Sam had never seen his big brother afraid of anything in his life. That alone was enough to set Sam's resolve.

“We're in a small room in a crowded motel. Even if you did shoot me, where could you go? What would you do?”

“Sa-my” Dean coughed, his eyes were pleading, probably for him to not shoot.

Sam kept his eyes on his father and the gun aimed while he reached over and grabbed the pillow out from under the slut's head. He doubled it over and held it in front of the gun. “We're gonna salt and burn your bones.”

Then, just as John lurched forward, Sam squeezed the trigger, just like his late father had taught him.

Part 2

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[gold-from-straw]

Everything That Happens - ch5

I’ve Been Twisting To The Sun

The students return to Hogwarts, and Harry returns to the battle for the first of many attempts to save everyone. Again.

Read from the beginning on AO3 if you like!

“I can’t believe we’ve got an eighth year dorm, rather than being back in Gryffindor,” Ron grumbled, and dropped heavily onto his bed. “At least they’ve colour-coded our beds.”

“Feels weird to be so much lower down as well,” said Harry, looking out into the grounds from the second floor which had been repurposed into two large dorms and a central common room.

“Yes, well, they were lucky to be able to repair Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers to the extent they did,” said Hermione, looking around. “As it is the year sevens are sharing with the year sixes.” She shook her hair out and sat next to Ron. “Only four Gryffindor beds - who didn’t return?”

“Dean Thomas,” Ron grunted from his position spreadeagled on his bed. “He’s got a place in a muggle art college, apparently. Seamus told me on the way up. At least Zacharias Smith moved overseas, we won’t have to share with him.”

The room was a cheery mixture of red, blue and yellow hangings, but Harry’s eyes were drawn to the two beds in the corner, the green almost apologetic and faded. “Who came back from Slytherin?”

“Nott and Malfoy,” said Hermione, darting him a quick look out of the corner of her eye.

“I can’t believe they’re making us bunk with that lot, honestly,” Ron said, shaking his head.

“Ron, leave it. The war’s over. I think it’s a good thing we’re all in the same room. I’ve always thought the segregation by house is way too partisan, and encourages bad feeling among students.”

“Hear hear,” said Justin Finch-Fletchley from a couple of places over. “And because we’re all of age, we can use the cupboards in the common room for firewhiskey.

The boys cheered and the chatter raised, regardless of Hermione’s disapproving looks.

***

Being back at Hogwarts was both a blessing and a curse. Seeing the school, his only real home, so battered and broken made Harry want to hide under the invisibility cloak and never open his eyes again. The great hall was quieter now, every house depleted in some way, and the colours looked muted, as if the castle itself was in mourning. The returning eighth years sat together at one table just in front of the teachers’ dais, and for the first few weeks, every dinner felt like a funeral.

On the other hand, every corner reminded him of something new to add to his list, some event he had to follow through to determine if it could be changed, or should be changed.

And seeing the new ghosts made Harry all the more determined to do it. Because he realised he’d been afraid, before, afraid that if he sent himself back to that horrible day, the smell of curse fire and smoke, the screams and yells and horror, that he’d freeze and possibly even make everything worse.

The first time he saw Colin Creevey he almost fell to his knees in the corridor. Dennis was sitting on a bench by the window, swinging his legs, and Colin sat beside him, translucent and yet more vibrant than anyone else in Hogwarts.

“Oh, Harry,” said Colin, looking up. “Hi! I’m glad we saw you, how are you doing?” he chirped, floating up.

“I… I’m fine, Colin,” he said shakily. “Ummm…” He glanced at Dennis, his little face so much younger than Harry had ever been, he was sure. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, no, no, Harry, you don’t have to be sad,” said Colin, giving him a chilly pat on the arm. “I was just telling Dennis here, nothing hurts, and we can still chat - and I’m not lonely either. Nearly Headless Nick says I can share the job of Gryffindor ghost with him, isn’t that great? All the house ghosts are taking on an apprentice, the Fat Friar’s got three!”

Dennis nodded up at his brother and Harry, and swallowed hard, trying a watery smile.

***

That night, Harry took deep, calming breaths as he lay in bed. They didn’t work. But he was determined to do this, determined to go back and save just one person. Colin would be easy, Harry could just make sure he left with the other evacuees, and then return to his own time, leaving his old self to run straight to the Grey Lady.

He tried to ground himself by listening to the quiet snores of his dorm-mates. The evacuation. Where had he been? Kingsley had been ordering people into position and then--

“Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, and Harry opened his eyes to focused, nerve-jangling chaos, jostled by bodies moving in every direction, the smell of fear, and God, even in his healthy future body his head hurt with it all.

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking for something?” McGonagall snapped.

“What? Oh,” said Harry. “Oh yeah!”

