AN: Apparently, I really enjoy writing about utter chaos and breaking stuff. What does that say about me? Who knows. All I care about is that at least a few people enjoy reading it!
Janice did extra work on this one, since I apparently forgot all of the rules of grammar.
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One second Sam was bracing for impact against the wall, the next he was…in a different room entirely, falling forward before smashing into something waist height. It knocked the wind out of him. He slid down to a hard floor, getting only a brief glimpse of an expansive kitchen done in shades of sage and cream before cupboard doors began to bang and dishes hurtle themselves at him.
Holding his newly bruised ribs, Sam ducked behind the large island that he'd hit coming into the room. There really is a poltergeist in the kitchen, he thought as his invisible antagonist switched angles to drop plates on him in his new position. Crab-walking with a hand over his head to take the worst of the impacts, Sam rummaged through the cupboards right in front of him. He came out with a wok and stood to give himself space to wield it like a baseball bat. He smashed the plates and bowls aside as each one came at him. His biceps might be tired, but his aim and reflexes were excellent and he didn't miss a single one. He similarly knocked down a toaster but had to hit the floor to avoid a toaster oven.
He was back on his feet in time to batter aside a butcher block with the knives still in it and an expensive-looking punchbowl and matching glass (or crystal, perhaps) ladle. A scream of frustration ripped through the room, and every cupboard door flew open, as well as both ovens, the microwave, and the French door refrigerator the width of two normal fridges. The last was the most pertinent because one of the doors banged into Sam's side hard enough to send him back down to the unforgiving tile floor. Rolling his sore body frantically to avoid a shower of teacups and a random corkscrew, Sam noted for the first time that the ceiling was tiled, forming a complex shape around the recessing lighting. There were even some sigils, faint but noticeable. He didn't have time to get a good look at it, however, as the temperature dropped precipitously and an entire drawer flew at Sam, silverware falling out as it hurtled toward him. He didn't move quite enough, and it just caught his elbow.
The poltergeist was getting angrier the longer Sam dodged, he thought, as the air got even colder and the attacks more rapid-fire and frantic. He struggled back to his feet. Though it made him a larger target, it also gave him more room to dodge or knock projectiles aside. He did the former to avoid a large ceramic pitcher and the latter to smash aside a series of serving dishes and ramekins. (There were entirely too many potential weapons in this room!)
A floor-to-ceiling wine rack shaped like a tree began to shake and one of the bottles shot out at Sam like a torpedo. He swung the wok instead of dodging. Unfortunately, the heavy bottle exploded from the hit, sending fragrant red wine over his entire torso and broken glass all around him. Seriously – I just got my cut feet taken care of, Sam thought even as he ducked under the next two bottles without daring to move his feet. He eyed the closer of the two doors out of the room and in doing so, nearly got clobbered by a dark green bottle that smelled like Cabernet when it shattered behind him and a black bottle that spilled out something that might have been port. Sam's brain analyzed each wine, since it never stopped its attempts to categorize everything around him even while he was in danger. It was extremely annoying.
Sam shuffled backwards toward the door, trying to move without cutting his feet to ribbons. A curse exploded out of him as two bottles of wine came at the same time, and one heavily grazed his already sore ribs. "Come on," he complained. "I didn't come into your room on purpose. How about you just let me leave?"
"Noooooooooooooooooooooooo" howled an otherworldly voice that sounded like every ghost in every B-movie about hauntings. Half a dozen bottles flew at the same time in clear retaliation. Sam had no choice but to throw himself onto the glass-covered floor. A large baker's rack tipped over across one doorway in a clear attempt to block Sam from leaving.
"I'm guessing Callista killed you, right?" Sam shouted over the cacophony of still more bottles breaking. "Well, I'm her enemy. I plan to kill her. Are you sure you don't want me to do that? Aah, sh –!" He had to roll over as canned lights were ripped right out of the ceiling to crash down around him. He looked up to watch for similar missiles and his eyes caught on the pattern again. "Acute heptagram," he muttered to himself, trying to remember what that particular shape could mean. It wasn't easy to think while dodging yet more alcoholic projectiles, nor did he recognize the faint symbols at drawn at the each the end of each point of the seven-pointed star.
Cold shot through Sam like a slap, knocking him bodily backwards just as he'd regained his feet. He recognized the shocking feeling – the ghost had flown right through him. Most spirits seemed to actively avoid such a thing, but if they did do it, especially more than once, it could make a person's internal organs drop to dangerously low temperatures.
