#she is a dark shadow of cas’s past actions with humans

[shallowseeker]

The despised episode, 9x03 I'm No Angel

I got a request to do this episode, but focus on “light-hearted/positive” aspects of it, so here I go.

Cas spends the majority of the episode, not feeling bad for himself, but feeling ashamed of his previous lack of empathy/sympathy:

He never noticed how fragile humans were before. Not like this.

He sees the hubris of the angel wars in a new light too, that they haven't got the humans' best interests at heart. They don't use their immense strength to help the downtrodden. Instead, the humans too often became pawns in their internal angel wars.

///

The episode is very modern "Prince Siddharta light"

Cas has been associated with Buddhist symbols in the past (lyres, statues) and some counter-culture stereotypes of Buddhist symbols (the drugs-kind of Enlightenment and the orgies from "The End", Daphen's lyre and kitschy statues in "The Born-Again Identity." )

Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, left his palace life to experience and understand the realities of human suffering. Shielded from hardship during his early life as a prince, he ventured beyond the palace walls to witness poverty, sickness, aging, and death.

Cas sees poverty:

//

Learns to appreciate sharing and kindness in a new light:

//

Sees waste:

//

Nevertheless, he's trying to suck it up. He's a little proud, still. If humans do this all the time, surely he can learn how to do it, too.

We see in earlier seasons that he managed the bus well enough, and here he's managing truck-hopping and shelter-hopping.

His identity is still a bit “angel-ey," and his perspective throughout the episode is very colored by that. I don't think he's feeling sorry for himself nearly as much as he is feeling ashamed of his previous lack of empathy.

And with sex, it doesn't seem like he views it as being taken advantage of so much as he views it as a new human experience. This could be because he's still thinking of himself as "an angel," still overestimating himself as the one with the power advantage. The whole episode is about him trying to experience "human-ish" things so he can understand them better.

He doesn't seem to truly feel bad for himself or lose confidence until Dean kicks him (temporarily) out of the bunker.

(And even then, April later remains an experience like his kiss with Meg: a performance he's proud of that fills him with confidence.)

Cas IS a bit of a perfectionist with these things...

///////////

And so April...

Given that she's a Reaper possessing a woman, most of these interactions are a bit of a sham, but there is a throwaway line that implies the Reaper is emulating the real April.

But overall, Cas's reactions and approach intimacy are still a little interesting in that and tell us a bit about how he'd approach intimacy with Dean others.

////

Bonding over wasted food, comforts, and metaphors

First, he and April "bond" over having big hearts and having each been down on their luck. They lament the wasted food; there's a light exchange of philosophy.

She learns that he's likely "newly underclass," given that he said "he never knew" how much waste there was. That contextualizes would-be-April's approach to him. She plays it as thinking he's a down-on-his-luck businessman who made bad investments.

Upon entering her home, Cas admires his surroundings, and would-be-April is a little embarrassed.

And then, this smooth little Mofo throws out a "beautiful" comment about the apartment just as she's shedding her jacket.

He comes off probably a little smoother than he intends to be, haha. He's painfully, attractively earnest.

//

In their interactions, Cas’s very dry in his explanations, and would-be-April remarks that he's: Kinda cool, kinda weird.

This is Cas in a nutshell. He's so awkward and weird that it loops around into being almost unintentionally "cool."

//

So, creature comforts.

April puts him in a terry-cloth robe, a bit of Dean-ish association, really, especially with the relatively recent introduction of the MoL robes. (Later in the episode, we'll see this echoed when Cas gets food, a shower, and clothes at the bunker.)

//

Then, light teasing about Cas's lack of (human) culture:

After sex, she'll tease him again about metaphors.

In short, they're bonding over the exchange of human "culture" and human experiences, something we'll see echoed in the later seasons of SPN.

We'll see Dean and Cas "exchange" culture in the form of music and TV, and we'll see a lot of light bickering from season 13 onwards, with Dean and Cas practicing the art of human metaphor.

//////

Cas: a hungry, eager, passionate lover with a need for feedback on his performance

In terms of style, I think it tracks that Cas might come on a little strong, then pump the brakes and ask for feedback, especially since he's newly aware of how fragile humans really are.

Cas spends the majority of the episode steeped in shame, that he never noticed the suffering and fragility of the humans. And although he's tuned into his own hunger like never before, he's ruminating on his past angelic mindest and wanting to tend to his partners needs, too. To do it correctly. Effectively.

Anyway, his hormones on overdrive here. And oh, boy is he ever touch-starved: his eyes friggin' glaze.

//

And, as usual, he's the "doer" kind of learner, throwing himself into the new experience with no small amount of recklessness:

She's gentle, he's eager. Afterward, would-be-April seems to be getting a little nervous from his dazed stoicism and lack of communication.

And because he's a liiiiitttle bit of a perfectionist, when she prompts him, he almost immediately asks for feedback, eager and willing to adjust fire where needed, already strategizing a bit on his performance, perhaps.

Despite being careful and wanting a bit of feedback, he's overall a passionate-style of lover…

…that also might lapse into not saying much unless prompted.

///

Then, Cas opens up about trusting the wrong person. Ironic, given he's erroneously trusting would-be-April here. This shows that, despite having spent the episode experiencing very human vulnerability, he still views himself as a bit above it. He doesn't view "kind humans" as a potential threat.

And okay, so I know this is a controversial scene, but let me say something... He's a kinda-weird, kind-cool smooth Mofo, isn't he? I mean, God dammit, Cas! I'm reminded a bit of that moment where he confidently tells Meg he could touch her (lower regions) in ways that would overwhelm her. After all, even if he fails at first, he's pretty sure he can figure it out. Learn.

Anyway, here, after this and would-be-April's heart-to-heart, instead of answering, he smoothly reaches over and pulls her into a kiss:

//

And even as a human(ish) being, he doesn't appear to have much of a refractory period to boot. Damn. So what have we learned? He's passionate, a little dazed, and touch-starved, and he hands out compliments like "beautiful" but is otherwise a little short on words overall.

He initially seemed to have gone with his (hungry, hungry) instincts, but afterwards, he asked for a little feedback so he could adjust if needed.

For his part, Cas really liked the sex and the touching. For her, April was definitely taking advantage, eagerly letting round two happen.

////

Later, Cas is proud of his performance, but April steals Cas's own blade to use it against him

That sly smile is a bit funny and gives us a window to how he'd approach sex with others. It’s cute that he’s feeling a little playful, a little proud, maybe a little smug. Sly as in playfully mischievous, I think.

Definitely proud of his performance. Ahem.

///

Alas. Cas comes to the kitchen, a place that SHOULD be a place of love and daily rhythms, and there's the reaper, her cruelty shining through:

It's interesting here that she's cutting FRUIT with the STOLEN angel blade. The fruit recalls a bit the fruit of Eden, the temptation and acquisition of new knowledge (aside// and if you ask Bedlund, Dean is himself the "fruit" for Cas).

Would-be-April using the stolen blade so casually—especially after such an intimate and emotionally vulnerable experience—symbolizes her having the upper hand. She’s taken something deeply personal (his "penis," his virginity, his blade) and now wields it on her terms.

Seeing Cas's angel blade, the extension of him as a divine and lethal instrument, being used for something as mundane as cutting fruit could symbolize April’s disregard for its (and by extension Cas’s) sacredness. This reflects how she views their encounter—not as sacred or profound but as casual and utilitarian.

So yeah. He was attractive and charming, maybe more than she expected. She liked that. Took it for a ride. But while he was charming enough to ride, it wasn't enough to sway her from her mission/job.

Despite his lack of experience, Cas immediately pings onto the absurdity of her decision. At first glance, one might think he's feeling discomfort with the transactional nature, but I think it might be deeper than that. (His later words don't seem to imply sexual shame so much.) I think this mostly... this loops back around to his angelic perspective.

The whole point of angels in the show is that they tend to use human trust and faith as a means of transaction. That's underlined in this episode consistently, from the radio show sermon dude all the way down to the reaper. The angels are using a radio announcer to spread "gospel," capitalizing on human weakness to entice them to serve themselves up to angels as sacrifices.

The religious people pledging themselves are not "simple fools." They're often the downtrodden, the hopeful, the lacking. But the angels use propaganda and selective truths to get their way. Their whole MO is based around "getting" people to say yes, because angels need permission. So they coerce it. Game it. And once they get it, they notoriously don't retract this manufactured consent.

Cas himself has actively deceived humans employing similar tactics, by using false trust and promises of safety, and once the human vessels were in a vulnerable position, then used that to his advantage (see: Jimmy Novak and functionally using Claire as a way to get Jimmy to say yes.).

It's new for Cas to be on the other side of it, of vulnerability and manufactured consent, and this was intentionally woven into every aspect of the episode, especially since angels taking vessels has such similar overtones.

But as for the lasting effects of this encouter, I think it's at least possible that Cas viewed this experience moreso through a lens to ruminate on his past actions as an angel.

It appears, at least on the surface level, that the experience of sex itself didn't concern him much. He seemed to make the most of that part; happy to gain experience. It's not a stretch to think maybe he was interested in using this new experience with other friends, like Dean maybe.

With regards to sex and intimacy, I think this feeds ultimately into how as a "human," he allows himself to indulge, and as and angel, he only allows himself duty. This is his whole angelic ascetism shtick that the Empty deal worked so heavy-handedly to highlight, that as an angel, Cas actively prevents himself from indulging in even in the slightest forms of happiness.

///

The blade transfers hands; Dean to the rescue

So anyway. The angel blade.

Reaper-April tortures Cas with his own blade, transforming fun with his "blade" into violence with his blade.

When Dean bursts in, Cas seems like he might actually be getting somewhere with his negotiations but April, startled, panics and plunges the blade into Cas, killing him.

Dying, Cas speaks with his eyes, urging Dean to take Cas's blade and protect himself with it:

///

And Dean's grief is just as stark in the script as what we see onscreen. All episode, we've seen a crazed Dean, resorting to torture and trusting Ezek-Gadreel to find Cas. And now this:

"The loss is ... staggering" and "Dean is overcome with grief" and "Dean's still in shock."

Here is the contrast of someone who stole Cas's blade (April) and someone who was entrusted with it (Dean).

///

The script does get points for Dean and Sam immediately hugging Cas. (Aw.) We deserved more of that.

///

So the end of the episode sees Cas welcomed into another home, in a positive parallel to April's apartment

And he kinda starts doing the same MO he used with April, lol. He starts by throwing out a compliment about the dwelling (LOL).

Looks like he learned something, all right.

//

And Cas casually, slyly lets slip two things: One, he has sex now. And he's smiling about it because it was good. Two, he's open to having sex with friends.

Is Cas being dumb... or is he (slyly) floating the idea of fWb? (CAS MENTALLY: Friends have sex with each other. Dean is my friend.)

And then Cas says he's looking forward to, you know, guidance.

///

And Dean? Dean's so excited. His worry about Cas's vulnerability with the reaper is completely overridden by the knowledge that Cas is interested in that sort of thing. With friends, no less.

The script has Dean at a bit of a loss of words, trailing off as his downstairs brain takes over.

The idea of Cas having sex “is... so... hot and nasty.” This shows surprise, arousal, and maaaybe the "nasty" is an undercurrent of discomfort? (Could also be Dean being his sarcastic, inappropriate little tryhard self.)

But the way he trails off... and his brain screams HOT. Now that IS something.

Cas, for all his complexities—his innocence, his otherworldly nature, and his struggle to fit into the human world—has always had a certain rugged, quiet appeal to Dean.

It's also a bit fun how Dean reacts to what he at first thinks is Sam's look of disapproval. "Don't kill my buzz, Sammy." The "buzz" here is Dean’s inner energy of attraction—he’s momentarily lost in his thoughts about how hot Cas is, and the word choice reflects a certain excitement.

And his words to Sam, far from being denial or embarrassment, read a lot closer to: "Don’t ruin this for me."

//

Too bad the disapproval is Gadreel's, because Gadreel is definitely out to ruin this for Dean

Ah, Gadreel.

Dean started out the negotiation with a strong FUCK THAT. It's not until Gadreel puts Sam's life on the line and twists Dean's arm that he relents. This is a typical angelic negotiation that Gadreel is employing, in line with the angelic tactics we see all episode long.

Getting someone in a vulnerable position. In this case, despite saving Cad, Gadreel values his own safety the most. So the ultimatum is this: I let your brother die or you kick out your love.

It’s so sad. The last time Dean saw Cas, Cas was about to be locked up in Heaven forever, undertaking the angel trials even after Dean had all but confessed his affection to him. "E.T. goes home."

Now, a bunch of horrible things have happened in rapid succession. Dean has nearly lost Sam, and then Dean ran around the country, sinking into torture (a known trigger of his) just to find Cas, and THEN he was slammed with the shock-grief of losing Cas anyway.

NOW, against all the odds, Dean finds an impossible, grounded happiness with Cas dumped in his lap... only to be ripped away.

///

And we return to a hungry, hungry Cas who is still in the process of trying out everything and learning what he likes best:

Excruciating? "Lose it?"

Like cry?

Yeah, I'm pretty sure they were both about to cry. Dean's fantasy of teaching Cas about humanity, of maybe wrapping him in MoL robe or blanket and feeding him comfort foods just... evaporated.

He'll have to wait a long time before he can wrap Cas in a MoL blanket or watch movies with him or make him bunker coffee, it seems...

///

The last line with the Reverand reads like such a taunt, then:

The terror of angelic coercion.

///

Script 9x03 courtesy of TVWriting

[arthist0rian]

Penitent Magdalen with two flames, Georges DeLaTours (unknown date but could be around 1640 ca)

I might start a series about penitent magdalen, and i'm not sorry about that

The characteristic themes of his first production where often popular, with attention to marginalized or mundane figures and action. In his senior years his themes changed, he prefered painting about human sufference and faith through semple forms and figures, essential expression and formal purity.

During a window of 5-10 years Georges De LaTour paintend a series of Penitent Magdalen, this is the first of the series. This paintins is inspired by the lights, and shadows of Caravaggios production.

We are in front of a young woman, looking at a candle with a high flame refletcing into a beutiful Baroque style mirror, some jewelry clatters the table. The woman is wearing a nice white shirt and a red long skirt, that almost remember the red drapes caravaggio used in his painting. In her lap she has a skull, and her hands are clasped on it. On her feet a still life of old jewelry. We don't see the face of the woman, she is looking almost behind the mirror into the darkness, unknown to us spectators.

From what we see we can understand what this painting is about, knowing that DeLaTours themes where the trancience of things and the looming death on us. We see on her lap a skull, the meanings behind it are multiple, she was a follower of Jesus and the skull could meant the golgota (the hill where jesus was crixified) so we can understand that this particular moment in wich we see Magdalen is after the death of jesus. But the skull is also the death, as humans we need to be aware about it.

Clothes are very important, we see that Magdalen has expensive clothes, shes a courtesan, not just any peasant, probably she was the woman of someone important. the red of the skirt symbolizes her past as a free woman, slave of lust, her open shirt is a reference to this life, the hair left loose indicates both the libertine past and the anointing and drying of Christ's feet. But the legends says that after she never cut her hair again.

The jewels scattered all around, however, indicate that Maddalene has now stripped herself of her old life to follow the faith leaving the jewels ment leaving the material goods and her previus life.

Finally the candle that reflects in the mirror, usually the flames represent god and therefore it can be assumed that he is meditating and contemplating god and that he is present with her, the fact that the light is reflected could mean three things: the candle also symbolizes the passage of time and therefore the arrival of death, but it could also symbolize the death and resurrection of Christ since there are two candles because he died twice, or his newfound faith in God.

The mirror indicates magdalen vanity.

[bookaddict24-7]

AUTHOR INTERVIEW! 

Hello Fellow Readers, 

Today I have a treat for all of you! I haven’t done one of these in a while, but I love coming out and doing an author interview for a very good friend of mine. TJ Swackhammer’s debut YA Dystopian novel came out on October 20th and has received so much love and attention! 

I wanted a glimpse into her brilliant mind and I hope you all enjoy our interview! 

____

Synopsis for City of Immortal Shadows by TJ Swackhammer: 

“The dawn of revolution approaches. We will not look away…. Something is rotting in the city of Emaldin. Those outside of the Pod could tell you that, if they weren’t too exhausted to open their eyes. Citizens spend their days slaving away under the brutal, all-seeing eye of the Council for a chance to get closer to the towering structure at the centre of the city, and the safety and utopia it promises. Valencia was supposed to be one of the lucky ones. Plucked from a life of crime, the Institute promised her a ticket to an easier life inside of the Pod, if only she could make it to graduation. Or so they claimed. Instead, she found herself reawakening at the bottom of a polluted river, back from the dead with a lethal touch. For years, Valencia has kept her identity secret, slipping under the radar of the Council as the deadly shadow of one of Emaldin’s most dangerous, always believing that what happened to her was an accident to be made the best of. A weapon, for her to wield. Until she realizes she hasn’t been the one wielding it. Until the wrong life, at the wrong time, gets cut short. On the run, she is reunited with Eli- a ghost from her past with the most nebulous of loyalties. She must work to untangle the web of deceit surrounding the Institute and find the truth of Emaldin… even if it means letting go of every truth she’s ever known.” 

You can add TJ’s book to your TBR on Goodreads here. 

You can buy your copy here: 

KOBO | Kindle CA | Kindle US | Amazon CA | Amazon US

___

Q: Can you tell us a bit about your book and why you think readers will devour it?

A: I’d love to. City of Immortal Shadows is a new take on the classic dystopian genre, following a young girl named Valencia who is discovering for the first time that possibilities lie beyond the limits of her compliance. One of the things that I think makes this read “devourable” is that it has all this action and is rife with these mystery elements, but the story itself has such heart, such authenticity in Valencia’s journey from being closed off and traumatized to being a person who believes in something again.

Q: I love the title and cover of your book! Can you share the process of how you came up with the title and how the cover design was chosen/created?

A: City of Immortal Shadows actually went untitled for a long time. It was really hard to sum up the feeling of this brimming revolution told through the eyes of a girl that should, by all intensive purposes, be dead. We landed on City of Immortal Shadows because it touches on how a city can hold the trauma of its people. while also alluding to Valencia’s journey, and how she feels permanent, yet dark and insignificant. Hence, an immortal shadow herself. —- There’s a lot of symbolism tied up in the cover- the girl, silhouetted against a smoking city, anonymous in her surrender, symbolizing Valencia’s struggle with self. The flowers, bursting from her gut as a symbol of rebirth, a manifestation of her learning how to live again.

Q: What would you say was your greatest learning experience while writing CITY OF IMMORTAL SHADOWS?

A: My greatest learning experience was releasing perfectionism, for sure. I have one of those personalities where I expect to be perfect at something right away, and though I’d written stories all my life, I rarely followed through. Through the writing process of COIS, I learned a lot about what it means to be a beginner and accepted that the hiccups and mistakes I made necessary for my journey.

Q: What do you think, in your honest opinion, makes a book binge worthy? How did you incorporate these themes into your debut?

A: For me, I really love when books steep you into the story rather than jumping right in. I love the “questions” and intrigue part of the journey the most, how you get tangled in the story and your own curiosity for answers rises with the characters. I really wanted to incorporate this into the gritty drama of a dystopian world, but make it very intimate and authentic as if you, the reader, was starting to see the pockets and holes in society as you went along.

Q: If you had to put your debut in a list of books on Goodreads, what do you think the title of the list would be and what other books do you think would be on the list as well?

A: Possible Goodreads list names: Atmospheric Haunts That Bite Back, All The Beautiful Uglies, Wake-up Calls, Speculative Profile of the Human Condition, Favourite Anti-heroes? Books to include- Girl With all The Gifts, and Frankenstein have been the ones it’s been compared to the most.

Q: What would you say surprised you the most while you were writing CITY OF IMMORTAL SHADOWS?

A: I was really surprised at how well my poetry background meshed with my brand of story-telling- it was such a treat to discover my “writer’s voice” and make use of these other gifts!

Q: CITY OF IMMORTAL SHADOWS is getting a lot of love since its debut! What do you hope future readers will love about your novel?

A: Thank you, it’s definitely been very exciting! I really hope that future readers will appreciate the subtleties in this work, and enjoy piecing together their own theories with these hints hidden in the story for them to find.

Q: I’ve known you for a while and I always see you writing. What tips would you give to other writers who struggle with writing every day?

A: Well, for me, I always establish a clear vision of what the next scene will be the day before, so when I jump in, I don’t have to spend time on the literal aspects of the work. I think it’s important to treat each scene (whether it’s five hundred words or five thousand) with a definite beginning, middle, end and then fill the rest in with your heart.

Q: What has been your greatest challenge as a writer so far and how did you overcome it?

A: Mine has always been comparison. While writing, I felt very confident in the risks I was taking stylistically, but that soon depleted shortly after it released. I kept reading other books that had a very similar cadence to one another, and started to feel insecure about my differences. I didn’t begin to overcome it until I changed my expectations- some people won’t get what I tried to do, and that’s okay. So far, my different voice and tone has been a standout praise from my reviewers!

Q: Finally, what was the best piece of advice you’ve ever received as a writer and why did it resonate with you?

A: “It doesn’t matter if it’s good, bad, or ugly- just get it done.” This is an amalgamation of advice over the years that all meshed together into this line. For me, it meant everything because I had let my own expectations sabotage every project before and I was no longer going to let my fear of being a beginner get in my way! Finishing was really all it was about, and all I needed to push myself to do.

___

Thanks for joining us!

Happy reading!

[sylvanfreckles]

Impaled (FebuWhump 04)

I had an extremely crappy day at work today...like coming home crying level crappy. So, as a defense mechanism, this came out. Granted, it was always going to be a slightly humorous take on this scenario, but this went a little...extreme.

You can also read this on AO3

Fandom: Supernatural Summary: Who would have thought, in the end, it would be vampire clowns in a busted-up barn in the middle of nowhere?

Not the Winchesters, that's for certain.

And certainly not Castiel, who did not get resurrected again just to die at the hands of a monster with a fourteen-year grudge.

* * *

After everything..after Chuck and Free Will and rewriting their own lives...it all came down to this.

A musty old barn in the ass-crack of nowhere, facing down a gang of vampires of all things.

“So, what, now's when we find out Gordon isn't actually dead?” Dean muttered, standing back-to-back with Sam. “Or, ah, what's-her-name...the hippie one who only ate cows. Think she's here?”

“We watched Lenore die,” Sam reminded him. “And I killed Gordon. I don't think this is either of them.”

“Yeah, unless Chuck brought them back,” Dean shot back. “Cas?”

Castiel, who had been silently and efficiently dispatching vampires turned back at Dean's question. “I find it unlikely Chuck would have considered either of them important enough to bring back from Purgatory.” Another vampire roared up behind him, and without even looking Cas stabbed him through the throat with his angel blade.

Dean had to admit, the flutter of Cas's new calf-length trench coat was pretty impressive as the angel spun around to yank his blade from one vampire and plunge it into another. Jack had apparently hooked his adoptive father up with some new duds on his return from the Empty, so Cas wasn't exactly rocking the whole “holy tax accountant” look anymore.

On the one hand, the long black trench coat was absolutely badass. The way it spun around Cas as he moved in battle reminded Dean of the shadows of wings cast on the barn ceiling all those years ago, and it had a much more stylish cut that emphasized the muscle on the angel's powerful frame.

On the other...the rainbow-colored sweater vest was a little much. But the combination was something that was just so essentially Jack they really couldn't complain.

“Dean!”

Pulled out of his daydreams by his brother's warning scream, Dean managed to deflect an incoming vampire and roll out of the way, narrowly avoiding the dangerous-looking nail that was poking up out of one of the support beams. Damn, they really needed to stop confronting vampires in fallen-down old barns.

Cas hauled him to his feet and manhandled him to one side, a blast of holy power from his other hand obliterating yet another vampire clown. “How many more are there?” the angel shouted over the sounds of battle.

“They just keep coming,” Sam panted. They were cornered now—Cas's angel blade was still embedded in a vampire a few feet away, Dean's machete had gotten notched when it had gotten stuck on a particularly dense vampire spine, and Sam was favoring his right arm as though chopping off so many heads in such a short amount of time was giving some kind of hunter's carpal tunnel. “Are we sure...I mean, is Chuck really de-powered?”

“You think he planned for one of us to die in some shitty barn in the middle of nowhere?” Dean scoffed. “Dude. The man's a hack, but he's not that bad.”

“Enough!” A fourth voice—because, really, the vampire clowns had done nothing but snarl since the Winchesters had busted down the door—cut through the air as another figure strode into the center of the barn.

It was, predictably, another vampire. This one was obviously the boss, judging by the way she was dressed—halter top and jeans instead of baggy clothes and a clown mask. Seriously, why clowns? Was someone trying to make this place Sam's worst nightmare?

“Well, well. If it isn't the Winchesters.” The woman flipped a lock of long, dark hair back over her shoulder. “I'm sure you're surprised to see me.”

Dean stared at her for a moment then glanced over at his brother. Sam shrugged. “Right,” Dean said after a few seconds. “You're...the Ringmaster!”

Sam let out a groan and stumbled back to lean against the wall of the barn. Dean couldn't see much of Cas's face but the angel's body was radiating out disappointment. “Come on,” Dean protested. “Clowns? The circus?”

“Enough!” the woman snapped again. “You killed my entire clan fourteen years ago. I've waited a long time for this day, when my new clan would find the Winchesters and we would put an end to them!”

Dean let his gaze travel up and down the woman's body again. She was still familiar, but that wasn't really enough to jog his memory. “Sweetheart, you're gonna have to be way more specific than that. Fourteen years is a long time.”

Cas shot him a dirty look—though whether it was over the sweetheart comment or Dean's snarky tone of voice he couldn't tell.

The woman hissed in anger. “Jenny? I had been chosen to join Luther's clan? You kidnapped his mate, Kate? Killed all of them to get your father and your precious Colt back?”

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth. Oh, right, he remembered her now...not that she needed to know that. “Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell.”

Jenny gave a shriek and charged toward him. Cas intercepted, easily turning her momentum against her. Sam charged in, the machete in his left hand now, easily cutting through the seemingly endless swarm of vampires.

With a rueful glance at his ruined machete, Dean took up a position to cover Cas's flank. Maybe he couldn't charge back into battle like Sam, but he could at least keep the small fry off the angel's back.

“This reminds me of the place we first met, Cas,” Dean called over his shoulder.

Cas grunted. “Hell was nothing like this, Dean. This barn has no resemblance to Alistair's pit.”

“What?” Dean shook his head. Right, sometimes he forgot about the whole raised-you-from-perdition thing. Maybe he needed to get that handprint tattooed back on or something...if he could face Sammy's teasing. “No, I meant the barn, man. Where I tried to shoot you.”

With a twist of his hips Cas flipped Jenny onto her back and wrapped one hand around her throat. “You also stabbed me,” he retorted. He was on limited power while he was on earth, but he had enough juice to burn Jenny out of existence.

“Still. Memories.”

There was a ragged cry from one of the vampire clowns—one of the few Sam hadn't managed to decapitate in the last five minutes (really, their heads just popped right off if you got the angle right...his high school history teacher had been so wrong). The vampire charged at Cas and the angel wasn't quite able to defend himself before he was driven back against one of the barn's support posts. Dean shouted a curse at the vampire and took a swing at his head.

The machete stuck. Dean swore and tugged it free, then swung again. The vampire went down, but it took a few more blows before he finally managed to separate the head from the body. “Dammit,” he swore, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “Sammy?”

“Forty-seven,” Sam panted. He was doubled over, hands on his knees. “That was forty-seven vampire clowns. What the hell is happening?”

“Maybe Chuck's still in charge,” Dean theorized. “Cas?”

The angel grunted. Dean twisted around to see Cas staring down at his own chest, then the angel slowly peeled back one lapel of his trench coat. “Oh. I've been impaled.”

It was the rusty bar Dean had narrowly avoided earlier. It was longer than he'd thought, and the tip was poking out of Cas's chest right below his heart. “Cas?”

“I'm all right,” Cas reassured him, though the spray of blood he coughed up wasn't very reassuring.

“Oh god,” Sam fisted both hands in his hair. “Wh-what do we do? Should we call Jack? Do you need an ambulance? Or, wait, a spell? Maybe, maybe there's something in the car...”

“Sam, this is nothing,” Cas protested. He gripped the bar with one hand, frowning a little when he wasn't able to push himself free. “Though I could use some assistance.”

“No-no-no-no!” Sam waved his hands frantically. He'd pulled a bandanna out of...somewhere...and was trying to put pressure on the wound around the rusty bar. “We'll just...we can control the bleeding, and-and Dean can call an ambulance, and they can take care of you at the hospital.”

“Sam...”

“I didn't even get to say good-bye last time,” Sam whispered.

Ouch. Damn. Dean felt that one, right in his gut. That spurred him to action. “Hey, it's okay,” he said, quietly. He placed a hand on one of Sam's arms and leaned in closer to study the wound. “You said it's not bad? 'Cause I'm pretty sure some of that's supposed to be on the inside.”

Cas coughed and the wound gurgled as he sucked in a breath. “It would be a fatal wound if I were human,” he admitted. “But it cannot kill me. It is merely...uncomfortable.”

