Our Thing

SDP author's note

roxymissrose — Wed, 20 May 2026 22:53:34 GMT

So, May 25, 2015, I wrote a story about what happens after a slave is freed. At the time(2015), there were huge amounts of slave fic being written, and nearly all of them ended up with the abused slave falling in love with a master who had been in love with the slave all the time, the torture was just, y'know, stuff. Most of those fics pissed me off so bad. HOW could this person fall in love with the master who'd altered and ruined his entire life? How could he make excuses for him?

So I had to write a story. And then another and another and another, until here we are in 2026, and I'm writing the final story of this really, really long series. The story has changed tremendously since that first one-shot I wrote—the rest of the story became an AU of that. People change in 11 years, what can I say? Hell, I became a grandma during the course of this thing! To quote myself in 2023, "It's changed a lot since I started it--it was originally a question of what happens when you age and you're in a BDSM relationship, then became a protest against the idea that a romantic relationship can exist when one of the partners is a slave, to...I'm not sure what this is. But I love it, and I love this Jensen." And that's still true.

I loved building this world around the characters—if you've read other stuff by me you know I'm a sucker for that. I had fun writing in SPN characters and actors—even a few actors who have nothing to do with spn at all. Hello, Michael Ealy! Hello, Alan Cummings, hello, Michael Rosenbaum, and Eric Johnson! (and Lex Luthor). Jim Beaver's another one I love writing, whether as the actor or Bobby, and I decided to go against the grain with Mark Pellegrino, everyone's fav villain. There were a few other folks we know in the stories as well.

To all the folks who wanted Jared to die in a pool of his own blood, I'm sorry. To anyone who loved this kind-hearted, untouched by the evil around him, Jensen, I'm sorry. I'm satisfied with the ending all-in-all, and I hope those of you who have been slogging through the trenches with me are satisfied as well. Thank you, a million, million times to all who've read and commented on this journey. You have no idea how much your comments meant, and how you provided the fuel for me to keep on keeping on. I can honestly say without you, I would never have finished this. Bless you!

Thank you to candygramme who toiled right along with me, Thank you to fufaraw, who gently pushed me out the gate. Thanks and blessings on jj1564(rip❤️🌹 ) who encouraged me to not soft pedal, and firesign10 (rip❤️🌹) who always assured me I was doing fine, shut up and keep writing.
And hugs to meus_venator, who leaped in when I begged for art. Thank you, love!

I’m feeling odd, knowing that this story is done. there won’t be anymore but I’ll miss this innocent poor boy who tried so hard for everyone and all he ever truly wanted for himself was just a little peace.

This Small Dark Place

roxymissrose — Wed, 20 May 2026 16:43:29 GMT

All done! :D

And In The End: Epilogue

roxymissrose — Sun, 17 May 2026 00:53:57 GMT

art by meus_venator

Jensen startled awake at the sound of someone knocking gently on the door., calling out his name. "Jensen?"

"Yes," he croaked, rubbing the heel of his hand lightly at his eyes. Gods, he'd been sound asleep and hadn't even realized it. It took him another minute before he recognized the voice as Jared's—that brought him upright, fighting through the fog of sleep. Jared. That was odd. He very seldom came to Jensen's room, not unless it was something he considered an emergency, like Nurse retiring at last, or Lex once again finding his replacement insufficiently educated. Which was definitely a problem, at least for Lex. No one younger than himself had the kind of extensive and specific training that he'd had. Thank the gods…

The knock at his door changed into a tentative rap—one Jensen knew. It was the thrall knock, the signal he'd pretended, when he was young, meant something just between himself and Jared. Jensen huffed, a wry smile curving his mouth. Once again, he was unsure whether to be angry, or accept what Jared was trying to say with it, probably something along the line of, 'nothing is reserved for masters now, nothing forced on thralls, we're all one people now.' Something like Whitney's Michael loved to say. Jared certainly took the concept to heart. Personally, Jensen thought he was asking a lot of a knock on the door. The knock repeated, stronger this time. "Jensen?"

"Coming." Groaning, he set his hands on the arms of the chair he'd been curled up in and pushed. He rose stiffly to his feet, catching the book he'd attempted to read before it slid off his lap to the floor, and placed it on the side table. He glanced at the cold cup—two cold cups—of coffee sitting there as well; he'd have to remember to raise the heat on the electric fire, his bones ached like he'd been sleeping outside in a stable.

Opening the door to Jared, he was surprised to see he had a little roomgirl with him—no, he corrected himself, we call them maids now. Her hands were wrapped around the handles of a large, empty wicker basket, the type used on Fest days and meant for bonfires. Jensen stared at her, puzzled, and she graced Jensen with a bright smile. He couldn't help but smile back; the red-gold tint to her hair, her dark amber skin, the dash of freckles across her nose, shook loose a memory of a young Trinny. Grown now, of course, he wondered how she liked place she'd gone on to—well-paid head house keeper, running the home of some newly-rich businessman and his family. Bless Skirnir, what an interesting new world—

A polite cough startled Jensen out of his thoughts and reminded him of what he'd been doing. "Pardon me, please, come in, come in," he murmured and stepped back so that they could do just that.

Jared stepped in after the maid, hands deep in his pockets and looking everywhere but directly at Jensen. "Good afternoon, Jensen. I've come to collect—I mean, if there are items you have, from your time under my ownership, if you care to—to—" Jared stopped, straightening his shoulders from the curve they'd lately taken on. He lifted his chin in the way that meant 'I have something important to say' and Jensen looked up at him, his face in an expression of polite expectation.

"I've been reminded by a certain elderly, busybody spa manager to ask if you…there's a bonfire this Harvest day, kind of significant, symbolic. And well, maybe there are things, things," Jared stuttered, "you might want to. To burn. Like offering cards. In a way."

Jensen raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak. Instead, he marched over to his nightstand, opened the drawer there and pulled it out entirely. He held it over the girl's basket and emptied it, all of it: dried pots of makeup, cracked brushes, a small ivory box containing the last of the jewelry he never wore, a stainless steel plug; it all tumbled into the basket. Jensen frowned down at the steel plug. Why in the world had he kept that? Had he planned to crack walnuts with it? He heard a small gasp, more a strangled squeak. Looking at…Glory, right, he saw Glory was blandly, politely smiling at him, totally uninterested in what lay at the bottom of the basket. Jared on the other hand, was as red as if he'd just been slapped. And that reminded Jensen….

"Wait," he said and going to his closet, Jensen bent over a small crate on the closet floor. He swept a bit of the dust from the lid, opened and scooped up the ridiculous collection of straps and rings that he'd once been made to wear. He hefted them in his hand, feeling the weight of the leather, thin metal chains, the charms and rings; he crushed them into as small a ball as possible and threw them into the basket. He didn't risk a look Jared's way. A collection of silk and lace shorts went next—he'd not so much as glanced at them in decades and just lifting the gold-papered box they were in released a dusty, disused smell. Curiosity won out and he lifted the lid to glance inside; the silky paper they'd been wrapped in was yellow with age, though the red, purple, and black silks and laces were still vibrant. Into the basket they went. And then, a last box—plain cardboard, stained and warped. He lifted the lid and peered inside, his face twisting, and his tongue unconsciously going to the corners of his mouth. In the box, a custom made thing, a gift from Gerolt. Leather straps designed to go over his head and a bit that went between his teeth. Just looking at it, Jensen could taste blood in the back of his mouth; years and years had gone by, but never enough years to forget the feel of metal grating against his tongue. He closed the lid carefully, mindful of his shaking hands. Of all things to keep…

Jensen thought maybe this was why he kept all these horrors, maybe a part of his mind was still trained to need permission to get rid of these things.

"Four Gods…" Jared's face twisted as he looked at the box, muttering, "Here, give it to me." He gently coaxed the old box from Jensen's shaking hands. Jared stepped back, his hands gripping the box so tightly, the cover warped, but he laid it carefully, so there was no chance of the lid popping open, into the basket. For a long moment, he stood staring down into the basket, before taking it from the young girl. "Tell you what, Glory, why don't go do whatever you'd normally do at this time," he said, and her face lit up.
"Ooh, lovely! Break time it is!" She dashed away without a second thought, skirts flying around her legs as she ran. Jensen watched her run off without thought for either of them and shook his head. Gods, all these years and he was still struggling to live in this different world. He winced, thinking just how different this girl's life must be, how her concerns, Thank All Four, would never be anything like his had been.

Jared stared at him for a moment, before saying, "Jensen. I'm going to ask Ms. Ferris to send you up a sandwich and something healthy to drink. I can bet you haven't eaten today. Let me guess…just coffee?"
"I certainly have had something other than coffee, Jared. I had…I had…well, something. I'm sure."

Jared snorted and walked away, leaving Jensen to wonder just what he had eaten this day, and how little what he'd thrown in the basket meant to him. Except for the small, plain cardboard box. Gods, he was so, so tired.

* * *
The next evening, he watched as his Alan and one of the…not trayboys, they were all simply kitchen staff now…approached the pile of wood and discarded bits and pieces that had once been part of someone's life. He and Jared stood aside as old William lit the fire. The flames caught, and the bonfire roared. As Alan took the basket from Jared, about to throw it whole into the flames, Jensen stopped him.

"Let me please?" he asked, and removed the age-stained, cardboard box that held the bridle. He held it up, staring at it, remembering, wishing that it was the man instead of the box that represented him. With all his strength, he dashed it into the flames. "Skadi tear your eyes out, I hope you are getting fucked raw by direwolves as we speak," he shouted. Alan snorted in surprise; his eyes were wide, his cheeks went red from the effort of smothering a laugh. Jensen knew how shocked his boy must be—after all, he'd rarely heard Jensen actually curse growing up, let alone raise his voice. Jensen smiled in satisfaction as the lid caught and the metal began to warp.

Jared shifted at his side, and Jensen knew that he was well aware of whom Jensen was speaking—fucking Gerolt, the pig. Jared laughed softly, a laugh that broke while he tried to be surreptitious about wiping tears away. "I'm so fuckin' sorry," he whispered, but Jensen pretended he hadn't heard. Instead, he silently watched it all burn. The fires crackled, burning it all to ash as the flames rose higher and higher into the night. The children sang their harvest songs and their laughter filled the air.

* * *
There must be something in the air besides spring, Jensen thought. After that fire, he began to be gently accosted by Jared, at various times, in various places. He'd come across him in the herb garden, or he'd cross Jensen's path on the way to his classroom or the tech shop. It was always a polite smile, a courteous nod, and a careful distance between them, always. He delivered through Alan, or Lex, even occasionally Ms. Ferris, invitation after invitation to take breakfast, or lunch, or dinner with Jared, until finally, greatly irritated, Jensen decided one night to accept dinner, and hoped that would be the end of it.

It was nice, very quiet, dignified. Reserved, with an acceptable distance between them, until somewhere between soup and main course, Jared choked out, "Will you never forgive me, not even an inch, do you plan to hate me even for the short time we have left in this world?"

Yes, Jensen thought, yes, yes, forever, but what he said was, "What do you want of me, Jared? Do you want me to claim I don't remember a hundred rapes, a multitude of humiliations large and small? Degradation, abuse—should I forget all that and be your friend?" He glared, chest heaving as he fought for breath, at the man who'd been his master. Jensen leaned back, eyes still locked on the old man who was cracking in two in front of him, and caught a glimpse of the man who'd worked to destroy that degrading system, the man who'd finally become who his mother had tried to create. For the first time since they were children, he got a glimpse of Jared's heart.

And what he saw was Jared's death. He saw Jared ready to plunge himself into the darkness that Jensen had been in for eons. Saw that Jared was prepared to go past him in the dark, dive headfirst into the eternal blackest black before his time.

Jensen stared at the man, and thought of the years he'd been sacrificing to Skadi—his anger, his hatred and desire for revenge. To what end? He was still in the house where he'd been a slave, haunting Jared like an ever-grayer specter, sucking what little joy he allowed himself from a dryer and dryer life and spitting it away….

Who was he punishing? Jared yes, deservedly so, but in a way, himself as well. Maybe. Maybe it was time—past time, in the little he had left, to feed Eir instead, to let summer into his life…a little healing. "Jared, I don't know what you think is possible between us—"

Jared lumbered to his feet, his face wet as if he'd been in a shower. He raised a fist, and barely managed to choke back a sob when Jensen flinched—just a wee bit, but still—he slammed that fist into his own chest, nodding, nodding—"Of course, Jensen, of course."

He turned away, making for the door, but stopped as Jensen delicately cleared his throat and said, "But if you'd like to discuss that project that you and Michael have been working on with David, the, ah, the Museum of Liberation, is that what you ended up calling it? Teach people all about slavery, and how insidious it is, and how they should never imagine that it can't happen again…" Jensen tilted his head, peering at Jared and thinking. "I understand you are honoring the mistress with an exhibit? Good. I think in all my life, she was one of the few people I felt anything close to love for. Would you like to describe what you have in store for it?"

"Yes, yes, her sacrifice for us—I'd love to—are you sure?"

"Yes, Jared." And Jared, Jared stared so keenly, so intently at Jensen, that Jensen blushed. He turned his chin up at Jared, and smiled, somewhat defiant, a bit cool, but not disdainful. "I'd like a cup of coffee as we talk, with—“
“No milk, and two sugars.” Jared interrupted
“Yes, exactly. If you make yourself a coffee as well, we can sit on the balcony in your suite."

Jared looked as though he'd died and come to life again, like the paintings of those strange saints of that odd little tree god religion that had rooted itself on the west coast.

"Oh! Thank you, yes, what a great idea," he crowed, "and maybe ask Ms. Ferris to send up some of those little cheese puff things, for dessert?"

For some reason, Jen couldn't bring himself to tell Jared that just as he couldn’t handle milk anymore, he hadn't been able to eat those cheese puffs for decades, but he could rely on the sweet young woman who worked with Ms. Ferris to know Jensen's dietary failings. Jared sprinted—or would have sprinted if old joints hadn't snapped and crackled, reminding them both that he was not the young boy he once was.

In the doorway, he turned back to Jensen and said, quietly, seriously, "In the exhibit dedicated to my mother, there's also a dedication to you, and how you saved an idiot child from ruining himself completely." He left quickly, before Jensen could respond in any way.

Jensen leaned back in his chair and folded lined hands over a soft belly. Hmm. A dedication? He turned the idea over in his head, and wondered if he could get Jared not to do that. What was he being lauded for? For surviving? For not letting freemen and masters destroy who he was? He'd done nothing but live despite it all. Anything that was good came from Patricia Padalecki, and surprisingly in the end, her son.

Jensen stood, stretched, and slipped his feet into house shoes, headed to the stairway of the former thrall hall, now full of company and called the "servant's quarters".

He had no idea what would come of this, his giving in to Jared once again. Maybe he could finally release himself from this stifling, small, dark place he'd been locked into. Spend his remaining years in peace. If letting Jared reach out to him brought some measure of it...well, Jensen thought, maybe...maybe someday it would be all right.

~fin~

author's notes: And in the End, notes, thanks

And In The End Chapter 2

roxymissrose — Sat, 16 May 2026 03:08:52 GMT

That was the last Jensen saw of either of them for the next few days; he never did get a chance to find out David's secret before he left again. Knowing David, his "secret" could have ranged from a new haircut, to a new blend of coffee, or a new lover. Jensen also didn't get to talk to either of them about the museum and that was slightly disappointing. The idea of a museum very much captured his interest. What, he wondered, would Jared have to say about his mother, or the world she'd hoped for? He wondered what risk Jared would be taking; how would such a place even be received? He shook his head. How sad that the mistress was denied the chance to see her plans finally beginning to come true.