The meaning of the heptagram clicked all at once. The shape was regularly carved in and around cemeteries and burial grounds from Finland to Ecuador to the Yukon territory to Turkey, something that had puzzled historians but not occultists. It was supposed to keep the dead from rising...or keep ghost trapped in one room, Sam supposed.
"I can – dammit, listen – I can free you." A bottle of wine with a French label hit Sam hard in the shoulder and a rogue flying can of corn caught his shin. The combination made him stumble and step down on some pulverized glass. "Then YOU can go after Callista!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Don't you want revenge?!"
Everything froze. Literally. A stockpot and roasting pan stopped in mid-flight. "Revenge…" hissed the disembodied voice.
"Right. Revenge. I can free you if you stop throwing stuff at me," Sam continued. "Then you can go get your revenge on Callista. I don't know if she killed you, but she did trap you, right?"
"Revengggggggggge," was the only reply, but he chose to take it as a yes.
Keeping an eye on the floating cookware, Sam grabbed a large canister of salt out of an open cupboard and made a quick oval of salt on the floor around the island. It wouldn't stop flying objects but at least the enraged spirit wouldn't be able to fly through him again. Sam worked hastily, as poltergeists were rarely reasonable and quickly overwhelmed by rage. He grabbed an intact bottle neck and climbed up on the island, wincing as some of the glass he'd stepped on was pushed further into his soles.
Sam stood and used the sharp edges of the broken bottle to score deeply through the symbol at the end of the top point, then through the star point itself, bisecting both lines. He turned and started on the second, jumping when the previously floating pots clattered to the floor. He took it as a cue to work even faster. As he moved to the third point, everything loose in the room began to tremble minutely as if a big truck had driven past. The jagged glass was losing its sharpness, but he didn't dare take the time to climb down to find another.
A shot glass was lobbed through the air to shatter against the wall. It was nowhere near Sam but was a clear indication that the poltergeist was quickly losing patience. Sam had chosen to take the salt in his left hand rather than the wok, so he sincerely hoped that the barrage didn't resume before he could finish.
The air, which had returned almost to normal temperature, was slowly but noticeably cooling again. "Stay with me," Sam encouraged. He was at the fifth point now, but each was taking longer than the last. "Remember Callista is the one you want." It didn't seem to do any good. The air cooled even more, then there was the sound of an impact like sharply clapped hands. He was pretty sure that the poltergeist had smacked into the salt circle.
It didn't like that one bit. The ghost shrieked again, and the cupboard doors banged open and shut a few more times. There were two more impacts as if it were charging the barrier, strong enough that the whole kitchen shook. One of the few bottles of wine still in the rack fell to the floor and broke, the spilled liquid making its winding way to the salt line and slowly absorbing the crystals. Sam kept working and flung some of the salt from the canister vaguely that direction hoping to hit his invisible foe by luck.
A pepper grinder bounced off Sam's rear and a spatula careened off the side of his head. The kitchen shook harder, and he redoubled his efforts on the very last point of the heptagram as the kitchen shook harder. The salt line broke and a freezing freight train slammed into Sam sending him flying into the fridge and flat on his back on the floor. As he struggled to regain his breath, there was a CRACK loud enough to make his ears ring and everything froze again.
Sam watched his breath curl into icy clouds, seeing through it that the ceiling had a wide, jagged crack all the way across the heptagram. The mist above him resolved into a transparent face, almost nose-to-nose with him. Sam held his breath, inching his hand toward the dropped salt container. For a long, silent moment, he and the round-faced ghost stared at each other. The woman didn't look older than forty, and if he hadn't known she was a furious, revenge-bent spirit, Sam would have said she looked mild-mannered and pleasant.
His fingers touched the edge of the cylinder as ice formed on his eyelashes. The ghost suddenly ducked down next to his ear and whispered something. Sam's eyes shot open wider. "Wh –" he started, but the ghost was finished helping him. She pulled back far enough for him to see the truly malevolent grin on her face, then she shot through the closest door like a bullet, a mournful "revenggggggggge" trailing her out of the room.
