the path of the righteous man...

The Path of the Righteous Man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper, and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brother. And you will know my name is Winchester when I lay my vengeance upon thee. feather ass | tink | kiddo | chief

[feetinsteadofwheels]

Locked in the Garage

He woke to dark, unfamiliar surroundings. His eyes strained to see and he tried to turn on his headlights. Why wasn’t it working? He sat up, wait, since when does he sit? He has hands, legs, his hands patted along his torso in amazement. He was human! His wish came true!

He leaned forward to stand and his head hit something metal with a thud. Ouch. He gingerly felt for the object and used it to prop himself up. The metal was smooth and cool to the touch. He felt along the sleek lines and came to a handle. Was this a door? 

He pressed a button and the click of a latch releasing echoed loudly in the silence. It was a door to a car. He opened it fully and dropped into the driver’s seat. Something about this felt oddly familiar. He closed the car door and placed his hands on the steering wheel.

It was then that the lights in the room flashed to life, temporarily blinding him.

[amanwithareason-blog]

The medical offices out in Two Harbors had been, from an outsider's perspective, all but picked clean of anything useful. But having been in Tofte for two years, Dean Winchester was anything but an outsider.

It was a short distance, and really, he could've taken it on Brigid... Seabiscuit, as Sam liked to call her. But the roadway was clear enough between their outpost and the former town, so whenever he made trips down the lake shore, he preferred his favorite method of transportation, the 67 Impala that didn't get nearly as much road time these days as he would've liked. It was a short distance, light on gas, but satisfied his need for the open road far more than the horse could. Not to mention, it was a lot safer to haul around medical equipment with steel and glass protecting him than it was with nothing but a saddle bag and a gun on him. 

So he'd let himself into the depot, heading through the office of what used to be an automotive garage (the perfect place for storing her) before he heard the sound of a heavy, metallic door creaking open and then shut. For a nanosecond, every muscle in him froze with tension before he was pulling out the gun in his pocket, and slinking toward the door that led into the garage. If this was Ric making good on his threat to paint her pink, Dean swore he was going to shoot the asshole in the knee on principle...

One hand fumbled for the door knob in the dimly lit office before he found it, turning and easing it open quietly, almost silently. Sliding his palm up the wall, it trailed over the switch for the lights in the depot--one of the only places in town that had power running to it--and flipped it up, strafing down the two steps between the office and the garage floor and along the passenger side of his car before he was crouching slightly to aim his gun in through her open window, and glaring at the man in the driver's seat who was... definitely not Ric. And no one Dean had ever seen around the town before either. Who the hell was he? And better yet, how the fuck had he gotten into the depot when the only people who had access to it were him, Sam, and of course, Ric.

All questions that would have to wait for right now, as the first order of business was getting the stranger as far away from his baby as possible. "Get out. Now," he growled, pissed off expression etched into his face seemingly permanently, gun barrel of his 1911 still trained on the offender.

[couslands]

supernatural meme - five relationships — I love you. — I know.

[belatalbot-lightningstriker-dea]

A House Ain't A Home // Open

[belatalbot-lightningstriker-dea]

Rolling her eyes when Dean called her ‘Sweetheart’, Bela merely nodded at his words. Her tongue had a habit of getting her into trouble, so she’d decide to keep it inside her mouth for a while, at least until she was certain Dean would help her out tonight. It was already an accepted fact that she’d have to get used to the Winchesters being sceptical of her, at least for now. If she truly was staying here then she had plenty of time to prove her worth, and to atone for her deviousness before. The guilt that had pooled within her wouldn’t let her make the same mistakes again, so all she could do was her best.

When Dean told her to wait, she nodded reluctantly, somewhat scared that we would just lock her out and leave her there all night anyway, despite her plea. But, staying true to her word and the vow she’d made to herself, she waited patiently for him to finish what he was doing inside the building. It hardly came as a surprise when he locked the door anyway; there was no way he’d trust her near the weapons. Probably ever. Once he was back outside and had started talking, the chill air had turned Bela’s knuckles blue and caused her to cross her arms over her chest. She hated the cold.

Despite her growing pain from the cold, and her aching feet, she listened to him carefully. Cabin, food, wood, got it. she thought, still keeping her mouth shut. That was plenty for her- more than she needed. At least it was safe here, and she might even get a few moments peace to read her books. It sure would be nice to meet some other people too, who perhaps didn’t know her before she died, and so wouldn’t have a pre-conceived image of the kind of person she was. Nodding to show she understood, Bela suddenly took a sharp intake of breath when Dean mentioned sleeping with the cook. 

The insult made her furious inside, only fuelled by the addition of his malicious little smile, but she retained a blank face- intent on not further angering him. Bela was many things, but she was NOT a whore. Her snappy comebacks hadn’t washed over too well with Sam (and at least he had tried to be friendly toward her on a few occasions) so it was probably best to to retaliate in any way. Taking a deep breath, she allowed him to continue, although, all she could imagine was slapping him across the face. Arrogant, misogynistic dick- how could he think I would do that? I could understand if he said ‘don’t steal the food’- but really? Sex?

Bela listened patiently to Dean as he churned off his rules and regulations- all of which she’d heard already from Sam, and had internalised as gospel. No thieving, no fighting, no killing. It was all understood and crystal clear, so she nodded again, adamant about not talking back. She feared that if she spoke, something horribly rude would roll off her tongue and she’d be banished from the town for good.

As Dean began walking in the direction that Bela only assume would take them to the Post Office, she followed him two steps behind after heaving her bag over her shoulder. The only thing she wanted more than a decent meal was a decent night’s sleep, and she could get that as soon as she had a cabin. I’m sure he’ll apologise for that shitty remark sooner or later. It’s so dark and late at night to bother with it now.

“I might add, Dean, that the place I lived before I got here… Well I had a lot of firewood saved up, since it was quite boring there, I spent a lot of time cutting and drying wood. There’s a whole six by eight room stacked floor to ceiling. You know, if you wanted the extra wood, sweetheart.” she said quietly, keeping close behind as they walked. That was just about the only thing she could manage to say without her anger taking over and retorting something awful at him. The ‘sweetheart’ was added on the end purely to keep them as equals. She couldn’t have him thinking he wasn’t just as sweet as she was.

Despite the feelings she had before she died, Bela genuinely wanted something different now. Being a good person would take a lot of hard work, but at least now she had the safe space to do that in, and perhaps the others who lived here would be more understanding to her than Sam and Dean. One could only hope.

[amanwithareason-blog]

No bitchy comebacks, no smart banter from her... on those grounds alone, Dean was starting to rethink his belief in the fact that she wasn't a shapeshifter. Still, the peace and quiet from her was probably better than the alternative, so he didn't bother trying to make any more conversation than she did was they walked toward the other end of town. Maybe he had offended her into silence or something, and made sure to note it as a future tactic, just in case he ever had to deal with her again. Which was likely, since Sam had obviously decided to shop her off onto him instead. Then again, Bela had shot him in the past so, it wasn't like Dean could blame the guy. On the other hand, there was still Ric, who was none the wiser to who Bela was. So maybe both brothers could conveniently give her the slip whenever she came around, and leave her to the head head honcho while they snickered from a distance. Yeah. That sounded like a good plan.

When she mentioned the wood store she had though, he was interested enough in that to give her some momentary consideration, though it was still coupled with a snort and a jab of his own for the sweetheart comment.

"Huh. Bela Talbot, chopping her own wood. Now there's something you'd only see in an apocalypse. Figured you'd just started swiping it from other people after you broke your first nail or something." Sure, it was pretty clear from one look at the woman that she'd definitely been taking part in the 'roughing it' lifestyle that everyone else was leading these days, but that wasn't gonna earn her any sympathy from Dean. After all, he and Sam had spent most of their lives off the grid, scraping by on whatever they had, and living off of credit card fraud and whatever money they could hustle other people out of, all while doing a job no one in their right mind would ever want to do. So some formerly rich brat having to actually work just to keep herself alive? Seemed pretty damn just in his book, and he was going to take some pleasure in rubbing it in while he could... even if it did seem like she was trying to be helpful for once.

"Did you tell Sam about it?" he asked, remembering that wood was what his brother had gone out of town for earlier that day... which was probably where he ran into Bela, come to think of it. "If not, we got a map in the post office. You can show me where the place is at, and we'll get some people out there to haul it back into town." Which would probably mean him, Sam, and Ric, or some combination of them. Partly because they tried to keep their townspeople as safe from what laid beyond their borders as humanly possible, and partly because trust only went so far. Not that anyone else could exactly hide the fact that they suddenly had a metric ton of wood to burn while the rest of town froze to death, but people could skim more off the top than what they actually needed, and taking care of that kind of business themselves cut down on that problem.  

He lapsed back into silence after that, thinking about possibly explanations for her resurrection from death. Dean knew first hand that it was possible to get out of Hell, but he highly doubted God was interested enough in Bela to send an angel in to haul her out of the pit. And demons weren't exactly known for letting people walk out of Hell due to the goodness of their hearts... especially since Bela wasn't a demon herself. And Death usually didn't go intervening with the natural order on behalf of people... in fact, Dean remembered the horseman being distinctly pissed off over his own ability to duck out on his reapers the first and last time they'd met face to face. Which didn't leave him with a whole lot of options. The number of demons was constantly on the rise, so he guessed it was possible that some devil's gate had flown open when Lucifer won, and she'd managed to claw her way out of the pit on her own, but even that was pretty far fetched. Then again, nothing about her reappearance made much sense to him at all. Coming back from the dead, managing to get through their barrier when the Bela Talbot he knew was as far from selfless and caring as humanly possible, although that was probably because of her supposed 'change of heart'--a load of crap Dean wasn't even going to give the time of day until he saw it for himself. And even then, it'd probably still be 50/50. 

Finally breaking the silence, he tried to prompt the woman into giving him some details. "So you don't remember anything, huh? No white light, no clawing yourself out of your grave? What'd you do, just wake up in the middle of no where or something?" And of all the people to bring back, why Bela? If he hadn't already accepted a long time ago that God didn't give a shit about any of them, he'd possibly try asking the big man upstairs why he couldn't bring back someone of use. Or at least someone Dean didn't want to shoot on principle alone. But it was just as pointless to try appealing to him now as it had been when they'd gotten zapped to Heaven and talked to Joshua. Actually, maybe even more pointless now, so he didn't bother. Instead, he waited for Bela to fill in a few of the blanks and silently hoped that maybe her springing up from the dead was a lone case, because the last thing they needed was another goddamn mystery with no answers on their hands.

[amanwithareason-blog]

Knockin On Heaven's Door - Dean&Cas

[godforsakenangel-blog]

Years had passed since last that gruff voice spoke to address him, but Castiel had never forgotten it.  Sometimes, as he stumbled across the quiescent wastes, he could hear it if he listened – a hoarse whisper on the wind, speaking of things long gone and dead, reminding him of what was lost.  As much as he had longed to hear it speak clear and true again, he had never imagined the day would actually come, not with disfavour now ruling.

Now, he sat listening attentively as that deep voice wove a tale he was surprised, but glad, to hear.  His eyes never left Dean, watching the man’s face as he spoke.  Once the account drew to a close, the corners of Castiel’s mouth twitched up into a muted smile.  He could still hardly believe that this was happening – that Dean and Sam were here, united once more, keeping safe.  It was hard to believe, but hearing about how it happened somehow made the image more stable and feel less dreamlike.  He was curious to know more about this Ric character, since he was apparently the one to lead Dean to Tofte.  It was a kind gesture, certainly, and Castiel would make it a point to meet him for himself later to further investigate the nobility and integrity of his character.  For now, it was enough to know that Ric was a trusted ally.  Such things were indispensable by nature in this world.

Then Dean’s voice curved up, and it was Castiel’s turn to recite events.

“I’m fine,” he responded slowly, in a voice made low and throaty by the fatigue that still clung to him.  That question was easy enough to answer, but now he had to consider the more vexing one.

There was not much to tell of his recent history; not truly.  Much of his recollection of that time was a blur of the same.  He had stumbled across the ravaged wastes, scavenging, killing, just doing what it took to survive.  The days had slipped past, giving way to weeks and months and years without end, and he had long ago lost track of time.  Through it all, few things had remained constant.  The sun dawned every morning on more carnage, predators prowled the land, people died from numerous complications.  Life had been grim, full of deathly vows and bleak promises.

What stood out still weighed heavy on his heart, made his stomach churn even just to think about.  His tale was not a happy one, full of death and abandonment, but whose was any better?  The land thrived off of the dejection and discontent it sowed; everyone was haunted by nightmarish shadows and laden with oppressive burdens.  Castiel had often felt as if he might crumple beneath the exhausting weight of his own.  He had been ready to give into it just earlier that day, but then things had taken a dramatic turn: there was a mysterious town looming ahead.  Immediately captivated by buildings that stood tall and proud, he had set to approach the town’s gate, and limped past the barrier that made his skin tingle.  He had almost turned his back, so unsettling was this sensation, but the thought of abandoning such a promising place was even more troubling.  Now, here he was – tired, scarred, but finally free from that hell with a renewed sense of hope he had thought to have died with his Father.

Finally, he drew a quick breath and began.  “I’ve been out there all this time.  Since the apocalypse.  I didn’t know what to do at first, so I wandered.  The land looked so… broken and different.  All the beauty and wonder was gone.”  Not just gone, but dead.  Sometimes it had seemed to him as if the land were weeping, mourning its lost vitality.  “Heaven was affected, too.  My brothers fell unceremoniously to the ground, rejected from their home.  I talked to some of them.  They seemed… frightened.  I couldn’t blame them.  Everything was falling apart.”  Falling apart so quickly and completely that it had made his head spin.

“I decided to resume my search for… for my Father.”  His throat tightened as he said it, but he could not balk at it.  Agonising and arduous though the topic was, his search for God constituted his tale traversing the wastes.  From the very beginning, it had been about God.  Nothing had been more important, and there were no mountains he would not have climbed just to hear His voice again.  Eschewing that part of the story would be to skip right to the end, after his life-shattering revelation, and that would not serve Dean’s purpose, nor would it do Castiel any good.

He took another breath and continued.  “I thought He would have answers.  I tried praying to Him, asking for the reason all this had to happen.”  His eyes fell away from Dean’s, holding a shadow of the hurt he felt, and his shoulders sagged.  Every day, he had beseeched Him.  Every day, he had held out hope for an answer – any answer.  Every day, it was just more of the same.  He would continue to pray, sometimes raising his voice to a shout in case it was the wind drowning out his cries, but unfailingly…

“But my Father was deaf to my pleas.  It wasn’t just me.  None of my brothers could reach Him.  I didn’t give up, though.  I still held onto faith.  It was… all I had.  I thought He had to be out there somewhere.  If I could only find Him…”  He would not have been so lost or lonely or confused.  He had just wanted answers, but they were with God, and God was nowhere to be found.

His gaze found Dean’s once more, and he released a deep, weary sigh.  “I wandered for a long time in pursuit.  I was… determined not to give up.”  With his Father had lain the scant amount of hope he still had.  He had clung to it, desperate not to see it go.  Alas, he could only hold on for so long before his grip weakened and it began to slip away.  “Time must be the death of all things, bad and good.  I began to see the futility in my dream.”  Day by day, it had dwindled further.  “I started having doubts.  But there was still a part of me… a part that kept faith.  It was stubborn, unyielding, and persevered for a time.  So I continued scouring the wastes in search.  It’s… dangerous out there.  Monsters prowl unhindered, hungry and desperate.  I was lucky if I went a few hours without one.  Blood spilled every day – mine own, but mostly that of others – and food was scarce.  It was harsh and unforgiving, but I remained steadfast.  It was my duty and only hope.  I thought it would pay off in the end.”  Perhaps he had been foolish to think so, but desperation so often made fools of even the most astute.

He could not say how far he had travelled, nor for how long.  He knew it must have been some years – at least, it felt like many – but he could not fathom the number.  “I was wrong.  It proved futile.”  He had been on foot, carrying nothing but a small bag of provisions and his weapon, and had probably unintentionally retraced his path a few times.  Still, he found the same things everywhere he went: death, decay, hunger, foes, ruins.  No God, no answers, and absolutely no respite.  The last of his hope had finally abandoned him then, leaving him to feel like an empty husk.  What remained after everything a person held onto was stripped away?

His voice was flat as he continued.  “God is dead.  For as many times as I’d seen the words scrawled on a wall, or heard them from the disconsolate, I’d never paid them much mind.  It’s normal for people to give up on God when things go awry, even if He hasn’t forsaken them.  I thought I knew better, but it… it inevitably became my conclusion, too.”  When had that been?  Weeks ago, or maybe months?  It didn’t matter.  It was all the same, and the fact remained just as true and daunting as it had been that day.  “Suddenly, it was like… like the ground had been torn away from under my feet.  I was hopeless and unsure of where to go after that.  So I picked an old highway and followed it.”

He had tried not to think about it, but invariably his mind turned the same route: Where am I going now?  Without a cause or hope to keep him afloat, he was soon sinking, drowning in a sea of despair.  Even still, his feet had kept him moving forward, plodding along the same dust-covered road.  It had branched off in places, and each of those roads led somewhere different and branched off further.  He ended up following some of those, though he did not heed which ones or where he was going.  And then somehow…

“Somehow… I ended up here.  The place was hard to miss.  The buildings…  I noticed the buildings.”  He made a loose gesture towards the cabin.  They stood out in stark contrast to the otherwise empty and desolate world.  “I was relieved to see it.  The land out there is… relentless, and I wanted a reprieve.  I never expected to see you or your brother here, as well.  I’d thought you dead.  And yet… here you are.”

