Looking for Baylor

SPN fic: Angel Rebellion Inc.

2009-12-17T23:45:21Z

Someone *cough liptonrmcough* convinced me to post this bit of madness. I was somewhat reluctant because it's crack written for this whole crazy SPN verse we've come up with via e-mail and doesn't fit quite right with show anymore, but anyway, here it is.

Some provisos: the Trickster (hereby known as "Skip") is not the angel Gabriel (because we already had plans for Gabriel when the Trickster made his big reveal) but is the angel Azrael. Same story, different name. Also, for greatest reading enjoyment, Michael shall be portrayed by Nicholas Lea, aka Alex Krycek, and Gabriel (the one in this verse, not in show) will be portrayed by Peter Gallagher, aka Sandy Cohen. Also, don't worry too much about the reference to Taylor Mulvaney at the end. She's Skip's girlfriend and they will run away together to hunt zombies in Jamaica.

Title: Angel Rebellion Inc.
Author: baylorsr
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: After Rio, Skip said he was out. After Siberia, Skip said he was out. After Mozambique, Skip said he was out. After Vegas, Skip said he was out, he really means it this time, you guys, he’s really leaving now, until he was alone, shouting into the big dust storm that used to be his favorite city ever. “I thought you were out,” Castiel said when he caught up to them, and that almost-smile was at his lips. “Smite me,” Skip growled.

When Castiel showed up with Michael in tow (or the other way around, in all likelihood), Azrael was so surprised that he hesitated mid-flight. Curiosity always was his downfall.

“Azrael,” Michael intoned (because really, Michael never just said something, he intoned), “important work is at hand.”

“You don’t say,” Azrael said to Michael, and then addressed Castiel. “What happened to Operation Winchester?”

“Michael is with us,” Castiel said gravely, and it was the most surprised Azrael had been since, well, since Lucifer. It actually rendered him speechless for several seconds, long enough for Michael to jump in and start intoning again.

“The Lord has not commanded these recent acts,” he said. “This is not the appointed time. We have been betrayed and deceived, and these events must be brought to rights.”

Now that just sounded absurd, and Azrael gathered himself to flee. “You have been deceived?” he demanded. “You, who lead God’s host, archest of the archangels? You got some land in Florida you want to sell me too?”

“We are not selling real estate,” Castiel said seriously, and really, if he didn’t have to run for his life right now, Azrael could have taken some time to enjoy Castiel and his unflagging solemnity.

“I have been otherwise occupied,” Michael said, and this stayed Azrael’s departure. “Raphael reported to me that the Seals were being broken, and then that Lilith was destroyed and Lucifer risen, though not yet in his vessel. I asked that he alert me when the time was upon us, but when he did not report again, I returned and discovered the rebellion of the Third Sphere.”

“Rebellion’s kind of a strong word for it, dontcha think?” Azrael asked. “I mean, they’re in charge now, no one around to tell them not to get the jumpstart on ending the world.”

“God is,” Michael said, and the ground shook. Azrael tried not to cringe. Michael dropped his intonation down a notch. “We have been charged with the safeguarding of his creations, until such time as he instructs otherwise. How he chooses to spend that time is not subject to our approval.”

Azrael wasn’t sure what was niggling at the pit of his stomach, but he suspected it might be shame.

“All right,” he said brusquely, “but even so, you’re joining us kind of late. Lucifer’s here, ready to rumble.”

“He is not ready to rumble,” Castiel corrected him. “He has not attained his vessel.”

“Nor do I intend to attain mine, until it is ordered,” Michael said.

“So, what,” Azrael asked, “you’re just going to let Lucifer run roughshod over Earth?”

“We are going,” Michael said, and the ground trembled again, “to overthrow Lucifer and bind him to hell. And you are going to help us.”

Maybe it was shame in his gut, because Azrael said yes.

* * *

Castiel tapped expertly at his phone, texting Dean: where r u?

Michael watched with interest. “What is that? What are you doing?”

Azrael rolled his eyes. “It’s called a phone, big brother. He’s using it to contact Fred and Shaggy, since somebody angel-blocked them.”

Castiel frowned. “It was necessary for their protection,” he said gravely.

Michael took the phone from Castiel’s hand and studied it. “What a curious thing,” he said. Castiel watched him with the faintest anxiety.

Azrael looked bored. “Yeah, Cas has really gone native,” he said. “Earth has changed a lot since Paradise was abandoned. You’d know these things if you ever bothered to check in.”

Michael cut him a dark look, whether because he’d already been warned about calling Castiel “Cas” or because they all knew who’d really gone native, Azrael couldn’t tell. Azrael smirked at him, either uncaring or actually hoping to be smitten, Michael couldn’t tell.

Castiel kept his eyes on the phone in Michael’s hand, definitely looking anxious now. It began vibrating in Michael’s hand and “Highway to Hell” peeled out of its tiny speaker.

“Hit OK,” Castiel instructed at Michael’s baffled expression. “It’s Dean.”

Michael looked at him blankly and Castiel reached out an imploring hand. Michael looked back down at the phone, tilting his head to listen to the AC/DC.

Azrael looked heavenward, wishing his Father were around to hear his prayer for salvation. He snatched the phone out of Michael’s hand and put it to his ear.

“Angel Rebellion Incorporated, can I help you?” he said into it, and an angry voice barked out of it.

“Hmm,” Azrael said thoughtfully. “I don’t think that’s physically possible. Well, certainly not while we’re in human form. Did you want to talk to baby brother?”

Castiel’s hand was out to Azrael now, and his face was scrunched up with such fretfulness that both Azrael and Michael were afraid he was accidentally going to start a small tornado. Azrael handed the phone over.

Michael gave him a reproachful look.

“What?” Azrael said peevishly. “And for the last time, my name is Skip, so stop thinking Azrael.”

* * *

“Azrael,” Michael began gravely, but Azrael cut in before he could continue.

“Seriously,” Azrael said. “It’s Skip now. Not Azrael.”

“Azrael is the name our Father gave you,” Michael said. “You should wear it with honor.”

“Yeah, but I’m not,” Azrael said. “I haven’t for more than a millennium, and maybe you should just get on board, because after a thousand some years of going by something else, I’m not answering to Azrael again.”

“You have been called Skip for more than a thousand years?” Castiel inquired, and ~~Azrael~~ Skip pointed a finger at him without turning from Michael.

“Shut. Up,” he said. Castiel looked slightly offended.

Michael looked exasperated. “Azrael is a name befitting an angel of the Lord,” he said. “Skip is not.”

~~Azrael~~ Skip wasn’t buying it. “I haven’t been one of those in more than a millennium either,” he pointed out. “And anyway, it’s not a name befitting an angel of the Lord these days. You know what it is? The name of an evil cartoon cat.”

“The name Azrael has been used in many human artistic expressions,” Castiel started, but then shut his mouth when both Michael and ~~Azrael~~ Skip gave him a black look.

“You’ve got it easy,” ~~Azrael~~ Skip continued to Michael. “Did you know that Michael has been one of the most popular names for humans since before I stopped calling myself Azrael? Everyone wants to be Michael!”

“Perhaps when we finish our work here, Azrael will be a name held high with honor,” Michael said seriously, and ~~Azrael~~ Skip rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” he said. “No one is naming their kid Azrael. Or Castiel, either.” Castiel looked crestfallen. “You know what they’re gonna call their kids? Sam and Dean.”

The three angels contemplated this.

“Skip is a cheerful name,” Castiel finally said.

Michael ground his teeth. Skip folded his arms smugly across his chest.

“Fine,” Michael said tightly. “Skip …”

* * *

“So, you’ve given up the whole Azrael thing altogether?” Dean said conversationally to Skip, who was wedged in the backseat with Castiel and Sam. (Michael had just gotten into the passenger seat, and, you know, he is the fiery swift sword of the Lord, so Sam had just gotten in back without comment.)

“Yes,” Skip said shortly, and no one spoke for a while. Dean drove, and the world passed by the windows in a blur. Literally, because Michael was actually piloting, even though Dean was at the wheel.

“Isn’t Azrael the angel of death?” Sam said after a while, and Skip leaned his head against the back of the seat and shut his eyes.

“No,” he said emphatically. “That’s Izrail. He’s a totally different person. And it’s all different from Israel, which took you people long enough to sort out.”

“Angel of Death is not an accurate description of Izrail,” Castiel said, in a manner that indicated more was to come, but Sam shifted and caught him in the ribs with his elbow, then gave him a quick frown when Castiel looked at him. Castiel subsided.

Dean did not. “So, not the angel of death, huh?” he said. “What are, or were, you then?”

Skip was quiet and then he murmured, “God is my help.” He lifted his head and looked out the window.

“That’s nice,” Dean said, without irony. “Hey,” this was directed to Michael, “doesn’t Michael mean something like ‘gift from God’?”

“He who is Godlike,” Michael said gravely, and the car trembled a little with his words.

“Good one,” Dean said. “It’s my middle name, you know? Kind of a weird fate thing, isn’t that?”

“I know,” Michael said neutrally, staring out the windshield. “I know everything about you, Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah?” Dean looked at him sideways. “Everything?”

“Everything,” Michael said, and did not elaborate.

“You can’t know everything,” Dean said, both skeptical and nervous.

“In August 2000, you saved a young woman named Nancy Simpson from a revenant. She rewarded you with a homemade dinner. Following that dinner, you used her kitchen table to –“

“All right!” Dean squawked as the car swerved. He yanked the wheel back. “All right! You know everything! You don’t have to share it with the group!”

Sam may have snorted from the back.

“My name has no meaning,” Castiel said mournfully. He was studying his hands in his lap.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Michael stared out the windshield. Skip had fallen asleep with his face pressed to the side window.

“You’re Cas,” Dean said finally, his voice saying that was enough for him.

“You’re just unwritten,” Sam added. “You get to choose.”

Castiel seemed to like that. He looked up from his hands, at least.

The world swirled by.

* * *

After Rio, Skip said he was out.

After Siberia, Skip said he was out.

After Mozambique, Skip said he was out.

After Vegas, Skip said he was out, he really means it this time, you guys, he’s really leaving now, until he was alone, shouting into the big dust storm that used to be his favorite city ever.

“I thought you were out,” Castiel said when he caught up to them, and that almost-smile was at his lips.

“Smite me,” Skip growled.

He had a little de-stressor when he actually found that Nigerian businessman who had recently come into a large sum of money, but then Michael put an end to that.

Michael never had known how to enjoy himself.

He had his sights set on Glenn Beck for his next downtime, but Castiel ratted him out. (To their credit, the Brothers Winchester were on board.)

Despite downfall and rebellion, that stick was further up Castiel’s ass than ever before.

He ended up at a strip joint with Castiel and the Winchesters while Michael was off strategizing or recruiting or ordering his host (more like handful, very tiny handful) for battle.

“So what’s it like, heaven?” Dean asked, eyes firmly fixed on the dancer above them. Skip shrugged.

“Boring,” he said dismissively.

“Heaven is not boring,” Castiel began, so Dean waved the lap dance girl over, and that would keep him terrified and silent for a while.

“I thought it was paradise,” Sam said, looking anxious and fretful.

“Heaven isn’t paradise,” Skip said. He slid a twenty into the dancer’s g-string. “You schmucks get to go to paradise. Some of you.”

“We don’t go to heaven when we die?” Dean asked, stunned.

Skip shrugged. “Some humans do a detour there,” he said. “The ones who don’t go down under. Other shoot straight up to the Fields of the Lord.”

“What’s that like?” Sam asked, and Skip shrugged again.

“Prepared for you folk, not for us,” Skip said.

“Heaven was paradise once,” Castiel said softly, and solemnly handed his dancer a hundred. Her mouth dropped open and Castiel took the opportunity to place his hands on her face and kiss her forehead. She left in a daze.

“Don’t do that shit,” Skip said crossly. “Now she’s all bedazzled and she’s going to go out and start working at a soup kitchen and singing hymns all day and stop giving lap dances.”

Castiel looked at him levelly, but seriously, Skip did not feel shame about enjoying a good lap dance.

“Don’t you miss it?” Sam asked, and Skip wasn’t sure who he was asking, but he answered flatly, “No.”