Sam struggled to a seated position and waited for his scrambled head to stop spinning. In a minute, he'd have to get up and pick some of the glass out of his skin (especially his feet again) and decide whether or not it was worth wearing a t-shirt that was dripping with wine. On the up side, he was in a real kitchen…with real food, even if some of the packages were now on the floor. His stomach rumbled at the mere thought of finally getting to eat something. He needed have to find a way to carry some food and get his ass in gear to find Dean, who was dealing with a super-charged vampire. With a deep breath and gritting his teeth against all his new pains, Sam pushed to his feet. He needed to find some damn potholders to stand on or something.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
As if Dean hadn't been certain that the mirror was no longer permeable, Mortimer made sure he was absolutely sure by grabbing his shirt and smashing his back into it so hard that the mirror cracked. Even as he tried to break the monster's grip, he cataloged what he could use against it and concluded there wasn't much.
Mortimer pulled Dean forward and tossed him toward another pillar, but this time Dean didn't lose his feet. He grabbed what was either the world's biggest clarinet or a bassoon and swung it at the vampire's head like a baseball bat. It staggered the guy but only for a second, and the instrument came apart from the impact. Dean went to check if he could lift the pillar, but Mortimer had hold of him again before he could try. He tossed Dean again, which was getting really damn old.
"Didn't anybody ever teach you not to play with your food?" Dean taunted, pulling his belt knife since his gun had ended up across the room by the French horn.
"Quite the contrary," Mortimer smirked. "Vampires are encouraged to hone their skills with a little predator-prey play. And I no longer remember being human." He said the last like it was a dirty word. He reached down for Dean at an angle that kept his neck out of reach, but Dean had expected that. He twisted around and instead sliced Mortimer's left Achilles tendon. It wouldn't kill him, of course, but it would hurt and hopefully slow him a little, because Dean was dead if he couldn't.
Mortimer hissed and responded with a surprise move of his own – he kicked Dean, sending him rolling across the floor, but only to the marimba and not all the way to the French horn, sadly. Dean stood, grateful that no bones seemed broken, and gave the wheeled marimba a shove toward the advancing vampire, who dismissively pushed it to the side. There was a gleam in his eyes that said he was growing impatient. He was limping, which was good, but not enough.
Case in point, the vampire pounced like a cat. A combination of training, instincts, and a little luck allowed Dean to kick up and redirect the diving body so it was Mortimer's turn to overturn a pillar and hit the mirror. That gave Dean time to grab some weird, twisty horn thing and swing it toward the Fabio lookalike's middle. Sadly, Mortimer caught it mid-swing and used the grip to shove Dean back viciously. He sprang to his feet and followed that up by intercepting yet another swing. He ripped the horn out of Dean's hands, grabbed his shirt, and tossed him backwards again. Dean rolled to a stop, feeling a bit like a football.
"That all you got, Morty? Or maybe I should call you Lestat." Dean heckled, closing his hand around a large shard of broken mirror glass behind his back. "Twilight? Spike? Count Duckula?"
Mortimer, who apparently knew only two moves: pounce and throw, pounced again. He slapped away the hand that Dean brought up with his knife in it, sending the knife flying, but in doing so completely missed the other hand flipping up the sharp point of glass. The latter sank deep into the vampire's upper chest just below his collarbone. Mortimer howled like an injured dog but didn't pull back. Instead, he leaned forward and sunk his millions of teeth into the meat of Dean's shoulder. Dean grunted in pain (but didn't howl because he wasn't a whiny little bitch).
The bite burned horribly, and Dean could feel the sickening sensation of his blood being sucked out of the punctures. He couldn't afford to lose too much blood. Pinned and unable to dislodge Mortimer, Dean shoved the glass as deep as he could into the vampire and twisted, ignoring how it dug into his own palm.
That made Mortimer rear back enough for Dean to struggle free. This time, the monster didn't pursue immediately. He stood slowly and inspected the glass protruding from his chest almost indifferently, like it was an oddity but not particularly interesting. He looked up at Dean and licked his lips.
"You have a lovely taste of adrenaline in your blood," he noted, his eyes locked on Dean's bleeding shoulder. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Are you afraid or angry, I wonder."
"Guess," sneered Dean. He couldn't help but notice how dilated Mortimer's pupils were, like a cat's at night. He knew that his opponent was getting caught up in literal bloodlust and that the game wouldn't last much longer – Mortimer was about to go feral on him. That meant that he hadn't had fresh human blood in a while and the bird things hadn't sated him at all. For all his pretense of intelligence and culture, Mortimer was about one minute away from turning into a mindless killer. The mindless aspect of that was good. The kill at all costs and as fast as possible was not.
