AN: Sorry this took extra long! Technology issues, but not actually my fault this time (it usually is).

Anyway, it took a bribe of yak cheese, an act of Congress, a note from Chuck, and a naked rain dance to get this off the old laptop, and there were so many formatting issues that Janice deserves a medal for proofreading it, but here it is. *exhales loudly*

* * *

Sam huffed at his brother, but he wasn't really as annoyed as he acted. He didn't especially like Dean being so far away from him during a case, but the only deaths were here at Orizzotto Rosso, so Dean was technically heading away from danger. And no matter that Dean called it "dusty old records" and "dead people junk," Sam was interested in anything an archivist could show him, whether it be Native American burial artifacts or detritus left behind from the Italian family from the 1800's. He also didn't mind Barb and Company...too much. He was admittedly relieved that they weren't staying with the women. He could just imagine waking up to Judy's cackle.

With a nod that communicated his intent, Sam peeled off to head for the security building at the entry to the community. Dean was going to grab the car and dump their stuff at "their" condo before heading out.To Sam's amusement, Dean had stopped to talk to a blonde in a white bikini. He was showing her his ID, but Sam could tell from her body language that it wasn't Dean's supposed job that had the woman's attention. Smiling to himself, glad his brother was able to find some enjoyment in life again after Mom had walked out on them, Sam continued on. He was beginning to sweat in his suit, and was grateful it wasn't a longer walk. The swimming pool where Dean's new friend and a handful of other women were hanging out was looking better by the minute.

Showing Agent Taylor's ID at the security window netted Sam an immediate invitation inside. To his relief, the small building was air conditioned. Even better, one of the guards inside was Ed Chapel, who had been first on scene for the first death and the first from security to arrive at the last. Ed was taking his break at a round table in a large room attached to the little room where one man sat to watch the road, but he was happy to talk. He led Sam to an empty office.

"I read the police reports and saw the autopsy reports, but I find you usually learn something new from eyewitness accounts," Sam explained, anticipating the question of why the FBI would bother to talk to a rent-a-cop.

"I didn't see either attack," Ed warned him. "Though the first guy was still warm when I got there." His shoulders hunched.

"You didn't see anyone or anything leaving the scene?" Sam asked, terming it that way because he knew the autopsies said possible animal attack.

"No, sorry." I didn't see or hear anything, not even a scream. But Tammy, who found the lady who died last, heard her say something like, no, wait, please." Ed blew out a breath. Sam gave the man a minute to collect himself.

"What else?" asked Sam finally. He was good at being able to tell when witnesses had something they weren't saying.

Ed studied his face for a minute, as if to judge how likely Sam was to actually listen to him. "Agent, the first thing I did both times was check for a pulse, per policy, even though they were obviously gone. I had to walk in blood to do it – and my footprints were the only ones until the coroner came."

That echoed what Barb said, and made it clear that Ed was a worthwhile interview. For his part, once he'd figured out that Sam would listen with interest and respect, Ed became downright chatty. When he had to go out on patrol, he invited Sam to come so they could keep talking and he could show Sam the locations of all of the deaths. Despite the heat, Sam agreed.

Ed knew of each victim, and on the face of it, it didn't appear that they had anything in common. The latest to die had been the assistant to some bigwig, stepping in to help in the bathhouse since the murders had spooked some of the other employees into quitting. Before her, it had been a member of the housekeeping staff, and before that a guest's chauffeur. The first death had been the head of the landscaping crew.

They were near the spot of the first death when the back of Sam's neck began to prickle, and not from the sweat trickling down it. He slowed and looked around him, causing Ed to give him a curious look.

"What is this?" asked Sam rather than answer the questions on the security guard's face. There was the footprint of a long-gone building, one bit of one corner the only place the walls weren't missing entirely.