* * *

Michael smited Zachariah like the little snake he was, in a white-hot blaze of righteous wrath that singed all of them about the edges, but not before Zachariah had gotten the drop on Castiel and pinned him earthbound through his vessel’s thigh with his sword. Before they could deal with that problem, Raphael flitted by, and Michael practically had smoke coming out of his nostrils in his eagerness for the chase.

Michael yanked the sword out of Castiel and dumped him on the Winchesters, who at least had a motel room at the moment, and gathered himself to return to the fray, and then realized that Skip wasn’t poised to follow. He turned an inquiring look to Skip.

“No,” Skip said flatly, and Michael’s fury had the joint shaking until Castiel’s little gasps of pain made him settle.

“Leave your vessel and find a new one if you cannot heal it,” Michael spit at Castiel, because shit rolls downhill.

“I can’t,” Castiel panted, bleeding all over the skeevy motel room floor while the Winchesters whipped off their top layer of shirts and pressed the cloths to the wound.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Michael said, clearly already half back on Raphael’s trail.

Castiel wheezed. “I haven’t, since I returned,” he faltered, and Skip finished for him.

“He hasn’t been able to leave that vessel since Raphael fried his ass and he mysteriously returned,” he said coldly to Michael. “Something you would know if you ever talked to anyone in this family or paid any attention to what’s going on with them. But, hey, that’s why we’re in this mess in the first place, isn’t it?”

No one moved or spoke as Michael glared at Skip, and the air seemed to beat with his angry breaths. Finally, he pointed at Castiel. “Heal him,” he ground out, and then he was gone.

They put Castiel on a bed and cut off his clothes and cleaned him up and then Skip did the best laying of hands that he could, but angelic swords are angelic swords, meant to cut down the host, and personally, he thought Castiel was lucky that Zachariah had clearly been intending to toy with him for a while, because otherwise he would have taken that blow through the throat.

The Winchesters made compresses and bound up the leg, and Skip gave Castiel a little helper zap to the head, because he’d never taken up sleep but Skip couldn’t stand him looking at him with those dolorous eyes all confused and distant.

“Knock it off or I’ll zap you too,” he growled at the Winchesters, who were both watching him while trying to make it look like they weren’t watching him, and then he stormed outside and blew up streetlights until he felt calmer.

Evening became night, and night became false dawn, and Skip returned to the motel room. Dean was asleep in an armchair beside Castiel’s bed. Sam was at the table, laptop running. His eyes tracked Skip as he sat on the edge of the bed and touched Castiel’s forehead. Castiel shifted slightly, then subsided. His vessel was warm again, the heartbeat slow and steady when Skip tipped his head to hear it.

“When I left my family,” Sam said, “I had lots of reasons – I didn’t want that life, I couldn’t stand the tight rein my dad kept me on, I wanted stability and security, but part of it? I just couldn’t stand seeing them hurt all the time, and didn’t want to be there to see them die.”

Skip thought about giving Sam a good little zap in the ass for his presumption, but couldn’t work up the anger for it.

“At least they weren’t doing it to each other,” he finally said, and he was remembering Zachariah as he once was, such a font of wisdom and foresight, who loved sharing those gifts with others.

He put a hand on Castiel’s chest and felt it rise and fall, felt his grace under the flesh, felt his gravity and his dedication and his muleheadedness and his humor and his love for these flawed creatures.

* * *

At dawn, he went back outside and watched the sunrise. Skip liked the passage of days. It was one of his favorite things about Earth.

When the sunrise passed into morning, he turned and faced Michael.

“Our Father has made a beautiful world,” Michael said, and for once it wasn’t an intonation, a proclamation of the truth from God’s right hand, but something that Michael felt, and shared.

They looked at each other.

“I have oft been busy with our Father’s work,” Michael said simply.

“I have oft been fed up with our family infighting,” Skip answered.

Michael nodded gravely and looked off into the distance. “Do not think I take pleasure from it,” he said. “Lucifer was … Lucifer was my brother,” and Skip thought of the brothers sleeping inside the motel, at the same time he thought of two other brothers, separated since before the confines of time.

“He made his choice,” Michael continued, “and not just to leave, not just to forsake our home, but to rise up and rule it, and so be it if it was destroyed in the process. What would you have had me do, when I was ordered to take up arms?”

“Nothing but what you did do,” Skip said. “But I still hate it.”

Michael contemplated this, and then dipped his head, accepting.

“Yet here you are,” he said mildly.

“I love this world,” Skip said. “I love the crappy motels and the stinking slums and the moldering infestation of grief and pettiness and love that inhabits it.”

“How optimistic of you,” Michael said, and he was almost smiling.

Skip gave him a rueful look. “It’s quite the playground,” he said, then he jerked his head at the motel. “Kiddo’s doing better,” he said.

Michael straightened his shoulders. “Good,” he said. “We have work to do.”

* * *

“You look like the littlest hobo angel,” Skip informed Castiel.

“It is irrelevant,” Castiel said dismissively, his hands in the pockets of Sam’s hoodie.

“Those jeans are going to fall off your ass,” Skip said flatly.

“Dean loaned them to me,” Castiel said informatively.

“Yeah,” Skip said, because that was his point. He continued when Castiel seemed to think the conversation over. “Look, you’re bringing down the badass component of our little super-angel force here, and we need every advantage we can get.”

Ahead of them, in badass jeans and badass biker boots and a super-badass leather jacket, Michael was returning to normal the seas that were running red. It was all very apocalyptic and awe-inspiring and badass, and then at the edges of the scene was Castiel hunched into his oversized clothing.

“I am badass,” Castiel said with grave confidence.

“I think the concept might be escaping you,” Skip said.

“Dean!” Castiel called over the howling wind. “Am I badass?”

Dean looked over, cutting his eyes between the two angels and then adding a sidelong look at Sam, who could clearly hear them but was keeping his eyes fixed on Michael.

“Of course you are,” Dean said finally, and slapped Castiel on the back.

Castiel gave Skip a smug almost-smile.

* * *

Skip landed in the road second, just to the left of Castiel, and then quickly rolled to avoid Michael as he slammed into the earth.

“Ow,” Skip said flatly.

“I do not believe Thor wishes to enter into an alliance with us,” Castiel said contemplatively. His hair was smoking a little.

Michael stood up and gave a little shake, and his vessel re-aligned itself. He gave another little shake to clean himself up.

“Get up,” he said to Skip and Castiel in annoyance.

Skip brushed himself off while Castiel texted Dean. (Skip swore, sometimes they were actually sexting each other, but the one time he’d ripped the phone from Castiel to verify this theory, they were having a long exchange about pie vs. doughnuts, and Castiel had scorched his eyebrows off for unauthorized handling of his precious phone given to him by his precious Dean.)

They stood at the side of the road and waited for Dean’s response. A car passed by and lost its muffler going over the indentation their landing had caused. Skip snickered. Castiel looked anxiously at Michael, who was staring into the distance.

“We need more troops,” Michael said to the distance.

“There are more hunters,” Castiel said.

“And other things,” Skip added. “The Winchesters ain’t so squeaky clean – they could bring in a couple of witches, maybe even some vegetarian vampires. We don’t seem to be doing too well with the pagan gods.”

“Anasazi is with us,” Castiel said encouragingly, because Michael remained incensed that for all his time undercover as a Trickster, Skip had succeeded merely in alienating possible allies.

“We need demons,” Michael said.

Skip and Castiel looked at each other. Michael turned to them.

“Find me Crowley,” he said. “Alive,” and he walked into the middle of the road and was gone.

* * *

They hedged their bets and had the Winchesters round up hunters and anything else they could lay hands on.

Castiel kept working on the demon known to the Winchesters as Meg. Skip lingered close by, ready to snatch his brother from the bitch’s jaws in less than a heartbeat.

She wouldn’t give Lucifer up, but she did seek out Crowley herself, Castiel and Skip her little angel shadows.

“I see you brought friends,” Crowley said to Meg, and she spun, ready to go for them, but Crowley took a lazy sip of his drink and said, “All right, boys, tell me what you got.”

When they took him to Michael, he listened and nodded and took lazy sips of his drinks, and when Michael was done, he said, “All right, but we’re gonna need more angels.”

Michael suggested once, only once, that they find the Anti-Christ and turn him to their needs, but Skip said over his dead body, and Michael must have gathered that he meant it, because it didn’t come up again.

“We might actually win this thing,” Skip panted to Castiel after they’d slain the Leviathan.

Castiel’s soaking-wet jeans were so weighted down that the tops of his boxers were showing. He solemnly put his hoodie back on, and Skip reflected that at least it was so big that if he lost the jeans altogether, nothing vital would be exposed.

“In all likelihood, every one of us will be wiped from this existence in the fires of Armageddon,” Castiel said, and zipped the hoodie up.

“That’s what I love about you, Cas,” Skip said, and accepted his hand up. “You always know the right words for the moment.”

“I love you too,” Castiel said seriously.

* * *

It would have been a lot easier if Castiel hadn’t insisted they save not just Dean, but Sam as well.

Skip went on back for him, just in time too, because no way was he listening to Castiel whine about it for a few thousands years.

“Are you happy now?” he demanded, shoving Sam at Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Yes, I am happy.”

“Well,” Skip said, and threw up his hands, “so am I.”

* * *

It was just like Gabriel to show up and crash the after-party, though Skip was getting the impression that maybe he’d been around for a little longer than that.

“Sweet ride,” Gabriel said to Dean, stroking a hand on the Impala’s hood. “Now, this, this is something worth saving the world for.”

Dean looked proud and pleased. Sam was looking fondly at his brother. Michael was looking fond of himself.

Castiel still looked like the littlest hobo angel.

“So, what happens now?” Sam asked, and Gabriel turned to him.

“You tell me, kid,” he said, then jerked his thumb at Dean. “Watch out for your brother, all right?” He jerked his thumb again, this time at the car. “And you watch out for that car,” he said to Dean.

The brothers grinned at him, because Gabriel had the joy-filling mojo going on. Skip had forgotten that.

“You two, though,” and Gabriel turned to Skip and Castiel. “You two still need to be dealt with.” Castiel looked troubled and Skip scowled, pissed.

“In case you didn’t notice, we just averted the Apocalypse, and saved your favorite humans,” he said.

“And do accept my thanks and commendation for a job well done,” Gabriel said, and gave them a small bow. “But there’s still the matters of abandonment and rebellion to be addressed.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean said, holding up a hand. “Rebellion? Castiel’s just about the only angel who cared what God’s orders were and didn’t just blindly follow the leader.”

“Angels aren’t human,” Gabriel said, his smile gone and his voice firm. “The choices allocated to you are not the choices allocated to them.”

Castiel looked stricken, but lowered his head in acceptance. “May God’s will be done,” he said.

“Castiel,” Gabriel intoned, “you are hereby bound to this vessel, and to this earthly plain, and charged with the protection of its inhabitants against the remaining evils of hell that linger here, until such time as our Father deems your task complete.”

Castiel slowly raised his head and blinked. “I’m to stay here on Earth?” he asked hesitantly.

Gabriel jerked a thumb at the Winchesters. “Those guys might help you out, tracking down the last of the demons, if you ask nice,” he said, and then you could have knocked Skip over with a feather, because Castiel actually smiled, not one of his almost-smiles, but a real, full-on smile of joy.

“Thank you,” Castiel said.

“Thank you,” Gabriel answered. “Think the punishment fits the crime?” he shot over his shoulder at the Winchesters, who were grinning just as wide as Castiel.

“Not that I’m not enjoying the love-fest, but what about me?” Skip demanded. The smile slid from Gabriel’s face and he sighed.

“Azrael, Azrael, Azrael,” he said, and tossed his hands up in the air. “You don’t want to be Azrael anymore? You got it, kid. Only try not to cause so much trouble this time.”

The jaw-hanging look of astonishment was not in keeping with his image, but Skip couldn’t get his features righted. “Seriously?” he asked.

A smile was just starting to grow again on Gabriel’s face. “Hey, Castiel, do me a favor,” he said.

“Of course,” Castiel said sincerely.

“Keep an eye on Skip here, would you?” Gabriel winked at Skip. “That works both ways,” he told him.

