AN: I hope that everyone who celebrates America's Independence Day or Canada Day enjoyed their respective holidays! We had a lovely weekend and I actually made pesto with basil from my garden, inspired by Colby's girl. Then last night it actually rained, which we needed very badly. And none of that actually had anything to do with the story. *g*
Janice had to overcome the emotional fallout of watching the SPN finale to beta this chapter...extra kudos and thanks to her! :-)
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Cephalalgia / sĕf – ǝh – lahl' - jee - ŭh / noun
in medicine and pathology: pain the head; headache
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Who knew that if you looked beyond the killer tree and weird motels (one of which was run by the demigod of messing with people) and shitty, borderline deadly weather, Tonopah was practically Norman Rockwell-esque? At this point, Dean wouldn't be surprised to see Jimmy Stewart running down the street pontificating about how much he loved everybody.
Dean shook his head and went back to scrubbing some of the stubborn mud out of Baby's front driver's side hubcap. He was sitting on the cooler with the bucket Sam had bought next to him half full of soapy water. He'd already given the exterior a decent wash and was now getting all those little spots that took a little more work. Every couple of minutes, he looked up at the door to the motel room, propped open with a handy rock. Nothing ever changed; Sam never moved. He hadn't done more than swallow a little water and soup every hour or two, not even reacting when Dean changed his clothes and the bedding. But after a day and night of just watching him and talking to him until his voice was nearly gone, Dean had needed to get out of the damn room.
He'd already read every bit of information they'd compiled a second time, left another message for Dad, and made some very discrete inquiries (still without mentioning Puck's name) to a few of the most trusted Hunters he knew: Caleb, Jefferson, and, of course, Pastor Jim. Hell, he'd almost broken down and called Bobby despite how much that schism hurt.
So when morning had come again and he was still waiting to hear back, Dean had decided that he needed to do something...starting with actually eating food that wasn't scrounged from the Impala's trunk. So he'd ordered some take-out from the diner and basically begged them to deliver it, promising to pay double the cost if someone could bring it to him.
"Don't worry about it, hon," the chick on the phone had answered. "We're not that busy – I'll find someone who doesn't mind runnin' it over. So, what does your brother want?"
And whether it was hunger, worry, exhaustion, or all three together, Dean had blurted, "Nothing. He's too sick to eat."
That was about when Tonopah had started revealing its true colors. Diner girl Jenny sent a container of chicken soup along gratis "for when the tall guy's feelin' better." Delivery guy Will (who was 50 if he was a day) said he'd pick up lunch and supper for Dean too, if Dean could just tell him what he wanted and from where. Janine dropped off a bag of healthy, homemade snacks and mentioned that hardware-store-Beth had a sister who was a PA and would take a look at Sam for free if they'd like. (Janine was the only one brave enough to ask Dean about the cuts on his face and ring of bruises around his neck, but even she didn't push it when all he did was say that they were fine.) Cool-car-old-man Harold showed up with his pickup truck and volunteered to (read: insisted on) return the rented air compressor and impact drill so Dean didn't have to leave Sam or pay for extra days. Dean was cleaning Baby by then, so Harold swung back around with some chamois cloths and Armor-All "so you can do it right." Joe from the bar the night they got into a fight even brought over a six-pack. It was Natty Light, but the thought was nice.
So, aside from Sam waking up, Puck spontaneously bursting into flames, Dad calling, or Angelina Jolie showing up, there really wasn't much of anything Dean wanted for. It was...weird.
He finished the last spot on the tire and automatically checked his watch, since he tried every hour to get liquids into Sam. He'd already decided that he'd give Sam until the next morning to wake up, then he'd have to bring him to the hated hospital so he didn't get completely dehydrated.
A bright orange Sunbird pulled into the lot, and Dean took that as his cue to stand up. "Hey, Will," he greeted his food gopher. (Hey, the guy just refused to quit, saying he knew what it was like to care for a family member.)
"Got your Kung Pao chicken and potstickers," the man reported. He held the bags until Dean could wipe his hands off and pull out some money. Will glanced toward the room. "How's your brother?"
"'Bout the same," Dean answered shortly. He didn't mean to be rude. He just didn't know how to deal with all of the solicitousness. Hostility he knew how to handle. Genuine concern, not so much. Sadly, he was far more familiar with the former than the latter.