"I guess this was part of the house that was here long ago." Ed wasn't terribly interested, but Sam stared at the outline of the erstwhile building. It was a narrow rectangle, far too small to be the house or stables. Greenhouse, he thought, remembering the blurb on the development's website. Still, in the bright sunlight, there was nothing even the slightest bit suspicious-looking about the barely-there ruins. The feeling of something neither grew stronger nor abated, and Sam resolved to come back with an EMF meter.

For a long time, Sam had thought it was because of demon blood or his "Shining" (thanks, Dean) that he could sometimes sense that something was off or different, or supernatural, or whatever. Then he'd realized that Dean could do the same thing. And Bobby. Then Sam read an article about a people in the heart of the deep jungle that bordered the Amazon. Apparently, the entire village would sometimes simply pack up and move farther from the banks of the great river – and within a day or two, their former home would flood. When an outsider questioned them on it, the confused villagers would just say they felt the change coming.

It was conditioning, Sam realized. Tuning into something those less practiced ignored and didn't even notice. And Sam's was finely honed – except it couldn't tell him what was drawing his attention.

"I need to talk to the archivist next," said Sam. Ed was still looking around them in confusion, and Sam had to admit that there was nothing strange in view. They were a small distance from any of the condos, with only the "concierge building" and the edge of the desert within fifty feet of them. Actually, Ed hadn't even headed this way until Sam had followed his instincts down the beaten earth, not-yet-paved, path.

"In there, as far as I know." Ed pointed to the very modern and very ugly concierge building that would eventually house offices for those who actively managed the development.

"Then that's where I'm headed. Thank you." Sam shook the man's hand and ignored the eyes on his back as he headed into the building. He'd long since grown pretty much immune to people thinking he was weird. After all, an FBI agent who specialized in serial killers as he'd styled himself, couldn't be completely normal, right? The thought amused Sam.

Once inside the building, which looked like the lobby of an expensive hotel, Sam was quickly directed to an office in the basement. This part of the building was much more utilitarian, and Sam had to duck under a few places where the duct work hung extra low. It reminded him of trying to repair the leaking pipe back in the bunker.

The archivist's "office" was really just an open area bounded by long tables that were covered with what looked like sorted scraps and junk. In the middle of it all was…not the type of person he'd pictured for J. Harris, Archivist.

Harris was a willowy woman with a great deal of dark hair pulled into a bushy ponytail. She was bending over one of the tables. "Did you finally find me some decent light?" she called over her shoulder.

"I'm afraid not," Sam answered, managing to keep a serious expression when she straightened from the table she'd been bent over, spun around, and almost landed on her ass. He had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling as he thought that Dean probably wouldn't have volunteered for a long, hot drive, shamrock shake or not, if he'd known what the archivist looked like. Sam pulled out his FBI ID, grateful he'd stopped into a bathroom to at least wipe the worst of the sweat off his face.

"Special Agent Sam Taylor, FBI. My partner and I are looking into the recent deaths. Archivist Harris, I presume?"

"Uh. Yes. Uh, Janna." She was obviously nonplussed. "Can I help you? I didn't know any of the people who were killed." She sounded doubtful.

Sam gave her a reassuring smile. "That's okay. I'm just curious about what kind of things have been found on site here. It looks like you have a lot to catalog already."

Janna canted her head to the side and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear in a gesture that was more habit than necessity. "There's no burial grounds or anything, if you're worried any of it's illegal. And the ruins themselves aren't public property."

She still sounded more confused than defensive, which was a good thing. "It's nothing like that," Sam confided. "We're checking all angles since there's no obvious connection among the victims, so we're looking for possible motives. I mean, is it possible this is revenge on behalf of displaced people? Or could someone believe this is a sacred place? Or have you uncovered something valuable, something that someone might kill for?" He shrugged one shoulder and added honestly, "Besides, your work is interesting."

The final statement won her over like nothing else had. "I don't think there's anything here that would be valuable to anyone except historians," she admitted. "But it is really interesting, especially since so much was left behind and preserved remarkably well in this dry climate. Here, come around this side of the tables and I'll show you what we've found."