Skip took a deep breath, because the sky seemed bluer and the air fresher and the sun brighter. Gabriel and his stupid joy mojo.

Michael shifted. “I hear,” he said, and even Michael was almost smiling, “that there’s a zombie outbreak in Jamaica, and none other than Taylor Mulvaney is down there working the job.”

“Seriously?” Skip said again, and then crowed, “Baby, I’m there!” He snapped his fingers and was instantly outfitted in khaki shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and sandals. “How do I look?” he asked the crowd.

“Like a dork,” Sam said. Dean nodded.

“Oh, right,” Gabriel said suddenly, “I forgot. I have a present for you.” This was directed at Castiel, and as he cocked his head inquiringly at Gabriel, the other angel snapped his fingers.

Skip gave a bark of a laugh in surprise and delight. Castiel looked down and opened his trenchcoat to inspect it.

“My old clothes,” he said softly, a small, pleased smile about his lips.

“Better?” Gabriel asked, but he was asking Skip.

Skip just smiled slyly. “Be seeing you,” he said.

“Not if we see you first,” he heard Dean shoot back, and then he was gone.

Peek!

2009-12-09T01:39:12Z

Do you think an Act of Contrition will cover this?

2009-12-01T01:01:46Z

Additionally, look what oselle sent me for Christmas! They go great with my Angel.

And she sent me this for my birthday. As you can see, I've proudly displayed it in the lovely box that my Sting letter opener from liptonrm came in.

Note to self: stop talking to Jason Teague

2009-11-24T23:22:22Z

I'm going to stop talking to Jason if he keeps posting things like this.

SPN Sims Vid: Rock & Roll

2009-11-17T11:46:10Z

One last thing. I also made a super-cool awesome Sims 3 Supernatural vid for the Chicago Con vid competition. The judges were huge tools who did not make me the supreme winner of awesome. In fact, they were such huge tools that they sent me an e-mail asking me WTF is this? Sims? WTF is Sims? after I sent in the submission.

So now I will share it with non-tools who will appreciate it. Thanks to liptonrm who helped me get it up on Vimeo.

Rock & Roll from Lipton RM on Vimeo.

Rock & Roll, by Led Zeppelin

Download

SPN Podfic: Filling Up The Corners

2009-11-17T01:05:11Z

I presented hiyacynth with a combo birthday/Christmas present at Con this weekend, which she graciously is allowing me to share with the rest of you people. And here’s the second one:

Filling Up The Corners podfic (right-click and save)
Three hours, 16 minutes, 182.4 mb
Supernatural gen, Rated R

An anthology of hiyacynth Supernatural gen fic, including:
The Dumbest Thing Dean Ever Did
Occasions of Sin
Periphery
Inventory

Music:
Goody Two Shoes, by Adam Ant
He Was a Friend of Mine, by Willie Nelson
What a Wonderful World, by Joey Ramone
Can’t Find My Way Home, by Alana Davis
Back on the Road Again, by REO Speedwagon

At my site

SPN Podfic: Mockingbird

2009-11-17T00:54:49Z

I presented hiyacynth with a combo birthday/Christmas present at Con this weekend, which she graciously is allowing me to share with the rest of you people. Here’s the first one:

Mockingbird podfic (right-click and save, audiobook)
mp3 version
Nine hours, 34 minutes, 534.8 mb
Supernatural gen/het, Rated NC-17

ETA 2:25 p.m. EST November 22: Permanent link courtesy of Jinjurly's audio archive.

Story by hiyacynth

hiyacynth’s Resource Page

Music

Didn’t Leave Nobody But The Baby - Oregon Mix (right-click and save, mp3)

Vid by liptonrm

At my website

I just want to say

2009-11-16T11:57:45Z

that if anyone, say liptonrm, is saying anything about me making hiyacynth drink angel fluids, that is sick and wrong and I would never. Just saying.

Also, what happens at Con, stays at Con, so enough said.

(ETA: hiyacynth explains all.)

Happy Halloween! SPN/Psych Fic: (Fear) The Reaper

2009-10-30T20:53:14Z

Watch out for zombies. (And you should always do this, not just on Halloween.)

Title: (Fear) The Reaper
Author: baylorsr
Rating: G
Fandom: Supernatural/Psych crossover
Pairing: None, though there is a confused realtor who mistakes Shawn & Gus for Shawn/Gus
Spoilers: None for either series
Summary: Henry bent over and pointed his finger in Shawn’s face. “Zombies,” he told his son sternly, “are not just for fun. You either take them seriously, or you end up one of them.”

1987

“Shawn!” Henry loomed over his son. “I hope you know you’re cleaning up this mess. What are you doing with all of this anyway?”

Shawn and Gus peered up over the back of the couch. They were heavily armed with cooking utensils.

“It’s a fortress, Dad,” Shawn said.

“For the zombie apocalypse,” Gus added eagerly.

“Well, that’s no good,” Henry said. “Boys, a zombie fortress needs to be unbreachable. Zombies are unresting, unflagging, untiring undead machines with only one goal: to eat your brains. You think this flimsy construct is going to stop them?”

Henry held his arms out in front of him and moaned, then began walking until he hit the couch. The couch stopped his stride, but his feet just kept moving.

“See, it worked,” Shawn said.

“For now,” Henry said, feet still moving and arms still out. “But the thing about zombies is, there’s never just one. As soon as the others hear me moaning, they’re going to know there’s fresh meat over this way, and they’re going to come dragging along. They’ll start piling up, crushing up against me, until –“

Henry tipped himself over the back of the couch at the boys, righted himself, and came at them, arms outstretched, moaning at top volume.

Gus screamed and broke through the back wall of cushions. His feet pounded up the stairs.

“Dad,” Shawn said in exasperation. “It’s just for fun.”

Henry bent over and pointed his finger in Shawn’s face. “Zombies,” he told his son sternly, “are not just for fun. You either take them seriously, or you end up one of them.”

Shawn rolled his eyes.

***

2009

Shawn staggered into the police station, bent over his blood-stained torso. He leaned against the closest wall, panting.

“Shawn!” Buzz said, stopping and holding out an arm. “Are you all right?”

Shawn moaned, then slowly straightened up. Another moan came from his blood-ringed mouth, and then his arms straightened out in front of his body as he shuffled toward Buzz, who took an uncertain step back.

Lassiter stopped in the hallway and rolled his eyes. “Stop screwing around, Spencer,” he said, then continued walking, muttering, “Every single Halloween.”

Shawn’s arms flew out to his sides. “Lassie, c’mon!” he protested. “Where’s your holiday spirit?”

Buzz grinned. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “Great zombie costume, Shawn.”

“Had you nervous, didn’t I, buddy?” Shawn said proudly. “And this isn’t the all-out version. That’s got my intestines hanging out.”

“Awesome,” Buzz said, giving him a thumbs-up before continuing on his way. Shawn preened a little under Buzz’s adoration. It was good to have fans of his work.

Shawn wandered over to Juliet’s desk. “Hey, Jules,” he said, then grinned happily when she looked up and jumped at his blood-spattered appearance.

“Shawn, please,” she said, and went back to typing furiously. “Some of us have to work for a living.”

“Every day,” Shawn told her, “you sound more like Lassiter.”

Juliet grimaced. “We’re just really busy right now,” she said.

Shawn wondered what it was like to be busy. It didn’t sound fun.

“So let me lighten the load,” he said magnanimously. “Throw some work my way.”

“We don’t really have anything we need you on right now,” Juliet said absently, squinting at her computer screen.

“Nothing?” Shawn pestered, because while busy sounded not-fun, money sounded like rent. “No unsolved murders or some nice, easy kidnapping I can take off your hands?”

“Here, Spencer,” Lassiter said, appearing out of nowhere with a file in his hand. “You want some work to do? Give this a shot.”

“I’m getting paid for this, right?” Shawn said to Lassiter’s departing back. No one answered.

***

“What kind of case is this again?” Gus asked as they got out of the car.

Shawn headed up the walk steps. “Assault and home invasion,” he said over his shoulder.

“That’s pretty standard,” Gus said, catching up to him as he rang the doorbell. “Why do they need us on it?”

“They’re a little overwhelmed down at the station right now,” Shawn said. “Just trying to show them that we’re team players.”

The door opened to reveal an elderly woman with thick glasses. She was leaning on a heavy wooden cane.

“Mrs. Moore?” Shawn asked. “I’m Shawn Spencer, the head psychic at the Santa Barbara Police Department, and this is my associate, Drizzle McBarley.” Gus nodded politely at Mrs. Moore. “I’m here to talk to you about the break-in and assault.”

Mrs. Moore served them a hot drink in delicate little china cups with saucers. Shawn was pretty sure the drink was TheraFlu with a little whiskey for flavor.

“I hope you weren’t hurt in the incident, Mrs. Moore,” Gus told her. She smiled sweetly at him.

“Oh, no, nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said, and gave her cane a shake. “More tea?”

“No, I’m fine, Mrs. Moore,” Shawn said. “Why don’t you tell us what happened.”

Mrs. Moore sat down and poured herself a cup. “Well, I was cleaning up in the kitchen when I heard this racket on the back porch. Sounded like nails dragging on the steps. The next thing I know, something is rattling at the doggie door, but I had it locked. I thought it must be a stray, so I opened the door to shoo it away, and that’s when Harry came in.”

“You knew your attacker?” Gus asked.

“Knew him!” Mrs. Moore said. “We lived together for 13 years! You can imagine my surprise. Oh, and was he ever filthy – covered in dirt and grime and smelling something terrible. I still haven’t quite got rid of all the smell.”

“So you let Harry in?” Shawn said.

“Of course,” Mrs. Moore said. “You didn’t think he’d opened the door by himself, did you?”

“Did you and Harry part on bad terms?” Gus asked. Shawn looked around the room and noticed the old dog bed in the corner, the end of a leash dangling off the coat rack, the Corgi statuettes in the curio cabinet.

“Harry and I never exchanged cross words in our lives,” Mrs. Moore said, slightly indignant. “Well, not until that night. He tried to bite me! In fact, I think he would have eaten me if he could have. I had to beat his skull in with my cane! It was quite horrible.” She serenely sipped her tea.

“You beat his skull in?” Gus asked, and his voice cracked. “Did he … die?” 
“A curious question,” Mrs. Moore said with a contemplative sigh.

“Mrs. Moore,” Shawn asked, “where is Harry now?”

“Oh, I buried him in the backyard,” she said matter-of-factly. Gus looked like he might faint.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Shawn said. Lassiter was going to pay for this, but the look on Gus’ face was making up for a lot of it. “Did you have him tested for rabies first?”

Gus looked from Shawn to Mrs. Moore and back to Shawn. “Harry is a dog?” he demanded.

“A Corgi, if I’m not mistaken,” Shawn said, and Mrs. Moore beamed with delight.

“My goodness, you are a psychic!” she said, and poured Shawn more TheraFlu whiskey. “And I didn’t see the need for a rabies test, now, did I?”

Shawn stood up and clapped his hands together lightly. “Mrs. Moore,” he gave her a bobbing bow of thanks, “we’re so glad you’re all right. Just wanted to follow up and make sure everything was okay now.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said sweetly. “You young men are so much nicer than that crankity fellow I got transferred to when I called the police department.”

Gus waited until Mrs. Moore had shown them out and shut the door behind them. “Harry’s a dog,” he informed Shawn.

“Hmmm,” Shawn said, reviewing the conversation. He turned around and knocked on Mrs. Moore’s door again. “One last thing, Mrs. Moore,” he said when she answered. “Why was the doggie door locked?”

“Well, there wasn’t much use for it after Harry died, was there?” she said.

“But Harry was still alive,” Gus said.

“She means,” Shawn said, looking at Mrs. Moore’s tranquil face, “after Harry died the first time.”

***

“You’re hysterical, Lassie,” Shawn said, striding up to Lassiter’s desk. The detective didn’t look up, but he started smiling evilly.

“What do you think, Spencer, should I file charges against Mrs. Moore’s Corgi for assault?” he asked.

“Actually, you may want to think about filing murder charges against Mrs. Moore,” Shawn shot back. “Oh, wait, is it double-jeopardy if Harry was already dead when she bashed his head in?”