The Horcrux - she was talking about Ravenclaw’s diadem, and he couldn’t miss that, no matter what, otherwise saving one or two people would mean nothing. Even so, he caught a glimpse of Remus hurrying out into the grounds, and the twins into the school, and the sight of them all alive rocked him to his core.

He shook his head and rushed on. He had to focus! He’d been delayed last time, looking for the Grey Lady, but he knew where she’d be now. Instead, he hovered in the entrance hall, waiting, watching - there!

“Colin Creevey,” he snapped, whipping out a hand and grabbing the sixth year boy as he sneaked past. “And… you.” He pointed awkwardly at the Hufflepuff boys with him. “There’s a reason we’re evacuating you, now go.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Harry, we can help! We’re nearly seventeen, the age is just an arbitrary cut off, please!”

“No, Colin,” he said, gripping his shoulders hard and shaking lightly. Harry was small himself, but Colin was still tiny, his voice not even broken, and Harry had to swallow hard as he remember the ghost with long wavy hair. “Please go, all of you, please. You’ve… you’ve got to keep the little ones safe.”

He saw the Hufflepuffs glance at each other and seized on it. “All the overage students are here, who’s going to look after the little ones?”

“The fifth years?” ventured one of the Hufflepuffs tentatively.

Harry shook his head. “Nobody knows what the hell they’re doing in fifth year. It has to be you. And if… if we fail, someone needs to fight to get them home, yeah?” He ducked his head to try and catch Colin’s gaze. “Please… please go look after your brother? Don’t let me find you d-dead on a battlefield.”

Colin met Harry’s eyes. Maybe he saw something there, some truth, but he nodded once, solemn, and returned to the crowd. Harry saw him direct the other boys around the side and start to help with herding the evacuees out.

Harry took a deep breath, then felt a spike of fear rush through him. He couldn’t let the night get away from him! Where had he been… he’d been with those students, and then he’d come back and - and he was here! He’d come back here, and found Nearly Headless Nick!

He looked around wildly, everything different from the bottom of the stairs where last time he’d been at the top, but there! “Nick!” he yelled, and as the ghost turned, Harry relaxed his hold on his past self, and sprang back into his own time.

Harry’s eyes snapped open and he stared into the darkness, breathing fast. He sat up and checked the time, but it wasn’t even 3am yet. He sighed and slumped back onto his pillows.

Now he was awake (had he even slept at all? He didn’t think much time had passed while he was time travelling) he couldn’t bear to lie still. The soft breathing of his dorm-mates taunted him. Eventually he sat up and pulled the Marauder’s map out from his trunk.

Opening up the parchment and saying the words had an instant settling effect on him. He searched Ginny out just on instinct, and smiled to see his ex’s name floating in the girls dorms, bunked down with Briony Dunstan, and Romilda Vane from the year below.

Harry followed the names along Gryffindor tower, like a calming roll-call. The writing was crammed together more than usual, the sixth and seventh years in the same room on both the boys and girls side and - his eyes did a double take, catching on the name Colin Creevey and skittering back.

He stared at the map, hardly daring the breathe. Then, in a sudden burst of motion that tangled his legs in his blankets and almost sent him tumbling to the floor, Harry scrambled out of bed and hurled himself out of the dorms. He tore through the silent, moonlit corridors, up the moving staircases and stumbling against the Fat Lady’s portrait. “Pax,” he gasped out.

“If you say so, dear,” she yawned, and swung open. Harry scrambled through the hole, only pausing a moment in shock to see the common room half its usual size, a wall that had never been there before blocking off the room from the staircase that led up to the highest dorms. That must be the damaged section, he thought, blinking.

He shook his head and rushed onwards, up the stairs to the boys dorms labelled Sixth and Seventh years, and pushed his way in. He glanced down at the map, moving through the room, as silent and slumbering as his own had been, and ripped open the hangings at the foot of Colin Creevey’s bed.

Colin Creevey, living, not transparent, not dead and carried in by Oliver Wood, blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Wh- Harry? Everything OK?”

Harry stepped back, shaking his head, trying to turn away so he wasn’t staring like a creep. “Yeah. Sorry. Bad, uh… bad dreams. Got lost. Um. This was my dorm in sixth year.”

“‘Kay,” said Colin (who was alive!) lying back down. “‘Night, Harry.”

Harry stumbled out of the door and back down the stairs towards eighth year, a huge smile breaking over his face. He couldn’t believe it! He’d actually succeeded, actually saved someone. He could do this! Maybe he could bring them all back… maybe it just took a bit of patience and thought.

He was so dazed he didn’t see Draco Malfoy until it was too late, until his wand and the map went flying when they crashed into each other.

“What are you doing up here?” Harry blurted.

Malfoy turned away, his shoulders hunched. “I could ask you the same question, Potter.”

