SpN: To The Waters And The Wild part 6
11/17/08 12:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:To The Waters And The Wild part 6
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
Pairings Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count:2520
After Ruby left, he gave some thought to laying down salt lines, something he hadn't done since--in years. Not that he was suicidal, not that he didn't care. It was just…after everything, after the hellhounds, after Lilith…no one came after him, or tried to hurt him, or talk to him. Nothing. Demons avoided him. He'd seen *plenty* of supernatural beings since Dean's death. He was practically tripping over them, but not the possessed, not the demonic. None of the supernatural beings he saw now wanted him dead and almost all of them seemed to want some kind of…acknowledgement. Like Sam noticing them would somehow reaffirm their existence.
Sam worried from time to time that out in the bushes somewhere some little god was waiting for him to believe in it. Or that somewhere, a unicorn really was shitting rainbows….
Sam was just washing up when the doorbell rang. Toothbrush still in his cheek, he went to get it, wiping his hands on the back of his sweats. Raphael was at the door, takeout boxes in his hands.
"Hey. This box has pancakes, bacon and eggs, this box some toast and some oatmeal. Guess which one is yours?"
"Fanks. Pud onna tabu." Seriously, he was going to start eating real food again—this week--next week, he promised himself. No more gray veggies swimming in grease, swear.
Raph grimaced as he dropped the boxes on the kitchen table. "Tha's nasty. You gotta walk around with toothpaste and shit oozin out your mouth?" He ignored Sam's indignant snort and said, "So. Why'd you call me?" Raph grabbed a chair and the greasiest box and snagged a couple of slices of bacon. "What's up? Hey, you're gonna reimburse me for the food, right?"
"'Course. Wait." Sam trotted back to the bathroom, spit and rinsed, and walked back out to the kitchen. "Here's the thing. I'm going to take a few days off…maybe more but three days this week for sure. I…gotta line on where my brother might be." He flushed deep and turned his head. "I uh…he's been missing. I have to check it out…"
Raph stopped chewing and shoved one of the huge take out cups of coffee over to Sam. "Oh, sorry dude--he's got problems? Lots of folks I know got some family member onna street. You going to try and get him help? You know, both me and Ga—Danny--worked with those folks at one time or another. Hard work." He shook his head. "Tough going. But if he's anything like you at all, he'll make it--if he's got you to back him up."
"Yeah…I hope so." Sam stared at the cup. "One thing about…my brother, he's tough."
Raph patted his arm. "You'll make it happen man. You got success written all over you."
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Three days later he was standing outside alone on the sidewalk in a part of town that would probably even make Luke Cage nervous, looking up at the grimy art deco facade of a building that called itself Crossroads Hotel in sputtering red neon letters. He glanced down at the pale green card Ruby had given him, drew it through his fingers. Okay, this was the place…was he supposed to summon someone, or something, or just wait until someone took pity on him? At this point he had no idea what to do. He glanced up and down the street, jiggling a little. The weight at the back of his waistband gave him a little sense of relief. He hadn't carried Dean's Colt in over two years and now, its weight comforted him, like he'd never stopped carrying it.
"It is a crossroads, you know—symbolic now, but had been truly a few hundred years ago."
"Son of a bitch!" Sam whirled around and found himself eye to eye with a light skinned Black man, thin as a reed--beautiful green eyes and a lovely smile. The guy had come up on him silent as a ghost. He could feel a tickling wash of energy flow over his skin and forced his hand away from the small of his back--this must be his 'date'. "Who are you?"
He held his hands up and smiled. "A friend. You been offered something, right? So tell me, you're going to take the gift?"
"Yee-ss…depending on what I have to do. These last couple of years have taught me there's no such thing as a free lunch, so I'm asking you, what's my price?"
"Come on inside, and I'll tell you. If you don’t want it, you can leave again, no strings."
Right. There were always strings.
Inside the hotel room, it was dim and hot. Drapes that were fashionable in his mother's mother's time hung over the windows blocking out light and any possibility of air. There was a bed shoved against one wall, and a little table—a night stand, set up like an altar. Sam only caught a glimpse but he was certain of its function, and certain the person he was talking to, attractive as he was, was *not* human, or strictly speaking a demon… a crossroads spirit but…not. A trickster but not like one they'd dealt with before. This wasn't a Norse or Native American trickster…maybe African? There were little scattered heaps of white in each corner of the room, looked like ash or salt….
