#sera gamble i’m in your fucking walls

[saintemry]

the thing about the magicians is that. well i’m no expert but i’m pretty sure tv shows are not supposed to make you physically ill when you think about them.

[pikapeppa]

FenHawke &Varric friendship fluff: History

I was casually playing DA:I the other day and wandering around in the Hissing Wastes, and I got inspired to write some friendship fluff between Fenris, Rynne Hawke and their beloved BFF Varric. Set in my Fenris the Inquisitor universe.

~1700 words; read on AO3 instead.

************************

Fenris trudged over to the fire and sat next to Hawke with a groan. “I have finally succeeded in beating the sand out the creases in my clothes,” he announced. “For now, at least.”

Varric huffed. “At least you didn’t wear boots. I’m pretty sure I had enough sand in mine to build a castle.” He eyed his own bare feet in disgruntlement, and Fenris smirked; seeing Varric without boots on was a very rare occurrence. 

“Told you to wear sandals,” Hawke said without looking up from the tattered book in her lap.

Varric gave her a long-suffering look. “When have you ever seen me in sandals?”

“There’s no better time to start,” Hawke said. “Bare chest, bare feet — it’s a natural pairing, like peas and carrots.”

Despite her jocular tone, she didn’t lift her eyes from her book. Fenris eyed her curiously. “What are you reading that has you so preoccupied?”

She finally looked up, and her amber eyes were wide and bright with interest. “It’s the journal we found on that poor dwarven fellow who got bitten by a spider. It’s pretty incredible, actually. I mean, sad because he died, poor sod,” she said quickly, ���but incredible what he was figuring out.” She turned to Varric. “Did you know there was an entire dwarven house that purposely left the deep roads to set up here on the surface?”

He shot her a chiding look. “Have you ever seen me write anything much about the Orzammar dwarves?”

Her smile became sheepish. “Er, no.”

“Then that’s how much I know about a dwarven house leaving the deep roads to set up on the surface,” he said dryly.

“All right, fine, it was a stupid question,” she admitted. “But listen to this: this Paragon Fairel fellow took his house out of the deep roads before the First Blight to hide some incredible weapon he invented, so the rest of the dwarves would stop using it against each other. Before the First Blight! That’s how many years ago now?” She frowned. “Wait, when was the First Blight again?”

Amused, Fenris answered her question. “In -395 Ancient.”

She batted her eyelashes. “Maker’s balls, you’re so smart. No wonder I married you.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “All right, so some dwarves settled on the surface over a thousand years ago.”

“Yes, but that’s not all,” Hawke said. “It sounds like they were prepared to fight a dragon even before they left the deep roads. The fellow who wrote this journal found an inscription and translated it like this:

From the Stone, have no fear of anything,

But the stone-less sky betrays with wings of flame.

If the surface must be breached, if there is no other way,

Bring weapons against the urtok, and heed their screams.

She looked at Fenris and Varric with wide eyes. “Urtok means ‘dragon’, according to this. And ‘wings of flame’? That can only mean a dragon too, right? They knew before they breached the surface that there would be a dragon to contend with. How did they know that?”

“A good guess, maybe?” Varric said.

Hawke lifted an eyebrow. “But if they had never left the deep roads before, how could they even guess at what they’d find on the surface — and with enough accuracy to know they’d find a fire-breathing dragon?”

Fenris tapped her knee. “Perhaps they knew already of the archdemons, even if the First Blight had not yet happened.”

Her eyes grew even wider. “Shit. You’re right. Maker’s balls, I didn’t even — I never thought about the archdemons breathing fire underground. Do you think they breathe fire underground?”

“Probably,” Varric said. 

She stared at him incredulously. “That’s insane.”

Fenris scoffed. “After everything we’ve seen, with the Titans and those ancient Sentinels at Mythal’s Temple and falling into the Fade, you think that a dragon breathing fire underground is insane?”

“I have to agree with the elf on this one,” Varric said.

Hawke burst out a laugh. “Listen to the two of you! Such grizzled and jaded men of the world! Maybe I’ve just retained my sense of childlike wonder.” Her smile widened. “Or maybe I’m just an idiot.”

Fenris tsked. “A very beautiful idiot,” he said, and he pinched her waist.

She squeaked in amusement and smacked his hand. “You certainly know how to flatter a girl. But really though, think about it: the entire history of this thaig, lost until now. And the Shaperate doesn’t know about it, or covered it up on purpose.”

Varric gave her a funny look. “Since when are you so preoccupied with dwarven history?”

“It’s not just dwarven history,” she said. “It’s… I don’t know.” She twisted her lips ruefully. “It’s rather fucked up how many people have lost such huge chunks of history, isn’t it? The dwarves, the elves… everyone who isn’t Chantry, really.”

“The Chantry is also unreliable with their history,” Fenris said. “They struck Shartan from the official Chant.”

She pulled a face. “Ugh, you’re right. That’s so fucked up, though. Everyone is so bloody casual with their histories. It’s so…” She trailed off with a frown, and Fenris eyed her with a pang of affection. Hawke was by no means the idiot she said herself to be, but it was unusual for her to get this pensive about history in particular. She tended to favour a happy-go-lucky focus on the present or the future, preferring to reserve her mental energy for discussions of magical theory instead of history.

She looked up at them with a little frown. “Even family histories or personal histories. There’s so much shit we can forget. I was named after a great-aunt or a grand-aunt or something, for example, but fuck knows who she even was anymore. Not that that’s any great loss of information, I don’t really care who I was named after. But at the same time, how can we say now what’s going to be important or not a hundred years from now?”

A rather melancholy silence ensued, which Fenris wasn’t sure how to break. He was starting to feel a bit melancholy and pensive himself. Hawke was right, after all; he, for instance, knew nothing more of his own family history than what Varania had told him at the Hanged Man several years ago. As he and Varania had never again contacted each other, it seemed that that was all Fenris would be fated to know.

“Oh balls,” Hawke said suddenly. 

Fenris looked up to find her face crumpled in apology. She sidled closer to him and took his hand. “Oh, Fenris, I’m sorry. I’m being an ass, aren’t I, talking about this family history shit?”

“No, it’s…” He trailed off before he could say it was all right. His lost memories would never really be all right, but they were also no longer the gaping wound that they once were. “I’ve made my peace with my lack of history,” he said instead. “You know this.”

She winced. “I know, I just… ugh, I’m sorry.” She looped her hand through his elbow and hugged his arm. “I’m being so boring and mopey.”

Varric chuckled. “You really are. You and the elf here trading roles for a while?”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Fenris said dryly. 

“It really isn’t,” Hawke chirped. “No one but Fenris can fill the role of ‘most gorgeous elf in Thedas’.”

Fenris eyed her chidingly. “It is impossible for you to fill that role. You’re not an elf.”

She widened her eyes playfully. “Nothing gets past you, does it?” 

Fenris huffed in amusement, and Varric chuckled as well before speaking. “Well, I can cheer things up a little. At least we don’t have to worry about losing any of our history.”

“What do you mean?” Hawke asked.

“I mean that we have a perfectly accurate and compelling historian right here.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Fenris chuckled, and Hawke barked out a bright little laugh. “You’re talking about yourself. Of course you are.”

Varric did a little bow from his seated position. “You can both thank me anytime.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “For what? Making Hawke a notorious Thedas-wide celebrity?”

“No!” Hawke retorted. “For painting me as a charming hero and not the complete fool that I am, of course!” She shifted over and hugged Varric around the neck. 

He patted her back and smirked at Fenris. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll make you look good too in all of this Inquisition shit.”

Fenris sighed. “I appreciate the sentiment, I suppose.”

Hawke smiled sweetly at Varric. “When you write about the Inquisition, can you put in the story about how Fenris and Sera almost knocked Krem out with a stale cookie when they were on the roof that one time?”

“No,” Fenris said hastily. “Absolutely not. That was an accident!”

Varric ignored him. “It’s already written down, don’t worry,” he said to Hawke.

