A/Ns: Oooooh boy am I nervous about this one guys.
First thing first, this is not a chapter. I know that may disappoint some of you, but hopefully not for long. This is a teaser trailer for the rest of Season two! I wrote it up for a couple of reasons. First, as a warm up to try and get myself back in the writing spirit, something I've been struggling with during the lockdown. See, I don't usually write well at home. Too many distractions, too many things to do. But pop me off to a cafe, throw some headphones in, indulge in a nice Chai Latte, and I'm usually pretty productive. Cue Covid, and I am now stuck writing at home. Which...as you may have noticed from a severe lack of updates for months now...is not going so well XP So! This was a writing warm up, if you will. The second reason is to hype you all up for the rest of the season, and to that end, the third reason is that hopefully your hyped up responses to everything I have planned will remind the Muse WHY WE LIKE WRITING IN THE FIRST PLACE. *huff* I'm not annoyed with her at all. NOT AT ALL.
Trailer: The following clips are not in any necessary order (though for the most part they are chronological. Mostly). There is a mix of good times, not so good times, and really not so good times. They are also a liiiittle no-good-dirty-rotten in places (*cough* cliffhanger-y *cough*) because...well...this is me, here. Those cliffhangers can be a little spoilery as to what's to come, but only so much as a normal trailer for an episode or a season of a show would be. The main goal of it is to get you excited for what's to come, and some of that requires a little twist, a little turn, and some minor spoilers.
If you don't want to read because you don't like the idea of that, no worries! Like I said, I've not done something like this before and I have no idea what I'm doing! XP
Reviews: Okay, not gonna lie, the primary incentive behind this is to hear from you guys! Hearing from readers every week or two was like a friggin' drug for me and I have been in withdrawal for MONTHS. I'm not going to be surprised if that is partially responsible for Covid-Creativity-Drain. MAMA NEEDS HER FIX. (It's late and I'm a little loopy, y'all. #SorryNotSorry)
Lastly, Thanksgiving! In the spirit of Thanksgiving Weekend, I want to take a moment to say how thankful I am for all of you. Several of you check in with me on a bi-weekly basis to make sure I haven't died or been maimed in a horrible accident. So many of you have mentioned in your comments that you will wait this story out, no matter how long it takes, and I remind myself of all of you every time I struggle with another week gone by without writing productivity. More still remind me to take care of myself first, and to you I say a deep-hearted and sincere thank you. I am super thankful for the incredible spur of new readers and reviewers this story has gotten in the last three weeks (the ending of the show being the cause, no doubt). You all have made smile so much as you comment throughout your reading journey or unload all at once when you finally catch up! I am also incredibly thankful to be part of this fandom, which is so full of supportive, wonderful, beautiful souls. And I am very thankful that creativity and coffee shops are the only real thing Covid has taken from me. I know I am lucky in that regard.
Enjoy!
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Season 2: Extra Chapter
Teaser Trailer
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Giving Ronald another fierce, 'stay put!' glare, Sam pulled Dean off to the side of the vault where they'd just finished locking their brand-spanking new hostages inside. The older Winchester looked like he knew exactly what was coming and would rather be hunting down a shifter.
"Dean, this is crazy," Sam hissed, which was almost verbatim what Dean had, indeed, guessed was coming. Sam's grip on his arm remained, a sure-fire example of how just not-joking Sam was right now. "We should get out now."
"Little late, don't ya think, Sammy?" Dean muttered, gesturing with his free arm to the closed vault door. In for a penny and all that.
Sam released his arm to run that same hand through his hair, the other still holding Betsy. "What aren't you telling me?"
Dean frowned, pulling his head back and attempting to look affronted by the accusation. "I told you everything about this."
"Then what aren't you telling me about after this?"
The man from the future stiffened, immediately cursing his brother's ridiculous intelligence and instinct. Okay, so, maybe he hadn't told Sam everything, he hedged in his own mind. But he'd told him everything that seemed important at the time.
"Dean." His thoughts must have shown clear across his face, because Sam was regarding him with a warning look. "Seriously. Because this is insane. We should ditch Ronald and get the hell out of here. We can find the shifter again later."