Castiel’s throat felt raw and dry after he finished speaking, but he supposed it was what Dean needed to know.  “Was that sufficient?”

[amanwithareason-blog]

As the angel spoke, Dean listened carefully, managing to sit through the entire recounting of events without interrupting once, even as some of his questions were answered but replaced by others, only to be forgotten altogether as the unmistakable tone of dejection began to lace itself through Cas's every word. For him, that was the most painful part. God's silence, or death, or whatever the case was meant nothing to him personally, having never been a man of faith himself. Not that kind of faith, anyway. But the way Cas's voice had tightened up and then flattened... the shadow of pain and sadness that shifted across worn features and tired blue eyes... the sheer emptiness and desolation that he could practically feel rolling off the fallen angel waves... that tugged at Dean.

Because in a place of his own that very rarely saw the light of day was that same kind of dark, hollow void. The one he'd tried for years to fill in and forget about, burying it as deeply as he could while trying to make himself believe that it wasn't his fault. The same one that, instead, had flat out refused to scar over, always aching just below his brash and boisterous exterior. Because losing John wasn't enough on it's own... No, Dean had to lose him with questions still on his tongue. How had he survived? What did John mean about Sam? How could his own dad leave him with that kind of weight on his shoulders? How could he ask that of him? Hadn't Dean given enough? Given everything? Why did he have to lose everything? How the Hell was he supposed to kill the one person he'd spent his whole life protecting?

And then he'd been forced to watch as the answers to those questions went up in smoke and ash right along with his father's corpse, leaving him behind with nothing but a sense of abandonment, a mountain of guilt, and an impossible burden. His dad's dying order, and he couldn't follow it, leaving him unsure over whether he was supposed to feel guilty for not doing as he was told, or pissed off that John had left him too, and with the responsibility of killing his own brother on top of that. With that war raging inside of him, it was safe to say that his father dying had been the first stop on Dean's own very long and bleak downward spiral that he was just now, almost fifteen years later, starting to pull himself back out of.

So maybe the hunter didn't understand a thing about losing faith in God, but he definitely understood the pain and crushing weight of loss and unanswered questions that came with that kind of desertion, and seeing Cas--the angel who had broken ranks and shed his grace for them, and the only person outside of Sam left on the planet that he would actually die for--racked with that kind of hurt wrenched much of Dean's own up from out of its darkness, making him sympathize wholly with the man before him. But as usual when he knew exactly what someone was going through, the hunter had no clue what to say. He thought about how Sam had tried to get him to admit how much he was hurting, and how people back then had kept trying to tell him how sorry they were, but he hadn't wanted advice or pity. Mostly, he just wanted everyone to piss off and let him deal with it on his own, in his own way... although, come to think of it, maybe doing it his own way hadn't worked out for the best either.

"Yeah," he answered slowly once Cas had finished speaking, letting the silence creep in between them again as he took in the appearance of the angel again for what felt like the millionth time in less than ten minutes before he finally shook his head, and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his half emptied flask of whiskey, motioning it toward his friend. "Here. You could probably use a drink." Which was quite possibly the understatement of the century now that he knew the exhaustion embedded into every part of the former angel wasn't just physical. And sure, the alcohol wouldn't actually fix anything, but enough of it could at least numb the problem, which was better than nothing.

Sitting up a bit straighter, Dean leaned back and scrubbed a hand over his face, both to brush away his own tiredness and to give himself a moment to think. Cas was now both graceless and faithless, and on that basis alone, the hunter was eerily reminded of the 2014 version of the angel. Still, for all intents and purposes, the guy was still Cas--not some amphetamine popping, absinthe drinking, orgy having, whacked out version of himself. That was something at least, but not nearly as comforting as he'd hoped it would be, because for all Dean knew, this could be that brink. That final straw where the guy either stepped back from the ledge or fell over it in a blaze of junkie glory, and despite knowing all too well what his friend was going through, the older Winchester had no idea if anything he could say would make a difference one way or another at this point. Didn't mean he wasn't going to try though.

Dropping his hand from his face, he fixed the other man with another long look before he finally found his voice again. "You don't need him anyway, Cas," he said, the words slipping out quietly into the space between them. Uncharacteristically quiet even, the advice feeling completely foreign to him as it rolled off his tongue. He was probably the last person who should've been going around and telling people that they were right for leaving their screwed up family behind, considering that was the one thing Dean had never found the strength to do himself, but he quickly steeled up, the conviction weaving into his tone as he pushed on. "You don't need any of 'em. God, the rest of the dick bag angels..." And briefly, a look of irritation flashed across his features at the mention of the rest of Cas's 'family'. Out of an entire host of them, the fallen one sitting across from him was probably the only one worth giving a damn about as far as Dean was concerned. Him and maybe Gabriel, but then again, Gabriel had decided to kill him a hundred Tuesdays in a row too. So maybe not.

"Look, I know they're your family and all, but..." But what? That was a good question, and all he could do was hope that his next admission ended up being more of a comfort to the angel than it sounded like in his head. "But you're family in our book, too. I mean, I know me and Sam aren't exactly part of the feathers and halos club, but you've still got us. So screw the rest of them." Lifting his shoulders in an indifferent shrug, Dean even managed to force a smirk onto his face, bitter as it was. "Besides, who needs another deadbeat dad in the world anyway, right?"

[alaricsaltzmanalterego]

Rocky, Bullwinkle and the other one | Ric, Sam, Dean

[alaricsaltzmanalterego]

Alaric didn’t waste any more time in the cold, as soon as they both stepped out of the way, he went inside. He didn’t care that it was just as chilly in there as on the outside, at least the wind was gone. He watched Sam busy himself with getting a fire going and walked toward the couch, sinking down on it with a soft sigh. The walk through the snow had woken him up a little, but now that he was finally able to sit down, it was like his body suddenly remembered it was too early to be up and awake and started sending him reminders that he was tired. Just barely stifling a yawn, he looked from one brother to the other, watching their exchange quietly. Something seemed to be going on between the two of them, something private that made Dean look like had just tasted his own coffee.

“I’m okay… now that I’m out of the cold”, he added with a short glare at both. “I was buried beneath the snow when the beam hit, absorbed most of the impact. Barely stronger than a punch from Dean, so I should be fine, no damage done.” He leaned back against the rest, absentmindedly massaging his neck.

“We need to check out the other houses tomorrow, make sure people get the snow off their roofs. Pray that nothing happens tonight, get out early in the morning to make sure it stays that way—I’m gonna need you to go through town, check things out—“ He broke off into a yawn, falling silent for a moment. It had to be the fact that he was almost frozen and so tired he couldn’t really think straight anymore, but, damn, the couch was comfortable…

“No ass kicking tonight,” he agreed, then pulled his backpack closer to open it and look for the shirts he’d packed. He knew how long it took to get the cabins warm and comfortable and he had known from the beginning he would be sleeping on the couch, so he had packed accordingly, bringing his warmest clothes with him.

“Don’t worry, I won’t leave my stuff lying around, especially not when I’m not at home, unlike other people…” He gave Dean one of is glares at that, referring to the many times he would find Dean’s things on his desk in the post office. Competent hunter that he was, but for some reason his stuff always ended up all over the place. And no matter how often you bitched about it, it never changed.

“A blanket or two would be nice,” he said, feeling his body gradually relax as the first sparks of warmth from the fire crept across the room in his direction.

Dean’s teasing about sharing a bed with Sam was met with a tired eye-roll. “Not in the mood for snuggling up to Sasquatch, thanks. And don’t think about going through my stuff while I’m asleep, you won’t find it there. Left it at a safe place, you’ll never guess where.”

[sweetfarsam]

Sam gave a vague nod at Ric’s request to check out the rest of the cabins.  No doubt he’d be the one patching up the hole in his friend’s roof, and one job like that was enough - not to mention the thought of anyone being hurt because of something as trivial as a cave in wasn’t exactly something that sat right with him.  Survive the apocalypse, find a ‘haven’ where you’ll be safe - or as safe as was possible these days - die by snow and timber.  Not exactly the best way to go.  And avoidable.  “Yeah, I’ll get on it in the morning.”  He replied with another small yawn.  Sam had no desire to be traipsing up and down ladders in the dark, skittering around on snow covered roof tops clearing it away in the dead of night, half asleep to boot.  That was just asking for a blunder, a slip and possibly a broken neck.  Even though technically it was already morning and Dean and Ric butting heads and trading snark at stupid o’clock wasn’t really the way he wanted to spend the night…

“You so owe me a fresh pot of coffee when I get up.” 

The last part was mumbled as Sam risked a small glance at his brother, seeing that, for now, he didn’t seem intent on escalating anything - at least, he probably wouldn’t while Ric was around anyway.  It was one thing that they both trusted the other hunter.  Ric had more than proven himself as capable, knowledgeable and way more organized than either of the Winchesters, so for the most part - as far as the general running of Tofte went - they were happy to let him take point.  He was the one who’d clued Dean into the town in the first place after all.  That didn’t mean things always went smoothly - more so between the other two men in the room - Dean’s brash attitude fit well with Ric’s general laid back exterior, but they still managed to rile each other up plenty.  Sam pretty much stood back and let them get on with it for the most part. 

…Either way - dropping the bomb that they were pretty much personally responsible for the whole shit storm that had swallowed the world would probably go down like a bucket of stale vomit, and then some.  Trust only went so far.  Even now…

Still mumbling something about coffee and blankets and ridiculous hours of the morning, Sam took the opportunity to wander off into his room in search of blankets, hoping that nothing blew up between the other two in the couple of minutes it took him to grab one from his closet and strip another from his bed.  He’d had a couple on there ever since it got colder, but he could sleep in a hoody if he got too chilly.  The one from the bed still had traces of body heat in the rough fabric and he was tempted just to crawl back beneath the covers and stay there. 

He didn’t. 

The blankets were dropped onto the end of the small couch, Sam rolling his eyes and smirking slightly.  “Your loss, dude.  I’m an awesome snuggler.”

“So, are we done?  Blankets, no one’s dead, no one’s fighting, and it should warm up quick enough in here now.  Can I at least get an hour or two before it gets light again?” 

[amanwithareason-blog]

"Ha ha, Asshole," Dean spat sarcastically when Ric decided to be a smart ass about how much his punches did (or rather, did not) hurt. "Remind me to refresh that slipping memory of yours later." Really, it was a small wonder anything in town got done with the three of them at the helm of it. The older brother was willing to bet that most of their days were spent with all three of them trading jabs at one another over the two-way radios they carried, with occasional instructions about where they needed to be or some job detail laced in between. And for some reason, it was even worse when all three of them were in the same room with one another, although the hour probably wasn't helping his own surly attitude. But he'd agreed to keeping the peace for the rest of the night, however short, even though he knew there was no way he was getting back to sleep.

Rolling his eyes when Ric decided to join in on Sam's little party of nagging him about where he left his stuff, Dean finally gave them both an unruffled shrug. "Hey, not my fault you two are both anal." And it wasn't. Nor was it his fault that 'keeping his room clean' wasn't exactly on the list of chores John Winchester was known for doling out. Keeping his guns clean maybe, but otherwise, his dad had never been a shining example of house keeping. Probably because most of the places they stayed in had people who were paid to pick up after them once they left, but regardless, the older brother had always chalked his being a slob up to living what he'd learned, and put Sam's neatness into the same category of 'unexplained weirdness' that his preference for research and love of vegetables fell into. Made sense to him, anyway.

He tossed Ric another glare when the other hunter taunted him over the coffee before attempting to take the high road... even though he'd totally been planning on rifling through the other man's stuff, as insinuated. Hey, as far as he was concerned, sharing some of his stash was the least Ric could do for them after waking them up at fuck off o'clock in the morning, but fine.

"Whatever. I'll just go to Isaac's when it gets light out. He always gives me an extra cup anyway," he sniffed, flashing a smirk. "Perks to being the handsome one."

"And it's true," he said, nodding his agreement with his brother. "Sam's like a big girl when it comes to cuddling." No explanation for how he knew that much was offered, but he did throw a cheeky grin in his younger brother's direction. Sure, it wasn't Sam's fault they were both awake now, but that didn't mean he was going to let the opportunity to give the guy some crap slip by... especially when Sam had left that one wide open for him.

And while Dean would've been more than happy to sit around snarking at them all morning--or, at the very least, until it got light outside--Sam looked half dead on his feet, and Ric looked like he was about to pass out mid conversation, so he finally shrugged and waved his brother off. "You two can go back to bed if you want. I got some stuff I gotta get done, but I'll keep it down so you guys can get your beauty sleep or whatever." And he even managed to keep his quip about Ric needing all the help he could get in that department to himself for a change, though his amused expression probably did more than enough talking for him as he glanced down at the man on the couch. "Can't say the same for Sam, though, so good luck gettin to sleep with him snoring in the next room, Chief."

[amanwithareason-blog]

Isn't It Bromantic? - Dean&Charlie

[justanitgirl-deactivated2014072]

Charlie couldn’t say that she wasn’t grateful when Dean picked her up and carried her into one of the buildings. She honestly hadn’t had enough energy to make it another step let alone walk all the way to their destination. She was even more grateful for the warmth his jacket provided, immediately pulling it tighter around her as soon as he’d draped it over her shoulders, feeling rather bad that he was now jacketless but he said nothing about it, and, with how warm the redhead was, she didn’t either. She pulled her knees up to her chest, teeth still clattering quite audibly, but it was less from the onset of hypothermia and more from the excitement of finally finding Tofte, of seeing someone she knew and respected, of nearly being reminded of her life before everything had fallen to pieces and the universe had begun folding in on itself. And before she’d had a chance to thank Dean for bringing her in, he was gone again, leaving Charlie alone and in silence. She didn’t mind it so much – actually, she didn’t mind it at all; it was a peaceful silence, one she hadn’t experienced in what felt like years, one that wasn’t filled with a horrible sense of dread or Charlie holding her breath, waiting for some unknown monster to pass her by. No, this was a type of silence she enjoyed, one that was vaguely reminiscent of the silence that surrounded her when she’d been working late nights at the office, chugging coffee and clacking away at her keys. This used to be pure bliss for her.

 Now, the same silence only made her heart ache for what she’d lost.

 Charlie took the time to finally look over everything that had happened, to let herself ask the questions she’d been too scared or too stubborn to while she’d been traveling: What was Chicago like now? Where were her colleagues now? Where were her parents now? The last one sent a weird, shooting pain through her heart and so she fiddled with the edge of Dean’s jacket instead, willing herself to clear her mind and deal with those questions later. Again.

 She was incredibly thankful for the distraction when Dean returned, setting the two items down in front of her and Charlie could’ve honestly wept with joy at the sight of food and water she didn’t have to very literally defend with her life. As soon as he’d given the command, the woman leaned forward, reaching for the water bottle and taking large gulps of the precious liquid until only a third of the bottle remained. The redhead capped it again, set it down and started on the soup to quell the angry rumbling of her stomach. Then Dean was asking her how she’d gotten here – which, she assumed, was code for how the hell did the biggest geek, most unathletic nerd in all of Chicago survive traversing through a scorched, post-apocalyptic country by herself? – and for a split second, she couldn’t help but grin and feel incredibly proud of herself for making it all the way to her destination, for the most part unscathed.

 “Well,” she began through a mouthful of soup, holding up a finger telling Dean to wait until she’d finished chewing. “It’s… not a very interesting story.” Despite the protests of her stomach, she set the can down and pulled the jacket tighter around her again. “I was in Chicago when the big A hit. I didn’t really understand what was going on until a friend and I walked outside a few days later and saw that it was just… it was hell.” She sighed, closing her eyes to better recount the details of her story. “From then on, it was… it was sheer chaos. Everyone was running and screaming and killing a-and… I knew I couldn’t get home, so I just started running, too. Hiding wherever I could. I didn’t know where I was going or how I was going to get there. I just knew I had to keep running or submit to death. You know, in one of my favorite shows, one of the most important lines to me was: There is only one god and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death. Not today. That just played over and over in my head while I tried to get accustomed to… living in the wilderness.”

 “And then it got cold. And things got worse.”    

“Like, literally the only thing going for me was the fact I ran track in high school. Totally not my doing, either, my dad, like made me; Mister ‘Oh, sitting in the dark poring over your D&D manuals isn’t exercise, Charlene, you need to do some sort of sport, Charlene’…” she rolled her eyes for emphasis, the grumbling of her stomach too great to ignore for any longer, and so she grabbed the can, eating a few more spoonfuls of soup, savoring the taste of the food as she chewed and swallowed it, and, by force of habit, attempting to draw it out for as long as she could. With that in mind, she reluctantly set the can back on the table and hugged her knees, resting her chin on top of them. She got back to her story.