Sam had a feeling that most people wouldn't have gotten the offer. He pulled off his jacket and joined her, catching her eyeing the breadth of his shoulders. Yeah, Dean would be sad he missed out.

Janna was articulate...and friendly. Sam was flattered, but her warm brown eyes kept reminding him of Eileen.

It turned out there were no indigenous peoples in this particular area, except for a few nomadic tribes that had passed through on rare occasions. It was an odd place for anyone to settle before modern technology brought ease and speed of travel and comfort and safety even in the heart of the desert.

The Orizzonte Rosso developers had been surprised to find the signs of the homestead. Janna had located a hand-drawn deed for the land itself at a nearby museum allowing Count Dante Basile, wife Camilla, various servants, 16 horses, and assorted other animals and any subsequent issue of any of the preceding.

"I have no idea why they would build so far from anything, but they were rich enough to pull it off," Janna explained, showing Sam what appeared to be a book ledger. "There were people traveling back and forth to settlements almost daily to bring in supplies. There are some indications that the conte was breeding horses, so maybe that's how they eventually planned to make a living. Or maybe they figured they were rich enough that it didn't matter."

She talked for a while about noble families in Europe sending profligate or otherwise problematic children to the New World, whether to curb their vices or simply get them out of sight to prevent further embarrassment. Sam wondered if either Dante or Camilla was one of those problem children.

"There was an absolute treasure trove of letters that I've barely started reading." Janna indicated a pile of fragile written missives. That was what Sam needed to see.

"And there's so much we haven't even unearthed yet. I mean, we've just started on the stables, haven't touched the house. I think we're about finished with the greenhouse, though. I'm trying to convince them to build a re-creation of it. After all, that's where we found our most exciting discovery." Janna's face was lit with excitement.

Sam refocused. He'd been half listening, half planning how to break in overnight to check everything for EMF and liberate the ledger and letters. He straightened from ostensibly peering at some horseshoes. "What is it?"

"Well, it's pretty much what this whole place is named for. Dante built the greenhouse for Camilla, and she grew roses there. She said she wanted to be surrounded by flowers. She took some of her roses from Italy and grafted them together with native roses. She documented everything, and created a brand new species. And we found some seeds that were actually viable! Apparently, they hibernate or something. This new kind of rose going to be certified as an official species soon, and the development owns all rights to it. They're already planting them all over the place."

Janna wrinkled her nose as if a little embarrassed over her own enthusiasm. "I don't know much about botany or roses, but that's a pretty big deal."

Sam was sure that was a big deal, but he sort of thought Camilla's untimely death and her love of her greenhouse were bigger deals with regard to the case, and to stopping more gruesome deaths. "Camilla and Dante both died here, right? Do you have to work around a little graveyard or were they buried in the nearest town?"

"Neither!" Janna grinned up at him, pleased with the question. "Camilla was buried here at first. In fact, we found her headstone." She waved at a very intact stone with an eroded but still readable inscription: Camilla, amata moglie di Conte Dante Basile, non essere mai separato. Sam's Italian was weak, but he was pretty sure is meant: Camile, beloved wife of Count Dante Basile, never to be separated.

"After Dante died, his family had both bodies sent back to Italy. When Dante realized that he was going to die, he made his most trusted servants swear to do it, so he and Camilla wouldn't be separated even in death."

Sam bit back a scathing comment about how badly that desire could turn out. He should know. But, wait. Camilla was in buried in Italy? He wondered what Dean would think about a transatlantic field trip. Except, if this was Camilla's ghost visiting a death like hers on others, she was tied to something here, not her remains half world away. And it wasn't her beloved greenhouse since none of the deaths had happened all that close to it. Sam needed more information, to find out what else Camilla had treasured. He sent a longing glance toward the pile of letters that even Janna hadn't read yet.

