AN: Greetings from gray and rainy Michigan, where we're so happy that it isn't snowing that we don't even mind the gloom. I hope it's sunny where you are, if not literally, at least figuratively.
More strangeness ensues here. And shirtlessness.
Janice not only beta'd, she also convinced me this chapter didn't suck or at least was worth posting.
* * *
The werewolf hunt (because the thing Beau had seen was definitely a werewolf) started out really well. Dean caught sight of the guy's shadow as soon as he emerged and was able to trail the monster without being noticed. He slowly caught up as they went, looking for a good place to attack.
He followed the pasty-skinned monster around a corner and that's when it all fell apart.
The werewolf was waiting for him, facing him with a grin on his face and it occurred to Dean that perhaps he had known he was being followed. It was some pretty good acting, actually. And the grin was most likely due to the fact that Dean's original quarry wasn't the only werewolf in the room. In fact, he seemed to have an entire wolfed-out family with him. Possibly extended family.
Dean gave them his best smile. "Hey, I was just here to talk to y'all about a vacuum cleaner, but I think I'll just leave a brochure and, uh, go." Dean started running as fast as he could, picturing Han Solo chasing a bunch of storm troopers only to come upon a bigger group of the same and ending up running from them himself. Too bad Dean's own version of Chewbacca was fast asleep and had no idea where he was.
He knew better than to lead them to Beau's secret room, so Dean had to wend his way through the house and try to lose them. This whole running thing was getting really old, but he was seriously outnumbered and didn't have a single silver bullet or even a silver knife.
Twice they very nearly caught him and twice more he barely avoided witchy traps, but the latter gave him an idea. If he could get himself just a little bit of time and separation, he could draw the glyph to send himself to Kade's tank. It wasn't ideal, but it wasn't looking like Dean would be able to get back to the secret room any time soon. He wasn't even 100% sure he could find his way back. Not easily, anyway. He just needed to find one door that locked.
Then Dean trapped himself. He ducked into a room with a single wolf behind him, one who actually looked quite similar to Morticia Addams, or would have if she'd been dressed right, and discovered that there were no other exits. It was quite a small room relative to the others he'd seen in the mansion. It held only chairs and a large marble fireplace.
Morticia smiled and closed the door behind her. She would have been kind of hot without the excessive dentation and claws.
"Aw, sweetheart, you should've just told me you wanted alone time," he smirked.
With a growl, she charged. But Dean hadn't been idle. He'd backed up until he could reach the fireplace tools. As the wolf ran at him, he swung the poker at her head. She went down and before she knew what had happened, Dean had stabbed her through the heart with the poker, pushing his weight down on it until the tip hit the floor beneath her. It wasn't silver, but the wound still wasn't something that even a werewolf could survive. She growled and twitched and died.
Dean stepped back. He'd have felt a lot better about the kill if there weren't so many more out there to contend with. He looked down. And if she hadn't reached him with her claws. There was an oddly neat trio of furrows across the left side of his abs.
Worse, Dean could hear the rest of the remaining pack outside the door, growling and talking. They'd come in any second. Without a lot of choices, he scrambled up inside the chimney, grateful that it was clean enough that he didn't give his hiding spot away by knocking down a bunch of ash. Better still, there was a smoke shelf about four feet up and it was big enough for Dean to sit on.
He pulled his ruined shirt off to press against the shallow but freely bleeding gashes on his abdomen. As Dean thought through his next moves and whether or not he was totally screwed now, like a treed raccoon, he heard the room door open. The werewolves who came in reacted loudly to finding the body and some ran off to look for him, but they didn't all leave.
Dean didn't dare move lest they hear him. It was far too dark for him to be able to draw the complex glyph that could get him to Kade and dropping down to attack was an extremely unattractive option. They'd hear him scrambling long before he landed, leaving him to face an unknown number of pissed-off weres who'd have him cornered.
Dean pressed the shirt harder against the cuts and wondered just how ticked Sam was going to be.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam woke up with the feeling that something was wrong. He was groggy enough that it took him a few minutes to really evaluate his surroundings and analyze why he felt so unsettled.
He was warm. Too warm, but that might be because of the small but very warm body curled up on his stomach. Sam tended to get too hot while he slept even without cuddling with a small, living furnace. Sam sat up slowly, carefully setting Timothy on the cot next to him and grimacing as his body protested. Between all of the fights they'd been in and curling awkwardly to fit on the little cot, he was sore and achy all over. Sam looked over and saw Beaumont looking at the bookshelf, turned away from him. Sam shook his head, hoping to get rid of some of his grogginess. He remembered everything that had happened and why he was here, but his brain felt as sluggish as his body after sleeping so hard but for not nearly long enough. Still, he noticed immediately what was missing.