“There, see?” Dean knocked his shoulder against Sam's. He was worried, too...he would never get used to seeing Cas injured, no matter how long they were together. Especially not since the angel always tended to get the more...dramatic injuries. Like now, Sam and Dean were coming out of the fight with barely a scratch between them, while Cas had been impaled on a piece of rusty metal.

The absurdity of the situation finally struck Dean. The piles of dead vampire clowns. The woman from their past, who had apparently been planning revenge for fourteen years even though they hadn't even remembered her name.

And, most of all, their badass angel-of-the-lord (even if the lord in question at the moment was their adopted kid) in his rainbow sweater vest and badass trench coat staring down at the metal protruding from his chest like it was personally offending him.

Oh. I've been impaled.

He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

Sam turned, scandalized. Cas looked on with resigned amusement.

“He-he just,” Dean wheezed. “Like that snowman...just...”

Cas gave a long-suffering sigh and gripped the piece of metal in one hand. With a mighty twist it broke away from the barn's support beam, and with another wrench Cas had pulled it free from his body and dropped it to the floor. His legs buckled beneath him, but Sam caught him and eased him down, that ever-present bandanna pressed to the wound in Cas's chest.

“Oh man...it's gonna be okay, Cas. We'll...we'll figure this out.”

“Dude,” Dean staggered over to kneel next to them, tears of laughter running down his face. “He's fine, just...just let it go.”

“Stop quoting Frozen and put your hand here!” Sam snapped, yanking Dean closer. “We need to stop the bleeding!”

Cas just stared at them patiently while Sam rocked up to his knees to apply more pressure to his wound. Dean tried to help, he really did, but the entire situation was just spiraling too far out of control. If Chuck really was still writing their lives he'd obviously gone insane.

Sam peeled the bandanna back to check Cas's wound and there was...nothing. Just the smooth, colorful knit of his rainbow-colored sweater vest. Even the blood stains were gone, as though Cas had never been injured.

With a relieved sigh, Sam sank back onto his heels. Cas pushed himself up on his elbows, idly brushing at the straw that was sticking to his trench coat. Dean picked up the rusty piece of iron that had impaled Cas and flung it across the barn.

“Not today, Chuck!” he hollered after it. “No one's dying in some shitty barn in the middle of nowhere, you hear me?”

There was a companionable silence for a moment, then Sam suddenly shot to his feet and looked around. “We forgot about the kids!”

* * *

Jack sees his father both as a badass unstoppable force, and as the caring dad who always has time for him. Thus, when designing his wardrobe for his current resurrection, he went with the odd combination of cuddly rainbow vest and Neo-style trench coat. Oddly enough, it suits Cas more than anything else he's ever worn.

[thelordstears]

I can’t possibly stop writing. I fear I’d cease to exist and crumble into ashes (And that’d suck)

“ People don't need to drop a single drop of blood from their own kind to make it in this world, but unfortunately, we call ourselves animal to excuse such animalistic acts.” - Brooke Woodwarde 

“ We are no wolves, we are no sheep, we're people. But I don't see us acting as such. We act as if we were beasts, sent here to destroy. Odin, lives in honor, we do not reflect that. There's no honor in unnecessary bloodshed. We aren't human, anymore.” - Brooke Woodwarde

“ Who cares if the knights worship one Lord? For all we know there could be nothing in the skies but clouds and stars.” - Brooke Woodwarde

“ This is a land of war, not a land of honor. We poisoned the garden and asked why it withered." - Brooke Woodwarde

"Your mind is not so sympathetic, your mind is the greatest torture device in your arsenal. It works against you, just as a shattered clock ticks in the wrong direction, your mind thinks all wrong, wicked deeds plague you, but once you learn to accept you're no decent human being you learn, perhaps broken never meant bad.” - Elton Sederfault

“ I have been through many a torment, many a tragedy, so much so that I believe I became one.” - Elton Sederfault

“ My heart has been torn from my chest so horrifically, you wouldn't believe what beats inside my chest. Oh it's such an ugly creature, wrought with sin and hatred, but once upon a time a love for the world. But this gem inside my chest, this beautiful diamond lost it's glimmer. And now, it's nothing but coals, and the fire shalt only burn other's." - Elton Sederfault

“ Tom is broken, in some ways. But da most beautiful of things always are. 'E's stronger den 'e could eva' know, he's me damn son, and I love 'im, and if 'e ever needed a shield against da bullet's the world sends 'is way, I'll stand in front'a him and make sure 'e knew, I's got 'is damn back, always.” - Cleopatra Peterson

“ Look, ya could act as if yer past were chains that drag ya down, or ya could realize ya hold the key, and it's a little bit 'a faith.” - Cleopatra Peterson

"Perfection is an abnormality we can't achieve, who ever says they're perfect is either a liar or extremely lost in their very own delusion.” - Cruz Santinos

“ Reality is much, much, stranger than fiction. Because what I see, it's real, perhaps not to you, but I see it, and by God, does it scare me.” - Cruz Santinos

“ Here I am, lost in a world unraveled travelling these lands, wishing I was alone. But with a plague such as mine? I ain't never alone. By God do I wish I could be lonely, for once. These voices don't leave, and with a world devoid of medicine, there ain't no cure no more.” - Cruz Santinos

“ People don't give a fuck, they'll tear into you, and say you were the one serving the platter. What's a rabbit to a wolf but a means to an end?” - Cas Holts

“ Ya know, the sun always rises but that don't mean the days always warm. There's morning dew, the frost that lays against the damn trees, and snow that cuts against your damn cheek. The sun rising don't bring warmth it just brings a little bit of damn hope.” - Cas Holts

“ Welcome, welcome, come round, gather to watch the greatest show of all time. The fall of Ellsworth Davis, the showman, the mad man, the tyrant of the circus! He's watched you all suffer, so why not make him suffer huh? Suffering leads to hatred, and hatred leads to villainy.” - Ellsworth Davis

“ I watch the lion leap through the ring of fire and let his mane burn simply for my pleasure, the one whom tames the animals gets eaten alive by the wolves he though family, the strongman is crushed beneath his own weights, and the clown puts on a smile for all, but deep inside knows, a painted smile is all he could ever manage. You might as well call me P.T Barnum, because I am a cruel being, using humans as my very own freak show attraction! The elephant man would snap his own neck because all he ever wanted to do, was be normal. But no, he was a freak of nature they said! An atrocity! A circus act only to be displayed but never sympathized for! We are all freakish in nature, knowing normality is something we can't achieve.” - Ellsworth Davis

“ I run the sinners circus, I let lions leap through flames and trapeze artists swing through the air with no net. And I suppose, the joke was always on me." - Ellsworth Davis

"If this is life, and all I ever was is a perpetrator of evil deeds, than give me the very thing I've given so many other's. Besides, death is the only thing that could save me.” - Dylan Huffers

“ I got some devils ta slay and some damn debts ta pay. Ya listenin', devil who broke me so? Cause if ya thought Hell was bad, let me introduce ya ta vengeance.” - Dylan Huffers

“ I coulda been a saint long 'go, but now I'm nothin' but an angry bull, ready ta charge at the matador who provoked me. Show me the color 'a red, and I'll show you a darker hue.” - Dylan Huffers

“ I'd pray ta bring back my wings, but where has prayer ever gotten me? An echo of silence and my thoughts, so right where I began.” - Dylan Huffers

“ My mother is a memory, she was a hero, maybe not in the world's eyes, but my own. I guess, we get what we fucking get and don't throw a fit. So save me, or don't. I can deal with both salvation and damnation, so long as I get peace." - Dylan Huffers

"They say fear is a survival mechanism, it keeps you alive, but from what I've seen first hand fear is no survival mechanism, it is in fact the very opposite. Fear is what gets you killed, and he who lives without it, pulls the trigger.” Redacted

“ I am a God, a dynasty, a ruler. They say all rulers fall, but here I am, opposing that rule. I could sweep down and cut anyone I please down, because I'm feared. The key to ruling a kingdom is fear, your subjects fear the consequence of their actions, whether it be death or suffering they'll never know.” Redacted

“ All you need to appease the crowd is a jacket of good deeds.” Redacted

“ If you live life in sorrow, that is no life at all, perhaps you're past is a sorrowful tale, but don't let that define your future.” - Lacey Rose

“ Family can be anyone, people you met while you held onto Hell, or people who dragged you into the light, even if you kicked, screamed and resisted. We are all of us beautiful, and we deserve the chance to know it.” - Lacey Rose

"I think the path we're given is often one to follow, and if you go astray, just listen to your heart, it'll usually lead you in the right direction. Sure, it might break every once in awhile, but who said a little love can't fix the heart? It's the only remedy known to cure a broken heart.” - Gideon Rose

“ My mother has always said, "Son, don't let the world kill ya. You're stronger than the image the world wants to paint you as." And isn't that just beautiful? You don't have to be the canvas someone has made you out to be. You hold your own brush, and though your canvas may be filled with scars, paint over them. Yes, they'll remain upon the surface, but they'll be hidden from the present, and you don't have to face them unless you're ready.” - Gideon Rose

“ You look at me as you would a homeless man, "Oh he's just another drug addict, lost to the world's poison." But alas, society has never been a caring one, they say, "Look! Look at this poor mistreated fool! Watch him suffer! It's all he can do these days!" Isn't it amusing, how we damn what we don't understand because it'd be too much of a burden to understand it?” - Arthur Wellburn

“ We're all broken these days, wishing we could fix what we can never have, but we were never given the tools, so how do you expect us to create?” - Arthur Wellburn

“ I have a daughter, but surely she couldn't be proud of me, because I'm not even proud of myself, these days. So how can another claim a lie the truth when I already know it's heresy rolling of their tongue?” - Arthur Wellburn

“ No one man can withstand the storm forever. Eventually he chokes on the rain, it scalds his flesh and lightning strikes him down because all he ever was, is another casualty of a naturality.” - Arthur Wellburn

“ Ya might as well call me young Icarus, because I've put up my defenses and I'm damn well ready ta fly into the sun ta get what I seek. I may plummet from the sky on burnin' wings and hit the damn concrete face first, but if I can find myself after all these years, I'd rather be ashes then who I ain't.” - Zane Harrenburrow

“ Ya know, my life's been filled with scars that I wear on my damn sleeve, but I'm battle ready and unafraid of the god damn night. Because I've been through the dark before, and he who knows his own shadow, don't gotta fear what it'll do when the sun sinks and it ain't visible no more.” - Zane Harrenburrow

“ I've learned a helluva lot in this life of mine, most of all a bullet is the only thing that'll save a sinful man from himself. A threat or a reality, either way he'll be free from his actions, and so will the world.” - Delana Whinrich

“ When you stand in the midst of the option to save the world or yourself, choose the world for God's sake, don't make the same mistake I did.” - Delana Whinrich

“ Ya know, a man once told me, it was me pulling the trigger, whilst he held a gun to my father's head. But I've come to realize, whoever holds the gun has a choice, and thus is the one letting the damn bullet fly. Perhaps I pulled the trigger and pressed the detonator, but ya know what? I'm still a damn soldier. I fight for myself, the ones I love and the freedom of a shackled world. I'm a killer, but at least I can benefit the damn world huh?" - Delana Whinrich

"The world doesn't miss anybody, it's the people who grieve, not the earth." - Delana Whinrich

"The Queen's gambit, the act of moving a pawn upon your board as a means to sacrifice him but give the opponent a disadvantage. I think if one is to proceed with the Queen's gambit, the pawn should always be oneself.” - Romiro Smilowitz

“ People say God don't speak, but I think his actions speak a helluva lot louder than his words. We're still alive, and isn't that proof that he still has something in store for us? We may not have an instruction manual to fix the world, but all we need is our hearts and each other.” - Romiro Smilowitz

“ I'd rather be remembered as a man who did what was right, then a man who did what would keep him kicking. Survival is about how far you'll go, but life? It's about where you cross the damn line." - Romiro Smilowitz

"I'm brave, but not in the traditional sense. I block off my emotion in a battle, because I've found all it'll do is hurt me. I've let emotion control me in life before, all it resulted in was loss of life. I'm a blank slate of empty emotion.” - Cosmina Winchester

“ Everything I am is often associated with the vultures, because death hovers around me, it's as if I'm to be picked clean of good intentions and left out to rot with nothing but an ill mind.” - Cosmina Winchester

“ This cell of myself is constricting, because I fear myself, but I won't let that fear consume me. Because if I fear myself well and truly, I can't pick up a blade and show others, I am too be feared.” - Cosmina Winchester

"The roots of my family tree are wicked, but, as am I. I hang from this blackened tree, my body three feet above ground, I swing from my very own wickedness, choking on the feeble distraught of my very own sin. I look at the hands that put me in this noose, and I recognize them, the rings and the scars, the bruises and the callouses, because by God, they're my own.” - Mike Duster

“ I'm sinful down to my very core, because I was born a monster, my father has always told me, "If ya can't sin, you can't survive." But my mother has always said, "When ya get bucked off the path, you get back on the saddle." How am I to do both? Because I fear I am the very horse who bucked me off a cliffside and careened my way towards a safer clearing.” - Mike Duster

“ How is one to breathe in existence, if she doesn't even know the definition?” - Cathletta Mason

“ The hands of my father can't touch me in death.” - Cathletta Mason

“ I'm a demon in human form, a demon princess as Zargrod would say. He's sinful to his very core, and one day, he'll be my King of scorched intentions and wicked deeds. I'll be his Queen of bloodied gown and sinful lust, because what am I to do but let this love burn me to ash?” - Cathletta Mason

“ Life don't last forever honey, but my story will." - Cathletta Mason

"I look inside my chest and find my heart is a blood moon the shade of black.” - Idian Witson

“ I have claws made of sin and bone, all they do is rip into saints, its as if I'm a cheetah, because these claws don't retract, they tear into the soil as I bound and leap through the fields to pounce on the unaware gazelle who only ever wanted to graze in the grass, but would learn it was a hunting grounds.” - Idian Witson

“ I suppose I'm out of my mind, my heart is as pitch black as the nebula and as far away from warmth as Pluto.” - Idian Witson

“ They say we're all sinners, I just wish I hadn't taken it ta a higher degree.” - Greg Metals

“ I've lived my life on the highway, the revving of engines and the roar of motorcycles. But if only I hadn't become the damn crash everyone looks upon in horror. My bones broke, my heart cracked and scattered across the damn highway, but it wasn't me who was killed by the horrific accident, by God it was other's, and by God it haunts me.” - Greg Metals

“ So raise a damn glass for the tired biker, or poison the glass and finally let 'im drop. Cheers, am I right?" - Greg Metals 

  “ Sluzmink says it's about time someone told the damn truth. So you know what? He'll find the truth isn't bloodstained, it isn't glorified sin and bone, it's me and my six shooter with nothing but my fucking rage.” - Vivian McDermot

“ Life don't gotta be bloodstained, but Sluzmink's will be.” - Vivian McDermot

“ When someone loses everything, she's free to do whatever she pleases so long as it's in sorrow. And this vengeance of mine is  a sorrowful tale. Because by the end I'll hold the broken corpse of Sluzmink fucking Jones, but I'll also hold the corpse of me.” - Vivian McDermot

“ Vengeance is a slippery slope, and I'm gonna tumble down this cliffside and take Sluzmink with me.” - Vivian Mcdermot

"You want injustice you have to get through law, and these days that wall is thin as a sheet of paper.” - Alberto Newhill

“ I've got my badge of honor and my pistol, but God, how can one man face a thousand and come out the other side of the battle alive?” - Alberto Newhill

“ One man can bury a secret, but a whole town can unbury it with integrity and will power.” - Alberto Newhill

“ The runt of the littler is the least likely to survive it's a sad fact, but true. You can't be a sheep when wolves have taken over the world, monsters hide in plain sight and I suppose I'm one of em.” - Redacted (Different one from before)

“ The street lights shine light on me only because they fear what I'd do in the dark.” - Redacted

“ A wolf in sheep's clothing is deadlier than a wolf in fur." - Redacted

"They called me sadistic killer, countess of blood, a reincarnation of Countess Bathory, the story upon the News naming me Countess of death. I'm nothing more than sin and divinity wrapped in barbed wire and glory.” - Tilda Hawsberry

“ 'm so wrapped in flames it's become my dress, I twirl through this stage, embers and sparks alighting a blaze so magnificent that even the bug burning in the firepit would call it beauty.” - Tilda Hawsberry

“ Most live in a single moment, and forget that their life is made of up many little moments that define who they are. We all live ruled by fate, but what if, fate, betrayed you? The roll of the dice land on snake eyes and you end up in debt, or worse, in a coffin.” - Tilda Hawsberry

“ How is it I am to survive in a world that's already damned me? Am I to cast myself into the flame so another can not?” - Shandalar Belrie

“ I fled from the place I found pain, but still it follows me.” - Shandalar Belrie

“ I wish such cruel harms on the King, but if I were to kill him, I would in turn stab myself in the back and leave myself bleeding on his floor.” - Shandalar Belrie

“ How am I to live in the moment when all I can remember is the past?” - Shandalar Belrie

“ Forgive me, Gods, for I have sinned. And I only wish to survive so long as I have a path to follow that leads me to you." - Shandalar Belrie

"I haven't lost faith in God, only myself.” - Jack Samson

“ I brandish a pistol and a badge, but do I brandish a heart?” - Jack Samson

"Heroes aren't remembered, but that don't mean they're lost in the soils of history. A hero don't gotta go down in history, just up in flames for a good cause.” - Miella Fang

“ I'm a hero, not because I pull a trigger but because I don't. A bullet won't save someone who wishes to be better, sometimes all ya need to do is put that gun back in your damn holster and offer your hand to the broken soul in front of ya.” - Miella Fang

“ He says no one can kill the idea of him, that he'll go down in history, then I'll give him his damn wish. But to go down in history, first he's gotta go down.” - Miella Fang

"You first have to light a match to feel the flame, but who said it's gotta scald your heart? Why not let it melt instead? In love, in another's heart, in joy to be alive. Not every flame is lethal.” - Lorelei Metals

“ I used to weep because I thought love was a lost cause, but when Lillian holds my hand and tells me I'm hers, I feel truly, alive. And isn't it beautiful, to live for another while still living for yourself?” - Lorelei Metals

“ I could let my thoughts be bullets, or I could let them be flowers that'll blossom into the most beautiful and prospering ideas.” - Lorelei Metals

“ I love who I am, I've evolved so much, and.. I think my sister would be proud of that. God, how I miss her. She was always my hero, in all her tattooed bisexual glory.” - Lorelei Metals

“ I've been wild all my life, been caught in the riptide 'a all my pretty lil sins, but I had ta do those things ta stay topside the soil, so is it a crime ta wanna live? If it's a crime ta defend myself, give me a death sentence and call it justice” - Ivy Felinmote

“ I ain't the best woman, but I do try my best. I ain't no hero, never have been, I'm just a girl with a baseball bat and some elbow grease.” - Ivy Felinmote

“ I miss pops, he didn't deserve the fate 'e got. But now he's in the soil, and I suppose I got myself ta blame for that. I can spin the tale a thousand different ways, but it always ends with a bullet and tears.” - Ivy Felinmote

"I am the singular black rose in the garden.” - Madam Stephanie Rose

“A gardener would cut me from his garden of silk red roses and yellow poppies because I don't fit the aura in all my darkness and thorns. Not even my petals are beautiful, they reek of death and corruption.” - Madam Stephanie Rose

“ But now she's a wisp in my mind, a ghost haunting the halls of my mind, because she's gone, by the Gods she's gone and there's nothing I can do to bring her back. I've looked in every spell book, prayed to every God, but you need a body to bring back the dead, and I have nothing of her but memories.” - Madam Stephanie Rose

“ I could step into a garden and every rose would wilt and whither away into nothing but dust. I'm such a sinful creature that even nature can't accept me. As I said, I am the singular black rose in the garden, my thorns dig into my heart and the pitch of my heart becomes dark, the flowing of my blood in my veins becomes venomous and the petals I brandish whither and wilt and turn to dust before my eyes.” - Madam Stephanie Rose

"I'm a shootin' star hurtlin' towards greatness as if it were the got damn dinosaurs. I know greatness is a relative term, but all it takes ta be a great man is ta help other's with your actions, eh?” - Church Godsel

“ I'd rather be alone with my thoughts than surrounded in people who don't know what it is ta live.” - Church Godsel

“ I'd step inta the frontlines ta save an innocent man, my father don't like bloodshed, he wonders how we made such an egregious deed honorable, but I think so long as you got good intentions with that rifle 'a yours you gotta save who you can with the bullets you got.” - Church Godsel

"I am woven in the most beautiful of horrors, and the most delusional mystique.” - Alviro Conritz

“ I met evil when I was only a child, he was my father, after all. In all his delusions and all his horrors, he was my father, and I only wish for him to see one thing. My revolver before his final moments flash before my eyes.” - Alviro Conritz

“ I am the thing that goes bump in the night, I am the boogeyman and one of the thirty six murderers you will pass in your lifetime.” - Alviro Conritz

“ I drowned myself and people expect me to be my past self. But he's dead, isn't he? That scared little boy is gone, buried somewhere deep inside the woods behind his childhood home. I could look myself in the eye, and I'd stab myself in the back just to get ahead. Perhaps this is why I bleed so heavily, because I betrayed myself in a sense. But I won't stop, there's something therapeutic about all this madness.” - Alviro Conritz

"Ya know, I thought history was cruel. And then I lived it." - Marv Callemritz

"Sometimes, the monsters are the ones we trust the most, even if we don't wanna believe it." - Mathias Gonvable

"Oh I have long since learned that when it rains, it pours heavy on your beaten and tattered soul. Hold a dollar to the sky, the wind will pick up, and take it away in one gust, the wind, blows, blows, blows, and in its wake, trouble comes, but oh it surely doesn't go, friend." - Shawn Werdelstein

"I am the dark, and where I go trouble follows, so tread lightly, this territory is protected with fangs and old scars." - Shawn Werdelstein

"Livin' in reality, it gets dark, twisted. I suppose that's the nature of all things." - Shawn Werdelstein

"Zachary ya ain't so much a God, you hold the power 'a one, there's a difference in that. The statue of a God can be toppled, a God himself can not." - Klaus Van Velk

"When the world is at it's all time low, I am at my all time high." - Klaus Van Velk

"We already were fuckin' free mate, do you fink your politicians fought for freedom? Dey fight for bloodlust and bloodlust alone. Dey fight for demselves, if dey cared bout da cause, dey'd pick up da rifle demselves." - Winfield Coleman

"I could look into my soul, but all I'd find is desolation." - Scarletta Bonewhistle

“I'd say you deserve mercy, my brother. But that'd make both of us liars." - Violetta Gursoch

"Sometimes you have to realize the only way to win, is to own a black heart." - Ares Malstone

"Blame God all ya want Wes, but c'mon, give me a lil credit." - Gunther Mirowick

"I am but a wolf, feasting on his own wool." - Drake Chains

"Salvation holds no price too heavy to pay." - Shilo Downsworth

"I've learned justice and mercy can not, and will not, live side by side. I've watched as people tried, to show mercy to the wicked, yet in turn, they shoved a blade in their back, and the cycle of evil only continued." - Shilo Dowsnworth

"The element 'a surprise will be enough ta take out more than a few soldiers. Trust me, when guns go'a blazin' and the echo of mortality falterin' starts ringin' through the damn sky, even soldiers cower." - Davy Blight

"You could call me a saint, but I'd prove you wrong for a single gold coin." - Lugarn the Shadow

"I can't call myself a hero when I've never saved a life." - Grifold Hangers

"Life will pass you by if you don't live it." - Leonard Bakers

"I found living the wild side of life will only end in a wild way. There's no peace when you're living in chaos." - Moon Crimsonburn

"We're all saints in a world that forces us to be sinners." - Terrance Possematto

"People born into a bad life will think that's what it means to live." - Sarkelus Johnson

"I've found if it is darkness you seek, it is darkness you shall find. Seek out the light between the shadows, and you'll find it." - Victor Da Ville

"In that house of God, in that holy church, all I found was darkness and secrets no one would ever wish to see in the light." - Samina Gelbrook

"We're far from Heaven, close ta Hell, burnin' in our sins as if we were nothin' more but the trees in a forest." - Fallows Diamond

"I think, in every bad situation, there's something to be learned. Don't let the people who hurt you become imbedded so deep into your skin that they become a part of you." - Quinn Greaves

"Sometimes life kicks ya down. Just dust yourself off, and roll your die again, based on pure statistic, one day, you'll get that twenty, and find everything you never knew you needed." - Quinn Greaves

"Sometimes the world is a prison and we're the convicts polluting her atmosphere in our darkness but other times the sun shines our beaten souls." - Issac Abernathy

"He may not give two fucks about the pain he's caused, but when I'm standing before him, a gun at his damn head, he'll hear me loud and fucking clear." - Brandon Killovitch

"No one guns a man down and calls it peace except for he who tells the soldier to pull the trigger." - Messiah Morrington

"Revenge is immoral. So call me unholy." - Leola Jenefine

“If your demons are silent, listen for your angels.” - Caramel Pettagrew

"I'm covered in the blood of everything I was, I'm dancing in the ashes of me, but I held the very match that lit the damn flame.” - Sostias Hoffman

“ If my footsteps lead me inta the dark, then let me light a candle ta guide the way, and if my candle snuffs may my feet lead the way, and find the light that waits at the end 'a the tunnel.” - Alonzo Graves

"Most days my demons are silent, but on the days they speak, they break the sound barrier and leave it difficult to find any peace and quiet.” - Veronica Villenwicker

"It is in my darkest hour, in the hottest flame, the coldest ice, I have found everything I thought I had lost.” - George Stinson

“ I've lost a helluva bloody lot in life, I lost my innocence when I was thirteen, my 'ome when I was sixteen, and my will ta fuckin' live at twenty god damn one.” - Saria Romiro

"If you've seen hell, in all it's unholy flame and damnation, tell me, what does the welcome sign to Evergreen's bay look like? It's rusted around the edges, it's been weathered down by time as all things. It's hell in all it's darkness.” - Remo Gonvable

“ I don't know how the world twisted and turned in such a dark direction, but if I can't find light in the day, I'll create my damn own.” - Sheila Gonvable

[supernaturalthisfanfic]

Who prays for Lucifer?

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader

Word Count: 2537

Warnings: mentions of alcoholism

A/N: ok so funny story. I started writing this in 2016 and I finally finished it, 3 years later. Anyways, here it is. I’m kinda rusty but I’m really proud of this one so ENJOY!

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Imagine the reader runs into Lucifer at the bar and has a heartfelt moment and tells Dean, Sam, and Cas later, “But who prays for Lucifer? Who, in the past eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it the most?”

The familiar smell of liquor and nicotine hit me the moment I stepped into the bar. The mix had become a comforting scent, one signaling me to relax. Visiting the bar had become a habit I’d developed. Not a safe habit for a hunter to have, but one therapeutic enough to numb some of the emotions I tried my best not to feel. My dad was a deadbeat alcoholic and now here I was following in his footsteps. Oh, the irony.  It wasn’t meant to be this way but I felt like I had to drink in order to forget. I was never good enough for the old man. I was always one step behind on all our hunts. I was always making trouble. I was the black sheep of the family, the girl no one cared for or looked after. I was always on my own.

I had Sam and Dean now, whom I was so thankful for. They took me in about 2 years ago and they treated me like family. They were nothing like my real family, if I could even call them that. They cared for each other and looked out for one another. The things they did in order to keep the other safe was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I’d even seen them die for each other, more than a few times. It was strange at first, but I slowly became more comfortable around them, learning what it was like to be a part of something bigger. Dean always told me, “Family don’t end with blood, kiddo.” I think he got it from an old family friend. Robby? Bobby? I can’t remember right now. But even then, sometimes it wasn’t enough. The childhood trauma I went through wasn’t something I could just get over so quickly. Sam and Dean knew this and they understood me, which is why they gave me my space every once in a while. They let me work through whatever I needed to in any way I needed to. 

A burning sensation flared down my throat as I swished back a shot of whisky. As I signaled the bartender for another round, I sensed someone sit down next to me. It was when they spoke that the hairs on my arms stood up and my body tensed. 

“I’ll have what she’s having.” Although I knew it would have been useless in this situation, I slid my hand down to my gun, but found it missing from my waistband. “Relax sweetheart. I’m not here on business.” I turned my head towards the devil himself. Lucifer. My gun was spinning in his right hand. 

“Then what are you here for?” He stared down at his drink before responding.

“Company.” The emptiness and loneliness in his voice was evident, and for a

slight second my eyes softened before hardening again. He took a sip of his drink 

and closed his eyes. “You know, I used to be my dad’s favorite. At least that’s what everyone tells me. It’s been so long, I can’t remember for myself. The only real memory I have of my father is him casting me down from home, putting me in a cage for billions of years. For what? For disagreeing with him. For not believing you humans to be his perfect creation. For thinking bowing to a broken and flawed species was beyond us. So he cast me out of heaven, punishing me with an eternity of isolation. After something like that, it’s hard to imagine ever being his favorite.” His jaw clenched. Setting his glass back down onto the bar table, a long silence crept between us before he turned to look in my direction. His eyes were dark and seemingly sunk into the shadows of his face. Dim blue lighting coming from the bar made them look dull and vacant. The creases in his forehead gradually softened as the corners of his mouth relaxed, allowing a melancholic demeanor to replace his usual devilish front. He looked vulnerable. I found myself reaching across the bar, gently placing my hand over his. He froze.