"The Rising of the Witnesses." Dean blurted it out before his brain could fully process what his tongue was already committed to. Sam blinked, brow furling in confusion. Before he could ask, Dean continued, "It's one of the seals. When it breaks, ghosts of the people we got killed or couldn't save…they come back, and they come back angry. A lot of hunters died. You, me, and Bobby were almost among 'em."
Sam paused, taking a moment to process that new gem of information. He swept his bangs out of his face and glanced over his shoulder at Ronald Resnik, standing restlessly, like he couldn't figure out what to do with his arms, by the vault door, 'guarding' their 'hostages.' Sam pursed his lips and turned back to his brother.
"Ronald?"
Dean nodded, not quite able to look at the larger man he remembered more as an angry, hurt, volatile ghost than the buffoon they'd taken with them into the bank today. "Him and Meg."
It was Sam's turn to pull back, that heavy brow furled over his brown eyes. "Meg? The demon?"
"The human she was riding. Meg Masters." Dean shook his head, trying to block that poor girl's voice from his memory, the look in her face as she'd beaten the crap out of him. Retribution. "She died last time. After we exorcised Meg."
Because first they'd thrown her from a third story window. And then when they'd managed to exorcise her, they'd left behind a broken, crumpled human to die a slow and miserable death in Bobby Singer's living room. Dean shuddered and turned partially away from his brother.
"Dean…that's not your fault. And neither is Ronald."
The man from the future immediately rounded back on Sam, eyes fierce and filled with that terrible, angry guilt he was so damn good at. "Not my fault? Yeah, it was Sam! And it will be this time! Ronald might have been planning out an attack on the bank to trap the shifter, but we have no idea if he'd have gone through with it without us showing up and pushing him over the edge. Telling him he was crazy. We drove him to the bank."
This time, literally.
"If he dies, it's on us."
Sam sook his head. "You don't know that, Dean."
"Yeah, I do!" The hunter threw his arms up, startling Ronald who was far enough away to be out of ear shot for all but the loudest of the argument. "That's literally what the Rising of the Witnesses means, Sam. It means we got them killed!"
Sam had his doubts about that – sounded like some twisted logic and twisted memories – but ultimately he couldn't argue otherwise. He hadn't lived through it. And when Dean lowered his arms, a crestfallen and haunted look crossing his face, Sam found he couldn't argue for other reasons too.
"I can't go through that again, Sam," his brother muttered, finally glancing over at Ronald and looking away just as quickly. "I won't. I'm not letting them die on our watch. Not again."
Sam scrubbed his free hand down his face with a rough sigh, but finally nodded. "Okay. We save him this time. But after this, Dean-" he shoved Betsy into his brother's arms, not wanting much more to do with the damn semi-automatic rifle that had gotten them into this- "no more crazy."
His brother nodded, firm and resolute, fingers tight around the gun. "No more crazy."
-o-o-o-
"Run!" Dean yelled, charging at Sam, who straightened in alarm. His brother was gesturing wildly while sprinting at full speed right towards the younger Winchester. Sam registered the look on his face, the comically wide eyes and red, flushed skin, before movement over his brother's shoulder caught his attention.
Sam stared, frozen to the spot, at the giant snake slithering, head sliding smoothly back and forth, not a hundred feet behind Dean. The logical part of his brain broke; how was a snake that big – and this thing was as tall as his brother, at the very least, with a head that could very likely swallow a human whole – even moving in a tunnel this tight? The less logical part of his brain could only stare, thinking, 'what?' and 'how?' and maybe also, 'why us?'
"Run!"
Dean grabbed Sam's bicep hard as he flew past, hauling Sam into an awkward hop-wobble before he turned fully and put those long legs to use.
"What the hell, Dean!"
"I don't know!" the older Winchester screamed back, partially over his shoulder as he checked on their gaining adversary. Their quickly gaining adversary.
"I thought we said no more crazy!" Sam yelled from slightly ahead of him. Damn those long cricket legs of his. Dean whipped his head back around to glare at his younger – and therefore, should-be shorter and slower – brother.
"This is not my fault!"