So this was someone who would help him--maybe. Hard to tell. Tricksters were capricious, especially when they figured you needed a lesson. Fuck that. He'd had his lesson—it's why he was where he was now, damn it and not out killing his way across the country.
The man sat on the bed, leaned back on his elbows and checked Sam out so thoroughly, he felt more exposed than if he'd been naked. He flushed and stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from covering his dick. "Esu…that's what you can call me," the being said. He smiled, green eyes sparkling. "This is the whole of it—you get what you get. There's no sure thing here--that you need to understand. If you keep what you want in your heart, and you hold on to that desire, no matter what…it's possible to have it."
Sam frowned. That was entirely too…Disney-ish a way of looking at things. It didn't ring completely true, Sam thought. Probably mostly bullshit, except for the no sure thing bit. That he had no trouble believing…he stared at the being, trying to read it's—his--blandly smiling face. "How—what do you get out of this?"
"Maybe I like to bank good will. Maybe, some day I call on you to do a favor for me. Or maybe I don't." he shrugged. "Maybe one day a friend will come to you. Or never."
Sam jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, balled them into fists. fucking demi-gods… "So what does all that babbling mean? What kind of favor? Because I won't…won't hurt anyone. I *mean* it."
"Now why would I want you to hurt anyone, pretty little Sammy?"
Sam looked him up and down and thought maybe there needed to be further clarification. "I won’t let *myself* be hurt, either."
Esu laughed lightly and it sounded…the way champagne felt in your mouth. "Smart boy, you are. Look here—" he slid off the bed and walked to the little altar. Near it on the floor was a kid's plastic sand bucket, half full of water. Esu handed it to Sam and said, "Wash the doorway, and the window ledge. Protection."
Sam took the little bucket and surreptitiously sniffed. He could smell basil, and ginger, and there were bits of other plants, some he recognized, some not, but nothing that looked especially wrong. He was handed a bandana, and he dipped it in the bucket, quickly but thoroughly wiped all edges of the doorway and the single window in the room. He was a hunter, he knew damn well not to take protection lightly. Esu waited for him at the altar and talked him through what to do—put his gun in the center of the table, which he did with reluctance, pour oil into a brass plate set atop a brazier, and rub different herbs into it…he carved the name of what it was he wanted into a fat red candle, lit it as he listened to the voice in his ear gently telling him what to do, so smooth, so soothing. Warm thin fingers rubbed his temples in rhythm with the rise and fall of the softly spoken words. Sam tried not to lean into the comfortable warmth at his back, repeated what he was told to say. Together they repeated the words of power. The smell of burning wax and herbs, the thick greasy scent of the oil filled his nose, and his mouth and even seemed to fill his eyes but it wasn't exactly unpleasant…he gave into the movement he was being coaxed into, gentle, steady rocking back and forth…strangely he got a strong feeling of Bobby…as if he was there with him. Sam smiled and relaxed, his mind drifted loose even as his mouth moved and his body swayed….
He was back in Bobby's backyard, half asleep in the deep funky heat of the backseat of some junker, listening to Dean tell him a story, some lie about a girl and some pie and…he inhaled deeply, breathed in the taste, the smell of grease and hot metal, sweat and young bodies and hot vinyl seats, felt them slide under his sweaty thighs. A warm callused palm ghosted over his ribs, and he felt hot breath on his throat…he blinked.
He was alone in a junkyard. Bobby's, but not really Bobby's place, it was the place drawn by a kid, and forced into life. He slid out of the car, heat pounding him like a bitch. He looked around at the slightly blurry landscape. Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked against the sting, the edges of his vision shivered into reality. Home. Or as close as to a home they'd ever had.
Sam slowly wheeled about, disoriented, confused. Okay…he'd been in the hotel room and…and things happened. He squinted against the odd light. If he concentrated really hard, he remembered everything but it was tiring and…unh, wait….
*Hell* was Bobby's yard? He grimaced. Yeah. Yeah, it sure as hell *had* been from time to time…he'd been so confused back then, only half aware of what he was yearning for. Remembered not being able to drag his eyes away from Dean, working on some car, shirtless and sweating…just…he remembered being miserable and half hard all summer long…Shit. He shook his head, trying to focus. Why was this shit coming out now, when he'd managed to crush it almost to death….