“I’m sorry.” It might have been the alcohol in my system and the light buzz I was beginning to feel, but I felt compassion for him. Growing up and even now as an adult, I’d always been told the devil was an evil man, a fallen angel who was dangerous and rebellious, walking about “like a lion, seeking to devour someone.” The “wicked one” is what he was referred to as. Yet, the man sitting in front of me right now was the complete opposite. There was no trace of maliciousness on his face. His posture weak as he hung his body to the bar’s counter. 

“You’re sorry?” he softly questioned, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” I stared back at him, trying to convey my sincerity through my eyes which had then begun to glaze over. “All these years you’ve been alone. You’ve been judged for your actions and your mistakes. And all based on the word of God. No one’s ever bothered to ask for your side of the story. They’ve discredited you, insulted you, made it to where redemption didn’t seem an option. So yes, I’m sorry.” I turned to face the bar, breaking eye contact. He kept his gaze on me for a minute longer before turning his direction towards the bar. The rest of the night was spent in silence, a quick glance exchanged as I left.

I saw him again the following week. And then the week after that. And the one after that. Before we knew it, it became routine for Lucifer and I. Every Tuesday night I’d head down to the bar and I’d find him sitting in the same stool, three chairs down from the pool table, sipping on a glass of whiskey. This went on for months. We sat in silence at first, but as time passed, we began having conversations. We spoke of our favorite music, our favorite movies, shared more of our life’s stories. Our talks deepened with every encounter. At one point, I’d forgotten I was speaking with the devil. “I have to get back to the motel. I’m not usually out this late and I need to head back before Sam and Dean come looking for me.” I laughed. At the mention of the Winchester brothers, Lucifer’s eyes flickered a bright red before shifting back to the regular warm brown I had grown accustomed to these past few weeks. 

“Wouldn’t want the mighty Winchesters to come and try to save the day.” He  rolled his eyes and waved his hands around in a mocking fashion. I sighed.

“Hey Lucifer?”

“Yes, (y/n)?”

“Thank you.” He cocked his head to the right, scrunching his eyebrows. “Thank you for- just thank you. I enjoy your company.” His eyes softened and before he could say anything, I rushed forward and threw my arms around him. My embrace caught him off guard and his breath silenced for a split second before he relaxed and gently placed his arms around me. We lingered in each other’s embrace a minute more before I pulled back. “I’ll text you once I get to the motel safely!” I shouted as I pushed against the glass door of the bar and walked out into the cold september air.

As I reached the motel, I slowed down and prayed for the boys to be asleep so I wouldn’t have to explain why I was out so late. This was the fourth time this month I’ve come home late, not to add this was the latest I had ever been out. I honestly had no idea what excuse I was gonna give them this time. I hesitantly reached for the motel door, but before my hand could fully grasp the handle, the door swung open. Sam was standing in front of me with his bag hung over his shoulder, phone pressed up against his ear.

“(Y/n)!” He lowered his phone from his ear and dropped his bag onto the floor, pulling me inside the room. Dean came bursting through the bathroom door. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean tucked his gun which had previously been in hand, back into his waistband. “Sam and I called you a million times. We were just headed out to look for you. It’s three o’clock in the morning! What were you thinking?” My heart quickened and the sweat built on my forehead.

“I was at the bar,” I said as calmly as possible, “my phone ran out of battery.” I looked anywhere but the boys’ faces, avoiding all eye contact. I could feel their eyes on me as I slipped off my jacket and moved towards the bed. I lifted my head and my eyes connected with Dean’s as I attached my phone to its charger. “What, Dean? You think I’m lying? I was at the bar and my phone ran out of battery. I don’t know what else you want me to s-” I was cut off by Dean pulling his gun out and pointing it straight at me. “Woah, woah, woah! Dean!” My breath hitched and I shot both my hands up. “I get you’re upset but what the hell!” My eyes opened wide. Any trace of alcohol in my system was surely gone by now.

“(Y/n),” Dean spoke cautiously, “move over here now.” He cocked his gun.

“Alright boys, no need to get violent here.” I turned around to face the voice coming from behind me.

“Luci? What are you doing here?” I stared at him with wide eyes.

“You said you’d text me when you got to the motel safely and I hadn’t heard back from you. I called but you didn’t answer. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. There’s some bad people in this world you know?” Lucifer smirked at the end, shifting his stare towards the Winchesters. I turned my attention towards Sam and Dean.

“(Y/n)?” Sam sneered. “You want to explain to us what the hell is going on?” I let out a sigh as I switched my gaze between Lucifer and the boys. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Well,” I hesitated, “Luci and I-”

“Luci?” Dean interrupted with a bellowing voice. “(Y/n), do you hear yourself right now? You just gave the devil a damn nickname. You’re acting as if he’s your friend!” His eyes were hard and I could see his jaw clench.

“He is my friend!” Quiet fell across the room and all you could hear was my heavy breathing. Luci was the one to break the silence.

“I think the nickname is pretty cute.” He earned a glare from Sam and Dean. “What? You don’t like it? I was thinking of keeping it.” Shrugging his shoulders, he took a seat on the bed. My eyes switched from Luci back towards the boys as I placed my hand on my forehead. 

“All of you. Stop.” I spoke with a firm, demanding voice. I needed all of their attention for what I was about to say. “Everybody sit on the bed.” Nobody moved. “I said, everybody sit on the bed. Now.” This time the boys moved. They sat on the opposite bed in which Luci was already sitting. I turned towards them and took a deep breath. “I know we all have our differences. And before you say some smart ass comments, Dean, Luci, let me finish.” I looked towards the boys. “Boys, every Tuesday for the past few months, Lucifer and I have been meeting at the bar. We’ve talked more than you can imagine and we’ve gotten close.” They both scoffed. I gave them a glare. “Luci is my friend and that’s not going to change. He isn’t who you think he is. He’s just lonely and hurt. I mean think about it. Everybody believes he’s a bad person and in the past billion years he’s had no one there for him.”

“And for good reason (y/n)! For crying out loud, there’s a whole damn book talking about how dangerous he is, how manipulative! You’re falling for a trap!”

“Sam! That’s exactly my point! That book was written by who? By God. By his prophets. It’s told from God's point of view! But what about his? What about Lucifer’s? God’s book tells you all his faults and all his wrongs but what of his good? He’s still an angel for pete’s sake. He just needs someone to care! He needs company! When God created humans, Luci went from being the favorite to being completely ignored. God had his prophets. The angels had the humans. Lucifer had no one. He was forgotten. You have no idea what that can do to you. Loneliness is a poison.” I took a breath before I continued, leaving no room for an interjection. “If according to everyone else, Lucifer is the father of sin, why hasn’t anyone prayed for him? Huh? Who prays for Lucifer? Who, in the past eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner who needed it the most?” I looked over at Luci. “Luci. You are my friend and I promise you, you will never be alone again. Not as long as I’m alive.” I took a step back, signaling I was done saying what I had to say. We basked in the silence until Sam spoke up.

“Ok.” He nodded his head and looked at me with his puppy dog eyes. 

“Ok?” That’s all he had to say?

“Yeah. Ok. I understand.” He stood up, looked over at Luci and then back at me. He walked over to Lucifer and stopped in front of him. Dean followed. “I don’t like you. I probably never will. But for (y/n) I’ll stand you.” Dean leaned in close and continued after Sam.

“Listen here, Luci,” he mocked, “(y/n) is family and I look out for my family. Saying that, if you so much as hurt her in any way, I’ll kill you.” Both the boys backed up. I stepped in front of them, grabbing Luci by the arm. Leading him outside, I closed the motel door behind us. 

“(Y/n). Did you really mean everything you said? Am I really someone you consider a friend?” His voice softened at the end, no louder than a whisper. I looked back at him and gave him a faint smile.

“Of course I meant everything I said.” He gave me a big smile and dropped his head, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I should probably go back inside, don’t want to push my luck.” I laughed. “See you next week, Luci.”

“Yeah, see you next week (y/n).” He smiled at me. And then he was gone.

[mittensmorgul]

15.01 Back And To The Future rewatch notes

Note to anyone reading: I’ve already written a mishmosh of other posts addressing stuff in this episode, so this post is not a comprehensive list of every important or interesting thing in 15.01. This post is “things I haven’t otherwise talked about elsewhere yet” or “things I’ve been meaning to talk about in more detail but haven’t yet,” or “things I’d otherwise be compelled to write into the transcript doc in the other tab and really really shouldn’t.” Because that’s actually the purpose of this particular rewatch-- writing up the transcript. Which is happening in the other tab. :P

(i’m gonna go post the transcript now, so it should be up as soon as I get all the html un-screw-ified... >.>)

That said, let’s gooooo!

well, under a cut because long-ish >.>

I already talked about the song choice, and the fact it was the opening montage music in 9.10 (rip Lamp-- yes, this song has forever been the imaginary background music to Lamp/Other Lamp, sorry, the brain wants what the brain wants). It also reminded me of 11.04, the Night Moves scene, combined with Dean’s joke about how Piper brushed Sam off without giving him her number, and Dean replied “We got tonight, who needs tomorrow,”  where Sam asks Dean if everything is a Bob Seger song to him. Because, heh, here have another Bob Seger song summing up the end of the road here.

But I love how the lyrics MATCH UP with the action in this opening scene.

♪It's been a long time since you smiled♪ [zombies circle around TFW cutting off their chance of escape] Chuck: Story's over. Welcome to the End. [Cas kneels over Jack's body] ♪Seems like oh, so long ago♪ --NOW-- [in the graveyard, the scene picks up where 14.20 left off, and the music continues uninterrupted from the Road So Far montage. TFW battle a zombie horde, as we zoom out from Jack's burned out eyes and the fighting rages on] ♪And now the stage has all been set♪ ♪And the nights are growing cold♪ ♪Soon the winter will be here♪ ♪And there's no one warm to hold♪ ♪Now the lines have all been read♪ Cas: Sam! Dean! ♪And you knew them all by heart♪ ♪Now you move toward the door♪ [Cas picks up Jack's body and runs, leading the way out of the zombie fight. Sam and Dean follow, dodging monsters and graves] ♪Here it comes the hardest part♪ ♪Try the handle of the road♪ Sam [spotting potential refuge]: Dean, this way! ♪Feeling different, feeling strange♪ ♪This can never be arranged♪ ♪From the famous final scene♪

Then there’s the DRAMATIC ZOOM in on Dean that literally cuts Cas out of the shot as Dean reacts to his line that “Well, I wouldn’t starve.” Like that was the moment Dean began to literally shut Cas out, because he feels that line was Cas shutting HIM out. So instead of trying to deal with any of that because ZOMBIES TRYING TO BREAK DOWN THE DOOR is a more immediate concern, he turns his back and goes on his little tirade about Chuck. Like he was reliving that moment he got to smash Chuck’s guitar and wishes he could do it again.

And then we meet Belphegor, who already has a rather hopping tag on my blog, so I’m gonna… just move on a bit from here…

I am in pain over this callback to Bloody Mary, with the teenage girls who seem far younger than the girls from the original. These girls are far more innocent. They didn’t call up bloody Mary, they have no guilt of having killed anyone on their souls. Bloody Mary just… showed up. And tortured and killed them.

But this parallel was twisted. In the original, the girls’ father apparently gave their mother an overdose of sleeping pills that led to her death. in the new version, one of the girls’ parents just got divorced and was compensating by going on a shopping spree and buying everything her daughter wanted. These girls were laughing, loving what that divorce brought them.

It’s sort of a more cheerful parallel to Dean and Cas’s fracturing relationship over their dead son’s body…Well, more cheerful until Bloody Mary kills them, anyway.

Sam learns there’s no sudden worldwide zombie outbreak, so the incident seems localized to that one graveyard.

And at this point I started a THIRD thing I’m working on at the same time, because two was apparently not enough. I think I’m gonna copy/paste that stuff here, instead. It’s about the Three Ghosts of this episode-- each parallelled directly to one of TFW. Bloody Mary was one, and in this episode she was Cas’s parallel. It’s her victims Cas will find-- two little girls who never deserved the fate Bloody Mary dished out to them. But Mary Worthington had been murdered herself, and her killer never caught. So she originally killed people who kept secrets about others’ deaths as a form of revenge against her own killer. In trying to protect others, she became a killer herself. And heck if that’s not painfully Cas… or something he feels he’s painfully failed to do, to protect the Winchesters from having to do horrific things. And he DID sell his own potential future happiness in exchange for Jack’s life, only to have just watched Jack die horrifically. His sacrifice, again, has amounted to nothing.

In this episode, she follows Cas from the house, through mirrors, and reappears in a dark pond to grab at the mother and child Sam had already saved from John Wayne Gacy (yeah, I’ll type that one up next, but let’s finish this first...). So there’s a being now watching Cas from the depths of a dark pool, waiting to reach up and grab him when he finally feels safe. Sounds like… the Shadow.

So on to Sam vs Clowns. Sam’s direct parallel is the ghost of John Wayne Gacy, in clown costume, that he formerly burned in 14.13. In an episode where he was about to come face to face with his own past in the form of John Winchester suddenly appearing in the bunker, torn from the past. It’s an episode where Sam and Dean find peace with who they’ve become, and lay a ghost of their past to rest.

With the Equalizer wound humming along, affecting Sam in mysterious ways we’ve only begun to glimpse, and Sam’s brief flash of himself with black eyes apparently hurting Dean, it’s hard NOT to think of the parallel that Clowns have always held for Sam-- Lucifer. Heck I’ve written about that recently, or at least it feels like I have… but at the end of this episode, Sam stops and looks Gacy in the face and tells him to shut up. Which is something Sam has ALSO said to Lucifer (or at least a hallucination of Lucifer). The infamous “HE SAID SHUT UP TO ME!” of Hallucifer in 7.15, which ended Sam’s ability to shut out the hallucination by squeezing the cut on his hand.

Now on to Dean’s parallel ghost: Constance Welch, aka the Woman in White from 1.01. A woman who was the first ghost of the entire series, who Sam literally drove into her house to “take her home,” where she had to face what she’d done to her own children. She’d killed her own children in a moment of grief after her husband cheated on her, and then killed herself.

Dean had been moments from killing Jack in 14.20, in a moment of grief, but didn’t. Yet he’s now having some serious issues with Cas throughout this episode and by the end, they’re “frosty.”

Belphegor, with Dean, looks for a human heart to use in their spell, and stumble across one of Constance’s victims. Belphegor rips out his heart and holds it up to Dean, when Constance appears. She recognizes Dean from 1.01, who made her go home, and attacks him. Then tries to attack Belphegor, and actually injures his hand.

But this is the ghost Dean is paired with. He drives her off, and Belphegor does the spell to contain the ghosts by putting the heart in a pile of salt.

Okay, now where was I in these notes… right… Town, where Sam and Dean play FBI, trying to stop a benzene pipeline leak. And wow, what a weird story, right? Sheriff was confused, but helped evacuate the townspeople to safety.

I think it’s interesting that this was intended to be another stopgap measure, like putting Jack in the box in 14.19, because they know this spell won’t hold forever, and they know they have no other reasonable way to fix the problem. But they can try to buy some time, and hope they’ll come up with a better solution before things go sideways.

Dean asks Cas to help Belphegor do the spell thing, but Cas refuses, and goes to work with Sam instead, leaving Dean to deal with the demon possessing Jack. Which leads to all sorts of interesting conversations between them… I think I’ve written and/or reblogged enough posts on the queer subtext… er… text even… of these scenes to just point out here that it exists, and is heavy.

Meanwhile Cas and Sam go house to house looking for people they need to evacuate, and encounter the above ^^ ghosts.

So Dean’s stuck with the demon fanboy who admires what Dean did in Hell, and Dean seems pretty uncomfortable about this, but it’s not like he has a choice, you know? Who else is gonna do this? Cas couldn’t, Sam’s already on the other gig, and that leaves Dean. So… instead of denying what he’d done, he brushed it off as “a long time ago.” And then actually asked what the situation in Hell was like. The answer Belphegor gave is… interesting.

Belphegor: You ever seen an ant hill when it's, like, set on fire? [lol no, according to Dean’s wtf face] Okay, well, there we were, minding our own business, you know, flaying people for eternity, like you do, right? And then every door in Hell just sprang open all at once. You know? Souls got out. Sky cracked. And, uh, boom, ta-da, you know?

So all the gates are open, including the Cage, but Michael’s apparently still just sitting there. Which is worrisome. But my question is, if all the gates are open, yet the entire planet isn’t flooding with demons and souls, ONLY through the direct portal into that graveyard, how can what Belphegor said be true? At least, theoretically… But that’s a question for another day, when we have more canon to understand.

So… Dean has to face Constance, who flings him into a dumpster. Which makes me lol think about 1.01 and Dean flinging himself off a bridge to get away from her, and ended up covered in mud.

Cas’s “It’s one ghost,” *two more ghosts appear* “It’s three.” reminded me of “I got this,” “I don’t got this.”

Sam accidentally shooting Cas because the ghost got between the two of them horrifyingly reminds me of 12.17 and Eileen accidentally shooting Mr. Top of his Class at Kendricks when Dagon deliberately came between the two of them. At least Cas is salt-proof, you know?

Belphegor calling out Bad Ghost! kinda reminds me of Dean’s “Here ghostie ghostie ghostie” from 4.13. But REALLY. A demon, who tortures souls for fun and profit, yet can’t do anything more than weakly scold a ghost like a misbehaving puppy? INTERESTING. Because it’s Dean that has to whack her with a metal rod, while Belphegor ends up with deep gouges in his hand that are clearly causing him pain.

Dean hurls the name Casper at Constance before he whacks her, which is also a callback to 1.01. It was Sam who called him out for shooting at her with regular bullets: “What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?” Lol that he remembered that.

Sam pulled a “I’ll hold them off, I’ll hold them all off” hopeless move when he sent Cas away, like Cas once did in 4.22 when he sent Dean away to stop Sam… but Sam actually got out in one piece, even though his gun was empty.

Sam picks up the little girl and runs as fast as he can and only looks back once he’s outside and safe. Like “take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back”

I already wrote about the callback of Dean distracting Sam from tending to his wound with the cut-off joke, reminding me of the scene in 4.09 of Sam doing something similar while fixing Dean’s dislocated shoulder.

And then we have the realization that they’ve never really had free will, just limited choices because of the circumstances Chuck put them in. Sam is unrealistically optimistic that it means that Chuck’s actually gone, now. But that’s the hope he’s holding on to in order to get through this horror.

So this… is what they’re setting up as the guidemap to the series finale. Specifically, Sam and Dean must finally earn their way free. The ghostpocalypse is just step one, and not the true end. There’s still Heaven and Hell to deal with (though Heaven is mostly empty of angels and Hell seems to be actively crumbling now). And Michael, whenever he gets around to walking out of the cage. I’m sure that will go great! Unhinged archangel on the loose! But those are all minor distractions compared with Chuck, because he hasn’t really gone anywhere.

And we still don’t know what Actual Jack, Billie, and the Shadow are up to in the Empty, in their secret meeting in a realm that Chuck has no power. And what about Amara? How does she feel about this now that she’s grown fond of creation? I think there’s a much bigger game afoot than just a ghostpocalypse.

Meanwhile, Sam’s quote here is still setting up the final scene of the series: When we win this, God's gone. Hm. There's no one to screw with us. There's no more maze. It's just us. And we're free.

That’s the goal.

[webcricket]

Winter’s Eye

Pairing: AU!CastielXReader Word Count: 1560 (Ch. VII) Story Summary: Season 13 canon tells you how AU!Castiel’s story ends, this is how it begins. The deranged and damaged iteration of Castiel we met in the apocalypse universe - an obedient soldier to Michael’s cause barely in control of his vessel’s frayed and erratically firing nerves whose inherent kindness toward humankind appeared entirely obliterated - wasn’t always an unfeeling angelic weapon of interrogation. Once, he sympathized with the plight of humans; one, he loved. Outlined for 10 chapters (although, my muse is bad at maths and these things have a way of multiplying). Chapter Summary: As the connection between Cas and the reader finds firmer footing, a link from his past arises to threaten them both.

Previous Chapter: VI

VII.

“Are you kidding me?” The question explodes in a puff of breath on the frozen air; before you unfolds a pristine island of black tarvia, the filtered sun beating down on it with enough heated force to melt the snow anywhere pavement touches. Parking spaces outlined in regular intervals of yellow striping, and a handful of abandoned vehicles, radiate from the mountainous façade of a Mega-Mart.

Surveying the scene through the squinted blue optics of his vessel, Cas casts you a curious knotted-brow glance from where stands at the edge of where forest rings this convenient miracle of civilization seemingly constructed in the middle of nowhere. “Is something funny to you?” he asks, looking between you and a building too empty and too quiet for his instincts to trust; out here you’re exposed - a living breathing target unprotected by a buffer zone of wooded isolation – and he doesn’t like it one iota.

“No-” you laugh, further confusing his brow with the conflict inherent between your answer and attitude- “I guess I was expecting a rinky-dink general store fronting a small town main street. Not this-” You gesture at the looming building, a wonderland promising to contain anything and everything your heart could possibly desire and more. More, that is, beyond the surprise solace of sharing a cabin with your very own personal overly protective angel, of course.

“There is a highway not far from here, and a town like you describe – one whose populace was decimated by werewolves and worse. It’s not safe there or here,” he says gravely. And yet here you are, allowed to tag along against his better judgement because, in a moment of weakness of reason, he let an inexorably extant and angelically errant emotion of fondness for you overrule his head.

“We should hurry-” haste propels his feet forward; he curls a beckoning arm backward- “Stay close.”

You obey, legs scissoring at a trot to try to keep step with his purposeful stride. On level ground, it’s even more punishing a pace than the hike that hurried you here. Feeling the bite of blisters forming on the boney points of your heels and on the tops of your toes, you make note on your mental shopping list to search for a pair of better fitting boots and Band-Aids.

As you thoughts wander, he begins to outpace you. “Hey, where’s the fire?” you pant across the growing gap of distance.

Gradually getting the gist that not all questions you pose want answering given he observes no indications of a blaze in the immediate vicinity, he ignores the query, but not the subtext of comment on his speed, and slows until you catch up.

Approaching the sliding glass doors of the entrance, he notes they are intact and locked just as he last left them. A scattering of stone spilling outward from the threshold, not so accidental as it appears, lies undisturbed.

Strategically speaking, this would be the easiest egress for an intruder to gain entrance inside. The rear and side admittances are steel, chained, and padlocked. Still, with you to watch over, he does not permit these subtle reassurances to soothe his caution.

A flick of two fingers to focus his grace frees the dead bolt. He pries the doors apart with brute strength just far enough to permit you both to squeeze through. On last look out at the parking lot as he secures the doors shut, his regard is drawn heavenward to the horizon to a solitary silvery vapor streaking the otherwise uniformly tarnished gold glow of the sky – a wisp of airy nothingness so slim as to barely be noticed and the sort of smoky linear disturbance a plane would create in its wake as it passed - a contrail disturbing the pressure of the low atmosphere.

Except there are no planes, and there hasn’t been anything save the bodily bound bombs of angels skimming the firmament in flight - or, like him, falling in a smoldering ruin of fate - since the day Michael donned a crown formed by the flayed flesh and bone and souls of billions of humans and the emptied glory of the thousand and more angels who opposed him and whose snuffed existence stains, in a bloodied shadow of once brilliant light, Castiel’s hands.

In the seconds he spends considering the cloud, it dispels in a freshet of cool wind. It wouldn’t make sense, angels scouting here where there is nothing. They’ve done with him, banished him to dwell in and on his defeat, and ever since he etched a warding sigil upon the curved carriage of your ribs, they cannot so much as sense you exist.

Besides, with what you’ve told him of the holdouts of human resistance groups, why waste heavenly resources hunting one human in a haystack of the wild when bigger targets persist.

The tear of a candy bar wrapper loudly resonates in the benumbed and stagnant space; the crumpling of plastic and crunch of chocolate crust is swallowed up as eagerly by the silence as your gullet.

“I missed these,” you mumble and moan in immodest taste bud titillating pleasure around a mouthful of melted sugary goodness as his gaze rounds to seek out the source of the sound.

“Shh-” he scolds; the grit of worry in the warning hushes you instantly.

Terror tightens your throat so that you cannot swallow the amalgam of sugar and saliva held amid your teeth and tongue. Heart seizing, then pounding with such ferocity each ferried beat of fear shudders your frame, bits of brown moisture ooze at the trembling corners of your clinched jaw.

In the depths of the store, somewhere down a darkened aisle, winding to reach his celestially superior discernment, a soft scraping of fabric and rubber soles, slightly sticky on the tiled floor despite the feather-lightness of the footsteps, faintly perforates the calm.

Lashes widened in alarm quickly narrow again in a lethality of resolve; an inner luminance of blue burns in his searching gaze as he shifts a few steps into the eerie fringes of where the window light bleeds into the dimness. When he shakes his sleeve, you see a glint of metal flash into his grip.

Adrenaline opens up your veins and, also oiling your muscles to fight or flee from this place, it permits you to thickly and audibly gulp the wad of partially chewed chocolate nougat.

He extends the hand unburdened by a blade out at you, a movement meaning to say that you should do neither and duck out of sight behind the register.

You misread the purely practical physicality of his request and instead cede to the instinctive tug at your emotions to meet his fluttering fingers halfway, meshing yours into the warm sanctuary of their apertures and securing your other arm through the crook of his elbow to flatten his entire weaponless limb to your chest.

To say the action – a clingy suggestion of deeply rooted trust, concern, and consequently of a firm belief in his ability to shield you in the face of danger - catches him off guard would be an understatement.

However, with a hiss of his name in a tone familiar to him as that of his unwaveringly loyal lieutenant and sister – Rachel – slicing through the dark loud enough, even, for you to hear the anger and resentment whetting the knife of feminine voice, he has no time to analyze the exhilarating effect your embrace and corporal nearness exerts upon his being, nor does he permit more than a speck of added anxiety to alter the determination of his affect.

Pivoting, his typically stony rigidity a balletic display of swiftness, grace, and fluid urgency, he covers your mouth, pins you flush against the waist-high wall of the register, and very briefly steals your breath in the press of his hips against yours. The dynamism of his blues, desperately sparking hue dancing less than an inch from your flared lids, implores you to stay there no matter what happens.

He’s certain she heard you - can hear the wild banging of pulse within your body just as clearly as he can – she is, after all, an angel, and a sometime ally sympathetic to humanity who is not as dead as he presumed and evidently has an axe to grind with him.

If you stay out of her way, you may yet survive. Castiel maintains less hope for himself, and before he found you, he would’ve welcomed whatever retribution she required up to and including his life – a life sunken into meaninglessness and seeped in suffering; but now, staring into your eyes, their pleading concern begging him to be careful, to not leave you alone, he feels reason to fight.

Numbed by panic, limbs turning into immovable lead weights of worry for him, you feebly nod against the electrically charged scent of his skin a promise to stay put for his sake and collapse as he pushes you down to your knees and into the alcove underneath.

You watch the lower portion of his legs retreat from your sight and disappear into the gloom. Straining to hear what is happening, the pain pinching your heart in his absence drums dully in your ears and pulls with each strung and stinging beat at the fluid filling the blisters on your feet.

Castiel tag list:  (Closed, if you’d like to be removed please let me know!)    @jeepangel  @sammiesamness  @willowing-love  @blueicevalkyrie   @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11  @thesugargalaxy​    @bluetina-blog​  @dont-trust-humanity​  @afanofmanystuffs  @honeybeetrash​  @bucky-thorin-winchester​  @superwholockz​   @tistai​  @wordstothewisereaders​  @gill-ons​  @mrswhozeewhatsis​  @marisayouass​  @stone-met​   @castiel-savvy18​  @samualmortgrim​  @trexrambling​  @magnificent-mantle​  @kdfrqqg  @xdifsx​   @mandilion76​  @rockfairy​  @peaceloveancolor​  @unicorntrooper​  @anisolatedship​  @itsilvermorny​  @aditimukul​  @kudosia​  @goofynerd-67babylove​  @uninspirationalsonglyrics​  @gray-avidan​  @mishascupcake​   @mishapanicmeow​   @praisecastielamen​  @roseyhxnt​  @jessikared97​  @let-the-imaginationflow​  @warriorqueen1991​   @sebastianstanslefteyebrow   @hisnameisboobear  @kristendanwayne  @fuschiarulerinthebluebox​  @coolpencilpie​  @jenabean75​  @luciathewinchestergirl​  @morganas-pendragons​  @heyitscam99​  @fangirl-and-stuff​  @selahbela  @realgreglestrade​  @splendidcas​  @pointlesscasey​  @i-larb-spooderman​  @thewhiterabbit42​  @thelostverse​  @castieliswatchingoverme​  @beccollie18  @dragonett8  @dixie-chick​  @jtownraindancer​   @carowinsthings​  @passionghost​  @ladyofletters67​ @futureparent​  @gabbie7-11​  @myfandomlife-blog​  @dreamerkim​ @shamelesslydean​  @earthtokace​  @neaeri​  @justanormalangel​  @lone-loba​  @supernaturalymarvel​  @lilrubixx​  @wings-and-halo​  @x-cassiopeia​ @thehoneybeecastielfollows​  @musiclovinchic93​  @81mysteriouslyme​  @the-bottom-of-the-abyss​  @jaylarkson​ @pixiedusts  @spookysculderfiles  @laqueus-ludovicus  @missjenniferb @lexininja  @jessiekay2010   @skrratata  @rhiannonj79  @calicat79

[stusbunker]

Known Finale: Just One of The Many

A Supernatural DARK Fan-fiction

Featuring: Demon!reader x Moc!Dean,  Dean x Chloe “CC” Collins: Hunter/ Nephilim Anomaly OFC, Charlie Bradbury, Castiel, Sam Winchester, Death, and Amara

Summary: CC deals with the consequences of her actions. Dean gets a voicemail and our reader finds that Winchesters rarely heed any advice. Some dialogue is taken from canon. This is it folks, the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading until now. xoxo Stu

Beta’d: @thoughtslikeaminefield and @dontshootmespence Ladies, I owe you more than I can express.

Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS

Series Masterlist

*^*^*^*^

Dark Dynasty

May 6, 2015

Sam’s Code Breaking Hideout

          “Sam and Dean are like my brothers. I love them.” Charlie stood before Rowena, soft and sure.

            “I know. And that steadfast loyalty will be your undoing, my girl,” Rowena’s brief kindness faded into a marked taunt. Charlie squinted at the witch’s retreating form before looking to CC for shared annoyance, instead she found a gentle agreement on the hunter’s face. 

CC wasn’t one for cat fights and she certainly wasn’t going to add fuel to the fire Sam had started by shoving the hacker and the Queen Mother of Hell together, but Rowena had a point. Charlie was just more forgiving than most and CC had been in the life too long for that kind of optimism.

May 7, 2015

Crowley’s Earthside Operation

            “--look, I get it. She’s unpleasant. She’s horrible. She has a messy workstation! What’s the dirt?! There must be something that I don’t know about her. Something I can hold over her as a bargaining chip. A demon lover?” Crowley was incensed with a hamster in a cage, which would have been concerning, if you didn’t understand the hamster as well as your boss. “You don’t need to paint a picture.”

            You bit back a smile as the hamster spewed off Rowena’s questionable decisions like a grocery list.. Naturally, his birth came up along the litany. As his patience started to slip to microscopic proportions, you cleared your throat. “She once saved a little boy’s life.”

            “You, not funny,” Crowley bellowed over his shoulder before he leaned down to glare at the hamster.

            “Oh, come on, it is a little funny, but that’s only ‘cuz it’s true,” you purred, leaning your elbow on the opposite side of the cage’s lid, eyebrows raised in challenge. Crowley’s dark eyes danced over yours as the hamster that was once Olivette grew unnaturally quiet.

            “What’s the punchline?” he demanded.

            You sighed and mock whispered, “he’s still alive.”

            “And?”

            “I’ve met him. Tall, cherub curls and innocent as a Rockwell painting.” The hamster slowly crawled to your side of the forgotten wheel. Crowley listened as you explained the story you had pieced together, a tale of a friendly witch who’d been adopted by an impoverished farming family, lifetimes ago. Before you could give him more than the bare outline of Rowena’s startling past, he was bellowing for a minion and the taste of freedom started to ghost over your tongue.

 Blackbird Motel

            CC picked up the phone on the third ring; it was Cas in a panic. “Chloe, what are you doing?”

            “Girls’ night out, grabbing some pay per view and thinking about throwing a motel party,” CC mocked as she checked that the door and the windows were secure.

            “You know that the Stynes will stop at nothing to find the book.” CC rolled her eyes at the patronizing tone from the angel.

            “Well, it’s a good thing we don’t have the book. Look, she needed a Rowena free space and I can’t blame her. Let the woman work so we can get this over with, once and for all,” CC closed her eyes as Charlie set up her computer, backpack full of notes left on the table untouched.

            “It isn’t just Charlie I’m worried about,” Cas’s voice dropped in warning.

            “We’ll be fine,” CC replied tersely. “I’ll call you when we know more,” she added to appease Charlie’s worried glances before hanging up. “Alright, I don’t think I bought us much time; work your magic.”

            The rain muddied everything, CC’s alertness as well as any sound or scent outside. She hadn’t sat since they arrived, knowing that even a lumpy mattress would push her exhaustion away in the blink of an eye. Startlingly quick, Charlie found the cypher. Just as CC decided she would always bet on red, a gut dropping pound sounded at the door. She waved Charlie into the bathroom as she released her knife from her hip.

            “I know you’re there, Miss Asimov,” a taunting drawl notched CC’s adrenaline to eleven. “You have it, I want it!”

            CC’s mind raced, no time for witty replies now. She had been out of practice and somehow the Book of the Damned had juiced up this family into something she didn’t know how to kill. He banged again, voice genteel and grating. She inhaled and finally spoke, “it’s not here, Jethro. You can back off.”

            “Well, that wasn’t too hard now was it?” And he kicked in the door. He was striking, refined and enraged, and missing half an arm. CC recoiled briefly before squaring up, knife at the ready, focus locked onto her target. “You’re not who I was expecting, darlin’. But either you’re gonna tell me where that book is, or I’m gonna take it out of your little redheaded friend.”

            CC heard Charlie’s voice through the rain and the thin walls, but she doubted whichever Styne stood in front of her could. Help was on the way, all CC had to do was hold the guy off for twenty minutes and the cavalry could clean up. Except fights never lasted that long and the glare he was shooting, told her he thought he’d already won.

            “You should leave, trust me.” CC walked toward him, he wasn’t overly large, a hair smaller than Dean. It was the unnatural way he moved, despite massive blood loss that had her questioning her every step.

            “Not until I get what’s mine,” he bit the last word out with curling lips. He leaped at her, right hand swatting hers as he stepped into her space. Bloody stump of a forearm pushing into her throat. CC dropped lower, getting a nick to his side, slicing through waistcoat, shirt and flesh in practiced motions. He didn’t flinch; the only indication he felt the wound was how his nose flared as he looked into her eyes, disdain dripping from his every pore.

            His hand locked around her wrist, squeezing, the tendons screaming until she felt her bones snap. She kneed his groin, using her center of gravity to push him back. Her knife useless in her misconnected hand, CC dropped it, leaving them to spar on more even terms. The broken in door swung on its hinges in the storm outside and just as CC spotted the shadow watching them a heart-stopping thwack and shattering of plastic sounded from the bathroom. In the second it took CC to realize they knew Charlie was still there, she froze. The blonde kicked her blade to his silent partner and before CC could get out more than a slight force of will against them, they had her caged in.

            His mangled arm wrapped around her neck, unable to grant the pressure he wanted, so he tipped her face at the ceiling, broken wrist pulled across her chest like a frayed seatbelt. The other Styne, the one in the long woolen coat kept quiet, inspecting the intricate carvings on each side of her treasured weapon. The one restraining her let out a low whistle. 

“Oh, that is nice, a bit too classy for the likes of you, though. Now, you gonna sit politely and let us finish our business here, or are you gonna make my cousin put you down with your own blade, girl?”

            CC was, had, and would never be the type to sit politely. She jammed her left elbow into her cage’s ribs. A guttural shriek came from her chest as she tried to bend low enough to get him off his feet in an augmented arm toss. But that only occupied one of her opponents; with little more than a raised eyebrow the cousin jabbed in and down, pulling her collar open like a macabre off the shoulder number. Everything burned, CC fell to her knees, the blonde man walked her down. The gold started to spark in her periphery, and she willed her body to stop. She couldn’t heal, not in front of these kind of men, if any part of them even remained human. Suddenly a hand was on her jaw and her neck popped. She fell, broken and trapped inside her own mind.

            CC watched their tailored suit pants and polished shoes retreat to the bathroom. The sound of blood thrummed in her ears masking the rain and the demands, but not Charlie’s cries. Those she heard as tears of guilt burned through until she willed her eyes closed with the last wisp of energy she could muster. She didn’t want to black out, she needed to stay in control, but her body stopped listening.

            She sat up in a lurch of panic, neck reattached despite herself. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, there he was, covered in Charlie’s blood.

            “Chloe! Thank fuck, what happened?!” Sam crouched over her, eyes misting with grief and shame. She couldn’t answer him, her throat remained partially crushed, and it took nearly all her focus not to repair the damage-- to give herself the pain, a shallow penance for Charlie’s life. Her eyes returned across the room, to Dean holding Charlie’s face in his hands like a parent in comfort, stroking the hair from her face. CC’s sob came out in a shrill wail, gasps as the reality and terror flooded her senses. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Sam’s voice held more than the moment, it was a blanket covering their entire operation. The deceit that was supposed to help, yet it only pushed Dean further away from them all.

The Woods

            Dean felt CC’s brows raise as his words cut into Sam at the pyre, but he didn’t care. This was on her almost as much as it was on Sam. He was so sick of people he trusted letting him down. But this, this was wrong. It was Charlie and she was gone. Screw ‘em. Screw all of them because he couldn’t look them in the eye anymore; their betrayal was beyond gut souring.

            “Yeah, you had a shot. Well, you’re all terrible shots, ‘cause Charlie’s dead. Nice shot.”

            Sam looked up, trying to find his words, to combat the monotoned cruelty of Dean’s voice. “You think I am ever--- going to forgive myself for that?!”

            “You want to know what I think? I think it should be you up there, not her.” Dean barely even moved to deliver the last blow. CC cleared her throat, unable to listen any longer. 

“Don’t get me started on you! This thing with Cas and the book ends now. Shut it down before someone else gets hurt. You both understand me?”

            “What about you?” Sam was the beaten puppy that could.

            “Oh, I’m gonna find whoever did this. And I am going to rip apart everything and everyone that they ever loved, and then I am gonna tear out their heart.” He wasn’t even enthused about it, it came off like weekend plans, point by point.

            “Is that you talking, or the Mark?” Sam needed to stop asking questions.

            “Does it matter?” Dean left the challenge hanging in the air, walking away. Leaving those responsible to watch Charlie burn.

The Prisoner

            Dean waited on Rudy to run the plates while he pointedly ignored a call from Cease. Setting his sights on Shreveport, he went back to listen to the voicemail she left him. Which started off with oddly timid ramblings before she got to her point.

“Maybe in another life, we could have had something close enough to normal. But not after everything.” Dean could hear her sniffling; her voice came back with a bite to it. 

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Charlie, about everything. I should have protected her, but I couldn’t even do that for you. And I fucking hate that, but it’s on me. No matter what you say or do Dean, it is on me. Not Sam.

But apologies are for regret, and I don’t regret trying to help you. If goodbyes are forever, well I aint ready for that sappy shit.”

Dean closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest, it didn’t even hurt anymore. Nothing could touch him; it was the ghost of loss that haunted him. The guilt of unfeeling. Somehow it all came back to rage. He huffed, tongue teasing his back teeth.

“So, I guess, take care of yourself because that’s what I gotta do now.” The line stayed open for a fathomless beat and then the electronic female voice was reading him his saving options. Dean slammed the end call button, leaving Chloe’s voice hanging in the ether between a saved and deleted message.

Curtis’ Motor Court

Brother’s Keeper

            You sifted through the mess of Dean’s making, curious to see if he’d return. He’d certainly given the $39 a night room the rock star treatment. Without any current errands for Crowley, you decided to try your luck. Dean had gone radio silent and that only meant one of two things: he had succumbed to the curse on his arm, or he was done with you. Either way, you had to be sure. Sam found you in the end. He came in, gun raised and desperation bursting out with his big heaving chest.

            “Hey there, Sammy,” you greeted glibly, perched beside the note and keyring. “He knew you’d show.”

            “Who are you?!” Sam barked behind his intricate gun.

            “Just looking for your brother, I’ve been hearing things and it sounds bad,” you sighed, letting your eyes fill in.

“What do you want with Dean?” Sam kept his gun in one hand and reached for his flask.

You raised your hands in surrender. “Same thing as you, want to make sure he’s still Dean. That he’s safe. That everyone is safe.”

“You’re?” Realization washed over him, causing you to hum against a giggle. The latest vessel’s voice bubbly despite your best efforts.

“Long time.” You stood holding out your hand, which you awkwardly tucked into the back pocket of her jeggings. “Heard you struck out on Crowley, too bad on that.”

“Yeah, well, he deserves it.” Sam stuck his tongue in the side of his cheek. “Have you seen him? Any idea where he’s going?”

“Not where, but what,” you sighed and looked up at Sam with warning. “He’s done, Sam. He told me so and after Charlie, I can only imagine—”

“Wait, what are you talking about? When did you see him? You know what, forget it. I’ll find him on my own,” Sam turned to go.

“If Crowley can’t crossroad deal something away and Cas can’t heal it off, who would Dean go to?”

“He hates praying,” Sam shook his head. He flinched, but instinctively caught the keys to the Impala you tossed to him.

“Somebody he knows, Sam. That’s he’s seen, face to face.”

He left without a goodbye or any gratitude, but you allowed Sam his head start.

Juanita’s

Outskirts of Tulsa, Oklahoma

            You pulled up to the run-down restaurant just as Sam stormed inside, your demon senses telling you to stick to the perimeter. Death had already answered Dean’s call and the combination of voices left you enough to eavesdrop with. The hallway that lead into the main dining space was caked in dust. Dean’s voice bellowed, and it was as if you felt the hit his words landed on Sam. This wasn’t your place, this was a sacred conversation, of families and honor and things creatures like yourself couldn’t quite grasp anymore. It was also maddening.

            When the punches started flying you stalked in, earning nothing more than a single finger shush from Death himself. Dean had the upper hand, but that didn’t make you feel any better about his state. Sam yielded, bloodied on his knees. Dean was dark and determined, flashes of a younger soul clouding your thoughts.

            “You’ll never, ever hear me say, that you, the real you, is anything but good,” Sam pleaded from the floor. He spat and pulled himself taller. “But you’re right, before you hurt anyone else, you have to be stopped, at any cost.”

            Your vessel’s blood ran cold. Sam’s tears somehow made their way to your eyes and he nodded to the eternal executioner. “Do it.”

            Dean looked back to Death and he handed Dean his scythe. “Please, do me the honor.”

            Dean took the weapon in awe, gauging the curve of the blade and the balance in the handle. He appeared transfixed and obedient. You tried to scream, but nothing came out. This wasn’t Dean’s destiny, no matter what Cain nor Angels decreed. He couldn’t kill Sam. Dean would not. He inhaled and faced Sam’s shaking form, towering over his brother who had been bigger than him for nearly twenty years. Everyone froze as Dean told him to close his eyes, something he probably said a thousand times before.

            Sam prevailed, he pulled scraps from his jacket and set them at Dean’s feet. Begging him to find his way back, to himself and to family. Death knew better than to let a sibling’s pleas go on too long.

            “It is for family you must proceed, Dean. To be what you are, to become what you’ve become is a stain on their memory. Do it or I will,” he wasn’t demanding, he was calm in a finite kind of way. His words crawled in your ears and taunted your every memory of Dean; it was as if Death could reimagine him into someone else just by sheer force of will. Truth and your unshaken faith in the man Dean was, at his core, beat back Death’s sway.

            Dean paused, genuine anguish in his features as he let Sam make the final call. Even though Sam nodded for him to proceed, Dean asked one last thing from Sam, “forgive me.” 

He lifted the weapon and swung a wide arch, clear into Death himself. The puny man disintegrated before your eyes and suddenly you were in control of your vessel once more. You staggered into the room, legs wobbling from strain at fighting Death’s hold. 

You missed a moment the brother’s shared before blurting out, “What the fuck was that, Dean?!”

            “I think I just killed Death,” Dean sounded on the edge of fear. “Who even are you, lady?”     

            A dumbstruck Sam chuckled, “Dean, this is, uh, Chloe’s demon? I guess.”

            “Y/N? Nice digs.” You smiled gently as Dean’s lip quirked.

            “Wait, you know her actual name?” Sam sputtered as thunder rolled in, made from a wall of voices, out of nowhere.

            “Does that sound right to you?” Dean worried just as the flash of lightning burst through the ceiling. You screeched as Dean groaned with the impact, the magic peeling the Mark of Cain from his skin like an instant laser treatment. Just as quickly as it arrived, it returned through the roof. You gaped at the haphazard miracle you had all witnessed.

            You followed Dean cautiously, his hand reaching back to take yours, pulling the door shut behind you. Sam started talking through the disbelief. “This is good. Dean, this is good. The Mark is off your arm, nothing crazy happened, you get your baby back.”

            Dean dropped your hand to take the keys from Sam. “Yeah, I’m sure everything’s perfectly fine.” Nothing came without a price. Dean headed to the car as sizzling jolts of pink lightning webbed across the sky. Pillars of bolts staggered like tendrils in patternless cascades. Then it stopped.

            “What did Death call this?” Sam knew his victory speech had been a tad premature.

            “The Darkness,” you and Dean said in unison.

            Erupting from the points of impact came giant streaks of black smoke, denser and grittier than any demon. They shot through the sky like dancers hitting a mark, synchronized destruction. They merged in a nearby field and exploded into a boiling mound of matter, growing like an ancient horror show entity. Constantly expanding as you stood beside the pathless hunters.

            “Get in the car! Let’s go, let’s go.” You didn’t even hesitate, Dean pointed, and you listened, sliding into the backseat as if you had never left CC, never been cast out, never been a demon. The sheer terror of the moment dwarfed the realization and you slammed your foot down to help Dean accelerate, a phantom driver. The Impala’s back tires spun through the mud and you gripped the middle of the front seat, desperate to make the escape. The rear wheel fell into a pothole and Dean threw his door wide, panicked.

            “Dean!” Sam looked to the looming shadow as it grew closer, an unstoppable avalanche toppling everything it passed. In two breaths, it had overtaken the Impala. One moment you felt eyes on you and the next Dean had disappeared. Doors and windows all secure, but he was gone. The rolling black cloud jostled the car frame, knocking Sam out before you could ask him if he saw his brother. With every ounce of strength, you had you pushed the backdoor open, the endless tide of fog pushing you back, a tadpole against the current.

            Losing your vessel was your only hope to find Dean in the Darkness, you left her outside the Impala and swam up. This wasn’t the soaring you found most freeing, this was a frenzy of sound and force thrashing against the streams of your being. You reached out with your senses, feeling for Dean, his heartbeat, his scent, his voice. Needling through the chaos desperate to find him. Then you heard his name on the wind and someone else’s tongue.

            She stood with Dean in a clearing that was still drenched in shadow. She was dark lines and angles, elegant black dress hugging her effortlessly. He called out and you dropped down, trying to hold your molecules together in some discernible form. If he saw you, he didn’t reach out to touch you then. He was transfixed by her, by the Darkness personified. He stood challenging her, demanding why she hasn’t atomized him. Then she played him with the destiny card, endlessly bound by the mark on her clavicle. THE MARK, lock and key.

            There was no thought, just white hot, blinding rage. You snaked between them, spreading out to hold her from him. He had come too far to be made into her mindless drone. You had to stop her, you had to save him. As she leaned forward, closing the distance between her and Dean, you screamed without vocal cords. Vibrating with ownership you tried to push her back. You felt her eye your gaseous state and suddenly everything ceased to be. 

 There was no longer Darkness, nor Dean, nor you. It was just, Empty.

Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Dean pulled away from the pristine farmhouse, leaving Jenna and Amara in the safety of family. He had another long drive ahead of him to catch up with Sam. Now that Baby was passenger free; his mind got too loud. He thought that Y/N had been plucked out of the car with him; he couldn’t see her, but he had felt her until he didn’t. There was a gnawing in his stomach on the whim of her bailing on him and her vessel. Something the Darkness said without saying filled the void of doubt with an unwanted certainty.

“No matter where I am, who I am, or who is in the way. We will always help each other,” she promised him. Dean felt it was more warning than devotion, though he couldn’t help but agree. He may have lost the Mark, but he was far from free of it.

*^*^*^*

Epilogue

[naruhearts]

TFW, Jack Winchester & Peace of Mind...

[Dean, ext. in the Impala]

TAPE DECK: The key to quieting your mind, is minding your quiet.  [Dean pulls the tape out, throws it on the seat] —10x11 There’s No Place Like Home transcript ***

Seems like 14x15 Peace of Mind and its premise (the title, guys!) could link back to 14x09 (with all this narrative talk of quietness, tape decks, and using your words)—

x

—and 10x11 besides carrying over 14x14′s key themes of Life and Death, Family, Love and...Love, and Subtext in Storytelling.

In 10x11, Good Charlie faced Evil Charlie — the cunning and conniving (and Charlie herself was a mirror to MoC!Dean), yet she was so preoccupied with shame and guilt over her Dark mirror self that she overlooked something fundamental: the intrinsic dualism of the human condition. Say, being conniving as a hunter helps her save people. Yin and Yang. You cannot be good without evil, and you cannot be evil without good. Agency and free will matter, in that you choose which side to act on, and all the complex nuances in-between — doing something stupid (bad) for the right reasons — are the judges of your moral character. 

In Season Who Am I/Season Mirrors 14, Dean and Cas’ narrative arcs — both mirroring each other (since S12) — cycle back to this internal battle, where Dean saying Yes to Michael was a bad decision, yet it was a decision steeped in the good: his boundless love for his family and the larger safety of the world. Although he stated in 14x13 that he’s ‘good with who he is’ (and I don’t doubt the validity of it at all, because oh man it SHOWS, in almost every facet of his emotional states e.g. transparency with Cas re: his Michael-induced trauma and letting Sam separate himself from his shadow), Dean’s still experiencing a gradual uphill trek to achieving complete self-actualization after decades of John-bred negative self-process, low self-worth, and depression; it’s definitely logical to assume that Dean, at his core, will somehow blame himself for the slaughter of the AU Hunters by Michael!Rowena. 

But don’t worry — Dean’s character progression towards self-love is PALPABLY closer than it’s ever been in S14!! And we all know that, beyond his brother Sam, the key significant motivator for this is Cas: Dean’s subtextual spouse. The one he trusts wholeheartedly. The one who brought him back from the brink, many times. The one who fell for his humanity. The one who did it - all of it - for him. The one who believes Dean is ‘more than strong’/believes Sam and Dean (subtextually: DEAN) are extraordinary, brave, special, burn bright. The one who helps weed out the creeping vines of low self-worth, reminding Dean Humanity Winchester of his valuable lessons: that there is always a way, a better way, a hopeful way.

If death - if evil - still surfaces regardless of one’s perseverance and good intentions, “sometimes things just are; you have to live with that.” Most importantly--

x

Listen to your own advice, Dean.

Cas, on the other hand, struck up a deal with the Empty to protect Jack the TFW mirror. Shifting away from his sense of expendability and self-sacrifice (as the worthless means to a self-destructive end e.g. saying Yes to Lucifer, mirrored by Dean) in past seasons, Cas’ current choices (his choice to sacrifice himself for Jack) are, like Dean, steeped in Love and...Love — and Cas is very humanized this season, with an incredible scale of expressive emotions for an angel and vast internalization of overall human values and human morality — but his angelic self-awareness manifested in 14x14. This pivotal scene between Cas and his character exposition Jack showed audiences that Cas still perceives himself as a “thing” and, like Dean, Cas continues to feel the deep residue of expendability and duty as an ex-Angel of the Lord despite making recent positive characteristic leaps and bounds (his accrued trauma re: Naomi, for example, lurks in the back of Cas’ mind, reminding him of his sole purpose as Heaven’s blunt tool).

14x14’s narrative insight into Cas’ self-awareness of his position in the Winchester family as a supernatural entity (he’s put a lot of thought into knowing what may be in his future — losing Sam and Dean) hinders him from fully acknowledging and accepting the fact that he IS family. Not quite there, my friends, but he almost is.

Jack, yearning to be useful for his family, proclaimed himself a Winchester last episode in the manner most reflective and evocative of Cas, Dean and Sam’s own past choices (Michael, Lucifer, the Mark of Cain, Godstiel — you name it) (Jack’s helplessness was also visually symbolized when he turned into a “sick” dog, additionally closely mirroring Cas and particularly Dean’s duty-bound inclinations, then keeping in mind the connotations attached to Dog in the SPN narrative: expendability.)

Now it’s Jack’s turn to further find himself, sift through the respective TFW influences of faith, hope, and love (the three theological virtues represented by TFW) bestowed upon him, and “die” in order to live. Ouroboros. What path will Jack Winchester choose? What decision will he make? Is he the snake or the chicken? *Mind you, meta writers shivered in our boots once 14x14 aired*

In keeping Gorgon Noah’s snake, seemingly ‘killing’ Michael, and absorbing his grace to become a textually benevolent but subtextually ominous iteration of Godstiel while simultaneously saving his family, we can say Jack is both the chicken and the snake. Thus, in classic Winchester fashion, the effects — the benefits and consequences — of his actions shall reap important self-introspective lessons that Jack will eventually experience.

You can’t save everybody, but you can try to make choices that provide even the slightest chance of winning. If the last few key thematic episodes were any indication: faith, hope, love, and open honest communication (the latter exercised by Jack pretty liberally until Meta Extravaganza 14x14, when he dodged - again in classic Winchester fashion - his own family’s concerns via I’m FineTM) build up your resistance in a turbulent, uncertain world.

As TPTB has thematically reinforced through narrative cyclism and mirrored pathways over and over again during the past few seasons:

Self-love/positive self-process breeds life and rebirth. Self-hate/maladaptively negative self-process breeds death and destruction. To truly be human, we must live with both personal internal forces -- they are naturally interdependent. Self-hate pushes us to seek self-love. Personal imprisonment and control pushes us to break free and release ourselves from control in order to allow growth. Ultimately, life fluctuates and never stays static.

We are absolutely capable of choosing the good and acting on the good.

TFW, once they forgive ALL their faults and transform them into present/future strengths, will finally mind their quiet and have peace of mind. They’re going to realize that living a meaningful life involves the good and the bad. A dual balance of both is tantamount. Jack is the catalyst.

Everything means something.

[barryallenis]

Faded

While I’ve been writing fanfics for years, this is my first crack into the westallen fandom. This was written before 6x01 aired but I think stays true to Barry and Iris’s character and is my own interpretation of their grieving process after Nora’s loss. Most chapters to come on my fanfic account!

Soft sobs.

The only thing he could hear.

She sat curled against the dark tile, sobs growing in every breathe, quicker and quicker still, until her face was caked in tears.

He stood motionless, despite calls deep within his subconscious. He wanted nothing more than to lunge for the button beside him, to apologize, to hold her for as long as he could before she was...

And just then, the sobbing stopped. The distressed girl began to fade into the rigid wall behind her, breaking into pieces as if she were made of porcelain, filling the glass cage that held her. The brightness of the cage grew as the pieces spread, brighter and brighter. Body stiff, his mind screamed towards the light, begging it to stop, telling it he was sorry.

Suddenly, the brightness switched into darkness, darkness that grew small speckled spots and a faded streak in the shape of window panes.

He had regained mobility and his coarse hands immediately ran to his face, which was coated in a healthy layer of sweat. If it was not for everything else his brain was focused on, he would have commented on how ironic it was to have sweat so heavily laying still in bed when he had run several hundred miles at a time without so much as a bead.

Instead, his mind kept playing through the images he had just seen over and over again at hyper-speed. He did not need to fall back asleep for them to reenter in total clarity. He did not know how long he laid there, the sounds of sobs making his head ache, until his thoughts caught with a gentle touch to his forearm.

He looked down to see his wife's concerned, albeit wretchedly tired, eyes stuck on him. She did not move to speak.

"I'm alright, go back to sleep."

"Sleep". She riffed with jocular illusion.

Her dry sarcasm shook him out of his own heart, he turned towards her, now pleading her to speak.

"I keep expecting..." she bit her lip as it began to quiver "to suddenly forget... and I'm terrified. Because as painful as it is to live with what happened... I don't know what I would do if all we had of her was a - a book."

Suddenly Barry felt mute once again. He knew he didn't forget, his speed and his connection to the timeless void of the speed force kept him from that. It was the only reason he had started to lose his memories of the past in flashpoint. He was becoming human, with no origin story, no bolt of lighting, no dead parents, he had nothing connecting him to the speed force anymore. He remembered what that felt like, how hopeless he felt trying to cling to a reality that was no longer, how desperate he was that he let Thawne free - again.

What if Iris did forget? Would he be the only one to remember her? With her father's eyes and her mother's smile and her unwavering determination to set things right and leave a legacy all her own?

"You won't forget her. Because I wont forget her, and we'll find a way."

She sighed, gently closing her eyes, as if to squash a bad memory. Barry returned to staring at the ceiling, his eyes fixed.

Iris reached over and began to caress his forearm, until reaching down to grab his hand that laid squarely between them above the covers. His grasp was tighter than expected, more alert. She knew what was keeping him up, most likely, the same thing that had been keeping her. But even in the late night, when his thoughts should have at least been groggy, it was getting his full attention.

"Talk to me." She said softly.

He stared outward, unknowingly, before turning to give her a half hearted smile. "I'm okay, really." Her eyes were as soft as her hands, perhaps it was there dewiness from recent arise or most likely, just the look of someone, the only other person alive who could possibly understand any shred of what he was feeling. "I can't stop thinking about her either."

Iris bite her lip. "We have to take solace in the message she left. And know that we can carry out her legacy."

Barry just nodded softly.

"Barry I know these last few weeks particularly have been ... but she was smart and she knew, regardless, how much you loved her. You were her hero Barry, before she knew you were the flash and after everything that happened."

"She sacrificed herself..." he found himself saying this to a void, unsure if it was even out loud, "for me, so that I could have a future. How - how does a child...?"