* * *
Jensen was considering whether this position as instructor on Jared's estate was actually meant to be an advancement instead of a punishment—as this moment, he was trying to pant quietly and doing his best to make it seem that the laundry basket he was carrying, something that felt like it contained fifty or sixty thousand pounds of wet linen, was no effort at all. He swore under his breath, while trying to direct a pack of older children to keep themselves in the wash line area. His task today was to show them how to hang laundry the proper way. Which of course involved dozens of "accidental" peg assaults, with results ranging from laughter to screams of outrage and crocodile tears. Jensen understood the outrage completely—he'd been the recipient of a few peg shots himself as a toddler, and those little wooden things could pack a punch if wielded correctly. He smothered a laugh and putting on his instructor face, sternly called them all to order. He held up the wooden clothes peg he'd plucked out of one rascal's hand. "The peg holds wash on the line, it is not meant as a deadly weapon."

His class turned their faces up to him, the absolute picture of innocence, and it took a bit of control not to burst out laughing. Secretly, he loved their boldness, their ability to play, despite also having to correctly complete a rather boring, if important, task.

"All right, all right, everyone listen. These sheets are for our guests and so they must be perfect. The sun and wind will help to make them softer, and give them a scent much better than being run through the tumbler. We do this to prove that we have manners, and culture, and that we respect our guests and want the best for them. Right?"

The children replied in various degrees of enthusiasm, though a few of them perked up and seemed to be looking past him. Behind his back he heard an obnoxious little giggle. "Oh, don't you have work to do, you?" Jensen snapped. "Something useful that's not interrupting my class like this?"

"Well, actually, some of those little hellions are mine next. Today is 'perfumed oils day, and how they can be beneficial to the health'." Lex grinned wide, waving at the children staring at them.

"In other words, Nurse has ordered you to teach these little darlings a class, and since Nurse will soon be Ma—Jared's fully licensed, certified, private physician, you bowed to their will. Since you are not a fool."

"Gods, yes. For one so quiet, their silence can be positively deafening when they're annoyed."

"I am aware, yes. Jensen laughed, and turning his attention back to his class, he saw that he'd totally lost theirs. They were caught up in the arrival of one of the electric trucks that had been running through the estate on and off. There'd been a lot of traffic lately; a steady flow of equipment and furniture to what had been a double storage shed, and was now restyled a sort of town hall, where the former thralls met and discussed what was happening in their lives, where school was now held, and the new free men studied for their futures.

The children absolutely exploded in excitement when they discovered that one of the trucks held something besides desks and chairs and lamps—in that truck were several iconoscopes, including one of the largest iconoscopes Jensen had ever seen. It was bigger even than the 'conoscope that Jim had rolled out every year for the Yuletide Address. Before Jensen could even get a proper look at the modern, beech-wood cabinet holding the iconoscope, the tech crew were suddenly swarming them like excited bees, babbling about things like cable and antenna and tubes and who knows what. The upshot was that the iconscopes, the smaller ones, would be used as teaching tools in each newly created classroom. There were several kinds of educational programs being 'scoped to the general public which, thanks to the former master Padalecki, now included them. As for the largest one, well, it could only be for entertainment. Just watching the children dance around the 'conoscope, following it—at a respectful distance—into its new home in the hall made Jensen thoughtful. Lex picked up on his mood. He slung an arm around Jensen's shoulder and shook him.

"Who could ever have imagined long ago that something like this could happen on the Padalecki estate? He never ceases to surprise me. It's like watching something that was almost dead come back to life."

Jensen flinched away from Lex. "That's a rather odd thing to say."

Lex dropped his arm, stepped back, and gave Jensen a long, appraising look. "Not really. He was like a dead thing, for a long time. I remember those eyes, the way they looked when the old master was still alive. The way he was. It's so different now."

"Yes, so I'm told. Over and over and over again. I think it's better if we speak less of the master—excuse me, Mister Jared—now, and look into what these children are doing before the tech crew locks them all up in the stables."

* * *
One week later, on a hot, steamy August night, everyone on the estate was asked to come to the hall for what they all assumed was an acknowledgment by their former master of how times and the estate had changed. A sort of "congratulations, you're free" party, Jensen assumed. He snagged an oatmeal bar from a passing tray, ignoring the glare he got from one of the, the servers—gods, how hard it was not to call them trayboys.

Jensen looked around the new hall, eyebrows raised. The man had been generous in providing this fest for his former thralls; a few long tables pushed against the walls held towers of pastries and fruits, and drinks of all variety. Alan and his assistants looked on, making sure that plates were never empty and glasses were never dry. Children played games at little round tables scattered here and there, set up just for them. Jensen noticed that the brand new 'conoscope was flanked with a pair of tall, Nihonese vases that used to sit in the dining hall, filled with greenery. It was lovely, Jensen admitted to himself. Not even Mistress had granted the thralls something like this. It was a little like old Master Patrick's estate, before he got too ill to do anything like it. It also made himself and all the older thralls nervous. It was lovely, and they were being buttered up for something, they all knew it. Everyone just hoped to gods that it wasn't the master deciding he'd made a mistake….

Alan kept checking his watch; suddenly he lifted his head and beamed at the crowded hall, at the same moment the intercom let out a deep, attention-grabbing tone. "Gather 'round, everyone, gather 'round. Mister Jared apologizes for not being here at this moment but he had a prior engagement. He hopes that you enjoy this evening though."

Jensen took note of the way Master had become Mister, and snorted softly. The unease he'd felt earlier started to dissipate as he noted Alan, Alona, Landsman Harold, and Ralph, who was now officially his assistant, standing next to the to the iconoscope cabinet. All of them were smiling, looking too relaxed for anything bad to be in the air. Alan clapped once, sharply, then clicked the dial that turned it on, as everyone stopped to watch. There was a feeling in the room, as if everyone was holding their breath—

The iconoscope screen flickered, buzzed a bit as the screen showed gray snow, then suddenly an image of a peacock in bright color filled the screen and Jensen gasped. No wonder the tech crew had been so excited—in fact, they were flanking the 'conoscope and beaming at each other as though they'd had a personal hand in creating it. Understandable. This leap from a black and white screen to color was amazing. It was like discovering you'd been missing something without knowing you'd been missing it. "I'll be damned," William muttered. "It's like having a miniature movie theater right here in the hall."

After a few seconds, when Alona managed to quiet everyone, Alan turned the sound up, and, "Good evening, Columbia," filled the hall. Jensen recognized the elderly man staring at them from the screen, from dozens and dozens of Yuletides. To see his suit was a rich navy and that the familiar striped tie was blue and red was astonishing. All around Jensen people were whispering, entranced by color, by the size of the screen, so large it could be clearly seen that the old man's eyes were glistening with tears. The news reader looked more emotional than Jensen could ever recall him looking. But his voice was smooth as always, clear and concise as he said, "We're broadcasting tonight from the Capitol Hall. Please give your attention to President Rustin."

The image blurred; when it sharpened again it showed the Capital Hall, the point of view sweeping around to show first a packed room and then the president at his podium. His vice president stood unsmiling on his right, and David, dearest David, stood to the man's left, one or two steps behind him. And at David's left stood Jared, along with a few other people that Jensen vaguely recalled as visitors to the estate. He was surprised into gasping when he recognized the long-ago body slave, Genevieve, also standing behind Jared, her hand on her husband's arm. Next to them stood Michael, his wife, and his brother. They looked like they were about to take flight with joy...and Jensen's heart beat double. Was this...finally?

President Rustin stepped forward, a solemn expression on his face. Head down, dark skin like mahogany in the dim lights. Then, he tilted his head, just a bit, and he smiled. As the lights came up, it was as if the sun came out, perfectly highlighting his face gold and bronze. He held his hands up, and as the applause died down, he said, "Columbia. The time has come to pass the torch; all things come to an end.

As my term as president ends, I'm more than confident that we have steered our ship in the right direction, and that we leave you in the capable, caring hands of your future captain. We leave you also with this last declaration, a new and lasting law of the land. Thralldom is done. The Land declared that thralldom as punishment for crime was null and void years ago, and now the law that allowed enslavement of the children of thralls is done with completely. It can never be enacted again. Those laws are ash now, and the ash released to the skies, as are all other laws that make such a horror possible. Every single thrall in the Republic of America is now their own master—they are all free men of Columbia, free men of the world—"

Whatever Rustin had to say after that, Jensen wouldn't know until months later—after 'free men of the world' all Jensen felt was his world tipping sideways, whoever was next to him holding him up from falling. They held each other, letting the waves of emotion sweep them up. They were free, had been free by the whim of their master, but now, all people of Columbia, all of them, were free.

"All of us," he heard, and suddenly felt long arms around him, and a smooth cheek slid against his. "Lex! Can you believe it? Is this real? I can't believe it. Rustin just declared all thralls free men. It's incredible!"

Lex narrowed his eyes, glaring at the iconoscope. "No. I can't believe it. I have no idea what's going to happen to the thralls freed today, but I would not be surprised at all to hear of death and worse."

The horrible thing was, Jensen could well believe that masters would take revenge on their thralls like this. They'd been masters all their lives—some, like Alan's former owner, would not be able to imagine a Columbia that would do more than fine them for a thrall's death. Making them free men, declaring a thrall's death was murder instead of an inconvenience...some of those masters would never understand that. Jensen rounded on Lex, gripping his shoulder and shaking hard. "Don't think that way. Believe instead that the masters will follow the new laws the way they should. And Freeman Ealy and Freeman Boreanaz, so many people, as well as Master Padalecki, have been working all along behind the scenes, preparing to make this transition smoother than dropping dynamite in people's laps," Jensen said, trying his best to project confidence and hoping Lex read it as that; praying himself that he was right.

"Good," Lex said. "Let us hope that the law truly will stand for us, or at least the masters believe it will. It means fewer deaths. Me, I am not stepping off this estate. Husbandman's staff, all of them, are staying. The wagon handler is renting himself out—no, no, it's called something else now, doing contract work, at stables and garages through the county, " Lex dropped into a chair and watched the children running wild, happy and not really sure why except their mams and sires seemed to be. He swooped up a glass, wine no doubt. Leaned back in a chair and swung a long, thin leg over a knobby knee. Jensen was struck with how age seemed to whittle away at Lex instead of filling out his frame. Lex winked, and popped a tiny cinnamon ring into his mouth, licking the frosting from his fingertips.

"Well, since I'm not going anywhere, it's with the master's grace that we have a project, the bath staff and I. The baths are huge, basically unused except for the boilers and the thrall room, but..." he swept his hands wide, beaming at Jensen, "with a little tweaking we make a lovely, exclusive spa, charge people heaps of money to come and steam their troubles away and steep in healing herbs that only I," he coughed discretely and smirked, "know which magical combination helps to soothe and heal. I say, with all modesty, I'm damned good at it."

"Damned good at flattering the gullible and spinning a line of utter bullshit." Jensen actually admired Lex's idea, and his ability to make Jared agree to it.

"Ah well. Lessons learned, my pretty one, a lifetime of lessons learned. "

Jensen grimaced, both at being called pretty, and from being reminded at what cost Lex's lessons had been learned. "I'm hardly pretty anymore," he said, and managed a laugh.

Lex took his chin and forced Jen to face him, nose to nose. "You will always be pretty, always be loved. You are always going to belong to all of us, no matter where we are. And I for one will never leave you. Did I say I'm staying here? Believe me, if you leave, I leave."

Jensen wanted to cry. What would he do without Lex?

"After all, what would you do without me?"Lex sighed, unwittingly echoing Jen's thoughts. "My dear, it doesn't even bear thinking. Now, let us discover just what this new world will bring us."

Holding the rather heavy tray in one hand, Jensen tapped at Jared's office door with his free hand, using the identifying knock from a long time ago, created when they were babies. The tray, a ceramic heirloom tray that was also from an eon ago, wobbled slightly as Jensen knocked again. He glanced at the tray piled high with small bites. Ms. Ferris really did her best, he'd have to let her know later that it was very appreciated. Jensen could hear the sudden silence behind the door, and then a tentative,"...Jensen?" and then the door opened, and Jared was staring at him, wide-eyed and very surprised.

Surprise turned to some version of pale-faced shock when he saw what Jensen carried. The tray had been a favorite of his as a child, he'd loved its colorful design of playful octopus and seahorses, and that was one of the reasons Jensen had chosen it. Maybe Jared was thinking of his once idyllic childhood, before everything changed. Or maybe Jared was thinking of the sex they'd had nearly on top of it, the careless boy he'd been throwing it to the floor, and how Jensen had thought it was his duty to save it. Jensen gave his head a slight shake. Get out of the past, he scolded himself. Back to work.

"May I come in? Ms. Ferris and I thought you might like a snack."

Jared nodded, looking puzzled because they both knew something like this was no longer under Jensen's purview. He stepped back, inhaling slightly when Jensen brushed against him; of course Jensen acted as if he hadn't felt it. He looked around the room, noting how each time he walked into this room it reminded him more and more of Jared's mother—the light, elegant style of the furnishings, the bright, natural colors, how fresh the air was—definitely a bit of Lex's artistry. And just like each time he entered, he had to wade through flashes of memories: darkness everywhere, heavy, dark drapes and heavy, dark, fixtures. Stifling air, the stink of smoke and blood, the sound—

"Here, let me clear a space for that—" Jared started to shuffle things across his desk, moving his typewriter to one side of a pile of files but Jensen walked right past him, across the room and through a door painted the same color as the walls. It opened on another, smaller room, very private; its pale green and white striped wallpaper set the background for a Parisian-style bistro set, an overstuffed club chair in front of a rosewood bookshelf-cabinet combo and a bed, not terribly wide but long enough for Jared's frame. A place to rest after hours, Jensen supposed. Or to hide.

There was nothing left of the room he'd become so familiar with when Gerolt had it built. Jensen was somewhat surprised that Jared kept it, but it was obvious he'd had it stripped down to the studs before he'd repurposed it. Interesting. He set the ceramic tray down on the table, turned to a pale-faced Jared, and smiled. Jared’s hands came up, trembling, before he crossed his arms and tried to smile back.

"Would you like shrimp? Or a stuffed mushroom? Ms. Ferris is every bit as good as 'Cook when it comes to small bites." He advanced on Jared, smiling softly, following as Jared took a step back, one, two, until he bumped up against the cabinet. Jensen scanned the tray, then selected a lacy pastry shell, filled with a swirl of creamy cheese and diced bits of lobster.

"Open," he purred, and Jared, wide-eyed and looking on the edge of panic, did. He let Jensen slide a bite past his lips. Jensen coaxed him to open wider, to let the tip of his finger in as well. "There. Delicious, isn't it?" The cream melted against his finger on Jared's tongue. Jensen drew it out slowly to wipe across his own lips.

"Why—why are you doing this?" Jared's eyes were red, and Jensen noted how the hazel of his eyes seemed brighter. Just tears, he thought. Tears that weren't accompanied with pain and anger and hatred. He barely remembered what Jared looked like overcome with emotions that didn't end with his pain.

"Well, it’s to thank you, for what you've done for us." A red fury roared through him as he spoke those words, the gods had to know he’d rather spit them; Jensen hid the rage by turning quickly to the table. "Do you have a coffee set in this room? I can make us some if you like. Or would you prefer tea?"

“Jensen, you don’t…" Jared swallowed, and roughly said, "coffee would be good, but please, let me."

“I think I’d like that.” He sat at the table, trailing his fingers across the slick metal surface and remembering how it had felt, in Paris, to sit like a free man, alone…he supposed he was a free man now.

"It was in Paris," Jared said out of the blue, startling Jensen for it being so much on the same track as his thoughts. "That night, when David beat me…and both of you thinking it was the first beating I'd ever received." He huffed a short, sharp laugh. "Skadi's teeth, not by a long shot. But it was the first that left marks like that. I was humiliated, and gods, so angry afterwards. I wanted to blame someone else, anyone else. But that beating, the pain, woke me up to what I was doing—had done—and I couldn't stand the thought anymore. I couldn't go on like that. I couldn't breathe anymore. I didn't want to breathe. But I…I had people who lived only by my word, forced to depend on me, a rotten, selfish, heartless pig. Jensen, I wanted to be real again."

He turned a helpless shrug towards Jensen, who sat frozen in his seat. This was…not something he'd ever expected to hear from his master. All Jensen had expected from this evening was pushing this Fool Master onto the bed and taking out on him what he'd taken from Jensen over and over—he planned it as the first act of freedom that was just for him. Instead, Jared was standing in front of him bleeding out explanations.