He also needed a better victimology, a look at those letters, and a chance to check over the ruins with EMF...all things he couldn't have right now. Sam tried to tamp down his irritation and not take it out on Janna. She didn't deserve Sam's ire. And if he were honest, the root of his bad mood wasn't an inability to get farther on the puzzle in front of him; cases often took some time to sort through, and they hadn't been here long. No, he was uneasy to have Dean so far away. Separation had never gone well for them...to put it mildly. Of course, this was a little ridiculous, since Dean was less than 100 miles away, he would be back that same evening, and he wasn't even going anywhere dangerous.

Suck it up, Sam told himself, bestowing a real smile on Janna. Just because he didn't have any romantic aspirations didn't mean he couldn't enjoy her presence while he learned more about the Basile family. "Nobody ever lived here after the two homeowners died and everyone went back to Italy?" he asked curiously.

Janna opened her laptop. "No. And not everyone went back to Italy, either. The most trusted couple of servants sold off the animals and things that would be hard to transport, then escorted the bodies back to Italy. But," Janna wrinkled her nose again, this time in distaste. "They decided not to ship most of the servants home, basically dumping them in the town and abandoning them. They probably didn't even speak much English." She shrugged a little sadly. "I guess the family didn't think it was worth the expense of bringing them back."

"Nice family." The thought soured Sam's stomach. He'd always hated elitism. Judging someone based on the circumstances of their birth was idiotic. Writing off and abandoning faithful servants to save some money was despicable. And yeah, abandonment was a bit of a hotbed issue for him right now, which was probably why he was so itchy to talk to Dean right now.

"No kidding." Janna studied her notes. "I found a ton of writing from the house castellana."

"Chatelaine?" asked Sam uncertainly.. He wasn't positive, but thought castellana was a word for the woman who oversaw the practical details of running a large household. She would have been educated and important enough to rate a ride back to her homeland with her late master and mistress.

"Exactly!" Janna flashed Sam another smile. "Well, she didn't just write down household accounts. She put personal notes in there, too. I just came across a passage where she's complaining about the 'weak and weeping' maids when they found out they were being left behind. She advised them to become prostitutes while they were still young enough to make good money."

Sam swore, then immediately apologized. Being around Dean so much was killing his manners, which was ironic, considering that Dean had been the one to teach him those same manners.

"Don't apologize," said Janna quickly. "I think that learning about how things used to be can help us get better going forward, which is why it's so important to learn history, even when it's...unpalatable."

"I agree."

Janna tucked her hair behind her ear again a little nervously. "I have plans tonight, so I have to get going soon, and I won't be back until Tuesday." It was Friday. "If you're still around, maybe we can grab a drink sometime next week. There's a cute little bar that just opened – we wouldn't even have to drive into town."

"I'd like that," said Sam honestly. She was an interesting (and yes, attractive) companion. He didn't admit that he was also glad she'd be gone for a few days, because it would give him a chance to look through her notes and the unread papers, and hopefully get everything back without her being any the wiser. He liked her and didn't care to mess up her work. The developers might have avaricious reasons for wanting the information cataloged, but Janna truly cared about it.

Their good-bye was pleasant, even though Sam was taking extra care to note any security measures as she escorted him out. The itch to call Dean was really starting to grow.

But once he did, Dean didn't answer. There were at least a thousand possible and perfectly benign reasons for that. Dean wouldn't answer if he was in the police station or interviewing someone. He'd know that Sam would call back immediately if there was a problem. And there had been very spotty reception between town and Orizzonte Rosso. If Dean were already on his way back, he could well be in one of the many dead zones. Knowing all that still didn't mean Sam liked it.

"Hey, man. I found some good info, but I need to do a lot more looking. Let me know when you'll be back so the sisters know when to have food ready." There, that sounded plausible and completely not codependent.

Sam had plenty to do, anyway. He would go check out the condo where they were staying to take a nice cold shower and get out of his suit. Then he'd compile everything he had. Wait. He was surprised to see that he had an email from Dean with the subject line full autopsies. Sam was surprised. Police stations usually refused to send that kind of information electronically out of their own network, and would give them a thumb drive or actual paper copies of the info. Of course, this was Dean. He'd probably charmed his way around that rule. Sam would look it over...after his shower. He'd check in with Barb later, too.