Iris's eyes were misty now. But she'd never seen this look on Barry's face before. Maybe it was the lethargy or her coated eyes, but the only look she could register was shame.

"Barry -"

There was so much more he wanted to say but it caught in his throat as the word "hero" rang through his head like a church chime in his wife's demure voice. It was not the first time the title made him uneasy, the wormhole for one, all the death he had caused, the pain to the people he loved.

Nothing felt quite like this though. He didn't just feel unheroic, he felt inhuman. He had a strong desire to disassociate himself from his own body and yet, felt more grounded to it than ever. He was not "The Flash" or the "Masked Fighter of Central City" he was a father who had failed his daughter. He hadn't failed humanity, but he failed his most human role within it, supporting and protecting his child.

And as he looked over at his wife, her understanding eyes, he felt more ashamed than ever.

"I think I'm just gonna take a walk." He said as he began to remove himself from bed.

"Bare it's four in the -"

A whoosh. And he was gone.

He did not return that morning, as Iris readied for the day. She kept her phone close to her but she did not make a call. She kept looking at the front door, but she did not make moves towards it until she was on her way to her office. A small part of her wished for a fire in an abandoned building somewhere, big enough to need help but small and isolated enough no one got hurt, just something that sprung everything into action. The mundane activity she had been doing left too much room for her mind to wander. Through the last 6 months, the girl in her jacket, the man no longer under lock, and the one who has been taking a "walk" since daybreak.

Washing her face, making coffee, slipping on shoes, it all felt too normal. She had lost a child. A child who hadn't even been born, conceived, imagined, but her child all the same. She hadn't raised her... and yet, she had. Whatever she had missed in the first 27 years, without Iris and Barry, she would have never existed. It didn't make any sense to feel the way she did about what had been a total stranger all but 6 months ago. But there was a part of her subconscious that knew this separate, or future, life that would lead to those moments. Carrying her, delivering her, teaching her to walk, to talk, to think. Maybe it was the way Nora called her "mom" with such ease, even in their darker days early on her arrival. She didn't feel as though "mom" was a title for her, as if it were all a game, but the way she spoke it she made her believe it.

Upon returning from grabbing a sweater from her bedroom she heard keys rumbling in her padlock laden front door. A moment later her husband appeared, looking more disheveled than when he had rushed out of bed, his five o'clock shadow glowing against the dim foyer light. The couple made eye contact from the door to the stairs, both opening their mouths for delicate words, when a buzzing erupted from both of their pockets.

One look upon Iris's face and she felt a familiar whoosh of air, a jostling motion and she was suddenly back in front of the monitors of Star Labs.

"Glad I came in early today" Cisco said from a surprisingly far distance from her or any computer system. "Who thought wheely chairs were the right move for this room?"

"Barry it looks like there's a grand theft auto out of the dealership on 57th." Iris tapped along her dashboard in a familiar fashion. "CCPD is still several minutes out."

"Psh do people still think a sports car is faster than the flash just because it's 8 in the morning?" Crisco rang in.

Iris could feel Cisco's attempts at normalcy, his tone gentler then usual amidst his albeit, typical, jokes. She knew he meant well and that's the only reason she didn't punch him in the arm.

"Barry he's headed into the tunnel, if you don't stop him before I'm seeing high change of a massive pileup. Cisco can you turn the traffic lights on the way to the tunnel?" Iris asked.

"On it."

But there did not seem to be a need, as shortly after Cisco manned traffic control, the car veered off the road instead, hopping haphazardly into the mildly populated park that had once been beside him. Barry, who had been preparedly creating a vortex to decelerate the vehicle, had been thrown off course as well. His eyes instead became fixed on the child's playground directly in front of the target.

His vortex creation veered course, cutting tares in grass instead of concrete as Barry tried to keep up with the swerving car. Mere seconds later was the horse-powered car pulled to stop and its driver thrown from the vehicle. It was not deceleration that had been the culprit of the throw, but two red gloves.

"What, you think your life is so much above everyone else's you don't even think about the people you could have killed in the process?! Huh? All for a little joy ride?"

Barry was standing over him now, a man now defenseless and disoriented, his figure getting closer and, seemingly, angrier with every step.

"I wasn't gonna hurt anybody -" the man pleaded at the face of the hero.

"You think you choose whether you get you hurt someone or not?" He was screaming now, his hands finding them to the man's collar, yanking him to his level. Onlookers began to watch from a distance. "No, your reckless behavior is what chooses! You wanted a car that was worth endangering the lives of all these people to get. All of these children -"

"Flash!" A voice rang out from across the park. Barry turned to find Ralph, or rather, elastic man, standing among a crowd of park goers, parents and children among them. "You gonna cuff him or...?"

[wlwinry]

Number 1, with our fave, Elizabeth

Porompt: “Well, what can I say? I’m a badass.” I promised you vigilante vampire Elizabeth and that, Iris, is what you get! Enjoy!

[or: au where Elizabeth is killed trying to find the Seven Deadly Sins, only to be Turned into a vampire by Gelda; seven years later, Elizabeth is a wandering “vigilante” who kills the worst scum to walk the streets]

She spat out the gore of the torn throat, swallowing the blood that leaked from the ripped-out flesh. The would-be rapist–an asshole who eyewitnesses and victims whispered led innocent women and girls out to the back alleys of the village tavern and took advantage–lay dead at her feet, mutilated beyond recognition, a bleeding hollow left where his throat had been. She ran her tongue across her fangs, clearing them of the bastard’s blood before retracting them once more to the point where they looked ordinary, and she looked human.

Well, as close to human as someone like her could get, anyway. 

A mirthless smile curved her lips as she licked her deceptively delicate hands clean of ruby-red gore, clearing blood from under her fingernails. As soon as she pulled up the hood, she’d be another face in the crowd, another traveler passing in and out. Stay any longer, and people would get suspicious, but leave now and she’d go down in legend yet again as a mysterious protector, the pale wraith who brought judgement upon the cruel and cowardly, who took their lives as payment for their misdeeds, and left them drained of their own lifeblood in various gruesome ways.

The world had their own theories on what she was, who she was–a god, a monster given human form, the illegitimate daughter of the deceased King of Vampires (which was surprisingly close to the mark), and of course, the only accurate one of the bunch: the lost princess of the kingdom of Liones, presumed dead and Turned by a mysterious vampire that escaped the destruction of the captured city of Edinburgh. It was ironic, really, how much that theory got right–and how many people therefore dismissed it as being “too outlandish.” Perhaps truth was stranger than fiction in this case, but it didn’t make it any less funny when she heard about her own exploits in taverns and the truth of her story was said to be simply too strange to be real.

A huff of amusement escaped her as she kicked the fallen body onto its stomach, tugging her hood up over her head as she turned toward the exit of the alley–and froze, shifting subtly into a fighting stance at the sight of a cloaked figure mirroring her own position, face hidden by their own hood.

Then the figure laughed, bringing her delicate hands together to applaud for her. “That was magnificent, darling! You’ve grown so much stronger since last we met.”

Elizabeth relaxed at the familiar voice, smooth as smoke over silk and dangerous bloodstained satin–not dangerous to her, not yet, but every bit as deadly as she herself was. “Well, what can I say? I’m a badass.”

“Oh, yes, I know.” The woman stalked up to her, heels clacking lightly over cobblestones; she would never understand her sire’s fondness of such finery, a fondness actually shared by most of her people. It seemed she hadn’t gotten the memo in that regard, or perhaps it came with being raised a princess, that she found such things almost mundane. She still adored a lovely dress and the aesthetics appealed to her, but when she looked back upon the naive little girl she’d been and the warrior she was now…well, maybe it wasn’t so strange that she wanted to distance herself from the past.

One of those pale hands reached out to her, moon-white skin practically glowing under the faint starlight. She wasn’t foolish enough to refuse it, instead linking her arm with her sire’s, sensing the approval within her at the action as she was led out of the alley and down the street. “So,” Elizabeth started, knowing well the other woman’s fondness for dramatics, “what have I done to warrant the honor of a visit from the Lady Gelda?”

Gelda chuckled, the edge of her blonde braid spilling out from beneath the velvet cloak’s hood as she angled her head toward Elizabeth. “Can’t a sire visit her favorite darkling?”

“Mmm, not really. You told me when I left the clan that I’d be on my own from here on out.” Elizabeth slid her gaze to the flicker of scarlet beneath the hood, mirror to her own–to the eyes that all royal vampires had. She hadn’t exactly expected to go from a human princess to on-par with the current vampire leader (though apparently that was to be expected, Gelda had told her–a newly Turned vampire would most likely be the level just below their sire, or occasionally the same level. Once in a blue moon, a new darkling would rise to a level higher than their sire’s, but Gelda was already at the highest level remaining after the death of Izraf…though sometimes she caught a strange, wary look in Gelda’s eyes, like she didn’t know what Elizabeth was), but it had happened all the same.

Oddly enough, she wouldn’t change a thing.

Gelda clicked her tongue. “While that’s technically true, I figured you deserved a courtesy call about the…new situation developing in Liones.”

Instinctively, Elizabeth tensed up, though she hid her turmoil as well as her sire did, never slowing her pace or letting her faintly-amused mask falter for a second. But Liones…it was her homeland, the place she’d fled in an attempt to save long, long ago. The place where her killer still resided, and probably walked free, and the corruption of the Holy Knights still kept her father captive. She knew bits and pieces of what had happened over the past seven years–the false Grand Masters’ search for her blood, and the hunt for the legendary Seven Deadly Sins, but not much else. She hadn’t set foot in that land since she’d learned of the bounty of her head, but if there was a new development… “Situation, schmituation. Liones is none of my concern anymore.”

Gelda’s smile was a bright slash in the shadows–she knew the game well, had taught Elizabeth precisely how to play. “Oh, but I think you’ll find this one interesting, darling.” Her fingers drummed lightly on her arm–long, and delicate, and yet just as capable of ripping hearts from chests and crushing throats and tearing people in half as Elizabeth’s equally long, delicate musician’s fingers. “Apparently, the Holy Knights of Liones have captured and subdued the captain of the Seven Deadly Sins, Meliodas.”

Elizabeth stopped short at that, her eyes widening. Memories flickered in her mind’s eye, swimming like minnows–too many to count and too fast to catch, green eyes bright smile hurt, so much hurt and grief deep below the surface–before dissipating with a blink. Meliodas–she knew the stories of Meliodas, knew that the Dragon’s Sin of Wrath was a monster in terms of strength, that he had been the one to destroy the once-thriving kingdom of Danafor, knew that someone like him should not possibly have been subdued by the likes of the Holy Knights. “How?” she demanded, unable to stop herself. “How the hell–”

“Those in control of Liones have started meddling with forces they do not understand.” Gelda’s tone was flat, dangerous–as close as she’d ever heard her sire get to viciously, openly angry. “They began experimenting with the Demon Clan–”

“The Demon Clan?”

“Yes, Elizabeth, the Demon Clan–not all of them were sealed away three thousand years ago.” Gelda turned, facing her. For the first time since she’d happened upon her in that alleyway, Elizabeth could see her face clearly, ruby-red eyes piercing her as strands of blonde hair fell in her eyes, more disheveled than she’d ever seen her. “They’ve begun forcing new recruits to take demon blood into their veins, and more and more of them are becoming obedient monsters at the beck-and-call of the highest-ranked Knights. With the Sin of Wrath incarcerated–quite possibly being experimented on or tortured, given his bloodline–and as of now unable to escape, the other Sins will take it as an act of war and converge upon the capital of Liones, only to be faced with a host too powerful, too numerous to conquer.”

Elizabeth blinked, swallowed harshly, feeling her world tilt off its axis. Rage–burning, all-consuming rage was starting to bubble up at the knowledge of what had been done to her kingdom, her people…and deep, nauseating guilt for abandoning them to this. “Why are you telling me this?” she rasped.

Gelda’s gaze was blade-sharp. “Because they are expecting the Sins. They are not expecting a vampire queen with the ability to walk in sunlight. They are not expecting you.” She stepped forward, staring Elizabeth down. “Hendricksen needs to be stopped. The Demon Clan needs to be stopped.”

“I ca–”

“Can’t? Why not?” Gelda swept an arm out, gesturing to the empty streets. “People have gone home safe, happy, unafraid because of you, called your deeds heroic, legendary. I am no hero, Elizabeth–I have a duty to my clan, my people, and besides, my fire is no match for Hendricksen. For you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I won’t make you go–it’s up to you. But like I said, this is a courtesy call–and a warning.”

“A warning?” she repeated, still reeling from everything Gelda had said. More powerful than her–how–Demon Clan–here? Meliodas–Meliodas, I know you, I know–

The stare she got in return was cold. “One kingdom has already fallen. Without you to save it…” She shrugged–and then vanished into the night, as though she’d never been there at all.

Elizabeth stared at the place where she’d been, blinking, considering…and then as the first rays of dawn painted the sky in blood and fire, she turned on her heel, setting on a course toward the past she’d run from so long ago. And despite everything, despite the battle ahead and the poison crawling across the kingdom she’d loved, despite all that was lying on the rugged path before her, a dark, vicious smile curved her lips.

You might be a monster, Hendricksen, but so am I.

And I am your worst nightmare.  

[lolabean1998]

Ali-cat part 2

Sweet pea fanfic 

First day on the job and Ali was flying round, music blasting through her headphones keeping her tedious task of clearing tables rather entertaining. She danced to herself and was perfectly happy to stay in her happy little bubble, a couple of the older serpents had waved her over to hand her a tip for being such good entertainment but respected her wish to keep to herself. She worked fast and efficiently which impressed Hog Eye and earnt her an extra 50 cent per hour for her hard work.

“So I tell you that the serpents are bad news especially the tall terrifying giant and you go and get a job in his favourite hang out?!” Cas shrieked in shock, “Are you mad?!”

“Relax Cas,” Ali soothed putting her feet up on the bench as the pair basked in the mid day sun. “He spends his whole time playing pool, I don't think he’s even twigged that I work their.” 

Monday morning was grey and gloomy, the weather had taken a turn for the worst and by the time Ali had reached school she was dripping wet, her hair clung to her face and her make up had now taken to resemble that of Alice Cooper. Luckily Cas had driven bringing a spare change of clothes just in case and was more than happy to lend them to her soaking friend, assisting in fixing her make up and drying her hair as well. Ali skipped first period, Gym class in the rain wasn’t particularly appealing, opting to use the time to dry off and change. 

“You know I can give you a lift to school, saves you swimming and freezing to death.” Cas mocked ringing out Ali’s long hair and tying it up in a scruffy bun when she was satisfied it was dry enough. Ali smiled wiping away the thick black lines that had run down her now very pale cheeks.

It’s fine honestly, I could use the exercise and its not that far.” She insisted, applying a new layer of mascara.

“Ali, you do not need the exercise, your already tiny!” Cas exclaimed doing Ali’s other eye.

After Ali was finally ready to meet the public again, the girls headed off to their next classes, Cas dropping Ali off at her social studies class before heading to her maths class down the hall. 

“See you later.” Ali called out before heading inside.

“Nice of you to join us Ali, the class has been partnered up in an attempt to increase the learning potential. You got last pick since you weren't here, sit down, get to know your partner and write an essay on the social interactions used.” Her teacher droned from behind their desk. Ali looked round to see the tall dark haired serpent she had been warned about, was the only one with out a partner. He watched her hungrily as she took a breath and made her way over to him perching quietly on the chair next to him, his eyes wandering over every inch of her slim frame.

“Hey,” she said brightly, pulling out her book, “So I thought we could start by introducing ourselves before we undress each other with our eyes hmm?” She  suggested slightly sarcastically, keeping a bright a friendly smiling on her pale face.

“Too late for some but I’ll try it your way,” He smirked looking at her a dangerously flirty expression sprawled across his face. “Why are your lips turning blue?” He asked squinting at the lack of colour on her face.

“Oh I got caught in the rain and left my lip gloss at home, sorry.” She smiled apologetically.

“Did you just apologise for being cold?” He chuckled biting the end of his pen and leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, now quit changing the subject, I’m Ali. I don't believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced, what’s your name?” She smiled brushing a strand of damp hair from her face, fighting the cold shivers that were forcing themselves upon her.

“Nice to meet you Ali-cat, I’m Sweet pea.” He smiled raising his chin as he spoke.

“N-No its just Ali and be serious please.” She pleaded, giving him a subtle puppy eyes look.

“I am being serious, I’m named after my sweet nature.” He mocked, twirling the pen in his fingers.

“Sweet nature or willingness to climb on anything within a fifty mile radius, because from what I've heard you are quit the umm, well lets just say you get more action than an under paid hooker.” Ali pointed out with a friendly smile, “And if I’m honest, I really don't see the appeal. So setting aside the obvious, tell me about your self” 

“Your pretty ballsy for some one who looks like the poster girl for a Ballet boarding school.”  He smirked “And a pretty good liar too, I would’ve believed you if I hadn't caught you watching me play pool the other day at the Wyrm.” 

“I was curious to figure out your technique, nothing more.” Ali lied, if he could see past her first lie he would see straight through this one.

“Lets make a deal, I’ll be honest with you, if you’re honest with me!” He smiled smugly, he could see the panic grow in her eyes after he called her out. Ali nodded avoiding direct eye contact with him, he already knew he had her cornered she needn’t fuel his ego any further.

“Ok, deal.” Ali agreed slowly, she knew she’d come to regret this decision but for now it was a step towards completing her essay and for now that was more important.

“Why’d you move here from England?” Sweet pea asked curiously.

“Mum needed to escape, says this seemed like a nice town when she bought the house.” Ali answered trying to brush it off as quickly as possible, “Why’d you join a gang?”

“Family ties, Why are you working at the Wyrm instead of at Pop’s?” His answer was short and sharp but his questions seemed well thought out.

“I’m better keeping to myself and mixing drinks than I am talking to people and it’s easier to get to.” Ali explained, their questions and answered flowing quickly, making it hard to think of anything other than the truth. “Are you afraid of being alone?” Sweet pea went to answer but paused before allowing himself to speak.

“Why do you say that?” He questioned smiling at her attempt to get him to open up.

“People say you have no fear and yet they also say you’ve had more girls than a strip club pole. I just put 2 and 2 together.” Ali replied casually giving him a caring but curious gaze.

“People also say that you’re living in a rundown house just outside the trailer park by the oak tree, but yet you turn up for school coming from the opposite direction why’s that?” He skilfully turned the attention back on her.

“I like the trees,” Ali smiled looking down at her notebook, she missed her home back in England, surrounded by trees and woodland for miles she missed living in the countryside. She quickly shook off the feelings of loss that began to wash over her and added to her list of notes, writing three words that would send Sweet pea reeling when he saw it, ‘Has One Fear’.

“What makes you think I have any fears?” He asked sharper than he intended. At that moment the bell rang signalling the end of class, Ali stood up packing her books back into her bags. She looked up at Sweet pea who was staring intently at her waiting for her answer, leaning close to him so others couldn’t hear what she was saying.

“You didn't deny it.” Ali whispered putting a comforting hand on his arm for a moment smiling warmly up at him before spinning round and heading out, leaving Sweet pea frozen to his spot, she now held the one secret that could break him.

Ali stayed late after school that night to study in the library, since her house had recently lost power and hot water making it feel more like a cave than a home. She had just finished writing her essay and was about to head over to the changing rooms to grab a quick shower when she heard several loud voices heading her way, she spun round too head out the back door but her bag hit the lockers behind her sending an echoing boom through the corridors. The voices paused for a second before the sound of thundering feet came hurtling down the corridor towards her. Ali turned tail and bolted for the exit but the voices behind her were faster and she could see nasty looking Ghoulies hot on her tail. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, her heart pounding hard in her chest Ali knew she didn't stand a chance against the thugs currently hunting her. She was so preoccupied with the people chasing her she didn't notice the bike still parked outside until it was to late, she flew head over heels over the magnificent Harley. Scraping her arm, side and lip as she landed but she didn’t have time to do a full body inventory, her little slip up had allowed her chasers time to close the distance, she scrambled to her feet leaping into a full sprint only to run into a human brick wall only a few strides in sending her flying to the floor again.

“Watch it!” A rough but familiar voice called. She sat still suddenly unable to breath, the fear of what was about to happen to her overwhelming her, large tears threatened their way to the surface. The dark figure she had just launched into now looming over her, “Ali? Why are you here so late?” The figure asked crouching down so they were eye level with her, she tried to move away but found herself frozen and gasping for breath, sending a second wave of panic crashing through her, she began choking as she fought for air but failed. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s ok it’s just Sweet pea you’re ok, it’s ok.” But as he spoke the three thugs that had been chasing Ali came to a crashing halt, standing only a few feet from her and Sweet pea.

“Back off Sweet Pea that ones ours.” One of them bellowed sending Ali into a raging fit of suffocating chokes and uncontrollable shakes. 

“Piss off, or do you want us to beat your ass again you gormless Ghoulie.” Sweet pea spat, a crowd of serpents suddenly appearing from the shadows as he spoke, out numbering the Ghoulies five to one. 

“This isn’t over baby.” The Ghoulie threatened before running back towards the school his two shmucks following close behind. Sweet pea turned back to Ali who was still struggling to breath, helping her sit up properly and rubbing her back soothingly as she gradually gained the ability to breath, back. She was shaking all over and had turned a sickening grey colour, she didn’t look too good and had broken into a cold sweat.

“I - I’m going to throw up.” Ali stammered trying to rush to her feet so she didn't cover herself in vomit. Sweet pea quickly helped her up holding her hair back as she threw up a few feet away from his bike, her body in full convulsions now and she was beginning to sway on the spot. “I don’t feel so great,” She mumbled holding her head and stomach.

“Pea I think we should get her to the Wyrm, Hog Eye has her address, he’ll know what to do.” The small pink haired girl piped up, helping Sweet pea move Ali over to the pink haired girls truck. 

“Ok Toni, I’ll meet you there.” Sweet pea agreed, pushing Ali carefully into the truck, her body now drained of all energy she was fighting to keep her eyes open, desperately holding onto the last threads of conscious. 

@soffie-toscana @everheart12 

Masterlist

[tumbleintonothing]

If you were at the fight- You are 100% ok welcome to say you saw Mae there and if this gives you the chance to message me for rp, I welcome it. Some NSFW some spoilers. )

Music- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2fngvQS_PmQ

It felt cold. Not like ice or snow cold, but as if the warmth from leather clad fingers was fading, my bow having fallen quite a while ago it seemed, my toxic hues drifting in slow motion around me, watching friend and foe alike fight. Cas was there, so was Sil, for… Some strange reason. Had they been the reason I was fighting a war I never asked to fight. Were they the reason I felt that arrow in my chest sink deeper, feel the liquid pool around the other two in my back. 

As if it were not of his control, he’d feel a deep thud resound along the ground, the weight of his knees digging to earth. Eyes flickered upwards once more, around- A troll’s arm flying off to his right, forsaken spewing plague to his left- The young king and Jaina in the far off distance, a cry of war and hoard, seeing Sylvanas’s arrows fly true above head, even hearing her cry in her namesake. The world grew a bit more fuzzy- And if this were a movie you’d probably hear the narrator say something along the lines of ‘ You’re probably wondering how he got into this mess in the first place’, which, at this point he was wondering the same himself. Gravity took control of his form, and he’d hear the snap of arrows as he brushed across a wall to fall backwards, slumped there, feeling his body grow stiff. He’d lost track of Tao, and he only hoped the massive tiger that was his animal companion got out alive, away from the blight.

As he slumped there, his thoughts slowly turned about, recollecting the moments that led up to this particular point in time…

………………………………………………

“This is fucking suicide. You realize this. “ Mae’Thyn shook his head, watching his shorter, sharp tongued older brother a moment, arms now moved to cross over his chest, that cascade of ruddy tresses falling over his shoulders and back. He hadn’t expected -this- particular company to find him at the inn room he had taken home to that night in the city, but here he was, Castinus Shadowsong.

“ Brother. Every fight can be our last. Are you not hearing me? This isn’t a fight you can just turn your back on and expect it not to affect you, not to affect this world. We have to heed its call- Did you not even hear yourself a moment ago? She burned the -tree- down. -Their- tree.” Cas watched his brother with that mirrored green eyesight, his smooth leathers a vast contrast to the heavy mail that the hunter wore.

Mae’Thyn paced now, one hand moving to thread fingers through thick red tresses, boots making soft thuds against wooden floor. “ I know Cas. I know. I heard the rumors. I came here to try and find work- Find somewhere to back me before this shitstorm got worse… But I guess I don’t get that luxury do I? Why is it always go with this fucking war…” He’d let out the deepest of sighs now, turning back to face his brother once more. Unlike Cas, Mae’Thyn had taken off most his armor, bare chested with his leggings and boots still on when he got the knock on the door, so the vast amount of tattoos and scars that littered his form were bare to the candle light, jagged things weaving a horrendous and colored past.

Cas couldn’t help but chuckle then, giving Mae’Thyn a sideways glance, before his own right hand lifted to tap his cheek thoughtfully. “ I wish I had the answer to you for that one dear brother, but as it stands I hardly understand our father, let alone much of anything else. Truth of it I tried to stay as far from the fight that transpired when the demons attacked us, but even that found this city…” He’d shrug, and hand dropped away.

As the speak of the Legion, Mae’Thyn felt his features turn darker, his lips pulled into a thin line. Left hand had lifted then to touch the necklace he wore, bearing two slender wedding bands- Both having the nature to be feminine. A moment, the barest of touches before he’d release them and look back to his brother, that same hand now moving to rest at his hip. “ War always calls for a price brother. It will never stop calling for one. That is the nature of it all, hm?” This last retort was left with a very bitter taste into the mans mouth, his usually smooth baritone voice riddled with jagged edges. Cas could only shrug then, before tossing a missive towards Mae, with he caught with deft ease.

“This is the call that Saurfang gave to the whole of the Horde. You should look it over- There is a bit of gold in it if you join to save Lordaeron as well… Though I’m more or less going in the hopes I can get some action going, possibly ass afterwards.. Who knows.” Once more that dry tone that Cas offered had Mae lift his brow, looking the envelope over, before attention was once more pulled to his brothers features. “ Well… I guess we go tomorrow. Save the world?” Cas would only chuckle then, before shifting to the door to pull it open.

As he started to walk through he’d pause, and let eyes drift back over his shoulder to Mae. “ Oh. Sil will be there, too. Family reunion, yay.”

…………………………………………………………

Mae’Thyn always hated teleportation, felt it was far to tricky and always left his stomach queasy when he’d feel land underfoot once more - However this had been the way they had been told to take to get to Lordaeron, or more aptly known the Undercity. Once there he’d hear the call of the Queen, of Saurfang to collect yourselves and be aware of your surroundings, that the siege had already started. As always Mae’Thyn had called to the aid of his trusted companion Tao, a massive black tiger with eyes of jade to be the eyes in his back.

He never liked the Undercity. TO dusky, to moldy- The stench of decay and the ugly fel rot that bubbled around the city proper always something that set the hunter at unease with. The questionable motives that often were handled deep in the bowls of this place of death. As he’d shift a bit he’d take a careful look around, duly noting others that looked upon him as well.

For elves, particularly blood elves he was tall, much taller than his kin race, a sort of bastardized fact he often used to intimidate people simply to keep them from bothering him. As always he’d be wrapped in deep greens and golds with leather that accented in tans and deep rich browns, the leather itself soft and worn from years of rigors use, this evening his fingers wrapped in leather as well. Atop his head would sit that hood, its mail chinks softly chiming as head drifted to one side, then the other.

As others of the Horde gathered together, he could hear the whispers of some of the combat-ions. Some of them scolded the actions that Sylvanas had done, that they sided with the idea that there had been no honor in the actions, while others had gleefully been chomping at the bit to spill alliance blood, that the war between the demons and Azeroth wasn’t nearly enough for there taste. Either way, the hunter had no enjoyment on his face this day, rather stoic and stiff, he hadn’t really slept much the night before.

After his brother had left him, he had written a letter to the headmaster at his children's boarding school, informing him that if something were to happen to himself, that all of his estate and what he had stored away as a ‘rainy day fund’ would be used to keep the kiddos at the school until they themselves could choose their path in life. And as thoughts drifted to this moment, he’d let his mind's eye fall to the pair. Jae'Dren and Vari'Delsa. Jae was starting to form out a bit more, having his mother's snow white hair, but that strange mixture of one blue eye and one green. His sister had taken the red hair of Mae’Thyn, and aptly named after his wife Vari it suited her, she too taking the strange two toned gaze. Both had fair skin, and both were so intuitive now.

Mae’Thyn felt something inside his chest tighten, and he’d shake the thoughts out from his head, hearing as Sylvanas and all the commanders now started to rally the troops, call people to arms and draw them to the fight ahead. As he’s ready his bow he’d feel one hand touch his arm, another give him a punch at his shoulder. Head turned left, then right, the smirking face of his younger brother Siliron and his passive older brothers face Castinus greeting him.

“You ready there pretty boy? Ready to face death?” Sil taunted, giving Mae another smirk before his fists glowed a deep blue, and he’d push forward at the call of the army to force itself forward. Cast as always had vanished, his skill set much better seeded in the darkness- And rightly so. A sigh echoed across Mae’s lips, and he’d pull bow closer, moving on the outskirts of the collective mass, picking targets out with steady fingers, plucking magic enchanted arrows from his quiver and lining up shots as if it were childs play.