Fenris grunted. “Then you ought to include the time that Hawke asked Bull to teach her to throw a proper punch and nearly sprained her wrist on his unarmoured chest.”

She laughed and poked his thigh. “Hey, that’s unfair! Bull’s tits are so hard they might as well be armour. Dorian should have warned me!”

Varric snickered. “Don’t worry, I’ve got that one written down as well.”

Hawke clicked her tongue. “Well, in that case, you have to include that time that you tried to gamble against Solas and lost so badly that he took mercy on you by not taking your coat and your boots.”

Fenris snorted, and Varric pulled a face. “Aw, now that’s just mean to bring that up,” he complained.

Hawke giggled. They continued to tease each other with favourite stories of the past, both recent and remote, and Fenris smiled to himself as he listened to their laughter and their tales. In the grand scheme of things, the ties between a human mage, a Tevinter elf and a surface dwarf were too humble to survive the fickle nature of history and time. Not all histories were important enough to be written in the pages of a Chantry tome or carved in lyrium into the walls of Orzammar, after all. 

But as Fenris listened to Hawke and Varric laughing and exchanging tales and playful jabs just as they used to do ten years ago, he realized that even the most humble of histories could be infinitely precious. 

[winchestersingerautorepair]

A Rift Between

A Brief(-ish) History of Dean, Cas, & Rifts

Let’s talk about rifts for a moment. And when I say rifts, I don’t mean their personal disagreements -- if I were to be discussing that, this post would be less of a brief history and more of a thesis paper. 

No, I’m talking about rift rifts. As in, actual, literal tears in the spacetime continuum. They are littered across the whole run of this show, and we’ve recently had two whole seasons devoted to them. So, the sudden reappearance of rift-adjacent plotlines carries with it a weighty load of textual relevance.

Dean and Castiel’s relationship arc, a fan favorite, began when Leviathans, the notorious fan-unfavorite, came into the picture. 

No, Maeve! Dean and Castiel’s relationship arc began in season 4, not 7! Cas was barely even in season 7! 

Well, let me explain. Season 7, the age of Sera Gamble, was a total show reset. Was it uncomfortable? Yes. Did we all hate it? Yes. But like with muscle, you’ve got to tear through the old before you can develop something new, and Season 7 did this job quite effectively. An identity crisis at that scale means either a massive change of pace or a creative death, and as the show is still on, number one it is. 

So, while we can most reliably chart the beginning of an intentional, substantive romantic undercurrent to Season 8, it is the waiting that allowed it to come to fruition-- Season 7 was a void, an unsustainable period of creative drought, a long cold winter in which seeds fell and laid dormant. And like the winter, it was necessary for rebirth.

This brings me to the first DeanCas rift: 

~~

The Purgatory Spell

Episode: 7x01

This tear in spacetime was the culmination of Castiel’s Season 6 character arc. It was the final, greatest betrayal, the irredeemable course of action which struck his relationship with the Winchesters a fatal blow-- and though his last act was to attempt to right his wrongs, the emergence of this rift meant estrangement and death for the relationship (and for Castiel.)

This incident is established as far more significant for Dean than it is for Sam, so I won’t spend much time justifying my classification of this rift as primarily DeanCas. It’s made pretty damn clear through Dean’s behavior throughout Season 7.

Castiel’s departure catalyzed the emergence of Leviathans. As the lore promised, they brought death and destruction to the whole ecosystem, purging the show and readying it for reincarnation; but I’ve already made this point.

As Destiel 1.0 dies, Destiel 2.0 is born.

~~~

The Purgatory Portal

Episode: 8x07

Let us journey back to "A Little Slice of Kevin"-- the gayest thing to happen to Supernatural up to that point. Suddenly, Dean and Cas’s ambiguity is no longer a joke. It’s no longer flippantly referenced, but Built Into The Narrative In A Noticeable Way. After Season 7, Season 8 shocked the system, earning Purgatory celebrity status as the Destiel fandom exploded back to life. 

But, more important things. The events surrounding this portal not only codified romantic subtext, but reshaped their relationship by putting it in grave peril. Lovers trapped in separate worlds. There’s only like ten thousand examples of this in other fictional, romantic(-ally coded) relationships. Sigh.

As Destiel 2.0 dies, Destiel 3.0 is born.

~~~

Seasons 9, 10, and 11 are filled with near misses. Divisions between worlds/fates test and change their bond -- Heaven and Hell exert tremendous force on both, and the gates of Heaven and the Darkness’s breach of barriers flirt pretty openly with the rift theme -- but there isn’t anything that fits the profile cut and dry, so let us leap to Season 12. Five long years of glacial shifts, five long years of a slow, steady amping up of queer subtext. An argument can be made that it had graduated from subtext in some places, but both fandom and GA were frog-boiled enough in their interpretations for this argument to be an aside.

Destiel 3.0 reaches a transitional stage, and becomes Destiel 3.0+.

Now, It’s season 12. And like goddamned CLOCKWORK, six years after Season 6, another unstable tear in spacetime appears, and terminates Castiel’s character arc.

Rift? Check. Cas dead? Check. We’ve seen this pattern. Time for shit to CHANGE. And boy, did it.

~~~

The Rift

Episode: 12x23

Oh, boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Castiel’s death in the Season 12 finale was a magnum opus of SPN’s romantically coded imagery. I could elaborate, but if you’ve read this far into this post you likely already know what I’m talking about. My point is, a hall of mirrors is the chosen space in which Destiel 3.0+ is killed. 

The relationship death lasts only a short while; their estrangement in separate realms is a five episode-long period of detachment and review. Our characters, as well as the viewers, stride through a hall of mirrors. In solitude, this DeanCas winter becomes a chance to reflect, because there is no better way to get a feel for the importance of something than to eliminate it. The crucial elements of Dean and Cas’s relationship, what they mean to each other, becomes clearer than ever before because, look! This is Dean without Cas! This is the show without Cas! Don’t you hate it?

I mean, guys. Mirrors. Cas spoke to a reflection of himself in the Empty. Literally. He addressed his greatest fears about relationships with himself. He was forced to rewatch his greatest mistakes, and what gets featured? Our first two DeanCas rifts. F*ck this show.

DreamHunter parallel! 13x10 reenacted this scene for us with Claire and Kaia. 

Then, 13x05 changes the whole game once more. You know, the episode titled Thanatology. The study of Death. Fuck this show.

As Destiel 3.0+ dies, Destiel 4.0 is born.

~~~

The intensity of the queer narrative amps up continually. Things are getting harder to write off.

Rifts between worlds, crossover and confinement, and estrangement, and the blurring of lines, and the breaking of old taboos/breach of old barriers dominates the remainder of Season 13 and Season 14. We hold this broad focus for a long time, and Dean and Castiel become the emotional equivalent of the plot arc, always there, brewing, but taking a backseat to the Big Stuff. A wall rises, and solidifies. Silver Pole of Communication Barriers, anyone?

Then? Season 15 kicks us in the Destiel balls.

Full disclosure: I didn’t see this next part coming. I dared not ask season 15 for anything this significant, so the last scene of 15x08 just about took my life. 

~~~

The Purgatory Rift

Episode(s): 15x08, 15x09

Dun dun DUN!!

This twist was my favorite Christmas present, because it communicated to me that the writers have an understanding of Dean and Cas’s history to match our own. Not only are they actively writing them utilizing the Destiel playbook, they obviously care immensely about the destiny of their relationship. I am speaking too soon to say this definitively, but this mission has all the hallmarks of a plot device designed to serve many purposes in respect to Dean and Castiel. They’ve got ALL the ingredients. There are so many things tied in here that it gets pretty damn near fanfiction territory.

Please read my reaction to the purgatory twist if you need context, as I don’t feel much like regurgitating it. This post is long enough, lol. (A bloom that grows only in one place? Fuck you, writers. You’re going to KILL me.)