With real regret, Sam realized that he'd never gone to the other ruins, in the opposite direction as the condo – and the shower he was craving. But Sam's regret faded as he moved toward the area where construction vehicles were still hard at work. Between the finished area and the construction was a wide space that allowed Sam to see far into the unspoiled desert. The sun was setting, and the view was every bit as spectacular as the advertising hyperbole had claimed. Every rock and cactus that rose above the ground became a backlit silhouette, but the ground itself looked like it was on fire, the natural red picking up the same hues from the sliver of sun still showing over the wavering horizon. Sam couldn't help but slow his steps to take it in. Then, abruptly, the sun disappeared from sight. It looked like it move unnaturally fast, but Sam knew it was a common phenomenon that happened when you could see the horizon a very long ways away. He still appreciated the grandeur of it, and taking a moment to look had slowed his heartbeat a little. For all of a second.

A scream, too feral and multi-toned to be from any natural throat, shattered the fragrant air. Sam was running before it had died away, and now he could hear a few ordinary men's voices raised in pain or alarm. Gun drawn – thank you, fed disguise, for making it feasible to carry a piece – Sam ran past the skeleton of a building and into a chaotic, bloody scene.

A bulldozer was moving slowly, pushing a growing pile of dirt in front of it. Its operator slumped to the side, face, neck and chest a mass of blood. Another man was lying to the side on the ground, bleeding through hands that clutched his face, but alive. Two more men were next to him, one trying to help and the other crouching and whimpering.

Sam demanded, "Who did this? Where are they?" but nobody seemed aware enough to answer. Seeing no sign of any assailant, supernatural or otherwise, Sam decided to deal with another problem. In two long steps, he caught up with the lumbering vehicle. He grabbed the vent that protruded from the side and pulled himself up on the step. It had an open cab, and he was able to reach over and push the clutch lever forward enough to put it out of gear and stop its motion. This also brought him face-to-face with the unfortunate operator, confirming what he'd expected. The man's eyes were open and staring blankly, and his horrific wounds were no longer bleeding. He was dead.

Sam jumped free of the tracks and went back to the living. He flipped out his badge in a practiced move. "FBI. Did anybody call security and 911?" The injured man just moaned and the guy who was crying didn't stop, but the other man looked up. His eyes were dilated and he looked two steps away from hysteria, but at Sam's words, he grabbed a radio from his belt and started making the call. Sam ignored him and focused on the guy who was hurt.

"Let me take a look a second, okay, man? My name is Sam."

"Joe," came the breathy response.

"Good. Joe, you'll need some stitches, but from what I can see, you're going to be okay." It was true. There were nasty slashes across Joe's hand and forearms – defensive wounds – and shallower ones on his face. They would require hospital level care but weren't fatal. "Can you tell me who did this?"

"Moved t' fast," said Joe, gasping in pain as Sam pressed down on the worst spot on his arm. "Killed him, came for me – jus' a blur."

"Okay. Okay. Don't talk any more. Help is almost here." Sam could hear the buzz of the vehicles security used when they needed to hurry. They were really just souped-up golf carts, but they were a good option for the development. Sam just really hoped they had good first aid supplies on board. And some way to get Joe heading for town without having to wait for an ambulance to make the hour trip.

Sam's phone rang, Dean's ringtone, but he ignored it with a grimace, his hands literally full. It stopped and Sam half listened for the tone that said he had a new voicemail even as he kept talking to Joe softly. The guy who'd called for help was back, and calmer, even helping put pressure on the cuts and producing a towel from somewhere.

Sam's phone rang again. That meant Dean couldn't wait to talk to him, which was never a good thing. Sam's heartrate, which had stayed steady in the crisis, jumped to a much faster beat. "Shit. Shit. I have an emergency – another one." He redirected his helper's hands, wishing the last guy would stop crying and help. "Hold pressure here. Help's almost here."