By the time Harry had gathered all his stuff and stood, Malfoy was halfway down the stairs. Harry watched after him with a deepening frown.

[ahumanfemale]

Professional Distance - I

So AU it’s an alternate galaxy.

Summary:  Dean Winchester is an editor known for his critical eye and keen insight, finding himself a famed name in the world of romance novels. No matter the material that crosses his desk Dean has always been able to maintain his professional distance. Until Donna Hanscum. As if his crush on the effervescent blonde weren't incapacitating enough, now she's introduced a love interest to her latest novel that seems suspiciously like... him.

Author:  (A)HumanFemale

Pairing:  Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum

I

Dean Winchester had been an editor for going on twelve years, since graduating college with his degree in literature. A quick study with a critical eye, he’d come with a slew of recommendations from professors and the assurance he’d have a bestseller in his first year. He’d gone into the field hoping to land a position in fantasy or science fiction - dragons and space battles. You want to know where he’d ended up instead?

Romance.

Sweet inspirational love stories and depraved erotica all came across his desk, demanding his careful eye and effortless marketing. It turned out that selling romances was a lot easier when the man selling it was quick with a smile and easy on the eyes. So they told him, anyway. In just over a decade he’d climbed from untested newbie to a big name - someone in demand, who got to be picky about what he took on. There were a few people who had balked at a man editing chick lit but he brushed them off. Oddly enough, he enjoyed it. Romance wasn’t something he’d normally read and that gave him the ability to distance himself enough from the work to be critical of it. To find errors and plot holes that needed to be addressed. The racier stuff didn’t bother him - he was able to maintain his professional distance. It didn’t hurt that all the authors to take the chair across from his desk tended to look and sound like his mother.

Until Donna Hanscum.

That wasn’t the name on her book covers - no, for that she’d chosen something so obviously fake it made him cringe - but it was the one he’d written in his calendar for that afternoon at three o’clock. Donna reminded him exactly nothing of his mother. Where Mary Winchester was sharp lines and wry grins, Donna was all curves and boisterous laughter. She had an accent that constantly made his mouth twitch up in a smile that stayed with him for the rest of the day. She also wrote things that made him loosen his tie and clear his throat when he edited late at night, in bed with his laptop and a beer.

Donna wrote paranormal romance. More specifically, she wrote about a voluptuous blonde whose job was to hunt down and kill the paranormal. Usually with a male partner who was different in every installment, all of whom found themselves enamored with her by the end of the book. After a long hunt and a bloody kill she took her fill of the guy, typically on the hood of her muscle car before driving off into the sunset with a wink and a smile. Unless, of course, they died.

Her work fit the market trend toward this kind of thing perfectly and she wrote it well, keeping her heroine just this side of relatable and worthy of cheering on. Readers ate it up and she was writing full time now, having quit her job as a small town sheriff back in Minnesota.

Which was why they had this meeting set up, discussing the sixth installment of her series. Her first ten chapters were due today and she’d insisted on bringing them in on paper, as she was running behind and hadn’t had a chance to transcribe them to a word document. Fine with him. He thought better when he could scribble notes and refer back to them later.

He checked his clock.

3:12.

“I’m here!” she crowed as though reading his mind, throwing open the door to his office so that the potted plant next to it shook and threatened to topple over. “Sorry! So sorry, Dean, I’m here.”

“I can see that,” he smirked, waiting for her to orient herself as she shut the door and smoothed her wavy hair away from her face. “Make it into the city okay?”

“Oh, yah, always,” she said, facing him with a bright smile as she sashayed her way to him. He did his best to avoid following the sway of her hips as she walked. “How are ya doing, handsome? Working hard?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, always.” She threw herself down into the chair opposite his desk and exhaled loudly. She was dressed in leggings the color of cotton candy with lipstick to match, covered in a bright white poncho with what looked like owls patterned across it. Why in God’s name did this drive him crazy? It wasn’t exactly leather and lace. Still, the thought of peeling it off gave him just as much of a thrill.

He needed to put a lid on it.

“So, uh… you got something for me?”

“Anytime ya want it, sugar,” she said with a lascivious wink that she followed up with a full laugh. Just in case his blood pressure wasn’t high enough. “Just kidding. Yeah, I’ve got it here. Hold on.”

She handed him a leaf of wide-ruled notebook paper, bent and tattered and covered with the flamboyant whirls and loops of her now-familiar handwriting. There were more than a few coffee stains and doodles on the margins, the most common theme being what looked like a unicorn chasing a robber. It was held together with a thick clamp at the top, making it almost impossible to flip through the pages.

“That’s… um. That’s original,” he said lamely, looking over it.