~~~

So, to recap: In a universe defined by barriers and guidelines, a relationship that refuses to be defined will be under constant siege. Dean and Castiel suffer from the sheer reality of walking lines between two designated states of being-- friends and lovers, angel and human, take your pick. The current order isn’t friendly to beings who don’t fit a category. Until the barriers are stripped away, they cannot exist as they are, and rifts will continue to rip them apart. 

The Purgatory Rift of 15x08 is such a big deal because it fuses themes. The rifts of the Dabb era have merged with the gateways of the Carver era. Not only are our long-standing almost-lovers returning to their relationship’s place of origin, they are doing so by breaching physical barriers designed to keep them apart; and all the while, the most dangerous, important rift is not the one in the fabric of reality, but the one in their relationship. 

I expect this major rift to end no differently than it has in the past. Dean and Cas will be separated, and Cas will be out of reach. And then, they’ll be reunited. But, where will that take us? What will the next reincarnation look like? 

As Destiel 4.0 dies, something will be born.

[koryuoftheriverflow]

I’m gonna compile a list of all the things in the episode that follow the narrative thread of the season (or seasons 7-15) or make no sense whatsoever that, imho, allow us to imagine (to know) that *this* was not supposed to happen. Yes, I’m wearing my clown wig and make up. If I have to believe that this finale was written by someone like say, Sera Gamble (Sam is the best, Dean is destined to live in his shadow and Cas is not in the picture), following Kripke’s initial plan, and imposed by the network onto Dabb and the other writers (whose *real* finale was 15.18 - and 15.19 which, bucklemmings’ usual problems aside, was really not that bad), just so that I can sleep tonight... Then so be it! - Montage from 15.19 with no actual meaningful moments from the past 15 seasons but a shitton of dream/fake episodes ??? - Single pillow - Mourning beer on the nightstand - Single lamp - Pizza box on the unoccupied side of the bed - Miracle - Sam’s jog in a place that reminds me a lot of his commercial in Changing Channels ??? - Dabb’s pies - That was Robert Singer on the background, laughing at Sam throwing a pie in Dean’s face, right? - The painting with the beach - Tongues ripped out so victims can’t speak - Hearts - That damn barn - Cas/Dean/Alastair vs Dean/Sam/chick - I had a hard time remembering that girl because why the hell is she even here? Why is Dead men’s blood so important right now? Pls explain ??? - The fact that it took me a while to understand that it was Dean the one impaled and not the vampire, because when they closed up on the metal thingy earlier I totally thought it was going to end up as it usually does in these cases ??? - You’re stronger than me ??? - It was supposed to end like this for me ??? (Hello free will?????) - It’s always being you and me (Hello family dont end in blood and it doesnt start there either???) - Hearts again - Agent Bon Jovi (No rest for the wicked) ??? - At least I made it to Heaven (this sounded so much like Dean just gave up because there was no one left and at least in, what he believed to be the old version of, Heaven he could relive good memories) - Ash’s monkey - It’s the Heaven you deserve (deserve - deserve - deserve) - El Sol - Cas helped (Dean’s smile, bless you Jensen) - KAZ2y5  - You got everything you could ever want, or need, or dream (the one thing I want - I need you - he sounds... dreamy) - The Roadhouse - The road (hello 8.07) - Sam’s son named Dean like this is the Epilogue only worse - And no Eileen - The bridge and Hey, Sammy and Stanford clothes (ok, we get it) - The farewell at the end - Jensen’s fucking face I cant ashjhshdjkahdk he’s dead inside - Cast and crew all together with no masks despite covid so where the hell are Cas and Eileen ??? - And cut!  Like, at least the fact that they broke the 4th wall lets me believe that this was the ending of the in-story show Supernatural and not the ending of *the story* and its characters.  Because this is a bros only ending and it was *not* what they’ve been building towards for months and years. And I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that Jensen had to call lots of people and Eric bloody Kripke to have the ending explained to him, because from where I was watching the story unfold, it was the perfect arc for Dean (and Jensen knows Dean better than anyone). And that’s why I’m convinced this one is a pre-established ending. And Bobo and Dabb and all the rest in the writers room wrote 15.18 to be our ending, because they couldn’t write this one.  And yes, of course, no more sacrifice between the brothers is very good. But Dean dead? Sam with the white picket fence life?  This ending is so... ancient. It belongs to an era of Spn that is long gone. I honestly believe that the actors (maybe not Jared ‘cause he’s still under contract with the CW) and the writers will speak up about this. Some more than others, maybe. But I want the truth to come out. I want to know if they had to compromise to give us, albeit one-sided, canon Destiel. If they took us as far as they could, because they weren’t allowed to bring us to the right end.  And they tried to warn us: Misha and Cas’s sacrifice, Bobo and the unexpected, Dabb and his 30% and GoT finale. I thought he was trolling, but no... he was just warning us that, yeah, we were not gonna like it. How could we? But I want him to speak up, because he’s the one who’s gonna take the blame for this. I watched him write for this show for 12 years and I know he can do way better than this.  Jack as the soul bomb in 11.23, stopped, like Amara stopped, because of love.  The Empty being loud. The need to speak one’s truth. Free Will winning over the Author. Chuck’s ending with bros only and no Castiel being shit. We are real (from both Destiel and Saileen). The family they have built along the way. None of this was in the episode, but they have been writing with those themes in mind for years. So, no. I don’t understand. Call me delusional. Chuck knows I’ve been called that before, but on *that one thing* we were right. We were so fucking right. I genuinely think the writers are going to speak up, because their careers are at stake. Because *this* isn’t the way to end a story. And Misha, and Jensen. Jensen, I beg you to say something. Because this I understand now, why they were talking about 15.18 as if that episode was the finale. And why they didn’t say goodbye to Castiel, because no... his story isn’t over. So many other - well, I don’t want to say plot points, but certainly emotional points - were left unadressed, abandoned.  We still need answers.  If I can’t get them in text, I demand to have them from, yeah, word of God.  The thing that I’m mourning now is the possibily (and Spn has a history of missed chances, but we love it in spite of that) of going down in history as the tv show that did something game changing.  Still, I’m grateful for all the people, near and far, that have come into my life because of it. Family indeed don’t end with blood. @mittensmorgul @postmodernmulticoloredcloak @bluestar86 @drsilverfish @bakasara @rambleoncas @k-vichan @shirtlesssammy @lets-steal-an-archive I hope you don’t mind my tagging you lovely people (and there are many more), but I’ve followed you for so long, and I’ve read all your metas for years. They’ve kept me company for a decade. It’s been a wild ride and I just want to say, while asking for your opinion on the show one last time, THANK YOU. Supernatural was good, but it was especially lovely thanks to you all <3

[babygirl06301]

1x21: Salvation Rating: ★★★★☆

Look here for my explanations of these reviews.

Written by: Sera Gamble & Raelle Tucker

Directed by: Robert Singer

Y’all, this episode is good and nothing happened in it. Legit, it went like this: a Winchester pow-wow, a demon threat, a Winchester goodbye, John getting fucked, and Sam and Dean sitting in the Impala… with a fire at the end. That’s all, but the dialogue and the intensity? Awesome. Good penultimate episode.

What I liked: All the character work, but obviously, I’ll talk about that below. The tone of it was amazing, which is sort of hard to describe, but it had me hooked. I loved that Sam ran at a woman walking with her baby and used, “Your baby is gorgeous, can you please tell me how old she is?” as an opening remark to gauge whether or not she was Azazel’s next target. I also love how that lady didn’t think to say, “Okay, thank you for the compliments, tall, creepy man, please never come near my home again.”

What I didn’t like: I mean, like nothing happened. I really don’t care because it became an episode about the characters themselves, but also, I can’t talk about the episode that easily because there were like two plot points and that’s all. Okay, I’ll give a better answer: probably more should’ve gone down. I know it all comes down in the season finale, but there weren’t any events to hype up what comes next. It just set up for the finale without doing anything particularly exciting. I’m nitpicking, though, because it doesn’t really read as uneventful when you’re watching it.