Dean backed up slowly, never breaking eye contact, much as he would with a wild animal. He really hoped Mortimer telegraphed his next move early to give Dean a chance to dodge. He did, though he moved so fast he still nearly got his grubby hands on Dean. Instead, Dean stepped sideways to put himself behind the first in a row of larger-than-life statues of a half-naked women, this one holding a trumpet. Mortimer smashed into it face-first with a cartoon-worthy crash.
Dean ducked behind the next statue, noting that this one held a book. Mortimer pushed the statue over and out of his way, and it hit the floor hard enough to shake the room and crack right through the woman's abdomen.
Behind statue three (holding a small, stringed instrument) and next to the plinth with the French horn, Dean was able to scoop up his gun. Mortimer, enraged by Dean's juking, pushed the closest statue so hard it tipped, causing a domino effect with the next three statues. Dean barely avoided being smashed into paste. Those statues were not hollow.
Mortimer came around statue seven (bunch of grapes) and got a fistful of Dean's shirt before getting shot in the gut with a bullet that only knocked him back enough for Dean to get free. Dean hid behind a chick holding a globe and tried to remember what kind of bullet he was up to. (He'd shot at the wendigo, right? That would be the silver bullet. That meant the pigeon had lost its life to the bullet treated with holy water and Mortimer had a witch-killing bullet buried in his gut. Dammit.)
Before Dean could plan further, Mortimer was charging again, reminiscent of the way the spider chick had come at them. Dean wondered very briefly if Callista's pets would be more or less formidable if she actually kept them fed, then he was flying backwards…again. The vampire's lunge was so violent and out of control that he'd careened partly into Dean and partly into the final statue, which had a sword held out as if pointing.
Dean went flying into something hard that turned out to be the side of the stage and the chick with the sword tipped over onto her back with another resounding crash. Dean couldn't take even a second to regroup, as a hand closed on his leg with an iron grip. He scrambled onto the stage, kicking out repeatedly as he did, finally getting loose.
After the witch-killing bullet comes the dead man's blood bullet, Dean's brain belatedly supplied. He spun and shot from his back. The impact knocked the already-injured vampire back and off the stage. Panting, Dean kept his gun up, waiting for another attack, since such a small amount of dead man's blood wouldn't incapacitate such a powerful vamp, but Mortimer didn't come.
After a long few moments, Dean stood and cautiously walked to the edge of the stage. His eyes widened at the sight. Mortimer was impaled through the stomach on the stone sword of the last of the half-naked women. He writhed around, struggling to get himself off but not making much progress, hampered by the gruesome wound and the second bullet Dean had put in him.
"I'll still kill you, Hunter," he promised through bloody teeth, still trying to push himself up.
"No, you won't," Dean answered, tucking his gun away and glancing around the stage. "You know why not?" Mortimer only bared his teeth, but Dean answered him anyway. "Because the piano is on wheels."
Mortimer's eyes finally widened in fear, and he began to struggle much harder. He wasn't getting anywhere, so Dean didn't hurry to push the piano to the edge of the stage. Once it was there, he peered one more time over the edge giving Mortimer a big grin and a thumbs up, and then gave it one big shove. The piano landed with a crash that rivaled the ones the fallen statues had made.
The baby grand broke up a lot more than Dean had expected but Mortimer was still truly buried beneath it, only his feet visible a la the wicked witch of the east. Dean watched for a moment, but the feet didn't move. Then, finally, he sat down and quickly spread some of the healing ointment over the bite on his shoulder. It was a ragged wound and bleeding heavily, but Callista's super-stuff luckily took care of it quickly. Too bad it couldn't replace the lost blood or point the way to Sam. Or heal the bruises on top of bruises he was now sporting.
Sighing in exhaustion but unwilling to go for any longer without looking for his brother, Dean stood and took the steps off the stage. He went back to retrieve his knife, wondering a little macabrely how long it would have taken to behead the vampire with the short blade.
Dean stopped short. Blood had splattered on the mirror – his or Mortimer's, he wasn't sure – and it revealed a broken symbol. Almost the entire thing was intact with just a few lines broken. There was a chance that Dean could reactivate the trap spell that Sam had gone through and get himself to the same location as his brother. He used some of the blood still on his skin to complete the broken lines and the entire thing glowed gold for a second, just like the glyph Kade had drawn with Dean's blood. With a half grin, he stepped confidently into and through the mirror.