The sound of elves and humans like tore through the walls of the decaying city, as the Horde pushed it way through the massive circle, up and across the stone and tattered banners, the forsaken that lived here having already taking up arms to protect their home. As Mae rounded a corner he’d come face to face with three forsaken looming over the corpse of a felled druid in bear form- The three clawing out innards and flesh and chewing like ravenous wild animals. It took all the willpower within his stomach and throat to keep the bile that rose quickly to fall back down, and a snap turn had him face to face with one of their shadow steppers.

A quick arch of bow and the sound of metal on metal had him strike dagger wide, before thick big booted foot pushed forward, squarely kicking the night elf off balance- Bow back in hand before arrow was nocked and let to fly free, striking the elf in the throat. A gurgle of protest was all the elf could give before blood spilled from both wound and throat. He’d turn then, and follow the mass once more through the winding curving city- Till finally they were escorted to the courtyard.

Once here the collective group started to fight, and oh did they fight with a vigor that was almost murderous and insane. Mae himself had taken up a perch on a rock, letting arrows fly wherever he could manage- That was until Slyvanas took it upon herself to let loose the blight- And with only second to spare both hunter and pet had ducked backwards towards the city proper, the massive green goopy air thick and acidic. Mae at this point felt himself fall to the stairs of the city proper, still trying to pick off targets with arrows - That was until he realized that not only had she killed alliance… But Horde as well.

He’d feel his arrow falter, and then bow slowly dipped down, hearing the screams of his comrades as they fell to the blight, realization setting in as hunter let his toxic hues drift backwards to find Sylvanas, the moment she called to her dark magics to raise the very mass of graves she just dug.

W..Why would I fight this war for a leader that gives little care for my well being….

His thoughts would quickly be shattered as the sky parted in a massive wave, clouds being peeled away like wrapping paper, a massive ship soon to spill free from the parted clouds. Mae would watch in both awe and fear as the massive ship turned on the city wall proper, he’d see the chill of ice start to descend across the land, once again only having seconds to duck back behind a wall to keep from tasting its cold bite. At this point the man was severely doubting his need to be in this fight, but with little in the way to stop or leave he was there for good or worse.

War raged, walls were shattered, and once the fight spilled proper into the city, it was almost as if the very thing Sylvanas had been trying to protect and keep safe was simply lost- So it was in that moment that he had let his guard slip, a second was all it took before three arrows found themselves true in his form, and this was where he now settled, resting against a wall, tasting the tangy sweet of copper as it spilled over his lips, a soft cough splattering it. Moments passed, and he’d let eyes slowly drag across the spill of bodies around him, both alliance and horde, see others cry out and fall, a massive tangle of corpses.

A moment more and he’d feel the soft bump of something to his side, Tao having found him, the massive cat now settling against his side. A smile touched faintly at the corners of the hunters lips, and right hand weakly lifted to rest against the top of Tao’s head, before his eyes closed now, and he’d allow himself to sink into the depths of darkness, even as the world around him waged war and scream left restless sounds to fade from ears.

“My wolf…..” Eyes opened then, and he’d find himself standing in a bright white room, his form still wearing the blood splattered war torn armor, a sore sight for the room he was in, a sore thumb really. His eyes drifted slowly around him now, trying to find the source of the voice, a sensation of peace, of warmth overflowing within the confines of his heart.

The moment eyes settled on a bright edge in the room, and as he’d focus the edges shifted free, pulled long and created form, and there stood a beautiful willowy woman with snow white hair and eyes the color of the sky on a clear summer day. Dressed in robes of white that flowed freely around slender form, drifted around her and flowed as if there were a breeze, as if she were in water, however in this room of white there was no source.

Man then took a step forward, then another, before falling to his knees, and for the first time in a long, long time he’d feel tears fall from his eyes, though no sensation of this was felt, even as the liquid dropped to the floor. Woman smiled softly, mischievously in nature before she’d near float to him, each step placed delicately in her path to the hunter. Right hand lifted, and pale glowing fingers touched the man's cheek, brushed softly, near lovingly.

“ My Wolf…. You’re not ready for this time yet.” Hunter closed his eyes then, and head moved forward to rest forehead against her stomach, a sob wrecking his chest as he’d growl deeply. “ My Snowflake. My love. It wasn’t time for you to leave me…. I am… So lost without you.. I don’t know what to do…” He’d lift hands now, and like a drowning man he’d grasp to her slender form, cling to her as if he were a little boy and she were his mother - And in this moment, he might have very well been.

Soft echo of a chuckle found itself in his ears, and he’d feel her lips place a tender kiss to the top of his hooded head. “ Ah Mae’Thyn, you’ve been doing wonderful. I’m so proud of you… So proud of what you have accomplished. Just remember to live every day fully and to keep our children safe.” As he heard the last of her words fade off in his ears, that voice he craved like a drug, the solid form of his dead wife started to fade, his fingers now finding themselves starting to brush and dance with air.  “ No… Please… Vexie… Please…. Snowflake… Don’t leave me.”

But his words were left to open air as her voice once more danced against the air, teasing his senses.

“ Wake up…. Hunter…. Wake up…”

Eyes of toxic green opened, and then he’d feel his breath drag hard into his lungs, feeling the touch of gentle fingers against his flesh. “ Ah! Hunter! You’re awake! Good. Just… Just take a moment.. You’re in Orgamar. You’ve been out for a day or so.. “ His half hued eyes shifted slowly to the voice, a gentle warmth around its edges as he’d see a younger elf smile to him, though her skin was a deep hue of purple. For a moment he’d almost jerk backwards from her touch, before growling in deep pain at the fire that tore over his back.

“O..Oh! No sir! Please don’t move. You are lucky to be alive! Someone saw your tiger trying to drag you to safety and picked you both up before the city fell to blight. You are very lucky indeed!” She’d smile then, and it clicked in the hunters head of the city Suramar.. Of a race trapped that is now free. Hunter slowly settled back into the bed as the slender woman now dotted gently over him. “ Speaking of, your tiger has not left your side, not one bit!” Mae would still stay silent, letting eyes shift across and down to the side of his bed, seeing Tao curled there, eyes of jade slipping upwards to greet the hunter.

A small nod was all he could muster, letting eyes slip back to the woman once more as she then stood there, hands folded over lap, smiling at him. “ You should rest ow hunter. The worst is over- For now. You are healing wonderfully. You were very lucky.”

For the first time in this interaction the hunter allowed voice to softly retort, gruff and webbed in fractured pain.

“Yea. Lucky.”

@handofcards​ as an honorable tag )

[constant-writers-block-blog]

Stetson Labs- Chapter 1 A Girl With No Name And A Tail

A/N: If you have read the previous “Chapter 1″ Releases, begin reading BELOW the line. If you are wondering what keeps happening to me and why I have been ducking in and out of writing, visit my page and read my post. Feel free to comment and give feed back.

WARNINGS: Mild Language

Disclaimer: I do NOT own any supernatural characters, I only have the OC “Winter”.

It still haunts me. The smell, the touch. I'll never be able to forget it. It's sad really, that I cannot move past it all. How can I? Every time I look in the mirror, I see a monster created at the hands of a devil. These...'improvements' as he called them, are always here to remind me that I should be dead. I guess I'll start at the beginning. I ran. Harder than I’ve ever ran before. My sensitive ears were on fire with the amount of noise that was happening around me. Screaming, gunshots, the sound of blood and bodies hitting the ground. I covered my delicate ears. This was too much. Someone, or something, was massacring the people here.

Strangely enough, that was okay with me. The people here were horrible, soulless monsters that mutilated and mutated me. I only worried for my own life, to hell with theirs. My bare feet became sore from slapping the concrete, I knew I couldn’t run much further. I kept checking door after door, praying to whatever god there is that there is one that is unlocked. And one of them finally answered. The final door on my left was unlocked, it was a simple storage room, but to me it was a small sanctuary. I closed the door quietly and let my back hit the wall. Sliding down, I curled myself into a ball, holding my knees and curling my tail around my feet. Not once did I take my eyes of the little slit of light from the bottom of my door. A distant thumping was growing louder, it sounded like a pair of booted feet. I squeezed my legs closer and waited listening. With my heightened hearing, I would be able to pick the best moment to spring from my small room and start to run again. The thumping was louder, it must be only a few doors down now.

“Damnit! Lost it.” A gruff voice said. There was a faint beeping, a cell phone? “Sammy, come down the hall, I lost one of them and need your help, too many doors to check alone” He paused for a bit then seemed to hang up. He started with the door on the right, across from mine. I uncurled myself and readied for running. I watched as a shadow interrupted the line of light under the door, and flicked my ears to listen to the door knob turn. Once I heard the faint click of the latch releasing from the doorframe, I ran full force into the door, knocking it open and into the person attempting to open it. I got a glance at the man I was running from. He was tall, bigger than the men in masks were and had short hair. That’s all I could make out before I took off down the hall, heading back in the direction from which I came. I looked over my shoulder to see if the man was following, he was, but at a great distance. I grinned, I can outrun him easily.   But looking back was a mistake. I ran into what felt like a brick wall and fell flat on my ass. I landed on my tail wrong and let out a shout. When I looked up, I saw an even taller man in front of me. He had longer, brown hair.

“Oh thank God, took you long enough!” the shorter man said, out of breath and finally caught up. Damn. I was cornered.

“Hey, you’re alright, we won’t hurt you.” The taller man said, stooping down to my eye level. I laid my ears back and showed my teeth, a common action I made when threatened. I let out a low growl, like my instincts had taught me. The taller man stepped back and put his hands up as a gesture of surrender. I never broke eye contact with the taller man standing in my way. I was waiting. “Take it easy, we aren’t going to do anything to you.” The smaller one said now that he finally caught his breath.

“Dean, what should we do? We knew they were doing experiments, but we didn’t know they were doing them on kids.” He broke eye contact with me to look at the other man called Dean. That’s the moment I broke into a sprint once again. “DAMNIT!” one of them shouted. They gave chase. “Cas! We could use your help here!” Dean shouted. There was a faint flapping sound, and my wrist was taken hold of. I was whipped around and was facing my restraint, a man in a tan coat with brown hair, and a tie. He looked confused, but continued to hold onto me. I fought with tooth and nail, but the man didn’t react. I laid my ears back again and growled, but the grip on my wrist didn’t change. “Thanks Cas, I don’t think I could handle more running.” Dean said catching up.

“Sure, but what exactly is this? It looks like a partially transformed werewolf, but I sense that it is indeed human.” Cas said, looking at me with curious eyes.

“We think she is one of the experiments here.” The tall man said.

“Yeah, Sam did his research, the people here used this place as a lab to mess with the genetic make-up of things, we just didn’t know that they had moved onto human trails already.”  

While they were so leisurely chatting, I was attacking the man holding me. I bit, clawed, and hit everything I could reach, but he was unfazed. Tears began to sting my eyes, I was scared. I didn’t want to go back to the room, I didn’t want these men to take me to wherever they were going to. I wanted to go back to the storage room and sit in the dark. I wanted to get away. The tears began streaming from my eyes and I couldn’t help but sob as I became tired and weakly punched the man’s hand. Sam finally took notice, “What should we do with here, she obviously won’t come quietly.”

“I can make her unconscious for now.” Cas said looking at me. I was throwing too much of a fit to notice.

“That seems to be the best option.” Dean agreed. Cas’ hand enveloped my forehead, and things faded to black.

_______________________________________________________________________

Everything was hazy. My head felt heavy, and my eyelids even heavier. I tried to take a deep breath but it felt like cinder blocks were on my chest. I heard muffled speaking, the voices were vaguely familiar. Attempting to move proved pointless. It was like my brain wasn’t properly connected to my nerves, nothing was responding.

Finally the talking stopped and a hand grasped my head. All of the haze and weight was gone and I gasped for air as my eyes shot open. I was on a couch. I tried to sit up, But the man has yet to let go of my head. “Cas, she’s fine. Let her up” Sam said. The man called Cas hesitated, but let me go. I sat up and curled into a ball, eyeing the three tall men around me. One, who I think was called Dean, had his arms crossed, looking at me like I killed his dog. The taller man, Sam, was next to him, leaning on the table and smiling slightly at me. I didn’t like that much. Finally the man who let me go was Cas. He was standing beside the couch, scowling.

“What’s your name?” Sam asked, still smiling. I looked down and didn’t answer. Even if I remembered my name, I wouldn’t tell any of them. “Hey, we saved your ass back there, so if I were you, I’d answer the damn question.” Dean took a step closer, arms still crossed. The hostility in his voice made me growl and tighten my tail round my feet. Cas visibly braced, read to take me down if needed. “Dean, Cas. Calm down. This isn’t the way to approach her. We don’t know what she has been through.”

“Yeah, and we don’t know whose side she’s on either Sammy. For all we know, she is part of the plan.” Dean turned to argue.

“I believe Sam is right. I sense nothing-” before Cas could finish the sentence, I sprang off of my cushy cell and tried to run for a door, any door. Cas was faster, he grabbed the back of my shirt and tossed my down to the floor, causing my dog tags to fall around my neck and out of my shirt. “No, Sit. Stay.”

“Wait what’s that?” Dean pointed to my tags. “Maybe it has her name on it? Or some kind of ID at least” Sam took a slow step to me and crouched down to my level on the ground. “Can I see them? I won’t hurt you. We just want to help.” I laid my ears back but complied. I didn’t truly feel like I was in any danger. Sam took my tag and flipped it over so he could read it.

“W-1-N-7-3-R” he read to the others. “That’s it? Well that wasn’t much help.” Dean said, throwing his hands up.

“What if we call her Winter?” Cas piped in.

“What? The hell did that come from?” Dean questioned.

“Her tag number. Looks like the word Winter.”

“Wait it does!” Sam said with excitement.

“Fine, whatever. Winter it is then. Now, Winter, can you even talk?”

I continued my wall of silence. It’s not that I couldn’t speak, I just saw no point in it. I didn’t trust them yet, so why release any information? What if I get away but they somehow find me again because of something I accidentally gave them? Who knows what abilities the man in the trench coat had? It was my safety blanket. I turned away from Dean and Sam and fixed my hazel eyes onto the ceiling. What could they do? I’ve been through it all.

“Okay, maybe she can’t? But she seems to understand us well, maybe thats enough.” Sam tried to suggest.

“This is stupid.” Dean huffed and walked away, “You wanted to take her home Sammy, she is your puppy now.” Dean walked into another room. Sam glared in his direction and smiled back at me.

“I really wont hurt you. Are you hungry? How about some food or water?” I didn’t admit to anything but when he mentioned food my stomach ratted me out by letting a long growl escape. I blushed and bit my lip. Sam smirked and walked away to the same room that Dean walked into. I remained on the ground but I sat up. Cas nodded awkwardly at me when I made eye contact with him. “I’m just gonna.... Go check on them.” He disappeared before my eyes. I blinked but it didn’t seem to be an illusion, he really was gone. Glancing at my surroundings, I noticed books lined the walls. I perked up a bit. I loved books. Maybe these people would let me read some if I acted nicely. Thats how it was back in the White Room, I was a ‘good little beast’ and they gave me a book to read. Mostly books that were complex and full of words I didn’t understand but I relished the opportunity to actually learn something.

“Oh, do you like to read, Winter?” I was so focused on the shelves that I didn’t notice Sam coming back into the room. He was carrying a plate with a sandwich and a glass of water. “Well you are welcome to read anytime. Here, I made something for you.” He smiled and set the food down on a long wooden table in the center of the room. I didn’t move. I was hungry, but I still was unsure of everything. Sam must have noticed me being hesitant and he turned away and selected a book from the shelf. He sat at a nearby chair and began to read. I crawled on hands and feet over to the plate. Sniffing the table and chair before sitting down, I pulled the chair out slowly. I didn’t sit, I crouched on the chair. The smell of the fresh food wafted up to my nose and I began to drool. Without any further thought, I wolfed down the food and chugged the water. When the plate was crumb free an my glass dry, I stepped off the chair and began to wonder around. The library seemed to go on forever. I glanced up and say that the shelves nearly hit the ceiling. I grinned, so much to learn. I heard a chuckle and turned my ear to the source of the sound. It was Sam. He was pretending to read and was simply keeping an eye on me. I let my ear relax, I was used to being watched, so it made no difference to me. As I was about to reach for a book, Dean and Cas reentered the room. “Should we really let her read those things? For all we know, she could just be working for them and be trying to get our secrets.” Dean stated bluntly.

“I really don’t think Winter is bad. I don’t sense any ill-will from her.” Cas chimed in.

“Dean, come on. She is a kid. She has a tail and ears that were obviously surgically put onto her body and are now functional. You think she did that willingly? From the documents we found, they kidnapped potential subjects. She is probably just some lost kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Sam’s eyes were soft and reassuring to me. Dean shrugged, “Time will tell I guess” He sauntered off down the hall, “I’m heading to bed.”

“I’m going to go see if I can go get the files from that facility, maybe it will tell us more.” Cas said, and before anyone could breathe another word, he vanished again.

“Well, I guess it’s time for you to go to sleep too huh? It’s been a crazy night for all of us.” Sam got up and walked down the hall, then he stopped and turned, “you coming? I’ll show you your room.” I let my ears perk up. I haven’t slept in a bed for a decade now.

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@winchesters-favorite-girl

@miss-miep

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt.Five: Hooray for Hollywood

[Story so far: Malky and Brooster have been hired by veteran Irish comedian and international movie star, Oliver Laphen (or Ollie Laffin, as he was known in his 1930s hey-day) to investigate the activities of an alleged ‘poltergeist’ at Pagham House, his stately home in Kildare (Malky was reluctant, but Zindy was insistent: the money is needed to pay for the refurbishing of Odin’s Inn). Once they get there, Broo quickly discovers that there is nothing to see -- literally -- the house and its grounds are devoid of atmosphere: no ghosts, no echoes of the past -- no wildlife! In other words, it existed in a spiritual vacuum. Then there’s the arrival of Laphen’s grandson, Kris, visiting from America; he has a dark aura about him that renders Broo’s extrasensory powers inoperable and saps his strength, but most disturbing of all, his psychic link with Malky is broken; there’s nothing he can do until they leave. Laphen turns out to be an elderly, misanthropic inebriate, and as they sit down to dinner, he tries to provoke his visiting grandson with a spiteful harangue designed to embarrass and humiliate; but Kris, a young, laid-back Californian, doesn’t take the bait and laughs-off every slur...]  

 Slouched, sloshed, sloppy and louche, Laphen reclined in his throne-like, red-velvet-lined, high-backed dining-chair with (what Malky assumed was) the Laphen coat of arms embroidered on the velvet-headrest (two rampant pigs wearing little bowler hats supporting a four-leaf shamrock emblazoned with the the motto Laphen All the Way to the Bank). Still unshaven, he had nonetheless been scrubbed-up (probably by Herbie), his receding hair backcombed, slicked-down and darkened with oil. Typically, he was dressed to distress -- a turquoise smoking-jacket two sizes too big, canary-yellow Bermuda shorts, knee-length green-&-white striped rugby socks and a pair of well-worn purple flip-flops; it was an ensemble that lent credence to his reputation as the worst dressed man in Hollywood. Wine-glass in one hand, bulbous cheroot in the other, the pale light from an ornate candelabra casting a shadow across his face making his trademark dimpled-grin look positively demonic, he held court like an odious goblin king, drinking himself stupid and mercilessly goading his young grandson, while Herbie, eating at the other end of the table, stared straight ahead and pretended he wasn't listening. Up until now, Laphen’s intended target seemed utterly immune to every jibe. Kris ate heartily and slowly, deflecting the brickbats without losing it and sticking his fork in his grandfather’s eye; a course of action, in Malky’s opinion, that would be entirely permissible in the circumstances.

“... then you were in that pop group, what was it called, Satan’s Pooves?” Laphen sneered, looking for something to crack Kris’ resolve.

“Ha-ha-ha-hah, Lucifer’s Hooves,” Kris corrected him, tittering, turning to Malky and explaining with unshakable chirpiness, “it was a garage-band I formed in high school,” he joked, “we never got outta the garage!”

“Then there was the time you tried to start your own magazine...?” said Laphen, trying desperately to touch a nerve.

“It was a hobby! I was 10!” Kris snorted.

Laphen got all Noel Coward with a little bit of Gielgud thrown in for good measure, “What I’m getting at is this, Kristof: you’re not a renaissance man, you’re an interminable amateur -- a dilettante, a poseur – you flit from one thing to another, looking for something to get you noticed– and when it doesn’t work you move on to the next thing. You don’t care what medium you exploit to achieve your goal: celebrity. That’s Art for Fame’s Sake. That’s profane.” He sat back and continued in his usual, sarcastic tone, “This is where you and I differ, boy. I got famous cos I have Talent. When I do something I give it my all – no matter what piece of shit they put me in - I shine cos I’m true to meself and my craft. That’s how I knew I would always succeed in everything I did: because I have the unshakeable self-belief that only God-given Talent provides. That’s why I can’t take you or your silly movie seriously. It’s just the latest in a long line of look-at-me projects designed to propel you into the limelight. Pass the parmesan mill, would you...”

Kris passed the mill and snorted with laughter, explaining, “That’s what those teenage years are for, gramps, trial and error and making career choices. I’m going to be director. I’ve already made a successful documentary for a for a Film School assignment. In fact it won an award -- an award presented to me by Clint Eastwood who said I was an ‘outstanding young talent with a very bright future’... More pasta...?”

Malky looked up from his bolognese and grinned through a mouthful of meatballs. You tell him, boy.

Then, after a few seconds’ pause came the poisonous riposte aimed squarely below the belt: “Your mother made a documentary too, didn’t she? What was it called, now...? Oh yes, Annie Bell Does Bel Air! I’m pretty sure it was a documentary, it looked real enough...?”

Ouch. Malky’s grin vanished. He’d heard about Kris’ mother’s fall from grace and it was quite an unsavoury story. What a bastard! Quare Geg my arse. If I was 8-years-old sitting in the pictures laughing my head off and you told me I’d be sitting at the great man’s table 40-odd years later hating him with every fibre of my being, I’d’ve said you were mad. And yet, here I am, trying to decide what kind of murder would cause him the most pain...

This thought failed to reach Broo’s brain. He lay in a darkened corner –- as far away as he could get from the grandson -- ate his liver and kidneys and did his best to ignore the noise pollution at the other end of the room. The grandson had insisted on candlelight: “this house wasn't built with electricity in mind, dudes!” and the magnolian-gloom of the candelabras undulated with each ripple of the flames, making the chandeliers glisten like stars in the darkness high above the table, giving everything a dream-like quality. But aside from the boy’s debilitating aura and the all-too-human tension created by Laphen’s incessant needling, there was no real atmosphere here. They’d seen most of the house by now, and it was the same no matter where they went: nothing. Every noise was explicable; every shadow accounted for; the ambiance static and uncommonly hollow.

“Everythin’ all right, Mr Calvert?” asked Herbie, rousing Malky from his daydream.

“This is the best bolognese sauce I’ve ever tasted!” said Malky, with a what-the-hell-am-I-doing here look. 

“Fanks very much, Mr Calvert. It’s jas somefink I rassle-ap in an ‘urry,” said the big man, shaking his head, with a what-can-you-do-it’s-always-like-this-shrug of his shoulders. Clad in a sober charcoal two-piece suit and regimental tie, Herbie maintained a dignified silence despite of the slew of bile coming from the top of the table. Occasionally though, Malky glimpsed little cracks in the façade; he’d roll his eyes skyward or shake his head slightly when something particularly hurtful was said, but by-and-large, he was inscrutable. Poor sod. Malky was well aware that Laphen’s jibes were meant for the old retainer as much as the boy: every time Ollie takes a shot at Kris, it’s Herbie who takes the bullet.

Laphen’s tirade went on, “... Is it any wonder your mother turned out to be such a dead loss when she wuz reared by a woman the tabloids dubbed ‘The Worst Mother in Hollywood’?! Stupid bloody Danish cow. No, sorry, that’s an insult to cattle –- they nurture their calves -- they don’t let them play beside unsupervised swimming pools. Shoes, now. She knows about shoes. Beyond that, she has the IQ of a dog turd.”

Kris came straight back and trilled, “Grandma? Grandma is so-oo happy these days. She’s busy with her charities, she’s in love with a younger man who thinks the world of her and, you-know-what?” he turned and winked at Herbie, “he never beats-on-her, or locks her in her room, or throws her clothes out of the window...”

“I wish I’d thrown her out of the window,” grumbled Laphen.

“Didn't you throw No.3 out of a window?”

“That was No.4. And it wasn't a window, it was a moving car.” 

“I stand corrected.”

“Funnily enough, so does she.”

Malky yawned noisily. Herbie continued to stare into the middle distance.  

“... So, your mother is still sober is she?” Laphen asked, feigning concern.

“Oh yes, you’ll be simply thrilled to learn your darling little Annelise is straight ‘n sober and of sound mind – she’s been running a woman’s shelter in the Valley for a couple of years now. We’re all very proud of her. She told me to pass on her regards...” he looked up as if trying to remember, “No, wait - her exact words were: ‘tell that vile old goat to hurry-up and die!’”

Malky had to stifle a laugh.

Laphen bristled, “Aye, well, you can tell that cheeky bitch she won’t get a brown penny from me when I do pop me clogs! I disinherited her when she was done for hooerin’! Anyway, sober or not – at heart she’ll always be a ditzy f**k up who bounces from one crisis to another with her knickers round her ankles!”

Herbie put down his cutlery, dabbed the corners of his mouth, cleared his throat and made sure they knew he was ready to step in. Malky gazed longingly at the decanter of brandy on the table, and for the first time in three years, entertained thoughts of jumping off the wagon and jumping into a refreshing pool of blissful oblivion... until Broo, intuitively aware of what Malky was thinking, let out a little growl to say knock it off!

Kris watched the old man pour another glass and asked in an earnest tone, “How many bottles have you had today, gramps?”

“F**k off,” grunted Laphen. “I’m very rich, very successful, I’ve worked very hard all my life and I’ve earned the right to do whatever-the-f**k-I-like.”

“Even if it kills you?” Kris replied; then after a split-second’s thought, he retracted, “Waitaminnit - open another bottle! Go on - drink up! I’ll get another case from the cellar!”

Laphen sipped his drink, sucked on his cheroot and snickered defiantly.

Suddenly, Kris turned to his right and asked in a haughty voice laced with suspicion, “Forgive me for asking, Mr Calvert, but what exactly is it you do?”

Broo snorted, Oh, this’ll be good. What do you do, Malcolm?

Malky didn’t have time to reply – Laphen was in like a shot, “I told you! He’s a plumber! He’s here to mend the boiler, OK?! Leave him alone.”

Kris winked at Malky, turned back to Laphen and said, “... and since when does the Mighty Oliver Laphen invite humble tradesmen - and their dogs - to join him for dinner? I mean, you make your lawyers eat in the kitchen with the staff -- so what gives?!” He turned back to Malky and spoke in his normal, friendly voice, “I don’t wish to cause offence to you or your dog, Mr Calvert, but when it comes to the hoi polloi -- and their pets -- my grandfather isn't known for his hospitality...?”

Again, before Malky could reply, Laphen sat forward, snapped his fingers repeatedly and took back the conversation, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Nevermind him -- tell me, boy -- who’s this backer ye’ve got? Who’s the eejit daft enough to invest their cash in yer silly wee horror picture?” He smiled smugly and winked at Malky as if to say – wait til you hear this! 

Again, Malky was about to say something when Kris took the words right out of his mouth, “Oh, stop acting like a total asshole, Ollie, you’re not funny.” And yet, despite this spirited response, Malky noticed the boy flinch when the movie was mentioned. And so had Laphen. He laughed, threw back his head, blew a smoke-ring into the air and let it drift above his head like a wispy-white halo, “Asshole or not, I didn’t get to sit in the big chair without bein’ thorough. So c’mon now, who’s your Generous Benefactor?”

Putting his elbows on the table and hunching his shoulders, Kris sipped his water, looked down at his empty plate and said “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.”  

Alas, the old man was intent; he sat forward in his seat, put his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands and enquired in faux-earnest voice, “Och, c’mon laddie, If you want to film here you’ll have to tell me sometime.” He turned and informed his faithful retainer, “See Herbie, he wants my permission to bring a feckin film-crew through here! He wants me to let a bunch of arse-scratchin’ techies to tramp on my polished floors in their hobnail boots, stub their fags out on my Persian rugs and knock lumps outta my Queen Anne furniture with their equipment –- not to mention drivin’ their trucks and trailers all over my award-winning lawns!!”

Herbie continued to stare ahead.

Kris, sounding a wee bit stressed, assured him, “The crew will be very discreet and I will take personal responsibility for any...”

“So, who’s the backer?”

Kris looked him in the eye, “Are you going to let us to film here?”

“We’ll see. Depends who I’m dealing with,” said Laphen, taking a long drag on his cigar, looking very pleased with himself that he had Kris on the back foot. “So tell me, who is it?”

After a long pause and a drink of water, Kris answered in a weak voice, “Guy Gosling...”

“Guy Gosling?! The silly twat who pissed himself on live TV?!”  Laphen cried, banging both fists on the table and bouncing on his cushion like a tickled imp, “You’re f**king shittin’ me!”

The boy’s voice cracked as he yelled back, “See – I knew how you’d react! You’re such a predictable old shit, Ollie!”