Character work: I know John is a dick, but this episode is so good for seeing how much he’s willing to change at this point in the story. Is it enough to redeem him? Hell no, not after all he did to the boys and what they had to do to survive. However, would he have tried to change if he’d had enough time? Yeah, and that’s pretty evident in this episode. I love that kind of shit. Also, he said, “I want Dean to have a home,” when he was talking about why he wanted to end things with Azazel so badly, and isn’t that the saddest line you’ve ever heard? Sam’s character bits were all very fatalistic and angry. He thanked Dean for being there for him because he was preparing himself to die to kill the thing that killed Jess because he had so much rage in his heart over what happened to her. That’s tight. 

And Dean, oh my goodness. He is the only one in this entire equation who will not accept that anyone might die to kill this demon. That is so fascinating to me. It’s not like Dean will ever, in future seasons, be okay with Sam dying. Sure, he’ll let Sam take a swan dive into the Cage with Lucifer, but he’s damn well still going to try to get Sam back. Sure, he’ll let Sam get beat to shit to close the gates of Hell, but not if it’s going to kill him. Sure, he’ll let Sam die so they can escape prison, but only if he’s the one who fulfills Billie’s deal of a dead Winchester afterward. But what’s so different with this episode is that he doesn’t even want himself to die. That’s so anti-Dean Winchester. Sometimes Dean wants to die, sure, but even when he doesn’t, he’s always willing to die if he has to. This time, though, he wants family, and he’s not gonna let it be anything but all three of them.

Favorite scene: There’s a lot of good Winchester scenes, but I’d say my favorite for this episode was the scene at the end where Sam slams Dean up against the wall after Dean says no one is dying for revenge. It’s very emotional, and it’s got loads of all that good, good character development we see for the boys throughout the entire episode.

Favorite moment: There isn’t really a single moment I can think of since it was a lot of good scenes in their entirety, but if I’m gonna say one, I’ll say the moment when Dean lifts the baby out of her crib and it immediately catches on fire. A pretty close shave, if you ask me.

Iconic quote: “That evil son of a bitch ain't getting any older than tonight, you understand me?” Again, there’s not really a lot of standalone quotes to pick from in this episode because the script itself is really good, but this one has mid-late seasons Dean energy.

Anyway, I realize I’ve made this episode mostly about Dean with my analysis, and I apologize, but what can I say? I’ve imprinted. I’m ready to finish this season for like the billionth time.

[kenzieam]

Stars and Shadows - Chapter 3 (Ivar and Sera)

Rating: M - Mature

Genre: General, maybe some drama and angst, definitely some romance and smut

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This is a new Ivar and Sera AU story, set in modern times. I’m not really sure where I’m going with it yet, or what direction the characters are going to end up going, but I hope you follow with me…..

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I sagged back into the couch, smiling when Ivar pulled me closer. This definitely wasn’t going to be a one-time thing.

We behaved after that, only our thighs touching. Ubbe continued to sneak little glances our way and smiling knowingly. He didn’t seem mad, the opposite in fact, I think he was excited for Ivar and I wondered idly how much Ivar’s love-life or lack thereof was a topic of conversation with him and his brothers. The problems with his legs obviously didn’t extend any higher, but he still struck me as relatively inexperienced. Were girls immediately turned off by his affliction? Or had they never tried to get past his prickly exterior? I’d seen the beginnings of something deeper in Ivar’s eyes, when we’d both been close to coming and his guard was dropped. I tried not to dwell on it too much, but I nonetheless was eager to mine deeper into Ivar’s personality. I recognized walls when I saw them, I had a whole fortification myself.

I had to hide a quiver of glee when Ivar gave up on looking indifferent and slung his arm tentatively over my shoulder.I glanced at him, his bottom lip was trapped in his teeth and he looked.... nervous, for lack of a better word. The self-confidence he’d had only minutes before when he’d stared down Ubbe was gone. I offered him a hesitant smile and scooted a little closer, gently resting my head back against his arm. He flexed his bicep and I grinned, looked sideways at him and sticking out my tongue at his smirk. I felt him exhale long and slow when I dared to rest my hand on his leg and a curious feeling of satisfaction rolled through me, like when I managed to shade a sketch just right, or found the perfect adjective in my short story.

Hvitserk groaned loudly and tossed his controller away, he was getting his ass kicked on screen and was obviously over it. Still sitting cross-legged he pushed himself around, turning to face us. His eyes fell immediately on my hand, then Ivar’s arm over my shoulder and I felt Ivar tense against me. Hvitserk elbowed Ubbe and grinned obnoxiously, ready to make fun of his little brother but Ubbe turned, saw his expression and, before Hvitserk could speak he smacked him in the shoulder.

“Leave them alone,” Ubbe’s gaze flicked to me and he smiled, winked at me like ‘got your back, honey’ then turned back to Hvitserk. “Hey!” He barked, and I jumped as he smacked his blonde brother upside the head. “You lost! Remember the bet!”

That got Hvitserk’s attention. Ivar started to laugh out loud as his jaw dropped and he looked scandalized. “No fucking way!”

Sigurd stood then and joined us. “What’s this?”

Ubbe grinned, smacking Hvitserk again. “Hvitty lost the game, remember that bet we made?”

Sigurd frowned briefly, then his eyes widened. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would.” Ubbe replied confidently. He crossed his arms over his chest. “On with it, little bro.”

Ivar was still snickering and he turned his head towards me, pressed his face into my hair to hide his continued laughter. Sigurd glanced over at us and did a double-take, but whatever Hvitserk was expected to do was shocking enough to keep his attention.

“What’s the bet?” I asked nervously. What did rowdy brothers like this gamble on?

Hvitserk stuck out his bottom lip stubbornly and Ubbe cackled in wicked delight. Ivar bent his elbow against the side of my neck, pulling me closer and leaned down to whisper into my ear.

“The bet was that the loser has to get a ‘crack, back and sack’ wax.” His lips brushed the shell of my ear and I shivered. I’d heard of this, but I’d never met anyone either vain or crazy enough to do it. Hvitserk looked genuinely sick over the prospect and my mouth opened before I could stop it.

“Could I suggest an alternative?” All eyes swivelled to me. Well, I was committed now. “I wax my eyebrows, I could do Hvitserk’s, would that be enough?”

Ubbe frowned, side-eyeing Hvitserk as he considered and scratched his chin thoughtfully. I felt Ivar hold his breath beside me. “Okay. But eyebrows and mustache.”

Sigurd snorted and Ivar turned his face into my hair to stop another snicker.

Shit. I’ve never waxed a mustache before.

Hvitserk debated, but his options were limited and we all knew it. I had no delusions that if he refused, Ubbe, Sigurd, Bjorn, and hell, maybe even Ragnar would quite literally haul him kicking and screaming down to the nearest salon. I got the impression that the Lothbrok boys didn’t fuck around.  

“Fine!” Hvitserk snapped, rolling his eyes. He stood, pushing himself upright with an exaggerated huff and turned, walking towards the bathroom I’d fled to. Ubbe stood as well, choking back a howl of laughter and reached for my hand, pulling me to my feet before following. I paused, waiting for Ivar before joining the others. Hvitserk was seated on the closed toilet lid, arms crossed over his chest. Ubbe danced like a manic leprechaun around him, brandishing what I recognized as a box of home waxing strips. I wondered briefly why a bunch of men would have such a product on hand but decided not to pursue it. Ivar moved over and sat on the edge of the bathtub while Sigurd leaned against the closed door. I took the box from Ubbe and pushed him away, where he joined Ivar, grinning gleefully.

Hvitserk eyed me warily as stepped between his legs and gently cupped his face, tilting his head back. I tentatively ran my thumbs across his eyebrows, searching for his natural line and shape to use. I smiled in what I hoped was sympathy as I rubbed a strip between my hands to warm it, then cut it to shape. 

“I’ll go fast, it won’t hurt too bad,” I murmured, smoothing down the first strip. Hvitserk grunted in response.