He turned away from Jared, sipped the coffee he'd prepared for him. A calmer part of his racing mind noted the coffee was correctly made, taking into account that Jensen's traitorous body having forced him to give up milk ages ago. Very interesting. He swirled the cup, watching the dark swells, and debated leaving. After all, what good would it do him now, to be a sounding board to Jared's unburdening himself? But the way Jared was looking at him, his whole face broken open and not trying to hide anything, made Jensen believe that whatever Jared spoke now would be truthful. "So tell me," he murmured and Jared slumped down in his seat like his bones were taffy.

"Yes, well," he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "I intercepted your letters. David's letters. But you know that. I read them before sending them off. I expected them to be full of how much you hate me and wished to all gods I was dead, how you wished you were in Europa again, freed of all this. But they weren't like that at all. He talked about enslavement and revolution, and you just let him talk. Gave your input when he asked, but mostly talked about our land, the people, what you loved of it and how you hoped for better for them…it killed me that we couldn't have that anymore because I burned it to the ground and pissed all over it. Gods, how I loathed myself; I tried to turn it onto you because I was a master, and above any feeling like that. You were nothing. Less than nothing. I tried my best to believe that, to make you believe that."

"And did a wonderful job of it," Jensen said coldly. "I might even have fallen, except for your staff, who never stopped believing in me."

Jared closed his eyes, dropped his head and nodded. "I know. I know. Gods save them all, I know that."

"Is there more?"

Jared sucked in a sharp, deep, lungful of air. "More?" Through a slow exhale, he continued, "One day I wrote to David myself, and he wrote back to say fuck off and he heartily wished for my internal organs to provide nourishment for wolves because they were wasted in keeping me alive."

Jensen smiled behind his lifted cup. "He can certainly turn a phrase," he said, and Jared narrowed his eyes; maybe there was a wisp of a smile trembling in the corners of his mouth.

"Mmm. Eventually he did thaw towards me, decided that maybe I wasn't too stupid to learn. From him I learned the true history of this country, as well as the truth about my mother, myself—and my father when I begged and cursed and threw tantrums. So I learned more than just thrall gossip, I got the unvarnished truth. And I tortured everyone around me as I learned it. I'm not good at controlling my emotions."

Jensen sat silently, staring past Jared into the dark, remembering those days, and Jared dropped his head, nodding.

"I began to work with David, and he drew Michael into our ever-expanding circle, and when he managed to get Rustin elected, he began to force that change in his very special Mister Boreanaz way—a small push here, some light blackmail there, a bit of bullying, a promise of reward. I know you think of him as this great, soft-hearted person, but he's very, very scary."

"Is that how you think I see him?" Jensen laughed. "I never saw him as soft, I knew that when he beat the hells out of you. I knew what depth he'd go to, the passion he had, and his absolute belief that slavery was wrong and should be ended in whatever way it took. He was what Mark was to me, someone to look up to, a heroic person—but not a god. Certainly not someone soft," he chuckled.

"Yes, well. Time passed, and those parties we held came in handy. I had a, uh, a certain reputation already." He flushed a dark red, scraped his hair back from his face. Buying himself a few seconds to breathe, Jensen knew, they way he used to do as a child and Mistress demanded an accounting for one act or another.

Jared went on, "That kind of reputation helped cover us, and Michael kept track of who did what where, and David packaged the information, and here we are. I don't know…it was some darkish, not really moral behavior, I suppose. Worth it for a good outcome. Me trying to salvage what was left of myself, the parts that my mother tried to nurture, in her way."

Jensen listened, his fists clenched unnoticed on the table top as he breathed in and counted out, just as Nurse taught him: slow, mindful, focus.

"You said that night in Paris that I was not my mother's child. But I want to be. I'm not hoping for forgiveness," Jared's voice broke, "or for understanding, or for you to even begin to tolerate me again. I truly did this because I understood at last that David's way was the right way. And I'm telling you this just to…explain."

Jensen sighed, and pushed the tray close. "Eat something."

They ate a few more bites as Jared told him more about what he and David, and David's circle had done. When he finished, his face pale and ocean-green eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I hope you believe me when I tell you, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you and yours are able to live the life they always should have. I wish I hadn't been such a coward, I wish I'd listened to you, I wish I'd killed—"

Jensen cut in, holding out a small chocolate cream cup and a spoon. “Taste this for me? I love chocolate but it disagrees with me these days.” He held the spoon out and watched Jared closely as he tasted. Jensen opened his mouth a bit as Jared did, he lowered his lashes, the tip of his tongue slipped out to lick at his upper lip, slowly trace the shape of his own mouth and Jared watched him back. Red flared up and painted Jared's cheeks, he gulped audibly and Jensen eased back as Jared swallowed, then took a very tiny bit of chocolate of his own to taste. “I had to, you made it look so good,” he murmured; leaning closer, he cupped Jared’s face. Jared shivered, and Jensen leaned in and kissed him, softly, a barely there touch.

Jared gasped; he jumped, then froze on his chair, like a man who had no idea where to go or what to do. Jensen let go of him with a smile, came around the table and set himself down on Jared's lap. "Hold your chin up," he told Jared, who did. Jensen leaned in until the tip of his nose was grazing Jared's throat, then stopped. Jared's eyes were locked on the ceiling, his chest heaving. Jensen felt a snarl building up, lodging in his throat—he bared his teeth, and screwed his eyes shut. Leaned in that last inch, and brushed his lips over Jared's frantic pulse. Jared flinched like he'd struck a match on him. Jensen ignored it, and the punched-out sound Jared made. He kissed his throat as he gently opened a button on Jared's shirt. Kiss, then open a button, kiss, open a button, on repeat, until Jared's shirt lay open. Jensen touched his tongue to Jared's neck, swirling in delicate, damp circles, and then flattened his tongue and licked. He licked, then sucked gently at smooth skin to the rhythm of Jared's moans; he tasted clean, a hint of cologne leaving a little sharp bite. He pressed kisses in the dip of Jared's throat, tonguing it until Jared bit down on his lips and tried to smother a groan as he moved in his seat.

Lower, dragging kisses all the way until Jensen stopped with a close-mouthed kiss against a stiff nipple. Jared was shaking now. Whispered, "Please, don't." Jensen noted that those large, elegant hands were gripping the seat of his chair so hard it was a wonder that the metal didn't creak. He opened his mouth around the tight, copper-colored nub, and sucked, softly to start, again painting circles with his tongue, then suddenly harder. He closed his teeth around the stiff nipple, stopping short of gnawing, just this side of pain—he'd never forgotten how the master liked it. Jared's hips bucked up from the chair but his hands never moved. His knuckles were white with the pressure of holding on. He hissed, "Stop."

Jensen ignored it, but did stand, bowed legs cradling Jared's knees. He took off his tunic, then drew his undershirt over his head and let them both drop at Jared's feet. He unsnapped his pants, and the boxers underneath them and let them drop as well. Stepping back out of the puddle of fabric, just far enough to toe off the felt house slippers. He pushed them aside and slid to his knees. He stroked Jared's thighs, so tense the muscles felt like knots, he could feel his skin twitching. "Jensen. Don't."

"Oh, Jared, yes." He slid his hands up to Jared's groin where there was only a very slight bulge. He tilted his head at Jared. "I'll take these off for you." and without waiting, he unsnapped pants and boxers, and slid them down Jared's legs. "Need to take these shoes off, " he murmured, and pulled them away, tossing them to the side. He slid down silk socks and threw them as well. He hoped Lily would be able to find them—he'd thrown them a bit harder than he'd planned. And now Jared was naked save for his shirt, sitting in the chair, his hands strangling the seat, his legs jumping with how tight he held onto it and he looked…terrified. But he was hard, thick and red, and when Jensen leaned close, his cock twitched, dropping a clear thread of precome into his lap.

Jensen lifted himself to straddle Jared's legs, and softly brushed the open shirt off his shoulders, coaxing Jared to loosen his hands so that he could take the shirt off, drop it to the floor. As soon as his hands were free, Jared gripped his chair again, shivering. Jensen smirked at him, sharply grabbed a thick handful of Jared' s hair and yanked his head back—he kissed him, wet and hungry until Jared responded by kissing back wildly then jerked an inch or two away, far enough to breathe out, "Please…"

"Please what? Please suck me? Please let me fuck you?"

"Please don't. You don't have to do this, not like this."

Jensen dropped his head, surprised at how breathless he was, how uncomfortably tight his chest was. He shook his head. "I do. I do." He stroked Jared's cheek, spread his fingers over his mouth. Felt how the man trembled when he pressed two on his lower lip. "Suck."

Jared shook even harder, but leaned forwards and closing his eyes tightly, opened his mouth.

Jensen's touch was light—he slid his fingers into Jared's mouth so carefully, rolled them gently, stroked the wet, soft inside of his cheeks, his tongue, until they were soaked and Jared's chin was dripping wet. When Jensen pulled his fingers out, Jared chased them, his lips fluttering as he tried to suck on the tips. He was flushed, sweating, and looked as if any second he was about to burst into tears.

"Hold on," Jensen whispered. "This is what you really want, hmm?" and he slid off Jared's lap, and knelt. Pushing Jared's knees wide, he slid his fingers past his cock, under his balls, traced around his hole before pushing in slowly. He pulled out just as slowly, pushed them back in and twisted carefully. "Do you like that?"

Jared's eyes were crushed tight, his jaw jumped and flexed with how frantically he tried to keep silent. He didn't move—at first. But the more Jensen fucked his fingers in and out, the more Jared flinched and trembled, until his hips lifted from the chair and threw his head back, grinding his teeth in a losing effort to keep quite. Jensen remembered that their roles in sex had always been reversed. Had always been backwards. This was Jared's true desire, whether he would ever admit it out loud or not because masters didn't get fucked. Jensen pulled a little, lifted his fingers while shoving them deep inside and Jared jerked up from the chair, finally unlocking his hands and wrapping them around Jensen's shoulders instead. He groaned, louder and louder as Jensen stroked over the spot that made Jared shudder and moan and push himself down on Jensen's fingers.

Jensen was surprised to find himself getting aroused, his cock pushing against Jared's leg. He shuddered as the head brushed through the hair on Jared's calf, like tiny caresses. It had been…Jensen wasn't sure how long it had been but long enough to believe he no longer cared for it, this touching and sweating and giving yourself up. Now, he wanted, needed, one last thing. "On the bed, on your knees. If you want to, that is. I have no way to force you."

Jared blinked and the tears he'd held back washed over his face. He was silent, but nodded. "Yes," he said, and Jensen took that, moved aside to let Jared clamber up and onto the bed. They both maneuvered for space on the not very wide mattress—made specifically for Jared obviously, but only for one body. Jared gasped quietly when Jensen gripped his hips, called out softly, "Oh gods," when Jensen pushed inside. It took him by surprise—the tight grip, the heat, made him hiss. Pulling back dragged a curse out of him. Freyr's balls, how could he have imagined this any other way? He pushed in a few times, good at first then—"You need oil, do you have any?"

Jared nodded and muttered, "That, that box, on the table."

Jensen leaned back, knocked open a plain little wooden box on the table next to the bed and withdrew the oil—"Lex," he huffed. The bottle was adorned with a bright pink label depicting a dove in flight in the rain—looked a lot like two hands showering themselves in oil. Jensen murmured, "Subtle." and Jared let out a shaky laugh that faded as Jen slicked himself and drove back inside. One, two strokes, and Jensen knew he wasn't going to last. He drove in again, and reached out to grip Jared's dripping cock. "Do you want—" he began and Jared, who'd been almost silent all along except for his whispered pleas of don't, please Jen, don't, howled like a wolf in agony, whipping his head back and forth, sweat-wet hair wrapping around his face with the violence of his movement. He went quiet again, quivering and gasping as he shot a pearly streak of come into the bunched up sheets. Jensen cursed as the force of Jared coming wrung his own orgasm from him. Coming so hard it hurt, he dug his teeth sharply into his lip to keep the scream he wanted to let go locked inside.

Jensen hung over him long enough to pull himself together before pulling out, wincing at the sensitivity. Jared meanwhile hid his head on his crossed arms; his shoulders were shaking, and...was he sobbing?

He rolled off the bed, walking quickly to the tiny half bath that was cut out of one corner of the room; he wet a cloth, letting the hot water run until it steamed. He brought it to Jared who was sitting on the wrecked bed, the covers bunched up over his hips. His face was dry, but flushed; he looked exhausted. Jensen handed him the cloth with a wry smile. He turned back to the bathroom and he made use of another cloth for himself. It was quiet in the room as he redressed, his back to Jared. He could hear the sheets shifting, and a double thump; Jared's feet hitting the floor.

"I didn't think you could be this cruel, Jensen. I never imagined you had it in you."

Jensen's hands shook as he pulled the tunic over his head. "Really? Despite all you did to me? Not to mention that in all this time that you made yourself over into a "better man" you just left me to live with this pain and hatred and you said nothing. You made this world better for all the thralls, but never once asked me, 'Jensen what can I do to help you?' And now, at long last, you speak. Did you think I'd be grateful? Compliment you on your finally selfless, generous, self?"

Jensen stalked over to where Jared sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in the blankets. He leaned over Jared, who fell back on his elbows, shrinking back from Jensen. "Tell me, Jared, did you think cruelty was reserved for the masters? I hope this hurt you, I hope it hurts you for a long, long time. One last bit of kindness I offer you out of respect for the distant past—I'll leave, if you want. I'll speak with David, I'm sure he'd be glad to make arrangements—"

"No! No…if you can, please stay. Even though it hurts, please stay. I won't, I won't bother you. I promise you, you're free from me."

Jensen smiled, gathered up the heirloom tray, gave Jared a last bow, and left the room. He leaned against the door for a moment, listening to Jared crying on the other side, and waited for…something, a feeling of victory, disgust, anger, pity even, a touch of sadness…but he felt nothing.

Gripping the tray in one hand, he headed towards the thrall staircase. Stopped, pivoted, and instead marched to the public stairs. He was a free man now, and not part of the household staff. He was going to walk these stairs because he wanted to, not to provide service. One hand on the cool brass of the banister, the other wrapped around Jared's tray, he walked slowly down the curve of the stairs. Jensen glanced at the dozens of paintings that hung there as he passed: portraits of family, sketches of the land, of animals….

He came to a sharp stop at the first landing of the staircase, and turned to fully face a huge portrait of Patricia Padalecki, and her masterHousemaid and companion, Amanda.

Jensen stood stock-still, open-mouthed in front of the life sized painting; frozen in surprise. It was new, so new that he could pick up a faint whiff of the oils used. The painting was mainly done in muted grays, greens, blues...ocean colors, like Patricia's eyes. Like Jared's eyes. Jensen realized that the green and blue landscape in the background was Jared's pond. There was a break in the clouds above her; the artist had painted Patricia in a soft golden glow. Amanda stood at her side, holding her hand, and in the other hand, Patricia clutched a lotus. He took a step back from the painting, and something caught his eye. At the tip of one of Patricia's slippers, a paper dirigible, painted a bright gold, lay on its side like a New Year's toy.

Jensen hesitated, glancing down at the ceramic tray he held. He looked back at the top of the stairs, towards the private rooms. No. Throwing his shoulders back, he held his head high, fixed a smile on his face and continued to descend.

the epilogue

dang! 22 years at This Thing of Ours

roxymissrose — Sat, 09 May 2026 23:57:44 GMT

I missed my blog birthday in April! 22 years here at LJ, more or less. Gotdamn I'm old! 😄 So old that I remember putting that smiley face there was a pain in the ass. :D :D :D

Here is my first public post: me!

And In The End: SDP chapter 1

roxymissrose — Fri, 08 May 2026 21:52:34 GMT

art by meus_venator

And In The End

It had been odd to gather his mail himself in the morning—they were still juggling roles on the estate, with Jared only stepping in when Alona asked. He'd been surprised to have more than one piece of mail; there'd been a letter from David which was expected, and a most pleasant surprise, a letter from Jim.

