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Year-end roundup: Boy did I write more than I meant to. Aside from the unfinished genderswap/switch, Deancubus, amnesia, and SV forced-to-marry stories, each of which is at or over 30 pages, and the shorter sequel to Under Darkening Skies, I finished (all SPN unless otherwise noted): the SPN/BtVS crossover Under Darkening Skies, a Sweet Charity story for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
giandujakiss; DVD commentary on my SV story Rainbow Sign; a remix, Blink (The Rapid Eye Movement Remix); Tricking (my first hookerfic!); Filthy Mind; Captured by the Game (my first full-fledged AU!); the Filthy Mind sequel An Act I Would Enjoy; Lazarus Falling; Double Cross; and a bunch of stories and snippets for Eight Crazy Nights, including Tell It Slant (XF), Fides, a bunch of fun Chuck stuff, Gossip Girl (who knew that Faith Lehane and Blair Waldorf would be such a good combination?), and two Impala stories I like a fair amount.
Next year’s resolutions: finish the unfinished stories; think about a Mirror Universe story; write a paranormal romance.
Teasers:
forcoffeeandink
They’d been fighting with each other for five days straight when they cornered the fairy who’d stolen the memories of seven people in Ashton, Kentucky and looked to have settled in for more.
You’d think saving the world would lead to a little relaxation. But Dean’s nightmares hadn’t gone away, nor had the drinking. Aside from the apocalypse, the only thing that had gone away was Castiel, and Sam was beginning to miss the angel’s steadying hand, because Sam had no idea how to get Dean under control.
Even Castiel’s parting gift—the promise that Dean was no longer Hellbound, all debts erased—was jagged-edged. Dean had still done all those things in Hell, and he thought he deserved to be punished. If Heaven wasn’t prepared, then Dean himself had to be the one to do it. Caught somewhere between masochism and a death wish, Dean was a danger to everyone around him, not least Sam. He wouldn’t listen and he wouldn’t wait and he wouldn’t let Sam help him. When he turned his back to Sam the line of his shoulders said ‘no’ and when he deigned to meet Sam’s eyes the set of his mouth said the same. They went on hunts and plans disintegrated like bones going to ash when Dean charged on ahead.
Which was how Sam ended up pinioned by the fairy—fucker had to be hovering, because Sam had at least two feet on it—gasping for breath against the wall of the abandoned warehouse. The place was dark, but the fairy seemed to give off a glow that allowed Sam, too late, to see it clearly.
“Well just look at you,” the fairy said, tilting its head. Its straw-yellow hair spilled over its shoulders, fine as cornsilk but crackling with energy. Its eyes were dusk-violet, and would have been beautiful if they hadn’t been slit-pupilled. “A hunter. I hate you people.”
“Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” Dean said from ten feet away, over to the side. The fairy hissed and threw up its other hand, not looking away from Sam. Dean groaned and was silent; Sam thrashed and tried to see what had happened, but the fairy forced his head to stay in place.
“Dean!” he screamed, half-choked.
“But two of you,” the fairy mused. “That ought to be good for some fun. How’s this, hunter-boy: I’m going to take all that hunting right out of someone’s head. But you’re going to tell me which one of you to destroy, or I’ll just kill you both.”
Sam couldn’t process it for a second.
“Three, two—”
Instinct, and an impulse he couldn’t yet name, forced the answer from his mouth. “Dean!” he said again, different this time. “Take Dean. Not me. Please.”
“Sam—!” Now he was glad he couldn’t see Dean’s face.
The fairy chuckled. “You’re all cowards, in the end, aren’t you. It’s a good last memory, right, betrayal by your good buddy?” It turned its head towards Dean, eyes narrowing in concentration. Sam gasped and worked his hand behind his back.
Dean whimpered, a kicked-dog sound.
Sam wrapped his fingers around the handle of the thrice-blessed blade and tugged it free. His vision was going to sparkles with oxygen deprivation.
Dean’s breaths were coming loud and wet, like he was being squeezed to death
Sam swung his arm in an abbreviated arc, from around his back to the center of the fairy’s stomach. The fairy didn’t even have time to look surprised before it collapsed into a heap, giving out a foul, choking smell as it died.
Sam pushed off of the wall, barely keeping his balance, and hurried over to where Dean was sprawled on the ground. He was pale and his eyes were closed. Please, Sam thought, even though he knew better than any other human that there was no one in a mind to listen. Please.