Luckily, Will just nodded. "I'll be back around 7 tonight, unless Janine decides it's her turn. She said she'll bring her lasagna if she gets off work early enough. Call the diner if something changes. If I bring food, I was thinking steaks." Crappy car and willingness to be a delivery guy notwithstanding, it turned out Will owned the diner.
"I said a cheeseburger was fine," Dean called. He could hardly get himself to eat, anyway. Why would he want to waste a steak or homemade lasagna?
Will ignored him and drove away.
Dean sighed and went back into the room, kicking aside the rock holding the door open. "Hey, Sammy," he said in a voice that sounded dead even to his own ears. That wasn't good, because what kind of incentive was it to wake up if all you heard was some sad-sack whining? Dean took a long breath and tried again, doing his best to inject a bit of teasing into his words. "I'm eating all the fortune cookies and not even telling you what the fortunes say. If you wake –" A sudden, unexpected pang of what if he never does cut off Dean mid-sentence. He laid a hand over the pocket of his jeans where the last fortune resided. After riding in that same pocket through multiple dunkings, it now read, only 'mil is e,' but originally it had said, 'Family is a pearl beyond price.' At the time, Dean considered it mawkish. Now it seemed like a warning he'd failed to heed. Dean leaned heavily against the little table with his head bowed, pushing a hand against his chest to try to allay the pressure on the inside of his sternum and wishing he dared crack the bottle of vodka in his duffel.
"Y'okay?"
The word was so soft and slurred that Dean might have imagined it. But he knew he hadn't. He spun so fast his meal hit the floor, an immediately-forgotten casualty, and something in his back made a popping noise. His own voice was hardly a whisper.
"Sammy?"
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam's body ached like he'd been violently sick or maybe like someone had used him as a punching bag, but he couldn't immediately put a why to the feeling. He knew a few things, however.
First, Dean was there. After all, Dean had been the one to wake him, at least he thought so, though Dean was turned halfway away from him. Second, Dean looked terrible. Terrible as in bruised and cut up, but also as in a posture and affect that revealed that he'd been worried, even freaked out, for a while. Third, Sam had had some dreams that he really didn't want to remember.
He managed to (sort of) ask if Dean was okay, and the way Dean's head whipped around to look at him, not to mention how wide his eyes went, totally reinforced the impression that he'd been incredibly worried. The shock and slightly cautious relief that washed over his face did nothing to dispel it, either.
"You okay?" Sam repeated, a little clearer. He started to push himself up, far more concerned with Dean's shocked silence than the state of his own body. He'd swear Dean teleported across the room he got to Sam's side so fast. He looked fairly calm, if tired and unshaven, until you looked at his eyes. Those were frantic. His motions were, too, though still careful as he pushed Sam back by his shoulders to lie down again.
"Dean," Sam complained. Other than a raging headache and a few twinges, the worst in one calf, he didn't feel too bad physically. Oh, he was tired and stiff like he'd been sick and lying in bed for a long time, but that was nothing. And he knew that if he commented on Dean's obvious worry (bordering on panic, based on his expression), Dean would overreact. But if Sam acted like an annoyed little brother, it would help reassure Dean that he truly was fine. "Let go. What's –"
He caught sight of the witch balls (dammit, Dean was a bad influence! Witch glass) in the window and remembered. "Puck."
"Yeah." There was a wealth of meaning in that single word, none of it good, but at least Dean leaned back a little, though his eyes stayed laser-focused on Sam. "He didn't, uh, think you'd wake up." Dean ran a hand over the back of his neck in a gesture that Sam knew meant he was shaken up.
Sam thought about his half-formed dreams or memories. He couldn't really recall anything concrete, and his stomach squirmed and his mind seemed to shy away from any details. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and started to sit up. "Guess he doesn't know me," he said, mostly to distract himself from the way the change in elevation made the room spin and his head pound more. The world settled and he realized to his irritation that Dean was steadying him with a grip on his elbow.
"Guess not," Dean answered, a hint of a proud smile flirting with the edges of his mouth even while his eyes were still worried. "Maybe...you should lie down. Or we get a doc to check you over. You were out for a while, man."
"Nah," Sam said, going to shake his head before realizing what an epically stupid idea that would be. He almost said he was fine, but with the world still tilting around him, that would probably be pushing it. "I need to get some food and water into me, take a shower, and I'll be good." Blindly optimistic? Maybe. Sam caught sight of the ruined meal on the floor as he finally let go of Dean's arm (when had he grabbed it? Huh.) and winced. "Looks like you need more food for yourself too."