Jensen slid a slice of the breakfast bread Alan had brought him into the butter bubbling in the fry pan. While he waited for the bread to crisp, he swirled a little honey into a mug of ginger tea before giving his attention to the envelope waiting by his plate. Slitting it open, he found a beautiful card, exclaimed when a photograph dropped to the table. "Hunh! Well…" This was something new, he'd never received a photo from anyone before. He flipped it face-down on the table—first things first. He forked the crispy bread onto his plate, and then to business—what news from Jim?

Smiling at Jim's looping, old-fashioned penmanship, he read, "Dear Lucky, I am quite well. Hoping this card finds you also well. The weather is fine, it suits me. The ocean is rather a surprise. I suppose in my mind, I saw it as a very large lake, but no, it is not lake-like at all. Michael and Eric are fine, in fact, better than fine. Their home is big and comfortable, have my own room, and I'm a damned lucky old fart to have been taken in by them. I will write again soon, give my fond regards to my former staff, won't you? And of course warmest to young Alan. And before you start huffing, all my love to you too. Jim."

Typical Jim, Jensen thought. Short, concise, but it was obvious he was a happy man. Jensen propped the card up against the sugar bowl, taking in the lovely watercolor sketch of ocean waves under an afternoon sun. Eric's work, no doubt. He smiled, pleased to be remembered in such a beautiful way. "I'm so glad that you're doing well, Jim." He stroked the fine surface of the card, muttering softly, "I miss you. I miss all of you so much."

His slight melancholy completely disappeared when he finally looked at the photo Jim had included. "Oh my gods and all!" he laughed. Jim looked absolutely hysterical in an oversize, red and blue striped shirt with rolled-up sleeves, short pants with huge, baggy pockets, their short hems displaying knobby knees and hairy calves, and a very large straw hat to protect his balding pate from the sun. Michael and Eric were slightly more subdued—it was a surprise to see Michael's hair gone a bit gray—in his mind he saw them as they were the last time they'd been together; Michael with his thick brown hair and skin like cream, and Whitney, tan and golden haired. Now they were older, but the smiles they wore had an air of contentment visible even in the photo.

Jensen thought that by now, Jim probably knew that the Padalecki thralls were free men. He was fairly certain that Jim kept contact with Jared. In fact, during an afternoon spent walking the orchards, Alan had casually mentioned over their picnic brunch that he'd sent Jim an official correspondence from the Padalecki Estate, and that it had contained a check: payment for consulting on the Midsummer celebration. Seems Jim had already been considered a freeman under law, due to paperwork submitted by Freeman Ealy earlier in that month. He'd been the first Padalecki Thrall to be formally freed.

"Life's full of surprises, isn't it, Jenny?" Alan had said when he shared that with Jensen. "Master Jared is always working, always knitting up some plan to make things better."

"Yes, of course," Jensen murmured. "Would you like more iced tea?" He fiddled a bit with the vacuum flask, pointedly ignoring Alan's persistent praise of a person apparently only Alan knew.

Alan sighed. "Jen…never mind. Can I have one of the lemon cookies you've got hidden under the raisin loaf instead?"

* * *
He'd imagined that the estate would seem empty with its thralls freed, but that wasn't the case. The house staff actually increased—Alona hired an official assistant, two, in fact: a freeman, and a former thrall who'd been young Jared's roomgirl—Bethany. Their hire freed Jensen of the role of her assistant which had sort of crept up on him unwanted. Too much time had passed between those days when Patricia planned that he grow into Jim's position, and Gerolt reducing him to a Padalecki bed thrall.

There was also the addition of a new cook. A freeman, she brought along her own assistant as well. Change lay in the kitchen staff as well, all older now, and many of the tasks the very youngest thralls used to do, tedious, sometimes dangerous, were automated now. It was thanks to their tech shop which was a busy place these days, creating and maintaining the marvelous machines that freed the toddlers from those jobs. It was something that Jensen very much approved of. The now freed thralls of school age without mams became wards of the estate, and somehow fell under Jensen's unofficial rule. Jensen was never sure whether that was punishment or favor, or so he often complained to Alan. "I'm afraid you'll have to take that up with the ma—boss," Alan replied every time, though Jensen noticed that "boss" was coming easier for the boy to say. Changes.

Putting Jensen officially in charge of the young ones meant school, and that meant hiring an instructor to teach them what Jensen couldn't. Young boys and girls in the kitchen were now students, and he taught them what their former cook had taught him. And he taught himself to call the little ones children—"toddlers" was a name for the past. Though the estate had often rung with the sound of children's laughter these last few years, now it seemed to Jensen it had a different timber—lighter, happier, more confident—or maybe that was just what he wanted to hear, Jensen thought. It was so much change, so quickly, and he felt like he spent a good deal of time scrambling to catch up, to adjust.

Of the many things he was adjusting to, Ms. Ferris, the new cook, was an overwhelming change. She was friendly, though slightly reserved. The major difference was in how she ran her kitchen. 'Cook's kitchen had been tight, but Ms. Ferris's kitchen was tighter still. Everything ran by the clock now, with no space for thralls to linger a few minutes for a coffee or a handheld, or hide themselves away for a few seconds of peace. Though, Jensen mused, the need for that sort of thing was also slowly disappearing. Now there were a scheduled number of hours per day that one worked, and the few minutes one used to have to gossip or to grab a snack became 'personal time', post-work hours to do with...whatever one wanted. And there was so much of it, it really was mind boggling. He sometimes wondered what to do with all the extra time….

On taking the kitchen her first day, Ms. Ferris had wished 'Cook—Abigail, as it turned out—a good new life on her last, and then Ms. Ferris had set herself to making the kitchen her own domain, and rightly so. Alona felt this change deeply, had sobbed her heart out when 'Cook left. She confided to Jensen that 'Cook, Abigail, was like a mother to her. Jensen was somewhat surprised since Abigail had never been a soft sort of person. But then again, she could always be counted on for her own brand of rough, level-headed, comfort and as much protection as someone in her position could give. If Jim had been the backbone of the estate, Abigail, 'Cook, had been the steady heart.

There, another change signaling that their small world would never be quite the same again.

* * *
Breakfast was more or less the same as it had been and Jensen was grateful for that. Though quietly, to himself, he had to admit that Ms. Ferris's hot cereal was better than 'Cook's, so good he almost, almost, didn't miss the breakfast bars. Afterwards, he shadowed Alan as he went about his rounds, watching as the young man instructed a new household staff on what was expected of them on this new kind of estate; what their new jobs would entail. Not all the staff were former trayboys or roomgirls. A few of the new staff were freemen looking for the status a position in a well-known household would bring. Alan treated them the same as he treated the newly-freed thralls, and if any one of them refused to take orders from a thrall, rather a former thrall, or treated their co-workers with anything less than respect, they were shown to the door. Jensen nodded in satisfaction as he watched his boy work—Alan was going to make a top-notch 'houseboy, rather, what was the new term…? Ah, yes. Majordomo. Since the usual track for a thrall-become-masterHouseboy had evaporated with Alan receiving his freedom, Jared simply sent the young man to school so that he'd officially be in his new position of majordomo. After all, if an important freeman, a master like Padalecki, decided a freeman's school was where his recently freed thrall should study, then so be it.

Jensen, since he was considered an instructor of the estate, received glowing reports on Alan's progress from Jared—Alan was leaps and bounds above anyone in his class. Jensen allowed himself a small glow of pride for that. Jim had had a hand of course, but Jensen was the one who'd raised the boy, who'd tried his best to fill him with a sense of self-worth. Getting Alan's reports always left him a little unsettled, despite his pride in the boy. Jensen was reminded of his own studies way back when, of how hard he'd worked when he'd been allowed to shadow Jared in school. He wondered what had become of all those tests he'd taken…shaking his head, Jensen hurried to catch up with the soon-to-be Padalecki Majordomo.

* * *
And then in the midst of all the quiet chaos change brought, David arrived on the estate.

* * *
"My friend, how I missed you!" he murmured into Jensen's cheek, both arms wrapped around him so tight Jensen could barely breathe. He laughed lightly when Jensen huffed dramatically and pummeled his back. Letting go, he danced out of Jensen's reach. "Oh, is that any way to treat someone who's traveled so far to see you?"

Jensen cocked an eyebrow at the man, and David just grinned wider. "Fine—I'm here at Jared's invitation but I plan to spend time with you, of course. Now Jen, can you call up someone to get my luggage and set up a room for me?" He took Jensen's hand and kissed his knuckles as if he had the slightest chance of charming Jensen into doing what he wanted. Jensen was quite annoyed that of course it worked.

"I'm still not sure about aeroplane travel as opposed to dirigible, but it is exquisitely fast. Here I am, barely got to lay my head down and suddenly I'm knocking at your door—really amazing." He released Jensen and stepped back, beaming at him. "As lovely as the foyer is, I really do need to get off my feet. So invite me to visit your apartment already.”

Jensen led the way around the grand staircase to the small door in the back wall, nearly hidden in the shadows. It opened up to the thrall passage, which was decidedly less elegant than the main part of the house. They passed silently through the oak doors at the rear of the thrall passage, their heels echoing in the stone hall. Jensen bit his lip as David's frown grew heavier with each step.

Despite the heat outside, the foyer at the end of the passage to the thrall quarters was noticeably cooler and smelled strongly of damp stone and old wood. In this heat, Jensen was glad of the cooler foyer, and so used to the smell he normally didn't notice it. Now, with David standing next to him, looking aghast at the stone walls and the worn, dusty, slate floors, he thought how it must seem, like he'd been banished to these old thrall quarters instead of having been granted a space, some peace, of his own.

They were silent as they walked up the stairs, until Jensen waved David to his room. David came to a sharp stop. "This little stone box!" he yelped. "This is all he sees fit to give you, when others are comfortable in their rooms in the manse? That asshole—!”

"Oh no, David, make no mistake, this room is my choice. More than my choice, my friend. This is my oasis."

David's eyebrows flew up, and he looked around the room again, slowly turning as he did. Jen could see him looking past the "little stone box", really looking, and seeing the arched windows with their deep sills, framed by pale blue net curtains, the green plants sitting in the sun. Near his bed, piled high with pillows atop a thick comforter, the original single wall shelf was replaced with a tall, metal filigree of a book case, bright silver against his turquoise walls. He'd built the bookcase, slowly and painstakingly by himself at the tech shop, and he was quite proud of it. He watched David's initial horrified look warm into a smile and Jen knew that David saw Jensen's room, and understood what he'd done there. David knew that this room was Jensen's, and Jensen's alone. "I love the colors, and your table looks like a lovely place to sit. Now...coffee?"

"Of course," Jensen smiled. "Nothing but the best for you."

"You're such a charmer."

Turning to his little kitchenette, he jumped when he tried to reach into a cabinet and accidentally elbowed David, who was right behind him, and in fact, continued to trail after him in a kitchen barely bigger than a broom closet.

After he'd convinced David that things would come quicker if he'd just sit and wait for it out of Jensen's way, they were finally able to enjoy their coffee. They chatted a bit about the "new" estate, and David talked about Whitney's gallery, and a play he'd recently seen that was very good, until finally the man said, "So, the reason that Jared asked me to come visit is very exciting. There’s something big, something positive, building. We have two major projects cooking, Jared and I—well, and a few others," he said, grinning wide. "One is a secret, the other is…a wonderful use of Jared’s degree."

Jensen turned to David, slightly confused, shrugging as David gaped at him, reached out and tapped Jensen's hand. "You know, his architectural degree. What he went back to school for? Hello?"

"David," he said, sliding out from David's grip, "you would be surprised at how completely unaware I am of Jared’s life; the same lack of interest that I’m sure he has in mine."

It wasn't entirely true, at least on his part. He'd heard enough that he knew Jared had gone to Albion to finish his schooling, this time in a subject he wanted to study, and what he wanted was design. At the time, Jensen had just been incredibly relieved to have the man off the estate, and he'd seen that time as some lovely, blissful, safe years. And really, Jensen hadn't been that surprised that Jared chose to study something like architecture. Jared had always possessed a good eye for design—his childhood clockworks had been excellent. The only thing Jared had lacked was patience, and judging by recent events, patience was something he'd finally learned, or at least learned to imitate very well.

"Jared wants to create a small museum; a remembrance of his mother and how much she'd done here for her county and in fact, Columbia at large. She was a remarkable woman, and he wants people to know. A lot of the changes President Rustin implemented had initially been designed by Jared's mother, you know. She was the one who set the ball rolling." David stared at the little dark puddle left in his cup. "It was supposed to be different. Jared was...supposed to…sooner…with help…"

"Love. You're about to drop face down in that cup. If you yawned any harder, the top of your head would come off. Go lie down on my bed, relax."

David nodded, but grabbed Jensen by the hand. "Lie down with me, please? I don't sleep well in a bed I don't know. An' I guess…I do…need some sleep, oh gods I can't stop yawning!"

Jensen pushed him down on his bed—thank goodness a bigger one than the original narrow, rather stiff thing he'd had—and pulled his shoes off, letting them drop to the floor. "Ugh, I'm so sorry I left my shoes on, you should have scolded me, tromping aeroplane dirt all over your apartment."

"Shhh." He unzipped David's trousers and slid them down his legs; long, muscular, straight…very nice, Jensen thought. David shuddered and grabbed Jensen's hands, stroking his thumbs over the backs. Whispered, "Jensen."

"Oh," Jen breathed, "Oh, I'm sorry." He just noticed that his attention had stirred David's cock somewhat, and that had not been any part of his plan. "I am sorry," he repeated, and made to move away from the bed; David stopped him.

"No, love, it's me who's sorry. I. Well, even exhausted as I am, it's hard not to be moved by you, but I completely understand if your heart's not in it. Please don't think I'd ever push you into something you don't want. Or that I think of you in any base way."

"I'm not..." Jensen shrugged. "I'm not offended, I'm not afraid. I'm also…not interested?" He winced, bit his lip, staring at David. He meant it when he said he wasn't afraid, but he was still a little uncertain. This was a freeman, and even if Jen was free himself, that was rather more in the confines of the estate than the world at large.

David sighed, smiled at him and patted the bed. "Keep me company? I'll keep my hands to myself—well, I won’t touch anything I shouldn't but I can't promise you I won't wrap around you like an octopus in my sleep. A very platonic octopus, that I can promise."

Jensen rolled his eyes. "You are impossible, do you know that?"

"You'd be surprised how often I hear that—or not." David grinned. "So, my favorite person in all the world, what would you say to singing me a lullaby? That will guarantee that I won't act up," he leered at Jensen, waggling his eyebrows and it was that ridiculous, over the top flirting that made Jen relax completely.

"Fool," Jensen muttered. "Scoot over then. Let me see…" he hummed for a few seconds, thinking, then took David's hand. "Close your eyes," he said and softly began to sing. "Something in the way, she moves--"

David sighed deeply. "I wish…you meant...me…" His voice trailed off into silence. Jensen kept singing softly and in a few minutes, David was sound asleep.

* * *
"Cliiing—cliing—" some strange noise broke into the quiet; Jensen was confused for a moment. For some reason, he was on his back, his arm was hot, it ached a bit…"Oh." The noise was his room phone, which meant the master—Jared—and he wobbled over to answer.

"Hello, Jensen." Quelling his automatic response of 'of course, master', Jensen waited until Jared spoke again. After a few seconds, Jared said, "I've been told David arrived earlier and I'd like to know if you might want to join us for dinner? And possibly find out what room he's taken?"

"Yes, I know he's here. Let me ask him if he'd like me to join the two of you for dinner."

"Ask him? Where is he?"

"He's here, with me." Jensen stopped, knowing how that sounded, and thought he should correct the impression it might give, but decided on silence. David watched him from the bed, frowning slightly, then shook his head, dismissing whatever he meant to say.

"Oh, that's, that's, um, well, if you…tell him we'll be dining in my rooms instead of the dining hall. No one needs to eat in an empty football field," he said, and hung up.

Jensen held the phone out, staring at it quizzically. He wasn't sure if that had been a joke or a fit of pique. "Jared has invited me to dine with you both. If you'd like, that is."