“Hey,” he said, kneeling to touch Dean’s shoulder. “Hey, are you all right?”
Dean blinked, then stared. His usually-faint freckles stood out on his cheeks and his nose, like he’d lost a lot of blood. His eyes were the green of new leaves. “Who the hell are you?”
formahaliem
“Lois, don’t,” Clark said, and ever after he lived with the knowledge that if he’d used the superspeed, he could have swept her away before she opened the box. But he was still just Clark to her, and he wanted candles and flowers (and, to be honest, a place to hide while she got over the inevitable tantrum) when he did reveal himself, so he just yelled. Naturally, she ignored him, and gave the hinge a solid whack with her flashlight so that the lid popped up.
A brown cloud puffed out, enveloping her head and upper torso. Clark caught the scent of strawberries.
“Shi—” Lois began, and fell over gracelessly.
Clark did catch her before she landed, at least.
The working title should be a warning here. Every time I think I've reached the limit of my Id Vortex, I find another level.
Thirty hours.
That was how long they’d had Dean. Sam knew, in a distant corner of his mind that wasn’t taken up with other things, that he shouldn’t be counting, that it was fucking with his judgment. But the count went on nonetheless.
Men and women in small towns clustered around an hour out of Des Moines, Iowa had been complaining of draining dreams—some would admit to “disturbing,” which meant erotic—and then turning up dead.
At the bar outside the fourth town, Sam had been focused on the off-duty sheriff’s deputy, gently extracting the details. When he’d turned back to their table, Dean had been gone.
After all they’d been through in the past few years, there was zero chance that Dean had just run off to get laid by some corn-fed apple-cheeked girl. But succubus-knapped—yeah, if you had to get your sustenance from sexual energy, Dean had to look like a Super-Sized Happy Meal.
So now Sam was searching frantically for some extra bit of information, some way to make sure what kind of succubus he was looking for, out of all the varieties. He’d started with the standard types, but couldn’t pin anything down. There was Poco Bawa or a lidérc. Might even be a boto; the Chariton River was freshwater, and who’d think to look for a Brazilian import in middle America? But both men and women were afflicted, and the boto was supposed to go after women only.
The most likely thing was an infestation of European sex demons. Before Dean’s disappearance, he hadn’t worried much about it. They’d been planning on a basic exorcism—the classics all responded well to a good exorcism—but now he read in Sinistrari that incubi had no dread of exorcism and no reverence for holy things.
He planned to investigate their attitude towards shotguns.
The Winchester we don’t see.
The things were man-sized, taller than Sam even, pale as candlewax in the moonlight. Their long white arms could stretch for yards, something Sam discovered to his dismay when he stopped at what he thought was a sufficient distance to aim and fire. Instead, his gun was ripped from his hands by a limb with black, rubbery, wriggly appendages at the tip. He would have shuddered if he wasn’t too busy stumbling back and reaching for his emergency knife.
The limbs folded around him like the grip of a sea anemone, or a Venus flytrap. He stabbed forward, deep into the thing’s chest. There was a flash of green-white light, blinding, and abruptly he was alone in the woods, the creepy man-things disappeared as fast as if some god had changed the channel.
“Dee?” he called out. “You all right?”
“Fuck!” an unfamiliar voice said – a man’s, coming from the direction Dee had gone. Sam grabbed his fallen shotgun, loaded another shell – not salt – and headed that way.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” The man wasn’t trying to hide his presence, but Dee still hadn’t made herself known, which meant trouble of some kind.
Sam paused a few yards from the noise, mostly hidden behind some bushes and younger trees. He looked into the small clearing where the man was turning around and around, tugging at his clothes and swearing.
At first Sam didn’t understand what he was seeing, dismissing his eyes’ initial report as a trick of the moonlight. The man – maybe six feet, longish sandy hair queued back neatly, well-built – was wearing Dee’s clothes, except that they didn’t fit, which might have had some relation to the swearing. As Sam watched in disbelief, he wrestled off Dee’s T-shirt and sports bra, sighed in relief, then attacked her boots, which looked to be a harder job. The sock tore off with the right boot, leaving him barefoot on the dirt; he continued pulling at the left, hopping on his right and continuing the stream of not-very-imaginative invective.