Hell. Sam looked behind him up the road to where he figured the house was, but instinct told him to go forward so he took off down the road. All around him it was dusty, hot, and silent as the grave. It was so quiet he could hear the soles of his boots slap against the blacktop. So quiet, so still, that he startled violently when crows flew out of tree branches hanging over the road—black and silent as a shadow play. At the same time, the air changed, seemed to drag at him, all color leeched out of the landscape. The sun was a nasty mustard yellow and the sky a pale grey-green….
He walked and walked; the road changed from blacktop to gravel and then to reddish dust…a dusty road spinning out in front of him forever. It felt like hours passed and every bit of moisture in his mouth, his eyes, his nose, was being slowly sucked out of him and replaced with the thick red dust he was dragging his ass through. The smear of yellow in the sky he assumed was the sun never moved—he had no way to tell how long he walked. He trudged on the road because he was afraid to stop and it was fucking obvious he wasn't going to see the interstate and he really hoped he wasn't going to die on this road. A sharp stab of fear pierced him—or what if. What if he never stopped walking? He swore his eardrums were fluttering, so fucking quiet that he could hear them do so. He heard his own pulse; maybe he was even hearing his heartbeat. It was *too* fucking quiet. He opened his mouth to sing or shout or something, and stopped. He gulped, his dry tongue tried to slide across chapped lips. He was afraid to try. What if he did and no sound came out, or if it did and it was too much?
How could lack of sound make him shred away like this?
Stop it—keep walking, concentrate on Dean--you hold on to that desire, no matter what……
He was so fucked up he really wanted to cry, and feeling like the worst kind of pussy for it, when he heard a slap-slap sound he recognized immediately—hell, his whole body almost seized up, it knew what that sound meant and every cell screamed for it—water.
He was running, big feet throwing up clouds of red dust, and slowly silence gave way. He began to hear his breath whistle in his chest--the thump of his feet against the thick dust, and then the faint grunts running forced out of him, the clack of dead tree branches in the dry, dry wind and far off in the distance, the barking of dogs. The sound at first was calming, normal—dogs. God, they sounded good--a familiar homey kind of sound that slowly changed, became more like howling, and slowly twisted into otherworldly shrieking.
The sound was coming closer, coming up on his back and he tried pretty damn hard to rip out a reserve his body didn't have to give. He heard a deep liquid snuffle next to him, a low sort of groan. He glanced to his side as he ran and saw he was being paced by long thin white dogs. He thought first ghostly greyhounds and giggled with what breath he had, until one turned its head toward him. A long thin bone shell held twin deep pits of what should have been blackness but was red like blood. Black nostrils flared wide at the end of a tube split by a red gash, filled with sharp neat teeth--a mouth full of bone scalpels and teeth like those had ripped Dean's heart out of his chest and eaten it while it still beat. A strip of raw red meat slipped from between open jaws and swiped the length of it. It pulled its tongue back in with a slurp.
Sam thought that maybe it even laughed at him a little, knew who he was….
Hellhounds were even uglier than he thought they'd be—these things were the last thing on Earth Dean had ever seen.
He stopped running.
.part7
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
Pairings Dean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count:2520
After Ruby left, he gave some thought to laying down salt lines, something he hadn't done since--in years. Not that he was suicidal, not that he didn't care. It was just…after everything, after the hellhounds, after Lilith…no one came after him, or tried to hurt him, or talk to him. Nothing. Demons avoided him. He'd seen *plenty* of supernatural beings since Dean's death. He was practically tripping over them, but not the possessed, not the demonic. None of the supernatural beings he saw now wanted him dead and almost all of them seemed to want some kind of…acknowledgement. Like Sam noticing them would somehow reaffirm their existence.
Sam worried from time to time that out in the bushes somewhere some little god was waiting for him to believe in it. Or that somewhere, a unicorn really was shitting rainbows….
Sam was just washing up when the doorbell rang. Toothbrush still in his cheek, he went to get it, wiping his hands on the back of his sweats. Raphael was at the door, takeout boxes in his hands.
"Hey. This box has pancakes, bacon and eggs, this box some toast and some oatmeal. Guess which one is yours?"
"Fanks. Pud onna tabu." Seriously, he was going to start eating real food again—this week--next week, he promised himself. No more gray veggies swimming in grease, swear.