“I know! I’m so sorry. If ya don’t mind waiting a few days I’ll transcribe it but I know they’re holding us to a pretty strict deadline so I didn’t want them to come for your head.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, nodding before gently placing her manuscript to the side. “So, who is Chloe Ransom killing these days? Shapeshifters or ghosts?”

“Tracking a wendigo through the deep dark woods, actually,” she said, beaming. “With a sweet hunk of forest ranger to keep her company, of course.”

“Of course,” he said with a smile. “Well, I have some cover art to go over with you and there have been a few changes in your contract for the next three books…”

-- X --

It was after seven before Dean made it back to his townhouse, yawning and swinging a big bag of takeout along with his briefcase. Donna’s manuscript - such as it was - was like a lead weight on his arm, begging to be hauled up and read to death. He’d told himself that if he got through the other chapters vying for his attention he could read all of Donna’s tonight over dinner. He’d chosen a greasy burger and fries - Chloe Random’s main staple as she flitted from bar to bar, looking for cases and any excuse to pull out the armory in her trunk.

Dean tossed his jacket and tie as he situated himself on one end of his couch, turning to stretch his legs over the cushions. He’d placed a cold beer on the coffee table next to him and kicked his shoes off. Burger in one hand and Donna’s manuscript in the other, he dug in. The handwriting baffled him occasionally but he was able to decipher it if he tilted it far enough to the side.

The first few chapters were easy to fly through. Chloe was back in the saddle after a nest of vampires tried to turn her into lunch in the last book - they’d succeeded with her partner. Poor Sam. But now she was coming out of mourning and out of her recovery, looking to kick some ass. He scribbled a few notes on the sides but Dean didn’t slow down until close to chapter nine, when something like suspicion prickled over his skin.

Chloe stepped into the office, grateful for the air conditioning after the sauna that was the inside her car. Appalachia in the dead heat of summer wasn’t a picnic. She could only hope her deodorant was up to the job, because the man behind the desk ahead of her was more likely to have her sweating than the blazing sun outside.

Dark blond hair cut short and tousled to look like he’d just run his fingers through it, a sharp jaw, and lethally green eyes. A few shallow crow’s feet that turned his face from pretty to something closer to devastating. It was the eyes that held her attention the longest, at least until he smiled. Then her eyes snapped to the ever so slightly elongated canines nestled into his otherwise straight white teeth. A hint of the primal, hidden among the mundane. She couldn’t help her mind wandering to which part of her anatomy he’d sink those teeth into first.

Dean paused, looking up and away from the words on the page.

He fought the urge to run for a mirror, checking his own reflection against the description in the story. Unconsciously his tongue drew up to rub against his top teeth, the ever so slight edge on his canines now roaring to the forefront of his attention. Were they longer? Certainly not longer than average. No one had ever called them out to him, anyway, but there it was... a bare millimeter jutting out from the line of the rest of his teeth.  

His attention went back to the story.

“You must be Detective Ransom,” the supermodel-turned-park ranger said, standing from his chair to offer his hand. Cripes, he was even tall. Just tall enough to make her look up at him through her lashes like the hussy she was.

“That’s me,” she affirmed, taking his hand in her own. Calluses, she noticed. The man did real work. “Sorry, they didn’t give me your name when I left the precinct. I was out the door like a flash.”

“Daniel,” he told her, “Daniel Wesson. But just Dan is fine.”

Son of a bitch.

Dean put the manuscript down to run his hand over his face. Was he crazy? Was he imagining all this? He wasn’t any more or less self-absorbed than the next guy, but come on. There’s seeing yourself in everything and then there’s seeing yourself when someone has obviously written about you.

He finished the remainder of the portion in record time, not even bothering to pick up his pen to make notes. Dan and Chloe sat and talked about the case - a slew of missing hikers, remains never found. Chloe didn’t mention her added knowledge of a pattern just like this one going back forty years, and then another set of disappearances forty years before that. Dan was forthcoming and Chloe was invested, eager to put down the monster and get back to her hometown in Minnesota with enough time for her sister’s wedding. Chapter ten finished with Chloe packing her gear and heading to the mouth of the forest, a flask on her hip and Dan at her side.

His burger had grown cold and his beer had fallen flat at some point but it didn’t matter. The pages in his hand had captivated him to such an extent that he doubted he’d notice if someone kicked in his front door. Before he knew what he was doing he had grabbed his cell phone off the coffee table and flipped to Donna’s number. It was there… inviting him to press on it. A text, even. She was probably still in the city.

Dean closed the application and set the phone back down.

He was getting a little worked up. Overreacting because of his… preoccupation with her. Authors were known to take people and places from their real lives and put them into their fictional ones. That wasn’t so unusual, although he’d never seen a suspiciously similar version of himself in anyone else’s work. The only way to solve this, of course, was more data.

He needed more chapters.