“I was far away from Chicago by this point. I didn’t know where I was, but everything was destroyed. Torched. And there were these… th-these things running rampant everywhere. I thought maybe they wouldn’t bother me, but… they went after everyone. Even me. And I didn’t know how to fight them, and I didn’t have any weapons so I just kept running. My saving grace was having memorized the ‘Zombie Survival Guide’. One of the points was to keep moving, keep low, keep quiet and keep alert. I mean this wasn’t a zombie apocalypse but I assumed a lot of the same principles still applied. I only got one or two hours of sleep when I could, usually up in trees. None of the monsters thought to climb a tree during nightfall. What dumb creatures, right?” The woman grinned at her friend, wiggling her eyebrows.

“But mostly, I had to keep moving. I had mittens but no coat, and resting for anything more than a few minutes at a time would’ve caused me to freeze to death. I met a few groups on the road, some of them nicer than others. Some of them let me spend the night with them — those were the good nights, where they were situated in places where they could build small fires and cook things they’d caught. Veganism kind of went out the window when scavenging for food became something I had to do everyday. But, yeah. Some of them tried to kill me — which… I still don’t know how I survived that. That’s still kind of a blur.” Charlie waved a hand absentmindedly, running a hand through her mostly matted red hair. “One group gave me a coat. It had belonged to one of theirs, who… uh. Got mauled by a vampire.” She wrinkled her nose. “But turns out, it was too heavy to run in and too bulky to carry around. So I gave it to someone else when I passed by. I never stayed in a group, for longer than a day, though, because in the Zombie Survival Guide, it plainly states that groups are more of a hindrance than a help. But in exchange for the coat, they told me about this… this mysterious town named Tofte in Minnesota. I didn’t know how to get in or what kind of place it was, but I knew I had to try.”

“And then I had a purpose. Didn’t make anything easier, but it sure as hell made it worth the journey. I started for Minnesota, doing the same things I’d been doing. Keeping low, keeping quiet, keeping alert and keeping warm. Most importantly, I kept moving. And…. finally, I found the town.” a wide, warm grin spread over her face at this, sighing contentedly to herself. “It’s so good to be here, even though I’ve been here for… like… 10 minutes, and I’ve rambled for nine of them.” Charlie chuckled softly. “It feels good not having to fight for every breath I take anymore.”

She finished her tale by pursing her lips lightly, reaching for the bottle of water and finishing it off, before reaching for the can of soup and deciding she could enjoy her meal instead of rationing it, just this once.

Charlie realized what she’d taken time to explain could’ve been summed up in a few easy words, but retelling her journey had helped her to realize that it was real, that this had been her life, that she wouldn’t wake up to her alarm clock playing sounds of a lightsaber in the tune of the Star Wars theme, she wouldn’t make her way to work on her bike and spend countless hours on her computer, socializing with coworkers and secretly sneaking in a few games of DotA when nobody was watching. A strange twinge pulled at the base of her esophagus, causing her eyes to well up with tears but she quickly blinked them back and concentrated on the texture of the cold soup. For something mostly unidentifiable, it was pretty damn good.

“Not one of the heroic, ‘bang, bang, shoot ‘em up’ stories I’m sure you could tell, but hey.” she shrugged, though the smile from earlier was slowly returning as she finished off her soup as well, setting the empty can down as well. For the first time in a long time, Charlie was actually full — or close enough to it, anyway, and rambling for the last ten minutes had tired her out completely. Not to mention the fact that she was so warm….

With a yawn, the woman leaned back into the chair, nestling into the jacket and looking over at Dean. “So what’s the story around these here parts? How’d you get here, anyway?”

[amanwithareason-blog]

Over the last two and a half years, Dean had gotten used to hearing people's stories from the road. He was hardly a therapist of any kind, but it seemed to be the most popular topic of discussion whenever he worked on a job around town with people other than Ric or Sam. Most of them were tragic. Tales of loss and struggle were common, and Dean usually found himself sympathizing a lot more with them than he let on. Other stories were the stuff of movies. Rogue bands of deer hunting buddies or older veterans who packed into their truck and hit the road with as much ammo for their rifles they could get their hands on, and machetes as backup. And then there were a few like Charlies; people who were smart enough to travel solo, keep to themselves, keep out of the way, and keep low to the ground. Though the hunter did have to admit... none of them carried quite the same hilarious undertones that Charlie's did. Charlene? D&D? The Zombie Survival Guide? They actually made one of those? For a moment, Dean couldn't help but wonder if it was anywhere close to accurate for actual zombies, but it had apparently done the red head a ton of favors when it came to strategizing her survival, so he figured it had to be good to some degree. In fact, now he kinda wanted to read it, but finding a copy in the apocalypse... 

Wait... Charlie. Right. Okay, back to business. 

"Hey, you're still breathing, right? That's what's important. And it's a hell of a lot more than most people could say," he offered as a consolation, although he wasn't sure exactly how comforting that was. Even less comforting than that was the fact that there were people out there passing along stories about their town. Their usual intake of newcomers was one to two a month... people who just happened to wander into their part of the woods. It was demand that they could usually keep up with, unless it was the dead of winter when they strolled into the village. Then it was more along the lines of 'making do the best that they could', but they somehow managed to make it work. But if people were out there spreading stories about their safe haven, who only knew how much attention that would attract. On the other hand, if word was getting passed along to friends like Charlie, or family members they had their scouts looking out for, then maybe it wasn't such a bad trade off. Hopefully more familiar faces would start trickling in, but for now, Dean focused his attention on the one right in front of him.

When she asked how he'd gotten there though, Dean cracked a smirk at her. "I saved a damsel in distress, and he brought me back to his castle as thanks. His name is Ric. I'm sure you'll meet him eventually..." That was the easy question though. The harder one was explaining what the deal was with town... mostly because there really was no explanation. At least not for the barrier, like who or what was behind it and how it discerned who got in and who didn't. It didn't seem too discriminating when it came to species, and he'd seen plenty of humans and creatures wiped off the planet on approach. But everyone it did let in tended to be helpful, if not a little leery about sharing their living quarters with the supernatural... Dean included. Though there had yet to be a problem between their residents that him, Sam, and Ric couldn't resolve, so for now, he had no complaints. No answers either, but as long as there wasn't a full scale rebellion on their hands, he'd take what he could get. 

"Uh...well..." he started, but before he could get anything out, that nagging part of his brain was willing him to make sure it was really Charlie before he told her anything specific. The hunter in him wouldn't let her have a pass, even if Dean was more than sure that this was really the same geeky red-head he'd met back in Chicago. So with a sigh, he ducked his head a bit and reached up to rub the back of his neck because this was about to get awkward. Sure, Charlie knew what he did... kind of, but he imagined 'Hi, good to see you again, let me slice into your arm with a silver knife now' would have her looking at him like he was nuts. Which, wasn't too far from the truth actually, but the rule about being absolutely certain about who or what people were had been drummed into his head for damn near his entire life, and it was probably the one rule he wasn't willing to break... not even for people he knew. Maybe especially not for people he knew. 

So finally, he dropped his hand again and glanced back up at Charlie, hoping that maybe if he explained before he started cutting her arm open, she'd be a little less likely to think he'd lost his goddamn mind... and maybe even learn something about how to deal with the supernatural in the process.

"Okay, before I tell you anything, I gotta make sure you're... well, you," he told her, for lack of a better way of putting it as he leaned forward a bit to pull out a flask of salted holy water from one of his jacket pockets. "I'm pretty sure you are, but you could be a demon, or a shapeshifter, or a skinwalker. Vampire, werewolf..." He was going through the list of possibilities, rattling them off like it was nothing out of the ordinary at all for him to be talking about this kind of thing before he finally stopped, shrugging his shoulders. 

"You get the idea. So... this is holy water," he explained as he uncapped the flask and motioned it out to her. "Salted holy water, actually, so it's gonna taste like crap. Unless you're a demon, of course. Then it's gonna hurt like a bitch. So, drink up." And after a beat, he added: "Oh, and try not to spit it everywhere, okay? Because Ric's a real bitch about keeping this place clean, and I don't wanna hear him whining about how his papers are all wet and wrinkled or whatever."

[sweetfarsam]

Lost and found | Sam and Dean [WLS past, pre-Tofte]

[sweetfarsam]

The ‘yeah right’ had Sam’s eyes snapping back up, brow furrowing as pretty much everything that was going through Dean’s mind was visible on his face.  He might have been a stoic son-of-a-bitch, but sometimes those little tells were all to clear for Sam to read.  He didn’t get it all the time.  Sometimes his brother was like a damn wall, other times he as an open book… This seemed to be one of the bookish moments.  Maybe he’d just grown used to not being so guarded… Or at least guarded in a different way.  Sam knew that Dean was different around him, knew that there were different strands to what he kept hold of and what was let go.  Maybe eight years had muddled those threads.  Meant that perhaps the guards and walls he used around Sam, so meticulously constructed between them and them only, had cracked a little… Become worn by the ravages of time and under use, none of the consistent maintenance that seemed to be a perpetual thing between them. 

And the thick tone of those words?  Muttered, bitter.  Laden with the very same thing that they’d fought about before.  Dean’s interminable need to protect Sam.  Sam’s stubborn defiance and persistence that he didn’t need protecting;  which was true enough - he was more than capable.  A competent hunter.  One of the best out there.  And not too hollow between the ears either. 

I almost had him... Almost. I swear. I had control, Dean and if  I can do it once, then I can do it again. I just have to find him.  I could feel it - he was stronger when he was in me and he needs that if he stands a hope in hell of beating Michael. I just have to make sure that this time, he can't run. Can't jump ship. What   else can we do? Just wait for them to start tearing the world apart?

Not hollow, but certainly thick sometimes.  Because it was blatantly obvious that while Sam might not need to be saved from the world, from monsters or demons or angels or even Lucifer; he did need saving - from himself.  From that ever thrumming need to keep on going as if somehow, there would be some kind of redemption.  Like it would change the road Fate had set out for him and that maybe every soul that was saved would wipe a little more of that taint, that stain out of his system.  It didn’t work that way and he knew as much, but it wouldn’t stop him from trying.  Now he had the mother of all things to make up for.  He’d failed to shove the Devil back in the box, so this… All of this… Was his fault.  It was that simple. 

Damnit, Dean!?  What the hell do you expect me to do!?  Just drop this?  Walk away while we know Lucifer is still out there?  Michael too?  You think this is over!?  I'm not gonna sit on my ass while they try to bring on the damn apocalypse!  -- Fine.  You don't want to do this?  I'll do it on my own.  I can do this.  I know I can.  I just wished you'd believe in me enough to let me at least try...

Sam’s guilt.  Dean’s self blame.  Between the two of them they made one big fat ball of self-loathing and regret.  And neither of them would say a word about it.  Each dealing with their personal (and quite literal in some cases) demons.  Each trying to deal with those burdens in their own ways.  Sam, silent and thoughtful, pensive.  Dean with his brashness and give ‘em hell attitude.  Neither one really coping.  It was one thing to have the product of your guilt as a sliver of memory.  It was another to have it shoved right in your face every waking moment.  Sam’s was the world.  Dean’s was Sam.

Goddammit, Sam, knock it off!

Sam’s head snapped up at the sudden outburst, the younger brother dragged from thoughts of the barrier around the town that might keep him from his brother.  It looked like Dean wasn’t the only one who was easy to read right now, his brother apparently tapping directly into his thoughts.  Jaw falling slack, he could pretty much predict the end of Dean’s sentence.  If I made it in.  What Dean didn’t seem to understand was that he’d been pegged as Michael’s vessel for a reason.  The Good Son.  The breaker of the first seal, yes, but also The Righteous Man.

He even remembered the conversation he’d had with Dean before heading to Detroit. 

And as far as he was concerned, it was as true now as it was then.

“Yeah, man.  Okay, okay.”  If you say so…

Still slightly stunned, Sam’s voice reflected his surprise.  And even if he didn’t entirely believe it himself, he trusted Dean enough to know that he wouldn’t put him in any kind of danger.  Likely Dean wouldn’t have even mentioned it if there were any doubts about Sam making it through the forcefield.  And it’s not like he hadn’t said he wouldn’t try… because even that risk would be worth is for maybe just the promise of peace… Or at least the closest thing resembling that.

And it would have been easy to dredge up the past.  All of the little details.  Every single moment that ran through his head of not so shining actions, not so altruistic intentions.  There were more of the former. Less of the latter, but there were still a few there.  Would have been so simple to throw them all back at Dean as reasons why not to even bother.  But that would be an age old argument, ground already covered more than once.  A waste of time.  A waste of breath.  And too painful to think about dealing with right now.

“I guess a shower does sound pretty good.”  He replied, pushing all of those doubts to one side for the moment, attempting to vaguely diffuse some of the vehemence radiating from his brother’s back as he headed towards the door.  But he wasn’t even sure if Dean was listening anymore as he stormed out of the cabin, leaving Sam squinting a little in the bright light that bloomed through the door in his wake.  So he just looked down at the few things he’d been packing away, dropping a couple of cans of food onto the top of bundles of clothes, a few stashed weapons and the gaudy pink plastic torch.  The rifle was next, carefully wrapped in it’s canvas protection and strapped securely to the side, then Sam hoisted the pack onto his shoulders, tying off the straps around his waist.  A quick glance round to check nothing was left behind and he snagged the bow resting in one corner, the leather quiver of bows hooked onto his belt before stepping outside, catching the tail end of Dean’s yell. 

“Uhuh… One sec.”  One knee hit the ground near some scrub, hands moving slowly into long grass and unhooking the tripwire carefully, looping the metal wire around his fingers a few times (tripwires were handy and in a pinch, the wire could be used as a garotte - had been -  almost a replay of the ‘Gordon-razorwire’ incident, but this time it had been steel wire and a really fucked up encounter with a shifter) before slipping the trigger hold off the shotgun and making sure it was safe to move.  “Here.”  He said, holding the disarmed weapon out to his brother, already sat on the back of the large black horse (which seemed to be eyeballing Sam for some odd reason), “You want me to keep up, then you get to carry this.”  Because the shotgun was damn heavy, and he only had a few shells left for it, but anything still in working order was a good find, or at least something to trade if he ever came across anyone else out in the ruins. 

Shotgun or no, there would still be a bit of an issue with keeping up anyway.  He was under no illusions about the type of mileage he could cover, depending on terrain and how much food he’d managed to eat, before that dogged exhaustion set in, but hopefully he’d make it far enough for Dean not to notice too much.  It might have been different if his brother had been on foot, but with him on the horse, at least Sam had some leeway for excuses if he started to get tired.  “You need to top up on water then?  Or are you and ‘Champion-The-Wonder-Horse’ here good to go…”

“H-how…”  Sam cleared his throat, preparing to start again, hoping he didn’t sound quite so uncertain this time around, “How far is it?  To this town of yours…?”

[amanwithareason-blog]

Already settled in and ready to go, Dean waited for Sam to unhook the trip wire set-up the older brother had spotted last night, and then rolled his eyes when the shotgun was handed up toward him, though a playful jab was right behind it. "What, you gettin weak in your old age or something?" Still, he took the gun and maneuvered it into the scabbard tucked under his left leg, his own strapped to his back instead for easy access. It weighed heavily on his shoulder, but it meant never having to take his eyes off his target if he had to shoot from the horse, so as far as Dean was concerned, the payoff was worth a sore muscle or two later. 

With everything secured down now though, they were ready to take off, and the older brother furrowed his brows up for a moment in thought as he mapped out the best way to get back to town, ignoring both his horse's bratty snorting and Sam's stutter because he refused to hear anymore doubts and worrying from his brother about whether or not he'd make it into town. "Little over a full day on foot. There's a stream not too far from here. We can stop there to wash up, and eat." Glancing up, Dean squinted through the trees, guessing it was probably around ten in the morning given the position of the sun before he looked down toward Sam again. "If we make good time, we should get about half way before it gets dark. There's a few caves down that way we can duck into for the night. Gives us some cover, anyway."

Now that he had their route mapped out in his mind, and with everything packed and ready to go, Dean took one last look back at the cabin. Partly to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and partly in gratitude, because if it hadn't been there, who only knew how much longer it would've been before they finally came across one another again. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns, eh Sammy?" he said before shaking his head and clicking his tongue, boots squeezing into the sides of the horse briefly before she began to walk. 

"C'mon, let's go."

 ***

Two days later, the landscape turned more familiar to him. The trees here were more lush, the air more clean. Most of northern Minneosta seemed to have been spared by the fallout from the apocalypse, but for whatever reason, the five mile area surrounding Tofte itself was like a paradise. Foliage was a darker, richer green, the lake water off to their south sparkled a brilliant blue, and the sound of insects and real wild life twittered around them. The first time Dean had seen the place, he thought for sure he’d fallen into a freakin Disney movie—complete with talking trees and pet raccoons and all of that other colors of the wind crap—so he could only imagine what was going on in Sam’s head at the moment.

Then again, he probably didn’t want to, because chances were, it currently involved some moping, emo, self-doubting stuff over whether or not he was going to make it through the barrier at all. But if nothing else, the last two days had only convinced Dean even more that there was no way his brother wasn’t getting into town. No doubt Sam was… different now. Just… not in the way he’d been dreading. No Lucifer hiding in there, no demon blood to turn the guy into a cold, hulked-out bastard… Hell, if anything, Sam had become a goddamn Buddhist in their time apart. He sniped back less when the older brother got started in on something, and seemed even more quiet and reserved than he had been before their split… which was saying something, considering Sam had always been the silent, brooding sort.