The giant snake chasing them let out a truly hair-raising hiss and Dean redoubled his efforts to not become snake chow. He would never again think Indiana Jones a wimp for his fear of snakes. Never. Again.
-o-o-o-
The object in the kid's hand wasn't what Bobby was expecting when he looked up from the desk in his den, neck-deep in sea witch lore. Olivia Lowry had managed to stumble into a nasty one off the coast of Maine. The cavalry was already on the way – she'd managed to filter just about every curse word in the book between explanations of how the bitch had nearly gotten her and this was definitely not a solo gig – but they'd need all the backup they could get when it came to killing the thing. Witches. They really were the worst.
The flash of a question mark searing itself across the inside of his eyelids for a second time in as many minutes brought Bobby back to Andy Gallagher, standing in the doorway to the den, holding a thick, leather dog collar and an old, empty, dusty tin bowl.
Considering his hands were full, Bobby would forgive the lack of Signing for the easier, headache-inducing telepathy. (To be honest, the kid was getting good enough – or Bobby was getting too used to – his new powers to even cause much of a headache anymore.)
"Rumsfeld," Bobby huffed, going back to the books. "My old dog."
As silence settled like a weighted blanket in the wake of that statement, a third question mark (well, actually three question marks all together now) flashed through his brain once again. Bobby sighed, realizing he wasn't gonna get this research done for Olivia while Andy had questions apparently. Like, given the raised eyebrows and exaggerated nod to the disused items, the whole story.
"Demon got 'em," the gruff hunter admitted, managing to hold back the emotion that welled inside at the thought of Rumsfeld. He'd gone quick, at least, but Bobby had sure wished Dean had left something of that demon bitch for him to kill himself after what she'd done to his dog. He'd been a damn good boy and hadn't deserved an end like that. Dogs were meant to grow old, damnit.
He turned back to his research.
Andy audibly huffed, entering the den and setting the items on Bobby's cluttered desk. Loudly. Bobby knew he could chase the kid off with some not-unjustified anger at digging through his personal belongings, at bringing up some painful memories and then continuing to poke at that bear. But he'd been the one to tell the kid digging around was fine as long as it kept him busy.
Turned out, a twenty-something year old psychic with nothing to do and nowhere to go got bored about as quick as a toddler. Just so long as he didn't touch anything that looked like "occult stuff" as Bobby had said it (or "adult stuff" as he'd meant it) than Andy wandering through the basement and closets at least kept him out of the old hunter's hair.
This twenty-something psychic was gesturing to the collar, and forming the word for 'another' in Sign, eyebrows up to make it a question. Bobby did not want to be having this conversation, but considering the kid was using his hands and not his mind, he begrudgingly answered.
"Getting too old for training a new pup," he muttered, almost under his breath. Too old to lose another one, too, not that he'd ever admit that part out loud. Unfortunately, Andy was a perceptive twenty-something toddler. Bobby turned back to his books, gruff rising like hackles. "Got enough strays as it is, kid."
It was Andy's turn to look sad at that, but Bobby chose not to notice, going back to his research. It was a terrible mistake, in hindsight. If he'd been paying more attention, he might have seen that sadness turn into the furled brow of thought, which evolved into the wide eyed delight of an idea, followed ultimately by a dangerous amount of determination.
All of which would might have clued Bobby in to the inevitability that he was getting a new dog well before he walked into his house three weeks later to find that very thing had happened while he was out for groceries.
-o-o-o-
It took him a minute, but as soon as that déjà vu settled into full focus, Dean turned them right the hell around.
"Dude, what the hell?" Sam muttered as his brother practically pulled him back off campus towards the Impala. He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating school buildings, one of which had been the scene of a tragic death. A professor, flung from his top story office, to die on the steps below with no witnesses and a hefty number of shady connections: right up their alley.
"Not this one, Sammy," Dean muttered, keeping his voice low as he looked around like someone might be watching them. Sam frowned, looking around as well, but it was largely a deserted college campus, give it was the middle of the night and had only stopped raining about twenty minutes earlier.