I debated counting, but decided to just go for it. Holding the skin taut I pulled the strip off sharply then pressed my finger to the offended flesh as Hvitserk squawked in surprise and pain. His brothers roared in amusement, Ubbe nearly falling backwards into the tub as I stammered an apology. I tried not to giggle at the wounded look in his eyes as I smoothed the second strip down. Yank. Another squawk. This time Hvitserk’s hands flew up and grabbed my waist. He seemed as surprised as me to find them there and glanced over at Ivar. I felt a shiver at the hostile expression on Ivar’s face and Hvitserk dropped his hands hurriedly. The look had said, clear as day, mine.

I swallowed hard as I smoothed the first strip over Hvitserk’s top lip. I doubted this would hurt any less than his eyebrows. “Sorry,” I murmured quietly, closing my eyes and pulling sharply. Hvitserk hissed, spitting a curse, which only delighted his brothers more. I opened my eyes, wincing in sympathy. I waited until Hvitserk nodded at me, tensing in preparation. “Okay, last one.” Rip.

“Motherfucker!” Hvitserk snarled, pressing his hand to his top lip and glaring daggers at his howling siblings. Ivar and Ubbe were now leaning against each other to keep from literally falling over, laughing like hyenas and Sigurd had a hip against the vanity, hand pressed to his mouth, red-faced with effort not to join in with the roaring.

I dabbed azulene oil over the reddened skin before stepping back. Ivar reached over for me and pulled me down onto his lap. He and Ubbe were seated so close I ended up half-sitting on Ubbe’s as well and I couldn’t stop a giggle as they continued to roar and Hvitserk started to pout.  

He looked ready to launch himself at either Ubbe or Ivar, regardless of me sitting in the damage path and I squirmed, trying to escape before shit got real but Ivar only tightened his arms around me, pulling me closer.

Suddenly the door flew open, Ragnar holding the knob, his forehead was furrowed in question and I realized that we had probably been loud enough for the entire house to hear.

“What’s going on in here, kinder?” He asked, eyes darting between us, fighting a smile. He didn’t look angry and when his gaze landed on me, perched in Ivar’s lap with his arm holding me against his chest surprise flickered across his face. His eyes immediately moved to Ivar’s and a genuine smile pulled at his lips. His gaze dropped back down to me and I felt a happy little buzz inside at the warmth I saw there. After a moment he looked over to Hvitserk and did a double take before starting to laugh just as hard as Ubbe and Ivar had.

“Wha.... what the.... hell did you do?” He managed to choke out. Pressing his fist to his mouth he fought to control his laughter and understanding flashed in his eyes. “You lost a bet!”

That started his sons laughing all over again and made Hvitserk pout harder.

Sigurd recovered the quickest. “It was supposed to be a ‘crack, back and sack’ wax but Ubbe let the big baby off easy.”

Mischief danced in Ragnar’s eyes and he turned his dazzling smile back to me. “Well, thank you for not subjecting poor Sera to that, I raised partial gentlemen anyway.” He winked at me. “Any more aesthetician work for Sera tonight? A few of you could use a haircut.” He moved to leave, “go play video games like normal people, yah losers.”

***************************************************************************************************************************************************** Not long after that Harald had called down for me, they were ready to leave. The brothers had shamed me into playing but Ivar had pulled the controller away from me, shaking his head, within a few minutes of watching me thrash about.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding, you can’t play.” He’d teased.

Ragnar must have gushed about Ivar and I when he’d gone back upstairs, for I couldn’t help but notice all the parents watching Ivar and I with keen eyes as we joined them. Harald had a small grin on his face as he’d held out my jacket for me, and his eyes had flicked to Ragnar’s for a moment, but I didn’t know him well enough to decipher the look he gave him.

Aslaug had had eyes mainly for Ivar, but she would glance at me occasionally too. I could only describe the look in her eyes as pure motherly pride and relief, as if she’d been worried about her youngest son and it warmed her heart to see him show me attention. Her parting embrace was tighter than I expected and I heard her sniff as if holding back tears.

Ivar wasn’t blind, he’d noticed this as well and I was both disappointed and relieved when he only nodded goodbye, reminding me of our ride-sharing for school Monday morning. His brother’s had elbowed each other with mischievous smiles, but nobody called us out.  

In the vehicle, I’d noticed Harald glancing at me in the rear-view mirror, a warm little smile on his face.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************** Right at 8 am Monday morning a black car pulled into the driveway. I’d been standing uncomfortably on the front step, waiting. I’d never gone to a school with a uniform and I felt awkward dressed up this way. The girls uniform was a knee-length navy-blue pleated skirt and white oxford shirt with the school crest on the breast pocket; short-sleeved or long-sleeved depending on the season. Over that went either a navy-blue blazer or cardigan, with white knee socks and low-heeled penny loafers. The school’s handout stressed ‘basic makeup, natural hair and modest, tasteful jewellery’. The boy’s was basically the same, with laced loafers and navy-blue chinos instead. I questioned how the Lothbrok’s penchant for long-hair flew there.

I’d wondered if Ivar would be driving, based on his legs, but my question was answered when the back window rolled down and I saw his flawless grin.

“Get it, loser!” He hollered.

The driver met me at the rear door, startling me. I’d never had a driver or someone open the door for me like this before and my cheeks coloured faintly as I stammered.

“Thank you.... uh, I’m Sera.”

“You’re welcome, Miss. My name is Edward.” His smile was friendly and slightly amused at my discomfiture.

I slid into the back seat gratefully, sighing. Ivar scooted closer immediately, his knee bumping mine. Before I could speak he pulled me into his arms, a faint purr in his chest. This surprised me; sure, we’d been naughty on the couch together two nights before, but I hadn’t expected affection like this right away, I didn’t even understand what we were yet.

Ivar sensed my surprise and chuckled self-consciously, letting go and settling back. He didn’t move on the seat however, and our knees stayed touching. “Sorry,” he murmured, “I missed you.”

I felt a little flutter in my chest. He’d missed me? I’d burrowed into his heart already? I realized that I’d missed him too.

“I was hoping to see you yesterday,” he continued.

“My aunt came by, she was on her way to a spiritual retreat. She stayed for a few hours, it was great to see her again.”

I wasn’t sure how much Harald had revealed to the Lothbroks about me, but he must have covered the basics. “The aunt you lived with for awhile? When your mother was getting help?”

“Yeah.”

Ivar nodded, looking suddenly nervous. I decided to change the subject.

“So, are we in the same classes?”

Ivar nodded again, seeming to relax. “Yeah, I think you have a few different from me, but not until the afternoon.”

Now I was the nervous one. “I’ve never been good at math,” I confessed. “Or physics. I prefer English and Biology, History too.”

Ivar smiled widely and I felt something turn over in my chest. “I’m the opposite. Writing and memorizing dates totally messes me up, but I love math.... we’ll have to tutor each other.” His eyes gleamed with faint mischief and I couldn’t stop an answering grin.

The school was what I expected from a private institute that employed uniforms and stressed a ‘basic and tasteful’ appearance. Colossal and at least 150 years old the building dominated the well-kept grounds. Parking lots were filled with new and streamlined luxury cars and, for someone who’d grown up without, I could smell the money from here. The driver pulled up to the main entrance where we joined a plethora of others also being chauffeured and I was relieved that we wouldn’t stick out too badly; anonymity was the new kid’s best friend. A few curious glances fell my way as Ivar and I walked to the main doors, but I sensed that they had less to do with me and more to do with Ivar. People seemed surprised, for lack of a better word, that he was walking with someone; surely Ivar had never lacked friends or girlfriends? Although I felt the beginnings of a sibling bond with the eldest Lothbroks there was no denying they were all sex on legs, and Ivar seemed no different, no pun intended. I realized I barely knew anything about the young man who’d made me writhe on his couch as he’d finger-fucked me so deliciously and I was curious to learn more.