So yeah… no way their little barrier wasn’t going to recognize his brother for exactly the type of guy he was—which was to say, exactly the kind of person that Tofte’s evil detector seemed to be keen on. Peaceable. Definitely more accepting and forgiving of people, regardless of who or what they were, than Dean himself was. Not to mention suicidally self-sacrificing in order to help or save everyone and everything around him. But while none of that left any room for doubt as to Sam’s safety when crossing through the force field, Dean still pulled up short just before the spot where he knew their nifty monster radar started and dismounted from his horse, staring down the gravel roadway and toward the figures he could vaguely make out at the gate of town for a moment before he looked over at his brother. 

“See that wicked looking tree over there?” he asked, motioning to a thorn covered honey locust that stood alongside the road a few feet from them. “It starts there. Now, it’s gonna feel…” And there, Dean paused, brows furrowing as he tried to figure out the best way to describe the sensation that he’d experienced before he lifted his shoulders. “I dunno. Bizarre. Tingly. Like when your foot fall asleep… except all over. It’s kinda nice, though, actually,” he explained, giving Sam a brief but knowing grin to infer just what kind of ‘nice’ he was talking about before he stole another glance toward the invisible barrier.

And for a few seconds, Dean debated telling Sam about what to do in case something about the tingle started to feel not quite right, but ultimately decided to keep his mouth shut. In the end, it just felt too much like jinxing them—like putting the possibility of Sam not making it through out into the universe would inevitably turn that into their reality instead. They had enough bad luck without Murphy’s Law coming into play just because Dean went and opened his trap, planting the seeds into the minds of the fates or whatever. Probably best to avoid tempting that altogether, so instead of doling out ‘if’s’, he simply turned his focus onto his brother again to go over what would happen once they were both safely inside the camp. 

“Once you’re in, we’ll stop by HQ. Get you a little… badge thing made up so the people on guard duty will know you’ve already been approved if you leave town and come back.” And ordinarily, they’d assign any newcomers a cabin too, but Dean had already taken care of that.. in his own way. Six months ago, when he’d first shown up in town, he had specifically asked Ric for a two bedroom. Not because he needed the extra space personally or anything, having lived most of his life in his car and cramped motel rooms. But just because eventually, he knew he’d find Sam. One way or another, unless the guy had managed to track down Satan and say yes all over again, Dean knew they’d run into each other again, and when they did, he wanted to make sure Sam had a room… preferably as close to his own as possible.

But then... for all he knew, and regardless of their eight years of separation, Sam'd had enough of bunking with him, and all of the arguments that implied. Fighting over who showered first. Sam nagging him over the fact that he had a tendency to leave his crap everywhere. Dean bitching about the stacks of notes and research littering every flat surface within his brother's reach. The lack of... privacy, although there were two bedrooms, which helped on that note. Still, even though he would've preferred to have his brother as close as possible, Dean figured that he could at least give Sam the option to duck out on going back to the days of shoving at each other to make room at the bathroom sink, and scrapping over who got the extra blanket in the closet. Worst case scenario he'd just... relocate to a cabin right next to Sam's. 

"And--I mean, I've got a spare bedroom you can have if you uh... you know, want it," he said with a shrug, looking off toward the threshold of the town again in an attempt at avoiding Sam seeing right through his nonchalance. "But if not, we can... get you a cabin of your own, I guess. Or put you with somebody else." And it took every ounce of self-control he had to keep his face from scrunching up over the idea, considering that most of the occupants in town weren't exactly human... or him, but that was beside the point. Somehow though, he managed to keep his face impassive as he continued staring at the outlines of the first few buildings of town until he was sure he wouldn't give himself away immediately, though he half-expected to see his brother smirking at him anyway when he finally looked at him again. "And then we'll get you settled and I'll show you around the place. Sound good?"

[lightningsbeta-blog]

Hungry like the Wolf// Isaac, Dean

[lightningsbeta-blog]

Isaac smiled slightly when he heard the grumbled reply. Typical Dean, but he considered himself lucky. He wasn’t getting growled at for invading his personal bubble before his morning coffee. He had to admit too. For a human? Dean’s growl was pretty impressive, if a bit amusing. 

It was business as usual for Isaac to work around Dean, He really wasn’t in the way and it was kinda nice to have someone to talk to once the man woke up a bit. He picked up the broom by the back door, making quick work of the floor and ashes that somehow always seemed to fly every where. He wasn’t OCD. He just liked a clean kitchen… At least thats what he told himself. 

Isaac stepped outside while Dean was devouring the toast in front of him. He barely remembered to throw some more on the cooktop before he went to grab the large kettle he would be using for the nights meal. It was difficult to cook for the amount of people that reliad on him for meals, but it was something that made him feel.. good. It helped that it also put him into a place in the camp that many would never think to act on the suspicions they had about him. He knew about the few whispers about what he was, knew that there were about 4 or 5 men in the camp that didn’t want him around. 

He made sure to stay well away from them. Keeping to his cabin or the mess hall. 

He walked back into the kitchen, shaking the snow from his hair. “Sweet fuck it’s cold out there.” He put the pot on the stove, taking the bread off of it and rested his hands above the flame to warm them back up. Yes, he was a werewolf and that usually meant a higher temperature than most, but it was still far below freezing out there. He walked passed Dean on his way to the pantry and grabbed the man’s jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door. “They’re there for a reason Dean. Use the damn coat hangers.” 

He pulled a necklace out from under his shirt, on it was the key to the pantry. It was sad that they had to lock it up at night. But these were dark times. and if it was left unlocked, there would most likely be food that disappeared. 

He unlatched the door, going to the back of the room to grab a large bag of Kidney Beans that were dehydrated a few months ago. It was a system they had all but perfected. The Spring was spent clearing and Planting, the summer was to tend the farms and the fall was spent collecting and preparing the harvest for winter. As it stood right now, they had plenty of food. And it was becoming far easier to fall into the swing of peaceful living.  

He grabbed the last couple of ingredients that he needed, stewed tomatoes, carefully preserved. A few onions. And last but not least, A bottle of hot sauce. 

It was a simple enough meal, something that was filling and hot. It was the perfect kind of meal when you were feeding a mass of people. 

He was halfway through chopping the first onion when Dean finally began talking. “Maybe slow this morning, Yea. But they know it’s Chili night… They will all be here for dinner…. Even if the cook is a Werewolf.”  He really didn’t mean for the last part to slip out. Just a bit of Unresolved tension. He took a deep breath and shook his head, trying to clear his head.

“Yea… I heard the snow pick up pretty bad last night… Is Ric ok? I know his roof was kinda shit.” Isaac dumped the bottles of tomatoes into the pot, rinsing the empties out to be used again. Now that the majority of the ingredients were in, he would let it simmer for a while. 

“I was gonna go around to the people that don’t mind me and see if they needed some help with any repairs they might have. That is, unless you need me later. I figure if we get some preemptive work done, it would all come crashing down later.” 

Isaac grabbed his own slices of toast, and the 2 extra for Dean before sitting at the counter next to him. 

“I don’t get as cold as easily as you guys, so it could be helpful for me to go fix roofing or something. And in this weather, we’re going to need to make sure that they are all safe” 

Isaac drained half of his coffee in one giant gulp. While it wasn’t something that would help him wake up. It was nice to be able to have it to drink… God only knows what half of the people here would be like without coffee in the mornings…

[amanwithareason-blog]

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Welcome to winter in Minnesota..." he shot off as Isaac came back into the restaurant, bitching about the cold. Okay, maybe the coffee and toast weren't exactly the cure all for asshole, but it was still wasn't as bad as it could've been. Not even when the werewolf started nagging at him about hanging up his coat, although seriously, what the hell was with all of the neat freaks around this place? Hearing Sam bitch about the cabin being a mess was one thing, but did everyone have to mother him?

"Or you could just hang it up for me..." he mumbled with a shrug before returning to the more pressing matter of drinking his coffee while his company for the morning flitted around in the kitchen. While Isaac worked, Dean took to making notes in his head about everything he had to get done that morning. He had a supply run scheduled for later out to a place just northwest of them called Virginia. Another smaller outpost, like Two Harbors to the west or Lutsen to the east, but one a bit further out that they hadn't picked clean yet. Scouting parties had mentioned a few doctor offices and a grocery store that looked like they'd barely been touched, and if there was anything they could use more of, it was medical supplies and canned goods.

And if those two places hadn't been looted clean yet, who only knew what else was still available. Clothes, blankets, toiletries, gasoline still in whatever cars lingered... maybe even some liquor, if it turned out to be a really good run. All in all, he was planning for at least a two day trip. The place was close enough that his car would make it at least halfway there before the roadway possibly got too bad for her to travel through, which cut down on travel time a bit and left more time for scavenging, and also provided quick escape if shit hit the fan. Not that he was planning on trouble... the arrowhead of Minnesota was pretty quiet on that front, as long as you stayed out of Duluth and International Falls... but just in case, having his baby nearby always made him feel better. 

But before they could even leave out, he wanted to go with Sam to check out Ric's roof situation, had to double check supply lists, find out the specifics of what Josh might need from the medical offices, and then load up the car and pack his duffle bag. All on virtually no sleep. And while normally he didn't mind a supply run, since it got him out of town and back into the field for a while, without proper shut-eye, he almost felt bad for the rest of the guys going with him, who would have to put up with him being even surlier than usual. Especially since...

"Wait, I'm gonna miss chilli night!?" Well, fuck him. Dean wasn't exactly the pickiest eater in the world, but he did have his favorites, and chilli night was right up there with burger night in his book. So much so that he momentarily debated pushing back the trip a day, but no. Late winter into early spring was the roughest time of the year for them, and they needed to get it done before the next round of snow came through. But before he could bitch about how he wouldn't be in town to get a bowl, Isaac caught him off guard with the werewolf quip, which made him momentarily bristle. 

It had been hard on him at first, agreeing to letting the mooks live in peace. His first instinct when it came to monsters was, and had always been shoot first, ask questions later. Sure, there had been a few over the years that had skated by for one reason or another, but on the whole, they were predators, and humanity was their prey, and the hunter in him had an itchy trigger finger when it came to upholding his family's business.

But back then, he had been a guest in the place, and wasn't exactly in a position to make the rules. And by the time Ric had finally agreed to letting him help out with the running day to day life in town, Dean had learned to... tolerate the less than human folk of Tofte. Liking it was an entirely different story for the most part, but he could at least be civil, living by the same rules as everyone else when it came to his creature neighbors. As long as no one was hurting anyone else, they could stay, and while the hunter still didn't necessarily agree with that philosophy himself, he could live with it, as long as they pulled their weight and didn't try anything stupid. 

"Whatever. They gotta problem with you, tell 'em they can either come talk to us or shut their traps," he said with another lift of his shoulders as he raised his coffee mug up to drink the last of the cup. At the werewolf's next words though, Dean shook his head, setting the mug back down on the counter with a soft thud.

"Yeah, Ric's fine. His roof isn't though. Caved in on him last night..." Although to hear Ric tell it, it was a harrowing, near death experience. Of course, it probably was, but whatever. He was on Dean's shit list at the moment for the wake up call. "He showed up at our place around three-thirty this mornin lookin for a place to crash. Sam and I are gonna go check out the damage once they both get up."

"And yeah. Couldn't hurt, I guess. Talk to Sam about it when he comes in here later," he told the other man, gladly taking the extra two slices of toast, which he wasted no time in starting in on before wiping crumbs from the corners of his mouth once he finished the third slice. "I doubt he'd mind the extra hand since me and a few of the others are headin out on a run later... Might stop in here before we leave to get myself a bowl of that chilli though," he added, nodding toward the kettle pot that was simmering on the cook top of the wood stove. No way he was missing out on chilli if he could help it.

Picking up his mug again before he remembered it was empty, he stood and motioned toward the pot of campfire style coffee, flashing the kid his most winning smile. "You mind? I only got a couple'a hours in before Ric came banging down my door this mornin..."

[belatalbot-lightningstriker-dea]

A House Ain't A Home // Open

[belatalbot-lightningstriker-dea]

For approximately five minutes, Bela had stood totally still, grinding her teeth against the cold and wishing she was in bed. All she could think of was a warm bed, even a hot meal if it were available. Perhaps Sam would realise what and ass he’d been, and come back to show her the way to the Post Office, or wherever it was they needed to go to get her checked in and assigned a cabin. The whole ordeal was taking it’s toll on her, eyes ringed with dark circles from fear and fatigue, her hands looking like bony witch claws from not eating enough of the right kinds of foods.She sighed, and resigned herself to sleeping out here until morning when it was light and she could find her way around.

However, an all to familiar voice knocked her from her thoughts and sent her spiralling back to reality. Dean! Dean could help her! That’s if Sam had already spoken to him, and she wouldn’t have to re-do the whole ‘I’m not a demon’ test just get him to semi-trust her. Her face lit up, but not too much, and she breathed out all of her angst. If she explained to him the basics, she was sure he’d understand.

“Well, it’s nice to see you too, Dean.” she said, with a weak smile. she was too cold to even contemplate being overly-friendly, or behave as her usual humorous self. Even that tiny amount of sarcasm was hard to muster from her aching brain. “Well, let’s cut it brief because I’m freezing. I’m alive- well observed, Dean. I don’t know how. Me and Sam already had this lovely chat. I’m not a demon. Pour your salt, or holy water, or whatever else you want on me.” she said, holding her hands out with the palms facing downwards so he wouldn’t see the cuts. “Christo. Blah, blah, blah. I’m not a shape-shifter or an illusionist, or anything else. I’m just me, only slightly different, I guess. I suppose I had a change of heart.” her voice was shaky from shivering, but she spoke quickly in the hope of getting to a cabin as soon as possible.

“Sam found me up in the woods, brought me here, and I came through the barrier. He then proceeded to get angry at me for calling him ‘Sammy’- which, in all honesty, was just a slip of the tongue- and then ditched me. So now I’m lost. I was supposed to find a Post Office or something to check in, but it’s too dark and I can’t find it.” Bela hoped she’d covered everything Dean needed to know in order for him to trust her, but she couldn’t find the energy to argue with him if he protested.

“Oh, and you know what else? He told me you were dead. He lied about it for hours, and then all of a sudden, told me you weren’t. Is he a fan of mind-games now? Because I really believed him, y’know.” Bela stopped talking, and sighed again as she picked up her bag from the sidewalk. Maybe Dean would help her out, maybe not. Maybe he would believe her now, or maybe she’d have to wait for Sam to re-appear and to tell Dean it was all true. 

As she studied Dean’s face through the darkness, she realised he had aged a fair amount. While she had been dead in the ground, he had been living in this harsh, new world and she knew now that what he and Sam must have done to survive was ten times worse than anything she’d been through in her life before she died. It was odd that she’d come back into her body at  the same age as when she’d died- 24- and yet everyone else had aged about ten years. It was a strange feeling to her, and she didn’t enjoy it. In fact, it creeped her out some.

Standing in the dark opposite the older Winchester, she imagined what she would have been like it she hadn’t died. If she’d survived (somehow) the Hell Hounds, and made her way through the apocalypse. Would she still have become more altruistic? Or would she have remained selfish and cruel? It didn’t matter anyway, here she was. She’d risked her life to get here, following Sam’s instructions, and all she could do now was hope that Dean would see the change in her enough to accept her as a member of this town and perhaps forgive her for the things she’d done in the past that she was not proud of.

[amanwithareason-blog]

To Dean's credit, he actually made the effort to follow along as she rambled quickly through the major events that had led to her standing in his town in the middle of the dark. The Christo ruled her out as a demon immediately, and he was pretty sure shape shifter victims had to be alive. He'd never seen one take the form of a dead person anyway. So with his list of supernatural possibilities quickly dwindling, he was forced to consider the fact that maybe she had popped back from the dead after all. Not like he hadn't done it a few dozen times himself, and when she mentioned Sam ditching her because she called him Sammy, it was easy for the older brother to believe that they'd at least had a run-in. That was one bit of ground everyone knew better than to touch... except Bela, it would seem.

The one thing Dean didn't have an explanation for though, other than how the thief managed to make it topside again, was his brother telling the woman that he was dead. Maybe until Sam made sure that she wasn't some kind of supernatural creature trying to get their heads on a platter, sure, but to keep it up even after? Then again, he really didn't need an explanation, either. If Sam was going around spinning stories about his death, he probably had a reason for it, so the only thing Dean made a note to ask about later was whether he at least went down in a bad ass way.

Finally, Bela seemed to run out of steam long enough for him to get a word in edgewise, and his eyebrow stayed firmly angled up as he spoke up again. "Okay, A? You talk too much. And B, you can sell that change of heart crap to someone else, sweetheart, because I ain't buyin it." Because that would imply that Bela Talbot, the woman who sold her soul just to off her parents and who had screwed him and Sam over ten ways from Sunday, even after they helped her out of her ghost ship problem, had a heart at all. Dean was a lot of things, and at times, thick was one of them, but he wasn't stupid. If it walked like a bitch, and dicked people over like a bitch, then that was good enough to call it a bitch in his book, and to him, that's exactly what she was. She may have gotten past the barrier, but that was only good enough to allow her a roof over her head and three square meals a day... not make them friends.