Finally the man stood, clothed only in a necklace and a pair of black bikini panties, looking down at himself in disbelief. After a short pause, he pulled the front of the panties out to examine what lay underneath. His head reared back, but he was still scrutinizing himself with interest.
Sam stepped forward.
“Dee?” he asked.
The man’s head snapped up. “Sammy? What the hell -- ? I was about to shoot, then the fuckers swarmed me, and now --” he patted his chest – “I’m missing some mighty important parts!”
Sam blinked. “The creatures did that?” He shuddered, then had worse thoughts involving possession and shapeshifters and other impostors. If he left here without Dee on the say-so of some guy, she’d never let him hear the end of it, and he’d never deserve to. “How do I know you’re really Dee?”
The man pursed his lips – yes, they were still lush and feminine, like his lashes. In the bad moonlight, it was impossible to tell what color his eyes were, but Sam couldn’t deny that he looked more like Dee’s brother than Sam ever had.
“You want me to tell you about the time you were fifteen and I caught you masturbating with that book, what was it, some fantasy thing. Had a horse on the cover?”
Sam had to admit, that was both true and vague enough to be infuriating, which was more than anything what made him believe it was really Dee.
And Dee was still too impatient to let him finish thinking. “Anyway, if I’m not Dee, why am I wearing her clothes?”
“You’re not, mostly,” Sam pointed out.
Dee looked down at herself and made a harrumphing noise. Then he – she – raised her right hand and cursed.
It was her silver ring, now clamped so tight around her newly enlarged ring finger that it was cutting off the circulation. Sam didn’t know how long it took to lose a finger, but the digit already looked sick, swelling and white, the rest of the hand reddening.
They ran to the Impala, Dee swearing blue murder as the socks she’d hurriedly put back on failed to protect her from sticks and stones on the forest floor.
Sam got the bolt cutter out of the trunk.
“I liked that ring,” Dee complained as Sam sweated to position the cutter properly, terrified that he’d end up taking off the very finger he was trying to save.
“Shut up,” he snapped, readjusted his grip again, and then pushed down hard, not letting himself second-guess.
With a snick the metal parted, jagged enough that Dee’s finger bled when he ripped the remains away from her skin. But she was still bitching, and the terrifying pallor was quickly replaced with swollen pink, as if a sausage had been sewn onto her hand, so he knew the flesh hadn’t died.
She shook her hand in the air, Sam guessed to restore the circulation, and began to rummage around one-handed in the trunk. Sam’s clean clothes began flying out as she searched. Sam considered yelling, then considered her doubtless fragile mental state, then settled on yelling when she dumped perfectly good clean shirts onto the ground. “Stop that!” he ordered, but she was already pulling on a red T-shirt and stepping into a pair of too-long gray sweatpants, ignoring him.
He scooped up the stray clothes, which brought him within touching distance, this time without the distraction of emergency metalworking. Bending down to stuff the shirts back into his bag, he was eye to eye with her.
Her eyes were the same.
He stopped, frozen. Dee watched him carefully for a moment, then edged back, looking away.
She cleared her throat. “Hey, you didn’t get changed into a girl. Those things have something against girls, or what?”
“I don’t know,” he said grimly. “But we’re going to find out.”
Of course then they had a fight about who was going to drive. Dee insisted on getting in the driver’s seat, then spent five minutes fighting the mirror and the seat and everything else that was now adjusted wrong for her, and even then it took Sam forcibly pointing out that she wasn’t wearing any shoes and no, he wasn’t going to give her his even if they would fit which they wouldn’t, before she gave up and switched seats, sulking all the way.
Resistance
“I need your help,” said the rough voice on the phone.
It took Buffy a few seconds to figure out who it was. She was still blinking sleep out of her eyes, but she had a good memory for people who’d almost killed her or hers.
Dean Winchester.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You do prophecy shit, right?”
Buffy rolled herself upright to sit at the edge of the bed, staring down at the knees of her hearts-and-popsicles PJs. “Wow. This is going to fully suck, isn’t it?”
Dean laughed hollowly. “Couple months back, now, tarot reader we did a favor for insists on doing a reading for us. She starts with Sam, tells him some shit about a prophecy. Shows us two cards—the Huntsman and the Deer.”
Buffy scrunched her brows, thinking. She wasn’t an expert on tarot, but—“Those don’t sound familiar.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “The reader’d never seen them in her deck until we showed up.”