Lassiter got up and strode across the room toward the chief’s office. “I thought you’d like that,” he said. “A little Halloween twist on the story.”

“Did you get a whiff of her kitchen?” Shawn asked. “Smelled like decomposing doggie to me.”

“Right,” Lassiter said, deadpan. “I’ll get right on that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go solve some crimes committed by live, human suspects.”

Shawn let him stomp off. He had things to think about.

***

“What are you doing here already?” Gus demanded, striding into the Psych office.

Shawn jiggled in his seat in front of the laptop. He couldn’t really stop, given the two or three pots of coffee he’d consumed over the night. “Gus!” he said, and he knew he needed to take it down a notch, but again, coffee.

“Did you sleep here?” Gus asked, frowning.

“No,” Shawn assured him. “I’ve been working. Come here, you have to see this.”

Gus came around the desk and his frown deepened. “Shawn, you’re watching Zombieland trailers,” he said. “Not exactly billable hours.”

“But it is,” Shawn said in delight. He minimized Zombieland with a silent apology. “Check this out.”

Gus leaned in and peered over Shawn’s shoulder. “Zombie cats roam neighborhood,” he read. Looking up the browser, he saw that it was a brief in the Santa Barbara News-Press. “Shawn, this is just some Halloween piece they stuck in the briefs,” he said.

Shawn nodded. It made his brains rattle in his head. “Yeah, that’s why they put it in at all, but people are actually reporting this,” he said, and starting pulling other browsers to the front. Gus’ breath huffed on his neck in surprise.

“Dude,” Gus said, “that is whack.”

“You are so white,” Shawn said, then pushed Gus out of the way. “Come on, we need to go talk to these people.”

The Clevelands, two blocks over from Mrs. Moore, confirmed that their beloved Kirk had clawed his way out of his backyard grave and was now at large.

The Redmans had not seen their poor little Pippin, but there was a hole in their yard where he’d been put to rest.

And Mr. Hall confessed that he had run the neighbors’ Chihuahua rat-dog over with his car only to have it come snapping and growling to life in his hands while he guiltily walked her remains home.

“This neighborhood is like ground zero for zombie pet activity,” Shawn told Gus while they walked up to the Amans’ house. Little Naima had posted on MySpace about the hamster and parrot arising from the dead.

Gus didn’t answer. Shawn thought Gus might be having a few issues with the living pet dead.

As Shawn pressed the doorbell button, the door opened and two tall men in suits walked out. They stood on the porch and surveyed Shawn and Gus. Shawn and Gus sized them both up. Shawn wasn’t sure what Gus concluded, but he concluded that these dudes were tall.

“Hello,” an annoyed little person said from the open door. Judging by her Jonas Brother t-shirt, Shawn thought he’d found Naima.

“Naima,” he said. “I’m Shawn Spencer, the head psychic at the Santa Barbara Police Department, and this is my associate, Alec Baldwin.” Gus waved at her. “I e-mailed you about Scooby and Scrappy.”

“You don’t look like a psychic,” Naima said.

Shawn laughed as fakely as he could. “How would you know what a psychic looks like?” he asked.

Naima wrinkled her nose at him. “Besides, I just talked to these guys from the Center for Disease Control,” she said, and pointed at the suits.

The suits looked highly amused. “Head psychic, huh?” the least tall suit said. “Nice sandals.”

“Yeah, well, nice tie,” Shawn said, because he was caught off-guard because, dude, they were nice sandals.

“The Santa Barbara Police Department has time to investigate hamster and parrot deaths?” the most tall suit said.

Gus scoffed. “Like the CDC does,” he said. “How about some ID?”

“We’ll show you ours if you show us yours,” the least tall suit said, and man, that was dirty.

While the suits were looking at Shawn and Gus’ Knightrider Fan Club memberships cards (they had business cards, but c’mon, he wasn’t wasting them on these two wanna-bes), Shawn and Gus examined their nearly authentic IDs.

Shawn returned Agent Hamill’s ID and Gus returned Agent Ford’s ID. They all sized each other up for another moment.

“Unless you’re going to fight or something cool, get off my porch,” Naima said. They all turned to look at her and she slammed the door shut.

“Huh,” Gus said.

“Kids these days,” Shawn said, shaking his head.

The suits were halfway down the walk.

“Good luck with your psychic stuff,” the most tall suit called over his shoulder.

“And those sandals,” the least tall suit added.

They got into a cherry black muscle car that would kill any real CDC agent dead from its awesomeness.

“Where do those guys get off, pretending to be something they’re not?” Shawn said to Gus as they watched them drive off.

***

They tailed the suits back through the neighborhood and then to a diner. Gus waited in the car while Shawn ran up the street to a different diner and grabbed them lunch. (What? They can’t tail really tall suits on an empty stomach!)

After they ate, the most tall suit made a series of calls and took notes while the least tall suit flirted with the waitress and seemingly got free pie for his efforts. As they left the diner and got back into the sweet muscle car, the least tall suit waved to Shawn and Gus.

“Maybe if someone had a less conspicuous car, things like this wouldn’t happen,” Shawn sniped at Gus.

“Maybe if someone had a car at all, he could follow these guys around all on his own,” Gus retorted.

“That’s why I don’t have a car,” Shawn pointed out.

They followed the suits back to Mrs. Moore’s neighborhood and watched as they approached a house with a For Sale sign in the yard and shook hands with a young woman waiting on the porch. She was wearing a smart little suit and had a folder clutched in her hand.

“There’s no undead animals here,” Gus said. “No one even lives there.”

“Hmmm,” Shawn said, whipping out his phone.

“Who are you texting?” Gus asked, leaning over. Shawn pushed him away.

“Naima,” he said.

“That has the potential to be seriously creepy, Shawn,” Gus admonished, and Shawn gave him a scathing look because please.

“She says,” Shawn continued a few minutes later when his phone beeped back at him, “that this house is supposed to be haunted.”

“A haunted house and a bunch of zombie pets?” Gus asked. “Sounds pretty farfetched, even for us.”

“Yeah,” Shawn said, fingers flying over his phone. “Naima also says this house totally isn’t actually haunted and is really, really lame.”

“I’m glad you’re getting your research from 11-year-olds now, Shawn,” Gus said. “It’s a new highlight in your career.”

“Kids know everything,” Shawn said, and then got out of the car because the suits had just emerged from the house with their realtor.

“Agents,” he said, strolling up while Gus scrambled behind him.

“Mr. Spencer,” the least tall suit said. “Hey, Sophie, these are the guys we were telling you about. This is Mr. Spencer and his life partner, Mr. Baldwin.”

“Hi!” Sophie said with I-need-this-commission cheer. “The agents were just telling me that they’re friends with a couple in town who are in the market. I’d love to take you inside, this is a great starter home.”

“And it’s just been declared CDC clear,” the most tall suit said. “I think it’s great for you two.”

“Oh,” Shawn said, “I don’t know.” He turned to Gus. “Do you think we’re Cape Cod kind of people? I was really thinking of something more modern.”

“Come on in and take a look before you decide,” Sophie said. “It’s all remodeled inside – I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” the most tall suit said as they strolled by Shawn and Gus.

“Happy hunting,” the least tall suit called over his shoulder.

Sophie (who was cute enough to make the house viewing tolerable) showed them all the renovations and “adorable” features with meticulous detail. Shawn soon stopped feigning interest, but he thought Gus really liked the place.

“Sophie, we’re going to go home and talk about it,” he declared at the end of their tour.

“Thank you so much,” Gus told her.

“Sure,” Sophie bubbled, handing Gus her car. “My cell’s on there, so if you have any questions, if you want to see it again, just give me a call anytime.”

“One question,” Shawn said. “Our buddies from before? Agents Hamill and Ford? They’re here checking out some pet disease in the neighborhood – if we decided to adopt some sweet, furry little thing, it’s not at any risk, is it?”

Sophie blanched. “Oh, no,” she rushed to reassure him. “Any pet you brought home would be perfectly safe. Check with your friends – really!”

“Good to know,” Shawn said. “Gus has his heart set on a shiatsu.”

***

“Jules,” Shawn said, strolling up to her desk. It was vacant.

“Juliet?” Shawn asked, wandering around the hallway. He reached out to open the Records Room door, but the door swung in before his hand grasped the knob.

Juliet emerged, pink-cheeked and slightly breathless.

Most tall suit came out of the room after her.

“Mr. Spencer,” he said smugly, and walked away.

“Shawn,” Juliet said impatiently, like maybe she’d said his name a few times while he stood there hearing rushing white noise in his ears.

“Yeah,” Shawn answered with a start. “Hey. Jules. I, uh, wanted to ask you about something.” He pointed, involuntarily, at most tall suit’s departing figure.

“The pet problem,” Juliet said. “Shawn, I’m so sorry Carleton dumped that on you. It looks like it’s a public health problem, and not even a police matter.”

Shawn jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction most tall suit had been walking. “And, they’re, uh, the CDC guys are …”

Juliet reached out to pat Shawn on the arm. He noticed that her blouse was misbuttoned. “They’re taking care of it, Shawn. Again, really sorry about Carleton,” and she was off.

Shawn decided he needed to lie down. Right away. The Chief’s office was great for that.

The blinds were shut, so he was extending his hand to knock when the door swing inward.

Least tall suit emerged, straightening his tie.

“Mr. Spencer,” he said smugly, and left the building.

Shawn thought he might pass out.

“Mr. Spencer,” the Chief said impatiently, like maybe she’d said his name a few times while his head was spinning.

“I’m sorry, Chief, I was having a little vision there,” Shawn said, putting his fingers to his temples. “Those guys, those CDC guys, they aren’t who they say they are. You should really check up on them.”

Chief Vick put her hands on her hips. “Mr. Spencer, do you think I just let people stroll into my city and start investigations without knowing who they are? I spoke to their supervisor Dr. Lucas earlier today, and they are completely legitimate. Now, did you need something else?”

“I have no idea,” Shawn said. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Well, you let me know when you figure it out,” the Chief said, and turned on her heel and went back into her office.

***

“This is stupid, Shawn,” Gus said.

“Shhh,” Shawn said. “Don’t blow our cover.”

“Cover?” Gus hissed. “These are tombstones, Shawn. They’re not cover, they’re an invitation for very bad, horrible things to come out of the ground and get us.”

“Be a man, Gus,” Shawn said, and peered around his tombstone.

The suits (now in jeans and T-shirts) had stopped digging up the grave and were debating something. They looked through the duffle bag they’d brought with them, but clearly couldn’t find what they were looking for. Most tall suit pointed a finger at least tall suit. Least tall suit made yapping gestures with his hands at most tall suit. Most tall suit didn’t like that at all and threw his hands up in the air.

“What are they doing?” Gus whispered.

“I dunno,” Shawn said. “Looks like they finished digging up the grave, but now they’re having another argument.”

“Shawn,” Gus said, “don’t you think that if the phrase ‘finished digging up the grave’ is part of the sentence that’s it’s time to call the police?”

“Shhh,” Shawn said. “Besides, it’s not as weird as when they were lying on the graves and listening with stethoscopes.” He had to admit, that had been super weird.

When Shawn peered around the tombstone again, the suits were walking toward their car. Most tall suit was still waving his arms around.

Shawn made a break for the open grave as soon as the suits were out of sight. “Shawn!” Gus squawked, and there was no way the suits didn’t hear that.

Shawn jumped right into the grave. Gus’ terrified face appeared above him. “What are you doing, Shawn?” Gus demanded. “Are you insane?”

Shawn’s heart was pounding in his ears. “Just wait, Gus,” he said, holding up a hand. “I think I’ve got this … I think … It’s gotta be.” He started bouncing up and down on the casket.

“Gus, do you know what’s going on here?” he yelled in delight. “Do you know what’s inside this casket?” and Gus didn’t get a chance to answer because something started pounding and moaning inside the coffin, and then a decomposing hand broke through and grabbed Shawn’s ankle.

All right, so maybe he screamed like an itty bitty girl, but at least he didn’t run all the way back to the office in terror, no doubt screaming the whole way.