Still, with Ric who only knew where and Sam having ditched the woman, that left Dean with the task of giving her the run-down of how town worked, and checking her in officially. And while it would serve her right to make her sleep out here the entire night, the winds were frigid, and she looked like more of a mess than he did right now... which was saying something, considering the blood and guts he was covered in. So even though he may have hated her on principle alone, he finally rolled his eyes, mostly at himself, and conceded to helping her get settled in.

"But fine," he grated out through half-clenched teeth. "Gimme a sec and I'll take you down to the post office so we can get you a cabin. Wait here." And he leveled a stern, mistrustful gaze at her before fishing out the keys in his pocket so he could unlock the bank where they housed their weapons and hard to find medical supplies. Slipping inside, he even locked the bank door behind him for good measure, because not only did he not like Bela, but he didn't trust her either. She was crafty, and fast, and the last thing he was going to do was let her get the jump on him in a room full of guns. But he made sure to be quick about it, returning both the bow and the unused arrows to the bank vault before he closed it up behind him, and let himself back out of the building.

"Okay, here's the deal," he started as he locked the door up behind him, "You made it through the barrier. That gets you sleeping quarters and food. The cabins have water, but you gotta heat everything yourself. No electricity, no gas." Pulling the handle of the door just to be sure it was shut up tightly, he finally dropped his keys back into his pocket, and folded his arms across his chest as he stared her down, giving her the full run through. "There's a wood yard down by the lake, but we're running low right now, and we gotta keep the other buildings heated, so everyone else is chopping their own." And while most of the uninhabited cabins had some wood in them for new arrivals, it usually wasn't more than a day or two's worth. "There's some trees out by the farms that have their bark already stripped off at the bottom to dry out. I'd go for those if I were you."

"Meals are served three times a day in the diner. No special orders, and no extras, unless you've got something to trade for it. In that case, you'll wanna talk to Isaac, and he might hook you up. And for the record? Sleeping with the cook don't count as trade."

A subtle but vicious smirk crawled across his face at the jibe, whether it was fair or not. Honestly, he didn't know, but she'd propositioned him in the past, so it wasn't something he'd put past her. "There's a meeting hall too, right next to the diner. Has a list of jobs there up on a bulletin board. You sign up for one, you get paid in trade. Other than that, don't steal from anyone, don't mess with anyone's crap, and don't kill anyone. Or we boot you out. No second chances."

"We clear?" he asked finally. Normally the rules spiel was a little less harsh and to the point, and a little more 'it's better than anything else' but really, he didn't care if she stayed or went, so there was no sense in sugarcoating it. "Cuz if not, then the gate out is that way," he told her, motioning to the left with his thumb before he jammed both of his hands into his pockets and turned in the opposite direction to start heading in the direction of both his cabin and the post office. "Otherwise, c'mon, cuz I ain't got all night."

[ifoundsammysshoe]

Dean & Sookie of When Lightning Strikes RP

[amanwithareason-blog]

Uh... Lake Monster Fight Training... Yup.

Sammy: Kismet?  What are you, jewish?

Dean: No!

Sammy: Next thing you'll stop eating bacon.

Dean: I'm trying to make a point here, Sam.

Dean: AND BITE YOUR TONGUE, HEATHEN.

Dean: I already gave up strip clubs and magic fingers, c'mon.

Dean: A man's allowed to have something!

Sammy:  -snorts, then shrugs-  Pig in a poke?  Uh, anyway...

Sammy: You didn't give them up, Dean.  They stopped existing.

Dean: Whatever. Semantics.

Sammy: True though.  If a strip joint sprung up, you'd be their first customer.

Dean: Damn straight I would be.

Dean: I'd barter our coffee stock for a lap dance.

Sammy: Ric would kill you.

Sammy: Instantly.

Dean: What he doesn't know won't hurt me.

Dean: Besides, I could kick Ric's ass if I really needed to.

Dean: I just don't because he's older than me. He might break something.

Sammy: Dude, he's hardly collecting his pension.

Dean: Whatever. He's older than me, which means I get to make jokes.

Sammy: And you're older than me.... -smirk-

Dean: I know. Which is why I stick to kicking your ass instead -grins-

Sammy: Bullshit.  And you know it.  I can totally take you.

Dean: Yeah, when I let you.

Sammy: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAheeeno.

Dean: Listen smartass, just because you're taller and have like, 30 pounds on me doesn't mean I can't still kick your ass six ways from Sunday.

Sammy: Eight years, Dean.  I've had plenty of practice 'out there'.  -grins-  You think you can take me?  Go for it.

Dean: Really? You wanna go before we even had coffee yet? -waves fingers toward himself- C'mon then. Let's see if you still fight like a bitch -smirks-

Sammy: Why not?  S'as good a wake up as any? -rolls his shoulders and cracks neck, shaking arms out before taking a slow step to one side-  Jerk. -flicks out one hand as a feint, then shifts the other way, taking a 'warm up' swing-

Dean: -lifts an eyebrow and then shrugs- Fine. It's your funeral. -gets up and rolls his shoulders as well, hearing his back crack and steps in the opposite direction, starting the circling- What's the pot? Laundry detail? -darts to one side slightly, then dodges to the other, feeling the swing breeze past his ear before reaching out for his wrist to twist him around, grinning- A month on whoever loses?

Sammy: -grunts slightly at the grab, letting that arm loosen to stop tension wrenching his muscle as it's twisted, pausing for just a moment- Nuhuh... Ric's roof.  Loser gets clean up.  Deal? -plants one foot on the floor then shoves backwards, trying to slam Dean into the nearest wall-

Dean: -thinks about it for a second and then nods- Okay. Deal. -grunts out as Sam shoves back into him and loses his hold as he cracks back against the wall, pushing himself back off of it after he balances out to circle again- Oh, so you do still fight like a bitch... -shifts lightly back and forth on his feet, and swings short with his left while he jabs with his right-

Sammy: -grins at the quip then just shrugs- If you say so, Dean.  And when this 'bitch' kicks your ass, you'll be eating those words. -stays still this time, just adjusting his stance to keep facing his brother, a slight lean away at the jab before the second swing hits more solidly, not quite twisting away fast enough.  A small 'oof' as he loses a bit of air, but instead of stepping back, he moves into it, attempting to barrel Dean off his feet-

Dean: That's pretty big talk Sam.. -smirks at the small victory of his fist connecting with Sam's middle, and the little woosh of air the guy lets out. it fades fast though as he's charged right off his feet, hands scrabbling around his brother to tug him down with before he hits the floor with a loud grunt. he bends his knees as quickly as possible while he still has some room, and then reaches around for Sam's wrists again, pushing up to roll them over. Legs stretching so his knees are between Sam's legs instead of buried in his stomach, his hands shove his brother's wrists against the floor- Nuh uh, Sammy. Gotta beat me without the dead legs this time...

Sammy: WOAH!  -stumbles forward and attempts to land without his full weight smashing straight into his brother, because *squish*, and broken ribs were never fun, managing to thud one elbow hard enough into the floor to make him feel the jar of it right through to his teeth.  Enough for Dean to take advantage and the room to spin for a moment as he's shoved down, grimacing slightly-  Uh... Come a long way from dead legs, Dean.  Doesn't mean I don't fight dirty. -he grins and leans up to lick a gross stripe of spit onto Dean's face, legs hooking over his brother's calves and bucking up to twist to one side, trying to wriggle free-

Dean: -sniggers a bit- Yeah, I bet. -feels momentarily cocky about his winning position until he feels Sam's tongue slide across his face and he jerks back, nose crinked up tightly- UGH, freakin..! -but doesn't get to finish as his brother bucks up against him and twists enough to tip dean onto his side, turning both of them in a half roll, knees now trapped between Sam's legs instead. he lets go of the wrist closer to the floor, and threads his fingers in Sam's too long hair, tugging his brother's head back so he doesn't get licked again- Gross, dude!

Sammy: -snickers for just a moment, still wriggling and shoving till Dean yanks his hair and he grits his teeth, bringing his free hand round to try to land a jab to the bottom of his brothers rib cage-  You're just lucky I brushed my teeth, coulda been a lot worse.  Morning breath. -snorts and pushes again till he manages to loop one leg right over and sits on Dean's stomach, twisted to one side with the hand still in his hair, then sucks on a free finger and tries to jam it in his brother's ear- Let go, damnit!

Dean: -wiggles a bit as the blow lands against the dip of his ribs, trying to get away from it- Still gross, Sam! -feels the leg come up and tries to pull one of his out from under, but can't before he's on his back, brother sitting right on the flat of his stomach. it's a little harder to breathe with the added weight and before he even registers to fight against it, there's a wet finger in his ear, and he tries to awkwardly swat at Sam with his free hand- OH C'MON. Are you try'na lube me up or wrestle me here?! -gives up trying to get the finger out of his ear with the one hand and lets go of his brother's hair to yank it out, and then shoves at his chest with both hands in an attempt to push Sam off, bucking at the same time to unbalance him- Get offa me!

Sammy: It worked, didn't it?  -snorts again, sits back, pulling both hands away, flicking his hair out of his face as soon as Dean lets go, feeling a pull down one side of his neck-  Dude, if I was gonna poke my dick in your earhole, one; it's too small.  Two; not much resistance with that empty skull of yours.  It'd be like spitting in the grand canyon.  -and to punctuate the sentence, the flat of his palm pops against Dean's forehead, thudding the back of it off the floor- Op! -arms windmill for a moment as Dean, shoves and bucks, before he topples off to one side, banging the same elbow and cursing blue under his breath, scrabbling to try to get away and back to his feet-

Dean: -rolls his eyes-Har har, smarta-- OW. Bitch! -bends up once Sam falls off, lifting a leg quickly to wrap it around his brother's, right behind the kneecap as Sam tries to crawl away, and locks it in place between his own legs. Reaching out, he grips the back of his brother's shirt tightly and tugs him back, leg swiftly moving out from under Sam's knee to join the other along the back side before he's shifting to straddle his calves while pulling Sam back until he's kneeling. His other arm snakes around the front of Sam's neck and shoulder area to hold him in place before he lifts up a bit on his own knees, and brings the hand that was gripping his brother's shirt up, fingers curling into a fist that he rubs knuckle down aggressively against the top of Sam's head- You wanna fight like you're five? Fine. Then you get noogies.

Sammy: -grunts and keeps wriggling, trying to crawl to the couch till he's hauled backwards, reaching back over his head to bat at Dean with one hand while the other tried to yank the arm from round his front- I'm no-- Ow!  OW!  St-- OW! -stops trying to bat at and grabs one of the cushions, pummeling it over his head to try to swat Dean off before leaning his weight back again and pushing them both over backwards, completely stuck now with legs tangled together and jammed underneath, stretched out in a long line as his sore elbow takes another shot at Dean's ribs-

Dean: -tries his best to dodge the cushion which keeps smacking him in the face anyway, despite his muffled, cut off protests of 'STAH' and 'ahddammit!'. Gives up trying to dodge it and lets his fist falls away from the top of Sam's skull, hand reaching for the cushion instead to grab it so he can toss it away while he holds on to the head lock as they rock back. Feeling the elbow jam into his ribs, he grunts in mild irritation at the point sinking into his middle, and tightens up the choke hold around Sam's neck as he grits out-- Dude, you're either gonna lose concious or unconscious, but you're gonna lose. What's it gonna be, Sammy?

Sammy: -another jab to the ribs and one hand flails for his 'weapon' the cushion laying just at the very tips of his fingers, straining to try to grab it.-  Noh'gunnalose j'rk -the words jumble together slightly as the choke hold tightens and things get a bit blurry, finally grabbing the cushion and heaving it over his head one more time right as stars start dancing behind his eyes- Noh.... gunn--..... mh.... -blacks out and just lays there like a large, immovable samoose shaped boulder-

Dean: -smirks from his spot underneath Sam- Huh? Can't understand you, Sammy, gotta speak up... -it earns him another smack from the cushion before his brother finally slackens against him, going even more mumbly and he grins more victoriously because he's gonna be gloating about this for days.- HAH. Told you I'd kick your ass! Now get off of me dude, you're heavy... -releases his arm from around Sam's neck just a few seconds too late, and shoves his shoulder roughly, blinking once he notices how Sam doesn't move an inch- Sam? -shoves at his shoulder, trying again... still nothing and attempts to lift his head so he can see. Doesn't really work... - Sammy? -still no answer and he groans from his spot, completely trapped under the dead weight of his moosey, unconscious brother- SON OF A BITCH!

[belatalbot-lightningstriker-dea]

A House Ain't A Home // Open

Bela had wandered towards the hospital that Sam had pointed out and cleaned up her hands inside. She hated herself for the way she’d acted towards Sam- he had helped her and she had been so rude to him. I’ll have to change that, she thought, I’m fed up of being seen as confrontational. This is a new start and I refuse to ruin in by being such a bitch. Once her hands were sorted, she slung her bag of clothes and food over her shoulder and left the building.

Outside was cold and windy, her hair was being blown about all over the place and her clothes clung to her malnourished frame as she tried to remember where the Post Office was that Sam had told her to get to. She hoped that the cabin they would assign her would be warmer than the one she’d made for herself on the hill. The cold had a way of creeping into her bones and making a home there, making every movement ache from within. Zig-zagging down the narrow road, Bela realised she was sort of lost. Peering over her shoulder she tried to orientate herself, to no avail.

Great. Just great. Fabulous. she thought, running around. Bela hated feeling lost- it was never a good sign. It made her feel helpless and out of the loop, which was the worst thing she could ever feel. Naturally, Bela was comfortable when she knew exactly where she was and exactly what was going on around her. However, she was now in a completely new place with no idea what was happening, and at night, no less, without a map to even find her way. What an idiot, Bela thought as she finally just gave up looking around and dumped her bag on the side-walk across the street from the hospital- back where she’d started.

[amanwithareason-blog]

As miserable as the apocalypse had been for everyone overall, certain aspects of it felt almost comfortingly familiar to Dean. It was survivalism at its finest, kill or be killed, and the ruggedness of life after A-Day brought back memories of his earlier years as a kid when his dad would drag him and Sam off into the woods for a weekend of bow hunting to sharpen up their skills. Aside from the arguments and sulking that marred most of those trips, those were good memories for the older brother. The kind he held on to in order to keep him moving through another day... The kind that kept him fighting.

And if there was one thing the Winchesters were good at, it was fighting for their survival. While most people couldn't hack it in a post-apocalyptic landscape, completely out of touch with the primitiveness of life off the grid, him and Sam had been raised on adaptation. Trained to keep themselves alive and moving, no matter what. They had lived their whole lives virtually out of sight from most people, and over the years, had even managed to turn killing predators into something of an art form, thanks to their dad's training. Because even though they had tackled things that their father could've never dreamed of, and lived to tell the tales (or not tell them, as the case usually was), Dean never once forgot that it was because of John, and every trick, trap, and technique that he taught them that they hadn't become some beast's chew toy... at least, not permanently.

So for all of the bitching Sam had done about their hunting practice when they were kids, there was no argument between the brothers anymore over whether or not John had done right by them... especially these days. Bow hunting might've been an important skill back when they were shooting werewolves with silver-tipped arrows, but knowing how to do it now was literally a matter of life or death. Hunt or starve. Eat or be eaten. Sure, there were still werewolves to shoot. Vampires to decapitate. Demons to gank. But just beyond the borders of the village of Tofte, the more common type of predators were the kind that could put food in storage for months if you knew how to take them down. Bears. Wolves. Lynx. All just as dangerous as the supernatural creatures of yore, but way more delicious. Well, he guessed, anyway.

Sometimes, the older brother couldn't help but wonder what his dad would say if he could see them now. Sam, the master angler. Dean, belly deep in a bear den at any given time, trying to smoke the animal out of hiding. That had been his project for most of the day--tracking the black bear that had been wandering a little too close to town for the rest of the villagers' comfort. And by the time he'd made it back to camp, hauling a good 500 pounds of meat behind him in something that vaguely resembled a wooden sled, he was covered in all of the signs of a successful kill. Blood. Entrails. Sweat. Dirt. His muscles ached, and he couldn't feel his fingers and toes anymore, but once the meat was deboned, declawed, and stored, and the pelt laid out for drying so it could be tanned into a rug or a blanket or used for clothing of some sort to keep warm, he was feeling pretty damn good. One thing that hadn't changed with the apocalypse? There was nothing like the thrill of a hunt gone right. Supernatural or otherwise.

That alone was enough to lift his mood, but when coupled with the fact that the most recent threat to their town had been eliminated, and that there was 500 pounds of meat for people in one of the ice houses in town, he was rocking a pretty self-satisfied grin all the way back to the weapons depot up near the hospital to drop off the bow he'd used. And he'd nearly made it there too without anything to disrupt his contentedness until someone standing outside of the depot caught his eye. Stopping in his tracks, he squinted through the dusky darkness to see if he recognized the person. Female, definitely. Petite. Freezing her ass off, but that was about as much as he could make out from the distance he was at. Nothing tell tale that would clue him in on whether it was a long term resident waiting on a weapon, or a new arrival who was already lost.