Of course, traveling via the crone tram was never that easy. Dean felt like he was sent hurtling through a pipeline, squashed through too-narrow pinchpoints, careening around hairpin turns, and vomited out at speed. Before he could register that he'd arrived, he crashed into something large.
"Holy crap! Dean?!" the large thing exclaimed while Dean's brain was still catching up to his body.
Dean realized that he was hanging off his little brother and disentangled himself as rapidly as he could, especially once he realized that said brother was now shirtless.
"You're bleeding!" Sam said, right back in Dean's space to inspect his shoulder.
"No, I'm not," Dean crabbed, pushing him back, hiding the overwhelming relief he felt seeing Sam safe and sound. "I used the secret sauce on it and it's fine. What happened to you?" He took in Sam and his surroundings and whistled. "Are you standing on...potholders?"
Sam was, in fact, standing on potholders. He was also even more disheveled than when Dean had seen him last. He seemed to have bits of ceramic in his hair and his jeans were liberally stained with something red, though the wrong color for blood. He also had some new cuts to go with the ones the fairies had inflicted, though none Dean could see seemed serious. He was definitely favoring his right side. The room they were in was even worse shape than Sam. Every surface – and there were many in the truly impressive kitchen – was littered with shards of broken cook- and dinnerware and bottles. Wine dripped off counters and the floor was awash with it. Even the ceiling was cracked.
"There really was a poltergeist in the kitchen," Sam explained. "And, yes, because there's glass everywhere and I'm still barefoot." He sounded ticked about it. "How did you get here? And is the vampire, Mortimer…?"
"Dead, or close enough. The glyph was still there, just with some gaps in the lines so I could fix it. You said there was a poltergeist, meaning there is not one around, right?"
"Yeah. Well, it's not gone gone, but it's gone from here."
Despite his curiosity, Dean just nodded. They could exchange war stories later. "You keep losing clothes like this, you're going to have to fight Callista naked," he smirked. He was about to offer something of his but realized that his torn and bloody flannel and jacket had never made it out of Callista's bedroom. If he offered his t-shirt, he'd be bare-chested. And Sam wouldn't take it anyway.
"You need to take care of your new cuts, especially on your feet," he said, pulling out the jar of healing juice.
Sam, being Sam, argued that they were all too small and shallow to worry about and that they should save the little cream that was left in case they really needed it. Dean didn't like it, but he couldn't argue too much. He did insist that Sam take care of his feet but let the rest slide.
It was as he watched Sam finish with his feet that Dean suddenly realized they were in a kitchen, aka a food room. His whole self lit up and he used his arms to sweep a big section of the island clear.
Then Dean took a better look at what Sam already had on the island. He'd obviously cleared a small area of debris and in it were a cloth napkin laid flat, five candles, and a shallow bowl. The configuration was far too familiar.
"Whatcha up to there, Sammy?" Dean asked in his hear-how-calm-I-am voice. He started looking through cupboards as he asked.
"Oh, well that was an idea to help me find you."
Dean's brows came down as he inspected a box of cereal that looked like someone had stomped on it. "Like your idea to get down from the tower?"
"Hey!" Sam dared sound indignant. "It worked, didn't it?"
"Of course, now that I'm here, you can put all that stuff away, right?" Dean asked, emphasizing the last word, temporarily diverted from his search for sustenance.
Sam just smiled sweetly, looking suspiciously innocent, especially given how devious he could be when the situation called for it. Or when Jody's baked goods were involved. "Well..."
"Because it looks strangely like you plan to summon something."
Sam gave a half-shrug. "That's because I do."
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AN: While heptagrams (seven-pointed stars) have symbolic meanings in various cultures, I made up the keeping spirits at rest or trapped. The heptagram isn't actually found all of those places around the world, either. Or if it is, that's an amazing coincidence that I was unaware of.
Dean calls Mortimer the names of vampires from a number of different places. Lestat is a character in Anne Rice's book and movie Interview with a Vampire. Twilight is Stephanie Meyer's book and movie series about various vampires. Spike is a character in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel TV shows. And Count Duckula is a character in the cartoon TV show of the same name.