Sam backed off before getting an answer, barely grimacing to see the blood he was leaving on the phone as he dialed Dean back.

"Sa'?" Dean's voice was soft, bordering on weak. Dean should never sound like that.

"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam demanded.

"Thule…" Dean breathed, sounding barely conscious. That single word ratcheted Sam's fear from worried to terrified.

"Track m'...phone...out...nee' you…" The line went dead.

The debate about who to help really wasn't a debate at all. Besides, two golf carts took that moment to dart into view, their headlights brightening the scene. Sam barely noted that the second was driven by one of the security guards Ed had introduced him to earlier. "My partner's in trouble," Sam yelled, then took off. In retrospect, maybe he should have commandeered one of the golf carts, but he didn't notice if the run made him sweat more or breathe hard. He was far too focused. He tried Dean twice more on the way to the Firth sisters' condo but got no answer either time. He burst into the condo and was sure he'd feel guilty about the sisters' gasps later.

"Dean's in trouble. I need a car," Sam snapped to the four astonished faces staring at him.

"Sam – are you hurt?" asked Barb tremulously. Oh. His jacket and hands were covered in blood.

"Not mine. Construction worker was killed," he explained succinctly, pulling off the jacket and wiping his hands off on it since it was ruined anyway. "First aid kit?"

Barb had recovered her equilibrium and waved a white box and set of keys, both of which Sam grabbed.

"Lock your doors," Sam called over his shoulder as he found the door into the garage. But Barb was following him, hitting the button for the garage door, and Sam slowed just enough to tell her to stay put in no uncertain terms.

Unfortunately, Barb wasn't cowed. "I can help, and I swear I won't get in your way."

Sam didn't like it, but he wasn't willing to take the time to argue, not when she was already sliding in the passenger's seat. They were out of the garage and onto the main drag before the garage door had stopped moving. He was out of the development at a speed that meant he hadn't been able to see if there was anybody in the guard shack.

Sam vaguely noticed that the car was fast and quite responsive, but other than that his focus was single-minded. "Try to call Dean again," he ordered, not slowing down as he pulled out his phone. When Barb didn't get an answer, Sam talked her through pinging the location of Dean's phone, aware that he was being curt but unable to care. He didn't slow when she told him that it said device not found. Actually, he didn't slow for anything. Not for curves or hills or for the emergency vehicles they met going the opposite way, certainly called to help Joe.

They were traveling so fast on the otherwise-deserted road that Sam almost missed seeing the Impala parked haphazardly on the shoulder. When he did see it, he hit the brakes and turned into a rubber-burning spin that ended up with them slamming to a stop directly behind the Impala and that Sam probably would have been really proud of if he hadn't been so afraid of what he was about to find. He handed the piece from the glove compartment to Barb. "Lock the doors and shoot anything that isn't me or Dean."

Despite the light from the headlights of the car he'd driven there, Sam couldn't see anyone inside the Impala, or any signs of problems, either. He approached with a caution that grated. But if he got jumped or taken out because he was distracted, who would save Dean? Barb? Sam stepped out of the direct light and grimaced as he studied the shadows. If he'd been thinking straight, he never would have allowed their friend to come along. She might be feisty and brave, but she was also a civilian – a tiny, 70-year-old civilian.

Sam could hear nothing except the soft thrum of the newer car's engine, since Sam had apparently left it running. He strained to listen for another second, then was unable to stand it one more moment. Sam stepped forward and opened the driver's door. Dean was sprawled bonelessly across the front seat. And he wasn't moving.