So he started to move again, walking with a bit more caution in his step. The closer he got though, the more the specifics of the woman came into view, but far from settling him down, the recognition only made him bristle more. He knew her. Or... had known her, anyway. But Bela Talbot--thief, bitch, general pain in the ass--had been dead for over ten years now... right? At least, they hadn't seen hide nor hair of her since the night her demon deal came due, and given that the woman had a knack for getting her kicks by getting them into trouble, he highly doubted that she'd made it out alive and retired to some life far, far away from his and Sam's. So, no. Dead. She was supposed to be dead, not standing in the middle of their freakin town. Which meant... demon. Had to be. It was the only possibility he could come up with that didn't sound nuts, even by his own standards. Unless she was groped by an angel like he had been, but somehow, he sincerely doubted it.

But that raised the question... how the Hell had a demon gotten into their town? Crowley was one thing. He was a pain in the ass, yeah, but he had helped them out--kind of--on more than one occasion. And he'd given Bobby his legs back, so if he looked at those 'good deeds' sideways, and for long enough, Dean figured he could maybe see how that one got in. But Bela? She hadn't even been a good person in life, so he wasn't exactly betting on her turning into a saint down in Hell. Besides, if she had, then she wouldn't have become a demon at all. The older Winchester was far, far too familiar with how that road worked, and the path to demon-hood was definitely not paved by suddenly deciding to love your neighbors. Which, as far as he could tell, seemed to be some sort of general requirement to get through the border.

So... huh. And then there was the fact that she was standing in town, without anyone else around her. No Sam, no Ric... who the Hell had been on guard duty? Had this Bela-faced... whatever been put through the tests? Why didn't she have a cabin? But the longer his list of questions got, the more the lack of answers was beginning to piss him off, and he finally stopped a few yards away from the woman, mistrustful glare easily readable on his face as he slid his free hand into his jacket pocket to thumb at the flask of holy water nestled in there.

"You know, you look pretty alive for a chick that was supposed to be hellhound chow..." he told her before lifting his brows in her direction.   

"What happened? Hell get tired of your crap too and give you the boot or somethin?" Actually, that was pretty plausible, now that he thought about it. Bela Talbot was the type of person that could make even Ghandi want to choke her out, so maybe she'd managed to drive her resident demonic babysitter crazy too. Wouldn't be the most surprising thing he'd ever heard, by far. But then, there was still the other, more likely possibility too, and he had to ask...

"Or are you rocking the whole black smoke for intestines thing now?"

[amanwithareason-blog]

Knockin On Heaven's Door - Dean&Cas

[godforsakenangel-blog]

How long had it been since those green eyes had searched Castiel anywhere but in his dreams?  So many years – too many for him to comprehend.  Neither did he care, because here they were, drinking him in like an animal which has not seen water in days.  Never again had he expected to behold them for himself.  Never again had he expected to see Dean again at all, because surely the apocalypse would have killed him.  It was ruthless and uncaring, killing whatsoever was unfortunate enough to fail its tribulations.  He had witnessed for himself the deaths of demons, humans, vampires, werewolves, witches, shapeshifters, djinns, ghouls, rugarus all, and even his own brothers.  The killing blow had been delivered by him more times than he cared to count at this point, but it did not matter – who killed who was mere trivia in the post-apocalyptic wastes.  Everyone had killed someone, or else had died.  There was no way, he had once thought, that the Winchesters could still be alive in such a crude and bloodthirsty world.

He should have known better.

Who was sturdier than these boys?  What they lacked in hope they more than made up for with sheer determination.  They did not give up, never accepted an answer they did not like or approve.  They stood up for their own beliefs, defying fate and all who stood in their way with heads held high.  There was no regret or turning back when they intervened.  They had nothing to lose but each other, and consequently held each other closer and more dearly than anything else.  With their lack of weakness, there were few more dangerous than them.  Certainly, their relationship had seen its share of stress, and there had been times when it seemed they would never be able to repair the damage.  Particularly, after Lucifer balked at the final Stull encounter, the brothers’ differing opinions had cut a rift so deep that they had turned their backs on one another for what would seem the last time.  Castiel had assumed that they had died such – alone, apart from one another.  It had been a discouraging thought that only evoked helpless anger in the angel when he thought back.  How could they possibly have been so stupid as to let their important relationship fall to ruins to easily?  It should have been their undoing.

Yet, they were here.  Here, after reuniting once again, secured in the snug little town of Tofte with a powerful, unyielding barrier protecting them – together, alive, and safe.  Not for the first time, they had defied all odds, and the news effectively tore the ground out from under Castiel’s feet.  He had not been expecting it, but nothing could have made him happier.  If the impact of this news and Dean’s impromptu visit had not shocked him into a state of immobile astonishment, he might have even smiled.  As it was, all he could do was return Dean’s stare.  His mouth might have been ajar, but he did not notice.

Before he could pull himself together, before he could think of a proper way to react, Dean was moving closer. Castiel felt his body reacting, staggering forward to meet him, as if of its own accord.  Then Dean’s arms were around him, pulling his body against his in the most secure hug Castiel could ever remember receiving.  If Dean’s relief was clear on his face, it was nothing compared to the raw emotion emanating from him now.  Castiel could almost feel it pouring from Dean’s body, driving away the weary tension that had settled within Castiel’s bones and replacing it with some kind of warmth.  It took a moment, but the angel slowly leaned into the embrace and looped his arms around Dean to return the gesture.  He grasped the hunter’s shirt tightly, afraid to let go, afraid should he see him disappear.

Maybe Castiel should have been wary of the possibility of a Dean impersonator.  Certainly, this seemed too good to be true; mimicking what had been but dreams, which fled as quickly as the dawning of consciousness that was their bane.  Maybe this was just another such dream, made to feel more real with his deep-seated longing for such a reality.  Everything from Dean’s green eyes to the unnerving tingling sensation in his body at passing through the barrier – from Sam’s first appearance to Castiel’s happenstance stumbling across the very same town – had a surreal quality that made this all seem simultaneously real and not real.  But it had been a long time since he had felt this good – safe, even – so he pushed the thought away, choosing to ignore it for just the instant.

Then, Dean withdrew and Castiel drew back, dropping his arms to his sides as he stood in the doorway, eyes moving restlessly over Dean to take in his form.  Whether it was the hands that moved to rest on his shoulders or the ardour of the moment, he felt somehow more whole than he had in years.  Maybe like everything was finally sliding back into place after the apocalypse had ripped his life to shreds and cast the pieces to scatter asunder in the wind.  Dream or not, something about the current situation felt right.  Here was Dean.  Here was this little town that had proved impeccable in a world still bleeding.  Sam and Dean were on speaking terms again.  Castiel was not so delusional as to think the current situation was perfect – nothing ever was, – but it was the closest he was going to get.

These thoughts were broken by Dean’s sudden question.  “Yes,” he replied immediately, wondering suddenly about why they were still outside in the first place.  ”It’s cold out here.”  Too cold to host such a reunion.  So he drew his eyes away from Dean as he turned to limp into the cabin.  Once in, he half-fell onto the sofa and latched his eyes back onto the hunter, watching him closely, curiously, as if looking away for even a moment would cause him to disappear.

A heavy silence had settled in the air, but was finally broken as Castiel found his words again.  When he spoke, his voice was a notch lower than even usual, almost a whisper, hoarse with the fatigue that still clung to him.  “Dean, it’s been a long time since we’ve spoken,” he began, “and longer since we’ve seen each other.  I don’t really understand how it is you’re still alive… but it doesn’t matter.  The important thing is that you are.”  He paused, letting the words sink in as he thought about how best to proceed.  ”How is it you happened upon this place?  How long… have you been here?”

[amanwithareason-blog]

In the decade that had passed since the would-be showdown at Stull, Dean had experienced a few transitions in how he approached his existence. He'd gone from determined yet cautious while trying to track down his brother to solitary and downright reckless once contact with their friends had been cut off--steering clear of all outposts aside from old hunter cabins, tackling each and every hunt with absolute abandon as far as his sense of well-being went. It wasn't until he'd wandered across Ric running his ass off from a wendigo that Dean had found any sort of middle ground between those two vastly different personality facets again, but through it all, one thing that had never changed about the older Winchester was that he did not, under any circumstances, believe in miracles. Honestly, depending on the day, it was a coin toss as to whether or not he still believed in good things happening at all. Even still, while he was definitely relieved to see Cas again, as alive and well as anyone could hope to find someone they cared about in the world today, once the shock had worn off a bit, Dean also found himself harboring some strongly-seated suspicions as to whether or not anything happening to him at the moment was real. In his experience, things that seemed too good to be true usually were, and if anything belonged in that column, it was finding out that yet another person he cared about had somehow beaten the odds and survived long enough to cross his path once more.

Then again, Dean did have to admit that most of the people they considered friends and family were some of the hardest, most stubborn people around, and far and away some of the most well prepared for a religious apocalypse, but still. People were taken from them--not delivered to them safe and relatively unharmed. That wasn't a song he was familiar with, so naturally, almost every instinct he possessed was raising its shackles. But for as impossible as it seemed that Cas would be standing in the doorway of a cabin smack dab in the middle of their town, nothing was any brighter or more vivid than usual, like they would be in a dream. His surroundings felt just as tangible as they always had, from the chilling winter winds to the feel of fabric against his fingertips as he held fast in the hug. There were no ghostly images haunting this reunion, serving as a warning that he was slowly and surely being killed by a djinn somewhere. In fact, there were no strange happenings at all to signify that he was anywhere but firmly planted in reality--albeit a rather unfamiliar take on it, where good things apparently happened to them all of a sudden.

So was it real? Maybe, although Dean still wasn't ready to bet the house quite yet. But he was sure of one thing, at least; dreaming or not, Cas was standing in front of him, inviting him inside, and it was too damn cold to stay where he was. So when the angel moved into the room in a pained limp, the hunter followed suit and then shut the door against the wind behind him with a soft click, his own eyes hardly leaving the other man as they scrutinized his every movement. What exactly he was looking for though, he wasn't sure. Some kind of sign that all was not as it seemed, maybe? Something to give this whole situation away as anything but an exhausted yet happy reunion? 

"Yeah, you're tellin me," he agreed, once the silence between them was finally broken by the angel's observations. It felt like decades had passed since the last time he'd heard a peep from Cas, lifetimes since they'd seen each other, and like the other man, Dean was more or less dumbstruck over the mere fact that his friend was alive, to say nothing of the guy ending up here of all places. In spite of his awe in the moment, however, a number of questions were already welling on the tip of his own tongue--everything from what happened to the former angel after they last talked to how he had wound up in Tofte, and whether or not there were any other angels still lurking about in the landscape, or if any of them knew anything about what had finally happened to Michael or Lucifer or God. However, Cas managed to beat him to the punch when it came to starting the interrogation process, and the hunter finally stepped away from the door, moving to take a seat in an armchair near the sofa, his fingers interlocking as his hands clasped together and fell between his parted knees before he turned his head in the other man's direction.

"'Bout two years now. Ric... I dunno if you've met him yet, but uh... I saved his ass from a wendigo a couple'a years back, and he told me about the place. Kind of a thank you, I guess." At that, Dean lifted his shoulders in a shrug. Truthfully, he had no idea why Ric had divulged the information about Tofte that night. It wasn't like they went around bragging about the place to outsiders, only bringing back survivors from supply runs when they managed to wander across one or two who didn't try to kill them for their shirts on their backs. No doubt word had traveled around a bit, or they wouldn't have people still wandering to the town gates of their own accord. Overall though, stories about the town were pretty hush hush as far as he knew, and they mostly preferred to keep it that way. But whatever the other hunter's reason for telling him about the place though, Dean definitely wasn't complaining. The little village was hardly the French Riviera, but it was a damn sight better than any place else that was still left on the map. Ample natural resources in the area, buildings that weren't burned out or collapsed, usable infrastructure, people who were willing to pitch in, land for farming... not to mention their supernatural electric fence. Really, if he didn't know any better, he'd say the place was truly paradise on Earth--the last outpost where the righteous and the pure of heart were meant to start rebuilding and reclaiming what was once theirs.

Unfortunately, he did know better, and though they didn't really discuss it outside of each other, it was safe to say that neither Winchester brother thought that the apocalypse was truly finished. Lucifer was still out there--that, they were sure of. Biding his time in Hell, or wandering the Earth somewhere, or... something. But not dead. Michael was another story, but that one didn't matter nearly as much to Dean. It was the Devil that had pieces of Sam fueling his backup vessel, and that made finding him and ripping out each and every part he'd taken from his brother a personal vendetta for Dean. And then, of course, there was also the mystery as to what exactly was behind the force that guarded their little town. For now, it had been trustworthy enough, but that didn't make figuring out what was causing its existence any less of a priority. According to the residents of the town who were around prior to the apocalypse, it had just shown up one New Years--no doubt the night of the battle between Michael and Lucifer--and had killed off about half the town since. Another dozen or so had left of their own accord, purely because they were understandably freaked out, but the rest had stayed behind though, more afraid of what was beyond their border of safety than they were of whatever the cause of the protective shield was. Whether that ignorance was the smartest course of action, Dean didn't know. But that was exactly what they meant to find out.

"Finally found Sam six months later, and he's been with me here ever since," he added, in case his brother hadn't already gone over his time at Tofte with the angel. Of course, their story was not nearly as pressing to the hunter at the moment as Cas' own was, so before the other man could launch anymore at him, Dean took the opportunity to fire off a few of his own. "What about you? Where the hell have you been, man? How'd you find this place?" Considering we thought you were dead, but he bit the words back and instead, leveled another concerned look on the angel. "Are you okay?"

[sweetfarsam]

Lost and found | Sam and Dean [WLS past, pre-Tofte]

[sweetfarsam]

Sam flinched just as much at the sudden outburst as he had at the poke to his scar, taking a quick step back as Dean surged to his feet, suddenly a wall of ferocious energy to Sam’s slightly faltering confession. 

So soon?

He didn’t doubt that Dean would have found out at some point, and that the explosion would have happened at some point.  But it was too soon.  Too many memories of their last argument flooding back.  Vicious words shouted in anger.  Things said that weren’t retractable or redeemable at the time.  One exhausted (that’s what you get when an archangel decides to vamoose -no pun intended - in a hurry) but determined (stubborn, stupid and not thinking clearly at all) younger brother.  One scared (half beaten to death, and witness to what was very nearly the end of Sam) and protective (‘watch out for Sammy’) older brother.  It had been a mess.  The whole thing.  And wish as he had that he could have made things different after the fact - hindsight was a beautiful thing - he couldn’t.  And it had been too late by then.  The world was cracking around them both.  Chaos ensued and Sam had done too good a job at hiding himself from Dean, that he really had no idea where the hell to even begin looking for his brother.  And then weeks had become months, had become years, had become just shy of a decade…

And it had taken less than ten hours for them to be back at it again.

And you didn’t tell me!?

“No.” 

The word slipped free quietly, Sam’s eyes dropping from the sight of his brother, pacing back and forth like some kind of caged animal.  It was obviously redundant, but he was coming clean - again - not exactly the same as last time though.  What had happened this time wasn’t exactly by choice.  Wasn’t something he could have prevented once the concession had been given.  Strange… Sam had dealt with it well enough up till now - for the most part, as long as he got enough rest.  And when it had happened, wrenching and snapping of bone through flesh, he’d grit his teeth, howling inside his own mind at the pain - but there hadn’t been the slightest flicker, not a glimpse of snatching back control.  Not until the archangel laid hands on his brother.  Then it had made all the difference in the world. 

Pure rage. 

A fight. 

Sam could deal with anything the world wanted to throw at him, as long as Dean was okay.  

“I would have told you.  If…”  If I’d had a chance to think.  To calm down.  If I hadn’t gone racing off on a fucking fools errand that proved to be nothing more than a wild goose chase.  And I’ve been playing catch-up ever since.  Chasing my damn tail most days, dredging from one shithole to the next.  Looking for any sign… Well… Of you.

“I would have told you.”  He repeated, this time with more confidence, but without the snap of anger that would have normally accompanied a response to the raised volume from Dean.  Chin raising as he took in the slightly frantic appearance of his brother, wondering just how far this was going to go. 

Sam had developed… Patience.  Finally.  He’d had to.  Getting frustrated about anything and everything to begin with, his blood boiled and he flipped out at the smallest thing - back then.  Now though?  Older - not necessarily wiser - but a hell of a lot more controlled.  Getting angry just meant that his already limited energy reserves ran down quicker.  Meant that he was tired earlier, faster.  And tired meant sloppy.  Sloppy meant dead.

He was almost surprised when Dean’s own anger seemed to die down into what looked - to him anyway - like frustrated resignation.  Probably wanting another blow out as much as Sam did - i.e. Not at all.

“There’s nothing either of us could have done about it anyway.” 

If Sam had been a mind reader, then Dean’s thoughts would have echoed his own.  He’d gone over the same thing hundreds, thousands of times.  And he could only guess at what kind of ‘ties that bind’ the action had caused.  He’d put the tiredness down to that and that alone.  It hadn’t happened before, and there was nothing else he could attribute to the daily drain.  And honestly?  If he’d thought that slitting his own throat would somehow cause Satan to flash out of existence on the other end of this sick little connection, he’d have done it years ago.  But there was no certainty there.  No guarantee.  Only the nagging persistent ‘presence’ that made him think that Lucifer wasn’t ‘down and out’ just yet.  Maybe biding his time somewhere… Sam had no idea.  But he wasn’t about to risk it in case he was wrong.  And that would be one mistake he’d be unlikely to rectify.