Dean shrugged off the food, still busy worrying. "Stay put. I'm gonna grab you some water, see how that goes. Then we'll talk about what you need."
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but it was like he was moving in slow motion, and before he'd even started, Dean was gone and back with the water. Dean acted like he would actually hold the glass for him, but Sam wasn't having it. He had to force himself to drink slowly because once he started, he realized just how parched he felt. "How long?" he asked after Dean had fetched and he'd drunk a second glassful. He had happily taken the Tylenol Dean brought, too, though he knew his capitulation would raise more red flags for Dean.
Dean's pause was minute, but Sam caught it, knew the implication that it had been a while. "Day and a half, lazy ass."
Shit. No wonder Dean looked so bad. Sam closed his eyes and leaned against the headboard. He couldn't decide what he wanted first: to hear what had happened with the yataveo, another gallon of water, a long, hot shower (that he miraculously didn't need to stand up for), or a nap. "You're really okay?" he asked, still undecided.
"I'm really okay, kiddo," Dean answered, his voice unusually gentle. "That stupid tree took a couple sucker punches before I ganked it for good, but the stab's nothing but a couple scars. How are you feeling? Really?"
Able to hear the ring of truth, Sam sighed. "Head hurts whenever I think about that...place, but he didn't really hurt me." Sam knew he'd seen some of his memories, knew Puck had offered him a chance to stay, but the details were just gone. Except… Sam's eyes flew open again. "You didn't leave town, did you?"
"Whoa, whoa, calm down. No, no, we're good." Dean pushed Sam back against the headboard again because he had no concept whatsoever of personal space. The ease with which he did it was annoying. Maybe Sam was a little worse off than he'd thought. And maybe he was hyperventilating just a little bit. Dean didn't let go or answer further, just repeating that everything was okay and to relax until Sam got himself more centered.
Dean leaned back a little when Sam relaxed. "No, you were pretty serious when you told me not to. I haven't gone anywhere. This creepy town has, like, adopted us and people keep showing up with food." He spared a glance for his chicken. "Hey, I bet the fortune cookies are still good." He did a pretty good job of retrieving them without being too obvious about his eyes never leaving Sam. He sat on the edge of Sam's bed again and offered a cookie to Sam, cracking one open when Sam demurred. "Wanna tell me why we can't leave?"
"Um. I promised that we'd get a certain picture for, you know, him, before we left town in exchange for being able to tell you how to kill the yataveo." It was easier to concentrate if Sam sat perfectly still, mostly because it kept the popcorn bursts of pain in his head to a minimum. "But your life's forfeit if we leave first."
It was hard to tell, but Sam would swear that Dean was crunching the fortune cookie more aggressively than he had to. "Measure twice, cut once," he read with his mouth full. "Good advice. Got some more good advice for you. Unless you need something first, how 'bout you tell me why the hell you thought it was a good idea to make a deal with a damn monster while you still can't even stand up on your own so I won't be tempted to kick your ass for being a moron?" Dean visibly worked to calm himself. As if he hadn't been yelling and spraying crumbs everywhere 10 seconds earlier, he extracted the next fortune and handed it to Sam.
Sam didn't read it right away. He remembered – and immediately wished he hadn't – a night of eating terrible Chinese take-out during exam week with a bunch of fellow studiers. Among all the fortunes about making your own luck and meeting dark strangers, Luis had gotten one that said "The most painful death is the death of one you love." They'd all laughed at the unexpectedly gloomy message, but it didn't seem very funny now.
"I could stand up," he argued, aware of how petulant he sounded. He was also aware that it might not be strictly true. He didn't quite dare roll his eyes, not sure his head could handle it. Dean smirked, just a little, calling out his lie without saying a word. It made Sam feel a curious mix of little-brother resentment and nostalgia. It was the same look he'd gotten a hundred times as a kid, when he said things like "I came straight home from school" and "Rachel and I were just studying" and "No, I didn't read all night." Unfortunately, Dean was usually right about when Sam was lying.
Rather than compounding things, Sam decided to do what Dean wanted, since he really did want to hear about what had happened with the yataveo and he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to stay awake. Chances were pretty good he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes open once the Tylenol kicked in. "I didn't have a choice, Dean."
That was the wrong thing to say. Dean's eyes widened, then went stormy again with anger. "There's always a choice, Sam! Deal with the king of screwing with people, or don't risk your life dealing with him. You –" He rose halfway to his feet as his voice rose, then cut himself off when the volume made Sam wince. He sat again, hard, as if realizing just how much the timing of the discussion hamstrung his own reactions. "You know better than that, Sam."