The younger Winchester pulled his arm free of his brother, dragging them both to a stop. Dean looked irritated, but Sam didn't let that deter him. "You said no more running."
"No," the man from the future countered immediately, "I said we'd pick our battles. Well, I'm not picking this one."
"There are people dying here, Dean." Sam tried for the honor-and-duty angle that usually was enough to win his brother over, or at least make him pause. Not this time, apparently.
"Yeah, douchebags who deserve it," the older Winchester harped back almost immediately. "That's what the trickster does, alright? And trust me, we don't want to get involved."
"A trickster?" Sam's voice rose in surprise. They'd never run into a trickster before. They were old and powerful, usually pagan gods or half-gods. Through no fault of his own, the younger Winchester was intrigued. Dean could tell, given his deadpan return glare. Sam cleared his throat, trying to look a little less curious. He failed. "What, uh, what happened last time?"
His brother grabbed his arm again, once more hauling ass for the Impala. "Let's just say Taco Tuesday was permanently ruined for you, for like…ever. And I never got to listen to Asia again. So, yeah, we're leaving."
Sam was still trying to argue his case in and among attempts to get more out of Dean than that jumble which had made absolutely no sense, when the Winchester boys rounded the corner of the building closest to the school parking lot and went out of sight. From a darkened alcove of that building, a short-statured man stepped into the light of the courtyard lamps, eyes narrowed and lollipop clacking against his teeth.
Gabriel pulled the sweet from his mouth with a pop, eyes still locked on where the Winchesters had disappeared. Well. That was…weird.
Good thing a trickster such as him liked weird.
Popping the lollipop back in his mouth, the archangel-turned-Loki tucked his hands in his pockets and followed after the pair of hunters.
-o-o-o-
They landed hard, or maybe it was an illusion of a hard landing that came with the adrenaline of Angel Air and the knowledge that Dean was bleeding to death. That, and the apparent chaos they'd landed in the middle of. Their third party member was screaming in that kind of what-the-hell-just-happened manner and for some reason there was a dog barking fiercely – the scary kind that meant you were about to get chomped on – in the not-so-distant background.
Sam managed to shove all of that to the side and scrambled back to his brother, hands curling over the bullet wound more out of instinct and fear than anything logical. Especially considering that Cas was right there, already pressing two fingers to the older Winchester's forehead. Dean had time to grunt in pain from his brother trying to keep him alive before he was miraculously and immediately healed.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, head thunking back to the floor of Bobby's living room as his body went limp, all that pain and tension suddenly gone. Sam could relate, sagging back onto his heels, struggling just to breathe normally in the wake of an adrenaline crash.
Their tagalong, on the other hand, seemed to be ratcheting up in anxiety.
"How are we…where are…but we were in the….what is happening?" The larger man spun around, eyes wide as he tried to take in Bobby Singer's den but likely saw none of it. "Did…did we just teleport?"
As his voice climbed in volume, Cas finally spun on her crouched knee, gracefully standing in one swift move, and pressed those two fingers to the man's head. He went down with a hefty thud that shook Bobby's bookcases. Then the angel spun once more, fierce blue eyes locked on the German Shephard still barking ferociously at them from the hall, but not entering the room. It fell silent with a reproachful whimper.
"What the hell is going on in there?" Bobby came charging in, still in his pajamas but shotgun in hand. He straightened, pulling the butt of the gun away from its braced position against his shoulder when he spotted the newest round of houseguests. He glared at the angel who seemed to be having a staring contest with Sarge, then shifted his eyes to the Winchesters and the puddle of blood slowly soaking into his rug. "Balls."
Sam, on the other hand, was looking between him and the German Shepherd with wide eyes and a confused brow, brown hair flopping over his forehead. "When did you get a dog?"
Bobby huffed and lowered the shotgun. Dean was clearly no longer dying if those were the first words out of Sam Winchester's mouth. Damnit. What did a man have to do to get one good night's sleep in his own friggin' house these days?
-o-o-o-
Jody Mills looked up from her phone, which was still pinging with text messages from her latest 'pen pal' (if it could be called that in this day and age – and she just knew said pen pal would make fun of her for such an old fashioned term. Squirrely little kid) as the door to the small Sheriff's office opened and a stranger strolled in.