We need to get you out of here.

“Dean…”  Sam attempted to reason, “…No one knows about this except you.”  And Lucifer.  “It’s not exactly something I go around bragging about, y’know?  Hell, I haven’t even told anyone my last name in years…”  Not so many people knew why the world turned to shit.  But those that did would know that the name ‘Winchester’ was in the thick of it when it had all kicked off.  The catalyst.  The triggers.  The ones who opened Satan’s lock-box in the first place.  And if anyone was still left these days, ready for anything, stocked up and good to roll on into the apocalypse - it was the hunters.  Most of whom would probably be of the same opinion as Roy and Walt - remove the risk by removing the problem.  Namely, them.

Because if Lucifer’s still kickin around out there…

“He is.” Sam’s reply was quick.  Shooting out as soon as Dean took a breath.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he was pretty fucking convinced of that fact.  “No, I haven’t seen him.  The trail’s been cold and deader than shit since Stull.  But I know he’s still here.  Somewhere.”

“Look, I get it okay?  I really do.  It’s on my mind every goddamn day - believe me.  But I’ve made it this far, and I’m not exactly a damsel in distress here, man.  I’ve been careful.  Like I said, no one knows.”  Even the witch who’d performed the ritual hadn’t walked out of the room alive.  Once she had all the ‘pieces’ she needed, it was a quick flick of his wrist, her head jerking sharply to one side with a sickening crunch, and the body had dropped like a stone.  Lifeless.  He could remember how it felt.  That cold consciousness not even considering the life that was taken.  Using his hands to throw power around and murder without conscience - without repercussion.  Not that Sam would have likely let her live either.  The magics that were worked were blacker and more perverse than any he’d ever witnessed - and coming from a Winchester?  That was saying something.  But at least there’d have been something there.  Some kind of feeling.  Maybe not remorse, but something.

“A town?” He asked, brow arching up in interest.  Sam had skirted round most towns, knowing most of them would be wrecks, deserted or riddled with creatures laying in wait for the next warm blooded thing to wander in and snack on.

Supernatural force… Keeps all the evil sonuva bitches out.

Oh.

Well, that sucked.  The first thing that flared into Sam’s mind was that ever dormant drop of blood, just nestled, waiting… It was hardly going to go unnoticed by some kind of mind reading ‘anti-evil-radar’.  And he had to admit - he’d been tempted.  Not so much by the blood itself, but by the fact that it was something that might be able to counter the tiredness.  Might give him enough strength to at least function ‘normally’ instead of dragging his damn feet.  He hadn’t though.  Knew too well where that kid of thing led.  A downward spiral that was completely uncontrollable, no matter how much he might try to persuade himself otherwise. 

The spark of hope that had glimmered momentarily in Sam’s eyes dulled just as quickly.

“Sounds… Great!?”  Pathetic.  Sam couldn’t even force any kind of enthusiasm into his tone.  He’d go though.  He’d take the chance.  because what else did he have?  Nada.  He’d go because that’s where Dean was.  And no matter how much they clashed - had clashed - probably would still continue to, Sam was just one half of a duo that hadn’t been able to function with the loss of the other.  Not properly anyway.  He kept his doubts to himself for now.  There was no harm in trying, right?

So he just did as he was asked, picking up the few belongings that were out of his pack and stuffing them inside along with a few of the cans.  Because right now?  He’d kinda lost his appetite.  “We can get a few miles in before breakfast.”  He said, shouldering the pack and looping his jacket through one of the straps, “There’s a freshwater stream about a mile and a half north east too, so if you wanna head that way, we can at least top up and wash before setting off proper?”

[amanwithareason-blog]

There's nothing either of us could've done about it anyway.

And more than anything else so far... more than finding out Sam hadn't told him, more than finding out Lucifer had hijacked pieces of his little brother, those were the words that sliced to the bone. Not for nothing was his self-worth a little shaky at the best of times, and non-existent at the worst, because the way Dean saw it, the blood that stained his hands was just as much a mark of his failures as it was his successes. Family, friends... people they didn't even really know, but hadn't managed to save either... all of them were embedded into the lines and cracks and splits in his skin as much, if not more so than all of the other people and creatures he'd slain in the name of justice. Of doing the right thing. Because somewhere along the way, his fierce need to protect people had shifted--expanded outward from his blood family to those that stood beside them through thick and thin. To those who'd been taken too early because he wasn't fast enough, strong enough, smart enough to get the job done before someone got hurt. And when it came to the people he had let down, he made it a point to carry them with him, their ghosts settling in as a cold weight on his shoulders and whispering words of reminder that it was his fault they were gone.

Most of the time, he muddled through. Managed to keep the facade of strength held up with pillars built by his silence. But Sam was different. Always had been, always would be, and to anyone who thought otherwise, the brief look that flashed across Dean's face at the words would've been more than enough to set them straight.

"Yeah. Right," he said finally, the agreement falling from him halfheartedly, because it simply wasn't true. There was always something that could've been done... always a choice, and no matter which way the older Winchester tried to slice it, there was no getting around the fact that it had been his choices that led to this. Him selling his soul. Him kicking over the first domino that set the apocalypse in motion. Him not saying yes to Michael. Him agreeing to Sam's plan to shove the Devil back in his box. However tangled that web was with fate and destiny and Sam's choices as well, the fact of the matter was that his actions (or inaction, depending on circumstances) were the sole reason his brother was now walking around with an emphatic and possibly deadly connection to Lucifer himself.

Another instance of his failure to protect. More blood on his hands...

Dean wondered if they'd ever truly come clean again. 

Of course, these were all things he kept to himself. The last thing he wanted was to dump his crap on Sam's shoulders, because it wasn't as if he thought for a moment his little brother was walking around without a heavily weighted conscience of his own. The boy with the demon blood... Ever since Sam had found out what had really happened that night in his nursery when he was kidnapped by Azazel and dumped off in Cold Oak, things had been different... though if Dean was honest with himself about it, he knew his brother's own brand of self-blame had started long before that. First Jessica, then Max Miller... Ansem and Andy... Dean's confession about their dad's dying words to him... all of it seemed to have taken shape in Sam's mind, convincing the guy that he was harboring some dark, sinister evil just beneath the surface. And as much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, there'd been times over the years where Dean wasn't so sure that was not exactly the case.

But whatever the blood pumping through Sam's veins said to the contrary, Dean knew his brother. Knew him better than anyone else on the planet, and Sam was no monster. He wasn't some abomination before God, or the Devil's bitch. He wasn't Hell's boy king, destined to lead a demon army. Whatever evil he'd been tainted with as a baby, his soul or whatever was still practically as pure as the fallen snow, and though it had taken Dean a long time to realize it, whatever mistakes Sam had made, he'd always made them his way, and with the best intentions at heart.

And that was what made all the difference. If not for everyone else, then definitely for Dean, and if anyone had something different to say about it now, they'd have to go through him first before they even so much as breathed in his little brother's direction. 

Not that his opinion about Sam seemed to ever make much of a difference when it came to changing the guy's own perception of himself, and apparently, eight years had done nothing to fix that if the way curiosity gave out to completely lackluster enthusiasm over the mention of town was any indication. It took Dean a moment to put the pieces together in his mind, but finally, he realized that his words about the barrier that protected the town weeding out those who were inherently evil had made a beeline for and dug right into all of that self-hate his little brother possessed. Sam didn't need to voice his doubts at all for the older brother to pick up on them, and obviously had no plan on doing so anyway as he dutifully did as he was asked, packing up his things and a few cans of food from the crates, but Dean? Well, he was not about to let it go that easily.

And no, he didn't want to fight. Not about their last fight, or about Lucifer--who it seemed Sam was as sure of being alive as the other Winchester was--or about how much anyone else knew about Sam's new tie to the Devil, because none of that would matter the moment he got Sam through that barrier. They'd be together again, and safe. Protected, just like everyone else. Able to rest their heads easily without having to keep a gun under their mattresses (although Dean still did, as a force of habit). But this? This talk, or argument, or knock-out, drag down of a fight--whatever it turned out to be--was almost fifteen goddamn years in the making, and no matter how much he really didn't want to hash it out with Sam not even ten hours after they were reunited for the first time in almost a decade, this was something he was willing to fight about. 

"Goddammit, Sam, knock it off!" he snapped, turning away from the door to face his brother again, green eyes leveling on hazel, blazing with their resolute determination. "Look, I know what you're thinking. And I don't give a rat's ass what Azazel did to your blood, or that Lucifer decided you were gonna be his favorite prom tux... you're not evil, Sam. You hear me? Whatever screwed up destiny we had or have..." Because even though the apocalypse had come down, Dean wasn't anywhere near stupid enough to think that their part in it was over quite yet, "It doesn't change who we are, alright? For fuck's sake, you're the kid who cried when I accidentally stepped on a lightning bug. You were gonna throw yourself into freakin Hell to save the goddamn planet! I mean, if I--" 

But he didn't finish the thought. Couldn't. It wasn't but six months ago that Dean was in nearly the exact same position his brother was. Wondering. Hesitant. Doubtful that he'd get through the barrier at all. After what he'd done in Hell, it wouldn't have surprised him in the least if he'd been struck down on the spot, nothing but his smoking boots to signify he'd ever tried to make it through. But that hadn't been the case, and Dean knew that if he could pass through unharmed, then there was no fucking way Sam wasn't making it into town. Rather than put any of that to words though, he quickly changed directions, chin tilting a little higher, a little more confident as he spoke. 

"You're getting through that barrier, you got me? And then it'll be me and you, man. No more shacking up in these shit holes, no more looking for each other... You'll be safe, Sam. We'll be safe," he added after a beat. "Freakin comfortable, even. I mean, there's cabins, and a mess hall... hell, we're even working on getting running water into the place. Think about it, Sammy... when was the last time you had an actual shower? Food that wasn't a fucking five year old can of peaches? A real bed to sleep in?" And yeah, he knew he was making the place sound like a Jamaican resort getaway, but in the current landscape, that's almost exactly what it was, so him talking the place up was completely warranted. And it wasn't like he was doing it to tease Sam, because the guy was getting in. One way or another, Dean would make damn sure of it. And then maybe... finally, they could put this whole issue to rest. 

Not that he was holding his breath for that one.

"So quit worrying, and come on," he told him. "We're wasting daylight." And with that, he finally yanked the door to the cabin open and made his way outside, carefully stepping over the tripwire strung between the trees near the spot he'd tied Brigid off at. The animal had already gotten a head start on breakfast apparently, and was indulging in some of the nearby grass she'd unearthed before she lifted her head, snorting out a greeting as he reached up to stroke her neck. Feeling some of his frustration ease out as he pet her rich black coat, Dean managed a small smile at the horse, and glanced back at the doorway to the cabin before he looked at the animal again, fingers still scratching her neck lightly. "Mornin, sweetheart. Gonna take it easy on you today. Pretty sure our passenger ain't as fast as he used to be, but be nice, okay? Been lookin for him for a while, and I don't want you scarin him off by kickin him." And though he was no horse whisperer, he took her soft whinny as a sign of agreement to the terms and grinned, patting her gently. "That's my girl," he said, untying her before he shifted his duffle, and lifted on foot into the stirrup of her saddle, slinging his other leg over with ease as he called out, "C'mon Sam, shag ass. I'm not gettin any younger dude!"  

[alaricsaltzmanalterego]

Rocky, Bullwinkle and the other one | Ric, Sam, Dean

[alaricsaltzmanalterego]

Alaric knew better than to stand directly in front of the door after waking the Winchesters in the middle of the night. He’d taken a few steps back and to the side to avoid any possible weapon pointed at him once the door was opened—he did know them well enough to anticipate their reactions. So when the machete was the first thing he could see before the man attached to it more or less tumbled out of the cabin, Alaric didn’t even flinch. Much.

“Mind taking that down?” He stayed where he was, indicating the weapon with a nod as he watched Sam scanning the quiet street behind him. Just like he would have done had the situation been reversed.

“I need a place to stay for the night—“ He trailed off when Dean’s head appeared behind Sam’s shoulder. Dean was wearing the same worried/alarmed frown Sam had only a second ago, scanning first Alaric, then the street behind him warily. It was almost like having a déjà vu, both brothers reacting—looking the same with only a few seconds delay.

“—because my roof caved in,” Alaric continued, eyebrows coming up when Dean simply turned and disappeared after threatening to kick his ass. Unless somebody’s dying?!

“I almost did,” he all but called after the older brother, voice switching to a rather annoyed tone, before he turned back to Sam. “Support beam came down and would have crushed me if the snow had not tried to bury me alive first.”

Maybe it was the fact that he’d been pulled out of a deep sleep. Maybe it still was the shock of just barely escaping a serious injury—or worse. Or maybe it was the wind that was creeping down his back or a combination of everything, he didn’t know. He didn’t actually care. But he was getting grumpier by the second and he really just wanted to get inside and get out of the ice-blocks that were his shoes. Giving Sam the best glare he was currently capable of, he took a step closer to the door while gesturing to the backpack he’d slung over his shoulder.

“This is not a drill. I’m cold. I’m tired. My house just tried to kill me and I don’t feel my toes anymore. I promise I’m not a shapeshifter, I just want to get out of the cold.”

He was beginning to think that maybe walking over to the church/clinic might have been the better idea. At least they had beds there and it was warm inside. As warm as you could get a church, which was definitely a lot warmer than this. But it was at the other end of the town and he was just too tired for another walk through the snow. Also, they were his friends, just how hard could it be to get them to let him in already?

Right on cue, Dean’s face appeared next to Sam’s shoulder again and Alaric gave him a somewhat forced smile.

“Look, I apologize for dragging you out of your beds like this, but I wouldn’t have come here if I had a place to stay for the night. Can we please continue this inside?”

[sweetfarsam]

“You do?”  Sam asked, his voice still a slight sleepy drawl.  But he did as he was asked and lowered the weapon, pausing for a moment before deciding that nothing required imminent dismemberment or beheading,  reaching out to one side to prop the long blade just inside the door frame.

“It did?”  He blinked, then shot a look over his shoulder as his brother grumbled, threatened, and wandered off. 

“You did?”  Okay, Sam was going to have to engage his brain at some point, because all of this was getting them nowhere and as Dean came back from his room, Sam stepped out the way of the door.  He was almost as big as the opening itself, and Ric would have a pretty hard time walking through it if he just stood there asking stupid questions.

“Um… Yeah, yeah man, come in.”  And even with the door being open for just a minute, enough heat hat leeched out, or cold in, that the main room of the cabin was now freezing.  And since that’s where the couch was, Ric would hardly be much warmer in here than he would’ve been in his ‘roofless’ snow bound cabin.  So he padded away from the freezing air, bare feet starting to feel a little numb and went to poke at the dying embers in the brazier.  A solid, cast iron old wood burner, thick chimney winding it’s way up and out of the wall to purge the place of smoke, but it still lent the scent of burning pine and ash to the room when Sam tugged open the door and gave the lightly glowing remnants a jab with the poker.

“You okay?”  He asked, lifting his gaze back to Ric, eyes flicking over the other man as he fumbled with a few pieces of dried wood, stacked just to one side of the burner.  He looked okay.  He looked like he’d just been dragged through a wet hedge backwards.  But there was no blood - which was always a good start.  “Need to go over to the infirmary to get checked out, or…?”  He shrugged and tossed more wood into the flickering flames, satisfied that there was still enough heat for them to catch.  Pine was ‘sappy’ and sticky and tricky to burn sometimes, but the pieces in the cabin had been dried properly, so he flipped the little grilled door shut and stood up, stretching a little as he did so (glancing down for just a moment, his nose wrinkled slightly… he hated the burner.  The grill on the front reminded him of Bobby’s panic room.  The hatch in the door.  The same thick iron.  The reason he’d been in there.  Twice.  And in turn it reminded him of Bobby and the yard and the cars and the Impala and… The list went on…).

And just because Ric looked okay, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keel over any minute from some unseen injury.  Internal bleeding.  Broken bones.  Bruised ribs… The list went on.  And Sam had experienced pretty much all of them himself at some point or another - as had Dean.  None of which were a peach.  “Last thing we need is to wake up to a body on the couch in the morning.” Lips curled into a grin as he said it, but there was enough weight to his tone to lend to the seriousness of the comment, and yeah, Ric was gonna get some cracks over the coming days about being the abominable-snow-bookworm, probably a few comments about ‘bringing down the house’, and the inevitable ‘roof raising’ lame ass jokes or some shit, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t genuine concern threading through.

“And can we leave the ‘ass kicking’ till the morning?”  Sam looked back over at his brother, seeing pretty much the same pissed off expression Ric was wearing right now and sighed.  “Because it’s like, three o’clock, and anything after 4am officially counts as ‘tomorrow’ so you can scrap it out then.  Right now though, I’m freaking cold and dead on my feet.”

Sam didn’t look at Dean when he admitted to being tired.  Knowing there’d probably be one of those ‘pinched’ expressions that washed over his brother’s face whenever he caught Sam dozing or yawning.  Not that he was allowed to be ‘naturally’ tired now, Dean automatically putting it down to the discovery of what had happened way back when they’d been reunited at the old hunter’s cabin.

“Dry towels in the bathroom if you need to dry off.  And don’t leave your crap on the floor.  It is NOT a ‘floordrobe’.”  A pointed look at his brother then, and Sam tried his best to stifle a brewing yawn.  “You need anything else?”