"No, I didn't have a choice. You would have died. Don't you get that?" Even raising his own voice a little made Sam's vision narrow a little and the blood rush loudly in his ears. He couldn't decide if his never-wants-to-talk-about-it brother had chosen the best or worst time to hash this out.
"We would have figured something else out," Dean argued, but softly, his need to reduce Sam's suffering derailing his anger, at least temporarily.
"I saw you – You were – " Sam scowled. His screwed-up head was making him fumble his words and it was making him emotional, and he didn't appreciate either in the middle of an argument.
"I don't care! You don't throw your life away!" Dean snapped back, not quite yelling.
"I do care!" Sam answered with alacrity. Despite his anger and throbbing temples, he found a hint of smugness within himself. "Besides, it's done. You know what Pastor Jim likes to say: 'you can't unbake the bread.'" Suck on that. "I was careful, and it obviously worked. You're alive. I'm alive. We just need to get the picture and it's done." This discussion had to be over soon, or Sam would find himself collapsing or bursting into tears...and he actually preferred the first option.
"Well – Well – You better never do anything like that again!" Dean sputtered. Some of the fear was disappearing from his expression and while his anger was dissipating, Sam was positive the topic would come up again, and both emotions would make more appearances down the road. "Swear you'll never put yourself in danger like that again."
Sam didn't laugh, because that would have been cruel. He didn't even point out that every day they hunted they were in danger. He didn't have the energy for that fight, and it was a fool's errand anyway. "Dean –"
"No, you listen. I know I'm the one who dragged you back to this –"
"Dean?"
"– but that doesn't mean I'll just watch if you decide to go all –"
"Dean! If you don't let me get up, I'm going to pee on your feet."
Dean blinked. "Oh. Huh. Let me help you."
Sam didn't think he needed help to walk ten feet to the bathroom. He was wrong. As soon as he stood up, he heard a noise like hundreds of ping pong balls hitting a hard floor and he lost a sense of what direction he was supposed to be heading. When he regained it, he found himself pretty much hanging off Dean. "Sorry," he muttered, but he wasn't nearly as embarrassed as he'd have been if it had been anyone else there. He was mostly disappointed that a shower was obviously out of the question.
"Shut up," was Dean's predictable response. They made it to the bathroom, where Sam firmly shut Dean outside and survived taking care of the necessities mostly through stubbornness and practice at keeping his feet when sick or injured. He brushed his teeth, drank even more water, and begrudgingly asked Dean to help him back to bed.
Halfway there, Dean's stomach growled loudly enough to overpower the sound of Sam's brain trying to climb out of his ears. "You should go get food while I sleep," he told Dean, knowing the answer would be no. "Y' never eat enough when you're worried."
"I'm good," Dean lied badly. Once Sam was lying down, he scooped something off the floor. "You dropped your fortune."
Sam took it and pretended that it didn't take a few tries to focus his eyes enough to make out the words. "When the blind leads the blind, get out of the way," he read, then gave a startled laugh that threatened to knock him right out.
Dean laughed too, and his stomach growled even louder. "Sounds like us," he said, a bit ruefully. Sam thought he was missing Dad.
"What was yours? From before?" Sam asked. He was losing his fight to keep his eyes open.
"Let a smile be your umbrella," Dean said, clearly lying again.
"Hm. You need to get food," Sam mumbled, giving up and letting his eyes fall closed. "'Mokay. Swear."
There was a pause and then Dean conceded, "I'll order something to be delivered to replace what fell. When you wake up again, I want you to eat something too."
Sam tried to say "Goodnight, jerk," but he wasn't sure how much of it made it through. He was even less sure that the "Get some rest, bitch" wasn't just his imagination because he was already mostly asleep.
This time, he dreamed he and Dean had decided to go to a Halloween party at Stanford and Dad showed up...disguised as a tree.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam woke up to the sound of voices speaking softly. One was definitely Dean. The other was a woman whose voice wasn't immediately familiar. Sam was still too much asleep to distinguish words, but it sounded like a friendly conversation. He dozed again, except the smell of food reached him and just that fast, he was famished. "Dean?" he slurred, still not quite aware.
The tone of both voices changed and by the time Sam wrangled his eyes open, the door had closed and Dean was standing at his bed with a paper grocery bag with the top rolled down in his hands. He gave Sam a genuine, pleased smile. "Hey, you look a little less like shit! And you're just in time to try some of Janine's lasagna. Need help to the bathroom first?"