Even the secretary at the main office looked surprised when Ivar brought me there for a copy of my schedule. Ivar’s answers to her were short and to the point and as the day progressed I saw that he spoke to everyone like that. There was little warmth or friendliness in any of his interactions. The only time he seemed to light up was with me, and the tangle of emotions it stirred in my chest felt like butterflies.

Ivar’s intelligence floored me as well. In math and physics, where every word sounded like a foreign language Ivar shone, answering the teacher’s inquiries, solving the blackboard problems before anyone else had even finished copying into their notebooks. Here, in what was obviously his element I detected more of the warmth he shone on me; and I saw that he was enjoying himself, enjoying the challenges that were huge mountains to us and mere molehills to him. He returned to his almost sullen front when we reached History, and while I soaked up the dates and events the teacher read out I saw Ivar fidgeting beside me. We were seated at tables, and I was therefore close enough to reach under and rest my hand briefly on Ivar’s leg. He stilled instantly and glanced at me, settling back with a sigh when I mouthed ‘pay attention, loser’.

The only class we didn’t share was last period. Ivar had Advanced Calculus, as if, and I was enrolled in an additional Biology course. As we reluctantly parted before the bell Ivar leaned down and murmured that he would meet me at the half-wall just outside the front doors, where the car would pick us up at 3:45. His hand lingered on mine before pulling away and he turned without looking back. I couldn’t help but notice more than one pair of eyes appraising me as I watched him walk away.

“You’re with Ivar Lothbrok?” A female voice poked into my thoughts as I skimmed the class syllabus the teacher had handed out for us to read while he stepped out to take a phone call.

I looked up to see a trust-fund blonde eyeing me. She was pushing the natural makeup standard, and her hair was teased into shampoo commercial waves. Small but pricey diamonds winked in her ears. I had a good eye for spatial dimensions and noticed covertly that she’d managed to trim at least an inch off her skirt without head office knowing, that or her family paid enough ‘donations’ to the school to grant her leeway. I recognized a Queen Bee and my spidey-sense tingled.

“He’s a friend.” I replied neutrally. I knew from my aunt’s psychobabble that I tended to block out people and become easily defensive, so I fought to not snap at her, in case I had read her wrong.

“Oh. You do look a little plain to be a Lothbrok girl.” Nope, hadn’t read Princess wrong. I clamped down on the impulse to breath fire at her; today was my first day, I should wait a week at least before challenging the school aristocracy. My smile was perfunctory and the teacher saved me a response by re-entering the room and launching directly into a lecture.

I managed to ignore Queen Bee for the rest of class, and she seemed content to whisper amongst a small group of her worker bees, girls wearing pendants and earrings that probably cost more than a month of my dad’s wages, with equally teased hair and grooming and my ears burned. I knew they were talking about me and Ivar, but why? Was this simple female cattiness? Or was it a territory dispute? Had Queenie been eyeing Ivar up as a notch on her social ladder?

The bell rang and I stood gratefully, hustling from the room, more eager than I was ready to admit to be near Ivar again. It was only 3:30, but I nowhere else I needed to be, so after a quick bathroom stop I headed outside, not able to stop a smile when I spotted Ivar sitting on the half-wall already.

My elective class ran 15 minutes longer than the rest of the school, and so I missed the crush of students leaving for the day. Only a few, like me and Ivar, attending additional courses were still here, waiting for rides or talking in small groups as they waited for the late bus. Ivar saw me approaching and smiled widely, releasing the last of the tension Queen Bee had hit me with and I hurried eagerly to his side.

He surprised me with a peck on the cheek and I realized suddenly that, for all of our couch explorations, we’d yet to kiss each other on the lips. I would need to rectify that. Ivar sat back, hands gripping my forearms gently.

“How was your last class?”

I couldn’t stop a grimace. “Good except for-”

“Ivar!” Buzz buzz.

I was both relieved and slightly smug that Ivar, rather than letting go of me, instead turned me around to press my back to his chest and pulled me tight to him, his arms caged around me. “Sutton.” He replied, voice flat.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Hair flip. I itched to just grab a handful and use her as a maypole.

Ivar’s arms tightened further, and I felt the tension in his muscles. “Sutton, this is Sera Madsen. Sera, meet Sutton Quinn.” Rich girl, rich girl name.

Sutton beamed at Ivar, pointedly ignoring me. “New girlfriend?” Jesus, Slutton didn’t beat around the bush.

I couldn’t stop an involuntary tensing of my shoulders. We hadn’t talked yet about what we were, I had no idea what Ivar saw me as, what I saw him as.

His head dropped into the crook of my neck possessively, chin resting on my shoulder and although I couldn’t see it, I could feel the scorching heat in his eyes, warning princess to back off. “Yes.”

I saw resentment, anger, disappointment and surprise war in her glittering eyes. Tossing her head like a horse, she sniffed. “Oh, well. Enjoy slumming it.” With that she flounced off, rejoining her hive that waited a few dozen feet away. I turned back towards Ivar when their sharp glances started to cut.

“Am I?” Shit, shut up Sera!

Ivar straightened, looking into my eyes. “Are you what?”

“Your girlfriend?” Still not shutting up!

“Do you want to be?” Ivar murmured, voice a bare whisper. Uncertainty flickered in his supernatural blue eyes.

“Yes,” I whispered, so quietly I wasn’t sure Ivar would be able to even hear me. I dropped my head but felt his fingers on my chin almost instantly, tilting it back up. There was an intensity in his eyes I hadn’t seen before, an urgency in his touch.

“Come here.” He breathed, patting his lap.

I considered declining. Surely straddling Ivar Lothbrok’s lap in front of both god and the Bee Hive would damn my soul to everlasting high school hell, but so what? With a blessed minimum of awkwardness I hooked my knee on the wall beside Ivar and lifted myself up, resting my other leg on the other side of him and settled gently down onto his lap. As I lowered myself Ivar flicked out the back of my skirt, so instead of the extra barrier between us my hot-pink, boy-short covered core landed directly over his chino-clad dick. I startled slightly, not expecting such a direct action but was overcome almost immediately with a familiar heat. Ivar grinned wickedly down at me, biting his bottom lip.

“Ivar!” I hissed. “In front of everyone?” I glanced around wildly. Fortunately, mostly everyone else was gone, and Slutton and her minions, after one last incredulous stare, turned and collectively flounced away.

“I don’t care.”

“You should!” I grappled for something more to say. “Doesn’t this hurt your legs?” I heard the screech of tires and wondered if the Queen Bee’s car was painted pink or just had the vanity plate Princess.

Ivar shook his head, still biting his bottom lip. “Mmmm-mmm, and even if it did, it feels too good to stop.” His hips pumped up slightly, just enough to nudge me and his grin widened. I felt him beginning to harden against me.

“Ivar!”

He leaned forward, breath warm on my face. “Edward texted me, he had a flat tire. He’ll be late. It gives us time.”

“For?” But only an absolute idiot could mistake the gleam in his eye.

“This,” he murmured, a moment before his lips captured mine.

[dunmerofskyrim]

39

Forges and kilns squat in the clearing, stout as beehives built from clay. A dozen smiths, fletchers, armourers, and their prentices squabbled over the flames. Streams of sparks marked their words; blades thrust into coals or quenching vats. Half-drowning their arguments, the dinning strike of hammers and the offbeat grunt of anvils. Soldiers and sellers of food hustled through with clay pots and boxes, jars sealed with twine and layers of parchment, to set their food a-simmer amongst the hot and grey-white ashes. Smoke billowed, chasing itself, then fleeing before the wind.

But that was only the heart of things. A beat like iron and oil for blood — it dinned on, battling itself, but Simra reckoned it was faltering. The smiths were doing all they could to look and sound busy. Bothered over the same bits of haggard spare metal, rummaged with pokers at the coals, howled at their prentices for more air to the bellows. They fought amongst themselves for something to do. And all the while they scarce turned out an arrowhead. A waste of tar and charcoal and a waste of wasted time.

Whereas the clearing’s edges bristled and thronged. From mats and shacks and yawn-mouthed tents, people peddled boredom, and cures for it, and more pleasant ways to pass it by.