Raph grimaced as he dropped the boxes on the kitchen table. "Tha's nasty. You gotta walk around with toothpaste and shit oozin out your mouth?" He ignored Sam's indignant snort and said, "So. Why'd you call me?" Raph grabbed a chair and the greasiest box and snagged a couple of slices of bacon. "What's up? Hey, you're gonna reimburse me for the food, right?"
"'Course. Wait." Sam trotted back to the bathroom, spit and rinsed, and walked back out to the kitchen. "Here's the thing. I'm going to take a few days off…maybe more but three days this week for sure. I…gotta line on where my brother might be." He flushed deep and turned his head. "I uh…he's been missing. I have to check it out…"
Raph stopped chewing and shoved one of the huge take out cups of coffee over to Sam. "Oh, sorry dude--he's got problems? Lots of folks I know got some family member onna street. You going to try and get him help? You know, both me and Ga—Danny--worked with those folks at one time or another. Hard work." He shook his head. "Tough going. But if he's anything like you at all, he'll make it--if he's got you to back him up."
"Yeah…I hope so." Sam stared at the cup. "One thing about…my brother, he's tough."
Raph patted his arm. "You'll make it happen man. You got success written all over you."
Three days later he was standing outside alone on the sidewalk in a part of town that would probably even make Luke Cage nervous, looking up at the grimy art deco facade of a building that called itself Crossroads Hotel in sputtering red neon letters. He glanced down at the pale green card Ruby had given him, drew it through his fingers. Okay, this was the place…was he supposed to summon someone, or something, or just wait until someone took pity on him? At this point he had no idea what to do. He glanced up and down the street, jiggling a little. The weight at the back of his waistband gave him a little sense of relief. He hadn't carried Dean's Colt in over two years and now, its weight comforted him, like he'd never stopped carrying it.
"It is a crossroads, you know—symbolic now, but had been truly a few hundred years ago."
"Son of a bitch!" Sam whirled around and found himself eye to eye with a light skinned Black man, thin as a reed--beautiful green eyes and a lovely smile. The guy had come up on him silent as a ghost. He could feel a tickling wash of energy flow over his skin and forced his hand away from the small of his back--this must be his 'date'. "Who are you?"
He held his hands up and smiled. "A friend. You been offered something, right? So tell me, you're going to take the gift?"
"Yee-ss…depending on what I have to do. These last couple of years have taught me there's no such thing as a free lunch, so I'm asking you, what's my price?"
"Come on inside, and I'll tell you. If you don’t want it, you can leave again, no strings."
Right. There were always strings.
Inside the hotel room, it was dim and hot. Drapes that were fashionable in his mother's mother's time hung over the windows blocking out light and any possibility of air. There was a bed shoved against one wall, and a little table—a night stand, set up like an altar. Sam only caught a glimpse but he was certain of its function, and certain the person he was talking to, attractive as he was, was *not* human, or strictly speaking a demon… a crossroads spirit but…not. A trickster but not like one they'd dealt with before. This wasn't a Norse or Native American trickster…maybe African? There were little scattered heaps of white in each corner of the room, looked like ash or salt….
So this was someone who would help him--maybe. Hard to tell. Tricksters were capricious, especially when they figured you needed a lesson. Fuck that. He'd had his lesson—it's why he was where he was now, damn it and not out killing his way across the country.
The man sat on the bed, leaned back on his elbows and checked Sam out so thoroughly, he felt more exposed than if he'd been naked. He flushed and stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from covering his dick. "Esu…that's what you can call me," the being said. He smiled, green eyes sparkling. "This is the whole of it—you get what you get. There's no sure thing here--that you need to understand. If you keep what you want in your heart, and you hold on to that desire, no matter what…it's possible to have it."
Sam frowned. That was entirely too…Disney-ish a way of looking at things. It didn't ring completely true, Sam thought. Probably mostly bullshit, except for the no sure thing bit. That he had no trouble believing…he stared at the being, trying to read it's—his--blandly smiling face. "How—what do you get out of this?"
"Maybe I like to bank good will. Maybe, some day I call on you to do a favor for me. Or maybe I don't." he shrugged. "Maybe one day a friend will come to you. Or never."