The suits? Were AWESOME.

Most tall suit jumped into the grave, stomped the hand (breaking off a couple of its fingers), shoved Shawn up the side to least tall suit, pried open the coffin with a crowbar and jumped effortlessly out of the grave.

Least tall suit neatly chopped the head off the thing that came crawling out of the grave with an ax.

Then the two of them shoved it back inside, closed the coffin and filled the grave back up.

Shawn would have helped, but first he had to go behind a grave and piddle, and then he had to lie on the ground and shake all over.

The suits continued on their new mission of awesomeness and gave Shawn a ride back to the office.

Then they reverted to their original mission of dickishness and invited themselves in. They took food out of the fridge and put their muddy boots on the furniture. It was enough to draw Gus out of his bathroom fortress position.

“So, Agents,” Shawn said.

“Dean,” said least tall suit. He was sitting in Shawn’s chair with his feet on the desk.

“Sam,” said most tall suit. He was sitting in one of the armchairs with his feet on the coffee table.

“Dean. Sam,” Shawn said. “That was a zombie.”

“You shoulda heard you screaming,” Dean said, laughing and pointing at Shawn with his spoon.

“That’s great, thanks,” Shawn said. “But back to the problem at hand. You see, I’m a psychic and I’m sensing that –“

“You’re not a psychic,” Sam said flatly.

“How would you know?” Shawn asked. He liked these guys better when they were being awesome and saving him from flesh-eating zombies.

Sam glowered at him. “I wouldn’t test him out on this, Spencer,” Dean said mildly.

“Okay, whatever,” Shawn said impatiently. “I think the question here is how undead pets have now become undead persons.”

Dean continued eating Shawn’s very special Chunky Monkey ice cream out of the carton. Sam stopped eating his leftover Chinese and fished a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Shawn.

Shawn smoothed it out on the table and Gus came to look over his shoulder. “The Xs are places that had zombie pets?” he asked, and the agents hummed in agreement.

“It’s radiating outward,” Shawn said.

“And now it’s reached the graveyard,” Dean confirmed. “So unless we want to dig up every body planted there, whack its head off and replant it, we gotta find out what started this and reverse it.”

Shawn tilted his head to get a better look at the map. His finger landed near the center of the Xs. “The house that’s for sale,” he said.

“That’s ground zero,” Sam confirmed. “But it’s clean.”

Gus nodded. “Right, the realtor said no pet problems there,” he said.

“Yeah, but it’s clean,” Dean said. “No history, no EMF, no cold spots, nada.”

“Dude,” Gus said, “you guys are like Ghostfacers, aren’t you?”

Sam choked. Dean threw down his spoon in disgust. “Dude,” he yelled at Sam, “would you get us a website or something? Because I swear, the next time this happens …”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Something like that,” he said to Gus.

“But way, way cooler,” Dean said. “And way more badass. And not, you know, lame.”

“Clearly,” Shawn said. “Back to the zombie apocalypse. You know that people think that house is haunted even though it’s not, right?”

The agents shook their heads. “We went there because it’s the center of activity,” Sam said.

“Well, I have it on good authority that everyone in the neighborhood thinks that house is haunted,” Shawn said, and Gus snorted.

“It’s not,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Shawn said. “But people think it is.” The realtor’s face flashed into his mind, blanching when he’d asked about the pets, dying to sell the property, if you’ll forgive the pun. “How long has that place been for sale?” he wondered.

Dean pulled a spiral-bound notebook out of his jacket pocket and flipped through it. “Wow,” he said. “Four years. Hard sell.”

“That house was adorable. And a great price,” Gus said, then his eyes widened and he turned to Shawn. Shawn was already starting to bounce.

“I know!” Shawn squealed, and they bounced around the room exuberantly, ending with a delicious belly-bump. When the finished, the agents were staring at them, confounded.

“What?” Shawn asked. “Don’t you guys do that when you solve a case?”

***

Sam and Dean returned to awesome state when they picked the lock on the house in like, seconds. Shawn didn’t trust it anymore, though – he knew they’d revert to dickishness at any moment.

“Mr. Spencer? Mr. Baldwin?” a nervous voice called from the foyer.

“In here,” Shawn called from the living room.

Sophie appeared in the room. “How’d you get in?” she asked.

Sam and Dean entered the room behind her. “We have ways,” Dean said.

“Agents!” Sophie said, and put a startled hand to her throat. “I thought you said everything was okay here? Or did you want to look at the house with your friends?” She looked so desperately hopeful that Shawn felt bad for her.

“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,” he said. “And I thought we’d finally found somewhere that Gus and I could settle down with our little baby shiatsu, Mr. Miyagi.”

“If you don’t think the house is right, why did you call me?” Sophie asked. She was trembling and white.

Sam strode to the middle of the room, carrying a black light. He turned it on over the beautiful hardwood floor and it illuminated a circle filled with complicated symbols. Sophie screamed.

“Wow,” Shawn said. “I mean, the hardwood is beautiful,” beside him, Gus was nodding, “but, I mean, you put that there, right?”

Sophie put her hands to her mouth. “How could you know?” she wailed.

“Oh, I’m a psychic,” Shawn said. “Didn’t my friends tell you?”

“Really?” Sophie squeaked, then burst into tears.

Fortunately, there was enough staging in the house to get Sophie a chair, and Gus had tissues. Shawn found a chair and sat beside her and patted her knee. She really was cute, even if she was raising the dead.

“I didn’t mean to!” Sophie sniffed once she had calmed a little. “It’s just this stupid house, and my boss won’t take me off it, and she’s all over me, all the time, to get it sold, but there’s this stupid story about it being haunted, and it’s not, really, I’ve spent so much time in here, and there’s nothing.” Sophie dabbed at her eyes.

“Then this couple came who wanted to look at the house because they thought it was haunted,” she continued. “And of course, it’s not, so they wouldn’t buy. Told me to give them a call if I came across a genuine haunted house for sale. They thought it would be a good conversation piece or something, to live in a haunted house.”

“So you decided to make it haunted,” Sam said, and Sophie nodded. She picked up her folder and flipped through the pages until she found the one she wanted, and handed it out to Sam.

“I found it on the Internet,” she said. “It said it would raise the dead, but I thought it meant it would bring a ghost to the house, not, you know …”

“Raise the dead?” Dean asked dryly.

“Yeah,” Sophie said, and burst into tears again. “And I couldn’t find anything on the Internet to reverse it. There was this Ghostchasers or something, they talked about how to get rid of ghosts, but everything about zombies just said to remove the head or destroy the brain, but I don’t know how to do that and anyway – ew!”

Shawn put an arm around Sophie and let her put her head on his shoulder.

Sam held up the paper Sophie had given him. “We’ll take care of this,” he said, and Dean nodded in agreement. “Just, careful on the Internet from now on, okay, Sophie?”

***

Gus pulled up in front of the Mermaid Inn and he and Shawn got out. “So, the CDC agents took care of it, right?” Gus asked. “No more living dead in Santa Barbara?”

“I think there’s a serious possibility that they’re not really CDC agents,” Shawn said, then added, “That’s what Sam said on the phone. I just thought we should stop and check, tell them thanks.”

He started to rap on the motel room door, but it swung inward. Sophie came out. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before and she looked like she was feeling a lot better.

“Oh, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Baldwin!” she said. “I can’t thank you enough for everything. You’ve both been so kind, especially you, Mr. Spencer.” She self-consciously fussed with her mussed hair. “And I would be so happy to show you some more places – in fact, I’ll forego my commission when you buy. I know that the perfect home is out there for you two and your little Mr. Miyagi!”

She stood on her toes to kiss Shawn’s cheek and then beamed happily at them before getting in her car and driving away. Shawn and Gus turned to watch her go.

When they turned back around, Dean was leaning in the doorway, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

“Boys,” he said, then yelled, “Sammy!”

Inside the Impala, parked beside Gus’ car, Sam shot up in the backseat, bleary-eyed and hair sticking up everywhere. “I’m up,” Sam said groggily.

Dean shut the motel room door and tossed a duffle in the back while Sam climbed into the passenger seat.

“Good luck with your psychic stuff,” Dean said with a grin as he got behind the wheel.

“Good luck with your Ghostfacing,” Gus said, because he always had Shawn’s back. Shawn gave him a little fist-bump.

Dean’s grin faded, but beside him, Sam started laughing. Dean slammed the car into gear, spun around and pulled out onto the highway.

***

PSYCH-OUT

1985

Henry sipped his beer. “Zombies,” he said again, still in disbelief.

“Yep,” Winchester said, not looking away from the game on the overhead TV.

“No wonder I couldn’t solve the stupid case,” Henry mused.

“Yep,” Winchester said again.

Henry waved for another round. “What’s the score?” he asked.

Seriously? There's really no Supernatural tonight?

2009-10-23T01:48:33Z

All right, have some more crack then.

Title: Prodigal
Author: baylorsr
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural/Dark Angel crossover
Pairing: None
Spoilers: None for Supernatural, many for Dark Angel (AU for both series)
Summary: Max isn’t going to mention the run-in with the penis monster, which totally was not her fault no matter what Dean said, and anyway, they agreed to pretend it never happened.

The first time Max met him was in the Manticore basement. She told him she was doing recon; he said that he was snooping around. She figured him for a Manticore flunkie and kicked his ass, then left him there.

He was back again a week later, trying, the same as her, to get access to the mainframe. She kicked his ass again, and while he could handle himself, and probably would thrash any regular human, he was no transgenic, so maybe Max had figured him wrong for a Manticore flunkie.

She helped him off the floor and allowed as how they might be able to help each other. He grinned and winked at her and offered to scratch her back if she would scratch his –

She knocked him back on his ass before he could finish and she let him pick himself up off the floor. Then she let him help her break into the mainframe room and they downloaded everything they could get their hands on.

He said his name was Ted Nugent but Max also figured him for a great big liar, so she started thinking of him as Alec in her head, for smart-alec.

Joshua diverted them before they could leave via the basement air duct – X7s, he said, sniffing around the exit. He pulled apart a sewer cover for them.

“Strong dog-man,” Alec commented in the tunnel, and that was all he had to say about Joshua.

***

She blew up Manticore, of course. She’d been headed there for a long time.

She let the transgenics out first, obviously, she’s no mass murderer, but then she gathered up a scraggly little group of survivors and every damn one of them was a kid, and she started to think that maybe just throwing them out into a world they knew nothing about wasn’t such a great idea.

The kids had been casing a quickie-mart and no-tell (actually called the No-Tell Motel) and had clumsily scored some popcorn and candy, but they were pretty much starving, so Max hauled herself over to skanky central to buy the kids some food.

Who should stroll in but Alec?

“Of course,” Max said when she rounded the aisle and he was standing there.

“Hey, I’m a paying customer, unlike your little friends who were in here earlier,” Alec said, grabbing a couple of sodas and a box of Pop Tarts.

“You saw that?” Max asked, and Alec snorted.

“Everyone at the joint saw that. Guess they hadn’t reached Shoplifting 101 before you blew up their school,” he said.

Max shifted uneasily. “It was a prison,” she said.

“Yeah, a prison that fed and housed them,” Alec said flatly. He slapped his food on the counter and then slapped a bill down.

Max didn’t answer. Alec grabbed his change from the clerk and walked out.

Outside, Alec was walking across the stretch of mud that constituted a drive toward the row of sleazy rooms for rent.

“Hey,” Max called after him, and he paused and turned around. “You don’t know what it was like in there, growing up.”

Alec nodded, conceding her point. “I know what it’s like out here, growing up,” he said.

Max nodded back, conceding his point.

“See ya,” Alec said, and let himself into a room.

“Bye,” Max said feebly as the door shut behind him.

***

Okay, so she’d gotten herself captured by what little remained of Manticore’s goon squad and now she was in a cage beside some lizard guy with the ironic name of Mole. Maybe her game wasn’t all it should be. Still, at least she was doing something.

“Oh, this is nice,” someone said, and of course it was Alec, because she’d been wrong, he was a transgenic after all, designed and programmed to ruin Max’s life, at every opportunity, with maximum smugness. There was no way that wasn’t produced in a lab.

“Shut up,” Max said.