Buffy stored the phone between her shoulder and her ear and started putting her hair up into a ponytail. “You’d better come see us,” she told him.
Dean chuffed out a breath. “Well, about that.”
giandujakiss; DVD commentary on my SV story Rainbow Sign; a remix, Blink (The Rapid Eye Movement Remix); Tricking (my first hookerfic!); Filthy Mind; Captured by the Game (my first full-fledged AU!); the Filthy Mind sequel An Act I Would Enjoy; Lazarus Falling; Double Cross; and a bunch of stories and snippets for Eight Crazy Nights, including Tell It Slant (XF), Fides, a bunch of fun Chuck stuff, Gossip Girl (who knew that Faith Lehane and Blair Waldorf would be such a good combination?), and two Impala stories I like a fair amount.Next year’s resolutions: finish the unfinished stories; think about a Mirror Universe story; write a paranormal romance.
Teasers:
for
coffeeandinkThey’d been fighting with each other for five days straight when they cornered the fairy who’d stolen the memories of seven people in Ashton, Kentucky and looked to have settled in for more.
You’d think saving the world would lead to a little relaxation. But Dean’s nightmares hadn’t gone away, nor had the drinking. Aside from the apocalypse, the only thing that had gone away was Castiel, and Sam was beginning to miss the angel’s steadying hand, because Sam had no idea how to get Dean under control.
Even Castiel’s parting gift—the promise that Dean was no longer Hellbound, all debts erased—was jagged-edged. Dean had still done all those things in Hell, and he thought he deserved to be punished. If Heaven wasn’t prepared, then Dean himself had to be the one to do it. Caught somewhere between masochism and a death wish, Dean was a danger to everyone around him, not least Sam. He wouldn’t listen and he wouldn’t wait and he wouldn’t let Sam help him. When he turned his back to Sam the line of his shoulders said ‘no’ and when he deigned to meet Sam’s eyes the set of his mouth said the same. They went on hunts and plans disintegrated like bones going to ash when Dean charged on ahead.
Which was how Sam ended up pinioned by the fairy—fucker had to be hovering, because Sam had at least two feet on it—gasping for breath against the wall of the abandoned warehouse. The place was dark, but the fairy seemed to give off a glow that allowed Sam, too late, to see it clearly.
“Well just look at you,” the fairy said, tilting its head. Its straw-yellow hair spilled over its shoulders, fine as cornsilk but crackling with energy. Its eyes were dusk-violet, and would have been beautiful if they hadn’t been slit-pupilled. “A hunter. I hate you people.”
“Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” Dean said from ten feet away, over to the side. The fairy hissed and threw up its other hand, not looking away from Sam. Dean groaned and was silent; Sam thrashed and tried to see what had happened, but the fairy forced his head to stay in place.
“Dean!” he screamed, half-choked.
“But two of you,” the fairy mused. “That ought to be good for some fun. How’s this, hunter-boy: I’m going to take all that hunting right out of someone’s head. But you’re going to tell me which one of you to destroy, or I’ll just kill you both.”
Sam couldn’t process it for a second.
“Three, two—”
Instinct, and an impulse he couldn’t yet name, forced the answer from his mouth. “Dean!” he said again, different this time. “Take Dean. Not me. Please.”
“Sam—!” Now he was glad he couldn’t see Dean’s face.
The fairy chuckled. “You’re all cowards, in the end, aren’t you. It’s a good last memory, right, betrayal by your good buddy?” It turned its head towards Dean, eyes narrowing in concentration. Sam gasped and worked his hand behind his back.
Dean whimpered, a kicked-dog sound.
Sam wrapped his fingers around the handle of the thrice-blessed blade and tugged it free. His vision was going to sparkles with oxygen deprivation.
Dean’s breaths were coming loud and wet, like he was being squeezed to death
Sam swung his arm in an abbreviated arc, from around his back to the center of the fairy’s stomach. The fairy didn’t even have time to look surprised before it collapsed into a heap, giving out a foul, choking smell as it died.
Sam pushed off of the wall, barely keeping his balance, and hurried over to where Dean was sprawled on the ground. He was pale and his eyes were closed. Please, Sam thought, even though he knew better than any other human that there was no one in a mind to listen. Please.
“Hey,” he said, kneeling to touch Dean’s shoulder. “Hey, are you all right?”