" Oh! Well, that's nice. Did he say what time he expected us?"

"He didn't say, no. He just kind of—hung up on me."

"He did, did he? I can't imagine why…and since when do thralls have private phones?"

"It's just an in-house phone, they put them in to replace the intercoms. Most of us who live in the house have one in our room. Of course, we can't call out or get calls from outside the estate."

"Why not?"

"Be--"Jensen started to answer and halted mid-word, gaping at David like a guppy. "Well. I never thought to ask. I guess I can call if I wish. Oh, be patient with me, David. Being a freed thrall is taking time to settle on my bones."

"I know, love. I know. Just…don't forget."

Jensen gave him a wry smile. "Oh trust me, I can't forget."

* * *
Dinner was quiet, but not at all the snide, spiteful mess that Jensen had worried it would be. Instead, it was almost…relaxing. They talked about Paris, and David brought Jared letters from different people they knew yet Jensen never felt left out; David had a way of making him feel that he was a friend who would enjoy meeting these other friends of his. Jared nibbled as he talked, and insisted that they try a bit of everything. Ms. Ferris's dinner was every bit as good as 'Cook's, the beef was tender and the green beans crisp and spicy. Jared talked about the wine he poured, and how it was an experiment of his, they talked about the horses he had, and how more of the estate was going to electric cars and trucks. He'd miss the horses but times change, and regarding change, how proud he was of Alan. He smiled at Jensen as if this was something they shared; Jensen managed a polite smile back.

David exclaimed,"All I've heard about is Alan lately—I've got to meet this paragon of virtue!"

Jared clapped his hands and laughed. "Oh, my gods! Did you steal that line from that 'conoscope show' that is so popular now?"

"Spacefarers—yes, I did! Genius knows no bounds. And Alan sounds like a really good kid. I know you're both proud of him."

Jensen snatched a glance at Jared from under his lashes; he'd expected Jared looking smug, but instead he seemed a bit sad. He pulled on a smile when he caught Jensen's eyes on him.

Dessert was soon over, and David left first, claiming a lot of work ahead of him for the next evening. He kissed Jensen on the mouth. "Thank you darling, I had a lovely evening," he said, smiled over Jensen's shoulder at Jared. " Thank you both."

As soon as the door closed behind David, Jensen stood. "I'll clean this up, ma—Jared."

"No, no, my newly hired roomgirl will handle this."

"You got rid of Lily?" Jen was shocked. Lily could be…creative in her thinking, but was a whiz at her job.

"No, what the hells, why would I? I </i>hired</i> her—she's free, you know. Entitled to a paycheck, and all."

"Oh." Jensen blushed, feeling a little ridiculous and at a loss for what to do without a task.

"Jensen," Jared began, and then his face twisted and, "Did you sleep with him?" he blurted, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth. His ears, his cheeks, the tip of his nose flared brightest red, and he stammered an apology with an expression on his face more suited to a toddler than a grown man with gray in his sideburns.

"No." Jensen replied softly. He knew he should be angry, maybe later he would be, but there was something in Jared's eyes, something that….

Something that he could use against him. Jensen smiled. "Well, I think I'll go to my room then. Thank you, Jared. This has been an...interesting evening."

When Jensen closed the door, he glanced back at the table where Jared still sat, his head down, waves of chestnut hair hiding his face. He was twisting one of the dinner forks between his fingers, over and over again.

Jensen smiled.

part 2

Small Dark Whining

roxymissrose — Mon, 13 Apr 2026 17:55:11 GMT

So, here we are nearly are the end, and I find that this whole thing needs a MASSIVE amount of editing. Timelines to tighten up, names of things and places to be fixed, along with character names and jobs. There's some drift in characterization in the OCs, but I guess over the years that's bound to happen.

What's just as hard as keeping character in character, is to show one changing over time who has no real outlet for that change. Jensen was trained to never change, never show an outward sign of rebellion, and to please the masters in all ways. All his change is demonstrated in conversations that he has with Jared, some of which result in beatings, some he gets away with. And of course, there's an awful lot of mental mulling over his sitch and let me tell you, that's an enormous pain in the ass, trying to make it seem natural and not like he's suddenly had some kind of silent seizure. I'm really hoping that the readers are picking up on these huge changes. I think they have--boy, this is a smart group I have reading this story!

Jared's changes, oy. Here's where the readers have to do all the work, and just believe that these changes have happened for Jared. Almost everything we see of Jared's change from first to last has been through Jensen's eyes, and Jensen hates him, lol! meus_venator created some beautiful art, I mean, *amazing* art for my story because she's a wonderful person. It suits these later period boys perfectly, and I'm planning on editing the fic to insert the art. I've been a lucky person, to have art gifted to me, and to have artists willing to create pieces for me when I've ~~begged~~ asked! ❤️😄😉

Guys, I didn't know what I was setting myself up for with this fic. If I'd realized, I don't think I would have tackled it. This was a story a much more talented writer could have written in half the time and half the words I used. 😆 Still, I put a lot of myself into it and I think that you can see how I changed along the way. Older, slower, not as sprightly when it comes to storylines. I hope that this ending I'm slogging away on satisfies the readers who've stick with me from the beginning. It's goddamn painful how many people who helped me with this story have passed on--it's fucking heartbreaking, and drives me even harder to finish this story. Pray for me to get this thing done. And to whoever is reading this, if anyone's reading this--I love you.

Hi LJ

roxymissrose — Mon, 02 Feb 2026 22:11:01 GMT

So, here was are, 2026. 2025 kicked us in the non-existent nuts(adapted from my sister yelling, "suck my non-existent dick!" when she got pissed off--in our late teens, early twenties, we thought it was pretty hysterical.) But yeah, nuts. We lost a wonderful, wonderful person, a fabulous writer and the kindest person you'd ever want to know. Carole, firesign10, died in December--unexpected and totally devastating. She wrote a ton of amazing fic, published terrific work under Ellis Colton (check Amazon), and she was an absolute wizard of SPN lore. We really lost a lot when we lost her. And I lost a person that I could text or DM and talk shit when I felt like it. She always let me drag Danneel's taste in clothing and I appreciated that.

So, yeah, 2026 and I'm discovering that aging really kicks you in...the ass. And other body parts. I've had some minor but painful things to take care of. My mind says, "hey cutie, you're just in your late 30s," but my body says, "Bitch, you old as shit." And I'm racing to finish fic before my brain loses it's get up and go--I can tell the difference in writing back in the day and writing now. Doesn't matter, I'm trying my hand at the BB one last time. And I'm going to talk about it here because really, who's listening? I mean, except for you, gingersnap1224. 😆

So, I'll be whining and complaining and possibly spoiling my fic which I know we're not supposed to do, but really? I think those days are gone. And it'll be a damn miracle if I finish. And speaking of finish, 1, maybe 2 chapters before we finally reach the end of Small Dark Place--woooot!

I Still Can't Believe It

roxymissrose — Mon, 19 May 2025 20:43:36 GMT

spnnj2025

I wish for once I'd look a little less murdery, but there you have it. I was gifted a dream come true. 😊😍

whoa!

roxymissrose — Thu, 01 May 2025 18:05:07 GMT

LJ reminded me I've had this journal for 21 years--what the fuck!! That's crazy, whole children have been born and became adults whilst I knitted cozy little fandom porn!

Dear My Friends

roxymissrose — Wed, 30 Apr 2025 23:29:36 GMT

Now I'm kind of sorry that I didn't try harder to create a work for the BB. If I had to pick a story to go out on, it wouldn't have been Meadowlark, no matter how much I liked it. I think it would have been the vampire boys trilogy. I'm finishing up Small Dark Place, and if I have any juice left, I want to write a Cowboy Witch Winchester, based on Petite Madam's wonderful art. I mean, look at this, how could you not want to know more? 😄

SPN fic: Reverb

roxymissrose — Fri, 25 Apr 2025 01:52:25 GMT

Title: Reverb
Author: roxy
Artist: Yoann
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count:
Summary: Notes: This was the first time I did a reverse bang, and it was terrifying! It was doubly terrifying because I'm not a horror writer, but I did my best.

Thanks so much to Yoann for not only producing the coolest art (I fell in love with it at first sight!) but holding my hand when I freaked out, and giving me excellent ideas as well! Huge thanks also to firesign10 for a thoughtful and thorough beta, as always. You are a treasure, my dear! Any mistakes you find are a result of me poking and tweaking things post beta.

And enteselene, thank you so much for running this, and for encouraging me to try. It was definitely an experience, and I'm glad I pushed myself.

Please click to view the amazing art by Yoann HERE!

On to the story!

Wet. Heavy. That's what the air feels like, like summer in Florida. It weighs on his skin, it's wrapped stickily around him. Stifling, but somehow, oddly, there's cold threaded through the heat. This isn't right, he thinks, there's something very wrong here.

He'd left Dean in the car to go take a piss and now he’s…well, he’s not sure where he is, but considering the state of his life lately, it's a safe bet it's nowhere good. Maybe he's been out of the "Family Business" for the last few years but it doesn't mean he's dumb. Or defenseless.

Speaking of defenseless, it registers that wherever he is, he's flat on his back in the dark.

'Urg, damn…' It takes a minute or two before he can work to his feet. Feels like he got worked over in his sleep. He looks around but there's just more darkness. Scrubbing at his eyes, he squints, until--there.

Light, from the outside, leaking under what has to be a door. There's just enough light to make out shapes in the gloom. Looks like the typical things you'd find in a motel room: a desk, a chair, a cot. A collapsed duffle bag. Scooting over to it, he gives it a kick—it’s as empty as it looked.

'Damn it.' This is worse than not good. His gear's gone, weapons, first aid kit, and worst of all, no Dean.

The light disappears, plunging him into total darkness, but before he can adjust, a voice breaks the silence.

'Oh, you're awake. Mother's been waiting for that. We have been busy though, making you a little place, a nest to keep you safe and close to us, the way I need you to be. For now. The little ones were so excited over the new guest but no, Children,' I said, 'no eating yet; I wanted to talk to you first, meet you personally. Feel you. There we go, what a lovely spike of fear. Very nice, very filling.'

'Who the hell are you?' Whirling around, trying to see through the shifting shadows he reaches out, fingers grasping on air, searching for the speaker, needing to find a wall, furniture—something to ground himself in the darkness. He fights the urge to crouch, make himself smaller. The dark seems to form and reform, blooming and shrinking with no rhyme or reason. 'What the hell is going on, what have you done?' Frustration and building fear drive the next words out at top volume. 'WHERE'S MY BROTHER?'

'Mmm, there it is.' The oily voice curls around his ear, leaking, slipping inside his head, full of satisfaction. 'That's the thing, the hook. The meat.'

'The meat' reverberates in the darkness, dissolving into low moaning and the sound of too many tiny claws skittering behind him in the shadows.

Oh god—not rats! Sam lurches forward, stopping when he actually hits a wall. Relief fades fast when his searching hand slides over the viscous dampness coating it. 'Shit!'

Gagging at the slime sliding against his skin, he forces his fingers along the wall, until finally they bump up against what feels like a door frame. An exit, hopefully. He sweeps his hand along the wood until, yes! A doorknob!

Scrubbing his hand against his shirt first, he jerks the door open, then stumbles back, staggered by the stink on the other side. It’s all the worst smells; an overwhelming reek of rotten oranges, spoiled meat, and mildew, the stink of decay.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he takes a breath, about to yell again when he hears a very familiar voice. 'Dean?'

"Hand me one of those sandwiches outta the cooler."

It’s Dean, he’s sure of it, but the sound warbles and dips like sound underwater. 'Dean?'

'No, no, my exquisite delicacy. Mother is just getting started. Now let's rummage around in your very crowded attic and see what else we can find—'

Sam falls over backwards like a felled tree. The world is quaking, it feels like a flare's going off in his brain. Everything goes white and then—black.

The rhythmic sound and feel of the car rumbling over asphalt is kind of hypnotic; Dean's barely able to keep his eyes open. He should grab a sandwich from the back. Maybe chewing on something will help him focus. It's weird that he's so damn tired, though. They've been going through a down time, basically just aimlessly cruising. They've got no specific job on board—yet—and just couple of salt'n'burns in the rearview. They have kind of danced around the idea of going to Bobby's but it's still been a little awkward, ever since Dad caught a case of the ass with the old man.

'Oh well.' He glances over at Sam, who's sitting there looking disgustingly perky. "Hand me one of those sandwiches outta the cooler, dude."

"Ya, okay, let me just…urg. Damn, my back. Here."

"Thanks." Dean snatches the sandwich out of the air, lets his knees guide the wheel as he tears the plastic off a ham and cheese. He peers up through the top of the windshield at a large black shape whirling overhead. "S'at a hawk?"

Sam glances up, not really interested, but apparently willing to indulge Dean. "Nah. It's a crow. I think. Maybe a raven?"

"Hunh." Dean chews, swallows, and says, "Well, there's a bunch of 'em. Almost looks like they're following us."

Sam perks up at that, a mild look of interest on his face. "Really?" He bends his head to peer up through the windshield as well. "Hunh. They do look like they're following us. Maybe they have a nest ahead."

"Shit!" Dean fumbles his sandwich onto the floor when suddenly, the crows or ravens, whatever they are, shoot up into the air, calling loudly to each other. A few break off the main group and fling themselves straight at the car, cawing furiously.

"What the fuck—are they attacking us? They're attacking us! Back up, back up!!" Sam screams, throwing himself backwards and into Dean, scaring the shit out of him. Sam’s arms are curled over his face, cowering as if something very much worse was happening than a supposed crow attack. Dean's gonna give him such shit for it later but right now he's fighting the wheel he jerked too hard to the left. Though, yeah, he’s a bit creeped out too by the crow 'attack'.

Once he’s got the car settled, Dean pulls to the side of the road, shuts it off, and stares at Sam. He’s about to ask him what the fuck that was, but Sam's staring at the flock of crows, and the look of sheer hatred on his face stops Dean short. Since when was Sam so fucked up over crows? Clowns he knew, but crows? Something happen to him at Stanford maybe?

"S'okay Sam. They can't get us in the car…I don't think." Dean swallows, thumbs haphazardly at a crust of mustard smeared on his chin. "I think…"

He watches the flock—a murder, his helpful brain supplies—flow and circle around what seems to be a specific spot further up the road. It unsettles him, chills him to the bone. He thinks maybe Sam has a point about the crows. They're really acting kind of weird.

"Say, Sam, I think they're trying to keep us from going into that—" he waves his hand and Sam smacks it away.

"I can fucking see that, Dean, fucking—"

"Sam, I think the car’s sliding—" Dean grips the dash, the wheel, trying to hold on as the world suddenly shifts sideways, up, down; Sam's voice is echoing, repeating. "Fucking—fucking—"

'Crows. Black scraps of airborne excrement. Them. I hate them. They're busybodies. Always getting in my way. Ever since the contract—which, by the way, was forced on Mother by the Great Mystery—the Crows have interfered on Its behalf, protecting the two-legged nothings, good only to feed us,' the voice snarls, growls, shrieks, an insane howl full of frustration.

Sam blinks awake to a black so black he’s scared; has he gone blind? That’s a worry chased out of his mind by the voice's frustrated howl reverberating through his pounding skull.

So yeah, he’s scared, but his real worry, his major worry, is, 'Where's Dean? Just—let me go so I can find my brother. Let me out!'

'Oh, you don't need him, you don't even like him. You tried to shoot him not so long ago…ah, here’s something interesting!’

Sam hisses—it feels like his eye’s being pierced with a hot needle, wiggling around until it finally stops, a sound of satisfaction echoing in his ear.

'Oh-ho! It's like that is it? Wah, wah, you terrible brother, I hate you so much I want to sink myself in you. Repeatedly. And you really should, yes…roll around inside that sticky mess in his head, twisty, turny, needy Dean. Swears he's going to let you go but he'll just suck you back in. He'd do anything for you, anything. Gut himself and hang himself with his own entrails if you asked and you hate it. So you say.'

The voice is quiet for a few moments, while Sam feels like he’s shrinking inside, like his outside remains static but inside he is lessening.