"Howdy," she greeted with a share of Midwestern friendliness at the unfamiliar face. The suit, sans a jacket, rolled up sleeves of a pristine dress shirt, and solid colored tie all said important. The multiple files tucked under his arm, a photograph paper-clipped to the outside of one of them, said Fed. Not something they saw a lot of in Souix Falls, South Dakota.
"I'm not interrupting, am I?" the man asked congenially enough, though there was something dark in his eyes that immediately set Jody on edge. Nothing aimed at her, per say, but it was obvious this man was here on a mission.
"Nah, 'course not," she answered in an equally light tone, setting her cell down on her desk. "Just helping a wayward kid handle his first dog. What can I do for you, Mr. ...?"
"Henriksen." The man offered his hand, which the Sheriff shook. "Agent Victor Henriksen, FBI. I'm looking for a couple of boys, and word is there's a man in your town who knows 'em."
The agent set his files – three of them, it turned out – onto the counter, and the smile slid right off Jody's face at the picture attached to the top one. The spitting image of Bobby Singer's 'nephew,' new to town as of two months ago. The young man who'd bumped into her outside the grocery store last month with a favor to ask. The goofy, tragically mute kid who was, in fact, the very same 'pen pal' she'd been texting thirty seconds previously regarding taking proper care of that damn favor.
"Don't suppose you know a resident by the name of Robert Singer, Sheriff?"
Jody raised her eyes back up to the federal agent. She let out a huff of air and forced the corner of her mouth into a smile. She doubted it was convincing. "You mean the town drunk?"
-o-o-o-
Bobby shut his front door on the retreating figure of one, FBI special agent Victor Henriksen, to share a wide-eyed look and a relieved breath of air with Andy – a wanted felon, mind you – who'd been hiding behind the door for the entire length of conversation. Every awkward, hair-raising minute of it.
"Balls," the hunter muttered. He was gonna have to call the boys and tell 'em a Fed had been sniffing around, looking for 'em. The thought was not five seconds through his brain when a pounding on the door caused both hunters to jump. Andy scrambled back into the protective corner created by the door once it was open, and Bobby gave him one hell of a warning look before he turned the knob once more. Like he needed the reminder to stay quiet. Him. The wanted felon.
"Alright Bobby," Sheriff Mills said loudly from the front porch, hand on hip, with a tone that sounded about ten seconds away from murdering them both. "Where's the kid and what the hell is going on?"
-o-o-o-
He was still humming the catchy tune under his breath as he left the diner, pie in hand, only to draw up feet short of the Impala.
The empty Impala.
The empty Impala that should not be empty, because it should have his stupidly tall, stupidly long-haired little brother in the front seat.
"Sam?" Dean glanced around the parking lot, hoping Sam had just hopped out to help a stranger with directions or take a piss in the woods (and…not the fully working, indoor bathroom complete with plumbing located just feet away inside the damn diner. Sure.) "Sammy!"
The hunter spun in a full circle, only to halt abruptly ninety degrees to his left. There was a woman, standing at the far end of the parking lot, right on the edge of the only street light along the deserted country road. She was short, legs spread in a solid stance that suggested she was waiting on a fight, and her eyes were glowing green.
Son of a bitch.
Azazel's girl. Which meant that Sam...
Dean dropped the pie and drew his gun, but the woman was already turning, bolting into the night.
"Hey!" The man from the future – now very damn certain it was about to repeat itself – took off running after the supernatural bitch who'd just kidnapped his brother this time around, leaving the toppled pie abandoned in front of the empty Impala.
-o-o-o-
Sarge's whining finally caught Andy's attention and he pulled the ear buds out of his head to notice the German Shepherd standing at the entrance to the panic room, tail tucked, head ducked, and eyes looking about as uncertain as Andy had ever seen them. Sarge was nothing if not stalwart most of the time.
'What's up, buddy?' he asked in his own head, signing along with the question, knowing the dog could neither hear or read him, but it hadn't stopped him from chatting to himself in either form yet. He uncrossed his legs from the cot they'd dragged into the iron-walled room once it was obvious Andy would be spending more than just an evening hiding out down there. He stood, stretched, and crossed the small room to crouch in front of the dog. 'You gotta go pee?'