[amanwithareason-blog]

Okay. So Ric's roof coming down on him and nearly crushing him to death was a pretty good reason for the late night (or early morning?) house call... Didn't make the older brother any less grumpy though. 

Still, as Sam moved out of the door frame to let Ric in, Dean did the same, stepping to the side and shutting the door behind their friend as Sam wandered off to deal with their woodstove, and Ric stepped inside, still looking as pissed as he himself surely did. Sure, his roof hadn't collapsed on him and buried him in snow, but a pounding that was loud enough to wake the dead on his cabin door in the middle of the friggin night did not exactly earn any points with Dean. Especially since he'd been happily in the middle of some vague reverie that involved a sunny, warm beach, and all of the bikini-clad girls to go along with it. Being forced out of bed to see the streets blanketed in heavy snow and his cabin full of half-asleep, pissed off, and fumbling dudes was like... an electric shock to his poor consciousness. Seriously, was a few hours of imagined fun in the sun too much to ask for?

Well, duh. Of course it was. Didn't mean reality checks weren't a bitch, though. 

While Sam was busy stoking their fire and fretting though, Dean's mental gears finally started to grind into functioning again, and he shot a smirk at Ric as he folded up his arms across his chest again. "Yeah, you're not gonna die on us before morning are you? 'Cuz stiffs on the couch aren't exactly Better Homes and Gardens material, man. Your corpse wouldn't match the decor..."

"And besides, how the fuck would we get the pyre to burn your ass goin with the wind out there? Last thing we need is your mug sticking around to haunt us, dude." And this time, his smirk was a little brighter, bordering on a grin before he was scrunching up his face at his brother, shooting Sam an eye roll to go with the disgruntled expression. "Whatever," he grumbled, "guy comes over here in the middle of the night hollerin when no one's dying, he deserves an ass-kicking..."

But he let the subject of Ric's loud arrival go in favor of looking put off by Sam's tiredness instead, briefly glaring at the spot on the guy's midsection where there was a prominent scar to mark where Lucifer had nabbed a piece of Sam for himself before he glanced up look at the other man warily. Not that it mattered much, since his brother was decidedly not acknowledging him at the moment, no doubt because he knew Dean's irritation with the whole matter. It wasn't like the older Winchester had made it much of a secret that he hated the fact the Devil was walking around with bits of his brother in him, or that it worried him as much as it pissed him off. Because if people found out about that tie between Sam and the archangel, or what it could possibly mean, then there was no telling what they'd do, and the last thing Dean wanted to deal with was capping a bunch of otherwise innocent people because they decided to come at Sam, lynch mob style. Because he would, no question about it.

When it became clear that the guy was not going to give into Dean's silent seething though, the older brother relented for the moment and took to forcing out another smirk instead as Sam brought up his habit of dropping his stuff wherever he damn well pleased. "Hey, old habits die hard, Sammy. Besides, no one says you gotta pick it up," he countered with a shrug. It wasn't like him being a slob was some kind of revelation or something, and the way he saw it, his brother should've been used to it by now. But finally, he turned his attention back toward Ric, giving him another smart-assed look. "Couch is all yours if you want it too, unless you wanna bunk with Sam. Just keep the sweet nothings to a whisper, alright? I don't need to hear all of your nerd-soulmate crap..."

[lightningsbeta-blog]

Hungry like the Wolf// Isaac, Dean

Isaac had always been an early riser. It was something his father drilled into him. Be up early to have breakfast on the table when he himself woke up. It was just something that stayed with him all these years. He learned to cook the same way, following recipies until that meal became almost second nature. It was because of his knowledge of food and cooking that he got the job he did in town. 

Every morning he would wake with the sun coming in his window, Get up and run a few miles before going home to feed the animals, shower and head to the mess hall to begin cooking for the people in Tofte. It wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, having to remember the allergies of over 50 people was difficult at times. But he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Some people were weary of him just because he was a werewolf, but they relied on him to feed them most days. 

He didn’t mind the stares and the whispers. They were all a part of being a werewolf in a post apocalyptic setting. People feared what they did not know and friendly werewolves were a new and exciting discovery.

It was just after 6:30 am when Isaac started the fires in the oven that he would be using for the day. The pile of wood had been replenished over the night, enough wood to cook for a week without running out. 

He set to work cleaning the oven from top to bottom then moved onto the stove and grill. Buy the time he was done with that, he could hear people beginning to stir in the town, so he began his morning processes. Coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for the kids to grab before heading to school for the morning. The snow on the ground made it a drab and cold morning, but it was business as usual for Isaac, the cold not affecting him as much as it would a human. But even still, he did have a sweater on and his old leather jacket was resting on the chair behind him. 

It was not long after the coffee began to percolate that he heard the familiar heart beat of an almost regular guest. It wasn’t everyday that he came in, normally another would come and get his breakfast for him. 

He grabbed the man’s mug from the shelf above his head and poured in the steaming coffee before setting it down on the table behind him, grabbing a few slices of bread from the loaf and setting them on the cooktop to toast a bit. 

He didn’t need to say anything as he heard Dean enter, the man was not a morning person. But Isaac was used to it. He just nodded in greeting before setting the mans toast in front of him and getting back to work, ready to begin feeding the people that would trickle in for breakfast.

[amanwithareason-blog]

What could he say? Dean liked sleep. And when he actually managed to get a few hours it where it wasn't broken up by nightmares, or someone banging on his door at ass o'clock in the morning? He loved it. Of course, his definition of sleep was no doubt quite a bit different than most, usually hovering in that grey area between dead to the world and at the ready consciousness. It was one part hunter instinct mixing with two parts overprotective older brother, leaving him always posed to be on his feet and armed within a few seconds of any sound he deemed a danger. Not to mention the fact that falling any deeper than that meant the nightmares would kick up, and his internal alarm clock had gotten pretty damn good at waking him before he had the chance to slip into that level of unconsciousness, thankfully. So for him, sleep more or less meant a couple hours to close his eyes and rest his body, indulge in some happy fantasy which was almost like dreaming, and reboot himself for whatever the next day would bring.

But even if he rarely made it into complete rest and relaxation, that didn't mean he liked being dragged out of his version of it. Especially not when his wake up call came courtesy of a pounding on the door at some stupid hour like it had earlier that morning. And Dean liked Ric... really, he did. In the almost three years they'd known each other, they'd reached a friendly level of animosity, and usually spent their time purposely doing things just to get under each other's skin for the sake of  their own entertainment, but it was always good natured. That said, banging on the door to the cabin he shared with Sam shortly after three in the morning, when both hunters were passed out after a long day, was not something Dean would put in the good natured column, no matter how good the reason for it was... Because yeah, your roof caving in was a pretty damn good reason to raise Hell on their doorstep, but still.

And since his attempts at going back to sleep once Ric was settled in on their couch had been futile, the older Winchester had been up ever since being roused. Puttering quietly around in the cabin as he picked up all of his crap (because Sam apparently did not agree with his coining of the term 'floordrobe', or the fact that the word meant a free pass for ditching his shit all over the place), staring at the walls in his room where maps were tacked up alongside copies of supply lists, making notes about new routes that had been discovered, or old ones that had been blocked off, organizing hunting parties from the list of available people... just generally killing time until the mess hall opened up for breakfast so he could go get some food, and hopefully a damn cup of coffee since Ric refused to share. Stingy bastard. 

Finally, somewhere around six o'click judging by the sun's position over the lake, he capped his pen and hit the shower in their cabin, figuring the icy water would wake him up a bit more than he already was. His usual string of curses left his mouth as it made contact with his skin, hissed out rather than yelled since Ric and Sam were still out cold, but by the time he was cleaned up, he was definitely more conscious than before, and made haste with the rest of getting ready in an effort to shake off the freezing temperature still clinging to him. Not that it made much of a difference once he was outside, the morning air bordering on freezing itself to go along with the thick blanket of snow from last night's storm coating the ground. And him and Sam were on the south edge of the cabin loop, closer to the gate and about half a mile farther from town than those on the north side of it, so by the time he had tromped his way into the mess hall, he was cold and sufficiently annoyed with the entire day already.

Pushing the door open, he trudged inside, tracking in the snow on his boots as he loudly shut up the mess hall door behind him. "There'd better be fucking coffee," he grumbled as his own version of hello to Isaac, their local cook, and resident werewolf. Supernatural creatures in Tofte were practically a dime a dozen, and while the hunter hated it in the beginning (and sincerely doubted the effectiveness of the 'Force' as it was known because of its admittance of things fanged and clawed), he'd begrudgingly agreed to playing nice for the sake of prosperity. As such, his attitude had nothing to do with what species their resident chef fell into, and everything to do with the crap sleep he had managed to scrimp and even crappier weather--which Isaac apparently gathered, not even attempting small talk as he set toast and a steaming mug in front of Dean while the hunter took his usual spot at the end of the counter after unzipping and shedding the hood on his M-65 jacket.

"Awesome."

More mumbling from him before he shoved some toast into his mouth and washed it down with the warm, glorious brew, but there was a thread of sincerity in the word. One upside to the apocalypse? Everything tasted a hell of a lot better. He'd never been one to buy into the whole hippie organic food tripe, but now that he didn't have a choice in the matter? He had to admit the tree huggers were onto something. All the processed bread in the world couldn't hold a candle to the home-baked kind, and while machines made brewing coffee easy, there was definitely something to be said about the strength of a hand brewer doing it. Or maybe the grounds had just sat so long that they'd gotten more pungent. Either way, the toast was delicious, the coffee was strong, and after a few minutes, Dean's mood was lifted tenfold--or, at least enough that conversation wasn't totally out of the question anymore. So after another sip from his mug, he set the cup down on the counter in front of him and briefly glanced around the still deserted mess hall before fixing his attention on his only company, watching with vague interest as Isaac worked.

"Slow morning. Snow's probably keeping people inside," he observed before the memory of Ric venturing out into the elements to crash on their couch instead came back to him, and pushed him right back into his grumbling. "Or they're all buried under their roofs..." 

[amanwithareason-blog]

Knockin On Heaven's Door - Dean&Cas

[godforsakenangel-blog]

There had been a time when Castiel could have cleaned his clothes as easily as he used to teleport.  Now, as he knelt in front of the wash basin, scrubbing blood and dirt and grime from his trench coat, he remembered those days fondly and wished, not for the first time, that he still retained at least some of his powers, like his brothers, who were just as cut off from Heaven as he was.  Yet, his brothers could still exorcise demons, and they could still teleport at will; though these tasks came harder to them now, they at least had them.  They had not fallen like Castiel had.  Now, though Castiel still called himself “angel” and called the others his brothers, he was hardly any different from any human.  Where once he would have been able to fend off the demons, vampires, and various other threats roaming the Earth as easily as swatting a mosquito, he now had to resort to weapons.  Where once he had needed no rest or food, his body now starved for it.  Even now, he was weary from his travels, desiring little else but to lie down on the bed and sleep for as long as he could.

So, as soon as he was satisfied with the state of his clothes, he did stagger forward to fall on the bed.  It was much softer than the ground, he was glad to note, and he was content to just lie there a while.  As he did, though, he could not help but look around once more at the nice little cabin he had been assigned.  It was nice, with a bed, furniture, a stove, a bath.  Functional was the word that came to mind.  Well-sustained, too.  Overall, he was impressed by the functionality of Tofte in general.  It was yet the last standing outpost, a headquarters of sorts, and protected by some greater force.  When he had first seen the town from afar, its buildings standing true and proud in a world that had long been overrun by destruction, he had felt hope for the first time in years.  Now that he was inside, getting settled into the environment, the feeling had only grown.  Here was a group of people who, despite everything falling apart around them, had held on to life.  It was amazing, what they had accomplished here.

Even more amazing was what Castiel had learned upon entering the town.  Yes, the sight of Tofte had lifted the angel’s spirits considerably, and he had felt the inklings of hope once more, but it paled in comparison to the surge of optimism that rose swiftly within him at the sight of Sam.  After not talking to either of the Winchesters for so many years, it was refreshing to see one of them once more, especially since he had long ago assumed them to be dead.  It was not too long after entering that he had learned that Dean, too, had come here.  Castiel had promptly requested to see the man right then, so that he may see his face once more and gauge how much the apocalypse had changed him, but he had been told that Dean was currently busy.  Very well.  Castiel could wait and, besides, travel had left him weary.  So he had been escorted here, to this cabin.  After the initial inspection of the place, he had decided that it was nice, functional, impressive in that it existed at all, and much to his liking.  This town, the people within it – they were something into which Castiel felt he could safely entrust his faith.  Unlike God, here it was.  Unlike God, it protected its people.

Then there came a loud knock at the door that startled Castiel out of his reverie.  He propped himself up on his hands and looked curiously to the door, wondering who could be bothering him.  He was not left to wonder for long, though, because shortly there bellowed a voice which made his heart give a little leap.  He rose to his feet then, drew the clothes he had left to hang over himself, and walked over to the door.  He grasped the knob in his hand and then turned it.  When the door came open, Castiel stood in its frame, staring at the man on his doorstep.

The name came swiftly to him, spoken in a tone that rose to reflect his wonder at seeing this man again after so long.  “Dean.”

[amanwithareason-blog]

There hadn't been much time between Sam delivering the news and Dean bolting out the door, but now that he was standing on the porch--Cas's porch--listening to the sounds of movement coming from within the cabin, he had a second to take stock of the situation. His brother would've gone through all of the standard tests--salt, holy water, silver--just to make sure it really was Cas, which meant that Dean wouldn't necessarily have to. Might, if fighting against the itch to make sure for himself proved useless, but knowing that it had already been taken care of made it a moot point for now. So the more pressing question in his head was that if Cas was alive, why hadn't he tried to find them? Hard as it would've been with the Enochian carved into their ribs, he could've... poofed or whatever as soon as he got word of this place, because if he and Sam were bound to be anywhere, it'd be with the remnants of humanity making their stand and their comeback. But then, maybe the angel hadn't known about the place until... well, now. Or maybe...

And then, he remembered.

Cas, mojoless even after Stull. And suddenly, it all made sense. They'd lost contact once telecommunications went out, and with the memories of what happened after his fight with Sam all sort of blending together in one long and vague account of those 8 years, the detail that the angel wasn't exactly an angel anymore had gotten lost in the fold. But now that it was coming back to him, Dean figured that without the ability to teleport himself from place to place quickly, Cas not being able to track them down wasn't as far fetched as he had initially thought.  

But before he could delve into thinking through all of the other points that realization brought to light, like how their friend had survived, and whether or not he had any clue about what had happened to Heaven after the big A finally did come down, the door opened, revealing the all too familiar face of their angelic partner in crime. Same dark hair, same unnervingly blue eyes leveling on him and it took Dean a few moments to do something other than stare back with a look of slightly overwhelming relief written on his face. It was similar to how he'd felt after seeing Sam for the first time in eight years... Although, maybe not quite as Earth shattering since Dean didn't have to worry about Lucifer snatching the guy up to wear him to the Apocalyptic prom... But either way, definitely intense enough to stun him into not moving as the reality that their friend was alive, and whole, and seemingly okay washed over him.

All at once though, his brain and body reengaged enough to move and form words, and he closed the gap between them as he spoke. "Christ, c'mere you sonuvabitch," he said, pulling the angel... former angel? into a hug. Dean was hardly aware of the dampness of Cas's clothes sinking into his own as he held on tightly for a few seconds, more interested in making sure he wasn't going to disappear like some exhaustion-induced hallucination, and his fingers clutched harder into the fabric beneath his hands for a moment just to make sure before he finally pulled back, palms sliding to his friend's shoulders instead while the hunter looked him over.

No life threatening injuries... at least nothing visible... and the guy had apparently taken the time to clean up as soon as he hit the cabin, if the faint trace of the lake water's scent clinging to Cas's not-quite-dry clothes was any indication. All of the distilling left in the world couldn't seem to get rid of it, but it was a clean smell--fresh and earthy, and over the last few years had become as familiar to him as the leather interior of his car, or the smell of gunpowder and motor oil. Homey, almost, and at any rate, it definitely beat the rank stench of death and decay that usually hung on people when they walked back into town, so he'd take it. But beyond Cas's lack of bodily harm and the freshly washed smell coming off him, Dean couldn't help but notice the look of sheer exhaustion written all over the guy's face. On that note, the angel looked even worse for wear than the hunter felt... but then, traveling in a post-apocalyptic landscape would do that to anyone.

So with the overall tiredness between them, and the icy air of the north Minnesota woods whipping in off the lake, Dean finally dropped his hands from Cas's shoulders and glanced around him into the cabin, which was radiating a warmth quite a few degrees more comfortable than it was on the porch. "You uh..." Gonna invite me in? he almost asked before realizing this was Cas he was talking about--the same Cas who had no concept of personal space, let alone other social graces. And sure, he could've just pushed his way through and walked in without being asked, but with the whole Love Thy Neighbor thing they had going on around the town, he figured setting some kind of example was probably his burden to bare, given that Sam and Ric were both infinitely more polite with the locals than he was. Half the residents thought Dean was the town asshole as it was... no need to make that perception any worse, so instead of shoving his way inside, the hunter cleared his throat and tried again. "Can I come in?"