“Scents! Musks! I have hormones, pheromones, ambergris!”

“When were you last clean, sera? I tell you, I have soaps, water hot as any foyada you care to name! And the tub I have? Why, you could stretch your legs full out and still have room to wriggle with glee! One at a time, sers, one at a time — an orderly line, sera, one at a time if you please…”

“Poultices! Cures for callus you’d walk three days barefoot for..!”

“Faces mirrored, hair trimmed, beards cut! And if you have a tooth that pains you..?”

“Tea! Shein! What you will! Who are we to judge you either way? Who are we indeed to judge! Broths on the boil and straight to your bowl! Line the tables, warm the seats!”

“Pathetic…” Simra grunted under his breath.

“What?” said Tammunei.

They were quiet, huddling close as a cub to its mother, still yet to learn it too has claws. Marketplaces, voices, the crowd and clamour — like they thought Simra could shield them from it all. But that’s the way with crowds, Simra thought. You aren’t in the crowd; you are the crowd, unapart from it. Same for cities and battles and all. How do you save someone from your own self?

“Said it’s pathetic,” Simra answered. “Scrubbed clean, all of it. A camp full of soldiers and mercenaries, and not a glint of gambling in sight. Place like this ought to be red as Autumn with bedworkers’ tents and their caterwauling from inside… They’re not selling leisure here, they’re selling fucking prudence, moderation, temperance. If those were worth tuppence then they wouldn’t come for free.”

He cut himself short but the curse came all the same. Blighted Indoril; he thought it almost aloud. But in a place that forced bedworkers into silence, and dens for sujamma and skooma into hiding, no telling where muttering the wrong thing might get you. They were all still here – the gamblers and bedworkers and dealers of sharps and numbs – Suran had taught him that much. Only they’d be buried; their goods pricier, hawked in whispers. All it takes is for one stiff robe to call something sin and the whole underbelly of things changes. For every red tent taken down and every red lamp snuffed out, another goes up in secret, charging higher for the risk and the lacquer-black gleaming novelty of the forbidden.

“I thought we were here for provisions,” Noor said.

“We are,” said Simra.

“Yet you’re mourning pleasures you might’ve bought.”

“And where’re all these provisioners you’re seeing, hm? Could it be my license and love for the profligate have blinded me to them? What d’you see with your truer purer eyes, talsintushpi?” A sour pause as Simra waited for a response that never came. “Tsscht. Thought not. Nothing here but watery broth and sawdust dumplings and bug-musk by the jar-full, and I’d bet even that’s two-thirds fake.”

Long tables spilt out from the mouth of a wide yellow tent. Days of steam had left patches on the canopy, permanent damp, dark as mustard. A few handfuls of mercenaries slumped at the trestles. Pipesmoke; stale panbreads picked at with fingerless-mittened fingers; black crescent-moons under grubby nails. Men and women, Dunmer in the main, with hollow eyes and looks curdled with hunger.

Simra slouched down beside one. A Dunmer. He might’ve been stout once, but the flesh lay slack on him now. He wore a greasy red cloak, ill-darned in a half-dozen places. The strap of his belt hung in excess past his pad-armoured knees from all the times he’d tightened it, stabbing new holes through the leather. At his hip a wicked-wide shortsword, sling, and stone-pouch. A dished round shield of bonemould and a battered bronze helmet sat on the bench beside him.

“Using those soon, d’you reckon?” Simra tapped his fingernails against the helmet’s crest. It belled dull and quiet at his touch.

The mercenary turned a pouchy red eye on Simra. A spark of fury showed for a moment – the interruption, the gall of a stranger touching his armour maybe – and then went lax and left. “What’s it to you?” he said. “Looking to join the party, latecomer?”

“Me? No. Nah. Not me. Means more for you though, right? Me, I don’t even know who’s fighting who.”

“Hm.”  Something moved the mercenary’s mouth, like working up and holding back the urge to spit. “No news where you came from?”

There was a bite and bristle in that, Simra thought — rank hypocrisy from a mer whose accent was scarce a scratch more native than his own. “Not down the road to south and west, no,” Simra said, keeping his tongue, keeping sweet and bland. “So what’s the word? Heretics, I heard.”

“Almsivists,” the mercenary grunted. “Sprouted up in the town months back. Some priest, young and bright eyed, on the run from out east. He comes in Senie one day looking a mixer, a freak. Says he’s had some vision that the Tribunes ain’t gone, only hiding. Testing us, like. Says he had a vision from Saint Ayem herself to tell him so. And on the steps of the Temple he offs his robes and shows how he’s mottled like a piebald guar — starting to turn gold, he says. Chimer-gold in patches like some pox. They lock him up of course, the Templers, but a week goes by and the city’s set him free and they’ve thrown out or killed all the Templers instead. Calling themselves the Uncursed. Locked up in there, wanting nothing to do with what’s outside while they wait on the Tribunes’ return. Something like that…”

“Something like that?”

“What I said, innit? For all I know they’re all in there, turning gold in their own sweet time.” The mercenary’s mouth worked again. This time he did spit, whitefroth and thick on the ground.

“Why the siege then? If they’re just waiting, not fucking with anyone, why bother? Just let ‘em starve behind their walls.”

The mercenary rolled his shoulders. A shrug that clicked his back and tensed his thick slack neck. “Some of the folk they threw out? Lords, merchants, priests — them as ran Senie, or as good as ran it. ‘Spose they want their town back, and before Winter sets in proper. Impatient bastards, throwing out money like that. Going begging to the Indoril…” He looked over his shoulder and hurried to speak on. “Not like I’m making plaints, mind. It’s them pays my pocket, and them that’ll see us over the walls, innit? And ‘sides, killing heretics?” A hollow laugh, shrill with worry. “I’d do that for free, right?”

Simra drummed his fingertips again on the helmetcrest. His neck itched and his scalp crawled. He looked round slow, casual as he could. Masks and plumes and pale blue silk, caught in the corner of his eye before he turned back. Ordinators, walking the marketplace. Don’t run. Don’t flee or they’ll think you’ve got a reason. Same as the Quarter; the uptown watch with their dogs and their brutal boredom. He stayed seated.

“Right you are… I’m travelling their way and all,” Simra said, sunny. “Sure someone’d thank me when I got to Daen Seeth if I came full of stories. Breaking the walls at Senie; taking back its streets. But time’s short, more’s the pity.”

The mercenary cast a measuring eye over Simra. Took in his travelling clothes, his armoured knees, sword and blades and all, then looked back to the table. His eyes wouldn’t answer the question so he had to put it in words. “Sellsword too then, are you?”

“Something like that, when it suits.”

“Not a soldier though,” the mercenary said. Something about his posture bristled.

Simra eased his hand away from the mer’s helmet. The threat hung thicker between them now — some posture or challenge in unspoken issue. “Not if I can help it, no,” Simra smiled; a closed twist of the lips. “I’m all sorts besides, but today I just wanted news. Grain too – provisions – if you know someone who’s selling..?”

The mercenary spoke after a curt pause. “Heading out east, you said? Hm. You’ll need it. Might be I know a man’s got some spare…”

Simra’s scarred hand slipped into his jacket. Found out a pocket in its stitched silk lining and fished two coins from its narrow mouth. Shils of tin and russeted iron, loose and stamped with holes; he laid them down on the tabletop. “For your help.”

“You’ll want to walk off that way.” The mercenary skimmed the coins off the table and into his palm to grease and grow warm there. He nodded a path through the tents. “Look for what’s left of the Black Lamps company. Reckon you can imagine what their standard looks like. Had a spill in the first try at the walls and now they’re supplied for more heads than they’ve got. They’ll not be raring to the breach again any time soon so they’re not counting on a good pillage. Been foraging hard instead. Might be they’ll see you right…”

“Grateful,” said Simra. Rising from the bench, his knees and hipjoints argued. Saddlesore, travelsore, aged before he’d grown old. A brief grimace pulled at his face before his muscles and bones fell silent.