"Where's Dean?" Sam croaked. He used one foot to pull the bag of food he'd been carrying closer so he could pull out a water bottle. He drained half of it in one go.
Beaumont was frowning as he turned to Sam. "He stepped out," he said, studying Sam closely. "Are you well, Sam?"
Sam shrugged and didn't let his discomfort show on his face as it pulled a particularly sore muscle in his back. "We rappelled down a tower," he said. "My muscles are sore and I'm still tired. How long has Dean been gone?"
Beau frowned harder. "I have some mild ability to sense anyone coming close to the entrance to this room. I told him there was a man with claws outside. He believed it was a were and went out to 'take care of it in a quick sec' in his words."
"How. Long?" Sam repeated, putting the still-cool bottle against his face. He needed some real sleep or some really strong coffee. And a shower. And some clothes. And shoes. But most of all, he needed to know his idiot brother was safe.
After a short pause, Beaumont admitted, "Thirty minutes. But Sam, there are things you need to know. Immediately."
Despite his impatience and his irritation bordering on anger at stupid, moronic, brainless Dean, Sam took a few moments to listen to Beau. It was mostly to give him a chance to stretch his aching body and wake himself up a little more, but he found himself almost distracted from his worry by the weight of what the ghost had to say.
The clock in Sam's head was ticking, but he asked a few quick questions as he rearmed himself the best he could, namely about the nature of the weapon Beau was so worried about, since Sam knew there was a real possibility that Dean had taken care of the monster and decided to just go after the key himself. It was highly unlikely that Dean would go after the demon and the weapon alone. He'd done more reckless things in the past, but that was either long ago or took place when Sam's life (or soul) was under clear, serious, and immediate threat. They had both matured and recognized how much stronger they were facing a threat together than apart.
Of course, Dean wouldn't have considered a single werewolf anything serious, even without silver bullets or a blade of any real size. Really, Dean would be right, too. The fact that he wasn't back yet indicated that he'd run into more than that. More monsters or one of Callista's traps or even the witch herself. He could be anywhere in the massive house, facing literally anything. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to find Dean ASAP and he wasn't sure exactly how to do that.
"What is that?" demanded Beaumont, interrupting Sam's swirling thoughts.
Sam glanced down. He was holding the curved iridium knife he'd pocketed in Callista's bedroom. It was the largest weapon he had at the moment, and he'd intended to stick it in his belt. He frowned at his host, who had sounded both angry and scared. Sam realized belatedly that it was the first time since he'd woken up that Beau had looked him in the eyes. He felt his own eyes narrow. "A knife that we found in the house. Why?"
"You need to bring it out of here and hide it," Beaumont said, his eyes now focused on the blade. "I don't know how you can even hold it."
Sam squinted at the blade. There were symbols worked into the handle and blade both, but he didn't know specifically what they were. They were similar to Enochian, which probably meant they were in an infernal language. He sighed internally. There were a lot of reasons he might be able to a wield a weapon that a human being should not have been able to, from having been literally to Hell and back to having housed an archangel to having demon blood in his veins to having lived without a soul, and he wasn't about to talk about any of them. "Why are you afraid of it?" he wanted to know, putting it in his belt as he'd planned. He left since a knife can't really hurt a ghost unspoken.
"I believe it is a tenebris gravior," Beaumont said, his voice shaking slightly. "It can detach anything, reportedly. For example, it could separate a spirit from the Earthly plane."
Dark severer, Sam's mind translated the Latin. He'd heard the phrase before but had always thought it referred to a spell rather than a physical weapon. He didn't doubt the ghost's knowledge but didn't really believe that a knife could do such a thing. He'd hang onto it, however. After all, they hadn't believed that a knife could kill a demon, either. Until they found one that did.
"I'll be careful," Sam promised. His foot slid across one of the letters etched into the floor and he looked down. He remembered his desperation to speak to his brother after the car crash that had put Dean into a coma. That kind of desperation could lead a person to do a lot of things – he knew that from a whole lot of personal experience. He had his hand on the portion of the wall that he needed to tap to leave and go look for Dean, but he paused and turned back, thinking about the expression of Beau's translucent face as he'd mentioned the terrible weapon hidden beneath the room off his study. It was guilt. "Beaumont, I really need to go make sure Dean didn't get himself in big trouble, but first you need to tell me about this weapon really quickly. Where did it come from?" He hardened his voice, hating the delay but knowing it might be hard to get back here to continue the interrogation. "What did you do?"