Dean blinked, then stared. His usually-faint freckles stood out on his cheeks and his nose, like he’d lost a lot of blood. His eyes were the green of new leaves. “Who the hell are you?”
for
mahaliem“Lois, don’t,” Clark said, and ever after he lived with the knowledge that if he’d used the superspeed, he could have swept her away before she opened the box. But he was still just Clark to her, and he wanted candles and flowers (and, to be honest, a place to hide while she got over the inevitable tantrum) when he did reveal himself, so he just yelled. Naturally, she ignored him, and gave the hinge a solid whack with her flashlight so that the lid popped up.
A brown cloud puffed out, enveloping her head and upper torso. Clark caught the scent of strawberries.
“Shi—” Lois began, and fell over gracelessly.
Clark did catch her before she landed, at least.
The working title should be a warning here. Every time I think I've reached the limit of my Id Vortex, I find another level.
Thirty hours.
That was how long they’d had Dean. Sam knew, in a distant corner of his mind that wasn’t taken up with other things, that he shouldn’t be counting, that it was fucking with his judgment. But the count went on nonetheless.
Men and women in small towns clustered around an hour out of Des Moines, Iowa had been complaining of draining dreams—some would admit to “disturbing,” which meant erotic—and then turning up dead.
At the bar outside the fourth town, Sam had been focused on the off-duty sheriff’s deputy, gently extracting the details. When he’d turned back to their table, Dean had been gone.
After all they’d been through in the past few years, there was zero chance that Dean had just run off to get laid by some corn-fed apple-cheeked girl. But succubus-knapped—yeah, if you had to get your sustenance from sexual energy, Dean had to look like a Super-Sized Happy Meal.
So now Sam was searching frantically for some extra bit of information, some way to make sure what kind of succubus he was looking for, out of all the varieties. He’d started with the standard types, but couldn’t pin anything down. There was Poco Bawa or a lidérc. Might even be a boto; the Chariton River was freshwater, and who’d think to look for a Brazilian import in middle America? But both men and women were afflicted, and the boto was supposed to go after women only.
The most likely thing was an infestation of European sex demons. Before Dean’s disappearance, he hadn’t worried much about it. They’d been planning on a basic exorcism—the classics all responded well to a good exorcism—but now he read in Sinistrari that incubi had no dread of exorcism and no reverence for holy things.
He planned to investigate their attitude towards shotguns.
The Winchester we don’t see.
The things were man-sized, taller than Sam even, pale as candlewax in the moonlight. Their long white arms could stretch for yards, something Sam discovered to his dismay when he stopped at what he thought was a sufficient distance to aim and fire. Instead, his gun was ripped from his hands by a limb with black, rubbery, wriggly appendages at the tip. He would have shuddered if he wasn’t too busy stumbling back and reaching for his emergency knife.
The limbs folded around him like the grip of a sea anemone, or a Venus flytrap. He stabbed forward, deep into the thing’s chest. There was a flash of green-white light, blinding, and abruptly he was alone in the woods, the creepy man-things disappeared as fast as if some god had changed the channel.
“Dee?” he called out. “You all right?”
“Fuck!” an unfamiliar voice said – a man’s, coming from the direction Dee had gone. Sam grabbed his fallen shotgun, loaded another shell – not salt – and headed that way.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” The man wasn’t trying to hide his presence, but Dee still hadn’t made herself known, which meant trouble of some kind.
Sam paused a few yards from the noise, mostly hidden behind some bushes and younger trees. He looked into the small clearing where the man was turning around and around, tugging at his clothes and swearing.
At first Sam didn’t understand what he was seeing, dismissing his eyes’ initial report as a trick of the moonlight. The man – maybe six feet, longish sandy hair queued back neatly, well-built – was wearing Dee’s clothes, except that they didn’t fit, which might have had some relation to the swearing. As Sam watched in disbelief, he wrestled off Dee’s T-shirt and sports bra, sighed in relief, then attacked her boots, which looked to be a harder job. The sock tore off with the right boot, leaving him barefoot on the dirt; he continued pulling at the left, hopping on his right and continuing the stream of not-very-imaginative invective.
Finally the man stood, clothed only in a necklace and a pair of black bikini panties, looking down at himself in disbelief. After a short pause, he pulled the front of the panties out to examine what lay underneath. His head reared back, but he was still scrutinizing himself with interest.
Sam stepped forward.
“Dee?” he asked.