He made the hand signal for bathroom that Jody had taught him and Bobby – the one Sarge's previous handler had picked – and the dog whined again, turning and heading for the stairs up and out of the basement. Andy stood, following after with only a moment's hesitation and a quick glance back at the panic room. Five minutes out of it wouldn't hurt, and it was only to go upstairs and grab Bobby so he could take Sarge for a walk.
The two climbed the stairs, Andy trailing behind the much faster four legged beast. When he got to the top of the stairs, Sarge was already waiting at the front door. Andy held up a finger – not that they'd actually taught Sarge what 'one minute' meant, and ducked his head into the study.
Bobby was on the phone, back turned to the psychic, and from the sound of it, he was buried up to his elbows in a case for another hunter. Andy didn't have a convenient way to interrupt the man without using his powers. He glanced back into the hall. Sarge was staring at him with desperate eyes, and whined once he had eye contact again.
How long had he been asking to go out? The hunt must be a bad one, Andy figured, if Bobby hadn't noticed.
Well, he could take Sarge out. Yeah, the Winchesters and Bobby had both told him not to leave the panic room, and definitely not to leave the house, but what was five minutes going to hurt? Besides, Bobby's property was warded seven ways to Sunday. No demon – Prince of Hell or otherwise – was setting foot in the salvage yard.
Andy grabbed Sarge's leash and opened the front door, following after the dog as he ran out into the night in nothing short of desperation.
It wasn't until a good ten minutes later that Bobby finally hung up the phone after shouting Carl Bates through a Banshee banishing spell after the thing had almost taken the head off his hunting buddy. Which meant a follow up shouting bout of how to keep a man alive when his neck was kind of hanging on by a thread. Bobby heaved a tired sigh. He really was getting too old for this.
It took another second for him to realize that Sarge was barking in the distance. Not inside the house, but from…the yard. Bobby straightened and spun around, dread pooling in his gut. Sarge was in the yard. The front door was open. And so was the basement door.
"Andy!" Bobby surged to his feet, but the stairs to the basement were deserted and no psychic came answering back with his telepathic powers. The old hunter bolted for the front door, heart pounding. Sam's death date was just around the corner, and the kid knew better than to leave the panic room!
When he found Sarge, the dog was barking furiously at the far fence of his property, nothing but empty night beyond it. His leash was attached to his collar, dragging on the ground around him, but there was no sign of Andy.
-o-o-o-
Chuck stared at the freshly printed page. So fresh the ink would still smudge if he rubbed at it hard enough. For a moment, he entertained doing just that. Just rubbing away the last hour of work – the last year's, the last millennia, the last…forever, really – and do it all over again.
The writer shook his head, freeing himself of such morbid and…existential thoughts. The story was what it was; it always seemed to write itself more than Chuck ever being an active participant. There was something weird about that, but the prophetic author didn't dwell on it. He had bills to pay and he supposed this was at least one way to do that.
"Here you go. Final chapter." There was something flat to his voice Chuck didn't like, but he didn't know how to fix it. He stared at his editorial assistant as she sat up in her chair, legs curled up beneath her short body, and took the papers from him. His hand brushed hers, and he stared at the contact. His fingers were overheated and kinda tingly.
He wondered if Steph noticed, because she rubbed at the back of her hand where they'd touched, the motion absentminded. Chuck wondered at that, at that contact and the fact that she was always somehow nicer after moments like this. The poor writer tried not to read too much into that. He turned to head back to his lonely computer.
"Hey, Chuck?" Steph had dropped her hand, but she had a distant look in her eye she always got around him. Chuck didn't know what to make of it, but something deep within Chuck, something he didn't even realize existed most days, always took notice and great care to nurture that slowly growing ember. "Do you know what's going to happen next?"
It was a weird question to ask of an author, Chuck thought. Then again, he seemed to be the kind of author that didn't know what was in store for his characters. Last minute writer, his publisher had teased, but Chuck always wondered if it was more than that. If it was weird not to feel in control of your own story.