‘It’s a good taste, your fear, your rage—something special about that. We can take this from your brother too. Drink up his essence, his spirit, just like you want to do. Hold and control him. You want to suck him dry, just like Mother wants.’

The voice has gone high and sing-song, like a demented, warped little girl. Wet, thin, shapes slide over his face–when he gasps in disgust, they prod at his mouth and taste like bloody bones.

'Stop! Shut up!' Sam screams. He jerks his head out of reach, circling wildly and striking out at nothing. Chance brings him back to the door. Flinging it open, he hears his voices, his and Dean's, warbling all around him. He wants to run to the sound but Dad's discipline takes over. Instead he inches his way in the dark down what seems to be a narrow passage. And as if the darkness isn’t terrifying enough, he swears he’s being followed by something, what sounds like slow, wet flopping noises behind him. Maybe. His ears seem to be malfunctioning

'Okay, think I'm officially beyond freaked the hell out,' he mutters. He’s still creeping forward when out of nowhere he's struck by a wave of vicious rage that isn't his: too violent, too sharp. In the next second, the rage flips to disdain so suddenly it's like being tossed into an ice-cold shower.

"I was just joking ‘round. Don't be such a bitch about it."

"That’s my line,"

’Dean, where are you?’ he yells before the world shakes and rumbles, and sound echoes crazily and he blows out like a candle in a storm.

When Dean wakes up, he’s got an arm through the steering wheel and his forehead's pressed against the window. It's cold as fuck and he's hurting all over. Not to mention he’s really sick and damn tired of sleeping in the car. Fuck this hunt and fu—the heck with Dad.

Trying to smother a yawn, he twists toward his right; first thought as always is to check on Sam.

Who was not there damn it, and won't be, ever again. Letting out a growl, Dean punches the dash. Shit. After all the time that Sam's been off at college, Dean’s first impulse every morning is still to check on his baby brother. Not that Sam living life like a normal kid isn’t a good thing, it is. For Sam. Kid needs that. He’s too damn smart to be just another Hunter grunt, not like—

Dean shakes his head, lets out a sigh that comes from the soles of his feet, and heaves himself upright. Yawning wide and loud since there's no one in the car but him, he pushes the door open and lets his boots thump against the damp ground. He paws around on the seat, looking for a thermos he won't find because of the case he's just wrapped up. He snorts a little, smirking as he remembers launching it like a missile into a trog's face. Lost the damn thermos, but it gave him enough time to grab a shotgun and blow the motherfucker to bits. The result of that, though…Dean shudders. The memory of being showered by crunchy trog bits and blood finally kicks him fully awake, scrubbing viciously at his face. "Fucking solo hunts, man."

Solo? "Wait a minute."

What the hell is he thinking? Sam is back. Sam's been back for a while now. Dean shakes his head, knocks his forehead trying to shake the fog out of his brain—Sam’s here, Sam’s with him, he’s just taking a piss. Yeah.

Dean drags himself out of the car, taking deep breaths of chill morning air. He exhales, a steamy cloud drifting around his head. "Sam?" He calls, taking a step into the roadside gravel. "Sam!" he shouts, flinching when a cloud of crows, probably disturbed by the noise, explode skyward out of the woods lining the roadside, cawing wildly as they circle overhead. For a moment, all he can see is their black silhouettes against a navy sky peppered with red stars. Stars like hundreds of little red eyes peering at him.

Dean tries to take a step but vertigo nearly buckles his knees. Something's off. He could have sworn it was morning—how is it not? But yeah, somehow, the woods are black shapes against a blacker, definitely night sky. More importantly, Sam's not answering him.

Dean yells for his brother again, curses some too because damn it, he's not getting an answer. Pissed that Sam got out of the car without a word. Worried because it's not a Sam thing to do.

There's a strange sort of thumping sound behind him, like soft things dropping onto overturned soil. The ground is moving, rippling under his feet, twisting, squirming. Red eyes blinking click-click-click in the black.

Horrified, Dean shouts. He’s about five seconds from crawling right up Baby's hood, paint job be damned—but the clouds part, the moon shines down, and all he sees is grass shivering in the wind and pale, ugly mushrooms in the rotten leaf-litter along the roadside. Fear surges up his throat like bile. His brain shrieks, find Sam, get Sam.

*
His head’s tilted back against the car seat so his neck is killing him. "Jesus," he grumbles, rubbing his eyes free of sleep. Shit's sake, he’s still in the car. Damn, he'd really thought he was awake. "It was all a dream" comes bubbling up out of some deep corner in his mind and he laughs.

"A fuckin' weird one, for sure. Okay…" He’s about to reach for the door handle but nearly jumps through the roof when a fist bangs against his window.

He's scared, and pissed off, and having way too big a reaction to a really stupid prank. But he can relax at least, because there he is. Fucking Sam, too damn pleased with himself and laughing that weird sing-song laugh of his; deep dimples dotting either side of his almost-too-wide smile that forces a smile out of Dean in return.

Sam dips his head and his hair swings over his eyes like a curtain. He splays hands over the window and still laughing and hoots, "Oh man, your face!" before swinging his Sasquatch-self around the side of the car and into the passenger seat. "What?" he asks, staring innocently at Dean.

"Nothing, nothing," Dean grumbles and pointedly, gently, closes his door. He might be pissed off (scared) but he was not about to take it out on his girl.

Sam’s smart-ass grin collapses into a frown. "I was just joking ‘round. Don't be such a bitch about it."

"That’s my line," Dean mutters. He makes a bit of a business about turning the key and hitting the gas, studiously avoiding Sam and his pissy 'you're-an-asshole' expression.

The car stalls out, chokes to a stop. Over the sound of the choking engine, he hears the damn crows caw-cawing like nobody's business. Sam's yelling something, and Dean's hit with that damn wave of vertigo again, only this time it feels like the whole world is shivering, tilting downwards and he's falling—then nothing.

Sam trudges on and on, the floor flat and even, which gives him no indication whether he’s walking left or right or straight ahead. The walls seem to narrow at times, or suddenly blow wide before closing again. He keeps his fingers to the wall—strips of what he really hopes is wallpaper brush over his hands as he walks. Sam tells himself nothing's trying to cling to him, nothing's plucking at his skin; it's just damp paper, not skin, not bones....

He walks in the dark, and he hears things,

"Your brother and me, we needed you—"

voices from a distance

"You walked away not me—you were the one who said don't come back dad,

or maybe memories dredged out of his brain.

“Dad never showed did he….?”

Sam blocks the voices, takes a step forward and, "Oh gross," his foot slides sideways in something thick but mushy. A tiny scream vibrates in the sudden silence. He mutters "Oh god, oh god," over and over in a kind of horrified trance as he walks faster, but still gingerly. At last he finds what has to be a doorway. God, hopefully to somewhere outside of this place, this constant night—

Sam trips past the threshold into another room. He can barely make out shapes in the gray light. He's sweating from the damn heat. Exhaustion covers him like a heavy blanket. He’s so tired—his eyes burn in the dim light, his bones ache. He needs rest, just a little rest, can’t move another step. He groans out loud at the sight of a bed. It’s high, old fashioned, a four poster thing. It looks musty and worn and faded with age and Sam could not give a rat's ass. Has to be better than trying to sack out on the floor. He curls up on it and never realizes he’s whimpering for Dean before he passing into sleep.

The air's so dry it feels like it's sucking the moisture right out of him, plus it's cold as hell. The land stretches away on all sides, flat as a pancake and smothered by a black sky. A sky dusted with a million stars that from the corner of Dean's eye look like a million bloody little eyes are watching him. He closes his own eyes and rubs hard against sticky eyelids. When he opens them, the world looks different: the sky's full of bright, white diamonds now. Sam’s standing kind of close, smiling at him. Dean blinks, squinting to try and clear the blurriness from his vision.

"Feeling pretty tired? You look wiped, dude."

Dean just nods, grabs their duffles from the trunk and tosses Sam his.

While Sam heads inside the motel they'd taken for the night, Dean eyes their disgusting laundry bag, trying to judge whether they should do laundry the next morning or wait until the next motel, when he gets a feeling, like something creeping over his bones. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, his heartbeat trips a little faster—something is coming after him. He looks up, catches a reflection in the room's darkened window…not a monster then. Dean exhales, despite not feeling any better that it took him a whole handful of seconds to recognize what's behind him is his brother.

Sam's practically on his back, too damn close for the way things have been going for them lately. And then, Sam's finger takes a scratchy little trail from the crown of Dean's head to the nape of his neck before resting there. It feels weird. Uncomfortable.

"You need help?" Sam's voice is low and a little rough. This is not like Sam at all, at least not the Sam Dean has come to know since Stanford. Sam pushing so close is weird, off-putting. Damn confusing what with the distance Sam's been putting between the two of them for days now. Dean's been trying to figure out the why of that, and this sudden looming in his personal space, the weird touching now, isn't helping that confusion at all.

Sam speaks again, damp, warm breath right in Dean's ear. "Don't move," he says in that same low timbre, but now the trace of roughness is less intimate. There’s a note more like danger in his voice. Sam's hand clamps down on Dean's shoulder and spins him away from the window.

"What the fuck, Sam!" The momentum drives his head against the edge of the open trunk, hard enough to bounce. The bright, stinging, pain is so sudden it forces tears from his eyes. He wipes at a warm trickle between his eyes; blood, and he hates that he's almost sure that Sam's done it on purpose. Maybe?

No. Hell no, that's not the kind of stuff they do—Sam's sense of humor just doesn't run that way. He's snarky and sarcastic, but not in a mean way, never anything meant to do more than jab him. Most of the time.

Dean gets a flippant, "Oh, shit. Sorry about that, man," from Sam, in a tone that is anything but sorry. Dean flails when he's suddenly flipped again, this time to his back, pressed a little too far back against the open trunk. He has to hang on to the edges to keep from falling onto the weapons.

Sam scrubs a couple of fingers kind of painfully over the little cut. Stings like a bitch, small as it is and the damn thing is still bleeding. "Man. Head stuff always bleeds like crazy, hunh?"

"Sam. Sam, get off, c'mon man, you're not helping my back here."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Get your stuff inside. I'd kill for a shower right now."

Dean shrugs but bending down to grab his duffle, he chokes--what the ever loving fuck—he's covered with gore. Sam snatches the duffle himself when Dean hesitates, and sees that Sam's doused in blood and bits as well. Is something wrong with his eyes? Lifting his hands up to wipe at them, he sees then they're coated with dried blood and tiny bits of what looks like bone. The fuck…?

"So tired man, but not too tired to wash this crap off." Sam chuckles before walking off with Dean's bag. "Trogs, am I right?"

"Yeah," Dean whispers but…the trog was over a year ago. He'd been alone on that hunt.

'Hello, delicious morsel, are you awake now? Shhhh, better for you if you go back to sleep.'

Sam groans, trying to pull his mind out of that space between waking and dreaming, aware of himself but not sure if he's just dreaming of being aware.

'Shhhh, let me sweep through some more memories. You are full of sweet sour truth and lies. Delicious.'

Sam fights to roll out of the bed, but his arms are trapped in the sheets; they're twisted tight around his legs, thick, and powdery-dry where they aren't damp and faintly slimy. He twitches and the sheets slide up to cover his arms. The wet fabric feels like tentacles crawling over him, hot, alive. Tendrils of it slip between his toes, weaves through his fingers and into his hair. It covers his eyes now, sliding tiny threads into his lashes. He starts to panic before warm breath ghosts over him. A voice slithers around in his head promising him he's safe, sheltered, resting in the nest. All around him is the smell of soil and dampness. Protecting him. Through closed eyelids, he can still make out shapes in the pleasantly dark nest. Thick stems sway, domed and frilled heads dip and rise as the children watch him, watch out for him.

Sam's dreaming, he knows he's dreaming, but it's okay. He's drifting off in the warm, soft arms of Mother's babies. He picks up some distant sound–hissing and moaning, loud and soft falling sound, but he can't make out words.

"Dean?" The word vibrates in the air, the dank, humid, too-warm air. It’s a night in an imaginary Florida, locked in a room with no A/C, all alone in the dark. Inhaling wet air, he feels a prick on his sternum and a drawing sensation, pulling at his heart, plucking his lungs like banjo strings. God, he's so, so, tired.

Dean idly rubs an itchy but tender insect bite on his forehead, gazing around in the darkened car. There's a half-formed thought 'scritch, scritch, scritching at the back of his mind—why isn't Sam here? Dean rockets upright in the seat, yelling for Sam as he moves. "Sam, Sammy!" Now where the fuck did the kid go to? Dad is going to fucking murder him.

Scrambling out of the car a bit too fast, he hits the ground and almost falls. He's clumsy trying to get to his feet, slides in the wet gravel on the edge of the road until finally he gets control of himself. Dad would have a flipping-ass fit watching him Stooge it up on a hunt. Or no, he’s not on a hunt, is he? He's just...kinda lost?

'Sam's the one who’s lost!' Dean's heart trips; he whirls this way and that, searching for Sam in the dark. There! There's a tall, thin, shadow on the edge of the woods that line the field they're parked near. "Fucking…SAM!" What the fuck's he doing wandering around in the dark?

'Dean, knock it off.' Jerk. He knows how much Sam hates being shaken awake. Wait until he can get his eyes open.

'Not Dean, sweetmeat. Dean's…asleep. Let's stir things up a bit, hmm? Play a game that is more interesting, shall we? Open your eyes.'

Sam startles awake, laid out on his back. This is not a room. There’s no ceiling above him, only sky. Except he can tell almost instantly it's not a real sky—the constellations are wonky, the stars are visibly wheeling like clockworks. There’s a weird sound, it seems to come from every corner, something he’s been hearing for a while but his brain’s just registering it now. Sounds like a recording played backwards, all odd notes and weird tones and then something swims into view. It grows from a smudge in the corner of his eye to taking up the whole sky and it’s—Sam feels like everything stops. Like his heart stops beating and he stops breathing and he just stops...everything. He can't even cry because he can't move and something horrible is coming for him, closer and closer and closer….

What he sees above him is bigger than he can really take in. It's black, blacker than black. It devours light and vomits out horror. It hangs over his head like a float designed by something or someone seriously insane. All the teeth, teeth shining from one side of its head to the other, beast teeth, too bright, white and red and wet…Mother? The sound it makes, "Mother" makes, echoes as it swims through the sky and black bits fall from it like necrotic flesh sloughing off crooked bones. Bits hit the ground and dig in, multiply, mushroom all around him, a ring of toadstools blinking red eyes at him.

Long, long, skeletal arms, claws, search Sam out in the dark, pinning him to the ground, which shudders and turns into mice, rabbits, squirrels, all the little mammals of the fields—only not. Lumpy and misshapen and naked pink and white and gray, the color of fungus. Erupting fleshy knobs and slimy loops and pustules that sink in again, sending out tentacles that crawl over him, caress him and Sam would scream if he could.

Mother floats above him and plucks at his soul–searching, rummaging around in his brain and pulling the juicy parts out, picking through his brain and tasting. 'You're not giving me enough. Neither of you are. I’m still hungry,' Mother scolds. 'I want to go deeper, there’s something good in here, besides the whole, "I want to fuck my brother".

For a moment, Sam's mind glitches, freezes on What? No! No, that's, that's not what he wants. A hot needle slides into his brain, wiggling around until the pain finally stops, and suddenly he's in a motel room with his brother, taking a long, slow, look over Dean's naked, shower-wet back ending at his ass—but that's sick. Disgusting. Monstrous.

'Mmmm,' Mother agrees softly. The needle wiggles and, 'Ah, hello. What's this? A shtriga? That seems an interesting thing—something out there I can understand. Such pure needs, simple wants. Just like me. Let's take a deeper look at that.'

The needles become claws reaching into his head and dragging across the surface of his brain before it all goes white—

He sprints towards Sam, whose outline bounces all around like he's made of shadow and someone’s fucking with the lights. Suddenly Sam's right there in front of him, but he's a whirlwind of fists and feet and teeth, doing his best to kick the shit out of Dean. Dean rears back, hands out, gasping in bursts of freezing air.