* * *

AN: Yes, the Thule! I just found it a little hard to believe that none of them survived and figured out who killed Hitler, especially since Sam and Dean warned Christoph that Thule members would be after him. *shrugs* JMHO

Timelady66: Aw, thank you! You are one of the superheroes responsible for this story -- if my favorite readers comment on a story, how could I kill it? I like giving the boys a chance to hear a thank you or an attaboy once in a while, just like I like to give them a little bit of happiness here and there...before beating them up... You are so right that it's surprising you they don't run into more people who can accept the existence of the supernatural! I never thought about that.

bagelcat1: Thank you! I'm so glad you love Barb et. al. I wanted them to all be different but I'm afraid I made Carolyn a bit wimpy. LOL I hereby bequeath them the Firth sisters in your honor! May they wear your (maiden) name well. :-) Action certainly feels like forever when you're writing it, so I appreciate hearing that the domestic stuff works for you. How about this chapter? Too slow? Meh? Okay?I'm sorry that you don't have close family...I can't imagine. I see my sisters and their families all the time and talk to my brother who lives out of state at least weekly. And my dad lives with us! We're a bit obsessed with family; I know it isn't typical. I'm flattered that you took the time to go back and read the older stuff!

Janice: I just keep laughing at the thought of you being the most like Judy! I may relate to crazy Judy a little more than I care to admit! Maybe that's why we get along. *snicker* You are a huge part of this story not dying sadly in some dark corner.

Kathy: I love the idea of a ghost horse! You drop the best ideas. I'm glad you like the descriptions of the ladies. I was a little concerned that they'd run together in peoples' minds, which is why I described their outfits in some detail. I have a feeling you'll "yell" at me for the way this chapter ends. :-)

Shazza: Hooray! I love writing the sisters and so it's fabulous when my favorite readers like the same thing. Would something's happen when I've separated the boys? No! (Yes. You are very smart ) Good luck with your lockdown. Hugs from the US!

sfaulkenberry: You aren't wrong about reviews...they're kind of like catnip for me. *g* But don't feel bad -- you are so faithful. And you have to know how I love what you have to say whether it's once in a while or every chapter. Anyway, it is too fun to write "the girls" and I giggled throughout. And yeah, Judy said what I've always thought! I totally smirked to read that I'm cruel in the best way...but Sam didn't really have to handle the ladies much at all. Yet, anyway.

Christine: Judy's such a fun person to write...because she's nuts and doesn't care!

muffinroo: You know I listen to every single idea...no promises...but there's a pretty decent chance Sam will get beat on. I mean, it's kind of what I do. I'd apologize, except I know that you like it! Nice typo, btw! *wiping tears of laughter*

Blondie: Hooray for chaos! I just can't stop picturing AU Barb with a big ol' machine gun! Maybe all of the sisters would be out there. Oh, man -- imagine poor AU Bobby trying to deal with all of them! Maybe they could have won the war against the angels with the combined power of their sassiness and mom voices. The nickname Barbie is one my mom's younger brother used to call her to drive her crazy...so naturally, she called him Kenny. Yes, I named Barb for my late mom, even though they're very different (my mom was very sweet and mild-mannered). I hope you keep enjoying it!

stedan: Muchas gracias! I'm just so glad when people like the OCs that I fall so in love with. IKWYM about wondering what regular people thought about some of the events in SPN. Like, I've always wondered what "the end is near" types thought about the angels falling. I mean, you know there had to be plenty of people who were convinced it was aliens, right?

Colby's girl: I'm glad you liked it, and I have the strangest feeling there's some icing in your future...just saying...

Lena! Just seeing your name makes my muse happy. Glad you're back. I know you're behind, but I finally posted Dean's POV for the story Unsteady. The new one is called Stalwart...but now that I'm typing this, I feel like you said you read it. Anyway, I remember that you liked Barb (and Judy, too, I think), so hey voila, I brought in even more sisters. I didn't mean to make you cry...I love Bobby soooooooo much, and he and Barb were funny together too. You ask how I come up with ideas, but I hardly have to any more because other people are sweet enough to let me jump into their ideas. And you're not the only one to ask for Mothman, so it sounds like a little one or two shot for some pure h/c is probably on the docket. I actually thought of you when I put in the Doc Brown thing. Hope I get a chance to buy you a shamrock shake some day.