"No," Chuck answered honestly, because he liked to think he was at that point of friendship with Stephanie. "I don't. Sometimes I think the story will go one way, but usually when I write it…it's completely different. Not the way I'd have taken it at all."
He frowned at that, scrunching up one side of his face. He wondered what it would be like to write the story he wanted to write, and not the one that came to him in flashes of bright lights and a lot of head pain.
"What do you want to happen next?"
Chuck – and something altogether not Chuck – blinked in surprise. He glanced over at his editorial assistant, not sure why the question affected him so. He supposed…no one had ever asked him that before. Probably because it had never occurred to anyone to need to.
"Oh. Um. Well…" Chuck had to pause, had to actually think about that answer. Funny, that. No one had ever bothered to ask, including himself. The prophet smiled almost idly. "I think something big is coming," he admitted with a slight shrug. "And, well…it sounds silly, but….I want everyone to pull through."
He smiled shyly at Steph and she smiled in return. It was nice, even if he was pretty sure it was a smile born of pity.
"Guess it's not very good writing if everyone makes it out unscathed, though, huh?" Chuck sighed with another shrug, this one far more self-deprecating than the previously awkward one. "Tragedy maketh money, and all that. Not that I'm making much money, of course."
He chuckled awkwardly, completely missing the sad downturn to Stephanie's smile. But the thing that lived deep inside him, that saw all when it wanted to, didn't miss a thing. And when he picked up those papers thirty minutes later, he brushed Chuck's fingers across her's once more, blowing on that growing flame. One whisper at a time, he would remind Persephone of what she used to be. And maybe, Time permitting, they would save Sam Winchester this time around.
-o-o-o-
Sam's knees hit the wet, uneven pavement in a way that should have hurt. That did hurt, but distantly, because the hurt was nothing compared to his back. Sam couldn't breathe. Or maybe that was the fluid filling his lungs. Blood, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
"Sam!"
That was Dean's voice. But it was far away. Which…was really unfortunate. Sam didn't think his brother was going to make it in time.
"Sorry, kiddo," the demon said from above him, wiping the sharp, curved blade in his hand off on a rag. Wiping Sam's blood off with that rag. "Your brother's gotta pay his entry fee."
"Sammy!"
Sam bent forward, finding it harder to support his own weight. The rough cement bit into the palms of his hands. Breathing was hard and…metallic. Ah. The blood in his lungs. That made sense.
"No! Sam!"
He could hear Dean's pounding feet now, but his brother was still too far away. Sam knew he wouldn't make it. The younger Winchester hit the wet ground before Dean ever got close.
"Sammy!"
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
A/Ns: oooooookay, GO. YELL AT ME. :D
I hope you all enjoyed the teaser trailer, and that it hit it's goal of getting you guys psyched for what's to come. If it did, please let me know. Which clip are you the most excited to get to? Are you freaked out I'm (totally not) killing Sam? (Or Andy) (*ducks and hides real good for that one*) Or, in the spirit of this weekend, tell me what you're thankful for, because I am thankful for you and want to hear it! 3
Next Update: I can not give you guys a solid timeline, unfortunately. The muse and I are close to getting back to writing, I can feel it. If nothing else, every time I open up Word to write and it just doesn't come, I use that time to outline what is coming up so, so, so heavily that when the Muse is finally ready, all we have to do is turn bullet points into full sentences XD
Hope you are staying safe. Happy Thanksgiving, thank you for reading, and thank you for hanging with me through this uncertain and rough period. Until next time!
Cheers,
Silence
UPDATE 10/11/2021: Daaaang has it been a solid second since I updated this. So sorry guys! But I have AWESOME NEWS! I am writing again! It's still glacial compared to my previous writing schedule, but I have two whole chapters done! [insert kermit dance here] I'd really like to wait until I have at least 5 chapters built up before I start posting - and posting will probably be every two weeks for a while. I don't have a lot of confidence the Muse won't dry up again or continue at this pace. But I've got so many fingers crossed! And I'll be doing my very best to get you guys this story back on a normal basis :)