Alec grinned at her, then nodded to Mole. “Hey, man,” he said, and let Mole out of his cage.

“Later, Max,” he said to her and started to walk away. Mole rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

“What’s that?” Alec said, and cupped a hand to his ear. “Oh, right, Max needs my help. I can hear her asking nicely right now.”

Max looked at Mole, who shrugged. “He’s got the lock-pick, I’d ask nicely,” Mole advised. Max ground her teeth.

“Please, can you let me out?” she said. Alec sighed and looked disappointed.

“I think you can ask nicer than that, but we’re kinda pressed for time here,” he said, and deftly freed her in seconds. “I’ll let you show me how nice you can ask some other time,” he whispered in her ear as she pushed out of the cage.

Max’s arm shot out to smash right into his perfect nose and his filthy mouth, but Mole said sharply, “We gotta go, now,” and she pulled the punch.

She’d get another chance to show Alec just how nicely she could ask.

***

It wasn’t fun when it rolled around, though, especially because Alec tried to kill both her and Joshua.

Trying to stop his head from exploding or not, Max didn’t care for almost being murdered. She took it kinda personally.

So it was totally beyond her why she ponied up Logan’s cure money to have the explosive hacked out of the base of Alec’s skull.

“Thank you,” Alec said, still sweating and trembling, once the mad scientist had fled, and Max slammed him up against the wall without pulling her punch one little bit.

“That money was supposed to get my friend out of his wheelchair,” she said, and she was shaking as hard as Alec. “Do you think I’m going to get another chance like this? You want to thank me? Get out of my life. Stop crawling around what little is left of Manticore and getting yourself into trouble and just get the hell out of my life.”

“I’m sorry, Max,” Alex whispered, and his eyes were all green sincerity, and she believed him, but she was so furious and frustrated and years beyond the end of her rope that she was afraid she was going to kill him.

She backed away from the wall and let him out. Alec glanced over at Joshua and said, “Sorry, man.”

“That’s okay,” Joshua said, because, hey, he only tried to kill you, Joshua, so no biggie, and then Alec was out the door and gone and at that moment, Max never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

***

“You know, you’re like, like, you’re back no matter what, and you’re just freaking like,” Max sputtered weeks later when she went to steal Sammy Sosa’s baseball and there he was, like this thing you thought you’d gotten rid of for good and you turned around and it was back and –

“Herpes,” Alec said. “It’s like herpes. You think it’s gone and then – wham! there it is again and it itches so bad it just drives you crazy and you know you shouldn’t scratch but you want to so bad, you know it will feel so good if you do and –“

Max pushed him and they swayed on their cables. “You’re disgusting,” she said. “And I bet you know from first-hand experience.”

“I am 100 percent disease-free,” Alec said, jostling her back. “But I hear things. You look like something in your pants is making you itch, Maxie.”

Things went downhill from there, until they lost the ball and set off the alarm and ended up racing from the crime scene. When they reached her bike, Max said, “What were you doing there, anyway?”

“Uh, stealing a very valuable piece of American history?” Alec said and Max grimaced at him.

“No, I mean, what were you going to –“ and then she stopped, because she didn’t want to know, she didn’t want to get drawn into this guy’s life, she was going to say good night and hope to never run into him again.

Alec cleared his throat awkwardly. “Pay you back,” he said. “For, you know.”

“Saving your life?” Max said dryly.

“Yeah, that,” Alec said.

Max shrugged. “I already owed you one,” she said.

“Yeah, but yours was free,” Alec said. “I thought, maybe if you had the cash, you could find another way to help your friend.”

Her eyes burned, so she focused on snapping on her driving gloves. “Don’t worry about it,” she said tightly. “It might not have even worked,” because that was what Logan had said after Asha had opened her big blonde mouth and told him what had happened. Max silently vowed again to never share anything with that one.

Alec coughed. “Okay,” he said, then added, “Hey, can I grab a ride?”

Max nodded and swung onto the bike. Alec hopped on behind her.

“Here’s a thought,” she said as she started it up. “Why don’t you get a job, try being a respectable citizen for a change?”

“That is a thought,” Alec said, and chuckled deep in his chest and it rumbled against Max’s back.

She dropped him at the checkpoint because he didn’t have a sector pass. God – or whatever – bless Jam Pony and its complete inability to keep track of its employees.

***

God – or whatever – damn Jam Pony and its complete inability to do background checks on its employees. And while God – or whatever – was at it, damn Normal and his before unknown and horrific love of underground cage fighting.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Max hissed at Alec while Normal raved about the godlike wonder that was Zeppelin Overdrive, cage-fighter supreme.

“Getting a job, being a respectable citizen for a change,” Alec said.

Getting a sector pass, Max realized moments later when Normal slapped one down.

“I guess I can’t put Zeppelin Overdrive on here,” Normal said, and Alec laughed.

“Dean Harrison,” he said, and Max actually said, “Oh!” in surprise, because somehow, she’d completely forgotten that Alec wasn’t really this guy’s name, and in fact, she’d never even called him that except in her head. Both Normal and Alec – Dean – gave her a funny look, and then Normal barked, “Hey, missy, get to work and stop gawking!”

Max stormed over to her locker and slammed it open and crammed her bag inside. Original Cindy was watching Normal fawn over Alec – damn it, Dean – with nauseating idolatry.

“That your boy?” OC said, and Max slammed her locker shut so hard the floor vibrated.

“He’s not my boy,” she retorted.

“Because you failed to mention that he is one fine specimen of the human male,” OC said.

“You don’t like men,” Max reminded her pointedly.

“That right there is a good reason to rethink my current membership,” OC answered, and seriously, if work turned into an Alec – for the love all that is holy, DEAN – love-fest, someone was going to pay, and it was gonna hurt.

***

In his first three weeks at work, Dean got Sketchy beat up delivering drugs and slept with two workmates who proceeded to take it out on each other.

And really, Max was only pointing out the obvious, that Dean was who they should be mad at, not each other, and there was no reason to say those things to her, because words hurt, you know.

At any rate, Normal was nuts if he thought Max was delivering that forgotten package for Dean. He could damn well do it himself, even if it was more out of the way to go to the address Normal had for him than just to deliver the stupid package.

Max had to pick her way over a wino and a pile of broken glass up the stairs. She pounded on the door and when Dean hadn’t answered 4.94 seconds later, she pounded again and hollered, “Dean, get out here because Normal is nuts if he thinks I’m doing your work for you!”

A skinny boy with floppy hair opened the door and Max stepped back, confused, but the kid said, “He’s not here. You wanna leave it?” and pointed at the package held out in her hand.

“Uh,” Max said. She pressed the package to her chest as though it were valuable. “I better not. It’s a work delivery.”

“You wanna wait?” the kid asked. “He just went to pick up food.”

“Okay,” Max said slowly, and the kid let her into a lousy little room with peeling wallpaper, a sagging bed and a moldy couch, which the kid flopped down on. Max became convinced Dean really did live there when she saw the kid was watching a large HD TV that was still shiny with newness.

“Where did you get that?” Max asked, and sat down next to him.

The kid shrugged. “Dean brought it home,” he said, as though all things came magically from Dean without explanation.

Max expected music videos or cartoons or an action movie, but the kid was watching a PBS documentary on Texas’ secession. They were learning about the siege of Governor Perry in the mansion when a foot started thumping on the door.

“Sammy!” Dean hollered from outside, and the kid – Sammy, apparently – scrambled up and opened the door for Dean, who came in laden with takeout bags. Sammy snagged a couple from him and set them down on the uneven Formica table.

“That girl from your work is here,” Sammy said with a dismissive point at Max before eagerly pulling boxes of food out of the bags.

Dean looked at her in surprise and, she almost thought, embarrassment. “Max,” he said levelly. “Help you with something?”

She scooted out of the lumpy couch and held up the package. “You forgot to deliver this,” she said lamely, because, seriously? Dean was like, she didn’t know, raising this kid, and he’d just brought home dinner, and they were living in this really lousy little ghetto room, and she kind of wanted Alec back because now she felt uneasy about a lot of things she’d said to and thought about Dean, and she didn’t like it one bit.

“Oh,” Dean said, and crossed the room to take it from her. “Thanks, I’ll run it out tonight.”

Max pulled the package back against her chest. “No, I can do it,” she said, and Dean gave her an expectant look.

“You brought it over here,” he pointed out.

Max laughed nervously. “Well, yeah, I just, I –“ and she didn’t know what to say. Her eyes flitted away from Dean and landed on Sammy, who had piled food onto a plate and was digging in with enthusiasm, oblivious to anyone else in the room.

“Max,” Dean said, and he was standing there with his hand out expectantly and a get-on-with-it look on his face. She grimaced and slapped the package into his hand.

“Bye, Max,” Dean said, then turned his back to her and started piling food onto a plate.

“S’good,” Sammy said around a mouthful and Dean answered, “How can you tell? It’s not in your mouth long enough to taste it.”

“Bye,” Max said in a tiny voice, and let herself out. As she closed the door behind her, she heard Dean ask, “You do your homework?”

Whenever Max thought her life couldn’t get weirder, somehow it did.

***

Dean was at his locker the next day when she came in to work.

“Hey,” she said, avoiding eye contact and going to her own locker.

“Hey,” Dean replied neutrally. He shut his locker a minute later and then stood there motionless for a second before coming over to her locker.

“Listen,” Dean said, so she looked at him. “It’s no big deal. It’s just my little brother.”

“Where’re your parents?” she asked quietly.

“Where’re your parents?” he answered, annoyed, and she raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh, right, duh,” Dean said. “Bad point. Um, Mom died when Sammy was a baby. Dad’s been gone a little while.”

“Where’d he go?” she asked in the same quiet voice.

“Nosy,” Dean complained, looking at the floor. Max waited. “Dunno,” Dean said. “Went out and didn’t come back.” He looked back up at her. “He didn’t leave us, though. He never – he always –“

He turned his face away and Max said quietly, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean echoed. He took a deep breath and steadied. “Anyway, me and Sammy now. I try to keep him away from all this,” and Dean waved his hand around Jam Pony, but Max knew he meant the drug dealing and the stealing and whatever the hell he’d been doing at Manticore.

“Yeah,” Max said, then felt she needed to give something back, for barging into his home and maybe into his life in a way that maybe she didn’t have a right to. “Dean. It’s no big deal. It’s just your kid brother, right?”

Dean’s eyes searched her face and then he smiled, a real smile, for the first time since she’d known him. “Thanks, Max,” he said.

“Sure,” she answered. She sat on the bench to change shoes and he started to walk away.

“Dean,” she called, stopping him. She looked up as she tied her shoes. “Be careful out there. That stuff, when we first met?” Dean jerked his chin. “You don’t want to go out and not come home to Sammy.”

“Never,” he said.

***

During the next few weeks, Dean scammed Joshua into doing his Jam Pony work (okay, so Joshua loved it but Dean shouldn’t take advantage), then scammed Max into working at a girlie bar (okay, so they saved that Gill Girl, but, c’mon, she had to sit on his lap). Max was also pretty sure he slept with Asha, not that she cared.

He also brought Sammy with him to Crash and somehow batted his eyes until the bartender relented and poured Sammy a soda then told Dean he’d better not regret this. The bartender probably didn’t have regrets but Logan did when it turned out his pool table hustle of Dean was really Sammy and Dean’s pool table hustle of Logan.

“A fool and his money,” Logan said bemusedly as he wheeled around the table and forked over the bills to a half-delighted, half-nervous Sammy, and then bought the kid dinner. He made Dean buy his own food.

“You shouldn’t bring a kid into a place like this,” Max sniped at Dean, but Original Cindy gave her that knowing look.

“You and I both went to worse when we were his age, and didn’t walk out with a wad of cash,” she said, and then poured two swigs of beer into an empty glass for Sammy.

Max hmphed and sat by herself while Original Cindy corrupted and Sketchy fawned and Logan enjoyed himself and Dean watched his little brother have a good time with pleasure. Max glowered, but it was kind of a waste with no one watching. Stupid friends.

***

“Hey, girlie,” Normal hollered as soon as she walked in, “try to keep your rent-boys out of the joint, hm?” then jerked a thumb over at the bench by the office window. Sammy was sitting there, hunched into his jacket, backpack at his feet.