There was no mockery in the question, so Sam didn't bother to glare at Dean. "Um. Maybe. Thought I told you to eat. Before."
"You did. And I did. But you slept long enough that it's time to eat again." Dean shrugged. "Not that I ordered this. Janine heard you're doing a little better and brought it over." He set down his burden and tried to help Sam sit up, but Sam's head was feeling enough improved that he batted the help away.
"No super balls," he said distractedly when he made it to his feet with very little assistance or balance issues. "Wait, I mean ping pong balls."
"Whatever you say, Cheech," Dean answered, his eyebrows way up.
"Shut up. Don't eat without me," Sam answered sullenly. He still wasn't totally awake and shouldn't be held responsible for what came out of his mouth. The bathroom trip helped and definitively proved that he was a whole lot steadier than earlier. He came back with Dean hovering, sat at the table, and reached blindly into the bag. He felt something soft and pulled it out, confused. When he saw what was in his hand, he reflexively yelped and sent the thing flying. It was a stuffed clown holding a heart that said "Get Well Soon!" It wasn't scary per se, but the wide, red mouth had startled him badly.
Dean, who'd drawn his knife at Sam's reaction, saw what the "threat" was and started to laugh. He laughed and laughed until he had to set the knife down and lie down on the closest bed. Between bouts of laughter, he gasped out that he hadn't even known about the stupid gift – he hadn't opened the bag, since he'd wanted the food to stay as hot as possible. He didn't stop when Sam threatened him and only laughed harder when Sam took the knife and cut the toy's head off.
Sam called Dean a few more names, considered salting and burning the toy, then decided he was too hungry to worry about it at the moment. Dean still couldn't stop laughing, but that just meant Sam got the first piece of lasagna. He cut it with Dean's knife just to get him back. He wasn't going to clean it for him, either.
Eventually, Dean managed to get himself under control and they ate and talked.
Sam explained the deals he'd worked out with Puck, then Dean told him about fighting the yataveo. Sam was positive that he wasn't getting all of the specifics, though Dean spent in inordinate amount of time lamenting just how dirty his "poor baby" had gotten and how much work it had taken to get her cleaned up. Hearing about Dean confronting Puck really made Sam want to yell at him for being reckless. (Who takes a knife to a mind fight? Only Dean. Sheesh.) But it felt a bit hypocritical, especially since Dean hadn't done anything except look truly pissed when he'd heard about Sam letting the demigod have some of his blood.
"Sam?"
Sam jumped a little. He'd taken some more Tylenol with his meal, and his headache was finally down to a manageable level. His stomach was full for the first time in what felt like forever, and once Dean had finished his tale, he'd fallen mostly silent while he rapturously ate his dessert of raspberry tarts. ("Look, Sammy! They're like baby pies!") Sam had quickly gotten drowsy, and apparently had drifted a little.
"Uh…what?" he had no idea what Dean was asking.
"You okay there, Einstein?" Luckily, Dean sounded amused rather than worried. "I asked – twice – what it is we need to get for Tinkerbell?"
"Oh. It's a picture at the Clown Motel. Of him, Pan, and Loki. I guess they used to all hang out," Sam reported. Dean was basically manhandling him to bed even as he talked, but Sam didn't fight it. He wanted to type up his notes about the yataveo, not sleep more, but he could do the former from the bed. He just needed to wake up a bit more. "Hey, how did Janine know I wasn't feeling well? And that I was getting better?" He sat against the headboard and waved Dean off when he tried cover his legs with the comforter. Being warm would just make it harder to keep himself awake.
"Oh, the whole town pretty much knows. This place, it's weird. When I called to order food from the diner yesterday, Jenny asked what you wanted, and I mentioned you weren't feeling so hot." Dean explained.
"Jenny?" asked Sam. He didn't remember anybody by that name.
Dean nodded. "Yup. She takes the phone orders. Well, I asked her not to mention it to Will, because I had a feeling he'd drop by to check on us –"
"Will? Who's Will?" Sam was seriously confused.
"Owns the diner. Been delivering a lot of my food. Try and keep up, Sammy." Dean elaborated as if Sam should have any clue about who these people were. "He was one of the first to adopt us, you know. Anyway, Jenny didn't tell Will – I don't think, anyway – but I didn't know that she's Harold's granddaughter, and of course she told him."
Sam was lost. "Harold is…?"