It is his little brother, but fuck—like, really little, like, baby little. He's got his little baby teeth bared, but there's nothing funny about it, it's downright scary. They're too white and sharp and when he lunges forward and bites, he's got the teeth of a tiger. Dean's skin splits, bleeds. "Motherfuck! What the fuck, Sam! Stop, damn it." Dean claps his hand over the torn skin, trying to staunch the blood seeping out between his fingers. "What the fuck is happening?"

"You were going to leave me in this place alone!"

Dean tightens his hand around his bleeding wrist and stares around. The roadside's gone. They're in a shabby, run-down motel room; it's all grays and browns, like the joint's made of dust and clumps of grease. It stinks, mildew and rot, and the noise. Sammy's screaming like a wild thing, crows are calling to each other frantically, the wind is beating against the windows. On the bed, something made of black rags and bare branches is sucking the life out of his little brother.

The pain in his chest is so intense it feels like his heart’s being pulled through his ribs. His eyes slam shut with the pain of struggling to breathe. Air fills his lungs in a sudden burst—he opens his eyes again and it's him on the bed, crouched over a sunken, shriveled bag of skin. It smells like dried blood and grave dust. The face he's staring at might be wrinkled and sunken and collapsed, but he knows it, knows the wisps of chestnut hair fallen around it.

Dean's screaming, screaming with all his might, begging Sam not to be dead, screaming into Sammy's tiny sunken chest, his dusty, dry, brittle cracking skin—

But at the same time a whole, living Sam is clawing at him, digging his tiny fingers into the wounds on Dean's wrist, twisting them wider, kicking at him as the room melts around them, running like rain on a window pane—and then they’re back again.

Small Sam on a hotel bed, trying to escape a shtriga, screaming for Dean to save him; the other Sam pinching Dean so viciously he opens fresh wounds. "There, you see? See what you did?" Young Sam's voice hisses out of him, high and vicious.

"What's happening? Am I sleeping? This is a bad dream, I’m having a nightmare." Dean stares down at his brother, tiny, just starting to melt out of his baby fat. Knobby knees and beanstalk neck and red-rimmed eyes boring into his. Dean whispers to himself, "Maybe a djinn dream? Maybe I'm trapped, I'm—"

"Dean! Wake up!" Sam screams, and lands a punch on Dean's chest and fuck that tiny boy's fist feels like Sam's full grown hand. It almost feels like a rib snaps, knocks the breath out of him.

Dean looks down fearfully, but the red-eyed, rage filled look is gone. It's just his little brother, crying so hard he's shaking and begging Dean to "Listen to me! You gotta run, Dean, run away. This isn't me, m'not dying! Break free! Please!" Sam reaches out and grabs Dean by the wrist with a return of that unnatural strength and drags him to the car. "Go, go—break out."

Dean stops, manages to unlatch the grip Sammy's got on him. He feels tears rolling down his own face, hot in the chilly air. "No, I can't leave you. Help me, Sammy, what's going on?"

Sam shudders and twists, glitching like worn-out video tape; when it stops, Sam is different, this is not Dean's Sam. His face is sharper, meaner, his too-bright eyes lock on Dean as he screams, "This is why I died, because you can't put two and two together and come up with any kind of reasonable number. God, you're so stupid." Suddenly teenage Sam reaches down to the side of the road and grabs a rock and throws it through the Impala's windshield.

"Hey!" The next rock is aimed at Dean's head. "No—" it echoes in his head. Before everything goes black, he's surrounded by a cloud of smoke. He holds his hand open and feels it slipping through his fingers, too thick, too slick. Feathers, not smoke. Black feathers; overhead, black birds wheel in the sky, some come at him, beaks open as they crow. They crow, and sound like they're calling out, "Wake! Wake!"

Mother's gone quiet, Sam's alone in the dark again. Or not—he hears Dean's voice, feels it vibrate down his spine. Dean's here. He's not imagining it—somewhere Dean is very close. Sam feels a connection of some sort between them. It feels almost…tangible. Sam sweeps his hand through the air, reaching out for what feels like an actual tether holding the two of them together. He gets a sense that the reason he's still alive is the tether, and that the monster is greedy. Whatever's crossing between the two of them, whatever energy it's pulling out of them both, must be too good for it; double meals, lots and lots of complicated, screwed up emotions vibrating between him and his brother and feeding the thing so damn well….

But if this Mother thing can yank that tether, pull on his memories to torture Dean and vice versa, then Sam should be able to use the tether to reach Dean on his own. Warn him that something like a djinn has them trapped. Or not a djinn, maybe some kind of minor godlet. Mother said it had been forced to sign a contract with a god, that it hated the crows for keeping it in place. Could be a clue as to where it's hiding its…nest, whatever it means by that. Dean has to find the crows this thing was ranting about; he has to trust the crows, follow the crows. Get Dean to realize he's not alone and Sam needs him.

Sam rolls to his side, thinking about the mess they're in. If this thing pulls memories from them, it's twisting them so they turn bad, or makes the bad ones worse than they were. God knows between the two of them, they have some gut-churning memories—wouldn't take much to make them…Sam forces his thoughts still. If Mother can pluck their memories to get them to react, maybe Sam can, with a strong enough memory that Dean and he share equally. Something that has a lot of energy around it—yeah, like the disaster of Stanford night, now there's a pretty damn energetic memory. Sam can feel the rage, the HURT batter him. Even after all this time, Sam's gut still roils just thinking about it.

The stifling world around him twitches, shudders like layers are peeling away. It's a strong memory, powerful; his reaction to it is severe enough that Mother shows interest. It hovers over him, stroking his brain with its slime-crusted claws. Two, four, six, a hundred pairs of talons raking his soul, teasing out the feelings, the emotions, like plucking a juicy oyster from the shell. And Dean? Yeah, Sam's pretty sure he feels it too.

Oh, he'd known perfectly well that night that the moment he opened his mouth his world was going to cave in. Dean should have known too. Dean should have stopped Dad; he should have cared more. He should have COME WITH.

The world he's stuck in shivers with the force of his anger. Sam's shocked at the sheer amount of anger that he's forced down and ignored, pretending it didn't exist. God, after all this time, and even after loving Jess, it still hits him like this. Rage, threaded through with a sick feeling of betrayal. It fucking HURTS, like it's ramped up past normal human feelings. The mental threads wrapped around him shiver; Sam can feel Dean's response to this memory. It's sharp and painful as a knife, layered with hurt, confusion, betrayal, plus a thin bloom of hope. Wonder.

"Sammy?"

Hoping fervently that he can slip past Mother, and feed his message directly to Dean, he sends 'The crows, Dean! Follow the crows! The mushrooms…I think I might be there…' Wherever there is, Sam thinks, and the familiar shuddering wave rolls him under again.

Sam is yelling at Dad, Dad's yelling back, and Dean feels like he's being skewered between the two of them, the force of their anger like spears being driven into his soul. Dean hears Sam's voice break–Dean feels his chest crack in two. His brother wants to leave him.

No–this, this is the past. A memory, fresh and hotly painful as the day it happened. Dean tries to force it back into the box he's kept it in, closed off like a poisoned gift. He doesn't want to remember it but he's got no choice, he's dragged back to that night, that one day that changed his whole life.

Dean's throat is aching from fighting to hold in the screams that want to break loose. He feels stupid—brothers don't scream when their little brother wants to go to fucking college. Not when Sam's worked so hard for it and can't Dad see the pain behind Sam's anger? The boy's so fucking hurt. And Dean, damn it, he's completely fucking up trying to explain to Sam why he can't go with. That Dad's gonna need him. Sam's got a whole new life stretching out before him, it's going to be great, amazing. Dean begs him to understand that without Sam, Dad's got nothing left but Dean and revenge. Zero sum game.

And then Dad's storming out the door and Sam is throwing his stuff into his bag, audibly crying, but Dean's frozen, like maybe he's a little bit in shock. The world shakes, and Sammy's in his face, grabbing Dean by the collar. It scares him, the way Sam's sobbing, "Come with me, come with me," so hard Dean's afraid Sam's gonna puke all over them both, but then.

But then.

Sam kisses him. It's a desperate, wet, clinging kiss, smearing spit and tears all over Dean's face. Too much tongue too fast, teeth pinching and scraping his lips and not in a good way. Like Sam's never kissed anyone before, like he's running out of time, and he wants to make this single kiss count. Fucking hell, it does, it does count. It sinks right into Dean's brain like a flaming iron brand.

Dean scrubs hard at his face as the memory fades. He’s s wondered over the years on the rare occasion he lets that memory surface, if he even remembers that night right. Did it really happen that way or has he embellished it over the years? Or made it up altogether—wanting it so damn much like some freak pervert, did he hallucinate the whole fucking thing?

Since Sam's been back in the life, Dean's tried to figure out a million ways to ask him. He can't. It's not just that he's afraid, (but yeah, he's afraid), it's that Sam hasn't given him the slightest sign that it really did happen. That it was real. Hell, he's not given Dean any kind of signal about anything. Sam treats him with mild affection, frequently tinged with annoyance. Dean might as well be a distant cousin, with as emotional Sam is not being towards him.

Or maybe all along Dean's just been expecting the impossible from his little brother.

"Come with me," he hears again and he takes a breath and turns towards his brother. He can't fuck things up worse than they're fucked up now. He's just gonna fucking ask Sam. Right the fuck now. He needs to know the truth. "Sam," is all he gets out before BAM—he's laid out beside Baby on a patch of freezing, gritty blacktop, the stink of tar and something moldy stinging his nose. Blood's flooding his mouth and Sam shaking out his hand, flinging drops of blood, and hissing down into his face, "I fucking hate you so much. Why won't you COME WITH ME?"

Hot, wet drops splatter against his skin, crawl over his mouth and drip down his neck. He squints up at the sky as the world shivers, splinters apart. Suddenly, birds explode from the clouds, blood-red Cardinals at first glance. They're racing in frantic circles overhead, all the while shrieking what sounds like his name. One bird peels off from the circle and flies straight at Dean, its beak wide, shedding clumps of bloody feathers until finally it lands, now black as night, on his shoulder. It holds him in a tender grip, totally at odds with how violently it'd flown at him.

The crow runs its heavy beak gently along his cheek and softly says, "Trust the crows, Dean."

*
Dean feels vinyl, stiff with the morning's chill, under his cheek. Still in that place between sleep and waking, he hears Sam whisper, "If you watch the crows, you can find me. Watch them, find the mushrooms, find me."

"Sammy?" The dream, and Sam's voice whispering through it, is fucking weird enough that it tugs Dean fully awake. He feels rather than hears Sam's voice fade away on You need to wake up now, big brother.

"Yeah, okay," he mumbles, rubbing drool off his cheek and tilting his head towards the passenger side where his brother should be. His eyes land on Sam, who's sitting in a casual sprawl next to him. He's sporting a hell of a wide grin, rubbing the dash like a weirdo and looking around like a tourist. "Sammy?" he mutters again, and a feeling of hope flickers in his chest. Sam's back, is this shit over now?

"I like it in here. Feels like home. Feels like a casket."

"What?" Dean's suddenly aware of noise outside the car—it's creaking and rocking with the force of the crows hitting it. Fucking crows again. They're bouncing off the windshield in a frantic wave, so many that the windows are black. Sam, instead of trying to crawl into the footwell this time, rolls out of the car in one smooth move. Comes upright with his Taurus aimed at the cloud of frantic birds. He moves forward, aiming and laughing softly, boots sinking into the ground…but as Dean watches, the ground morphs into a wave of fungus-covered…rats maybe, rabbits, all sorts of small, misshapen, red-eyed beasts. They flop and surge around Sam's feet like dirty ocean waves.

It's horrible. The animals look like they're being swallowed by, by, mushrooms or fungus or something equally as gross. Little walking, diseased mushrooms. Dean backs away, scrabbling at the waistband of his jeans, searching for his—

"Aww. Are you looking for this pretty thing?" Sam holds up a gun. Instead of his Taurus, he's holding Dean's Colt. Sam's beaming like a new dawn, his eyes flash yellow like fire. "Nice," he says. "Fits perfectly in my hand."

Where his fingers rest on the gun, thin tendrils of smoke waft upwards. Dean's nose stings with the smell of burning meat, and Sam just smirks. "Yeah, ivory is a powerful protectant, but not for something like me," he says and Dean's heart shatters.

"Sammy…no. Please."

"No, no, Sammy please," Sam mocks him. "Oh yes, Dean." He sights down the long barrel, aiming at Dean's forehead, yellow eyes flaring like the sun in the low evening light.

"Pow," he says. Dean flinches and Sam laughs; but now the Colt in Sam's hand isn't his Colt 1911, it's Samuel Colt's Paterson revolver; Daniel Elkin's Colt, rumored to be the demon killer.

Sam's chuckling as he swings the gun about but it doesn't sound like him at all. It's a deep…gluey sound is the only way Dean can describe it, thick and sticky. It makes his hair stand on end.

Sam's still playing with the gun, swinging the long barrel towards the field, then back to the car. He skips over Dean to aim at the swirling cloud of crows. "Bang. Bang. Bang," he whispers, and his finger tightens on the trigger. "I've got you now, you ragged little slaves of a forgotten, nothing god…."

"No!" Dean shouts, and slaps Sam's hand away. Sam turns towards him with a snarl twisting his face. His free hands claws and scoops at the air like he's collecting something. Before Dean can duck like instinct is telling him to do, Sam flings his hand forward and the whole world tilts.

"Fuck!" An invisible fist smashes into Dean's ribs, spinning him around. Sam scoops the air again, and Dean's flying, snatched off his feet, then slammed into the ground. The mushroom creepers swarm over him immediately.

"This is a dream," he shouts, a dream, a dream—he screams as pinpoint teeth tear at him and he swears over the screaming, the crowing, he can hear his brother laughing, he hears his brother shouting WAKE UP.

'NO!' Sam wants to scream, his throat aches like he's screaming, but the mushroom's filaments flow over him, wrapping over his mouth, glueing it shut. His arms are curled over his chest and glued as well. Can't speak, can't move anything, but he can still feel—all over him, flabby, spongey, moist things are clinging to him. He can feel the screams building up in his mind, his chest heaving against the grip of the filaments. He's going crazy. He's going to lose his mind—

STOP, he tells himself, control. Think, think, Dean, think about Dean…maybe…it's like a djinn. Lamb's blood? They don't have anything like that on hand. Silver? Sure, silver's a standard. But fire is the ultimate purifier. Fire they have. If they can burn it. Burn it.

But Dean could be anywhere. Miles and miles away. Sam could be chained up in some derelict basement, or deep in a cave, wrapped up and stored for dinner like a wendigo's prey. The wendigo. Think about the wendigo. He thinks about the tether, imagining it tying Dean and him together, imagines it winding around his chest, protecting him from Mother's parasitic children. Connecting them soul to soul. 'Listen to me, Dean! Set it on fire—Dean!'

Sam's face is warm against his. He's rubbing his cheek slowly against Dean's and Dean likes it. Makes him feel safe, cared for. The rasp of stubble against his makes his skin tingle, his gut clench in a way that’s pleasant, like anticipating something sweet. Where Sam’s skin is smooth, Dean licks, takes his time kissing. Slowly rubs open-mouthed against the rough, liking the way it feels on his lips. His dick is taking notice and he can’t keep still anymore. His hips roll and Sam meets him immediately, pressing down until Dean makes space for him between his thighs. Sam’s hard too and that, that’s really good. That’s what he wants.

Sam arches up and drags the length of his dick over Dean’s—even clothed, it makes Dean gasp, and from the feel of it, Sam’s huge down there. He thinks about finally seeing all of Sam, not just post-shower quick peeks trying hard to be impersonal—Dean shudders, bites down on a moan. Fuck yeah, can’t wait. To touch, maybe even taste if Sam will let him….