She didn’t quite move at true transgenic speed, but it was close, and Original Cindy caught her by the elbow to slow her.

“Sammy, hey,” she said, sitting down beside him and taking in his pinched expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Dean never came home last night,” he said, and anxiously turned his phone over and over in his hand. “He doesn’t pick up his phone. I don’t know where he went, and I didn’t know where else to go, and I don’t have anyone’s number.”

“When’d he leave?” OC asked, standing in front of Sammy.

“Um, like 9, maybe 10,” Sammy said. “Said he’d be back in a couple hours, had to go check on something.” The kid’s eyes were hollow, and Max wondered if he’d slept at all. “He wouldn’t do that, not without calling and telling me. And he always calls to check on me if he’s out late and – I didn’t know who else to tell.”

“It’s all right,” Max said, and put a hand on Sammy’s arm. “I’ll find him.”

It didn’t seem right to take Sammy back to that lousy rented room and leave him there all alone, and Logan thought that his place was being watched lately, so Max punted. Joshua and Sammy regarded each other with open curiosity, and then Joshua asked Sammy if he liked mac and cheese with little hot dogs in it and Sammy said it was his favorite, so Max figured they were all set.

God – or whatever – bless Logan and his uber-hacking skills, because he found an alarm that had tripped the night before with no prowler discovered. Max was going to kick Dean’s ass for scaring Sammy over some stupid, easy b&e, but then she found the place and it was a freaking fortress of boobytraps that extended to its huge acreage.

It was twilight by then, so Original Cindy and Sketchy came out to help her look, but she ended up the one who almost tripped over Dean in the dwindling light because he’d half-hidden himself in the shrubbery.

“You’re such a jack-ass,” she said angrily when he finally opened his eyes, and Dean smiled and said hoarsely, “Always knew you cared, Maxie.”

Max had a long response ready for that, but then Dean said, “I left Sammy home alone, you gotta call him, I lost my phone,” so she just said, “Sammy’s fine. Who do you think sent us out here looking for you, your fairy godmother?”

“Good,” Dean said, and his eyes slid back shut.

The three of them managed to carry him back to the road and load him into Logan’s car. The dome light revealed a bloody scalp, a massively bruised torso and a hugely swollen ankle.

“He probably fell,” Logan said, and then started the car. “Harbor Lights ER?”

Max hesitated, and Sketchy looked at her in confusion. “He’s a mess, we gotta take him to a doctor,” he said.

“What if he’s wanted for something?” Original Cindy pointed out. “You know he’s always dealing drugs and stealing things. You gonna finish raising Sammy if he gets IDed at the ER?”

“Let’s just get him back to Joshua’s and get him cleaned up, see how bad it is,” Max said. Logan gave her a disapproving look in the rearview mirror, but put the car in gear and headed to Joshua’s.

***

It wasn’t as bad as it looked. Of course, lying in the damp, cold bushes half the night and then all day hadn’t done Dean any favors, but they cleaned him up and got him into warm, dry clothes and piled blankets on top of him and when he came around, they forced hot tea down him.

“Thanks,” was all Dean feebly had to say, but he never looked at the tea held to his mouth because his eyes never left Sammy, hovering at the foot of the bed.

Original Cindy wrapped the ankle and then elevated it, and they put a cool pack on it, then warm packs on his torso. Dean muttered, “Thanks,” again, but his eyes were shut and then he was out.

Sammy didn’t want to go to bed, so Max let him pull the musty armchair over to Dean’s bed and sit there, then chased everyone else out of the room. Ten minutes later, Joshua carried a soundly sleeping Sammy to a bed of his own and tucked him in.

“Little puppies need sleep,” he said to Max, and petted Sammy’s hair before leaving the room.

Logan had waited in the car, because Joshua’s flophouse wasn’t exactly handicapped-accessible, and he hated Joshua carrying him in. Max ran out to say goodbye and see if he could give OC and Sketchy a ride home. He was finishing a phone call as he rolled the window down.

“He’s doing better,” she said when he snapped the phone shut. “I’m going to stay, make sure he’s all right.”

“Good,” Logan said. “That house? The one Dean was breaking into?”

“Yeah?” Max said. It was starting to mist and she shoved her hands in her pockets and shivered.

“It belongs to Robert Berrisford, a genetic engineer. Not a scientist himself, but a smart investor in the sciences,” Logan said. “His closest ties were to a group called Latnok.”

“A subsidiary of Manticore,” Max said, and Logan nodded grimly.

“Look, Max,” Logan said, and she clenched her jaw. He held up a placating hand. “I like Dean too. But you don’t really know anything about him. You never even found out what he was doing at Manticore when you first met.”

Max wanted to pick a fight, to say Logan was just suspicious, Logan was just petty, Logan was just jealous (of what, she didn’t want to put her finger on), but it was cold and she was tired of fighting with Logan.

“I doubt he’s on their side if he’s breaking in and stealing from them,” she said instead, and Logan nodded.

“But that doesn’t mean his agenda is your agenda,” he said.

“Okay,” Max said, and stepped away from the car. “Take OC and Sketchy home?”

“Fine,” Logan said curtly, and rolled his window back up.

***

Max went to sleep in the armchair in Dean’s room, and woke when she heard him shifting around.

“All right?” she asked, and turned on the bedside light. Dean was panting and in a light sweat, but he rallied up a leer.

“There’s something here about you finally sleeping with me, give me a minute,” he said weakly. She rolled her eyes and gave him some water instead, then moved pillows around until he was more comfortable.

“Better?” she asked, sitting at the edge of the bed, and Dean caught hold of her hand.

“Max,” he said, but there was no leer to it, so she didn’t pull away. He closed his eyes and his ragged breath started to even out.

She thought he’d fallen back asleep and was about to extract her hand and stand up, but he must have felt her shift because his fingers tightened and he opened his eyes.

“It’s Sammy,” he said. “They’re after Sammy.”

“Who?” Max asked, then realized what he was saying. “Manticore.”

Dean nodded. “Why?” Max asked. “He’s not – he can’t possibly be one of us.”

Dean swallowed. He was sweating again. “Sammy has these dreams,” he said, “and sometimes, they come true.”

“Come again?” Max said, because that couldn’t be right, but somehow, she knew that it was.

“When our mom died, this guy was in Sammy’s room,” Dean said. “Over his crib, and Mom got up, I don’t know, Sammy was crying or something, and she screamed and it woke us up and the house was on fire, and Dad came running out of the nursery and put Sammy in my arms, and he said to run outside, fast as I could, and not look back, and I did, I left them there, but he came out alone,” and Dean was crying and Max didn’t think he even knew.

“The cops said it was a home invasion, but Dad never believed it. What kind of burglar walks by the television and computer and stereo and goes into the baby’s room. Mom was already hurt, he told me later, and the guy was out cold and Sammy screaming in his crib and this smell in the air – Dad was a Marine, did two tours in Iraq, said the smell was chemical, and he knew the place was going up. I don’t know how he got out, but he never made it back in the room to Mom.”

Max folded both of her hands tight over Dean’s. “How do you know it was Manitcore?” she asked.

Dean shrugged. “Dad put it together,” he said. “He knew something was wrong, after the fire, so he took off with us. I don’t think he knew back then. When Sammy was five or six, he started having these nightmares, and sometimes he told me about them, and then I’d find out later that the things he dreamed about, they’d happened to people we knew. I told Dad and – I don’t know, I think he already knew, or suspected, at least.”

“But he’s yours, right?” Max asked, then clarified, “I mean, he’s your parents’ kid?”

Dean nodded. “I remember Mom being pregnant. No bar code. And until the dreams started, he was totally normal. I don’t know, maybe they did something to him to cause the dreams. Or maybe they want him because of the dreams, want to poke around in his DNA. Dad knew more, but he kept his secrets. He told me about Manticore, though, told me he was coming to Seattle to check out this facility they had here.”

“And then he didn’t come home,” Max said quietly. “And then I blew the place up.”

Dean squeezed her fingers. Max didn’t know what else to say, so she wiped his damp face off and pulled the blankets up.

“I don’t think he was there,” Dean said hoarsely. “At least, not by the time I made it to Seattle and found Manticore.”

“You should talk to Logan” she said. “He might be able to find something out for you. About your dad, or about Sammy.”

“Yeah,” Dean said thickly, looking exhausted in the dim light. “Dad wasn’t big on teaching us to trust people.”

Max rested her palm on the blankets, over Dean’s chest. “He had his reasons,” she said.

Dean looked at her miserably until his eyes slid shut. Max shut off the light and went to the door, then paused.

“Dean,” she said, and he was still awake, said huskily, “Yeah.”

“I put Logan in that wheelchair,” she said into the darkness.

“I know,” Dean said. “But not on purpose.”

Max didn’t think it would console Dean if they found out that she’d burned his father alive but not on purpose.

“Max,” Dean said, and she didn’t answer. “I stole your research on Sandeman. On purpose.”

“You’re such an ass, Dean,” shot out of her mouth without filter, and then she laughed. “All right. You didn’t give it to Joshua for an art project, did you?”

“It’s at the apartment,” Dean said. “There’s a place under the floorboards; Sammy’ll show you.”

“Fine,” Max said. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

“You know,” Dean started, and she shut the door on the rest.

***

Dean couldn’t work for a while as he healed up, and Joshua couldn’t get enough of feeding Sammy mac and cheese with little hot dogs, so they made a strange little family, or litter, or pack, or whatever. The house smelled like wet dog and grimy boys and books and paint and Max kind of loved it there, but only because she loved Joshua and Sammy.

During the next few months, Dean scammed an art gallery into paying exorbitant prices for Joshua’s paintings (okay, so he split the money with Joshua, but, c’mon, Joshua’s art was free and natural expression and Dean just went and commercialized it), then got scammed into returning to the cage-fighting ring (okay, so it’s good money, but, you know – it’s cage fighting).

Max isn’t going to mention the run-in with the penis monster, which totally was not her fault no matter what Dean said, and anyway, they agreed to pretend it never happened.

Max broke up with Logan for good and she didn’t want to talk about it.

More people started to talk about transgenics as if they might actually be real and not some creepy urban legend like alien bounty hunters, and while by now they were an actual underground, organized and united, it was getting harder and harder to find and then hide their people. Max dreamed of her childhood, of Manticore, of training, of testing, and she woke up shaking and crawled into Original Cindy’s bed, and her friend held her until she could breathe again.

The jig was up once the networks started airing footage of sector guards being attacked by that desperate, terrified transgenic. Max stopped researching at all; she devoted all of her time to getting transgenics out of the city and to safehouses. Logan was liquidating and bankrupting himself to fund Max’s underground railroad, and while most days she couldn’t look him in the eyes, she needed his help.

Mole was gearing up for warfare, and Joshua left the brothers at his house and joined the resistance soldiers in Terminal City. Asha and her people had left, just gone overnight. And White wasn’t a concern anymore – now they were all dodging NSA agents.

Dean never missed a night’s work at her side.

With Joshua gone, Sammy usually slept at the apartment with Original Cindy. He was teaching her to hustle poker. Dean would poke him awake and haul him off the couch when they finished up, and Max would drive them back to the house, Sammy wedged between her and his brother on the bike.

So she was surprised when she left the apartment one morning and Sammy was sitting out at the curb waiting for her.

“Hey,” she said. “Dean’ll kick your ass for cutting school.”

Sammy looked up at her, his face scrunched up with worry. “I had a dream about you,” he said, and she sat down beside him.

“It won’t happen like that,” she said when he’d finished. “You said people can change them, your dreams, right?” Sam nodded, and she put an arm around his shoulders. “So, no way I’m letting it go down like that.”

“Okay.” Sammy looked up at her from under his floppy bangs. She gave him a squeeze and then stood up. When he stood up beside her, she realized with shock that he’d grown taller than her in the time she’d known him.

“Go to school,” Max said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye, Max,” he said, and walked away, a skinny kid in with a loaded-down backpack in a ruined city.

“Bye, Sammy,” she breathed, and wrapped her arms around herself against the sudden chill.