"I could have sworn you met Harold. Old guy, cool car. Appreciates Baby. He's neighbors with Beth. You know, Joe's aunt? Works at the hardware store? You met her. And Beth and Janine are like the middle age version of besties, so I'm pretty sure that's how Janine found out." Dean continued his long-winded explanation, and Sam sort of gave up on following it, though he did sleepily resolve to mock Dean mercilessly for being the Tonopah version of Walter Winchell.
He didn't even notice when Dean maneuvered him to lie down and covered him up the rest of the way.
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AN: I used the fortunes given to me by readers (finally!) in this chapter. Thank you to muffinroo and Christine for your great ideas! I also stole another line from muffinroo.
Norman Rockwell was a painter who mostly made pictures of idealized, nostalgic Americana.
It's a Wonderful Life is a 1947 movie starring Jimmy Stewart. Stewart's character, George, thinks he's a failure and wishes he's never been born. Angel-in-training Clarence (Meg's reference for Cas' nickname later in the show) shows George what life would have been like if he'd never been born, then returns him to his reality. The end has George running down the street professing his love for everything and everyone.
Cheech means Cheech Marin, most famous of being half of the comedian duo Cheech and Chong. They were most famous for being stoners.
Tinkerbell is a fairy originally from J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan. Now she's in a bunch of Disney stuff too.
Walter Winchell was an early gossip columnist.
Christine: You are very smart! :-)
Jenjoremy: I could probably do a whole "Five Times" collection (or, you know, more than five like some of my others) called "Five Times You Should Have Listened" and make it times one or both Winchesters should have listened to advice from the other or someone else (like, say, Bobby). The chick flick moments are muted but definitely here. I didn't even let Dean really yell at Sam too much.
Jane: Thanks! I'm so glad you liked the Fortune Cookie story! That one was fun to write, though it was a bit of a challenge to think of fortunes that predicted something without giving too much away. Who am I kidding? Writing is fun in general, and writing SPN stories is the mostest funnestest of all. I do have a mean streak, though, and Dean really got it in this story, more than in most of mine. I tend to be even meaner to Sam in general. Ugh, I'm sorry you're in a cast, but I'm glad it's not for longer. I wish you a full and fast recovery and plenty to read and enjoy while you're laid up!
muffinroo: I certainly have conversations with my cat. I always have. Oz is a pretty good listener, though he has resting serial killer face. He's a sweetheart or a total jerk – there is no in between with him, but I love him. Yes, Dean had so much to endure. LOL. I adore "bring a knife to a mind fight" so much I stole it! And I really doubt that a tour through my brain would be safe...it's a weird, crazy place.
sylvia37: Right?! The monsters just don't seem to get that, though.
Colby's girl: I made pecan-based pesto this weekend and thought of you! (I like to put it on burgers.) More more more schmoop here! Not as much as I sometimes get, but who doesn't love caretaker Dean. (I certainly do!) I'm so happy you liked the scene with Grey sticking up for the boys. I like to think that if my cat had more than a single brain cell, he'd stick up for me, but the reality is that he'd probably fall asleep in the middle…
stedan: I loved your comment and musings so much! I'm completely with you...I think the main part of the brotherly bond was there even back in very early seasons, though kind of beaten up by their long separation. It definitely evolved, especially after the big sacrifices, starting with Dean selling his soul. One story line that really bothered me was when they accidentally summoned John with the pearl thing and found out that they didn't have anything to do with each other in that reality. It doesn't seem possible to me, but that's just my opinion. Thank you so much for making me think and giving me such a fantastic compliment!
Timelady66: I would have knifed the tree too, I think! Doesn't Crowley understand the visceral appeal of it? It's kind of like slamming a door – it doesn't actually do anything, but it feels good at the time. Playing Xbox sounds like a good outlet for Crowley and Cas. I love their argument! LOL. Hey, I hope you're feeling better. You were having a lot of sinus pain, right? Oh, and thank you for having the wonderful B say that I have satisfying endings. I hope this one will be, too.
Guest (Kathy, maybe?): Dean had to do a whole lot of persevering in chapter 14. I tend to make him even more snarky when things are bad. I also think he has the ability to be very intuitive, like choosing to trust and later help the cat. I personally love my little town, and I know that shows up in my writing sometimes. The Shakespeare festival is a subtle shout-out to Janice, who does such great beta work for me, since it's something she and I talked about recently. Nope, we aren't surprised that Sam does the unexpected, even if the supernatural thingies always are! Now, some brotherly arguing, then bonding.