It’s fucking hot now, feels like they're inside an oven, both of them sweating rivers into the sheets. Grinding against each other, finally laying hands on each other in a stifling, crummy motel room somewhere in the asshole of whatever state this is. The walls better be thick enough to keep other renters from hearing him, because he has the feeling all hell's about to break loose. Sam grabs his head, knocking him out of his daze to kiss him. He can barely believe that it's Sam's tongue slipping in and out of his mouth, in lazy licks, sweet, soft pulls at his lips, teeth grazing them, slow and tingling.

It's too good and borders on too much. Dean groans, can't keep it in anymore and Sam pulls back. He laughs at him and hot breath washes over Dean's kiss-sensitive lips as he whispers, "I always wanted this. Always wanted this, Dean. S'why I left. Every day just got worse and worse. I could barely control myself around you. That's what all that fighting, yelling, was about. Shoving you away, protecting myself. But now we’re safe. We can give ourselves this, you know, like the kiss I took from you then. We’re in a place where we can do this forever and ever."

Dean nods. Of course they can. Yeah, sure it makes sense. From now on, it can be just him and Sam. Nothing else exists, nothing is more real, more important. Just the two of them buried inside each other. Together, forever. Heat jolts through him, twisting him up in a way he knows only Sam can loosen. Burning in a fire only Sam can quench.

Sam’s hands are all over him, firm, hot, sliding up under his shirts and stroking over his bare skin. "Show me how much you want me," Sam whispers, a harsh burst of sound that makes Dean jump.

"How, Sam?” Dean asks. “I don’t know how."

"Like this," Sam growls, and grips his waistband, trying to yank Dean's jeans off. His nails claw painfully into Dean's skin as he twists and pulls hard enough that the denim burns. It fucking hurts—Sam belts out a nasty laugh when Dean tries to tell him that.

"Come on, big strong guy like you, you like it like this, don't you? Want someone to boss you, control you. Daddy you."

The tone of Sam's voice, what he says, fills Dean with fear and revulsion. This has to stop—this isn't Sam, there has to be something wrong with him. "Hey no, c'mon, not like this! Please, Sam, stop!"

"You sure about that?" Sam says. "Isn't this what you've always wished for? Your little brother, wanting you like you want him. Wasting time on all that mutual guilt, when all along both of you want it." He grabs Dean's dick through the denim and squeezes, the fucker. Dean can't help letting out a high-pitched yowl, and Sam lunges forward--

"Shit, sorry Sam—I gotta—" and right into the punch Dean throws: it's wild, off center, but thank god, it connects solidly. Sam's chin feels…mushy? Kind of weirdly soft? But Dean’s main concern at the moment is getting the fuck away—

Behind him, Sam is cursing a blue streak. Dean chances a look back and winces when he sees Sam with his hands over his nose and blood smeared on his fingers. But it's Dean’s chance to bug out—he drops over the side of the bed and crawls for the door like he’s doing one of Dad’s drills. Through the buzzing in his head, he hears Sam yell, "Yes! Oh Dean, thank god, now go, go, burn it!"

*
Dean opens his eyes—he's dressed, freezing cold, and in the car. He doesn't bother looking for Sam–he dives into the back seat, gropes around the floor, looking for something but he's not quite sure what. He feels something, grabs it, and pulls it free.

It's a book about mushrooms. He picks it up and shudders, lip curling in disgust. There are tiny, wetly glistening mushrooms growing out of the spine, oozing out between the edges of the pages. Fucking mushrooms. What is it about damn mushrooms? He drops the book, fishes under the seat again and finds another. This book's about…wendigos? What? Mushrooms and wendigos. The fuck. He drops that one too, hard to hold anyway, as damn cold as his hands are. He blows into them, trying to get some warmth in his cramping fingers, it's that damn cold. Wish there was fire, he could really use one right now.

'God.' Dean sighs, confused, irritated. He has the anxious feeling he's running out of time. He climbs out the car, looking towards the woods and the crows circling there. Looks down and he's stepping on squashy bits of…of…

"Mushrooms. Ick."

Everything tilts for a few seconds, he's got a feeling that he's falling, falling into darkness, he knows he's about to die—the world rights itself.

When the vertigo passes, the first thing he sees is Sam, who's standing too close, bright eyes staring at him from an emotionless mask. Terror punches Dean right in the chest and he staggers back, away from his brother. Stupid, yeah, but he can't stop feeling like—like Sam is dangerous. "What—" he starts to say before his vision goes wonky, everything static for a second like a cheap horror film. A big, hot hand curls over his shoulder, then shakes him. Sharp, sudden, impatient shakes. "Will you wake up, damn it! You need to set this bitch on fire—stop them before they kill us.'

'Wake up!' is echoing in his head, dragging him out of a fucked up nightmare of a dream; Dean comes fully awake alone and kneeling on the side of the road. He's bent halfway into the driver's side of the car, his legs stretched out into the road. If another car had come down this way, it would have fucking killed him.

Sensation comes back in fits and starts: gravel biting into his knees and his gut is killing him. He’s fucking starving and crazy thirsty, and that tells him this is real. Dreams never feel like this--there's too much happening, too many sensations. It takes him a few minutes to feel his hand, fist knotted tightly, curled under his chest. The other hand is shoved under the driver's side seat. Pulling that one back, he scoops a thin can of lighter fluid out with it. When he gets his fist unlocked, Dad’s Zippo is in that hand. Fire. He remembers Sam yelling something about fire…maybe. Might have been a dream. But he's sure Sam telling him to burn whatever was more real than anything he's gone through tonight.

Gravel scrapes and squeaks, he looks up and finally, there’s Sam. "Sam, shit, what the hell is going on, little brother?" He wobbles forward, almost dizzy with relief until he realizes—whatever that is, it’s not Sam.

That knowledge hits him like a sledgehammer: whatever's been beside him all this time, probably since they first saw the crows, hasn't been Sam. It barely even looks human now—fleshy, fungus-like blobs make up its face, dark, spore-covered tendrils twitch around it, pretending to be hair. The fucker steps closer, smiling with a million teeth, so many teeth. "Sweetmeat, it appears we've had all the fun we can have."

A scream practically splits his eardrums, and suddenly crows are fucking everywhere; they force their way between him and fakeSam. Beating at it with their wings, their sharp feathers opening little cuts all over it, beaks tear pieces of it away. Dean's drawn to follow, stumbling along behind as they drive the snarling Sam thing deeper into the woods. They circle it, then drop again, cawing and beating wildly at it until the fake Sam breaks apart into hundreds of small, deformed things; rats, mice, snakes, all red-eyed and rotting.

The crows circle Dean once, cawing, before flying upwards and disappearing into the clouds.

"Fuck, fuck…" Dean circles, hands cradling his head, blinking and just all in all feeling like he'd been punted off a cliff edge into an ocean of crazy. He sucks in a deep breath, feeling like he's breathing at last, after struggling to for a long, long time. When he finally has the brain power to take stock, he finds he's in a clearing, brightly lit by a huge moon overhead. The toes of his boots are just nudging a circle of mushrooms surrounding a natural kind of bowl sunk into the ground.

In this light it's clear that the mushrooms are something hideously more than that. The circle is made up of all sorts of small field animals, mushrooms sprouting in their hair, vomiting mushrooms from their mouths and ears, red eyes peeking out of a coating of spores. They're moving, and that freaks Dean out the most–that despite being nearly eaten, they're still croaking and slithering around the bowl and around the big mound of rooted mushrooms in the center of it. Instinct grabs him by the throat and screams Fire, kill it with fire. Yeah, fire. Fire killed the unkillable, like wendigos, and hope to god, This.

He yanks the tin of lighter fluid out of his coat pocket, frantically sprays the mushrooms with fluid in the outer circle. The middle, the mound, quakes and shivers, but it's okay, Dean knows that’s the important part, the fire in his chest tells him it's important—Do Not Burn it.

Sweating now, finally warm, his whole body tight with tension, fear, and hope, he growls quietly, "If I was someone who prayed, consider this is me praying now," and tosses the Zippo into the outer circle.

There's a feeling he'd describe as an implosion if he was aware enough to, and the whole earth screams.

Sam's standing again, back in the hallway, running. He's punching, kicking through the walls. He can feel Dean making fire and Sam's roasting right along with everything. He hears the crows, feels their wings beating against him in the dark. Feels like they're guiding him to salvation. To Dean. Sam forces his way through the narrowing tunnel, hall, whatever this is. Squinting, desperately hoping for light, feeling his way forward. Lathe walls crack, split, fall away. He's punching faster now, kicking through what had felt like plaster but now feels thin, papery. Mother's voice is screeching in his head. 'Stop, stop, you're killing the children!'

'Yeah! He's doing it, Dean's doing it!' Sam shouts back, "We're killing the parasites—and hopefully you!" The ceiling opens and chunks of it rain down on him, smelling like diseased earth, like fungus. The chunks break easily apart, like mushrooms, when they hit him.

He hears it first before he sees it. The fire roars through what's left of the hall and ahead of him, there's something huge, black and shapeless at first, gathering in its edges as it rises. Sam slams his hands over his ears. The thing–Mother–is making a sound that vibrates through his skull, down his spine–it's like being washed in broken glass.

There's no ceiling overhead now. Mother is high in the sky, a shrieking black hole sucking in stars and clouds and light. It's nothing now but claws and teeth, so many teeth. It swells larger and larger the higher it flies until thankfully, finally, it explodes into a million black pieces flying everywhere before floating earthward again. Nothing’s left of it but a tear in the sky and teeth raining down to the ground….

"Sam? Sammy?"

Arms reach down, pull him loose from the black soil and clamp down on him, solid, warm, leather-clad arms. Cool, square hands wrap around his face, leaching the heat away. Sam's on the edge of tears, it feels so good not to be boiling in his own skin anymore. Under the stink of the rancid soil crumbling away from him, there's the comforting smell of gunpowder and cut grass and leather and smoke.

"Dean?"

Sam's so damn happy to be out, safe again, that he doesn't even care it kind of hurts where Dean's fingers are clawing away dirt, frantically scraping crushed mushrooms off of him. Dean drags his fingers through Sam's hair, yanking out knots and what look like little bits of sharp, white bone that rain to the ground. He looks behind him, at the shallow dip in the ground. His guts twist when he realizes he was never more than a few inches below ground. If not for Dean, he would have died there, his soul drained by Mother and what was left absorbed into her children. His brother saved him; he probably saved them both.

"Sam, Sam, hey," Dean's nearly sobbing, and that snatches Sam's attention away from the hole in the dirt to his brother. Who is out and out crying now, hitching in big snotty gulps of air and leaking tears. He throws his arms around Sam and it feels so good, so real. Flesh and blood, his flesh and blood. Dean, who he thought he'd see again.

Hell with it, Sam's crying too now and clutching back for all it's worth. They both deserve a damn pass on this one—hell, with any luck, this is the last damn time they cry all over each other like little girls. Any clutching in the future better be because, because…Sam snorts out a wet laugh. Dean does too, Sam figures it's out of the sheer screaming relief that they're both alive and breathing. Dean swings him around, their feet grinding broken mushrooms and white toothy bits under the thick, black soil.

Dean's wiping gently at Sam's face now, smearing tears and mud together and making an even worse mess of his face, Sam's sure. He doesn't give a damn; not when Dean's looking at him in a way that makes his heart race.

"Sammy, fucking hell, it's you, really you. Look at you, Sasquatch: big, solid, and warm and, and, damn, dude, you are really dirty an' kinda smell like a cesspool but that's okay. Sam, that's okay. When we get you outta here and cleaned up and all, we gotta talk because I'm not letting this go anymore. I gotta know, about you, and me I guess. Sam–"

Dean grips Sam's arms, stares into his eyes, and Sam's knees go weak. He knows what Dean's going to ask him and despite the pain, the filth covering him like Slimer's hug, the rancid mud smeared over both of them and Mother's foul ashes drifting down on them like snow from hell, Sam smiles. He's already saying yes when Dean asks.
~fin~

SpN Eldritch Reverse Bang!

roxymissrose — Fri, 18 Apr 2025 18:27:34 GMT

I think this one is my last bang. I sweat blood and bullets trying to get this out. It was an agonizing pulling of ideas out onto the page, so to speak, interspersed (very rarely) with bits that flowed like honey and momentarily made me forget how bad I've gotten at all this. I live for those moments where it comes like it used to, where it's just fun and thrilling to watch the words build themselves into an interesting new world. Yer Mother is sad about it but also knows when to fold her tents and steal away into the night. Mind you, I'm not really going anywhere--I've got a WIP to finish, and a million stories to read. When I read one that grabs me by the throat, I'll be sure to share.

As for this Eldritch bang, weeeelllll...it's not super spooky, but I hope it's going to be a fun read. Watch this space for fic I made for the amazing art prompt, and the Eldritch Reverse Bang collection at AO3 for more! There are some *excellent* fics being posted there now.

roxymissrose — Fri, 06 Dec 2024 22:11:40 GMT

Roxy recs Gen!

roxymissrose — Tue, 22 Oct 2024 03:00:14 GMT

I know! More gen! But I read this, and my eyeballs ran like rivers. It feels so much like canon Dean, and we get a wonderful snapshot of canon Sam a well. I can totally believe that this was baby Sam life before That Night. I can totally believe that this was Dean trying to keep his nose above water.

Easy Like Mornings by seeing-ghost

Easy like mornings ( posted 2012)
Summary: Dad is hunting, Sam is busy with school and Dean is struggling.
Dean, Sam, John, gen, 4,000 words, PG

[Wincest] Drive Into the Colors of You [Animation]

roxymissrose — Sat, 31 Aug 2024 22:48:00 GMT

I thought this was amazing!

Happy birthday!

roxymissrose — Mon, 19 Aug 2024 01:01:51 GMT

Happy birthday, askellington, you magnificent bitch! The years have accumulated but you, you wear them like a 2k escort in a 5k mink.Hard to believe that you’ve hit the 7 decade mark. Go on out there and horrify the world! 😍😂

roxymissrose — Sat, 06 Jul 2024 01:54:03 GMT

To fufaraw, with tons of love!

GAAAAH!!

roxymissrose — Thu, 27 Jun 2024 01:19:30 GMT

I hope folks aren't getting a 1000 notifications I've posted. I'm trying to get ready for the BB and kind of screwing things up. The stress! After all these years, I still freak out, lol!

XOXOXO

meadowlark

roxymissrose — Wed, 26 Jun 2024 14:51:10 GMT

Summary: This is the story of a young lad who exits Texas and meets his Prince Charming on the mean, sort-of nebulously tri-state area streets. Can a fledgling self-employed escort, a free spirit who dances to the beat of a different drum, find true love with a slightly older, married, mostly-closeted department store merchandiser? Will Chad help or hinder? Both?
Read on to find out!

CLICK ART FOR MASTERPOST

Congratulations!

roxymissrose — Mon, 01 Apr 2024 00:54:52 GMT

septembers_coda, congratulations! I need to do a reread to catch up with everything I've missed, but I see Cas and Sam's journey has come to an end! Quoting Grateful Dead, "What a long, strange trip it's been!"

It's Wednesday!

roxymissrose — Wed, 20 Mar 2024 18:03:35 GMT

You know what that means!

2024 BB!

roxymissrose — Mon, 18 Mar 2024 18:04:35 GMT

It's that time of year again, when my BB loves me as much as I love it. When it's all cooperative, and murmurs ideas into my shell-like ear. The honeymoon stage, before all inspiration flies like a leaf on the wind.

I'm doing a J2 this year, about time, since the last two outings were Wincest. It's kind of a period piece--I've set it in the past but I'm not being super vigilant about anachronisms. I'm out to have fun! It's going to be a quick little read--just at the limit. I'm not trying to push my luck, lol!

Wish me luck, and expect plenty whining! Yay, dis my process!

(Holy smokes! I just checked my word count and I'm at 10k!👀 )

My comment to an entry 'Fanfic links and Podfics' by meus_venator

roxymissrose — Sat, 09 Mar 2024 02:33:42 GMT

Holy smokes--you have an entire library of fic! What can we do about storing them? Can we help in some way?

View the entire thread this comment is a part of

roxymissrose — Tue, 05 Mar 2024 23:57:22 GMT

Artwork created by Digitalwave for my fic, Mariposa, first posted 2007