***

She never saw him again, or Dean. She couldn’t remember, later, what she and Dean had even talked about that last night, if she’d even said goodbye or good night or good luck.

Things went that way sometimes.

Clemente said he would transfer her himself, after Terminal City fell. When he pulled the car over to the side of the road and told her to get out, she thought he was going to kill her, but instead he let her go. He told her to run and not look back.

One of her specialties.

She never went back to Seattle. There were other survivors, scattered now, and weakened, but she sometimes found ways to connect. It wasn’t the same, though.

It was like losing her brothers and sisters all over again.

***

She was mawing on chicken wings and slopping them down with cheap beer at a truck stop bar when someone at her elbow said in disbelief, “Max?”

She glanced up at the tall, lanky man with floppy hair. “Yeah,” she said, and viciously yanked more meat off the bone.

“It’s Sam, Sam Winchester,” he said, and she raised her eyebrows, because she’d never heard the name. “No,” he shook his head, “sorry, Harrison. Sam Harrison. Sammy.”

Max choked and he whapped her between the shoulders, because holy crap, suddenly she could see a skinny kid with floppy hair who used to ride on her bike, safely wedged between her and his brother.

“Sammy!” she said when she’d recovered, and reached up to put her arms around him, laughing. “Sammy, you got tall!”

“Yeah,” he said, and hugged her back. “Must have been all that nutritious mac and cheese.”

She pulled back and they studied each other, smiling widely. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “Wow.”

“I know!” Sammy – no, Sam – said. “I’m so glad you’re all right. We were never able to find out.”

Her heart squeezed at the ‘we,’ and she nodded, her voice hitching slightly. “So, Dean –?”

“Right here,” someone said at her elbow, and boy, speak of the devil. “Hey, Max.”

“Hi, Dean,” she said, and they stood there staring, not hugging, and then they seemed to feel silly at the same moment and went in for a friendly hug.

She took her food back to their table and Dean ordered them shots and then she ordered them shots and then Sammy – for crying out loud, Sam – ordered them beer because, Dean said, she could clearly see that he’d grown up to be a pussy.

She knew about some people they’d never been able to find out about, and they knew about some others that she’d never been able to find out about, the awesomest of which was that Normal was some kind of grand guru in Malia Obama’s grassroots movement to restore voting rights. Dean said he kind of thought Normal just went around telling everyone to get back to work.

When Sammy – seriously, was she brain-damaged? SAM – went to the bathroom, Max and Dean just sat and stared across the table at each other, unable to keep the small talk up on their own.

“Yeah,” Dean said finally, and took a hearty swig of beer.

“Yep,” Max said, and followed suit.

“You ever find your dad?” she asked when she set down the beer.

Dean shook his head. “Never found out what happened to him,” he said, then asked, “Logan?”

“Dead,” Max said simply.

Dean nodded, then held up his beer bottle in salute. Max clinked hers against it, and they drank.

What? No Supernatural tonight?

2009-10-23T00:07:51Z

Well, then, you'd better read some crack.

McDonald’s was, in the Trickster’s¹ opinion, the epitome of all of humanity’s existence. No god, angel, or demon could ever have been brilliant, or evil, enough to create food that wasn’t really food and distribute it across the globe, drawing in more worshippers and practitioners with every order of fries sold. It was the perfect self-perpetuating myth, the shining symbol that every person mired in mediocrity could gaze upon and pray to become.

¹“The Trickster” obviously wasn’t his precise name. But ever since Coyote and Loki threw such massive hissy fits over him “co-opting communal deific identity” he'd decided to keep using it just to screw with them. Anansi, however, totally got the joke.

Monkey See, Monkey Do by liptonrm

The end is extremely fucking nigh!

2009-10-02T02:53:04Z

Let's all go buy toilet paper!

Pit stop at Mount Doom

2009-09-18T02:20:13Z

PIT STOP AT MOUNT DOOM!

PIT STOP AT MOUNT DOOM, PRECIOUS!!!!!

rubs hands together evilly

2009-09-15T10:12:05Z

Today is oselle's birthday.

(I'm pretty sure it's today. Right?)

By now many of you may be aware that oselle believes I have an evil master plan to ruin her life.

Clearly, oselle has reached the age where paranoia sets in. Because I'm a wonderful person and would never have evil master plans to completely and totally ruin someone's life in the most delightfully wicked way.

Happy birthday, oselle. Remember who your friends are.

*cackles*

Birthright podfic
(right-click save; 2 hours 14 minutes, 122.7 mb)

That Place podfic
(right-click save; 1 hour 49 minutes, 100.2 mb)

America, Deconstructed podfic
(right-click save; 4 hours 6 minutes, 229.0 mb)

Music playlists available at my site.

PS - In case you missed it, Lazarus Get Over Here. Right now. Don't make me count.

Lazarus Get Over Here Extras

2009-09-07T17:02:22Z

Producer/Director Commentary

Part One:

Part Two:

Part Three:

Storyboards

Lazarus Get Over Here

O Death trailer

O Fortuna trailer

Producer/Director Commentary & Artwork

Story by oselle

“Lazarus Get Over Here”

A Vortex Production

A Fangirl Central Film

Based on the story by oselle

Directed by liptonrm

Produced by baylorsr

World Movie Premier: Lazarus Get Over Here

2009-09-07T16:59:55Z

Part One:

Part Two:

Part Three:

Note: The music that should be playing here is Mindy Smith's wonderful Come To Jesus. If anyone has any suggestions for how to allow this to play, please let me know.

Lazarus Get Over Here

O Death trailer

O Fortuna trailer

Producer/Director Commentary & Artwork

Story by oselle

“Lazarus Get Over Here”

A Vortex Production

A Fangirl Central Film

Based on the story by oselle

Directed by liptonrm

Produced by baylorsr

It's almost here ...

2009-09-06T15:32:37Z

It's coming ...

2009-09-05T00:55:43Z

Live & On Stage bells & whistles

2009-08-15T15:30:56Z

allamboy's Live & On Stage is now available with artwork, articles, etc. Also up on my website, here.

Kittehs!

2009-08-06T23:05:18Z

They love each other so much! (I should have named them Sam & Dean.)

Pimp-o-rama

2009-08-01T12:10:07Z

Three SPN stories to rec for your reading pleasure:

Sore Loser by hiyacynth. A back story to her Mockingbird universe, though you don't have to have to be familiar with Mockingbird to enjoy this story. It's Christmas, and Sam and Jo Harvelle finally hash it out over what happened in Born Under A Bad Sign.

The stubborn expression on Jo's face eased into a satisfied, self-confident smile. "No bullshit." She dipped into her pocket and withdrew a quarter, which she laid on the thumb of her loosely fisted hand. The coin tilted, but she stopped short of flipping it and caught Sam's eye again. "But we've gotta find a way to keep things interesting. And honest."

Sam went for his pocket again. "I've got…"

"I don't want your money, Sam," Jo informed him. All humor was gone from her face. "If I win, you quit apologizing." Her voice was kind but serious. "About last spring. About our dads. Just… treat me like a person again."

Sam's throat seized as he swallowed hard. He choked back the apology that leapt reflexively to his lips. "Okay."

Jo's smile was back, as was the teasing lilt in her voice. "All right. And if you win?"

Sam didn't hesitate. "You let me apologize."

Jo tipped her head, considering the stakes, and her bright hair shimmered along with Ellen's decorations. "Fair enough," she agreed and reset the quarter. "Call it."

"Heads."

Jo caught and presented the coin; Washington's profile glinted at them, and Jo gestured to the rifle. "Bring it."

Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice by liptonrm. A sequel to More Than Just A Pretty Face, but all you need to know is that Kat from Asylum, turned onto hunting, partners up with Jo Harvelle.

“Jesus Christ,” Jo ground out in a harsh voice. She whipped away, flinging the shirt at her bed and stalking to the window. She leaned against the windowsill. “Are you done playing yet?”

“I’m not playing a goddamn game!” Kat shouted, the words erupting through the barrier in her throat. She threw her towel at the wall, where it hit with a damp splat. “Did you even look at that stuff I gave you? People are dying out there, and someone has to do something.”

“You’re just going to get yourself killed,” Jo sighed.

“So the fuck what?!” Kat crossed the room, her hands balled into fists. “At least I’ll have done something.” She grabbed Jo’s shoulder and spun her around. “I’m not a quitter, not like you.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” Jo hissed and shoved Kat away.

“Make me,” Kat replied, her jaw tight.

Deguello by oselle. As 14-year-old Dean recovers from an attack while hunting, John discovers that while he's been looking the thing that killed Mary, it's known exactly where they were the whole time.

After a while he took out his journal and slid the pencil from it and turned to a clean page and wrote the location and the date and the time and the weather at the top of the page. He sketched the gytrash as he had come upon it sitting against the stone wall. When he was finished with the sketch underneath it he wrote This one could talk, but he didn't write down what it had said. Then he wrote Yellow eyes, and closed the journal and put it on the passenger seat and turned the ignition and pulled out.

Big Bang 2009

2009-07-22T10:16:51Z

I don't know what I'm going to do about that lunatic Jason (aka allamboy). He went and signed up for spn_j2_bigbang and then wrote this ridiculous J2 AU RPS about Disney pop stars, of all things. The boy's grip on reality just isn't that tight.

Anyway, then he cried and begged, so I podficced it for him. And then he cried and begged some more, so here I am, pimping it for him.

Live & On Stage, a J2 AU RPS of ridiculous proportions, wherein Jared is a member of the Mickey Mouse Club and Jensen is a member of boy band sensation 5X Everything, and wherein love blossoms during summer tour.

Live & On Stage Podfic (right-click and save). Two hours, 13 minutes; 120.3 MB

Update website

2009-07-12T15:59:41Z

I know I just did a redesign of my website last year, but I got a fancy new computer this winter with lots of bells and whistles, so I redesigned it again, with lots of bells and whistles this time. I did, however, pull down old sites, so if you've ever linked to the site, the link is probably bad now. The main site address is still the same though: home.comcast.net/~baylorsr. Enjoy!

Kittehs!

2009-07-09T00:04:28Z

And in case you think I've forsaken THE kitteh of all kittehs:

A Tale of Two Kitties

2009-06-18T22:27:16Z

Say hello to Kirk (tiger) and Pippin (golden). Hi, babies!

Kirk and Pippin had an unfortunate start to life, being thrown out of a vehicle in front of my aunt’s house at four weeks of age. My aunt found Kirk lying stunned in the middle of the road and Pippin lying stunned in a bush he had crawled to.

She delivered them to my house where she swore they would only stay a few days. That was three weeks ago.

Pippin has actually been sent out to new homes twice, and twice returned. He has some abandonment issues with being separated from his brother. (Kirk, on the other hand, did not seem to care that Pippin had left.) Pippin seems perfectly fine as long as he’s kept with brother, so they shan’t be pulled apart again.

I have managed to successfully integrate them with the other FOUR cats (ages 10-12) living in my house, which, if you’re counting, and I am, makes SIX cats at my house.

When, I ask, did I become the crazy cat lady?

I would dearly love to keep them, as they are adorable and fun and not crazy and cranky like some cats in my house. (Not Zippo, of course.) But I’m thinking six cats is entering crazy territory. So I am still hopeful that they shall be adopted, even with me insisting they be adopted as a set.

But for now, BABIES!

Looking for Baylor

SPN fic: Angel Rebellion Inc.

Peek!

Do you think an Act of Contrition will cover this?

Note to self: stop talking to Jason Teague

SPN Sims Vid: Rock & Roll

SPN Podfic: Filling Up The Corners

SPN Podfic: Mockingbird

I just want to say

Happy Halloween! SPN/Psych Fic: (Fear) The Reaper

Seriously? There's really no Supernatural tonight?

What? No Supernatural tonight?

The end is extremely fucking nigh!

Pit stop at Mount Doom

*rubs hands together evilly*

Lazarus Get Over Here Extras

World Movie Premier: Lazarus Get Over Here

It's almost here ...

It's coming ...

Live & On Stage bells & whistles

Kittehs!

Pimp-o-rama

Big Bang 2009

Update website

Kittehs!

A Tale of Two Kitties

rubs hands together evilly