A look of ineffable sadness crossed Beau's face. "I meddled where I shouldn't have and in the process created something terrible."
"Tell me. Fast."
"In my studies of the prophetess Ursula Southiel, I found talk that the fountain of youth was real but that it was filled in after Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden, if you believe that sort of thing. However, a little water was left behind. Wars were fought over it until the angels supposedly hid the little that was left. I don't know how much of that is true, but somebody hid it, and following Ursula's clues, I found the water. I actually met your great-grandfather because he was searching for it too. I never told him I found it." Beau licked his lips, an odd gesture for someone insubstantial. "I wanted to use it to reverse...death. I performed a ritual on it to focus its power. Or I tried to." He closed his eyes. "But I cannot perform most magical rites. Instead, the water itself lit on fire. A tiny bit of vapor too small even to see escaped before the man holding the vial capped it. He died, as did his colleagues who were in the room with him, my hounds that were nearby, and even the mice in the walls. Their cells basically went backwards in time until they no longer existed." He slumped. "In my obsession, I murdered those good men. And if any of that gets out of the vial, who knows how many it could kill?"
Sam swore. "There is always a price when you mess with death," he said, but not angrily. He and Dean had learned that lesson the hard way – more than once -- but it hadn't always stopped them.
"I know." Beau's voice was anguished. "I just thought I'd be the one to pay it, and I was more than willing to."
Unfortunately, Sam understood that too. He could yell at the guy who was paying for his choices in the guilt he had to deal with or he could think practically. "Why didn't it kill you? Whatever protected you could keep us safe or help us figure out how to maybe destroy it." He didn't want anything like that in the bunker. "And how do you know exactly what happened?"
"The laboratory was underground." Beau waved at the wheelchair. "It was difficult for me to get down there, so I performed the ritual from the outside the door, on what was then the lawn. One of the men – one of my friends who were helping – saw the others fall and managed to close the door. And I know because I've spoken with the spirit of one of the men who died there. I built an extension on the house over the top of it, and nobody has been inside since." He raised sad eyes to Sam's. "The witch is crazed by the need to extend her life, so it is possible that she came here specifically in search of the water, which would mean the deaths of all my staff are on my hands too."
"Look, you made some crappy choices out of grief," Sam said, not wanting to wait one more minute to go look for Dean but also knowing what carrying that kind of weight could do to a person, living or not. "For the record, you're not the only one. I get it. But since then, it sounds like you've done your best to stop it from doing further damage. And the deaths Callista caused aren't on you, even if she was looking for the water. She's a psychopath who has probably killed a whole lot more than we know about. Intentions matter, and it sounds like yours have always been good. Hold onto that. Give me directions to the music room, okay? And if you can, scope out the way to the hidden study. That could really help." If we can get back here.
In another minute, Sam was ready to go, though he had repeatedly had to set down Timothy, who kept leaping into his arms. "Not a good idea, buddy," he told the romplet several times. But as he finished tapping out the necessary code, a furry weight landed on his shoulders, and Timothy rode him out of the room. Sam briefly considered bringing him right back but time was sitting heavily on him and he needed to get eyes on Dean as soon as possible. "Stay close, then," he told the small creature.
Instead of listening, as soon as Sam cautiously started opening the door to the bathroom, Timothy leaped off his shoulder and barreled into the door, pushing it open and dashing away. Sam swore and grabbed the door before it could smash into the wall. He took one step in the direction that the rompo had disappeared before forcing himself to stop. He had no claim on the creature, and it wasn't exactly a helpless pet. Timothy had probably gone to find the rest of his pack and his mom, as he should. And he'd gone in the opposite direction as the music room. Sam needed to look for Dean, not chase a little monster.
With a sad sigh, Sam surveyed the room he was in and started walking, watching for any signs of traps as he went. He found the set of stairs Beaumont had directed him to, a different set than the ones right by the bathroom. These were much wider and carpeted and open enough to make Sam feel itchy and exposed. The second story was better, walled in tightly on both sides, and Sam unintentionally slowed his steps a little. As soon as he realized he'd slowed, he sped up again. Worry about Dean was churning in his gut, and he couldn't let his tiredness get in the way of finding him, even if it was just to yell at him for going off alone.