“He’s using’ you to revive his career! No wonder he agreed to it -- nobody with any sense will touch him!”

Kris was losing it now, his freckled cheeks aflame, “You don’t know what you’re talking about - he’s still got a lotta respect in Hollywood!”

It didn’t matter what he said, Laphen was on a roll, “Let me see now...” he sat back, tilted his head and made a show of caressing his brow, as if trawling his memory for the appropriate anecdote. “Aye - that’s right, I made a movie with him 7 or 8 years ago. Some god-awful-big-budget-science-fiction-bollox where I played an intergalactic priest who gives him the Last Rites in the final scene. I was just there to add a bit of gravitas – 3 million for half-a-day’s work, I think it was...?” he looked to Herbie for confirmation.

Still staring into space, Herbie perfunctorily supplied the information, “A million a day for free days. And a cut of the box-office. And a car. Can’t ‘member which one. Maserati, I fink.”

“Hear that? 3 million and a classic sports-car to add to my collection, all for 3 days work,” Laphen turned to Malky, “it was only supposed to be one day but it became 3 when Gosling kept us all hanging around while he meticulously explored all the various ways he might kick-the-bucket! He was ditherin’-on about death-throes and whether or not he should close his eyes... By day three I just wanted throttle him: ‘DIE YOU F**ER!! DIE!!’ Cuz he’s one of those Method Actors, ain't he? I hate Method Actors.” He turned to Kris, “especially Method Actors who get famous overnight and keep you waiting on-set for hours -- then -- when they finally haul their skinny arses outta their trailer, they proceed to tell the director how to do his job!” Laphen paused then resumed in a more sober tone, “Well, what goes around comes around. He ain't got a friend in the industry now, no matter what you’ve heard.”

“He’s learned from his mistakes!” yelled Kris, desperately, “He’s committed to the project! It’s been 2 years since the pissing incident! He deserves a second chance!”

“He wants a comeback vehicle!” Laphen cried.

“The publicity will be good for us – it’ll create a buzz!”

“Aye - like flies round shite!” Laphen cracked. “Lissen, the knives are out for ‘im! The press will stitch-ye-up whether the movie is good or not! You shoulda went with a total unknown ye stupid wee shite, at least ye would've had half-a-chance!”

Herbie was watching them intently now. Broo shrank back when he saw the aura around the boy surge and almost obscure him when he screamed “F**K YOU!” and banged his fist on the table.

It only made Laphen cackle louder.

At last, Herbie cleared his throat loudly and said, “Gentlemen, please.” That seemed to do the trick. They relented, backed down and grumbled into their drinks. There was a minute of silence until Kris once again turned his attention to their guest. Nodding toward Brooster sitting in the corner, he enquired, “Does your dog usually accompany you when you mend a boiler, Mr Calvert?”

Again, before Malky could answer, Laphen’s shit-eating grin disappeared, “I told you to leave him alone!” he snapped, “it’s none of yer business!” 

“Did I miss a meeting?” Kris asked Herbie, “a plumber with a three-legged dog? Doesn't this seem kinda weird to you...?”

That’s it. Malky slammed down his cutlery, stood up and gave out, “Right! I’ve had enough o’ this shite – we’re outta here!”

Herbie reached out, “Wait Mr Calvert, please...”

But Malky was resolute, “Sorry Herbie, but this isn't on! When I agreed to come here I didn’t expect to have to listen quietly while this pissed-up oul’ fart abuses his grandkid!” He took the cheque from his back pocket and slapped it down on the table, “Ye can keep yer money, Mr Laphen! Enjoy what’s left of your life!”

“Sit down, Mr Calvert!” yelled Laphen.

Malky expressed himself by presenting his middle finger as he walked to the door, “C’mon Broo. We’re leavin’.”

“I’ll double your fee!” Laphen shouted, pointing at the cheque on the table.

Malky stopped and sniggered derisively, “You can’t buy me! This isn't worth the aggravation!” Shite. I hope Zindy’ll understand...

Befuddled, Kris’ head swivelled from side-to-side as he looked from one to the other, “Whaddya mean: ’You’ll double his fee’? What’s going on here? Plumbers are a dime a dozen... What is he, some kinda super-plumber...?”

“I AM NOTA F**KING PLUMBER!” yelled Malky, shaking his fists.

Suddenly, Brooster barked loudly: QUIET!!

The fracas abruptly ceased. The men turned to see the old dog growling in the corner, eyes glistening like sparkling orbs in the shadows.

“What’s the m-matter with ‘im?” Laphen stammered in a shaky voice, as he looked up into the darkness. “Does h-he s-see s-somethin’...?”

Malky put a finger to his lips, “Shhh! He hears somethin’.”

“What the hell is going on here, people?!” shouted Kris.

 “Shut up and lissen!” Laphen hissed.

Ears pricked, eyes wide, paying no attention to the rest of the room, Broo hobbled around in a circle looking upward, straining to hear. The voices were confused and shrill, like children arguing... only this time they weren’t in his head; the sounds were audible, not telepathic.

“Hear that?!” whispered Malky.

Herbie heard it too, “It sounds like kids... kids shrieking...?”

Kris cocked an ear for a moment, then murmured, “Hey... yeah!”

Laphen stared at the ceiling, “It-it’s comin’ from the room above... The t-Trophy Room...” he croaked, the rim of his glass clicking against his dentures.

Herbie took out his walkie-talkie and summoned security.

...

... at that very moment (18:50 EST), approximately 3400 miles away, at a gas station on the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania: What is that smell? Emil’s eyes were stinging and streaming.

A youthful voice called-out, “Sir! Hey - whoa! Excuse me – sir – c’mon, man, what’re you doin’?”

Then, in a moment of clarity, his senses emerged from the murky darkness of his trance. He froze. Where am I? His head remained steady as his eyes swivelled left and right. It was daylight. He looked around: pumps, bags of charcoal, bundles of sticks, Pepsi machine..? A gas station?! A teenage clerk in an Exxon overall was approaching on his left, waving his hands emphatically, “Hey, hey, hey, man -- stop squeezin’ the trigger, man, puh-lease - you’re creating a super-crazy-dangerous situation here, dude...”

“Wha --” Emil’s eyes looked down.

Christ, you gotta be f**king kidding me...

He was still dressed in his bedtime attire; still going through the motions at the behest of an interior puppeteer – but, more terrifyingly – the Volvo’s tank was so full the gasoline was splashing-out over his sandals, forming a large puddle around his feet. The clerk made a grab for the pump gun, “Sir – gimme that, puh-leeeese!”

Emil felt the thing within him surge and take control again -- his hand relaxed and relinquished the grip on the trigger as his outer-voice said, “Sorry. Needed to fill ‘er up, kid... Got lost in my thoughts for a minute...”

The young clerk (now at his wit’s end) tiptoed over the puddle of petrol, took the gun back on the pump and whinged, “You gotta be more careful, mister! I’ll have to wash-it-all-down now! Jeez-us H... this is, like, totally bogus, dude! I mean it’s f**king Sunday -– it’s supposed to be the day of rest...”

Just then -- Emil felt the power ebb again – for some reason the puppeteer’s grip slackened -- he concentrated with every fibre of his being -- his hands shot up, grabbed the boy by the collar and pinned him to the side of the car, his real voice yelling haltingly into the boy’s face: “WHERE... AM... I?!”

Now scared out of his wits, the hapless clerk couldn't supply a coherent reply, “Hey man, easy -- ch-chill...don’t lose it, yeah?!”

Emil tightened his grip and almost screamed in the boys face, “Listen, kid – report me! Call the cops! I’m sick! I’m dangerous! They need to stop me before I go too far...!”

Alas, the words were no sooner out of his mouth when the fleeting bout of sentience ebbed and that goddawful taste filled his mouth. His hands let go of the clerk’s collar, stood back, dusted him down and said in a calm, clear voice, “Just kidding.” He reached into his dressing-gown pocket and took out his buckskin wallet, “Do you take American Express...?”

...

Meanwhile, back in Pagham House: There was a crackling sound: “*What’s your position Herb, over.*”

Herbie whispered into the walkie-talkie, “... we’re on the landing in the west wing - the intruder-stroke-intruders are in the Trophy Room; repeat, intruder-stroke-intruders are in the 1st floor Trophy Room, over.”

“*Copy. On our way. Over.*”

But Herbie didn’t want to wait. He slowly opened the door and turned on the lights. There were a series of rapid flashes as the ‘Trophy Room’ was lit to reveal yet another museum exhibit, this time devoted to the numerous awards, honorary doctorates and keys to the city Laphen had accrued over the years. The man himself crept across the threshold brandishing a baseball bat, “If there’s somebody there – I swear I’ll feckin kill ye! I’ll take yer feckin’ head off, I will! C’mon out!” Herbie took him by the shoulders and told him to keep back.

The squeaky voices continued to gabble and shriek; due to the room’s natural echo, it was hard to tell where they were coming from. Malky was intrigued, but unafraid; judging by the old dog’s subdued reaction, he knew that it was nothing to worry about. Behind them, Kris continued to express his confusion, “Somebody please tell me what’s going on...?”

Brooster left them standing at the door and made for a large glass case containing various silver statuettes in the far corner. He barked twice. Herbie and Malky approached to find what turned out to be an upturned fire-bucket; the screeches were coming from inside.“What the hell...?” said Herbie. He bent down and lifted the bucket – the voices instantly got louder. Malky looked over the big chauffeur’s shoulder and saw a cassette recorder lying face-down on the floor. “It’s a bloody tape!” Herbie exclaimed, angrily, “We've been ‘ad!”

Laphen, still shaking with fear, still brandishing the baseball bat, joined them and gaped at the offending object, “What the...” Herbie picked it up and pressed the stop button. The room fell deathly silent for a few seconds, and then the old man gasped, “Who would...” He stopped when he heard laughter behind him. They turned to see Kris, back against the doorjamb, clutching his sides in a fit of the giggles, “You should see your face, Gramps!”

Laphen was agape, “You... you set this up...?”

“... You were so spooked!!” sniggered Kris.

They heard boots on the stairs; Herbie heaved a loud, world-weary-sigh and raised the walkie-talkie to his lips, “Stand-down, stand-down, false alarm, repeat, false alarm! Over.” The communication was punctuated by a collective groan of disappointment from the hall.

Kris was wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “I GOTCHA! Ah gotcha you goo-ood!”  

The Quare Geg failed to see the funny side: “Y’ wee BASTARD!!” Laphen lashed out at Kris, swung the bat and missed – Herbie grabbed the waistband of his shorts, pulled him backward -- then, just like a slapstick gag from one of his movies -- Ollie spun like a dervish on the stretched elastic, his little-bare-legs kicking-out until one of his flip-flops flew off and toppled an ornate vase -- the baseball bat hitting a display case and shattering the glass. “Lemme at him! I’LL F**KING’ KILL ‘IM! JUST YOU W --” 

He suddenly seized up, the bat fell from his hands and clattered on the parquet; he fell back into Herbie’s arms, his eyes popping out of his head, the air escaping his lungs like a slowly deflating balloon.

Kris chuckled, “Awww, c’mon gramps, you can do way better than that...”

Malky went to help; Herbie’s face was a picture of helpless-consternation, “’E can’t breeve! I think ‘e might be ‘avin’ an ‘eart-attack!!” They took him to an antique chaise-lounge beside a huge Native American totem pole on the other side of the room. “He’s hyperventilating! Get a paper bag!” cried Malky.

“He’s faking, dudes!” said Kris, exasperated, no longer laughing.

Without saying anything, Herbie pushed him out of the way and ran out of the room. Kris shouted after him, “He’s faking, Uncle Herb?!! He’s acting!”

Unconcerned, Broo sauntered over to the corner and had a lie down. Oh, a minute ago you were all for strangling him – now you want to save his life. Human beings, I don’t know...

Malky used the first-aid he learned during his time in the police, “Easy, Ollie, take it easy... take deep, deep breaths and fill your lungs, hold for a count of 5, then exhale slowly through yer nose...” Laphen’s eyes were wet and fearful, he was shaking like a leaf, but he tried his best to do what was asked of him.

Broo yawned: He’ll live: the heartbeat is strong for a man of his years, no murmurs. He’ll live.

Herbie arrived back with a plastic carrier bag, “Will this do?!”

Malky took the bag from him, twisted the neck to create a makeshift mask and put it over the old man’s nose and mouth, “This’ll make it easier – breathe-out into the bag, then breathe in...” his ministrations appeared to be having the desired effect; Laphen’s pulse was slowing, the colour was returning to his cheeks. Kris stopped pacing and grabbed Herbie’s arm, “See, he’s gonna be fine - he’s just tryin’ to get me back...!” Herbie took the boy by the shoulders and gave him a shake, “Kris, I ‘aven’t time fer no bollocks - this is fer real! Make y’self useful -– go to ‘is stahdy 'n call the doctor!”

“Rossington...” the old man hissed.

Herbie knelt and looked at him with a doubtful frown, “Surely you want yer physician, boss?”

Laphen glared and growled, “I want Rossington!”

Herbie looked up at Kris, “’E wants Rossington. There’s a button for ‘im on the phone on ‘is desk.”

“Rossington...?” Kris complained loudly, with a sour face. Herbie gave him a serious look and he reluctantly obeyed. As soon as he left the room, Laphen smiled, closed his eyes and passed out. Malky checked his pulse one last time and took the bag away. “He’s sleeping it off. It’ll be OK to move him. Is he on any medication for asthma or any other respiratory illnesses?”

“’E ain't asthmatic or nuthin’. Dr Rossington gives ‘im these ‘vitamin’ shots that perk ‘im up.”

“Why? What does Rossington specialise in?” asked Malky, as if he didn’t know.

“’E’s the boss’ shrink, ‘as been for years. ‘Aven’t you ‘eard of ‘im?”

Malky and Brooster knew exactly who Rossington was and what he did.

It’s a small world, isn't it...

2 days ago, 100 miles north in The Ivy House, Downpatrick:

Roused from his meditation by the roar of a revving engine, Jamie Jameson Lumb, the young master of the house and the new leader of the coven, arrived at the Oriel window at the end of the main landing just in time to glimpse a motorbike zoom down the drive on its way to the main gate. The rider was dressed in leathers and a black helmet, a sight that sent shiver down Jamie’s spine; even if the rider was a lot shorter than Barry McKee, it was still a discomfiting reminder of the events of 2 years before. Who the hell was that? Nobody was allowed in-or-out of the estate since McKee’s capture 2 years ago, but as far as Jamie was concerned, the danger hadn't passed. McKee had been in a coma for the past couple of years, but it was cold comfort: he could die at any moment and the demon would migrate to another host. Then there was the release of dark energy in Kildare following the exhumation of an ancient mage -- probably an ancient ‘Güül who dabbled in the dark arts -- and in spite of the fact that the local witches had declared the area reasonably safe, Jamie still sensed that the danger hadn't passed. Maybe it was the responsibility of his position; maybe being holed-up in the house for so long without any contact with the outside world had made him paranoid. Whatever the reason the rules had been broken, and there was only one person who could've invited the biker in: “Goz, you arsehole,” he muttered.

After searching most of the house, he eventually bumped into Fordham the footman who’d taken up the butling duties now that Oggy had gone down for a Big sleep. Fordham was carrying a Martini on a silver tray, “I suppose that’s for our guest?” Jamie asked. Fordham nodded and rolled his eyes, “he’s in the pool, sir.” Jamie took the tray from him, “Don’t worry, I’ll see he gets it.”

Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling  was floating naked on a lilo in the indoor pool, reading a loosely bound sheaf of papers that looked suspiciously like a script. “Who was that?” Jamie called out, as he walked along the edge of the pool, his voice echoing around the tiles.

Goz answered matter-of-factly, without looking up from page, “A guy I met in LA, if you must know. A director. He wants me to star in a little horror film he’s making here in Ireland,” he said, cool as a cucumber, slowly turning in the water.

“Oh Yeah? And how did he get in?” asked Jamie, carelessly putting the tray down on the poolside table, irritated by his former band-mate’s blasé attitude and patronising tone. It was what he’d come to expect. Goz had been restless for some time, but up to now he’d been willing to live under the rules of the extended lockdown. “Nobody can come in unless you clear it with me or Oggy. I’m surprised that security opened the gate,” said Jamie, bristling.

“I told them he was an old friend. I told them I was expecting him,” said Goz, unaffected.

Jamie nodded knowingly, “You told them you’d cleared it with me, didn’t you?” he sneered.          

“Well, I thought you were studying in the library or meditating in your room or something and I didn’t want to disturb you,” said Goz, blithely, still perusing the pages.

“For all you know he could be working for one of our enemies!” Jamie snapped, sounding a wee bit shrill.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, JJ,” chuckled Goz, talking as if consoling a difficult child, “I met him at a screening of a documentary he made a few years ago. I was very impressed. both by him and the film. He was only 21, full of vitality and enthusiasm. I told him to keep in touch, ‘maybe we might work together some day’. I didn’t get any bad vibes, not at all. He’s a like little red-headed puppy: eager to please.” He flipped another page and said, “Remember, I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you, JJ. I can spot a wrong-un a mile away.” This was Goz’s signature tune: he was never done reminding Jamie that except for his pedigree and nascent superior powers, he was still a novice.

Jamie ignored the comment and moved on, “What’s his name?”

Goz let out a heavy sigh, “Kris Katz. Believe it or not, he’s the grandson of that drunken old coot Oliver Laphen... the miserable little bastard... I made a movie with him a few years ago... f**king nightmare... Anyway, Kris called me from LA and told me he’d be in Ireland scouting for locations and if I was interested he’d deliver the script by hand...” Goz turned a page, “... and after perusing it, I’ve decided to take him up on the offer. I’ve even agreed to put some money behind it. A small independent movie is just the ticket to restart my acting career. I can’t afford to turn it down.”

“You know nothing about him. He could be in cahoots with the tabloids,” said Jamie crossing his arms and shaking his head, “worse -- he could've been sent here by the Washington coven to case the place and see what we’re up to!”

Goz finally looked up from the script and laughed, “Look, he’s harmless! And it’s not as if I’m leaving the country -- we’ll be making the movie here!”

Jamie shook his head, “Oggy needs to know about this. You’ll have to wait until he wakes and discuss it with him.”

Getting a little more animated, Goz splashed the water with his fist and shook his head emphatically, “Look -- Oggy is hibernating, he won’t wake for at least another year and we start shooting in the summer! And I’m not a f**king prisoner, remember?! I’ve stayed here voluntarily! But enough time has passed -- 2 years to be exact, and that’s a long time in show business. It’s been a great place to hide from the world until the outrage over that... situation -- a situation that you caused by-the-way -- died down. But I’m not hiding anymore.” He sighed, relaxed and went back to the script, “I’m doing this whether you -- or Oggy -- like it or not.”

“We’ll see...” Jamie muttered under his breath, and walked away.

...

2 days later at Pagham House: “... See, I saw a tabloid story about gramp’s suspected ‘poltergeist’ at the airport, so I thought I’d have a little fun with it,” Kris explained as they crossed the landing, “we used to do it all the time, y’know, tryin’ to out-punk each other; each stunt more vicious than the last, but we always made-it-up afterwards. I didn’t think he’d get in such a state...” He paused when they heard a distant buzzing sound outside, “Uh-huh, here comes the ‘good doctor’,” muttered Kris, gloomily. They walked to a porthole-shaped oriel window at the end of the landing and watched twin beams slice through the low lying clouds. The buzzing became a rumble as the doctor’s chopper hovered for a moment before descending and disappearing behind a row of billowing pines; a few seconds later, a slim, middle-aged man dressed in cricket-whites carrying a tastefully weathered Gladstone bag, ran along the path that bordered the tennis courts, across the car park and sprinted up the marble steps at the front of the house; a few seconds later he bounded up the stairs toward them – all without breaking his stride, breaking a sweat, or gasping for breath. He held out a hand, Malky straightened up and reached out to shake it, but much to his embarrassment, Rossington blanked him and went straight to Kris, “Kristof! What a pleasant surprise! Long-time-no-see-and-all-that!”

The tanned, manicured hand hung in the air, unshaken. Kris, desperately trying to express his disdain but too polite to be rude, hesitated before managing a feeble tug on his nemesis’ fingers. Rossington grasped the flaccid appendage and jerked it up-and-down with gusto, “Over for a little visit, eh? Having fun, are we?”

The boy looked at his hand as if it’d been spat on and said nothing.

“I hear you’ve literally been up to your old tricks again!” said the good doctor, tutting thrice and shaking his head.

Malky had seen the good doctor on TV, but never in the flesh. Nevertheless, he didn’t like what he’d seen, and after meeting the man in the flesh hadn't changed his opinion; what you saw was you got: the man was too smooth to be true. That’s an oddly non-specific ‘posh’ English accent, thought Malky: Cary Grant with a dash of Ray Milland; and although the tone was upbeat and cordial, each bon mot was primed with a jagged shard of spite. “You might look 15, my dear, but you’re a 22 year old adult now.”

“23.” Kris grunted.

“23! Even more reason to find a nice girl, settle down and do something worthwhile... You don’t want to end up like your mother, now, do you...?” He’d been stealing glances at Malky until he couldn't contain his curiosity a moment longer; he turned away from Kris and asked, “Sorry, but do I know you? You look vaguely familiar...?”

Malky was about to reply when Rossington cut-him-off, “NO–NO–NO, don’t tell me!!” he cried, putting a hand his brow and snapping his fingers as he scoured his memory, “I never forget a face -- I’ve written books on how not to forget a face! Now, where have I seen you before...?”

Herbie opened Laphen’s door and hissed, “Shhh!”

Rossington backed-up toward the door, staring at Malky’s face and racking his brains... “I know you... I do know you...” Before entering the room, he stopped trying to remember and whispered to Kris, “Oh, if I don’t see you later - give my regards to your mother, won’t you? It’s so gratifying to know she’s finally found her niche at long last.”

Crimson cheeked, bright blue-eyes narrowed to livid slits, the boy clenched his fists and muttered a litany of barely audible obscenities as the door closed. Malky was careful not to laugh: that’s the same expression the young Ollie Laffin used to pull after James Finlayson tanned his backside: hurt and angry, but ultimately sad. What happened to that wee guy?

The boy took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice down, “...as you can probably tell, I cannot stand Rossington. He’s like... anathema to me. He’s like Kris-kryptonite in Gucci, dude!” What followed sounded like he’d researched his subject with a detective’s eye for detail. “He’s the self-proclaimed ‘Shrink to the Stars!’ - You mighta seen him on TV. He heads-up an institute for psychos... umm... what’s it called...? ”

“SCICI,” said Malky, “St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane.”

Kris nodded emphatically, “Yeah, that’s right! It’s like puttin’ a cobra in charge of a nest of vipers!”

The door opened. Herbie looked out, scowled and shook his head. Kris lowered his voice to a whisper, “The truth is he’s Jimmy Ross from New Jersey, a former male-model and wannabe actor who went to night school, got a degree in psychiatry and reinvented himself as the suave, debonair Dr James Rossington we know and loathe today.”

The pair retired to a pair of Queen Anne armchairs in an arched recess adjacent to Laphen’s bedroom door. Broo kept well back and listened from a distance. “In the summer of ‘70 when I was like 2 years old, my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen – scored some smack from a dude in downtown LA and left me strapped in a car-seat outside a motel in the middle of a heatwave – I was almost poached, dudes – by some miracle somebody saw me and called the cops and they broke in. They went up to the motel-room and found mom had OD-ed – her third in as many years. My dad was serving year-2 of a 15-year prison sentence for fraud, Grandma was outta town and outta her mind on booze ‘n’ ‘ludes, so they called Gramps who went totally postal and flew back from Rome to sort things out. He was desperate to get mom help, for my sake as much as hers, so he put the word around that he’d do anything to get her straight. Someone gave him Rossington’s card. See, Jimmy’d devised a method of reprogramming drug addicts with an uncompromisingly tough regime: torture and mind control, basically – but with some New Age horseshit thrown in to make it look progressive. The literature was all this, like, flowery bullshit about ‘rebirth’ etc, but the kids were treated like laboratory rats -- two guys died and a girl committed suicide, that’s not taking into account the mental scars of those who actually made it through.” Kris sighed, “Anyway, he promised gramps he would have mom detoxed and straightened-out within 6 months, so Ollie cut him a cheque.”

“And did Rossington’s treatment work?” asked Malky.

“Oh yeah.  6 months later, just as promised, there’s Annelise Katz, clean and sober, made-over, looking hale and healthy and weeping to Barbara Walters about her drugs hell and her ‘resurrection’, hailing Gentleman Jim as her Personal Saviour! She relapsed 18 months later, mind you, but it was good while it lasted.”

“Where was Ollie when all this wuz goin’ on?”

The boy became melancholy, his tone heavy with ennui, “He was on a world tour with his one-man-show for most of it, but he’d given up on mom when she relapsed. Rossington told him she was incurable and the only course of action was left open to him was to cut all her finances and hopefully the desolation would drive her to do something about it herself. It did. It drove her to prostitution. So gramps washed his hands of her – I was all that mattered now. He got temporary custody of me.

“Anyhow, in the 80s Rossington’s rich and famous, but he yearns for something money can’t buy: a Serious Reputation. See, Jimmy wants Nobel Prizes not Daytime Emmys! He wants to be fêted by The Elite – i.e. the very people who call him a charlatan and a con man. He was a bit of a joke, so when gramps moved here permanently in ‘82, Jimmy tagged along, all-the-while plotting his next move. He met up with an old colleague who worked at St Cedric’s mental hospital in Dublin which specialised in cases involving extreme cases of aberrant behaviour and violence. Jimmy saw an opportunity: he wanted to turn St Cedric’s into an institute specialising in the psychology of the criminally insane -- a hi-tech facility where patients would be analysed by a team of crack academics from all over the world with the research going towards ‘a better understanding of psychopathic behaviour’ -- and sell a lot of books. so gramps called-in a few favours and made it happen. Jimmy’s all set! Unfortunately, the location sucks – Ireland -- a country known for its  blood thirsty violence is, relatively speaking, serial-killer-free, so he has to import his cases from abroad. Do you know there are serial killers, rapists, child molesters, cannibals from all over the world passing through that place?”

“Aye, I’ve heard all about all about it,” said Malky, “In fact, didn’t your mate Gosling check-in there after that ‘incident’?”

“Yeah, like I said, ‘Shrink to the Stars’...” Then he took a deep breath, looked down and shamefacedly admitted, “Look... I know who you are, Mr Calvert. I know what you’ve been through ‘n I know what you do, but I was so intent on getting one over on the old man, I held back. I’m sorry. It’s like we met under false pretences and I wanna clear the air.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Malky, grumpily. He was beginning to like the boy and now he felt slightly betrayed. Because if he lied so easily, who knows what he was capable of? Malky looked the boy in the eye and asked, “I have to ask you this, Kris: do you have anything to do with what’s been goin’ on in this house?”

Kris put up his hands and vehemently protested his innocence, “Hey now -- the first time I knew anything about this business was a coupla days ago when I saw that report in The Enquirer!!”

“... I mean, you make horror movies,” Malky asserted, “ye’ve got access to allsortsa props and special effects ‘n that. For all I know you ‘n Herbie -– maybe even Rossington -– could be in cahoots to put poor ol’ Oliver round the twist!”

Good God, I was wondering when you’d say that... Broo grumbled.

Just then, the door to Laphen’s room opened and Herbie emerged to give them the latest, “’is vitals is lookin’ good, blahd presha’s OK, no permanent damage, thank gawd...” Herbie clipped the boy around the ear, “You wuz lacky this time, boy! I ‘ope you take this as a lesson! No mowah practical jokes!”

...

Precisely 3 minutes ago (18:47 EST), approximately 3200 miles away, in a roadside ditch on the outskirts of Harrisburg, PA: Emil eyes slowly opened and he found himself staring into a silvery mosaic of inert smithereens. It didn’t take him long to realise he was gazing into a smashed windscreen. I’m still in the Volvo. But his head was squashed against the compressed ceiling -- the car was upside down! He tried to move -- that’s when a blazing pain ran through his entire body. If he could catch his breath he’d scream.

He heard crackling radios and excitable male voices: “Hey! He moved! He’s alive!” “Hey! Guys! He’s alive!” “He’s alive?” “For real? Shit!”

Then an older voice shouted, “We can’t wait for the ambulance!! There’s full tank of gasoline leakin’ into the grass! We gotta move him now!” Emil moved his eyes to the right and saw a fresh faced young fireman kneeling on the long grass, ear close to the ground, helmet off, talking through the upside-down passenger-side window, “I can see you’s in a lotta pain, sir, but we have a very volatile situation here... so keep still, don’t try to move, OK? I’ll be right back!”

Oh, I’ll keep still, kid... cos if I as much as blink it’ll hurt like hell, and I’d rather die than feel that pain again, so please, please don’t move me...

The excruciating pain seemed to radiate from below his waist -- his legs were splayed and trapped between the steering-wheel and the driver’s seat, his torso was between the seats, in a very awkward and painful position. His left arm was trapped beneath him, his right jammed under the buckled steering column. Oh God, the pain... bring back the darkness... bring back the numbness... Then he felt a hand under his armpit, another groping under him looking for the other other armpit, another took hold of his ankles... the pain was unbearable. An older man’s voice purred close to his ear, “Easy... easy there, sir, I got you...”