The man’s head snapped up. “Sammy? What the hell -- ? I was about to shoot, then the fuckers swarmed me, and now --” he patted his chest – “I’m missing some mighty important parts!”
Sam blinked. “The creatures did that?” He shuddered, then had worse thoughts involving possession and shapeshifters and other impostors. If he left here without Dee on the say-so of some guy, she’d never let him hear the end of it, and he’d never deserve to. “How do I know you’re really Dee?”
The man pursed his lips – yes, they were still lush and feminine, like his lashes. In the bad moonlight, it was impossible to tell what color his eyes were, but Sam couldn’t deny that he looked more like Dee’s brother than Sam ever had.
“You want me to tell you about the time you were fifteen and I caught you masturbating with that book, what was it, some fantasy thing. Had a horse on the cover?”
Sam had to admit, that was both true and vague enough to be infuriating, which was more than anything what made him believe it was really Dee.
And Dee was still too impatient to let him finish thinking. “Anyway, if I’m not Dee, why am I wearing her clothes?”
“You’re not, mostly,” Sam pointed out.
Dee looked down at herself and made a harrumphing noise. Then he – she – raised her right hand and cursed.
It was her silver ring, now clamped so tight around her newly enlarged ring finger that it was cutting off the circulation. Sam didn’t know how long it took to lose a finger, but the digit already looked sick, swelling and white, the rest of the hand reddening.
They ran to the Impala, Dee swearing blue murder as the socks she’d hurriedly put back on failed to protect her from sticks and stones on the forest floor.
Sam got the bolt cutter out of the trunk.
“I liked that ring,” Dee complained as Sam sweated to position the cutter properly, terrified that he’d end up taking off the very finger he was trying to save.
“Shut up,” he snapped, readjusted his grip again, and then pushed down hard, not letting himself second-guess.
With a snick the metal parted, jagged enough that Dee’s finger bled when he ripped the remains away from her skin. But she was still bitching, and the terrifying pallor was quickly replaced with swollen pink, as if a sausage had been sewn onto her hand, so he knew the flesh hadn’t died.
She shook her hand in the air, Sam guessed to restore the circulation, and began to rummage around one-handed in the trunk. Sam’s clean clothes began flying out as she searched. Sam considered yelling, then considered her doubtless fragile mental state, then settled on yelling when she dumped perfectly good clean shirts onto the ground. “Stop that!” he ordered, but she was already pulling on a red T-shirt and stepping into a pair of too-long gray sweatpants, ignoring him.
He scooped up the stray clothes, which brought him within touching distance, this time without the distraction of emergency metalworking. Bending down to stuff the shirts back into his bag, he was eye to eye with her.
Her eyes were the same.
He stopped, frozen. Dee watched him carefully for a moment, then edged back, looking away.
She cleared her throat. “Hey, you didn’t get changed into a girl. Those things have something against girls, or what?”
“I don’t know,” he said grimly. “But we’re going to find out.”
Of course then they had a fight about who was going to drive. Dee insisted on getting in the driver’s seat, then spent five minutes fighting the mirror and the seat and everything else that was now adjusted wrong for her, and even then it took Sam forcibly pointing out that she wasn’t wearing any shoes and no, he wasn’t going to give her his even if they would fit which they wouldn’t, before she gave up and switched seats, sulking all the way.
Resistance
“I need your help,” said the rough voice on the phone.
It took Buffy a few seconds to figure out who it was. She was still blinking sleep out of her eyes, but she had a good memory for people who’d almost killed her or hers.
Dean Winchester.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You do prophecy shit, right?”
Buffy rolled herself upright to sit at the edge of the bed, staring down at the knees of her hearts-and-popsicles PJs. “Wow. This is going to fully suck, isn’t it?”
Dean laughed hollowly. “Couple months back, now, tarot reader we did a favor for insists on doing a reading for us. She starts with Sam, tells him some shit about a prophecy. Shows us two cards—the Huntsman and the Deer.”
Buffy scrunched her brows, thinking. She wasn’t an expert on tarot, but—“Those don’t sound familiar.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “The reader’d never seen them in her deck until we showed up.”
Buffy stored the phone between her shoulder and her ear and started putting her hair up into a ponytail. “You’d better come see us,” she told him.
Dean chuffed out a breath. “Well, about that.”
Tags:
- btvs,
- fanfic by me,
- spn,
- sv