Sam jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, balled them into fists. fucking demi-gods… "So what does all that babbling mean? What kind of favor? Because I won't…won't hurt anyone. I *mean* it."
"Now why would I want you to hurt anyone, pretty little Sammy?"
Sam looked him up and down and thought maybe there needed to be further clarification. "I won’t let *myself* be hurt, either."
Esu laughed lightly and it sounded…the way champagne felt in your mouth. "Smart boy, you are. Look here—" he slid off the bed and walked to the little altar. Near it on the floor was a kid's plastic sand bucket, half full of water. Esu handed it to Sam and said, "Wash the doorway, and the window ledge. Protection."
Sam took the little bucket and surreptitiously sniffed. He could smell basil, and ginger, and there were bits of other plants, some he recognized, some not, but nothing that looked especially wrong. He was handed a bandana, and he dipped it in the bucket, quickly but thoroughly wiped all edges of the doorway and the single window in the room. He was a hunter, he knew damn well not to take protection lightly. Esu waited for him at the altar and talked him through what to do—put his gun in the center of the table, which he did with reluctance, pour oil into a brass plate set atop a brazier, and rub different herbs into it…he carved the name of what it was he wanted into a fat red candle, lit it as he listened to the voice in his ear gently telling him what to do, so smooth, so soothing. Warm thin fingers rubbed his temples in rhythm with the rise and fall of the softly spoken words. Sam tried not to lean into the comfortable warmth at his back, repeated what he was told to say. Together they repeated the words of power. The smell of burning wax and herbs, the thick greasy scent of the oil filled his nose, and his mouth and even seemed to fill his eyes but it wasn't exactly unpleasant…he gave into the movement he was being coaxed into, gentle, steady rocking back and forth…strangely he got a strong feeling of Bobby…as if he was there with him. Sam smiled and relaxed, his mind drifted loose even as his mouth moved and his body swayed….
He was back in Bobby's backyard, half asleep in the deep funky heat of the backseat of some junker, listening to Dean tell him a story, some lie about a girl and some pie and…he inhaled deeply, breathed in the taste, the smell of grease and hot metal, sweat and young bodies and hot vinyl seats, felt them slide under his sweaty thighs. A warm callused palm ghosted over his ribs, and he felt hot breath on his throat…he blinked.
He was alone in a junkyard. Bobby's, but not really Bobby's place, it was the place drawn by a kid, and forced into life. He slid out of the car, heat pounding him like a bitch. He looked around at the slightly blurry landscape. Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked against the sting, the edges of his vision shivered into reality. Home. Or as close as to a home they'd ever had.
Sam slowly wheeled about, disoriented, confused. Okay…he'd been in the hotel room and…and things happened. He squinted against the odd light. If he concentrated really hard, he remembered everything but it was tiring and…unh, wait….
*Hell* was Bobby's yard? He grimaced. Yeah. Yeah, it sure as hell *had* been from time to time…he'd been so confused back then, only half aware of what he was yearning for. Remembered not being able to drag his eyes away from Dean, working on some car, shirtless and sweating…just…he remembered being miserable and half hard all summer long…Shit. He shook his head, trying to focus. Why was this shit coming out now, when he'd managed to crush it almost to death….
Hell. Sam looked behind him up the road to where he figured the house was, but instinct told him to go forward so he took off down the road. All around him it was dusty, hot, and silent as the grave. It was so quiet he could hear the soles of his boots slap against the blacktop. So quiet, so still, that he startled violently when crows flew out of tree branches hanging over the road—black and silent as a shadow play. At the same time, the air changed, seemed to drag at him, all color leeched out of the landscape. The sun was a nasty mustard yellow and the sky a pale grey-green….
He walked and walked; the road changed from blacktop to gravel and then to reddish dust…a dusty road spinning out in front of him forever. It felt like hours passed and every bit of moisture in his mouth, his eyes, his nose, was being slowly sucked out of him and replaced with the thick red dust he was dragging his ass through. The smear of yellow in the sky he assumed was the sun never moved—he had no way to tell how long he walked. He trudged on the road because he was afraid to stop and it was fucking obvious he wasn't going to see the interstate and he really hoped he wasn't going to die on this road. A sharp stab of fear pierced him—or what if. What if he never stopped walking? He swore his eardrums were fluttering, so fucking quiet that he could hear them do so. He heard his own pulse; maybe he was even hearing his heartbeat. It was *too* fucking quiet. He opened his mouth to sing or shout or something, and stopped. He gulped, his dry tongue tried to slide across chapped lips. He was afraid to try. What if he did and no sound came out, or if it did and it was too much?