No! If you try to pull me out I’ll come apart like scarecrow... the pain, the pain... I’m begging you...

The soothing voice in his ear implored him, “Brace you-self, suh, we gonna do our best to get ya outta there as quick as possible...”

An impatient voice yapped, “C’mon, let’s go, guys, let’s do dis ‘n get the hell outta here!”

Emil felt arms around his midriff. Oh no. Oh God no...

Christ...

“I got ‘im! You got ‘im?”

Kill

“I got ‘im.”

me

“OK. After 3, swing ‘im out.”

now!!

“One... Two... and Three -”

AAAAAAHHHHH!!!

He was hauled from behind and twisted from below – then his body began to move backwards – something was stopping him: “the handbrake is stuck up his ass– we gotta lift him offa it!” The humiliation, the pain, the utter helplessness.... Somehow they repositioned him and hoisted him up again -- his left hip nudging-in the cigarette lighter – again the pain flared to an unbearable degree as he began to move backwards through the passenger-side window – simultaneously, he heard the tibia in his left leg make a crunching sound as it was unceremoniously yanked from under the steering-wheel... the pain became unbearable... then, at last, the shock kicked in... the pain became cold insensibility... he was being put onto a stretcher; he saw faces looking down, fuzzy unfocussed faces... a few seconds later he heard the young fireman’s voice call out, “Hey, his papers are all over the inside of the car... his passport – everything!!”  Emil heard one of the men carrying him yell, “DONNY – get the f**k outta there now!!”

That’s when the cigarette-lighter popped on the dash.

There was a huge fireball – Emil and his rescuers were thrown clear, but the young fireman wasn't so lucky. Emil’s rescuers abandoned him on the bank and went to the aid of their fallen comrade lying on the smouldering gorse, fully conscious, screaming, his body ablaze...

Then Emil got that familiar feeling of dread infest his bones, that familiar, bitter taste in his mouth, that acrid stench in his nostrils.... Somewhere in his head a little girl’s voice -- presumably the voice of his interior puppeteer -- spoke huffily: <Well, you’re damaged goods now, Emil – you’re no use to me at all. You’re gonna be confined to bed for a long time. I just hope every second of every day is as painful as this,> Emil screamed as a shock of pain tore through his pelvis. He began to lose consciousness, but managed a defiant smile before a much different, more welcoming, darkness descended.

<You can smile all you like, Emil. But I’ll be back... I’ve got all the time in the world...>

While Herbie waited for Rossington to finish, Kris volunteered to act as tour-guide and escort Brooster and Malky around the East Wing, the only area of the house they hadn't visited yet. “It’s the creepiest part! And it’s just gone midnight, dudes - this’ll be a gas!”

Broo whimpered, yippee, we get to listen to this idiot for the next 3 hours...

Before they embarked on their quest, Herbie had to fetch the keys from the safe in the study. As he handed them over, he had a ‘little word in Kris’ ‘shell-like’. There was a lot of finger wagging from the big man and a lot of shy nods from Kris. Despite his card being marked, their guide returned as ebullient as ever, “We’ll take the scenic route through the hidden passageway to the old chapel! It’s really cool!”

“Hidden passageway?” asked Malky, intrigued.

“Oh yeah – the old Duke and his disciples had to prepare for every eventuality! The place is riddled with ‘em!”

Kris chittered incessantly about the salacious activities of the 8th Duke of Roxborough -- the same story Malky heard from Herbie --  as he led them through the shadowy hallways of the East Wing. Eventually, “Here we are!” he announced brightly. He opened a hidden door in the panelling of a long, narrow corridor, revealing a dark passage way. He stooped, made an ugly face and raised the candelabra, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here... ” he said in a croaky voice “Follow me... if ye dare!” Malky, stooped and squeezed through the little hatch. Kris noticed the old dog dragging his feet, “C’mon Broostie,” he trilled, slapping his thigh and beckoning him hither.

If he calls me Broostie again, I’ll sink my teeth into his testes and hang on until he passes out, aura or no aura.

Almost crawling, they made their way along the low ceilinged tunnel for a hundred yards or so until they arrived at another door. “Here it is!” Kris whispered, turning a key in the lock. They squeezed through and found themselves on a small balcony overlooking what appeared to be the interior of a Christian church. Kris held the candelabra high above his head and led the way down a cast-iron spiral staircase, “Nowadays this is referred to as the chapel cos it looks like a chapel -- but it ain't no chapel -- no siree!”

Malky readily descended the wrought-iron steps, but Broo held back and observed from above. Kris wasn't talking now, he was leaning on a marble pillar in the nave, watching Malky look around with a big soppy grin on his face, like a hider watching a seeker get warm then cold, then warm...warmer...

Malky had been admiring what he assumed was uniform religious statuary in the alcoves, when it suddenly struck him that the busts and figurines were somewhat less than holy, “this-here is Pagan stuff made to look Christian,” he cried, “It’s all fawns, demons ‘n naked nymphs!!”

Kris was elated, “Right! Keep looking, dude!”

Malky borrowed the candelabra and held it aloft so that it illuminated the stone carvings atop the marble pillars; at first glance it looked like your standard host of cherubim and seraphim, however, closer inspection revealed it to be a representation of a horde of little winged sprites and faeries; the painted altarpiece wasn't a depiction of the Immaculate Conception, but an intricate painting of a strange naked Lady-of-the-lake type emerging from a swamp carrying the body of a dead child; the figure depicted in the stained glass window above the narthex wasn't Jehovah in his heavenly kingdom, rather a white-bearded, horned & tailed, cloven-hoofed Satan reclining on a throne made of human skulls.

“I wasn't expecting this at all...?” muttered Malky, fascinated and unsettled. He looked up at the old dog watching from above and wondered if he sensed anything untoward, but by the looks of him there was still no cause for alarm.

Kris looked left and right and lowered his voice, “Erm, to be frank, the film I’m making is based on the true story of Roxborough’s life. I’ve had to change the names and locations, but it’s loosely based on actual events, most of which I’ve hadda tone-down to get an R certificate! I have to be discrete, y’know, The Roxborough family are still a big noise in English society and they don’t like to be reminded of their lurid family history. They’d sue the ass-off-me if they thought I was exploiting the legend.”

They went through another door at the rear of the ‘chapel’ and entered a corridor lined by a row of white doors; Kris unlocked them one by one, “These were Thaddeus’ ‘private’ rooms’ where he indulged in his little perversions. But by the time gramps bought the house, the Roxboroughs had removed anything ‘incriminating’,” he said, looking a little disappointed. “Gramps stores his antiques in here now, y’know, stuff he’s bought on the spur of the moment, or gifts he’s received from different countries over the last 70 years: lots of ugly vases, objets-d’art ‘n shit that’re too big to have in the house.” The ‘White Rooms’ were now crammed with shrouded lumps of varying shapes and sizes. Broo kept back and waited until Malky and Kris moved onto the next door before inspecting the last. He sniffed around and checked under the sheets, but the evil deeds alleged to have been perpetrated here had left no trace; each room was the same: devoid of any spiritual presence or echoes of the past.

Just as Kris locked up and made to turn back, Malky noticed a wooden staircase up ahead, “Where does that lead to?” he asked.

Kris frowned, “Oh, the old infirmary.” He made a face, “Haven’t you seen it yet? The front door is on the outside of the house.”

“It was locked and Herbie didn’t have the key,” Malky replied, wondering why the boy seemed so uncomfortable.

Reluctantly climbing the stairs, Jamie filled them in on the infirmary’s history, “It was converted during Victorian times.The 10th Duke was wounded in some African war and set it up so he and his officer pals could convalesce in the luxury he was accustomed to. Nowadays, the villagers use it as a sick bay. They don’t believe in modern medicine for the most part, but when one of them gets really sick or injured they’ll bring them here and call a proper doctor.” He stopped at the little door and shivered, “Dude, I hate hospitals to the point of nausea. I don’t really wanna go in there unless it’s absolutely necessary. “

Broo looked at Malky. This time Malky didn’t need telepathy to guess what the old dog was thinking. “Aye, we’d really like to have a look. Would you mind?”

Kris sighed, produced the key and reluctantly unlocked the door. When it opened and a poof of fusty air escaped, he recoiled and held his nose, “yeeesh – I hate that smell, dudes...”

It was just as Malky had pictured it: a large, bare room with a dozen cots, six either side; the top of the room was dominated by two ancient cast-iron radiators under the shuttered windows; the pipes along the wall behind the beds were green with corrosion. There was a treatment room at the back stocked with basic medical supplies, the high shelves lined with large, empty specimen jars. Broo smelled formaldehyde and wondered what was once kept in those jars. But creepy jars aside, as far as Broo was concerned, like everywhere else, it was psychically barren.

“Anything?” asked Kris, looking from Malky to the old dog.

“Nope. If there was, he wouldn't be long in lettin’ us know.”

Kris was very impressed, if a little disappointed, “Oh, that’s good, I suppose... hey, what’s he doing now?” He’d noticed Broo pawing a door to the side of the last bed on the left.

I hear something -- and this time it’s not a tape recorder! My fur is standing on end! Open the bloody door!

“It’s the door of the bathroom,” said Kris, as he tried various keys in the lock. Once he’d found the right one, he turned the handle but the door wouldn't budge. “Gimme a hand, will ya, the wood must be swollen and sealed it shut.” Malky obliged and they pushed until the door let out a loud groan and swung inwards. Broo crept in and looked around. It felt quite damp compared to the rest of the secret rooms, which would explain the swollen door. 

For some reason, he was drawn to a full-length cheval mirror adjacent to the bath. As he hobbled towards it, he saw that the image therein was something other than his own approaching reflection. In fact there was no reflection at all, it was more like looking into a long, tall, oval fish tank filled with murky water thick with web-like weeds, the strands of which formed a net; a net filled with the inert bodies of small children, like snagged marionettes in the cloudy depths of a stagnant pool...

At that very moment an antiquated bar of soap that’d been sitting on the edge of a shelf above the bath fell into the empty tub with a loud THUD! “What the hell was that?!” cried Kris, turning on the light – blinding brightness – the old dog reeled! He turned and barked loudly! “Oh Shit! Sorry!” Kris instinctively tugged the string and made it dark again. Of course, when Broo turned back, the image had vanished. He found himself looking into his own bewildered eyes twinkling in the dusty, smutty glass.

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now,” said Malky.

“What do you think he saw?” asked Kris, rattled.

“Dunno,” said Malky, turning the light back on, “is there anythin’ special about this mirror? It looks a bit out of place, a bit grand for a hospital bathroom?”

“I have no idea... I’m never in here,” said Kris, looking genuinely confounded.

“... it looks as old as the house,” said Malky, examining the frame.

Shivering and shuffling his feet, Kris was getting impatient, “Erm... if that’s it, dudes, I’d really like to get the hell outta here...”

 As they made their way back to the West Wing, they were distracted by the sound of chopping-rotors and twin beams shining through the huge, stained-glass windows as the doctor’s helicopter took off. They heard the front door close, the jingle of keys and then the steel-tipped heels of Herbie’s Oxford-brogues clicking as they crossed the main hall into the lobby. As the lights receded and the rotors buzzed-off into the distance, Kris thought for a moment and then said, “Y’know... there was something that happened when I was last here... but I’m not sure if it’s relevant.”

Now he tells us...

Malky shrugged, “Well, we’re at a loss, so anythin’ you can tell us would be better than chasin’ round this place like headless chickens.”

“I’d like to show you something,” said Kris, enigmatically, “but we’ll have to go to the old pavilion to see it.”

“Alright lads?” Herbie called, standing in the shadows of the lobby looking up, “The old man’s OK, fanks-be to you, Mr Calvert - it wuz a panic attack an’ you did all the right fings.”

“Oh, thank f**k,” said Kris, sighing with relief.

As they descended the staircase, Malky asked Herbie about the mirror in the infirmary bathroom. “The ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes, ‘ad it moved there coupla years ago,” he said, in a doubtful tone, “she was in the boss’ study late one night ‘n she said she seen a little lad watchin’ ‘er in that mirror. Screamed the house dahn. Scanlon ‘ad to give ‘er a slap to shut-her-up.”

In spite of the big chauffeur’s doubts, Broo was sure this information was significant -- it sounded eerily similar to what he’d just experienced -- but for now, he could nothing but keep it to himself and see how things developed.

“Is the power on in the pavilion?” Kris asked Herbie.

Herbie tutted, “Ach, c’mon Kris, my son, no matter what the old man says we don’t expectcha to sleep aht there tonight!”

“No,” Kris chuckled, “I wanna use the screening room to show Mr Calvert some video I shot last time I was here...”

They took a leisurely stroll through the grounds to the pavilion and Malky pretended to listen as Kris nattered away about film making. Broo continued to lag behind, too debilitated by the boy’s aura to take in his surroundings.The misty halo had become murkier the further they got from the house. Broo had to move back another 6 feet to keep out of range. When Kris asked about the old dog keeping his distance, Malky told him he was just slow: “past it” he said. Broo responded with a sharp bark. Bloody cheek. It was quite a mild night, there was no breeze, the moon was bright enough to illuminate the darker corners, but the complete silence was unnatural and unsettling. Even Kris commented on it: “... listen, you could hear a pin drop out here. It’s eerie, isn't it? Complete silence. Not even the hoot of an owl or a breeze to rustle the trees.” A moment later, as they made their way down to the walkway that ran alongside the croquet lawn, they heard the clump of boots coming in the opposite direction. It turned out to be Charlie Noble, the incumbent head of security, who informed them he’d just unlocked the pavilion and switched on the power. He asked after Laphen’s health and as Kris gave him the latest, Malky gave him the once-over. He was a stocky man of medium height with dreadful skin that made his face look like a bag of lumpy pastry. He had a northern accent – Antrim Town, to be exact -- and like Herbie, he was ex-army.

“I hear you had a bit of trouble on Friday night?” said Malky.

Charlie looked to the boy for guidance; Kris nodded, “It’s OK, he’s got Herbie’s permission.”

“You mean the night the big clock got pushed over? ‘A bit of trouble’ is about right, aye,” said Charlie, spinning a large key-ring on his index-finger like a six-shooter. “The boss was in a right state. He hit the panic button ‘n I raced up here as fast as I could -– but when I got to the door -- the swipe-card wouldnae work and the friggin’ master key wouldnae turn in the lock! I hadda climb in through a winda  -- when I found ‘im he was under the stairs shakin’ like a leaf! ‘Poltergeist!’ says he, pointing at the big grandfather clock lyin’ in the hall! It’d fallen off the wall! A big thing like that! I wuz flummoxed.”

“What do you think of this fella Scanlon?” asked Malky, still suspicious that this might’ve been an inside job; i.e. a disgruntled ex-employee with access to the house, maybe.

“Scanlon...?” thrown by the question, Noble bowed his head, scratched it and said, “Well, Scanlon was one of me best mates – ex-RAF, all-round good egg, so-he-was...” Then, suddenly aware that he was in the presence of the boss’ grandson, changed his tone, giving the impression that he’d revised his opinion, “Then again... he was a like law onto himself, had the run of the place, thought he was indispensable. Took things for granted. He worked here long before Mr Laphen bought the place, see. But... stealing from the boss ‘n that. Big shock that was...” Looking uncomfortable in his skin, he looked at Kris with an expression that said ‘can I go now?’ They let him get back to his rounds and continued on their way.

Once Noble was out of earshot, “See?” whispered Kris, “nobody believes Scanlon is guilty.”

“Hmmm, that maybe,” said Malky, doubtfully,”but he’s still the prime suspect.”

 After passing through another archway and following a well-lit path lined with neatly trimmed shrubbery, they eventually came upon a white building set back behind a little copse approximately 200 yards from the house. From the outside, it looked more like a large clapboard house than a sports pavilion. Malky asked why all the windows were blocked-off. “To keep out the light. Gramps had it converted into a little cinema so he could screen movies,” said Kris, unlocking the door. “He  got prints of all his old comedy shorts and he shows them to visitors.” He turned on the lights, “Wait til you see inside, it’s a feast for the eyes!”

They emerged from the vestibule and stepped into art-deco-heaven. It was just like a miniature version of the Picture-Palaces built during The Depression era that Malky had visited as a child: welcoming, sumptuous and tastefully plush. Emerald green deep-pile carpets, and huge, signed prints of silent movie stars’ publicity pictures lining the walls (Louise Brooks, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Chaplin, Keaton and, of course, the man himself – technically not a silent star - but whose comic oeuvre owed so much the pioneering comedians of that era), furnished with armchairs a pair of white leather Hoffman Kubus sofas facing each other in a  b/w 20s-style cocktail bar/café. After a quick tour, Kris took them through a projection-booth into a back-room filled with various pieces of complicated-looking electronic apparatus connected by sheaves of multicoloured cables; the lower back wall was lined with racks of film canisters of varying shapes and sizes. Kris took a cassette from a rack of video tapes, brought it into the booth and pushed it into the player. “Gramps always made his own home-movies, so when video became popular he bought all of this state-of-the-art equipment – he has to have all the latest gizmos.”

While Kris worked in the projection booth, Malky went to the theatre and made himself comfortable. Brooster slunk under a chair in the far corner (15 feet away, but still within sight of the screen) and tried to stay awake.

“It’s a tape of the exhumation of the mummies,” Kris shouted from the projection booth, “I was in Dublin when it happened, so I drove back ASAP and fetched the video camera to shoot some footage.” The screen lit up and a bright blizzard of static flickered on Malky’s face; a few seconds later an image suddenly appeared. It was a shaky film of a woodland scene, presumably the woodland surrounding the bog; a few seconds later Kris’ recorded voice sounded in the theatre’s speakers:

“It’s Thursday July 20th 19-and-89, I’m at my grandfather’s house in Ireland in the marshlands on the outskirts of the estate, and I’m on my way to film a very significant ‘n strange event -- probably historic --”

What followed was a kind of home movie taken a day after the discovery of the mummies, accompanied by a typically breathless running commentary from Kris. It showed lots of people milling around the swamp; forensics people, gards, villagers and the press, had gathered to watch the bodies being removed. “I was staying here while Ollie ‘n Herb were in Japan,” Kris explained, talking over his voice-over as he joined Malky in the theatre, “I was writing the script at the time and I went to Dublin to do research when I heard about it. I was so hyped I hadda hightail back here to film it.”

When it came to close-ups of the experts, Malky recognised a few of the faces from news reports, but one in particular was more familiar than the others, “That’s Paddy Gilray, he’s a top forensics guy from Dublin. Big Phil Somerville 'n him are good friends. Dunno who the guy with ‘im is, though.”

“Emil something. I tried to talk to him afterwards, but he told me to f**k off,” said Kris, looking a wee bit hurt. “Somebody told me he’s another forensics guy from Canada. He flies over every summer and they do these archaeological digs.”

Just then, the voice-over took a strange turn; the commentary broke off mid-sentence and the sound of Kris vomiting filled the room; the film suddenly stopped and Kris pointed at the blank screen, “When they moved the bodies there was this unholy stink like nothin’ I ever smelled before -- that’s why I threw up! I hadda stop filming and get the hell outta there!” He made a sour face, “It wasn't swamp gas – cuz I’ve smelled swamp gas – it was more like this thick, sickening miasma that made it hard to breathe, Ugggh!” he said, grimacing, “And it wasn't just me! Look, everybody is retching or puking -- even some the guys wearing surgical masks!” He used a remote to rewind the tape and freeze-framed a wide shot of the bog. He indicated a coterie of Bogmire residents standing on the opposite side, “Now look at the villagers -- they’re are fine with it, like they’re used to it. And that’s not all,,.” He sat forward, lowered his voice and spoke in a sombre tone, “There was, like, this strange kinda purple mist hanging over everything. You could see it as plain as day -- in fact most people commented on it -- but it doesn’t show up on the tape. And I checked the camera -- it’s not technical fault.” Kris shook his head, “Anyway, I couldn't get the stench out of my nostrils or the taste outta my mouth. It got into my clothes -- I dumped them as soon as I got back to the house -- but I could smell it for days after. In fact, I smelled it until I left...” He turned to Malky, “I swear to God, I smelled it when I walked into the house today. 2 years later and it’s still there. That’s 24 months and several gallons of Sparky’s wood-polish and gramps’ cigars -- and it’s still there!”

Malky shook his head, “I didn’t smell anythin’.”

“That’s what’s so weird, I’m the only one who does,” said Jamie, looking genuinely perplexed.

Broo knew the smell the boy as talking about. It was that faint, acrid odour he smelled during their little stop in the village, but it wasn't pronounced enough to give him much cause for concern, now he wasn't so sure. How could a natural smell hang in the air for so long without dissipating?

And what of the vision of the children in the bathroom mirror? Children drowned in a stagnant pool: the bog? Is it something to do with the little girl found in the ancient one’s arms? Is she now a ghost reaching out to him via the Mirror World?

So many questions...

...

The night before, in the Ivy House Library: under the light of a reading lamp, Jamie sat at a desk and scanned the attendance log of his grandfather’s long-since defunct ‘naughty-hellfire’ type club, an association that allowed renowned dignitaries and celebrities to indulge their wildest, wickedest sexual fantasies in complete anonymity. Working on a hunch, he was looking for one name in particular in the thick, yellowing pages, and although all entries were in code, his grandfather had kept a separate log to record the members real names; all Jamie had to do was find the name the to fit the code. After an hour of searching and deciphering, his finger eventually alighted on the moniker he’d been looking for:

“Oliver Laphen.”

According to the log, Laphen’s last attendance was in June 1968. Jamie wondered if it was an amicable parting of the ways, or was he kicked out? If his reputation for hell-raising was an issue, expulsion was a distinct possibility. And if he was ex-communicated, did he hold a grudge? Jamie went to the sliding steps and rolled to the central bookcase; he climbed to the top rung and took a row of three glued-together, hollowed-out tomes from the top shelf, revealing a safe concealed in the wall behind. He turned the dial on the combination lock using the numbers written on the back of his hand, opened it and removed a heavy ledger. 

It contained highly compromising information of every member of the club, probably in order to blackmail any black-balled ex-members tempted to spill the beans to the authorities or the press. Predictably, Laphen had an abundance of black marks against his name, everything from securities fraud to wife beating. Then, to Jamie’s surprise, he discovered that his grandfather had added a heavily underlined note pertaining to Laphen’s purchase of Pagham House: ‘Witches -- Observe!’ it screamed from the page. The Judge was clearly expressing his alarm and wanted the Witches of Kildare to keep an eye on things. And now we know why. 

Oggy talked about Pagham House before he went down for his sleep. He said it’s a mansion built to the exact specifications of the Ivy House by the Duke of Roxborough: a wannabe wizard with no psychic abilities whatsoever, who tried to create magic using standard methods: sex and human sacrifice. It was also home to the swamp where the mummy of an ancient mage was discovered 2 years ago. And now Laphen’s grandson turns up and offers Goz -- the only one of us who could be tempted to break ranks -- a part in a film he’s shooting in Ireland? It was all too much of a coincidence. 

He slammed the book shut, crossed his arms and sat back. Shite. This could be the first major crisis he’s faced since taking up the mantle of Master, and there was no Ogden Castle around to guide him... 

...

After screening a few of Ollie’s old ‘Laffin Boy!’ shorts to lighten the mood, Malky and Kris sat in the little cinema’s cocktail bar/café and made use of the fully functioning, antique coffee machine. They took a sofa each, sprawled-out on the white leather and talked about Film Noir for the next hour or so. When the conversation moved on to personal matters, Kris chatted openly about his relationship with “Jolly Ollie!” It wasn't bitchy in the least, for the most part he spoke in glowing terms. Nevertheless, he was still bewildered and exasperated by what he called, ‘The Purge’.”

“Whatever his reasons, I predict old Ollie will be battling a few ‘unfair dismissal’ law-suits over the next coupla years,” Malky opined .

“Any potential litigants will have to go to the end of the queue,” said Kris, “gramp’s life has been one long lawsuit, and he’s got the best lawyers money can buy.” He nimbly flipped over the back of the sofa and trotted over to the counter for a refill. Malky had to shout to be heard above the loud gurgle of a sputtering nozzle, “I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone like him in my life! If I wuz you, I’d stay well away!”

“Everybody else does keep away, I’m the only one of the family that bothers,” he said, coming back to the sofa and flopping down, “I think our little spats are a sorta communication on a deep level. Like, I can’t explain it, but it kinda opens things up –- things you can’t talk about ‘man-to-man’ can come out in one of our shouting-matches.” Kris sat up, raised his mug at the life-size picture of the man himself in his heyday hanging behind the bar, and said, “No matter what he’s done, he’s still a genius. He’s a hard act to follow. All I can do is learn from his mistakes.” Kris smiled at the youthful, dimpled face, “When I look at him now I know I’m looking at myself in 60 years time, cos that’s probably what I’ll look like if I live that long. But I won’t end my days like him, alone in a mansion miles away from his family, abandoned by his estranged kids. My grandfather is nothing if not a walking cautionary tale.”

Malky was very impressed by this young man. His mother is a drug-addict, his father is a crooked businessman, his grandfather is an arrogant arsehole, and yet, he’s a realistic, intelligent, talented, well-rounded good kid. He raised his mug to salute his new best friend, “I hope my chile grows up to be as bright and as thoughtful as you are, son.”

“You’re gonna to be a father?!” Kris asked, excitedly.

“8 weeks from yesterday,” said Malky, smiling, but sounding a wee bit daunted.

Kris jumped to his feet and vigorously shook Malky’s hand. “That’s awesome! Congratulations, dude!”

“I never thought of the future til I heard the words, ‘I’m late’," joked Malky. He took a moment to think, then asked, “So, what do you think’s goin’ on in Pagham House, Kris?”

Kris answered straightaway as if he was expecting the question: “I have absolutely no idea. I mean, that grandfather clock -- besides the fact that I wasn't here at the time, there’s no way I could've pushed that over, let alone a scrawny old guy like Ollie. You’d need a tractor to move it!”

Malky shrugged and sighed, “Well, that’s us. There’s nuthin’ more we can do. As far as we’re concerned, the house is uncontaminated by evil spirits. I’ll just have to tell Ollie we've come up empty. If I was him, I’d leave it to the police.”

Kris looked at the old dog sitting in the corner and asked, “U-huh, I wonder what Broo makes of it all?”

“I dunno,” Malky answered, sleepily, looking over his shoulder, “like I said before, if there was anythin’ ‘supernatural’ he’d’ve let us know by now...”

But Broo didn’t know how to communicate what he was seeing. Because when the pair sat together, the boy’s aura, more opaque than ever, spread to envelope Malky. When the boy went to the coffee bar to get a refill, part of it stayed with Malky. They were both shrouded in that swirling mist that psychically shut Broo out and rendered him physically weak...

Oh God, I hope this doesn’t last. I hope it disappears once we leave this woe-begotten place...

...

Two hours later, sitting in the bar of Odin’s Inn in Brodir, the ghost of Sammy O'Donnell, the inn’s deceased barman, was sitting in the darkened bar listening to the distant sound of waves crashing on the rocks. He was very bored. Thank God the old dog’s back tomorrow, at least I’d somebody to talk to, he thought to himself. We could be watchin’ TV right now... his thoughts were interrupted by a far cry: <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...>

“What’s that?” Sammy said aloud, though nobody could hear him, “well, up til now.”

<Samuel... Samuel...> a little voice cried in his head. He wasn't imagining it. It’s a thought, he thought, like the way the old dog talks me.

<Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...> It seemed to be a child’s voice calling his name...“Samuel O'Donnell...” He went to one of the windows and looked out. <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell... Samuel O'Donnell...>

Beyond the concourse, across the main road, standing atop the old sea wall, he saw the sparkling spectre of a small child. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl, the clinging white dress could just as well be a nightshirt; the hair was wet and hung around its face and shoulders like seaweed: the ghost of a wee drowner, no doubt.

<Wave if you can hear me!> the little ghost yelled.

Sammy raised his hand and waved a feeble wave.

<I’ve been sent by the Powers That Be to warn you!>

“Warn me?” said Sammy, perturbed.

<Aye. From tomorrow forth your haunt will become infected!> cried the little spectre, <You’ll haveta get yerself to The In-Between until the danger passes!>

Even though he’d never heard the phrase ‘The In-Between’ before, Sammy could guess what it meant: “Limbo?! Why? I bloody hate Limbo!! It’s full of martyrs 'n murderers 'n all kinds of religious headcases!”

Talking quickly, as if he there was a time limit on his manifestation, the little spectre informed him: <You've no choice! The innkeeper is set to return from an infected place -- he’ll bring the darkness back with him! It’s a Soul-eating disease, no spirit is safe, not even us ghosts – so it’s in your best interests to bide-awhile in the In-Between until the danger passes and the house is pronounced safe.>

<But what is it...!> Sammy had so many questions, but the little spectre had begun to fade. He watched helplessly as the sparkle dimmed to a glow, then a glimmer. “NO! Wait, don’t go...!” he cried out, but the ghost had gone.

He sat down again and mulled over the message: innkeeper? They must mean Malky. But what does ‘bringing The Darkness back with him’ mean? For the first time since he died, Sammy O'Donnell was scared. If there was something wicked coming – something so dangerous that it’s fatal to Immortal Souls – how could he be sure it wouldn't pose a risk to The Living?

And what about an unborn baby?!

He couldn't – he wouldn't abandon Zindy!

To Be Continued...