Sam paused to catch his breath at the top of the stairs. He had to go down one hallway and up a final set of stairs and he'd be nearly to the music room. Silently cursing himself for stopping, even for a few seconds, Sam acknowledged for the first time that he was more than just tired and sore. He felt rotten. And if he evaluated it, he'd been feeling off for a while now, at least since their time in the kitchen. He'd noticed feeling warm and achy in the short reprieve when they were eating and arguing about whether or not to summon Beaumont. He'd decided it was from all the physical exertion and hunger, but even then, in the back of his mind, he'd known better. He was probably developing an infection somewhere, most likely in the wrist the devil monkey had savaged. A quick check proved that the skin near the area didn't feel warm or tender but he wasn't about to unwrap it at the moment to look it over better. They'd just have to get out of there sooner rather than later to take care of it.
Putting it out of his mind, Sam continued on. It was slow going since he checked out every single room he passed, not wanting to be caught by surprise. He spotted quite a few traps and wondered idly just how much time Callista had spent setting everything up. It was possible that some of the traps had already been in place for normal security, but he doubted it. She was extremely confident. Or she had been. He hoped that the longer they lasted, the more that confidence got dented.
The back of Sam's neck prickled. He paused and stepped back just into the doorway of the bedroom he'd just confirmed was empty. He waited five minutes but didn't see or hear anything. He probably would have waited longer if he wasn't worried about Dean. He moved silently back into the broad hallway and froze for another second, moving only his eyes to scan everything. His tired muscles trembled slightly from the stillness. When there was still no sign of anything other than a vague sense of something, Sam started to move again. If Dean wasn't in the music room, he'd find a different route back to the psychomanteum to see if Beaumont had a scrying spell that could help him locate his brother, he decided. It wasn't likely, but it was better than nothing.
At the top of the final set of stairs, Sam stopped again, beyond irritated that such a little bit of exercise was getting him winded. He propped one shoulder against the wall and held his breath as there was a small noise of someone or something shifting on the stairs below. Swearing silently, he ducked into the first door he found. He wanted to see what he was facing and possibly have the chance to stage an ambush. But the second he stepped into the room the doorknob was wrenched out of his hand and the door slammed closed. Sam reached for it but stopped himself inches from the knob. Some lights were on in the room, dimmer than the hallway, but enough that he could easily see the glyph painting itself across the door as he watched, growing outward until the entire door was encompassed by the glowing symbol. It was the type that would transport him somewhere else.
Sam scowled at the door, debating whether or not to touch it. He was literally down the hall from the room he needed. If he went through one of Callista's transport spells he could end up anywhere, and who knew how long it would take him to get back to the music room, or what kind of monster he'd have to face.
Biting his lip, Sam looked around the room for the first time. It was laid out like an art gallery with large paintings at irregular intervals, everything from abstracts to a nativity scene that Sam was fairly was a Caravaggio that had been stolen in the 60's. There were sculptures and carvings of all sizes, too, some in cases and some freestanding. But none of that really grabbed Sam's attention. Instead, he was riveted by the fact that the script, shining in the same way as Callista's glyphs did, was spreading along the walls both directions from the door. Every time it came to a painting, the frame of the artwork lit up and the contents depicted began to swirl and move. It was hypnotic, fascinating. The colors swirled without mixing, reforming briefly into their original shapes before morphing again to smooth, kaleidoscope-worthy forms. It was truly mesmerizing.
Sam blinked. It was actually mesmerizing, and he found it hard to look away. In fact, while he'd been staring, the iridescent scrollwork had made it most of the way around the expansive room. Even the windows and a set of French doors set in the wall opposite of the door Sam had come in were covered with the glowing and gently pulsing writing. Sam had finally decided that he didn't want to risk touching the glyph when the two sides of the unknown script met. Then the incomprehensible symbols began to spread slowly across the floor too. They reached a free-standing triangular shelf and crept up it to dance over the surfaces of all the carvings it held. And the carvings began to move.
Shit, shit, shit. He never should have allowed himself to be distracted by the hypnotic motion of the paintings. He didn't want to know what would happen if the spell reached him, nor did he want to risk getting caught up in the stupifying effects of the paintings.
The carvings changed from twitching to undulating, one actually falling off the shelf as a large statue of a Pegasus with skeletal wings lit up with symbols too and the nostrils flared. Sam really didn't want to wait to see if they'd start moving with more strength or purpose. But how was he going to get out of here?