The nine statues were meant to represent the nine muses. (I bet at least one or two of you guessed that!) The items they held are some that traditionally represent them: trumpet/clarion = Clio, book/writing tablet = Calliope (remember her in the episode Fan Fiction?), lyre = Erato, grapes = Polyhymnia, globe = Urania, and blade = Melpomene. Not mentioned: Euterpe, Terpsichore, and Thalia.
Anne: Barknado is 100% from Janice, who betas all of my work. I sent her a random message asking for ideas about what Dean might call the Gonakadet and she came up with that among others. I am so glad you like the little things I stick in the story to (try to) be funny, and that you are enjoying reading. I hope your didn't mind a little wait for another chapter. I have no idea how long the story will be, but I try to get out a few chapters every week. Thank you for all of your very nice words! I truly appreciate it and reading your comments made me smile.
sylvia37: At least this chapter doesn't end on a cliffhanger, for once!
MicheleChadwick: You have so many great ideas! Half the time I'm like dangit, I wish I'd thought of that. And the other half I'm like, hmmm, I can still incorporate that. Watch for an Alice comment, for example, cuz that's fabulous. As for planner or pantser, I'm a combination of the two. For many years, I planned out stories very specifically, often having an actual outline. For whatever reason, fanfiction is different. I will have a general plot idea and ending, and usually at least a couple of specific scenes or conversations I want along the way. Sometimes quite a few, sometimes only one. Then I just see where the story takes me and let it have quite a bit of flexibility along the way. There arealwaysthings that pop up that I didn't anticipate, like an OC I like and give a good-sized role or a little device for humor or continuity, like Sam losing clothing in every room in this story. Sometimes the final story bears very little resemblance to the original idea, but that's actually really fun for me. Are you sorry you asked? :-) Anyway, everyone's schedule and writing process and output is different, so I never compare. I happen to be able to write while at work or you wouldn't be nearly so inundated by me. Thanks for reading and giving so many great comments and ideas! If you weren't a writer yourself I would pester you for prompt ideas.
Colby's girl: And now we get awet t-shirt for Sam, then shirtlessness. Heh. Poor guy...you're right about him getting *ahem* dangerously low of clothing. I too like Dean's glee about leaving a mess behind for Callista to deal with. Like so many baddies, she underestimated the guys big time.
DearHart: At least they weren't separated for too long!
stedan:How about a shirtless Winchester? Hehe. Also, I felt for the poor pigeon too. I almost put a warning at the beginning of the chapter about animal death. The Elwetrisch is on a list of cool cryptids I found when searching the internet for ideas, but I can't tell you exactly where I found it. I didn't catch that they have antlers! Oops. I like German legends because I have some German ancestry, though it's back a few generations.
Jenjoremy:Kade will make another appearance! Glad you like the healing ointment. It was a blatant plot device to let the story go longer. And – wish granted. I got Sam's t-shirt all wet with wine, so it had to go. What a darn shame. (Not sorry.) Not sure exactly how much more clothing he can lose but I have a few ideas.
muffinroo:Happy to provide! Hey, this chapter doesn't have a cliffy. I never thought about Mortimer Mouse – nice pull! No Bloody Mary, though that might have been fun. How about a kitchen ghost throwing stuff like toaster ovens? And vampire death via statue and piano? I may be having a little too much fun with improvised weapons in this one… Nah.
Timelady66: Right?! I always think that about Bond villains too – if they'd just get the killing over with quickly and without a fuss, they might actually win. As for Dean touching stuff, I have such a Weechesters plot bunny from your comment! As my mother used to say, 'have you learned nothing?'No, no Dean has not. What did you think of the method of Mortimer's apparent demise? (If that response is that there's something not right with me, that's okay. I agree!)
bagelcat1: I would not be a fan of heights like that myself! Of course, I couldn't deal with a lot of what the Winchesters see, so… I live for their hugs, so I include them whenever I can justify it. Not a bad person – the pigeon scene was supposed to make you chuckle and I was thinking about the argument with the pigeon when I wrote it. The healing ointment stuff is there so I can keep writing and keep them stuck in the house for longer without people being like aren't they bleeding out by now? I hope the action in this chapter was worth the wait. And, hey, no cliffhanger!
Christine: Yup, Dean had a bit of aggression to work out and he got the chance to do it in this chapter! Hehe. I love it when Sam shows off his smarts. And I love that Rowena later trusted Sam to do spells and to inherit all of her stuff.