How could lack of sound make him shred away like this?
Stop it—keep walking, concentrate on Dean--you hold on to that desire, no matter what……
He was so fucked up he really wanted to cry, and feeling like the worst kind of pussy for it, when he heard a slap-slap sound he recognized immediately—hell, his whole body almost seized up, it knew what that sound meant and every cell screamed for it—water.
He was running, big feet throwing up clouds of red dust, and slowly silence gave way. He began to hear his breath whistle in his chest--the thump of his feet against the thick dust, and then the faint grunts running forced out of him, the clack of dead tree branches in the dry, dry wind and far off in the distance, the barking of dogs. The sound at first was calming, normal—dogs. God, they sounded good--a familiar homey kind of sound that slowly changed, became more like howling, and slowly twisted into otherworldly shrieking.
The sound was coming closer, coming up on his back and he tried pretty damn hard to rip out a reserve his body didn't have to give. He heard a deep liquid snuffle next to him, a low sort of groan. He glanced to his side as he ran and saw he was being paced by long thin white dogs. He thought first ghostly greyhounds and giggled with what breath he had, until one turned its head toward him. A long thin bone shell held twin deep pits of what should have been blackness but was red like blood. Black nostrils flared wide at the end of a tube split by a red gash, filled with sharp neat teeth--a mouth full of bone scalpels and teeth like those had ripped Dean's heart out of his chest and eaten it while it still beat. A strip of raw red meat slipped from between open jaws and swiped the length of it. It pulled its tongue back in with a slurp.
Sam thought that maybe it even laughed at him a little, knew who he was….
Hellhounds were even uglier than he thought they'd be—these things were the last thing on Earth Dean had ever seen.
He stopped running.
.part7
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
11/17/08 07:37 pm (UTC)My brain is lame. I need the first part or the first parts or *whatever* of this to know where the hell i am.
Tag? Link? Help a girl out.
*smooches you*
(no subject)
11/17/08 07:46 pm (UTC)Not your brain's fault--there's been a huge gap between parts, huge!
you should be able to click through, i've got the links at the bottom of the updates
*hugs*
(no subject)
11/17/08 07:54 pm (UTC)*smoooooooch*
(no subject)
11/17/08 08:07 pm (UTC)The landscape is too creepy, too. Bleached out, silent, dry and dessicated....
*shudders*
(no subject)
11/18/08 12:41 am (UTC)*G*
(no subject)
11/17/08 10:33 pm (UTC)*deep breath* Okay, I really dig your Esu character. :) He's got good taste anyway, and he's (*fingers crossed*) helping our boy get Dean-O outta the Pit. *thumbs up*
And Hell? That was so unsettling, man. It wasn't just the setting (though that was plenty freaky, in itself!), but also the way you wrote it. I had no clue what was going on really (in a good way, though), much like Sam, I wager.
Anyway, great post!!! I so love this story! You rock!! :)
(no subject)
11/18/08 12:45 am (UTC)Aaaaaaaah, I have all the self confidence and backbone of an oyster when it comes to story telling!
*rends garments*
But I'm thrilled *thrilled* that hell is unsettling!
(no subject)
11/18/08 05:17 am (UTC)When I read that poem, I hear it in the voice of the fairies from Torchwood. Creepy!
(no subject)
11/19/08 12:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/3/09 09:14 am (UTC)Beautiful, vivid descriptions in this. I particularly liked the depiction of Esu and the way that his laugh sounded like Champagne tastes...
Looking forward to more!
(no subject)
5/3/09 04:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/3/09 04:34 pm (UTC)Please don't leave us here for long. I want to find out what happens next!
(no subject)
5/3/09 04:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
5/11/09 04:27 am (UTC)Your hellhounds: awesome, in that oh-my-god-I'm-so-glad-those-aren't-real kinda way.
That last line? How almost every thought Sam has goes back to Dean? Perfect.
*sigh*
I LOVE this story.
(no subject)
5/11/09 04:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
5/20/09 05:07 am (UTC)Esu laughed lightly and it sounded…the way champagne felt in your mouth.