Sam looked at the French doors and had an idea. Maybe it was time to see if Beaumont had been right about the gravior knife. He walked to the doors and drew the knife. Moving quickly, he used the curved blade to hook the door handle, push it down, and pull one door open. As soon as the knife made contact, the glowing words recoiled away from the spot with a snapping noise. Though pulses of heat shot through his body from the hand holding the knife, Sam threw himself through the open door before the words could come back. He landed hard and the door swung shut behind him.
He'd landed on a balcony that stretched out in both directions. There was still a ceiling above him but besides a railing, it opened out to the back of the Marberry estate, from what little Sam could see. The only light came through the windows and glass doors from the room he'd just left.
The area all around him burst into motion with a confused rush of wings, like he'd startled a whole flock of birds. He was a little stunned from the pain of the spell that had been in the gallery and his body was singing from the hard landing, but he still managed to roll onto his back and throw his arms up before the chicken-sized birds attacked. They were gold and shiny with glowing eyes, but what Sam noticed most was the sharp little beaks that pecked at him drawing blood and ripping clothes wherever they struck.
Sam waved his arms to try to shoo the birds away and the ground beneath him shifted. Also, a bunch of small items that were stuck to his skin fell loose. Still fighting off diving birds, Sam turned enough that he was facing the room he'd just come from – and the light. Now he could see what he'd landed on and what had stuck to him. There was a Scrooge McDuck-worthy pile of gold coins beneath him, and the birds were grabbing at the coins that were on him. Thinking fast, Sam pulled off his shirt and used it to wipe all coins off his arms and legs, then crab-walked away from the pile. The birds all descended to land on the pile facing him, still hissing aggressively.
"I don't want your gold," he told them, but he could practically see them gearing up for another attack. Sam bumped into something and the hissing got louder. A quick glance revealed it was one in a whole row of small gold statues of animals. Transferring the shirt to the hand that was still holding the knife, Sam reached back with the free hand and grasped the statue, which was about the size of 2-liter bottle. Moving quickly, he jumped to his feet, spun around, and threw the statue for all he was worth. As he'd hoped, the entire flock took off after it like a shiny, feathery arrow. He heaved half a dozen more of the statues for good measure and to hopefully gain himself a few minutes.
Then, depleted and trying to catch his breath, Sam went down to one knee and leaned on the railing. It was cool outside, but it felt good on his overheated skin.
"Wow, little brother, that's really something," said an oh-so-familiar voice behind him. "You got past the alicantos and the Bogadh na nDealbh spell! Color me impressed."
"Dean." Sam tried to regain his breath before his brother realized that something was wrong with him. "Are you okay? Why did you go off alone, you idiot?"
"I'm fine," Dean answered easily, walking up behind him. "And I figured I could handle it. Which I could. Did you know that Callista has a whole pack of werewolves? Or should I say had?"
Sam's head was spinning from, well, everything, but not so much that his brain completely shut down. His instincts yelled at him, and the back of his neck prickled again. In one quick motion, he stood and turned, swinging the knife as he went, just nicking Dean's arm because he wasn't 100% positive.
Dean danced back agilely, clamping a hand over the cut. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell, little brother?"
"Don't call me that. You aren't Dean," Sam scowled at the thing that wearing Dean's face and held the knife in a defensive position while subtly bracing himself on the railing behind him.
"Sam, did you hit your head?" Dean stayed back, sounding concerned, and Sam really wished he could see his expression, but the light was behind him. "Why would you even think that?"
"You knew the name of the spell in there and the name of those birds, even though I never heard of either one. You never asked me if I was hurt. And you called Callista by name instead of witch bitch," Sam recited. He was nearly swaying by now and trying to disguise it.
"Sammy –" Dean started softly, then suddenly he was tackling Sam. They fell back against the railing and wrestled, neither really getting the upper hand until the fake Dean grabbed Sam's bad wrist and twisted. The pain caught Sam off-guard and suddenly he was pinned bending backwards. He got a look at the spot where he'd cut his opponent's forearm. It wasn't bleeding, it was black.
The very-much-not-Dean saw him looking and shot him a grin that didn't fit his face. "I don't know what kind of fancy knife you have," he said. "But you're right – I'm not Dean."
Then he shoved Sam over the railing.
* * *
AN: Lotsa references again.
Morticia Addams is a character in the TV show and movies about the Addams family, a family that surrounds itself with monsters like "Thing," who is just a disembodied hand.
The scene with Han Solo is from Star Wars: A New Hope.
Like almost all of the non-English words I use, tenebris gravior comes from Google translate. It is Latin. The idea of the knife is mine, though in Lebanon, the evil pawn shop owner Terry tells Sam that his sword Chrysaor can cut through anything.