“Same,” the other mer said with a backtip of his head, a jutting upnod of his chin.

“Good luck then. Y’know. When the time comes.”

You’ll need it, Simra thought. When the times comes, you’ll need helmet and shield and luck and more. Mole, mine, breach; the threat and promise that pushed comers forward and cowards back and turned one to the other in moments. The cold would keep the ground hard at least, and the footing better – no sea of hungry steaming mud here – but all the same… All the same, Simra wouldn’t have bet on the other mer’s chances. Wouldn’t have taken his place. He almost asked himself, what would his price be? But he pulled the thoughts up and threw them away. There are better ways to make coin.

[mycasandstarrs]

SPN 6x01: “Exile on Main St.”

The era of Sera Gamble begins.

One Year Ago: Sam and Adam/Michael fall into the cage. Dean goes to Lisa and has lived his apple pie life for a year.

“Beautiful Loser” by Bob Seger.

Dean looks miserable.

I do love this montage tho.

Dean having barbecues, exactly as he promised.

The shot gun and holy water under his bed. He hasn’t fully let go.

New title card.

Hey, El Sol!

I wonder how many new friends Dean made, and how many of them he actually liked. I don’t know, I never got the sense that Dean really liked Sid all that much, just that they were very casual friends. 

“I lived on the road... Took, uh, crap jobs that nobody else wanted.”

“Like what?”

“Like...pest control.”

“Really? Pest control?”

“Yeah. You get to work with a partner. You get to help people. You have no idea what's in some people's walls. It could eat 'em alive.”

A vague, but still very true, description of his former life.

OOOHHHH I’M JUST NOW REALIZING THAT THAT’S THE DJINN AND HER “FLIRTY ARM TOUCH” WAS HER POISONING DEAN.

OF COURSE, BECAUSE RIGHT AFTER THAT DEAN THINKS HE HEARS/SEES THINGS.

Dean can just immediately snap back into hunter mode.

Dean continues to see things.

Scared by a Yorkie for the second time.

“I thought that was a possum. Remember when I said I was in pest control? Well, possums carry rabies, so...” Dean’s lying skills are rusty.

I’m telling you, Dean just IMMEDIATELY snaps back into hunter mode.

That’s...kinda true?? Like, he thinks there’s a demon, but really there’s a djinn.

Lisa is so patient with him.

He kept John’s things in a specific, separate box.

Azazel!! (Except, not really.)

“You can't outrun your past.”

Sam. (Except, not entirely.)

“Hey, Dean. I was expecting, uh... I don't know, a hug, some holy water in the face -- something.”

Dean automatically thought he was dead and in heaven.

You know what sucks ass, is that even on first viewing I knew something was wrong with Sam but I pushed those feelings down because I wanted Dean to have something good. Damn it.

Cas is mute, according to Sam.

“You finally had what you wanted, Dean.”

“I wanted my brother, alive!”

“You wanted a family. You have for a long time, maybe the whole time. I know you. You only gave it up because of the way we lived. But you had something, and you were building something. 

There’s...a lot of truths here, but I only see them as half truths? Like, yes, Dean does want a family, but it ain’t really family if Sam’s not there.

“Had I shown up, Dean, you would have just run off.” Sam’s right.

And it’s rather sad how quickly Dean kinda renounces the entire year he just had.

“I hooked up with some other people.”

“You? Working with strangers?”

Sam has always been about working with others for the sake of cooperation. I’m not exactly sure why Dean thought that was strange.

Let me just go ahead and say it: the Campbells suck ass.

Gwen, Christian, and Mark. Campbell. Only ONE of these three is redeemable, and she just said the dumbest shit right off the bat.

Samuel Campbell. welcome back, you old bastard.

MOTE: djinn

“Oh, I know a few things. Stick around, I'll show you tricks your daddy never even dreamed of.” You know what tho, he’s right. He had a djinn cure and they also have a vampire cure too.

“You got to take me home right now.” “Home”, awww.

RIP Johnny Campbell. Killed by djinn. We hardly knew ye.

Awww, group hug.

The brother of your live-in boyfriend is back from the dead. What a moment to go through.

Bobby!!!

I like how Dean thinks Sam’s appearance is gonna be a surprise to Bobby; he had that look you give someone when they’re opening a gift you gave them.

Bobby also knew about Sam.

Bobby can’t even look Dean in the eye.

“Do you have any clue what walking away meant for me?”

“Yeah -- a woman and a kid and not getting your guts ripped out at age 30.”

Umm, that’s technically already happened to Dean.

I’m sorry, but can’t Lisa and Ben hear all this??

Like I said earlier, I’m so sad on Lisa’s behalf on how quickly Dean just...drops everything that he’s lived through in the past year with them. Not that he doesn’t love them, but it’s clear he would’ve dropped them almost immediately if Sam had shown up on their doorstep a year ago.

But to be withheld of such important information for a year...poor Dean.

“Look, I get it wasn't easy. But that's life! And it's as close to happiness as I've ever seen a hunter get. It ain't like I wanted to lie to you, son. But you were out, Dean.”

“Do I look out to you?” 

“Me and Sam, we’re gonna head out.”

“For how long?”

Oohhh, that face Lisa just made...Lisa knew. The beginning of the end.

“You’re saying goodbye.”

“I’m saying I’m sorry...for everything. Everything.”

“You're an idiot. I mean, I know it wasn't greeting-card perfect, but we were in it together.”

Lisa is fucking awesome, y’all.

“Yeah, well, the guy that basically just saved the world shows up at your door, you expect him to have a couple of issues. And you're always so amazing with Ben. You know what I wanted, more than anything was a guy that Ben could look up to like a dad. “

Ouch. (But that was my point exactly. Lisa saw it as the best year of her life, while Dean just...saw it as one of the worst of his.)

“What’s the plan?”

“Well, right now, we stock up, get set.”

“So you’re saying there’s no plan.”

I wonder how often Dean reminded Samuel of Mary.

“Relax, Dean. We got it handled. Djinn are hard to draw out. Now, you've been out of the game for a while. Leave it to the professionals.” He helped saved the fucking world, you asshole.

I would be so fucking pissed if snarky ass people came into my house and started touching EVERYTHING.

“intranet” That’s actually rather cute.

“You know, believe it or not, I...I get it, Dean. You wanted a normal life. Your mom wanted a normal life, too. You remind me of her, actually. The attitude, for one thing.” Yep, called it earlier!

Samuel started off...fairly well. He was kinda like another Bobby, except even more crotchety.

“What I'm saying is that we're your blood. And we're out there dying, trying to get in front of whatever this is. Maybe not the best time for golf.” Well, Dean didn’t even know all this shit was going down. Hell, he barely knows y’all. And it’s not easy to just up and leave after building a life with someone for a year.

I almost want to take back what I said earlier, Mark’s alright. Christian’s the true asshole.

Backup’s gotta go.

“Whoever brought you back...”

“They don't want to be found.”

(Oohhhhh, like the certain angel who’s been avoiding you.)

“Dean, I don't want to talk about it. I'm back. I get to breathe fresh air, have a beer, hunt with my family, see you again. So why exactly would I want to think about Hell?” That’s completely fair.

RIP Sid and his wife. Killed by djinn.

Welp.

Golf clubs not so ridiculous anymore, huh?

Oohh boy. Dean’s hallucinations are god awful.

RIP djinn. Killed by Samuel.

Sketchy ass behavior from the start.

Dean decides to stay with Lisa and Ben...but more out of wanting to protect them than to genuinely want to be with them.

“You just went. You didn't hesitate. Because you care, and that's who you are. Me? I wouldn't even think to try.”

“Yes you would.”

“No, Dean.”

Our veerryy first red flag. Sam knew he needed someone with heart...and soul.

Would Sam denying the Impala be red flag #2? I’ll go ahead and say it is. Something about the reason why Sam denies taking Baby (because he has his own car set up how he likes it) rubs me the wrong way.

This...just feels all kinds of wrong.