If Sam was correct about the one painting, it is Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence by Caravaggio, which was stolen in 1969, possibly by the Sicilian Mafia, and has never been recovered. According to Wikipedia, it has an estimated value of $20 million. I figured if Callista had no compunctions about collecting (and abusing) living creatures, she certainly wouldn't shy away from buying a painting illegally.
Scrooge McDuck is a cartoon character who likes to swim in his piles of gold.
Alicantos are shiny, metallic, nocturnal bird-like cryptids from Chilean mythology. They are attracted to the precious metal that their feathers match, usually silver or gold.
Bogadh na nDealbh is the phenomenon of moving statues. The term is Irish, taken from an incident in 1985 in which statues where reported to have moved on their own in over 30 different places throughout Ireland.
waitingforAslan: You are remarkably coherent given the fact that you're in the middle of grades and probably exams! I hope your work was rewarded with exceptional grades. I'm so grateful that you took the time to comment despite everything – it's so nice to get notes from readers.Christine: In the movieI, Robot,Del Spooner says, "You're the dumbest smart person I know" and I feel that way about the Winchesters sometimes! On the other hand, separating them gives us more drama. *g*
sylvia37: Now the guys arebothshirtless, so no more imagining the little tiny t-shirt. I found Timothy easy to picture too.
muffinroo: Now I'm picturing Sam extremely awkwardly filming a commercial.Hey, tall guys. Are you tired of paying extra for clothes from the big and tall section? With my new line of crop-tops for men, you can save money and show off your abs – Dean, I'm not saying that. This is stupid and nobody's going to buy – Shut up and read the script, Sam. These are going to take off and we'll be set for life!Hehe.I had to reference John Deere. There is literally a John Deere tractor in my garage right now. You know, not that I'd like to park inside or anything.The "perhaps he's always felt like a stray himself" hit me right in the heart. And made a wild plot bunny start darting around in my brain.And, yup, Sam was not real pleased with Dean. And that was before I dumped him off a third-story balcony.
stedan: Aha! You're the mysterious guest reviewer!I had a cat that loved to be held like a baby and now I really miss him. And want a pet romplet. Thanks for the compliment about the prophesy. I wanted something that would convince Beau that he was talking to the guys the prophesy meant. And I fully admit to enjoying imagining Sam in that shirt! Now both guys are shirtless and I'm not sorry.
Shazza: Slightly hurt Dean for you. (He should be happy that it's only slight – I threw his brother off a balcony!) We're heading into spring here and the robins and cardinals I fed all winter are sticking around and the blue jays and goldfinches and the rest are back from migration and entertaining the cats when they come to the feeders. (The cats stay indoors, so the birds are safe, even if the fat felines could actually catch anything.) And soon we'll have to look out for killdeer nests in the yard to make sure we don't step on or mow over them. I had to look up some of the birds you mentioned – I love watching birds, but of course we have a whole different crew than you do. Anyway, I'm getting distracted. Thanks for commenting!
DearHart: The cavalry got a little sidetracked on the way to save Dean! Oh boy.
Jenjoremy:As always, I love your ideas! Dean would definitely remember books that Sam loved and insisted he read to him over and over. (My Dad still remembers a few of my childhood favorites, and I have 3 siblings!) So...Beau's mission isn't really happening yet. LOL
MicheleChadwick: Your description of demons as essentially ghosts with baggage made me chuckle. Harpies as a protected species IS fabulous! Maybe DOC workers will show up and help the guys get away from Callista! Or come arrest her for illegal possession of exotic creatures. Okay, unlikely, I know.I saw a picture of a rompo and kind of fell in love andet, voilà,Sam has a little pet. I was actually sad for Sam when Miracle so clearly chose Dean. It sometimes felt like everyone chose Dean in the show, even characters like Jack, who Sam reached out to first. But that is a conversation for another day! "Sam deserves all the snuggles" made me smile. So true! I offer my snuggling services… *clears throat awkwardly* You are also absolutely correct about the Winchesters having a, er, complex history with weapons of mass destruction and apocalypses (apocalypsi?). And I did email you back. :-)
Colby's girl: I'm glad you didn't find the slower chapter to be boring or unnecessary! I never mean to write so much lore and background stuff but am usually unable to help myself. I love it when the guys hear good stuff about themselves, but they are rotten at actually saying it to each other, so I thought using a third party to convey it let me get away with giving them a little boost.